Outrage on Gallows Hill Page 10

  “How did he and Free get across?”

  “He’s got a daughter.”

  How many more? To hear them talk Free seemed to have made a full-time job of being a Don Juan!

  “… A very beautiful girl, too, in gipsy fashion, but wild and a bit of a wanton. I can’t do any good with her, though I’ve tried all ways. Free was seen about with her, but seemed to cool off. She took it badly, I believe, and Miller was heard to say he’d shoot Free on sight.”

  “Not strangle him?”

  “Well, a gipsy might do anything.”

  “Thank you very much, madam. And now I mustn’t take up any more of your time.”

  Mrs. Liscomber’s prominent eyes grew wider with surprise.

  “We’ve hardly started yet.”

  “I’ve heard all about the remainder on your list.”

  Outside, Mr. Liscomber could be seen warning-off a Red who had overstepped the boundary between the Hall and the Dower House. In the distance a number of men in cloth caps and bowlers filed down the steps of the Hall. They had finished their deliberations and had chosen the secretary of the Reachers-In and Drawers-Out Union to oppose Mortimer Liscomber in the Labour cause at the approaching contest.

  “What do you think of Professor Lever? Met him?”

  “Only just saw him in the village inn, madam. He was protesting against the uproar some of the undergraduates were making.”

  “Well?”

  “I couldn’t form an opinion from that.”

  “A queer man. Very much under his wife’s thumb in spite of his international prestige. I’d say he’d profit by a dose of his own medicine. Full of repressions. Ought to psycho-analyse himself.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Mad about the Cruft girl. Another of them. Made himself a bit of a laughing stock I’d say. I hear they’ve been seen about the place together after dark.”

  “By whom?”

  Mrs. Liscomber ignored the question.

  “You ought to keep an eye on that man, Inspector. Don’t be intimidated by his reputation.”

  “Laura Cruft and young Free seem to have been a busy couple with their amours!” said Littlejohn. He was sick of tittle-tattling and anxious to get away. “Are you sure there hasn’t been a lot of exaggeration about the pair of them? Young people these days are more free in their relationships, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong.”

  “Wrong! My dear Inspector Littlefield, or whatever your name is, this isn’t a city. It’s a village and everyone knows what everyone else is doing. You can’t allow moral slackness to intrude.”

  “But it may not have been moral slackness. Innocent friendships in the eyes of some people deteriorate into sordid affairs.”

  “Are you insinuating …?”

  “I’m insinuating nothing.”

  “I think you are, Inspector Littleways, or whatever you’re called. Let me tell you I know more about this village and the life that goes on here than you and all your police. I resent your insinuations and I have nothing more to say. Good day!”

  Her mouth closed with a snap like a mouse trap.

  The elderly maid appeared and Littlejohn was shown out. He didn’t apologise. He simply gave the Honourable a civil good-bye in return. When Mrs. Liscomber later told her husband what had happened, he hit the nail on the head right away.

  “Another damned Red, my dear. They’re in everythin’ now. Even Scotland Yard.”

  The following morning the Commissioner received a letter reporting the outrageous conduct of Inspector Small-weed, or whatever his name was. The inward letter was filed in the salvage bin and the outward one politely acknowledged receipt of the complaint and promised attention.

  As Littlejohn cheerfully made his way back from the Hall, he met the Labour delegates climbing into their charabanc. The political opponent of Liscomber was with them, being slapped on the back. He wore a velour hat and had a red carnation in the buttonhole of his blue serge jacket. It had been thought the occasion for a little looting of the Family conservatory.

  “Good old ’Erbert.”

  Later, ’Erbert won the seat for the Damned Reds for the first time in history and he’s now an M.P. You’ll know the one … Always wears a velour hat turned down all round.

  Littlejohn was gathered up by the party and given a lift back to the village.

  11.

  NIGHT AT THE INN

  “Evening, thou that bringest all that bright morning scattered; thou bringest the sheep, the goat …”

  SAPPHO (TR. E. M. Cox)

  LITTLEJOHN crossed the gloomy corridor and entered the bar. He had eaten a leisurely evening meal at The Bird in Hand and lingered over coffee, smoking his pipe and turning over the case.

  So far, he and Costain seemed to have covered a lot of ground with very little in the way of results. Plenty of gossip, a few tales told by local busybodies, but nothing definite to work on. The next job on the agenda was to call personally on the main characters of the case and find out. whether or not the scandal talked about them was idle surmise or actual fact.

  The church clock had just struck eight, and the inn, judging from the noise going on, was rapidly filling up with regulars.

  The Inspector found himself in a large, cosy room, with a semi-circular bar in one corner. The counter was fairly long and already customers were standing there, elbow to elbow.

  Edna, the barmaid, was busy serving, and Tim Blaize also stood behind the counter pouring out spirits and cocktails. He looked pleased with himself and saluted Littlejohn jauntily as he entered.

  There were half a dozen tables in the middle of the room, all occupied by a better-class type of drinkers who dropped in for an hour to meet or entertain friends. There was a long string of cars in the road outside and the small car-park in the inn-yard was full.

  The working-men didn’t frequent this room, but could be heard laughing, shouting and playing darts in a smaller place across the passage, next door to the dining-room. A casual potman attended to them, coming and going all the time with glasses of beer and empties.

  “Two gin and limes …”

  “Three double-whiskies, if you have them. This is my round, chaps …”

  “Two nut-browns …”

  Blaize took their orders and strolled about handing them out.

  “What’ll yours be, Inspector?”

  “A pint of mild, please.”

  They gave him his beer and he sat in a corner. A long bench, upholstered in chintz and well padded, extended round two sides of the room. People were lolling on it, holding their drinks in their hands. Quite a number of customers were drinking alone. Nobody bothered you if you didn’t want to be sociable. This suited Littlejohn.

  More and more customers entered. Soon the place was chock-a-block with people and the waiters had a job to get about with the orders. Each group of drinkers chattering noisily about their own particular interests, yet the whole noise sounding like a single unanimous shout. You could hardly hear yourself speak.

  One or two people stood out among the noisy groups. There was a solitary, elderly man in one corner who steadily drank whisky until they told him he’d had more than his share of the limited supply. Then he turned to beer. He wore a black and white check suit and an old-fashioned collar and stock, with a gold pin shaped like a horseshoe thrust through it. He sat next-but-one to Littlejohn, taking no notice of anyone, apparently immersed in his thoughts and the idea of getting drunk.

  Between them was a young fellow taking a long time to drink his pint. Two or three times he turned to Littlejohn, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then halted as though he didn’t know what to say.

  Littlejohn gave him no encouragement. He wanted to watch and listen.

  Finally the young man drank up and rose for a re-fill.

  “Nice evening,” he managed to get out at length. Littlejohn agreed that it was.

  “Will you have a drink, sir?”

  “I’ve not finished mine yet … thanks.”<
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  The man rose and went to the bar. Blaize was round in a trice and bending over Littlejohn.

  “This is Dr. Holker, a regular customer here,” he said, indicating the man in the check suit. “This is Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, here on the Free murder case, doctor.”

  The young man returned with his refilled glass and, finding them talking over his empty seat, sheered off and found a place elsewhere.

  The doctor turned lack-lustre blue eyes on the Inspector. He looked a bit annoyed at being disturbed. Three months ago his wife had died in a motor accident. He had been driving the car and the catastrophe had been due to an error in judgment on his part. He had only been retired from practice in a northern industrial town six months, and his wife had always wanted to live at Ravelstone. Now he was by himself in the house they’d bought and had furnished just as she had planned. He couldn’t stand being alone now. “I ought to have turned the wheel to the left, instead of the right …” Only drink took away the image of the brewery lorry hitting them …” You all right, Bess? “And she hadn’t spoken …

  “I just wanted you to confirm to the Inspector that I was here all night when Free was murdered, doctor. I served you with drinks all the time, didn’t I? You remember? The Inspector’s just checking alibis.”

  Blaize had a damned cheek! Littlejohn felt thoroughly rattled.

  “You needn’t bother the doctor … I’ll deal with that in my own time.”

  “But we might as well get it over. That’s true, isn’t it, doctor? I did serve you all the time?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes. That’s right, Inspector. Glad to speak for young Tim. That was right, he was here all the time.”

  The doctor was far from drunk in spite of the drink he’d consumed. So Littlejohn had to take his word for it.

  “Anybody else you’d like to confirm that, Inspector? There are quite a number here who could …”

  “No. Just let the matter drop now, Mr. Blaize. I’m quite satisfied. Refill my glass, that’s a good chap.”

  “And bring me another, too. You’ve no whisky?”

  “I daresay we could just squeeze another out of the bottle, doctor. Seein’ that it’s you …”

  The doctor lapsed morosely into his thoughts and seemed to forget the Inspector. “You all right, Bess?” Blaize had brought him a double. He clutched it eagerly.

  People were milling round, shuffling here and there, moving from one group to another to greet friends and stand them drinks. Round after round … From the room across the passage shouts of laughter blasted in as the waiter opened and closed the door of the room. Somebody was singing.

  In happy moments day by day,

  The sands of li-hi-hife may pass…

  A shrill, sentimental baritone, well in his cups.

  Yet hopes so bright we used to deem

  Remembrance wi-hi-hill recall…

  The doctor was at the counter, trying to get another.

  Suddenly Littlejohn caught sight of the man at the extreme edge of the bar. Hitherto he had been hidden by a large group of merrymakers who had driven up in three cars which they proposed to try to steer home after drinking all they could get.

  It was Johnny Hunter.

  He was drinking whisky, too. Not steadily and intensely like the doctor, but almost genially, smiling to himself as though enjoying being in the throng. None of his set seemed to be there. He apparently knew everybody, but they didn’t press him to join them. Perhaps they thought that just having lost his pal he had to be a bit restrained.

  Hunter’s unruly shock of fair hair shone under the light. He was still wearing flannels, sports coat and black tie. He kept looking round and nodding to first one and then another. Blaize spoke to him now and then, but Hunter half snubbed him.

  At length Johnny Hunter’s eye fell on Littlejohn. He remained for a minute looking at the Inspector, then seemed to make up his mind. He picked up his glass from the counter and sauntered across the room to Littlejohn, staring straight at him. Just as though Littlejohn had offended him by catching his eye and he was coming across to pick a quarrel.

  When he reached the Inspector, Hunter smiled. A charming smile which lit up his handsome face and showed his even, white teeth.

  “Mind if I join you? You’re the officer in charge of the murder investigation, aren’t you, sir?”

  “That’s right. You Mr. Hunter?”

  “You know me, then?”

  “You were pointed out to me in the funeral procession this morning.”

  “I see. I just wanted to say how glad I am you’re here to clear up this beastly business. If I can do anything let me know. If I could lay my hands on the swine who did it …!”

  “I hope to be doing that myself very soon, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Why? Have you found anything yet?”

  “Not yet. But I will.”

  The large party with the three cars was breaking up. One of them whispered to the other, who turned an anxious eye on Littlejohn. Then, bidding everybody good-night, he tried to walk out straight as if he were quite sober.

  “See you all on Saturday … Cheerio!”

  Outside, they divided themselves up with a lot of noise and hoarse shouting, rattled their starters, ground their gears, and made off. In the distance you could hear them violently changing gear.

  Hunter was talking in quiet tones.

  “If they’d only given the fellow a chance to defend himself. To come upon him that way—the poor devil hadn’t a chance, had he?”

  “A foul way of killing anybody. But all murder’s foul …”

  “I guess it is, really, but there are ways and ways. I wish I’d known what was going on. Wasn’t really far from the spot.”

  “Where were you at the time, Mr. Hunter?”

  Johnny Hunter smiled a bit sheepishly.

  “Courting … Sitting in the hedge in Lovers’ Lane. That’s a turning about three hundred yards from where it happened.”

  “Indeed! Were you and your lady friend enjoying the nice night?”

  “It was dark, but quite mild and pleasant. We’d been for a walk and stopped for a seat and a cigarette.”

  “Very interesting. How long were you there?”

  “Nearly three quarters of an hour. We heard the church clock strike a quarter to ten and left just before it chimed half-past. When we got to the village, we heard of the tragedy.”

  “I see. Purely as a matter of form—I’m doing this in all cases of Free’s intimate friends—do you mind telling me the name of the girl you were with?”

  “Certainly. All open and above-board. We’re practically engaged and all the village knows it. My girlfriend’s called Fairfield—Jessie Fairfield. Lives at Brook House just over the bridge by the station. She’ll confirm that, I’m sure.”

  Littlejohn looked straight at Hunter.

  “Did anything happen in Lovers’ Lane whilst the pair of you were there?”

  Hunter smiled and hesitated.

  “Such as …?”

  “I’m asking you …”

  “Well … It’s a bit awkward … There were a few people about there, but I couldn’t say who they were.”

  Still Hunter hesitated, smiling to himself.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t want to get a good man into trouble, but …”

  “Come along, Mr. Hunter. This might be most important. If you’ve anything to tell me, never mind getting people into trouble. Out with it!”

  Hunter drank up his whisky and put the glass on the floor under the seat.

  “It concerns P.C. Costain. You see, whilst we were there he arrived, apparently on patrol. We’d heard a covey of partridges roosting nearly opposite where we were sitting. You know, making that peculiar cooing noise and shuffling and preening. Costain turned-up and must have heard them, too. At the sound of them the bobby forgot his patrolling and started to hunt the hedge with his torch. Then he must have come across the birds, for the next thing we saw was the torch bobbing
about and Costain wringing the necks of some of the partridges. We kept as quiet as mice. Who were we to stop supplies for the constabulary larder? Inside, though, we were bubbling over. We had a jolly good laugh when he’d gone. To see him scrambling about after those birds.… Have another drink?”

  “No thanks, Mr. Hunter.”

  “I hope Costain doesn’t get in hot water for this.”

  “He won’t. I know all about that, and as far as the police are concerned, it’s all over and done with. We’ve more important work in hand. Costain has made a clean breast of it.”

  “Good for him. A jolly decent scout, is Costain.”

  “I quite agree.”

  The crowd in the room was thinning. One by one the drinkers melted away and their cars could be heard taking them off into the distance. The doctor rose and went out without a word to anyone. In the taproom they were all singing together.

  Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary, Far … from … the … old … folks … at home.

  Some of the singers sounded to be sobbing.

  “Is it true that you and Free weren’t on the best of terms when he died?”

  “Who told you that?”

  Hunter almost sprang from his seat with indignation.

  “That’s not the point. Will you answer the question?”

  “It’s not true. I’ll admit I got sore with him about Laura. She was knocking around with me at the time and I was very fond of her. I got hot under the collar about it and had a row with Free. That I admit. It was in hot blood, however. I’m a bit quick in the temper, you see. But it blew over. I found a girl I liked better and we suit each other fine. Free and I made it up. We were quite all right when he died. Who told you? It’s a damn scandal trying to create trouble that way.”

  “Quite a lot of people are under the impression that you and Free were at daggers-drawn …”

  “Well, it’s a damned lie.”

  “No need to get in a rage about it, Mr. Hunter. I take your word for it. This seems to be a rare place for gossip and I’m glad we’ve had this talk to put matters straight.”

  “So am I. I wish I knew who’d told you that rigmarole …”

  “We’ll let it drop, then, shall we? Thanks for being so straightforward and answering me frankly. By the way, how long were you Laura Cruft’s boy-friend?”