Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series)

by George Bellairs

  "Two days after we got here. October 25th."

  The old disquiet seemed to possess Mrs. Norton, as though once more, Littlejohn was treading on delicate ground.

  "Did you see Cribbin then?"

  "Yes. He was about the farm, busy with the stock. We didn't have much time together. I spent most of it with Nancy and the children."

  "Did Cribbin mention his financial affairs to you?"

  "No. . . . No, he didn't."

  She was on edge, as though afraid Littlejohn might put his finger on some awkward spot.

  "Did Nancy say he'd written to Mr. Crennell as well as to your husband?"

  "It was just mentioned."

  Littlejohn felt he was somehow getting warm, and yet he couldn't just strike the right place.

  "Very well. Thank you both. I won't detain you any longer."

  Mrs. Norton gave a long, almost imperceptible sigh. Relieved . . . but why?

  In the car, before Knell started the engine, they looked over the Chief Inspector's notes together.

  October 10. Cribbin writes to Norton for £1,000 and suggests a further £3,000.

  13. Norton replies and puts him off.

  16. Cribbin writes to Crennell for a similar loan. (?)

  17. Crennell writes to Norton about selling diamonds.

  19. Norton replies again delaying. Says he will arrive in I.O.M. about Oct. 23.

  23. Norton arrives at Dandy Rig.

  25. Mrs. Norton goes to Druidale.

  28. Finlo Crennell disappears.

  "What do you make of it, Knell?"

  "I wish we had a few more details of what happened in between, sir. What Cribbin was doing, for instance."

  "We'll try to fill in some gaps with the help of Nancy later to-day."

  On the way back to Castletown, Littlejohn sat silently sucking his cold pipe.

  "Bit of a puzzler, isn't it, sir?"

  "Yes. But to-day's main event is Mrs. Norton's black eye. It looks on the face of it, that she wants to keep him company in the way of disfigurement, doesn't it?"

  Knell sniggered.

  "Did you notice anything else about her . . . in fact, about the pair of them, Knell?"

  "She was nervous when you questioned her before we left. She's not telling all she knows, is she?"

  "No. But it's the way they met us which puzzles me. After I left Norton last night, he went to bed again and then set-about his wife. He even used violence and in the struggle, gave her a mild black eye and held her wrists so tightly that there were nasty bruises on them this morning. Why?"

  "Something you said to him must have made him mad and he took it out of his wife. How's that, sir?"

  "Not quite. Did you notice their relationship when first we met them? For the first time since we've known them they were really friendly with each other. Norton treated her with kindness and, in spite of her black eye, she looked happy. Something happened between them after I left which has altered their life together."

  "They do say, don't they, that if you treat women rough, they like it. . . ."

  Knell pondered deeply, probing his knowledge of female psychology.

  ". . . Perhaps the beating-up he gave her made her love him more."

  "Not this time, Knell, and not at their age. You've been reading Ethel M. Dell. . . . No. Norton thought his wife was keeping something secret from him and it rattled him. All this Crennell-Cribbin affair must have made him think things and perhaps his wife's behaviour has puzzled him and made him distrust her. Perhaps it even led him to think she'd really loved Crennell at one time, or even still did. He was jealous and maddened by her holding something out on him. Finally, after having been routed out in the early hours and after having his eye blacked by a Douglas bobby, he sees red and makes up his mind he's going to get the truth from his wife if he has to strangle her to get it. That accounts for the black eye and the bruises. She told him the truth and he understood. Relations between them improved right away. In fact, Knell, they have become allies against us. Norton is on his wife's side, now. He's forgiven her. Now, our problem is to make them talk."

  "You might have been there when it happened, sir, the way you've got it all taped. You'll have to question them till they break down, now."

  "A third-degree? We don't do that here, Knell. We've got to get more background, enough to build a theory of what they know, and then face them with it."

  "But how?"

  Knell shouted it in a despairing voice.

  "Doucement, Knell. . . . Gently does it."

  Over the bridge again, with the sun shining on the water and the knots of old salts gossiping on the quayside. A baker was unloading bread from his van and the butcher was chasing the dogs from his shop again. The same quiet routine, day by day, the same peace of the old town which got in your bones and made you want to idle the time away. Just as Crennell had done until Charlie Cribbin had upset it all.

  They parked the car. A man passed with a roll of carpet over his shoulder, a woman was feeding the birds in the market square with crumbs, the castle clock struck noon, and Littlejohn saw Mr. Morrison emerging from the bank. He crossed to speak to him.

  "I'm so sorry to hear . . ."

  "It was expected, you know, Inspector, but now that it's come, I can't believe it. Good of you to sympathize. . . ."

  Morrison looked completely broken and old, and laid his weight heavily on the stick he was carrying. Littlejohn would have liked to ask Morrison if, during the days when Crennell worked on their family boats, there had been any trade, legal or illicit, in diamonds. But it wasn't the time. Besides, an elderly man was approaching and it was obvious from the manner in which he removed the smile from his face as he drew near, that he was going to offer condolences.

  At the police station, P.C. Quayle, from Ballaugh, had been on the telephone. He and his colleague from Kirk Michael had been the rounds of the villages in an effort to discover how Charlie Cribbin had got to Castletown on the day of Finlo Crennell's death. They . . . or rather Quayle, who had modestly spoken in the first person plural . . . had been successful.

  A farmer named Frissell from Smeale had been on his way by car to Douglas on Saturday, November 6th, and had picked-up Cribbin in Ballaugh at half-past two in the afternoon. They had run into Douglas together and even had a drink at Charlie's expense on arrival. Cribbin had left for Castletown on the five o'clock bus.

  Not only that, but Quayle seemed to have given Frissell a good grilling about Cribbin's behaviour, as well. Charlie had been very cheerful. On top of the world, in fact. Anything but a bankrupt, judging from the way he'd carried-on. Paid for two drinks for Frissell when one would have done, said he'd got the good news of Crennell's return, and that he was on his way to see the old chap and bid him welcome home. . . .

  And yet, Charlie Cribbin had never got to Queen Street to see Crennell. He'd probably arrived about six o'clock in Castletown and spent the rest of the time between then and leaving, in the Trafalgar and elsewhere.

  "Let's try to find out how much time Cribbin spent at the Trafalgar. . . . Where is the pub? No . . . no . . . I'll go myself. I'd like to see what the place is like . . . and the landlord."

  It was a modest inn, built in the working-class quarter of the town. A maze of narrow, old streets with cottages of grey stone. The landlord was an Englishman called Schofield. The natives didn't seem much taken with keeping beer-houses and left it to comeovers.

  Schofield was a little fat man with a round face, liquid blue eyes, and a large grey moustache.

  "Like a drink, Inspector?" he asked as soon as Littlejohn had introduced himself. He said it eagerly as though seeking an excuse for one himself.

  They talked over two pints of ale.

  "Cribbin didn't come 'ere offen. I don't think 'e came to Castletown much, if you ask me. Lived in the wilds round Snaefell way. . . ."

  Schofield was going to tell Littlejohn a lot that he already knew, so the Chief Inspector took matters in hand and cut-in with questions.r />
  "Do you remember his arriving on the day of the murder . . . last Saturday?"

  "Sure. Who wouldn't, seein' that he went and got his self murdered next day? I never thought as I saw 'im sittin' there drinkin' his pint that . . ."

  "What time did he arrive?"

  "'Bout half-past six to start with. He'd a drink, sat a bit, talkin' with one or two as was here, and then went out. Quarter of an hour later, 'e was back again, havin' another."

  "Where had he been, did he say?"

  "No. But seein' he did the same thing twice more, I'd say he'd come to Castletown to see Captain Crennell, who was 'is relative by marriage, as you well know."

  "What makes you think that?"

  The landlord looked at the empty glasses, cocked one eye questioningly about re-fills, Littlejohn shook his head and said No-thanks, and Schofield's face fell.

  "Well . . . I think Cribbin come here in the first place to kill time. He'd come to see Crennell, see? And findin' the police there and other callers when he went round to spy out the land, 'e popped back for a drink till a more suitable time when he could see the old cock alone."

  "Why alone?"

  "Matter of fact, Cribbin, after he'd had a drink or two an' got a bit matey, told one of the chaps as was in here . . . I was too busy to bother, myself, it bein' Saturday and us bein' pushed like . . . 'e told another customer that he'd called to see Captain Crennell, who was home at last, on a bit of private business. . . . "

  "And he kept taking a walk round to Queen Street until the coast was clear; is that it?"

  "Eggzackly right. Matter of fact . . ."

  "And he left for the last time?"

  "Just before nine, before the news come on over the wireless. I told the bobby as called that."

  "Thank you very much, Mr. . . ."

  "Schofield's the name. Came from Wigan to 'ere five years ago for me 'ealth. Chest. . . ."

  And he coughed hoarsely to prove it. Apparently the change hadn't done him much good!

  Knell and Littlejohn lunched in town and then drove to Grenaby to pick up the Archdeacon and take him with them to Kirk Michael. The funeral was over at Ballaugh Old Church when they arrived, and the funeral 'tay' was taking place in a small schoolroom. The place was packed to the doors with mourners now eating refreshments. Even the two local policemen were present, minus helmets, assisting in disposing of ham, bread and butter, celery, and soda cakes.

  The arrival of the official party, especially of the Archdeacon of Man himself, was regarded as a great honour, and short of being discourteous, the trio had to join in the feast. The long local agony of the violent death in their midst had ended with the interment of the victim, and beneath a surface of solemnity, there was almost an air of joviality in all quarters except that of the near relatives. After the grim ordeal of the graveyard, it was good to be alive and kicking!

  The family had made its headquarters in the cottage of a friend nearby, a whitewashed little single-storeyed place with a thatched roof. As everyone was occupied at the 'tay', Littlejohn and Knell were able to have a quiet word with Nancy in the cottage over the way.

  As they entered, Littlejohn turned and paused at the door and admired the view. Ahead, the flat expanse of fen country, the curraghs, stretching to the sea, with Jurby church a landmark, and to the right, the point of Ayre just visible. Behind, the great mass of the Manx hills, more massive through comparison with the low curragh lands over which they towered majestically. The fragrance of the bog-plants filled the air, in the waste-lands the curlew and bittern were crying, and in the mild autumn, flowers still bloomed in the cottage gardens. Nearby, Ballaugh Old Church, with its crooked gateposts and its ancient graves.

  Nancy drew up the blinds and let in the last sunshine of the dying day. A melancholy silence clung to the quiet land, made more sombre by the cries of the lonely birds.

  "We won't keep you long, Mrs. Cribbin. In fact, if it will distress you . . . "

  She made a forlorn gesture with one hand.

  "No. Might as well get it over, sir."

  She looked better than last time he'd seen her. The colour had returned to her clear complexion and she held herself upright again. There only remained a kind of languid despair and pain in the fine dark eyes, the bewilderment of sudden shock and of a future dim and unknown.

  "It's about some of your husband's movements of late, Mrs. Cribbin. . . . He was trying to borrow money for his farm, wasn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "He wrote first to Mr. Norton."

  "No. First to the bank, then he called to see them. Not only did they say they couldn't lend him any, but they asked him to pay back the bit he was overdrawn."

  "After that, he wrote to Mr. Norton?".

  "That's right. And Mr. Norton put him off."

  "Then, he asked your father?"

  "That's right. Dad said he'd help him. He'd about a thousand pounds in the post-office and he'd give notice to get it out and give us that. . . . "

  "Give it to you?"

  "That's what he said. He didn't need it and might as well let us have it while it would be useful, instead of in his will."

  "Your husband told you that?"

  "Yes. And dad had some investments he'd sell and use in makin' the farm better. I didn't want Charlie to do that. I wanted him to remove to where he could use his money to better purpose, but . . ."

  "Did your father tell Charlie what the investments were?"

  "No. All Charlie told me was, it would take a bit of time to get the money."

  "What date would that be about?"

  She looked surprised at the closeness of the questions, but said nothing about it.

  "I can't say for certain. All I know is, that it was just before my mother came over on the 23rd of October."

  "How did your husband seem about all this financial worry?"

  "Worry. . . . That's the right word. Worried to death. Even after dad said he'd lend the thousand, Charlie was upset. You see, he wanted the money right away. He said he couldn't wait. What with the bank and other bills. He was afraid somebody would go to law about it."

  "And he worried right to the end?"

  "No. After Mr. Norton and my mother arrived, he seemed better. I think he thought Mr. Norton would come to the rescue right away."

  "Instead of which he stayed away, even though he was on the Island."

  "Yes. But my mother called to see us two days after they got over. That seemed to cheer Charlie up."

  "Did she promise anything?"

  "No. But the fact of their being here . . ."

  Littlejohn looked puzzled.

  "Did you and your mother have a long talk?"

  "Of course. We don't see one another much. We'd a lot to say to one another."

  "Forgive my being so pressing and inquisitive, but what did you talk about?"

  Suddenly, Nancy's guard went up. Just as her mother's had done, earlier in the day.

  "About the family, and us, and her. A lot of things women talk about and things they don't say to men."

  She was fencing with a vengeance. Littlejohn felt it was not the time to press the question too hard.

  "Things they don't say to men. . . . I see. What might those be?"

  She gave him a strange look, not of modesty or coquetry, but of determination not to tell it, almost a challenge.

  Littlejohn changed his tack.

  "Was Charlie about when you had this private talk?"

  She suddenly looked startled, as though such a thing hadn't occurred to her before.

  "No. Why should he be?"

  "Where was he at the time?"

  "About the yard seeing to the cattle and the milking."

  "Where were you when you talked?"

  "In the living-room. Why?"

  "There's a kitchen behind, Mrs. Cribbin?"

  "Yes."

  "And where is the dairy?"

  "In a lean-to next door."

  "With a door through into the kitchen?"

&
nbsp; "Yes. I don't know what you're getting-at. What has it to do with Charlie and his death?"

  "Probably nothing. I'm interested in the lay-out of your place, that's all. Just another question or two, and then we'll go."

  "I hope so, sir. They'll be thinkin' and wondering things at the 'tea'. . . ."

  "Was Charlie upset when your father disappeared and he couldn't get his first instalment of a thousand pounds?"

  "We were both upset about dad, of course. He was so good to us. Charlie said not to worry about the money. In any case, he said, it would probably be left us in dad's will if anything had happened to him. Charlie wasn't worried about the money; only about dad's not being found."

  "Where was your husband on the night your father first disappeared? Do you know? Was he at home?"

  "No. He'd business in Douglas about the farm. He went just after tea. . . ."

  "After tea? A funny time to do business, wasn't it?"

  "I said the same, but he said he had to meet a man in a public house there . . . a farmer about buying some cattle when the money came. He was going to bring the children's fireworks, too. . . . "

  She stood there, a picture of despair, stricken by the memory of little, intimate domestic things. Littlejohn found it hard to press his questions.

  "What time did he get home? Did he go by car?"

  "On the tractor. It was after midnight when he got to Druidale. The tractor went wrong at Glen Helen. . . . "

  Knell suddenly broke his silence.

  "Glen Helen! That's a long way round, isn't it? Did he go to Douglas and back that way? It's a lot nearer over Ingebreck and down through Baldwin from Druidale, isn't it?"

  "I said that. But Charlie said the road was rough that way. He went down and through Michael and Ballacraine."

  "Funny. . . ."

  "What was funny? I don't see what it has to do with you what Charlie did?"

  Knell blushed in the face of this rebuke and grew silent again.

  "I think that's all, Mrs. Cribbin, and thank you very much for helping us. Your husband was upset by Mr. Crennell's disappearance, I'm sure. Did he do anything to help in finding him? I mean, did he go down to Castletown about it?"

  "No. He said we couldn't do much. The police would look after it. It hit him hard, though. I've never known him in such a funny mood. He seemed to do a lot of worrying and thinking again. Not so much about the money. As I said, he told me we'd no need to worry on that account because of the will. But somehow, he brooded over dad's vanishing. . . . "