“Wot the ’ell’s come over Bill Mellalieu,” said Sam Mutters as he led his team back to their pots and darts. “Wot’s the use o’ havin’ a bobby in the place if you carn’t get the latest news out of ’im? T’ain’t nachurall or fair we should ’ave to wait for the mornin’ papers like the rest of the world. It’s our village it’s ’appened in, ain’t it?”
There were sympathetic murmurs again. Meanwhile, the converted milk-van had been requisitioned and with Mellalieu sitting portentously at the driver’s side, set-out with its burden for Olstead.
Gillibrand closely questioned Mrs. Elliott before finally leaving the house. She repeated the tale she had previously told the village constable.
“…And Mr. Wall seemed quite as usual when you left him yesterday?”
“Oh yes. He was very cheerful and told me to have a good time.”
“You found him quite a good master, Mrs. Elliott?”
“Oh yes, sir. None better…” The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “There’s many round here will miss him.”
“In what way?”
“Well, although he wasn’t what you would call a qualified doctor, he was just as good as one. He could do anything except operate with the knife, you know…”
“Did he give medicine, too?”
“Yes. Homœopathics. In the old days, when Doctor Taylor was in the village, the two of them pretty well had equal practices with Dr. Taylor being called-in when Mr. Wall’s patients looked like dying. And the old doctor not liking it, but putting-up with it. The Taylors had been doctors here as long, if not longer than the Walls. Father to son, like, and although one family couldn’t mix with the other on account of the Taylors being qualified and the Walls what some folk called quack-doctors, yet the one respected the other. You had to respect the Walls, sir.”
“And who’s in practice here now?”
“Oh, Dr. Keating. That’s another matter. He hated Mr. Wall. And Mr. Wall knew it and laughed about it. It wasn’t any wonder he hated him. You see, when old Dr. Taylor died and the practice passed to a stranger, a lot of the patients started coming here. Mr. Wall used to say that he’d captured the main part of the goodwill of the old Taylors’ practice, and no wonder Dr. Keating was sore. Added to that, the two of them had a quarrel and all the village knew about it. Little Mary Selby who’d been climbing on the table when her mother’s back was turned, fell off and broke her collar-bone. They took her to Dr. Keating, who didn’t seem to find out that it was broken. Well, when the child didn’t seem better, her father brought her here. ‘Who’s been treating this,’ says Mr. Wall after examining her. ‘Dr. Keating,’ says the father, a bit sheepish-like. ‘Well, this collar-bone’s broken and if it’d gone on for another week, this child would have been a cripple for life.’ And he broke it and set it again. It got all round the village and Dr. Keating came here and kicked-up a fearful row. Didn’t do the doctor any good, that, and brought more of his patients here.”
“I see. Had Mr. Wall any particular enemies about the district?”
“Not what you’d call enemies. He was thoroughly detested by the doctors about here, of course. People came from places miles away. They’ve even been from London. In the days of the first and second Mr. Wall, they came from all over the country, but nowadays there are more osteopaths and such-like and people can get treatment nearer home. Also, Mr. Wall, like his father and grandfather before him, had a biting tongue when he chose to use it. Didn’t wrap things up when he was annoyed. But, of course, people were hurt at the time and forgot about it when they were cured. He never suffered fools gladly, sir.”
“When you were away, he attended to his own surgery, eh?”
“Yes. As a rule, the patients sat in the little room across the hall, which had a side-door. That door was loose and they came that way. Then, when the master had finished with them, he’d let them out at the front and put his head in the waiting-room and call ‘Next’ as he passed.”
“The side-door was locked when you came back today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The key isn’t in it, though.”
“No. It’s on the nail above the door. It’s a bit loose and with people coming and going used to fall out, so we put it there.”
She showed the detective the spot and then uttered an exclamation. “Well! Here’s the key we couldn’t find. The one for the consulting-room.”
Examination of the shattered lock of the death-room had revealed no key and it had been presumed that the murderer had taken it away with him. Gillibrand took the key in his hand.
“You’re sure the side-door was locked, Mrs. Elliott, when you returned?”
“Quite sure.”
“The murderer must have been in the waiting-room after he killed Mr. Wall. Then he must have gone out by the front way and snapped the lock behind him…”
“Will you be wanting anything more, sir? I can’t stay here to-night and I’ve got to get the last ’bus to my sister’s at Sleeby.”
“No, I think that’ll be all for the time being, thank you, Mrs. Elliott. By the way. You’ve informed Mr. Wall’s relatives of this? Had he any relatives?”
“Only one. A nephew. Dr. John Wall, in practice somewhere in London. We’ve wired him to come.”
“So there is at least one of the Walls who’s not a quack, eh?”
“Yes. When Mr. Martin Wall—that was the master’s brother who died three years since—when Mr. Martin was in partnership here, he said he wasn’t going to have his son hounded about by the profession, so he sent him to the hospital to get his degrees. A good man is Mr. John. He’s an orthopædic surgeon. The skill runs in the family, sir.”
“You seem to know all their history, Mrs. Elliott.”
“I’ve been with them so long. Ever since I lost my husband in the Boer War.”
“No wonder you know all about them!”
“Yes. Rare men they were to work for. I guess I’ll be retiring now…I’ve got an annuity, you see. When I was sixty, Mr. Nathaniel gave it to me. ‘No need to wait for my will now, Mrs. Elliott,’ he said, ‘although I hope you’ll stay on with me till my time comes to go.’ Very kind and considerate always, he was. I never heard of any other master doing such a thoughtful thing…”
“Nor did I, Mrs. Elliott. Well, you go for your ’bus and I’ll lock-up here. Good night.”
When the housekeeper had departed, Gillibrand lit his pipe and strolled about the ground-floor rooms of the great empty house. Whoever could have wished to put an old man, who, if accounts were true, was a public benefactor, so cruelly to death? True, an old bachelor living alone can harbour strange secrets, especially one to whose consulting-room queer cases are continually coming and going.
On the morrow, he would go through the locked desk and safe with the dead man’s lawyer. Goodness knew what secrets they held. If the old chap had kept case-books, they should prove interesting. His diary and his pass-books, too, would bear close scrutiny.
This was going to be a ticklish case, not only that there was so little to go on, but also it might lead into strange situations. For example, several doctors might be involved, men who had become the sworn enemies of old Wall through his unorthodoxy. He’d better talk to the chief about it. Maybe they’d better have an outsider in. One who could ask questions without causing local resentment after the crime had been solved. Besides, Scotland Yard were better equipped for tackling a murder of this kind. Personally, he wouldn’t mind working with a decent colleague from London. They took none of the glory and were men who got a move on and cut through local red-tape and prejudice.
It was quite dark when Gillibrand opened the front door to let himself out. As he prepared to close it, the telephone bell rang. Now what? Gillibrand hurried back and took up the instrument.
“Is that Mr. Wall?”
“No. Who are you?”
“Mr. Slocombe, Red Dyke
Farm. Ask Mr. Wall to come over right away. My daughter’s tumbled downstairs and it seems serious…”
“Sorry…Mr. Wall died yesterday. You’ll have to try someone else.” There was a gasp and a groan of anxiety at the other end and then the line grew dead.
As he replaced the receiver, Gillibrand thought that many people hereabouts had lost a good friend at the hand of a cunning killer.
Chapter III
Littlejohn
A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry.
—Act I. Sc. II.
Gillibrand met the London train at Olstead with certain feelings of anxiety, for he had no idea what kind of a colleague was arriving from Scotland Yard. However, when Detective-Inspector Littlejohn jumped from his compartment, singled-out his uniformed collaborator and shook him heartily by the hand, his troubles seemed to vanish and a happy partnership was established from the first. Good humoured, efficient, unofficious, thought Inspector Gillibrand, and he was right.
The two men talked generalities until they reached the police-station, where over a cup of tea, the local officer briefly outlined the affair to Littlejohn.
“This is a queer case,” he began passing his tobacco pouch over to his new friend. “It concerns the death of Nathaniel Wall, a bonesetter of considerable local reputation, who was found murdered last night in his consulting-room. He’d been half-strangled first and then, according to the medical evidence, finished-off by being hanged on a contrivance of ropes and pulleys which he used for his job. Judging from the contents of the stomach and the time it’s assumed he had his supper, he was killed about eleven on the previous night.”
“I suppose he took his evening meal as regular as clockwork, eh?” interposed Littlejohn.
“Yes. He was a bachelor and lived with an elderly housekeeper. Normally, they had a young girl, too, who acted as a day maid, but she’s joined the A.T.S., and they haven’t been able to get another to take her place yet. Mrs. Elliott, the housekeeper, went to visit a sister on the morning of the crime, stayed overnight and when she returned last evening, found the consulting-room door locked. This was most unusual and she got apprehensive, so called in the local constable, who broke-in. The blind was drawn and there, hanging to his bonesetting gadget, was old Wall, stiff and dead.”
“How old was he, Gillibrand?”
“Seventy-two and a bit and well preserved. The key of the locked door was hanging from a nail over a side entrance. Why it was put there, I don’t know. The murderer must have let himself out by the front door which has a spring lock; the other door was fastened on the inside.”
“Mr. Wall was unqualified?”
“Yes. The qualified men called him a quack, but that’s hardly fair, considering that they call cheapjacks at fairs the same. Wall was a first class bonesetter. Quite a lot of first division footballers have been under him for treatment and he has a wide reputation for the cures he’s brought about. In addition, he practised a bit of homœopathy with a measure of success. As a matter of fact, many local folk consulted him instead of the orthodox practitioners. He was wise enough to send them off to qualified men in serious cases. He couldn’t issue a death certificate, of course, and his prudence has resulted in a perfectly clean sheet hitherto. He’s never been involved in any scandal.”
“A good record.”
“Yes. He belongs to a family of high standing in the district. As a matter of fact, Littlejohn, I’d like you to meet the old vicar of Stalden, Mr. John Thorp, who can tell you the full history of the Walls since they settled in these parts. It will give you some background besides making interesting hearing. We’ll call on the old chap one day.”
“I’ll be staying in the village?”
“Well, I’ve provisionally booked you a room at the inn there, The Mortal Man. Quite a good place. There’s none better in this town. The village is about three miles down the Cambridge Road from here. A pretty place. At one time, I believe, it was almost like a miniature spa, teeming with invalids visiting the Stalden Doctors, as the Walls were called in the old days. There wasn’t a room to be had anywhere then. The doctors took-in about seven or eight patients themselves and the rest spread themselves in the pub and cottages round. That was, of course, before the orthodox profession improved so much. The records show some remarkable cures, if they’re true.”
“This is all very interesting. Whoever would want to kill a man of that type?”
“You never know, do you? Perhaps he’d found out somebody’s secret. Strange folk called at The Corner House—that’s what the Walls’ house was called…”
“Reminds me of home…!”
“Yes. Well, you’ll see what a problem faces us. But we’ll get at it right away. Pettyflower, the lawyer, has promised to call here about the will and a search in the deceased’s personal effects. He’s in the court next door at present defending poachers, but should be free any time. Then we’ll go over to Stalden and you can help us in the search.”
“I gather nothing has come to light to help us on the way? Local feuds, or gossip, or such like…”
“No. So far, we haven’t combed the neighbourhood. You see, our inquiries may possibly involve the delicate task of probing among the medicos round about. You’ll agree that’s a ticklish job and will call for every ounce of tact we can muster. Our Chief’s a terror for quick results, too. Hence, we’ve called in Scotland Yard at once. So far, we’ve hardly scratched the surface of the case, although how far we’ll have to dig and what crops it’ll yield are in the lap of the gods. Here’s a copy of the medical report for you.”
Gillibrand handed over a typed sheet of technicalities to his colleague.
“Thanks,” said Littlejohn. “I’ll have to study this carefully. When’s the inquest?”
“To-morrow, Inspector, and it’ll be purely formal. We’ve a good coroner here and he’ll work hand-in-glove with us. It will be an adjournment…indefinitely. By the way, there’s one peculiarity about the doctor’s report. Wall was strangled and…well, you might call it frenziedly, as though he put up some resistance and his murderer exerted every ounce to render him unconscious and then, suddenly recovering himself, shall we say, felt repugnance at killing him that way, so finished the job with a rope. But the strange thing is the marks on the throat. Our surgeon’s had them photographed for records. The finger marks on each side of the windpipe have bitten deep and left heavy bruises, and these show that the man was stronger in the left hand than in the right. He must have been partially or wholly left-handed.”
“What exactly do you mean by that, Gillibrand?”
“Some men write with their right hands, but might bowl at cricket or bat with their lefts. Just depends on training, doesn’t it? So we can’t definitely start hunting for an obviously left-handed man. That’s all.”
“A good point.”
At this the expected visitor entered the room.
Mr. Edward Pettyflower of the old firm of Pettyflower, Mobbs, Parker and Begg, principal lawyers of the district. A small, middle-aged man and apparently in the process of putting-on weight. He had a clean, round, red face with innocent-looking blue eyes, which had many times been responsible for leading forensic opponents into a fatal trap and bringing off his cases triumphantly. He was almost bald and wore horn-rimmed spectacles on the bridge of his nose. A habit of looking over these made one wonder why he had them at all. He tripped into the room smiling and in the best of tempers, for he had just got his clients off with a caution.
“Well now, gentlemen. I’m at your disposal…”
Gillibrand introduced him to Littlejohn.
“Let’s get off to The Corner House, then,” said the solicitor. “There’s nothing to sit talking about in the will. All the estate of the deceased goes to his nephew, Dr. John Wall of London, who is joint executor with me. Mrs. Elliott has already been provided for, so after death duties and an honorariu
m for me, the doctor gets Corner House and all the rest. He probably travelled on your train, Littlejohn, and is at present, according to programme, at our office, making some arrangements with my partner, Mr. Begg, with whom he went to school and with whom he’ll stay whilst settling things up. My car’s outside, so let’s get going.”
Whereat the lawyer ushered the police officers to the door and penned them together in the back seat of his prosperous-looking car.
At The Corner House, the three investigators were joined by Dr. John Wall. He was a tall, heavily-built man, in his middle forties and more like a farmer than a surgeon. In that, he showed his physical inheritance from a race of blacksmiths, farriers and bonesetters, countrymen all. He had clear grey eyes, a heavy open countenance, with a small dark moustache, thick grey eyebrows, and a fine head of greying hair to crown the lot. He seemed somewhat bewildered by the events into which his uncle’s death had drawn him. He was obviously relieved to see the lawyer, who introduced him to the two Inspectors.
“I’m glad to see you here, Ted,” he said to Pettyflower. “This legal work and clearing-up baffles me and it’s good to have you as joint executor. I’ll be the sleeping partner in this job.”
The quartet set about going through the papers and records left behind by the murdered man.
Nothing unusual in the way of monies paid in or drawn out of the bank over a long number of years.
“Did you expect it?” asked Dr. Wall, after Gillibrand had spent a lot of time over several pass-books. “My uncle was a steady-living chap. Hardly likely to be a victim of blackmail or to be keeping other establishments. I could have told you that from the start.”
“We just have to be sure, don’t we, sir?” replied the Inspector pleasantly. “We mustn’t overlook anything.”
They continued their labours. Bills neatly filed away. A day-book, showing names of patients and amounts paid. Consultation fees were reasonable and in many cases a tick in the cash column showed that someone who couldn’t afford it had been charged nothing. There was a fat address book, too. All these were contained in the drawers of a large, old-fashioned secretaire. The safe was opened next. This held more valuable and confidential documents. For example, there was a file of threatening and scurrilous letters from this and that infuriated doctor or layman. There was a large scrap-book, too, which held newspaper reports of cures effected and other items of interest connected with the family. Interviews with journalists, paragraphs of history and the like.
The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack Page 18