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

by George Bellairs

  The immediate noises subsided, but those of the town went on. People made way for the coffin and the procession. Mrs Boycott and Victoria together; Willy and his secretary; Mrs Nessle and Mrs Trimble; Littlejohn and his three friends; then Uncle Fred's humble pals, looking out-of-place and shy.

  'Who are these people?'

  Mrs Boycott asked it loudly, and Willy whispered something. He was quite at his ease and gazed round casually, making a slight gesture of recognition at the only good-looking one, Mrs Trimble.

  It all went smoothly. The parson read the service, and Mrs Boycott and Willy were bored and anxious to get it over. Poor Queenie was uncertain how to behave. She looked at her husband, who was now smiling to himself, and then she must have remembered her father, for she burst into a flood of tears.

  The gravedigger was inviting Mrs Boycott to throw in the first handful of earth; then everybody else started seizing soil and dropping it on the coffin.

  None of the women spoke to each other. They might all have been complete strangers. Or, with Uncle Fred now lying ready to receive the kindly earth, they might still have been jealous of each other about him.

  Littlejohn looked round. Susie had just appeared from a town bus, panting, and too late to see anything but the crowd around the grave. She dodged between monuments and tall gravestones to keep out of sight. She wore her neat little dark costume and was flushed and pretty with hurrying. Littlejohn saw her asking a gravedigger a question and he nodded in reply. Then she pointed to another half-opened new grave, and he nodded again.

  The priest's surplice flapped in the breeze. There was a brief pause as everybody seemed to wonder what to do next. Willy detached himself from the crowd, sorted out his party, and shepherded them to the gates. Queenie turned once to take another look at the grave with the wreaths and bunches of flowers piled on the next mound. The gravediggers stood by waiting to start filling in.

  The official mourners and those from Sea Vista left for their vehicles without a word to each other, the women tottering along the paths on their high heels, Willy stroking down his sleek hair, which the wind had ruffled. He slipped his arm through that of his secretary, ostensibly to help her along, and gave her a secret smile.

  The waitress and the tobacconist placed their bunches of flowers with the rest and stood for a minute beside the grave. The half-witted newspaper man, who hitherto had kept on his old felt hat, now removed it, looked down at the coffin, and shook his head in a mixture of question and rebuke at Uncle Fred for ending up in this fashion. Mrs Costain left her companions, threw in a handful of soil, and laid down her flowers. . . . Then they all made their way to the road.

  Looking back, Littlejohn could see Susie, her pony-tail of hair teased in the wind, hurrying to Uncle Fred's grave before the men got to work on it. She carried a paper bag and drew from it a single rose which she threw on the coffin. Then, her handkerchief to her eyes, she ran to catch a passing bus.

  At the door of his cab, Willy was just dealing with some journalists and photographers.

  There might have been others in Uncle Fred's life, but they weren't there. And he had made his last disappearance.

  Trimble's grave was not far from Uncle Fred's, and half ready to receive him, too. A passing couple with a child looked at it, and the child threw away a bun he had been chewing. Before it reached the ground, a gull swooped to retrieve it. Watching it, Littlejohn saw in the graceful curving up and down of the bird, something which made him think of Trimble at his best. The skilled flight of the acrobat in the air.

  At the gate, a fisherman was handing a string of fresh-caught dabs to the keeper and giving him a cod's head for his dog.

  14

  THE STRANGER ON CALF ISLAND

  THERE was a lull in the noise and bustle of the town, for hunger had swept everybody indoors to eat. To look in at the front windows of the boarding-houses as you passed on the promenade was like touring round the fish-house at a zoo. Aquarium after aquarium, with the mouths moving and eyes watching you through the glass.

  The promenade was quiet for the time being. A few people pottering about enjoying the peace of it, dogs tacking here and there along the causeway sniffing the walls and seats and lifting their legs without being chased away. A day-trip from Llandudno discharging a crowd of excursionists at the pier-head, a plane hovering overhead. . . .

  Littlejohn and his party returned from the cemetery by way of the seafront. Wherever they'd been, Knell, if he were driving, brought Littlejohn back that way. He seemed to think it his duty to give the Superintendent as many views of the sea as he could.

  The windows of the car were all down, the warm air caressed Littlejohn's cheeks, before him stretched the panorama between Douglas Head and Onchan. Everybody seemed to be on holiday and Littlejohn wished he were the same. If he could manage to clear up the mystery of Uncle Fred's death before week-end, he could stay on for almost another week and thoroughly enjoy himself with the Archdeacon. His heart sank a bit. He had a good idea what lay ahead and he didn't like the thought of it.

  On leaving Grenaby that morning, they had solemnly promised Maggie Keggin to return for lunch. Someone had brought a salmon to the vicarage the night before. No questions had been asked about its origins, but Maggie Keggin was cooking it for lunch. The Archdeacon had invited Knell and Mrs Costain to join them.

  After Knell had attended at Trimble's inquest they left the town by way of the quayside and then along the old Castletown road. Littlejohn wished Knell wouldn't drive so fast. Perhaps he wanted to get to the salmon, but it didn't give anyone a chance to sit back and admire the view. That was what the Superintendent wanted. To admire the view. He wished they'd hired a landau with a horse which would just jog-trot them home. Knell had given him another sample cigar, he was puffing it contentedly, he felt relaxed, and, for the minute, Uncle Fred was miles away. They hardly seemed to have started before Knell was turning up by the little signpost . . . Grenaby. In ten minutes, they were sitting at table with the salmon, whilst from the kitchen, the gossiping voices of Mrs Keggin and Mrs Costain sounded in a continual pleasant Manx buzz.

  Littlejohn was loath to start off again. At the bridge a man was idly fishing. Joe Henn, his trousers and jacket again drawn over his nightshirt, was leaning over his gate, hunting for someone to talk to, and the village cats were outside their cottage doors snoozing on the warm stones of the threshold. It wasn't fair having to work on a day like this.

  They went over the hills to Port St Mary, rising to a height which gave a wide view of the south-east of the Island from the fish-tail of Castletown and Derbyhaven bays to the Mull Hills and Port St Mary itself. Then they descended to shore level and climbed up to Cregneish again.

  John Costain was still sitting up in bed, with the dog at his feet and a tall gangling man with a shock of stiff hair like a shaving brush, and a humorous long, rugged face, sitting on the chair beside him. He introduced his friend as Charlie Bridson. He had been specially commanded to appear by John Costain, for he was the fisherman whose boat Trimble had borrowed on his last trip to the Calf of Man.

  Bridson, to fill in the time whilst the pair of them waited for the arrival of the police, had given Costain his midday meal, washed up after it, tidied his bedroom, and cut his hair and shaved him. A real handy man!

  'If you'd been much longer comin', Charlie would have decorated the bedroom an' painted the doors and window frames,' said Costain.

  Bridson was shy to begin with. He wasn't used to what he described as 'the big nobs' and Costain had had to use threats to keep him there. The Archdeacon's visits to Cregneish were few and far between and then only on special occasions. Bridson wasn't used to it at all. He shook hands mightily as he was introduced and gave Knell a peculiar look as he gripped his hand. Something about shooting after dark with flashlight illuminations on Ronagh. . . . Bridson had been a better runner than P.C. Knell in those days, or else it might have ended in the High Bailiff's court. . . . However, Knell didn't seem to rememb
er, whereat Bridson smiled again.

  It was obvious they were in for a 'session'. Costain's sparkling eyes betrayed that there was going to be a lot of serious talk and the ritual demanded first of all, a repast of tea and soda-cakes. After that, they got down to work. It was pleasant doing business there, with the room full of flowers, the air scented by the gentle breeze blowing from the hill-side and the gardens, the sea ahead, and the Calf basking in the sun across the Sound.

  It would not do at all to report the whole afternoon's conversation verbatim. The slow caressing Manx brogue, the sharp questions of Knell, the lazy listening of Littlejohn, with here and there a word or two to clear some matter up. Charabancs full of holidaymakers passed on land and ships passed on the sea, and the droning sounds of many voices filtered through John Costain's bedroom window and tickled the curiosity of the good people of Cregneish.

  'Charlie called to tell me about his boat. . . . He missed her when he got down at the Sound on his way for crabs. . . .'

  There was an interlude whilst Charlie talked about crabs and where they were best found on the Calf. He finally said he thought some hooligans on holiday from 'over' had stolen his boat. She wasn't locked up. Just drawn up high on the rocks facing Kitterland with a sheet of corrugated iron over her to keep the water out. It was a load off his mind, sure enough, when Kinley let him' know that she was safely tied up on the Calf. Together they had crossed and towed her back across the Sound after Kinley's return from Douglas.

  'What made me so mad about it was that Trimble's had her before and alwiss asked if he could teck her out. Why he didn' ask agen just puzzles me. . . . But then, the poor fellah's dead now and past tellin'. . . . The boat's not been damaged, so the thing's forgot.'

  The man in the bed waved an excited hand.

  'But that's not the end of it . . . . Not the end of it, for sure. Charlie tells me that while I been in bed, Fred and Trimble used his boat instid o' mine to get over to the Calf.'

  Bridson nodded.

  'Mr Snook when he came to me about hirin' the boat, axed me not to tell John. "It might make him melancholy, leck, to think of me on the Calf enjoying myself and him in his bed an' can't move. So don't tell him. . . . Jest lend me the boat and keep your mouth shut about me an' Trimble, leck. . . . "He didn't want John to think he'd found another pal because it might upset John.'

  Just like Uncle Fred. Thoughtful. . . a bit too thoughtful. So thoughtful sometimes that he caused complications.

  'I never heard from a sowl that Fred was goin' on the Calf just as offen as he did when him and me was around together.'

  Bridson explained that he'd warned the men of Cregneish that Costain wasn't to be told on Uncle Fred's express orders.

  'It wouldn' have made me jealous. Though the thought of me lying here on me back and Fred on the Calf like we used to be together, would have made me fret to be around again. . . . He was a good mate to be around with, was Fred Snook.'

  'So Trimble took your place until you were better and could help him across the Sound again ?'

  'That's right, Superintendent. It needs two in the boat most times. The currents is terr'ble strong some days. Trimble, of course, was a bit of a cripple and not much use. But he added weight and could steer.'

  So . . . that was what Uncle Fred had been doing. Gallivanting with Trimble, taking his landlord on his trips to the Calf, perhaps using him to take a brief turn at the oars and then spending one of those lazy days he'd so much loved, idling about, lying in the sun, with a case of beer for refreshment and letting the time pass without a care in the world.

  Perhaps Fred and Trimble had talked a lot, just as Fred and John Costain had done. Talked about old times and exchanged secrets they usually kept in dark parts of their minds and didn't bring to the light of day except when the silence of the deserted islet, the monotonous beat of the sea, the cry of the birds, and the magnetism of the complete solitude made different men of them, put their past lives and tragedies in proper perspective, and encouraged them to talk about life and how it had treated them in days past.

  What had Fred told Trimble and Trimble told Fred to sow the seeds of total disaster and death for both of them?

  Littlejohn brooded over it as his companions talked together, the smoke of his pipe rising blue in the sunshine flooding through the window like a limelight illuminating a stage.

  'You wanted to tell me about something you'd seen through your telescope the afternoon we found Trimble's body, John?'

  He suddenly remembered it and the man in the bed raised himself on his hands and pointed to the window-sill.

  'The telescope's right there, sir. Teck a look through her across at the Calf.'

  Littlejohn drew out the segments of the glass and put the eyepiece to his eye.

  It was a good glass. He swept the country between Cregneish and the Sound with it first. He felt he could touch the farm lad on his way to bring in the cows for milking. The same with the charabanc and its load, pitched on the green turf near the café opposite Kitterland. He could plainly make out the expressions of the men and women drinking cups of tea and lemonade. In a cleft of rock hidden from the rest of the coach party, a man was kissing a woman. Either he or she belonged to someone else, for the unpleasant furtiveness of the embrace and the awkward way in which it was effected were almost comic. . . . However, it was taking an unfair advantage to catch them in a telescope.

  The Calf itself seemed as near as the garden hedge of Costain's cottage. The little harbour at the Sound, the steep path leading up to the summit, beyond which the hidden valley and the house were nestled. Telephone poles without wires climbed all the way up. . . . Kinley was there with his boat, taking a party back to Port Erin on a round trip from Port St Mary.

  'From where I was in bed, I couldn' see Cow Harbour, just over the Sound, proper. So, I didn' see Trimble get there with Charlie's boat. But I happened to sight him climbin' up and round the west side to avoid the house, leck. As if he didn' want the warden to see him. "Hullo," I thinks. "There's Trimble gettin' on the Calf without payin' for his ticket." It was late in the day and he was carrying a biggish bundle an' he climbed on and vanished in the direction of the old lighthouses over the cliff tops.'

  'Did you see him again, John?'

  'Yes. But not till next day. He must have stopped there all night. He came back on the skyline next afternoon. . . . Didn' stop long, though. Then, I saw Kinley takin' a party in his boat to the South Harbour. . . . They was out of sight when they landed, leck, but soon, I see 'em wandering around, lookin' about at the sights of the island. . . . I see a woman right on the top near where Trimble had been. She seemed to be lookin' for someborry. . . . Then she vanished just like Trimble did, in the same direction.'

  'Did you make out who she was?'

  'Naw. . . . I never see her face proper. There was some-thin' sleechy . . . sneaky . . . about 'er. She was lookin' for something or someborry and tryin' not to look as if she was. . . . You unnerstand what I'm meanin'?"

  'I do. How was she dressed?'

  'Sort o' long white coat, I seem to reckerlec'. . . . Colour of this blanket. . . . She looked to be wearin' sun-glasses, too. After a while, she come back the way she'd gone, hurryin' at first, and then slowin' down as though she'd seen people and didn't want 'em to think she was in a hurry or runnin' from somethin'. . . . As soon as I heerd Trimble was dead, I thinks "oho, me lady's somethin' to do with that", and yet I couldn't say what she looked like.'

  'That's all right, John. You've told us enough.'

  'You know who she is?'

  'I think so.'

  Knell started and the Archdeacon smiled. He could wait, but Knell had a 'what are we waiting for?' expression on his eager face. Littlejohn filled his pipe and passed his pouch across first to Costain and then to Bridson, who had now settled comfortably down with his new friends and was ready to talk until the cows came home.

  Littlejohn, too, felt like prolonging this interview. He looked approvingly round at the ri
ng of honest, pleasant faces, and thought about the rest of the characters in the case, those in Douglas. Mrs Boycott and her retinue at Fort Anne, busy with Fred's affairs, trying to sort them out in a fashion which would release his fortune for their own purposes.

  And Sea Vista with its seedy atmosphere of undischarged bankrupts; married men on a spree with women they'd tricked into spending a furtive week's holiday; Teddy-boys making the place into a bear-garden; the honeymooners of diverse ages, the man after the money, the woman pathetically clutching the last straw of late romance; a moneylender's widow posing as half an aristocrat; a servant with a diamond ring worth a small fortune; another whom the men couldn't keep their hands off. All collected by post for a holiday by a broken trapeze artist and superannuated principal boy from a pantomime.

  Uncle Fred in his grave and Trimble in the morgue.

  What a lot!

  Littlejohn knocked out his pipe through the window and rose to his feet. The rest, except John Costain, rose, too, and the little party ended.

  'I hope it's helped you, Superintendent. And I hope more than that, that you'll come agen to see me before ye go back to London.'

  'You've been a great help, John. . . . A very great help. And I'll promise to come and have a real afternoon's cooish with you in a day or two. You shall tell me some of your tales of the sea and we'll eat soda-cakes, drink tea, and forget crime.'

  Knell dropped Littlejohn and the Archdeacon at the vicarage. They'd had enough for one day, and a rest was due to all of them.

  'I'll be glad if you'll have us picked up about ten in the morning, Knell, and could you arrange for us all to meet somewhere about eleven? By all, I mean all the characters in the affair. Mrs Nessle, Mrs Trimble, Susie, Finnegan, and Mrs Boycott and her daughter and son-in-law. Miss Crawley will leave by the morning boat and you needn't bother about Maria. She'll only upset people. I want a talk with them all together. . . . If you could arrange for it to beheld in the private room the Boycotts occupy at Fort Anne, it would be preferable. Sea Vista will be humming with new arrivals and it will be too diverting. . . . The hotel room is quiet.'