“Well … Young Barbara’s been as mad as an ’atter for years. A love affair, they say. And the old lady’s broken down under the strain. Used to be a proper old dragon, did Mrs. Macintosh. Ran the farm and the family. Like a proper sergeant-major. Now, they say, she spends most of the day countin’ her fingers. Sad. Very sad.”
Prickwillow looked heartbroken.
“Did you know the Bishop of Greyle, Prickwillow?”
“Yes, sir, I did. Man and boy I’ve been in these parts for forty-eight years come Martinmass and I reckon I’ve seen most people grow up round here.”
“What did you think of the bishop?”
“A very nice gentleman indeed. Very affable. Always a pleasant word for people, but a bit grim, like….”
“Grim?”
“Well … No sense o’ humour. Very civil, but never a one for a joke. Now the local vicar here … He’s another cup of tea altogether. Proper caution….”
“Yes, but what about the bishop?”
“You might call the Macintoshes a grim family. A grim history, too.”
“Go on….”
The constable extinguished the cigarette, which was now singeing his moustache, by rubbing it against the gatepost, blew through his whiskers and looked at a loss for words.
“Well, sir … It’s a bit awkward to explain. A queer sort o’ family. Cranage has a peculiar atmosphere. Personally, I’m not surprised at anybody goin’ potty there. That house!”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Isolated, you know. And some houses are just queer. No describing ’em in detail, sir. They’re just queer, that’s all there is to it.”
“Has the farm a bad history?”
“Well … yes. Now my missus, who’s a bit of a reader, sir … always gets two books a week out o’ the County Library … and not just slop or thrillers but good books … my missus always calls Cranage Wuthering Heights. A bit literary, eh?”
The bobby looked at Littlejohn’s face trying to sum-up the Inspector’s judgment of his wife’s intelligence.
“She reads the Brontës, does she? She’s evidently got good taste.”
“Yes, sir, she ’as. I don’t do much readin’ myself, sir. Kept pretty busy in my garden and on duty. But one night, my missus reads me a passage from that book, Wutherin’ Heights, I mean. She reads in bed a lot, you see. Well, with just a bedside lamp on and dark all round the rest o’ the room, what she read gave me quite a turn. Just hit off Cranage to a T, it did. Put me in such a mood, that I had to get up and take a look at the kids sleepin’ in the next room and pat the dog as he lay on the hearthrug just to sort o’ restore me good humour with the ordinary, ’appy things of life, as you may say….”
“But about the history of the place. What about that?”
“Well … I’m not exactly a scholar. You ought to ask the vicar about that. The farmhouse has been there for about three hundred years and there’s always been funny goings on. The Macintoshes have been tenants for near on a hundred years themselves. One of ’em’s committed suicide, another’s gone off her head, and now one’s been murdered. If things go on like this the place ought to be burned to the ground before worse ’appens….”
Here the constable made a sweeping, destructive gesture with his hand and arm and almost overbalanced and fell off his perch.
“They say that two brothers who built the farm quarrelled about religion and ruined themselves in a sort of competition as to who could build himself the finest church. If you’re staying in these parts you’ll find those two churches at Storton and Hallby….”
“But what about the Macintoshes?”
“The husband of the present old lady committed suicide when quite young and left her to bring up the family. Nobody quite knew why he did it. There was talk of one of the maidservants and him…. But Mrs. Macintosh soon put that down. On the other hand, the old folk do say there is definite insanity in the family. It doesn’t take much to drive them off their rockers, as you might say.”
“What about Miss Barbara?”
“I was comin’ to that…. A love affair, they say.”
“Any details?”
“A most unfortunate one, I must say. You see, Bishop Macintosh married a Miss Evelyn Creer, member of a local landed family. A love match, they say. She was a very lovely girl and half the county was after her. Everybody was staggered when they announced their wedding, including both families. The bishop was just a plain reverend then and vicar of somewhere or other. His family said she’d do him no good and her family said he’d do her no good.”
“And Miss Barbara?”
“I’m comin’ to that. Miss Evelyn had a younger brother, a bit of a rip, and he got sweet on Miss Barbara. They got engaged, too. This time his family was pleased. Thought it ’ud stop him wenching all over the countryside. But ’er family played merry hell again. What with the bishop and his sister, Cranage must have been a bedlam at the time.”
“And what happened?”
“Well … Apparently, Mr. Rupert, that’s Miss Evelyn’s brother, couldn’t be content with Miss Barbara, but must go and give one of the village girls a baby between gettin’ engaged and married. Well … the marriage didn’t come off. Mr. Rufus Macintosh went over to see Mr. Rupert with a huntin’ crop and half killed him. Rupert cleared off to South Africa or somewhere and between them they just messed up Miss Barbara’s life properly. She went right off her head and has been that way for more than a dozen years.”
“And they keep her locked up at Cranage?”
“They do, sir. And it’s a damned shame. She might have been cured if they’d sent her to a proper place for those sort of folks. But no, the Macintoshes don’t work that way. They have to be different.”
“You don’t sound to like the Macintoshes, Prickwillow.”
“I don’t, sir. I don’t like ’em at all. I never had any personal trouble myself with them, but I’ve had a devil of a time keeping them out of trouble. Settin’ the dogs on tramps, or even firing guns at intruders. I know you don’t want all the scum of the roads and countryside hangin’ around your place, but there are limits as to ’ow you treat ’em….”
“I agree. And was the bishop a frequent visitor at Cranage?”
“Yes, sir. Miss Barbara was his favourite sister. He was very put out about the scandal. He and Miss Evelyn were married before it happened, otherwise, it might have been off between them, too. As it is, old Mrs. Macintosh won’t have the bishop’s wife near the place. So the bishop had to visit them by himself. He was very concerned about his sister’s condition and tried all ways to help her….”
“Yes, he was a doctor, too, I gather, and interested in things of the mind.”
“That’s right, sir. Not that I agree with that sort o’ thing. What do the clergy want messing about with medicine for? Why can’t they leave it to the doctors? It’s the doctors’ bread and butter, sir. I don’t hold with …”
“Well, Prickwillow, I’d be very grateful if you’d just keep an eye on Cranage for a while and let me know if anything unusual occurs there.”
“Such as … sir?”
“Well … Strange visitors, say, or unusual comings and goings. This murder might cause a lot of upset there. Will you do that?”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll converge my patrols to include the roads round there and keep my eyes open….”
Littlejohn gave Prickwillow his card.
“News addressed to Scotland Yard will be forwarded to me.”
They let themselves down from the gate and Prickwillow gathered up his bicycle.
“Good day, sir….”
In the distance a train whistled.
“That’s your train, sir, leaving Hallby. You’ve just nice time. Ten minutes….”
They parted with a handshake and Prickwillow, after a brisk salute, mounted his bicycle. He started to hum to himself almost as soon as the pedals began to turn and as though his energy increased with his velocity, burst into song almost before he was out of Litt
lejohn’s hearing.
And whether we part or meet,
I shall love you the same for ever,
As … long … as … my hearrrrrrt shall beat.
CHAPTER IX
THE SNIPER
ON the way to the station Littlejohn changed his mind about the train.
The constable had mentioned the vicar as being well-versed in local history. Perhaps he could tell him more about the Macintosh and Creer families and the tragic romances which had agitated them.
A church spire rose from among a clump of trees about a mile away. The vicarage wouldn’t be far from that.
Littlejohn was walking briskly along the highway to the distant station. To the right, a by-road suddenly branched off, marked by a rough signpost.
“To Perryton Station, 1 mile, 6 furlongs.”
“To Medhope, 1 mile.”
The latter pointing to the secondary road.
Littlejohn turned sharply to the right and took the way to Medhope.
It was very pleasant and pretty. From the highroad, with thick hawthorn hedges flanking and hiding the flat fields on either side, to an open, fenced track, which finally cut its way through a small forest.
Tall beech trees on either side of the road. Deep undergrowth and shadow beneath the trees and bushes of the forest and the foliage almost meeting over the road and forming a dark, green tunnel.
A cock pheasant strutted across and vanished in the cover. On the macadam the carcases of two small rabbits, completely flattened by a passing car, probably the night before.
Littlejohn enjoying his stroll, strode through the dim tunnel of leaves. At the far end the light thinned, revealing, framed in the distance, more open country and a farmhouse and buildings, with conical haystacks and a dutch barn. In the far distance, Medhope church tower again.
There seemed to be thunder in the air. Hardly a leaf stirred and the birds were still and quiet. Somewhere beyond the woods cows began to moo, for it was nearing milking time.
The Inspector, interested in the wild life after seeing the pheasant, slackened speed as he walked through the cutting. He took off his hat and mopped his hot forehead. Now and then a gate gave access to the spinney. Broken bottles, wood-ash and rusty tins revealed the presence of past picnickers, campers, and tramps.
He had his eyes on Medhope weathercock, a crooked object on a pole on top of the church tower, when it happened.
At first, Littlejohn though it was a flying beetle. It passed his ear with a swift, singing noise. But almost at once he realised it was travelling too fast for an insect. It was a bullet!
Hastily he turned in his tracks. He had passed the forest and was in the open again. On each side flat fields, mostly arable, fenced with posts and wire. There was no sign of life at all in the spinney behind.
On the spur of the moment, the Inspector retraced his steps to the wood, walking sharply at first, then trotting. He had an idea he might come upon whoever had fired the shot in the forest and tell him off for dangerous shooting so near the highway. Or he might drive him into the open and perhaps recognise him.
It might have been an accident. Or it might…
Then…
A flash of flame leapt from the middle of a bramble bush. There was a sharp crack. But before the explosion a jerk in the fleshy part of Littlejohn’s thigh. No other sound from the forest.
Littlejohn was down in the road. His leg gave way under him and from a hole in his trouser leg blood began to gush rhythmically. Every pulse brought a fresh spurt.
He looked round. Not a soul about. Sweat poured from him, bathed his head and ran down over his face and behind his ears. His underclothing was soon wet through.
He fumbled with his leg, located the wound and jabbed it with a handkerchief which at once became soaked in blood. The cloth of his trousers was sticky with it. He tried to get to his feet again, but the wounded limb was numb.
Littlejohn cursed. He’d have to make a tourniquet quickly, or he’d faint from loss of blood and perhaps bleed to death, for he was bleeding at an alarming rate. He hadn’t much pain, but strength seemed to ebb from his very marrow with every beat of his heart.
A silly predicament! Weakening from loss of blood in broad daylight within hailing distance of a farm!
The Inspector took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, knotted it above the wound and sought for something to use as a tourniquet. He hadn’t brought his walking stick and all he could find was a pencil, almost too short. It snapped in two as he turned it. Then, he remembered his pipe and used it, screwing the handkerchief until the blood ceased to flow, leaving the limb feeling cold and dead.
As he swayed his body upright, two more sharp cracks sounded almost simultaneously with dull thuds in the road a few inches from where he was squatting. Little clouds of dust rose. The man with the rifle was firing again.
Littlejohn flattened his body in the dust and grit and began to shout at the top of his voice.
“Help!”
It sounded silly. Like play-acting at a rehearsal. A broken, feeble, almost false cry. He didn’t seem to have any breath left for the effort and his voice was hoarse and spent. He found his police-whistle and blew it. It was a broken-winded effort.
It was just nonsense. A large, able-bodied man, fit for anything, suddenly reduced to dangerous impotence by a small hole in the leg. And providing a sitting target for some sniper hidden in the woods.
Littlejohn tried to creep to the farm, but failed. He painfully dragged himself along keeping splayed in the road as best he could.
He wondered vaguely who had fired the shot. Was he still watching and preparing to break cover and finish him off by a nearer effort? It didn’t really matter. All he cared about was getting to the farm. All his energy became focussed on that.
The posts by the roadside grew blurred and dimly duplicated. Like when your spectacles don’t synchronise and give you two uncertain images. And the sun was shining brightly, yet darkness seemed to be falling.
Surely, he wasn’t going to faint! He’d been coshed into unconsciousness and knocked out by fists a time or two, but he’d never fainted before. But that was what happened. It came all at once and he remembered nothing more.
From the farm emerged a shambling, unkempt cowman. His eyes were fixed on the distant fields where the cows were grazing and waiting for milking.
“Cooop, coooop … cawm on,” he yelled shrilly.
The cows raised their heads, listened calmly and then began slowly to move through the open gates to where the man was standing.
Then he saw Littlejohn. He didn’t increase his speed, but ambled to the unconscious form as though the sight of it were an everyday event. He was still calling the cows.
He didn’t even touch Littlejohn. His intelligence didn’t seem to grasp the situation at all. He pushed his greasy, cow-hair covered cap to the back of his bullet head and scratched his poll. He thought a bit and then turned to the farm and yelled : “Luke! … Oi! … Luke!” as though still calling home the cattle.
* * * * * *
Littlejohn became aware of thick eyebrows, then two kindly eyes, a short moustache and a handsome brown face.
“Hullo! We’re getting you to the cottage hospital. The doctor wasn’t in, so we ’phoned there. They said to bring you…. Feeling better?”
A fresh young fellow, who looked like a farmer’s son. Clean and fair and healthy-looking. He was squatting on the floor of the vehicle looking anxiously at the Inspector.
There was a bandage round Littlejohn’s leg with a round ebony ruler where the pipe had been. They’d slit the trouser leg from top to bottom.
“Drink this….”
The acrid tang of brandy and a burning pain in his gullet. Littlejohn felt a bit brighter and smiled at his friend.
“Thanks. Sorry to be such a bother….”
“You were all-in when we found you. What happened?”
“I seem to have stopped a stray shot….”
Littlej
ohn didn’t feel up to giving full explanations. Besides, it didn’t seem policy to do so. After all, he didn’t know who the young man was.
“We’ve let the police know….”
“Prickwillow?”
“Yes. He’ll meet us at the hospital. You know him?”
“Good! Yes, I’ve met him….”
A land girl was driving the car, a shooting-brake. They’d laid him on a mattress on the floor with a cushion under his head. The road was bad and the van bumped over the potholes. The girl, in trying to avoid them, swayed the vehicle from side to side. It made Littlejohn feel sick….
Things happened as in a drunken stupor.
The bumping and gliding of the truck. Then, brakes being gently applied. The bright sunshine as they opened the doors of the van. Two men with a stretcher which they placed on a trolley. A swing door. “Easy, easy….” A little fat middle-aged matron in a grey uniform and apron and a younger nurse in a washed-out purple dress.
“Straight to the theatre….”
The easy gliding of the trolley, the smell of antiseptics.
“Here’s Dr. Simpson….”
“Let’s have a look at you….”
The young surgeon in his singlet and trousers washing his hands. Interminably soaping….
The sharp prick of a hypodermic.
Nothing more.
CHAPTER X
THE COTTAGE HOSPITAL
ALL the images were confused and blurred at first, but slowly came into focus. A moustache, then two anxious eyes, and finally the solid form of Prickwillow standing by a nurse. The nurse nodded and she and Prickwillow looked pleased and relieved.
“Ahem!” said Prickwillow and covered his mouth with his hand. He looked ready to make a speech of welcome.
“You can have a word with him now, but the doctor says he’s not to be worried or tired….”
“Feelin’ better now, sir?”
“Not much…. Give me time….”
Littlejohn was beginning to remember things. The shot, the crawl to the farm. The journey in the cart.
“Feel well enough to tell me what happened, sir?”
Littlejohn felt sick inside. There seemed so much talking to do and so little energy with which to get it off his chest….
The Case of the Famished Parson (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 7