The Case of the Headless Jesuit Read online

  “When was this, Mrs. Pennyquick?”

  “About two years since. After her mother died.”

  “Thank you. Please do go on.…”

  “The things sold nicely. Prices was good at the time, and a lot that wanted to set up house bid high, because, barrin’ poor utility furniture, second-’and was all you could get. Then, it came to the figure. The auctioneer was quite casual. Treated it as somethin’ and nothin’ and so did most else. But not Mr. Qualtrough and Mr. Polydore.…”

  “Why? Were they there as well?”

  “Yes, sir. You see, Mr. Polydore’s a big antique man and goes to all the sales of old stuff. There was a lot of it at The Grange. I don’t know why old Qualtrough turned up. But they was both mad for the Knight, for some reason. You’d ’ave thought they’d have had more sense and arranged things beforehand instead of biddin’ like they did. Almost fightin’ for it, they were.…”

  “And who won?”

  The bobby couldn’t control himself longer.

  “Why, Polydore, o’ course. He’s a bachelor.… Qualtrough’s married. The bachelors ’ave all the money.”

  “No need to put it that way. Mr. Polydore is nicely off. But, Mr. Qualtrough married a young wife and she spends as fast as he earns it, and more. It’s the talk of the neighbourhood. By the time it had got over a hundred pounds, he had to give up. He looked ready to kill Mr. Polydore and so did that oily Whatmough fellow who’s always with him.”

  “But a hundred pounds! It’s preposterous for a thing like that, unless it’s a valuable antique.”

  “It was old, sure enough, but after it was over, the auctioneer, Sammy Moon, who knows a thing or two about what he’s sellin’, said it was worth maybe twenty pounds at most as a work of art and less for its weight in silver.”

  “If you ask me,” chipped in the bobby, “it was the old feud. Polydore and Qualtrough hate one another like poison. Both antiquaries and both think they know best. Qualtrough never forgive him for bein’ made President of the Thorncastle Antiquaries. They just bid against one another out of spite.”

  “What do you say the figure was like, Mrs. Pennyquick?”

  “A sort of full-length man, with a broad hat and cloak and holdin’ a staff in his hand. Like a pilgrim, you might say. I can see it now.”

  “A Knight of St. John, did you say?”

  “Yes, that’s what they called it at the Hall. The little silver Knight. He didn’t look like a knight, if you ask me. No armour. Not even a sword. Just a sort of staff in his hand. But there was a sash across his breast with ‘S.J.’ on it. Saint John, you see.”

  Littlejohn twirled the empty wineglass between his fingers. A sudden excited feeling ran down his spine. As though he’d suddenly struck something very important. Yet, he couldn’t quite think what it was. Somewhere in his subconscious …

  “Have another glass of wine, Inspector?”

  “Thanks very much, Pennyquick.… I … I …”

  “Does sound a bit funny; so much money for a little image sort of thing. But it was true. I …”

  Pennyquick was mistaking Littlejohn’s preoccupation for incredulity.

  “It’s not that. I just … I’ve got it.… Are you sure, Mrs. Pennyquick, it was a knight? Could it have been a priest?”

  “Oh, no, sir. It looked more like an ordinary man.…”

  “Of course. They didn’t necessarily dress as priests.”

  Pennyquick looked at the Inspector and then at the wine. Surely, he could take more than that without …

  “It wasn’t St. John the S.J. stood for, Mrs. Pennyquick. It was Society of Jesus. The figure was that of a Jesuit!”

  THIRTEEN

  THE SECRET OF SALTER HALL

  MR. NATHANIEL POLYDORE carried on business in an old, bow-fronted, oak-beamed shop in the Cathedral Close at Thorncastle. Over the window a sign in Gothic lettering, “Nathaniel Polydore & Co., Antiques”. It all belonged to Mr. Polydore. There was no Company, but, to him, it looked better; more spacious, more powerful. A wrought-iron sign “Antiques” also swung and creaked over the door.

  Littlejohn opened the door, panelled with tiny panes of bottle-glass, and then halted. Even to get farther in the shop required skilled navigation, for it was packed from floor to ceiling with every kind of old furniture, pottery, bronzes, statues, iron-work and brass. The walls were peppered with nails from which hung plaques, jugs, plates, framed miniatures, samplers, pewter utensils, and anything else that would fit in. From hundreds of hooks in the beams dangled lustres, nautical lamps and lanterns, guns, pistols, powderhorns and cages. It was like a cave, unexplored, protected by stalactites and stalagmites and in which every step added risk and danger to the intruder.

  There was no warning bell over the door to alarm the owner and you as you entered. Instead, a ferocious, gaily-coloured parrot did sentry duty from a large cage and screeched “Shop!” every time anyone arrived, and purred “Come again!” as they departed.

  All activity had been suspended at the time Littlejohn entered. A meek little man, evidently a tourist, and a large fat lady, with “cathedral set” written large upon her, were standing wedged among the junk collection, in a state of suspended animation. In another corner a tall, thin, elderly man, with long white hair departing from the crown in a large tonsure, and dressed in a morning coat and grey trousers, both the worse for wear, and rather soiled linen, was standing before a wireless cabinet. As Littlejohn entered and the parrot gave the alarm—“Shop!!”—the long man turned irritably and gestured for silence. From the radio were emerging the wonderful, fierce closing passages of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The long gentleman was evidently at variance with the conductor and drummer concerning the interpretation, too, for he kept raising his palm with fingers outstretched towards the contraption, as though, by some feat of telepathy or television, he hoped to increase the tempo and damp down the drumbeats.

  The final chord died away.

  “You have been listening to a performance of Beethoven’s Fifth …”

  Mr. Polydore switched the thing off with a flourish, and then turned to his visitors. That gave you a surprise, for although his hair was snow white, his eyebrows were jet black and thick, and his long ragged moustache, once white, had turned yellow from too much smoking. He took up a cigarette-box before he spoke, passed it round, received no offers, took one himself, lit it, and held it fastidiously between his long, delicate fingers.

  “Thank you all,” he said in a gentle, refined voice. “I cannot revist Beethoven.… It iv like a fpiritual bath … washev away the duft of fin and evil.… Refreshev the foul.…”

  He suffered from what the experts call “lazy tongue”. He couldn’t get it round the letter “s” and sometimes his speech sounded like a foreign language. Especially when he got excited, for then “ch”, “r” and “I” followed suit and he stammered out strange expressions and cast-up words never heard before. Useless to try and transcribe him in print; we can only offer a translation.

  “Tempo far too slow … drums too noisy.… And now to business.”

  The customers seemed to understand. The little man was too meek to protest, bought a packet of those Japanese paper-balls which, when thrown in water, open out and festoon the glass with gaily-coloured flowers and foliage, paid his shilling, and made off, happy to be released. The large woman nodded as though she understood all about it and was herself in the habit of suspending her daily operations whenever symphonies were played over the radio.

  “I quite agree, Mr. Polydaw, but beeeootiful all the same … beeeeeeootiful.…”

  “Ah, I see you are one of the few, Mrs. MunroSquire,” lisped Mr. Polydore, and put his head on one side by way of questioning the visit.

  “Yaw shaw twenty pounds is the least you’ll teck faw the leetle cawved ayveries.…”

  Mr. Polydore unctuously assured the lady that he was making a loss at the price. Thereupon the lady took from her large handbag a cheque already made out for the amount, passed
it over, received a receipt and put it safely away without another word. It was all done in a pantomime of surprise, despair, thankfulness, mutual appreciation and concern. They bade each other good-bye. the parrot bawled Mrs. Munro Squire out, after she had completed a series of knight’s moves among the junk to the door, and then Mr. Polydore turned to Littlejohn. The Inspector had been appreciatively handling a chess-set exquisitely carved in red and white ivory, with oriental potentates for chief pieces, foot-soldiers equipped to the last detail for pawns, and great elephants benring castles on their backs for “rooks”.

  “May I interest you in that, sir …?”

  “No, Mr. Polydore. I’m here for something even more rare. I believe you have the Salter Jesuit in your possession.”

  Mr. Polydore immediately turned pale, his large black eyebrows flew up in horror and he emitted sounds in a strange tongue which sounded like “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Littlejohn scrambled his way through the obstacles in the shop and stood beside the antique dealer. He took out his warrant-card and passed it across.

  “I’m from the police, sir.”

  Mr. Polydore seemed to lose inches in height and gazed about him like one who has lost his bearings.

  “I … I …”

  “Have you still got the figure, sir?”

  Mr. Polydore pulled himself together, thought a little and then decided to co-operate.

  “Yes.… You shall see it on one condition …” Littlejohn understood him to say.

  “There are no conditions, sir. I want to see it. All the same, if you’ll help me, I see no reason why I shouldn’t try to meet any sensible wishes. What is the condition?”

  “That I and not Qualtrough shall be your collaborator in finding out the secret of the Jesuit.”

  “What has Qualtrough got to do with it, sir?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Agreed?”

  “Very well.”

  “Then I’ll show you the figure. Please step this way.”

  They entered a room behind the shop. It was a kind of retiring quarters and workshop. A cosy open grate with a cat warming herself on the rug, a kettle steaming on the hob, a comfortable arm-chair. The rest was almost as confused as the shop. On one side stood a large bench, covered with tools and materials of all kinds. Bottles of varnish, woodworking tackle, jewellers’ lenses, apparatus for riveting and repairing pottery. Here the damaged antiques were made good, and, maybe, new stuff made antique.

  “Sit down.…”

  Mr. Polydore took out a bunch of keys and opened a large modern safe tucked away in one corner. From a drawer inside he took a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper and thence he removed an object about eight inches tall and placed it upright on a small table near the Inspector. It tallied with the image described by Mrs. Pennyquick. A kind of pilgrim with cloak and staff. The workmanship was very fine indeed. But Mrs. Pennyquick had told of a broad-brimmed hat. This figure was headless! As though reading Littlejohn’s thoughts, Mr. Polydore further unwrapped the tissue paper, took another small object in his fingers and placed it on the shoulders of the decapitated body.

  “Ah.…”

  “So you know all about it, Inspector.”

  “No, Mr. Polydore, I don’t. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Then, I will do what I can. But first let me tell you about the condition I made. Qualtrough is a charlatan. A so-called antiquary, ever ready to pounce on other people’s findings and pass them off as his own. We are not on speaking terms and our relations have been even more strained since I was elected President of the local Antiquarian Society. He opposed me at the election and was defeated. He never forgave me.”

  “But has this anything to do with the present matter, sir?”

  Littlejohn knew all about such small-town rivalries, the petty jealousies of experts in the same field, and the way they try to discount each other’s efforts. He’d no time for it at present.

  “I’m coming to that. As you have no doubt learned, there is a legend about the Treasure at Salter Hall and one about the Headless Jesuit. These have intrigued local antiquaries for generations and caused no end of theories and surmise. We have always come against the Salters, however. The family would not allow excavations or examinations in the fabric of the Hall during the time they were in residence. They contended that the Treasure myth had been exploded long ago and were not going to be disturbed by everyone poking and prying into their home. Even requests by the various national and local antiquarian societies were refused. When, some years ago, the rhyme of the Headless Jesuit was found in an old book from the Salter library and printed in the Proceedings of our Society, that added a fillip to the matter.”

  “But what has this to do with the little figure there?”

  “I’ll tell you. Some years ago, towards the end of the Salter days at the Hall, there was a sale near Carstonwood—at The Grange, an old house of considerable antiquarian importance—and among the objects for auction were a few belongings of an old servant of the Salters. Included in these was the figure you now see. I came across it and inquired about it. I was told it had been given to the old housekeeper at the Hall by the family as a present, and was what might be called an heirloom. I examined it and found, as you see there, the letters ‘S.J.’ on its chest. Now under the lens it shows plainly that these letters have been chased on afterwards. The type of lettering is not in keeping with the time when the statuette was made. At once, it dawned on me that this might be a clue, the clue mentioned in Simister Salter’s jingle. It was hollow and might contain information about the Treasure. The idea of the Headless Jesuit also flashed on me. ‘Headless Jesuit, aid thee.’ It meant, take the head off the Jesuit and there was the clue.”

  “I see. And you found something …?”

  “Shop!!” screeched the parrot.

  Mr. Polydore with gestures of annoyance passed through the door into the shop and could be heard talking to someone. Then he returned. “Goo’ byee. Come again,” gurgled the parrot.

  “Trippers,” he said contemptuously. “‘How much is that jug?’ she says. ‘Ten pounds,’ I say. Exit.”

  “But what has Mr. Qualtrough to do with it all?”

  “He was also at the sale and, finding me interested in the figure, began to snoop around. I couldn’t very well take the thing then. It was only view-day. The little wretch evidently came to the same conclusion that I did. At the sale, he made me pay dearly for my find. Sixty pounds more than it was worth, but I determined he shouldn’t get it. I won. And since then, he has made my life a misery. Shortly afterwards, the Salters sold the Hall; Qualtrough persuaded the tenant not to allow anyone to explore the interior. He used his authority as Coroner, and said he forbade any search for Treasure Trove without his consent. The tenant swallowed it and forbade me the place. I had opened the figure and, I think, solved the puzzle, yet I couldn’t get near. Qualtrough started making offers for the figure. I showed him the door. The Hall was being used as a private asylum, which made things still more difficult. Then, the asylum closed and I found the trustees wouldn’t let me enter. Not only that, Qualtrough, in his rage, had men keeping watch against intruders. He said it was a precaution in his capacity as Coroner. That fellow Whatmough was for ever hanging around and, when he was away, the gatekeepers or other hired men patrolled the place. So, you see, I’ve never had a chance to put my theories into effect. Now, perhaps, you’ll let me, Inspector, if it lies within your powers.”

  “It certainly does, sir. But, first, I want to know the theories.”

  “I opened the figure. There was a document inside. I have it here.”

  From another part of the safe, Mr. Polydore produced a brief-case and thence several sheets of paper from which he selected one. It was a parchment bearing, in a cramped hand, very faded writing.

  Mr. Polydore produced another sheet.

  “Here is a copy in my own hand.”

  It was almost as illegible, but the eccentric handwriting had the virt
ue of being done in good ink.

  The account began without date or preamble.

  All this winter I have suspected my wife of an illicit love affair and of late days I have had the proof. It is between her and Bacon, my steward. Two days ago, I intercepted a note which Hosegood, our man, was carrying to her from him. They were about to fly together. That night I choked my wife with my necktie and placed her body in the old Jesuit’s hole which has been long disused. I then sent for my steward, struck him on the head until he lost his consciousness, and locked him in the hole with my wife’s body. I dismissed all the servants but Hosegood, saying I was leaving for London the following day, and for two days listened to the weakening cries and blows of Bacon, now conscious and perishing in his prison.

  I had determined to let the false pair of them rot together, but being troubled by my conscience, which I suddenly found I possessed, and having still, I find, an affection for my faithless wife, I opened up the hiding-place at dead of night and bore her body to the family vault, where, with the help of my faithful Hosegood, I laid her decently in an old coffin, contents of which had mouldered to dust. Having sealed this, I left her.

  Bacon I left as he had died, clawing the door and quite ignoring his one-time paramour.

  I set this down to solve the mystery of the vanishing of the pair. I wrap it in mystery as is my fashion and if the riddle is never solved the tale will never be known. I first write the rhyme leading to this figure in which I place this document. I convert the pilgrim to a Jesuit by having Hosegood, who served his time to a silversmith, carve on it the letters “S.J.” Someone cunning enough may one day discover.

  “Take up eleven”: walk eleven steps up the main staircase.

  “Eleven to three”: third panel up from the eleventh stair. This panel has a spring hidden in the bottom left corner. If the spring is rusted, break the panel. Behind is a locked door with a handle. Unlock the door with the key on the ledge of the panel. Pull the handle. The whole nine panels will fall away and the door will be accessible. Enter and God rest you.