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

by George Bellairs

  A busy little tout standing by his charabanc accosted them.

  'Afternoon tour of the Island, gents?'

  Littlejohn smiled blandly at him.

  'We've booked already, thank you. With Uncle Fred . . . .'

  'Oo the 'ell's Uncle Fred? Never 'eard of 'im.'

  'I wish I hadn't.'

  The tout's mouth fell open and his beery eyes followed the strange pair out of sight. A bishop. . . . And another chap blethering about his Uncle Fred. He finally shrugged his shoulders and decided they'd escaped from somewhere. . . .

  It takes all sorts of people to make the strange colourful world of the Isle of Man in the golden summer-time.

  10

  AGNEASH

  'THIS is absolutely breathtaking. . . .'

  Once or twice, Littlejohn, captivated by the beauty of the scenery, almost drove the police car in the ditch.

  The main road from Douglas to Laxey runs a magnificent course all the way. It hardly ever leaves the sight of the sea. It may take a brief twist inland for a spell, but never for long. To the left, little fields, a patchwork of many colours from dead earth to flaming gorse, climb gradually upwards to meet the gentle Manx hills; to the right, the rocky coast and blue ocean. . . .

  Now and then, a car-load of trippers, passing on the electric railway, shouted encouragement, stimulated by the sign POLICE and feeling immune from traffic laws and regulations.

  'They actually had the temerity to talk of pulling up that nice little electric railway and selling it for scrap, because it didn't pay dividends. Dividends, indeed! Look at those happy faces, which will be happier when they've seen all the beauty of the journey. They've only just started to enjoy themselves and will be drawing dividends for life when they remember it in the future. Monstrous! Luckily, wisdom has prevailed. It's been saved and nationalized!'

  Littlejohn had never seen the Archdeacon looking so annoyed before. . . .

  They turned the corner from Garwick and climbed to find the whole stretch of Laxey Bay spread before them. From the hill top, the sea, calm and blue; Lonan new church on its hill; Old Laxey village below, hugging the shore. A tiny port, with a small steamer tied up, a thin wisp of smoke rising from its funnel, discharging wheat for the flour mills.

  The main village lay at the end of a wide luxurious glen, the river running through, and modern villas on the hillsides. A little shopping centre, the terminus of the Snaefell mountain railway, a pub or two. . . .

  An old mining village, with rich underground lodes of lead and silver, now much improved by the clearing away of old Laxey 'deads', the heaps of slag once piled along the river banks from the workings. In the background, the famous Laxey Wheel, the Lady Isabella, once the pump to clear the underground waters, now painted up and spruce for the pleasure of visitors and slowly turning for the sheer fun of it.

  Directed by parson, Littlejohn turned left at the mountain railway station and after skirting the river for a spell, they began to climb and entered Agneash Glen, a tributary of the main Laxey stream. A fine rising run, with everywhere signs of past mining enterprises; old mills, forlorn shafts, neglected mansions and cottages which had housed masters and men. Trees and bushes running riot and overgrowing the abandoned remnants of dead endeavours.

  An old man was descending the road and the Archdeacon suggested they'd better stop and question him. Littlejohn was puzzled at first.

  'The grapevine. . . . I think that is the term professionally used,' said the parson. Littlejohn put on the brakes.

  The wayfarer was a small, aged, thick-set man, with pale blue eyes, a craggy lined face burned by the sun, and a large sprawling moustache across his upper lip. He wore old clothes and a cloth cap. When he saw the parson his eyes lit up.

  'Good morning, Jacky Dan Kennish.'

  'Good day to ye, Master Kinrade, and how are ye at all?'

  Jacky Dan Kennish had a Traa dy Liooar look in his eyes. Time enough! Littlejohn knew they were in for a session. Gossip . . . hours and hours of it! A real Manx cooish. . . .

  The Archdeacon introduced Littlejohn.

  'How are you, Mr Kennish?'

  'Aw . . . middlin', middlin'. . . . It's a grand day.'

  They talked and talked, first through the open windows of the car, and then all three of them sitting on the bank of the sod-hedge. Littlejohn smoked his pipe. He didn't care. The sun was hot; he removed his jacket. The holiday feeling. . . . The winding road with its fringes decked in wild flowers, climbing up to the little village of Agneash. Beyond, Snaefell, with the crowded trains of the mountain railway crawling to the summit. Cars tearing along the mountain road at the top of the valley, with another deserted mine and the headwaters of the Laxey and Agneash streams flowing down to the sea. Below them, the main Douglas–Ramsey coast road, with people looking like little insects, and red buses passing to and fro . . . . Traa dy Liooar. . . . All the time in the world. Littlejohn thoroughly understood Uncle Fred. Let the rest of the world go by. . . .

  The Archdeacon and Jacky Dan Kennish had dismissed the crops and fishing, and the holiday traffic as well. They were all middlin'. . . . Now they were talking about happenings of fifty years ago. Littlejohn lit another pipe. A great languor took hold of him, encouraged by the gentle drone of the lilting Manx voices, halting with regular courtesy, so that both participants should have a fair share of the cooish.

  Fred Snook had been murdered. . . . It was no ordinary murder. As likely as not, some woman was involved. It couldn't have been for his money. A crime of that kind would have been carefully planned. Certainly not a matter of inexpert stabbing and leaving the victim to stagger to where the crowds were gathering and where he could tell the first person he met who'd done it.

  The parson and his ancient friend were now discussing the mines with the confidence of experts. The prices of lead and silver had made the local industry tempting again and a company from 'over' had been busy prospecting.

  'Aw, till the mines closed in 1921, millions and millions of pounds of ore was taken from the Laxey mines for the benefit of folks across the wather, master.'

  'But they brought work and wages.'

  'Aw, a good job when the Manx goviment bought out the rights in '49. . . . Betther for us all . . . .'

  An argument was boiling up. Down below the red bus which Mr Kennish intended to catch to see his daughter at the Dhoon, came and went, and two more, as well.

  Fred Snook and his women. . . . Mrs Trimble, Susie, perhaps Maria and . . . who was the other woman; the one he'd gone to when he left his wife. . .? Leicester. . . that was it. Why hadn't the Leicester woman put in an appearance? Wilfred Gravell, Mrs Boycott's 'private-eye' might be able to tell them something. . . . Littlejohn wished that Cromwell would hurry and send more news from gaol.

  The two Manxmen had now got round to the general state of business and prosperity of the Laxey neighbourhood.

  'I see there's a boat tied up at the quay, Jacky Dan.'

  'Aw. . . .'

  Talk of fishing and seafaring in general. Littlejohn lit another pipe.

  'My son-in-law, Caesar, was halpin' with the unloadin'. . . . Said a fellah from across was enquirin' about crossin' back to Liverpool on the Camlork. It seems, accordin' to him, that he's fond 0' taking' passages on coasters. Hasn't no time for the big luxury boats and liners, leck. Caesar said he didn' look leck a seafarin' man. . . . However, you never know.'

  Littlejohn looked up.

  'What happened, Mr Kennish?'

  'The skipper wouldn' teck him, of course. The Camlork hasn' any accommodation for passengers, for one thing. . . . Another is that, accordin' to Quine, the police constable, they're powerful again' anybody leavin' the Islan' by any other way than the proper boat from Douglas or the airy-planes.'

  'Where is the man, now?'

  'I couldn' tell ye . . . I wasn' there when all that was goin' on.'

  'Any holidaymakers staying at Agneash, Mr Kennish?'

  'Aw . . . it's not favoured much by the likes.
. . . Too far from the rest o' the world, an' no buses or sech.'

  'So they don't take in boarders?'

  'Naw . . . Mrs Quilliam, Claram Cottage, has a young woman stayin' there. Not the usual sort for the lecks o' Agneash. . . . Fancy piece, I'd call her. Come up by taxi yesterday, passed me on my road down. Not seen her about since. . . . Seems to be stoppin' indoors, leck. Perhaps she made a mistake an' not bein' the counthry sort, prefers to stop inside. . . . She'll soon be on her way, in that case.'

  Jacky Dan suddenly became aware of the flight of time, drew a large silver watch from his trousers pocket, and consulted it solemnly.

  'Aw, man! Hal' pass twelve and me here still newsin'. Ye put the jerrude on me, parson. . . . Ye make me ferget. An' me daughter Jinny's expectin' me at noon. . . . Good day to the both of ye. Good to be puttin' a sight on ye, Archdeac'n.'

  He stumped off down hill at a steady pace as though he'd still time enough!

  Claram Cottage stood at the top of the uphill road, a little beyond the centre of the hamlet which was marked by a chapel and a slight thickening in the houses. The highway ceased nearby and a cart-track made its way over rough ground to the old Snaefell mine. A white house, once thatched, but now slated and looking self-conscious in its new head-gear. A small garden with a fuchsia bush or two in full bloom. Faces appeared at windows and over garden hedges. Very unusual for the Archdeacon of Man to appear in Agneash. There must be something unusual afoot! The news flew from back-door to back-door and soon an unseen audience was watching the drama going on at Mrs Quilliam's. The excitement even seemed to rise like a vapour to Creggyn Agneash, the rocks which overhang the village, for two faces appeared, peeping round, like spectators in a theatre balcony.

  Littlejohn himself felt the tension of the local atmosphere. Agneash, known for some unearthly reason as 'the City' by some of its aged inhabitants, is infested by ghosts and fairies, and there is even talk of people being 'sperrited away'.

  The odd things a man finds there,

  The hid things, the lost things,

  They tease him, they tempt him to ponder,

  They set his thoughts straying. . . .

  Walter Gill's lines might have applied to Littlejohn, for the 'hid things' suddenly materialized and, as the car drew up, Mr Finnegan and his woman emerged from the back door of the cottage and started running in the direction of the cart-track to the mine. They were carrying three suitcases between them.

  It was just incredible! A charming little village, neat houses, peace and quiet. . . . Bees buzzing round and sheep munching on the hillsides. A strange delicious scent on the air, perhaps honeysuckle or fuchsia. Littlejohn could have settled down on the soft grass of the hillside and taken a nap. . . . And suddenly, this grotesque pantomime had started.

  Finnegan and his companion were like two rabbits suddenly scared from a burrow by a ferret. They didn't know where to run. The main road was blocked by the car, so they took to the open. What they hoped to do that way, heaven alone knew. All they wanted to do was to bolt! Finnegan was wearing his natty grey suit and the hat to match. He was panting already and his eyes were popping with fear. His woman was in an even worse plight. She wore a light-grey costume and the peroxide blonde of her hair shone in the sunlight. She was buxom, almost luscious, and between her high heels and her tight skirt was having a poor time. Finnegan was a yard or so ahead and she tottered and staggered after him, trying to say something and too short of breath to get it out.

  Littlejohn fished in his hip pocket and took out his police-whistle. He carried it as a kind of talisman and rarely used it. He looked distastefully at it and blew it. The fleeting couple stopped dead like a pair of gun dogs.

  'Come back.'

  They paused for a minute and then Finnegan went all to pieces. He seemed to shrink in his flashy suit and slowly turned, almost collapsing under his two suitcases and dragging his feet. He ignored his woman, who followed as well, and slowly came and faced up to the Superintendent.

  The window curtains of the clustered cottages fluttered like little banners and the two spectators on the Creggyn emerged fully and leaned with their backs against the rocks waiting for the next act. In one or two houses the time signal preceding the one o'clock news sounded in vain. Local affairs had grown more important than the antics of the noisy world across the water.

  'What do you think you're doing?'

  Finnegan was too breathless to reply. He merely shrugged his shoulders to indicate he didn't quite know himself.

  'You ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

  'That's what I told him, but he thought if we could manage to get to the mountain road without being seen, we might thumb a lift into Douglas.'

  'And what then?'

  It was too much to watch from behind window curtains and little knots of people were now starting to gather at front garden gates.

  'Can we talk indoors?'

  Finnegan pointed to Claram Cottage and just managed to pant out his request. Mrs Quilliam was standing at the front door and, judging from the look on her face, she was going to be very unpleasant about everything. Then she saw the Archdeacon.

  'Aw, Masther Kinrade, and what are they doin' mixin' you up in these indaycent carryin's-on? It's a shame. . . . Come indoors, an' welcome. . . . But I won't have any of the others. . . . Sech goings-on.'

  The parson introduced Littlejohn. Mrs Quilliam did not smile. She let it be known that only on account of his friendship with the Archdeacon would she tolerate him at all. Scotland Yard and its affairs were quite unknown to her. Its fame and reputation had not yet reached 'the city', where there was never any crime and where the police only appeared perhaps once in a dozen years to help off to the workhouse some poor soul who couldn't manage for herself. As for constabulary efforts to trace odd ones 'sperrited' away by Themselves, the fairies. . . . Well. . . . It seemed that with the flabby, frightened Mr Finnegan and his woman, crime had, for the first time in recorded history, raised its head in Agneash.

  'You'll be doing us a public service, Mrs Quilliam, if you allow us the use of your front room for a little while. We just want to question these two people.'

  Mrs Quilliam gave way at last under the compelling eye of the Archdeacon.

  'But it'll have to be made plain in the papers and in the Deemster's Court that it was done against my wishes.'

  Littlejohn took Mrs Quilliam aside and had a word or two with her.

  'Tell me, please, Mrs Quilliam, how did the lady come to stay with you? Who gave her your address?'

  Mrs Quilliam's lips tightened. She was beginning to like Littlejohn, but the nature of the business in hand precluded any smiles or relaxation. She folded her hands across her ample bosom.

  'Some years since, a woman of the name of Mrs Nessle used to come an' stay here in the summer. A nervous, botherin' sort, who said the rest an' quiet did her a lot of good. It was her who gave the address, and when Miss Crawley came along, sayin' Mrs Nessle had recommended me, leck, I thought no more about it, though with her dyed hair an' scent an' her fancy ways, I didn't teck very much to her. I did it to oblige Mrs Nessle. I was sure Agneash wasn't to Miss Crawley's likin' and expected her makin' off any time.'

  'What about Finnegan, the man . . . ? When did he arrive?'

  'Early this mornin'. Came here an' asked for Miss Crawley. I disliked him right away. He was up to no good. A friend, he called himself. Said he'd a message for Miss Crawley. I kep' him at the door and sent her to him. She came back cryin'. She said he'd brought her newses that would make her have to leave right away and cross by the afternoon boat to Liverpool. Could I give them a cup of tea . . . ? I said yes out of pity for her, so I let him in.'

  'Had he any luggage with him?'

  'Yes. . . two cases. He came by taxi. At first, I thought he'd got it in mind to ask me to put him up. . . . On no account would I have done that. My late husban' and me has alwis been respected in Agneash and nobody's goin' to take my good name away.'

  'What were they d
oing when we arrived?'

  'She was packin' her things. I wasn't havin' him upstairs with her. Sit in the parlour, I told him, and wait. . . . They must have seen your motor-car comin' up the hill. Next thing was, he was up the stairs and in her room. Shameful! That's why I forbid him the house jest now. . . . They was out of the back door an' off before I'd gathered myself together.'

  She led him in the front room where the rest of the party were waiting. A crowded little place with some beautiful bits of furniture in it. . . . A lot of photographs on the walls, including a prominent one of Captain John James Quilliam, master of the barque Purt-ny-Hinshey, who had gone down with it off King William's Bank. . . . Souvenirs and the like under glass shades, stuff which at some time in the past had had its moments of splendour. . . . Hangings, antimacassar, cloths . . . all dust collectors, but the place was spotless.

  'I was just makin' a cup of tea. . . . You'll take some, Archdeacon?'

  'If the rest may join in.'

  'If you say so, pazon, but I must say . . .'

  'Go on with you, Mrs Quilliam. Never let it be said that you weren't Manx in your hospitality.'

  She went to attend to things without more ado. Littlejohn got to work on Finnegan at once.

  'You'll kindly stay here, Mr Finnegan, with the Archdeacon, whilst I have a word with Miss Crawley in private. . . . We'll take a stroll down the road, if you please, Miss Crawley.'

  Finnegan was past protesting; he just acquiesced. Miss Crawley, astonished but obedient, tottered after Littlejohn on her high heels.

  The gossips in the village were surprised to see what went on. Littlejohn and Miss Crawley walking to the chapel, and then back to Claram Cottage. Then back and forth again. Four times, talking all the while. The nosey-parkers, those locally known as 'skeets', suffered much by not being able to overhear it all.