‘You can stay to dinner if you like. It’s nearly time.’
Joseph Candell seemed greatly relieved when they declined with thanks. He wasn’t as hospitable as his wife. In fact, he wasn’t hospitable at all. Feeding his hungry, aged father, his useless daughter and his brother who was a bit weak in his wits was, he felt, quite enough without expanding his table to outsiders.
‘Sorry, Myra. But Inspector Knell is a busy man and has a lot to do before lunch. We’d better go, thank you.’
At this, Beulah and the old man appeared from the tower. She was wearing a flowered frock of low cut which, in his preaching days, her grandfather would have consigned to hell and her with it. Now, whatever she did was all right to him. He was wearing a quaint looking dressing-gown, which seemed to have been made from a large carriage-rug with a hole cut in it for him to put his head through. He was sucking chlorodine lozenges with a peculiar sideways thrust of the jaws. The strong blast of the cough drops, the exotic scent of Beulah and the aroma of the manure heap in the corner of the farmyard seemed to struggle for mastery.
Junius Candell was very old, but he dominated the scene with his wild white hair and his cold, stony, opaque eyes. He seemed to see only the Archdeacon and fixed him with an unblinking stare.
‘Good day to you, Caesar. You keep strange company these times. But then, you always did.’
‘Good day to you, too. I’ve just brought a great friend of mine, Chief Superintendent Littlejohn, to introduce him to the curraghs . . .’
‘Is he the London man I hear about?’
He gave Littlejohn a curt nod.
Beulah was anxious not to be neglected. She shook hands all round with the visitors and gave Knell a sideways glance with those queer slant eyes of hers which made him blush.
‘You know Inspector Knell of our own police, don’t you, Junius?’
‘I’ve heard of him. I knew his father, John Sebastian Knell. I prefer to deal with older, senior men, not young cubs. I came down to give the Chief Superintendent a bit of information that he might otherwise overlook. It’s just this. Not only was there a murder the other night. Somebody was digging in the Shaking Field, as well. They tried to hide it afterwards by smoothing it over, but from up there . . .’
He pointed to the top of his tower with his stick.
‘. . . Up there, there’s not much that we miss, is there, Beulah, girl?’
And they both laughed, the girl with a giggle and the old man with a noise like a quacking duck.
‘It’s the nearest place to heaven up there. We see all that goes on.’
Beulah thought something was expected of her. She addressed Knell fiercely.
‘It served Joss Varran right. He had it coming to him.’
The adoring old man gave her a satisfied smile at the thought that she was happy about it all.
5
The Secret of the Bog
THERE WAS an hotel in Ballaugh and Knell said he knew the proprietor. He would give them some sandwiches and beer and there they could talk over the confusion of the morning’s labours and discuss their next move.
The sky had cleared and now the sun was struggling through. The air was extraordinarily limpid for the time of year. They passed a church with a tower like a wedding cake and drove across a level crossing of the now disused railway. After the depression of Close-e-Cass, Littlejohn felt his spirits rise. It was like another world.
A small, clean village built around crossroads: one from the curraghs, one to Ramsey, another to Peel, and the fourth vanished into a leafy glen and then up into the hills. There were groups of white-washed cottages here and there and a handsome Georgian house or two. The prowling speculative builders didn’t seem to have, as yet, arrived to despoil the place.
They found the hotel and the landlord, who was having a glass of beer with two customers, one in a tweed hat and the other in a white cap, came to welcome them. There was an intimate atmosphere about the place and the owner seemed anxious to please. He shook hands with Knell, who introduced him to his companions. The landlord said his father had often spoken about the Archdeacon appreciatively, and he was not at all intimidated by Littlejohn.
‘I’ve read about him in the Sunday papers. I can’t say I’d much time for Joss Varran, but I hope you catch whoever murdered him. This is a peaceful island and we’ve no time for violence.’
‘Can you find us some food, Charlie?’
‘Sorry, we haven’t anything hot. But there’s some nice beef for sandwiches.’
‘Just the thing. And some beer.’
‘Right. I’ll serve them in the little room; then, if you want to talk business, private like, you won’t be disturbed.’
He took them to a small, cosy room off the main bar, on the way politely introducing them to his two customers, much to their satisfaction. They hurriedly drank-up and went into the village to tell everybody that Scotland Yard was on the job, they’d met the Chief Superintendent, and that whoever had committed the crime had better prepare for the worst.
The Archdeacon told Littlejohn and Knell of his interview with Myra Candell. It gave them more insight into the characters of Joss Varran and Beulah Candell, and revealed Baz’s hatred of the dead man and the reason for it. It also gave Baz an alibi of sorts but there was little by way of a lead in it. Except that the Duffys of Ballakee Manor had now entered the picture. Joss Varran had taken a fancy to Sarah Duffy, it seemed, and had, before his imprisonment, been found hanging round Ballakee.
Most of the conversation over lunch was small talk about the crime, but led nowhere. The motley gathering at Close-e-Cass had precluded much in the way of those quiet interviews which are much more revealing than the shouted opinions of a crowd.
Isabel Varran had to be questioned and she had presumably gone home after her disappearance from Close-e-Cass. They decided that the Archdeacon was best equipped for dealing with a rather ticklish intrusion on her silence and reticence.
Meanwhile, Littlejohn and Knell would pay the inhabitants of Ballakee a visit and try to find out their relations with Joss Varran.
And the quaint statement of Junius Candell that someone had been digging in the Shaking Ground aroused Littlejohn’s curiosity. The Archdeacon had quite a lot to say about it.
‘The word Creelagh, in the old Manx language meant shaking or quaking ground, in other words, bogland. The map we saw at Close Dhoo in the Manx Bible, indicated a patch of it in the field adjacent to the house. This may have been a source of peat for the cottage fire, but this particular spot might have been more important than a peat digging to merit its record in the family Bible. Why this place should be indicated when there are plenty of others in the vicinity makes it seem more than a mere turbary, as these turf cuttings are called over here . . .’
‘You mean there might be some hidden treasure there?’
‘Hardly. The universal obsession with treasure in the bogs has probably resulted, in the course of years, in the whole place being turned over again and again in search of them and the Varrans would be among the rest in sifting their neighbouring land. But there’s no doubt the natives here hid things in the peat. For example, kegs of butter were often sunk there to preserve them until their contents were needed. The turf is firm now that the bogs have been drained and anything sunk in it at a reasonable depth is sealed from the air by it and kept in good condition. You know, Reginald, the nature of bog oak, the trunks of old trees, not only prevented from rotting, but hardened and excellent for furniture. Relics of all kinds have been found in the peat. There was, too, the skeleton of a great deer preserved there in such good condition that it was reassembled with great skill by Thomas Kewish, the blacksmith of Ballaugh, and accepted by the museum in Edinburgh . . .’
Knell was wondering what all this was about and what it had to do with the crime. He smiled benignly at the Archdeacon, however, to show that he wasn’t bored.
‘Junius Candell says the Shaking Field near Close Dhoo was disturbed during the night whe
n Joss Varran returned. Did Joss do it? And what was he seeking? And was he killed on account of it?’
Littlejohn nodded.
‘That’s a good theory which may give us a break at last. The first thing to do is to find the spot which was disturbed and dig there, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I think so. Except that probably what had been hidden in the peat was removed either by Joss or his murderer. We may find something useful, however. But I suggest that first I speak to Isabel Varran and try to find if she knows anything about this queer hiding-place. Its indication on the map in the Bible would surely make it a topic of family discussion. We can find out what it was used for and exactly where it’s situated. We’ll meet again, I suggest, and continue the search after you’ve had a talk with the occupants of Ballakee Manor and I have questioned Isabel.’
Their sandwiches finished, the landlord arrived with some tasty apple pie and cream, the former presumably fresh from the refrigerator judging from its temperature. They ended their meal, thanked their host, and left him to make the most of their visit among the unusual number of customers arriving inquisitively for an unaccustomed afternoon glass of beer.
Knell drove the Archdeacon along the rough track to Close Dhoo and pulled up at the ramshackle garden gate. He and Littlejohn waited in the car whilst the Archdeacon made sure that there was someone at home. There was no sense in leaving the parson stranded there for maybe an hour if Isabel Varran was elsewhere.
In answer to Mr. Kinrade’s knock, however, there was a gentle movement of the curtain on one side of the door, which was quickly opened when Isabel Varran saw who was there. She stood in silence until the Archdeacon spoke.
‘Good afternoon, Isabel. You remember me don’t you?’
She seemed quite placid now and to have got over much of the recent ordeal. She nodded her head.
‘You’re the Venerable Archdeacon, aren’t you? I remember you at the church anniversary at Andreas. I even remember your preaching text . . .’
Her smile was almost arch.
‘. . . It was “Occupy till I come”.’
The Archdeacon was taken aback. That was at least fifteen years ago!
‘Come in. I expect you’ve called about Joss’s funeral.’
The Archdeacon gave Knell a wave of his hand to show that all was well and the Inspector waved back, reversed the car in a nearby field gateway and drove off.
Isabel Varran seemed to have been at her housework. There was a brush and a dust-pan on the floor and she whisked these away and dusted one of the chairs in front of the cold fire.
‘Sit down, Mr. Kinrade.’
She was now dressed in black from head to foot; an old-fashioned black blouse and an out-of-date calf-length skirt. She was in no way distraught, but her manner was grave and dignified, which she evidently thought in keeping with the present situation.
‘They’ll bury Joss in the churchyard, won’t they? He’ll not have to be . . .’
The Archdeacon had no idea what she thought the alternative would be. He interrupted her to assure her that Joss would get a decent burial in the place she wished. She seemed relieved and relaxed and took a seat opposite him.
‘Is there anything else I can do, Isabel?’
‘No. My sister’s husband, Sydney Handy, has taken charge of it all.’
That would be more than enough! Mr. Handy, for his own and the family’s reputation, would attend to everything down to the last detail, including the funeral feast afterwards.
‘You will not be staying here until after the funeral, at least?’
‘Why not? It is my home. The Candells have been very good to me. We haven’t been friendly with them for years and it was good of them to be so kind. But I can’t take advantage of them any more. I’ll be all right at home.’
‘I’m very sorry about Joss and all the upset and shock you’ve had. Would you like to talk to me about him?’
‘There isn’t anything to say. He’s been away for more than a year and before that he wasn’t at home much.’
‘He was at sea, wasn’t he?’
‘If you could call it that. Before he . . . before he was in prison, he was on a cargo boat that ran between Preston and Ramsey. They call it container traffic. I don’t exactly know what that is, but he seemed to earn good money. Sometimes, the boat went to London. It was on one of the London trips that he got himself in trouble.’
‘How did you manage to live, Isabel? Did he send you money?’
‘I did cleaning for a lady in Ballaugh.’
‘But that’s over two miles away. How did you get there?’
‘I walked. It didn’t seem far.’
He could imagine her doing it, in all kinds of weather, patiently, without complaint. There weren’t many of her kind left now.
‘And now . . .?’
‘Mrs. Simister died eighteen months ago. She stamped a National Health card for me and now I’ve got a pension. I’m sixty-two, you know.’
She didn’t look it. She had an ageless look about her, like a nun, whose years were hard to guess.
‘And you didn’t see much of Joss, even when he was working on the boats?’
‘Sometimes he’d take a day or two off and once a year he took his holidays. Even then he didn’t always stay here. He came and went.’
‘Was he courting any of the local girls?’
She didn’t seem in the least excited by the question.
‘Not that I know. He never talked to me about anything like that and, as I didn’t go out much, I never heard of it.’
‘I didn’t know Joss at all. He must have been one of the younger members of the family. What was he like?’
‘He was the next to the youngest and I was the oldest. He was big and well made.’
She rose to her feet and went in the kitchen. He could hear her rummaging about and then she appeared with a postcard in her hand.
‘He had this in his things. He must have had it taken somewhere on his travels. It isn’t a bad likeness, as he was before he went to prison. He’d changed when he came back. I had to identify him. He’d gone thin and pale while he was away.’
The Archdeacon looked at the photograph. It had been taken in the street somewhere, probably by one of those peripatetic photographers who snap you suddenly and then take your money and give you their address from which they post their handiwork to you. It showed a tallish, well-built, smiling man, with dark eyes and features and a head of tousled curly hair. Mrs. Candell had mentioned Joss’s good looks. The Archdeacon could imagine Joss attracting some of the opposite sex who liked them that way. He had an air about him of impudence and self-satisfaction.
Isabel seemed disturbed by the sight of the picture. She began to weep silently.
‘Somebody killed him. Why him? It wasn’t robbery. His money was in his pocket. And his watch. What could it have been for? It must have been somebody who ought to be in the asylum, somebody mad . . .’
She calmed down and sat opposite the Archdeacon again, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.
‘Did the police give you his things?’
‘No. I asked them for the photograph. I didn’t want it to get lost. It was of Joss as I knew him before he lost weight and his face got thin and they close clipped his hair . . .’
She paused as though ready for another burst of tears, but controlled herself.
‘They didn’t seem to believe me when I said I found Joss in the hedge opposite here. The Candells said he was in the house in a chair. Well, when the police saw the hedge and the ditch and how they was trampled about and found blood there, they knew what I said was true. What I can’t understand, too, is that Joss’s kit-bag with his things in it was missing. Whoever did it, must have taken it with him.’
She hadn’t got over her annoyance at having her word doubted.
‘Did Joss have any enemies?’
She gave the Archdeacon a fearful look, as though the word enemy had some menace for her, too.
‘I
don’t know. The only part of his life that I know of is the few odd days he spent here between his journeys. Even then, he often slept on the boat. He mainly turned up here when he was short of money and borrowed from me, or if I didn’t want to find him money, he took it.’
‘How did he treat you when he came home?’
‘Not like a sister, if that’s what you mean. He ate and slept here and wanted money. Sometimes he came in drunk. It was surprising how he found his way here when he was drunk . . . But I ought not to be talking like this, him being dead. But everybody knows about him, although it wasn’t me who told them. Syd Handy, my brother-in-law, once tried to get Joss to mend his ways and Joss got mad at him and chased Syd out of the house. All the neighbourhood got to hear about it. I suppose Syd talked a lot on his milk round . . .’
‘Do you know the Duffys at Ballakee Manor, Isabel?’
‘I know of them, that’s all. Miss Duffy, or it might be Mrs. Duffy, I don’t know which, rides past here on a horse sometimes. She rides all over the curraghs.’
‘You’ve not met either of them?’
‘No. Although, as the crow flies, you might say they’re our nearest neighbours.’
‘Did Joss know them?’
‘Not that I’d know. As I told you, he never had much talk with me. I never knew who was his friends and who wasn’t. If he knew them, he never mentioned it.’
‘Your sister might know?’
‘He wouldn’t have anything to do with her. They never got on and whenever they met they had a row. But Syd Handy might know. There’s not much goes on in these parts that Syd doesn’t hear about.’
They might have been in a world apart. Between the questions and the answers there was a dead silence, except for the monotonous ticking of the alarum clock on the sideboard. Small wonder that Isabel Varran was reputed to be a queer one. Silence most of the time. Nobody to talk to but herself. Not even a cat or a dog. And this had gone on for years. In the course of her solitary confinement, she seemed to have forgotten certain words and had to pause to bring them back to mind. But she had not deteriorated in her solitude. There was a kind of self-reliance about her and a refinement manifest in the neatness of the house and her personal appearance. She was simple and straightforward in her replies to the Archdeacon’s questions.
The Night They Killed Joss Varran (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 6