Corpses in Enderby (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 10

  Then, they all returned to Sr’ Agnes’s home for the reading of the will. As Mr. Edgell intoned the simple document, he looked like John Wesley preaching to a lot of unbelievers. The occasion was a very solemn family one, for it dealt with the apportionment of a section of the Bunn Consolidation which, however much it was laded and teemed within the clan, never leaked outside it.

  Edwin Bunn left all his worldly wealth to his daughter, Bertha Bunn, but …

  Here there was a concerted gasp. Hope still lived in many breasts, although they had to admit Bertha’s rights as sole surviving issue.

  But, to inherit, Bertha Bunn, pending any marriage subsequently contracted, was to change her name to Wood before entering into the fortune. Furthermore, on her marriage, her husband was to take the name Wood, which might be hyphenated with his own name coming first. To assure this, the money would be in trust till Bertha’s marriage. “I have no doubt this will speedily come about as soon as the news of her inheritance spreads,” Ned Bunn added, speaking from the grave.

  “Bertha Flounder-Wood … Wilfred Flounder-Wood,” said Wilfred Flounder loudly and hoarsely, and fell unconscious to the ground.

  There was one other clause. Ned Bunn was to be buried in a plot he had chosen and the headstone was to describe him as Edwin Wood. “I never asked to be a Bunn, I was always a Wood. I despise the Bunns and would have changed my name back to my mother’s had it not been expensive to do so and a lot of trouble.”

  The gathering broke up in confusion; many denounced the deceased and regretted the floral tributes which had cost good Bunn money. Some suggested the payment of their travelling expenses from the Bunn-né-Wood estate. They went one by one, with never a good word for the deceased. All except Aunt Sarah, who expressed her intention of staying with the Fearns family for some time.

  “I want to see that Helen isn’t bullied into wedding that Hubert Stubbs,” she said. “She’s the only one of our name who hasn’t been afflicted with the ugly Bunn mug and I’m hanged if her chances of producing really good-looking children for a change are going to be ruined by a union with a little self-opinionated fellow with pimples and sandy hair, who, in any case isn’t going to get a penny of mine for himself or his offspring … And, as for you …”

  She poked her ebony stick at Cromwell and smacked her lips.

  “As for you … I like you, young man, and I’m going to help you solve this mystery and bring credit on yourself. I think you’ll agree with me that Ned has had the last word and a good joke. Ned Wood, eh? That’s a good one! I never saw the family so quick to depart … Good riddance …”

  And with that, she switched off the hearing device she had acquired through the National Health Insurance, refused to hear another word, and relapsed into chuckling silence.

  10

  JUBAL’S ALIBI

  FROM the point of view of real work, the day of Ned Bunn’s funeral was, in legal terms, a dies non. You couldn’t get at anybody except the police; the rest were either at the house, at the church, at the cemetery, or at the ritual feast. It was four o’clock in the afternoon before the will was read, the petard fired, and the Bunn clan sent scuttering home in disgust. Meanwhile, Littlejohn did some work at the police-station.

  The footprint expert was excited about the plaster casts he had taken the previous night in the garden of Whispers.

  “What do you think of those, sir?” he said proudly, as he placed his models on the table. “Notice anything peculiar about them?”

  He stood back and looked admiringly at his handiwork, like a man who had suddenly found himself the father of a phenomenal child.

  Under the instep of each of the casts ran a miniature trench about an eighth of an inch deep and just less than half an inch wide.

  “The man wore spats?”

  The expert looked disappointed but later told his colleagues, “You have to hand it to Littlejohn. He looks quiet enough, but there aren’t any flies on him.”

  Inspector Myers jumped to conclusions right away.

  “It’s Medlicott! I thought so.”

  The Chief Constable made clucking, impatient noises.

  “Now, now, now. Not so fast. It was Flounder not long ago. Let’s be sure before we jump.”

  “Yes, sir. But Medlicott’s the only one who wears spats these days. He’s motive, opportunity and …”

  Littlejohn intervened.

  “I saw Medlicott just after the murder was committed. He was in his underclothes and would have had to be jolly quick to strip off and get in the condition I found him if he’d been out and killed Browning. And what is the motive? It might have been blackmail, but that needs looking into. I’d better have a word with him as soon as I can.”

  The Chief Constable rubbed his chin.

  “Medlicott’s certainly a queer fish. I’ve known him since he was quite a young fellah. Born in these parts, went away, and then came back again and married Anne Bunn. What she could see in him to make her throw over Edgell, I can’t think. No accountin’ for women’s tastes … His father died in a mental home …”

  He said it casually as though it didn’t matter much.

  “A mental home, sir? Was he mad?”

  “Hardly that, Littlejohn. Let’s call him odd. Used to knock around town with a bucket and spade collectin’ horse-droppin’s for his roses. Finally, said he was diggin’ for gold among the droppin’s … Wonder if Jubal’s tarred a bit with the same brush. Anybody can see there’s somethin’ odd in the family. Those two girls of his are odd … damned odd …”

  Littlejohn turned over the case at his solitary lunch. Cromwell was absent at the funeral feed in Salem School, which Littlejohn had seen him entering like a Bunn himself, with Aunt Sarah leaning on his arm.

  Jubal Medlicott, with insanity in his family.

  Wilfred Flounder, a rabbit who might suddenly have turned resentful and ferocious.

  A parson who, through Ned Bunn, had indirectly lost his only son. A parson who read Sartre, Donne and Kierkegaard …

  And all the seething, black, funereal mass of Bunns who had invaded Enderby that day. It might be any one of them; a needle in the Bunn haystack.

  At least, there was one clue. The spats. Jubal’s spats.

  It was late afternoon before cars, taxis and umbrellas, all travelling in the direction of the station and the bus stop, announced that the rally of the Bunns was over. Not long after the main contingent had dispersed, the Medlicotts appeared, clad in raincoats, carrying umbrellas, on their way to Whispers on foot. They couldn’t afford a conveyance and none of the relatives, flustered and annoyed by the contents of the will of Ned Wood, had seen fit to offer them a lift. Mrs. Medlicott, small and frail, struggled along with the rest. Suddenly, Jubal detached himself from his party and, after a word or two, made for the shop. The twins turned as if to follow, but he waved them away, bared his teeth in a smile and indicated their mother, who needed company and possibly assistance home. The beating rain gave no time for argument.

  Medlicott, paying a flying visit to the shop, which was officially closed for the day, had left the door ajar, and Littlejohn pushed it open and entered. The place was large and old-fashioned with a big window on each side of the door. The blinds had not been drawn. In one window, a number of dummies clad in Mr. Medlicott’s handiwork. Nondescript suitings, cut on rather old-fashioned lines, as though Jubal had been unable to keep up with current fashions. Latest London Cut. Note the Price. All the dummies, which included three small boys, wore wooden smiles and looked well-pleased with themselves. Their waxen hands stuck out like semaphores and they all held attitudes of listeners to some enthralling news. The other window contained shirts, ties, underwear, caps, pullovers and collars, hanging from brass rods or lying in piles here and there. Stuck on the window-pane was one of Medlicott’s invoices, held in place by a gelatine lozenge. Closed for the day owing to bereavement in florid script.

  The shop covered a lot of ground. The counters which ran down two sides were vast
and the public space was cluttered with more dummies, old chairs, an umbrella stand and a showcase with more ties and cheap-looking shirts. The place had originally been equipped for a large trade and had doubtless at one time enjoyed it. Now it was drab, neglected and out-of-date. The silver of the heavy mirrors, sprinkled here and there, was peeling off and the polished fittings were worn and dull.

  Mr. Medlicott was bending before a small, old-fashioned open safe in one corner, stuffing pound notes in a wallet. At the sound of Littlejohn’s footsteps, he sprang upright, turned, hastily shut the safe and locked it and crushed the wallet in his inside pocket. He looked ruffled and guilty, as though he might have been robbing someone else’s property.

  “We’re closed … Just called for something I forgot.”

  There was a flash of anger in the dark eyes and then the toothy smile reappeared as Jubal recovered his poise.

  “It’s you, Inspector … What did you want?”

  “A word or two with you, sir. I didn’t wish to disturb you at home again at a time like this.”

  Medlicott gave Littlejohn a searching glance, took off his gold-framed spectacles and began to polish them on an artificial silk handkerchief. He looked a different man without his specs. The eyes seemed to vanish deeply in his head and gleamed short-sightedly from among the trimmed whiskers.

  “Come and sit down here.”

  There was a kind of office in one corner, where the safe stood; glass partitions with a desk behind and two chairs visible.

  “Was it about last night, Inspector?”

  Medlicott sounded anxious and a bit humble. He put on his glasses and gazed at his shoes through them. He wasn’t wearing his spats.

  “Partly … And then about your whereabouts, sir, on the night Mr. Edwin Bunn died. We’ve been informed that you were out of doors at the time of the murder. Is that true?”

  Medlicott’s mouth fell open, revealing a row of brown bottom-teeth, broken and irregular.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Is it true?”

  Medlicott paused. He was weighing up the chances of sticking to his tale or making a clean breast of it. He moved his hands from the arms of the old chair in which he was sitting and rubbed their palms on his handkerchief. Littlejohn noticed that the place where his hands had been was damp.

  “I was out … But I never went near Ned’s shop …”

  He spluttered it quickly, as though afraid if he didn’t get it out, the confession would choke him or die on his lips before he could speak.

  “Why did you say you were at home, sir? And why did your family confirm your first statement?”

  Medlicott blew his nose loudly, one nostril at a time, trying to think up an excuse. He mopped his beard and forehead.

  “What would you have done, Inspector? It looked so bad, me being out at that very time. I asked the girls and my wife to bear me out if anybody asked. I must take the blame. They would do anything for me …”

  He started to sob. Tears sprang from his eyes and disappeared in his beard.

  “I don’t want to involve them … They’re all so dear to me.”

  And yet, Browning had said Medlicott was a philanderer!

  “Where were you at the time, then?”

  Medlicott started and looked surprised, as though he hadn’t expected it. The red lips gleaming among the whiskers were dry and he licked them quickly. His face took on an earnest, pleading look.

  “I know you won’t believe me, but I swear before God that it’s true. I got a telephone message to go and visit a friend. When I got there, my friend hadn’t telephoned. It was a hoax …”

  “Who took the message? .. Miss Mander? … Whose phone did you use?”

  “No. She was out. Somebody rang up Cuffright and he came up to tell me. He’ll confirm that …”

  Medlicott waited like one who expects a blow.

  “Whom was the telephone call supposed to come from?”

  The little dapper tailor stiffened and his jaw tightened.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but I’m not in a position to say.”

  “You mean you won’t, sir?”

  “Exactly.”

  And he nodded his head vigorously to emphasize it.

  “You’re aware, of course, of the serious position you’re putting yourself in, Mr. Medlicott. If you want to clear yourself of suspicion, you’d better make a clean breast of the whole affair.”

  Medlicott drew himself up to his full five feet eight. He almost stood on his tiptoes for emphasis.

  “I have nothing whatever to do with the murders, Inspector. I refuse to discuss my private affairs with you and I strongly resent any suggestion that my behaviour has been in any way suspicious.”

  “Your telephone call, I gather, was supposed to come from a lady …”

  It seemed a bit merciless to rub it in, but it had its effect. Medlicott looked to lose two inches in height and sagged miserably.

  “I still refuse to answer.”

  “You know, of course, that I can ask Mr. Cuffright who came on the phone for you?”

  “Ask him then … Ask him then, and be damned to you. You’re a meddling, officious, suspicious …”

  Medlicott was beside himself now. He stamped his feet in his rage.

  “That will do, sir. Abuse won’t help. I’d better see you later. Meanwhile, think it over, and I hope you decide to be sensible.”

  “Leave me alone. Why can’t I have a bit of peace. Everybody seems against me.”

  Jubal staggered off into the dark places of his shop, among his ready-made suits and overcoats, and Littlejohn left him there.

  Outside, Littlejohn could see an ancient taxi with a list to starboard, making slow progress towards the market square, as though towing a huge weight behind. It was Aunt Sarah giving Cromwell a lift home to The Freemasons’. The Inspector caught up with them as the vehicle stopped at the pub door. When Aunt Sarah spotted Littlejohn she decided to descend as well.

  “I want a word with you, Inspector. I’ll come in for a cup of tea and a talk.”

  The cab groaned and swayed as they hoisted her out and she ordered the emaciated driver to return in half an hour.

  “… And I mean half an hour; not twenty-five minutes or three-quarters of an hour.”

  The hands of the clock over the bar stood at five o’clock. The hooter of the local brewery started to blow, and was followed by the whistle of a sawmill. Workmen began to pass through the square on their ways home.

  Mr. Blowitt was again indulging in a temperamental quarrel with his wife. He had a black eye. The little man who dealt in beds and whose name was Sid Twelves, had again visited The Freemasons’ for dalliance with Mrs. Blowitt and had been insulted by her husband. Mr. Twelves had thereupon gone for Blowitt and punched him in the eye.… Mr. Blowitt had been throwing glasses about, abusing his wife and preparing and shouting about taking Twelves up for assault. Littlejohn and his party found her with hands clasped and outstretched in supplication.

  “Speak to me, Percy …”

  Mr. Blowitt ignored her. He was nailing up a card on the bar. Join our Christmas Goose Club.

  “Wanton!” he hissed at her, after he had removed the last nail from between his teeth, and Mrs. Blowitt smote her forehead with the palm of her hand and made a tragic exit.

  Aunt Sarah thumped on the floor with her ebony stick.

  “Tea for three in the parlour, Blowitt, and be quick about it.”

  The order seemed to infuse new energy in the landlord’s sagging frame.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Wilkins … Certainly.”

  Aunt Sarah led the way into the small room in which Littlejohn and Cromwell usually ate their meals. Two commercial travellers were occupying the seats before the fire and another stood on the hearthrug. The man on his feet raised his eyebrows at the sight of the huge old woman. He had been leisurely contemplating himself in the mirror over the fireplace and smoothing down his pomaded hair. He wore a large ring with a red stone the size
of a hazel-nut, his moustache was waxed to points, and his eyebrows met over his snub nose. Aunt Sarah went for him right away.

  “This is the residents’ room, my man.”

  The man with the ring smiled contentedly.

  “We are residents, madam.” He bowed.

  “Don’t lie to me. I know this place is full up, so you can’t be staying. I’ll trouble you to leave and take yourselves to the public rooms. We want to be private.”

  Whatever it was emanated from this large, pug-faced woman who looked like an inflated pew-opener, it was enough to bend any antagonist to her will. The commercial travellers opened their mouths in astonishment and left in a body, the man with the ring backing out as from the presence of royalty.

  “Now to business …”

  Littlejohn had time to look Aunt Sarah over properly and he admired her as one who knew her own mind. She wore a long black silk dress, elastic-sided shoes, a lot of rings and bangles which bit in the flesh of her swollen fingers and wrists, a link of large jet beads, and ear-rings to match. The Inspector perceived, too, that what he had imagined, from a distance, to be a bonnet, was in reality a felt hat, distorted almost to the shape of a Balaclava helmet by a shoelace tied under Aunt Sarah’s chin to keep it in place.

  Mr. Blowitt arrived with the tea in person. His missus had locked herself in her own room and was loudly playing the radio: The Flower Song from Carmen. As Blowitt opened the door the music wafted in.

  Sometimes I curse the hour I met thee.…

  “Stop that row!”

  Aunt Sarah pointed in the direction of the Flower Song with her ebony stick.

  “I can’t. She’s locked herself in.”

  “Switch off the electricity at the meter then.”

  Mr. Blowitt made a hasty exit before more impossible orders were issued.