'I don't know whether he expected something happening, but he said in case he wasn't here when I needed the money, I was to take a ring he'd got. "I can't leave you anything in my will. It wouldn't seem right and people would mistake the motive." That's how he put it. The ring was all he'd got. It had been his mother's, he said, and he'd hung on to it as a keepsake. I didn't want to take it, but he said "If I'm gone by the time you need the money, I won't want this any more and I'd rather you have it and sell it and do some good to yourself than have my family take it." He gave it to me this spring and the letter just in case of trouble. That's all there is to it. Do I keep the ring? Or am I going to be had up for stealing it? Because if I am . . .'
'That's all right, Susie. You can keep the ring. But get a friend or someone like Inspector Knell here, to have it put in a safe place for you and, when you need to, help you sell it. Otherwise, you'll be cheated. Did anyone else know about you and Uncle Fred and the lessons he was giving you?'
Littlejohn could imagine it! Uncle Fred, once a family man with a daughter of his own, teaching Susie how to behave like a lady; put powder and lipstick on properly instead of merely daubing herself like the rest of her kind. Giving her instructions on how to carry herself with dignity, instead of shambling about in Trimble's kitchen; teaching her to speak grammatically and without local accent. Making a lady of her, like the ones he'd once lived among and left behind. In other words, she'd become the lonely old man's darling, and he was anxious to raise her to something like his own lost level.
'Mr and Mrs Trimble knew that Uncle Fred took an interest in me. They used to call me his darling and say he was my godfather. . . . And other things, I bet, when our backs were turned. But he was a good lodger, you see. Income in the off-season. They had to keep on the right side of him. And he could talk . . . use words right. If Mr Trimble ever started hinting or arguing, Uncle Fred would set about him and wipe the floor with him.'
'So you're going to carry on and do what Uncle Fred wanted you to do?'
'Of course. Now that he's gone, I can't stand this place another day. I won't leave them in the lurch right in the middle of the season, but I'm off as soon as the visitors stop coming.'
She was still a bit childish and unsophisticated for her age, but, standing there defending herself, she assumed a kind of dignity which Uncle Fred had given her. He'd taught her to despise the life and ways of Sea Vista, resist its easy-going manners and morality, and protect herself from its type of easy virtue which led to vulgar sophistication and a poor finish when the end came.
'Right, Susie, you can go now.'
'Thank you. Good afternoon.'
She hesitated and then took the ring off the little chain round her neck again. She held it out to Knell with a pathetic trusting gesture.
'Will you mind it for me, as he says . . . ?'
Knell hesitated and then smiled and put the ring in his waistcoat pocket.
'Right, Susie, I will.'
A polite farewell and a dignified exit! Just as Uncle Fred had taught her!
Uncle Fred had been quite a man. Littlejohn was beginning to feel as if he'd known him all his life.
8
TRIMBLE VANISHES
TRIMBLE was hanging about in the hall, waiting for them. In the dining-room, sounds of high tea in progress. Chatter, rattling plates, laughter now and then. . . .
'Everythin' all right? She told you all you wanted to know?'
Trimble would have asked what it had all been about, only he daren't. Instead, he stood there sweating and breathing heavily.
'All the boarders behaving themselves, Mr Trimble?'
Trimble looked as though his capacity to handle them was somehow in doubt.
'Meanin' what?'
'The police told them that none had to leave here without their consent.'
'Don't I know it! When are we goin' to be able to call the place our own again?'
'None of them has tried to leave or got restive?'
'No. That is, except Finnegan. You know that, and why 'e's in such a 'ell of an 'urry to get away. Missis Finnegan's not 'is wife. She's given 'im the bird and is sleepin' out next door. He keeps threatenin' to leave if the police don't give 'im the word soon.'
'He'd better not try.'
All the ports, the daily boats, and 'planes were carefully watched and the police were even on the qui vive about private craft and small harbours, of which there were many. Impossible to check everyone who left from the pier or airport, but any of Trimble's little lot would stand a poor chance.
'Oh, I want a word with you. How much longer am I going to be kept here? I've told you before, my business is going to pot while I'm penned up on this island. When can I go?'
It was Finnegan himself. He'd emerged from his solitary room and descended upon them unheard. He didn't seem interested in high tea.
'We hope to let you all go before long, sir. Meanwhile, please be patient.'
'Patient! You've got a nerve, I must say! Patient. . . . Do you think I killed old Snook? Because, if you do, you've another think coming. Never saw him before in my life. Once I get away, I'll never want to see the Isle of Man again! Unless I get the OK tomorrow, I'm going to see a lawyer. Habeas corpus runs here, I believe, as well as on the mainland.'
Trimble, since Mr Finnegan's act of treachery, wasn't prepared to have much truck with him.
'Go and get yer tea. It's goin' cold. And as for patience, wot about me? Me, as has to put up with the likes of you. Why, if I'd me own way, I'd chuck you and your luggage in the middle of the road. . . . Patience!'
Mr Finnegan didn't seem disposed to argue with Trimble. He looked all in. His flashy grey suit was creased and soiled and his linen was seedy and over-worn. There were large bags under his eyes as though he'd been drunk and sleepless since his girl had denounced and walked out on him. He strolled in the dining-room for his share in the cold meat and pickles, and flung a last taunt over his shoulder as he vanished.
'You . . . you bloomin' rabbit! You couldn't throw a rice pudding in the street.'
'That's wot I've to put, up with. I wish you'd hurry up, gents, and get this job finished.'
They left him still lamenting and returned to the police-station. Knell made a routine report after examining the rapidly growing file on Uncle Fred.
Alibis of all the lodgers had been checked. Nothing suspicious. He handed over a list of all of them with notes added.
Room
1.
Mrs Nessle. Regular boarder, comes several times a year for a week or two at a time. Knew Snook well. Lives Manchester.
2.
Mr and Mrs Finnegan. Not married. Mrs F. has now left room and is lodging next door. Finnegan a business consultant. Finnegan lives Seymour Mews, London sw1.
3.
Mr and Mrs Mullineaux. Honeymooners. Middle-aged. Keep to themselves. Address: Chez-nous, 12 Cypress Grove, Birmingham, 12.
4.
Greenhalgh family. Three children. 'Pontypool', Wisden Road, Hyde, Cheshire.
5.
Fred Snook.
6.
The Trimbles.
7.
Miss Arrowbrook. School teacher recovering from operation. Home address: c/o Mrs Benfield, 11 Deanery Lane, Birkenhead.
8.
Four young men.
Vincent Farrer (21).
Sid. Horseley (20).
Jack Fletcher (21).
Sam Hollinrake (22).
all of Atherton, Lancs. Party on holiday.
All boarders and Mrs Trimble out at the carnival at time of murder. Checked.
Littlejohn looked lazily over the list. He wasn't at all interested. Under Knell's eager scrutiny, which suggested that some oracle was being consulted, he felt conscience-stricken, but he just couldn't bring his mind back to dreary routine.
Outside, the holiday crowds were milling about. A little red sports car passed brimming over with girls in beach pyjamas and young men – one with a handlebar moustache – clad
in thin open shirts and flannels. An elderly man, dressed up like a young blood, strolling past with a girl on either arm. He was obviously intoxicated by the proximity of their supple, half-clad bodies and was swanking and showing off as they laughed at each other behind his back.
'Have you checked up the list with the mainland police, Knell? I mean, have you telephoned to see that the addresses are all as stated?'
'Not yet, sir. I didn't think there'd be any suspects among that lot. None of them would follow and kill Uncle Fred in cold blood, would they?'
Littlejohn thought again. His mind just wouldn't stay put on routine. The atmosphere of jolly crowds and holidaymakers enjoying themselves seemed almost solid and tangible and seeped even inside the police-station, giving everything an unreal, dreamlike touch.
'Who's the police surgeon? Who did the autopsy?'
Knell shuffled the file and produced the report.
The usual routine stuff. Nature of wound. Cause of death. General condition of the body and description of the victim. . . . Certified by J. Rees Whatmore, M.B. M. R.C.S.
'Can you get Whatmore on the phone?'
No sooner said than done. The doctor was on the other end of the line. He sounded to have the holiday feeling, too.
'Superintendent Littlejohn here, sir. I'm just helping my friend Inspector Knell on the Snook case. You did the post-mortem.'
'Yes. Anything wrong?'
'No, doctor. But I just need your opinion. Snook died on the promenade. He might have been stabbed in the crowd.'
'That's right. No doubt about it, is there?'
'That's what I wanted to ask you. Could Snook have been stabbed at his home – the boarding-house, I mean, and have walked to the promenade and died there?'
An eloquent pause. Whatmore hadn't thought of that!
'Look here, Superintendent. . . . That's a very serious technical question. I assumed from the start that he'd been stabbed by someone in the crowd.'
'But you examined the damaged heart, doctor, didn't you? Would you care to think it over?'
'That wouldn't do much good. My official report wasn't extensive. Just the bald facts. . . . I . . . er . . . yes, I'd say he might not have died right away. The wound hadn't penetrated or damaged the actual machinery of the heart . . . the valves or even the great veins or artery. It entered the muscle. . . the fleshy part, and he wouldn't have died in a flash, so to speak. There had been internal bleeding. A hopeless case, of course. But a powerful and determined man might have dragged himself along for some distance, bleeding to death, you understand.'
'Dragged himself from Whaley Road to the promenade, held himself up for a little while against the railings, and then dropped dead?'
'Perhaps a man full of vitality and determination . . . yes. . . . But I'd like to think about it and telephone my old professor of pathology at London. . . . I can let you have a considered opinion then.'
'Very good, doctor. Sorry to trouble you. But it would be a great help.'
The oracle was working now, and Knell's eyes almost shot out of his head.
'You don't mean, sir, Uncle Fred was killed at Sea Vista. . . . ? There was nobody there, except Trimble and Susie.'
'Are you sure? Easy to say you were out, but be skulking in your room. With all that crowd, nobody could give a real alibi unless they were shoulder to shoulder all the time.'
'Had we better go over the alibis again?'
'The alibis? Oh, yes. I'd check them again, if I were you.'
Alibis. . . . And there, right opposite was a poster baking in the sun.
VILLA MARINA
SID MARTINI AND HIS BAND
EVERY NIGHT AT 8.0
GRAND GALA EVERY FRIDAY
Everybody strolling about half-clad and Littlejohn in the heavy tweed suit he'd worn in Dublin. He could just manage a long cool iced beer or another Pernod with little blocks of ice floating on the top.
'By the way, Knell. . . Mrs. Boycott mentioned having her husband followed by a private detective. You remember? Everybody was talking at once and it quite slipped past us. You ought to get the name of the agency. Uncle Fred's light of love, the girl he went away with when he left Mrs Boycott and his extensive estate and his yacht. . . . The girl hasn't shown up, you know. She hasn't seen Uncle Fred's picture in the paper, or if she has, she hasn't recognized him or is lying low. The private detective might give us some line on her.'
Knell was already asking for Mrs Boycott's hotel. Rudd was soon on the other end. No doubt about it. You could hear his self-opinionated voice all over the room.
A pause whilst Rudd made inquiries.
'Warren & Hanby. . . .'
It sounded like a firm of patent-medicine manufacturers or a couple of knockabout comedians, but Littlejohn knew them. Run by a man called Gravell . . . Wilfred Gravell, ex-policeman, supplementing his pension.
'12b Bedford Street, Strand, WC2?'
Knell recited it all again.
'You might get Scotland Yard. Ask for Sergeant Cromwell, if he's in. . . .'
Yes. Cromwell was in. Waiting to be called to the Law Courts to swear away a pair of forgers for two or three years. At the sound of his voice, Littlejohn felt a bit homesick.
'Having a good holiday, sir?'
Holiday! Sid Martini . . . Gala Night Every Friday . . . Unofficial assistant to dear old Knell, finding out who killed Uncle Fred, and clad in a heavy tweed suit with the sun absolutely frying everything to a cinder!
'Fine, old chap. Wish you were here.'
Littlejohn told Cromwell what he wanted.
'Are you on a case, sir ? I thought. . .'
'Nothing much. The local police are quite capable of handling it. . . . An old man stabbed on the promenade. The Inspector in charge is an old friend and we're trying to clear it up in double quick time and then he can take a bit of a holiday and show me the sights.'
Knell was coughing with mirth, trying to stifle his cries in his handkerchief. He envied the man at the other end of the line, the object of such affectionate banter.
'I really must go now. . . . I don't know what the Archdeacon will be thinking.'
Littlejohn felt like getting up and running out like mad before yet another telephone call sent them back to Mrs Boycott or Sea Vista again. This sort of thing had just got to stop! It wasn't the way to conduct a case at all. Disjointed, running here and there, and gathering facts without any coherence. The smart young detectives in Dublin had been right. Littlejohn was growing into an old buffer, a period piece, respected, but carrying on like a horse-tram in these days of planes and quick little diesels.
'I'll run you out to Grenaby.'
Over the old road and back down the little lane to dear Grenaby again. Littlejohn's spirits rose as they got nearer, and then, there they were. He might never have left it. It took hold of him and he felt himself again.
Knell left him at the gate. No use going in the vicarage and getting another slaughtering from Maggie Keggin.
The parson had written his sermons for Sunday and now the rest of the week was his own.
They ate a late tea and Littlejohn tried to sort out his thoughts and give the Archdeacon a clear account of how the case was progressing. He could sift out the useless from the useful, but there wasn't a trace of a scent which might lead to a suspect, someone who had, in his heart, such a shocking and powerful motive, that he would risk killing Uncle Fred in front of a crowd, or, if he'd stabbed his victim and left him to bleed to death, was so demented as to risk Uncle Fred's gasping out his name before death took hold of him.
'If Snook wasn't killed outright, Littlejohn, he must have been shielding someone. On his last dying walk to the sea, he could have stopped a hundred people and told them who had stabbed him. Instead, he died without a word.'
'I'd thought of that, parson. But it's either the hot sun or the holiday feeling. . . . The picture won't take shape.'
'You need a change. Come, and I'll take you out to dinner with friends who are dying to meet you
. The Creers, of Claghyn Baney . . . the White Stones. It's a farm . . . .'
It was a farm, a fine one, between Glen Maye and Peel, with great fertile fields rolling down to the sea and, in the middle of them, a large white farmhouse, a small mansion, in fact, surrounded by a ring of tall trees. There was a beggars' house, Yn Shemmyr, the chamber, where, in old times, wayfarers and vagrants found food and shelter for the night. The homestead was, according to those who knew, infested by fairies, Themselves, as they were anonymously called. 'Little fellahs, singing with happiness . . . .' Now and then, the Water Bull, the Tarroo Ushtey, stamped and roared around the fields in the dead of night, when all the doors were locked, and sported with the civilized cows, which, in due course, bore his monstrous calves.
All this the Archdeacon told Littlejohn as they drove across the hills towards the red sunset over Peel. They passed on their way, old places, crofters' cottages, the tholtans, decaying as they stood, but never pulled down, because they are the homes of spirits who once were happy there. . . . Fuchsias of forsaken gardens. . . . Old roads, green and overgrown, but still plain to be seen and hard from the footsteps of travellers long gone, trailed away into the wilderness which once was fertile, and lost themselves in dead ends.
The Creers were typical Manx patricians, courteous, kindly, reserved, slow-moving, loyal. Because of the Archdeacon, Littlejohn was received among them as a friend right away. An elderly man and his wife, and two young men and a girl of the next generation. A graceful house, full of fine Regency furniture, handed down from generation to generation and polished to the consistency of bright glass by a long succession of housewives. Genuine and gracious hospitality and good manners survived there; very different from the modern back-slapping alcoholic bonhomie of the busier world in Douglas and over the water.
Littlejohn ate a great meal and, round the fire, as the chill of the dead day blew from over the sea, they entertained him with tales of ghosts and fairies and monsters of all kinds; the sort of stories men told round winter fires when they had to provide their own diversions and their neighbours were far distant. As he smoked his pipe, his mind wandered away from Claghyn Baney and back to Sea Vista. Ridiculous! But there it was. . . .
Corpse At The Carnival (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 11