The Case of the Famished Parson (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “The what?”

  “Boiler ‘ouse.”

  It was hopeless. Fennick was too stupid to be a good witness. If he saw anyone he’d probably forgotten.

  “Who looks after the telephone after the day staff leave?”

  “Me.”

  “It’s in the hall-porter’s quarters, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. When ’e goes ’e changes the buzzer to a bell and I can hear it from where I am….”

  “Except when you aren’t there….”

  “Well. Can’t be in two places at once’t, can I?”

  “Were there any incoming calls after half-past ten that night?”

  “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “No. Positive.”

  “But there might have been while you were downstairs tending the fire?”

  “No. If a call comes in, the bell keeps on ringing, even if they ring-off. That is, unless you turn off the bell. I don’t do that. Can’t. Don’t know how. If you want ter stop it, you lifts your own receiver. Then it stops and stays stopped till somebody else rings. See?”

  “I see. If you wanted to call one of the rooms, you could do that from the switchboard?”

  “Of course. One room can speak to another that way, too.”

  “H’m.”

  Bowater turned to Littlejohn.

  “Looks as if somebody spoke to the bishop from the board, then, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Littlejohn.

  “And you, Fennick, saw nothing peculiar at all that night?”

  “Only Mrs. Bishop huntin’ for her husband. Came out askin’ about him as I gathered up the boots to clean ’em….”

  Outside there was a great commotion. Angry yoices raised and somebody thumping a desk.

  The young constable tapped on the door and entered.

  “Mr. Cuhady’s here again, sir. It seems he wants to see the night porter about his shoes. The hotel manager’s with him. They’ve been to Fennick’s house and they told them he was here….”

  Fennick didn’t seem moved. He was so bewildered by the turn of events and the apparent importance of himself in the case that he had given up the problem in despair. He expected the sack for it. So why bother? There was a dearth of night porters so he could soon get another job. He shambled out to face the storm.

  The frustration of not getting at the facts about his dirty shoes had become a monomania with the magnate. He was going to get Fennick sacked if it cost him every penny he’d got.

  “Hi’ you…. That’s the man,” trumpeted Cuhady. “You there….”

  “Put a sock in it,” yelled Fennick and walked past him to the door and home to bed.

  They had to help Mr. Cuhady to a chair and give him a drink of water.

  The result was that, unable to get night men for love or money, the manager pretended to sack Fennick to please Cuhady. In other words, the night porter got holiday with pay till the magnate had packed up his traps and departed with his hired woman.

  But there was one more event before the scene at the police station closed that morning.

  Judge Tennant arrived and asked to see the Superintendent. When he presented his card, a great hush fell on the place. Just as when he entered his court, fully robed, at the assizes.

  “Judge Tennant,” said the sergeant-in-charge to the attendant constables and they all sprang to attention.

  Harry Keast removed his cap, rather a difficult feat, for it was on back to front, shambled to the door, and beat it to the golf links like someone evading the millstones of the law.

  “Good morning, Superintendent,” said the judge.

  Littlejohn was introduced.

  “Good morning to you, Inspector. We’ve seen each other before, haven’t we? I’m glad you’re here. It will help things….”

  “Yes, won’t it?” said Bowater beaming. He didn’t know what else to say.

  “I’ve called about the death of the Bishop of Greyle. An old and dear friend of mine. His wife is very distressed and, I’m afraid, won’t bear much questioning for some time to come. So I promised her I do all I could to ease her burden.”

  “Very good of you, I’m sure, my lord.”

  “So,” said the judge, sitting back nonchalantly in the hard wooden chair. “Is there any way in which I can help?”

  It was a funny situation. It seemed a judge’s place to ask the questions. However…

  In the outer room, Mr. Cuhady was being helped off to his huge car. He hadn’t cut much ice at the police station and was out for new blood.

  “I’ll write to the Home Secretary about this,” he shouted as a parting shot.

  As the car slid away, he was still bawling threats, bullying the attendant hotel manager and sacking his chauffeur.

  But nobody seemed to care.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE BOY WHO GOT ON

  SIR FRANCIS TENNANT was a tall, lean man with very long legs. He sat with them crossed before him and indicated that he was at the service of the police officers.

  The judge was a bachelor. Nobody knew why. He never took anyone into his confidence, newspaper files were singularly thin in details of his life and the standard books of personal reference contained only the bold outlines of his legal career. On the bench his summing-up to the jury was always a masterpiece of precision. He never added a lecture to a sentence and his court was well-known for the courtesy and good manners which he insisted should always prevail in it.

  “If there is anything you wish to know about the late bishop, I shall be pleased to tell you, if I can.”

  Bowater looked at Littlejohn. He seemed at a loss how to begin.

  “This is a strange affair altogether, sir,” said the Inspector. “How comes it that an apparently harmless church dignitary should meet such a violent end? And premeditated, too, by the look of it. Could he have had any enemies sufficiently ruthless to want to kill him?”

  “I’m as baffled as you are, Inspector….”

  There was nothing of the legal hawk about the judge. His features were round and firm, his colouring good, and his nose small and straight. He hadn’t even the traditional gimlet eyes and thin lips. A very benevolent face, in fact. Tired a little about the kindly grey eyes, but otherwise like a cleric himself, with a calm spirit.

  “Were you a personal friend of the dead man, Sir Francis?”

  “Yes. I’ve known him all my life. We attended the same school. In fact, we were born in the same village, Medhope in Glebeshire.”

  “Perhaps, then, you wouldn’t mind giving us some details of Dr. Macintosh’s life….”

  “You could get a lot from Who’s Who, I’ve no doubt. For the rest, his parents were large farmers. He was always a clever lad and got on well. I didn’t see much of him till we went to school in Glebechester. My own home was actually in the centre of the village. The Macintosh farm was a few miles out.”

  “Were they Scots?”

  “By extraction, yes. But three or four generations of them had farmed Cranage, as the place was called. The bishop’s aged mother is still alive and lives there with her son and daughter.”

  “Have you any ideas of your own as to what might be the roots of this tragedy, sir? It must have been brewing for some time. The bishop was called-out late at night to what was obviously a premeditated fate….”

  “It seems so. His wife has no idea what it was all about. She is as puzzled as we are. She can think of nobody who might have wished him ill….”

  “How did Dr. Macintosh stand in church circles?”

  The judge rubbed his short, round chin.

  “Um. Just so-so, I fear. Initially, a good preacher and a brilliant organiser, Macintosh quickly attracted the attention of his superiors. He made rapid strides at first. Then, suddenly, was becalmed in mid-career. Greyle is a small bishopric. Everyone expected him to go higher very quickly, Instead…. Well, he’s been there, let me see … Twelve years, at least.”

  “Why?”

  “If you’ll lo
ok up his career, you’ll find that Macintosh first qualified as a medical man. I don’t think he’d any intention of going into the profession. I never talked with him about it. I was studying for the bar when he was at medical school. But I gather he had the view that a parson ought to have first-rate knowledge of the body to be able to get at the soul….”

  “I see. So he took medicine before divinity, sir?”

  “Yes. And I have an idea that there’s where he’s come up against his superiors. At first, and as an ordinary clergyman he showed a great flair for organising and the true ministry. His churches, both in the East End of London and in large towns in the provinces were crowded and prosperous. But it was a mistake to take him from active parish work to the sedate calm of a cathedral city. A great mistake. It turned him in upon himself….”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “The Dean of Greyle will be here soon. You’d better get a fuller story from him. But I can say that Macintosh’s old medical zeal came back to him as he found time to return to it. He took up psychiatry with zest. Even to the extent of neglecting his episcopal duties.”

  “With what end in view? Merely as a spare-time occupation?”

  “Certainly not. A conscientious bishop hasn’t any spare time. Macintosh had a theory, probably right, that a religious revival would come from the spirit and that healing the spirit was the first task of the church. He wrote two or three books on it….”

  “Oh. It’s that Macintosh is it, sir? I’d no idea. His books are in all the booksellers’ windows.”

  “That’s the man. Of late, he’s been overdoing it. Working too hard on his hobby-horse. Worn himself out. If this had been suicide, I could have understood it….”

  “We can’t see how it could have been.”

  “So I gather.”

  “We’ve just inspected the body, sir. We were amazed at the emaciation…. The bishop is just a bag of skin and bone.”

  “Worked himself to nothing, I suppose.”

  “I don’t know. He looked starved….”

  The judge smiled urbanely.

  “Hardly that. Times are bad, I grant, but surely….”

  “That’s what it looked like, all the same. And the police surgeon seems to think so, too. The man was famished.”

  “Well, if there’s nothing more, I’ll get back to my lunch. I merely called to avoid Mrs. Macintosh being troubled at a time like this. I’m quite at your disposal, however….”

  “We thank you for your help, sir. For the present, I don’t think there’s much more you can do for us. The information’s been most useful.”

  “Much obliged, I’m sure,” added Bowater, who had been quiet throughout the interview.

  So, Sir Francis Tennant left them and Littlejohn was not long following him to the hotel.

  There the Inspector was faced with the incident of Cuhady’s shoes. And he found that whoever had scuffled with the bishop on the edge of Bolter’s Hole had worn them.

  Naturally, Littlejohn’s first thought was of Cuhady. But the hotel manager warned him not to mention the shoes, to say nothing of Cuhady’s wearing them when he thought they were being cleaned. It would be enough to cause a violent eruption. Nevertheless, Littlejohn decided to beard the magnate in his den. He was conducted with reluctance to the royal suite.

  Cuhady refused to see Littlejohn at first. When he heard about the shoes, however, he changed his tune. He thought they’d brought in Scotland Yard to appease him and said he would see the Inspector right away and what the hell were they waiting for.

  “Glad they’ve got somebody proper on the job. I’m a business man myself and like things done slick,” barked Mr. Cuhady. He had a voice like a fox terrier. He was sitting in an armchair with a bottle of seltzer water at his elbow and a box of pills beside it. “Mrs.” Cuhady was hovering round. She and the magnate were pals again. When the blood drummed in the millionaire’s ears at times of pressure, he got terrified. He wanted somebody to tell him he wasn’t going to die. That is where the pseudo-Mrs. Cuhady came in.

  “Like a drink, Inspector?”

  “No thanks, sir. Not on duty.”

  “Have a cigar. No? Put a couple in your pocket then. They’re the best. Now. Let’s get on. What about my shoes?”

  “Well, sir, they’ve become involved in a murder case….”

  “’Ere. What the hell….”

  Mrs. Cuhady, arranging some flowers, or pretending to do so, turned.

  “Now, Teddy-bear, keep calm, dear. You know what the doctor said.”

  “To hell with the doctor, and don’t call me Teddy-bear! What’s all this about murder, Inspector? Why can’t I have a bit of peace. Every little thing that happens to me grows into a big one….”

  He was almost weeping with sorrow for himself. Mr. Cuhady had stored up his wealth in barns and storehouses and was ready to eat, drink and be merry and then the Lord had smitten him with blood-pressure. Just after he’d built a church, too, and endowed a chair in Moral Science at a University. It wasn’t good enough….

  Littlejohn very quietly told the magnate all that had happened. Black dots swam before the millionaire’s eyes again and his ears drummed like a bugle band.

  “You mean to tell me, whoever killed the reverend put on my shoes to do it? I … I …”

  Cuhady sprang to his feet, strode up and down, pawed the air, flung his arms about and then collapsed on the couch. “Mrs.” Cuhady rushed to his side and patted him gently.

  “There, there. It’s nothing. Only an old pair of shoes. You can buy some more….”

  “I don’t want to buy some more…. I feel very poorly, Grace. Why do they keep tormenting me … ?”

  Grace patted and soothed the magnate until he became himself again.

  “He’s that worried,” she explained to Littlejohn, especially for the millionaire’s benefit. “Everybody takes advantage of him. And he’s such a generous, kind-hearted darling once you get to know him….”

  Mr. Cuhady was lapping it up and smiling sheepishly like a soothed baby-in-arms.

  Littlejohn nearly wanted to be sick.

  He wanted to ask Cuhady what he was doing at the time of the crime, but feared another explosion, perhaps a fatal one this time.

  Who were you with last night, so to speak!

  He compromised.

  “I suppose you were both together all last evening?”

  Grace gave Littlejohn a look which was a complete answer. She wasn’t going to let Cuhady out of her sight after nightfall while he’d a penny left in the bank, if she could help it!

  “Of course,” said Cuhady. “My little Grace’s the only friend I’ve got in the world…. Here, What the hell?”

  Mr. Cuhady had all the cunning of the commercial rat. He smelled danger.

  “You meanin’ to say I might have worn my own shoes and done for the reverend. That what you’re getting at? Because if you are …”

  “No, no. I’m naturally interested in all that went on on this floor last night. Have you any useful suggestions?”

  “No. I’m interested, too. I came to bed at ten-thirty; asleep ten minutes later. Remember nothing till this morning when I woke to this mess. What a day!”

  “In that case, I’ll not trouble you further. Thank you.”

  “So, that means that whoever killed the reverend took my shoes, does it?”

  “I guess it does, sir.”

  “Then I hope you catch him quick, and he swings for it…. I … I …”

  “Now, now, my pet…. Remember what the doctor said. What would happen to Gracie if her Cuhad-daddy made himself ill … ?”

  The magnate almost started to guggle and gurgle.

  “What indeed,” thought Littlejohn and left them prattling to one another like a couple of kids.

  Downstairs, Bowater was questioning the barmaid and the cocktail-mixer. Littlejohn joined him.

  The shaker was pure Nordic, with curly blonde hair and a quiff across it like a horizontal question mark.
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  No. He hadn’t seen anything the night before. There wasn’t a soul about. He’d seen the bar emptied and closed. Everybody had melted away and the place was deserted when he said good-night to Fennick and Evelyn.

  Evelyn was the barmaid. She lived in. Dark, buxom and bossy, with blonde hair. She’d overdone the peroxide and only needed pink eyes to look like an albino.

  “Yes, the lot,” concurred Evelyn and patted her blonde waves to make sure they were still there.

  “Yes,” reiterated Gus. “And Old Shearwater was too drunk to help himself, so Father O’Shaughnessy nearly carried him to bed. Dr. Rooksby was three-sheets in the wind, too, and Mrs. Dyson-whatsisname was very merry.”

  “Were any of them in a condition to notice anything?” said Littlejohn.

  “The priest was O.K. Steady two-pinter he is.”

  “Maybe he can tell us something,” muttered Bowater. “Though it’s a forlorn hope. Still, he might have been interested. Bishop in a rival church, you know.”

  A look of owlish profundity crossed the Superintendent’s face.

  “Religious murder?” grinned Littlejohn.

  “Might be.”

  Bowater looked a bit hurt at his colleague’s levity.

  “Here, Evelyn, bring the Superintendent and me a pint apiece,” said the Inspector. “We’ll go off duty for a minute or two.”

  Bowater, judging from the look on his face, thought it a good idea.

  “Did you meet anybody on the way to bed, Evelyn?” asked Bowater.

  “Not a soul.”

  “Did either of you see anybody go in the hall-porter’s room to telephone?”

  “No.”

  Littlejohn reminded Bowater that the telephone message was made before eleven. The bar didn’t close till eleven.

  “I was just coming to that,” replied the Superintendent with a sheepish gleam in his eye.

  “Did anyone leave the bar, perhaps to telephone, between say, ten-thirty and when you closed?”

  “No. There was a nice fire and they were all sat round. Evelyn and me carried round the drinks. There were only about six there, having their nightcaps and none of ’em moved till we called Time.”

  “This is a do,” said Bowater plaintively. “Nobody’s seen anybody.”

  “We’d better have the names of everybody who was in the bar at the time,” said Littlejohn. He picked up an old menu card and took out a pencil. “Now, Gus,” he said to the cocktail expert.