Death on the Last Train (23 page)

Twenty hours later, Bessie Emmott died in the prison infirmary.

On the way out she had managed to pick up a box of digitalis pills from Hiss's dressing-table and going down the dark stairs must have swallowed the lot. About twenty of them, all told.

Perhaps it was the best way out.

Forrester didn't think so, and blamed Littlejohn, Cromwell, Flanagan and Hiss in succession. Before Littlejohn left for London, however, Forrester apologised and all was well.

“I'm rather glad,” he confided to Littlejohn. “Trying a woman for murder's an awful thing. Especially in a case like this. It's all happened for the best …”

Littlejohn was quite sure it had.

“It was a narrow shave, Letty. I nearly messed the whole thing up.”

Mrs. Littlejohn's sister, whose husband, a clergyman, had recently had a “call” from Rugby to Melton Mowbray, had sent them a pork pie. Littlejohn was despatching a liberal portion with relish.

“I gathered from your letters that you wished you'd never seen the place at all, my dear.”

“You're right. Dirtiest case I've ever handled and I nearly made a horrible mistake … This pie's delicious. Why didn't Herbert and Fanny move to Melton before and why did he take so long considering whether or not to accept the call? With pies like this in the town you'd have thought he'd have jumped at it …”

“You were saying, you nearly made a horrible mistake. How?”

“The evidence all pointed to one man. A fellow called Hiss. A champion trombone player, by the way. All my instincts were against believing him guilty, but I followed the evidence and applied for a warrant. I ought to have known better.”

“I'd say the same myself, Tom, knowing you. Anyhow, it all ended right?”

“By a fluke, yes. My bacon was saved by an accident. Hiss had a heart attack through over excitement at a concert where he was performing. Through that I learned from his doctor that he couldn't possibly have run down and up a lot of steps leading to the scene of the crime. He was shielding a woman and prepared to hang for her if needs be.”

“Why?”

“He loved her. And she was no better than she should be.
And
he knew it. But …”

“How old was he?”

“Between fifty and sixty, I'd say.”

“Dear me …”

“So learning that, I had to turn my mind to the only other possible, the woman herself. I felt sure then that she'd done it. But how to prove it …”

“And then?”

“I'd to bully her into confessing.”

“No wonder you didn't like the case …”

“I was told I wasn't a gentleman!”

“A woman, too. What's going to happen …?”

“Nothing. She's dead. Poisoned herself with some pills she took from Hiss's sick-room. He wanted to see her, so I just let them have a minute together before I took her to the police station.”

“Were you in the room when she took the pills?”

“I was in when she pinched them and put them in her pocket. She must have swallowed them as we went downstairs. It was very dark … Digitalis. They worked hard enough on her at the hospital, but she wouldn't co-operate. Took a long time to die, too … Digitalis is slow and not too painful …”

“I can't understand you letting her take the pills in the first place. It's not like you …”

“This pie's delicious. Please pass me some more chutney …'

“Did you see her taking them?”

“You ought to ask Fanny to send a pie every week. This is a real treat …”

Littlejohn didn't meet his wife's eyes. He was busy with the sauce. But Letty Littlejohn hadn't been married to the Inspector for twenty years without knowing his little ways. She didn't pursue the question.

“You're late this morning, Tom.”

“Salton didn't agree with me at all. Relaxing place and nobody stocked the tobacco I smoke. I never want to see it again.”

“Well, hurry up then, and be getting off to your Yard and play with your criminals. You'll be getting a late mark.”

Dr. Flanagan, who took quite a fancy to Littlejohn completed the case by sending him two newspaper cuttings from the
Clarion
, dated six months after Littlejohn had shaken the dust of Salton from his feet.

Littlejohn read it out to his wife, who by this time knew all the ins and outs of the Hiss affair.

“Safe in the arms of Ada! Well, well,” was his comment.

The other cutting was short.

Cromwell also received a newspaper cutting from a Mereton admirer.

“He's become a town councillor! Greengoose must have worked the trick,” said Cromwell, bursting excitedly into Littlejohn's room and showing him the clipping.

“A brother for Basil!” growled Littlejohn disgustedly.

THE END

Gorge Bellairs is a pen name of Harold Blundell (1902–1985), a crime writer born in Lancashire. Blundell was a prolific writer who published over 50 crime and mystery novels in his life, most of them featuring the detective Inspector Littlejohn.

Blundell also wrote regularly for the Manchester Guardian.

Discover books by George Bellairs published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/GeorgeBellairs

Death Before Breakfast
Death on the Last Train
Devious Murder
Murder Adrift

For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.

This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP

First published in Great Britain in 1948 by John Gifford Limited

Copyright © 1948 George Bellairs

All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The moral right of the author is asserted.

eISBN: 9781448214457

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