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

by George Bellairs

  'But I thought. . .'

  Knell was baffled. Only last night Littlejohn had said nobody was to cross back to England without his special permission. Now, he was simply opening the cage door and letting all of them scatter like a lot of captive sparrows being freed. And they'd be as easy to catch, too, if they were wanted again.

  'It will be all right, Knell.'

  'You mean to say, sir, you know who did the crimes?'

  'Almost, Knell . . . almost. . . .'

  The great sigh heaved by Knell was partly from relief and partly disgust. When Littlejohn and his companion had arrived, Knell had been reprimanding a very conscientious constable and it had upset him. P.C. Doyle had actually reported a chimney on fire at Sea Vista and wanted to make a case of it! In the very middle of a ticklish investigation of murder on the premises, Doyle had argued about a summons which would result in a fine of ten bob!

  'But it's not right they should be let off, Inspector. The chimney was on fire and throwing out soot and an awful stink. The fire-brigade were there, too, when I arrived.'

  'Don't keep arguing and giving cheek to me, Doyle. We've enough on at that house with two dead men on our hands without botherin' about chimneys on fire.'

  'What's the matter, Knell ? You look put-out.'

  Littlejohn had arrived in the middle of it and Doyle had had the nerve to start airing his grievances in front of the Superintendent! And at a time when Knell was trying to impress him with the fact that the Manx police were just as efficient and on their toes as the mainland force. Littlejohn didn't need any convincing, but it was natural that Knell should put up a good show.

  'There was smoke all along the promenade and people in their white dresses and shorts carryin' on somethin' awful. The fire-brigade was there. . . . Someborry havin' a lark, I guess. . . . They'd broken the glass on the fire-alarm, you see.'

  'That will be enough, Doyle. The Superintendent's got a lot to do.'

  'Let him go on, Knell. One of the chimneys at Sea Vista was on fire, you say? I thought they didn't have open fires at this time of year. . . . I've not seen any burning when we've been there.'

  'This was in one of the bedrooms. . . . One occupied by four young fellahs. . . . It isn't used, but it hasn't been bricked up. Mrs Trimble said it was stuffed up with paper to stop the soot fallin' down, and there was a piece of fancy paper in the grate to keep it neat, like. She said one of the young men must have thrown a fag-end. . . .'

  'Cigarette end!'

  Knell was on tenterhooks.

  'Cigarette end, then. Where was I? One of the young men must have set it alight by throwin' a lighted cigarette end in the paper in the grate. It set the paper up the chimney going and then the soot. The whole neighbourhood was chokin' with it. It smelled like a burnin' body instead of paper and soot.'

  'Now don't be silly, Doyle,' exploded Knell. 'Who'd want to stuff a body up a chimney and try to burn it ? Be your age.'

  'Wait, Doyle. A body? What else might it smell like?'

  Doyle was quite a bright constable. He replied almost right away to Littlejohn's question.

  'Well, if it wasn't a body, it smelled like an old feather bed or a hair mattress bein' burned.'

  'Did you go inside and look the place over?'

  'Yes. There was Mrs Trimble with a brush and dustpan and a bucket, cleanin' up the grate and the room. She said she couldn't leave it like that with four young men sleeping in it.'

  'What time was that?'

  'Nineish, sir. They were all havin' their breakfasts at Sea Vista when the conflagration started.'

  Doyle smiled with pleasure at the word. He liked it and gently muttered it to himself again. 'Conflagration. . . .'

  'What did the rubbish look like, Doyle? Soot?'

  'Not exactly. As I said, the smell was like cloth burnin' or an old feather pillow. The rubbish looked a bit like old cloth, too. She must have been trying to beat out the sparks and set fire to the pillow, or somethin'.'

  'She hurried away with the bucket when you arrived?'

  'Not exactly hurried, sir. She sort of casually took it away and I suppose threw it in the dust-bin. Anyhow, she'd cleaned up the room spick and span. Of course, the chimney fire was out by then. But what I was sayin' to the Inspector, sir, is, that she oughtn't to get away with it, even if her husband has died. Other people don't. . .'

  'Leave it with us then, Doyle. Thank you for your help.'

  'Help, sir?'

  'Yes.'

  It was almost ten-thirty. Uncle Fred's funeral was at eleven. Trimble's inquest was at twelve. It would end like Uncle Fred's. Adjourned, with nothing new to help the police. It had been arranged to bury Trimble on the afternoon of the next day. They didn't want him hanging about with more lodgers, a houseful, in fact, arriving.

  'Always go to the funeral of the victim, if you can. You might learn a lot.'

  Knell had made a mental note of Littlejohn's advice.

  The morning sun was hot as they left. And a little breeze had sprung up to make it more pleasant, a last bowl-up of good weather for those who were off by tomorrow's boat.

  The promenade and streets were packed. Everybody looked easygoing and gay, as though trying to forget tomorrow and drain to the dregs the pleasures of the final day before returning to home and work. The shops were full of people buying souvenirs to take back with them, filling in labels on boxes of kippers to go away by the next post, taking photographs of holiday companions. Young couples indulging in holiday romances, embraced and held each other close in secluded spots, in the sad, bitter-sweet way of those who wish it could go on for ever, but know it will fade away with time.

  Both Uncle Fred and Trimble were being buried from Scarffe's Funeral Parlour. To take the bodies to Sea Vista with the place full of holidaymakers would just be the last straw. Already, the lodgers there were busy packing up for off on the first boat Saturday. They packed with relish, as though they were going away for a holiday instead of home to work at the end of one. They'd all had enough, except the four boys sharing one room. They were quite carefree. They met Littlejohn on the front steps.

  Four boys in their narrow-cut, black Edwardian trousers and coats of many colours. Blue, navy, beige, and autumn leaves, ornamented by embroideries done by their dancing-partners at home, and their initials on the pockets. Greasy black hair, all tonsured alike, combed back, parted, and feathered behind the ears. Half-washed and with impudent looks, they brushed past the police. Littlejohn realized that he hadn't seen them before. He'd heard the accordion player, of course. . . . A murder or two in their digs didn't seem to have put them out in the least. You got the impression they might commit one or two killings themselves in the course of a night's spree.

  The rest of the boarders were out, with the exception of Mrs Nessle, who was fully clothed in black, ready for Uncle Fred's funeral. Mrs Trimble was in her room, being ministered to by Maria and Susie, who were also draping her in black. 'You ought not to go,' they'd told her. 'You've enough trouble with your own husband lying dead and having to attend his inquest at twelve o'clock.' But she'd refused to be persuaded.

  There were some wreaths in the lobby. Two exactly alike. One for Trimble, whose funeral wasn't until next day but when they'd all be scattered and far away, From his sorrowing lodgers, with deepest sympathy. The other for Uncle Fred. From his sorrowing fellow-lodgers, with deepest sympathy. A good sport. The last obituary comment arose out of the holiday feeling and a desire, suggested by Greenhalgh, to speak well of the dead man. Seeing that Trimble had already looted the lodgers' wreath-fund for Fred, they'd treated him magnanimously.

  The blinds were drawn and Miss A., fully in charge, was prowling about in the half-light superintending the daily chores. Mrs Nessle, too, was wandering disconsolately about in the shadows. Littlejohn greeted her.

  'You knew poor Trimble in his heyday as an acrobat?'

  'Yes. Such a fine figure of a man, then. Almost heartbreaking to think what he came to and how he's ended.'

/>   'His accident made a lot of difference to him?'

  'Completely changed him. He wasn't like the same man. Lost all his self-confidence and pride. It was only to be expected. He was a cripple for a long time and when an acrobat, or really a trapeze artist, falls, it is like an airman who crashes. He comes to earth and is never the same again.'

  She struggled for a moment to find words.

  'He was like an eagle that is shot down from the skies.'

  She painted eagles and skies with a fat forefinger high in the air.

  'He wasn't a man, but a wreck, after his tragedy. He took to drink and his wife merely tolerated him and went her own way. My heart bled for him. In his prime, he was first-rate. She, on the other hand, was decidedly third-rate.'

  A taxi drew up to take Mrs Nessle away and she departed in a flurry of black clothes. The police returned to their waiting car as Mrs Trimble descended, assisted by Maria. Her face was pale and stony, but she was quite self-possessed. Another taxi picked her up and took her off. Littlejohn went back to the house.

  'Susie. I want a word with you.'

  'Won't it do later, sir! With all this bother and we've to get on with the dinner now.'

  'Come in here a minute, please.'

  The little cubby-hole under the stairs again and Susie, even paler than Mrs Trimble, standing before him, half afraid, half defiant.

  'A short time before he went out and met his death, Mr Snook spoke to you and you both went upstairs to your room, Susie. Is that true?'

  She looked completely nonplussed and flushed a deep red.

  'Who told you that?'

  'Never mind. It's true, isn't it?'

  'There was nothing wrong in it. I'm not the sort you're thinking.'

  'I'm not thinking anything. I'm asking you a question, Susie. Please give me a straight answer.'

  'All right. We did go to my room.'

  'What for?'

  'He wanted the ring back. I'd left the ring hidden there, because Mr Greenhalgh saw the chain round my neck and tried to put his finger down my blouse to see what was at the end of it. He needed some ready money and he was going to sell it right away. He said it was worth five hundred pounds.'

  'Why didn't you tell me all this before?'

  She was afraid now and looked terribly alone and forlorn.

  'I wasn't trying to deceive you, sir. I gave him the ring and he said he'd get some cash or something for me later in place of it. He talked of selling investments.'

  'How did you come to have the ring again, then, when we talked together the other day?'

  She wrung her hands.

  'I know you won't believe me, but I'm telling God's truth. I picked it up on the stairs. He must have dropped it. We stayed in my room ten minutes, or a little more, arguing.'

  'Loudly?'

  'No. We were whispering. . . . Perhaps a bit excited, but whispering. I told him to keep his voice down. I didn't want anybody to catch us both in my bedroom. It didn't seem right.'

  'Why was he there so long?'

  'I didn't want to give up the ring. It was lovely, as you know, and I'd never had anything like it before. It made me feel better . . . independent. . . almost a lady. . . . And there he was, wanting it back. However, in the end, he said he'd sell some investments and buy it back for me, or another like it. But he wanted the money right away and investments would take a bit of time to get rid of. I said all right in the end.'

  'And he left you with the ring in his hand?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you follow him out?'

  'No. I stayed in my room about ten minutes, bathing my eyes. I'd been crying. I didn't want anybody to know and ask questions.'

  'Where did Mr Snook go, then?'

  'I don't know. He closed the door quietly after him. I was crying, and I didn't hear his footsteps even.'

  'There was nobody in the house?'

  'Mr Trimble, down in the kitchen, when we came up to my room.'

  'Where was the ring when you found it?'

  'I went down about ten minutes or so after he'd taken it. There wasn't a soul about. And there was the ring at the foot of the stairs in the hall. As though he'd dropped it out of his pocket.'

  'So you picked it up again?'

  'Yes. I put it back round my neck on the chain he'd bought me for safety. I was going to ask him what he'd been doing to drop it. But he never came back.'

  For the first time, Susie was moved. She screwed her face up in a horrible grimace and wept bitterly.

  'Just one more question. . . . Why didn't you tell me all this, Susie?'

  'I wanted to keep the ring, sir. Suppose I'd said I gave it back. It wouldn't have been mine then, would it? It was no use saying he'd promised me money. . . . And who would believe me if I said the ring was mine, really . . . a ring like that? They'd laugh at me. So I kept it and said nothing. I'd the letter he wrote about it, but that might have been about any ring. . . . A poor little thing. . . . So, I treated it as if he'd never asked for it back and I kept quiet about it.'

  'Thank you, Susie. And now go and bathe your eyes again and don't worry any more. I'll see to things. You haven't anything else to tell me?'

  'No, sir. You believe me, don't you? I swear it's true.'

  'You didn't quarrel or come to blows with Uncle Fred, did you?'

  She stood aghast.

  'Never! I loved him too much.'

  Well, well. . . . Uncle Fred had a real mourner, after all, and someone was going to remember him with love and kindly thoughts. All his futile, wasted years at Sea Vista hadn't gone for nothing.

  Knell eyed Littlejohn curiously as they started off to the cemetery.

  'Any nearer, sir?'

  'Yes. I'll tell you later, old man. We're going to be late. Sorry to hold up the party.'

  The procession hadn't arrived at the cemetery when Littlejohn got there with Knell and the Archdeacon. They walked along the paths between the graves. Even there, it was pleasant. A profusion of flowers, the faint scent of them on the hot air. Birds were singing, and the gravediggers, throwing earth from a new grave, were whistling as they rhythmically shovelled it out. In the distance, below them, a magnificent view of the whole of the bay, with the calm blue sea and little pleasure boats buzzing and bobbing about and, far away, a little cargo-boat gliding in the direction of Douglas as though eager to be in port again.

  Mrs Costain was standing half-hidden by a large white marble angel. She had come all the way from Cregneish for the sake of Uncle Fred, and held in her hand a large bunch of garden flowers, a little wilted, but beautiful in their simplicity.

  'Come and join us, Mrs Costain.'

  Littlejohn hurried to bring her. She smiled and looked a bit flustered, but was relieved to find friends.

  'How is your husband?'

  'Middlin', middlin'. A bit upset, all the same. He's wantin' to talk to you, Mr Littlejohn. You see, he saw Mr Trimble on the Calf the day he fell on the rocks and killed himself. He offen puts a sight on the Calf from his bed with his telescope. Spends hours lookin' out that way.'

  'We'll take you home after all this, Mrs Costain, and then we can talk with him.'

  The funeral entered the gates promptly at eleven-fifteen. Crowds of people, inspecting the T.T. course, which starts just outside the cemetery, stood to attention as Uncle Fred passed in the hearse, a vehicle which seemed out of place in the dazzling sunshine with the birds singing and the trippers looking so carefree and full of easy-going life.

  There was a bit of a mix-up at first. Willy had intended it to be a quiet and private affair, merely attended by Mrs Boycott, Victoria and himself. But others had attached themselves to the cortege, at the funeral parlour, greatly to his annoyance. And then, to mend matters, on the busy highway a blue brewery lorry had cut in and divided the sheep from the goats. The Boycotts' two taxis in one half, behind the hearse; then three unofficial intruding cabs following the lorry.

  'It's like a blasted circus,' hissed Willy, who, to make the family pro
cession seem a bit larger and more dignified, had hired two fine cars, one for Mrs Boycott and Victoria and another for himself and his temporary hired secretary, a good-looking girl whose company he was beginning heartily to enjoy, and who carried a wreath.

  The undertaker, sporting a top hat, climbed from the hearse and was met by four waiting men. They shouldered the huge coffin with its silver-plated fittings, and slowly shuffled with it to the open grave. It was more in keeping with a millionaire or a duke than Uncle Fred, who, at the end of his life, had got down to the bare essentials of simple things, old clothes, and humble, kindly friends.

  A crowd of sightseers assembled and followed the funeral, perhaps mistaking it for the obsequies of a prince. From the town below, all the noises of fun and amusement rose and fell as the gentle wind wafted them about. The crack of rifles, the music of roundabouts, the shouts of trippers. Crowded charabancs passed the cemetery gates and a youth went by playing a harmonica.

  I left my heart

  In the blue-grass country . . .

  The gate-keeper told him to shut up.

  The first taxi emptied. The two women who emerged created quite a sensation. In black from head to foot, but in model hats and costumes, flown over hastily from the West End, accompanied by a seamstress to fit them. They looked, for all that, incongruous in the glorious weather, with the view of the sea behind and a crowd of sightseers full of vitality, milling around.

  Then Willy, faultlessly dressed for the occasion, his hair sleek, his shoes sparkling, his clothes like those of a receptionist at a super-hotel. His secretary followed, dressed in black as well.

  The brewery lorry left the remaining three cabs to their own devices and they all seemed to open at once and pour out their contents. Mrs Trimble. Mrs Nessle. And then three people who peered anxiously about as though wondering if they were in the right funeral. The waitress from the Villa Marina, the tobacconist with the large moustache, both dressed in black, and a man who looked like a tramp who had somehow got mixed up with the party. A simple fellow who delivered Uncle Fred's newspapers and could always be sure of the price of a meal from Snook whenever he was hungry. Uncle Fred's buddies.