Outrage on Gallows Hill Read online

  Butt, with a last gigantic effort, released the murderous cord, gulped in air and staggered to the attack again. A shoe caught him a sickening blow on the jaw and he remembered nothing more.

  The vicar of Ravelstone, carrying a black-market boiling-fowl to his hungry family under cover of night, stumbled over the body of Will Butt. The cord was tied round the officer’s throat again. He was black in the face. Hastily, the Rev. Tancred Turncote took out the penknife which he always kept sharp for household duties, and cut the twine. His hand trembled so much that he could hardly focus his torch on the scene of operations.

  Butt came to himself in Dr. Gell’s dining-room. P.C. Costain was supporting him by the shoulders as he lay on the couch. The doctor was putting on his jacket after a bout of strenuous artificial respiration, and Littlejohn, who had been taking a turn, too, was still in his shirt sleeves. The vicar was standing by, holding a fowl head downwards by its legs, and blinking.

  Will Butt looked at Costain’s solicitous, melancholy face and smiled. He gurgled something and then … two large tears formed and ran down his cheeks.

  “Joe!” he gasped, and made a great effort to open his tunic and find the incriminating report, which he now wanted to throw in the fire. He withdrew his empty hand, for there was nothing there.

  “Gone …” he gurgled, and fainted.

  Whilst all this was happening to his son, Nehemiah Butt was being taken in the ambulance to Melchester General Hospital. He had fallen through the roof of the police station into his own bedroom and, striking his head on the marble top of one of his legacies, had rendered himself unconsciousness. When he recovered the following morning he found his son sleeping in the next bed in the ward. He made as if to spring from his own and assault the slumbering William.

  “Wot you doin’ ’ere, yew silly bee? Wot the bee haitch …?”

  But P.C. William Butt slept on, immunised by his youthful training among wild animals and their cries.

  The firm hand of a nurse pressed old Butt back under the clothes and soon he, too, was snoring.

  5.

  UNCLE JONAS

  I pass like night from land to land;

  I have strange power of speech;

  The moment that his face I see

  I know the man that must hear me;

  To him my tale I teach.

  COLERIDGE

  COSTAIN had routine work to do, so he and Littlejohn parted at the door of the Golf Hotel. Inside, the Inspector found them hard at dinner. A few residents sedately eating at their own tables; a quiet pair or two of diners-out; and the rest golfers, most of them vociferously analysing their last rounds, jesting heavily with one another or shouting from table to table making arrangements for the evening’s entertainment. Many of them were too busy showing-off to notice the tepid, glutinous soup, the fish lost in sauce, and the jam roll which, described as baked, seemed toasted hard and soaked in the same white sauce only sugared and minus parsley.

  Littlejohn ploughed his way disconsolately through the meal, determined to move across the way first thing in the morning. Behind him a Jew and a Gentile, evidently in partnership, were dining and discussing the business of the past day.

  “I told him I’d pay him three quid, cash on the nail, for every turkey he could let me have …”

  “Good! Did he bite?”

  “Yes. They’ll raise a fiver apiece at you know where. I got some eggs and chickens, too. He didn’t want to play at first, but, as I said, a quid per bird, unplucked, isn’t to be sneezed at, and a penny an egg more than Board price … He saw sense.”

  “Good! Good! Nice work!”

  “I asked him what he’d take for the whole farm, cash down …”

  Here, the manager of the place approached Littlejohn, apparently eager concerning his comfort and well-being. A thick-set, red-faced, smooth fellow, with protruding eyes which, in his anxiety to miss nothing, he couldn’t keep still. He was dressed in a natty blue suit, with shirt, collar, tie and socks to match.

  “Quite comfortable, Inspector?” asked the manager, his eyes roving like those of a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  The red-faced Gentile turned pale and the swarthy, bronzed Jew changed to mustard colour. They looked at each other quickly, two minds thought alike, and, leaving their fish half-eaten and their Burgundy in the bottle, they made for the open air and off into the night as fast as their flashy car and its black-market petrol would bear them.

  Littlejohn had explained to Costain the difficulties of questioning the stricken Free family so soon after the tragedy. But he must have information as soon as possible.

  “If I was you, sir, I’d try Mr. Jonas Buffet.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Jonas Buffet, sir. Uncle of young Free; ’is mother’s brother. Both Mr. and Mrs. Free is shy people and won’t talk much. But Mr. Buffet’ll talk the hind leg off a mule. Nice gentleman, as used to run a broker’s shop in Melchester till he retired. It’s said he found some o’ the money for Ronald’s schooling. Young Free was often at his house and, I think, sort of confided in his uncle. The very man for you, I’d say, sir.”

  “Where’s he to be found, Costain?”

  “Last of the row of four cottages just between here and the station. You can’t miss it. Keep on the same side as this ’otel.”

  “I may call after dinner, then.”

  “Like as not he’ll be in, unless he’s at his sister’s helping them, like, in their trouble. But I shouldn’t think he’ll be out. His late partner, Mr. Habakkuk, calls every night for a glass o’ grog and a game o’ chess or draughts. I can’t see them breakin’ up their meetin’ even for a murder.”

  “Mr. Habakkuk, eh?”

  “Yes. Mr. Abednigo Habakkuk—Abe for short. Talk to Jonas as if Abe wasn’t there, sir, if you’ll take my advice. Very discreet, is Mr. ’abakkuk, and can be talked in front of.”

  So, after his dinner, Littlejohn made for Mr. Buffet’s cottage and wasn’t long in finding it. There was no garden; the door gave straight on to the street. Littlejohn knocked on the bright brass knocker.

  “Come in,” called a loud, fruity voice. “Mind the step!”

  The warning was timely, for the living-room was below street level and you had to go down a step. A gust of warm, rum-laden air greeted the detective.

  A large room, furnished from the pickings of Mr. Buffet’s late trade. Thick carpet on the floor. A solid mahogany sideboard and a heavy dining-table to match. A few Heppelwhite-style chairs here and there. Two walls covered with books; the remaining two ornamented with Baxter prints. The place was spotlessly clean, roomy and expensively simple.

  A large log fire, stifling in its intensity, burned in the open grate. Before it, on a table, a bottle of rum, two glasses, a tobacco jar and a box of snuff. On each side of the table, and facing the fire, two large, cosy wing-chairs, round which two faces appeared and scrutinised the Inspector.

  “Mr. Buffet?” asked Littlejohn.

  One of the faces glowed and nodded.

  Mr. Buffet was a stocky, thick-set man with a square, craggy, clean-shaven face, thick white hair and eyebrows, and blue eyes. His face was criss-crossed with fine lines and deep grooves ran from his nose to each corner of his mouth. He looked carved from knotty oak.

  The face on the other side of the fireplace was small, angular and delicately made. There was something whimsical about it and it reminded you of port wine. The chin and nose were small and pointed, the mouth large and brimming over with teeth, and the eyes cloudy grey and twinkling.

  There was a very strong bond of attachment between these one-time business partners. When they were together in the shop Mr. Buffet had earned most of the money whilst Mr. Habakkuk kept up his partner’s morale by talking philosophy and cricket to him.

  Habakkuk’s only hobby besides chess, draughts, omniverous reading, theoretical cricket, writing to the papers and collecting flints, china and coins, was scientific back-gardening. In this he was a supreme optimist. He regularly
sowed pomegranates, pineapples, melons, oranges, lemons, passion fruit and tobacco. None of them came up. But he hoped for success before death came upon him. Judging from his silky white hair and feeble gait, he and his seeds would have to hurry up.

  When Littlejohn disturbed the sitting of these two old friends, Habakkuk had been comforting the mourning Buffet with success. He had changed the tears of his companion to smiles of consolation. Not by his philosophical outpourings, however, for Mr. Habakkuk had read so much philosophy that he had got it all mixed up and never held forth without attributing sayings of Plato to Confucius and pearls from Descartes with gems from Rupert Roderick Smee, author of Power Cables to the Infinite and Telephone Messages to Heaven, but by uttering the names of cricketers of the past, many of whose photographs hung over the fireplace. He had just said “Remember W. G. Grace, Ranjitsinhji, Archie Maclaren, Victor Trumper, F. R. Spofforth, Gilbert Jessop? Remember?”

  And, like some incantation, those magic names had brought comfort to Jonas Buffet’s stricken heart. They were just going to recite another abracadabra and set about a lot of ancient score-sheets with shining eyes when Littlejohn butted-in.

  “Do you remember Archie Maclaren?” said Mr. Habakkuk to Littlejohn.

  “Rather!” said the Inspector, somewhat taken aback, but rising to the occasion. “I used to be on police duty at Old Trafford in days gone by. Wilfred Rhodes; Emmott Robinson; Whit Monday; August Bank Holiday.”

  “George Hirst … C. B. Fry …”

  They got out some beer for Littlejohn, who detested rum, and held a three-quarter-hour cricket session before Littlejohn remembered what he had called for.

  “Of course I’ll do all I can to help you trace who’s done this wretched thing,” said Mr. Buffet, in reply to Littlejohn’s question.

  Mr. Habakkuk thought he ought to add a few words of philosophy to keep up his friend’s spirits.

  “‘There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval,’ as Descartes said,” he muttered.

  “That was Santayana, not Descartes, Abe, and most inappropriate at this juncture,” replied his friend politely.

  “Santayana? Of course, of course. What am I thinking of …?”

  Littlejohn decided to put a stop to this bandying of wisdom.

  “You were, I understand, fully in the confidence of your nephew, Mr. Buffet.”

  “Yes, Inspector, until latterly. You see, I ventured to say I hardly thought Miss Cruft suitable for him. After all, the girl had tried out half the eligibles in the village and broken previous engagements. I didn’t want his career to suffer. Besides, a man wants a helpmeet as a wife, not a burden on his back. Ronald rather resented it. Naturally, I suppose, being in love. He got a bit reserved with me after.”

  “‘There are three things which are too wonderful for me, yea four … the way of a man with a maid’—Ecclesiastes, thirty, eighteen,” said Mr. Habakkuk softly and solemnly.

  “Proverbs! And not quite appropriate,” said Littlejohn.

  It was becoming a sort of game.

  “Could you tell me, Mr. Buffet, something about this Miss Cruft and her association with your nephew? It would be very helpful.”

  Littlejohn turned to Mr. Buffet, and Mr. Habakkuk shrank into his chair pondering his misquotation to himself, his lips moving noiselessly.

  “Of course. Where shall I begin?”

  “Did Ronald talk about her and her other affairs?”

  “Yes, until we disagreed about his own association with her. Abe, get us a bit of supper, that’s a good chap. Cold mutton in the meat safe.”

  Mr. Habakkuk’s face lit up and he set about his task with a will, thus removing for a short time the interruption of his random philosophising.

  “You’ve been a good friend to your nephew for a long time, sir?”

  “Yes. Since I settled down here particularly. About ten years ago. He used to call about every other night. Told me about his studies, and when he started to look at the girls he used to tell me about them, too. Why, I don’t know. Probably wanted to open his heart to somebody and found me the best listener. He’d had one or two special girl friends before he took up with Laura.”

  “But none of them likely to have turned murderous if he threw them over?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. All nice girls, who promptly found consolation with some other man, I guess.”

  “Was there any profound attachment to any of them before the Laura Cruft affair?”

  “Not to any of the young ones. No. But there was a bit of a friendship between Ronald and Muriel Paget, wife of Hilary Paget, the author chap who lives down the village. The pair of them must have met somewhere, and, as they were both interested in French literature, they got friendly. She seemed to be getting a bit keen on the boy, although I’d guess she’d be about ten years older. He told me about it and I advised him gently to drop her. I think he did. At least, I’ve not heard anything more about it.”

  “Did her husband know?”

  “I couldn’t say. If he did, I don’t suppose he’d mind. He’s a queer bird and fond of the women if what I hear’s right. Spends a lot of time at his London flat.…”

  “I see.”

  “Have you any chutney, Buffet?” came plaintively from the scullery. “I can’t stand mutton without something of the kind.”

  “You’ll find some on the larder window-sill.”

  Mr. Habakkuk could be heard rummaging among bottles and then appeared with a tray laden with the first instalment of a supper. He laid the cloth and set the dishes and hurriedly pattered out for more.

  “You’ll stay for a bite, Inspector? Now I won’t take no.”

  “Very well, sir, thank you. Good of you, I’m sure. Now, did Ronald ever confide in you about Laura Cruft’s past?”

  “Oh, yes. Until he talked seriously about marrying her, I used to listen without comment. He seemed to want to talk about her and I’d no objections.”

  “Can you give me some details?”

  “Yes. They’d known each other since they were kids. Both bred in this village. Started at the village school together, travelled on the same bus when they went to high schools in Melchester, and met at parties and such like. Ronald seemed to get keen when they both got together at Melchester University.”

  “Shall I make some coffee, Buffet?”

  “Yes, yes, yes, Abe. Let the Inspector see how good you are at it. What was I saying? Oh, yes. According to Ronnie, quite a lot of the fellows at Melchester were keen on Laura. He and she weren’t taking the same courses, but they had some common ground.”

  “Anybody in particular mentioned among the Melchester undergraduates, sir?”

  “Young Johnny Hunter was the only one in particular. He was knocking around with Laura before Ronnie. Then she threw Johnny over for Ronnie and Johnny took up with one of the girls in the village.”

  “Was that all?”

  “Among the younger end, yes. Nothing serious otherwise. But one of the professors got very friendly with her. Expect she was flattered by it, for he’s a man with an international reputation. Chap called Lever—D’Arcy Lever—a psychologist.”

  “Dear me!”

  “You may well say it. He’s sixty if he’s a day. Laura was one of his students. He got bringing her home regularly in his car when his wife wasn’t with him. His wife’s in his department at the university, too. Clever woman, who has him under her thumb, from what I hear. The professor was seen having tea with Laura in cafés and such places very regularly. It was rumoured that she was going to be his private secretary when she’d graduated. Then it all fizzled out. I guess Mrs. D’Arcy Lever had heard of it and applied the closure.”

  “Very interesting. How long ago was this?”

  “Three or four months since. Just before Laura started seriously with Ronnie.”

  “I’d better look into this.”

  Mr. Habakkuk emerged with more supplies, including a most succulent-looking cold leg of mutton and a coffee pot. He bor
e the latter like a chalice full of holy fluid.

  “Now! All ready,” he said, and they drew up chairs and fell to.

  “You’re not upsetting him, I hope, Inspector. He’s taken this badly and I wouldn’t like him bothering.”

  “No, no, Abe. It’s all right,” said Buffet, tackling his mutton and salad.

  “Remember what I told you, ‘Une indifférence paisible est la plus sage des vertus,’ as Montaigne says.”

  “If you’ll stop gibbering in foreign tongues, I’ll be able to tell you whether you’re wrong or not.”

  “‘Peaceful indifference is the wisest of the virtues’.”

  “That’s Anatole France, not Montaigne.”

  “Of course. Whatever’s the matter with me tonight?”

  “You’re more upset than I am, Abe.”

  Mr. Habakkuk seemed deeply moved either by his mistake or his friend’s solicitude and applied himself to his food without speaking again for some time.

  “So,” said Littlejohn to Mr. Buffet, “as regards the love angle of the affair, we have the following concerned: Tim Blaize, of The Bird in Hand, who took to drink after he’d been jilted.…”

  “Yes,” muttered Buffet, putting down his glass of Burgundy and nodding his head. “I ought to have remembered Tim. It was the talk of the village. He soon found consolation with other girls, but not of a permanent kind, I gather. He’s still philandering about here, there and everywhere. Not a very nice character.”

  “And then there’s Johnny Hunter, you mentioned …”

  “Yes. Johnny. Quite harmless. Decent boy.”

  “And the affair with Mrs. Paget. That might have gone farther than most people thought.”

  “Yes. It might have done. She might take the rôle of the woman scorned, although it’s rather straining the imagination to think so.”