17.

A WRITER OF ROMANCES

“Hope is itself a species of happiness, and, perhaps, the chief happiness which this world affords.”

SAMUEL JOHNSON

LITTLEJOHN got a bit of a surprise when he met George Shortt. If he expected the “Maude Temple” of romantic fiction to be an effeminate, neurotic slip of a fellow, he was mistaken. Shortt was six feet high, forty or a little more, well built and with a sun-tanned face. His fair hair was receding from a high forehead and his blue eyes were troubled and innocent. He wondered what the police wanted with him.

An elderly housekeeper showed Littlejohn into a room furnished expensively. Somehow, you didn’t expect Shortt to be cared for by a pretty young maid. He looked too prim. He was carefully dressed and had fussy, fastidious ways with his hands and feet.

Over the fireplace was a good oil painting of an elderly, grey-haired lady. Shortt was a bachelor. The kind who remains under his mother’s influence until late in life. A sort of Sir Galahad, who, when the influence is removed by death, falls for a girl and right away places her on a pedestal.

You couldn’t call Shortt girlish by any stretch of imagination, but both his literary work and his home bore striking evidence of feminine domination.

When Littlejohn asked him about Jessie Fairfield, Shortt blushed and looked awkward. Then he pulled himself together with a great effort.

“You’re a friend of Miss Fairfield’s, sir?” asked Littlejohn blandly.

Better put it mildly, he thought.

That seemed to please Shortt.

“Yes,” he replied eagerly as though the admission were somehow furthering his cause.

“You know, then, that she’s practically engaged to Johnny Hunter?”

Shortt’s face fell this time.

“I’ve heard something about it, but placed no importance on it. There’s so much gossip goes on in this place. And nowadays engagements seem only to be made to be broken.”

Hope springs eternal, thought the Inspector. Shortt couldn’t face the fact, obviously, so tried to pass it off lightly.

“Now, sir. I’m anxious to know where Miss Fairfield was between 9-30 and ten o’clock on the night young Free was killed. Where were you at that time, by the way?”

The question was so unexpected that Shortt took it like a blow in the face. He stepped back a pace and then turned his back on Littlejohn and looked through the open french window across the lawn.

The view was a beautiful one. Shortt’s bungalow was shielded from the road by a thick hedge. Between that and the house, a lawn like a green carpet, flanked by well-kept flower beds. These were bright with late blooms in spite of the early frosts.

Behind there were fruit trees and then the land fell away to a deep glen with a thin stream rattling over stones at the bottom of it.

Trees in their autumn glory everywhere. In a dovecote on the lawn two doves were sitting. They must have been very old, or their love had grown faint and fretful, for they never moved. Only the flicker of their eyes betrayed that they were alive.

Shortt had made money out of fiction and knew how to get the most for it.

The house was the same. Plenty of good furniture, good books, pictures of no common type, comfort and well-being everywhere. No wonder Mrs. Fairfield favoured Shortt’s suit.

Littlejohn followed the novelist to the window.

“Lovely place,” he said with appreciation.

“Yes, isn’t it?”

There was a lovelorn sigh about the reply. Littlejohn smiled.

“You haven’t answered the question yet, sir.”

“What does it matter to you? I’m not suspected, am I? Hardly knew young Free.”

“Leave me to judge its importance, sir. Where were you?”

“I was out … Walking in the village.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

Littlejohn looked him in the eyes. Shortt quailed. The Inspector knew he wasn’t getting a full tale. Why?

“Which way did you go? Please be precise. We know the movements of quite a lot of people and it’s as well to be careful.”

“I went down to the centre of the village, posted a letter to my publishers and then strolled back.”

“So you passed the scene of the crime?”

“Come to think of it, I did.”

Come to think of it! Littlejohn was sure the fact had given Shortt many a qualm. There was no question at all of coming to think of it.

“Did you see anything or anybody?”

“No.”

“Quite sure?”

“Certainly. Why?”

“You didn’t by any chance meet Miss Fairfield on the road, sir?”

The shot landed home. Shortt almost reeled. He was a queer sort. Most unimaginative looking, yet hiding beneath a harmless enough exterior one of the best minds for sensational fiction in the literary world.

“Who? Me? Meet Miss Fairfield?” Littlejohn glowed with inner satisfaction. Shortt’s way of saying Who? Me? showed he was trying to gain time.

“Certainly not! I was alone all the time.”

“Think again, sir. Did you meet Miss Fairfield about the time stated? It’s important. If you didn’t, she’s likely to have some trouble.”

The threat to his darling roused Shortt at once. He flushed scarlet. Like a hen defending her brood.

“What’s all this? Because if …”

“I’ve reason to believe that Miss Fairfield was roaming alone near the scene of the crime at the time it was committed.”

Littlejohn hadn’t reason at all. It was just a long shot and it got home.

“Why … Jessie … er … Miss Fairfield hadn’t anything to do with it! If you’re insinuating … By God!”

“I’m insinuating nothing. I want to know the movements of anyone alone in the village at the time of the crime. If you saw Miss Fairfield you’d better tell me, sir, for her sake.”

“All right then. I did see her.”

“And she asked you to say you hadn’t. Is that it?”

“What the hell’s that got to do with you?”

A sufficient answer. Littlejohn didn’t press the matter.

“Where did you meet her?”

“At the bottom of Gallows Hill, just where it turns into the village street.”

“What was she doing?”

“Going home, of course.”

“So Hunter had sent her packing, or else left her to her own devices?”

“ I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. All I know is I saw her home.”

“H’m. Was she distressed?”

“How should I know? It was quite dark.”

“How did you recognise her, then?”

Shortt blushed again and ran his finger around the front of his collar.

“I called good-night and she answered.”

“So you walked home with her. Thanks very much, sir. That’s very useful. What time would that be, could you say?”

“Around nine thirty. The clock hadn’t struck half a minute before. Is that all, because …”

“Yes. That’s all, sir. Many thanks.”

Littlejohn got a cold reception at the old school house when he called there. Mrs. Fairfield and her daughter were afraid this time. They weren’t dealing with Costain, and were scared.

“Why did you say you were with young Hunter at the time of the crime the other night, Miss Fairfield?”

Littlejohn went into the attack right away.

Jessie Fairfield had a teacup and saucer in her hand. The cup rattled and she almost let it fall. The mother was quick to the defence.

“Why can’t you leave her alone? She’s had enough trouble as it is.”

“And is likely to have some more if she doesn’t tell us the truth. Now, Miss Fairfield, why did you tell us you were with Hunter all the time, when you know Mr. Shortt met you and saw you home about half past nine? I know you asked him not to say he’d seen you.”

The pretty girl’s mouth fell open and her cheeks turned white.

“He promised …”

“I know. I had to force it out of him and even then only because he thought you’d suffer if he didn’t tell me.”

No use spoiling Shortt’s chances with the girl. He was having enough heavy weather as it was!

“I know Hunter asked you to say you’d been with him all the time. When did he ask you to say that? The morning after the murder?”

Jessie Fairfield tried to speak and then fell in a dead faint.

“Now look what you’ve done … You great bullies, you police. Why can’t you …?”

“Get some water and smelling salts and don’t talk so much, Mrs. Fairfield.”

The girl was not long in recovering.

“Don’t tell Johnny I told you.”

She was hardly conscious before she was pleading for the man who didn’t care a rap for her and had only used her to cover his own purposes.

There was no time to waste and Littlejohn left Mrs. Fairfield looking after her daughter. He found Costain putting a ragged queue of women in order in front of the grocer’s shop. They didn’t know what they were queueing for, but somebody had started it and the epidemic had spread.

“Hunter’s been in and about the village for about twelve years or so. A bit of a queer lad. Doesn’t seem to ’ave any kith or kin,” replied Costain in answer to the Inspector’s enquiry.

“How did he land here? Someone adopt him? Must have been quite a youngster when he first arrived.”

“Yes. About twelve I’d say when he came. Funny business. Somebody wanted him to get edicated at Melchester School. Quite a good school. Public school, you know, sir.”

“Well?”

“He was a day boy, boarding in the village. Queer arrangement. Lodged with Mrs. Naysmith, a widow woman, till she died and then went in rooms with Mrs. Shore, where he still is.”

“Anything known of his parents?”

“Not a thing, sir. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t a sort o’ nacheral son of one of the local gentry. There’s a lot o’ people hereabouts thinks the same. But the secret’s bin well kept. Such things always are where the nobs are concerned, aren’t they, sir?”

“I daresay they are. Where can we find Hunter now, Costain?”

“Better let’s try Mrs. Shore’s first. She’ll probably know, if he’s not in.”

Mrs. Shore was an elderly, busy woman with a chronic passion for tidiness. She was wiry and harassed and notorious for her avarice. She thought the world of Hunter and local gossips said she would leave him a nice little pile when she died.

The police officers found her polishing and cleaning the living room of her cottage, with her petticoats tucked up and a cloth around her hair. She was famous for quarrelling and wrangling with neighbours or anyone else she could lay her tongue to, so Costain pushed Littlejohn into the room first.

“What do you two want? And don’t come tramping all over my clean rooms in your great boots.”

Littlejohn asked if Hunter was in.

“No. Anybody can see I’m alone.”

“Can you tell us where he’s gone? Melchester?”

“How should I know? I’m not his wet-nurse. Old enough to look after himself. And don’t you take up my time. I’ve some jam on and somebody’s for it if I spoil it.”

Littlejohn pursued his course with patience.

“Have you any idea where he is, Mrs. Shore?”

The woman was on her knees. She squatted back on her heels, put her hands on her hips and looked Littlejohn in the face.

“Some people is persistent … I think he’s gone to see how David Spry’s gettin’ on. Will that satisfy you? I’ve only told you to get rid of you, so you’d better be off. Can’t keep me mind on the jam, me housework and the questions of interferin’ policemen. As if I hadn’t enough to do.”

Littlejohn and Costain were already down the garden path.

On the way to Apple Tree farm they saw Jessie Fairfield coming towards them.

“She’s soon out and about,” said Costain, puffing from his hurrying.

The girl, seeing them, cut into a lane behind the houses in the main street and vanished.

“What’s she up to?”

“Looks as if she’s been hunting for Hunter to warn him that we have broken his alibi. Let’s hurry.”

Mrs. Spry answered the door. She was as white as a sheet. Laura was in the dark passage leading indoors.

“Is Johnny Hunter here, Mrs. Spry?”

The woman hesitated.

“No …”

Laura remained in the background quiet and still, waiting for developments.

“Has he been here?”

“Er …”

“He has. Please stand aside.”

Followed by Costain, who looked sheepish about the whole business, Littlejohn entered the place. Laura faced them in the hall.

“He’s not here. Don’t you believe my mother?”

Littlejohn thought he detected a faint smile of triumph. She had no colour in her cheeks and there were small beads of sweat on her upper lip. Something or someone had been imposing a strain on the two women.

There was nobody in the downstairs rooms. Upstairs, all was quiet. Littlejohn entered Spry’s bedroom. The grim, bewhiskered face of the late Cruft glared from its frame at him with faded eyes.

The bed was empty.

Mrs. Spry had followed close on Littlejohn’s heels.

“Where’s your husband?”

“I don’t know.”

This time the surprise was genuine. She looked frankly bewildered.

The casement was open and Spry had knotted two sheets from his bed and let himself out that way.

“Have you a car, Mrs. Spry?”

“Yes. In a garage by the cowshed there.”

“Has Miss Fairfield been here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She was after Johnny Hunter.”

“And found him here?”

“Yes. He’d come enquiring after Mr. Spry.”

“What did she say to him?”

“I don’t know. They were alone in the hall for a minute or two.”

“I see. What did Hunter say to your husband whilst he was here.”

“That I don’t know either. I left them alone together in the bedroom.”

“Were they friends?”

“Oh yes. Got on very well. Johnny used to come here after Laura at one time. Father liked him and did all he could to keep them together. Nothing would have made him happier than to see them married.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, except they took a fancy to one another.”

“The car’s gone, sir,” gasped Costain, returning from inspecting the garage.

“Then they’ve bolted for some reason.”

“Had I better …?”

“No, Costain. You stay here and keep a close eye on things. Watch the buildings and house. I’m off to telephone Melchester and get the roads watched. I’ll be back.”

Littlejohn hurried away and gave the necessary instructions, passing on a description of the two missing men and the car. Then followed two barren hours until the Inspector was called to the police-station telephone again.

This time it was Cromwell speaking from Tewkesbury police station.

As usual, that excellent officer had a long tale to tell and it was full of surprises.