Gus and Evelyn went into conference and finally recited all the names between them.
Mr. Sharples. Dr. Rooksby. Mr. Hennessy. Old Shearwater. A chap called Wentworth. That McWhinnie bloke. The chap who always had half a pint of Bass and half a pint of Guinness mixed for a nightcap, think his name’s Hoyle or Doyle. Mrs. Dyson-Forbes who always likes sitting drinking with the men. Oh, and don’t forget Father O’Shaughnessy, a priest on holiday, who enjoys a pint with the next and plays billiards like a professional.”
“That all?” said Littlejohn.
“Yes,” said Gus.
CHAPTER V
THE CARD PLAYERS
LATE in the afternoon a gale sprang up and whipped the sea into a fury. Heavy clouds scudded across the sky and pouring rain drenched the town. The row of tall trees planted in front of the hotel to break the weather tossed and swayed to and fro in unison, tortured by the wind.
Everybody stayed in the hotel, except an eccentric regular who lived a life of clockwork routine and couldn’t change his plans. He struggled down the drive clad in oilskins and inclining his body to resist the gale. On the quay the harbour-master in sou’wester and waterproof was rushing around making arrangements for a number of boats, standing off the coast, to come into the shelter of the river. In the far distance a small vessel seemed in distress….
The lounge was full. Mrs. Dyson-Forbes was taking tea with three other women. Two of them were knitting and another was clutching a book. Their eyes were all over the place, sizing-up the other women, watching the men, whilst at the same time they maintained their conversation. Now and then they called each other darling, smiled or looked poisonous as the talk flowed on, and followed each other’s moves like intent chess players.
Most of the tables were taken when Littlejohn entered the room. He had left his wife with an elderly woman in the smaller resident’s lounge where they were talking about arthritis. The elderly woman was a martyr to it and Mrs. Littlejohn’s father had suffered from it years ago….
Littlejohn could see at once who were the notables of the place, for the small-fry eyed them with deference and followed their conversation respectfully.
Several people nodded affably to Littlejohn. His reputation had gone round. Mrs. Dyson-Forbes’s gang smiled at him and then drew their heads together to whisper.
“Good looking….”
“Wouldn’t think he was a detective….”
“… his wife’s hat?”
At a table under the large bow-window four men were playing cards. They monopolised the place as though it were their own. They were residents and generally treated casual visitors with contempt. One of them, with his back to the window, saw Littlejohn enter and with a word to his friends, rose and approached.
“Inspector Littlejohn? My name’s Sharples…. I live here. Used to be in London… Knew some of the chaps at Scotland Yard. I hope you’ll make yourself at home….”
A little, prancing fellow with a round, smooth baby face and bright blue eyes. He was a bit of a lady-killer and was trying to make an impression on those present.
“Come and join us…. We’ve just finished a hand of cards. Have a drink….”
He put his arm round Littlejohn’s shoulders. It was a bit of an effort for him. They might have been pals all their lives.
“This is Dr. Rooksby…. Lives here, too, and has consulting rooms in town. Anything wrong with your eyes, ears, nose or throat, he’s your man….”
The doctor looked at Sharples with a sneer of contempt. Then he smiled at Littlejohn and showed a number of gold teeth. A flabby, bouncing man, dressed in formal black coat and grey trousers. He wore rimless spectacles and his eyes were shifty.
“Glad to know you, Inspector. How’s the case coming on … ?”
The hand he offered was soft and dry and as you squeezed it gently there was no bone resistance. The boneless wonder?
“And Mr. Hennessy….”
A long, craggy face, with folded skin round the mouth and chin. Close-set eyes and long nose, slightly askew. He wore check tweeds of a horsy cut and looked like a racecourse tout.
“Pleased to meet you….”
The voice was harsh and nasal.
“Mr. Hennessy’s living here for the summer. His wife’s on the Riviera, so he’s shut up house….”
Sharples kept prattling on. The rest looked bored with him.
They found a chair for Littlejohn and ordered him a drink. They’d all been drinking whisky and Sharples looked half-seas over.
The fourth member of the party smiled at the Inspector.
“I’m Wentworth….”
His voice drawled; he seemed half-asleep, but his eyes beneath heavy lids were taking everything in. He looked like Hollywood’s idea of an English butler. Impassive face, firm mouth, white linen and unassuming dark suit. A bowler hat would have finished the picture.
“I’m sorry, Wentworth….”
He sniggered. The slight might have been deliberate, or baby-face might have grown tired before he reached Wentworth.
There was a pause.
“Bit of a blow being saddled with a case like this in the middle of your holiday, eh?” chuckled Sharples. His fishy eyes roved round the room, halted for a moment on a well-dressed woman who was entering and lit up as he showed his teeth in a grin at her.
“Yes, rather….”
Littlejohn didn’t know what to say to them. The whole party looked bored to death. He wondered what they’d have done if the weather had been fine. His right hand still felt cold after Wentworth’s icy grip….
The whole business was dismal in the extreme, but it had to be gone through. All four of them had been up and drinking in the bar on the night of the crime. Apparently a drinking, card playing gang of moneyed men, bored to death and tired even of each other.
The women sat around in a state of armed neutrality and tension. Many of them looked with disapproving eyes and pursed lips at Sharples’s well-dressed friend, who sailed through them with marvellous poise and unconcern and settled beside a tall thin man with a toothbrush moustache, half-open mouth and vacant expression. He at once straightened his tie, grimaced with pleasure, and turned on his charm.
“… Seemed a quiet unassuming chap, though a bit on the standoffish side. Couldn’t get him into conversation. But to want to murder him … It’s fantastic…”
Sharples was laying down the law owlishly. He might have been trying to prove that the murder hadn’t occurred at all.
“But he was murdered. So what are you bothering about? Somebody did it.”
Hennessy was petulant and ready to go elsewhere and do something else, if there had been anything else to do and anywhere else to go. But there wasn’t….
“H’m … h’m … h’m …”
Dr. Rooksby pursed his lips and looked wise. He didn’t seem to have any views on the subject and seemed anxious to change it.
“Lily! … What’ll it be?”
“Four whiskies, Lily…”
Wentworth didn’t speak. He considered his bluish filbert-shaped nails with a frown.
“But they say somebody rang up the bishop to meet them and then murdered him. Have you found out who did the ringing-up, Inspector?”
Rooksby looked for all the world as if he were giving Littlejohn the key to the mystery.
“No, doctor. But it seems the call was put-in from the switchboard here. Now, you four gentlemen were in the bar at the time that call was made. Did any of you see or hear anything that might be connected with it?”
Sharples had finished his drink already. Surprising that such a soak kept so young-looking.
“So you’ve learned that?”
Rooksby gave a nod of approval as though congratulating Littlejohn.
“No. We were all together and didn’t stir from the bar fire till closing time. That’s so, isn’t it?”
The other three nodded agreement with Sharples. Hennessy put his hands deep in his trousers pockets, stretched his legs
and yawned. He held his glass up to the light, closed one eye as he looked through its contents, and then drank it off.
“Sorry. Don’t see how we can help you. It’s just as Sharples says …” he said stiffly. He was eager to be rid of Littlejohn and get on with the card playing.
“There were some others with you, I hear….”
“Yes. McWhinnie, a commercial traveller, who left this morning. He never stirred from the fire. Calls here for a day or two every quarter on his rounds. Has a good job and makes plenty…. Electrical goods, I think…” Sharples knew all about it.
“Yes … Doyle, the solicitor was up with Mrs. Dyson-Forbes. He’s her lawyer. They sat in the bar till closing time, too. And then there was … let me see … Shearwater, who lives here and that priest fellow. O’Shaughnessy, I think…. The padre saw Shearwater to bed…. One over the eight. Couldn’t move under his own power….”
Sharples guffawed, rose, preened himself and smiled at another woman.
“That’s all we know….”
Littlejohn rose. All eyes turned on him. As though he were going to make an immediate arrest. It was a bit embarrassing. And to mend matters, Mrs. Littlejohn appeared. Eyes swivelled in her direction then. Hopefully, as though she were going to question her husband publicly. The women sized-up her clothes and stared from her to Littlejohn as though trying to sense whether they were a happy couple or not….
“Thanks for the drink, gentlemen, and for your information. I think I’ll try and find Father O’Shaughnessy. Where will he be, can you say?”
Sharples knew.
“Like as not in the billiard-room. Billiard mad. Never saw such a chap for the ivories.”
Littlejohn was glad to get away from them. And they seemed glad to see the last of him, too, and get back to their bridge. Stakes were high ones and their thirst for gambling was second only to that for alcohol.
“Lily … Same again….”
There was something amiss with that lot, thought Littlejohn. Eager to know the latest developments, yet as close as clams. Maybe it was just that they resented intrusion. After all, his brief interlude with them probably held up the transfer of several pounds in stakes.
“Have you had tea, Tom?”
“No. Have yours alone, will you? I’m just off to find a priest.”
Mrs. Dyson-Forbes seemed able to read their lips or their thoughts.
“Come and join us, Mrs. Littlejohn, won’t you?”
Letty’s eyes met her husband’s.
“Thank you for nothing,” he read in them behind the ironical smile.
The billiard-room was in the basement and lit by artificial light under great green shades. Two tables, a small bar and padded green seats round the walls. Both tables were occupied and the priest and his friend were playing snooker at the one near the bar. On a marble topped little table nearby stood two half-empty glasses of whisky.
Father O’Shaughnessy was small, portly and urbane. He had a round pink face, childlike blue eyes behind round, gold-rimmed spectacles, and an aura of well-scrubbed cleanliness. The first thing you noticed about him was his hands. Large, white, eloquent and unctuous. Made for comforting, blessing, fastidiously handling the Elements, and skilled in manipulating a billiard cue.
Click!
Father O’Shaughnessy shot the green ball smartly in the pocket. Then he turned with an almost apologetic look to his opponent and saw Littlejohn.
“Ah! I’d been expecting you, Inspector, sooner or later.”
“Why, father?”
They shook hands.
And Father O’Shaughnessy gently recited to Littlejohn the train of reasoning which had brought the Inspector down into the underworld of the hotel to see him.
The good father wasn’t quite so innocent as he looked!
Meanwhile, the opponent had badly fumbled a shot and shuffled round to join the other two. He was tall, heavy, grey and sad-looking and his clothes hung on him as though he had undergone recent shrinkage.
“Mr. Shearwater, Inspector.”
Shearwater extended a large, white, dry hand with little or no grip in it.
Father O’Shaughnessy intimated that he would talk to Littlejohn between his shots on the table. To tell the truth, they had a billiard-table at the presbytery where the priest lived, and his friend, the Canon, beat O’Shaughnessy every time. He had made up his mind that if possible, he would return from his holiday and give the Canon a licking! And he wasn’t wasting any time.
Click! Thud! Into the pocket again.
“Yes. I saw our friend here to bed last night. He needed a bit of help and guidance….”
“Did you see anyone about on the way, sir?”
“Yes. Judge Tennant coming from the bathroom, in pyjamas, bath-robe and with sponge-bag. Irritating our good friend Fennick by using-up the bathwater.”
“Anyone else?”
“No, Inspector.”
“You can assure me that the following people were in the bar and didn’t stir until you and your friend left?”
Littlejohn showed the priest his list of names.
“Yes. They were all there. That’s right. As you say.”
Shearwater fumbled another shot and grumbled under his breath. His face was a mask. Never a smile, but never a scowl or frown. Just impassive. He only seemed half-alive. He was drinking more than the priest, too.
“And you left Mr. Shearwater at his door, sir?”
“Took him in…. And pulled off his shoes for him. He hardly knew what he was doing. For all I know, he might have thrown himself on his bed and slept in his clothes. Did you Shearwater?”
“What?”
“Did you sleep in your clothes after I left you last night?”
“Certainly not. I was quite able to undress myself, wash, and clean my teeth and do everything a respectable man should do.”
The voice was quiet and cultured.
The honeymoon couple were playing on the other table. The husband, with many terms of endearment, was instructing his wife in the art of billiards. He wasn’t much good himself, but she pretended not to notice.
“Now try for a cannon, darling….”
They resented Littlejohn’s intrusion. The bar was closed, so there were no spectators. And with two preoccupied fogies on the other table, it was just like being alone. Then, Littlejohn descended upon them and spoiled it. It was too bad. If they’d known what a tactful legion in himself Father O’Shaughnessy was, they’d have thought differently perhaps.
“Now get in off the cush, honey….”
“I suppose you want to know about the telephone, too, Inspector. As we passed the porter’s room someone was using the telephone there.”
This was amazing! Perhaps, given time, the priest would say who killed the bishop!
“Did you see who it was, father?”
“No. There was a light on and I heard someone say ‘Hullo.’ That’s all.”
“Did you recognise the voice?”
Father O’Shaughnessy sorrowfully watched Shearwater bungle another shot and then drove the black home for game.
“Yes.”
“Young Michael, the porter’s boy. I don’t know whether or not he’ll be able to help you, but you might try him.”
“I will, sir. And many thanks.”
“See you again, Inspector. Good luck to you. And keep an eye on that crowd who play cards in the lounge. I don’t like that lot. There’s something unholy about the syndicate. Another game, Shearwater?”
The honeymoon couple were squabbling as Littlejohn left. She had accused him of petulant play because she wasn’t a good learner!
Father O’Shaughnessy turned reproachful round spectacles upon them. They were spoiling his game!
CHAPTER VI
GAITERS
THE inquest was adjourned. That was a foregone conclusion. The Deputy-Coroner, a young solicitor in local practice, officiated in the absence of the Coroner on holidays. Harry Keast seemed to be chief witness. It was Harry’
s day out. He wore a faded navy-blue suit, carried an outmoded bowler-hat and was hardly recognisable. The Deputy-Coroner was very kind to him. Harry had carried his clubs for many a mile across the links.
Keast went into great detail and the Deputy bore patiently with him. It became a sort of informal confab. between them.
“You know Bolter’s Hole, sir. Driver, brassie on the ninth and you’re over. You’ve done it many a time, sir….”
“Yes. You walked straight there, Keast?”
“Yes, sir. Straight as the drive you generally get…. An’ I stopped at the first bunker. Sometimes a ball or two lost in the rough near there and there’s a mushroom or two sometimes in the proximity….”
“Yes….”
And so on.
Dr. Tordopp, who was waiting to give evidence and digesting with difficulty a very simple meal, looked ready to murder the pair of them. When his turn came, he was very terse and to the point. The bishop had been killed outright by a savage blow on the head. He reeled off a lot of highly technical jargon with great relish and venomously translated it into simple speech at the request of the awe-struck foreman of the jury, who kept shuffling in his seat, for he was anxious to be getting back to his shop.
The widow was there flanked by two clerical gentlemen, both wearing gaiters. When they put in an appearance a great hush fell on the court, partly out of sympathy for the bereaved, partly out of spurious reverence, because the two clergymen seemed to bear the dusty air of a cathedral about with them. Somebody sniggered. The Dean of Greyle was small and chubby, the Venerable Archdeacon of Greyle tall and thin. Filing down the gangway they reminded you of a penny-halfpenny or else a velocipede.
The diocesan solicitor, a fusty elderly gentleman in a threadbare morning coat splattered with snuff, accompanied the party. He was there to represent the cathedral interests. He spoke for the bishop’s widow, who was too distressed to answer questions. His name was Rufus Flank.
Mr. Rufus Flank’s voice was worn out, like his clothes. He began fortissimo and gradually diminuendoed until at the end of each sentence you couldn’t hear a word he said. Then he cleared his throat with a strange hawking sound and began again.
The Case of the Famished Parson (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 4