Murder Makes Mistakes (The Inspector Littlejohn Mysteries Book 10), page 9
“A long two minutes.”
“Eh? Then they closed the door. They’d been kissin’, Stubbs said. The doctor was wipin’ lipstick off his cheek and not lookin’ so pleased, when they came out.”
“Well, well.”
“It always comes out sooner or later, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does.”
The would-be air-hostess appeared and inquired of Mr. Shoesmith how many dinners he was expecting to serve later. Mr. Shoesmith looked annoyed.
“How the ‘ell do I know, Irene? Last night we prepared for fifteen and ‘ow many turned up? Four. Saturday we got ready for twenty, and how many was it then? Well? Forty-one! Me rushing round the countryside for food and the customers waitin’ and playin’ merry ‘ell. This place is haunted. Silly Billy. You can’t do a thing right. All right. Get ready for twenty again. There’ll either be four or forty-four...”
The air-hostess shrugged her shoulders without a word, smiled at Littlejohn, and walked away, swinging her hips as though she were already in the gangway of a plane bound for foreign parts.
Littlejohn bade the landlord good-bye and assured him again of his discretion. Mr. Shoesmith delivered a parting shot by once more offering to sell the Silly Billy cheaply to Littlejohn.
“You know as well as I do, policemen make good landlords when they retire. They know the law and can ’andle people properly. Think it over and let me know.”
The latest information was food for a lot of thought. On the face of it, it seemed to have little to do with Cromwell’s affair. But it gave rise to many unpleasant ideas about the death of Richard Twigg and how far his young wife and his doctor had been involved in it. Littlejohn determined to tackle the doctor right away. The next signpost pointed the way to Wiston Purlieu and he turned down the lane to get there.
Wiston was obviously the metropolis of a fair-sized country area. An old town with a number of pleasant Georgian brick houses still remaining in the main street. Here and there the line was unpleasantly broken by a multiple store or a new chromium-plated shop-front. The shopping centre filled one busy main thoroughfare and the side-streets held two cinemas, a dance-hall, the fire-station and the town hall. The police station was nowhere to be seen, but later proved to be hidden by the lurid poster-boards of the picture-house which adjoined it.
Dr. Clinton occupied one of the old houses on the High Street. Littlejohn rang the bell and a housekeeper told him the doctor was not at home and, in any case, it wasn’t surgery hours. These she indicated by a wave of the hand in the direction of a brass plate which gave full details.
So much for that. It would have to be Mrs. Twigg again. Littlejohn thought out how he would tackle her when he got back to Rushton Inferior, but there, too, he found the bird had flown. Cank answered the door of Ballarat.
“She’s not in.”
“I thought she wasn’t well enough to go out of doors, yet.”
“Well, she’s gone.”
Cank looked very pleased with himself again. He gave Littlejohn a cocky smile as he spoke.
“She went out half an hour ago. Said she thought a breath of fresh air would do her good.”
“Have you packed your bags yet?”
“No. I’m not goin’ now. The missus and Mrs. Twigg and me talked it over reasonable and proper, like, and it ended up by her sayin’ she’d overlook the past and keep us on.”
“Is that so? I’d better come inside, Cank. You and I have matters to talk over.”
“Let me tell you, Superintendent, that my leavin’ or stoppin’ on here has nothing to do with the police. It’s up to Mrs. Twigg and ’er alone, and I hope you aren’t goin’ to be awkward again about it.”
“No. But I’ll come inside. There are other matters. Lead on, Cank.”
Cank made way for him to enter and then took him to the room at the back of the house in which they had talked earlier in the day.
“Is Mrs. Twigg likely to be away long?”
“I couldn’t say and I didn’t ask ’er. I know my place.”
“I doubt it. Now, Cank, what further arguments have you used to force Mrs. Twigg to keep you on?”
Cank made an evil attempt to be suave and keep his temper.
“None whatever. You keep doin’ me a great injustice, sir, with all these insinuations. I only want to be left in peace to do my proper work. Why keep tryin’ to drive me out? I never did you any wrong.”
“What can you tell me about the friendly relations between Mrs. Twigg and Dr. Clinton, Cank? You’re always about the place when the doctor’s here. How do they get on together?”
Cank was a bit stumped. He didn’t know how much Littlejohn knew and now had to do some cautious stalking to find out.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I think you know. Were the pair of them very friendly? Did they ever meet when Mr. Twigg was out on what you call his daily routine?”
“She was a patient of the doctor, of course, and they met in that respect. As for anything beyond that, I couldn’t say.”
Again, there was something evil about the demeanour of Cank, either his faint leer or his pose, which betrayed him, but which gave no loophole for a definite accusation.
“Did Mr. Twigg die at home?”
“Yes, sir. He was to go to hospital, but was too weak to move when the ambulance arrived. He died shortly after.”
“Was Dr. Clinton here at the time?”
“Yes. He came and stayed about an hour, till Mr. Twigg passed on.”
“We’ll say until he died, if you don’t mind, Cank. Did Dr. Clinton issue the death certificate?”
“I suppose so.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you say so straight out? Did you know he issued it?”
“Yes.”
Cank licked his lips and rubbed his damp hands together.
“You said earlier that you suspected foul play. What did you mean, Cank?”
“What I said. He was took ill quickly and died quickly. I didn’t like it.”
“Did you tell the doctor?”
“No. It was no business of mine. The doctor had attended Mr. Twigg for ulcers in the past.”
“It was your business, if you suspected foul play, to tell someone responsible about it. Why didn’t you?”
“I thought the doctor ought to know.”
“Yet you began to rifle the desk to find out if any poison still remained there?”
“I wanted to be sure before I talked.”
“Mr. Cromwell was in the house, staying here. He was a police officer and, if you were in his company any length of time, you found him very genial, approachable, and easy to talk to. Why didn’t you tell him?”
“It didn’t strike me at the time.”
“I suggest you wanted to keep the information for yourself to use as a lever against Mrs. Twigg to get your own way.”
Cank gulped and rolled his head from side to side. His hands clenched and relaxed and then clenched again.
“I don’t know why you keep pickin’ on me that way, sir. I’ve only done what I thought was best. It’s unjust and unfair to accuse me of blackmail.”
The man twisted and whined until Littlejohn could stand it no longer. He seized Cank by the lapels of his coat and shook him. He could feel his hot evil breath on his face and it nauseated him.
“Now, Cank, tell me at once...”
Suddenly a car, Mrs. Twigg’s two-seater coupé, pulled up at the gate of Ballarat and she stepped out. She looked hot and put-out and hurried to the front door.
Littlejohn flung Cank away. The man retired crab-wise for the door, pointing a finger at the Superintendent.
“You’d no right to manhandle me and you know it. I know the law and I’m goin’ to Wiston the first chance I get and report this to the police there. You’d no right...”
He vanished to open the door. Littlejohn waited and could hear him talking to his mistress.
“That Superintendent’s here again. He’s been bullyin’ and tryin’ to push me around. Well, I’m goin’ to report him after dinner. He can’t do that to Roger Cank... I’ve got my rights...”
Emily Twigg entered hastily. This time, she looked afraid, as though something had happened since last they met which had terrified her.
“Did you want me again, Superintendent?”
“I’ve been to see Mr. Cromwell.”
“How is he?”
“Doing well. I was able to speak with him a bit.”
She didn’t register any fears on that score but stood waiting for what he had to say.
“I hear you have made your peace with Cank, Mrs. Twigg.”
“Yes. What am I to do if they leave me? I can’t run this place alone.”
“I would have thought a spell in an hotel would be preferable to his company here.”
Littlejohn crossed and closed the door almost in the face of Cank who was pretending to dust the cupboard in the hall. He returned and faced Mrs. Twigg.
“He didn’t happen to threaten to tell me of the friendship which exists between you and your doctor, Clinton, Mrs. Twigg?”
She turned pale and staggered back, groped for a chair, and sat down. Her hands trembled so much that she could not remove her gloves, although she tried hard.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Twigg, but I know all about it and I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me everything and about the circumstances of your husband’s death. Otherwise, I shall have to ask you to come with me to the police station and make a proper official statement.”
He felt sorry for her. She was completely bewildered and looked here and there as though seeking some source of help or relief.
“We were good friends...”
Almost a whisper, with, in it, a plea not to press the point, but to accept what she said as the whole truth.
“More than friends, Mrs. Twigg. He was your lover, wasn’t he, and your husband found out?”
“I was often lonely and on my own. As time passed, my husband found better company in men of his own age. He was always good to me, but he left me a lot. Dr. Clinton was nearer my age and we had similar tastes... He was lonely, too... We went about together...”
She was groping for words, trying to avoid a full confession.
“But I swear it had nothing to do with my husband’s death. He died of haemorrhage from an ulcer. I swear I didn’t ...”
Another car at the gate. This time Dr. Clinton, who bounded out and almost ran up the path. Cank brought him in with a look bordering on triumph.
“The doctor.”
Clinton didn’t pause for breath. He marched right up to Littlejohn, fists clenched, lips tight, his eyes flashing behind his glasses.
“I’m told you’ve been wanting me. What is it? And why, may I ask, do you keep pestering Mrs. Twigg? She’s been through quite enough.”
“Calm yourself, doctor. Did you know I would call here? And why are you so anxious to prevent my questioning Mrs. Twigg?”
“I enquired in the village and was told you were here. I came at once. Mrs. Twigg is my patient and I forbid ...”
“Forbid, doctor? She must decide that. Either she and you answer my questions or you both come with me to the police station at Wiston.”
Clinton jumped and then thrust his face into Littlejohn’s.
“You don’t mean to say you are, for some reason, committing the unspeakable folly of arresting us. Because I propose to ring up my lawyer right away. Neither of us had anything to do with the shooting of Cromwell.”
“No, doctor, perhaps not that. But you signed a death certificate for the late Mr. Twigg.”
“What of it? He died from natural causes.”
“Last night, his body was exhumed by special order from the Home Office.”
“What!!”
“He didn’t die from a ruptured stomach ulcer, doctor. He died from internal haemorrhage due to overdoses of an anti-coagulant called dicoumarin. In other words, we suspect he was murdered.”
All the stuffing seemed to ebb from Clinton. He suddenly sagged and became an old man. And with a cry of pain, Mrs. Twigg fell unconscious and this time it was a genuine case.
7
THE HOME LIFE OF A PHYSICIAN
Clinton took matters in hand right away and with professional competence. He opened the door, revealed Cank standing there listening intently, and brought him in the room. Caught in the very act, Cank was completely out of countenance.
“Get Mrs. Cank and the pair of you take Mrs. Twigg to her room. Tell your wife to put her to bed. She’s fainted. I’ll see her before I leave.”
Cank was in a hurry to get away and do as he was bid. Mrs. Cank appeared, gave Littlejohn a pitying reproachful glare, as though he had caused it all and much more besides, and helped her husband out of the room, with Mrs. Twigg between them, now half recovered and able to stagger along with some assistance.
Clinton closed the door behind them and returned to face Littlejohn.
“And now, Superintendent...?”
Clinton’s manner had changed completely. It was still distant, but more cordial. He had shed his professional manner, his air of resenting the intrusion of a stranger in the affairs of his patient. With Mrs. Twigg out of the way, they were now meeting on equal terms.
“I suppose you know all about me by now, Superintendent?”
The doctor said it calmly and without irony. It was like an opponent playing an opening gambit, from which all the other moves will originate.
“Hardly, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m particularly interested in your late patient, Mr. Twigg, and his death.”
There was a silence, disturbed now and then by the humming of the motor-mower in the back garden and the noises of passing cars.
“You think I killed Twigg?”
A brutal question, but fair enough.
Littlejohn made no excuses and remained as calm as the doctor.
“Until early this morning, I had no interest in Richard Twigg. My one concern was that someone in this village had shot my colleague. Almost fortuitously, enquiries have led me to discover that the death of his uncle, which brought Cromwell here, was not from natural causes, or, at least, not as certified by his medical attendant.”
Another pause. Both men were standing face to face, a yard apart. Clinton was as tall as Littlejohn, but lacked his breadth and strength. He was thin and his shoulders stooped. A clever face with a high forehead, and receding dark hair. Aquiline features, and a clean, well-groomed look about him. An intelligent, penetrating look, and a precise, authoritative way.
“What time is dinner at the Weatherby?”
Littlejohn looked hard at Clinton. It was the only way to keep amazement from his face. An irrelevant, almost infantile question, the kind used to make conversation when interest is flagging.
“Any time. Half-past eight will suit me. Why?”
“It’s almost seven... Could we talk elsewhere? What about letting me drive you to my place at Wiston? I’ve no surgery to-night. I don’t care to stay here any longer than I need. There are eyes and ears everywhere since Twigg died. Especially those of the Canks. We could be private at my house. Besides, you’ll fetch up there sooner or later. You might as well come now.”
Was it a confession, or an offer of friendship? Littlejohn couldn’t make out, but Clinton didn’t wait for an answer.
“I’ll go up and see that Mrs. Twigg is all right. Then I’ll join you. I won’t be above five minutes.”
Littlejohn sat down and lit his pipe. The doctor climbed the stairs at a leisurely pace, stayed a minute or two, and then descended. He went to his car and returned with a small case under his arm. Then he mounted the stairs again, presumably to give Mrs. Twigg a sedative. He was back almost at once.
“Ready?”
They might have been going for a joy-ride.
Conversation was casual on the way. Clinton, far from being tense like someone suspected, was more friendly. He even smiled in a rueful kind of way and offered Littlejohn a cigarette. It was of a brand Littlejohn had not met before; long, fat, and in rice paper. Like everything else about Clinton, it was expensive and fastidious. The car in which they were travelling was of the fast, costly variety and well-kept.
The road ran between tall hedges punctuated by old trees which spread a leafy canopy right across the road. Large houses here and there, many almost hidden by gardens. It was the time of day when the scent of trees and flowers is at its best and the birds, stimulated by the setting sun, were shouting an evensong so loud in parts that it was difficult to make conversation without raising the voice.
“You aren’t from London? I mean, you don’t originate from there?”
It could have been that Clinton was civilly trying to make conversation. On the other hand, Littlejohn fancied there was something friendly in it all. He had been wondering about Clinton’s origins, too, as though, in different circumstances, they might have become friends, interested in each other.
“No. I was born even farther north than this; Ulverston way.”
“I come from these parts myself. A place called Tarporley.”
“We’re both countrymen, then?”
“Yes. My father was a country doctor.”
They rode on in silence and soon were passing down the main street of Wiston to the house Littlejohn already knew. Clinton put his hand in his pocket for his key.
Now that he knew Clinton, Littlejohn was not surprised at the interior. Comfort and well-being met him at the door. Everything harmonious and in good taste. The old house had been modernized and given the benefit of up-to-date improvements without spoiling its original beauty. It was not a large place. Two good-sized entertaining rooms and kitchens below, a wide staircase with shallow treads and wrought-iron balusters. Thick carpets on the floors, good pictures on the walls, nothing which offended the eye. Wherever it had been possible, windows had been added or existing ones enlarged without in any way impairing the old style of the house, which, as a result, on this spring evening seemed to be bathed in light.
“Here is my study.”
