The Night They Killed Joss Varran (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

‘Someone has apparently scribbled this brief description as a reminder of where the hiding place was made. Dhrine is Manx for thorn bush. It’s worth a trial. Have you a spade, Isabel?’

  ‘Yes; there’s one in the shed. I’ll get it.’

  She left them, not quite understanding what it was all about and where it was leading to, and returned with the spade.

  ‘You’ll please excuse it being so dirty. Somebody’s been using it and didn’t clean it when it was put away. I always clean it myself after I use it. It stops it from rusting and it lasts longer. I can’t think . . .’

  She paused.

  ‘Had Joss been diggin’?’

  Her question remained unanswered, for Kincaid had just arrived outside in his official car and was briskly parking it behind Knell’s vehicle. His appearance caused considerable relief, especially to Knell, who was anticipating some vigorous work with the spade in the bog. He gave Kincaid a brief outline of the task before them.

  ‘I well remember my grandfather had some turf rights in the Jurby curraghs, but I never went there with him. He used a special sort of spade to cut the peat. . .’

  Kincaid pointed at the one Knell was offering him.

  ‘You need a special sort of spade for turf; that kind won’t do.’

  ‘It will have to do; there’s no other. And in any case, we’re not cutting peat, we’re digging in it.’

  They formed a small procession, the Archdeacon leading the way, because he knew the bearings and details. Isabel seemed curious and asked if she might join them.

  ‘The best way in is through the back. That’s the road my father went when he hid his things in the curragh.’

  They filed through the depressing back garden and through a break in the hedge at the end of the rough path until they found themselves overlooking a small barren field which seemed to have resisted all attempts at drainage and cultivation. There was a pond in one corner and the water from it had seeped into most of the top-soil and converted it into a marsh. It was surrounded by neglected hedges as though at some time someone had been anxious to enclose and segregate it from the surrounding fertile land. This, according to the Archdeacon’s reading of the primitive map, was the Creelagh, or Shaking Land.

  ‘Who owns this nowadays?’ the Archdeacon asked Isabel Varran, who had put on a pair of old gumboots and was watching the proceedings with puzzled interest.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s been like this as long as I can remember. Nobody ever seems to have worked it or put cattle on it. Not that it would grow or feed anything. It’s what they call rotten land.’

  There was a gap in the neglected hedge near where they were standing; probably there had once been a gate there of which nothing now remained. They made their way through it. Running the length of the hedge was a spine of land higher than the rest, and dry.

  The Archdeacon walked along it and the others followed. He seemed to be talking to himself.

  ‘Junius Candell talked of being able to see the spot which had been disturbed from his tower. We can’t see the tower from here and, therefore, we’d better find the place where it is visible. It lies, I think, in that direction . . .’

  He pointed to where a belt of twisted trees obscured whatever was beyond. They continued their walk until a gap in the screen revealed the roof of Close-e-Cass with the tower dominating it.

  ‘This might be somewhere near the spot.’

  They closely examined it. The skin of the turf, the top sod, dry and rough with ling, had obviously been disturbed, but whoever had done so had carefully replaced it.

  ‘This is roughly four paces in, as the note says on the deed, but the thorn bush, the dhrine, seems to have gone long ago. Let’s try digging here, Kincaid.’

  P.C. Kincaid removed his tunic.

  ‘Hold that for me,’ he said, handing it to Isabel.

  He tackled the job with vigour, first flinging off the top soil and skin, then striking the compact peat about a foot down. Kincaid paused and rested on his spade.

  ‘This part’s been disturbed. See? It’s not been put back carefully like the top sod.’

  He continued with his work, which was now more difficult as he hit the solid peat, which, under the spade, cut like a piece of cake. Finally, at a depth of around two feet, he struck something solid.

  ‘We ought to have brought Quantrell with us. He’s got the knack of digging graves. By the feel of it, we’ve struck a coffin or something . . .’

  More spade-work in the hole he’d created revealed a kind of lid made of solid, roughly dressed wood. It took a lot more effort on the part of Kincaid finally to clear it of turf and bring to light the whole of it, which covered a cavity about a yard square. Then, using his spade as a lever, he removed part of the loose lid. He worked very gingerly, for beneath him he found a compartment almost a yard deep. Knell handed him his pocket torch and Kincaid examined the queer receptacle.

  ‘There’s a lot of old stuff down here . . . Rusty pipes and a funny thing like a little wash-boiler . . .’

  The contents presented a problem. Not only was Kincaid’s uniform suffering from his manoeuvres in the peat, but he couldn’t secure a proper foothold to enable him to get at and remove the contents of the queer box.

  ‘We’d better get some help and tackle for this job,’ said Knell. ‘What about calling in Baz and Joe Candell?’

  He looked at Littlejohn for an answer.

  ‘That’s right, Knell. Tell them to bring some ropes and come in old clothes. They’ll need more spades, too. And whilst you’re at the farm, try to get a word with old Junius Candell. He said he’d seen from his tower that this turf had been disturbed. At that distance, even with a first-rate pair of binoculars, he could never have spotted that; the top turf was too carefully replaced. How did he know there’d been digging going on here and did he see anyone doing it?’

  They all made off for the house again and Isabel brewed some more tea whilst Knell drove away for help.

  Knell, was not away for long and returned in company with Baz and Joe. The Candell men were shy in such company and it was obvious that they had not quite understood the purpose for which they had been brought there. They had their spades with them, although the idea of digging in the bog seemed futile to them. They presented a sharp contrast. Baz, who had a reputation for being all brawn and little brain, was tall and beefy, with a pleasant smile and full of good nature. He was round-faced and ruddy and his hair was clipped short, for he was thrifty and believed in getting his money’s worth when he visited the barber. Joe was smaller and more wiry, with long hair growing down the back of his neck and sideburns, a thinner face than his brother’s and a foxy look.

  Knell at once took Littlejohn aside and in a low voice expressed his indignation at the reception old Junius Candell had given him.

  ‘The old man and the girl, Beulah, are not on our side. Beulah hates Joss Varran so much that you’d think the murderer had done her a favour in killing him. She’s venomous about him, and the old man, of course, who almost eats out of her hand, supports her. When I asked if I could see old Junius, Mrs. Candell went up the tower to ask him and he flatly refused. Said he wasn’t well and not up to talking with the police. I didn’t wish to press the matter and I got the impression that it wouldn’t be any use if I did see him . . .’

  ‘Awkward, but what one might expect. He’s in his dotage.’

  ‘. . . So, Mrs. Candell having told the Archdeacon that Beulah and Baz were great friends, I asked Baz to go and ask his sister about what she and old Junius saw going on at the Shaking Ground. The chief difficulty then was in getting Baz to understand what I wanted him to ask her. He was very willing to help and, finally, after we’d had a little rehearsal as to exactly what he must ask, he went aloft to the tower room and saw his sister. He was soon back. He’d had no difficulty. It seems Beulah and the old man saw what appeared to be the light of a flashlamp moving at the bog and old Junius said somebody was busy at the Shaking Ground. Next morning, they looked
at the spot through their field glasses, which the old man uses very frequently, and Junius said there’d been somebody digging there. Either the view of the land from the tower is different and signs of digging are visible from there, which I doubt, or else he’d made it up to show Beulah how clever he was. That’s the best I could do.’

  ‘At least, it explains the information he gave us about the land. We’d better get busy now, or it will be dark before we’ve finished.’

  The procession made its way back to the bog, including Isabel, who seemed to be burning with curiosity. On the way, she and Baz indulged in pleasant conversation, a pair of simple people who understood one another and had no inhibitions when they were together.

  They arrived at the spot which the Archdeacon now described as Kincaid’s Hole. There Baz and Joe, slow and methodical, as became experts in the handling of land, surveyed the scene. Then they examined the hole itself as though appraising Kincaid’s amateur workmanship. They both seemed astonished at the contents.

  ‘Some sort of drainage engine?’ asked Joe.

  ‘We think it’s an old still that Michael Varran hid there.’

  Baz, who found it hard to understand any new idea, looked incredulous.

  ‘Still what?’

  Knell patiently tried to explain.

  ‘A still for making whisky.’

  ‘Whisky? Go on!’

  Baz thought it was a joke.

  ‘I’ll tell you later, Baz. The job now is to enlarge the hole, so that you can get down and hand out the contents.’

  Baz and Joe sized up the amount of further excavation required and having decided between them, set to work with the easy skill of professional performers with a spade.

  It did not take them long and soon they were in a position to handle what looked like a lot of old iron. Baz allowed Joe to do this, as Joe was less bulky and more nimble for the job. He groped about in the hole, handed his finds to Baz, who passed them to Knell who stood on the edge. First came a rusty boiler, with a tight-fitting lid from which protruded a pipe, like an arm. The boiler was quite empty.

  ‘What’s all this?’ said Baz, who made up in extreme curiosity what he lacked in brains. ‘Looks like a washin’ day.’

  Knell gingerly relieved Baz of his burden and laid it down.

  ‘This is what’s called a whisky still, Baz. It’s illegal to distil whisky and that’s why Michael Varran took so much trouble to hide all this. If you want to make it, you boil up fermented liquor in the boiler, which is called a retort, and the vapour comes out at the pipe you see here . . .’

  Baz tried to look as if he understood what was being said, but he was befuddled by Knell’s confused lecture.

  ‘Come on, Baz. Take a hold of this.’

  Joe was offering his brother another queer find; a coiled tube, covered in verdigris. Baz passed it on to Knell.

  ‘This is called the “worm”. When you’re distilling, it’s surrounded or submerged in water to keep it cool, and the spirit emerges from it drop by drop.’

  Baz was filled with admiration at Knell’s knowledge.

  ‘Have you ever made the whisky, Mr. Knell?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you it’s illegal. We have a book at the police station that explains all about it. As far as I know, there isn’t any poteen made in the Isle of Man. Poteen’s another word for whisky. But we have to know about these things, just in case anybody tried it.’

  ‘That’s all,’ said Joe, dishevelled and grimy from his efforts.

  Knell’s face fell and the Candells exchanged looks of disgust. It was as if all three of them had expected to unearth a buried treasure or, at least, something more interesting than a lot of old iron.

  ‘Have you seen this equipment before, Miss Varran?’

  She looked at Littlejohn and shook her head.

  ‘No. As I said, my dad used to keep it all secret. Nobody was allowed in the kitchen when he was boilin’. That must have been the boiler that he used.’

  Joe climbed from the hole and Knell leaned over and examined the empty cavity by the light of his torch.

  ‘What’s that in the corner, there?’

  Joe looked up from dusting himself down.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a little white thing. Looks like a pencil, or something.’

  Joe laboriously lowered himself in the peat again and groped about where Knell had indicated. Then he handed Knell what he had found.

  It was a white cheap ball-point pen, which Knell passed on to Littlejohn.

  ‘That’s not much use to us. There are thousands of them in circulation. It might be anybody’s.’

  ‘That’s right, Knell, but it proves that this hiding place has been opened since Michael Varran hid away his still for the last time. Little gimmicks like this weren’t in existence in those days.’

  Isabel Varran took the pen from Littlejohn’s hand and examined it.

  ‘This is mine. I wondered where it had got to. I thought I’d lost it. It disappeared about the last time Joss was at home before he went to prison. He must have taken it. It must have dropped out of his pocket when he was digging here. But what was he wantin’ here?’

  They all wondered that.

  8

  A Man of Initiative

  THERE SEEMED no sense in leaving the excavation in the Shaking Field wide open and Knell instructed the Candells to fill it in, smooth down the surface and restore it to the state in which they had found it. He got the impression that this displeased Joe and Baz, who probably wished to bring friends there on a tour of inspection, when they could exhibit their finds and explain, in a fashion, the mysteries of poteen making and Michael Varran’s illegal indulgence in it years ago.

  After that, the party broke up, to the further disappointment of Joe and Baz, who obviously, somehow arising from the discovery of the still, expected an arrest to be made right away. It was growing dark as Littlejohn, the Archdeacon and Knell started for Grenaby. The curraghs surrounding Close Dhoo had a sad, haunted look in the last of the daylight and the tumbledown, empty houses, once thronged with children and their old-fashioned parents, added to the depression like uneasy, forgotten dreams. Very different from Grenaby when they reached it. The dying village has suddenly sprung to life again as families fleeing from the taxes and turmoil of the mainland, had found refuge there, renovated and occupied the once empty cottages, and joined the Archdeacon’s flock. The houses which, when first Littlejohn had known the place, had been black and forlorn after dark, were now illuminated and the activities of their occupants seemed to have driven away the traditional monsters, bugganes and fenodyrees which infested the place by night.

  Maggie Keggin met them at the door and gave Knell her usual hearty welcome.

  ‘Why don’t you bring your bed?’

  There were prawns to begin with; then Manx salmon; followed by apple tart and whipped cream, and Stilton cheese. Until the port arrived, they were not allowed to discuss crime. Then, the table was quickly cleared, for Maggie Keggin was following a serial on television and was eager for the next instalment. As she left them, she handed Knell an envelope addressed to him.

  ‘A policeman in a van brought this just after you arrived back. I kept it from you because you’d only have opened it and spoiled the dinner by reading the contents over your meal.’

  Knell chucked her under the chin.

  ‘And don’t take liberties with me, Reginald Knell. You’re not in Douglas now.’

  All the same, she left them looking pleased.

  Knell opened the official envelope Maggie had given him. It contained several sheets of typescript.

  The island police had been busy. From a firm of Ramsey estate agents they had learned that Colonel Christopher Duffy had leased Ballakee Manor for three years. He had paid his rent quarterly by cheque on a Ramsey bank. Sponsored by the same estate agents, Duffy had opened his banking account on his arrival in Ramsey. The police had questioned the bank manager.

  The bank had b
een a bit cagey, as usual, when asked about the account and particularly about Duffy’s income. The manager confessed, however, that they never received any warrants for army pension from the Colonel.

  ‘I’ll bet he isn’t a colonel at all,’ said Knell. ‘He’s just helped himself to the rank and title.’

  The police memorandum continued with exemplary thoroughness. They had persisted in asking for the source of Duffy’s income. The account was fed, it appeared by cash in one pound notes. The Colonel had mentioned casually that he made quite a nice little income from horse racing. ‘I’ve friends at some of the mainland stables.’

  In the course of general conversation with the estate agent’s clerk the police had learned that Duffy had won first prize with his vintage car in the cours d’élégance class at a rally in the Island two years ago. The clerk had mentioned that his picture had appeared along with winners in other classes in the local paper. The police had thereupon visited the local paper and obtained prints of the photographs, which not only showed Duffy but also Sarah Duffy at his side. Luckily they’d removed their goggles. And, in the crowd in the background was the attendant mechanic, Quantrell.

  ‘Splendid! Splendid!’ rejoiced Knell. ‘Now we can circulate their pictures and find out if they’re known anywhere.’

  ‘Where do you circulate them?’ asked the Archdeacon. ‘All over the British Isles and beyond?’

  ‘It says here that the estate agents told our men that Duffy stayed at a Ramsey hotel and contacted them from there. Our men enquired at the hotel and were told that Duffy didn’t write for rooms, but booked-in casually. However, a couple of letters had been forwarded from his previous address. The hotel manager said he could only remember the name of the place; he’d forgotten the rest, if he ever knew it. “They were re-addressed from Ribchester, near Preston”.’

  ‘You’d better contact the Preston police, then, Knell, and enquire if Duffy and his woman have ever crossed their path. Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing about Quantrell from Liverpool yet. And Scotland Yard are trying to contact Joss Varran’s cellmates in the Scrubs. That’s all so far.’