Death in Desolation (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 9

  Evelyn was large, dark and plump and built like a Renoir woman but less ornamental. She had a long oval face, brown eyes and the Quill nose and mouth, one slightly snub and the other large and full-lipped. Normally, her expression was querulous and sulky; now she was smiling as though delighted and surprised to see her aunt.

  Joe was nondescript. The sort you’d pass in the street without another look. He seemer smaller than his wife, although measure for measure, they were about the same height. He was the father of four grown-up and, as yet, unmarried girls, and was domineered by his five women. ‘What are you two doing here?’

  Joe made a gesture indicating that he didn’t really know. But Evelyn was ready to explain fully, very fully.

  ‘We’ve been insulted by the family. It seems to have got around that Aunt Millie’s money’s coming to me. That Bilbow has drunk too much and has been talkin’ a lot. I’ve been accused of soapin’ round Aunt Millie for what I could get and rejoicin’ at the present murder tragedy because it’s brought her money my way quicker …’

  The brandy glass was still in her hand and she took a sip of its contents like a hen drinking. Joe was indulging in tonic water with a slice of lemon floating on it. The lemon embarrassed him and he put his fingers in the glass and held it firm every time he took a drink. They were, officially, Quill teetotallers and Evelyn had to explain.

  ‘I’m upset. It brought on my spasms. Brandy is the best medicine. The doctor said …’

  ‘Sit down and don’t make excuses. Enjoy your brandy and never mind having signed the pledge. You knew I was coming here, didn’t you, Evelyn? And you came to see what it was all about, didn’t you? Tell the truth.’

  Evelyn cleared her throat with affectation.

  ‘We wished to pay our respects to you before you went home. We haven’t seen you since Uncle Pharaoh’s funeral.’

  Aunt Clara turned to Littlejohn.

  ‘Have you interviewed this pair yet? You should, you know. Evelyn was the only one of the family admitted to Great Lands and then only when Harry was absent. That’s right, isn’t it, Evelyn?’

  Joe, still making a two-handed job of his drinking, had replaced his hat on the back of his head and sat meditating upon his slice of lemon as though he’d never seen the likes of it before.

  ‘I used to call on my aunt whenever I could. She was lonely and helpless and Uncle Harry treated her shocking. Nothing wrong in that, was there?’

  ‘No. It kept you in her good books, didn’t it?’

  Evelyn’s eyes filled with tears. It must have been the brandy, for, with a stony face such as hers, tears surely came hardly.

  ‘Don’t you start picking on me, Aunt Clara. I’ve had enough insults from Florence to last a lifetime.’

  ‘So, it was Florence, was it?’

  ‘She’s always the same …’

  ‘Well, we won’t discuss your drunken quarrels any further. This is Superintendent Littlejohn, who’s here to find out who killed your Uncle Harry. Do you know?’

  Joe merely shook his head dolefully, but Evelyn reared angrily.

  ‘You aren’t suggesting that we had anything to do with it, are you?’

  ‘Had you?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  Evelyn started to pant with emotion and her copious bosom rose as though another of her spasms was coming on.

  ‘I don’t know who did it and I can’t even guess.’

  ‘Come, now. What about Jerry?’

  ‘You mean the police think he …?’

  ‘I don’t mean anything. Or do you think it was that woman he was keeping at the Drovers Inn?’

  Joe’s face suddenly illuminated and then the light died and left the same downtrodden expression as before. He took a cigarette from a battered packet, lit it and sat there for a minute with it dangling in his mouth. He might have been quite alone. He showed little interest in any of them. A plebeian edition of Mr. Nunn, who seemed equally bored by what was going on.

  Evelyn was obviously interested in the line the conversation was taking, but trod warily as became her modesty.

  ‘You mean she might have killed and robbed him?’

  ‘And then carried him to his own farmyard and left his body there? I always said you were short of intelligence, Evelyn.’

  ‘I know I was never a favourite of yours, Aunt Clara, but …’

  ‘Did your Aunt Millie know what was going on?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know how, but she did. She once asked me what Rosie Coggins looked like.’

  ‘And you threw the book at your aunt?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I just told her. She just said “Poor Harry, trailing after a girl like that, trying to keep dark what was in the wind. People must be laughing at him …”’

  Littlejohn sat taking it all in. If Aunt Clara wished to do all the talking she could continue. She was better qualified in that respect than the police.

  ‘You don’t think your Aunt Millie killed Harry?’

  Evelyn lost her temper with Aunt Clara for the first time. She threw discretion to the winds and turned on her.

  ‘It’s wicked of you to say such a thing. You know as well as I do that she had no strength. She moved about the house by crawling on her hands and knees. It was pitiable to see. She wasn’t capable of killing anybody if she’d wanted to. And she’d never want to. She was a saint, was Aunt Millie, and don’t you be making evil suggestions about her. I won’t have it.’

  ‘All right. All right. Don’t lose your temper, Evelyn. We’ll change the subject. Did your aunt know that Harry had any money?’

  ‘No. She had to keep him herself from her own little bit. It was a scandal. If he couldn’t run the farm, he was fit enough to get a job and keep himself and his wife. Instead, he spent every penny he could lay hands on on that woman at the Drovers.’

  ‘And you were the only person who ever visited your aunt?’

  ‘Except that Bilbow man from Mr. Nunn’s office, who used to go to see her about her bits of money. He took her cash up now and then and talked what business he had to do with her. That’s all … Oh, and Jerry … He sometimes went up there pretending his job made it necessary for him to inspect the state of the premises concerning vermin. He was never allowed in. Aunt Millie had no time for him and Uncle Harry chased him off whenever he saw him about …’

  Aunt Clara was becoming bored with Evelyn’s company and thought it time to be rid of her.

  ‘Well, Evelyn, it’s been nice seeing you, but you’d better go now. I’ve business to talk over with these two gentlemen and as it’s private, I’d like to get on with it on our own. Good day to you both.’

  The pair of them looked as if they didn’t know what their next move must be, so Aunt Clara shook hands with them and they, in turn, shook hands with Littlejohn and Nunn. Then, still carrying their glasses they tottered across the polished flooring with hesitating steps and made their exit, still holding their drinks. A waiter hurried to relieve them of their burdens and they quickly drank the contents.

  Joe seemed to have tried to eat the lemon in haste, for he vanished choking and holding his chest.

  ‘Thank heaven they’ve gone. I never liked Evelyn. Always had ideas above her station. And Joe …’

  She turned and addressed Littlejohn.

  ‘You wouldn’t think, that in his youth, Joe Bradley was the liveliest lad in the district, would you? Chasing the girls and up to all sorts of mischief. Since he married Evelyn she’s reduced him to a block of wood, a sort of stooge for her gossip. Today, however … Well, I’ve never seen Joe looking so worried and so quiet. As a rule, he’s an echo of his wife, just nodding agreement or confirming all she says. But today he might have been struck dumb. There’s something in the wind. There’s a lot on Joe’s mind. And it’s not Millie’s money. You ought to talk to Joe on his own. Don’t let Evelyn get anywhere near, or she’ll spoil it all. When he’s away from her, he’ll talk like any other rational human being.’

  ‘What does he do for a
living?’

  ‘He’s a cabinet maker and a very good one, too. He works for Lovedays in the High Street. They’ve a workshop in the alley behind the shop. You’ll find him there most days …’

  She paused and wiped some flecks of foam from the corners of her lips.

  ‘You ought to get to the bottom of what’s bothering Joe … And now I’m going. I’ve been so busy and talked so much that I’ve exhausted myself. And I haven’t had any food.’

  She looked hard at the clock.

  ‘It’s nearly half-past two. I told Lingard to bring the car round at one-thirty. I expect he’s got himself booked by the police for obstructing the square. Just go and see if he’s there, Nunn.’

  Nunn called a waiter and told him to do it and the man quickly returned to say that Lingard was waiting in the hall and the car was in front of the hotel annoying everybody.

  ‘It looks as if you might have to deal with a parking matter for me in court very soon, Nunn. Help me up and then the pair of you can give me an arm apiece as I cross this silly polished floor.’

  They saw her into the hall where her chauffeur, a shifty looking customer like an ex-jockey, was waiting for them. He seemed devoted to his mistress, however, and received her with a solicitous smile. She left them whilst she went in the room evasively labelled by the enterprising management Ladies’ Powder Room.

  ‘Wait for me. I’ll need help to get in the car.’

  She turned to the chauffeur.

  ‘Go and open the door, Lingard. Don’t hang about.’

  She was not long away and the two men took an arm apiece again. It was then that Aunt Clara slipped a folded card in Littlejohn’s hand. He quickly transferred it to his pocket. He retrieved and examined it when he’d seen the pair of them off.

  It bore a message written in pencil on a visiting card in spiky handwriting.

  I couldn’t get rid of Nunn. I wished to tell you that we ought to discuss this matter further in private. I am available at any reasonable time at the address given here. C.B.Q.

  8

  Cromwell Among the Mourners

  CROMWELL WAITED in the shadow of another large memorial covering a spacious square grave with a forgotten rose bush blooming profusely over it. He waited for the next move and it soon came in the shape of Bilbow, who seemed to be killing time until all the mourners had sorted themselves out ready to adjourn for the customary meal. Aunt Clara, Littlejohn and Nunn were receding in the distance.

  ‘Has he left you behind to capture some local colour?’

  Bilbow had been drinking. He wore a dark grey tweed suit and a black tie, both of which had seen better days. With his beard and aggressive manner he looked like a modernised replica of Captain Kettle.

  ‘Why don’t you join us for a meal? I’d be grateful if you would. You’d be congenial company for me.’

  Cromwell accepted without much enthusiasm. He was thinking that there must still be money and influence somewhere in the Quill family if the funeral of a decrepit member like Harry could command the presence of Nunn and turn his chief clerk into a master of ceremonies.

  ‘We’d better wait here until we’ve seen what the local newspapers call the floral tributes …’

  Most of the group were studying the floral pile set out on the grass near the grave and reading aloud the remarks on the accompanying cards. Several of the throng were checking the names of the senders and seemed to have such long memories that they could detect at once those who had omitted their offerings or who were newcomers at this time. The absentees were discussed freely and much of their dirty linen was washed. One group of the Quills was concerned with who had thrown the first handful of earth on the coffins and why and when, and others were intrigued by the single red rose which had somehow appeared at the end on Harry’s modest casket.

  ‘It must have been from that woman. But how did it get there?’

  ‘I saw Bilbow throw it on when he thought nobody was looking while the pastor was saying the prayers …’

  As if, at any time, anybody could elude the careful watch of the Quills!

  There was universal concern at the behaviour of Aunt Clara, who’d gone off without a word to anybody.

  ‘She’s getting senile. She was a nobody till she took up with Cousin Algy. After the carryings-on between those two before they got married, she’s no cause to cast the first stone …’

  There was some discussion among the more artistic Quills concerning the originality of a verse which had been written on a card attached to a wreath from Mortimer Quill, the family poet laureate, and which Cromwell remembered long after the rest of the case was forgotten.

  We’ll remember you, dear Harry,

  And your useful life recall.

  Now there’s nothing left to answer

  But your photo on the wall.

  Except for the little corner where the black-clad Quills were holding court, the cemetery had a gay look. The trees were green and shady, the flowers on the graves were rioting with colour, the birds were singing and crowds of shouting children running about the paths gave the place an animated, almost festive air.

  The gravediggers were busy filling up the double grave of Harry and his wife and one was whistling as he shovelled the earth.

  The first conference adjourned, the matter of transport was next on the agenda. Some had come by bus or train; others by vehicles of all ages and sizes. The latter had now to be removed, by order, from the cemetery car park and their owners were seeking a place for them in a spot nearer the café where the feast was to be held.

  It was like a rally of old crocks. Most of the Quills were either of modest means or else thrifty and ran their transport until it disintegrated. Motor bikes and sidecars, old models of now unheard-of designs and dimensions, saloons on their last legs, old vans large enough to accommodate modest quantities of livestock. Some well kept; others rusty and decrepit and splashed with cow-dung and mud. Tim Quill’s new red convertible stood arrogantly among the lot.

  There was an agony of rattling starters, clouds of petrol, shunting here and there and quarrelling and banging. And then they’d all gone, except Luke Quill and his exasperated wife and two daughters, whose car wouldn’t start on any account and which a number of men were pushing, emptied of its vociferous women, to the edge of an incline which they hoped it would coast down to activity.

  When Cromwell and Bilbow arrived at the Good Companions Café, most of the family were there and seated in their places. The pastor, a hungry man, had already said grace and they were waiting for someone to give the signal to fall-to. Cromwell had resisted Bilbow’s persuasions to take a glass of something on the way there.

  It was a second-rate place with a confusion of small tables covered with soiled plastic cloths and decorated with artificial flowers and spread with seedy cutlery. The meal was a cold one; cold meat and wet lettuce, tinned peaches with ice-cream, then coffee, and no more. Some of the mourners regretted straight away that Harry and Millie wouldn’t be pleased with that kind of send-off.

  Cromwell and Bilbow sat together at a table of their own in the place of honour near the podium on which long-haired guitarists performed every Saturday night. In view of family tradition, water only was available to drink and stood in thick cheap glass jugs for their refreshment. Bilbow regarded them with obvious distaste. Some of the throng, however, had called at pubs on the way there and drunk a few parting toasts to Harry and his wife. These rebels were easily identified by their behaviour, and their coarse humour and noisy talk was censured by the more discreet members of the family. Bilbow had taken more than a few drinks. He was quite talkative and Cromwell took the opportunity of asking him a few questions he’d been wanting to put since they left the cemetery.

  ‘You’re a friend of Rose Coggins?’

  Bilbow chewed at his ham and lettuce contemplatively as though choosing his words.

  ‘In a way. I’ve had to keep in touch on account of Harry’s relationship with her …’

&nb
sp; ‘Information for Mr. Nunn?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Only I heard somebody say you’d put a rose on Harry’s coffin on behalf of Rose. A bit risky, wasn’t it?’

  Bilbow shovelled another forkful of food through his beard and spoke with his mouth full.

  ‘She asked me to do it. She was fond of the old boy and it pleased her, though I didn’t quite agree with it in view of his wife’s body being in the same grave.’

  ‘She was more than just fond of him?’

  ‘Well … yes.’

  Bilbow was in a matey, indiscreet condition of semi-intoxication and the general atmosphere of the party, with everybody being confidential at the tops of their voices, seemed to stimulate him to disclosures. After all, he and Cromwell were colleagues, strangers at the feast, representatives of the law, the police, investigations …

  ‘The old boy’s dead and buried now. The truth will do him no harm. Of late, there’s been an affair going on between Harry and Rosie. They grew quite fond of one another; two lonely people so to speak. Although Harry was a queer fish for a girl like her. Still … No accounting for women’s tastes is there?’

  Bilbow paused in his eating to give Cromwell a sad, almost tearful look.

  ‘No. He left her all he had, I believe.’

  Bilbow savagely cut up the rest of the ham on his plate.

  ‘He hadn’t anything. Even his farm was mortgaged …’

  There was a sudden uproar of unseemly laughter from a table nearby at which Tim Quill and another man, who was a stranger to Cromwell, were entertaining the two best-looking women in the room. They must have been part of the family, although they didn’t in the least resemble the rest. They were both dressed with the full knowledge that mourning assumed with taste becomes a woman. They were young, lavish, good-looking and aware of it. They resisted all the efforts of the drab members of the party to repress them. Tim and his companion were enjoying themselves.

  Bilbow looked at the revellers with sad appreciation.

  ‘Tim’s off the leash today and he’s making the most of it.’