Corpse At The Carnival (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series)

by George Bellairs

  Queenie, now dignified by her baptismal name, ran to the next room, weeping and gurgling. Rudd thought he'd better explain.

  'My wife's a bit overcome by events. We always have scenes like this whenever emergencies or troubles arise.'

  Mrs Boycott nodded.

  'She was always a difficult child. It's a good thing she married someone who could control her and who has a sense of proportion.'

  'I overheard something about the Court of Protection, Mrs Boycott.'

  'Yes. When I felt I could stand no more, and when all my late husband's fortune was in grave danger, I put matters in the hands of my lawyers. They appealed to the Court of Protection to grant me the right to take over his affairs and control them. Mr Boycott could have lodged an appeal and fought the matter. I fully expected it. But he didn't. He offered no resistance at all. I was given certain powers over his estate. Although I say it myself, I did my duty. I saved the ship!'

  Rudd thought it time to put in his oar.

  'In a way, Mrs Boycott's hands were tied through her husband being alive and lying low. She could have doubled the capital if she'd had a free hand. That's so, isn't it, Mother?'

  'Yes. I did all I could.'

  The telephone again. Rudd snatched at it.

  'Yes . . . Oh . . . Is that you, Scarffe? Yes . . . you'll attend to the funeral entirely. Mrs Boycott wants the best and will pay for everything. A first-class funeral. What? The Borough cemetery, of course. Yes, I know he wanted to be cremated and his ashes thrown on the Calf of Man, but he can't be. There's no crematorium, for a start, and he was a bit queer in his mind. A coffin with silver ornaments . . . . He was Church of England, so get an appropriate clergyman. . . . Very good. . . .'

  Littlejohn stood looking through the window with the rigmarole sounding in his ears. Down below was the road to Douglas Head, with fishermen, dogs, and strollers passing to and fro. The river entering the harbour and slowly joining the sea. Swans. A cormorant fishing from a buoy. The channel steamer, Manxman, tied up at the nearest pier and, beyond it, the King Orry ready for off.

  The dock basin, harbour lights, the harbourmaster's office. Cargo boats moored near the large marine warehouses, and behind, the vast stretch of bay to Onchan Head, with gentle hills sweeping to the sea. Villas on the hill-sides, crowds on the promenade like a lot of white ants.

  It was like a poster advertising the Island. And somewhere, in the mass of buildings, boarding houses, hotels, and shops, clustered between the hills and the sea, was Sea Vista, last refuge of Uncle Fred, who according to these people, had led a life that didn't bear mentioning.

  Everything was shining in a haze of heat. Dockers unloading a neat little Diesel cargo boat, shouting at one another, throwing boxes and crates about. Easy-going, cheerful men, working at a leisurely pace. The world going on as though nothing had happened to Uncle Fred and he didn't matter at all.

  Another visitor, now. Littlejohn nodded to Knell and they took up their hats.

  'Don't go. I want you to meet Mr Boycott's lawyer. Then you'll hear for yourselves how he left his money. Show Mr Squeen in.'

  The lawyer entered smiling, walking sideways, like a crab. Rudd introduced him. A small, stocky chap, who looked fond of the good things of life. Red face, pneumatic-looking paunch, flushed nose, affable smile, and soft white hands which he kept rubbing together. He wore a formal black jacket and striped trousers.

  'Mr Squeen, of Squeen, Berk, Raby & Squeen, advocates.'

  'Glad to meet you, Superintendent. Hullo, Knell.'

  'These two gentlemen were just leaving. I thought they might like to hear about the will, Mr Squeen.'

  The lawyer put on a pair of half-moon spectacles and looked at some papers which he took from his bag.

  'Briefly, his will was left at my office. He made it three years ago. It was executed under the name of Snowball. Fred Snowball. An alias he assumed, presumably to hide his identity. It seemed he was known by the nickname of Snook at his boarding-house. He appeared to have a mania for outlandish names. Well. . . we'll soon sort that out.'

  'What did I tell you?' shouted Mrs Boycott, panting. 'He was mad! Quite mad!'

  'All he had went to some people called Costain, who live at Cregneish, in the south of the Island,' continued Squeen, as though she hadn't spoken at all.

  There was a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, however. Mrs Boycott and Rudd looked too complacent to be suffering much.

  'It's a strange affair, though. The Costains will only benefit by about two thousand pounds. The loose cash, shall we say. By a deed executed nine years ago, Mr Boycott assigned all his English assets to his wife and daughter in equal parts . . . .'

  Mrs Boycott erupted again.

  'Monstrous! He made over all he'd got to me, and he didn't even let me know. I thought he might return at any time and commence litigation to recover his rights. It was not fair!'

  'It's all right now, Mother. Your troubles are at an end.'

  Mrs Boycott broke down and sobbed in self pity.

  Littlejohn was still looking through the window. A little ferry boat was crossing the harbour, crowded with trippers, from Douglas Head to the pier and promenade. A violinist aboard was playing a plaintive air. Borodin's Serenade. . . . It floated sentimentally across the still water and lingered on the quiet of the afternoon. It seemed an appropriate accompaniment. Not to Mrs Boycott's distress, but to the hopeless sadness of Uncle Fred's last days.

  'So, that's how it stands. The Costains won't get a fortune, after all, but they're lucky to get what's coming to them.'

  Lucky in more ways than one! What would the simple, God-fearing fisherman and his wife in their thatched cottage down at Cregneish do with Uncle Fred's quarter million . . . ? Probably go mad and fall foul of all the bloodsuckers, spongers, and rogues who heard about it. Yes, they were lucky. . . .

  'We must go now.'

  Littlejohn was sick of it all, and was glad to get outside and breathe pure air again.

  'I've had enough for one day, Knell. I'd better get back to Grenaby. The archdeacon will wonder wherever I've got to. Let me know if anything turns up.'

  They were standing by the swing-bridge which leads across the river to the promenade. And then, something did turn up.

  A girl emerged from the crowds on the seafront and hurried down the street leading to the bridge, but instead of crossing, turned right along the old quay. Littlejohn got a good view of her, but she didn't see him. She was intent on her errand, looked straight ahead, noticing nobody, nervous and preoccupied. It was Susie, the maid from Sea Vista.

  Littlejohn had to look again before he recognized her and then he stepped back out of sight and drew Knell with him.

  Susie had her hair neatly brushed back and gathered in a pony-tail at the crown of her head. A navy-blue flaired linen skirt, a thin, white woollen jumper with a fashionable square low-cut neck. She was quite transformed in her smart get-up, with fine nylon stockings and high-heeled shoes. Her little breasts showed prominently under her jumper and her figure, usually hidden under a grubby overall, was sleek and attractive. Several of the men tried to catch her eye or whistled as she passed, but she didn't seem to see or hear them. The anaemic shadows under her eyes made them seem larger and more impressive. As they stood watching her, she disappeared into one of the jeweller's shops on the quayside.

  There was no point in following Susie inside the shop. Littlejohn and Knell waited. It was a quarter of an hour before the girl reappeared, looking flustered, and made off along the quayside in the direction of the upper town. They called at the jeweller's.

  A place set out to attract holidaymakers with money to spend on souvenirs and jimcrack odds and ends. Rings, bangles, pottery bearing the Three Legs of Man. . . 'A Present from the Isle of Man. . . .' But in cases in the background of the shop, there were better things. Articles in silver and silver plate, most of them period stuff and valuable. China, too. Dresden, Staffordshire salt-glaze figures, carved ivories. . . . The jeweller, a s
mall thin man with a bald head and a pair of spectacles on the end of his nose, looked up expectantly, recognized Knell, and lost heart.

  'Afternoon, Inspector.'

  'Good day to you, Mr Bernstein.'

  'What can I do for you?'

  'The girl who's just been in. Can you tell me her business?'

  'No business. She was offering me a diamond ring for sale. The sort her type don't come honestly by. She said it was her own, but I wasn't going to take the risk.'

  'What was it worth?'

  'A five-stone dress ring. Very good stones, too. In a normal deal, I might have given her eighty or even a hundred for it.'

  'And sold it for twice as much?'

  'Now, now, Mister Knell, be fair. I might have it on my hands a long time. Those kind of rings don't sell every day. People haven't the money. The setting was an old one, too.'

  'Thank you, Mr Bernstein.'

  'No trouble, I hope.'

  'No trouble. Good day.'

  Knell looked at Littlejohn, waiting for orders.

  'Do we go to Whaley Road again and see Susie on the premises, sir ?'

  'Yes, I think so, Knell. It looks as if the ring might have been the last of Uncle Fred's finery.'

  At Sea Vista, high tea was again in course of preparation. Most of the boarders were indoors waiting hungrily, and, in the lounge, some flashy hit-and-miss pianist was playing the piano, a tinkling instrument, out of tune.

  Yes, sir, that's my baby. . . .

  Mrs Nessle was just entering the dining-room, where, as star lodger, she was installed at a small table of her own at the window. She paused.

  'Good afternoon, Superintendent. I haven't had the pleasure of speaking with you. I hope the case is going well and that you'll soon find out who . . . who killed poor Mr Snook.'

  Was she fifty or sixty? Difficult to give her an age. She was fat, but not overdone. Her figure had a plump firmness and she carried herself with erect dignity. She was well dressed, too, in a rather old-fashioned style; grey tweed costume, brogues, and some expensive pieces of jewellery, if it was the real stuff. She spoke well. She was well made-up and her hair was hennaed.

  'We're doing our best, Mrs Nessle. He was a friend of yours?'

  'A very good one. I'm a widow on my own. I have been coming here even longer than Mr Snook. I am always promising myself I'll find a little house and live here for good, and get the benefit of the lower income-tax rate, but I just can't make the break with the mainland. I have relatives and associations there. My husband, who died fifteen years ago, was a merchant in Manchester. . . . Mr Snook had a flair for stock exchange business and helped me a lot with my little bit of money. I shall miss him.'

  She wiped her eyes and gulped.

  'Afternoon, ma.'

  Greenhalgh pushed his way past her, putting an arm round her shoulder as he did so. She jumped.

  'Good afternoon.' And the look she gave him would have withered anybody less case-hardened.

  'I must be getting to my tea, Superintendent. I suppose you wonder why I tolerate such awful people as Mr Greenhalgh there. I have always had my own room and they have looked after me well, here. It is better in the off-season. . . . But now that Mr Snook is no more, I may have to make a change. It is getting more and more intolerable.'

  She sailed into the dining-room and left them to Trimble, who appeared from the kitchen.

  'What's she want? Might think this place was the Savoy, London, with 'er airs and graces.'

  'She was just passing the time of day. May we have a word with Susie, if she's in?'

  'What's up? Not been misbehavin', 'as she?'

  Trimble blew a blast of whisky in Littlejohn's face. His wife must have been out again, for he seemed in charge of the premises.

  'No. We're going to interview everybody who had contact with Mr Snook, in course of time. Is she free?'

  'Bit awkward, just at tea-time, but it's been 'er afternoon off, and Maria and me 'ave done all the needful. She's in 'er room, I think. Probably fancyin' herself in front of the lookin'glass. Got a bit above 'erself of late, 'as Susie.'

  'Could we use your private room under the stairs?'

  'Of course. Treat the place as if it was your own. I don't mind. In fact, I couldn't care less . . . .'

  Trimble was a bit drunk and truculent. More boarders had arrived and, as the police wouldn't let Finnegan and his paramour leave, he'd had to find them digs elsewhere.

  Susie was coming down the stairs clad in her overall. She was transformed into the maid-of-all-work again, except that her face was still made-up and her hair tidy.

  'They want you . . .'

  Trimble thumbed in the direction of the private office. Susie looked alarmed, but followed Littlejohn and Knell without a question.

  'We won't keep you long, Susie. I want to ask you just one question. Where did you get the ring you've been trying to sell to Bernstein?'

  A sulky look crossed the girl's face. Not the look of somebody guilty, but of resentment at interference in her private life. The large dark eyes opened wider in their shadowy settings.

  'It's mine. I don't see what it's got to do with anybody.'

  'It is a very valuable ring. The kind a girl like you doesn't usually possess. Now come along, Susie. Just answer my question if you don't want to get in trouble. Please show me the ring.'

  She took it from a fine chain round her neck and placed it in Littlejohn's palm. It was warm from the heat of her body. Five fine large stones, which, even to inexpert eyes, were magnificent diamonds, worth many hundred pounds.

  They all stood there, with the cheap clock, which might have been won at a shooting-gallery, ticking the minutes away. An atmosphere of indifference and laziness seemed to permeate the whole of Sea Vista. Mrs Trimble out most of the time; Trimble tippling in the kitchen during her absence; the staff getting on with their work in an indolent, lackadaisical way. And Susie, with hundreds of pounds hanging round her neck, dreaming what she'd do with it.

  'It belonged to Mr Snook, didn't it?'

  The girl started and flushed.

  'It was mine. I can prove it. I've got a letter. I was selling it before the police searched me and my things and took it away and perhaps accused me of stealing it.'

  'You'd better get the letter and show it to me.'

  She left in no hurry and without a word. Knell looked at Littlejohn and shrugged his shoulders.

  'A rum affair, sir.'

  Susie was back, carrying a little imitation leather handbag from which she drew a sheet of cheap note paper.

  DEAR SUSIE,

  This letter is just to prove that the five-stone diamond ring I gave you is yours. If anybody questions you, show them this and say I gave it to you.

  Yours sincerely,

  F. SNOOK

  'Well, Susie? Why did he give it to you?'

  Littlejohn folded the note and handed it back to the girl.

  'You won't believe me if I tell you.'

  'All the same, you'd better.'

  'I came here five years ago, when I was fifteen. My dad was drowned at sea and my mother had to get me what job she could.'

  She spoke in a sulky monotonous voice, resenting every word. But funnily enough, she spoke accurately, carefully, without much trace of local or any other accent.

  'Mr Snook was living here. I called him Uncle Fred, like the rest. I looked after him. . . . No more than I'd done for anybody else at first. Then, later, he started to give me little presents, as he called them. They were really tips. He seemed to get fond of me. Nothing wrong. He was as decent as they make them, was Uncle Fred. Not like a lot who come here, mauling you and making suggestions, and asking where your bedroom is. . . . He was a decent, good sort. He was a gentleman. One who'd been rich and known better things and had come down in the world.'

  Once started, Susie went on and on in the same toneless voice, as though she was privately grieving for Uncle Fred, and wanted to talk about him to someone.

  'He used to
ask me what I was going to do with my life. He was that way. Interested and a bit sad, if you get my meaning. I didn't know. I told him so. I'd to earn my living and I'd no qualifications for any other job. So, he what he called took me in hand. He'd been a real gentleman at some time in his life. Not that he wasn't always, but you get what I mean. Well educated, knew good things, well mannered. He bought me clothes and women's good-class papers and taught me how to make myself what he called presentable. . . . Makeup, how to walk properly, and talk. . . . He used to correct what I said and when he'd the time, he taught me a bit of English, too. He gave me books. I can show you them. They're in my room. Grammar and stories. Jane Austen and Dickens. He made me read them and asked me questions. I must have been a poor pupil, but I did learn a lot. I liked it, too. I wanted to make something of myself. I don't want to be in this dump all my life with men eyeing me up and down and pawing me about, and the women looking as if they could scratch my eyes out.'

  'What about the ring, Susie?'

  'I'm coming to it. Uncle Fred said that if I could only use a typewriter and get used to simple book-keeping, I might get a job as a receptionist or something in a good hotel. He'd suggested at first I might become a hospital nurse, but I could never stand the sight of blood. I said I'd like it. It would be a definite step up and I'd meet nicer people there. He said it was no use trying to do anything here with the Trimbles bullying and keeping me working all the hours God sends. So, we'd arranged at the end of the season I should give notice and take on a job as maid with some private people Uncle Fred knew, some old maiden ladies, who'd let me have evenings off to go to night-school for lessons in typing and such. . . .'

  Full of her dreams of bettering herself, Susie grew a bit excited, her cheeks flushed and her large eyes glowed.