'You mentioned when things went wrong in the family. What do you mean, Juan?'
Curghey showed no sign that the use of his Christian name pleased him, but Littlejohn felt a softening of the atmosphere around them, as though the first barrier between them had been broken down.
'Things go wrong in the best families. The Croakes were no different to anybody else. When her brother, the doctor, died, she was heartbroken. He was her favourite. She was always trying to persuade him to come over and start a practice on the Island. Her father and mother dying, too. That nearly broke her heart. And then, this. She told me before anybody else what happened to her brother. How she found him dying in the street and when he saw her, he seemed glad, and just said Ah! and died. And how the doctor had told her what was wrong with her eyes. The noises in the house at night, too. It was said to be haunted. She asked me to look into things. All I could do was to sleep as near as I could to her; I wasn't allowed inside after the family had retired. And . . .'
He recited it in a dull monotone, but Littlejohn noticed that now that Red Juan was talking of things nearest to his heart, his aggressive loud tone vanished, and he lapsed into the gentle dialect of the Island with its soft reminders of old gaelic.
Curghey hesitated, as though wondering whether or not to go on and then, impulsively:
'And Mr. Joseph. She was very fond of him and he was a trouble to her. At first, he'd come over for a l'il holiday; then for the whole summer. Now he nearly lives here. He drinks too much and he's got Mr. Reuben takin' too much again. They've got to loafin' and drinkin' together and gettin' themselves talked about. And all so that Joseph can get money out of Mr. Reuben. Until Mr. Joseph took to livin' here, the house was quiet and life went on peaceable and easy day by day. Now, with Mr. Reuben and his whisky and Mr. Ewan prayin' and talkin' of sin, it isn't like the same place. Miss Bridget got more and more quiet and unhappy and the days when she used to play the piano to them all after dinner and the sound of it went out from the open windows and made everybody else happy, those days is gone, too . . .'
Red Juan pulled himself together, took a bottle from a cupboard on the wall and poured out two glasses of whisky.
'I think I'll take your advice, sir. You'll join me?'
He filled up the glasses with soda and they drank together.
Littlejohn thought how easy and agreeable the life of Ballacroake must have been in the old days. A fine house, filled with fine things and in good taste, with nothing to offend the eye, inhabited by kindly, intelligent people. Ewan managing the estates and reading his books; Reuben pottering around harmlessly and good humoured; John Charles making his trips to town to sit on his boards and watch the family monies; and Bridey looking after them all, even Red Juan, and playing to them when the day was finished. And then . . . Something had occurred which ruined it all.
The wretched little sneak-thief, with his pointed shoes and his greasy hair, now in gaol at Douglas, seemed too paltry, too far away to be involved in such a catastrophe and, as likely as not, had nothing whatever to do with it.
9
Croake's Saturday Afternoon
THE HOT weather persisted. Littlejohn strolled, his hands in his pockets and his pipe in his mouth, along the North Quay. The Archdeacon was in Douglas on some official business and Littlejohn had driven him there in a car he had hired. He was now killing time until his friend returned to meet him.
Killing time. That was it. Since the suicide of Bridget Croake, things had been at a standstill. It wasn't right to call at Ballacroake and start asking a lot of questions before the second victim had been buried. The case seemed to be on ice.
All around was in a state of great animation. Crowds standing on the quays watching the cargo-boats loading and unloading. Groups of holiday-makers round shop windows choosing souvenirs, streams of people making their way to the top of Douglas Head.
Littlejohn was quite happy on his own. The lethargy produced by the heat and the holiday feeling were on him. He lit his pipe and leaned across the iron rail of the quayside. Below in the river the tide was low. A small cargo-boat, which made you wonder however it stood up to rough seas at all, was tied to a bollard, the rope strained by the lowness of the river. A woman was hanging-out washing on lines across the deck and a little boy in jeans and a little sailor cap was playing with a shaggy mongrel dog.
If Cryer had killed Croake, his motive had been robbery and violence. But there were plenty of other motives around. Ballacroake for example. Ewan Croake had shied off when Littlejohn mentioned the possibility of his brother marrying Jenny Walmer. It was the reaction of a man, wealthy, intelligent, a member of the old Manx aristocracy, to the idea of an outsider, a barmaid, entering the family. Ewan was a fanatic. A man of strong passions, even in his religion. He was said to be at home, preparing his next day's sermon, at the time of the crime. Nessie said she hadn't disturbed him all the evening. He'd been in his room, thinking and writing in the quietness. Or else, he might have been in his car, unknown to the rest, on his way to Douglas and back.
Or Joseph, whose hopes were to inherit a fortune from his uncle, and meanwhile was sponging on the family. He wouldn't take kindly to the intrusion of a young wife for Uncle John and a new Will in the making. Or even Reuben, who depended so much on John Charles for the comfortable existence and financial stability he enjoyed. The risk of his brother dividing his attentions and the family fortune with a young wife, or even taking her off to live elsewhere wouldn't be very attractive . . .
Joseph and Reuben had, according to their story, been out fishing in Ramsey Bay all the time on Saturday. An easy run into Douglas harbour, on a calm, sunny day.
The thoughts passed through Littlejohn's mind as he watched the activity of the quay. There were a number of small yachts and speedboats tied to the groin where the river entered the harbour and a man on one of them was hot and annoyed at his engine which, every time he tried to start it, simply coughed and went dead. Some idlers leaning over the rails kept shouting advice, which made him worse.
John Charles Croake's sudden obsession with the Bishop's Arms . . . Why, when proud of and devoted to his family at Ballacroake, had he suddenly changed, almost gone haywire about a girl who served at the bar of her father's pub? A second-rate place, infested by holidaymakers and locals who made fun of him. And especially noisy and unruly on Saturday nights when he spent his time there.
Croake didn't take alcohol, either. Just lemonade or bitter lemon, as an excuse for calling there, and when Jenny was free, she'd join him and they'd talk together. Sometimes, if she was too busy, he'd have to be content with Peter Walmer or Ross Bottomley, a couple of drifters who hadn't a thing in common with him.
Every Saturday, John Charles and his sister left Ballacroake after lunch and arrived in Douglas around three or half-past. Last Saturday, Bridget had called on the doctor and received the fatal news about her eyes. After that, nobody knew where she'd been. All they knew was that she was back at the car-park to meet John Charles at nearly half-past ten. And where had her brother spent the time between five, when the car-park attendant saw him leave for the second time, and seven, when he turned up at the Bishop's Arms?
Littlejohn knocked out his pipe against the bollard and strolled across to the side street in which Croake had met his death. The side door of the Bishop's Arms was locked and he went round to the front, entered, and made his way through the bar to the little room in which he'd been before. The room with all the Toby jugs which seemed to stare vacantly at you all the time. A potman was mopping the floor of the bar.
'Looking for Mr. Walmer, sir? He's out.'
'Is Miss Jenny in?'
'She's upstairs cleaning the house. Shall I tell her you're here?'
'Yes. Superintendent Littlejohn, please.'
'I know.'
They all did!
Jenny came down almost at once. She looked fresh and comely and quite cheerful. Hardly the way you'd expect a girl to look after the murder of her husband to-be a few days befo
re. Her father had said she was terribly cut-up about it. She'd soon recovered!
'Good morning, sir.'
'Good morning, Miss Walmer. Can you spare me a few minutes?'
'Yes. Still enquiring about the matter of Saturday night?'
'Yes.'
'What can I do to help?'
She wore a blue smock over her dress and her hair was a bit unruly, presumably after her hard work. She didn't seem as nervous as when first they'd met.
She asked him to take a seat and they sat at the table where her father had liberally supplied the beer when last Littlejohn was there.
'How long had you known Mr. Croake?'
'Quite a long time, by sight, but he's only been calling here a little more than a month.'
Littlejohn must have looked surprised.
'It wasn't my doing, Superintendent, that made him take to calling so regularly. We first met at a garden-party they held for charity at Ballacroake. A friend of mine in Ramsey is interested in the charity and asked me to go. Mr. John was there and Mr. Joseph introduced me to him . . .'
'You know Mr. Joseph, then?'
'Yes. He often calls here for a drink when he's in Douglas. In fact, he and my father are very friendly. Mr. Joseph is interested in Toby jugs and so is my father. Father sometimes talks of going back to England and opening an antique shop in the south. It's just talk, though. He's quite happy here.'
'I saw you at the funeral with Mr. Bottomley . . .'
'I saw you, too. Mr. Bottomley took me in his car. He's quite good that way. You see, we have no car of our own just now. In fact, Mr. Bottomley took me to the charity fete at Ballacroake the other week. He went with me, left to do some painting near the Lhen bridge, and called to pick me up when it was over.'
'And after that, Mr. John Croake began to call here?'
'About a fortnight later. He just turned-up and asked for a bitter lemon. They were hardly his sort in the bar, so we asked him in our private room . . . this one.'
'Since when, he's been a regular Saturday caller.'
'Yes. Excuse me, but may I ask what all this is about? I don't see how it affects the teddy-boy killing Mr. John.'
She asked it, not in anger, but in a civil kind of curiosity. She even smiled nicely as she put the question.
'The police are anxious to find out Mr. John's movements on the day he was murdered. It's pure routine.'
'I see. It seemed strange, that's all.'
There was a pause. Littlejohn filled his pipe.
'Mind if I smoke, Miss Walmer?'
'Not at all. Light up, sir.'
'Was anyone in the room with Mr. Croake when he left on Saturday night?'
'I don't know. I don't think so. I'd left him there alone to see to the last drinks in the Snug before we closed. Father was in the saloon-bar. Mr. Croake went out without speaking to either of us or saying good-night.'
'He didn't even say good night to your father, who was in the saloon-bar next door to this room?'
'That's right. I asked father and he said Mr. Croake had suddenly left without a word to either of us. We thought it funny.'
'He stayed alone there, then? Why would he do that?'
'I don't know unless he was just waiting till the time he'd arranged to meet his sister.'
'May I ask you rather a personal question, Miss Walmer?'
'Yes, if you like . . .'
She set herself tensely, as though it might be something dreadful.
'Did Mr. Croake ever speak of marriage to you? Did he ever propose marriage?'
She looked exasperated.
'Not another! Really, Superintendent, this has gone too far . . .'
'I'm not the first to ask you, then?'
'Perhaps the first to put it so directly. But father and Ross Bottomley and the rest of them seem under the impression that Mr. Croake was courting me. If I'd thought that, I'd soon have stopped him calling here. I'm sure there was nothing like that about it. I think he'd got at a loose end and somehow found the atmosphere genial and free-and-easy. I won't say he might not have liked my company. I liked his. He was a perfect gentleman and he was well educated and could talk interestingly . . .'
She set her face and looked him seriously in the eyes. Then she spoke emphatically.
'Never once since he's been coming here, has he said anything about marriage to me. Nor has he ever said a wrong word. Nothing rude, nothing suggestive. No making passes at me, like some of them do. I shall always remember him with great respect.'
For the first time her eyes filled with tears. Littlejohn waited until she was herself again.
'What did he talk about when he called here . . . when you had time to spare to chat with him?'
'He talked about all kinds of things. He seemed very taken-up with Toby jugs and porcelain of all kinds. Old English, Dresden, Continental figures . . . And yet, he didn't know much about them. He said his sister had a collection at Ballacroake and he was interested in that. But when it came to showing any real knowledge, instead of mere interest in them, he didn't know the difference between a Staffordshire chimney-ornament and a valuable Dresden piece. He asked me a lot of questions about the Tobies and the like. He seemed to want to learn about them. Why, I don't know.'
'He came here for that?'
'Not really. He liked it here and I think he wanted to show he was interested in things. He wanted to be civil.'
'And who did he talk with when you were busy?'
'My father or Mr. Bottomley, who's one of the regular customers here. I think you've met him. Mr. Bottomley's an artist. I think Mr. Bottomley fancied that one day he might sell a picture to Mr. Croake. Mr. Croake did ask me once, if my father and Mr. Bottomley were interested in porcelain, too. I said yes, in a general way, and he asked what I meant. I told him they were both interested in artistic things, like the Toby jugs and pottery of all sorts. He asked me if they ever dealt in them, but I told him not that I knew of. I wondered if he thought of selling some of the things they have at Ballacroake.'
'Did you see their collection when you were at the house?'
'No. I got talking with friends. Some of those there went in the house, but I missed it. Mr. Croake never asked me there. I suppose the family wouldn't have liked it.'
'You know, don't you, Miss Walmer, that there was a bit of talk about you and Mr. John Croake around the town?'
She flushed but smiled and took it the right way.
'Of course, I do. There always is talk about things of that kind, isn't there? Father and Mr. Bottomley used to pull my leg about it, too. Father said he was sure Mr. Croake was taking a fancy to me, and got quite cross about it. He didn't believe me, I know, when I told him there was nothing of that kind about it.'
'Then why did Mr. Croake keep calling?'
She looked bewildered.
'I don't know why you should ask that, Superintendent, after all I've told you. Why do people frequent public houses? For company, or because the beer's good, or because they're lonely or bored and want a change. You can choose any of those and pin it on Mr. Croake.'
'I agree. Thanks for being so patient and helpful. Has Mr. Joseph been in lately?'
'He was here about a week ago. He was in town and called for a drink and a talk with Dad. I don't suppose we'll see him here again for some time, with all the trouble at Ballacroake. It's awful. I hear Miss Bridget has committed suicide. I suppose it's the death of Mr. John has hastened her own. They were very fond of one another. He often spoke of her most kindly and affectionately. I'm sure he would never have married anybody while she was alive. He seemed to regard it as his duty to look after her. I admired him for it.'
There was nothing much more to ask about, so Littlejohn ordered a drink of the good ale he'd tried before and then left to find the Archdeacon.
The Reverend Caesar Kinrade had been doing some detective work on his own.
'I called at the office of the Croakes' lawyers. They're my own, too. Kallen, Kinrade and Co. Michael Kinrade is a n
ephew of mine. He says John Charles made a new Will in 1954, just after Dr. Edward Croake died, and hasn't altered it since. He also told me that John Charles was in his office only a week ago and never mentioned his Will. He'd surely have said something about it, however casual, if he'd intended getting married or including Jenny Walmer as beneficiary.'
'That's true, parson, and I'm grateful to you for finding it out. If the Walmers didn't benefit under his Will, they'd not much to kill him for, had they?'
'That is a strange sentiment, Littlejohn! You surely don't think they were involved in the crime.'
'I don't know, sir. I'm thoroughly confused about the whole thing.'
'Let's go and find some lunch. Perhaps we'll think clearer after it.'
They lunched at an hotel on the promenade and when it was over strolled along the long, colourful stretch of seafront, enjoying the fine day and the sun. The beach was crowded with sunbathers, the promenade animated and gay. In the distance, the incoming boat from Liverpool was making for harbour across a placid sea.
'Shall we take a stroll round the town, parson?'
'Shopping?'
'No. Trying to find out what John Charles Croake did after he left his car at the car-park last Saturday. The attendant said his first port of call was the offices of the Mona Steamers at the quay. Let's begin there.'
A small office in a converted shop with a warehouse next door. They entered the office.
A barely furnished place. A counter, a desk, a table and a few chairs. Filing-cabinets, cupboards, and a large old safe. The walls were covered in notices fastened on by drawing-pins. Sailing schedules. The company owned two cargo boats, each of which made regular trips to the mainland twice a week, and odd journeys to Eire. Posters, large and flyblown, gave details in fine print of various shipping acts and regulations. There were advertisements there, too, praising Irish and English resorts.
A man rose from the desk and received them at the counter.
'Good day to you, Archdeacon.'
'Good day to you, Mr. Ponting . . .'
Mr. Ponting was a little, small-boned man with a bald head and a smooth pink face. About fifty or thereabouts. When he shook hands, it felt like gripping a piece of soft indiarubber. The boneless wonder! He'd always been ambitious and anxious to get on. Now, he was secretary of a line with two cargo boats and he had a staff composed of a girl of twenty-one, who was manicuring her nails at the desk, and a junior clerk who was, at present, out and about the town buying the components of afternoon tea and buns.
The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 10