Crime In Leper's Hollow

by George Bellairs

  “Sure, sir? In 1948?”

  “Let me see...Maybe. It’s so long ago.”

  “A Spanish gold coin.”

  Mr. Earp jumped. He licked his lips.

  “I think I do. That’s nearly four years, though,” he fizzed.

  “You bought a Spanish gold coin from Mr. Doane, of Beyle, didn’t you? Superintendent Simpole had evidently been trying to trace it and found it here. Now do you remember?”

  Earp was still trying to look as if he didn’t remember.

  “Would you mind turning things over in your mind then, sir. and then you’ll be able to tell a proper tale at the resumed inquest on Superintendent Simpole...?”

  “Wait!”

  Littlejohn halted half-way to the door. Mr. Earp was chewing his spectacle frames furiously.

  “I remember. I did buy it from Mr. Doane and the Superintendent did take it. I never got it back nor heard a thing about it after, and I never got the money for it, either.”

  “How did you come to buy it?”

  “I bought quite a number from Mr. Doane. His father was a collector, he said. They were all different, some large, some small,” he hissed and splashed. Littlejohn stood back a pace.

  “What did you do with them, sir?”

  “They were only valuable to me for the gold content, of course. I am licensed to deal in bullion and am allowed a certain amount for use in my workshop.”

  “Have you had any more from the same source of late?”

  “No, sir. They ceased after Superintendent Simpole took the one you mention.”

  “Is that it?”

  Littlejohn handed over the large gold coin.

  Mr. Earp carefully examined it, even screwing a jeweller’s glass in his eye to make it look professional.

  “I think so. It’s very like it. Spanish, you know. Old Spanish.”

  “And that was the last you heard of them?”

  “Yes...Except...”

  “Yes?”

  “Except, funnily enough, not Mr. Doane, but Mrs. Crake came in with about half a dozen of them. She said she had some in a collection from her late father. Could I take them, assay them, and melt them down into gold bars for her...?”

  “Gold bars? Whatever for?”

  “She said she thought it as well to hold on to gold now, in view of inflation, and all that...She wanted to put the bars in the bank.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I wouldn’t touch them. I’m not a dealer in a big way. Just for my own requirements or for passing on to larger firms. I didn’t like the idea of handling so much gold. It’s against the national interest, if you gather what I mean, sir.”

  “I do...”

  Had it been a question of buying the gold at a good profit, the little fizzer would have dealt, Littlejohn was sure.

  “Thank you, sir. That’s all for the moment.”

  “Will I get the money for the coin you showed me? The inquest, will I...?”

  “I’ll let you know if you’re needed. Good day, sir.”

  At the bank, Mr Shotter was very pleased to see Littlejohn and told him so.

  “I hope you’re making progress, Inspector. It’s not nice, a killer in our midst, is it?”

  “We’re getting along nicely, sir. I came to ask if you had a strong-box belonging to the late Mrs. Crake?”

  “Why, yes. It isn’t exactly a strong-box. It is a wooden one with a lock. It reminds me of those things they used in the army in my day. I was in the Royal Artillery in the first war, you know. A strong wooden box with rope handles. Know the kind? I think she must have kept bricks or shot in it. It took two of my men to carry it in, when she brought it...”

  “How long ago?”

  “Not long before she died. I could get the exact date...”

  “That will be near enough, sir. You still have it?”

  “I think so. It’s awaiting probate, then the executor will presumably take it away.”

  Mr. Shotter rang a bell and a clerk appeared.

  “Snellgrove, have we still got Mrs. Crake’s wooden box in the strong room?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “May I see it?” asked Littlejohn.

  “A bit unusual, sir, but...in the public interest, yes. You can’t, of course, take it away.”

  Two clerks then brought in the box and it took them all their time to carry it. Littlejohn found himself wondering how Uncle Bernard got it all out of Spain...and in a hurry, at that, with the police on his heels.

  “It is like one of the old ammo. boxes, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is.”

  Littlejohn took out the keys which belonged to Mrs. Crake and which he had held pending the closing of the inquiry.

  “Mind if I open it?”

  “I really ought not, you know. All the same, if you do it before witnesses...Just a matter of form in case the executors...”

  “Of course.”

  Two clerks were again sent for and Littlejohn, after trying a few keys on the ring, found the right one. He turned the lock and flung back the lid. The little party circling the box gasped like one man.

  It was like Kidd’s treasure itself. The case was half full of gold coins of all sizes and, on top of the lot, lay a magnificent golden, jewelled crucifix, with a ruby in the centre which, catching the light from the pendant overhead, shone like blood.

  Sixteen – Three Coffins

  LITTLEJOHN and Cromwell were the only two who said a silent farewell to Superintendent Simpole as he left on his last journey to Heckmondwike. It was cheaper to take the body by train than by road, so Mr. Julius Simpole saw the coffin to the station and set out on a long and rather tiresome trip north. The local police had, of course, paid their respects and bade a formal farewell to all that was left of their old chief. This had been done at the police station and then the undertaker’s men had assumed charge and borne it off in a hearse to the platform. Official wreaths had been sent to the North ready for the funeral. Littlejohn who, thanks to his investigations, knew more about Simpole than those who had served with him all the time he had been in Tilsey, felt impelled to see the train off. He and Cromwell, therefore, stood bareheaded as the coffin was placed in a compartment reserved for it and for Mr. Julius. There was a solitary wreath on it: “From his colleagues of New Scotland Yard.” Mr. Julius, temporarily instane through the discovery of his large inheritance, had substantially fortified himself for the cold journey and followed the obsequies with unsteady feet. As the train left, the flutist leaned from the window and waved a cheerful bowler hat at the two detectives...

  Next day, it was different. The funerals of Arthur Kent and Dulcie Crake were each splendid in different ways. They were held two hours apart because many of the mourners of one were due to appear at the other, like theatregoers who rush from a matinée to an evening performance with hardly a break for breath.

  The day was sunny and cold as the first cortège began to move from the funeral parlour where, strange to say, the two one-time lovers, principal characters in the tragedy of Beyle, had occupied separate rooms in the stillness of death. Dulcie Crake was the first to leave. She was a Catholic and went to her own church for requiem.

  “Never miss a funeral,” was a saying of Cromwell’s and it was wise of its kind. In the course of an investigation, such a function assembles a strange panorama of principals and supers of the case and sometimes brings to light some trifle which adds to the whole of the solution.

  The church was almost full when the procession arrived. There had been no previous selection and arrangement as at Nicholas Crake’s funeral service and as the party mounted the steps, they trod on the confetti of a wedding which had taken place only half an hour before. The body of the church was filled with lower-class women, some with children, drawn there by the sensation of the murder. Dulcie Crake’s two children by different fathers followed the coffin and Uncle Bernard brought up the rear. He was wearing his coat with the astrakhan collar and his silk hat of ancient vi
ntage. His features were pinched and his nose red and he kept sniffing the air like a hound on the trail. The pealing of the organ, the chanting of the choir, the intoning of the priests, and the censer and aspergillum had no effect on him; he stared into space like one in a dream. Beatrice Kent was absent, but both the Trotmans were there. This was the first time Littlejohn had seen Mrs. Trotman. She was a little, thin, modest woman with a strange dignity in her bearing. Now and then, she glanced at her husband affectionately, as if she might be proud of him. Trotman seemed oblivious of all this, pacing the aisle to his seat on ponderous flat feet and barely seeing that his companion had a place for herself.

  At the cemetery, a new grave had been made on the Catholic side and there Littlejohn was surprised to see how many of the rather shabby people from the church had followed the coffin. Most of them were obviously not mere sightseers, but were visibly moved. Several were weeping and had put on seedy black for the occasion.

  “She got in some queer places in her time,” whispered a threadbare man at Littlejohn’s elbow. “Look at all that lot...”

  His eyes indicated the lower orders, more so in contrast with Trotman and his party.

  “...She gave a lot of money away,” said the man. “Anybody with a sorry tale could touch her for a quid or two. Reason I’m ’ere is because of the way she treated my dead wife when she was ill. She was in the nursin’ corps then and stopped up night after night with ’er. I’ll never ferget it and nobody can talk to me about Mrs. Crake bein’ a bit of a wrong-’un. That don’t matter to me.”

  He sniffed, put on his hat and melted away like someone with a brief walking-on part to play. The priests had said their say, the last earth had been flung on the coffin, the notables were hurrying off to the next funeral, and the gravediggers were coming along with their shovels ready to fill in the grave. It was then that Littlejohn noticed that Uncle Bernard and Trotman were in trouble. Uncle Bernard had come to life and was apparently denouncing Trotman for something. He was pointing to the grave and raising his hands aloft like somebody demented. Trotman was trying to hold the old man at arm’s length. Mrs. Trotman drew him away to their waiting car.

  Uncle Bernard was still pointing an accusing finger at the retreating back of the lawyer.

  “Never came near her when she was in trouble. What’s he come gloating here for...?”

  They persuaded him at length to enter his taxi and he was driven off, too.

  Kent’s funeral was more ceremonial, and the town officials, including the Mayor and the legal faculty, turned out. Mr. Huxtable, the Mayor, was still coughing in hollow fashion and wondering if he’d be the next. The Rev. Joshua Roebuck officiated, like one of the deadly sins in appearance, his gluttonous mouth rolling out the beautiful phrases of the burial service. They did not go to church. Mrs. Kent had shown singular indifference to ceremonial and the funeral service was held in the mortuary chapel at the cemetery. It was like trying to get a quart in a pint pot, for the chapel held only a hundred people and there were two hundred there. A huge crowd gathered outside. The building was cold and damp and the breath of those present rose like a large cloud of steam heavenwards. Those outside, including Littlejohn, stamped their feet and beat their hands to keep warm. Above all could be heard the Mayor’s hollow coughing...

  Uncle Bernard, Nita and Alec were present, this time as equals, and formed a trio together. People remarked about the absence of the widow and many made excuses for her on health grounds. She had taken the whole business badly. At length, preceded by the swollen shape of Mr. Roebuck, they carried Arthur Kent to his family vault and interred him with his father and mother and a sister who had been killed in a car accident. The crowd melted away again, just as it had done from the other part of the cemetery two hours earlier. A few hangers-on started to read the cards on the wreaths. And then Littlejohn saw something which gave him a thrill he always felt when light suddenly dawned on a case for the first time.

  Uncle Bernard was putting on his top hat!

  And, keeping his distance from the old man this time, Mr. Trotman was also covering his large head with his black homburg. Littlejohn felt like rushing to where they stood, swopping their hats, and putting the silk one on Trotman and the homburg on Uncle Bernard. He remembered his feeling of mirth on the night they had found Kent dead at Beyle and how he had sympathetically handed Uncle Bernard a soft hat as he left the house. The hat had almost suffocated the old man! At least, it had fallen over his ears and Uncle Bernard had said, “Give me my own hat; this isn’t mine.” Whose had the hat been? Had it belonged to the man Alec had surmised was hiding in the cubby-hole under the stairs when they found Kent’s murdered body? Had he hidden himself and, in his haste, left his hat on the hall table, where Littlejohn had found it and handed it to Uncle Bernard?

  “Are you ready, sir?”

  Littlejohn awoke from his reverie with a start and realized that the funeral party had broken up and gone...The spectators were still reading the cards on the flowers...

  “Let’s go to Beyle. I want a word with Uncle Bernard...”

  The constable on duty at the door of Beyle saluted as the two detectives entered.

  “All the family are at home, sir...”

  Littlejohn and Cromwell didn’t need telling. Loud voices raised in angry altercation could be heard in Uncle Bernard’s room.

  “I don’t care what’s my duty. Whatever it is, it’s not to you. You’ve sponged on us long enough. I’m leaving to-night.”

  Nita’s voice was high and determined.

  You could just hear Uncle Bernard rumbling an answer in plaintive tones.

  Then it was Alec’s turn.

  “I’m leaving for Paris the day after to-morrow. If you can’t persuade Elspeth to come back, you’ll have to look after yourself. The house will be all yours till Nita decides to sell. I never want to see the place again...”

  Littlejohn and Cromwell stood in the doorway of Uncle Bernard’s room. The family formed a little trio, gesticulating, leaving the group one after another, and then moving back.

  “Elspeth’s promised to stay the night and help with the packing, but she insists on sleeping in the other bed in my room...”

  Nita turned and saw the new arrivals. She halted.

  “You two again? Is this investigation never going to finish?”

  Alec nodded to them jauntily.

  “I’d like a word with Mr. Doane in private, please.”

  Nita and Alec exchanged glances.

  “Don’t let us intrude...” Nita sounded annoyed.

  Brother and sister left the room together.

  “By the way, Mr. Alec...”

  Alec turned on his heel to face the Inspector.

  “How many croquet mallets did you keep in the room under the stairs?”

  “There were two left...Why?”

  “There was only one when you showed the place to me. When did you last open it?”

  “The day before Uncle Arthur was killed. I was just wandering round and looked in...Both mallets were there.”

  “Have any of you seen the other one?”

  Littlejohn looked from one to the other and then the three relatives looked at one another, too. Their faces were blank.

  “I’m not suggesting a game. I’m suggesting that Mr. Kent was killed with a blunt instrument. I can’t think of anything better than a croquet mallet...”

  “Very easily disposed of...Burned, for example...”

  “But who could have...?”

  “There was only one fire in the house as far as I recollect. Elspeth was out and the kitchen fire was dead. There was an electric stove going in the room where you were sitting, Miss Nita. The only fire was...there...”

  He pointed to the hearth of Uncle Bernard’s room in which a log fire was blazing.

  Nobody spoke.

  “And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to Mr. Doane.”

  This time Nita and Alec made a hasty retreat. They were ready to compare no
tes and discuss what Littlejohn had just said.

  Uncle Bernard looked all in. Wearily, he indicated two chairs by the fire and himself sat down in another.

  “I wonder when all this is going to end?”

  He got up again, went to the cupboard, and brought out the sherry and glasses. Removing a large paraffin lamp with an elaborate reservoir and green shade, he spread the glasses and decanter on a small table.

  “Will you join me?”

  “No thanks, sir.”

  Cromwell shook his head.

  “No, thanks.”

  Uncle Bernard helped himself liberally, gulped down the drink and filled up again.

  “This is my food and drink these days.”

  “I’m afraid what I have to say, sir, is not very pleasant. First of all, why did you pose as a doctor when you never graduated?”

  It didn’t seem to disturb old Doane at all. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “I never said I was qualified. People persisted in calling me doctor. I didn’t ask them. I studied medicine but gave it up for music.”

  “And attacked the conductor at your first concert...”

  Uncle Bernard rose to his feet in rage.

  “The fool! The fool! He ruined my concert. He got the orchestra in such confusion that I lost my memory...I couldn’t remember...”

  He started to tear his hair.

  “After which, did you spend some time in a nursing home for nervous cases?”

  “Who has been spreading slander about me? I resent your intrusion on my past life, which doesn’t concern you...Who told you?”

  “The Spanish police, Mr. Doane.”

  “The...”

  His long hand clawed at his lips and he stepped back a pace, caught the edge of his chair on the back of his knee, and fell into a sitting posture.

  “The police...?”

  “Does the name of Juan Casado mean anything to you...?”

  A look of fear crossed Uncle Bernard’s face and then vanished.

  “No!”

  “He was arrested, I believe, in Toledo for stealing a collection of coins. The coins were never recovered. His accomplice escaped.”