“How did you know?”
“There wasn’t much I missed. For one thing, I did the bedrooms and took up the breakfasts when she stayed in bed. My half-sister’s husband, Fred Jolly, died of a cancer and was months under morphia. I know drugs when I see ’em.
“When did it start?”
“When Miss Juanita was born. Mrs. Crake had a bad time. She never wanted children, specially Miss Juanita. Uncle Bernard was living there then and it’s my belief he started her on them. It was him that gave them to her after, too, when she wanted them.”
“How did he get them?”
“He was a doctor. He’d ways and means. He’d stoop to anythin’.”
“And what would you say was his idea in stooping to this?”
“He was a mystery. It’s my opinion he was hiding away at Beyle from somebody. He got scared sometimes and got drunk. He talked then and once he said somethin’ about their never gettin’ him. If he could keep in with his sister — which he did — he was hid safe and sound at Beyle.”
“And did Mr. Crake stand for all that?”
“Yes. If you’d seen madam in one of her tantrums, you’d soon know why. He was a scholar, was Mr. Nick. Not used to rowin’ and fightin’ with women. He just let her have her own way. Then, some years since, there was some-thin’ up between the master and mistress and the Trotmans. I never got to the bottom of it. Might have been money...I don’t know. But after that, the master never bothered much with the mistress again. Spent his time with his books.”
“You like Mrs. Kent?”
Elspeth gave him a sidelong glance, wondering what he was getting at.
“Of course. She’s one of the family. I nursed her when she was little. They were all happy together, then.”
“What spoiled it?”
“Mr. Nick gettin’ married. Miss Beatrice...Mrs. Kent now...was sort of struck all of a heap. I think she thought they’d both of them never marry and just go on living happily at Beyle for ever and ever. Life ain’t like that, though. You’re no sooner ’appy than somebody comes and spoils it all.”
“Did you like Mr. Kent?”
The small mouth grew tight again.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Married men haven’t no right to be runnin’ about after other women, ’specially when they’re their own sisters-in-law.”
“He ran about, as you call it, after Mrs. Crake?”
“It was disgraceful. I couldn’t imagine what she saw in him. He was cold, like a fish, and treated us servants awful. No manners. But they do say, ‘anythin’ in trousers’ll do’, for some women. I suppose Mrs. Crake had to have somebody runnin’ around after her.”
“But couldn’t she control herself for her husband’s sake?”
“You don’t understand, sir. I remember Fred Jolly, my half brother-in-law, when he was havin’ morphia. It made him a totally different man. Only a farm-hand, but one of the best, was Fred, before he took ill. Kind and gentle. And so he was till the doctor started him on morphia. Then he changed. It made him out of control, full of queer ideas and longin’s. The pain went half-way through his illness and the doctor stopped the drugs, but Fred wasn’t the same. Now, if you ask me, Mrs. Crake was like Fred Jolly. The drug jest took away all her powers of choosing between good and evil.”
“Did you ever find her dancing as Mr. Bernard played the piano?”
“Yes. She said once that when she was depressed, it always cured her. I think that was right. Mr. Bernard had, or did, somethin’ that made her look her best even after the drugs. She’d be on the drugs for days and then when it was over, they’d be together, doin’ this dancin’ and maybe him dosin’ her with somethin’. After that, you couldn’t tell but that she was like any other woman who didn’t take drugs.”
“He had some antidote...?”
“Eh?”
“A pick-me-up?”
“That’s right.”
“You haven’t lived at the hall since Mr. Crake’s funeral?”
“No”
“Why?”
“I don’t like it any more. There’s evil there. There’ll be more evil done there yet and I’m not bein’ there at night. I hate the place now.”
“You were there the night Mr. Crake died?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. I expected Mrs. Crake back, but then she telephoned that master was ill at his sister’s. Would I send a bag of things along for the night and Mr. Kent would call for them...?”
“Did he call?”
“Yes.”
“He just called, took the bag, and went?”
“No, he didn’t. I hadn’t quite got everything and I told him to wait in the drawin’-room. There was a fire there. I was in my carpet slippers and when I came down, I was walkin’ quiet like, there was Mr. Kent, tryin’ to open the desk in the mornin’-room. Mrs. Crake’s desk it was. He made an excuse he was wantin’ a cigarette. But I knew different. He was nosin’ into her affairs. Perhaps after some letters he’d wrote...”
“What makes you think that?”
“Oh, nothin’. She was always gettin’ letters from men. They was mad on her. And she didn’t try to stop ’em. That was the sin and shame of it. Poor Mr. Nick.”
“What happened next...?”
“What do you mean?”
“After Mr. Kent went.”
“I went to bed. Nothin’ happened then till after master died. Then, lo and behold! Home comes the mistress and starts her dancin’!”
“Why was that?”
“She always did mad things. You never knew...By the way, I’ve got shoppin’ to do. I’d better be gettin’ to town. The family’ll want their dinner, you know.”
The red-rimmed eyes and flat face of Mrs. Jolly were still at the window as they drove off. Littlejohn moved slowly, talking as they went along.
“Did Mr. Kent ever try at the desk again?”
“Yes; the night Mrs. Crake died, I saw him there. He was that mad at me. ‘What, you again!’ he says. And he tells me to get on with my work. As I was goin’, he calls after me that as executor of the late Mr. Crake, he’s looking for the grave-papers. He had some packets of letters, all tied up, in his hands, and was putting them in his overcoat pocket when I came in.”
“He took them away with him?”
“Yes. Must ’ave carried them home, because he took the road that leads to where he lives at St. Mark’s.”
“Did anyone else search the desk and drawers at Beyle whilst you were there?”
“Do you mean before or after the people died?”
“At any time you remember...”
Elspeth was a difficult witness. She was bothered by events, confused in her mind, ignorant concerning the relevance or otherwise of all she knew. She was a mine of information about the Crakes, but each crumb of it had to be extracted with tremendous effort. Littlejohn felt exhausted.
“That nasty policeman had them open and searchin’ ’em. I watched him a bit and he told me to be about my business. He...”
“Superintendent Simpole, you mean?”
“Yes. I saw the mark o’ death on ’im when he came to Beyle. I was right. He died.”
If she foretold misfortune for anybody and they escaped it, Elspeth was annoyed with them. When they suffered after her prognostications, she was triumphant!
“Them as treats me bad always suffers...”
She told it to Littlejohn like a warning.
“The Superintendent was searching in the drawers. Did he take anything away?”
“Not that I see. He was more like rummagin’ in ’em. As if he might be seekin’ somethin’ or other.”
“H’m. He didn’t find it?”
“I don’t think so. That was why he got mad with me, I’m thinkin’. He needn’t have...I never touched nothin’ that wasn’t my business.”
They were drawing into Tilsey and Littlejohn decided that he would have to turn over in his mind any further poin
ts he wished to talk over with Elspeth. Unless you put them in precise, simple question-and-answer form, you got nowhere with the old woman.
“This is where I got to get out. I’ve the week’s buyin’-in to do for the family. Lucky I got my week’s money before the master and missus passed on. Where they’re gettin’ any more from now’s a mystery to me...”
She wriggled herself out of the car and on to the pavement. “H’m,” she said by way of goodbye and vanished into a shop with sausages strung-up in the window. Littlejohn could see the butcher inside rubbing his hands and eyeing Elspeth eagerly.
At the police station there was news from London about the sales of government stock from Nicholas Crake’s trust. The Bank of England had, after pressure from influential quarters. lent the transfers to Scotland Yard and they had been tested. The report stated that Arthur Kent had forged Trotman’s signature!
Mr. Trotman had just got back from court and was warming himself before the fire of his room when Littlejohn was ushered in by the red-headed boy.
“Good morning, Inspector. Cold weather we’re having.”
Trotman’s huge bulk completely eclipsed the fire. He was deathly pale and there were large dark rings under his eyes. Still rubbing his enormous hindquarters, he moved to his comfortable swivel chair and sagged down in it with a heavy sigh.
“What can I do for you?”
The shifty large eyes with their bilious whites met those of Littlejohn and turned away.
“I’ve a bit of rather alarming news for you, sir. You were, I believe, co-trustee with Mr. Kent in a trust established by the late Mr. Crake on behalf of his daughter...”
Trotman reared up on his elbows and his fish-mouth trembled.
“Really! Is nothing sacred in this inquiry? Nothing sacrosanct...? sacrosanct...? Must you unearth all the secrets of the dead...? Ahem...Who’s told you?”
“I can’t divulge that. I’d be glad, though, if you’d answer my question, sir.”
“The existence of that trust was of the most confidential nature...confidential nature, I say. It was for the protection of Miss Crake...”
He gave Littlejohn a cunning look.
“You know the purpose?” he asked almost out of the side of his mouth.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Crake was protecting his own child. Need I say more?”
Trotman was now altogether out of countenance, like a naughty boy caught in the act. He tried to bluff it out.
“That has nothing whatever to do with the present circumstances. I warn you, Inspector. Be careful...Be very careful.”
I know my business, Mr. Trotman, and I didn’t call to wash any dirty linen. I came to tell you that the late Mr. Kent, your co-trustee, sold the trust investments on forged transfers and appropriated the funds!”
Trotman didn’t make any dramatic gesture. It was as if the last straw found him quite without energy to resist it. He closed his eyes and gripped the bridge of his large nose with his finger and thumb.
“This is amazing,” he said at length. “Kent must have gone mad! I shall now have to sort out the whole matter and make the necessary claim under the forged transfers law. As if I hadn’t enough worries as it is! I’ve the whole estate to administer myself and a nice mess it’s in, I can assure you.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean!”
Mr. Trotman suddenly awoke and smote the desk a heavy bang with his hand. Then he nursed his hand.
“I mean, two deaths in the family, the testator and the beneficiary. Two lots of probate, and two lots of death duties. I’ve the affairs of those two helpless children at Beyle to look after and to crown all, my partner swindles me and gets himself murdered.”
“It’s not good enough!”
It slipped out before Littlejohn could restrain the thought.
“What did you say? I assure you, Inspector, this is not a matter for levity.”
Mr. Trotman was hurt. He was taking umbrage as an excuse for terminating the interview.
“I don’t feel like discussing matters further with you at present. I...”
“Excuse me, sir. You are not compelled to answer my questions, as you know, but I wouldn’t obstruct a police inquiry if I were you.”
“I...I...Your impertinence, sir!”
“Did you know the funds had gone?”
“Certainly not! Certainly not! The question is an aspersion against my integrity...my integrity...”
“You never examined the estate accounts?”
“The trust, you mean; the trust. No. Kent did it.”
“I see. Was he a wealthy man?”
“Moderately...Yes, moderately. I cannot see why he should steal clients’ money...I must investigate this at once. I’m sure it will all turn out to be a mistake.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. The transfers were forged. Had it been an honest transaction, Kent, as your co-trustee, would have asked you to join in the transfers. I wonder what he wanted with the money...?”
“I cannot say. I cannot say. I must ask you to leave me now. I am far from well and this has thoroughly upset me. I must think carefully how to act. We will talk another time when I feel more lucid. Now...”
Trotman spread out his white, well-tended hands and shrugged as if his world had ended.
“Very well, sir. I won’t trouble you further for the present. Good day...”
“Good day...good day,” said Mr. Trotman to all and sundry.
With his hand on the doorknob, Littlejohn turned.
“By the way, sir, did you know Mrs. Crake was a drug addict?”
“Eh? You what?”
“Mrs. Crake was a drug addict...”
“What has that to do with it?”
“Plenty, Mr. Trotman. She was morally abnormal through it. I’d say she might be described as amoral...”
“I know she took them once through illness. I didn’t know...”
“You were a friend...the family lawyer, surely...”
“I didn’t...I say, I didn’t...Oh, dear, will this never end?”
He thrust his fists under his heavy jowls and rocked his head from side to side.
“You were the family lawyer. Did you ever defend Mr. Bernard Doane in court?”
“No. Kent did the court work. He was good at it. Why?”
“I wondered if he’d ever been...You see, Doane isn’t a doctor at all. He’s a fake. He sponged on his sister and drugged and blackmailed her to hide him at Beyle. What he feared, I don’t know, but I shall find out. Do you know, sir?”
“Know what?”
“Do you know what Mr. Doane is afraid of?”
Trotman rose like a huge fish rearing on its tail.
“No! I don’t know. I don’t want to know and I’ll bid you good morning for a second time.”
“Very well, sir. Small towns like this often have a kind of vicious circle of unsavoury events going on among their principal citizens. I seem to have blundered right in the midst of one here. At present, it’s like a maze, but I’ll find the way out. I’d hoped you would help me. Well...I’ll have to carry on alone...Good morning...”
Mr. Trotman sat speechless, looking ahead of him into space. Then suddenly, he awoke, rushed to a cabinet in one corner, took out a bottle of whisky, and filled a glass half full of neat liquor. He drained it eagerly, and when it was empty, he had another.
Outside, Littlejohn was hardly enjoying a new experience. As he made his way to the police station he encountered Cromwell, going the same way with unsteady steps. The sergeant was whistling softly to himself and turned a beaming face on his chief.
“I got what I wanted. Had to drink ole Trumper under his own table to get it, but he told me...”
He smiled with satisfaction and blew a blast of alcohol over Littlejohn.
“Let’s get inside, old chap. Hot, strong coffee’s what you want. Come on...”
He took Cromwell by the elbow and they made an unsteady line for the police canteen.
“I drunk
ole Trumper under his own table and he told me, as one pal to another, it was Arthur Kent set around the tale that Mrs. Crake tried to give her husband pneumonia. Excuse my condition, Chief, but there was no other way. Drink for drink, till he spilled the beans, sir. I lef’ the ole boy unconscious with his own best tipple...Been lettin’ in the New Year two days beforehand...”
It was then that Cromwell discovered he’d lost his hat on the way.
Thirteen – Cromwell Sticks It Out
THE head postmaster of Tilsey received Cromwell in his office wondering what it was all about. The police didn’t often call on him and this morning he was particularly harassed. The season’s inundation of mail had fallen away; the post office looked more like itself again; the extra labour had been paid off and had departed; and now it was time to deal with wreckage and casualties. In a large pile, next to his cubby-hole of a room, stood a stack of rubbish which was to tax to the utmost the powers of deduction and imagination of him and his staff for days to come. Parcels from which labels had vanished, packets leaking and broken, articles addressed to places and people who did not, and never had existed in Tilsey, seasonable gifts for folk who had once lived in the place and vanished without a trace. Some of the packages stank to high heaven; a hare with no address at all, a brace of pheasants with a label which seemed to have been chewed by a dog, a case of three bottles, one of which had broken and completely washed out the name and address of the unhappy recipient-to-be. Handkerchiefs, toys, chocolates, bottles of spirits, and an eau-de-Cologne flask without cork, the contents of which had dried up in a gallant battle with the scents of decomposing carcases...
“I don’t know where to start,” the postmaster told Cromwell to whom he gave a cigar with a thick gold band. It was salvage and it was against the regulations, but regarding the pile he had soon to tackle, the postmaster didn’t care a damn for regulations and felt, in a brief wild moment, like fortifying himself from one of the orphan bottles on the floor.
“You’re on the old hand-exchange for telephones here, sir, aren’t you?”
“Yes. We’re due to go on automatics when the powers-that-be relax, but meanwhile we’ve got a very nice lot of girls on the board.”
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