Guilty Creatures, page 15
Deliberately ex-Superintendent Hamilton poured drinks into two glasses. He passed one to Labordien.
“Then drink to happiness, Henri, old friend. Brough confessed within an hour of his arrest. Here’s to better days!”
The Yellow Slugs
H. C. Bailey
Henry Christopher Bailey (1878–1961) was one of the towering figures of Golden Age detective fiction, renowned above all for his short stories featuring the amiable yet occasionally ruthless Reggie Fortune. The Fortune stories fell out of favour after the Second World War, and they were always something of an acquired taste. But Bailey continues to attract devotees, and his best stories are notable for their darkness. Writing in The Observer in 1935, the leading critic Torquemada summed up the range of opinions: “Mr. Fortune’s position among readers of detective stories is unique. Some cannot read about him at any price; many regard him as merely one of several first-class practitioners; but many more still, the other and my side idolatry, mark time between Mr. Bailey’s chronicles.”
This chilling story is widely considered to be one of his finest pieces of work. It appeared in The Windsor Magazine in March 1935 and in that year it was included in Mr. Fortune Objects, which Ellery Queen regarded as his best volume of short stories.
***
The big car closed up behind a florid funeral procession which held the middle of the road. On either side was a noisy congestion of lorries. Mr. Fortune sighed and closed his eyes.
When he looked out again he was passing the first carriage of another funeral, and saw beneath the driver’s seat the white coffin of a baby. For the road served the popular cemetery of Blaney.
Two slow miles of dingy tall houses and cheap shops slid by, with vistas of meaner streets opening on either side. The car gathered speed across Blaney Common, an expanse of yellow turf and bare sand, turbid pond and scrubwood, and stopped at the brown pile of an old poor law hospital.
Entering its carbolic odour, Mr. Fortune was met by Superintendent Bell. “Here I am,” he moaned. “Why am I?”
“Well, she’s still alive, sir,” said Bell. “They both are.”
Mr. Fortune was taken to a ward in which, secluded by a screen, a little girl lay asleep.
Her face had a babyish fatness, but in its pallor looked bloated and unhealthy. Though the close July air was oppressive and she was covered with heavy bedclothes, her skin showed no sign of heat and she slept still as death.
Reggie sat down beside her. His hands moved gently within the bed… He listened…he looked…
A nurse followed him to the door. “How old, do you think?” he murmured.
“That was puzzling me, sir. She’s big enough for seven or eight, but all flabby. And when she came to, she was talking almost baby talk. I suppose she may be only about five.”
Reggie nodded. “Quite good, yes. All right. Carry on.”
From the ward he passed to a small room where a nurse and a doctor stood together watching the one bed.
A boy lay in it, restless and making noises—inarticulate words mixed with moaning and whimpering.
The doctor lifted his eyebrows at Reggie. “Get that?” he whispered. “Still talking about hell. He came absolutely unstuck. I had to risk a shot of morphia. I—” He broke off in apprehension as Reggie’s round face hardened to a cold severity. But Reggie nodded and moved to the bed…
The boy tossed into stertorous sleep, one thin arm flung up above a tousled head. His sunken cheeks were flushed, and drops of sweat stood on the upper lip and the brow. Not a bad brow—not an uncomely face but for its look of hungry misery—not the face of a child—a face which had been the prey of emotions and thwarted desires…
Reggie’s careful hands worked over him…bits of the frail body were laid bare… Reggie stood up, and still his face was set in ruthless, passionless determination.
Outside the door the doctor spoke nervously. “I hope you don’t—”
“Morphia’s all right,” Reggie interrupted. “What do you make of him?”
“Well, Mr. Fortune, I wish you’d seen him at first.” The doctor was uncomfortable beneath the cold insistence of a questioning stare. “He was right out of hand—a sort of hysterical fury. I should say he’s quite abnormal. Neurotic lad, badly nourished—you can’t tell what they won’t do, that type.”
“I can’t. No. What age do you give him?”
“Now you’ve got me. To hear him raving, you’d think he was grown up, such a flow of language. Bible phrases and preaching. I’d say he was a twelve-year-old, but he might only be eight or ten. His development is all out of balance. He’s unhealthy right through.”
“Yes, that is so,” Reggie murmured. “However. You ought to save him.”
“Poor little devil,” said the doctor.
In a bare, grim waiting-room Reggie sat down with Superintendent Bell, and Bell looked anxiety. “Well, sir?”
“Possible. Probable,” Reggie told him. “On the evidence.”
“Ah. Cruel, isn’t it? I hate these child cases.”
“Any more evidence?” Reggie drawled.
Bell stared at his hard calm gloomily. “I have. Plenty.”
The story began with a small boy on the bank of one of the ponds on Blaney Common. That was some time ago. That was the first time anybody in authority had been aware of the existence of Eddie Hill. One of the keepers of the common made the discovery. The pond was that one which children used for the sailing of toy boats. Eddie Hill had no boat, but he loitered round all the morning, watching the boats of other children. There was little wind, and one boat lay becalmed in the middle of the pond when the children had to go home to dinner.
An hour later the keeper saw Eddie Hill wade into the pond and run away. When the children came back from dinner there was no boat to be seen. Its small owner made weeping complaint to the keeper, who promised to keep his eyes open, and some days later found Eddie Hill and his little sister Bessie lurking among the gorse of the common with the stolen boat.
It was taken from them and their sin reported to their mother, who promised vengeance.
Their mother kept a little general shop. She had been there a dozen years—ever since she married her first husband. She was well liked and looked up to; a religious woman, regular chapel-goer and all that. Her second husband, Brightman, was the same sort—-hardworking, respectable man; been at the chapel longer than she had.
The day-school teachers had nothing against Eddie or the little girl. Eddie was rather more than usually bright, but dreamy and careless; the girl a bit stodgy. Both of ’em rather less naughty than most.
“Know a lot, don’t you?” Reggie murmured. “Got all this today?”
“No, this was all on record,” Bell said. “Worked out for another business.”
“Oh. Small boy and small girl already old offenders. Go on.”
The other business was at the chapel Sunday school. Eddie Hill, as the most regular of its pupils, was allowed the privilege of tidying up at the end of the afternoon. On a Sunday in the spring the superintendent came in unexpectedly upon the process and found Eddie holding the money-box in which had been collected the contributions of the school to the chapel missionary society.
Eddie had no need nor right to handle the money-box. Moreover, on the bench beside him were pennies and a sixpence. Such wealth could not be his own. Only the teachers ever put in silver. Moreover, he confessed that he had extracted the money by rattling the box upside down, and his small sister wept for the sin.
The superintendent took him to the police station and charged him with theft.
“Virtuous man,” Reggie murmured.
“It does seem a bit harsh,” Bell said. “But they’d had suspicions about the money-box before. They’d been watching for something like this. Well, the boy’s mother came and tried to beg him off, but of course the case had to go on. The boy came up in the Juvenile Court—you know the way, Mr. Fortune; no sort of criminal atmosphere, magistrate talking like a father. He let the kid off with a lecture.”
“Oh, yes. What did he say? Bringin’ down mother’s grey hairs in sorrow to the grave—wicked boy—goin’ to the bad in this world and the next—anything about hell?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” Bell was shocked. “I heard he gave the boy a rare old talking to. I don’t wonder. Pretty bad, wasn’t it, the Sunday-school money-box? What makes you bring hell into it?”
“I didn’t. The boy did. He was raving about hell today. Part of the evidence. I was only tracin’ the origin.”
“Ah. I don’t like these children’s cases,” Bell said gloomily. “They don’t seem really human sometimes. You get a twisted kind of child and he’ll talk the most frightful stuff—and do it too. We can only go by acts, can we?”
“Yes. That’s the way I’m goin’. Get on.”
The sharp impatience of the tone made Bell look at him with some reproach. “All right, sir. The next thing is this morning’s business. I gave you the outline of that on the phone. I’ve got the full details now. This is what it comes to. Eddie and his little sister were seen on the common; the keepers have got to keep an eye on him. He wandered about with her—he has a casual, drifting sort of way, like some of these queer kids do have—and they came to the big pond. That’s not a children’s place at all; it’s too deep; only dog bathing and fishing. There was nobody near; it was pretty early. Eddie and Bessie went along the bank, and a labourer who was scything thistles says the little girl was crying, and Eddie seemed to be scolding her, and then he fair chucked her in and went in with her. That’s what it looked like to the keeper who was watchin’ ’em. Him and the other chap, they nipped down and chucked the life-buoy; got it right near, but Eddie didn’t take hold of it; he was clutching the girl and sinking and coming up again. So the keeper went in to ’em and had trouble getting ’em out. The little girl was unconscious, and Eddie sort of fought him.” Bell stopped and gave a look of inquiry, but Reggie said nothing, and his face showed neither opinion nor feeling. “Well, you know how it is with these rescues from the water,” Bell went on. “People often seem to be fighting to drown themselves and it don’t mean anything except fright. And about the boy throwing the girl in—that might have been just a bit of a row or play—it’s happened often—not meant vicious at all; and then he’d panic, likely enough.” Again Bell looked an anxious question at the cold, passionless face. “I mean to say, I wouldn’t have bothered you with it, Mr. Fortune, but for the way the boy carried on when they got him out. There he was with his little sister unconscious, and the keeper doing artificial respiration, and he called out, ‘Don’t do it. Bessie’s dead. She must be dead.’ And the keeper asked him, ‘Do you want her dead, you little devil?’And he said, ‘Yes, I do. I had to.’ Then the labourer chap came back with help and they got hold of Eddie; he was raving, flinging himself about and screaming if she lived she’d only get like him and go to hell, so she must be dead. While they brought him along here he was sort of preaching to ’em bits of the Bible, and mad stuff about the wicked being sent to hell and tortures for ’em.”
“Curious and interestin’,” Reggie drawled. “Any particular torture?”
“I don’t know. The whole thing pretty well gave these chaps the horrors. They didn’t get all the boy’s talk. I don’t wonder. There was something about worms not dying, they told me. That almost turned ’em up. Well—there you are, Mr. Fortune. What do you make of it?”
“I should say it happened,” Reggie said. “All of it. As stated.”
“You feel sure he could have thrown that fat little girl in? He seemed to me such a weed.”
“Yes. Quite a sound point. I took that point. Development of both children unhealthy. Girl wrongly nourished. Boy inadequately nourished. Boy’s physique frail. However. He could have done it. Lots of nervous energy. Triumph of mind over matter.”
Bell drew in his breath. “You take it cool.”
“Only way to take it,” Reggie murmured, and Bell shifted uncomfortably. He has remarked since that he had seen Mr. Fortune look like that once or twice before—sort of inhuman, heartless, and inquisitive; but there it seemed all wrong, it didn’t seem his way at all.
Reggie settled himself in his chair and spoke—so Bell has reported, and this is the only criticism which annoys Mr. Fortune—like a lecturer. “Several possibilities to be considered. The boy may be merely a precocious rascal. Having committed some iniquity which the little girl knew about, he tried to drown her to stop her giving him away. Common type of crime, committed by children as well as their elders.”
“I know it is,” Bell admitted. “But what could he have done that was worth murdering his sister?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. However. He did steal. Proved twice by independent evidence. Don’t blame if you don’t want. ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I.’ I agree. Quite rational to admit that consideration. We shall certainly want it. But he knew he was a thief; he knew it got him into trouble—that’s fundamental.”
“All right,” said Bell gloomily. “We have to take it like that.”
“Yes. No help. Attempt to murder sister may be connected with consciousness of sin. I should say it was. However. Other possibilities. He’s a poor little mess of nerves; he’s unsound, physically, mentally, spiritually. He may not have meant to murder her at all; may have got in a passion and not known what he was doing.”
“Ah. That’s more likely.” Bell was relieved.
“You think so? Then why did he tell everybody he did mean to murder her?”
“Well, he was off his head, as you were saying. That’s the best explanation of the whole thing. It’s really the only explanation. Look at your first idea: he wanted to kill her so she couldn’t tell about some crime he’d done. You get just the same question, why did he say he meant murder? He must know killing is worse than stealing. However you take the thing, you work back to his being off his head.” Reggie’s eyelids drooped. “I was brought here to say he’s mad. Yes. I gather that. You’re a merciful man, Bell. Sorry not to satisfy your gentle nature. I could swear he’s mentally abnormal. If that would do any good. I couldn’t say he’s mad. I don’t know. I can find you mental experts who would give evidence either way.”
“I know which a jury would believe,” Bell grunted.
“Yes. So do I. Merciful people, juries. Like you. Not my job. I’m lookin’ for the truth. One more possibility. The boy’s motive was just what he said it was—to kill his little sister so she shouldn’t get wicked and go to hell. That fits the other facts. He’d got into the way of stealing; it had been rubbed into him that he was doomed to hell. So, if he found her goin’ the same way, he might think it best she should die while she was still clean.”
“Well, if that isn’t mad!” Bell exclaimed.
“Abnormal, yes. Mad—-I wonder,” Reggie murmured.
“But it’s sheer crazy, sir. If he believed he was so wicked, the thing for him to do was to pull up and go straight, and see that she did too.”
“Yes. That’s common sense, isn’t it?” A small, contemptuous smile lingered a moment on Reggie’s stern face. “What’s the use of common sense here? If he was like this—sure he was going to hell; sure she was bein’ driven there too—kind of virtuous for him to kill her to save her. Kind of rational. Desperately rational. Ever know any children, Bell? Some of ’em do believe what they’re taught. Some of ’em take it seriously. Abnormal, as you say. Eddie Hill is abnormal.” He turned and looked full at Bell, his blue eyes dark in the failing light. “Aged twelve or so—too bad to live—or too good. Pleasant case.”
Bell moved uneasily. “These things do make you feel queer,” he grunted. “What it all comes to though—we mean much the same—the boy ought to be in a home. That can be worked.”
“A home!” Reggie’s voice went up, and he laughed. “Yes. Official home for mentally defective. Yes. We can do that. I dare say we shall.” He stood up and walked to the window and looked out at the dusk. “These children had a home of their own. And a mother. What’s she doing about ’em?”
“She’s been here, half off her head, poor thing,” said Bell. “She wouldn’t believe the boy meant any harm. She told me he couldn’t, he was so fond of his sister. She said it must have been accident.”
“Quite natural and motherly. Yes. But not adequate. Because it wasn’t accident, whatever it was. We’d better go and see mother.”
“If you like,” Bell grunted reluctantly.
“I don’t like,” Reggie mumbled. “I don’t like anything. I’m not here to do what I like.” And they went.
People were drifting home from the common. The mean streets of Blaney had already grown quiet in the sultry gloom.
Shutters were up at the little shop which was the home of Eddie Hill, and still bore in faded paint his father’s name. No light showed in the windows above. Bell rapped on the door, and they waited in vain. He moved to a house door close beside the shop. “Try this. This may be theirs too,” he said, and knocked and rang.
After a minute it was opened by a woman who said nothing, but stared at them. From somewhere inside came the sound of a man’s voice, talking fervently.
The light of the street lamp showed her of full figure, in neat black, and a face which was still pretty but distressed.
“You remember me, Mrs. Brightman,” said Bell. “I’m Superintendent Bell.”
“I know.” She was breathless. “What’s the matter? Are they—is Eddie—what’s happened?”
“They’re doing all right. I just want a little talk with you.”
“Oh, they’re all right. Praise God!” She turned; she called out: “Matthew, Matthew dear, they’re all right.”
The man’s voice went on talking with the same fervour, but not in answer.
“I’ll come in, please,” said Bell.
