The Case of the Demented Spiv (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Read online

Littlejohn took the chair on the other side of the fireplace.

  There was a teapot on the hob and an empty cup on the table. Brockfield people are very hospitable. To them a welcome includes a drink and a bite of something.

  Mrs. Heading was glad the policeman hadn’t come after the house. Some of the callers had argued and bullied about her remaining there alone. Even her daughter said she ought to go and live with them, and let Cousin Fred, who was getting married for the second time, have it.…

  The old lady poured out a cup of tea and brought a cake, which she cut and passed to Littlejohn.

  “It’s a bought one and isn’t up to much. Once I made my own, but nowadays you can’t get th’ stuff.…”

  “This is very nice, thank you, Mrs. Heading.”

  It was very quiet and remote, in spite of being in a row near a mill. The only sounds when they didn’t speak were the tick of the grandfather clock and the purring of a cat which, after stretching, rose and settled on the Inspector’s lap.

  “You’ve taken th’ cat’s fancy, I see. She doesn’t take to everybody. Push her off if you don’t like it.…”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Heading. I’m fond of cats.”

  Nothing was said about the crime. They sat there eating and drinking like old friends. The woman was wise and patient. There was plenty of time. She could wait.

  “That was very nice, Mrs. Heading, thank you,” said the Inspector at length. “I suppose now you want to know what I’ve called about.”

  “Of course, I do. But it can bide your time. I’ve plenty now. After minding a sick husband for three years, I’ve all the time in the world now he’s been taken. I never knew I should miss doing for him so much.”

  “I’m very sorry about it all.…”

  “Thank you. It comes to us all, doesn’t it? Funny what a shock it was, though, in spite of my knowing for years that there was only one ending. It’ll be my time before long, too.”

  “I hope not.…”

  “I don’t mind. Nothing else to live for now. But that’s not helpin’ you, mister. What did you want?”

  “I believe Dr. Martindale attended your late husband, Mrs. Heading.”

  “Yes, he did. And whatever anybody else says about him, I’ve always a good word for Dr. Martindale. He did his best for my man. Never missed a day calling on him, except at holiday times, when he saw somebody else was here regular. And very few bills, too, and them small, though it wasn’t for want of asking. He’s been a gentleman to us, and I don’t care who knows it.”

  “Was he here on the Saturday night Mr. Barrow was murdered at the mill?”

  “Yes, he was. That was the night Mr. Heading died. Cancer, he died of, and Dr. Martindale saw to it that he had no pain. He stopped here for three hours that night. Four till seven and then straight to evening surgery without any food.”

  “Was he in the sickroom all the time, Mrs. Heading?”

  “No. He came down for a cup of tea twice.”

  “When?”

  “I’d say about half past five and just before he went. I can’t be sure. I’d my hands full with Clem as you might imagine.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to be bothering you about what must be painful, Mrs. Heading.…”

  “Painful, did you say? It’s not painful. Clem died peaceable, thanks to the doctor. I’d got used to things over the years. It was no more painful than anything else. The hard part is being all by myself now he’s gone.”

  “Did Dr. Martindale go out at all when he left the bedside?”

  “I don’t know. I stayed upstairs. My daughter made the tea for him. He was soon back with Clem, however. He couldn’t have been away more than five minutes if he did happen to go out for a breath of air.”

  “He couldn’t have got across to the mill and back, then?”

  “No.…”

  The old woman’s eyes suddenly sparkled with annoyance.

  “Are you tryin’ to make out that the doctor might have some hand in the murder of Ambrose Barrow? Because if you are, you’re wrong. Folk can say what they like about Dr. Martindale’s drinking. He’s had a hard time and had a lot to put up with. But he’s no murderer. Under what drink’s done for him, he’s a man with a heart of gold, who can’t bear pain and sufferin’, either for himself or anybody else. That’s what’s turned him to drink. What he needs is a woman to mother him and stop him from spendin’ and givin’ all he earns and more besides to the first that comes with a weary tale.…”

  “I’m not suggesting he was a murderer, Mrs. Heading. But he has been mixed up with the Barrow family, I believe, and we must check up on everything, you know.”

  “How do you mean, mixed-up?”

  Littlejohn somehow felt that the old lady deserved his confidence.

  “If Barrow had not died, he was going to divorce his wife and cite the doctor as co-respondent.”

  The old woman sat back astonished in her chair.

  “No! He wasn’t, was he?”

  And then, suddenly, she flew into a rage.

  “It’s them Fennings again! How is it they must always pay to get over what other people has to suffer for? Always money, money, money. The old man used to say, everybody has his price, and he never seemed far wrong.”

  “What do you mean, Mrs. Heading?”

  “It’s as plain as the nose on your face, that’s what it is. Dr. Martindale never had no time for Flo. Barrow. I’m sure of that. It’s them Fennings paying him to take the blame. They always do that. Pay their way out of all their difficulties.”

  “I’m surprised. I always thought them rather a decent lot.”

  “Decent lot! You don’t know the Fennings. Leastways, I mean, you didn’t know the old man. The lads were nothing to speak of, because he was the boss. What Miles Fenning said was law. He held the purse strings and they danced to his tune.”

  “Had they no money of their own, then?”

  “Oh, yes. They’d what they earned. But he was owner of the mills. His sons were what they called nominal directors, but old Miles held all, or most all the shares. They couldn’t turn a hand without him, I know, because I’m one who suffered.”

  “In what way, Mrs. Heading?”

  “My Clem suffered through him. He got his illness through his work. But old Miles took it to court and made out he didn’t. Clem got a miserable five hundred pounds, where he ought to have had enough to live on in comfort for life and have the best doctors and a decent home instead of this sunless place in a back street. Oh, yes. I know.…”

  “But Andrew seems a nice fellow.”

  “He is, but he had to do what his father said, just as if he was a little lad. He wanted a fair pension for Clem, but the old man put his foot down. Now I suppose, Andrew got himself mixed up with Flo. Barrow. But you see how it was? Barrow daren’t name him. Oh, no. The Fenning name mustn’t be smirched. Barrow’s in love with Joe Lackland’s lass and wants to marry her and has a case against his wife. Leave it to old Miles; he’ll fix it. He’ll pay a drunken doctor who owes money all over town and looks like going to court about it, to take the blame and bear the mud-slinging. And his bright-eyed family get off scot-free. You met have expected that.”

  “I see. So, you think Martindale had nothing much to do with Flo. Barrow?”

  “Not on your life. I know him. He might get drunk, but he’s particular. Comes from as good a family as Fennings any day; better, in fact. Besides, Flo. wouldn’t look at a penniless doctor. She’s higher-flying nor that. It’s all a put-up job, I say.”

  “What do you think about this murder, then, Mrs. Heading?”

  “Whose?”

  “Both, for that matter.”

  “All I can say is, there’s been funny things going on at that mill for a while now. I’ve been up at all hours of the night tending my Clem. And somebody else has been up at all hours, too, in that mill.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mean? Many’s the time I’ve just walked out into the night air to freshen mys
elf. I like the stillness and the quiet of the stars. Makes your sorrow seem less and your troubles smaller to see them stars and hear the quietness. But there’ve been folk about in that mill-yard. Soft footsteps, torches flashing on and off, and sometimes, yes, sometimes, they’ve quietly pushed out a motor-lorry without engine going or lights on and let it glide down the hill and you’d hear the engine start a long way off.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Not so long since. In fact, it only stopped proper after Barrow died.”

  “Do you think Barrow had anything to do with it?”

  “If it was anything crooked, he hadn’t. There wasn’t a straighter lad in Brockfield than Ambrose Barrow. I don’t blame him carrying on with the Lackland lass. He’d had enough to put-up-with from that wife of his. A man must have a woman to love and tend him. Sometimes he gets the wrong’un first time; then I don’t blame him if he seeks another.…”

  “Who was at the bottom of it, then?”

  “Don’t ask me. I never crossed the road to see.”

  “And what about the death of Mr. Miles?”

  “I reckon he was so long dying and stopping making himself a nuisance to all and sundry, that somebody got fed up and helped him along. Don’t ask me who. I’m no good at guessing either.”

  Outside, footsteps began to pass the door and then a stream of workers went by on their midday break. The buzzer had sounded, but Littlejohn hadn’t noticed it. He was getting used to Brockfield and now the hooter was part of the general make-up.

  The door opened and a middle-aged woman, carrying a pie-dish, walked in.

  “Here’s your dinner, mother.…”

  “Thank you, Emma. Put it in the oven. I’m just busy.”

  Emma gave her mother a queer look. She expected to be told at once who the visitor was and Mrs. Heading wasn’t obliging. Emma was a busy, thin little body with sharp eyes like her mother’s and a curious way of holding her head as though listening for something. She put the pie-dish in the oven sulkily, using her small mean hands nervously.

  “You remember the night your dad died, Emma? You gave the doctor a cup o’ tea about sixish. Did he go out at front door?”

  “I’m sure I don’t remember.”

  Emma was peevish and unhelpful.

  “This is a police detective and he wants to know, so you’d better make up your mind quick.”

  The younger woman’s jaw dropped and she looked ready to take to her heels.

  “Come on, now. Don’t be so soft. It’s not like you not to know all that goes on.”

  “Well, he did go out, if you must know. Wanted a smoke and said he’d take a breather along street.”

  “How long, was he out?”

  “Five minutes or so.”

  “Right. That’ll be all, Emma. This talk’s private.…”

  Emma sniffed.

  “I don’t stay where I’m not wanted,” she said huffily. “Don’t let that pie shrivel up and then blame me. Some folks is that stubborn.…”

  And with that, she left.

  “Emma lives next-door-but-one and if I didn’t keep her in her place, she’d run my house. Nobody’s running my house while I can move hand or foot. And don’t you think I’m like Miles Fenning, because I’m not. My childer do as they’re told because I’m their mother, not because I hold all the brass.”

  She smiled at Littlejohn and they understood one another.

  He decided to go a step further.

  “Did you know, when he died, old Fenning was planning to leave a legacy to Flo. Barrow?”

  The old lady didn’t seem surprised.

  “I reckon that settles what I’ve been telling you. He cooked the business about the divorce and Flo.’s share was something in the old man’s Will. Unless, of course, there was something else on his conscience about her. I wouldn’t be surprised at that. Perhaps, even in his dotage, he took a fancy to her, too. You never know, do you?”

  “Well. I’ve had quite a profitable talk with you, Mrs. Heading. You’ve helped me a lot. Have you anything else useful to tell me?”

  “No. I could keep you here a week and tell you nothing good of old Miles and his affairs. But you find out all about him and what he was at and what went on in mill after dark. And then you’ll soon know who did killing. Don’t you believe anything about Doctor Martindale.…”

  The cat jumped from Littlejohn’s knees, strolled to the oven and started to meow.

  “She wants her dinner. Will you stop and ’ave a bite with me?”

  “No, thanks, Mrs. Heading. I’m more than grateful and I’ve intruded enough.”

  “There’s more than enough for two of us. And don’t you talk of intrudin’ else I’ll get cross. Nobody stops here unless I want ’em to. And for a policeman, you’re one of nicest I’ve ever come across.…”

  They both laughed.

  “Sure you won’t have some of that pie? Although you might not think it, Emma’s quite a good hand at pastry. She’ll be mad when she hears I’ve given to-morrow’s dinner to a detective, but she’ll have to be mad, that’s all. We’ll have some nice bread and butter with it and then a bit of apple pie and cheese. I’ve got a cousin as is a farmer and him and me’s as thick as thieves. His wife’s bin doin’ a bit of churning this week and he called yesterday. And cheese is from same place. I’m fond of a bit o’ company of right sort.…”

  “All right, then, Mrs. Heading. I don’t think I’ve had any hot, home-made meat pie since my mother used to make them.”

  “Sit you down, then.…”

  So, Littlejohn stayed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE FRIGHTENED WOMAN

  IT was thought better for all concerned that the next interview with Mrs. Ambrose Barrow should be at the police station. It had long been realised that she was not active in the case of her husband’s death with a view to helping law and order; she was out to save her own skin.

  “She’s too much involved at every angle to be a friendly witness, if witness you might call her,” said Faddiman. “You can’t press questions on people after you’ve been drinking their sherry and eating their fillet steaks. Hadn’t we better have her in here?”

  Littlejohn agreed, secretly amused at Faddiman, who never seemed to have forgiven him for enjoying Mrs. Barrow’s hospitality early in the case.

  Mrs. Barrow had lost a lot of her poise and elegance when she arrived. It was raining cats and dogs outside and she wore a transparent rainproof over a black costume. She had not put it on with great care and the raincoat bulged in parts, especially round the belt. She still had on the pill-box hat, but wind and weather had dealt badly with it. It was too much askew and bits of damp hair escaped from under it.

  But it was her face and figure which had altered most. She looked to have spent sleepless nights and to sag with utter weariness. Her cheeks were chalk-pale and she had dark circles under her eyes. She sank into a chair with a sigh, like one exhausted after a long walk.

  Littlejohn insisted on conducting the interview alone. Faddiman expected this and raised no objections. He was becoming resigned to what he thought was Littlejohn’s strange conduct. As far as Faddiman could see, things weren’t progressing very well for all of it.

  “Mrs. Barrow, there are one or two more questions I’d like to ask you on points that have cropped up since last we met.…”

  Flo. Barrow looked afraid. She was evidently at the end of her nervous strength.

  “I don’t think I know anything more than I’ve already told you, sir.…”

  So, it had got to calling him “sir”. Littlejohn noticed the change in manner. There was something pathetic in the attempt to placate him.

  “In the first place, Mrs. Barrow, did you know your husband was contemplating taking divorce proceedings against you at the time of his death?”

  Mrs. Barrow’s white face turned grey and she clutched the edge of the deal waiting-room table.

  “I.… I.…”

  Outside there was a
n open-air market in progress. Fruit stalls, men selling small wares, cheese, oat-cakes and gimcrack jewellery. Their harsh shouts penetrated into the room. The fruit and vegetable sellers were doing a roaring trade, marshalling their customers in long queues and treating them with little courtesy. Only the cheapjacks needed to tout for buyers.

  “Look ’ere. I’ll tell you what I’ll do.…”

  A fat man in a bowler raised aloft some glittering brooches and began to exhalt them in taste and value.…

  “I.… I.…”

  “Come, Mrs. Barrow. I must ask you to tell me the truth. We’ve been far too long obstructed in this case. At this rate, we shall never find out who killed your late husband.”

  “Yes.… I know he talked of separation.…”

  “This was divorce, Mrs. Barrow. He had consulted solicitors and cited the co-respondent. We know the name.”

  “My husband was always suspicious of me. He was very straight-laced and couldn’t bear me having a good time with my friends.…”

  “This wasn’t just having a good time, Mrs. Barrow. It was divorce proceedings and I take it Mr. Barrow would have the grounds before he saw a solicitor.”

  “He hadn’t any grounds. I never.…”

  It was obvious she was playing for time. She was ready to tell any tale to get herself out of an awkward situation and protect whoever was involved in it with her.

  “Very well, Mrs. Barrow. The solicitor will be called as witness at the adjourned hearing. We shall get what we want to know then.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “The name of the man involved.”

  “But if you know it, why ask me?”

  She was not defiant. Only tired and plaintive. But she was on her guard, ready to prevaricate to the last ditch.

  Outside, the man in the bowler hat was passing round his brooches. They were selling like hot cakes. The women in the queue at one of the fruit stalls were getting restive. The hawker wouldn’t open and sell his grapefruit. With sadistical delight, he was telling them he wasn’t going to do it until afternoon. They could all go home and come back later. One of the women raised an umbrella to him and another went to bring a policeman to find out how the law stood. The constable, scenting what was afoot, looked in the other direction and pretended to hurry to business elsewhere among the cars parked in the road.