The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack

by George Bellairs

  “Just one more question, Mr. Buller, then I’ll leave you to your business. Do you know what kind of cartridges your father used in his gun?”

  Peter Buller looked startled.

  “Here, Inspector, what are you getting at? You’re surely not associating him with the crime! That’s quite unthinkable. Although I say it myself, there wasn’t a better, more upright man in Hatterworth than my father, and that he should have shot anyone is absolutely out of the question.”

  “This enquiry is a routine question, Mr. Buller, and in no way implicates your father. I’m enquiring concerning the type of cartridges used by everyone hereabouts…”

  “Oh. Well, when I was a nipper, I often went out on the moor with him, and I handled his gun and his cartridges. He bought his supplies a hundred or more at a time from Huddersfield…Ashworth and Hall’s.”

  “What kind of a load…? The size of shots, I mean.”

  “Mixed. Fives, with a few fours among them, specially made-up by the gunsmiths. He was very fond of a mixed load. Fours gave him hard-hitting and, well, the addition of fives gave him a larger number of shots than if they’d been all fours. You follow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps it was a bit of a fad he had, but I think he was right. He convinced Mrs. Myles, and she had the same kind of loading, only in a better class of cartridge…and so did Sir Caleb, later.”

  “Is that so? The mixture seems very popular round here.”

  “Yes, it was. A lot of the local men, poachers included, used them. My father loaded his own for quite a long while. I used to help him do it. Then, Ashworth and Hall started to make-up a special cartridge which was almost as cheap as the home-made, and it saved time, of course, to get ’em ready-made.”

  “Yes. Well, I’m much obliged for your help, Mr. Buller, and sorry to take-up so much time at your rush-hour.”

  “That’s all right, Inspector. My wife’s below and keeps an eye on things, you know.”

  Littlejohn followed Peter downstairs and they were met at the foot by a fat, bustling little woman who looked daggers at them.

  “Come along, Peter,” she said to her husband. “The place is crowded…you ought to know better than sitting chattering at this time o’ day. Get off to the cash-desk; there’s quite a queue there, and I can’t look after it with these new waitresses…never heard of such a thing…”

  Sheepishly, Buller bade his visitor good-day and entered a small glass pen in the shop. Dominoes clicked incessantly, and Mrs. Buller dashed around, endeavouring to increase the tempo of the waitresses. Littlejohn extricated his overcoat from the tangled mass of clothing which dangled from the only hat-stand in the place, and made a hasty departure on the direction of a substantial lunch.

  Chapter XIV

  The Rum Flask

  I often wonder what the Vintners buy

  One-half so precious as the Goods they sell.

  —Omar Khayyam

  The three rum bottles which Three-Fingers had scattered on his last trail revealed nothing in the way of fingerprints but copious quantities of those of the tramp himself. They were bottles of the common type, which could be obtained from any pub, and it was impossible to trace whence they had come. Their contents, however, were a different matter. The Scotland Yard expert in alcoholic beverages grew quite lyrical about them.

  “You’ll not get that kind of stuff nowadays for love or money,” he told Littlejohn over the telephone. “It’s quality Number 1., Jamaica. It’s probably been in the cask for forty years or more, and is prime, except for the lacing of drugs which some irreverent person’s put in it.”

  “Is that so. But when you’ve finished rhapsodizing over it, is there anything about it which will help us in laying its original owner by the heels?”

  “Oh, that’s another matter, of course. But look for somebody who’s bought in bulk and kept it. The average stuff you’d get from an ordinary wine-merchant, would probably be a blend of No. 1 and No. 2.

  “No. 2 is inferior, and lacking in full flavour and aroma—a bit like Demerara and blended the same. If discretely mixed, can’t be detected, except by the expert, but being cheaper, gives either more profit or makes the price more acceptable. Your sample, I’d say, was made in the old-fashioned small still—they rarely use ’em now, hence the deduction about the age—and comes from a spot where soil and climate make for the finest product. That’s about all…”

  “Thanks for the help, and if I’d a bottle of the untainted real stuff, I’d send it to you…”

  “Oh, you might track it down, you know. Don’t forget me if you do. Good-bye.”

  Superintendent Haworth, who was hobbling around with the help of a stick and chafing at being unable to rush briskly about as was his wont, listened to one end of the conversation and looked anxiously at Littlejohn as he hung-up the police-station telephone. The Inspector told his colleague what he had heard.

  “We’d better send a man round to the local wine-merchants and licenced grocers, as well as the pubs, to enquire about their rum stocks, past and present, then,” said Haworth.

  “Yes. A sound idea. I’m beginning to think that when we discover where Three-Fingers got his rum from, we’ll be getting warm concerning who killed him. Don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yes. But somebody must have supplied it originally to the murderer, so best try all the retailers.”

  “Yes. Probably we’ll find they only stock a medium quality, though, and not the small-still type. And maybe, the stuff was bought a long time ago. I suggest that as well as the local trade sources which you mention, we also have a word with the estate agents. I believe Haythornthwaite, for instance, bought Spenclough Hall lock, stock and barrel, and I take it agents would handle the sale. Did the inventory include a wine-cellar, and if so, was there rum in it?”

  “Hullo. Got your eye on Sir Caleb?”

  “Well, there’s a nigger in the woodpile there, you know. The sums he paid to Sykes before his death are suspicious. Haythornthwaite was sheepish about them, and his excuse about their being payments for patents didn’t seem convincing to me. Mrs. Myles mentioned the dirty work which went on in connection with certain of her firm’s patent rights. Might not Sykes have known something, too, and been blackmailing Sir Caleb?”

  “Yes, that’s feasible.”

  “Another thing, too. Three-Fingers is reported to have been very pleased with himself after the re-opening of the case. That may have meant that, on hearing that Sykes didn’t murder Trickett, but that both of them were shot by a third party, he at once remembered seeing somebody on the Moor at the time of the crime. Assume that he immediately made contact with that somebody, and found a victim for blackmail. You can imagine his satisfaction. Having called for a part of his spoils, Three-Fingers is given the doctored bottle of spirits, and has no more sense than to drink the lot practically at one sitting. Find the donor, find the triple murderer!”

  “We’d better set about finding-out, then, whether Three-Fingers was seen in the region of Spenclough Hall about the day of his death, then.”

  “Yes. Or elsewhere. Who are the leading estate agents here?”

  “Taylor and Collins, in the Market Place. They handle most of the large stuff. In fact, short of going out of town, you’ll find the bulk of big property deals in these parts have gone through their hands. They’ve been established since before my time, and are of good reputation.”

  “I think I’ll cover that angle myself, Haworth. Perhaps you’ll put one of your men on the trade enquiries.”

  “Yes. Right away.”

  “As regards the gunshots, I’m afraid that’s a forlorn hope. Ashworth and Hall’s cartridges seem to have been the vogue in the days of the first crimes, and the 4. and 5. loads seem to have been pretty general. I gather that Buller favoured them and converted his employers and most of his pals to his views, too. Nearly every
body used the mixture.”

  “A pity, but there it is. I thought at first that we were on something there.”

  Later that afternoon, Littlejohn called at the offices of Taylor and Collins and was ushered into the presence of Mr. Dawson Taylor, great-grandson of the founder of the firm. Mr. Taylor was a tall, heavily-built man with a paunch so large that he seemed to be leaning backwards. He had a peculiar cast in one eye, due to being struck by a “peggy”, a game at which he was an adept in his boyhood. The defect gave him the appearance of looking in two directions at once and Littlejohn, seated before the estate agent at a desk cluttered-up with dusty papers, sale bills, rent-books, and accounts in huge paper-clips shaped like hands, was frequently surprised to find that whilst one eye was looking to the left of him in the direction of the office door, the other was fixed benignly on him. In the adjoining saleroom, an auction was in progress, and the interview was punctuated by alternate bouts of loud and excited bidding and long, eloquent silences, broken by the raucous, pleading voice of Mr. Taylor’s clerk, urging his audience to greater efforts and lauding to the skies each and every piece of junk placed under the hammer.

  Littlejohn, after introducing himself, decided that perhaps a cautious approach was necessary. Mr. Taylor looked like a bon-viveur who, in his cups, might easily grow confidential to his boon companions, and betray in full the purpose of the present interview.

  “We’ve reason to think that the local character, Bill o’ Three-Fingers, either stole or was given a bottle of rum on the day of his death. This was either drugged when he got it, or he subsequently was given poison in some way or other and drank the rum just before he died. We’re anxious to trace the place of origin of this spirit. Expert opinion on the rum reports it to be of exceptional quality, and it strikes me, Mr. Taylor, that it might have been from the cellar of some large house in this locality. Perhaps you could help by informing us whether or not you’ve handled such liquor in recent years.”

  Mr. Dawson Taylor swivelled his head round, the better to fix Littlejohn with his good eye.

  “That’s a rum question to ask,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice, and seemed disappointed that Littlejohn did not laugh at his pun. He scratched his bristly, grey beard meditatively. During the silence the sound of furious auctioneering could be heard in the neighbouring salerooms.

  “Wot am I bid for this lovely wash-hand-stand, ladies and gents…solid mahogany…marble top…”

  “Four and six,” from a shrill woman.

  “Hey, missus. I wouldn’t insult it by accepting yer bid. I’d rather give it yer…”

  “Five bob…”

  A fusillade of threepenny increases and the thing went for six-and-nine.

  “Now wot am I bid for this luvely brass-knobbed, double bedstead…slep’ in by Charles one, or I’ve bin misinformed…?”

  Mr. Dawson Taylor was consulting his books and papers, but did not seem to strike any trail.

  “Rum, rum, rum…” he muttered…“Most unusual thing for sale…” One of his eyes ran down the ledger; the other seemed fixed on the fireplace.

  “Did you handle the sale of Spenclough Hall, Mr. Taylor?”

  “It wasn’t sold…it’s still the property of the exors. of old Thomas Lightbody. Sir Caleb Haythornthwaite holds a long lease. I handled that…but why it should interest you, I don’t know.”

  “Was there a wine-cellar, which went with the furniture and other stuff?”

  “Oh, yes. But that’s twenty years since.”

  “Was there any rum among the effects?”

  “Now, you’re asking me. I’ll have to hunt-up the bill of contents. It’ll be in the records in the cellar. Just a minute.”

  Mr. Taylor strode to the door of the general office.

  “Willie!” he bawled. “Just get up the Spenclough Hall bundle from the cellar, quick, that’s a good lad, and bring it in to me here.”

  In a very short time, a diminutive office boy, who looked as though a wash behind his ears and a holiday in the fresh air would do him a world of good, entered with a dusty parcel, swept off the dirt with a duster, and opened it for his chief’s inspection. Mr. Taylor rooted among the contents for a minute or two, and then produced a lengthy inventory consisting of scores of long sheets clipped together. He consulted it rapidly.

  “Garden tools…hm…hm…hm…washing-copper…laundry utensils…hm…hm…hip-bath, meat-safe…hm…hm…Here we are. Choice wines, contents of wine cellar…port, sherry, hm hm…whisky…burgundy…claret…rum…hm, hm…one and a half-dozen bottles Hot Jock Jamaica…pah, rotten stuff…no quality.”

  “You mean, it’s of inferior grade?”

  “Oh, yes. Evidently, the old chap wasn’t as keen on his rums as his whiskies and his wines. He’d some fine Hocks and Clarets, but I don’t know what he was thinking of when he bought his rum. Perhaps just got it as medicine.”

  “That’s all, is it? Has Sir Caleb inherited a good taste in wines?”

  Mr. Taylor cocked his sound eye, which threw the other into more frightful relief and disarray.

  “Naw. Too greedy…whisky and water’s about his mark…and a lot of water at that. Different from his son, who can drink most others under the table.”

  “H’m. Any other cellars you’ve disposed of, in your recollection?”

  “Oh, quite a few, but not locally. The only other in the district was Botley Hall, Jonathan Myles’s place, when Mrs. Myles sold-up.”

  Littlejohn pricked up his ears.

  “They’d a good cellar then, eh?”

  “Oh yes, by gad. Mr. Jonathan had a pretty taste, and so had his wife. We sold some of the wines, I recollect, but she took some with her to her house up-town.”

  “What, exactly?”

  Patiently, Mr. Taylor rose and yelled again for the anæmic Willie, who produced another dirty bundle similar to the one he had brought in previously. The inventory was eventually unearthed and ponderously perused by the estate agent.

  “Yes. Here we are. Rum…four small casks, first-class Jamaica. ‘Caxton and Roberts, prime small-still’, three casks to be sold, one to Mrs. Myles.”

  “Ah!”

  “Well, that seems to be the extent of what I can remember of rum sales…”

  “I’m sure I’m much obliged for your trouble, Mr. Taylor. Do you mind keeping this visit confidential? You know how people take-on if they think you’re poking into their private affairs.”

  “Yes, I do that,…glad to help…I’ll keep it under my hat.”

  With one eye smiling on Littlejohn in friendly fashion, and the other staring moodily into distant space, the estate agent saw the Inspector to the door and wished him good day.

  Next-door bidding was going-on excitedly.

  “Seventeen and ten…seventeen and elevenpence…”

  “Seventeen and twelvepence,” yelled a frenzied woman’s voice, oblivious of all but the lust for possession.

  Back at the police-station, Haworth was waiting with the reports of two policemen who had toured the town searching for good rum. As far as the first-class stuff found in Three-Fingers’ flasks was concerned, they had drawn a blank. Wine merchants, hotels and inns, not to mention the few licenced grocers, whilst keeping, in some cases, good stuff, did not rise to the quality described by the Scotland Yard expert. It was not in demand. As medicine, a cheaper brand was called-for; topers—and they were few—bought standard, second-quality spirits; connoisseurs in rum were totally missing.

  “So you see, Littlejohn, your theory might bring something to light.”

  Littlejohn told his colleague of the information he had secured at the estate agent’s. Haworth whistled.

  “Mrs. Myles, eh? Well, that’s a corker. Still, we might be barking up the wrong tree altogether. The fact that we can’t find any rum to our standard now, doesn’t mean there’s never been any sold in these
parts. You know, folk aren’t drinkers like they used to be, and the excise has made the price of first-rate drinks prohibitive.”

  “All the same,” said Littlejohn, “it gives us another thread to follow. We’d better concentrate on that next. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes. Now, what had we better do?”

  Haworth thought for a minute or two.

  “We’ll send a ‘gas-man’ to inspect the meter at Mrs. Myles’s to-morrow, and he can lose his way and land in the wine-cellar. How will that do?”

  “A bit risky, but perhaps worth while. He’d better go when the housekeeper is out shopping, however. She’s a perfect dragon of a woman, that one, and will probably smell a rat. Find out her habits first, and act accordingly. As your man calls to read the meter, I’ll slip round and have a word with the kitchen-maid. She might be informative when the old dragon’s out of the way.”

  Haworth scratched his head perplexedly.

  “Mrs. Myles…phew…what a commotion and what a surprise! Yet, come to think of it…yes, come to think of it, there’s more unlikely people.”

  Chapter XV

  Tradesmen’s Entrance

  I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

  With coldness still returning;

  Alas! the gratitude of men

  Hath oftener left me mourning.

  —Wordsworth

  Miriam Dewsnap, kitchen-maid at Mrs. Myles’s, nursed in her comely bosom the eternal hope that one day the dream lover she had built-up in imagination, with the assistance of certain novelettes which she devoured when the housekeeper was not about, would materialize and release her from servitude. She had visions of motor-cars, diamonds and furs, and menials to wait upon her, but had no objection to modifying the dream to the occasion. The butcher’s boy, the postman, the grocer’s vanman, and even the coalman had each his little day and ceased to please her. One turned out to be furiously courting his master’s daughter; another accidentally disclosed, after an undue period of dalliance, that he was the father of three; the vanman joined the forces without so much as a word of farewell; and the coalman, whilst an adept at rolling his eyes when covered with the dust of his trade, disclosed a hare-lip when properly washed, and thus shattered his chances for ever.