The Body in the Dumb River Read online

  Granville expressed contrition and explained the reason.

  ‘Ah can’t stand Mrs. Teasdale. I bet she murdered him herself. Ah say…’

  ‘They were quarrelling when they arrived here?’

  ‘They were that.’

  ‘Did you hear what was said, Granville?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell half wot was said, because she was crying and sobbin’ and carryin’ on like someone with hysterics.’

  ‘What did you hear her say?’

  Littlejohn waited for the echo, but it didn’t come this time.

  ‘She’d always been a good wife to him. Which wasn’t true, because I know, as well as anybody else, how bad she treated him.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She was talkin’ all the time and sobbin’ somethin’ awful. The engine of Jimmie’s old car made such a noise, you couldn’t hear yourself speak, and when he shut it off as I put petrol in, Jimmie turned on her and told ’er to shut up in front of other people. And then she said she wouldn’t shut up, and that started a row about shutting up and not shutting up. Then he started the engine again and I couldn’t hear the rest. I do know that she said she’d never, never agree to it. Wot she wasn’t goin’ to agree to, I couldn’t make out…’

  Mr. Thrutchley, senior, thereupon raised a grubby paw in front of junior’s face to indicate it was time he shut up, too.

  ‘What direction did they move off in?’

  ‘They always went to old Scott-Harris’s on Sundays. I expect they went there then.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your help.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  Granville thereupon returned to his work, and disappeared under the old car like a worm going to ground. His father followed suit only with more dignity, and the open-mouthed boy having vanished in the darkness of the garage, Littlejohn found himself alone with the old cars.

  10

  The Empty Room

  The Scott-Harris house looked even more formidable in the daylight. The surrounding trees, mere shadows when Littlejohn had last seen them by night, were now revealed as old, neglected poplars with black trunks and knotted leafless branches. The soil under them was black and sour and covered by the decayed mould of last autumn, with menacing-looking fungus springing up among it. The gravel drive was sprouting long grass and the iron railings which enclosed it were short of paint and rusty.

  The house itself, built squarely of brick, needed pointing, the woodwork looked as if the paint had been skinned off it, and the outhouses, some made of old timber, were rotting. The iron grids which once gave light to extensive cellars were choked with refuse and almost corroded away.

  When Littlejohn rang the doorbell, the familiar sign on the jamb lit up dimly. Enter.

  Through the dark, musty-smelling hall and past the ramshackle old bamboo hatstand; and then the glass-panelled door to the drawing-room.

  ‘Come in.’

  Scott-Harris was in his usual chair in front of the fire with his feet on a stool. He looked feverish. His livid features appeared round the wing of the armchair. He had been drinking heavily, although it was barely past noon. He seemed relieved to see Littlejohn. He didn’t even greet him, but started issuing orders right away.

  ‘Glad to see you. Just in time. That scoundrel Ryder’s been out all morning and the coal scuttle’s empty. Can’t go and fill it meself. Blood pressure. Be a good fellah, and fill it. The shed’s right opposite the back door. Straight ahead, through the kitchen, and there you are.’

  Littlejohn seized the bucket and made off. The kitchen behind was large, old-fashioned, and untidy. A sink full of unwashed dishes. Pots, pans, cardboard cartons, and empty food tins littered about. And over all, the stench of stale cooking and rotten fruit.

  The flagged yard behind was dirty and neglected. Buckets, dustbins, ashes, and a trail of coal from a wooden shed to the back entrance of the house. Beyond, a wilderness of kitchen garden, untended, litter strewn about it, and overhung with the wrecks of old trees like those in the front garden. An old tennis lawn, too, with the grass all overgrown and decaying in a slimy mass. In the centre of the lawn, a smoke-blackened statue of a young goddess without a head.

  Littlejohn wrestled with the door of the coalshed, one of the hinges of which was broken, and filled the scuttle from a heap of coal dumped on the earth floor. A rat scuttered from a pile of old wooden boxes presumably there for firewood. The whole set-up was indescribably sordid and depressing. Littlejohn wondered what the rest of the rooms in the house were like.

  Scott-Harris didn’t thank him when he returned with his load.

  ‘Put some on the fire before it goes out altogether.’

  Littlejohn raked out the ash and filled the grate.

  ‘The swine cleared away the breakfast dishes and I haven’t seen him since. He’s been behaving damned strangely of late.’

  Littlejohn dusted his hands and sat down. He slowly filled and lighted his pipe.

  ‘Before you settle, just go up to Ryder’s room. Door facing you at the top of the stairs, overlooking the back. Can’t make it meself. Heart’s bad.’

  First his blood pressure; now his heart. How long had he been sleeping on the couch if he couldn’t climb the stairs? Littlejohn obeyed again. The old man evidently always behaved this way. Imposing on everybody who called during Ryder’s absence. Still, it gave one a chance to look around the place.

  The staircase was covered in shabby threadbare carpet, held in place by tarnished brass rods. The door of Ryder’s room was closed. Inside, a plain iron bedstead, a cheap wardrobe, and a dressing-table, a sea of oilcloth with a mat at the bedside. The bed was unmade and the soiled bedclothes tumbled all over the place.

  Littlejohn wondered what Ryder saw in such a job. Why he tolerated the old man and his Spartan lodgings. He must have been getting something good out of it somewhere. It wasn’t like one of Ryder’s type to put up with such conditions.

  The Superintendent opened the wardrobe. Not a thing in it, but some old newspapers and a coat-hanger. The same with the drawers of the dressing-table. Everything swept clean. Not even an old safety razor blade or a piece of soap. A soiled towel hung from a hook behind the door. Littlejohn felt it; it was quite dry.

  Littlejohn lit his pipe and stood with his hands on his hips, eyeing the room. No trace of its previous occupant, except some cigarette ends and spent matches in an old tin-lid used as an ash-tray, and a calendar hanging from a tack on the wall. He turned over the bedding. Unless he was mistaken, the bed hadn’t been slept in. It had all the appearances of having been made and then deliberately tousled. Somehow, all the traces of a restless occupant were missing.

  There was a battered straw waste-paper basket in one corner. Nothing in it. The fireplace had been boarded up and a small electric fire stood in front of it.

  The window was closed and the room smelled stuffy and dusty. Between the two sashes was a wedge of paper, presumably to stop their rattling in the wind. Littlejohn took it out and unfolded it. It was a receipted bill, marked Paid, with the date of yesterday.

  James Bidder

  Bespoke Tailor

  The Square. Basilden.

  To One suit:… £25…

  It must have been stuffed in the window last night. Queer, if Ryder was preparing to bolt, that he should be so particular about a quiet sleep, and about paying the bill.

  ‘You’ve been a hell of a time!’

  Scott-Harris was in the place and posture in which Littlejohn had left him. He looked like a huge, ugly balloon which had settled on a chair.

  ‘I was just looking round the room, sir. Ryder seems to have packed everything and gone.’

  Scott-Harris was so surprised that he sat up suddenly, only to subside again with a groan. He almost overturned the table on which the usual bottle, syphon, and glasses were standing.

 
‘The hell he has! I bet he’s been up to something. He’s been behaving funny lately. Just like him to pack up and bolt at a time like this. Funeral tomorrow, and I’ve not had my lunch. Suppose I’ll have to go out and get some food at one of the pubs. Damn the feller!’

  He was thinking only of his own comfort, as usual.

  ‘But surely, sir, you’ve missed him before this?’

  ‘He gave me my breakfast. Then said he was off to do some shopping. He usually went out after he’d cleared away the dishes and didn’t get back till around noon. He called at several pubs on his way back, guzzling with his pals.’

  ‘Did he clean the house, too?’

  ‘No. Mrs. Dommett, the char, comes every other day. Ryder could cook and saw to both our meals. Learned cookin’ in the army and, by gad, he never improved. Still, with help so expensive and hard to get and my family not caring what happens to me, I was glad of what I could get. Now, what the hell I’m going to do, I don’t know!’

  ‘Had Ryder a police record?’

  Scott-Harris’s heightened colour turned deeper.

  ‘What of it? No need to hang the dog for a bad name. I believed in givin’ him a chance. Old soldier. He played fair. I kept an eye on him and he didn’t misbehave.’

  ‘How long have you had him?’

  ‘About fourteen years. Came to me after he was demobbed in the last war. I knew him before the war. He was in my regiment.’

  ‘What was he gaoled for?’

  ‘Stealing army supplies.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘And somethin’ about car deals before the war. He’s been straight since I had him. His last chance. But, damn it, don’t stand there asking silly questions. You ought to be taking steps to find him.’

  ‘Unless he’s committed another crime, we have no authority to chase him. Leaving you without notice is a civil offence, not criminal.’

  ‘Criminal? What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘Unless he’s stolen something. I don’t suppose you’ve checked up.’

  ‘How d’you think I’ve checked up? I didn’t know till now that he’d bolted. Better get hold of Elvira. I can’t handle this meself. Bad heart and blood pressure. I suppose Ryder got upset about Teasdale’s murder. Always the same. Teasdale might have been born to annoy me. Ever since I first clapped me eyes on the fellah, he’s gone out of his way to upset me.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Mrs. Teasdale’s in a fit state to help you at present. The funeral and all that.’

  ‘Well, one of the girls can come and do it. There’s enough of ’em. Just get on the telephone… Ring the pub next door. The Royal Oak. Number’s on the telephone pad.’

  ‘I think you’d better do that yourself, sir. I’ve not called to fill Ryder’s place, you know. I called to ask some questions.’

  ‘What! More? You’ll have to wait, then. I’m going to telephone myself, seeing you won’t help me.’

  He levered himself unsteadily out of his chair, flinging rugs and cushions about, and went with difficulty to the ’phone on a side table near the window. He was well able to do this for himself in spite of his semi-intoxicated condition, as Littlejohn knew. Scott-Harris raged at the landlord of the Royal Oak for making him wait until one of the Teasdale family was sought. Littlejohn had no idea which of them answered, but she received the full blast of the fat man’s wrath and spite.

  ‘…Ryder’s bolted and I’m here on me own. One of you had better come up to see to things. He might have taken some cash or the silver. And I haven’t had my lunch yet… I don’t care if you are busy and upset. What about me? Your duty’s to the livin’, not the dead. There are four women in the house, surely one of you can spare the time for your helpless old grandfather…’

  He hung up, swearing to himself, kicking cushions about. Finally, he camped in his chair and settled down.

  ‘Pour me a drink and have one yourself. And be quick with your questions. One of my grand-daughters’ll be here any minute and I want my meal. Trouble with you policemen is that you’re always asking questions instead of gettin’ on with the catching of criminals. What is it?’

  Littlejohn poured him his drink.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m on duty, sir.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. Well? What else do you want to ask me?’

  ‘Did James Teasdale call here with his wife about seven o’clock last Sunday?’

  ‘He always brought her here in his old crock of a car on his way to his travels… Or should I say his hoop-la, now? Why?’

  ‘Did he call in here with her?’

  ‘Yes. Seemed to think he had to pay his respects. In one minute; out the next.’

  The old man took a heavy swig of his whisky.

  ‘That’s better. I needed that.’

  Littlejohn felt a wave of revulsion. He’d some horrible characters to deal with in the course of his duties, but this old man was the limit. Fat, gross, a glutton, alcoholic, there was an indescribable odour of evil and corruption about him.

  ‘Exactly how long did Teasdale stay here?’

  Scott-Harris waved his glass in the air.

  ‘Five minutes, perhaps. He was never one who enjoyed my company, for some reason. Seemed afraid of me. Always uneasy when I was about. He knew what I thought of him.’

  ‘Was there any conversation?’

  Scott-Harris turned his poached, bloodshot eyes on Littlejohn.

  ‘What are you gettin’ at? You don’t think I had anything to do with Teasdale’s death, do you? I’m almost completely helpless, as you know. I couldn’t walk the length of the street now, let alone make a trip to some godforsaken place near Ely, was it? Don’t waste my time.’

  ‘I asked you, sir, if Teasdale had anything to say when he arrived here last Sunday. You haven’t answered my question. He quarrelled with his wife on the way. Was the quarrel continued here?’

  Scott-Harris shed his rugs again and sat upright.

  ‘Quarrelled? Who told you that?’

  ‘It’s enough that witnesses of repute heard them and reported it. Did you become involved in their quarrel when they arrived here?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know nothing of a row between them. Conjugal bickering… I won’t have that sort of thing going on here. I don’t want my peace disturbed. My daughters know that.’

  ‘But did Teasdale know it?’

  ‘He did. He merely called, as I said before, to say goodnight, and then he went off to his hoop-la and his other woman.’

  ‘Did he mention his other woman last Sunday?’

  Scott-Harris emerged from his cushions and struggled upright, livid with anger again, looking ready to attack Littlejohn.

  ‘I told you, he said nothing. If you don’t believe me, clear out. I’ve had enough of you. Coming here and…’

  ‘Did he tell you he wanted his wife to divorce him?’

  ‘Divorce? Who said anything about divorce? If he’d so much as mentioned it, I’d have chucked him out with my own hands.’

  ‘I think you could, you know.’

  ‘Don’t get offensive. You’ve said enough. Instead of trying to find Teasdale’s murderer, you’re going around upsettin’ everybody. Filthy insinuations. Dirty linen. I might have known. Well, I’ve had enough. Get out of here and stay out.’

  Irene was arriving resentfully and purposefully at the rusty gate and walking up the shabby path, so Littlejohn took the old man at his word. He got out. Irene seemed surprised to see him. She perhaps thought he ought to have prepared the old man’s lunch whilst he was there and generally deputised for Ryder, instead of calling out the mourners.

  ‘Good day,’ she said tartly, in greeting and farewell.

  Bidder, the tailor, had a small shop in the square. The bell over the door tolled as Littlejohn entered. A we
ak-looking chair, shelves partly filled with rolls of cloth, old fashion-plates and cutting-books on a rickety table. Some of the dusty framed pictures of gentlemen dressed in what might have been Bidder’s masterpieces dated back to 1900.

  The tailor emerged from the room behind, which had a glass door inscribed Fitting and Cutting Rooms. There was a staccato clack of sewing machines somewhere in the rear.

  Bidder himself was a small worried man with a pneumatic paunch. Elderly, with a shock of dishevelled grey hair, and knock-knees. He was in his shirtsleeves and wore gilt armbands to keep his soiled, starched cuffs off his wrists. There was a tape-measure round his neck and chalk marks down his waistcoat, which bristled with pins like a porcupine, as well. He looked Littlejohn up and down from head to foot, pricing and appraising his tailoring. Then he rubbed his flabby hands.

  ‘Well, sir. What can I do for you?’

  His fingers twitched as though eager to seize and value the cloth of Littlejohn’s lapels.

  ‘Was Mr. Ryder a customer of yours, sir?’

  Bidder’s face fell so much that it entirely altered his appearance. No sale. He’d recognised Littlejohn from his picture in the local paper.

  ‘Yes. I hope he recommended me to you. I’m very busy at present doing a rush job for tomorrow. The mourning suits for the late Mr. Teasdale’s relatives. It was good of Mr. Ryder to send you to me.’

  ‘I can’t say that he did. He’s left town. In his room, we found a bill from you which seems to have been settled this week.’

  ‘That’s right. I hope there’s nothing wrong.’

  ‘No, Mr. Bidder. How long did he owe you the twenty-five pounds?’

  Mr. Bidder looked hurt. He began nervously to finger the rows of pins stuck in his waistcoat.

  ‘Really, Superintendent! It’s highly irregular to divulge customers’ business. As you know, we tailors give long credit. We have to do so. Competition is very fierce and…’

  ‘I see you know who I am, Mr. Bidder. Wouldn’t it be wiser to assist the police in their enquiries?’