Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

I live at Douglas, Isle of Man,

  And Heaven's my destination.

  Littlejohn turned to the entries for 1945.

  Knell, who had been munching soda cakes incessantly, now took out his black notebook and pencil.

  "I'll take down, sir, if you like to call it out. . . ."

  Mrs. Maddrell, overawed by the might of the law, remained silent, glancing up at the portrait over the fire now and then, as if calling on the late Teare to bear witness.

  "Could we borrow this, Mrs. Maddrell, if you don't mind? I'd like to go properly into it. You see, we're interested in the Jonee Ghorrym and . . ."

  She threw up her hands at the mention of the name.

  "She's a bad ship, that one. Somebody's put the Eye on her. My husband . . . my first, I mean, would never have a wrong word said against her, but I always knew no good would come from her. They should never have changed her name for one thing and Jonee Ghorrym isn't a lucky name, either. My first husband used to laugh at me. Said I was superstitious and a Manx witch, but I do have the Sight now and then, and I was certain sure about that Jonee. . . . Yes. You can take the book, but I'd like it back for the winter. Maddrell's that fond of having it read to him on winter nights. . . ."

  "Of course, Mrs. Maddrell. You can have it back to-morrow. . . ."

  They left her to her work. As they crossed the yard, Arnold Maddrell entered the gate. A tall, powerful man, with clear blue eyes and a sinewy frame. He shook hands all round with a grip of iron. They told him why they'd called.

  "Aw. . . . A great scholar was the late Captain Teare and taught my missus a lot while they was together. Herself reads beautiful out of that diary. Makes me want the sea again, but then the missus wouldn't hear of it. A great man with the pen was the late Captain and my missus is so good at readin' what he wrote. . . ."

  His clear eyes shone with admiration. He was ready for a good gossip in praise of his wife and her 'first', but they had to leave him. They saw him take off his cap and then lift the latch of the kitchen door, as though in awe of the woman who'd consented to take him as 'second' after such a paragon of a 'first'.

  Knell took it all down as they sat in the vicar's study later.

  First, in neat sequence, the crew of the Jonee Ghorrym at the time the Captain was lost.

  Ebeneezer Teare, Master, Douglas. John Vondy, Kirk Bride, Mate. Peter Skillicorn, Douglas, Engineer. Thomas Killip, Laxey, First Hand. Fred Moore, Onchan, Deck Hand. John Kermode, Douglas, Deck Hand. Philip Moore, Onchan, Deck Hand. Arthur Costain, Douglas, Stoker.

  February 14th, 1945. We leave for Quiberon to-morrow. Ballast to Barry, steam coal Barry to Quiberon. Early vegetables etc. English port (London?)

  I do not like the Brittany trip since cousin Andrew's ship lost with all hands on Glenands. Navigation hard and dangerous.

  There followed various other entries. This was evidently a diary which Captain Teare left at home when he sailed; he must have relied on the log of the Jonee Ghorrym as his sea record.

  March 24th, 1945. The Company have arranged another Quiberon trip. I do not like them, there is something about them I do not understand. We must be undercutting freights to obtain steam-coal cargoes for Quiberon. Our competitors on the mainland have faster, better ships. One of the directors, Mr. Parker, sails with us to Quiberon on a business trip. No change in crew, but Vondy, who dislikes the Parkers, complained about Mr. Law. Parker coming. If this Brittany business persists, must think of obtaining another ship. Vondy talks of doing the same.

  Interesting to note that I can make myself understood by talking Manx to the Bretons. Manx and Breton having much in common as languages. . . .

  April 26th. After coastal trade Island and Mainland, the Brittany trip again. Told the directors I did not like it. They said it was profitable and they did not wish to seek a fresh master. I said I would reconsider. Not much chance of a new command at present, so I must go. Sailing to-morrow for coal at Barry. Have had to take on new deck hand temporarily. Fred Moore, after drinking at Friendship Inn, Ramsey, walked out and fell in harbour. In hospital and unable to sail. Weather stormy and we look like having a good blow. . . .

  New hand: Jack Gordon, Liverpool, resident in Ramsey at present.

  There were plenty of other interesting entries before the last one on April 26th, 1945, but the ones Knell had copied were sufficient for their purposes at the time.

  After reading through the diary again, Littlejohn decided to return it at once, in view of its value to Mrs. Maddrell. He found her at tea with her husband. She asked them to join them again, which they did. In the course of conversation, she gave them further surprising information.

  "Himself," she said, indicating Arnold Maddrell, "Himself said to tell you poor Deemster Quantrell was terrible interested in the diary, too. Him being a bit of a sailor, for a hobby, like. I forgot to tell you when you came before."

  "What did the Deemster want, Sarah?" asked the Archdeacon, after she had shyly reminded him that when she had been one of his parishioners long ago, he had called her by her Christian name.

  "Aw, he just came an' asked if the Captain left a diary. When I said, yes, and brought it out, he read it very eager, like. He came at eleven, started to read an' take notes, had his dinner with us and stopped along, makin' more notes, till tea. I thought he was goin' to print them, or somethin'. . . . But the poor man died. . . ."

  Yes, the poor man had died, and as likely as not, the diary was partly to blame. For Deemster Quantrell had obviously been along the exact road Littlejohn was following and had met his death because of what he found on the way.

  15

  ECCLESIASTICAL GRAPEVINE

  THE Inspector and the Archdeacon talked far into the night. When their voices ceased, momentarily, a complete hush descended, broken only by the wind in the trees outside, the tick of the case clock in the hall, and the tinkle of embers falling on the hearth.

  "For an amateur detective, the Deemster didn't do so badly. He seems to have travelled as far as we have done along the road to solving some crime or other. But what could it be?"

  Littlejohn filled his pipe and lit it.

  "As far as I can see, sir, it was smuggling and then murder. . . ."

  "Murder? But who got himself killed?"

  "Let's try to start right at the beginning. . . . The Deemster held shares in the Jonee Ghorrym. When he was made a judge, he turned them over to his nephew as nominee. His dividends were paid, the boat sailed and was kept busy. He didn't bother his head much about her. Until it came time for him to retire and he started to arrange his finances. Like many such men, he wanted to take his money out of risky industrials and invest it, let's say, in government stock. He sold his shipping shares and was amazed to find eager buyers. To keep the shares in their own hands, the directors of the company were prepared to pay Mr. Quantrell five hundred pounds for a hundred pound-share. . . ."

  "Which made the Deemster suspicious. He was a man with his wits about him and must have wondered at the price. . . ."

  "And at the eagerness of certain people to acquire his holding. I think they must have outbid one another to get them. It was the first false step the gang made. . . ."

  "The gang. You mean the Duck's Nest lot?"

  "Probably. It started the Deemster on their trail. Most likely he thought of smuggling. He looked into the records of the Jonee Ghorrym and then finding her former captain, Teare, was lost at sea, began to investigate that event, as well. My theory is, Teare was suspicious about the goings-on at Quiberon and kept his eyes open. On his last, ill-fated voyage, he must have discovered the extensive smuggling racket and caused trouble. He had to be eliminated. . . ."

  "You mean, they cast him overboard?"

  "Yes. And I think the Deemster got so far . . . in suspicions, at least. He mentioned his suspicions to someone. . . ."

  "Who?"

  "Well. . . . We know he mentioned The Carrasdhoo Men to Deemster Milrey. That was significant. . . . They were smugglers or wreckers, wer
en't they?"

  "Yes. . . . Mythical, though, I think."

  "That may be. But didn't we hear that Mr. Quantrell had been making trips on his own to the Curraghs and The Lhen. I've been looking at the map. The bogs of Ullymar were mentioned. They were supposed to be near Jurby . . . not far from The Lhen and the Curraghs. Quantrell had been round there, probably watching the Jonee Ghorrym and had found out something. In other words, he knew of the smuggling and probably the story of Captain Teare's death, too. And as likely as not, he knew who was concerned in it. He made the mistake of telling someone. That sealed his fate. They'd got to kill him. There was no question of buying or threatening to keep him quiet. They tried twice to murder him and succeeded the third time."

  "And who are they? Do you know?"

  "No, sir. There's still a lot to do. For example, we want to see someone who was aboard the Jonee Ghorrym the night the captain was lost. Was the body ever recovered?"

  "No. . . ."

  "So, nobody could say whether or not there was foul play. Knell has looked up the report of the inquiry into Teare's death. He was seen to go on deck. There was a howling gale blowing. He was never seen again. Vondy, the mate, was asleep in his cabin; the man on watch, Killip, saw nothing. In other words, it was only assumed that Teare was washed from his ship. The inquiry closed inconclusively, but, as the mate and crew were all local men of repute, nobody was suspected. Jack Gordon, a temporary hand, left ship at Quiberon and didn't return. We must find some of that crew and get them to tell the tale of that night again. It's going to be a big job. . . ."

  The parson knocked out his pipe.

  "Maybe I can help. By the side of the entries copied by Knell, is the parish of each member of the crew. To-morrow, I'll ring up the vicar of each of those parishes at the time and see what he knows. There were three hands from Douglas as well as the master. That might be a bit of a handful, but we'll get over it. Douglas, Bride, Laxey and Onchan. I'll get the ecclesiastical grapevine, shall we call it, going first thing to-morrow. You've no idea the amount of information we parsons can exchange when it's necessary. Better than any inquiry agency. . . ."

  "We're both in for a busy day to-morrow. . . ."

  Next morning, in the middle of his breakfast in bed, Littlejohn was roused by a telephone call. Maggie Keggin came up with the news. Her face expressed distaste.

  "It's from Paris. . . ."

  Littlejohn had a feeling that had he been telephoning to the devil in hell, Mrs. Keggin wouldn't have approved less. She handed him the receiver between finger and thumb as though it might be contaminated by the foreign city where, she thought, evil kept headquarters.

  "Have you been up all night, Luc?"

  They had certainly made a thorough job of the inquiry.

  Jules Morin had been known in Quiberon as Charles Cosans, ex-Communist. Member of the underground during the war, twice captured by the Vichy police, twice escaped. Born, Vannes. Age 37. Fingerprints and official dossier following by mail. Convicted 1944/5 for black market and currency offences. Light sentences on account of wartime record. Thought to be a member of a widespread band of operators in black market. Vanished from Quiberon, May 4th, 1945. Not seen since. . . .

  May 4th, 1945. The date the Jonee Ghorrym left Quiberon on Captain Teare's last trip!

  Littlejohn filled his pipe at the door of the vicarage and enjoyed the peace of the place and the view of the hills as he waited for Knell to arrive with the car. No more skating about on the surface. Now they'd got their teeth in something. Archdeacon Kinrade stumped down the stairs on his way to breakfast. He refused to eat in bed.

  "You look like a giant refreshed, Littlejohn. . . ."

  "I feel it, too, sir."

  His account of what had happened in Paris so inspired the parson, that he insisted on ringing up his clerical colleagues, two of whom he roused from bed, before he took his food. Littlejohn had to barge in and ask if he could first make his own calls to arrange his day's work.

  First, to Deemster Milrey's home at Gat-y-Whing. His Honour had already set out for Ramsey where he was that day, holding court.

  Then, to Mrs. Quantrell, whom the Inspector wished to see about her husband's activities just before his death. Knell and Littlejohn set out for Ballagarry at once.

  "I had intended leaving the Island and going to stay with friends on the mainland for a time, but I can't go yet with Jeremy in jail. It distressed me very much. . . ." she said when the pair of them arrived.

  They were preparing to close the house. The room in which Mrs. Quantrell had received them when first they called, was now sheeted and cold. She invited them into a small morning room with a view across the valley to the east. A fire was burning and she had had a table laid for coffee, which she invited them to take with her. Knell seated himself on the edge of a chair and opened his black book.

  "I'm terribly worried about Jeremy. . . . I knew he mixed with bad companions in London. . . . An artistic crowd of poor repute. But I'd no idea that over here he did the same. I can't understand it. Please don't think, Inspector, I'm blaming you. He has done a terrible thing, if what you say is right. But I must stand by him. He has nobody else, now."

  "His people are dead?"

  "Yes. His father died when Jeremy was a small child. My sister brought up the boy, but he had too much of his own way and he had inherited some of his father's wildness. . . ."

  She seemed in a hurry to pass over the account of Lamprey's childhood. Knell's eyebrows rose and his pencil trembled. Wildness in connection with the Quantrells was unheard of!

  "We did what we could for him . . . Jeremy, I mean. He came to us a lot. He never had a proper job. He was a freelance artist and didn't make much money."

  "Did you know about your husband's interest in a ship called the Jonee Ghorrym from Ramsey, madam?"

  "Yes. Very well. He bought the shares years ago, at par. They fell considerably just before the war, but rose later to phenomenal heights. . . ."

  "When he became a judge, he transferred his holding to Mr. Lamprey?"

  "No; to me. But as I wasn't much of a business woman and my husband liked to take a practical interest in his local investments, we thought it would be something for Jeremy to do if they went in his name as my nominee."

  "And he actively interested himself in the affairs of this little shipping company?"

  "Very much so. My husband was quite pleased at first that it should have found Jeremy some useful interest. He went a lot to Ramsey on the shipping affair when he was over here. . . ."

  "You said 'at first'. Why?"

  "Later, my husband wasn't so sure. Jeremy got in bad company again. The directors were drinking men and used to gather at a place called The Duck's Nest at Ramsey. One or two of them had poor reputations and Jeremy got drinking too much with them. Also, my husband rather suspected the Jonee was doing a bit of smuggling. He told me in confidence and asked Jeremy outright. Jeremy denied it and my husband said he intended to look into things when he had time. Then, in view of his retirement, he decided to sell the shipping holdings and take out annuities. An amazing thing happened. Several people wanted the shares and were prepared to pay well for them. The directors said they wanted them. There was some trouble, I remember my husband telling me. Something about the directors refusing to accept transfers of shares to persons they didn't want connected with them. My husband, as a lawyer, soon put them right there. They couldn't refuse, he told them. And then they offered him five hundred pounds for each one hundred pound share! He accepted and I must say it has made my financial position very much easier. . . ."

  "Do you remember who bought them, madam?"

  "Yes. Dr. Smith, of Ramsey, one of the directors."

  "Did the Deemster pursue his inquiries about the ship?"

  "Yes. But he didn't tell me the results. He said when all was clear to him, he'd tell me."

  "Did he ever talk to Mr. Lamprey about this investigation?"

  "He did. One day, after one of his tri
ps alone, he took Jeremy in his study and they had a terrible quarrel. It seems, my husband said, that as our nominee, Jeremy had abused our confidence by countenancing what he said were irregularities on the Jonee. That was a fortnight before the Deemster died. . . . I never quite knew what it was all about.

  "Your husband was very upset?"

  "Terribly. He kept his own counsel, except that he went to talk to the second Deemster, Mr. Milrey, about it. Perhaps he could tell you more."

  "Thank you, madam. I'll try him, then. . . ."

  They called at the local jail on their way to Ramsey. The police were still investigating the death of Irons without much success. They had searched Douglas for the man described by the old woman as small and wearing an oversized overcoat.

  "I'll tell you what you might try," said Littlejohn. "There was a man on the boat when I crossed who answers to the description. He was in Castletown one day and spoke to me. He'd come in a charabanc. . . . Let me see. . . . McHarrie's Tours, I think it had on the back. . . ."

  "That's right, sir," said the sergeant-in-charge. "There is a firm of that name."

  "They might remember him. No harm in trying. Perhaps they picked him up with a party at one of the boarding-houses. It was a trip to Rushen Castle. . . ."

  "We'll try it, sir."

  Lamprey was in his cell complaining about the cold.

  "This'll be the death of me. My old kidney trouble's back. And no wonder. The bedclothes are damp and the food's uneatable. . . ."

  "You're not in Park Lane now, Mr. Lamprey. You're in jail and very nicely looked after for a criminal. . . ."

  "I'll make you pay for this. Tremouille's watching my interests and when this is aired, there'll be a real scandal. I wouldn't like to be in your shoes."

  His nose was red and he looked to have spent a sleepless night. He was sitting hunched on his bed, half-dressed, with a blanket draped round him like a dressing-gown.

  "You knew, of course, that smuggling was going on on the Jonee Ghorrym?"

  "I knew nothing of the kind. Who told you that tale?"