The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series)

by George Bellairs

  'But he was courting her in his way, I suppose. I've heard it said he was thinking of marrying her if she'd have him.'

  'Jenny said he'd asked her. Just matter of fact, too. He said he'd buy a house, over here or on the mainland, if she wanted. It's no use asking me any more about that. Jenny's the one, but don't ask her yet for a while. I depend on you not to raise the subject till she's got over it. I got so mad when she spoke of it that she shut up about it and it hasn't been mentioned since. I guess she was thinking it over when Croake died.'

  'Things went on, as usual, on Saturday night?'

  'Exactly to programme, except that he was later than usual. The routine went on. He sat here alone part of the time, Jenny came and spent half an hour with him, now and then. She honestly found pleasure in his company. He was a good talker when he'd got the right listener. He'd travelled and seen things. Jenny'd had a good education. She went to a good girls' school on the mainland. They got on well together.'

  'And he left at getting on for half-past ten.'

  'Yes.'

  'Did he say good-night and just go?'

  'He usually did. Said good-night and thanked us for a pleasant evening. Always good mannered and polite. But on Saturday, he didn't quite act as usual. Both Jenny and me were a bit surprised. He stayed a bit longer and at about quarter past ten both Jenny and me went in the bar to get the last drinks and clear up a bit, leaving him on his own. Jenny went in about twenty-five past ten and found Croake had gone. The next thing was, there was a commotion in the side street and we found Croake had been stabbed and was dead.'

  'Jenny took it badly?'

  'Wouldn't you? Even the murder of a stranger turns you up, doesn't it? To have it done to someone you know and think a lot of is worse. She was terribly cut up.'

  'Had he any other friends who came in here to talk to him?'

  'Not really. I've my own friends who use this room and now and then, one would pop in on a Saturday night and come through. They'd find Croake here and pass the time of day, but he wasn't the sort to be very sociable if he didn't feel like it. They didn't stay long, as a rule.'

  The time seemed to pass slowly, but when Littlejohn looked at his watch, it was three o'clock. He'd been there over an hour. He wondered where the Archdeacon had got to. They'd arranged to meet at the car in an hour. Time to go. It needed a great effort of will to get up and say goodbye. The atmosphere of tolerant indolence seemed to get in your bones.

  Suddenly, the peace was disturbed. They could hear the outer door open, pattering footsteps crossing the bar, halting outside the private room, and then the door swung open. There was a stranger standing there. He looked ready to turn and bolt, but Walmer called him back.

  'Come in, Ross. This is the Superintendent who's looking after the Croake affair. He's from Scotland Yard . . . A friend of ours, Superintendent. Mr. Roscoe Bottomley. He's a well-known local artist.'

  Littlejohn had been trying to sum up the newcomer. Mr. Bottomley was neat and tidy, but had a touch of originality about him. He wore a soft tweed hat with a little feather in the brim. A heavy local tweed suit, in spite of the heat of the day, an incongruous flannel shirt with a floppy collar, with a foulard bow tie, and very shiny brown shoes. His hair was short and bristly grey, his eyes deep-set behind powerful spectacles in gold frames, and he had a small moustache. He was smoking a cigarette in a holder, he carried a stout ash stick with a silver ring round it, and he wore lemon-coloured gloves. A small man, a bit fragile looking. He carefully removed the cigarette from the holder, rubbed it out in an ash-tray, took off his gloves, and then offered his hand to Littlejohn.

  'Sit down, Ross. We were just talking about John Charles Croake. He was an old friend of yours.'

  Mr. Bottomley's eyelids trembled and he slowly closed and opened them again. It was a trick of his. Sometimes he spoke with his eyes closed altogether. He grinned uneasily as he spoke.

  'John Charles? Yes. He was a friend of mine. Bought a lot of my pictures in his time. Didn't agree with me later. Not educated up to it. Hoped to bring him round in time. Pity he's dead.'

  He closed his eyes again, like somebody in prayer. Then he started to roll himself a cigarette, clipped off the spare tobacco protruding from each end with a pair of pocket scissors, put it back in his pouch, and lit the cigarette. He inserted it in the holder baring his teeth as he put it in his mouth.

  Mr. Bottomley had, in his time, been a producer of nice little Manx watercolours of popular landscapes which had sold well. Then, overnight almost, he'd turned abstract and appeared with grubby canvases of which nobody could make top nor tail except himself. They embodied objects like nuts, bolts, wire-netting and coat-hangers. He said they were local scenes. They ceased to sell on the Island but, it was said, had a good and profitable market in London and Paris. He'd even had a turn on television. Ross didn't seem badly off. In fact, he'd hit the jackpot by a crackpot brainwave.

  'Are you the friend of Caesar Kinrade, sir?'

  'I am. He's waiting for me and I must be off.'

  'Don't worry about him, my dear Superintendent. I've just passed him, sitting in a car on the promenade, lost to the world in a book. I hope I'm not intruding. I just popped in as I was passing. I got a good tip for the three o'clock tomorrow.'

  'You back horses, Mr. Bottomley?'

  'A mere bagatelle. I usually share my information with Peter. I must be off.'

  It looked like developing into an argument about who should stay and who should go. Walmer settled it by going out and bringing back three tankards of the best.

  'I've to drive the Archdeacon home to Grenaby soon. It's not a good thing for a policeman . . .'

  'Nothing of the kind. It'll wear-off between now and when you meet the Rev. Caesar. Good health to all of us.'

  Mr. Bottomley drank carefully but steadily and almost emptied his tankard in one. Then he took a deep breath and resumed his smoking.

  'Did you wish to ask me any questions about Croake? As Peter says, I know the whole family pretty well. When I used to go paintin' in the north, Ballacroake was always open house to me. Often had me lunch there.'

  He closed his eyes again as though seeing it all in his mind's eye.

  'What kind of a family are they?'

  'Wealthy; but wealth isn't everything. They're all queer, except John Charles. And now he's dead . . .'

  Mr. Bottomley's eyes were closed, as though he were thinking deeply, rummaging in the storehouse of his mind and perhaps his imagination as well.

  Littlejohn looked round the room at all the Toby jugs, which seemed to be listening, too; hanging on Mr. Bottomley's words. This little room at the back of the pub seemed in another world. A sort of Disneyland, populated by a lot of little figures which might at any time spring to life and do a fantastic dance. And a crazy artist who'd taken the centre of the stage and was starting to tell a ghost story.

  '. . . There's been too much inbreeding in that family. Too much effort to keep the money intact. Marriages among cousins and near relatives. It weakens the stock . . .'

  Mr. Bottomley opened his eyes and looked surprised, as though he'd suddenly fallen upon one of the facts of life by accident.

  'It weakens the stock. They ought to have married outside for a time or two. Like my family did. Manx for generations and then they took on a little fresh blood. A Bottomley and a Dabchick. Improved the breed immensely. . . .'

  Littlejohn looked at the man. Bottomley, with his cataract glasses, his bitten fingernails, his chain-smoking, his facial tic, might have been a sort of Greek god instead of a little runt, to hear him talk!

  '. . . There's the eldest, Reuben, who's had to be put away a time or two for alcoholism. A neurotic and a hypochondriac. You should see his dressing-table. Chock full of patent medicines and stuff . . . Ewan's religious. Not the calm, assured sort, but a fundamentalist . . .'

  Bottomley opened his eyes wide in surprise at his sudden gift of speech. He liked the word . . .

  'Fundamentalist,'
he said again proudly. 'A man who believes in hell-fire, sin, eternal punishment and damnation, predestination . . . The lot. He once took me aside and tackled me. I soon shut him up, I can tell you. I asked him who he thought he was talking to . . .'

  The eyes opened again and Mr. Bottomley looked proud of his dialectical skill. He might have found the answer to the million dollar question!

  '. . . Edward was a doctor. The best of the lot. He died of overwork. Never a strong constitution. Ewan's son went abroad to get away from it all. His father bullied the life out of him. And Joe, Edward's son, looks to be following in his uncle Reuben's footsteps. The bottle . . .'

  Mr. Bottomley remained with his eyes closed. He seemed to be counting, calling the roll of Croakes.

  'Oh, and there's Miss Bridget . . . Bridey, as they call her. She's gone all queer and lives a secluded life, doing good works in a forlorn sort of way. A very decent old maid, but all shot to pieces by a frustrated love affair. She and that bailiff fellow, Juan Curghey, Red Juan, were in love when they were young, but the family soon put a stop to that. Why they didn't run away and get married, I don't know. I guess she was too scared, and Red Juan and his forefathers had been so long with the family, he hadn't it in him to disobey, though he's a man of strong character. I suppose it was next best for him; he stayed on to look after Bridey.'

  Mr. Bottomley opened his eyes, started to plut on the lemon gloves and rescued his stick with the silver band. He rolled a fresh cigarette with great dexterity, clipped the ragged ends and put them safely away, lit the remainder, and rose.

  'I'll be off. There's just one thing I have to say more. It's my own opinion and I hope you won't mind plain-speaking, Peter. In my view, it's no wonder that John Charles finally decided to make a break and leave it all behind. He found something new in your Jenny, Peter, and nobody could blame him for seeking after it. His only mistake was that he found it out too late and having done so, didn't act quickly enough.'

  Bottomley made for the door, put his hat on, removed it again as he made a polite bow.

  " Good-bye for the present, gentlemen . . .'

  And he was gone.

  'Poor Ross. He's almost as balmy now as the people he's been describing. Comes of a good family and one time he seemed to have a great future in front of him. Then he started to go haywire in his painting. Instead of nice views, he began to paint the sort of things kids do the first time you give 'em a brush. Things like wire bedsteads and corkscrews. Funny thing is, they sell in certain quarters over the water. Sell for good prices, I believe. It beats me . . .'

  Littlejohn rose to go. There were more footsteps crossing the bar and they halted at the door of the room again. It opened, and a woman stood there. She wore a grey tailored suit of light material and looked fresh and energetic. A tall, dark, plump girl without a hat, showing her jet black hair. Her dark eyes were clear and smiling.

  'Here's Jenny now,' said Walmer. 'This is Superintendent Littlejohn, Jenny. He's from Scotland Yard and he's looking into the affair of the other night, the affair about John Croake you know . . .'

  The smile vanished, and Jenny Walmer looked afraid.

  6

  Teddy-Boy's Lament

  AS THE door of the Bishop's Arms closed behind him, Littlejohn seemed to step into another existence again. The hot sun beating down, happy people milling around in their holiday clothes, busy shops, the horse-trams on the promenade, and the still, blue sea with the tide just on the turn.

  He hadn't stayed behind to talk with Jenny. She'd just shaken him by the hand and excused herself. She had to change her clothes, she said. And she'd disappeared upstairs.

  Her father had been a little apologetic about it.

  'Perhaps you wouldn't mind calling again later if you want to talk to her. It's as I told you. She's properly upset. She's been visiting her friends and you know what women are. They've been having a good cry together, I suppose, and she'd got a mood on her. She isn't often like this, but Saturday's affair's been a big shock.'

  It was striking four when he reached the car again. The Archdeacon was immersed in his book. He'd read half of it whilst he was waiting. His spectacles were on the end of his nose and his frothy white beard was folded under his chin. He, too, seemed to awake from a dream world when Littlejohn greeted him.

  'Have you been busy?'

  He told his friend all that he'd been doing and hearing. The old man seemed to understand it fully, to see it, too. The room beyond the bar, where you shut out the crowds and sat quietly talking and drinking, with the Toby jugs looking down. A place where you could relax and let the rest of the world go by. Traa dy Liooar, as they said on the Island. Time enough.

  Now and then, a friend would drop in for a talk and a smoke. Men like Bottomley, at a loose-end, eccentric, perhaps laughed at by the rest, fetched-up there and found peace and companionship in the torpid, careless atmosphere.

  And then John Charles Croake had found his way there, too. Whether it was his fondness for Jenny or pure coincidence which had brought him, Littlejohn couldn't say. It was a mystery as deep as the cause of his death. They'd have to find that out. But he'd arrived, the lazy mood of the place had infected him, and he'd started to make a habit of calling whenever he was in town. Tired of battling with his family, lonely, seeking somewhere where he could relax, he'd found happiness in the warm laziness of the back room at the Bishop's Arms. And then . . .

  Littlejohn realised that he'd forgotten all about the affair of the teddy-boys. They didn't seem to fit in. And yet, one of them was likely to stand trial for murder because of Croake. That was a straight police investigation for the local men. Littlejohn's share in it all seemed to centre around the strange mansion in the marshes at Lezayre and in the back room of the Bishop's Arms. He was glad of that.

  'We'd better call and see how Knell's getting along. Then it'll be time to go home.'

  Littlejohn suddenly felt tired of it all. Already he was eager to get back to the vicarage in the hidden valley of Grenaby, infested by ghosts and strange things that walked by night but never did anybody any harm. No murders there. Just his slippers by the log fire, the parson reading, Mrs. Littlejohn doing needlework, the dog snoring by his side, and the old clock ticking the idle hours away.

  'You'll see . . .' Perhaps, one day, Joe Henn's prophecy would come true. He'd settle down like the back-room boys of the Bishop's Arms, and stay for good!

  People were strolling back to their lodgings for tea. The pleasure boats were returning home and tying-up at the quay. The afternoon boat to Liverpool was just visible, disappearing over the horizon. A man passed, carrying a saxophone, on his way to the Palace. Day was on its way out and people were getting ready for the night.

  They stopped at the corporation car-park on their way to the police-station. The attendant looked disappointed when they didn't drive in. He noticed the Archdeacon and greeted him. A little man with a monkey face and a stiff leg.

  'Did Mr. Croake and his sister call here last Saturday?'

  'Yes. They always did. Reg'lar customers.'

  'What time?'

  'As far as I can rec'lect, between three and four.'

  'Did you see where they went after they'd parked the car?'

  'They did as they always did. He went one way and she went the other. She couldn't drive, so she got the 'bus uptown. She carried a shopping-bag, too. Mr. Croake crossed to the Mona Steamers' office. He's a director. I guess he went to run them round a bit. It's said that he did the rounds of his companies every Saturday. At five o'clock, he was here again, took out the car, and went off in the direction of the promenade. Then, he was back about seven and parked again. He walked away towards the promenade.'

  'You were still on duty at half-past ten?'

  'Yes. His sister came back about quarter-past and seemed a bit surprised he wasn't here. She took a stroll along the North Quay and I saw no more of her.'

  'What happened to the car?'

  'It was in the police garage till ar
ound half an hour ago. Then, Mr. Joseph Croake called and took it away.'

  'Thanks. You've been a great help.'

  'You're welcome, sir. My respects, Archdeacon.'

  Knell was engaged when they arrived at the police-station, but they sent for him and he appeared, smiling as usual, but a little excited.

  'Young Joseph Croake's here. He's been collecting the family car and called to ask for news of the criminals. He's come down to Douglas for the inquest. Would you like to see him?'

  'Just to meet him. We're going to the funeral tomorrow, so may as well get to know as many of the family as we can, Knell.'

  'Anything fresh today, sir?'

  'Not really. We went to Ballacroake this morning. It was hardly the time to conduct an enquiry. We lunched in Ramsey and came back here. I spent a while with Walmer, the landlord of the Bishop's Arms. We passed a pleasant hour together, but I didn't get much information. What about the prisoner?'

  'He's quiet now. He's seen a lawyer. He seems well-lined with money. How much is honestly come-by is anybody's guess. He still protests that he didn't knife Croake. He insists he never had a knife. We've had another search for the knife, but no luck. We also did the rounds of the shops, but none of them sold a knife to Cryer. We took his photo with us, but nobody recognised him. Shall we go and see Joe Croake?'

  'He's the son of the late Dr. Croake, who practised in England, I believe.'

  'Yes.'

  'Is his mother alive?'

  'No. She was an invalid and spoiled Joe when he was a kid. At least, that's what I've been told by local people who knew all about it. She died and left the doctor with Joe, who was at school at the time. Joe's never done a job of hard work in his life. His father left him some money, but I've heard it wasn't much. He'd been wealthy in his time, like the rest of the Croakes, but his sick wife made a large hole in his fortune, they say. Shall we go?'

  If Littlejohn had expected a scruffy drunkard, he received a shock when he met Joseph Croake. Judging from the aroma which met them at the door, he'd had a drink or two, but he carried it well. He was, from all accounts, just about thirty, but he might have been older. His face was lined from worry or else drinking heavily. Tall, thin, well-groomed, clean shaven, he wore a well-cut tweed suit and a club tie. An indulgent mouth; in fact, a weak face. He was perfectly self-possessed.