Death in Desolation (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 4

  ‘We’ll go then. But we may need you again. In that case, we’d better call on you in your lodgings when this place is closed. We’ll let you know.’

  ‘I’m usually at home about three o’clock in the afternoon, except on Mondays and Wednesdays, when the licensing hours are extended. I’m home at four, those days.’

  ‘One other question before we go, Rosie. Had Harry Quill any relatives?’

  ‘He’d had one other brother, who died some years ago. That brother had three sons, Jerry, Herbert and Tim. Jerry’s the oldest. He’s the corporation rat-catcher in Marcroft. Herbert lives just outside Marcroft on the south side and works for the water-board. Tim’s in Branscombe, ten miles away. He’s a farmer there and seems to have done pretty well for himself. I know all about the Quill family, you see. Harry was always talking about his family. Pity he never had any children of his own.’

  ‘Which was his favourite nephew?’

  ‘Tim. He liked Tim best because he’d stuck to farming. Harry was fond of the land. He hadn’t much patience with Jerry and Herbert, who’d started in farming, but chose what Harry called soft town jobs. Jerry was the one who saw the most of his uncle. I suppose, as the eldest, he fancied he’d come into the property if anything happened to Harry. Tim was more independent. He never visited his aunt and uncle. The only contact they had was when Tim’s wife sent them a card at Christmas.’

  ‘And those were all?’

  ‘There were cousins, but they weren’t close. Harry never encouraged the family to visit Great Lands. He said they were a poor lot and Tim was the only real Quill among them.’

  ‘You never met any of them?’

  ‘No. Why should I? I know Jerry by sight. He comes to the mart hunting for vermin, doing his job, but I only see him in the distance. He knew his uncle didn’t welcome his visits to the farm, so called on the excuse that he’d to inspect the place for rats. I doubt whether he was ever allowed indoors.’

  ‘Thank you, Rosie. We’ll see you later, then.’

  Littlejohn knew she’d have a good cry after they’d gone.

  Back at Marcroft police station Superintendent Taylor was in a decidedly peevish mood.

  ‘I’ve some news for you, Chief Superintendent. I didn’t know where to find you. It’s important. Alters the whole aspect of the case.’

  He tried to keep them on tenterhooks by rummaging among the files on his desk. Finally he unearthed a slip of paper on which were written some cryptic notes.

  ‘The Black Lot were all arrested near Elrick, Aberdeen, on the night Harry Quill was killed. So they couldn’t have murdered Quill.’

  He paused for effect.

  ‘There’s no doubt whatever that it was the Black Lot?’

  ‘No doubt at all, sir. There were three of them and they answered to the descriptions circulated. They’d followed their usual routine of committing a crime at the other end of the earth from where they’d last appeared. The farm was remote and occupied by the owner and his wife, who were reputed to be well-off. But this time the black boys had missed something when they cased the place. The farmer, a man called Cullen, had two police dogs lodging with him. It seems he breeds Alsatians and has a nephew in the force in Aberdeen. The dogs had been a bit off colour and were due for a rest, so Cullen’s nephew took them to the farm for a few days and left them there on the very afternoon of the crime. When the Black Lot arrived, Cullen had the dogs with him in the kitchen and set them on the robbers, one of whom tried to shoot a dog and wished he hadn’t. The dogs dealt with one apiece and Cullen, who’s wrestled in the highland games, settled the other. A sorry set of circumstances for the Black Lot. They’ll have quite a spectacular trial when their time comes.’

  ‘Was Cullen on the phone?’

  ‘Yes; they cut the wires. It’s a wild spot and ideal for the gang, but, as the wires are often down in winter, Cullen had a second string in case of emergency. Two coastguard rockets. After he’d strung up the intruders he gave a firework display that brought up the local police from the valley. So that’s the end of their career for a bit.’

  Taylor paused for breath.

  ‘That puts a different aspect on Harry Quill’s murder, doesn’t it? We’ll have to start all over again on a new tack.’

  He sat back in his chair and waited for the reaction.

  ‘We’ve already done that, Superintendent.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘We’ve made a start by interviewing a lady friend of Harry Quill.’

  ‘You don’t let the grass grow under your feet, do you? Who is she?’

  Littlejohn told him of their visit to Rosie Coggins and the information she’d volunteered.

  ‘That’s a start anyway. Are you going to turn it over to us now or …?’

  ‘Could you do with a little help?’

  Littlejohn was thinking of Rosie and her fear of the local police. After all, he and Cromwell had established friendly relations which might be turned to good purpose.

  ‘I certainly could do with some help if you can spare the time.’

  All Taylor’s annoyance had vanished. Murders were rare in his parish and assistance from a couple of experts wouldn’t come amiss.

  ‘As the Black Lot are out of our hair, we might arrange it. This is a pleasant part of the world and a little rural work might come as a change after London.’

  ‘Right. It’s all yours.’

  Littlejohn filled his pipe and lit it.

  ‘Officially, this is a corollary of the Black Lot investigation. I’m sure someone who killed Quill hoped those boys would be saddled with the crime. We’ll give him a surprise.’

  4

  Legal Opinion

  FROM THE police station they made a round of telephone calls to the banks in the town. Did a farmer called Harry Quill … or was it Henry? … keep an account with them? One had an account in the name of Timothy Quill; another Herbert; and a third, Gerald. But nobody claimed the business of Harry. They tried the building society offices, too, and drew a blank.

  ‘Perhaps Harry’s lawyer, Mr. Nunn, will know where he kept his money,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Where’s his place?’

  Taylor showed him from the window of his office.

  ‘Just across the square in the new office block there … How did you find that out?’

  ‘From Rosie.’

  Somehow, Littlejohn couldn’t help calling Quill and Rosie by their Christian names. He might have known them all his life.

  ‘So, she was smart enough to find out all about Quill’s business affairs.’

  ‘On the contrary. She discovered it quite by accident. I’ll just walk across and see Mr. Nunn and Cromwell might try to find the rat-catcher. What’s his name …? Jerry … And see what sort of chap he is and how much he knows.’

  Cromwell bared his teeth in a mirthless grin.

  ‘I hope he’s not down the sewers.’

  Taylor didn’t think it funny.

  ‘Jerry dresses up like an official and you won’t find him digging for rats. He’s got an assistant who does the dirty work.’

  ‘What’s the name of Nunn’s firm?’

  ‘Nunn, Spencer and Nunn. You’d better ask for Mr. Leslie Nunn. He’s the family lawyer; Spencer does the court work.’

  Mr. Nunn was in and saw Littlejohn right away. He was a tall, thin man, with a lined clean-shaven face. He was a bit nondescript and Littlejohn found it difficult to guess his age.

  The premises occupied by the firm were new and many-storeyed and had replaced an ancient building which had contained a rabbit warren of offices and small warehouses. The lawyers’ suite was the best of the lot and on the ground floor. Most of the furniture was of steel, but Mr. Leslie Nunn had made an exception in his own case and set himself up in an atmosphere of antiques. The room was large, there were one or two good water colours on the walls between cases of law books and reports, and Mr. Nunn was seated at an appropriately large old mahogany desk which must have cost him a pretty penny. He looked tired.
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  ‘Take a seat, Chief Superintendent …’

  He spoke slowly and deliberately. In spite of his languor he was a tidy and careful man. Neat in his dress and neat in his speech.

  He pressed a button on a contraption on his desk and spoke into it.

  ‘Bring in the sherry, please.’

  He might, judging by the way he said it, have been ordering several barrels of it. A girl arrived with a decanter and glasses, which looked like collector’s pieces and placed them on the desk.

  ‘You’ll join me?’

  Littlejohn said he would, thank you. The drink was in keeping with the occasion, astringent, with the tightness of alum in the mouth.

  Mr. Nunn sighed again, this time with approval of his drink.

  ‘You are here on the black gang case, Chief Superintendent?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but we’ve just learned that Quill was murdered by someone else. The gang were operating elsewhere at the time and were captured there. So that means starting all over again on Quill’s investigation. I believe you were his lawyer, Mr. Nunn?’

  Mr. Nunn took a cigarette from a gold case and offered one to Littlejohn.

  ‘I’d prefer my pipe, sir.’

  ‘By all means … Before I answer your question, do you mind saying who informed you that Quill was a client of ours? He was a secretive man who almost sneaked in our office when he came. That was during our occupation of the old premises …’

  ‘A friend of his, Rose Coggins, barmaid at the Drovers Inn.’

  ‘Ah; his mistress, eh?’

  ‘She’d be very annoyed if you told her that. She swears their relations were perfectly innocent.’

  ‘I’m glad you told me. It might save some embarrassment later. I shall have to see Mrs. Coggins in a short time. She’s Quill’s sole residuary legatee.’

  If Littlejohn was surprised at the news, Mr. Nunn seemed quite unmoved about it. He sighed again and passed his hand over his thin, carefully brushed fair hair.

  ‘I’m telling you that in the strictest confidence and rather hypothetically. We made a will for him about two years ago. The farm and all the rest of his estate was left in trust for his wife and on her death, the whole passes to Mrs. Coggins. I understand that Mrs. Quill died yesterday. So, now Mrs. Coggins inherits the lot. But …’

  The lawyer paused for effect.

  ‘But … After he’d signed the will, Quill took it away with him. We have an unsigned copy here, but I couldn’t persuade him to leave the original in our possession. He may have torn it up or made another for anything I know. If it still exists, there’s likely to be a family row about it, isn’t there?’

  The idea of further litigation seemed to please Mr. Nunn. He re-filled Littlejohn’s sherry glass and his own and the very taste of his drink seemed to delight him. He crossed his legs and expanded.

  ‘We’ve been lawyers of the Quill family for generations. The deeds of their Great Lands go back to the time of the great enclosures. They were once common land, filched by a lord of the manor and sold. Quills have owned them ever since. Now, they might be about to pass from the family into the hands of a barmaid.’

  Nunn gave Littlejohn a thin careworn smile as though the whole affair were a distasteful nuisance.

  ‘It’s hardly likely that the Quill family are going to give way without a tussle.’

  ‘From what I hear, Harry Quill’s father almost lost his farm years ago.’

  ‘You seem very well informed. You’re right, of course. Ben Quill was bitten by the bug of stock exchange speculation and came a bad cropper. It took all his cash and some sales of his land to put him straight. We dealt with the affair for him. My father was then alive and handled it. Then, when Harry inherited Great Lands, he became obsessed with the idea of restoring the lost fields to the family farm. He succeeded, but beggared himself in the process. He said it was his father’s dying wish that the land be restored and he would honour it. But he hadn’t any capital left to work the place. It had grown so dilapidated that nobody would grant a mortgage on it. We tried to find someone for him, but weren’t successful. Mrs. Quill had money of her own, but he couldn’t persuade her to part with a penny. I don’t blame her. That was all they had to live on and I assume that has kept them alive whilst the farm tumbled in ruins about their heads.’

  ‘Where was Mrs. Quill’s money? We’ve searched the house in the course of our investigations, but there are no papers there. No wills, not even cash, except small change.’

  ‘We have all Mrs. Quill’s investments here, and her will, which, in confidence again, leaves all she has to her niece, Evelyn Bradley, née Quill.’

  ‘That explains some of Harry Quill’s peculiarities during recent years. Having pursued his fixed idea of restoring the farm to its original acreage, he found himself penniless and unable to work it. So, he went to seed.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But he must have known when he bought back the land that he hadn’t any funds to work it with and would simply have to watch the whole farm deteriorate.’

  ‘He knew that he hadn’t the funds, but was depending on his wife putting in her money. Remember, she, too, was a Quill and infected with the family love of the land at Great Lands. But …’

  Another dramatic pause.

  ‘But, before Harry bought the last of the land which took all he had, she’d discovered the existence of Rosie Coggins. She thought the worst of that and closed the door on him as far as help with her money was concerned. I never blamed her. If she hadn’t put her foot down they’d both have starved.’

  ‘How did Mrs. Quill get to know about Rosie, I wonder.’

  That was no problem for Mr. Nunn.

  ‘Whether Rose Coggins was Quill’s mistress or just his bosom friend, he behaved in a stupidly furtive manner about her and thus led people to think the worst. Most of the men in the market knew about his visits to the rooms above the tobacco shop in Eastchurch Street. I hear he used to enter the place looking like a schoolboy and glancing behind and over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t observed. Some people seem to have a nose for illicit goings-on. Whoever started the ball rolling, the tale soon got round the market. Which means that the Quill nephews would quickly hear about it. You can be sure one of them … my bet’s on Jerry … would be off hot-foot to break the news to auntie. As they didn’t know what I knew about the will, those boys had expectations when Uncle Harry died. They didn’t want all the inheritance they imagined waiting for them, squandered on a barmaid like Rosie. It must have been a nightmare to Jerry and Herbert. Tim is a bit more sensible and he’s wealthy and probably didn’t care a hang …’

  ‘You knew Mrs. Quill very well?’

  ‘Of course. There aren’t many Quills our firm haven’t done business with at one time or another. Even the irreproachable Tim once called for our help on a drunken driving charge arising from too much champagne at a party. Most of the Quills are teetotallers and Tim, now moving in a circle prone to cocktail parties, has renounced the family habit. Gerald, of course, is almost an alcoholic …’

  ‘Mrs. Quill, sir. What kind of woman was she?’

  ‘I believe that when she was young and before illness struck her, she was a very bonny girl. She was the daughter of Quill’s Uncle Luke and thus Harry Quill’s cousin. A lot of people assumed that Harry married her to keep the money in the family. That’s quite a habit in the rural parts of this neighbourhood. But there was more to it than that. My late father, who all his working life dealt with the legal work for the Quill family, told me what happened. The old story. Millie, Harry’s wife, was left an orphan when in her ’teens and Harry’s father, Ben, took her on at the farm as a sort of dairymaid and general help. Harry seduced her and had to marry her. The child died soon after birth and, I believe, Millie herself almost did the same when it was born. Her mother, who died a couple of years after her father, left Millie a few thousands which, as time went on, increased in size. It was well invested when she got it and she left it where
it was and it appreciated. The certificates were lodged with us and still remain here. All Harry Quill’s efforts must have failed to persuade Millie to touch her nest-egg. They lived on the income after Harry had spent all he had on his fantastic scheme of recovering the family lands.’

  ‘If Mrs. Quill was an invalid, how did she make her will and deal with other matters requiring a lawyer?’

  ‘A member of our staff went to see her at the farm. She always chose a time when her husband was in Marcroft on one of his periodic visits, so he was never present to interfere or know what was going on.’

  ‘You yourself didn’t go?’

  ‘No.’

  Littlejohn was sure he didn’t! Mr. Nunn in his impeccable black jacket, striped trousers, with not a hair out of place, and a monocle on a black cord stuck in one of his waistcoat pockets, would have been quite out of place among the muck and debris of Great Lands.

  ‘No. Our Mr. Bilbow always went to see her. They got on very well together.’

  Mr. Nunn spoke into his desk telephone.

  ‘Mr. Bilbow; kindly come in.’

  There was a pause. Mr. Bilbow seemed to be preparing himself to enter the holy of holies. Finally he arrived.

  A small man, shabbily dressed, with his features almost hidden in a short Vandyke beard. He was probably in his middle forties. He had a flushed Roman nose, which, to those who knew his history, betrayed the secret of his downfall. He had been a brilliant lawyer – still was, when he set his mind to it – but his uncertain habits had reduced him from a partnership in a good London firm to a legal hack in Nunn’s office. Nevertheless, he was almost indispensable to Nunns, for he was not only a formidable legal draughtsman, but ingenious in preparing briefs. He entered with the appearance and aroma of a dedicated whisky drinker.