Read Online Death on the Last Train by George Bellairs - Free Book Online Page A

who had also inherited her parent’s interest in tripe, would shortly pass judgment on it.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œI 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 …”
    â€œYes, I saw you, sir …”
    â€œYou saw me?”
    â€œYes, 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 …
    â€œYou would see Bellis taking leave of his companion?”
    â€œYes. I didn’t take any interest, though. I’m afraid my friend and I were too deep in our own conversation …”
    â€œI see. Did you know Bellis well?”
    â€œI 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 Belliswould be at the funeral of his brother and Mark was solicitor to the diocesan council …
    â€œCould you think of anyone who would hate the deceased enough to murder him?”
    â€œWell … 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 …”
    â€œHave you anyone in particular to suggest, sir?”
    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œIs your master in, Mary?” boomed a domineering voice, and in strode the parson’s wife.
    â€œGood 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.
    â€œThis 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 coveredher 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