"I'm sorry it's a case of murder and as we've only one car here, we shall require your help."
"Damn nuisance. Who's been killed and what do we do?"
"We've just found the body of a man in the empty house there. He's been shot. He lived at the farm just along the road."
"Not Mr. Cribbin!"
Mrs. Norton almost screamed it.
"Yes."
"Oh. . . ."
She was going to faint. Nimrod Norton was annoyed about it.
"Now don't you start and have one of your does here. It's bad enough as it is, without you being ill. Take a swig of that."
He took a silver flask from the pocket of the car and passed it without solicitude or even unscrewing the cap. His wife gulped eagerly at the spirit and the colour came back in her cheeks.
"Mrs. Cribbin is a friend of ours, you see, and we were calling at the farm to see her. You must excuse me, but it's a shock."
She started to weep bitterly.
Looking at her, Littlejohn was sure he'd seen her somewhere even before they met at the Dandy Rig; but couldn't bring to mind when and where.
Norton climbed heavily from the car, eyed the road, and then got back.
"I'll drive to the house, then. Get in if you like."
It was no distance and Littlejohn walked by the side of the vehicle. In the back seat, he made out a number of parcels tied up with string. A doll, and a teddy-bear which had a look of Mr. Nimrod Norton in a good mood. Mrs. Norton struggled to master her feelings and dabbed her eyes with a small handkerchief.
They quickly formed a plan of action. Knell would go in the police-car to the nearest telephone at Ravensdale, in Ballaugh Glen. There he would send for the constable at Ballaugh and to Douglas for the technicians. He would, after that, return for Littlejohn.
Meanwhile, Mr. Norton would drive the Archdeacon to the Cribbins' farm, where the parson would break the news to Mrs. Cribbin and make arrangements for the children to be taken with their mother to their grandparents at Kirk Michael. If possible he would also get some local farmer to take charge of the Cribbin farm. After that, Mr. Norton would drive the Archdeacon home in time for church.
Littlejohn found himself alone with the dead man in the fading light. He stood for a minute at the door of the forsaken cottage, looking across the moor at the scene of beautiful desolation. The air had thickened and, in the dying day, the colours of the landscape had turned sombre. The long sweep of rough land, ending in the rising hills and a background of mountains, seemed ominous now. Deserted crofts and the very house on the threshold of which he stood had the unholy atmosphere of places which once were filled with human life and voices and whence now the inhabitants had fled from some unknown terror. A thin, cold breeze sprang up and shook the tortured branches and rattled the dead leaves of the trees in the little copse behind. Everything seemed to be waiting for something. A sheep bleated plaintively and, far away, a curlew called again.
Littlejohn filled his pipe, lit it, turned up the collar of his coat and drew the garment closely round him.
The body lay just as they had found it. A tall, heavily-built man of forty or thereabouts. The bare head covered in brown bristly hair, growing long and low in the nape of the neck. The outspread hands were large and ill cared-for.
The Chief Inspector knelt and raised the head. Death must have come quickly and unexpectedly. The face was peaceful and the eyes closed. A heavy face with a long thin nose, square jaw, and narrow forehead. The man seemed asleep, except that there was a clean wound between the eyes from which a thin trickle of dried blood was smeared. The body was cold and rigor was setting in. The bullet had passed clean through the head and Littlejohn found it lodged in the wall in a dead line with the door and the spot where Cribbin had fallen.
Outside, the ground was sodden and muddy. Cattle and sheep had trampled it and made such a confusion that footprints were impossible to trace. There were a few cigarette packets and chocolate papers strewn about. Littlejohn stood with his dead pipe between his teeth and regarded the place. Ken Cowley loves Lily Tyrer. . . . He found himself wondering who Ken and Lily might be and what had happened to their romance. And Joe Sprott, Wigan, was here, Aug. 1951. Where was the intrepid Joe, who had climbed on the top of the porch and carved details of his feat over the door?
Nothing inside the house. The staircase was decrepit and shuddered under the Inspector's weight. A landing, two bedrooms, and a box-room. Not a trace of footprints; only a lot of fallen plaster and decay. Downstairs, no signs of recent disturbance. The murderer must just have entered, shot his victim, and vanished again in the loneliness around.
With gentle hands, Littlejohn turned out the pockets of the dead man, and placed the contents in order on the floor beside him. Side pockets; two used and one loaded sporting cartridges, a piece of binder twine, a Yale and two larger keys tied with string together, a packet of cheap cigarettes, and some matches. Inside breast pocket; a wallet, two Board of Agriculture forms filled in with many mistakes in a childish hand, a letter about the sale of some sheep and another giving the recent prices of stock in Ramsey mart. Trousers pockets; some loose change, a large clasp knife, a cheque-book and an indelible pencil.
The cheque book conveyed nothing. Indecipherable names on the counterfoils, with amounts. A bank in Ramsey. The notes of the drawings were written in indelible pencil.
The wallet held a driving licence, two pound notes and a dirty one for ten shillings. A sheet of figures in an unknown hand, which, on taking them to the light, Littlejohn was able to recognize as some kind of farmer's statement of assets and liabilities. He carefully perused the details. From what he could make out, the dead man had on the recent September date of the account, been insolvent. He owed more than a thousand more than he possessed.
A battered photograph of an old man and woman standing at a cottage door. On the back in thin pencil: Mother and Dad, 1946. Two stamps removed from an envelope. A note from the bank: Regret to inform you that by payment of your cheque to Corlett, your account becomes overdrawn seventy-seven pounds. Kindly pay in.
The wallet held a small diary in an elastic band. Littlejohn turned the pages. Pedigrees of sheep-dogs and details of their successes. Dates of sheep-dog trials, lists of figures, notes of stock sales and purchases. There was no date order; the entries were all jumbled up and the diary itself was four years old. Scrawled addresses on the fly-leaf and adjacent page; auctioneers, fellow farmers, merchants, and agricultural engineers. Then: Mr. Finlo Crennell, 24b Queen Street, Castletown. Mr. & Mrs. Nimrod Norton, Pontresina, Sefton Park, Liverpool. Mr. & Mrs. John Cribbin, Primrose Cottage, Kirk Michael.
Scribbled almost illegibly in the margin and at right-angles to the addresses, Manninagh, October, 1929. . . .
In the distance, the whine of a car and soon Knell came in sight.
"I've laid it all on, sir."
Knell grew as silent as Littlejohn. There seemed to be little to say and the atmosphere of the place was against it.
"Did you . . ?"
"Nothing useful, Knell, except Cribbin's wallet, which has some addresses in it. I'll take it with me. By the way, the address of Mr. Nimrod Norton is in the notebook here. It looks as though Mr. and Mrs. Norton were on their way to Cribbin's farm for a visit of some kind. Did you leave them at the gate?"
"No, sir. I went down the farm-street with them and into the yard. I don't like Norton, sir, and I wanted to see him safely there."
"The Archdeacon would have seen to that."
"I just felt I'd like to . . . "
"I know. You were curious. I'd have been the same myself."
"Mr. Kinrade had told Mrs. Cribbin when I left. She was just knocked all of a heap. She didn't cry out or shed any tears. By the way, she knows the Nortons quite well. Mrs. Norton rushed out of the car and kissed her and the kids when they got there. And after the Archdeacon had said there'd been an accident and Mrs. Cribbin had asked if he was dead and the parson had said yes, Mrs. Norton took-on s
omething awful and they had to give her drinks from a flask. And then Mrs. Cribbin said, 'Don't take on so, mother . . . .' Mother. . . ."
"That's it, Knell. I knew I'd seen the woman before. It was the likeness in the wedding group in Crennell's house. The nose and eyes. I remembered them. She must have married again. The man she ran away with was called Tramper, or something like that."
Knell whistled.
"We'll have to have a talk with Mr. and Mrs. Norton, sir, won't we?"
"We will, Knell."
From the opposite direction, the nearest way to Douglas, another pair of police cars were approaching, followed by a doctor's car and an ambulance. The convoy undulated along the narrow well-made road, through the ford and the gateway, and halted at the house. The routine squad took possession.
"A farmer called Kneale, in Ravensdale, has promised to send a man up to Cribbin's place to look after the stock, chief. And on my way back here, I passed Norton's car full-up with Mrs. Cribbin and the children and the Reverend gentleman, on their way to Michael."
"What about the farmhouse? Will it be locked-up, Knell?"
Knell triumphantly fished in the pocket of the car and produced a Yale key like the one Littlejohn had found in Charlie Cribbin's pocket.
"I asked if the police might have a key, sir. I said we might like to take a peek and see that all was right sometime. Mrs. Cribbin let me have a spare, and I said I'd see she got it back again when we'd finished with it."
Dusk had fallen and the clouds had lowered over the hills. Already on the higher ground wisps of mist were blowing and now and then, the car passed through them and Knell slowed down.
"If we do take a look now, it'll have to be a quick one. As you say, Knell, there looks like being another sea-fog to-night. Turn down to the farm then."
The place was silent, except for the sounds of the stock moving in the out-buildings. It brought to Littlejohn's mind the first stages of the desertion which had gone on all over the crofts of the Island, the slow creeping death of unprofitable little holdings and their return to the wild. He thought of the statement of accounts in his pocket. Another insolvent farmer. Charlie Cribbin was not managing to pay his way, and, sooner or later, the holding in Druidale would go the way of the rest.
They parked the car in the yard and entered the house. It was still cosy and warm, with the fire dying, perhaps for ever, and the remnants of a meal on the table where they had left it. The cat and kittens and the sick chicken had apparently gone with the children. Two sheep-dogs, chained at their kennels, barked briefly and then retired to sleep again.
Inside, there was nothing to help the police. The drawers of the bedroom chests and the sideboard held a sparse quantity of household linen and clothing. In the top drawer of the sideboard, a conglomeration of paid bills, income tax, and agricultural board forms, catalogues and advertisements. Cribbin had been in the habit of putting all his unpaid bills behind the picture of his mother which hung on one side of the sideboard, balanced on the other by his father's.
"There surely must be a family treasure-box somewhere," said Littlejohn. "Where are the usual births, marriage and other certificates, the insurance policies for the stock and farm, and any other valuable papers?"
At last they found it, under the brass-knobbed bed in the room of Cribbin and his wife. A large, old-fashioned tin trunk. It was locked.
Littlejohn took from his pocket an object like a pen-knife, armed, in place of blades, with half a dozen instruments like buttonhooks of various sizes. Knell's eyes opened wide.
"This was given to me by Inspector Luc, of the Police Judiciaire, in Paris, Knell. It's known as a rossignol." And he flung back the lid of the box. When he saw the contents, he wished he hadn't opened it.
It was apparently the place where Nancy Cribbin hid things from the busy curiosity of her children and perhaps her husband. A box of chocolates, a small doll, a toy motor car, a new pipe, a gauze stocking filled with odds and ends. She had obviously been buying by instalments and when she could spare the money, the gifts for her family at the coming Christmas. . . .
The whole business was tragic. A man, either shiftless or fighting a losing battle on a farm which didn't pay . . . almost penniless, by the looks of his bankrupt accounts. And his wife doing her best to keep up appearances. . . .
The papers they'd expected were in a packet tied with string in one corner of the trunk. Marriage lines, three children's birth certificates, paid doctor's bills, a gold sovereign, three pounds fifteen in cash, insurance policies for the farm and stock and one for a hundred pounds on the life of Charlie Cribbin. A bundle of photographs. Wedding groups, a snapshot of Finlo Crennell in his uniform, more amateur photographs of the children, and Nancy Cribbin holding a baby. Then, a cheap studio portrait of Charlie Cribbin dressed as a sailor. . . .
"So he was a sailor, before he took to farming, Knell?"
"I didn't know that, chief. But a lot of boys here have been to sea, you know."
It didn't seem right rummaging in Nancy's private affairs, but as likely as not, was the only way of getting any background. There was a bundle of letters, for example, tied-up with blue ribbon from a chocolate-box. Littlejohn left them as they were and, with another twist of the rossignol, locked the box again.
"Well; that's that. Nothing much."
They locked the farm and Knell, finding the poultry had retired to roost, shut them in by sliding the door over the hole at the base of the henhouse door.
"There's no foxes on the Island to worry them, but there are stray ferrets and polecats around. Better be safe than sorry."
The farm-hand from Ravensdale was approaching in a land-rover to see everything safe for the night. He bade them good evenin'.
"Bad do about Charlie Cribb'n. Never come across a murder on the Islan' before. Seems a fellah isn't safe nowhere these days, leck."
The clouds hung over the hilltops and moor as they crossed the wild track and made the steep descent to Ravensdale. In Ballaugh Glen, which led to the main road, the mist gathered about the trees, bringing night on earlier. It was almost dark. The chapel was lit up and knots of people stood round the door like frightened ghosts talking about the disaster in the hills above.
Primrose Cottage was on the roadside at Kirk Michael, a small house, whitewashed and neat, with a tiny garden in front. There were lights on upstairs and down. The police car drew up, and Littlejohn and Knell climbed out and knocked at the cottage door.
The house seemed full to overflowing. Cribbin's parents, a decent couple of about seventy, had taken it hard and were sitting stunned before the fire. On the rug, a neighbour was undressing the two elder children ready for bed. They could not understand what had happened or why they were on holidays with their grandparents again. And they watched the adults with puzzled eyes, unused to the atmosphere of grief and shock.
Nancy Cribbin was sitting at the back of the house, calm and as pale as death, like one trying to realize the truth.
"We just called to see if you'd arrived safely, Mrs. Cribbin."
"Yes, Mr. Littlejohn, and thank you for looking after things. I can't realize it's true. Did you want to know anything?"
"No, thanks. We won't bother you now. But if there's anything we can do . . ."
"I don't think so. I can't think."
"Mrs. Norton is your mother, isn't she?"
"Yes. They're coming back later to do what they can."
"Mr. Norton is her second husband, then?"
"Yes. Mr. Tramper died five years ago and she married again the next year. This is the first time I've met Mr. Norton. He was very kind to us and said he'd look after everything. Charlie's father and mother have taken it bad."
Neither had spoken. Just shaken hands with the two detectives and lapsed into silence again.
"We'll go now. If there's anything at all, Mrs. Cribbin, just tell the local policeman and he'll get in touch with us. I don't mean in connection with the crime alone. Anything we can do. . . . "
&n
bsp; "Thank you, Mr. Littlejohn. It's the children. I don't know what . . ."
More arrivals. The policeman's wife, and then the vicar. There wasn't room for them all in the cottage. The two police officers went on their way.
There was no mist on the Ballacraine Road and it continued clear after that, except over the top of Foxdale where they ran into cloud for a time. Soon they were in Castletown.
"Let's call on the Nortons first . . . Derbyhaven, isn't it?"
They found them just sitting down to dinner at the Dandy Rig. Mr. Norton's temper hadn't improved in spite of the day's tragedy. He flung down his napkin and rose, and his wife followed suit.
"It's a good job it's a cold meal. We can't seem to get much peace. What do you want with us now, Inspector?"
His wife watched him with frightened eyes. She always seemed to be expecting a scene.
"Thank you for seeing Mrs. Cribbin and her children safe."
"Least we could do. Specially as they're in the family."
He sneered and his wife turned her head away.
"I know all about Nancy. Knew it before I married Mrs. Norton. Let bygones be bygones. Nobody's business but their own. But I never bargained for this. I'm here for my health. Had an illness and here to recuperate. Instead of which . . . "
"How long have you been here, sir?"
"About a fortnight. Why? Don't try to link me with these murders, Inspector. I never knew Crennell and as for Nancy . . . this is the first time I've met her and what a time!"
"Mind if I ask your wife a question or two, sir?"
Mr. Nimrod Norton looked angrier than ever. His neck grew inflated like a tyre.
"I won't have her worried by anybody. She's put up with enough for one day."
Mrs. Norton touched his sleeve and he shook off her hand.
"I don't mind answering questions, Nim, if they'll help."
Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 7