Dead March for Penelope Blow, page 11
‘Otherwise, all right?’
‘Yes...Though these last few days ’e’s bin worse than ordinary. I seen him wanderin’ abroad in the lanes lookin’ terrible distressed. Somethin’ must have upset ’im. And he’s not easy upset by the things o’ this world...’
‘Well...I must be off. I’ve a longish journey before evening. I’ve come from Nesbury...’
‘Good ’eavings! So, you won’t...Mrs. ’Arri-winckle will be disappointed, sir. She’ll take it out o’ me proper...’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be with you for lunch. I’ll not be long with the vicar.’
‘O.K., sir. We’ll be ready. Roast pork, sir…Ah!!!...’
The bobby smacked his lips, saluted, and Littlejohn was off.
The vicarage looked more deserted and forlorn than ever. All the leaves had fallen from the creepers which covered the front and sides, leaving twisted stems and dark walls. The gardens, thanks to the attentions of the men of the parish who did a lot of tidying up out of sheer affection, were neat, however. There were more beehives than ever sheltering under the wall of the churchyard. Littlejohn took the shortcut between the graves, picking his way among the slanting old headstones, past the gipsy’s grave in unhallowed ground, and round to the front door. He tugged the old-fashioned bell-pull.
The old housekeeper was ageing fast. She peered in the Inspector’s face as though it roused some dim recollection.
‘Inspector Littlejohn, Mrs. Younghusband...’
‘Well, upon my word! You look cold and wet, sir. How are you? Come in and let me take them wet things...Mr. Claplady’s in ’is study. Not so well, pore soul. Some bad news reached him about an old friend who died. He took it hard and on top o’ that, he’s took a cold...He will go out givin’ them old bees their sugar in all sorts o’ weather. I told him...But there, go in, sir.’
The Reverend Ethelred Claplady was cowering before a large fire in his large, untidy study. On the table, the battered manuscript of his still unfinished, monumental work on bees. He was wearing an old dressing-gown over his clerical clothes and had a large woollen scarf wound several times round his neck.
‘Oh, dear...’ he said softly to himself as Littlejohn entered, then he raised his dim, tired eyes and fumbled on the little table by his elbow for his glasses.
‘Excuse me...I can’t see without them...There, that’s better. My dear Inspector…!! How glad I am...You find me a very poor soul...full of cold and sorrow...’
‘I’m glad to see you again, sir, and sorry about your troubles. What are you taking for the cold?’
Littlejohn cast his eye over the contents of the small table-top. Smelling salts, a physic bottle, books, papers, a reading-glass and a large jar of honey.
‘I’m taking honey, Inspector. I find it good for so many complaints. I don’t know what I’d do without it...Oh, dear...’
The vicar coughed hoarsely. Like a dog barking. And fumbling among his many garments he brought to light a large handkerchief and trumpeted in it.
Littlejohn passed over the pocket flask of brandy which he always carried.
‘Try that, sir...’
He sat down opposite his friend before the roaring fire of logs.
‘Really, Inspector...With the exception of an odd glass of sherry now and then, I’m teetotal...’
‘Medicine, sir,’ said Littlejohn and smiled knowingly.
‘Very well, then, if you say so...’
Mr. Claplady poured rather a copious dose into a medicine glass from the table and drank it calmly in a single gulp.
‘Oh...Ah...Dear me...Well, well...I feel better already.’
Littlejohn emptied the rest in a clean tumbler. ‘Take some more soon, sir. It’ll do you a lot of good.’
‘I will, I will...’
Mr. Claplady looked better already. He had been low in spirits and the brandy was just what he wanted. He grew quite chirpy, took another absent-minded gulp of the rest of his new remedy, and then began to talk of personal matters and exchange many experiences since their last meeting.
‘…But you’ve not called to bring me brandy and ask about bees, Inspector. I think I know why you’re here...’
‘Yes, sir. It’s about Miss Blow. I’m very sorry to tell you we suspect foul play.’
‘Foul play! But that is monstrous. Why, Penelope was the finest woman I ever knew. Nobody would want to...want to...Was she...was she murdered, Inspector?’
His voice fell to a whisper and he rose and thrust his face close to that of his visitor.
‘I’m afraid so, sir. I’m very sorry to bring such news...’
The old vicar staggered backwards, fumbled blindly for the arm of his chair and slumped down in it.
‘To think it should all end this way...I should have been there to pray with her and hold her hand and close her eyes when she was dead. As it is...Oh, dear...I have been a weak, miserable wretch...’
And he burst into tears and sobbed noisily.
It was very painful. Littlejohn didn’t know what to say or do. He just let the old man calm himself and settle and then resumed as though nothing emotional had happened. He told him of the window-box and the daffodils and how the screws had been removed. Then of Penelope Blow’s visit to Scotland Yard and of her death. The vicar sat quietly, slumped in his chair, his eyes red, his muffler awry, his grey hair in disorder...
‘I am not a vengeful man, Inspector, but...but...I curse the one who caused the death of such a good woman...’
He said it standing on his feet, his hand raised, a priest pronouncing the fatal words. Then he told Littlejohn how, in his early days, his first curacy at Nesbury, he had fallen in love with Penelope Blow and how William Blow had hounded him from the town and locked his daughter in her room.
‘I ought to have been firm, Inspector. I ought to have remained and, if necessary, released her and eloped. As it was...’
Littlejohn looked at the vicar. Every man, he thought, remembering the Eastern saying, bears his fate on his brow. There was nothing of the violent, decisive man about the Rev. Ethelred Claplady. Faced with unreasoning physical strength and power, he would be all at sea. He wouldn’t know what to do, except yield to it. On the spiritual side, yes; but faced by William Blow, no.
‘As it was...I just went and left her. That is nearly fifty years since, Inspector. She forgave me, I know. We wrote to each other on birthdays and at Christmas. She sent me this scarf, Inspector. Made it herself...When I left her, I thought soon to go back. I would make a success of myself and claim her...I never did, so I never returned. I have been here, on a small stipend in a rambling old house, for more than forty years. I was a nobody to offer myself to such a lovely, gracious lady. She suggested our meeting...but, somehow, I felt inadequate, sir. I was ashamed...’
Perhaps it was all for the best, thought Littlejohn.
The old man was living still in his love for a lovely young girl of fifty years since. He remembered how they’d described her at Scotland Yard and Nesbury...Old, plain and fussy...Well, well...
‘But what can I do to help you bring this monster to justice, Inspector?’
‘You’ve kept in touch with Miss Penelope by correspondence, sir. Maybe, she has told you things from time to time which might help us.’
‘She has told me such a lot. They were a strange family and I think I was her only confidant...Unworthy as I was...’
‘Perhaps it would be better then, sir, if I ask you a few questions about things.’
‘By all means do.’
The vicar took another nip of his medicine. It was doing him good. He looked brighter, his eyes sparkled and a bit of colour came back to his cheeks.
‘First of all, then, you recommended Miss Blow to contact me at Scotland Yard. Why was that, sir?’
‘She telephoned and wrote...Her sister, she thought, was being poisoned. I almost went myself to see if I could help. But then...well...imagine me in an emergency...I thought of you. I hope I did right, Inspector.’
‘Perfectly right, sir. In fact, had you not intervened, Miss Penelope would have been buried as an accident case and forgotten...’
‘Not by me, Inspector, not by me...’
‘I realise that, sir. Was that all she told you?’
‘About the poisoning...yes. She was indeed distressed about it. She said she would go to London right away and stay with an old servant...Buckley, I think, who kept a little boarding-house in Egton Mews...I remember Buckley...Well, she said she would go there and call on you.’
‘I was away and never saw her, but I got her message. That was how I became involved in this case. The family are opposed to my presence and investigations...’
Mr. Claplady sprang to his feet again.
‘Inspector, I beg you...They have done enough to her, and to me, in life. I beg you let them not wrong her in death. Let right be done...’
‘I’ll see to that, sir. Now another question. When William Blow died, he left a Will giving all his money to charity. Is it true he hated his daughters and never forgave their mother for not bearing sons and then leaving him for another man?’
‘That is true, Inspector. Penelope told me that in a letter after his death. His Will left all his possessions, except the house and all in it, to charity. But something strange happened; he made provision for the daughters in another way.’
‘Yes, I heard about the annuities.’
‘More than that, Inspector. Cash. He gave them cash before he died. He atoned somewhat. Had he not done so, he would have been truly damned, for even the annuities were fraught with evil.’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘It was a single annuity, Inspector, on their three lives. It was known as a tontine, I think. Penelope wrote about it at the time. The annual payment was divided in three shares, at first. Then, when one annuitant died, the same sum was divided in two; and when only one remained the original annual sum came to her. Monstrous...It meant that an evil annuitant would want the other two to die...Might even be tempted to violence to get their shares as well as her own.’
‘But all the Blow daughters got on well together, didn’t they? Surely, he couldn’t, wouldn’t hope to set them one against the other.’
‘That is what he intended, Inspector. I knew him well and I knew of what he was capable. He was an evil man...but God in His mercy saved him just in time. It was almost like a miracle. He left a large sum in his Will to the Salvation Army to build a place of worship in Nesbury. Somehow, in the course of his contacts with the Salvationists...he met them often because he wished to arrange with them exactly how the place was to be erected...in the course of his meetings with them, they were able to show him the evil of his ways. He became so obsessed with a sense of sin that it unhinged him. The male members of his family locked him in a special room in the bank house and relieved him of responsibility. Thus, he was unable to alter his Will.’
‘But what about the cash, sir?’
‘Before he died, he sent for Penelope. He said she was the only one he could trust. You see, Katherine was married and her husband might have become involved, and Honoria...well...she utterly despised her father. She was always on her mother’s side and a proud, haughty, selfish girl...No, he dealt with my Penelope and she served him well. He gave her thirty thousand pounds in bearer bonds...They were in a strong-box in the bank; but not his official one. He had built up this reserve in case of need. When the firm was a private bank, they got in low water a time or two. I suspect he laid the bonds aside in a box marked with a fictitious name in the vault. With the help of the Chief Cashier, Broome, who was devoted to William Blow and Penelope, she obtained the bonds, which her father then ordered her to take to London, sell, and place the funds in her own name at another bank in the City. He instructed her to act as trustee for the money, using it for the benefit of herself and her sisters as she thought fit. Thus, if the annuities did not suffice, there was a fund to make them up.’
‘Did Miss Penelope tell her sisters of this, sir?’
‘No. William Blow forbade her to do so unless utterly compelled. After the death of her father, his estate was made-up and distributed to various charities. It was only then that Penelope found out that she had committed a felony by not disclosing the sum in her name. It seems that gifts so shortly made before death are part of the estate and must suffer death duties. She remained silent about it all out of very fear and thus didn’t reveal it.’
‘So, she had the burden of all that money on her mind...’
‘Yes. She gave much of her own share, she told me, towards another Salvationist charity. After her father’s death, she took great interest in them, for he had told her of what they had done to him in the way of showing him his folly, and she felt she owed them a deep debt.’
‘And what about the rest of the money, sir?’
‘Katherine Blow married and she and her husband were very close and dear to each other. Penelope felt she could trust them and took them in her confidence. She gave them their share.’
‘And Honoria?’
‘Honoria was irresponsible part of the time…She felt...’
‘You mean, sir?’
‘Yes, Inspector...There was a strain of madness in the Blow family. I may as well tell you...I didn’t want to bring it in on account of my dear dead love. You might have thought she did herself violence. That’s what I thought at first when I heard she had died, God forgive me...I thought they had so tried her that she had become demented. You see, it was some years after we parted that she discovered her own grandfather died insane. After that she refused to marry me...Now you know, Inspector.’
‘I’m truly sorry.’
‘You also see why William Blow went unhinged when the weight of his sin became manifest to him. Honoria had an unfortunate love affair in her youth. She suffered a breakdown...to call it by its mild name. Since then, she has twice again been in a nursing home out of the way. Penelope felt she had better hold Honoria’s share on her behalf. I quite agreed. Furthermore, when Penelope told me Honoria was saying someone was poisoning her, I thought that it was just another of Honoria’s tricks...’
‘Tricks?’
‘Yes. When she didn’t get her own way, she often traded on her weakness. At one time, she pretended to commit suicide by throwing herself in the river. Fortunately, there was only sixteen inches of water in it, so the sensation had its farcical side. I’m sure she knew it wasn’t deep...’
‘Did she ever tell you about her nephews, Ralph and Harold?’
‘Not very much. Ralph married Lenore Broome, the daughter of the former Chief Cashier. Harold never married. They are both like William Blow; hot tempered and overbearing.’
‘No signs of the family failing, sir?’
‘I think not. Their father was the best of the Blows. Theodore was a nice man. So was Rufus, Theodore’s father and William’s brother. You wouldn’t have thought he and William came of the same father and mother.’
‘Was Lenore Broome’s father the one who helped Miss Penelope cash the bonds?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think, sir, he might have divulged the secret to his daughter?’
‘I would think not. Mr. Broome was the kindliest of men with the highest integrity. But maybe, she overheard or discovered something about it. One never knows.’
‘To the best of your knowledge, sir, nobody knew of Miss Penelope’s nest-egg, then, except her sister Katherine and her husband, and her father and Mr. Broome...and, of course, yourself.’
‘That is true.’
It was still raining outside. Water dripped and ran down the glass of the french windows, the wood of which was decaying and needed a coat of paint. No wonder little was seen of the housekeeper. She’d have her work cut out looking after this great, rambling ruin of a place. Mr. Claplady kicked the logs, which collapsed in a shower of sparks, and put on another couple.
‘Have you any idea who might have wished Penelope harm, Inspector? I can’t think who could have done such a thing. She was so kind and good...’
‘I have no idea at all, sir. But what you’ve told me has been of great assistance. It gives us motive, at least.’
‘What do you mean, Inspector?’
‘Everyone thought Miss Penelope lived on an annuity which died with her. Now we know she had quite a little fortune...But wait...the annuity didn’t die with her. It went to Miss Honoria. That would be her sister Katherine’s share, Penelope’s, and Honoria’s, if as you say, sir, the annuity was tontine.’
‘But, surely, her own sister! You don’t suspect Miss Honoria?’
‘If she was subject to fits of dementia...why not? But removing the screws was not a woman’s job...not a job for a woman of Honoria’s kind, at any rate. Did Penelope leave a Will, do you know, sir?’
‘Yes, Inspector. She asked my advice and let me see the draft. She had saved a little from her annuity and under cover of that, left what she had to the family. She had about eight thousand pounds of her own after she paid for the annexe at the Salvation Army. Then, in her own name, was the ten thousand which really belonged to Honoria. So, she left the larger amount to her sister, consoling herself that death duties would, at last, be paid on it, and the smaller sum equally between Ralph and Harold. A small, decent lawyer drew up the Will for her in Nesbury and the family were unaware of it.’
‘Can you give me his name, sir?’
‘Padfield. I remember because that was my own mother’s maiden name, God bless her. Padfield was instructed to bring forth the Will in the event of Penelope’s death.’
‘What happened if Miss Honoria died first, sir?’
‘All the money then went to Ralph and Harold when Penelope died.’
‘So, had the arsenic acted quickly, Miss Honoria would have died first...’
‘Yes. What an awful thing, Inspector. You surely don’t think the family...’
