The Crime at Halfpenny Bridge Read online

  Nancy Emmott wore a tweed skirt and a simple Russian jumper stitched with coloured wools.

  “Did you want to see my father … or my brother?” The voice was soft and pleasing. She looked at Littlejohn with clear eyes, expressionless in that the look was far away, as though she saw right through him.

  “No. I wanted a word with you first, Miss Emmott.”

  “I’m sorry you had to wait. I was busy in the dairy.”

  “That’s all right. I won’t keep you a minute. It’s about Mr. Boake. You paid him a visit at the hospital the other day, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.… Won’t you please sit down?”

  The girl looked puzzled and a bit embarrassed. She passed her hand across her brow like someone bothered by a difficult problem, though here there was none. She was evidently wondering why a sick visit should concern the police.

  “Mr. Boake isn’t fit to see visitors at present … At least, not the police. He interests us in that Sam Prank, the sailor who was recently murdered in the town, visited him not long before his death. We wondered if, when you called, Mr. Boake said anything about that visit.”

  “No, Inspector. I called with some flowers. Mr. Boake is a good friend of ours. In fact, he spent quite a lot of time here. He loved to talk with father and …”

  Nancy Emmott’s colour had mounted. She seemed to be fumbling for a satisfactory explanation.

  “… and with you, Miss Emmott?”

  “Well, I was one of his old pupils at St. Jude’s. He’s always been kind to me.… He had no children of his own.…”

  “And wasn’t very happy at home?”

  “Well. What of it? He had a right to seek his happiness elsewhere, then.”

  The girl was getting a bit heated.

  “Of course, Miss Emmott. So Mr. Boake didn’t mention Sam Prank’s visit then?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ask you to send up your brother as you left him?”

  “Yes. He asked where George was. I said minding the van down in the street. He said he’d like to see him, too. So I went down and sent George up.”

  “Was George with Mr. Boake for long?”

  “About five minutes, I’d say. They wouldn’t let us stay for more than a few minutes. But what has this to do with …?”

  “You knew Sam Prank, Miss Emmott?”

  The girl instinctively recoiled as from something fearful and then recovered herself.

  “Very well. He was at school when I was.”

  “He was by way of being an admirer of yours?”

  Littlejohn thought that he had a bit of a nerve asking such a question. But if Sam, the Lothario, had known this girl, it was ten to one that he had at some time or other made advances. Sure enough, he had.

  “Yes.… He … he … called here a time or two. My brother told him to keep off or else …”

  So the cheeky Sam had brought the war right into the enemies’ camp.… Tried to carry Nancy off under the very noses of the family. Just like him! Littlejohn was beginning to know Sam very well.

  Littlejohn observed that the girl was distressed, apparently fighting back tears and screwing her handkerchief nervously in her fingers. He changed the subject at once.

  “When did Mr. Boake first start coming here? I mean, has he always visited you when he’s wanted a change of company … Or has he recently started …?”

  “Five or six years, I should think. He often came twice a week. Sometimes more. My father has been an invalid for many years. He had an accident which paralysed his legs. We hoped he’d recover, but he hasn’t. Mr. Boake and he were great friends.…”

  “I see. Could I see your father before I go, Miss Emmott? I’d like a word with your brother, too.…”

  “George should be back any time. He’s over at a neighbour’s. They’re discussing some business for the County Agricultural Committee.…”

  “Thanks for what you’ve told me, Miss Emmott. And your father?”

  “Oh yes. I’ll take you to him. He’s reading his papers in the kitchen. He likes best to be there.…”

  Littlejohn followed Nancy through the passage again to the back of the house.

  The kitchen was a large, lofty place with tall windows. It was much cooler there. In the centre a large plain deal table, well scrubbed and laid for lunch for seven. A cloth with blue and white squares, good cutlery and household china. Probably all the hands fed there. Matting on the red tiled floor and an assortment of chairs tucked under the table. A great open fireplace, with a large oven on one side and a set-boiler with a brass tap on the other. A pleasant airy room. No wonder the old man preferred it.

  Old Emmott was seated in a deep armchair before the wood fire. He raised his head from his newspaper and peered round the wing of the chair at the newcorners.

  A handsome old fellow, with a pink healthy face and a head of shining white hair like silk. An excellent profile. Firm chin and fine nose with a lofty bridge. The dark eyes, a trifle close-set on each side of it were full of good will and vivacity.

  From the waist downwards Saul Emmott was wrapped up in a travelling rug.

  Nancy introduced the pair. The old man glanced inquisitively at Littlejohn. He could not go out for news himself and eagerly appreciated its coming to him.

  “And what do the police want at Headlands?” he asked. “Not more regulations broken, I hope. Really, Inspector, we’re so hidebound with this and that.…”

  “No, father. Inspector Littlejohn comes from Scotland Yard. He’s investigating the death of Sam Prank.”

  The old man’s brow clouded. His look grew almost malevolent.

  “What has that to do with us?” he asked ominously. “A bad end to a bad man. With the breath of his lips shall he slay the wicked, as the Good Book says. What has he to do with my house, I say?”

  “Nothing directly, Mr. Emmott. Not long before his death, however, Prank called on Mr. Boake at the hospital. And shortly afterwards, your son and daughter also visited Boake. I was just enquiring from Miss Emmott whether or not Mr. Boake mentioned Prank and what he was after.”

  “What is this, Nancy?” said the old man sternly, turning his head and fixing his daughter with a keen glance. The girl was again struggling with emotion. She uttered a sound like a sob and then, recovering herself, spoke.

  “Nothing at all father. You know we called on Mr. Boake with your compliments and some flowers.…”

  “Yes, yes. But Prank. What’s all this about Prank?”

  “Nothing, father. He wasn’t mentioned.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. That disposes of that point, then. Is there anything more, Inspector? Because if there isn’t maybe you’ll have a glass of our cider and talk of other things.”

  The old man was smiling, serene and peaceful again. You knew at once from the look of him he had lived a full life, experienced perhaps all there was to experience, and that he wasn’t afraid of anything that might come.

  Littlejohn lit his pipe as the maid fetched the drinks.

  “Your health, Inspector.”

  Littlejohn smacked his lips and nodded approvingly at the cider.

  “Your own?” he asked.

  “No,” said the old man. “We don’t grow good cider apples in these parts. We get it up from a cousin of mine in Hereford.”

  “You and Mr. Boake were great friends, I hear.”

  “Yes. He came a lot. Used to like to sit here, me on one side of the fire; him on the other. We’d smoke our pipes all night and he’d bring me the news. Then we’d talk about it and solve the world’s problems.… I hope he’ll soon be fit and back again. He’s better, I hear.”

  “So I believe.”

  So that was it. In his mind’s eye Littlejohn could imagine Boake. Nagged by his wife and unhappy at home, he’d put on his hat and come to Headlands Farm. A quiet world apart. And there, Boake and the old man would smoke their pipes and sit quietly talking about things and perhaps sometimes say nothing at all, just enjoying each other’s company
. The disillusioned schoolmaster and the peaceful old man.

  The maid was beginning to bustle round with the lunch dishes. She laid seven tumblers beside the seven knives and forks and opened the large oven to see how the joint was doing. She basted the meat, inspected a large rice pudding and turned over the baking potatoes. Then, she closed the door and went off. It was all done without fuss. Littlejohn himself felt he could stay there indefinitely, absorbing the peace of the place and talking to the old man.…

  Nancy Emmott, who had been absent for a bit, returned with a stack of plates which she put to warm over the oven.…

  “Did you know a man called Lee? A newsagent and general dealer in the town?”

  The plates rattled in Nancy’s hand. She steadied herself against the top of the oven and then seemed to be herself again.

  Littlejohn was reluctant to ask it, but it had to be done. After all, Lee had been to some farm or other on this road. The mention of his name and the unpleasant associations connected with it were almost like brawling in church. The serene atmosphere of Headlands kitchen didn’t merit it.

  “Lee?” The old man murmured the name distastefully. “Yes. He called here from time to time. Indeed, I think he was here the night he was knocked down and killed. Wasn’t he, Nancy?”

  “Yes, father.” Her voice came almost in a whisper.

  “Used to call on all the farmers round here for eggs, fowl and such like, if there were any to spare. I think he ran a little black-market of his own in the town. We gave him short shrift, but he persevered. Kept calling. Didn’t he, Nancy?”

  “Yes, father.”

  “And did you notice anything unusual about him on the night before he died, Mr. Emmott?”

  “I didn’t see him. Nancy said he’d been here. She and George saw him.… Did you ask him in, Nancy?”

  “No. He stood at the door talking with George. I left them. He was such a dreadful man. He went away and we hadn’t given him anything.”

  “I see.…”

  Outside a car had drawn up in the yard. It was an old four-seater, a tourer, open to the winds, with shabby mica side curtains opaque with wear and time. A tall, lean well-knit man was scrambling out. He was about Littlejohn’s size, but not as straight in the shoulders. His footsteps could be heard entering the house and clinking their way to the kitchen.

  “Hullo, George.…”

  “Well, George. Have a good meeting, my boy?”

  His two relatives greeted him with interest.

  “Hullo.…”

  It was young Emmott returned from his confab with the Agricultural Committee. He wore a coat of dark tweed and tan riding-breeches, with leggings and heavy nailed boots. He was standing waiting for them to introduce him to the visitor.

  “This is Inspector Littlejohn, who’s investigating Sam Prank’s murder, George. This is my brother.…”

  George scowled and offered a limp hand, not that his grip was naturally feeble, but the greeting was given grudgingly.

  Young Emmott resembled his father, but his face was leaner and his dark eyes nearer the nose. What in the father was hardly noticeable was, in the son, a definite blemish, a shortcoming which marred his looks and gave a sinister twist to his features. The serenity of the old man was lacking, too. George was in his prime and looked headstrong and passionate. You got the impression of a steam-engine without a safety-valve. Pent-up with no outlet. His hair, too, grew differently from his father’s. Closely cropped, en brosse, it gave him a wild expression, a mild reminder of those Legros etchings in which horrified men discover unspeakable things.

  “Have they arrested anybody?”

  “No. We’re baffled at present. You see, it was done in the dark and Prank seemed to have enemies everywhere.”

  “He was a bad lot.”

  George spat it out like getting rid of something unpleasant and cast at his sister a strange vindictive look which Littlejohn failed to understand.

  “I’ve been telling your father and sister that he visited Mr. Boake shortly before his death. The doctors won’t allow me to interview Mr. Boake, so I’m scouting around to find, if I can, whether Mr. Boake mentioned to anyone what occurred when Prank was with him. Surely Prank wasn’t sick-visiting. There was something more than that in it.”

  George Emmott’s eyes were fixed on a wasp crawling up and down the window-pane.

  “He said nothing to me when I was there,” he replied absently.

  “Your sister says he specially sent for you. I wondered if he wanted you to do something for him.”

  “Here! What’s all this about. When Nancy went to see him, he asked if I’d come, too. She said yes. So he wanted to see me, as well. We’re old friends. There’s nothing extraordinary in that, is there?”

  An uneasy element was beginning to invade the once peaceful room.

  “Nothing at all, Mr. George. We mentioned Lee’s visit here, too. Nasty business his death on the old bridge. Must have been there some time before they found him.”

  George thrust his hands in his pockets and pursed his lips.

  “Another unpleasant fish,” he said. “Used to call here after black-market stuff. Persisted, too, although we never did a deal with him.”

  “Which way did he go when he left you?”

  “I don’t know. I left him at the door and went into the cow-shed to attend to a sick cow. He went through the gate.… I don’t know which direction he took.”

  “Was it dark by then?”

  “Quite dark. He had a torch and used it. I lit a lamp and went to the cow-shed. Had to drench the cow.… Nancy helped me, didn’t you, Nance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well.… I’ve got to put the car away. Nice to meet you, Inspector. Hope you find the murderer.…”

  Young Emmott was evidently anxious to terminate the session It was lunch-time, too. Some of the farm-hands were already in from the fields and were splashing in the wash-house, washing and chatting.

  “I won’t take any more of your time, Mr. Emmott,” said the Inspector to the old man and after he had bidden him good-day and thanked him for his hospitality, Nancy led him to the front door.

  “Here’s your stick, Inspector, and your hat. Had you a coat?”

  “Yes.”

  She passed him the raincoat from under his hat and saw him off.

  Littlejohn hadn’t gone far before he noticed the raincoat. It was like his own, but a bit more worn and greasy. To make sure, he thrust his hand in the pocket which should have contained a pair of gloves Letty had given him last Christmas. He always carried them in the right-hand pocket. Nothing doing, except a small ball of paper. Littlejohn turned and hurried back to the farm.

  The first thing he saw as he reversed direction was George Emmott. He was climbing out of the shallow ditch just by the gate to the farmyard and putting something in his pocket.

  Their eyes met. George was smiling thinly.

  “Forgotten something, Inspector?”

  “Yes. Got the wrong raincoat.”

  “Oh, that’s mine, is it? I’ll get yours.”

  “You lost something, too? In the ditch, I mean?” George eyed him with a frown.

  “No. I thought I saw a rat there. It was nothing.… I’ll get the coat.”

  They changed the raincoats and parted again.

  Littlejohn on the way realised that in his fingers he still held the screw of paper he’d taken from George’s pocket. He almost tossed it away. Then, he stopped and unfolded it. It was a numbered ticket.

  WERRYMOUTH HARBOUR COMMISSIONERS

  SWING BRIDGE.

  Toll … One Halfpenny.

  XV

  CASTLE HILL

  CROMWELL was glad when they reached South Redport.

  The ’bus was old and rickety, reeked of heavy oil, and the seats were so buoyant that the occupants bounced high into the air and back again at every pothole or undulation of the road. The driver, too, was a harum-scarum and threw the passengers all over the shop at each bend an
d curve. Cromwell complained to the conductress, when boldly and contemptuously looked him up and down, told him it wasn’t her fault and that he’d better write to the company if he didn’t like it.

  They finally drew up at the terminus, a kind of barren fair ground, where the conductress told the driver about Cromwell. This little runt of a fellow, only the size of three pennyworth of copper, thereupon made preparations to fight, whereupon Cromwell handed him over to a passing ’bus inspector and left him being reprimanded.

  Castle Hill was the main thoroughfare from the fair ground to the small harbour of South Redport. The sea was not visible until you reached the bottom, but the fresh breeze blowing up the street carried the sharp tang of salt air mingled with the odour of fish and petrol.

  Number 29 was one of a row of cottages built on the hill. A small double-fronted place with a board over the door marked CAFÉ, M. Pratt, proprietress. In the window a fly-blown card: APARTMENTS.

  It was lunch time and a few late visitors were straggling uphill apparently on their way to boarding-houses for the midday meal. They looked a dejected, hungry lot of a poor type. Apparently the small town catered for the humbler working classes, who insisted on the sea for holidays no matter what the hinterland was like.

  Cromwell, although not inclined to lunch at such a place, thought that to have a meal might be the best way of getting to know what he wanted, so he overcame his scruples and entered.

  The dining-room was right behind the front door. A few tables, probably accumulated from a junk-shop, littered the place. Old chairs set round them. Soiled table-cloths, cheap cutlery, heavy cruets, and sugar-basins half-filled with dusty sugar. There were the remnants of a meal still on one table; most likely somebody’s breakfast. The air had the flavour of not having been changed for weeks.

  An elderly, slatternly woman entered from a door at the back of the room. A draught followed her and shook all the paper flowers on the gimcrack sideboard and rustled the newspaper in the empty old-fashioned grate.

  “We’re really closed. The season’s over. But perhaps I could manage you a bit o’ something,” said the woman, dusting off the dry crumbs with a soiled cloth.