Perhaps Uncle Fred had been like that, and the Isle of Man had cast upon him the same potent spells they said were abroad in Ireland. Littlejohn admitted to himself he felt it at Grenaby – reputed to be 'queer', it was true – after he'd been there a few days. If it weren't for Letty and the dog at home and the accrued pension rights which the Home Office owed him, he might find himself settled for ever there, like Uncle Fred was in Douglas. Just dreaming the hours away, lotus-eating without a care in the world. There was such another chap living near the parsonage at Grenaby. Joe Henn. Littlejohn had watched him wandering bemused round his rambling garden, with his trousers and coat drawn over his nightshirt.
'What do you think of it, sir?'
'Eh?'
'The death of. . . of. . .'
'Call him Uncle Fred, Knell. . . . It was murder, of course . . . .'
A chuckle from the back seat, but when Littlejohn turned, his old friend's eyes were closed. Then, one opened, regarded him searchingly, and closed again. He felt the Archdeacon had read his thoughts and thoroughly understood them.
Littlejohn feared they were on the brink of another anticlimax. He somehow resented the intrusion of Martha Boycott, who even now was in mid-air like an old witch on a besom, flying over to claim Uncle Fred. Coming to disturb his rest. Alive, Uncle Fred mustn't have wanted her. Perhaps he'd fled from her for a bit of peace and changed his name to make sure. What good would he be to her dead?
They were at the airport. The forecourt was full of spectators and visitors arriving from the Manchester and Belfast planes. Airport buses filling up, people meeting one another, loudspeakers controlling passengers with refined politeness. The London flight was due in fifteen minutes. Knell's little party attracted a lot of attention. The police-car, an aged person in gaiters, and two obvious police officers with him. Surely, not a clerical confidence-trickster? The sergeant-in-charge at the airport saluted briskly and made, in addition, a little obeisance to the Archdeacon. The crowd seemed relieved, but couldn't make out what was going on.
'Move on, there.'
The loudspeaker was getting fed up with waiting for people to do as they were told instead of pottering around Knell's procession, and tersely ordered all who were going to Douglas to claim their luggage and get in the waiting bus forthwith.
The constable shepherded them all off and took Mrs Boycott's reception committee to the police office. The sergeant had cups of tea waiting for them. A nice, polite chap with whom the Archdeacon was very cordial because he'd christened him forty years ago, married him ten years since, and was now watching other parsons baptizing his growing family.
When they emerged again to meet the London plane, the crowds knew all about them. The grapevine had been at work.
'It's the famous Littlejohn from Scotland Yard on the case of the carnival murder yesterday. Somebody stabbed an old chap called Snook in the back in the crowd.'
Three small boys approached with autograph albums.
'Can we have a statement, sir?'
Reporters now.
'Nothing to say yet,' replied Knell, who was up early next morning, however, to see what they'd put in the papers.
Superintendent Littlejohn, who is staying on a brief holiday with his friend the Archdeacon of Man, at Grenaby, is assisting Inspector Knell, in charge of the case, and with whom he has collaborated several times in the past. There is, so far, no official report, but Inspector Knell is following up several lines of inquiry which he is sure will be fruitful. Photograph on back page.
A photograph of Knell, Littlejohn, and the Archdeacon, with one of the airport constables grinning over Knell's shoulder as though there were something comic about the whole set-up! It gave Knell quite a jolt. He'd reprimand McJoughin for this. All the same, it wasn't so bad. He ate a huge breakfast after it.
They watched the passengers from the London plane gingerly descending the ladder. Littlejohn mopped his forehead. What weather! The flags over the airport hung lifeless and everybody seemed to move slowly about in a haze of heat. A middle-aged woman, heavy, medium-built and self-important, detached herself from the stream of arrivals and made for the policeman who was watching them as though looking for smugglers or secret agents.
'Take me to the Chief of Police at once. Is he here?'
She must have expected a top-ranking reception in reply to her telegram.
The bobby couldn't hear a word owing to the roar of an outgoing plane to Blackpool.
'I'm Mrs Boycott. I'm expected.'
'You must be the one Inspector Knell. . .'
They were still shouting and bawling at one another when Knell intervened.
'Mrs Boycott? I'm Inspector Knell.'
She eyed him up and down as though questioning his credentials or thinking him an hotel tout. She wondered if he were high-ranking enough to deal with her affairs.
Mrs Boycott was well dressed in a dark blue thin serge costume and a little hat like an inverted bucket, with a half veil over her eyes. She struggled to push back the veil to get a better view of Knell. She wore a lot of jewellery – rings, ear-clips, a gold chain round her neck. A heavy coat of make-up, too, which did not, however, conceal her age. She was a bit raddled, with tired lines round her eyes and a hanging dewlap under her double chin.
'This way, madam.'
'What about my luggage ?'
The porters were unloading bags and boxes and putting them on a trolley. She indicated two large expensive hide pieces; a travelling wardrobe and a large suitcase.
'Those are mine. The charge for excess luggage was disgusting. I shall complain.'
She looked, judging by her luggage, to have come for a month or more. She followed Knell to the door, where he introduced her to Littlejohn and the Archdeacon.
'The famous Superintendent Littlejohn? Indeed!'
She bucked up considerably, began to preen herself, and started to boss the porters about.
'Just leave those two bags there, my man.'
She tapped Knell on the arm.
'Are you the Superintendent's secretary? Kindly see my bags to a taxi. . . . Or perhaps you've brought a private conveyance?'
Knell pretended he hadn't heard. Secretary, indeed! He looked round to see if anybody else had overheard it. No? Good! He motioned to P.C. McJoughin to take and load the bags in the police-car. He'd teach him to hang around looking as if the whole affair were a joke!
Mrs Boycott didn't quite know what to make of the Venerable Archdeacon. Was he there to add dignity to the reception, or to offer her the consolations of religion in connexion with the loss of her husband?
'I'm Mrs Boycott, the widow of the dead man.'
She fished in her expensive leather handbag, turned over purses, wallets, cosmetics, bottles, and pieces of paper, and finally held aloft the cutting from the Daily Cry. She pointed to the picture of Uncle Fred, who looked annoyed.
'That is my late husband. I believe, according to what the paper said, he was known by the ridiculous name of Uncle Fred. His real name was Frederick Mandeville Boycott.'
Littlejohn felt he wanted to laugh outright. He had grown fond of Uncle Fred and everything about him. His many names, Snook, Mandeville, Boycott, all seemed to have a comic twist about them, an eccentric touch of humour, as though Uncle Fred were still laughing at everybody.
'He was registered at his hotel in the name of Fred Snook!'
'What!'
She almost wept with annoyance and Littlejohn took her by the arm and led her into the small police office. On the way she talked in a voice almost incoherent with rage.
'It was his idea of a joke trying to humiliate his family. His photograph in the papers was bad enough. An old hat and looking like a tramp. And then to call himself Snook, and Uncle Fred, like some vulgar, familiar old reprobate. It's intolerable. . . .'
The crowds in the airport watched their every move, as though some international criminal were being seized and put through a third-degree. There wasn't room for everybody in the party i
n the police-post, so they had to take over the newly-painted customs-shed, which was empty for half an hour pending the arrival of the next plane from Dublin.
'Now, Mrs Boycott. . . .'
Knell rubbed his hands and waved her to a chair. Then the rest sat down, too.
'I'm Mrs Frederick Mandeville Boycott.'
She said it again. She spoke with a faint Irish accent. Knell nodded to show her he knew her name already.
'We were surprised when we heard from you. The dead man's name was, according to our records, Fred Snook.'
Mrs Boycott looked to be coming up for air after long immersion. Eyes popping, gasping and making gurgling noises in her throat. She looked at Littlejohn and the Archdeacon as though beseeching them to silence this underling who kept rubbing in the indignity.
'Snook! Nonsense! I ought to know. I was his wife.'
'Are you sure you've got the right man ? After all, it was only a newspaper picture.'
Knell almost begged her to change her mind. She dived in the handbag again, produced Uncle Fred's photograph, and waved it about.
'Of course it's the right man! I'd know him anywhere. I've not seen him for ten years, but I'd know him. Besides, I want to see the body. I'll identify him. He has marks on his back which I shall recognize. He fell from his horse heavily one day in the hunting field and got severely torn on some barbed wire. He used to say in his silly way – he had a perverted sense of humour – that he looked like an ex-convict who'd had the cat-o'-nine-tails.'
She had a way of taking a deep breath and talking on and on until it gave out. It was like watching a pair of bellows expand and contract to see her breathing.
Littlejohn smiled gently as he smoked his pipe. Uncle Fred! A huntin' man, now. What next?
'He disappeared ten years ago. Just walked out one day and left me. I've often been tempted to get a divorce for desertion, but there were complications. . . . His estate and our daughter. He left a letter saying he was going away for good and I could keep all he left behind.'
Knell was quite out of his depth. The vagaries and infamy of Uncle Fred were too much for him. He gave Littlejohn a weary look and shrugged his shoulders. Over to you, he seemed to suggest.
'Where did all this happen, Mrs Boycott?'
She actually smiled back. Here was a man who understood all she'd suffered.
'It was in Sussex, not far from Horsham. He had an estate there. He and his late father were members of a large firm of mining engineers.'
And Uncle Fred had, when he died, been busy with investments worth £257, and showing an all-round capital profit of £11! Well, well . . .
'It was monstrous the way he left me. I've spent a fortune in trying to trace him, to say nothing of lawyers' fees. The courts declined to allow me to assume he was dead. It seemed as if, not content with leaving me, he wanted to make my life a hell on earth as well. Just as my lawyers looked like establishing death, he sent me a vulgar postcard . . . a horrible thing. "There's life in the old dog, yet. Kind regards." '
Littlejohn turned to watch an outgoing plane just to hide his smile. Then . . .
'Was your late husband a wealthy man ?'
Mrs Boycott pulled herself together and spoke proudly.
'He left about a quarter of a million pounds behind. He must have been mad! I always said he was highly eccentric before he ran away.'
'And after you have identified him?'
'We can assume death. It will, at least, put an end to the interminable litigation and help me settle up the estate.'
She paused, wiped her lips carefully, applied more lipstick, and turned and gave Littlejohn a cunning look.
'Has anyone else arrived to enquire or claim the body?'
'Not so far as we know. Should there be someone else?'
She hesitated.
'There were rumours that my husband had been seen with another woman just before he vanished. I didn't believe a word of it. He always seemed happy with me. You see, I am telling you all this unpleasant past history quite frankly in the hope that you will understand my difficulties, the shocking way he treated us, and give me all the help you can in the matter. I never believed the rumours about his infidelity.'
Of course she did! You could see it in her every gesture. She hated Uncle Fred for running off with another woman in preference to her, but she was going to have all the pickings in spite of her hatred.
'I was his wife and have first claim, although Victoria will, I'm sure, be putting forward her own views.'
'Victoria?'
'My daughter. She married and went to live in Hampshire. We don't see much of each other. She always seemed to be on her father's side. He spoiled her. If she arrives here, her name is Rudd. I disliked her husband intensely. If you meet him, you will know why. A vulgar man. She will probably use the ridiculous nickname her father called her. He objected to Victoria. He called her Queenie, and she was known as such to all her friends. My husband delighted in thwarting me whenever he could.'
She paused for breath, like an organ when the blower stops.
'Where did my late husband live?'
'In a boarding-house in Douglas.'
She looked blankly around as though living in a nightmare.
'Snook! Boarding-house. . . . I was right. I knew it! He went mad. That was why he left home. He had aberrations and loss of memory. He had forgotten who he was.'
'From what we can gather about him, he was quite normal. Are you sure you've got the right man ?'
'Of course I am. Please don't ask that stupid question again. This is the picture of my late husband. Frederick Mandeville Boycott.'
There was nothing else for it. They'd have to take her to see the body and settle it.
'Perhaps you'll kindly take Mrs Boycott to identify her late husband's remains, Knell. You can let me know developments over the telephone. I'll be at Grenaby.'
The party broke up. Knell looked reproachful as he drove away with his haughty passenger. Mrs Boycott wasn't his cup of tea at all and he'd rather have left her entirely to Littlejohn. Her and her jingling bangles, her rings, her uppish ways, the smell of expensive scent which surrounded her . . . . And the way she looked down her nose at the neat little police-car as though she usually rode about in a Rolls Royce. It put Knell out of countenance.
Littlejohn and the Archdeacon climbed the staircase to the balcony which gave a splendid view of the runways and all that came and went at the airport.
'Shall I order tea, parson ?'
The Venerable Archdeacon lowered himself slowly into a basket armchair.
'Ever since I was a child, I've loved ice-cream. It was known as hokey-pokey, then. I think I would like the largest ice-cream you can buy. I've a sweet tooth and, at my age, I believe in humouring it.'
Littlejohn returned with two large ice-creams and they sat there, like two schoolboys on holiday, enjoying themselves and watching the planes come in, and then watching them all go out. In the foreground, the control-tower, then the green turf and the runways seeming to go right out to sea. Langness and Fort Island in the distance, with the old fort and the ruined oratory where the murdered priest was supposed to wring his hands and moan after dark. Beyond, the blue water, calm as a duckpond, with little boats and white sails close in and the smoke of passing great ships on the far horizon. . . .
The holiday feeling again! The torpor of relaxation fell upon Littlejohn. His eyes closed. . . . More than an hour later the airport policeman gently shook him awake. The Archdeacon was still asleep.
'Inspector Knell would like you on the office phone, sir.'
Knell had first taken Mrs Boycott to the mortuary. On the way there from the airport, they had made very heavy weather together and hardly a word was spoken. She'd seemed to regard herself as a V.I.P. and Knell as a very subordinate person. Whenever he had tried to open a conversation, she'd showed she didn't want to talk.
'You'll excuse me, but I'm tired with the journey and all the delayed shock of this frightful aff
air. I wish to rest.'
And she closed her eyes. Once or twice she spoke as if to herself.
'I'm sure it's Boycott. I'm sure . . . . And to think of him hidden away on this island and my knowing nothing of it. The money I've spent on tracing him and his living here as Fred . . . Fred Snook. Ah!'
Then at the morgue. There was no fuss. She was as hard as nails there. They showed her the body. She was quite unmoved.
'Yes. I'm sure it's Boycott. Please let me see his back.'
It didn't seem decent, but the attendant gently moved Uncle Fred so that his back was visible. Yes; there they were. The marks Uncle Fred said made him look like a criminal who'd had the 'cat'.
'You're sure it's him?'
'Of course. I'm prepared to swear it. Older, more fleshy, but I'd know him anywhere.'
They took her back into the open-air.
'Would you like a cup of tea, madam?'
Knell was trying to be decent about it.
'Why? I've seen worse things, my man. I was a V.A.D. officer in the war. Let us get this business over first. Then you'd better find me a good hotel and I'll have a meal there.'
'You'll be lucky if you get in anywhere. This is the high season and they're all full up.'
'Even the best hotels?'
'Even those.'
She softened and smiled with difficulty.
'Surely. For the police. . . and in my present circumstances, my distressing duty, they would stretch a point. You or that nice Superintendent Littlejohn could order them to accommodate me. Which is the best hotel?'
'Fort Anne.'
'Please telephone them then.'
Knell was thoroughly nettled. He objected to being pushed around. In any event, he knew now why Uncle Fred had run away. A lifetime of Mrs Martha Boycott was enough to drive anybody off. . . .
'Meanwhile, I would like to be taken to my late husband's hotel.'
Corpse At The Carnival (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 5