The Dead Shall be Raised and The Murder of a Quack

by George Bellairs

  Then came a number of pages extracted from unorthodox journals on new health, bonesetting, osteopathy, homœopathy and the like. Articles in which the work of the Walls was recorded and acclaimed. A club foot healed, long standing lesions relieved, paralysed limbs brought into service again. A regular gold mine for the specialist like Dr. John, but of little use in the investigation of murder. Littlejohn turned over the remaining blank pages, having merely scanned those concerned with technicalities. It was like reading a medical dictionary. Made one aware of the flesh and the ills it was heir to…Wonder if the old chap would have been any good for the cartilage I got kicked off at football thirty years ago and which bothers me a bit now and again? thought Littlejohn.

  After the intervening blank pages, came another batch of clippings, which seemed for the most part to concern odds and ends, off the main track, of family history. The yellowed estate-agent’s handbill extolling The Corner House. Scraps concerning the wills and monies left by certain local bigwigs. An article on local medicinal herbs by a field naturalist. Even a column on the husband of Mrs. Elliott, with details of his death at Mafeking and certain functions in his posthumous honour. Finally, Littlejohn took up a bunch of cuttings fastened carefully together by a paper clip. Here was something more in his line.

  First came a column from the Morning News of ten years ago.

  bank robbery in gray’s inn road

  thief gets clean away

  cashier shot

  “A daring hold-up occurred yesterday afternoon at the Gray’s Inn Road Branch of the Southern Bank…”

  Briefly, just as the bank was about to close for the day, a bearded man, evidently disguised, entered and at the point of a pistol forced the cashier to fill a bag which he carried with notes. Unfortunately, there were no other customers in at the time and of the staff of four, three only were on the premises. The fourth was out clearing a cheque. Upon the cashier showing fight, the intruder shot him and forced the manager, who entered from his room, to fill the bag instead. The remaining lady clerk he told to come round to the counter and hold up her hands. It was a job of five minutes and the thief then escaped by car, which he had left down the side street. On leaving the premises, the robber locked the door behind him, thus, although the alarm was immediately given, making sure of a fair start. The cashier was not seriously injured, the bullet fortunately passing just below the collar-bone. The car in question was later found in a car-park near Holborn Viaduct. No proper description could be given of the man, but the police were following certain clues…The manager, however, stated that the intruder seemed to suffer from some infirmity in his right hand and arm. He held his gun with the left hand and, on taking the bag of cash, transferred the weapon to his right and seemed to hold it with more difficulty. The proceeds of the robbery were said to be well over six thousand pounds.

  Then followed a cutting of a few days later.

  bank gunman still at large

  car found abandoned

  thought still to be in london

  Littlejohn rubbed his chin. What in the world was an out-of-the-way quack doctor doing with cuttings of hold-ups in London?

  At the bottom of the file was yet another cutting. Just a mere scrap of less than an inch. It bore a date a year after the rest, nine years ago.

  “Harold Greenlees, whose death sentence was later commuted to one for life, in connection with the Redstead Murder in 1922, was to-day released from prison.”

  What the…? Surely, old Wall wasn’t interested in crime as well as broken bones. Yet, if so, why only the three cuttings? Perhaps they had some bearing on present events. At any rate full details of each would do no harm.

  Littlejohn made his way to the telephone, rang up Scotland Yard and asked for full particulars of each of the cases mentioned in the cuttings. He then put the latter in his pocket-book, parcelled-up the scrap-book and locked it in his bag. It was time to call on Mrs. Elliott.

  Mrs. Elliott reminded Littlejohn of the cockroaches in Capek’s Insect Play. In next to no time, she had had executed a special mourning order and was decked out in funereal black from head to foot. Gloves and stockings, too. Gillibrand was already at The Corner House and introduced the Scotland Yard man to the black woman. She had recovered from her shock somewhat and was very anxious to talk now, so filled with avenging spirits had she become.

  “Nothin’, nothin’, I’d stop at nothin’ to bring the brute who did that cruel thing to the master to the scaffold,” she said and burst into tears.

  “Well, let’s get strictly to business, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Elliott,” said Littlejohn after a pause, during which the housekeeper sniffed herself back to a composed state.

  “In the first place, did anyone know you were going away for the night when the crime occurred?”

  “Not exactly, sir. But, of course, it would get all round the village after Mr. Wall took his meal at The Mortal Man; in fact, I know it did. He told the landlord after his tea that I’d gone visitin’ and wouldn’t be back till the morrow.”

  “Another thing; were all the windows fastened when you left?”

  “All except Mr. Wall’s bedroom. He didn’t like those downstairs to be open. They let-in too much noise from the road.”

  “Quite sure, Mrs. Elliott?”

  “Certain. I did the rounds before I left.”

  “The french window, too?”

  “Yes. The key was kept in the ornament on the mantel-

  piece.”

  “Was the window often opened?”

  “Sometimes. Mr. Wall liked to sit on the lawn now and then, or even take a meal there when it was nice weather.”

  “Were there many comings and goings through the window? I mean were private patients admitted that way?”

  “Never, sir. They’d always use the front door. The tradesmen used the side-door, that was used for the waiting-room entrance during consulting hours.”

  “I see. Would you be surprised to know that someone came in by the french window just before Mr. Wall’s death?”

  “I would that…I’ve never known it.”

  “I gather that at one time some of Mr. Wall’s patients boarded here. Kind of nursing-home. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were these guests under your care, Mrs. Elliott?”

  “Yes, always. I saw to their comforts and food and Mr. Wall treated them.”

  “What kind of patients were they as a rule?”

  “Well, sir…there’d be footballers having ligaments put right or muscles attended to. And perhaps somebody who didn’t want to or couldn’t travel long distances for treatment, so stayed here. Or else, sometimes people with plenty of money came for consultation, liked the village and the house, and stayed until the master had finished with them.”

  “Any queer characters among them?”

  “Oh, plenty, sir. One old gentleman wouldn’t use the bath. Never been used to anything but an old fashioned tub, he said. So I had to go to town and get one for him and carry up cans of water every morning. A colonel, he was, with a stiff leg. Mr. Wall did him a lot of good, too.”

  “H’m. Any patients who came on the quiet? I mean, who didn’t want the world to know they were here?”

  “Quite a number o’ those, too, sir. One was a bishop, who had a son a doctor. And he’d neuritis that bad and the son not able to do him a ha’porth o’ good. Mr. Wall set him right. But the bishop didn’t want it thought his son was no good and he’d had to come to an unqualified man. We even had a doctor here once. Came in the dark for treatment, and went away in the dark. Spinal, I think.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Elliott. I think that’s all for the time being. But I’m sure to want to see you again later. I’ll be able to get to you easily?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be at my sister’s for a week or two and Mr. Gillibrand has the address. They’re on the ’phone
.”

  Littlejohn talked over the case briefly with his colleague and then Gillibrand suggested the visit to the vicar.

  “There’s time before the inquest, if you’ve nothing more urgent, Littlejohn. This is a good time to catch the old chap at home.”

  They found the Rev. John Thorp snoozing in a chair on the delightful lawn of his vicarage, a gracious old place set amid trees and with a peaceful walled garden. The vicar was very old. He reminded Littlejohn of the Venerable Bede, for he had a long, snow-white beard, silky white hair with a tonsure of baldness at the crown, and placid blue eyes. He was in clerical attire and had an air of drowsy saintliness about him, such as often surrounds good old men. He would long ago have retired from Stalden, but the villagers wouldn’t let him. So he paid a curate good money to do most of the work and himself became the patron saint of the place, to whom his flock brought their troubles and therein found much relief and consolation.

  The old priest greeted his callers and Gillibrand, having introduced his friend, made excuses on the strength of the forthcoming inquest and took his leave. Mr. Thorp called for a chair and a bottle of beer for his guest and they settled down for a chat.

  “I suppose you’ve called to discuss this shocking affair of Mr. Wall. Nothing of the kind has ever happened in this village before in my time or on the records of which I’m so fond,” said the vicar. “I’m not only grieved at the loss of an old friend, but hurt and horrified beyond measure at the manner of his passing. I suppose there’s no doubt that it’s murder?”

  “None whatever, sir. Medical evidence puts that beyond question.”

  “What baffles me, Inspector, is who should want to do such a dastardly thing to a public benefactor. For Mr. Wall was one. Not only by profession, but by his philanthropy in our own village. Many a one will have cause to mourn his passing.”

  “So I gather, sir. The family has long connections here, I understand.”

  “Yes. A hundred and thirty years exactly since this village saw Theodore Wall for the first time. He arrived one evening in 1812 with nothing but a few clothes tied up in a bundle. He was then thirty years of age. He came from Cumberland and said he was a blacksmith. Old Isaac Small, village blacksmith at the time and an aged man, took him on as assistant. When Isaac died five years later, Theodore took over the smithy. By that time he had earned quite a local reputation as a farrier. In fact, there wasn’t much that young man didn’t know about things on four legs. Horses, cattle, sheep and domestic animals…what he didn’t know he learned from books and commonsense. It was not a long step to human ailments, which, in these parts are mainly surgical except in the old. Broken bones, cuts, poisoning of wounds, sprains, muscles and the like going wrong, and joints and such. Dr. Taylor, the local sawbones of the time, was away at the wars. People began to call in the horse doctor. Thus was established the family of Stalden ‘doctors’.”

  The old man paused and his gentle, but remarkably searching blue eyes looked into those of his guest.

  “I hope I’m not boring you, Inspector. I’m sure you’ve not called for a lesson in local history.”

  “Continue by all means, sir. This is most interesting. You have a remarkable memory.”

  “Interest, Inspector, interest. I’ve been here for more than sixty years and this is my world now…I don’t remember Theodore, of course. I wish I did. I knew Samuel, his son, however, a fine man, who inherited his father’s skill. He died in 1907 and I buried him. He it was who moved from the house by the old smithy and took The Corner House, then known as Patchings after the family who had just left it. Then there was Nathaniel. Born 1870 and now one must add, alas, died 1942. Samuel had two sons, Nat and Martin. Martin was three years older than Nathaniel and died in 1937. Nat was a bachelor. His fiancée, a nice girl from Olstead, died from a riding accident which all the poor fellow’s skill couldn’t repair. I don’t think he ever thought of a woman after that. Martin married and his son, John, took his degree and set up in practice in the south. Every one of them good fellows of sound character and undoubted skill, although none was professionally qualified except young Jack. Funnily enough, it’s only comparatively recently that they’ve got across the qualified fraternity. The Taylors, surgeons from father to son for nearly two hundred years, were most tolerant of them. Broadminded, charitable men they were. Keating here, however, has been most unpleasant. Perhaps he thought he’d cause for it. After all, it must be galling to have to undergo a long and costly training and then find that the bulk of the custom goes to what is called a quack, and, as if to add insult to injury, the hopeless cases are passed on for a death certificate. Nevertheless, there’s work for both if they can only agree. I hardly dare to hope that Dr. Jack will come to take over the family practice, buy out the disgruntled Keating and amalgamate the two under a proper orthodoxy…May I offer you a cigar?”

  The good man called for his cigar box, which was brought by a manservant. Littlejohn took advantage of the lull to turn the conversation in the direction he wished.

  “I hear, sir, that The Corner House was something of a hospital at one time.”

  “Oh yes, Inspector, until quite recently. In fact, it overflowed into the village. I was a frequent caller there and one day I saw a bishop hiding in the private drawing-room. Yes, I did. I knew him well, but pretended not to see him.”

  The priest burst into hearty laughter at the thought of it.

  “I’ve been wondering, Mr. Thorp, if at some time or other Mr. Wall discovered something about one of his patients which later recoiled on him in the tragic fashion we know.”

  “That I can’t tell you. There have been some strange cases there, of course, but I can’t discriminate. I often called after hours to smoke a pipe with Nathaniel and Martin, and with old Sam before them, but I saw little of the patients, of course. No, I can’t help you there.”

  “I must confess to listening to gossip in the local inn last night, sir, and I overheard the names of Mr. Wall and Miss Betty Cockayne mentioned, as well as that of a Mr. Rider. Can you throw any light on the relationships?”

  “Yes, Inspector, certainly. Betty Cockayne, who is twenty-eight—I christened her, so I know—was the adopted daughter of Miss Martlett, her aunt, who died last year. Miss Martlett took her when her parents were killed in a French railway accident during holidays. They lived here. The child was unfortunately left penniless, for whilst her mother, also a Martlett, had inherited quite a small fortune from her parents, she had invested it in her husband’s business which, owing to his poor handling, was insolvent at his death. The surviving sister was comfortably off and when she died last year, left her niece and adopted daughter about thirty thousand pounds. I know that, too, because I was executor.”

  Littlejohn wondered what, in the family lives of his people, the old vicar was not connected with.

  “When Betty was about fifteen she became very ill indeed. In fact, she began to lose the use of her lower limbs and the local doctors were baffled by the case. Finally, in desperation, Miss Martlett turned to Nathaniel Wall. He discovered, I believe—I’m no expert on these things, of course—that one of the spinal vertebrae had been displaced through the girl trying to crank-up her aunt’s little car and was in some way pressing on the cord. He manipulated it into position again. That’s just an example of what the Wall family was always doing. During that affair he became very fond of young Betty. In fact, I think he’d have adopted her then and there if her aunt would have agreed. At any rate, he was like a father to her and she thought the world of him.”

  “And now she’s become engaged to a local man, I understand.”

  “Yes, Charles Rider. He lives at the last cottage in the village, a very pretty place and hardly a cottage. Evidently a man of means, who was struck by the locality and settled down here. He’s been with us about ten years and, although he never comes to church, he’s quite interested in the life of the village. A very close m
an, though. In all the ten years he’s been here, I’ve learned little about him either directly or from gossip. He’s said to be a writer. I’ve never read any of his books as I understand he writes novels under a pseudonym. A bit artistic-looking, Vandyke beard and all that. Nothing much wrong about him, though, although poor Mr. Wall was terribly upset when Betty Cockayne got engaged to Rider about a month ago. He said the fellow was fortune-hunting and had suddenly begun to take an interest in the girl after she’d inherited her aunt’s money. I think he spoke to Betty about it, but you know what lovers are. They’re certainly fond of each other…”

  The old man stared at Littlejohn keenly.

  “You’re surely not connecting those two with the crime, are you? I do assure you, Inspector, that neither would think of such a thing. Mr. Rider had the greatest admiration for Nathaniel and has been heard publicly to say that he hoped to know more of the old man through his marriage with Betty.”

  “Didn’t Mr. Wall like Rider before the engagement business, sir?”

  “That I can’t say, although I’m sure Nat would have told me. He frequently opened his heart to me, as, of course, he should. He just seemed indifferent to the man.”

  Littlejohn felt that he had trespassed enough on the vicar’s time and rose to go. Quite apart from its business aspect, Littlejohn felt that the interview had done him good. There was a restfulness and a steadying calm about the old priest which seemed to convey itself to the spirit of those who enjoyed the privilege of his company. Stalden was indeed lucky in possessing such a man. Apparently from the first, when he arrived as a young clergyman new to the ministry, he had known what he wanted and stuck to it…

  “Come again, Inspector. If I can help in any way, be sure I will and, if I’m no further use to you in the case you have in hand, come as a friend whenever you’ve a few minutes to spare.”