Toll the Bell for Murder (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “Yes.”

  She casually rubbed the glass against her jersey and put it away.

  “On the night of his last visit here, did Sir Martin tell you he would not be coming again?”

  Her hands were stretched to take up a little terra cotta figure of the Virgin and Child and stiffened without touching it. She turned to him, her eyes bright with rage.

  “That is most unfair. Who told you that?”

  “Nobody. I wondered, though. Was there not talk of a divorce?”

  “He never mentioned it to me.”

  She took the figure from him, replaced it, and began to close the cabinet. She winced as she slowly turned the key. With a quick gesture, Littlejohn took her wrist and gently thrust back the long sleeve of her jumper. He raised his eyebrows. There were livid bruises between the wrist and the elbow. She tore her arm away and drew down the sleeve.

  “How dare you!”

  “How did you come by those? Is the other arm the same?”

  “That is no business of yours and you seem to be in the habit of taking liberties. Those bruises were caused by a cabinet which toppled over in my bedroom. I don’t see how they concern you.”

  “I’m sorry. Natural curiosity. I noticed that in spite of the warm weather, you have taken to wearing long sleeves, and you did wince as you closed the cabinet, you know.”

  “Will that be all?”

  She was a self-possessed, bold woman, but she was obviously badly shaken by something and anxious to end the interview.

  “Just tell me again, when did Sir Martin leave on the night of his death?”

  “We’re wasting time. I’ve already told you, midnight.”

  “He usually had a tank full of petrol?”

  “He always filled-up at Perrick’s garage whenever he needed petrol. It’s on the way here.”

  “When did he fill-up, coming or going home?”

  “Either. Perrick lives over the garage and Martin could ring the bell and get a fill on his way back if he’d forgotten on the way in.”

  “On the night he died, he arrived here with a tank almost empty. Didn’t he say anything about getting petrol on his way home?”

  “I don’t remember it being mentioned.”

  “Did he seem upset at all?”

  “Not to my knowledge. He was the same as usual.”

  “He hadn’t mentioned breaking relations?”

  She cut him off. She was furious and on her dignity, wanted to take a high-handed line, and yet apparently was anxious to know to the full, what was in Littlejohn’s mind.

  “Don’t ask that question again! There was nothing of that said between us. Shall we join the others?”

  She was eager to end the conversation, but had assumed a nonchalant way which might easily have covered her emotions. Littlejohn noticed the tense stretch of her long fine fingers when she was off guard.

  “He didn’t speak of danger from enemies?”

  “He was just the same charming and undisturbed man he always was. He talked of his plans for his estate, the shooting season, a new dog he had bought.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Vacey. I’m sorry if my questions have been blunt and personal. I’m anxious to settle this affair as soon as possible.”

  “I thought the vicar of Mylecharaine had been arrested and was awaiting trial.”

  “He has been released. He did not fire the gun which killed Sir Martin.”

  She started and turned and looked blankly through the window, frowning as if at her own thoughts, one hand shading her eyes. The view was a fine one, overlooking the rising road across the mountains to Douglas. The evening sun was setting across the west and lighting up the spreading hills which gently unrolled to the south. She did not see them. The gardener, finished for the day, tapped on the window. Mrs. Vacey almost woodenly took a note from her pocket, opened the casement, and passed it through.

  “Night, Mrs. Vacey,” said the man. She didn’t reply, so he said it again.

  “Oh, good-night, Cribbin.”

  She turned.

  “So it’s all going to begin again at the beginning. You don’t know who killed Martin.”

  “No. Have you any idea?”

  Her eyes opened wide.

  “I? Do you think I wouldn’t be the first to tell you if I had any suspicion at all? He was my dearest friend. I’m more anxious than anyone else to see the guilty party hanged.”

  “You live alone?”

  He asked it as they were strolling back to join the others.

  “Yes. I have a day-maid. The gardener, Cribbin, acts as house-boy, too. Why? Is that relevant in the case?”

  “No.”

  The parson was explaining some legend or other connected with an ivory figure he held in his hand. Knell looked puzzled about it, but was listening politely.

  “Thank you so much for the cup of tea, Mrs. Vacey.”

  “You must think me very rude leaving you as I did, Archdeacon. The Superintendent is quite an expert.”

  She said it sharply and then smiled with her lips again, baring her teeth in a feline grin.

  “An expert on china, I mean.”

  There was an atmosphere of constraint as they left Kashmir. Mrs. Vacey had grown moody and sulky and wished to be rid of them. She shook hands at the door and held Littlejohn’s hand in her own longer than the rest, as her eyes looked full into his in question or defiance. He paused.

  “Do you own a gun, Mrs. Vacey?”

  The other two were at the gate waiting for him.

  “I did once. It was my husband’s. He had several. Does that satisfy you?”

  “I know you take out a licence. You still shoot?”

  “No. I did it because I owned the gun. I sold it some time ago.”

  “To whom?”

  “It went to a gunsmith on the mainland along with several others early this year. I had no more use for my husband’s guns. I got rid of them. I hope that is enough. I’ve to go out to-night and I’m late as it is. Good-bye.”

  She turned and slammed the door in his face.

  “Let’s call at Perrick’s garage, Knell. Know where it is?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The pumps were still open and in charge of a lad in greasy overalls.

  “Is Mr. Perrick in?”

  “He’s havin’ his tea.”

  “Ask him to spare me a minute. Superintendent Littlejohn.”

  The boy gaped and for a minute his legs refused to move.

  Then he was off two at a time up the stairs to the Hat above the garage.

  Perrick appeared quickly, still chewing his tea.

  “I just wanted to ask you a question or two about your late customer, Sir Martin Skollick.”

  “Nice fellah, Sir Martin. Died owin’ me a bill for nearly fifty pounds for one thing or another, but I don’t hold it against him. What can I do for you?”

  “You live over the garage, Mr. Perrick, and after closing will come down and serve anybody who needs petrol?”

  Perrick blinked his myopic eyes behind powerful spectacles and passed his hand across his moustache. He was a little slow-spoken fellow who gave careful thought to all he said.

  “Not anybody. Friends, that’s all. They know that two longs and a short on the bell will bring me down: That’s the signal, if you get what I mean. Anybody else rings, the missus answers it because people have the ‘abit of wantin’ things after hours and... Well, a man’s got to ’ave his leisure. You agree, don’t you, sir?”

  He blinked at Littlejohn.

  “Of course. Sir Martin was one of the favoured. At what time did he used to take advantage of your good nature?”

  “We usually go to bed about midnight. He knew it. The lights are out in our house after that. He’d never think of ringin’ if we were in bed.”

  “He didn’t call for petrol on the night he died?”

  “No, sir. I wondered why he didn’t. I hear he ran out of juice at Lezayre and they found his car there.”

>   “That’s so, Mr. Perrick. Was he a careful man in that respect? I mean, he wouldn’t be likely to forget to have his tank filled-up any time?”

  Mr. Perrick was most emphatic. He slapped a pump so hard in his enthusiasm that he jumped and wrung his fingers with pain after it.

  “Never. Never. He was a first-class motorist, fond of his car, careful about oil and petrol and such like. He’d never do a thing like that if he was in his right mind.”

  “If he’d found out after midnight that he’d not enough petrol to get him home, would he have knocked you up?”

  “He wouldn’t have forgot it till such a late hour. I’ve known him come down from, well, ahem, from a friend of his who lives not far from ’ere, fill-up, and go back there. He knew we went to bed about twelve and he came in time.”

  “So, on the night he met his death, you think if he’d known he was short of petrol, he’d have called for a fill-up before you retired and then gone back to his friends.”

  “I’m sure of it. He’s done it before.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Perrick. Sorry to disturb you.”

  “Don’t mention it. Only ’ope I’ve been of help. There goes Mrs. Vacey.”

  A little fast car shot past them without any sign that the owner recognized them.

  The town had grown quiet and a melancholy stillness had settled over everything. The small square was utterly deserted. At the station, which was just visible, a train like a little mechanical toy spluttered to the platform and a few passengers alighted. The engine was disconnected, puffed with a carefree air to a shed, and then calm descended again.

  “One last call, Knell. There’s a grocer’s shop almost opposite Mrs. Vacey’s. Let’s see if they remember anything on the night of the crime.”

  The place was a conglomeration of sweets, tobacco, fruit, ice-cream and groceries, as though the owner’s boundless ambition to stock everything saleable had finally got on top of him. He emerged from behind a large case crammed with chocolates, boiled sweets and ice-lollies, He was obviously expecting a mighty invasion of holidaymakers any minute. He raised his eyebrows expectantly. John William Entwhistle, according to the name over the door.

  “We’re from the police, sir, investigating the recent death of Sir Martin Skollick.”

  “Ah! I thought you might be in the neighbourhood.”

  A man with a grubby bilious face, shabby spectacles, and a peering look. He removed his glasses and polished them, the better to deal with Littlejohn. Without them, he looked changed, disguised, for, unmagnified, his eyes were like little dark beads far in his head.

  “You remember the night Sir Martin was killed?”

  “I recollect the date. A proper stir and turmoil it created in Ramsey. Not that I have much to do with him or his fancy woman. She’s not a customer here. In fact, she’s one of those that resents me existin’ at all. Thinks there shouldn’t be any shops in this neighbourhood. Wants to keep it select. Well.”

  He was a little man who gesticulated a lot and thought he knew everything. Knell glared at him and looked ready to intervene and slap him down.

  “Sir Martin left Kashmir, Mrs. Vacey’s house.”

  “Oh, I know the name of the house.”

  “At midnight. Did anyone hear him leave? Were you up at that hour?”

  “Of course I wasn’t. Nor was the missus, Early to bed an’ early to rise is my motto, though it’s never made me ’ealthy, wealthy, nor wise, that I can see. Just ’abit. But our Ethel was up. She’s courting with a young chap from Bride and such is love’s young dream that he can’t tear himself away from ’er. Here till after midnight and then ’ome on a motor-bike that rouses the whole town.”

  “They were up at midnight that night?”

  “Yes. As it ‘appens, they were. I stopped ’im comin’ every night. Once mid-week, Saturday, and Sunday’s all that I stand for. It’s not decent sittin’ in the dark every night.

  And, I told ’im, he’s a good lad and he’ll make a good husband given time I told ’im midnight’s the deadline and no later. I’d better get our Ethel and see what she has to say. She’s told it all to us before, twenty times, I should think. but she can tell it again now.”

  Mr. Entwhistle raised his mouth like a hen drinking.

  “Ethel!”

  “Coming, dad,” from upstairs and light feet rapidly descended. A smiling, pretty girl, with a fresh complexion and light brown hair gathered in a pony-tail at the back.

  “Tell these gentlemen what happened on the night of the murder, Ethel.”

  She took it all quite calmly. Her thoughts probably turned to canoodling in the dark in the back room rather than other people’s troubles.

  “Sid and I, Sid’s my boy-friend. were saying good-night at the door.”

  “At midnight, Ethel?”

  “Just after, dad. A car came from the direction of the town, somebody got out, went in Mrs. Vacey’s house, and closed the door.”

  A pause. Dad waited, holding his breath until he couldn’t hold it any longer. “Well. Go on!”

  “That was all.”

  “Who was it got out, Miss Entwhistle?”

  “Miss Grey. Dad’s my stepfather. I don’t know, sir.”

  There was another car there with its parking-light on. It’s often there.”

  “You might as well tell ’em whose it was, Ethel. All the town knows.”

  “It was Sir Martin Skollick’s.”

  “And that was all?”

  “We talked for a while and then we went back in the shop for a minute. When we got to the door again, both cars had gone.”

  Mr. Entwhistle intervened tartly.

  “I suppose Sid was gettin’ himself a packet of fags again.

  We’ve kept Sid in fags since he took-up with our Ethel.”

  “He always offers to pay.”

  “What time would that be, Miss Grey?”

  “When we came out of the shop the second time?”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated and gave dad a sidelong glance. “Just after half-past twelve.”

  Mr. Entwhistle turned upon her a scorching look. His regulations had been flouted and he’d obviously been kept in the dark about it in the previous reports. Someone was going to have to account for what went on in the dark among the silent lollipops and cigarettes during that illicit halfhour. Ethel gave him a Mona Lisa smile.

  People on their way to the cinema were calling in the shop for sweets and chocolates and Mr. Entwhistle was beginning to show signs of uneasiness. In any case, there was nothing more to ask him or Ethel, so Littlejohn thanked them both and the little party returned to the police car.

  “We’ll call it a day,” said Littlejohn.

  It had been quite a day. A long tiring one, and it seemed incredibly far from the time he’d risen in the dawn and lost himself in the curraghs.

  His head relaxed on the comfortable upholstery of the car, the Superintendent surrendered himself to the rhythm of the moving vehicle. The Archdeacon rescued his cold pipe as it fell from his lips. He was asleep as they passed the curraghs again and awoke to find the parson gently shaking him at the gates of Grenaby vicarage. Dear Grenaby, he thought. as the peace of the place entered his spirit again.

  11

  REPEAT PERFORMANCE

  AT ONE O’CLOCK in the morning the same thing happened again. Someone fired another shot which roused the whole neighbourhood of Mylecharaine.

  Mr. Lemuel Armistead sat up in his great bed, switched on the light, and angrily addressed his wife.

  “I’m gettin’ sick of this. If there’s much more of it, we’re goin’ back to Oldham. This place isn’t civilized.”

  He crossed the oilcloth and looked out of the bedroom window. Judging from the lights in upper rooms dotted here and there, others were doing the same.

  It was just such another night as the one on which Sir Martin Skollick had met his fatal charge of shots. No moon, plenty of stars, a faint breeze smelling of marsh and cou
ntry mists, the whisper of leaves, the beam of the lighthouse at the Point of Ayre punctuating the darkness regularly, and those of the Mull of Galloway across the water twinkling in reply.

  There were no lights shining, this time, from the church, a solid mass just visible riding out of the mist. Armistead’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. The cottages and farms of the neighbourhood were like crouching animals asleep. A dog barked and another answered in the distance. A figure emerged from the shadows, a silhouette wearing a cloth cap and overcoat.

  “Did ye hear that gun again, Lem?” said the shadow, looking up at Armistead.

  “Yes. I’m not comin’ out. I’m fed up with it all. I wonder who it is, this time. Vicar’s in prison, so ’e can’t be mixed-up in it. Ah’m gettin’ back to bed. Not that I’se get to sleep again, but.”

  He didn’t finish the sentence, for from the heart of the curragh rose a tragic, heartbroken wail like the cry of a lost soul.

  It was answered by a similar sound from under the bedclothes where Mrs. Armistead, head immersed in the sheets, was taking refuge.

  The distant cry was repeated and then for the rest of the night there was silence.

  Another wraith passed through the village, entered the telephone-box, and was illuminated, revealing a scared little man in a billycock, whose fingers trembled so much that he could hardly dial the number of Ramsey police station. Half an hour later, the lights of police cars and P.C. Killip’s motor-bike twinkled across the curraghs, searching the roads, hedge bottoms, copses and fields. The more adventurous of the neighbourhood dressed and joined them and they hunted until the cocks began to crow and daylight slowly crept across the thin fog which swept over the marshes like steam.

  It was then that the wild sad cry sounded for the third time and P.C. Killip, his back hair standing upright, opened a gate and entered a field in the heart of the curragh to find what it was all about. Striding through the mist, he almost fell over Casement’s Little Dog. He was standing by the body of his master, who was stretched face downwards in the grass. As Killip approached, he bared his teeth and snarled and the bobby knew he had better go no farther. He tried coaxing.

  “Come now, lad. Come, Moddey Beg.”

  The dog stood his ground and it was a good thing that Killip took the precaution of removing his cape and holding it protectively before he blew his whistle. At the first blast, the dog launched himself at him, teeth bared, jaws foaming.