"How was I to know he was murdered? Would you . . .?"
The photographers had taken their grisly pictures and gone and the finger-print experts from Douglas had dusted and examined various articles of furniture and parts of the room, and now had carried off their films to be developed. Littlejohn, the Chief Constable, the sergeant and a plain-clothes man or two were left, with Archdeacon Kinrade hanging on the fringe, curious to watch an investigation start and as eager to learn as a young man.
The Deemster's retiring-room yielded little. Such clues as gave some idea of His Honour's behaviour just before his death were spread on the green baize cloth of the table, together with the belongings taken from the pockets of the body, which had now been removed to the mortuary. The grease-paper packet which had held the sandwiches, the broken pen-nib, the ball of crumpled writing-paper picked up at the dead man's feet. . . .
My dear Inspector Littlejohn. . . .
"He must have had some reason for writing urgently to you. Something that couldn't wait until he met you this evening. Or maybe, he was afraid something might happen before you came. It looks as if he began to write a letter, spoiled it when the pen-nib broke, and then started another one. . . . The murderer must have carried that one off. . . ."
The Chief Constable was an ex-army man, practical and alert. There was no professional jealousy in his makeup and he made it clear that it must be all hands to the pumps to find a quick solution before the tracks of the killer grew blurred.
"I know you're here on leave, Littlejohn, but, you are in a way, involved, you know. The dead man seems to have specifically singled you out to solve his problem. I hope you'll help. I'll make it right with Scotland Yard. . . ."
So, the Inspector was virtually in charge of the case.
Archdeacon Kinrade drew near as the Chief Constable spoke of his theory about the letter. He was anxious not to miss a thing and, as the best logician of his year at Cambridge, long ago, he tested every word for truth and meaning.
"I thought he'd had a stroke. . . ."
The constable was telling a reporter outside the room all about it.
"What would you have done if you'd thought he was ill? You'd have given him a drink of water, wouldn't you . . .?"
The police surgeon had rebuked him. Here was a man, poisoned, and he was given a drink from a bottle on the table ! Suppose the water had been the vehicle for the poison. His Honour might thereby have been given a second dose.
"The doctor said. . . ."
But the water was untainted. The doctor had smelled it and even tasted a drop of it and carried it off to the analyst, sure he wouldn't find anything. He had also taken away the bottle of cough mixture from the Deemster's coat pocket. He didn't taste that and, as for smelling it, it gave off so many strong aromas that you couldn't tell one from another. But if you left it uncorked for a bit, you got the smell of almonds.
The contents of the pockets contained the usual coin, cigarette-case, matches, lighter, silver pencil and fountain-pen carried about by most men. There was four pounds ten shillings in notes in a note-case, and a wallet stuffed with papers. The latter interested Littlejohn, but he obviously could not begin to pore over them then and there. Instead, he asked if he might take the lot and examine it at his leisure during the evening. The Chief Constable agreed and seemed surprised at being asked. It was obvious that the case was under Littlejohn's command.
Littlejohn wished he had Cromwell there to keep up his morale and sense of humour. These were very friendly and considerate folk, but the Inspector felt entirely on his own. Cromwell was always a good foil for him, solid, humorous, sane in counsel, a terror for work, an expert in getting what he wanted from all types of people. But the sergeant was also on holidays, with his nice wife, three kids and his mother-in-law at Truro. . . .
The Chief Constable must have read Littlejohn's thoughts. He put a kindly hand on the Inspector's shoulder.
"I know you Scotland Yard Inspectors usually work with a detective-sergeant. You may have one you'd like me to send for. If so, I'll do it with pleasure. Otherwise, I'll assign one of our own men to you and he can do the routine and local work for you. We have a young sergeant who's up-and-coming, intelligent and ambitious and he'll be delighted with the chance to study the methods of Scotland Yard. It'll be a godsend to him. . . . What do you say, Inspector?"
Littlejohn said he'd be grateful for the help of the detective from Douglas.
The Chief strode to the door.
"Knell. . . . Knell. . . . Please come here. . . ."
Detective-Sergeant Knell was on the top side of thirty, earnest-looking and rather overwhelmed by his new job. He wore a raincoat and soft black hat with a snap brim. He'd worn the brim turned up all round until he'd seen Littlejohn's style, and then he'd turned it down all round. "You look like a real detective now," one of his colleagues, who was a bit jealous of him, had said. In the force, on account of his lugubrious name and his fair pink complexion, he was known as "Nellie", but only in private.
Knell entered, removed his hat and revealed a long head, thatched in silky dishevelled hair, which he combed into order with his fingers. He had a Roman nose, blue eyes and a good forehead. His cheeks were a bit sunken and tapered down to a pointed chin. When he grinned, which was rarely, he revealed a double row of strong large teeth almost like the keys of a piano.
"This is Detective-Sergeant Knell, Inspector. You'll find him a very helpful man. . . ."
"Well, Reginald, your chance has come at last. . . ."
Archdeacon Kinrade pumped Knell's hand up and down with both his own and explained to Littlejohn that Reginald Knell had been born in the parish of Bride when he himself was rector there, that he had christened him and prepared him for confirmation, and that he hoped one day to marry him at Grenaby and baptise his children there.
Knell blushed and looked here and there as though seeking a bee-line of flight or else wishing the ground would open and hide him. He had been courting a girl for a number of years, but had not yet brought his mind to leading her to the altar at Grenaby or anywhere else.
Littlejohn shook the sergeant's hand, which was perspiring heavily from his emotions. Knell was about six feet tall and a conscientious officer. He had once arrested an armed burglar, over-powered an Indian juggler who had run amuck on the funfair and started to perform a knife-throwing act among his audience, and he had at one place and another rescued four people from drowning. Ever since Littlejohn's arrival, Knell had been watching him closely with a sort of dumb adoration, listening, pondering. The blue eyes fixed themselves on the famous Scotland Yard man like the all-seeing Eye on certificates issued by secret societies. He had been expecting Littlejohn to take out a book and make notes of things in it and whip out a magnifiying lens and go down on his knees and creep around for clues. . . .
"Pleased to meet you, sir."
This was beyond Knell's wildest dreams. When he'd been told at Douglas to go down to Castletown with the murder squad, his heart had missed a beat. Murder ! In his modest way, he thought they'd just need him to hold the crowds back. . . . And now. . . .
As he hung around waiting for orders, people he knew had started to quizz Reggie Knell.
"Inspector Littlejohn from over at Scotland Yard's on the job. He'll be questioning everybody," he had answered and set Castletown in a bit of a panic. Now, it would be himself, Reggie Knell, doing it! His uncle, Knell the Shoe, who kept a bootshop in Arbory Street, was in the pub already, standing drinks to all who came.
"Our Tom's Reggie's on the case, with a high-up expert from London. . . . Somebody had better look-out." And when they told him later that his boast was really true, he got properly drunk, and went home to his shop where he soled a lot of shoes that only needed heeling and heeled a lot that needed soles. . . .
"I'll see you in the morning, then, Knell. I'd like to get settled in at the Archdeacon's place first and just think things over and have a talk with Mr. Kinrade about the Deemster's background.
Shall we meet here . . .?"
"He'll call for you, Inspector," said the Chief Constable. "There's a police-car at your disposal and Knell can drive you. . . ."
They all hung about a bit, hesitating what to do next. Littlejohn felt sorry for them. In the small community, the murder of a Deemster was a shocking blow and a personal loss for all of them.
Teddy Looney entered, beaming, unperturbed by the presence of so many police. He'd milked his cows and now he could face life with an easy mind again. The party broke up and Littlejohn joined the Archdeacon in Looney's old car, which now bore on its bonnet a number of large white exclamation marks, made by Teddy's hens whilst he milked the cows. . . . They trundled along into the country and Littlejohn recognized the old road to Grenaby, the stone bridge where the man in dark glasses had once tried to murder Parson Kinrade, and a little farther along, the houses in which the killer had confessed and died. They turned in at the lane leading to Grenaby parsonage and soon were taking tea and talking by the fire. It was mild for the time of year, the windows were open, and the sun was beginning to set over the mountains in the direction of Peel. The birdsong, the whisper of the trees, the smell of wood-smoke on the air, a dog barking far away. . . . So unreal and remote from the world and the dead man whose killer Littlejohn must now find before he could really enjoy his holiday. He took the Deemster's wallet from his pocket, carried his chair to the table and emptied out the contents.
A driving licence, stamps, return tickets on railways and 'buses, the titles of some books on a slip of paper, a recipe for plum-cake—of all things!—and some snapshots of family groups and children.
"Those are of his two married daughters and his grandchildren," said the parson, who had drawn up his chair as well and was peering among the papers through a pair of spectacles he had put on.
Littlejohn hardly heard what he said. He was looking through some newspaper cuttings, one in particular of which interested him. It was an editorial or columnist's note marked 'Times', with the date.
We have it on good authority that the banks on the Island have been troubled by a number of spurious notes this summer. It is to be hoped that these are only odd cases, for an organized effort of this kind on the Isle of Man during the season would tax the ingenuity of the police to the full. Not only is there a moving population of hundreds of thousands of people holidaymaking here, but banknotes of English, Scottish, Irish and our own insular banks circulate freely and without being questioned. In fact, during the high-season, the Island might be called the counterfeiter's paradise !
"Which is true," said the parson after they had read it. "Easier than a racecourse. . . . But why's the Deemster bothering about it? Does he think he might get the very criminals to his own court for judgment . . .?"
Littlejohn passed over the last articles he'd extricated from the wallet.
"I don't know; but have you seen these?"
There were five banknotes, all on different banks, and a pound each in denomination. Bank of Mann, Bank of England, Bank of Scotland, Bank of Ireland, and Home Counties Bank in England. The parson put his finger on the last note.
"You'll observe, that whilst the English banks, other than the Bank of England, aren't allowed to issue notes in their own country, they can come over here, open a bank, and issue them on the Island."
"I wonder if these are genuine, or spurious. The Deemster had a note-case with some other notes in; these seem to have been kept apart and tucked away for some reason."
"Yes. . . . And all of different banks. We'll see what the bank at Castletown says about them to-morrow. Meanwhile is there anything else, any clue among the rest of the stuff in the wallet?"
"No. . . . Not that I can see. This case looks like being a tough one to crack. As you said before, Archdeacon, people don't, as a rule, murder the judge who sends them down for a term. Prison makes them respect the judge more than you'd think, although it might not prevent them coming up for another stretch. We can't dismiss the idea, but it doesn't seem a very hot one to me. You knew the Deemster well? Was he likely to have enemies, sir?"
The parson rubbed his white whiskers.
"I told you he was a beloved man in this land. Charitable, kind of heart, a public servant in more ways than one, a member of a family highly respected here for generations, a scholar, a good friend. . . . I can't think of a single reason why anybody should want to murder him."
"Yet, somebody did, and was very determined to do it, too. There must be something good or bad, hidden in the judge's life, which has caused this. . . ."
"It can't be bad. . . . It must be some evil he's come across in the course of his duties which he's tried to put right, and thereby met his death."
Littlejohn expressed no views on the parson's theory. He had so many times before had to burrow into the lives of decent, respectable people to find the one flaw, the weak spot which had brought their ruin or destruction, that he never showed surprise at what he found. But he was half prepared to take the parson's word for it. Archdeacon Kinrade, although he lived at the back o' beyond, was no fool, but a clever man of the world. Maybe the Deemster. . . .
Outside, the telephone bell was ringing frantically. They could hear old Maggie, the housekeeper, shuffling along, talking to herself about the interruption.
"All right, all right! I'm comin'. . . ."
She looked a bit annoyed when she entered.
"It's them policemen at Castletown again, wantin' the Inspector. I told them you were takin' tea with your shoes off and your slippers on; but no . . . they must speak to you. . . ."
It was Sergeant Cregeen at Castletown police-station and he was sorry to trouble the Inspector again. But they'd another murder on their hands. This time a mere child, a boy scout. Could the Inspector come over . . .?
Littlejohn changed into his shoes and so did the Archdeacon. "I'm not missing any of this, Inspector," he said. "I feel responsible for you and, if you'll have me, I'd like to come."
"Of course. . . . I'd be glad if you would."
This time a police-car came for them. Knell was driving and he looked to have grown a couple of inches since his appointment as Littlejohn's assistant. He told them that the custodian of the castle had found the boy as he went his rounds after closing. He had been throttled. . . .
It was the same all over again. Crowds, the fleet of cars, the whispers, the still air of expectancy over the town. Now, there was a faint symptom of panic in it, too. You could understand a criminal going out for a judge. When all's said and done, you can't expect somebody who's suffered at the hands of a judge bearing him anything but ill-will, they were all saying. But a little lad, a boy scout over on holidays in camp. . . . There must be a maniac at large!
In the evening light it was all a bit unreal and fearful. Long shadows fell from the castle and, inside, the gloom was ominous and the imaginative might feel the shades of past kings and lords of Mann, their soldiery, their victims of the dungeons, their watchmen rubbing past in the half-light, or the giants, said to be imprisoned in the foundations, roaring their heads off in rage. A man had once gone down a hole in one of the oubliettes and never been seen again. . . .
Littlejohn and the Archdeacon entered by the main gate and through the tunnel they had used earlier in the day. Beyond was the stone staircase to the watchpost on the walls, whence a door led to the courtroom. In a dark part of the passage stood an old vehicle, almost like a coach of state, invented, it was said, by an island Buck for his comfort. Now it was part of the museum. The police were gathered round it. The good old man who looked after the place was in tears.
"I might have prevented it if I'd only known," he said.
They had not yet moved the body, and every officer who saw it gnashed his teeth, either actually or metaphorically. A harmless child, neat in his scout's uniform, sprawled in the musty interior of the vehicle in an atmosphere smelling of straw, old leather and dust. By the light of police lamps the whole gruesome scene was plain. Somebody had simply strang
led the boy and now he lay there, staring eyes, clenched hands, terror all over him.
The custodian told his tale again for the fifth time.
"He came and said there was somebody in the coach. He had his two little friends with him and I was showin' them over. The court was sittin' and there was plenty of time, and no other visitors. We thought he was being funny and we laughed at him. Then we went on into the other rooms. . . . He must have gone back, because we missed him and we couldn't find him again. The other two said he'd perhaps got tired and gone back to camp, which is two miles along the Douglas road. . . . They both said he didn't like to be laughed at and was inclined to sulk. He'd done it before and run off when they pulled his leg a bit. . . ."
So, with that, the keeper had finished the round with the remaining pair and seen them off the premises. There had been no more visitors. A slack day and then, after the murder of the Deemster, the castle was quarantined, as you might say. . . .
Just before official closing-time, the scoutmaster had rung up the police-station. Young Willie Mounsey, the missing scout, hadn't turned up. . . . They were a party from a Church somewhere in Lancashire, and were there for a week. Mounsey was a quiet, respectable lad who'd never got into trouble before. And then the custodian had remembered. The police were starting to search the castle in case Willie had got lost or met some accident. On the way in, the keeper had mentioned Willie's tale about the coach and had opened the door! This was a cruel blow. Nothing like it ever before. And a little boy . . . ! The old man was in great distress, as though he were personally responsible for all that went on in the great pile under his charge. He refused to be comforted even by his old friend the Archdeacon.
The same party of police and their equipment were there as had been at the inquiry in the courthouse earlier in the day, but this time, little was said. There was grim silence as the technicians worked and the constables and detectives searched, measured and made their notes. Sergeant Knell kept his eye on Littlejohn, who stood beside the Chief Constable, watching the police-surgeon and the others at their jobs, quietly, efficiently, with an intensity which spoke ill for the killer if so much as a clue of his identity came to light. They all had children of their own, and in their thoughts they were identifying them with the unhappy scout now lying on a stretcher, covered by the surgeon's overcoat.
Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 3