14.

ONE THING AND ANOTHER

“There when they came, whereas those tricky towers,

Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers.”

EDMUND SPENSER

“How are things going, Littlejohn?”

Superintendent Glaisher flung his long body loosely in a chair, looked round for somewhere to put his feet, and finally hoisted them on to the mantelpiece.

They were sitting in the deserted bar parlour of The Bird in Hand and Glaisher had been apologising for his apparent lack of interest in the case, due to pressure of routine work in Melchester. The Bishop had had burglars, who had stolen, inter alia, a silver pectoral cross, a muffin dish, three gold medals won by the right reverend at basketball, and a top hat. The Bishop had been in and out of the police station half a dozen times a day. It had kept them on their toes.

“Not too well, I’m afraid, sir. In fact, to be colloquial, not a pot washed!”

Glaisher tipped his chair and rocked to and fro on the back legs.

“Oh, come, come! Not as bad as that. You’ve been working hard …”

“Yes. And got nothing but a lot of silly gossip for our pains. We’ve sorted out one or two interesting points, however. I suppose you know Spry tried to hang himself yesterday. Made a poor job of it; but there you are. He’s in rather bad shape nervously and the doctor says he’s not to be bothered until later in the day. I’m going round to the farm in a little while.”

“What’s behind it?”

“Haven’t an idea. The suicide note, if you can call it such, said he couldn’t stand the gossip about Laura. Personally, I think that’s all rot. Spry’s had something on his mind for quite a time and this is the result.”

“But the report said it was a bit of a botched-up job. Rope not tied properly, and done at a time when the farmhands were about and likely to discover him … Think it was a faked bit of work?”

“No, I don’t. I think Spry found I’d called again and his conscience smote him so hard that he went off hot-foot to put an end to his misery. Something’s preying on that chap’s mind and we’ve got to find out what it is.”

“You’ve a nice job on, Littlejohn. Can I do anything?”

Outside, a funeral was drawing up at the churchyard. Prominent among the mourners was the heavy form of P.C. Butt. They were burying old Nehemiah, and William had been discharged from hospital on the previous day. When the old man had been put to rest Butt and his wife were off for a few days’ holiday. He had been given a week’s sick-leave. Mrs. Butt was attired from head to foot in black. She didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the ceremony. Her eyes were fixed solicitously on her husband, as though she expected him to have a relapse at any moment. From the windows of the inn they could see the Rev. Tancred Turncote busy with the commital.

“Want to see Butt about anything before he goes off to the seaside, Littlejohn?”

“No, I don’t think so. I had a word with him earlier. He’s very put out about the disappearance of the report about Costain and his partridges. He thinks he might have lost it and if somebody finds it and passes it on to you or the Chief Constable, Costain will be for it. You’ll see that that affair doesn’t go any farther, won’t you?”

“Sure. We’ve no time for such like trifles these days. In any case, under similar provocation I’d have screwed the damned birds’ necks myself. Only don’t tell Costain I said so.”

“I questioned Butt closely about that report. It seems obvious that somebody, after hearing Butt shouting about it in the village, thought it contained evidence about the murder, and attacked Butt to get it. Butt assured me that only himself, Costain and I know what the letter contained. His father, he’s sure, said nothing of it to anybody, because they more or less kept the old man doped. He was noisy and upset everybody about him.”

“So somebody might have that report still?”

“I hardly think so. Probably destroyed it in a hurry when they saw that it was harmless. All the same, it’s as well to remember the point.”

“What about a drink, Inspector?”

“Right.”

“Two pints of mild, Edna.”

Glaisher uncrossed his legs to receive his tankard and then corkscrewed them again on the mantelpiece.

“Anything in the way of routine work we can be doing at Melchester?”

“Could you find out something about Spry for me? Where he comes from? I hear he’s not a local man. And anything else concerning him. There’s a nigger in the woodpile there and we must get to the bottom of it. If necessary, I’ll send a man down to Spry’s home town to dig out all he can.”

“I’ll see to that. Anything else?”

“Have you got your car?”

“Yes.”

“Give me a lift to Melchester, then, if you don’t mind. I want a word with Fothergill, solicitor to the late Cruft’s estate. I wonder if Spry’s been up to something there …”

“D’you think he imagined you were on to something about the estate and hurried off to hang himself?”

Glaisher grinned, a feat which raised his moustache like a trapdoor, revealing two large fanged canine teeth surrounded by batches of false ones.

“I don’t know. It seems damned strange that he should leave such a silly suicide note. I wonder if he’s fond of Laura … In a fatherly way, I mean, and couldn’t stand her being slandered. I’ll have to find out. Well, if you’ll take me to Melchester, I’ll get my business done and then call to see Spry.”

“Come on, then.”

Glaisher unfolded himself and got to his feet with a groan. A very small car was parked in the car-park, and it took the two detectives all their time to get into it. Glaisher’s knees reached to his chin and he had to hold the wheel over the top of them.

“Can’t you do anything better than this, Superintendent?” asked Littlejohn jocularly.

“My car’s in dock. Be thankful for small mercies! This is my wife’s. Damned silly little thing, but it goes.”

They rattled off.

Fothergill, Turncote, Blades, Comfrey and Fothergill were the diocesan solicitors. Their chambers were adjacent to the cathedral close in a place which had once been a pilgrims’ hostel. Turncote, Blades, Comfrey and one Fothergill had died long ago, and the surviving relic on the eroded brass plate at the door had one foot in the grave. Mr. Bartlemy Fothergill had two middle-aged nephews in the firm. They were known as young Mr. Tom and young Mr. Christopher, and, although partners in the business, had not yet graduated to having a share in the name-plate. Mr. Bartlemy ruled them with a rod of iron, and insisted on seeing all important clients himself, although he was deaf.

He received Littlejohn in a room overlooking the cathedral. Photographs of about a dozen dead bishops and deans on the walls, all in gaiters, and over the mantelpiece a huge portrait of Mr. Marmaduke Fothergill, founder of the firm, dressed in wig and gown. He ought to have worn gaiters, too!

The solicitor’s desk was littered with frowsy documents, parchments, sheepskins, red tape and seals. The débris was about a foot high and there wasn’t an inch of space to be seen except just in front of the solicitor and covered by a dirty blotter loaded with very inkstained paper.

Mr. Fothergill himself looked like a high ecclesiastical dignitary. Ascetic sacerdotal face of a beautiful pink complexion; white hair, blue eyes, noble brow. He didn’t know very much about law himself. He was the dignified mouthpiece of the machine which worked in the other rooms of the firm.

“Good morning, sir,” said Littlejohn.

Mr. Fothergill made no move. He was writing in cramped fashion deep in the litter of his desk. When he raised his head he seemed quite surprised to see his visitor.

“Good morning,” he said in a fruity voice. He then unearthed a contraption like a small camera from somewhere among the rubbish, set it down on the top of a pile of ecclesiastical conveyances, with the hole in the end of it pointing in Littlejohn’s direction, and put on a small pair of earphones.

“Speak in that … I’m deaf.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Eh?”

“I said very good, sir.”

There was a religious atmosphere about the chambers, and it seemed almost like brawling in church to shout about the place, but Littlejohn did so until he was hoarse. They must have been able to hear him in the Lady Chapel at the far end of the cathedral.

Either the appliance was in disrepair or the batteries were exhausted, because Mr. Bartlemy didn’t seem able to get the Inspector’s wavelength at all. It was like a hideous night mare to Littlejohn and at times he felt so impotent that he could have taken to his heels in despair. However, an aged clerk, whose low murmuring seemed exactly what the diabolical contraption wanted, was called to the rescue and he acted as interpreter.

“You don’t speak loud enough, Inspector,” explained Mr. Fothergill.

The interview, with repetitions, interruptions, interpretations and elucidations, including the calling-in of the dapper Mr. Tom and the decrepit Mr. Chris for consultation, took over an hour and at the end of it it was unanimously agreed that without Mr. Fothergill’s concurrence the funds of the Cruft estate could not be disturbed. Embezzlement was quite out of the question. The funds were locked-up in gilt-edged registered securities, jointly in the names of Fothergill and Mrs. Spry. It was absurd to think that anybody could get at them without Mr. Bartlemy’s consent. And that consent hadn’t been given. So the funds were quite intact. Q.E.D.

And would remain so till kingdom come, thought Littlejohn, eagerly extricating himself from the family conference which had developed. Mr. Bartlemy had suddenly remembered that he hadn’t done the current income-tax claim for the Cruft estate, and was roundly upbraiding Mr. Tom and Mr. Christopher for their neglect. The two “young” men were busy shouting apologies into the black box and Mr. Bartlemy was shouting that he couldn’t hear a word and didn’t want to, either.

“Good morning, and thank you, gentlemen,” said Littlejohn, making for the door.

Nobody replied except Mr. Bartlemy, who was supposed to be deaf.

“Good morning to you, Inspector. A great pleasure, I’m sure.”

As Littlejohn closed the door, Mr. Fothergill senior looked to be giving his unruly nephews a hundred lines apiece.

At the police station, Glaisher, his feet on the window sill, gave Littlejohn some information about Spry, which he had quickly obtained. It wasn’t of very much importance, except that it disclosed that the man came from Dintling in Worcestershire. He had been a farm bailiff at Ravelstone for about fifteen years and had married Mrs. Cruft about two years after her husband’s death. There was nothing against him at all. Normally, a quiet, civil fellow, he knew his business and ran the farm well.

Later, Costain confirmed that Spry got on very comfortably with his step-daughter. In fact, they were on the best of terms.

Spry was still in bed when Littlejohn called at Apple Tree Farm. Laura was out and Mrs. Spry let him in.

“I can’t think what came over him to do a thing like that,” she said. “He’s been a bit edgy for a little time now. Farming’s a worrying job these days and it’s all bed and work. But I never thought he’d got so bad with his nerves. All this murder business has got him down. He’s very fond of Laura and the gossip and what-not have been disgusting.”

She wept a little. She wanted somebody to confide in, and seemed comforted by telling Littlejohn about it.

Spry was fit to be seen and very sheepish.

“I don’t know what come over me,” he said. “Must have gone temporary insane. One minute I was crossin’ the yard; next I was swingin’ from the rope. Brain must ’ave give way.”

The bedclothes were up to his chin and his large hands clutched the sheets firmly. He hadn’t had a shave for two days and looked wild and haggard.

The room was large and airy. Plain furniture, good carpet on the floor, and old-fashioned pictures and framed biblical texts on the walls. Over the fireplace a large portrait of what must have been Mr. Cruft. His eyes had almost faded out, but he had a plentiful growth of whiskers which had survived so far. How Spry could stand the cold, eyeless gaze of his predecessor all through the night and when he got up in the morning, Littlejohn couldn’t imagine! It would certainly have got on his nerves. Still, some people have nerves for one thing and some for another.

“You’d been worrying about Laura?”

Spry’s shifty eyes roved anywhere but straight.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure that was all? Nothing else upsetting you? Because if there is, Mr. Spry, let me know.”

“There’s nothing else. Why should there be?”

“I’m not saying there is, but I just asked in case.”

“Well, there isn’t. An’ I don’t feel well enough to answer a lot of questions. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

“What do you mean … trouble?”

“Well, I suppose there’ll be a court case about this attempted suicide. Laura says it’s a criminal offence. I don’t know. What am I goin’ to do? It’ll drive me off my head … I’ll make a proper job of it next time … See if I don’t.”

Mrs. Spry started weeping. A proper emotional scene.

“Don’t say that, David. Don’t, please. I can’t stand it, if you do. You promised me you wouldn’t.”

“Well, they shouldn’t keep botherin’ me. What have I done to be bothered? One thing and another, I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels.”

He started weeping himself, a noisy, dry howling which shook the bed and convulsed his face frightfully.

“There, there …”

Mrs. Spry dried her own tears and started comforting her husband. That seemed to be what he wanted. He calmed down, but didn’t take any further heed of Littlejohn. The Inspector followed Mrs. Spry downstairs.

“You see, he’s not himself at all. He’ll have to go away for a holiday after this.”

“Yes. He seems very upset about something. Do you know what it is, Mrs. Spry?”

“Didn’t he say? He’s very fond of Laura and all this business has been a big trouble to him. He’s brooded over it.”

“Was he indoors at the time of the crime, Mrs. Spry?”

The woman’s jaw fell and her eyes flashed.

“You don’t think …?”

“Of course not. I’m checking times everywhere. He might have been out and able to give me some useful information.”

“He wasn’t indoors, that’s certain. He always goes out just before bedtime to see that all’s locked up and the stock safe and comfortable for the night. About nine o’clock he does his rounds. He’d be out then when the murder was committed. But he’d nothing to do with it. You don’t think that?”

“No, no. Thank you for the information. I must have another word with your husband when he’s more able to talk. Sorry I’ve caused such a commotion, but it had to be done.”

Littlejohn didn’t feel very contrite. He was sure that Spry had kicked up more fuss than was necessary in order to avoid close questions.

Outside, Dr. Gell’s two-seater drew in the yard. He was calling to see his patient. Littlejohn thought he had better be going.

“Put your husband’s mind at rest about court proceedings. The doctor will probably be able to help … Nerves worn out, you know, or something such. Hullo, doctor, I’m just telling Mrs. Spry that you’ll no doubt be able to smooth things over if any proceedings crop up in connection with her husband’s recent affair.”

“Hullo, Inspector. You here? He oughtn’t to be bothered much yet. Yes, I’ll probably be able to smooth things over. He’s been off with his nerves before and he’s certainly been in very poor shape lately.”

“I’m sure he didn’t know properly what he was doing,” said Mrs. Spry. “He wouldn’t have done it right where the farm hands were coming and going if he’d had his wits about him, would he?”

“No. It seemed to be just an impulse … A sort of brain-storm, I should think … Overwrought, you know. Well, I must be going. Goodbye, Mrs. Spry, and thank you. Good day, doctor.”

Littlejohn met Laura coming up the garden path. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

“You all right, Miss Cruft? You look all-in.”

“I’m all right, Inspector, thanks. It’s daddy … It’s upset me awfully.”

Littlejohn said no more, but went on his way. All the same, he wondered if her tale were true.