Littlejohn looked him in the face and was surprised to see his expression change from self-pity to one of purposefulness. Medlicott took out a handkerchief, polished his glasses, mopped his damp beard, and straightened his coat and his tie. He was once again the old Jubal, but without the smile.
“I don’t know, Inspector, but I want to help you to find out. I tell you here and now that I killed neither of the two men, I was never anything more than friendly with Miss Mander, and I have never been unfaithful to my wife. I ask you to believe me. Now, please ask as many questions as you like and I will answer them truthfully.”
“Where were you on the night Edwin Bunn died?”
“I received a message from Violet Mander that she must see me at her shop on an important matter. I went and instead of Miss Mander, I found Browning waiting at the door of the closed shop to say that it was all a mistake and Miss Mander had left.”
“What was the matter she wanted to discuss?”
“She said her name had been linked with mine, a private detective was on our trail, and she suspected my wife had engaged him. She must see me.”
“You didn’t tell me that when I asked you. Were you afraid of the scandal?”
“Exactly, sir. That’s why I went when she sent for me. I couldn’t bear my wife even to hear a breath of it. She’s not well.”
“Did you know Browning was a private enquiry agent?”
“He said so when I met him at the door of the shop. He also said Miss Mander had misunderstood something he’d said and he was anxious to apologize to me and put it right.”
“What time was that?”
Medlicott thought for a minute.
“Ten o’clock. I got the ten-past bus home to the gate of our house.”
“Now, about Miss Mander. Did she pay her rent?”
“Not personally. She had a small income looked after by her lawyer, who paid in the rent quarterly.”
“Who was her lawyer?”
“Edgell. It seems Ned Bunn met her somewhere at a theatre where she’d been acting and the company went bankrupt. Ned seems to have taken a fancy to her and got his own lawyer to look after her affairs.”
“Throw your mind back to earlier this evening, sir. I saw you enter the flats with Miss Mander. You were begging her for something. You sounded like a lover pleading for forgiveness …”
Medlicott was terrified.
“Are things as bad as that? Must everything I do be turned against me? I tell you I’m not her lover. I …”
“What was the conversation about, then? You looked very upset.”
Jubal Medlicott suddenly looked old, tired and ashamed again.
“I was begging for money … I … I … I can’t pay my way. We owe money all over the place and until Ned’s estate is disbursed, I’m cleaned out. Miss Mander pays her rent quarterly in arrears. I asked her for the two months’ money owing; it’s not quarter-end till next month. I’m ashamed, but I’ve no pride left. I’m broke. I asked Edgell for a few pounds on account from the estate. He said he’d find it next week. Meanwhile, the milk is cut off, we can’t get meat and bread, the light and gas are due to be cut off any time and …”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“It only needs my wife to hear the rumours of my infidelity and I’m done for. We console one another by saying we’ve always got one another. Now …”
He looked calm, like a man ready to put his head in a gas-oven to get a bit of peace.
“You see, don’t you, Mr. Medlicott, that you’ve got a terrible enemy in this town? He’s set out to steadily ruin your good name, your honour, and your family life. He’s got Miss Mander in his power, and she has lied about her relations with you. He’s murdered your brother-in-law and seen to it that you have no alibi because you were wandering about in the rain at the time of the crime. He’s shut the mouth of Browning, who might have done you some good if he’d told the truth, and he’s taken infinite pains to lay a trail of clues right to your door in connection with Browning’s death.”
Medlicott didn’t seem surprised; only resigned.
“Yes, sir. I’ve talked it over with my wife. She’s told me all about your visits and your questions and I have told her the truth. She believes me and she also said that you didn’t believe I’d killed either of the dead men. I’m grateful for that, sir, most grateful.”
“On the night Browning was murdered, you followed me out of your flats, in your dressing-gown. About that time, Browning was strangled in the garden. What have you to say about that, Mr. Medlicott?”
It was pathetic. Whichever way Jubal turned, he seemed to meet trouble. Now, he moved his head from side to side like somebody in pain and licked his red lips nervously.
“I can only say that it was my usual bad luck. After you left, I suddenly remembered it was very dark down the drive and you might get lost in the grounds. I only came down to show you the way. Even an ordinary act of what you might call common courtesy is now turned against me and I find myself just as much without an alibi as I was when Ned met his death.”
“Things certainly look black for you from the circumstantial point of view, sir, and we’ve only your word and your wife’s trust in you against an almost overwhelming mass of incriminating evidence. In fact, we’ve almost enough against you to arrest you.”
Medlicott passed his hand rapidly across his forehead two or three times, as though trying to clear his wits, and then shrugged his shoulders with a feeble weary gesture.
“I’ve done my best to tell you the truth. There’s nothing more I can do. I’ve always been a bit of a fool; never knew the value of money and always tried to be bright and cheerful by way of showing the shop was prosperous, although all the time it was going the wrong way. Now I seem to have landed myself in trouble that I can’t laugh off or treat as funny. I guess I’ll have to stand my trial and trust to justice to see me through. But why would it all fall on me? Why? Is nobody else suspected?”
Littlejohn lit his pipe again and offered a cigarette to Jubal Medlicott. The little tailor took it slowly and then the gesture must have struck him as a kindly one and in his overwrought condition he was touched. Tears flowed down his beard.
“I don’t seem to have anybody to turn to.”
“You don’t need anybody, Mr. Medlicott. The case against you is too good, too watertight. The solution’s been handed to us on a plate. All we have to do is arrest and hang you. That’s too easy for us. It’s made us suspicious.”
Cromwell nodded sagely to show he was included in the plural.
“You were an obvious suspect, Mr. Medlicott. You were desperate for money and Ned Bunn had it and it would come to you and your wife if he died. You went out and nobody knew where you were when Ned Bunn was killed. If you’d said you were at Mimi’s shop, you’d have needed Browning to confirm it and Browning was dead at the time he could have done you any good. There’s motive and everything else there. You also knew Bunn’s shop inside-out, knew where the firearms were kept, could easily obtain a key, could find your way about the place in the dark. You knew Ned Bunn’s habits … You see what a culprit you might be?”
Medlicott nodded without a word.
“Your own wife thought you might have done it … perhaps for her sake, because she isn’t well and you could use the money for her benefit. To divert our suspicions, she told me she killed Ned Bunn.”
Medlicott just sat sobbing with no resistance or spirit left.
“And then, to crown all, footprints round the body of Browning were your size and across the instep of each shoe, there was a groove made by the strap of a spat, such as you wear. That seemed conclusive.”
“Yes. I admit it did.”
Medlicott was in a daze, taking it all on the chin, no fight in him.
Littlejohn crossed and stood before him.
“Do you hear what I’m telling you? There were two sets of footprints with the mark of a spat across each! Were you wearing two spats when you followed me down the s
tairs into the garden?”
“I? No, I wasn’t, was I? I’d only one on. I broke the strap of the other and my wife was mending it. I couldn’t have had two on, could I?”
“Of course you couldn’t! That’s where the murderer made his first big slip. He wanted it to look like you and in his finicky precision, he overplayed his hand. Now, Mr. Medlicott, who not only wanted Ned Bunn out of the way, but Browning dead, and you accused of both crimes? Who hates you enough for that?”
“Nobody. That’s just it. Nobody. I haven’t an enemy in the world. People laugh at me, I know. They think I’m eccentric, mad and irresponsible, but they don’t wish me ill. I’m just a local joke, the sort of town fool.”
Littlejohn was still standing over Jubal. He felt like taking him by the collar and shaking him.
“Have you ever done anybody a dirty trick in your life, sir? Something they’ve never forgotten or recovered from?”
“No. I’ve always tried to play the game.”
“Good heavens, man! Who was it turned up and married another man’s fiancée just before his wedding and at a time when he’d got a houseful of furniture? And the frustrated lover has never married as a result.”
“Simon Edgell! Never! He wouldn’t do me a dirty trick. He’s a friend of the family, calls on us from time to time, sends us Christmas presents, and always remembers Dolly and Polly on their birthdays. You’ve got the wrong man. You might just as well say I murdered Bunn and Browning!”
“I think you’d better go home, Mr. Medlicott. You seem to want to get yourself hanged. Don’t say a word of this interview to a soul. We’ve confided quite a lot in you and if you mentioned what I’ve said to Mr. Edgell, he might, as a lawyer, make things difficult for us. We’re not exempt from slander, you know.”
“I won’t say a word, sir. Thanks for trusting me and believing what I told you. I can only say again, I haven’t murdered anybody. There were times when I’d have liked to kill both Bunn and Browning but I never got a chance.”
“Now just stop it, sir,” interjected Cromwell impatiently. “Here we are, trying to clear you of suspicion, and you keep convicting yourself with every other word you speak. You’ll be asking me to take down a full confession in a minute.”
Mr. Blowitt, beaming still, brought in three glasses of whisky and a syphon.
“Thought you might like a little drink to liven up the talk, gents. All on the ’ouse, with my best wishes.”
“Sorry, Mr. Blowitt. I’m teetotal.”
“Take it as medicine, Mr. Medlicott, sir. You look as if you need it. Never seen you look so all-in.”
Jubal downed the whisky, coughed, pulled himself together and looked better.
“I think I’ll have another, landlord. For the road, I believe the saying is. And these gentlemen will join me, won’t you?”
He was at it again! Penniless, but throwing about what bit he had left! They all had a drink with him, saw him to the door, and, as Medlicott vanished into the dark, they heard him begin to whistle.
17
THE MAN WHO READ CONRAD
“Is Mr. Edgell in?”
The man who answered the door looked surprised and then, with a gesture bordering on insolence, he took out a large watch from his waistcoat pocket and looked at it with raised eyebrows. He was an ex-policeman and general factotum for Mr. Edgell and his wife lived in and acted as housekeeper. Littlejohn handed the man his card.
“Oh, come inside, sir. I didn’t know it was you. We don’t encourage callers, but you’re different. Please wait here.”
The house was a large one set on a hill just outside the town. A long wooded avenue and then a broad façade of windows with a wide semi-circular drive in front. It had been built by a pretentious millowner after a trip to the French châteaux, and embodied many classical features in miniature. Edgell had bought it cheaply when the owner’s son went bankrupt after running through his father’s fortune.
The hall was panelled up to the ceiling and light by electric fittings in the form of candles, imitation wax and all. A wide, carpeted staircase ran up to a landing and there was a little minstrels’ gallery at one end. Littlejohn couldn’t help comparing the place with Whispers and thinking how Edgell seemed to have gone up as the girl he wanted to marry had gone down.
“Mr. Edgell will see you, sir.”
Another beautifully panelled room with bare oak beams in the ceiling. This was evidently the library, for there were books from top to bottom of one side, and on two others, closed cupboards half-way and above them glazed book-cases packed with richly-bound volumes in calf, and gold-lettered. A log fire blazed in a large Adam fireplace and there were winged armchairs on each side of it. A table set out with whisky and a wine decanter; a box of cigars, a pipe and a jar of tobacco. Edgell seemed to do himself well in his isolation. There was nobody in the room, but a door at the far end stood open and Littlejohn could hear someone padding about beyond it.
As he waited, Littlejohn, his hands behind his back, examined the books in the open case. They were evidently favourites, for they were well-worn. Galsworthy, Meredith, Conrad, Trollope, and Dickens. One of the Conrad collection was missing.
“Admiring my books, Inspector?”
Edgell had entered quietly and was eyeing Littlejohn from the inner doorway. He wore a black velvet smoking-jacket.
“Sorry to keep you. I was in my dressing-gown when you called and I thought I’d better change.”
He looked better than when Littlejohn saw him at the office. He had obviously dined well and there was a healthy pink flush on his usually grey cheeks. His white hair shone under the light of the seven-branched chandelier which he switched on from where he stood.
“Yes, sir. We seem to have similar tastes. I could spend a happy night with any of these.”
Littlejohn indicated the row of Conrad’s novels with his hand.
“I’m just reading Typhoon again. You know it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A remarkable book; a great adventure. And the woman for whom the story of the fantastic affair was written, simply cast away the account without so much as reading it.”
Littlejohn pricked up his ears. Edgell sounded to be getting at something, hinting at some episode in his own life.
“… I admire Conrad most for his sense of discipline. One must have inner strength to meet the cruelties of life and … But there, you’re not here for a literary lecture. What can I do for you at this late hour? Sit down.”
They sat, one on each side of the glowing logs. Edgell offered Littlejohn drinks and cigars, but the Inspector declined the former and asked if he might smoke his pipe. The ex-policeman entered and made up the fire. Edgell waited for him to go.
“How far have you got with these crimes, Inspector? You’ve been here nearly a week. I was just wondering …”
Littlejohn scented reproach at the delay, tinged perhaps with curiosity about developments. He ignored the question.
“There are one or two matters which puzzle me and I think you might help, sir.”
Edgell didn’t seem embarrassed. Littlejohn could feel a tension growing in the atmosphere, but it was probably that of a skilled lawyer ready for work. There was a smile on Edgell’s usually grim face.
“I’ll be very willing to help. In fact, I must confess to feeling a bit guilty about you, Inspector. I’ve seen very little of you and I feel I could have assisted you. I know a lot about the Bunn family, you know.”
In the drowsy heat from the fire, Littlejohn was studying the man sitting opposite. Small, grey, highly intelligent, fastidious, with a fine skin, high forehead, thin nose, firm chin and a petulant mouth. A man who liked his own way and who fumed, chafed and probably got nasty when he didn’t get it. He seemed, in his home, to have dropped the fumbling fussy manner he adopted at the office.
“I don’t see that family background is going to help us much, sir. Intestine quarrels are always going on behind the family curtain everywhere, but they don’t
get to killing one another about them.”
Edgell stiffened.
“You’re a bit independent, aren’t you? I’m an older man than you and if you’ve gathered your experience from one angle of crime, you’ll give me credit for gaining mine from another, and a more intimate one.”
There he was! His weak spot was his pride and arrogance. Edgell couldn’t stand anybody crossing him.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean any discourtesy. I’m ready for all the background you can give me about the family.”
Edgell was sulking a bit. He wasn’t going to play.
“Why did you call, Inspector?”
“Your name has cropped up in certain directions, sir, and I think you might help us clear up some obscure points. For example, Miss Violet Mander …”
The corners of Edgell’s mouth twitched and he gave Littlejohn a momentary look of evasion, something flickering and a bit shifty.
“Well?” His voice wavered now.
“Who is she?”
“How should I know?”
“I heard that you first met her when you were with Edwin Bunn at a theatre in Melton Mowbray looking after Bunn’s interests in the bankruptcy of a repertory company. Miss Mander was in the show and Bunn took a fancy to her. He tried to find her a job in Enderby.”
Edgell cleared his throat, poured out more whisky for himself, and sipped it.
“Did he?”
“Yes. Or, that’s one side of the story. The other was that you got Miss Mander the job at Maison Mimi …”
“That’s right. At Bunn’s request. A man often puts things like that in his lawyer’s hands when he wants to keep in the background himself.”
“He also put in your hands the paying of Miss Mander’s rent in Medlicott’s flats?”
Another flicker of indecision. Edgell seemed a bit afraid. He wasn’t quite sure how much Littlejohn knew.
“Bunn was fond of pretty women. It was his weakness. No discipline; couldn’t control his appetites …”
Corpses in Enderby (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 17