“Have you proof he didn’t?”
“Let me answer by another question. Do you believe him guilty?”
“No, I don’t.”
She thrust out her face doggedly.
“Very well, then. Neither do I. You didn’t do it and I don’t think Mr. Medlicott did. Agreed?”
She smiled, looked relieved, and thrust out her worn hand.
“I trust you, Inspector, and I didn’t do it, either. I’m sorry I wasted your time and told lies.”
“Don’t do it again, then,” said Littlejohn, and they both laughed.
13
THE ARRIVAL OF BATHSHEBA BUNN
REWARD OF £500 FOR BUNN KILLER
THE large headlines in the morning papers were a bit ambiguous, but everybody knew what they meant. On the day after the funeral, Elmer Bunn, a descendant of emigrants from the Melton Mowbray branch of the family to El Paso, Texas, and a millionaire cattle-king into the bargain, had, on receiving the news of the murder by cable, immediately wired to Enderby:
offer 1500 dollars for apprehension murderer edwin bunn stop will send pinkerton agent if required stop reply at once stop.
elmer bunn.
Now there lived in Melton Mowbray, an incredibly old and wealthy Bunn called Bathsheba, and she was the ultimate matriarch, a spinster even more formidable than Sarah Wilkins. She was eighty-eight and, at the age of sixty-five, had retired to bed. Thence, she directed family affairs, receiving a heavy mail every morning from Bunns who hoped one day to come into her fortune, in full possession of every scrap of family news, entirely aware of all that went on in Melton Mowbray, and from her headquarters on a rubber super-mattress directing by telephone and ukase all the vital operations of the clan. She took Elmer Bunn’s offer, without her consent, as an act of lèse majesté and said at once that she was getting up. The news was immediately confirmed by the arrival at the agitated Jasper Bunns’ of two heavy tin trunks, a large wicker basket, a bath-chair, a rubber mattress, two crated cats and a parrot in a cage. The family all hoped the adventure would put paid to Bathsheba and release another quarter of a million for distribution.
At noon the same day, a large barouche bearing Aunt Bathsheba arrived in Enderby. She was heavily clothed from head to foot, with only the face of what looked like a very ancient bulldog visible. They almost expected her to bark and many people were surprised when she began to articulate in perfect Queen’s English. She ordered herself to be immediately wheeled in her bath-chair to the police-station by her house-boy, a comparatively young man of seventy-eight and obviously on his last legs. En route, they halted wherever two or three were gathered together and Aunt Bathsheba announced to them in a loud, rasping voice that a reward of £2,000 would be paid to anyone giving information resulting in the apprehension of Edwin Bunn’s murderer. “And don’t you be taking any notice of American offers not authorized by the family. Support the old country. God Save the Queen.” Everybody agreed that it was their duty to be patriotic, except a local crank who talked about dollar exports, was subsequently certified as a lunatic, and removed from circulation in a plain van …
A cable was sent to El Paso:
everything in hand stop arrest imminent stop reward and extra detectives not necessary stop writing stop
bathsheba bunn full stop
“You see what you’re up against,” said Edgell the lawyer to Littlejohn.
They had been discussing the past history of the Bunn family, particularly the tragedy and death of Jerry Bunn.
“I can assure you that Fred Jukes and all his line have faded out. As for the death of Jeremiah Bunn … well … only the chemist who sold the laudanum could tell you how much he sold and to whom he sold it. He died years ago. Hanged himself when on the verge of bankruptcy. It might be an even bet that Jerry Bunn’s affronted wife gave him an overdose to protect her own and her child’s inheritance. Your guess is as good as mine. I think we’d all be a bit surprised if we knew the inner history of a lot of the sudden deaths certified as being due to natural causes.”
Mr. Edgell was standing before the small fire in the little fireplace of his disorderly private office. His grey appearance was more than usually dishevelled and he had egg on the corner of his mouth. It was as though the Bunn estate and the legal demands it was making upon him had driven everything else from his mind.
“And who told you all about the affair of Fred Jukes, Inspector? I hope you’ve not been unduly bothering Mrs. Medlicott … She’s the only one who keeps up interest in the history of the Bunns and she’s not in good health. So trouble her as little as you can, if you please.”
He passed his thin, dry hand through his mop of grey hair, scratched his crown, and with a quick movement sat down at his overcrowded desk and began to rummage among the masses of papers on the top.
“I’ve been running over a list of the family and others who might have profited by the death of Ned Bunn … or Wood, as he prefers to call himself. I must confess that few of them would have any reason to go so far. There are the near relatives in this town … All well provided for, with the exception of the Medlicotts, who are in low water, I admit. As for the members outside Enderby … Who can imagine them coming all the way from Melton Mowbray, or even farther afield on a night like that to commit murder …?”
Littlejohn cast a quick glance in Edgell’s direction.
“I’ve known it happen, sir. I’ve known people travel from one end of the country to the other for such a purpose, in even worse circumstances. A murderer, fired by his task, doesn’t bother much about a drop of rain or a gale.”
Edgell shrugged his narrow shoulders.
“Have it your own way, Littlejohn. I was going to add, too, that Ned was a bit of a ladies’ man. There may be some motive there. A wronged husband, an angry father … But even then … Murder on such a count is very rare. I’m bound to say that, all things considered, I don’t like the way things look for Medlicott. If, as you’ve been telling me, he was out of doors and can’t say properly where, at the time Bunn was shot, things seem even blacker. He’s at his wits’ end for money and he’s often been heard to complain about the trust which keeps his wife out of her inheritance till Ned dies …”
Edgell’s face grew grave, a couple of bright pink spots appeared over his cheek-bones, and he sat tapping the finger-tips of one hand against those of the other, his elbows resting on the desk.
“I’d be grateful, in the circumstances, if you’d have me there if you come to question him further. I’d like you to advise him to make any statements only in front of his lawyer. After all, I’m a friend of the family and I have the welfare of all of them at heart.”
Littlejohn nodded.
“Quite reasonable, sir.”
“You see, Inspector, Medlicott’s a perfect fool. It would be like him to go and impulsively shoot his brother-in-law and equally like him to make some stupid statement or take some quixotic stand and incriminate himself. I’m not suggesting for a moment he did kill Ned. As likely as not, Medlicott was out chasing some woman or other on the night in question and has a stupid notion he’s protecting her or else saving his wife’s feelings … You understand?”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll bear it in mind.”
Heavy footsteps were heard outside, the door was flung open without more ado, and there stood Aunt Sarah on the mat. She was panting hard and heaving from her efforts. She completely filled the doorway and behind her could be seen the face of the girl clerk from the outer office, her jaws still champing on her chewing-gum.
“This young woman tried to stop me coming in before she brought my name to you … I don’t wait for anybody, Simon Edgell, and no little chit’s stopping me from seeing you when I choose. Good morning to you, young man.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Wilkins.”
Every male under sixty was a young man to Aunt Sarah. She stood there for a moment, recovering her breath and sucking hard at a glucose drop. She was loud in her complaints that the Fearnses didn�
��t feed her properly and between meals ate packets of digestive biscuits, boxes and cartons of chocolates, and bags of boiled sweets.
“And why don’t you have your offices on the ground floor, instead of two flights up? It isn’t good enough to old folks. I wonder you’ve the strength to climb ’em yourself, Simon, a man of your feeble constitution.”
“Sit down, Sarah …”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
She bumped down hard on the largest chair, clasped her hands over the crutch-head of her ebony stick, and put her chin on her hands. She ground the sweet in her mouth between her teeth, swallowed it, licked her blue lips and then suddenly sat back.
“I suppose you’ve heard that Bathsheba’s in town and offering a ridiculous reward for Ned’s murderer. I’d feel like making an auction sale of it and offering three thousand, just to best her, only the whole thing’s silly. It’s got to stop. It’s bringing the family into disrepute, as well as casting a slur on the police. As if they weren’t able to get the job done properly without being given a bonus! Not that I wouldn’t like the Inspector’s nice young assistant to win the two thousand, just to spite Bathsheba; but, no … it’s got to stop. You’ve got to stop it, Simon, or else I’ll have to take a hand.”
Edgell ruffled his hair with his fingers.
“I can’t do anything, Sarah. Bathsheba won’t take my advice. You know what she’s like once she’s roused. After twenty years in bed, this murder’s put her on her feet again. It’s not likely that …”
Aunt Sarah thumped her stick on the floor and they could hear people start shouting and scurrying about in the room below because it had brought down some plaster from the ceiling.
“Very well. I’ll see her then.”
She pointed a swollen finger at Littlejohn.
“And I’d be obliged if you’d leave us now, Inspector. What I’ve called to see Edgell about doesn’t concern the crime at all. It’s family business and it’s private. So, if you don’t mind …”
Littlejohn gave way, rose, and took up his hat and coat.
“I was just going in any case. Good day to you both.”
He had hardly closed the door before the pair of them had their heads together and their voices rumbled in conference. The girl in the outer office let him out and cast an admiring glance at him. The steps down were dark and the staircase smelled of dust and dry-rot. An arrow pointed to the rooms above. Madame Cecile, Palmist. The floor below Edgell’s chambers was occupied by a moneylender. Lighthouse Credit Company. Loans from £5 to £10,000. Walk Right In. A man carrying a brush and dust-pan was following the last injunction. He was going to sweep up the debris which had fallen from the ceiling.
Littlejohn stood at the door of the chambers, which adjoined a multiple tailors’. The Natty Tailors. 400 Branches. Across the way was a small hat shop with a solitary model on a stand in the window. A creation in white of material like blotting-paper, with a veil of net clinging mistily to it. As Littlejohn looked at it, a woman coiled herself from the waist upwards through the black velvet curtains which formed the background for the hat, and thrust a second masterpiece in view. This time it was an object in green felt, shaped like a parson’s hat with a pheasant’s feather rakishly thrust through the black band. A number of women shopping or passing by in the market square converged from all directions before the new piece of headgear and stood adoring it ecstatically, like worshippers witnessing a miracle.
Littlejohn recognized the woman in the window. It was Miss Mander, the blonde tenant of Medlicott’s flats. He crossed and entered the shop, followed by the eyes of curious townspeople, many of whom looked ready to follow him in.
A very small shop, with a little counter, broad shelves for hats, a chair, a large cheval mirror and a lot of little ones here and there. There was a door behind, which led into quarters for the shop-girl. The place was stuffy and smelled of exotic perfume. Scattered about, more hats, frail and inviting, on stands.
Out of her negligée and neatly dressed in a black skirt, white blouse, sleek hose, expensive high-heeled shoes, Miss Violet Mander was, physically, a beauty. Tall, well-developed, with long, white arms and ruby finger-nails. A flawless pink complexion with chubby cheeks, a rounded chin, straight nose and small ears from which hung little pearls on golden chains; china-blue eyes with a perpetual look of vacant, childlike innocence. A narrow, shallow forehead, its defects cunningly hidden by beautiful light golden hair, which swept back in superb waves.
Miss Mander was walking from the room behind when the Inspector entered. She had another little hat on her clenched fist and looked first at Littlejohn and then at the tiny creation of pink felt and tulle as though surprised to find them both where they were.
“Good afternoon, Inspector.”
Miss Mander smiled. It was the smile of a little girl in a religious procession who recognizes a relative among the crowds lining the route.
They talked across the counter, Miss Mander unconsciously caressing and stroking the felt of the hat like a cat.
“Do you remember the night I called to telephone at your flat?”
“Yes. When Mr. Browning was killed.”
“That’s right.”
She was surrounded by a faint aura of heady, expensive perfume, probably erotically named and from Paris.
“Did you see anyone about on the stairs after I came down from the Medlicotts’ flat? You remember, as I was talking with Browning at the outer door, you came out from your flat for a moment and then went in again.”
Littlejohn didn’t mention the man who was with her and who hurried in as well, but the large blue eyes betrayed no embarrassment. Rather did Violet Mander seem to be having difficulty throwing back her mind to the occasion.
Suddenly, she began to look surprised, as though her brain had given up some information she little expected. The eyes grew wider than ever, the thin delicate eyebrows rose, her mouth opened slightly and she gulped.
“Well …?”
“I … er … yes.”
“Who was it?”
She looked hesitant and uneasy.
“I couldn’t be sure, because the light on the stairs was bad.”
“Who did you think it was, then?”
“Mr. Medlicott … I think he was in a dressing-gown. He hurried down and past the door.”
“When, exactly? Before or after you saw me and Mr. Browning talking below?”
She gulped again, an attractive movement of the throat and shoulders, like a good child obediently taking a dose of medicine.
“After. You went away and Mr. Browning went in his flat and shut the door. Then Mr. Medlicott came down, looked out of the front door, and went out, too.”
It all seemed clear. Miss Mander had been bobbing in and out of her flat, watching to see if the coast was clear for her visitor to get away, and people had persisted in coming and going and spoiling it all.
“Did you hear Mr. Medlicott come back up the stairs?”
“I can’t say for certain. No … You see, I wasn’t looking and listening on the landing all the time. You couldn’t expect me to be, could you?”
Of course you couldn’t! Littlejohn could have laughed outright at the comic situation going on inside Miss Mander’s flat. The anxious guest, eager to get away; the whispering, the listening at the door, the peeping, the tiptoeing, the annoyed impatience …
“No, of course not, Miss Mander. And what happened next?”
“You called to telephone.”
She looked childishly pleased about that, as though delighted by the recollection of their first meeting, with the “mice” rustling in the large wardrobe.
“Thank you, Miss Mander. You’ve been a great help.”
“I’m so glad.”
And she looked it!
Across the way as Littlejohn left the shop, he saw Aunt Sarah, her taxi patiently waiting for her, talking with a tall, seedy-looking, thin man of a middle-eastern cast of features, like a carpet-pedlar. He obsequ
iously shook hands with her, supported her as she squeezed herself in the vehicle, which tipped dangerously to receive her, and then went indoors to an office in an old Georgian house. There were three plates on the door jamb. Borough of Enderby, Planning Dept. Midshire County, Rodent Officer. J. Habakkuk, Solicitor. The oily carpet hawker might have been either a shady lawyer or a rat-catcher, but presumably was the former. And what had the formidable Mrs. Wilkins been doing with Mr. Habakkuk, a professional rival of Mr. Simon Edgell?
Littlejohn strolled to the police station and was surprised to find, judging from the decrepit and now familiar taxi and weedy driver, that Aunt Sarah had got there before him. He paused on the threshold of the Inspector’s room to listen to the hubbub of conversation going loudly on behind the closed door.
“You know very well, Bathsheba …”
And a much milder voice, almost whining …
“I only wanted to help …”
“You might have killed yourself and then where would we all be …?”
Littlejohn knocked and entered. It was like another comic scene from a theatre.
Bathsheba Bunn, cowering in her bath-chair with the ancient retainer hanging anxiously over her, and Aunt Sarah towering above her, angry and purple, her ebony stick raised aloft to emphasize her arguments. On the fringe, Cromwell on his feet, a smirk of amusement on his face, his hands in his pockets, and his hat on the chair behind him. Inspector Myers, sitting at his desk with a red face and a look of angry frustration.
Aunt Sarah turned to greet Littlejohn, her stick still in the air.
“Come in, young man. You might as well hear this, too, as it concerns you and an aspersion concerning your ability to solve this case and find out Edwin’s murderer.”
Poor Browning was a mere sideline; nobody seemed to be bothering about who’d throttled him!
“This old and obstinate lady has been in bed and at death’s door for nearly thirty years.”
Corpses in Enderby (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 13