Murder Makes Mistakes (The Inspector Littlejohn Mysteries Book 10), page 18
“Please get me a seat on the same plane, will you? If it’s booked up, tell them I must have one. Police work and urgent. You’ll see to it, won’t you?”
“Certainly. A pleasure, sir.”
“And thank you for your prompt help.”
Scotland Yard came on half-an-hour later.
“We’ve traced Cassell, Priest and Co., sir. Exporters, as you say. Managing director is a man called Priest, who lives at Cobham. He was in when the police there called. He says Beeton is on their staff. He goes over to France mainly. Paris, Lyons, and Marseilles. He’s not away for long at once. Overnight mostly. The rest of the time he puts in at Birmingham. They have an office there and one in Manchester, where he also looks after their shipping. They aren’t in a very big way and Beeton serves the three places.”
“Splendid! Good work. Thanks for being so quick about it.”
Littlejohn was drinking a last cup of coffee with Mrs. Groves when Tandy returned. The Inspector didn’t know whether to laugh or weep about the latest news.
“It’s funny, sir, if it wasn’t so tragic. It was just as you said, and more besides. It looks as if Cank tried to poison his wife by swopping the bags, substituting salts of lemon for bicarbonate. Mrs. Cank didn’t know. But Cank likes Cornish pasties and she doesn’t. She made him a large one to-day. I asked her if she used bicarbonate of soda in it. Yes, she did. She makes her own baking-powder. Tartaric acid and bicarbonate of soda. She did it to-day and put Cank out.”
“Good Lord! Divine justice.”
“But that’s not all. Her conscience had been troubling her again and she confessed she wasn’t in the village, but indoors when it all happened. She lied in a panic because she thought we’d blame her for the disaster. When he began to be ill, she mixed him a cracking big dose of what she got from the bicarbonate packet, and poured it down his throat! She’s as dumb as they make them and wouldn’t know the difference.”
So Cank was hoist with his own petard.
14
THE FAMILY MAN
Littlejohn’s trick of thinking last thing of the time he wished to awake the following morning, worked again. He opened his eyes at half-past five, got up, and washed and shaved. Then he sat by the window and watched through a chink in the drawn curtains for things to happen at Rushton House.
At just after six, the curtains of the upper room were pulled back, and Mr. Beeton looked out to see the kind of day. It was slightly misty and the sun was shining. Not a soul about.
Beeton then began the routine with which Littlejohn was now so familiar. The pottering around, the packing of the bag, the careful way of stowing away the personal articles of travel, the snapping-to of the catches, and the locking of the case. Then, the pale face of Mrs. Beeton appeared round the curtains, too, looking out. She turned to say something to her husband and then apparently got back in bed. But first she glanced uneasily across at the closed curtains of Littlejohn’s room and seemed satisfied to see them thus.
The little drama continued, the same repertoire. Mr. Beeton entered the space illuminated by the rising sun. He had a cup in his hand now and was eating as he stood looking out. He seemed to like his toast! Now and then, he glanced over his shoulder at the figure in the bed. He took a cup from the thin hand, filled it again from a pot on the dressing-table just to his right, and passed it back. The pair were quietly breakfasting together.
Act 2. The taxi arrived. Littlejohn could hear it on the road far away, gradually drawing nearer. Beeton looked out, said something to his wife, bent to kiss her, and then disappeared. The taxi drew up, the driver rang the bell, and Beeton opened the front door, his hat on his head, his coat over his arm. The taxi-driver took his bag and put it in the taxi. Mrs. Beeton waved from the upper window and watched them depart. Then she drew the curtains and the little scene was over.
Littlejohn descended softly. The hotel was quiet. Only the dripping of a loose tap somewhere and the tick of the clocks. Instinctively, he tapped the barometer in the hall which stood at ‘Fair’, and it rose a fraction. Good flying weather. He let himself out and went for his car, which he had left in the park behind the night before. Soon he was on the way to Ringway Airport, a matter of ten miles away.
The Superintendent hated disguises; they made him laugh and, had he been forced to use them, he would have felt self-conscious. Now, however, he put on a pair of dark glasses, in case Beeton had seen him before.
There were plenty of travellers astir. Business men on their way to London for a full day’s work after an early arrival. At the desk, he calmly showed his warrant-card. The girl in charge nodded and handed him a boarding-ticket.
“The plane was booked-up, sir, but you can sit at the back if that will suit you.”
“Fine.”
He entered the restaurant and ordered coffee and toast. Beeton was there eating another breakfast of rolls and tea. He looked quite calm, hardly noticed Littlejohn, and began to read the morning paper. Then the loudspeakers announced the flight and they made for the plane. Beeton went along leisurely, his lips pursed in a whistle, swinging his arm and slapping his thigh with his newspaper. He didn’t seem to have a care in the world.
At Elmdon Airport, Birmingham, it was just the same. A free and easy manner, a whistle on his lips. Beeton passed Littlejohn without a glance, claimed his bag, and took a waiting taxi.
A small unmarked police-car had been laid-on for Littlejohn. “Just follow the taxi ahead. Don’t hurry or let him suspect we’re behind him.”
The taxi in front continued its peaceful way towards the city. Then, just as the houses began to thicken, it suddenly stopped.
“Pass it and stop in the next road off...”
It was a bit of a surprise, but Beeton suspected nothing. He dismissed his cab after paying the fare, walked for a few hundred yards along the main road, and then turned off and made his way through a maze of side-streets. Littlejohn followed. He had now taken off his dark glasses, his coat and his hat, and was strolling casually in Beeton’s footsteps. Still his quarry went ahead. Then he entered an avenue of small semi-detached houses with gardens in front. New property in which the occupiers were struggling to make lawns grow and flower-beds flourish in the thick clay soil. Evershed Avenue. Every house painted a different colour outside. Green, blue, red, cream... A perfect rainbow of decorations. Beeton stopped at a house marked Little Meadow, a pious hope, a figment of imagination, but by no means real. He took a key from his pocket and opened the door. A smooth-haired fox terrier dog met him and started to jump and prance around him in delight. He shouted something and closed the door.
The street was beginning to wake up. Workpeople were on their ways and hurried to join the buses which passed the end of the road.
Littlejohn sauntered along smoking his pipe. An electric milk-van arrived, the man running in and out delivering full bottles and collecting the empties from the doorsteps. He stopped at Little Meadow and left two bottles. Littlejohn met him higher along the street.
“Is there a house called Little Meadow about here?”
The dairyman removed his fag and smiled happily.
“Yes. Just by the second lamp along there... Name’s on the gate. You looking for the Hardcastles?”
“That’s right. Are they at home?”
“Yes. He’s back from his travels, too. There was a note ordering two bottles. They usually only have one when he’s away. He goes abroad a lot.”
“Yes, I know. He asked me to call if ever I was in Birmingham. It’s a bit early, but not too early, I hope.”
“You’ll be welcome. Nice people.”
“I only know him. I’ve not met his family.”
“Wife and two unmarried daughters. Rather plain girls, but they’d make good wives. I must be gettin’ along. Don’t forget. The one by the next lamp but one.”
Littlejohn strolled comfortably down the road and rang the bell of Little Meadow. It was a spring affair and rattled on the back of the door. A pause. And then a woman appeared. About thirty or so, and obviously one of the plain daughters spoken of by the milkman. She was all smiles, probably expecting the postman, but her face grew serious when she saw who was calling.
“Good morning. Is Mr. Hardcastle at home?”
“Yes. He’s only just got in. He’s been abroad and travelled back home overnight. Who shall I say it is?”
“Mr. Littlejohn. I’m a business friend. He told me to call one day. Sorry I’m so early, but I’m leaving Birmingham this morning.”
“Come in, then. I’ll tell dad.”
She was tall and had a good figure, but was as plain as could be. Her hair and complexion were uncared for and her hands spoke of what might have been drudgery. She looked to have got straight up from bed, washed cursorily, and twisted her hair into shape in a hurry. But she kept smiling. It lit up her face and made you forget her defects.
She held the door open for him and he passed inside. He was bewildered indeed. He’d expected something funny, perhaps shady, about Beeton’s existence, but never this. Hardcastle. Dad. Little Meadow. It was quite fantastic. And there was more coming.
The house was small and modern. Two entertaining rooms to the right, and a kitchen at the end of a lobby. Upstairs, presumably two bedrooms, a bath, and a boxroom. The kitchen door was open and the girl hastened to close it, but not before the two people there had taken a good look at their visitor. They evidently lived part of the time in the kitchen, for Littlejohn got a brief glance of Beeton, sitting at one side of the table, his coat and collar off, eating a meal of what looked like bacon and eggs. On the other side, a woman was also taking breakfast. A buxom woman, with her elbows on the table, chuckling at something Beeton had said. She, too, was untidy, after the fashion of her daughter, with a soiled overall over her blouse and skirt and her hair grey, bunched and anyhow. Beeton seemed quite at home and might have been mistaken for the lodger had the girl not called him dad.
“I’ll tell him you’re here. Will you come in the front room?”
It faced the street and gave a good view of all that was going on. A stuffy room, apparently little used except on special occasions. There was a large settee with two armchairs to match, all in faded loose covers; a table full of china knick-knacks, a light oak cabinet containing the best tea-set and all kinds of odds and ends of pottery and little figures. A large porcelain figure of an Alsatian dog on the window-sill, pictures of Switzerland framed on the walls...
The girl had gone to get her father. Beeton put in an appearance and now wore his collar and coat again. An empty curved pipe dangled from between his teeth as though he’d put it in his mouth to keep him in countenance. He was a pleasant, likable sort of chap, in spite of the mystery about him. He eyed Littlejohn uneasily.
“I don’t know you, do I? And yet I seem to have seen you somewhere before.”
No use beating about the bush.
“You’ve perhaps seen me in Rushton Inferior, sir. I’m from the police.”
Beeton’s pale puffy face slowly lengthened and then flushed suddenly as though he were going to have a stroke. Then he grew calm, removed his pipe, and shrugged his shoulders. A look of resigned despair replaced the smile he’d assumed when he entered.
“Don’t say anything here, please. It would kill them. My wife’s not well as it is. Her heart’s bad...”
Looking at him, Littlejohn was amazed. Hardcastle was quite a different man from Beeton. The man before him had shed his assumed suburban polish and was now a modest middle-class workman, who ate in the kitchen of a two-up and two down, and took off his collar and coat the better to enjoy his breakfast. He even spoke differently, or rather, he had a different way of addressing you. The gentle way he used with Mrs. Beeton had been replaced by an almost cocky, self-confident manner of a man who is boss in his own house and knows what he wants. He was more at home in Little Meadow than playing a part in Rushton House.
“What are you going to do?”
“You’d better tell me all about it, Mr. Hardcastle...or should I say Beeton?”
“You can please yourself, only don’t let them know. I couldn’t stand it. I’ve known that sooner or later it would all come out, but I hoped one of us would die before it did. I wish I’d died rather than this happen. I can’t talk here. We’d better go somewhere... Or are you going to arrest me? I don’t know whatever to do.”
He looked utterly bewildered and talked rapidly in his panic, his thoughts turning this way and that, as though trying to find a way out or a bolt-hole in which to escape. Beads of sweat shone on his globular forehead and his jaw trembled.
“You’d better make an excuse, then, to come out with me Mr. Hardcastle, although I can’t see how this matter can be kept secret. I presume it’s bigamy, or worse. You can tell them I’m a friend from abroad, if you like. But I warn you, I have my duty to do and you need not make any statement if you don’t wish.”
“Please cut out the formalities. I’ve heard ‘em all before. I want to tell you everything and get it off my chest.”
“Anything you say may be used in evidence, you know.”
“I’m not being arrested yet, am I?”
“No. But I want a full explanation of all your queer carryings-on here and at Rushton.”
“All right. Where shall we go?”
“That’s up to you, Mr. Hardcastle. Is there a park nearby where we can take a walk?”
“There’s a recreation-ground two roads away. We could go there.”
“Very well. Come along.”
“You won’t say anything to them, will you?”
“No.”
“You’d better come and meet them, then. My wife and daughter. I’ve another, a typist in the city. This one, Betty, stays at home doing the housework. My wife’s heart won’t let her do much. She’s been bad a long time. I’ll say you’re a friend.”
Littlejohn followed him into the lobby again and then into the kitchen. The women were there washing-up the breakfast dishes, Betty washing and Mrs. Hardcastle wiping them lazily. There was an atmosphere of torpid comfort about the place. She turned to meet Littlejohn.
“This is Mr. Littlejohn, a business friend of mine, Myra. He was on his way through Birmingham, and just thought he’d call. We’ve a bit of business to talk-over, so we’re just going for a stroll in the recreation-ground.”
“I’m sure I’m pleased to meet you. Any friend of Martin’s is a friend of mine. But you needn’t go out. There’s the front room. We won’t disturb you, will we, Betty?”
“Of course we won’t. I’m surprised at dad. Him and his funny notions.”
She laughed outright, as though her dad were a huge joke, a joke which all the family enjoyed together. There was a general air of easy-going camaraderie about them all, marred now by Hardcastle’s anxiety.
“Have you had any breakfast?”
“Yes, thank you. I had some in the city.”
“You must excuse us being here and the place all untidy. Dad suddenly turns up and wants his meal and can’t wait. We just had to set it here for quickness. We’re not always like this, you know.”
She talked to him comfortably, as though he were already a familiar friend.
“I’m sorry to impose myself on you so early. It’s not fair.”
“Don’t mention it, Mr. Littlejohn. So long as you don’t mind...”
A heavy woman, and slow and bad on her feet. And yet there were remains in the face, which might have been aged by pain, of a good-looking, a bonny young woman, good-tempered and with a sense of humour. The kind one would not care to hurt or harm. Hardcastle had certainly landed himself in a mess!
“Come back for a cup of tea if you’ve time, then. You’ll see he comes back if he’s time, dad?”
“Yes, Myra.”
Hardcastle was keeping his end up well, but there were limits, and Littlejohn was anxious to get him away before he broke down and caused a scene.
“Shall we go, Martin?”
Hardcastle gave Littlejohn a grateful look.
“Yes. Won’t be long, Myra.”
“Well good-bye, Mr. Littlejohn, just in case we don’t see you again. Come any time. Any friend of dad’s is welcome here. You’ll have to take us as you find us, you know. Homely people, no trimmings.”
Hardcastle bade her good-bye just as fondly as, earlier, he’d parted from Mrs. Beeton. Except that he gave her a more rousing kiss on the mouth. She looked taken-aback and blushed. Then Hardcastle turned on his heel and made for the door, Littlejohn following behind, as though Hardcastle had forgotten him.
The recreation-ground was not far away. A piece of waste land, turned into a children’s playground, tennis-courts, and a bowling-green by the local authority. The bowls and tennis sections were deserted, but already children on holidays were romping and shouting on the swings and other contraptions erected for their play and pleasure. There was a seat in a quiet spot by the bowling-green. The two men sat down. It was growing warm and the sun shone over the patch of pleasant grass and birds were singing in the bushes which separated it from the rest of the park.
“Now, Mr. Hardcastle... Is that your real name, by the way?”
“Yes.”
He looked utterly dejected. His body had sagged and he had lost all his well-kept appearance. He turned his agonized brown eyes on Littlejohn.
“I don’t know where to begin...”
“At the beginning.”
“All I can say is, my name’s Hardcastle. I’m married to Myra, and I have two daughters, Betty and Flo. I’ve been married to Myra thirty years.”
Looking at him, all gone to pieces, Littlejohn couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t the type for an adventurer. In his black jacket and striped trousers he’d looked, at Rushton, like a prosperous business man with means and culture behind him. Now, he was a little clerk again, trying to keep his end up, respectable and decent. Nothing of the lady-killer or reprobate about him.
“The trouble is, I’ve always had ideas above my station. I always wanted to be more than I was, to have more money to spend than I’d got, to live above my means. I couldn’t do it with Myra. She wouldn’t play that game. She believes in being what she is.”
