The Case of the Headless Jesuit Page 17

  They both laughed heartily. First good laugh I’ve had in weeks, thought Macduff. Must get out more.… However, next.… The man with the cough. The aniseed fiend. Grimly the doctor drew his prescription pad to him.…

  R. Tinct. capsici m.X.

  That ’ud settle him. Warm him up and give him a change.…

  Cromwell was hurrying across the road to the “Royal Oak”. Littlejohn was out. He was sitting on a hard wooden chair in the bakehouse of Mr. Ephraim Davy, who, pipe in mouth, was keeping vigil over his ovens.

  Alveston’s body had been taken to the mortuary, and with the help of Phyllis, hastily summoned, the news had been broken to his deserted wife. Strangely enough, she had received it well. It seemed as though, having spent so long not knowing where he was or what had become of him, her mind was more at rest now she knew his wanderings and infidelities were over. The inquest on the morrow would be held by Mr. Qualtrough, but unassisted by Mr. Whatmough. The Coroner’s assistant, his face lacerated by Mr. Polydore’s nails, and his body bruised by the fall, was confined to the house. His antagonist, who had fallen into the priest’s hole nethermost, had suffered concussion, a bleeding nose, and the rupture of his top and bottom sets of dentures. He had shut up shop for some time and, with blinds drawn, malevolently converted new furniture into antiques with the help of secret varnishes and a cunning little drill which created false wormholes.

  And so, part of the case was solved. It appeared that Alveston, having lost his job and finding himself on the rocks, had returned to his former haunts to wring money from his wife, for the purpose, he had said, of emigrating. Mrs. Alveston, briefly informed of his death, had gone so far as to say that he had called on her once and tried to get money from her. She had none handy and he had said he would come back, and that she’d better have fifty pounds waiting for him to be going on with. She’d been weeping about it when Mr. Granville came in. He’d asked her what it was all about and, having nobody else she could tell, she’d said how Alveston had turned up and what he wanted. At that, Mr. Granville had grown very excited and said he was the very man he’d been seeking. She’d said, maybe Alveston was hiding at the Hall; he knew a lot about it and might be in one of the secret rooms. With that he’d gone off to the Hall, and when he came back wouldn’t say anything except that he was seeing Alveston later. That was on the last day of the old year.…

  So, there it was. It fitted in. It looked as if Salter and Alveston had met and Alveston, for some reason, had killed Salter. It seemed as if Pennyquick’s theory about Alveston’s killing Plucock was right, too. The constable’s baton in the priest’s hole bore it out.

  And then, someone had killed Alveston.

  Two of the murders had, therefore, been provisionally accounted for. Yet, things were as bad as ever because the biggest nut to crack was, who’d killed the killer!

  “That’s right. Hall ready, now.”

  “Eh?”

  Littlejohn had been sitting brooding over the case until Mr. Davy had completed his vital task of preparing the staff of life for his customers. He’d made it plain to the Inspector that until the bread was out, he couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

  “Me heart’s in me job, sir,” he’d declared. “And I can honly do one job at a time. Take a seat, sir, and ’ere’s the h’evenin’ paper. They won’t be long before they’re done.…”

  Mr. Ephraim Davy, having consulted his watch and some dials on the side of the great gas ovens in which his masterpieces had now matured, pulled a lever and the several doors of the contraption opened, revealing row after row of risen loaves, nicely browned on top, standing in tins. A wave of heat leapt from the shelves and suffused the bakehouse, temporarily taking Littlejohn’s breath away. Mr. Davy took out a sample on a wooden shovel, tested it and grunted with satisfaction. Then he began to unload them and spread them out to cool. This went on for some time.…

  “Now, sir. Jest ten minutes. Then another lot.…”

  Crickets began to chirp in the bricks of the bakery, and a cat sleeping on a sack of flour rose, arched her back and disappeared into an inner room.

  Mr. Davy puffed pleasurably at the pipe which never left his mouth. He was in his working clothes, a kind of clean white suit, and if he’d taken a header in his flour bin he couldn’t have been more smothered in the raw product of his trade. It was in his hair, eyebrows, moustache, and there were rings of it round his eyes.

  “Now, sir!”

  “It’s about the man you say you saw with Mr. Granville Salter the night he was killed. You’re sure he was a small, stocky man?”

  Mr. Davy, beneath his coating of flour, managed to convey the impression that he was deeply hurt. The corners of his mouth fell, his powdered eyebrows rose, and his eyes protruded more than ever in his chalky face.

  “I’m not in the ’abit of givin’ false information to anybody. Police or not police. In this village I’m known for me integrity.”

  “I’m not doubting what you say for a minute. Don’t think that, Mr. Davy. But the Rev. Smythe, the curate, said it was a tall man about the size of Mr. Granville. Could it be that two men met him?”

  “No, sir. Certingly not. I was there all the time. S’matter o’ fact, I’ll tell you somethin’. We was in church by twenty to twelve, singin’ hymns to pass the time. I’ve one weakness, sir, and I see that you indulge the same. I’m a big smoker. Maybe wrong to be so much in the grip o’ nicotine, but I’m as you might say, wedded to me pipe. Smoke at work, smoke at play, and, I must admit it, I get up in the night sometimes to ’ave a smoke. Well, a quarter to twelve the cravin’ come on me, and as it was my turn to let the New Year in the church, I thought I might as well take a few minutes extry and smoke till twelve. Which I did. I stood in the night at the chapel door and smoked me pipe. I saw all that went on as could be seen, which wasn’t much.”

  “You saw Salter and the stocky man and nobody else?”

  “I saw the Rev. Smythe as must have been goin’ in church just after I come out. Mr. Salter and the stocky man was there then talkin’. I couldn’t see what they was doin’. All I see was shadows. I didn’t know it was Salter till I heard what ’ad gone on. Then I knew I seen him.”

  “And do you think Smythe saw them?”

  “Sure. I was quite a distance across the road, but Smythe passed close by. Could hear what they was sayin’ if he’d a mind.”

  “Very well, Mr. Davy. I’m glad you confirmed that. It helps quite a lot.”

  “Do you know who killed Mr. Granville?”

  “I think so. But I’ll not commit myself, yet. That’ll come later.”

  “Funny goings on in this village for a long time. I hope you solve it all. Maybe the police can rest then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Three murders.… Oh, yes, I hear about Alveston bein’ found at the ’All. The place is cursed. First Plucock, then Mr. Granville … and that stranger chap … and now Alveston. That’s four!! I’ve lost count of ’em. Do you know, I saw Plucock goin’ in the Hall the day he was killed, too.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. Deliverin’ bread at the lodge. Happened to look up t’wards the big ’ouse and there was Plucock trying the front door. Then he went round the back. Thought nobody saw ’im, but I did. That’s Andy Pennyquick’s beat, not his, I thinks. And then I forgets all about it till now.”

  “Well, sir, it’s nine and I must be gettin’ in my last lot o’ loaves. Else I’ll be late up and miss me little read before bed.”

  “Yes, Mr. Davy. I’ll be off. Reading anything interesting?”

  “Encyclopædia, sir. Nothing like an encyclopædia. I’m readin’ mine from cover to cover. Surprisin’ what learnin’ there is in the world. Trouble is, as soon as I’ve learned one lot, I forget another lot. All the same it’s fascinating, sir. At present I’m up to Navigation. Used to have a little boat in the estuary and did a bit o’ fishin’ myself, but I never knew there was so much in sailin’ a ship.… Marvellous.…”


  Littlejohn bade him good night and went out into the dark, leaving Mr. Davy still pop-eyed with wonder at the vast deep of human knowledge.

  Phyllis Alveston answered Littlejohn’s knock at the door when, ten minutes later, he called at their home, having, meanwhile, met Cromwell, who was waiting for him over a pint of beer and gave him the doctor’s message. Meg, the sheep-dog, followed closely on her heels and greeted Littlejohn with a great agitation of her rear quarters, for she had no tail with which to signify joy in the usual canine way. It was all settled. Littlejohn was to take the dog when he left. His wife had already fallen-in with the idea and she had written only that day to say that the owner of their Hampstead flat had granted them a concession, they could keep the dog there, although it was contrary to the usual regulations. After all, it was as well to keep in with the police.… Meanwhile, Meg was lodging with the Alvestons, rather against Mrs. Alveston’s will. She didn’t like dogs, poor woman. She didn’t know what she was missing!

  Mrs. Alveston was in the sitting-room, in one of the large, uncomfortable-looking arm-chairs, with a rug round her knees. She looked apprehensively at Littlejohn when he entered.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Alveston. How are you?”

  “Only middlin’; only middlin’.…”

  “I can only say how sorry I am about the death of your husband and I hope you will be willing to help us in finding out who was responsible for it.…”

  “I’m in a maze, sir. I don’t know hardly what I’m doin’. I can’t say I shall miss him, after bein’ without him all these years. But he was my husband, all the same.… The Lord hath given, the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  “Do you feel fit now to talk about him and matters concerning him, Mrs. Alveston?”

  “Yes.… But it depends on what you ask me.”

  She was beginning to tremble a little with the usual nervous spasms from which she suffered, but Littlejohn, forewarned by the doctor, pretended not to notice them.

  “Your husband visited you of late?”

  “Yes. Two days before Mr. Granville was killed.”

  “He wanted money from you. Was that all?” Phyllis, who had been standing-by taking it all in, now spoke. “And she kept it all to herself. If she’d told me, maybe I could have done something.”

  “I told Mr. Granville.… He said he’d help.”

  “Did he say exactly how he hoped to meet Mr. Alveston again?”

  “No. But my husband said he’d be back in a day or two. He never came back though.”

  “Will you tell me now, why Mr. Granville was here?”

  “You might as well tell him, mother. She’s told me all about it, Inspector. It doesn’t matter now, does it, seeing that Granville’s dead …?”

  Phyllis spoke bitterly and in a choking voice, and hurried from the room.

  Mrs. Alveston began to weep.

  “I’m that poorly, sir. Don’t ask me any more tonight, please. I’ll tell you all to-morrow.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Alveston, to-morrow won’t do. We’ve waited far too long. Had you told us all you know, we might have prevented much of the violence in this village.…”

  Littlejohn faced her squarely. She sobbed a bit and then grew calm.

  “All right.”

  “Phyllis isn’t your daughter at all, is she? She’s the daughter of Margaret Salter and was changed when your own child died.”

  “Yes. Alveston and me promised we’d never tell.”

  “You kept to your part of the bargain. Others have told me. Did you receive any consideration in money for it?”

  “Yes. The family trust paid us three hundred a year.…”

  “Three hundred!”

  “Yes. Alveston arranged it all. Then, when he left me, I got letters with addresses at post offices, saying I was to send him half or he’d come to the village and tell it all. I couldn’t let him do that for Phyllis’s sake and Miss Margaret’s. So I sent it to the addresses he gave.”

  “You posted it off when you went to see your sister?”

  “Yes. How did you find out?”

  “I guessed it, hearing of your journeys. Why, if he had such a regular income, did he come for more?”

  “He said ’e was goin’ abroad and wanted another hundred or two.”

  “And now, will you tell me, please, why Mr. Granville came here at Christmas time?”

  “He wanted Phyllis.”

  “And you wouldn’t agree.”

  “Accordin’ to the Prayer Book, a man can’t marry ’is cousin. I wasn’t bein’ no party to a sin. I’d tell him nothing, because I knew if I said she was ’is cousin, they’d wed, whatever I wanted. He thought maybe she was ’is sister. Mr. Gregory havin’ a bit of a name and things … untrue things … once havin’ been said about Mr. Gregory and me. He said he’d get to the bottom of it another way. That’s why he wanted to see Alveston, I’m sure o’ that.”

  “Did Mr. Granville ever mention the Salter Treasure?”

  “Yes, in a bit of a joke. Said if ’e found it, the family would soon be in the old home again. He said he’d got some good clues about the treasure if any there was.”

  “Did he mention what clues?”

  “No. But when I said Alveston ’ad been here, Mr. Granville said maybe he was hidin’ in the Hall, not wantin’ to be seen about the village on account of what he’d once done. Now he’s dead I might as well tell you that he ’listed for the first war on account of bein’ wrong in his estate accounts by some hundreds. Mr. Gregory found it out, so Alveston fled off. Mr. Gregory never told the police out of regard for me, but Alveston didn’t know that. It kept ’im away from the village. Not that ’e wanted to come back to me. There were other women. That I knew. When Alveston come by night, I didn’t tell him the police knew nothing of his crimes, so he went off to hide somewhere.”

  “And Mr. Granville went after him.”

  “Yes. ’E said, maybe Alveston was hidin’ in one of the priests’ holes. He’d just found how to get in one of them and would try.”

  “Did he find Alveston, then?”

  “No, sir. But ’e found the hiding hole. Alveston wasn’t in it. But somebody had been there of late, because Mr. Granville said he’d found chocolate packets and tins of food there and signs of somebody in it. He also showed me a policeman’s truncheon. I asked what it was for. Mr. Granville said maybe Alveston had got it from somewhere and used it for protection.…”

  “A policeman’s baton, eh?”

  So, that was why Alveston had killed Granville. He’d found Plucock’s truncheon, dropped in the fight in which he died, and accused Alveston of the murder.

  “How did Mr. Granville seem when he came here? I mean after he found the hiding-place.”

  “Very cut-up. He said if Alveston came again, not to let him in. To keep the door locked and not tell Phyllis what had happened.”

  “I see.”

  Mrs. Alveston was sobbing again.

  “I’ve been a good mother to Phyllis. She can’t say I haven’t. Nobody could ’ave been better. I wasn’t lettin’ her marry in sin. Besides, ’e was far above her station.…”

  “Hardly, if she was his cousin.”

  “That didn’t matter. It was how she’d been brought up with servants of the Hall and her illegitimate.… Besides, Phyllis could have ’ad plenty better. Good men there was wanted ’er, and would have made her far better husbands.”

  “Such as?”

  “Her own boss’s son in Thorncastle would give his eyes for her. Mad about ’er. And a lot of other nice young men from round about in good jobs and not ruined gentry, either. And there’s Mr. Smythe, too. He wants her bad, but she wouldn’t even look at the poor man because of Mr. Granville. It was a shame to see poor Mr. Smythe.”

  “You mean Smythe, the curate here?”

  “Who else? A very nice young man, too. You might think he’s a bit timid and queer, but that’s his nerves. He was a chaplain in the war. Went over with ou
r boys on ‘D’ day, he did, and won the M.C. for bravery. She might ’ave done worse with a man like that.”

  “Did Mr. Smythe know she loved Granville?”

  “I guess so. He came here and asked me for ’er. Then, he proposed to her and she said there was another. He must have known who it was. All the village knows. To see Granville and Phyllis in the village together was enough.”

  “Did Smythe think Phyllis was your daughter?”

  “I guess so. I never told him anything else.”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “Yes. ’E called to-day to say how sorry ’e was. Seemed very cut-up about it. And his nerves terribly bad. Like a ghost, ’e was.”

  “You’ve nothing more to tell me, Mrs. Alveston?”

  “What more is there? I seem to ’ave told all I know.”

  “By the way, how did your husband come to know the hiding-places in the Hall?”

  “He was a handyman and often did jobs indoors. He looked after a lot of the fabric afore we was married. Said ’e’d found places there as would be useful if ever ’e wanted to disappear.”

  So Alveston, in the course of his work, had probably found the old priest’s hole and used it when he needed it. Old bones for company would mean nothing to a callous man like him.

  “Well, thanks very much, Mrs. Alveston. I’m sorry to have troubled and upset you. We have our work to do, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. I wish Phyllis would come back to me. I feel that poorly.…”

  Phyllis, her eyes red with weeping, came from the kitchen to let Littlejohn out and, as he bade her goodnight, shook hands with him cordially to show him she still thought him her friend.

  FIFTEEN

  MISS MARGARET

  MRS. HENRY LACEY, née Margaret Salter, lived in a flat in a mews in Kensington. Her husband was one of those invisible powers whose names are rarely heard except in certain closely confined circles. He was a retired diplomat, whose work had been so good during his days at the Foreign Office, that he was retained as unofficial adviser to untrained politicians, who, suddenly finding themselves rocketed into office and with the life and well-being of a whole world in their grasp, turn to find a steady hand to hold and guide them. Henry Lacey spent most of his time on the Continent, where conference after conference held him tied. His wife usually kept him company, but, refusing to spend Christmas anywhere but at home, had paid a flying visit to the little oasis they kept over a stable in London. There, Littlejohn was lucky enough to find her when he called.