Lastly, came eleven fine, leather-bound volumes of closely-written records. The case-books of the whole family of “doctors” since its inception in Stalden.
Dr. John opened his eyes wide as he fondly handled the books.
“By gad!” he muttered. “What a gold-mine! Officially, I’m supposed, as a qualified man, to be in the opposition camp, but blood’s thicker than water and I know how skilled all the old chaps were. These records are invaluable, especially to me in my job. I’ll take them back with me…I can hardly wait to be getting at them!”
Littlejohn interposed.
“You don’t mind leaving them with us for the time being, however, Doctor…?”
“Whatever for? They’re of no interest to the layman.”
“All the same, I’m afraid we’ll have to keep them until the case is solved one way or another. You see, they may contain something which will throw valuable light on our problems.”
“Very well…although it’s a bit disappointing. You’ll want the scrap-book, too, then?”
“Decidedly, sir. That’s of equal importance.”
“Right. But don’t forget, I’m anxious to have them as soon as possible, will you?”
Their work finished for the time being, the party broke-up.
Before they parted, however, Littlejohn took Dr. Wall aside.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking what might seem to you an undiplomatic question, but were you in London on the night of the murder, sir?”
The doctor laughed.
“Suspect number one, am I? Well, I suppose as the old man’s heir, I might have good cause for hurrying the processes of nature. But, as regards killing him…I was too fond of him for that; I’d like to get my hands on whoever did.”
He meant it, too.
“However, you want an alibi, not a scene. No, I wasn’t in London. I was in Cheltenham, operating. It was an emergency. I got there at nine in the evening, by road, and left the hospital just before twelve, midnight. I dined with the head surgeon there and he’ll confirm that. Here’s his address.”
The doctor scribbled a name and address on the back of one of his own cards and handed it to the detective, who thanked him.
Gillibrand, having made a parcel of the records and scrap-book, tucked them under his arm and then offered to take his colleague to The Mortal Man and see him comfortably installed. They made their way to the inn and, over glasses of beer, discussed the case again.
“We’ve a job on with the case-books, Littlejohn. They cover a period of a hundred or more years,” grumbled the local man.
“Yes. But all we’re concerned with is those of the murdered man, I should say. But first, I suggest we start with the scrap-book. Then if it yields anything, amplify it by the case-book. If nothing comes from it, then we’ll both have to tackle the case-books. Of course, they may have no bearing on this business at all. I propose to make a first move by trying to trace all who visited the ‘doctor’ on the night of his death and also I’ll comb the place for anyone who’s seen strangers around. Then, there’ll be the old man’s movements before he was killed. Lastly, your vicar for a talk about family history. I think that’ll do for a beginning.”
Gillibrand nodded and smiled. Littlejohn’s easy, unperturbed manner gave him confidence and relief. Murder didn’t often visit those parts.
“Well, I’ll be off, Littlejohn. Got a lot to do. Routine, you know and it’s the inquest to-morrow.”
“Care to leave the scrap-book with me, Inspector?” asked Littlejohn and, with this mine of information at his elbow, he bade Gillibrand good-bye and began to watch with interest the preparations they were making to provide him with a substantial meal.
Chapter IV
Midwife
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale.
—Act II. Sc. I.
In leaving The Corner House, Littlejohn had noticed a small cottage, the only one of its kind, tucked among the more imposing dwellings of the square. Luckily, it also overlooked the bonesetter’s house and the detective was struck by the idea that perhaps here, if it were tenanted by some old gossip, he might get more news than from the more formidable householders around. His hopes were not in vain, for, after having done justice to a heavy high tea, he asked the landlord of The Mortal Man concerning the cottage and was given a satisfying answer.
“Oh, that be occupied by Martha Harris, the local midwife and district nurse. A proper old chatterbox, she be, though wonderful handy at a lying-in. So, having to choose between being talked about or havin’ an easy time, the women take the lesser evil and suffer her tongue.”
Littlejohn therefore made Woodbine Cottage his first port of call.
The door opened almost before he had ceased knocking and a large woman with a figure like an old-fashioned cottage loaf confronted him. She had billowing black skirts, a black blouse, decorated with a cameo brooch and a watch hanging from an imitation bow made in gold or gilt. Her grey hair was divided in the middle and elevated by two invisible pads into an edifice resembling two large blunt horns and she wore a massive comb to keep the lot together. Her face was red, smooth and fat and her eyes were green, inquisitive and shrewd.
“Mrs. Harris?” said Littlejohn.
“Yes,” said the woman, summing-up her visitor without much success. He seemed far too confident and carefree for a client anxious to bespeak her services at a future accouchement or to want her to sit up all night with an ailing wife. Perhaps a traveller for something! That would be it.
“I don’t want anything to-day,” said the midwife and was making as if to shut him out.
“My name is Littlejohn, Inspector Littlejohn. May I have a word or two with you, Mrs. Harris?”
The woman’s face became anxious and the blood drained from it, leaving it hot and mottled. Sometimes, she gave confidential advice to clients in difficulties. Had one of them…?
“Come inside,” she said, dithering.
When she heard the purpose of Littlejohn’s visit, she was so relieved that she impulsively asked him to stay for tea, an honour which the detective declined.
“Oh, I can’t help seein’, bein’ right in the middle of the square, what’s goin’ on round me,” said Mrs. Harris, having recovered her composure and straightened out her stiff dress. “I cannot say what went on at Mr. Wall’s for most of the time, me havin’ ’ad four patients to clean up before me dinner, a confinement which tuck four hours in the afternoon, and two after-cares in the evenin’. So, all I see was the old man goin’ over for his mid-day to The Mortal Man and then a few evenin’ patients arrivin’ as I set out after tea. When I got back about eight, there was one or two comin’ and goin’ at the surgery and then as I went off to Mrs. Bargery, at Marsh Farm. Terrible bad she’s been and the child’s life despaired of, and the ’usband drinkin’ to fergit his misfortunes, bad luck never comin’ singly, he sez. Well, as I went off there about ten, the last of the patients seemed to a’ gone, becos I saw the old man goin’ across to the inn for his nightcap.”
Littlejohn had the greatest difficulty in halting this spate of information.
“You saw no strangers about, then?” he interposed with difficulty.
“No. Never a one. Not that I’d much chance, seein’ I wasn’t in all day, was I?”
The Inspector beat a somewhat hasty retreat towards the door, as the woman seemed to be loading up for another volley of gossip.
“Who was the last patient you saw there, Mrs. Harris?”
“Old Goodchild, the cobbler. Sprained ankle…fell off his own doorstep, if you please. In the dark…that’s what comes of spendin’ the generous profits he makes out of our mendin’ on drink instead of on his family, which is too large as it is…”
“Many thanks, Mrs. ’Arris, and good evening,” said Littlejohn. The woman did not notice the unconsciously dropped aspirate with
which her visitor linked her to her more famous counterpart. The detective remembered his mistake as he closed the gate and later put it on record in a letter to his wife, to whom he made reports almost as full and frequent as those he sent to The Yard.
The cobbler’s shop was not far off. It was tucked away in a corner just where the main street opened out from its bottleneck to form the square. The sign which swung over the door was plainly visible from Mrs. Harris’s garden-gate.
JEREMY GOODCHILD
Bespoke Bootmaker.
Repairs.
Littlejohn made for the place and entered. The building was old and dark and a door, divided in two horizontally, stable-fashion, gave access to it. There, amid a welter of lasts, tools and old footwear sat the shoemaker slapping rivets into a shoe which looked long past repairing. A middle-aged man, flabby from lack of exercise, pale from indoor work, rheumy-eyed from drink. A bald head with a few stray hairs here and there, round fat face, and heavy ungainly body. As he rose to inspect the newcomer, Goodchild reminded Littlejohn of those little bedside lamps, which, weighted at their bases, will totter here and there if agitated but never fall down, rooted on their feet but gyrating, leaning, shuffling all over the shop. The cobbler leaned on the counter. If he was not leaning on one thing it was on another. Chair-backs, cupboards, walls, all received his weight.
“Evenin’,” said Goodchild, vomiting a mouthful of shoemaker’s nails into the palm of his hand and transferring the sticky mass into their appropriate receptacle.
The noise from the dim living-quarters behind the shop was appalling. A large family of children seemed to be indulging in all forms of sport. Someone was strumming on a twanging piano. Two boys were quarrelling fiercely. A child, probably teething, was yelling its head off. A parrot made bubbling noises like a bottle being emptied and from time to time shouted its name. “Pretty Poll, Pretty Poll! I know something about you! Pretty Poll!” In the doorway leading to the inner room sat a dog, busy with his fleas. And amid the welter, Mrs. Goodchild, suckling a tiny infant, rocked placidly to and fro, fat, lazy, apparently soothed by the pandemonium going on around her.
Littlejohn sucked hard at his pipe and surrounded himself by a fragrant smoke-screen to keep out the stale smells of the interior.
“Good evening,” he said to the sly-looking cobbler.
“Well?”
“I’m a police-inspector. I’d like a word with you about the events of the evening of Mr. Wall’s death.”
“Me? I’d nothin’ to dew with it…”
At this point the noise became so deafening that the shoemaker was stirred from his lethargy. Hastily seizing a large awl by the metal end, he rolled like a tidal wave into the living-room, kicking the cur before him, and could be heard cracking the pates of his offspring, like a grotesque xylophonist executing a tuneless solo. A unison of outraged yelling followed, whereat the instrumentalist waddled back to his bench, slamming the connecting door on the way and making satisfied snorts at the good work he had accomplished.
“Now; Whatsis murder to do wi’me?”
He elided his words; almost too lazy to speak.
“You were Mr. Wall’s last patient, I gather, that night.”
“Aw, that. Yis a waz. Sprained me ankle. Mr. Wall was betternany doctor. Cheaper too. Put me right. Yis. About quarter’fan hour after he lemmeout of the house, he followed me, locked-up and wenover to th’pub ferris nightcap.”
“What time would that be?”
“Tennish. Just before closingtime.”
“How long were you in the waiting-room?”
“Nearly two hours, onanoff. Lot o’ patients there that night.”
“On and off?”
“Yis. Went fust round eightish. Waited abit. Then, wenfuradrink to the pub. Got thirsty sittinthere. Told them as waz there to save my place while I nipped out.”
“Was there anyone among the patients you didn’t know? Any strangers?”
“Naw. All villagers and countryfolk from hereabout. Folk from outside mostly come afternoon.”
“There was nobody in The Corner House, then, when you left Mr. Wall there and went for your final drink?”
“Noboddy. Place was empty.”
“H’m. Did you see Mr. Wall return?”
“’E left Mortal Man as I did. Hapast ten. Went straight across ’ome, unlocked door and went in. Shuttit after ’im.”
“Right. Thanks, Mr. Goodchild. That’s all for the time being.”
“Right. Musbe gettin’ on. Promised these shoes for to-night.”
More likely getting thirsty again, thought Littlejohn. He bade the cobbler good-night and the man turned to his last again, as he did so flinging a fistful of nails in his mouth, like an urchin feeding on peanuts.
Behind the closed door the piano started again and the dog, apparently finished with his livestock, began to howl a dismal accompaniment. “Pretty Poll! I know something about you, Pretty Poll!” The shoemaker furiously drove his nails into the tattered boot and drowned the tumult in his own noise.
Littlejohn looked to left and to right down the village street. The shops were closed. Knots of women had gathered at the gates of their cottage gardens and eyed him curiously. On the strip of green round the war memorial the youths of the village swaggered before groups of tittering girls. A party of men were talking at the door of the saddler’s shop. Now and then, someone or other would cross the road to The Mortal Man and enter for his evening pint. A very old man with a long beard of dirty white shambled across to the inn, scarce able to crawl, but not missing his nightcap and gossip.
So, someone had either gained access to the bonesetter’s empty house during his absence or been quietly let-in after the cobbler had seen the old man enter for the night. Littlejohn thought that he had better have a look at the interior of The Corner House again. Gillibrand had left a key with him. He strode across the square, followed by staring, curious eyes and, unlocking the front door, entered.
All was silent inside, save for the heavy ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. This wheezily worked itself up for an effort, struck eight and sank into exhausted quietness once more. The Inspector passed from one room to another. All the windows were closed and the catches thrust home. The housekeeper had told Gillibrand that all the windows on the downstairs floor were fastened. They were never opened, except during cleaning time. The noise of passing traffic in the road annoyed Mr. Wall.
Littlejohn examined all the fastenings carefully. No sign of recent disturbance. In fact, the dust on the ledges had not been moved for days. Upstairs, the window of the dead man’s room was ajar. Only that. There was no easy access to the first floor from back or front. He passed into the dining-room which overlooked a long garden from a french window. Thick hedges on two sides of the lawn and flower beds. A smaller yew hedge at the bottom of the garden, over which could be seen a wide stretch of country with an allotment in the foreground. In this vegetable patch a tall man, like a scarecrow, was feverishly at work, apparently weeding.
The french window had been recently opened, for there was earth on the mat just on the inside of it. Littlejohn examined this closely for footmarks. There was no key in the lock of the casement but Littlejohn soon found this among a litter of clock and drawer keys in an ornament on the mantelpiece. He opened the window and stepped out. Rain in the night had washed away any traces of intrusion from behind. The outside of the lock, however, bore recent scratches as though someone, in unsteady haste, had lately used it. He made a note of this for when he next interviewed Mrs. Elliott, who was returning on the morrow for the inquest.
Enough for one day.
The detective locked-up the house again and crossed the road to The Mortal Man. He might gather something from the gossips over their evening ale. Besides, he was thirsty himself.
Suddenly, he halted in his stride. One thing more. Perhaps the scarecro
w in the market-garden at the back had seen something. Better ask him at once and then call it a day.
So, turning on his heel, Littlejohn made for the lane which led from the village street to the country behind.
Chapter V
Smallholder
This man, with lanthorn, dog,
and bush of thorn, presenteth Moonshine.
—Act V. Sc. I.
The human scarecrow toiling among his cabbages and cauliflowers did not even look round to greet his visitor. Instead he remained bent, grubbing about among his plants, chattering to himself and now and then half-straightening himself to inspect something he held between his finger and thumb and which he then dropped into a large tin at his side. The light was fading, but that did not deter him. A thin mongrel dog sleeping on the grass verge, growled, opened one eye and dozed off again without challenging the newcomer.
“Late to be working here,” said Littlejohn for want of something else to say to attract the man’s attention.
The tall, bony frame uncurled itself, revealing an emaciated body, arms and legs like drumsticks, large hands like shovels and covered with mud from rooting in the wet earth. The face was long, thin and with cadaverous cheeks. The fellow had a dark, unkempt moustache, burning black eyes and his dirty clothing was covered by a dirtier raincoat. A shapeless hat topped the lot, too large and held in position by its wearer’s ears.
“Late!” piped the scarecrow. “Never too late for this job! Slugs and leatherjackets in millions. Here’s me, huntin’ slugs with me torch o’ nights and leatherjackets every hour God spares me by day.”
The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack Page 19