Death on the Last Train (17 page)

“That's better. Quite cast me down thinkin' o' the sorrers of Mr. Lambert 'iss.”

“So, you don't think he'd anything to do with the death of Bellis?”

“No, certainly not. A good man is Mr. Hiss. Proper good man and well thought of all over. He's no Jack the Ripper.”

What Jack the Ripper had to do with it, Littlejohn couldn't for the life of him think. Probably the most dreadful criminal known to Mrs. Bindfast.

“In that case, I'd better be getting along. Thank you very much for all you've told me, Mrs. Bindloss.”

“Fast, fast … Bindfast is the name.”

“Sorry, Bindfast.”

“Now, if you was to ask me who done Bellis in, I'd say, one, somebody who'd lost all 'is money in the Salton Buildin' crash; two, somebody as avenged Mrs. Bellis for the shockin' way he treated 'er just before she died; three, some father, brother or sweetheart who see in Bellis a snake in the grass re their daughter, sister or best girl …”

“The three points have occurred to us, Mrs. Bindfast.”

“Well, why don't you get on with 'em, then? Scarin' good folk out o' their wits with a killer roamin' about and worryin' us all with questions and cross-questions and more questions.”

“We'll do our level best, I assure you, Mrs. Bindloss.”

“Fast, F-A-S-T. Fast.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Bindfast. I keep forgetting.”

Which was true. Littlejohn was in a stupor from the hot room, stuffy, and by this, reeking with gin, and from Mrs. Bindfast's droning voice.

“Good night.”

It was quite dark outside, and at the corner the lights from Bessie Emmott's shop made a patch of brightness. Littlejohn wondered if Mr. Hiss was somewhere about, taking the dog out and casting longing eyes at the inviting cosiness of the off-licence, like a wanderer with no place to go envying those behind the closed doors and lighted windows of happy homes.

Poor Lambert Hiss. With all the virtue, industry, zeal, love and piety of Mount Horeb flung at his head in the form of nearly all the virgins and widows of the place, he preferred what they would call a fallen woman.

Beautiful, tragic irony of life!

In its Victorian heyday the Union Club at Mereton was a busy, prosperous concern. In the days when our forefathers thought it almost indecent to drink a glass of beer before the gentlewomen of the family, or to smoke in the drawing room, all the wealth and talent used to adjourn there for relaxation. To say that father was at the club in those leisurely times was to place upon him the mark of authority, sophistication and local standing.

In its prime the Union Club was invariably full to overflowing at rush hours. Men met there for business, to read the newspapers, for the mid-day meal, for a snooze after lunch, and for cards, billiards, a drink and a political or economic discussion any time of the day and night.

Now, with films, radio, the family all pals together instead of father's being sternly aloof, and the capacity of the womenfolk to drink glass for glass with their partners, and gamble, smoke and drive a car with equal speed and abandon, the need for a separate retreat for most men has disappeared.

That is the way change affected the Union Club. A few soaks hanging round the bar, a bored billiards player or two, a casual diner, knowing nothing of the poor marketing which made the meals third rate, or a lonely idler kicking his heels from room to room, these were as much as the bargain any day in the week.

Once there was a waiting-list and energetic black-balling of would-be members. Now, they advertised vacancies in the local papers and almost compelled the wanderers to come in.

The rooms were cold and neglected-looking. An atmosphere of stale beer and tobacco hung around, and the pictures of past presidents hanging on the walls looked down with stern disapproval at the scene of change and decay.

Ted, the steward, was trying to look busy and not succeeding when Littlejohn called. He was a stiff, thickset retired sergeant-major, full of old soldier's tricks and dodges, but civil and disciplined. He had a great respect for famous detectives and when he learned who Littlejohn was, he stood before him in a state of trembling tension, ready to salute with a click on the slightest provocation.

“I've called, Eaves, to ask your help in one or two matters,” said Littlejohn, after they had established friendly relations. “Can we have a drink and a talk?”

“Yessir,” replied Ted Eaves, the points of his grey moustache bristling and his prominent blue eyes popping
with respect. “If you'd care to join me in my room, I'll see about the drinks. We've some nice bitter beer …”

“That'll do fine.”

Eaves led the Inspector into a small, neat cubby hole, furnished with a desk, two chairs and a plain deal table and with a large framed photograph of a crowd of members, taken in 1896, on the wall, and departed to hustle the barman around like a new recruit.

“Two pints o' bitter, and look sharp about it! Jildy! Jildy!” he rasped, adding at the end a corruption of some word or other he had picked up on his Eastern travels, and judging from the way it was uttered, denoting a need for the highest speed.

A consumptive-looking youth arrived, bearing a pint tankard in each hand.

“Where's yer tray?”

“I thought …”

“You thought! You're not 'ere to think. Do as yer told! Next time bring 'em on a tray. How many times 'ave I to tell yer. Right, get goin'.”

The browbeaten lad departed like a shot from a gun, his ears burning and his Adam's apple violently agitated.

“Now, sir. What can I do for you? Here's to your very good 'ealth, sir.”

“And to you. First of all, do you remember a barmaid here called Bessie Emmott?”

“Yessir. Good worker, clean and respectable and wotyoumaycall a bit above the ordinary run. A bit lady-like.”

Littlejohn might have been thinking of engaging her himself and seeking references!

“She's been left some time, I believe.”

“Yessir. Five years, I'd say. Left to engage in business on 'er own account. H'off licence.”

“Was she on familiar terms with the members of the club?”

“Well, you know how some men are when they get at a bar. No disrespect. … Most of our members are
gents. I will say that for them. But barmaids come in for wotyoumaycall a lot o' back-chat and such, an' Bessie could take it along with the rest.”

“I can quite understand that. But was she particularly friendly with anyone? Now, you can talk freely. I'll see that you don't suffer by any confidences.”

“Thank you, sir, I'm sure. Yes. She was friendly with a few of 'em. But Mr. Timothy Bellis was her biggest admirer. He whatyoumaycall monopolised her towards the end and then, I gathered, lent her money to start the business. After that Mr. Bellis fell away from the club and, I'm given to understand, took to visiting her and gettin' his drinks at her place of business.”

“Who were the others you had in mind?”

“Well … All of 'em either dead or left the town. All except Mr. Lambert Hiss, the trombone champion, who used to come in for a lot of leg-pullin' about whatyoumaycall his fondness for Bessie. He'd blush at it like a bit of a lad, but never deny it. I think he fancied Bessie a bit, but bein' a shy, reserved sort, in spite of his talents with his instrument, he let Bellis do the runnin' and cut him out.”

So, that confirmed the views of Mother Shipton!

Littlejohn hadn't been prepared to take the soothsayer's word alone. She was a bit too professional in putting two and two together.

“Does Mr. Hiss come here now?”

“Very rarely, sir. Very rarely, indeed. Seemed to lose interest after Bessie left.”

“Very good. Now, is Mr. Harold Claypott a member?”

“Yessir. And becomin' a great nuisance, if I may say so. After all, drinks are limited these days. Spirits is hard to get. … Very hard to get. He's turned quite nasty on occasions when we've told him he'd had his ration for one night. The bartender's 'ad to bring me in a time or two to quiet him and explain the situation.”

“So he can't have enough to get drunk on these days?”

“Not spirits, sir. … Another, sir?”

“Don't mind if I do …”

Eaves sprang from his chair like a jack-in-the-box and went out for another round, shortly to return, followed by the lanky youth, who bore a tray in his trembling hands and slopped the beer as he put the tankards down.

“'Ere, 'ere, 'ere. Wot d'you think yer doin'? Just get a duster an' mop up all that mess. …Jildy, jildy! Jump to it!”

The lad leapt about like someone stung, doing as he was bid with little, jerky, convulsive movements like a marionette.

“That'll do. . . That'll do. Off you pop. Your very good 'ealth again, sir.”

“To return to Claypott. This rationing of whisky has stopped his getting drunk every night.”

“It did for a night or two, but now he begins on beer, works round to spirits—as much as we'll let him have—and if he thinks he's not 'ad whatyoumaycall enough, he turns to whatever else he can get.”

“What state was he in on the night that Bellis died?”

Eaves consulted a desk calendar and pondered portentously.

“I remember. Just blind drunk, he was. He'd 'ad some somewhere else when he arrived. 'Smatter of fact, he nearly passed out, an' would have missed his last train 'ome if I hadn't shown him and his pals the clock. Two or three times he's missed it, and slept on one of the settees in the billiard room. But last time he did it, he was sick, and I drew the line. ‘No more do's like this, Mr. Claypott,' I sez to 'im, respectful like. ‘Next time you miss the last train, I'll 'ave to ask you to seek accommodation at some hotel or other'!”

Eaves took a swig of his beer, smoothed down his heavy waxed moustache, drew himself up and nodded at Littlejohn to show he meant what he said.

“And about the night in question. Mr. Claypott was taken to the station by two friends. . .”

“Mr. Hall and Mr. Manners, it was. Mr. 'all was nearly
as drunk as Mr. Claypott, and Mr. Manners had a proper job on between 'em. He got Mr. Claypott safely on his train and sent Mr. 'all 'ome in a taxi, which, fortunately, was hangin' round the station for a fare.”

“Who's this Mr. Manners?”

“Keeps a stores on the High Street. Prosperous little business, too. You'll find 'im there if you call before lunch.”

“Thanks. Did Bellis get on well with the other club members when he used to come?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Quite charming when that way out. Member o' the committee and all that. But after the Salton Building Society crash, he whatyoumaycall lost popularity. People said 'e was deliberately to blame there for bein' too venturesome. I dunno. I lost about fifty pounds in it. My own fault. I shouldn't 'ave tried to get ninepence for fourpence. The interest allowed was far too much, if you ask me.”

That was one way of looking at it!

Everywhere the same tale. Salton Building Society crash. If Bellis's death had arisen from that, then it would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack.

But Littlejohn didn't think that was the cause. He sat quietly finishing his beer with Eaves deferentially standing by, wondering what was going on in his mind. He must be deducing something from what I've told him, thought Eaves. He wished he'd been a detective.

Littlejohn was parading them all in his mind.

Admirers of Mrs. Bellis, resentful and even furious at the way her husband had treated her. As far as he knew, Dr. Cooper and Harold Claypott qualified under that head. Claypott had been too drunk, or apparently so, to do the deed. Dr. Cooper had no alibi at all, but was hardly likely to be climbing about trains hunting his victim at that hour of the night.

Then there were the Miss Claypotts, mad about Bellis's treatment of their brother, and Miss Constance's silly affair with the anonymous letters which had wasted a lot of time for the police. Neither was capable of performing
such a crime, unless in their queer make-ups there was a curious streak of reserve strength.

As the soothsayer, Mrs. Bindloss … no, Bindfast … said, too, there were the victims of Bellis's philanderings. But he had apparently been faithful to Bessie Emmott after his fashion for a long time, which ruled out any revenge by lover or relative.

Lastly, the Bessie Emmott-Alice Bryan mix-up. Luxmore, Alice's one-time boy friend, had an alibi, given to Cromwell by two no-account girls, but none the less there. Then, what about Bessie herself? She had apparently been almost demented on learning of Bellis's fondness for Alice. Could she possibly have seen the train stopped, gone down the platelayers' steps for an explanation at once from Bellis and shot him in a fit of rage? She certainly could!

Lastly, Mr. Lambert Hiss, widower, who had been keen on Bessie for years. Had he read the letter before giving it to her, and, seeing red, made an end to the man who had frustrated him for so long?

All the same, you'd think Mr. Hiss would have been content to let the letter do its work and then spring in and catch Bessie on the rebound. Instead, he had gone sick and was mournfully keeping house and blowing his sentimental melancholy into his trombone.

“May I offer you another drink, sir?”

Eaves's admiring gaze fell on Littlejohn's empty tankard. He wondered what Henry, the lanky barman, was doing and longed to be getting at him again to bully and hustle him about.

“No thanks, Eaves. I'd better be getting along. Thanks for your help.”

“It's been whatyermaycall a great honour, sir, and I'm very glad to've been able to 'elp. Excuse me. Hi, Henry. Have you done the knives and forks on the tables for lunch yet?”

Eaves swooped on his prey and reduced him to trembling incoherency.

“N-n-n-n-o.”