2.

DEAD MAN’S BUSINESS

Fro thennesforth he rideth up and down

And everything com him to remembraunce

As he rod for-by places of the town …

GEOFFREY CHAUCER (Troilus and Cressida)

THE train was full of forces men going home on leave and some belated holidaymakers on their way to the coast. Everybody was good tempered. A homely woman in tweeds insisted on giving the Inspector two chicken sandwiches; three officers returning from India were ecstatic in their praise of British railways; and a little girl with flaxen pigtails, having taken a fancy to him, gave Littlejohn two sticky barley-sugar sweets and saw to it that he ate them.

“Quite an Indian summer,” said the lady in tweeds, looking at the sunlit scene flying past the windows. The three young officers from India thereupon laughed loudly and ironically, and put her in possession of the full facts about the Indian climate.

They all seemed very sorry when Littlejohn said goodbye at Melchester, and the girl with the flaxen hair hung out of the window and waved to him until he was out of sight.

The old cathedral city, capital of Midshire, looked trim and bright. They had scraped off the blackout paint from the glass roof of the station, and stuck a few shrubs in tubs in the main hall. Littlejohn counted two men in straw hats and quite a number in open-necked shirts. Hikers, toiling and moiling under huge rucksacks, earnestly sought trains and information, and a lackey in a plum coloured frock-coat and a gold-braided hat shepherded a number of new arrivals and their baggage in the direction of the Spa Hotel.

It all gave Littlejohn the holiday feeling.

A tall, heavy-faced man dashed up to the Inspector.

“Inspector Littlejohn? I met you once when I was having a look round Scotland Yard on my holidays. Got a good memory for faces. My name’s Stanley. I’m in charge of the Ravelstone case …”

Littlejohn felt that his own name ought to have been Livingstone, and wondered if the newcomer was giving his christian name or surname.

“Inspector Stanley, of the Midshire County Police. Very glad to have you with us, sir.”

Stanley was a bit of a dandy as far as the dignity of his public office would allow. Brown suede shoes, green felt hat worn at a slouch, light grey suit, and a blue and white polka-dot tie. His hands were well-kept and he wore a large gold ring on his little finger. He bustled Littlejohn to the cab-rank, greeting passers-by on the way.

“What about a drink, Inspector Littlejohn?”

“I could do with a cup of tea …”

“Tea? Right. Drive to The Mikado, driver. You’ll get a good view of the cathedral there, Inspector …”

Littlejohn imagined himself on a sightseeing tour.

They arrived at a café decorated in black and gold mock-Japanese style. The manageress beamed on them and conducted them to a table on the first floor. On the way, everybody recognised Stanley and smiled at Littlejohn.

“Mornin’, Inspector. Nice day!”

“Good morning, Mr. Stanley. How are you?”

“Hullo, Stanley. How’s things?”

Like a triumphal procession. There was a special flutter among the women there. Stanley was the most eligible bachelor in town.

They sat in the window alcove. Outside, the view was splendid. The great, lovely cathedral with its peaceful close, and a lot of quaint old houses and shops fresh from an Arthur Rackham drawing. Expensive cars threading their ways through the narrow streets, and dignified ladies and men in gaiters and clerical dog-collars passing to and fro.

“Would you like to see the body before we go over to Ravelstone, sir? It’s in the mortuary here …”

“The body?” said Littlejohn. “Oh, yes, the body …”

They were drinking their second cup of tea. Stanley smoked Russian cigarettes and Littlejohn had one in his mouth. The Inspector had accepted and lit it before he knew what he was doing. Stanley never stopped talking. He fidgeted with his tie, too, and cast self-conscious glances at the ladies as though calling on them to observe him in conference with Scotland Yard.

The bishop and his lady entered and everybody looked ready to rise as before Royalty. Then the stir died away, and his Lordship settled down to demolish a pile of flatulent cakes leaking with synthetic cream. “Decent chap, the bishop. I sometimes go to his wife’s At Home. Pays you to keep in with the clerical nobs in a place like this. Where was I …? Oh, yes. Young fellow called Ronald Free was murdered at Ravelstone last night. As far as we can see, right under the local bobby’s nose. You know what these country police are. Probably the fellow was smoking under a hedge or something …”

Littlejohn grunted. In his mind’s eye he saw a procession of worthy country policemen. Harriwinkle, Mellalieu, Charles Haddon Spurgeon Sadd, and a lot more. Good fellows every one. He resented the slur.

“Generally, a sound, hard-working lot …”

“Oh, sure. Don’t get me wrong. Just my little joke, sir. Well, the local constable, chap called Costain, came across the body in the gutter. Strangled with a piece of string. Can you beat it?”

Littlejohn didn’t answer. He was watching the bishop lowering his fourth cake and drinking his third cup of tea. Tremendous appetites some of these parsons!

Stanley hitched his polka dots vigorously, nodded to a tall, fair-haired girl who had just entered, and blushed. The bishop, too, forgot his cakes for a minute and greeted the newcomer. His voice reminded Littlejohn of lather.

“As I was saying … Young Free was murdered and found by Costain. It seems he’d just got engaged to the village beauty, a girl called Laura Cruft. Whether some rival did it, I don’t know. The men were round her like bees round a honey-pot, and it took her a long time to make up her mind. Even then, young Free wasn’t so sure, by all accounts. She’d broken it off with two before him.”

“Crime passionnel!” said Littlejohn. He didn’t know quite why he said it. He felt a bit frivolous. Another man in gaiters had entered. Perhaps the dean. The newcomer bared his teeth at the bishop and they began palavering and pollydoodling together like mad. A fresh plate of cakes arrived and the two clerics set about them with gusto.

Stanley had his back to the new arrival, so he didn’t see him.

“Crime …? Oh, yes, yes. Cherchez la femme, you mean. Or is it le femme? So long since I did any French. Well, as I was saying, Free had just got himself engaged. The girl told us that. Very cut-up, she was, too. Taken her all that time to make up her mind and then, just as she’d made her choice, somebody choked him …”

Stanley sniggered at his own wit. The bishop and the dean must have made a joke, too, for they burst into roars of laughter, the higher dignitary neighing like a horse and the lesser hooting tremulously like an old owl. The noise seemed infectious, for the whole place was soon shaking with mirth. The thing was fantastic! Here was Littlejohn on a murder case …

“As I was saying.… They’d got engaged. Young Free had just got a teaching job. He’d graduated at Melchester University. If you stand up you can see the towers just over the left end of the chapter-house there … See it?”

The little fat dean stopped laughing and looked anxiously at Littlejohn, as though suspecting him of having designs on the fabric of his cathedral.

“Hullo, I hadn’t seen the dean come in. That’s the dean with the bishop.”

Littlejohn was getting a bit fed-up.

“You say Free graduated at the University. What then?”

“Oh, yes. Laura Cruft was a fellow student there, too. That’s how they met, I believe. He was taking a degree in literature, they say. She was studying Lord knows what. Her people have plenty of money. Rich farmers. Her mother married a second time. Fellow called Spry. Laura’s father died when she was fifteen and left a pile. Spry was bailiff on a nearby farm, moved in and, so to speak, hung his hat up. He’s been a good father to her …”

“How was the money left? Outright, or in trust till the girl reached a certain age?”

“Haven’t taken that up, yet. The murder only happened last night!”

Stanley sounded hurt and cast a glance at the fair girl again as though to derive consolation from the sight of her.

“Go on, then …”

“A lot of the chaps at the University were after Laura, as well as Free. And if the tales are right, she was a favourite with one or two of the professors as well …”

“Good Lord!”

“Bit of a mess, isn’t it? This’ll need a bit of tactful handling, sir.”

“Will it?”

“Free’s people live in Ravelstone, too. His father’s in business on his own as local joiner, undertaker and the like. Ronald was a bright lad and won scholarships to college. His people aren’t too well off and made sacrifices for him … They’re very cut up.”

“I’m sure they are. Was he their only one?”

“Yes. They didn’t much care for Laura, either. From what I gather, they thought she was a bit too flighty for him … You know … all airs and fancy dress and not much of a housewife …”

“I see. Was she taking literature, too?”

“General Arts degree, she told me; interested in psychology as well. We’ve got a good chap on psychology here. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Him and his wife write books … Professor D’Arcy Lever. Classes packed-out. Gives lectures out of hours as well. Great favourite with the women. These psychology chaps usually are, aren’t they?”

“Are they? I don’t know any …”

“Oh … A lot of the University staff live out at Ravelstone. It’s only three miles away, you see. Pretty village. Lot of writers and artists there, too.”

“Just a minute … Did anybody see young Free before he was killed?”

“Not as far as we know. Laura was the last to see him alive. I feel sorry for her … A very nice girl …”

Littlejohn imagined Stanley dispensing comfort and tact to the stricken one. Straightening his fancy tie and apologising all along the line.

The bishop and the dean had finished and were jocularly quarrelling as to who was to pay the bill. Their wives had already left them. The bishop won and departed with his colleague, dispensing smiles and unction on his way out, like a pontiff in a sacred procession.

No use trying to concentrate on the case in The Mikado. The local beauties passing in and out were a source of constant distraction for Stanley, of whom Littlejohn had formed a very poor first impression. He wondered how the man had earned his promotion. Actually, the young Inspector was a graduate of Melchester himself, a very clever chemist and fingerprint man, and keen on his job. He was, at his own request, being given a turn on the outside staff. He was doing temporary duty, for the local force was decimated by ’flu.

“I think we’d better be getting along to Ravelstone, Stanley. Waitress! the bill.”

“This is on me, sir.”

Littlejohn wasn’t disposed to quarrel about it and they left together to pick up Stanley’s car from the car-park.

“Do you want to see the body, sir?”

“Not just now, thanks. We’ll leave that till later.”

Stanley shrugged his shoulders. All good detectives wanted to see the body. Littlejohn was a decent sort of chap personally, but as a detective … well …

Quite a number of others had thought that and finished on the end of a rope!

The car threaded its way through the streets of the city. They passed the police station, but as the Chief Constable was out and the Superintendent in bed with ’flu, it wasn’t much use calling then. Stanley pointed out the sights of the town … The old Corn Market, the Butter Cross, the Guildhall, the archdeacon, the dean again, and a millionaire who had come to live in a house in the cathedral close.

“And that’s the local M.P. There’s a big rally today …”

Littlejohn yawned. He must get rid of Stanley soon; otherwise this conducted tour would go on for ever.

“What about my room for the night? I suppose I’ll have to stay for a time …”

Stanley grinned.

“Looks like taking a long time, this affair, sir. There’s quite a fine country hotel in Ravelstone. Golfers stay there and play on the local links, which are quite good. Do you play?”

God! thought Littlejohn, I wish they’d sent somebody else on this case.

They were in the country at last. Up two hills and down again and then you could see the village of Ravelstone. Clumps of trees, farms, the church poking its towers through the tree-tops, cottages clustered about and a number of new, red brick villas flung up irrespective of site and taste.

The air was heavy with the smell of autumn. Wood smoke, dead leaves, manure, all mixed with the smell of petrol fumes from Stanley’s car, the exhaust of which seemed to leak into the interior.

“This is the Frees’ place.”

The car pulled up before an old brick cottage with a small garden at the front. On one side a wooden lean-to shed with a timber yard constituted the father’s workshop and store. Inside the shed a stocky, red-faced man with a shock of untidy grey hair was planing wood. He was in his shirt sleeves and wore a bowler hat. He worked mechanically, seeming not to know what he was doing.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Free.”

The man turned. His eyes were red-rimmed from grief and looked lifeless.

“This is Inspector Littlejohn, from Scotland Yard, who’s here to help us clear-up this ghastly business.”

“Pleased to meet you …”

Old Free extended a large, hard hand automatically. There was no strength in his grip.

“What do you want? I don’t feel up to talking … Better see mother …”

Indoors they found Mrs. Free. She had been weeping, and two other women were sitting by the kitchen fire trying to comfort her. There were empty teacups on the table.

Mrs. Free was a stiff little grey-headed woman, buxom and healthy-looking. She was in a daze and couldn’t realise what had happened. Littlejohn shook hands with her.

“Will you have a cup of tea? There’s some brewed. You must excuse our being in such an upset … You see …”

She burst into tears again.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Free.… I just wanted to say how sorry I am about all this,” said Littlejohn. “I’ll see you later.”

The woman clung to his hand like someone drowning.

“Why? Why did they do it …? He never hurt anybody …”

The two attendant women gathered round and caressed and comforted the stricken one.

Stanley looked at Littlejohn and shrugged his shoulders.

“Come along, Stanley. Let’s get to the hotel. If you want me, Mrs. Free, I’ll be staying in the village.”

“All right, Inspector. I’m sorry …”

“You’d better meet the local bobby, if he’s in.”

“What about the hotel?”

Stanley gave Littlejohn a reproachful look and pulled up before a large, modernised old house with a garden abutting the road.

“Here we are.”

Men in plus-fours and flannels hanging round the bar. Golf clubs lying about in the hall. Loud voices analysing the last round in the lounge. A group of men yelling their heads off at a dirty joke one of them had just told.

“Book for one night,” said Littlejohn.

“Why?”

“I’ll see how I like it.”

“Oh, it’s a good place—jolly comfortable and plenty of cheerful company.”

“So I see.”

The porter carried off Littlejohn’s bag and he paid for a drink for Stanley. It was apparently the fashionable thing to do. Stanley seemed to know most of the men standing around. One of them wanted to tell him the dirty joke.

“Did you hear that one …?”

“Excuse us. We’re just going.”

Stanley turned to Littlejohn.

“Well, what do you want to do next? Police-station? Scene of the crime? Or call on Laura Cruft? You have your own way of working, I suppose, sir. Just say the word.”

“I think I’ll have a wash and a snack first. You can leave me here. I want to think over things a bit.”

Stanley was flummoxed.

“But—will you be doing anything after? Like me to call after tea, or I could stay and have a meal with you?”

“No, I’ll be all right, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow. Give you a ring on the telephone in the morning.”

“Very good, sir. I thought that perhaps …”

“Thanks for all you’ve done, Stanley. I’ll be seeing you.”

The Melchester man went off a bit crestfallen. Littlejohn felt churlish. After all, the chap was doing his best. All the same, this parade couldn’t go on. He must work at it in his own way.

“Waiter! Could I have a sandwich in a quiet corner?”

The waiter looked astonished.

“Sorry, sir. There’s nothing till dinner. I could get you a drink. And I’m afraid all the public rooms are full of people. The golfers, you know …”

“Oh, yes, the golfers. Right, thanks.”

Littlejohn had a wash and sought the village pub, where they found him something to eat and a glass of decent beer.

He moved there the following morning. It was quieter.