The Case of the Demented Spiv (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 8

  “Then Francis Fenning found her. The Fennings were always a cultured lot, especially Francis and Andrew. Francis and his father were governors of the local girls’ school where Mary was a pupil and it all happened at the annual concert. I admit, she did play well.… She was thirteen, then; she’s twenty-six now. Here’s a snap taken of her about that time at a fancy-dress ball.…”

  Faddiman pulled a wallet from the pocket of his tunic and produced a photograph taken with an amateur camera. The girl was dressed as a red-cross nurse and facing the photographer with a sort of shy gravity, her head held high.

  “Yes. Very nice, Faddiman.…”

  Faddiman carefully replaced the picture and put it back in his pocket.

  “To cut a long story short, Francis Fenning, who was a musician himself, paid her fees to the Academy at London. They made a first-class player of her. It later turned out that whilst she was in London—she went when she was sixteen and spent three years in College and two with a private tutor—when she was in London, Francis used to go up and take her about a bit. He was getting on for forty, unmarried, and a man of the world. He gave her poise and taste and culture and saw to it that nothing spoiled the natural charm she had. I say this, although I’m her own father. She was always a good child and she’s grown up into a good woman, although she’s suffered a lot.”

  As a man, Littlejohn was very interested. He’d taken a liking to Faddiman as soon as he met him. Now, in this new light, he liked him better still. But as a police officer, Littlejohn wondered what all this history was about, how it affected the case, and how it was going to end.

  “She was soon playing at concerts all over the place. I’ll show you the press-cuttings I’ve collected, one day. She was a great success. She left here rather a plain girl. You’ll see from the photograph she looks just average-nice, doesn’t she? She came back a beauty. Although I say it myself, she grew up into a very lovely woman. Francis Fenning fell in love with her and asked me if he could marry her. There’s no doubt about it, she was in love with him. You knew it when you saw them together, not by the fuss they made or any undue show of affection, but there was a sort of oneness about them, a tranquillity they had in each other’s presence, as though they thought the same thoughts and saw everything with the same eyes.”

  Faddiman absently took a cigarette from his drawer. It had a cork tip and he put it in his mouth and lit the wrong end. Then, as though nothing had happened, he reversed it and lit the right end.

  “I was very put-out. The twenty years between them bothered me a lot. But my wife didn’t seem to mind. Happiness of their kind doesn’t grow on trees for the gathering, she said, and rarely comes to anybody. Let them take it. She was right. They got engaged. I always remember the pair of them. She was very proud of Francis. As well as loving him, she sort of looked up to him as the one who had given her real life and happiness. And he was proud of her beauty and talent, and relied on her. He was a bit of an impulsive and temperamental chap, prone to rashness. She kept him right, for she had a good fund of native wisdom, tact and shrewdness. Francis was always telling me that. He was killed in a hoist accident at the mill just before the wedding day.…”

  “I’m sorry.… What happened to Mary?”

  “She married Oscar Fenning, the youngest son, about her own age. He’d been in love with her, but they all knew she was Francis’s girl. The family were very fond of her. They wanted her with them. She told me quite plainly she’d never love anyone but Frank, as she called him, but was fond of Oscar. Oscar knew and accepted it. They got married and he was killed in the war. So there you have it. Mary still lives with the family at the Hall.”

  “What sort of a man is old Mr. Fenning?”

  “Hard as nails in business. A perfect tartar and the hands at the mill are scared stiff of him. But he dotes on his family. Had a stroke when Oscar was killed, but still carries on. A tough nut.”

  “Andrew and James I’ve met. Andrew follows in Frank’s footsteps, does he? A bit artistic and dilettante.…”

  “Yes. But Andrew’s fond of the women. Married an actress who lives in London still. Frank hadn’t much time for women, I gather, till he met Mary.”

  “And what of James?”

  “The business man. Following in father’s footsteps, so to speak. He’ll be like his old man when he reaches that age, if he does.”

  “Also a sower of wild oats?”

  “If he sows any, he does it on the quiet. Not like Andrew, all over the shop.”

  “I see. And now for the crime. Did you arrive at a position where Mrs. Barrow entered into the reckoning and, instead of being robbery with violence by the little spiv, it looked very much as though the Fenning family might be involved, either through some sort of intrigue with Flo. Barrow, or else a blackmail affair?”

  “Yes. I brushed aside the spiv early enough and soon unearthed the joint history of Mrs. Barrow and Andrew Fenning. As far as I could gather, Andrew had been trying to follow in Frank’s footsteps and give Flo. the benefit of his own taste and position. But it didn’t come off. Flo. was of the unsettled, guttersnipe variety, an unpleasant sort of woman, whom the relationship with Andrew didn’t tranquillise, but made discontented, with an appetite for more and more.…”

  “That’s how it was you were so rude to her on the day I arrived?”

  “Yes. I can’t stand the woman. Barrow was a decent, ordinary sort of chap, content with his lot and his music, who happened to get infatuated with her. I guess Flo. married him either out of pique against Andrew for something, or else as a stepping-stone to higher things. She gave Ambrose merry hell and he turned to a better girl for consolation, the little Lackland girl down at the mill. Nothing wrong, but just… well.…”

  “I know. I heard all about that, too, from Miss Lackland herself.”

  Faddiman’s eyes opened wide.

  “You don’t let the grass grow under your feet, do you?”

  “No. Who are these Lacklands, by the way?”

  “A very respectable family. Father’s Borough Accountant here. A stern, religious man, who rules his family with a rod of iron. Or tries to do. Vera, the youngest daughter’s a bit of a lively spark. I don’t think the old man knows much about the life the girls lead. I expect he thinks they’re going to something at the Sunday School when they go out at night.”

  “Are there only two children, the daughters?”

  “There’s a son, too. Claude. He’s something in the Civil Service in London, I think.”

  “Did you see the family?”

  “No. You understand my dismay when I found the Fenning family among the likely suspects? I didn’t know what to do. It involved Mary and all that. Awkward, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s better faced by an outsider like myself. I’d better get along to the Hall, then, and have a word with Andrew and James if they’re in.…”

  • • • • • • •

  Littlejohn showed Andrew the cloth cap handed to him by the engineer at the mill.

  “Have you seen this before, sir?”

  “Yes. It’s an old one of mine. I took it down to the office ages ago, and left it there. Why?”

  “It was fished out of the mill reservoir just after the crime.”

  “What of it? All kinds of things go in there. Dead cats, rubbish of all sorts. It might have been there for months.”

  “Oh, no. They’d have spotted it before from the engine-house. Besides, it was weighted down with a lump of iron, as though somebody wanted to be sure it would sink.”

  “I’m afraid I know nothing of it. Sorry.”

  “Where were you on the night of the murder, sir, between, say, five and six-thirty?”

  “Here at home, with the family. We dine at six. We were all in, waiting for the meal.”

  “By ‘in’, do you mean in each other’s company or just about the place, sir?”

  “Oh, about the place. We had to tidy up for the meal.”

  “So, I guess none of you cou
ld find a real alibi, then?”

  “No. Why, are we suspect?”

  “No, sir. Just a matter of formality. Is Mr. James in, sir?”

  “Not at the moment, but he’s due any time. Want to ask him the same question? The answer will be the same, I’m afraid.”

  “Have you any personal views about how Barrow might have met his death, sir?”

  “Why should I have any?”

  “He was one of your workmen. There may be something in connection with his job or relations with his colleagues which might be useful.”

  “I can’t think of any.”

  Andrew Fenning had a shrewd, intelligent face and listened keenly to Littlejohn’s questions. The Inspector soon formed the opinion that here was a man who would be quick to spot the relation of cause and effect and find intellectual enjoyment in doing it.

  Yet Andrew had nothing to say.

  James entered shortly afterwards and he had nothing to say, either. Yes, he had been at home, too. It was a bad day and he’d been reading during the afternoon. The family didn’t follow one another all over the place. How did they know they’d be expected to produce an alibi when one of their men got murdered? James got a bit impatient about it all. He laughed scornfully when shown the cap. What was that object? Never seen it before in his life. “Not even on Mr. Andrew’s head?”

  “I don’t remember it. Must have been a long time ago.”

  Finally, old Mr. Fenning was brought in in his wheelchair. He’d heard the police were there and wanted to know what it was all about. He sat there huddled among his rugs, deaf in one ear, blind in one eye, the use gone from his left side. And yet, as keen and peppery as ever. He had a rugged, hard face, like a gargoyle.

  “What are you botherin’ us for?”

  He spoke clearly through one side of his mouth.

  “Just a matter of form, sir.”

  “Form. Form. What’s a matter of form? I think this is a piece of impertinence.…”

  Goodness knows where it would have ended if Mary hadn’t come in, soothed down the old chap, and wheeled him off, protesting like a child being hustled away to bed.

  “Come along now, dear. The Inspector has his duty to do.”

  “Duty. Duty. I’ll give him duty.…”

  “Now, don’t be naughty. I’m a policeman’s daughter remember, father.”

  Old Penning was still protesting and storming as his small tumbril was pushed off to a place where he had been told his medicine was waiting for him.

  “To hell with the muck! Doesn’t do me any good.…”

  That was the last they heard of him.

  He died that night, and his medical attendant refused to issue a death certificate.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NUX VOMICA

  OLD Mr. Fenning was a very independent and stubborn man. Every night at exactly ten o’clock, the chauffeur called to carry him up to bed. He would have nobody else. He couldn’t negotiate the stairs under his own power, but once in his room, he insisted on washing and undressing himself, operations which he performed slowly and with clenched teeth sometimes. The mention of a nurse threw him into a violent rage. “I’ll turn up my toes and die when I can’t do things for myself,” he said.

  Every night Mary went to see that he was safely in bed. And about midnight, when the family retired, they called in old Fenning’s room to have a last word with him. He waited for it.

  Mr. Fenning was a homœopathist. Whilst accepting the treatment of his own doctor, an orthodox practitioner, he always said he could manage better himself. He always knew more than anyone else. So, he treated himself in his own fashion, with pillules from his private medicine chest. At the time Littlejohn visited the Old Hall, its owner was taking Nux Vomica pillules for dyspepsia. He frequently suffered from it. He was, in his fashion, an epicure, and although his bodily inactivity was not conducive to much strain on his digestion, he insisted on dishes and wines which the doctor swore would one day kill him.

  When Andrew, the first to retire this night, called to see how his father was, he found him writhing spasmodically in bed. Andrew thought it was another stroke and sent for the doctor at once. The old man died before he arrived.

  Dr. Mabane threw up his hands in horror when he heard of Mr. Fenning’s end.

  “That’s not a stroke.… It sounds like poison to me. I’ll have to notify the coroner.…”

  Old Mabane was on his last legs, too. He was a tall bag of bones whose hands trembled as he took pulses and auscultated and who had to think a long time before announcing a diagnosis. This time, however, he wasn’t long in sending for the police. And he didn’t leave the death-room until they came.

  “It sounds like strychnine to me,” he announced pompously. “The post-mortem will probably confirm that.”

  “What’s this?” said Littlejohn, picking up from the bedside table a small bottle half-full of pills. “This is labelled Nux Vomica. Has he taken it himself and where did it come from?”

  “Tut, tut,” croaked Mabane. “Those are only homoeopathic things. There’s only a microscopic quantity of strychnine in those. The whole bottleful would only give you stomach-ache. They’re freely sold by certain chemists.”

  “Why are they here, sir? Have you prescribed them?”

  “Certainly not. Mr. Fenning used to get them from Wills, the chemists in town. He had a book of homoeopathic treatment and insisted on doctoring himself. I didn’t object provided he took my medicine as well. It did him no harm to play at curing and it didn’t do to cross him or argue. He was so stubborn.”

  The police doctor arrived and confirmed the G.P.’s findings. It looked like strychnine poisoning and an autopsy would be necessary.

  “Who saw him last?” asked Faddiman, standing with his daughter by the bedside.

  “I found him in the throes, so to speak,” answered Andrew. “I thought he’d had another stroke.”

  “Who was in before that?”

  Mary said she was.

  “And were the pills then on the bedside table?”

  “Yes. He took three whilst I was here.”

  “Where did he keep them as a rule?”

  “In his pocket when he was out. He took them from time to time. Then, when he came to bed, he put them where you found them to take in the night if he needed them.”

  “So, they were accessible to anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Mabane, gathering his tackle together tut-tutted again.

  “But I’ve already said, they’re quite harmless. He didn’t get poison that way.”

  “That remains to be seen, doctor.”

  “The pills are quite harmless. In fact, I question whether they have any drugs in them at all. Perhaps it’s faith-healing.…”

  Andrew, James and the chauffeur were also there.

  “Did anyone see the old gentleman just before Mrs. Fenning came to his room?”

  “Both Andrew and I did,” said James. He looked annoyed at the questioning. He resented the suggestion that anyone in the family might have killed his father.

  “Were you here long?”

  “I called for five minutes and Andrew was up for about the same time afterwards. He always liked a bit of a chat on the day’s affairs.”

  “Did he say anything particular to either of you?”

  No. Both brothers had heard the same tale. The old man had been going through the books at the office and had found them untidy and altered. He had complained.

  “Did he refer to the alterations said to have been made by Barrow?”

  “Yes. And what do you mean by ‘said to have been made’? I thought there was no doubt about it.…”

  James was irritable again.

  “That remains to be seen, sir. Did your father mention the particular alterations?”

  “No. Just a general complaint.”

  “Did he raise it with any of the office staff?”

  “How should we know? We weren’t in when he called and he didn’t tell us.�
��

  “Very well, sir.”

  The old man’s room was the first past the top of the stairs. It was easy of access and the best room in the house. It had a private bathroom attached. The police examined the whole suite, but found nothing of interest. A number of chiming clocks struck two before enquiries ended for the time being. Nobody had seen anyone enter the bedroom except the family as already stated by them. The servants were sure of it. The chauffeur said that when he carried Mr. Fenning to bed, he seemed well.

  “Full o’ beans, is what I’d call ’im.”

  Falshawe, the chauffeur, was a little spindleshanked man. He had once been a lorry driver at the mills and had been promoted to be personal servant to his late master, He had a thin, hatchet face, a pointed chin and his nose was slightly askew. His little eyes missed nothing.

  “You were very much attached to Mr. Fenning?”

  “Yes.”

  Just that. Yes; with a wealth of meaning.

  Nobody seemed particularly stricken by the event. After all, the old man had been at death’s door several times and had returned, if possible, more obstreperous and stubborn than ever. It was almost as though they expected his resurrection again with the usual unruly and sarcastic commentary. But this time, the body was removed to the local morgue. Littlejohn pocketed the bottle of pills, too.

  “Did Mr. Fenning have his supper in bed?”

  “Yes,” said Mary. “I gave it to him and sat by him as he ate it.”

  “What was it, please?”

  “Chicken sandwiches and a glass of malted milk.”

  “Queer combination. Did he enjoy them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me, please, where they came from and who prepared them.”

  “Cook had gone. She doesn’t live in. So, I made them just before I took them up. I cut the breast from the chicken and made the sandwiches. I got the milk for his drink from an unopened bottle and the malted milk from a jar in the kitchen cabinet.”

  “And brought them straight here?”