“What’s he want, Duff? Can’t it wait?”

  “He says it’s urgent, sir.”

  Tandy hurried out and was soon back.

  Beeton turned apprehensive eyes on Tandy.

  “Has it something to do with me?”

  Tandy took no heed of him, but whispered to Littlejohn.

  “You’d better tell him, and then we’d better go along. We’ll take Beeton, too.”

  Tandy’s eyes looked harder than ever.

  “Mrs. Prentice went in to see to your wife a little while ago. She found her dead. She’d taken an overdose of sleeping-tablets.”

  Beeton rose to his feet, making little whimpering noises. Then, he sat down at the desk, put his head in his arms, and began to sob. Dry harsh sounds, like those of a wounded animal. Then he stopped, rose, and stood stiffly, like one at attention.

  “I’m sorry. She needn’t have.”

  Littlejohn took him up.

  “If she hadn’t, you would have persisted in taking the blame for the shooting of Cromwell, wouldn’t you, Beeton?”

  Beeton started and his loose mouth tightened.

  “I want to see her. I’m not answering any more questions till I’ve seen her. My poor Elaine. I want to see her.”

  It was as if he thought they were trying to trick him by pretending Elaine was dead and getting him to make a fuller statement.

  They took him with them in the police-car. Rushton House was still surrounded by a mob, although Bloor, whose cap was bobbing here and there as he tried to persuade the morbid and curious crowd to break up, was doing his best to disperse them. Mrs. Prentice was near him, talking to everyone. Telling her tale over and over again. The newspaper men were pestering her and taking photographs of her and the house.

  “It happened like this. I went in as usual...”

  A photographer touched her on the shoulder.

  “Just stand at the front-door again and look as though you were going in for the first time. It’ll look good with a heading, Mrs. Prentice entering the House of Death. You’ll be famous overnight and your picture all over the country.’’

  Bloor almost ran to meet the two officers and the constable as they climbed from their car. Beeton got out between them and the crowd made way for them. There were sympathetic noises at the sight of Beeton, whose distress was so great that he staggered like a drunken man. A photographer took two flashes of him, in one of which he later appeared looking like a man who’d been arrested and was being brought to the scene of the crime.

  The constable from Rushton Superior was standing on guard at the bedroom, saluted without a word, and opened the door. Clinton had been and gone.

  “He’s pronounced life h’extinct,” said Bloor solemnly and he handed to Tandy an envelope addressed briefly to Martin.

  Beeton didn’t seem to notice it. He staggered into the room, drew back the sheet from the face of the figure lying in the bed, flung himself upon it, and sobbed harshly again.

  The room was the same as when Littlejohn had been there before. Someone had drawn back the curtains which, Mrs. Prentice had already stated a dozen times, were closed when she entered.

  “I thought she was asleep till I touched her. She was gettin’ cold already. She must ’ave taken the pills hours since and laid there with nobody to take any notice.”

  The housekeeper had followed the police.

  “I’ll tell you ‘ow it happened.”

  “Please be quiet, Mrs. Prentice.”

  Tandy’s nerves were on edge and he wanted to hear what Bloor had to say.

  “At six-ten p.m., Mrs. Prentice called me up to say Mrs. Beeton was dead. I ’urried here and found the deceased in the bed with an empty glass which seemed to ’ave ’eld milk, on the table there. I sent for Dr. Clinton, who said life was h’extinct. I telephoned Inspector Tandy. I also found an empty bottle which Dr. Clinton stated ’ad been given by ’im to deceased and had contained peho-barbitone...”

  “Pheno-barbitone,” interjected Tandy impatiently.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d been in about three. She must ’ave taken them soon after I left, poor dear.”

  Mrs. Prentice was determined to tell her tale.

  Littlejohn gently took Beeton by the shoulders, pulled him from the bed, and sat him on a chair, where he continued to sit motionless, his eyes staring ahead.

  “It was my fault,” he said to himself.

  The empty drug-bottle bore the label of the village chemist. Mrs. Prentice hastened to tell them all loudly that Mrs. Beeton needed them to make her sleep when the pains came on.

  The face of the dead woman was still uncovered. All the lines of pain had gone and Littlejohn could make out how good-looking she must have been before age and suffering had taken away her beauty.

  “It was all my fault.”

  Beeton kept repeating it.

  Tandy handed the letter to Littlejohn as though the Superintendent had the right to open it.

  “There’s a letter here from Mrs. Beeton, Beeton. I propose to open it.”

  He suddenly seemed to come to life.

  “It’s mine. Give it to me. She wrote it for me. You’ve no right...”

  He rose and clawed at the envelope which Littlejohn was opening. The Superintendent gently thrust him away.

  “You shall read it as soon as we have finished with it. Now, it is vital evidence.”

  MY DEAREST MARTIN,

  Forgive me. This is the only way I can take to save you from suffering. I saw Mr. Littlejohn following you in his car as you left this morning and know that he has found out. Tell him the truth. That I shot his friend. Tell him all that I told you.

  I have known almost from the beginning about Birmingham. You mentioned someone called Myra in your sleep once, and I had to know. I followed you. I could not bear to let you go, so I had to be content by sharing you for the sake of my happiness. I have always been your wife, although it was not legal. Forgive me and be happy with Myra.

  Thank you, dearest Martin, for all the years of happiness and love you have given me. Forgive me.

  ELAINE

  It was written in a firm hand. Beeton clutched at it again and Littlejohn let him take it. He read it, panting as he did so, almost as though he were eating the words and every one of them stabbed him to the heart. Finally, he sagged in the chair again, weeping openly.

  “It was all my fault.”

  They gave him a drink of brandy and it was not long after that he confessed.

  Mrs. Beeton had gone to bed early and Beeton had turned in, too. He had slept heavily until he suddenly wakened to find his wife at his bedside. How long she’d been there, he didn’t know, but his bedside clock showed ten-past two. She was cold and dazed. In her hand she’d held the small revolver which she’d bought before he knew her, as a kind of comfort when she lived alone. He had laughed at it and called it the pop-gun in days past.

  Littlejohn nodded. She had known the report of the gun was not a loud one. It was when she hinted as much that he had begun to suspect her.

  Elaine had told him she’d shot the man who was shadowing them and, try as he would, he couldn’t get her to say why Cromwell should be doing so.

  “She must have known about the bigamy all along and thought he was after me... She wouldn’t tell me. I suppose she didn’t want me to know in case I went away.”

  He had gone outside and found no trace of the body, but next morning the police were on the scene even before he got up, and he knew it was true. He had taken the revolver, which had one chamber fired, and dismantled and buried the parts separately in various parts of the garden.

  “It’s funny how, when you want to hide a thing, every place you think of seems to be the one you imagine the police will go to first. I’ll show you where I hid the bits and you can put it together again.

  “It was my fault and the reason I said I’d done it was because I ought to have paid for what I’d done. It wasn’t fair for Elaine to have to suffer for it. I wish I was dead, too.”

  Littlejohn stood with his back to the room as Beeton talked and talked. Having known him in his happy days, he couldn’t bear to look at the contorted, tragic, bewildered face.

  “I do hope Myra won’t get to know. I don’t want to make her suffer, too. I’d do anything...suffer anything...”

  The Superintendent looked from the window at the last of the daylight. Lights on in the Weatherby, in the ground floor rooms of which he could see knots of excited people talking. The crowd was still standing round the front gate of Rushton House, where Turner was now holding the stage, telling a long tale to the newspaper men.

  From his own bedroom, he could see the round, childish face of Mrs. Groves looking across at him, just as, in days past, Mrs. Beeton had done from this very room.

  Tandy touched him gently on the arm.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I had a message for you from Scotland Yard. In the bother with Beeton, it quite slipped my mind.”

  He spoke in a whisper and took a paper from his pocket, a typed version of a note taken down over the telephone.

  CASADESSUS AND CO.

  Went out of business three years ago. Antique dealers to the trade. Apparently used by a provincial auctioneer for disposing of valuable antiques to London dealers and exporters. Proprietor: F. Wainwright, Wiston.

  Enquiries in the trade reveal that Fred’k. Wainwright was known by dealers as Mr. Casadessus.

  Casadessus & Co., went out of business after prosecution by Inland Revenue for tax evasion. According to Fraud Squad records, Mr. Casadessus avoided imprisonment by a cash payment of £30,000.

  16

  BATTLE OF WITS

  GEORGE BELLAIRS

  It was quite dark when Littlejohn and Tandy left Rushton House. Beeton himself had gone back to Wiston with Buck, where he would spend a night at an hotel. What the magistrates decided to do with him at the petty sessions next day was their own business. He had certainly nothing to do with Mrs. Beeton’s death; Littlejohn had been with him all day and was his perfect alibi.

  Outside, the village was busy. Small knots of morbidly curious sightseers still hung round the gate of the house. The Weatherby was a blaze of light. Reporters had taken Turner to the Brown Cow where, in exchange for pints of ale, he was telling them all he knew, and a lot more besides, about the Beetons, the Twiggs, the Canks, and Cromwell.

  “Let’s go to the Bull and Bush...”

  Tandy thought Littlejohn was suggesting a convivial hour together and felt it a bit out of place. He was silent for a minute.

  “I don’t mean for drinks. I want to pick up Wise and his friends. There are one or two matters which must be settled right away. Let’s go ...”

  The Bull and Bush was agog. News of Mrs. Beeton’s suicide had reached every quarter of the neighbourhood and the place was packed with customers eager for firsthand news and a good night of talk and scandal over the beer-pots.

  “Who’d have thought Mrs. Beeton would make away with herself? They both seemed so happy. I expect she’d got to the far-end with her illness...”

  They couldn’t believe any scandal could possibly occur in the austere household at Rushton House. They were in for a surprise when the case reached the papers!

  Wainwright, Wise, and Temple, the three inseparables, were in the Kennel again. They all looked surprised when Littlejohn and Tandy entered.

  “We didn’t expect you here to-night, Super. I hear there have been some queer goings-on in Inferior to-day. You never know what’ll happen next, do you? What will it be? Evenin’, Tandy. Not often we see you here.”

  Wainwright had been drinking hard again and was talkative. He behaved as though there’d never been any harsh words between himself and Wise. Wise looked uneasy, wondering what was afoot.

  “Will you all kindly come down to Mrs. Twigg’s with us? There are some matters we wish to settle, and you’ll all be of great help.”

  Wainwright rose to go, all eagerness; Wise hesitated.

  “Must we go at this late hour? I’m sure Mrs. Twigg won’t like it. It’ll upset her, breaking in on her at this time.”

  Wainwright was putting on his hat and coat.

  “Come on, Wise. Don’t be awkward. Do as the Super. asks you, there’s a good chap.”

  Wise could do no other. Temple was ready to follow the rest. There were lights on downstairs at Ballarat and the doctor’s car stood at the door. Mrs. Cank answered their ring. She hadn’t changed at all, in spite of her recent widowhood. She either hadn’t realized the situation or she didn’t care.

  As they stood in the porch there was a flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder.

  “Come in. The doctor’s here. He came to see me. I don’t know why. I’m not ill. But he said he wanted to be sure I was all right. He’s saying good-night to Mrs. Twigg. Looks like bein’ a storm, too.”

  She led them in the hall and went to announce them to Mrs. Twigg. Littlejohn’s eye fell on the large brass pestle and mortar he’d noticed on his first visit. The mortar looked recently cleaned and stood out brightly among the rest of the tarnished and neglected brass ornaments.

  Wainwright was quite at his ease. The other two were obviously uneasy and wondering what was afoot.

  Tandy kept close to Littlejohn. The Superintendent had grown fond of his colleague. He was the best type of police officer; sturdy, dependable, calm, and good-mannered.

  “She’ll see you.”

  The same room which Littlejohn now knew so well. The desk which had caused all the trouble for Cromwell, the chintz curtains, now drawn, the elaborate chandelier, full-on and lighting every corner of the room.

  Clinton was there, standing by the electric fire, the imitation logs of which were glowing, although, on account of the heat of the night, the elements of the stove were cold. He looked surprised at the intrusion, but, in Littlejohn’s presence, he had lost all his asperity. He now seemed to regard him as a friend.

  “This is unexpected, Superintendent... All these visitors at once. It must be something important.”

  Mrs. Twigg spoke without moving to meet or greet them. She was taken off her guard and obviously alarmed.

  “Forgive our calling, Mrs. Twigg, and taking you by surprise. I thought it would be better if we all met here instead of at the police-station.”

  They all jumped. Even Tandy. Wise found tongue first.

  “I say, Littlejohn, why didn’t you tell us? This is most unfair. I thought it was something connected with Richard’s business affairs that made you want us here. I prefer to have my lawyer with me if it’s anything to do with his death.”

  Wainwright looked annoyed.

  “Now, don’t be silly, Wise. A lawyer, indeed! Anybody’d think you killed Twigg. We’ve always found Littlejohn a reasonable chap. He’s not likely to try and catch you out. What’s all this about, Littlejohn?”

  It was a strange situation. A group of men standing there, all except the doctor still wearing outdoor clothes and holding their hats. Mrs. Twigg didn’t seem disposed to ask them either to sit or stay.

  Mrs. Twigg was dressed up to kill. She’d either been out or had been expecting someone. She wore a black gown of expensive cut, all her jewels, and was made-up to the eyes. She must have been enjoying her tête-à-tête with Clinton, for her eyes had been sparkling when the new arrivals appeared. Now they were apprehensive.

  “You’ll excuse me if I don’t ask you to stay, all of you. I really don’t know why you’ve called. I thought you’d come to express condolences with Mrs. Cank. I take it you want to see me, Superintendent. Isn’t it rather presuming a lot to bring along a party of men with you like this? What is it all about?”

  “Do you mind if we sit down for a little while? As you know, I’m not quite myself yet.”

  It was Wise, trying to look frail, but really angry at being treated with so little fuss.

  “You can all sit down, if you wish. But please don’t be long. I can’t stand much more.”

  Mrs. Twigg passed her hand across her forehead. She remained standing, so the rest did the same. Finally, Wise flopped down willy-nilly. Nobody else moved.

  Outside more thunder, and then the sound of heavy rain.

  Littlejohn was anxious to get it over. The situation was intolerable.

  “Mr. Wise... Did Mrs. Twigg visit you at all during your recent illness?”

  Wise looked surprised and Wainwright, whose impertinent eyes hardly left Mrs. Twigg’s figure or face for a minute, gave a little twisted smile, almost a grin.

  “Yes. Nothing wrong about that, was there?”

  “Not at all. You were friends. It was natural. Was it at the time Dr. Cruickshank was away and Flowerdew was locum?”

  Mrs. Twigg made a sound like a sigh and sat down in the chair behind her. Her eyes were fixed and staring and she searched Wise’s face, as though trying to will a message to him without speaking.

  “Yes. Come to think of it, it would be. I remember Flowerdew commented on the roses she’d brought. They were particularly nice ones and old Flowerdew used to be a fancier. Matter of fact, he used to win prizes at shows with his blooms.”

  He rambled on and on, as though what he was saying was of no importance, just pleasant chit-chat to pass the time away.

  “Did she come alone?”

  Wise looked again at Mrs. Twigg’s appealing eyes and hesitated.

  “Well?”

  “No. She’d Wainwright with her.”

  Wainwright didn’t let him finish.

  “Quite natural, wasn’t it? Twigg wasn’t well and wanted his wife to call and see old Wise and give him good wishes. When he told me over the phone, I said I’d pick Mrs. Twigg up and take her.”

  A pause. Everyone wondered what was coming next. There seemed to be two storms raging outside. Thunder echoed thunder.

  “Mrs. Twigg... What were the tablets you used to put in your husband’s tea?”

  The rest looked startled, but Emily Twigg didn’t even hesitate.

  “Saccharines... He was putting on too much weight and Dr. Clinton ordered a diet and to keep off sugar. That’s so, doctor, isn’t it?”

 

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