Murder Makes Mistakes (The Inspector Littlejohn Mysteries Book 10), page 13
Littlejohn smiled as he filled his pipe. Stubbs was an excellent man for coming-across people and overhearing what they said. It seemed to happen in the ordinary course of business with him.
“She’s a bit of a hot-line, if you ask me. Married to an old man, she fancies her chances with the younger ones. And ready to take ’em, too. There was none of the...well...you’d call it passion, wouldn’t you...?”
“I don’t know, Stubbs. What do you call it?”
“Passion. There was none of that between her and the doctor, like there was between her and the chap she had with her at the hunt ball. Red-hot, they were. In spite of the fact that he was a much older man, too. But virile, he was, believe me. They was almost eatin’ one another up with it.”
“You knew the man she was with?”
“Of course. He’s a member of the hunt and often used to stop here with them. Hasn’t been out lately, though. Been ill, though I hear he’s picking up again, now. He’s a gentleman farmer out Rushton way. Name of Wise.”
10
FRIENDS FALL OUT
Before he left Siseley, Littlejohn entered the telephone box near the village green and put through a call to the Wiston police. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Stubbs watching him through the window of the Royal George, obviously wondering what it was all about and why the Superintendent hadn’t used the instrument in the pub.
“Hello!”
A bored voice answered at the other end of the line. The police clerk soon changed his tune when he learned who was speaking.
“Yes, sir. Inspector Tandy happens to be in. Excuse me. I’ll get him.”
“Any news, sir?”
Tandy couldn’t wait for an exchange of civilities. He sounded disappointed at Littlejohn’s questions.
“Yes, I know who Wise’s doctor is; I’ve seen his car at Wise’s gate of late. He’s been ill, you know. It’s Dr. Cruickshank, of Wiston. Yes...”
“Yes, sir. Flowerdew has acted as locum for him now and then. Why? Have you traced the anti-clotting tablets?”
Littlejohn thereupon asked the date of the last Siseley hunt ball and if Flowerdew had deputized for Cruickshank recently.
Both inquiries were easy to answer. Tandy had been to the hunt ball himself last December. And as for Cruickshank, he’d been away to the Bahamas for a month in March, and Flowerdew had taken on part of his work; in fact he had attended Cruickshank’s patients in Rushton Inferior and Superior. They were near his home. Yes, he’d probably attended Wise.
Tandy delivered a parting shot.
“The news about Mr. Twigg’s death and the autopsy were given to the newspapers last night, sir. The reporters had got on to it somehow and there didn’t seem any sense in keeping on denying it. The village should know all about it by now. It’ll be in the late morning editions. That’ll shake ’em a bit.”
At Rushton Inferior, the atmosphere had certainly changed when Littlejohn got back. Mrs. Groves, for one, was annoyed with him and let him know it.
“You might have told me last night. I would have kept it secret till you said I could tell people. You are a very naughty man.”
Two reporters from London had booked rooms at the Weatherby and another couple from Manchester were staying at the village pub. One was sitting in the lounge writing near the window with one eye on the street. Another was in the telephone box dictating to his paper. And a press photographer was emerging from the chemist’s.
Mrs. Groves kept flitting from one to another, smiling and chirping in her usual fashion. Then, the chairman of the Rural District Council arrived and asked for Littlejohn. At the mention of the Superintendent’s name, all the newspaper men abandoned what they were doing and crowded round.
But the Chairman was going to have his say first. He was an old man with a grey goatee beard and nicotine-stained teeth.
“I hope you’ll soon find out who’s done this dastardly thing. It gives the locality a bad name. Who are all these men in raincoats?”
“Reporters.”
“Good God! The whole of England will be reading about the affair for days now. The village will be crowded out with a lot of undesirables full of morbid curiosity. Are you anywhere near solving the case?”
“It’s officially in the hands of Inspector Tandy, of Wiston, sir. He’ll be able to give you a report.”
The Chairman was obviously suffering from nerves, like everyone else in the village. First a shooting affair; now a death from poisoning in a very subtle manner. They wondered who’d be next.
“I don’t want panic to spread in the neighbourhood. I hope you arrest somebody soon.”
The newspaper men couldn’t wait any longer.
“Give us a break, Super. Any news or clues?”
“Will you go away!”
The Chairman hadn’t finished with Littlejohn.
“It’s out of my province to give you orders, but you must solve the case at once. Everybody’s suspicious of everybody else. If this goes on nobody will dare to go out after sunset. As for Tandy. Well, I did hear that you’ve rather left him out in the dark. He doesn’t know quite what you’re doing.”
Littlejohn had had enough.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I must go. I’m merely here to look after my colleague who was shot the other day. He’s in hospital in Manchester and I’m due to see him shortly.”
The newsmen were swarming round the telephone again.
“Panic breaks out in the little village of Rushton Inferior. This pretty spot has a killer in its midst... Got that? Put it under headlines, it’s hot news. And say Superintendent Littlejohn of the Yard is in charge of the case... Got it?”
Turner passed the door trundling a barrow. He’d let it be known he was the murdered man’s gardener, closely in his confidence, and ready to talk for the price of a pint or two. So far, nobody had bitten, so he was pushing his vehicle here and there in case they did.
Littlejohn made for the door. The Chairman called after him.
“Please keep me informed.”
Cromwell was asleep when Littlejohn arrived at the infirmary and he didn’t care to wake him. The sister gave a good report. The sergeant was making good progress and perhaps to-morrow would be able to talk to the Superintendent for a bit.
“He seems anxious to have a word with you. He kept worrying the night sister about his dead uncle. Something about his having a weak heart as well as a bad stomach. Sister thought he was growing a bit delirious and gave him a sedative. However, perhaps, as I said, you’ll be able to put his mind at rest to-morrow.”
Then Littlejohn went to pick up his wife and Mrs. Cromwell and take them back with him to Rushton.
The afternoon was hardly a success. Mrs. Cromwell was worn out with worrying about her husband and how the children were getting along in her absence. She hardly knew what she was eating at lunch, and kept looking at her watch as though anxious for it to be visiting-time at the hospital again. Even Mrs. Groves’s false gaiety did nothing to improve the atmosphere. The newspaper men, having discovered that Cromwell’s wife was in the village, kept trying to get a story from her, as well. It took Mrs. Littlejohn all her time to keep Mrs. Cromwell in good spirits. And then the Chairman turned up again and asked for Littlejohn.
“Any more news?”
The Superintendent took his guests back to Manchester at five o’clock. He had hoped to get accommodation for them at the Weatherby and Mrs. Groves had been eager to find it, but it was obvious Mrs. Cromwell wouldn’t be happy so far from the infirmary.
“I’m sorry, Tom. It hasn’t been a very cheerful afternoon for you. Things will be better in a day or two.”
He felt a bit nettled. His wife wasn’t looking too good either. A few days in Rushton would have made all the difference.
He got back to Rushton in time for dinner. The place seemed to have altered. All the peace and quiet had gone since the news of Twigg’s murder had got about. Mrs. Groves seemed to be keeping out of his way and the maid attended to him at dinner. He wished one or two others would keep away, too.
“Any news?”
First one and then another newshawk accosted him, and a photographer snapped him leaving the Weatherby. One had the cheek to ask if it would be any use going down to the hospital to see Cromwell.
To mend matters, it started to rain. The sky turned to dirty grey and night came on early. It was quite dark when Littlejohn got out the car and set out for the Bull and Bush.
Charlie Bragg met him in the passage.
“Glad to see you again, Super. If it’s Mr. Twigg’s old pals you’re wantin’, they’re in the Kennel all on their own. It’s a sad night for them. The news is terrible, isn’t it? Poor old Twigg. Bumped off, was he? Whoever could have done it? I guess you’ll soon know, if you don’t know already. This way...”
Bragg had been drinking again and staggered as he walked.
“The Superintendent, gentlemen...”
Wainwright was on his feet right away. He shook hands with Littlejohn and took him by the arm.
“Good job you’re here, Superintendent. They need a man like you to find out who murdered poor old Twigg. Staggering news... Did you know about it before? Perhaps that’s what really brought you to Rushton?”
“No, sir. I merely came to see my friend after the shooting.”
“Wonder if the same chap committed both crimes. Perhaps a maniac... What do you think?”
Temple and Wise were quiet and thoughtful. They greeted Littlejohn cordially, too. They seemed to derive comfort from his being there.
“Glad you’ve come, Superintendent. What will you drink?”
Wainwright brushed Temple aside.
“On me. Where’s Carrie? Carrie! Carrie!!”
The girl arrived.
“Three beers, and the usual for me.”
They gave him a chair by the fire. Outside, the rain was falling in sheets and a wind had sprung up and was plastering the rain on the windows.
“But how could anybody want to murder poor old Twigg?” went on Wainwright. “And the way it was done, too. That was a crafty thing, wasn’t it?”
Littlejohn looked sharply at Wainwright.
“The way it was done? Is there something in the papers about that, too? I haven’t seen one.”
“No. It just said there’d been a post-mortem and there was every reason for suspecting Twigg had been poisoned. But it seems Cank has been talking. He got drunk in Rushton Inferior this afternoon. It was the newspaper men who’d been plying him with whisky and pumping him. Cank said something about a drug being used that made poor old Twigg bleed to death internally and that it might easily be mistaken for, say, a burst ulcer. Is that true?”
“We’ll have to wait until the inquest.”
The waitress brought the drinks.
“Poor old Twigg.”
Wainwright couldn’t get over it.
“Had he any enemies?”
The other three men looked at Littlejohn incredulously.
“What, Twigg? No. One of the best.”
“But you were telling me last night that Mrs. Groves had a rod in pickle for him.”
Temple suddenly woke up.
“But surely she wouldn’t want to murder a man for that? She got over it years ago.”
“Yes, that’s right. I can’t see Mrs. Groves having brains enough to concoct such a cunning idea... At any rate, where would she get the drug from? I believe it’s hard come-by. Your health, Superintendent.”
Littlejohn didn’t answer the question about dicoumarin. He was anxious to get more information about Twigg.
“Did he get on well with his wife?”
Wise looked up and took a swig of his beer.
“They seemed to hit it off very well.”
Wainwright wasn’t going to let that pass.
“They might be described as comfortable enough, but you know what happens when an old man marries a young woman. He’s apt to get jealous and she often tends to turn her eyes to younger stuff once the newness of the marriage has worn off.”
Wise flushed.
“You know there was nothing of that kind with the Twiggs.”
“Wasn’t there? What about Clinton? He and Twigg’s missus were very thick with each other. Only quite recently they’ve been seen about together.”
“Did Twigg know of this, sir?”
“Yes, he did. He didn’t seem to mind much. ‘Provided it’s only the doctor’, he once said. He said it here. The other two will bear me out.”
Temple nodded.
“I remember it. I recollect we thought it was a bit odd. We asked him why such implicit trust in the doctor. He simply said, perhaps his wife liked a bit of fresh company now and then, especially if it was a younger man’s. It would keep her alive... Those were his words.”
“He trusted the doctor?”
“He said he did. He liked him. Said he wasn’t the philandering sort.”
“Did he trust his wife, Mr. Temple?”
Wainwright butted in.
“I’m not so sure about that. Are you, Wise?”
“Why bring me in it? I know nothing about it. He never mentioned such things to me.”
“But you were here once or twice when he actually talked about leaving the village and going to live at the seaside, because his wife seemed to be getting bored... He’d had a drink or two and spoke more freely than usual. You were here, Wise. Don’t you remember?”
“I must have forgotten. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter now. Twigg’s dead and past caring.”
“I remember it.”
Temple nodded and ordered more drinks.
“You see, Littlejohn, Mrs. Twigg’s a damn good-looker, even though she’s no longer a chicken. I’ll bet she had a few adventures before she took up with Richard. She’s that sort.”
Wainwright’s eyes sparkled at the very thought of it.
“Of course she’s not. You’re simply talking for talking’s sake. What do you know about Mrs. Twigg before she met Richard?”
“Keep your hair on, Wise. No need to get annoyed. We’re men of the world and we know her kind when we meet them. Personally, I was disappointed when Twigg brought her home. It was asking for trouble and now the poor fellow’s got it.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Look here, Wise, we’re all friends together here and we say what we like. I’m not drunk and you know it. I suppose you’re peeved because it seems disrespectful talking like this of the dead. But you ought to remember that poor Richard’s been murdered and our friend Littlejohn here is going to find out who did it. We ought to talk to him freely. It’ll help him.”
“I said you’re drunk, Wainwright, and you’ve no right to talk about a woman like that in the mess.”
“Well, I’m damned! The man’s come all over gallant! Why the sudden change, Wise? You were as sorry as we were because we thought Twigg’s new wife wasn’t up to his standards. Don’t say you’ve fallen for her, too.”
Wise pulled himself together.
“Don’t be idiotic, Wainwright. What would a man of my age be doing chasing skirts? I’m not that sort, either.”
“Twigg did, and he could give you ten years. You never know, Wise, what a man’s going to do. Age doesn’t matter in these things, you know. Does it, Littlejohn? Your glass is empty. Carrie! Carrie, same again all round.”
“Well, I can’t make head or tail of it.”
Temple, who had drunk more than usual, looked completely befuddled.
“Well, I can. There’s only one person could have done it. And that’s Mrs. Twigg herself. It’s obvious...”
Wise rose to his feet.
“You’re at it again, Wainwright. Give the woman a chance. Why should she kill her husband? He treated her well and they got on well.”
“Sit down. The party’s not over yet. We’ve things to discuss. You were asking why Mrs. Twigg did it. I’ll tell you. Twigg told me he’d left her all his money, unconditionally. That’s motive enough, isn’t it? He was a rich man. Temple there will tell you. He used to ask Temple’s advice on investments. Didn’t he, Temple?”
“That’s right. He did. Once he asked me to run my eye over his investment list. I was staggered. He was worth about seventy-five thousand pounds. He’d a flair for speculating on the stock exchange. That’s in confidence, of course.”
“And there’s another reason, too. You both know, as well as I do, that Twigg was getting as bored with his wife as she was with him. He married her under romantic conditions, didn’t he? Cruising in the Mediterranean. But life’s not a long cruise, is it? They’d got to live together, hadn’t they? Well, it didn’t come off. You chaps know it didn’t. Twigg much preferred our company to his wife’s by the time he died. Now don’t tell me he didn’t. He counted the hours to our meetings. Any time he could arrange some little excursion or an extra meeting, he jumped at it. He was bored to death with her. But not only that. She was bored to death with him, too. With Twigg out of the way, she could have a whale of a time. All that money and still not too old to enjoy it, still damn’ good-looking. She’d motive, excellent opportunity, too, to put the stuff in his food or drink, and by God, she was hard enough to do it, too. Twigg was good to her, but if she wanted to get him out of the way, nothing would stop her. Suppose she’d got another lover on the q.t...”
Wise was on his feet again.
“I’m going. I’ve had enough of this. It’s not fair to put a rope round her neck, especially in front of an officer of the law. It’s not good enough. Give her a chance, for poor old Richard’s sake. What do you suppose Twigg would have said if he’d known you were going to try to get his wife hanged for his death?”
“He’d have thanked me. You and Temple weren’t as close to Twigg as I was. We were both men of the world and we talked about the things of the world. There wasn’t much went on that Twigg didn’t know about. He wasn’t born yesterday and he wasn’t blind. He knew all about the men in Mrs. Twigg’s life, before, and after he married her. You don’t think he was fool enough not to make inquiries about her past before he asked her. He knew he certainly wasn’t the first.”
