Death on the Last Train (8 page)

“Whoever climbed in the train while it were stopped must a' climbed in on the oppersight side to the signal,” he said oracularly, slowly throwing back his head and closing his eyes portentuously as he did so. He had a face like a rabbit, buck teeth and all. His eyebrows were singed off, for he smoked a lot in his van.

“I agree there, guard,” replied the the Inspector, refraining with difficulty from being sarcastic. “You'd have seen anybody moving about on your own side of the train.”

“Yus. No openin' or closin' doors on that side. But on the other …well … Oo knows what went on?”

He thrust his face close to that of the detective and breathed stale thick twist over him.

“But one thing I can say that'll p'raps be of use,” he whispered, drawing back and raising a long rhetorical finger with a dirty nail. “When Ted Drake blew at the signal … when Ted Drake blew at the signal, a fellow in one of the 'ouses on the side of the line threw up 'is bedroom window and started to curse 'orrible …”

“You're thinking he may have seen something as he overlooked the opposite side from the signal?”

“That's it. You got me. 'E may 'ave seen the woal 'orrible deed. The woal 'orrible murder.”

“Which house would that be?”

“Weeeell …”

The guard rubbed his meagre bit of chin. He sounded to be using sandpaper.

“Well … That was jest as the train pulled up. I 'ad the winder on that side open so pops out me head when I 'ears the chap 'ollering. It was the house with the henpen behind. There's only one in the row. I pass there every day and I should know it. Easy to find. Yew ask that chap wot he see. It was a dark night, I know. But there was a lamp or two on in the goods yard and the carriages was showin' jest a bit o' light. He might 'ave seen somethin'. Yew ask the chap …”

Littlejohn made a note of it.

“Was Claypott in your van all the time this was going on?”

“Yes. Asleep. Tight as a drum and snorin' like a pig, 'e was.”

“He couldn't have left the van whilst your back was turned?”

“He
could
, but in 'is state he'd never 'ave got back, let alone climbing up to Bellis's carriage. No. I'd say you could cut 'im out altogether …”

Thereupon the matter closed for the coroner's officer began to gather his flock and shepherd them in to the inquest.

The coroner was a smart young solicitor in army uniform. He had been granted a month's leave, for the old gentleman who had emerged from retirement to deputise for him during his absence in the forces had had a stroke.

The evidence of the parties at the finding of the body was taken and this was supplemented by a guarded story from the police. Dr. Cooper gave expert testimony and Mr. Mark Bellis, who resembled a jockey dressed in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, identified the remains as those of his brother, Timothy. Thereupon, greatly to
the indignatoin of the guard and the relief of the enginemen, the inquest was adjourned without anyone else being called. Bessie Emmott, dressed-up to kill and determined to face all comers, was kept in the background. She protested strongly to Littlejohn afterwards.

“It's not good enough, bringin' me all this way and causing me all this upset and then not lettin' me speak. Looks as if they was trying to hide somethin' …”

“No, Miss Emmott. You've got it wrong. The adjournment is for police enquiries and should the murderer be found, then will be the time for your testimony.”

“Well, if they intended doin' that, why trouble me?”

“It all depended on the coroner, you see … Now there was a question I didn't ask the other night. Perhaps you can help me. It's about Alice, you're niece who lives with you.”

“Well, what about her? Can't see how she's affected by the affair.”

Bessie looked ready to go off half-cock.

“You said she'd been invalided out of the W.A.A.F.”

“Yes. What of it?”

“Where was she stationed?”

“Brewerton Camp was the last place before she was discharged. She was there six months. Why?”

“Has she a young man?”

“She had, but they must 'ave had a row. It's been off about three months. What's all this about? How does she come in?”

“I'm interested in all parties however remotely connected with the case. Who was he?”

“Harry Luxmore … He's still in the R.A.F. at Brewerton as far as I know. He's on the ground staff.”

“Were they much in love?”

“He'd got it bad … She didn't seem too smitten, but he pestered her that much that she went out with 'im for peace's sake, I should think. A nice boy. She might have gone farther and fared worse. But she 'as big ideas, has Alice. Not that she's any the worse for that.”

“Was Luxmore of the jealous sort?”

“I'd say so. He came over to see 'er two or three times after the row, but she wouldn't have any more of 'im …”

Suddenly the trend of the enquiries seemed to dawn on Bessie. She flopped her hands on her hips, glared at Littlejohn and thrust her face close to his.

“What are you gettin' at? If you're hintin' that Harry Luxmore was jealous of Tim Bellis and might have done him in, you're damn well wrong. As if Tim would 'a' looked at Alice. You've a wicked mind to suggest 'im castin' eyes on a slip of a young girl like 'er. You police'll do anythin' to get a case. I'm tellin' you once and for all, after Tim and me got together he never looked at another woman. True to me, was Tim and I don't care who knows it. If there'd been anythin' goin' on there—which God forgive me for sayin' such a thing—if there'd been anythin' going on there, I'd have known it, wouldn't I? There was nothin' … see? … Nothin' … Shame on you for suggestin' such a thing.”

Bessie raised her voice to a shrill scream and passers-by in the corridor of the court began to glare at Littlejohn for bullying a woman. Some recognising Bessie, shrugged their shoulders and smirked.

Miss Emmott fortunately terminated the interview by turning on her heel, stalking out and banging the door so ferociously that it shook down dust and cobwebs from the old beams of the hall.

“Like to look at this?” said Forrester approaching. He handed Littlejohn the medical report which had been read at the inquiry. Littlejohn thrust it into his pocket whilst they discussed the case and the way things had been going so far.

Littlejohn returned to the hotel with Cromwell and they had a cup of tea together, planned their campaign and then returned to their rooms for a wash. Littlejohn removed the surgeon's report from his pocket and unlocked his suit-case in which he intended to deposit it until he could study it more closely. He opened and scanned
the three page document before he dropped it in the bag. The bulk of it was typewritten, but at the end, just before Cooper's signature, was an addendum in the surgeon's own handwriting. Just a few brief lines, probably an afterthought.

Littlejohn studied Cooper's plain, stiff handwriting. Different from the traditional medical scrawl. It looked familiar. He paused and rubbed his chin. Then it came to him. Hastily he rummaged in his case and brought out the volume of poetry he had taken from Bellis's bookcase yesterday morning.

Helen, thy beauty is to me …

The handwriting was the same!

Doctor Cooper had given the book to Helen Bellis, years ago.

And he had been in love with her then.

If Mr. Mark Bellis hoped quietly to bury his brother and get home almost unobserved, he made a great mistake. The road to the windy exposed Salton cemetery was lined with sightseers stimulated and curious to see the last of the only person ever murdered in the town. Dockers momentarily downed tools, women left their housework and children halted in their play to see the hearse bearing Tim Bellis's remains pass by; and they followed it out of sight with their eyes protruding and necks stretched to their full extent.

At the burial place Mr. Mark Bellis received another shock. He had disappointed Mr. Beaglehole by barring a church ceremony in which the obituary eulogy could be preached. The hearse was followed by one official
mourning taxi containing Mr. Mark himself, his wife, a huge billowy woman who wept on the way but insisted on accompanying her husband to support him, and the Rev. Beaglehole, who was to attend to the committal. To the surprise of the family contingent, however, four other cars joined in the procession on the way. And at the cemetery there disembogued three cabfuls of initiates of a secret society of which Timothy had been a member in his heyday and as he had neither been blackballed nor drummed out, according to their rules they were responsible for his burial in accordance with the ritual of their cult.

From the fourth cab emerged Miss Bessie Emmott clad in black from head to foot.

“What are this lot barging in for?” asked Mrs. Mark of her husband, indicating the secret society, the eight members of which were all dressed alike, top hats, frock coats and their badges of office in the lapels of their garments. They were like the chorus of some weird musical comedy and looked to have hired their attire from a theatrical costumier. “
And who is that woman?
”

The brethren bore an enormous wreath between them and Bessie, not to be outdone, carried a harp made of chrysanthemums.

There was a large crowd of onlookers beside the open grave. They made way for Mr. Mark, still in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and top hat, and Mrs. Mark, sniffing into a handkerchief as though lamenting, instead of rejoicing in the departure of this black sheep of the family. The secret society followed, bearing the bier which they had taken from the municipal gravediggers. Mr. Beaglehole had to struggle to maintain his dignity and position as official chaplain against the lay minister of the brotherhood.

To the horror of the mourners and spectators alike, Bessie Emmott boldly, some said brazenly, took up her place with the open grave dividing her from Mr. and Mrs. Mark. There looked like being a scene, but somehow, the fortunate presence of the secret society prevented it.
Everything went well. The autumn sun broke through. Mr. Beaglehole and the secret society performed their respective parts amicably together, Mr. and Mrs. Mark rattled handfuls of sand and stones on the coffin and many others there, including Bessie, followed suit. So, Timothy Bellis went to his earth in an almost jovial burst of good feeling. Then the crowds melted, the relatives hurried off to the cab and their train, the brethren removed their regalia and drove off to their licensed headquarters for refreshment. There was no funeral tea, no bakemeats. Bessie Emmott strolled alone among the surrounding graves, reading their inscriptions and watching the spectators until not one remained. Then she returned to the new grave which the gravediggers had already filled in, wept bitterly over it, and unsteadily tottered on her high heels back to the taxi which was waiting for her.

Littlejohn who had been watching everything from a seat on a convenient mound just above, rose, looked at his watch and set off to catch Dr. Cooper before surgery hours.

The Inspector rang the bell of the door on which were screwed two plates; one of brass, old, with the name half polished away:

DR. HENRY COOPER,
Surgeon
.

The other, in oxydised copper with white lettering:
P. C. VAVASOUR, M.D., B.S.,
Physician and Surgeon
.

A plain stocky girl with a mop of black hair and a fringe cut over her forehead, answered. She wore horn-rimmed glasses two sizes too large for her and a white dispenser's coat.

“Is Dr. Cooper in?”

“Can't you see that it says
Come In?
” replied the attendant, indicating another plaque on the door.

“This isn't a professional call …”

Littlejohn produced his card. The young woman did not flinch but her tone softened.

“Dr. Cooper's having lunch. He's been kept on a case. I'll tell him. Come in and sit down.”

She put him in the waiting-room with the patients.

About twenty people sitting in rows on cane chairs as though waiting for a concert to begin. In front of them, on the wall, a bell with an indicator like those used in servants' hall, only instead of the names of the rooms, those of the two doctors. The bell rang and a small red flag fluttered in a circle beneath “Dr. Vavasour.” This advertised the fact that the next patient could now enter the doctor's surgery by the door near the indicator. By some sort of mutual intuition the waiting people knew whose turn was next. There was no argument … The ingoing subject, as a rule, passed the outgoing one. The latter emerged with fixed expressions on their faces and made silent exits, as if either condemned to death or, having been treated somewhat flippantly by the doctor, intent on showing that they knew better than he and dismissed his verdict with contempt.

On the walls were two huge steel engravings.
The Charge of the Light Brigade.
Wild horses, frenzied, shouting men on their backs, and a shambles of fallen and wounded.
The Thin Red Line.
A grim remnant with the rest of their comrades dead or dying. As though, somehow, an orgy of blood and death were connected with medicine and surgery and likely to put patients in the right frame of mind.

One or two of the waiting throng had hacking coughs and when they indulged them the rest of the patients joined in, begrudging them the exclusive right to advertise their ills. There was a boy with mumps with his neck in flannel and two or three women with babies. One was suckling a youngster at the breast.

“I hope that's not chicken-pox …” said a woman, indicating the face of a spotty little boy. His mother couldn't keep him under control.

Conversation was conducted in whispers.

“Dr. Vavasour's good with children … ” They pronounced it Vavasher.

“Dr. Cooper's more fatherly, but I think he's a bit old fashioned …”