Death on the Last Train (7 page)

The girl picked up the grip and went upstairs again.

“What do you want to know? There's not much I haven't told you about last night.”

“How long have you known Mr. Bellis, Miss Emmott?”

“About six years. I used to be barmaid at the Union Club here. Tim was a regular member then. I got to know him there.”

“You became friendly whilst you were there?”

“Yes. I might as well tell you. Somebody else will, if I don't. And add something to it as well. Four years ago I bought this little shop and moved here. Mr. Bellis lent me the money. We'd been good friends and he was the only one I knew who could give me advice about making an investment. He used to come to see how I was doing. And it gradually got that he came a few times every week. He used to say he could relax here in comfort away from his swell friends. Take his jacket off and sit cosy by the fire and talk to me, or even have a quiet snooze if he liked. We was good friends …”

Littlejohn made allowances for the understatements. Probably she had been Bellis's mistress and he had set her up in her little shop to get her away from the public
admiration and vulgarity of the club bar. She must have been a fine looking woman in her earlier days.

“You do well here?”

“Yes. It's early yet. The rush begins after the nine o'clock news. We get busy then with people buying their supper drinks. Of course, there's the dinner time rush, too, and a steady trade in opening hours. I don't stock much else. The drink we sell keeps me going nicely. Before Alice came, a girl from next door-but-one used to come in at nights. She sat in the shop and served … Made me a bit freer on the nights Mr. Bellis called … Now, I hoped that Alice would be a help. But she's got a few funny ideas since she left the W.A.A.F. Doesn't want to be tied, she says. Wants to live her own life. As if I'd try to stop her. She could 'ave a very good time with me, if only she'd settle down. We'd been havin' words about it when you came … She was packing up to leave me … She'd done that a time or two before. I don't take it serious.”

“Shop!!”

The bell rang again and Alice hurried down to attend to the customer. Thereafter the business seemed to warm up, for she stayed in the shop for quite a while. The bell kept up its tolling. Voices could be heard, too, in conversation, men's as well as women's, on the other side of the curtain.

“About last night, Miss Emmott. Mr. Bellis seemed as usual?”

“Yes. He got here at the same time as always. Generally got the 6.57 from Salton and I met it at Mereton station around quarter-past seven. He used to come on his own till all those threatenin' letters arrived. Then his nerves seemed to go. He got scared of walking even from the station to here. There's a 'bus part way. But that wouldn't do. He said he'd stay at home …”

“You mean stop visiting you?”

“Get me right about that. He wasn't tired of me … But he was so scared … So, I got the girl from higher
up the street to mind the shop and went to meet him myself. And I saw him back to the 10.55 after we'd spent the evenin' here.”

“How long is it since Mr. Bellis got afraid to be out at night?”

“Shortly after the first threatenin' letter. He showed them all to me. I wished I could 'ave found who wrote 'em. I'd have given them something to be going on with, I'll tell you. An' now, the writer's killed him proper …”

She didn't weep this time. She sank her head on her breast until she seemed to have no neck at all.

“And last night was the same as all the others?”

“Yes …”

“He hadn't had another letter yesterday?”

Bessie Emmott sat upright.

“Another letter! What do you mean?”

“More threats …”

“No.”

They sat in silence for a minute or two. Cromwell had been busily writing in his black book. He yawned. Littlejohn prevented himself from doing the same only with difficulty. The sleepy atmosphere got a hold of you. He could imagine it all. Bellis and his coming and going and having an easy time in this his little retreat … his little love-nest. He glanced at Bessie. She was lost in thought and looked ready for another good cry.

Alice was back in the doorway.

“Just draw three glasses of best mild, dearie. One for yourself, too, if you feel like it …”

“Don't trouble about us,” said Littlejohn.

“I want you to have a drink before you go. You've been very decent and considerate.”

Alice returned with the beer. She hadn't filled a glass for herself. She sat on a stool by the fire, crossed her legs and took a cigarette from a packet on the mantelpiece. She smoked boldly like a man, leaving the cigarette between her lips, coughing and screwing up her eyes as the smoke rose.

The shop bell rang again. They seemed to be doing a roaring trade.

The girl rose and went to attend to it, her cigarette dangling in her mouth. Her glances at Bessie were still hostile. There had evidently been a lot said before the detectives arrived and there was some settling up between the women due when they left.

“Your good health, gentlemen.”

Littlejohn started out of his reverie.

“And yours, thanks. …”

“Good health,” said Cromwell.

“I don't think we'll trouble you any further, Miss Emmott. How did you get home when you'd seen Mr. Bellis off. Walk?”

“No. Generally got the last 'bus from the station to the end of Warrender Road.”

“And Mr. Bellis wouldn't even venture on the 'bus without you?”

“He might have done if I'd pressed him, but I didn't mind the walk and it pleased him.”

“You've no idea at all who might have written those letters?”

“No. If I had, I'd have stopped their hanky-panky... Even the Salton police couldn't find out.”

Littlejohn rose and stretched himself and Cromwell reached for his cap.

It was still blowing hard outside and the rain lashed the windows.

They found the shop half-full when they opened the red-curtained door. A man in a rain-soaked jacket and cap, with a cigarette hanging from his lips, was leering at Alice who was drawing him a pint. She turned from meeting his eyes boldly and looked fully at Littlejohn. The same astonished eyebrows … She seemed definitely hostile and in spite of her domestic differences with her aunt, resented the intrusion of the police in their home. She nodded without a smile.

“She could have a very good time with me,” Bessie had said.

Sizing-up with a glance the leering man and the shabby group with jugs and bottles crowding round the girl, the women a bit spitefully, the men hungrily taking in her beauty, Littlejohn wondered …

When his wife was not there, The Rev. Bernard Beaglehole was a cocky little man. The miserable stipend he received from the decayed living of St. Stephen's would certainly not have kept him, his wife and four daughters in the way in which he lived. Money, however, in the shape of Mrs. Beaglehole, had married him, brought him a houseful of handsome Victorian furniture and the reputation for being the most horribly henpecked man in the shire.

Mrs. Beaglehole was like one of those predatory female spiders who, having consummated their love, fall upon and consume their fascinated mates. It was even said she censored the vicar's sermons. Fortunately, Mrs. Beaglehole was a J.P. on the Salton bench and her frequent absences to deal with malefactors gave the rector freedom in which to expand. He was standing on the hearthrug of his study, legs apart, hands in pockets, stomach thrust out, a cherrywood pipe full of herbal smoking mixture between his teeth, toasting his clerical pants when Littlejohn entered.

“Good-morning,” said Littlejohn.

“Good-morning, Inspector,” answered the parson, and he waved his visitor into an opulent club chair inherited by his wife from her late father who had made a fortune
by dressing tripe. Mr. Beaglehole seated himself at his desk on which reposed the funeral sermon of the late Timothy Bellis. His wife, who had also inherited her parent's interest in tripe, would shortly pass judgment on it.

“This is purely a formal call, sir,” began the Inspector. “You were probably one of the last persons to see the late Mr. Bellis alive and I would value your impressions of anything out of the ordinary which happened on the station that night.”

Mr. Beaglehole emitted a mouthful of burnt lavender, hyssop and valerian and pondered heavily.

“I don't know that I can be of any use, Inspector. I'd been speaking at the church of my colleague, Rope-walker, of Mereton. He saw me to the train. We stood talking at the carriage door until it departed …”

“Yes, I saw you, sir …”

“You saw me?”

“Yes, I was leaning from a compartment two doors away.”

Mr. Beaglehole looked sly, removed his pipe, bared his even false teeth and screwed up his eyes. He wondered whether or not Littlejohn had noticed the condition he was in. Would three bottles of beer make one look drunk? A pipeful of herbs and a peroxide gargle had kept the traces from Mrs. Beaglehole's suspicious nose. Surely …

“You would see Bellis taking leave of his companion?”

“Yes. I didn't take any interest, though. I'm afraid my friend and I were too deep in our own conversation …”

“I see. Did you know Bellis well?”

“I wouldn't say I knew him
well
. I knew his reputation. It was not a good one, I'm afraid. He has been very unfortunate … money losses, the death of his wife, a dear parishioner of mine, and a number of other setbacks. He seemed to go under … Still one ought not to judge. We never know …”

He was thinking of the mild eulogy in the obituary sermon. One had to be tactful, because Mr. Mark Bellis
would be at the funeral of his brother and Mark was solicitor to the diocesan council …

“Could you think of anyone who would hate the deceased enough to murder him?”

“Well … He was somewhat of a philanderer, you know. Not that I ought to speak ill of the dead. But we owe him a duty to find out his assassin, don't we? Perhaps some angry father or lover avenged a wronged daughter or sweetheart …”

“Have you anyone in particular to suggest, sir?”

“Well, no. I wouldn't be prepared to do that. You see, I can't repeat hearsay … Not had any personal experience of Bellis's affairs. Mean to say, never met or received the confidence of any wronged party.”

“I see … Then, I won't take up any more of your time, Mr. Beaglehole …”

Suddenly the street door was violently slammed and heavy feet could be heard treading the hall.

“Is your master in, Mary?” boomed a domineering voice, and in strode the parson's wife.

“Good morning,” she said to Littlejohn. Then, “Bernard, you've been smoking that horrible stuff again. The place smells like a burning garden-rubbish heap …”

With gnashing sounds Mrs. Beaglehole flung open the window, a breeze entered and blew the Bellis funeral oration all over the shop.

“This is Inspector Littlejohn, my dear … Investigating the death of Mr. Bellis,” panted Beaglehole, pattering here and there swooping on the scattered pieces of sermon.

Mrs. Beaglehole turned on Littlejohn two huge brown eyes, protruding so much that they looked ready at any moment to leave their sockets and run down her cheeks like great tears. Her complexion was livid with health and power, her great nose leapt from her face like a scythe, and she smacked her large thin lips with relish and determination. She wore hairy brown tweeds, flat heeled brogues and a green jumper like a small tent covered
her enormous bosom. At once, the J.P., fresh from sending-down drunks and indecent assaulters from the docks, converted her husband's study into a court of petty sessions.

“Ha!! Sit down, Inspector,” boomed Mrs. Beaglehole. “The very man I want … Bernard, stop fussing about and sit down …”

“I've just finished my business with your husband, Mrs. Beaglehole, and I must be getting off. There's the inquest immediately after lunch …”

“You needn't worry about that, Inspector. It will be adjourned,” said the J.P. with finality. She stood before the fire, warming and rubbing her huge haunches and pointed masterfully to a chair, fixing her protruding eyes on Littlejohn.

“I daresay, madam. But, unless you've any useful information to give me about the deceased or the crime, it's no use my wasting your time and mine …”

“Wasting time? I
never
waste time. I want the full details of the case up to date, Inspector. I shall be on the bench which will eventually commit your quarry to the assizes when you catch him …”

“Until then, madam, I must beg to be excused.”

Mr. Beaglehole's eyes opened wide in admiration. What wouldn't he give to be able to talk like that! He boldly saw Littlejohn to the door, wrung him cordially by the hand and returned to face his dumbfounded partner …

Meanwhile, Cromwell had fared little better at the munition works. He received, a mixed reception. Clad in his cloth cap, for none of the shops in Salton had a bowler to fit him, he was mistaken for a trade union leader, a Ministry of Supply inspector, a communist agitator and a visiting delegate from Russia, respectively. Most of the workpeople were disappointed when they heard he was from Scotland Yard. They asked him why he'd needed to arrive there disguised. No, nobody had bothered about Tim Bellis and his woman. The rougher element made remarks about the pair of them which brought blushes to
Cromwell's modest cheeks. They took a liking to him, personally, however, gave him a lunch in the canteen and entertained him with workers' playtime.

Before the inquest, Littlejohn had the chance of a word or two with some of the witnesses.

Ted Drake and his mate, both dressed in their best, with the fireman looking as though he had left the coat-hanger in his jacket, stated they had been too occupied with the signal and worried about the cause of the halt to notice what was happening in the train behind. Drake was sweating with fear at the thought of giving evidence and somehow his memory refused to function. The guard, however, who was more used to coroner's courts, his mother-in-law having committed suicide and his brother having been killed in a street accident, was more self-possessed.