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

by George Bellairs

  'What made you come all this way?'

  'I was very distressed about the commotion at Sea Vista. I wanted to get away to somewhere quiet. Mrs Nessle was the only one I ever spoke more than a couple of words to. She gave me this address.'

  'After the police had told you to remain where you were?'

  'I thought it didn't concern me. I was almost off my head with shame and fear. I just had to run away and hide. I'm sorry.'

  She took out a small handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. She looked between thirty and forty, and without her make-up and peroxide she'd probably show her age. All the same, she improved a little for knowing. She spoke well, lacked the vulgarity one assumed on first seeing her, and seemed genuinely put out by the situation in which she'd been thrust.

  'Your name is . . . ?'

  'Elsie Crawley.'

  'You and Mr Finnegan have been posing as man and wife in Douglas.'

  'I . . . I . . .'

  'Please tell me the truth, Miss Crawley. We've had enough trouble with the pair of you. Now . . .'

  'Yes. I . . . I . . .'

  And she started to weep, great sobs of frustration or annoyance at being unable to excuse herself or find a proper tale to justify her behaviour. Littlejohn let her calm down and, as she couldn't make do with her postage-stamp of a handkerchief, he passed her his own. She covered it with tears, mascara and lipstick and handed it back without a word. The 'skeets' rolled their eyes and hugged themselves at this heavy touch of melodrama.

  'Mr Finnegan is married?'

  'Yes. He doesn't get on with his wife. She doesn't understand him.'

  The old, old story. Littlejohn simply couldn't take it seriously. Murder and sordid intrigues seemed to belong to another world. The road winding down between its flowery hedges; the rolling fields and hills. In the distance, the sea, incredibly blue, with ships passing on the skyline and the coaster still unloading at the pier. Sheep watching them as they munched the grass and two smiling pigs rooting and grunting nearby. And now, the antics of Finnegan and his woman spoiling it all. His eyes wandered down the little street to where the knots of inquisitive women were standing, and they pretended to be talking together and not heeding him at all. He and his companion strolled back to the chapel and then round again.

  'He has some children ?'

  'Two. . . . Both working. . . . When his wife divorces him, we're going to be married.'

  'When did he promise that?'

  'When he asked me to come away with him. He says he won't go back to his wife. They're unhappy together.'

  'I thought you broke apart after the death of Mr Snook.'

  'Not exactly. We separated. It didn't seem decent in the circumstances.'

  Well, well. She seemed to have a hit-or-miss kind of morality. Uncle Fred mattered; Mrs Finnegan didn't.

  'How long have you known him?'

  'Quite a time. He was my music teacher.'

  Littlejohn felt the need of something to support him. The sun must be getting at him. Or he was just dreaming and would soon wake up. Music teacher! Finnegan! What next?

  'Are you a singer, then?'

  'Yes. Only in my spare time. My real job's a receptionist to an osteopath.'

  'Where?'

  'In Leicester.'

  'You live in Leicester?'

  'Yes.'

  'Does Finnegan?'

  'Yes.'

  Leicester! The place where Uncle Fred, Fred Snowball, had lived with his second woman! Littlejohn felt the first faint stirrings of the old feeling which always came when a vital point had been reached in a case.

  'Let's go inside, Miss Crawley.'

  Finnegan was sitting where they'd left him, talking to the parson, looking more at home and reconciled to his fate. Mrs Quilliam was just entering with a large tray covered in cups and saucers and plates of soda cake.

  'We'd better eat as we talk, Mr Finnegan. We must hurry back.'

  Fear crept in the little flabby man's pop-eyes.

  'Are you taking us with you . . . to . . . to . . . ? Does it mean jail?'

  'No. You're going back to Sea Vista and Miss Crawley to Rossendale. It's going to be all decent and correct, but no more running away. You understand? No more bolting.'

  'I promise.'

  'Your name is . . . ?'

  'Oswald Finnegan.'

  'Your address? And it's not in London. I want the real one now.'

  'Bosworth, Abbey Vale, Leicester.'

  'That's better. Occupation? Not business-consultant, please.'

  'Traveller for a hosiery works.'

  'A musician?'

  Finnegan glanced hastily across at Miss Crawley, who gave him a look of apology.

  'Yes. I play the organ and teach music in my spare time. It's to supplement my income.'

  'You knew the late Fred Snook ? The man recently murdered at Sea Vista?'

  'I met him at the diggings, that's all.'

  'Are you sure? Did you ever know Fred Snowball?'

  Finnegan was just drinking. His face flushed scarlet and he coughed and spewed a mouthful of tea down his light grey suit.

  'You obviously did. He once lived in Leicester. You met him there?'

  Finnegan behaved like a trapped animal. He looked at the door as though about to bolt, and then at the window as though contemplating taking a dive through it.

  'Come on, Mr Finnegan. The truth, this time.'

  'I met him there once or twice, casually. I was quite surprised when I found him at Sea Vista. It was a big shock.'

  'Why a shock?'

  'He'd changed so much. He used to be such a dandy . . . splashing his money about. The best only good enough. . . . He'd got tumbledown as though he'd hit hard times.'

  'You seem to know a lot about him.'

  'Only the difference between him in Leicester and when I met him in Douglas.'

  'Did he recognize you?'

  'He may have done. He didn't let on if he did.'

  Finnegan licked his dry lips and took a deep swig of his tea. He wasn't eating anything. He just couldn't face it.

  'How did you meet him in Leicester?'

  'I don't quite recollect. I must have seen him about the place.'

  'And remembered him all that time afterwards and he so changed. Come, come, Mr Finnegan. That won't do.'

  Finnegan showed a bit of spirit for the first time.

  'Why keep on needling me? I'm trying to do my best. I'm telling the truth. Why don't you believe me?'

  'I want the whole truth, that's all.'

  'He was quite a prominent man in Leicester. The sort you don't easily forget.'

  And Uncle Fred had changed his name when he ran away from his wife, just because he didn't want to attract attention!

  'But I know, Mr Finnegan, that he tried to keep out of the limelight during his Leicester days. How do you reconcile that with your story?'

  'Don't ask me. I knew him when I saw him. I can't say more however much you question me.'

  'Think it over. Then let me know. Because I'm sure you've either forgotten something, or else you're hiding information. Well. . . let's get along to Douglas. We'll take you with us in the car. By the way, why did you run away from Sea Vista and follow Miss Crawley here?'

  'We were both embarrassed by the fuss. We had to give our names to the police and then Trimble started to be offensive. . . . I mean . . .'

  Finnegan swallowed awkwardly.

  'I quite understand. It was awkward in view of your having passed off the lady as your wife. I know all the details. You've caused us a lot of trouble.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  He drew Littlejohn still farther aside.

  'I hope you won't make too much fuss about it. I don't want a lot of publicity.'

  'You don't intend to get a divorce and marry Miss Crawley?'

  Finnegan looked annoyed. He flushed and his eyes protruded.

  'Why, no. Who's told you that? I've some children I'm fond of . . .'

  'You ought to have thought ab
out that before. . . . Was it you who tried to book a passage on the little steamer tied up at the jetty in Laxey ?'

  'I was desperate. I should have been home long since.'

  If the trip to Agneash hadn't been so pleasant, Littlejohn might have said a lot more.

  Miss Crawley returned from the kitchen where she had been settling accounts with Mrs Quilliam, whom they now thanked and bade good-bye.

  'If it hadn't been for you, Archdeacon, none of the others would have crossed my doorstep.'

  'Not even Superintendent Littlejohn?'

  'Aw . . . he's a nice enough fellah, if only he hadn't been from the police. . . .'

  They got in the car again, with Finnegan and his woman, now silent in each other's presence, in the rear. Back down the twisting, flowery road to the valley, and the spectators on the hill-side silently watched them vanish out of sight.

  11

  THE CALF OF MAN

  THEY dropped Finnegan and Miss Crawley at the door of Sea Vista. Then, there was more bother. Mrs Trimble wouldn't let him have the double room on his own. He and his woman were at last found an attic apiece, one in Sea Vista and the other in Rossendale, next door. Their dormer windows were side by side and, had he wished, Finnegan might have taken a bit of romantic risk and clambered from one to the other. But he didn't feel like frivolities. He'd had enough.

  At the police-station, Knell was still waiting for news from Cromwell. Littlejohn added another burden to poor Knell's back. The Leicester police must now be contacted and Finnegan and Miss Crawley checked. Had they, to the knowledge of the police there, ever been connected with Fred Snook, Snowball, or Boycott, and had Uncle Fred ever crossed the path of the Leicester constabulary? Also, Mrs Finnegan might be discreetly . . . very discreetly . . . questioned about her husband's movements and where he was supposed to be at present.

  'And now, Knell, have you time to come with us to the Calf of Man?'

  Knell looked at Littlejohn as though he'd gone mad. He must have regarded the suggestion as a temptation to shirk his work and go on a little binge by way of a change.

  'You needn't look so surprised, old man. We had the idea that as he'd been there fishing with Uncle Fred and there isn't a bobby on patrol within miles, Trimble might have hidden himself on the Calf.'

  Knell looked relieved.

  'Yes, of course, sir. The very spot. Just let me give some instructions and then we'll be off right away.'

  The same old pleasant road to Port St Mary, Littlejohn was beginning to know like the palm of his hand. In fact, just as well as he knew the way to and from Uncle Fred's room at Sea Vista!

  Knell led them down to the harbour at Port St Mary to find a boat. A spot with some character about it. Old whitewashed fishermen's cottages, a little harbour with a stone jetty, with fishing and pleasure craft with coloured sails tied up to it. A few herring boats. . . . An extensive view of Carrick Bay and the sea beyond, with the towers of Castletown shining in the sun on the skyline.

  'Comin' to look into the stealin' of Charlie Bridson's boat, Mr Knell? I wouldn't have thought they'd send down an Inspecthor for that.'

  The owner of a trim little motor-launch, and burned by the sun, salted by the sea. A thatch of stiff hair under a peaked cap and a large moustache hiding almost all the bottom part of his face. Clear blue eyes and a smiling care free look.

  The Archdeacon, who had been standing apart while the bargain was struck, came forward to listen.

  William Kinley was a fisherman, joiner and lifeboatman all in one. He did a roaring trade with his boat in the summertime. Now, all his customers were having tea and he was disposed for a yarn. He liked Archdeacon Kinrade, who'd rowed side by side with him in the Port St Mary lifeboat through more than one storm in the past. The boys were never very keen on taking a dog-collar with them in the boat, but Parson Kinrade . . . he was different. Kinley began to gossip about the past.

  'Not now, William, please. Later. What's this about Bridson's boat?'

  'Aw . . . he keeps it down at the Sound, ye know, tied up there for the fishin' an' crabbin', leck. This mornin', he went down for it, but it wasn't there . . . .'

  'You've been over to the Calf with a party today?'

  'Aw, aye. . . . I took two lots across.'

  'You didn't see Bridson's boat while you were there?'

  'Naw. Never put a sight on her at all. Why would I? Even if someborry had rowed over in it, I wouldn't have seen it. We landed our party at the Burrow, Master Kinrade.'

  'I ought to have known.'

  The Archdeacon introduced Littlejohn to William Kinley and then explained that the Calf had two little ports; Cow Harbour on the Sound facing Cregneish, and South Harbour, or the Burrow, on the east side. Port St Mary boats used the Burrow; those from Port Erin, the other, when currents permitted.

  'You've not heard from Port Erin that they've seen the boat at the Sound?'

  'Naw. . . . They haven't been on the Calf today. All booked for fishin' trips.'

  'You'd better take us over, right away then, William.'

  William was disposed to continue the little cooish a bit longer, but they bore him off by sheer weight of numbers.

  Far out to sea from Port St Mary, with a full view of the rocky splendour of the Mull coast, and then a right turn round Spanish Head. A scene which silenced them all and almost made them sit open-mouthed. . . . A magnificent expanse of blue-green water, like a picture on a postcard and, straight ahead, the Calf of Man, lazily stretched, like a great sea monster sunning itself, between them and the horizon. The little island of Kitterland and the toothed rock of Thousla rising between it and the mainland of Man, with its tall cliffs, caves, headlands, and then the gently sloping hinterland, green and fresh, rising to the Mull Hills.

  The criss-cross of tides and currents of the half-mile Sound between the Calf and the mainland rocked the boat even on the calmest sea. Kinley took a pair of binoculars from under his seat and scanned the coast around Cow Harbour.

  'There she is. . . .'

  They passed round the glasses to confirm it.

  Bridson's little boat, barely large enough for two big men, was tied up under the rocks near the jetty there.

  'Someborry's tried to hide 'er where she can't be seen. There'll be terrible throuble when Bridson hears of this.'

  Kinley's rugged face and calm eyes lit up at the thought of the coming row. Whoever had taken the boat had better look out. Bridson loved her more than wife and children. She was his little darling.

  The Burrow itself was a huge grotesque rock, which, from certain aspects, looked like a fabulous horse rising from the sea. It was pierced by a fissure known as The Eye, and Kinley skirted it, gently drawing up his boat at a small jetty with a stony cove behind it. They climbed out . . . .

  Due south-east, the Chicken Rock topped by its lighthouse, all serene and still like a backcloth for a nautical musical comedy. Beyond, a large liner steaming west. The path from the coast hugged the beach for a short way and then turned inland, where first signs of life began to appear.

  'About five miles in circumference with about a thousand acres, sir,' said Knell, taking Littlejohn in hand like a professional guide. A stream appeared and then a ruined mill. Then, a deep sheltered valley with cultivated fields rising to the warden's house. Encircling the valley, rough ground rising to just over 400 feet.

  'We'd better see the warden first. He might have seen someone prowling about.'

  Knell led the way and they climbed the slope to the farmhouse. Littlejohn and the Archdeacon made up the rear.

  'A courtier named Bushell lived here around 1630, seeking peace and solitude. About a century ago, a man named Carey, a lawyer from London, arrived and founded a colony even large enough to run a tavern. One and another has owned it since. Now it's National Trust property and there's just a warden and his family. . . . I've heard old men on the mainland talk of the good times they had here in the old days. Carey built the present house and they farm between a hundred and
a hundred and fifty acres. Rather awkward . . . have to swim the cattle over. . . . No telephone. . . . They flash an emergency message to the lighthouse, which passes it on over the short-wave radio. . . . What is the matter, Littlejohn?'

  The sun was still shining and hot and everything was pleasant. No wonder one of the owners of the Calf had said he'd rather live there than in heaven! But, somehow, Littlejohn felt uneasy. As though a dark cloud had passed across his spirit. The parson's talk seemed to fade in and out of his consciousness.

  'Do you feel the same as I do, Littlejohn? As though something unholy had been going on here?'

  The penetrating blue eyes searched his own and Littlejohn didn't need to say a word.

  The warden received them courteously. He occupied the strong, squat house at the head of the valley which ran through the centre of the island. A small garden, a neat forecourt, all sheltered from the elements by the rising ground. Parva Domus Magna Quies, 1878, on the stone over the door. Small house, great peace. . . . It was here that Uncle Fred had often found refuge.

  'You remember Fred Snook, Warden?'

  'The one who was murdered? Yes. He came often with Costain from across at Cregneish.'

  'Anyone else ever come with him?'

  'Yes. A little stoutish man who used to limp and puff as he climbed the slope from the harbour. Trimble. . . .'

  'Have you seen him lately?'

  'Yes. He was here, officially, with Snook, about a fortnight ago. I mean, it's usual to call at the house and get a ticket permitting one to land. He may have put in since without paying.'

  'Is that easy?'

  'Quite. If I didn't happen to see him rowing across he might easily help himself to the freedom of the island for quite a time.'

  'Perhaps we'd better take a look round.'

  The ground rose to the west behind the house, and after climbing for five minutes, they came in view of the two deserted lighthouses overlooking the Stack rock with an uninterrupted view of the sea across to Ireland. Strongly constructed, the old buildings were now rapidly falling in, as though vandals had been loose among them. Lead stripped from the gutters, timbers smashed, roofs leaking, copings caving in. The first lighthouse had a fairly watertight room or two in its living quarters. It was there they found signs of recent habitation. Old food papers, a half-consumed packet of sandwiches, fag-ends and spent matches, and, more surprising, a half-empty bottle of whisky. As though an intruder had been suddenly alarmed and hurriedly left.