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

by George Bellairs

  'Are you a sound sleeper?'

  'Yes, I must admit it. And I didn't propose to have my sleep spoiled by my uncle night-prowling. I always saw he got his full dose of sleeping-pills and took them. They were necessary for his state as well as to immobilise him while the rest were asleep.'

  'Did you hear Juan's dogs barking the other night?'

  'Yes. Juan shouting at them roused me more than the dogs themselves. I guess some prowler had got around. They do, you know, in the holiday season. They get roaring drunk and can't find their way home and then go roaming the countryside.'

  'That's a bit overdone, isn't it? They'd hardly get as far as Ballacroake. Who else might it have been?'

  'I haven't the foggiest notion.'

  He rose as though ready to go.

  'You haven't any views on your uncle's death?'

  'I've already expressed them. I think the teddy-boy did it. Who else could it have been? It's what you'd call an open-and-shut case, isn't it?'

  'No. We must remember that whilst the teddy-boy approached your Uncle John from the front, there was an unlocked side-door to the Bishop's Arms at his back.'

  'But wasn't he stabbed in the chest from the front?'

  'Yes. But who's to say he hadn't been stabbed when he lurched into the street and almost fell into the arms of the man who was trying to steal his pocket-book?'

  'I'm sure I don't know. But what I do know is, that the thefts of the porcelain aren't connected in any way with my uncle's murder.'

  'How do you know?'

  'That would involve the family in it. Which is absurd.'

  They were indeed a closely knit family, the Croakes. They'd see an innocent crook hang rather than admit that any of them could have killed another member of the clan, either by accident or design.

  Maggie Keggin showed her smiling face again.

  'Will Mr. Croake be staying to supper, sir?'

  'It will be a great pleasure if he will.'

  Croake excused himself. He had things to do and he thought he'd get back to Uncle Reuben, who had gone off for a drive with Uncle Zachary Finlo, a monthly event which he detested but had to endure. Uncle Zachary Finlo had a farm at Ballajora, which he let to a cousin and he made frequent visits there to see that it was being well run.

  'So, I'll do as you say, Superintendent. Put the figure back where I found it and you'll be there to pursue the matter tomorrow?'

  'That's right.'

  'I'm very grateful. I'll not forget. Thank you for your patience.'

  They saw him off at the gate. His little red car passed, at speed, another small vehicle also driven at speed across the bridge by a man in a slouch hat.

  'Here comes Knell for his supper. Won't Maggie Keggin be pleased!'

  14

  Feminine Gossip

  KNELL, WITH his usual industry, had been hard at it, gathering the information needed by Littlejohn and already he had a lot to tell the Superintendent before supper. The Archdeacon, however, would not allow him to impart it.

  'Maggie Keggin, knowing you were calling for a meal, Knell, has magnanimously provided one of your favourite menus. Game pie, followed by apple charlotte. It will be good manners to partake of it before starting a night's work . . .'

  And the good man ordered the meal to be served.

  When it was finished, Knell admitted that he felt more like tackling a murder case and, lubricated by an excellent port, discovered by a former Lord Bishop of Man and supplied by a grocer in Kirk Michael, he grew positively eloquent.

  'It looks as if we're on to something! '

  Dead silence as Knell waited for someone to ask what it was. Nobody did. The dog snored loudly and yapped at her dreams. Once, she even leapt up from sleep and chased a ghost round the room, subsided, and snored again.

  'It's true that Ross Bottomley was once an art master at a school in Colchester. But that's not all. Wait till you hear the job he had before that.'

  Knell looked round at them all to see if they were hanging on his words. Maggie Keggin entered and began to clear the table. Then she halted and stood looking at Knell expectantly. Their eyes met.

  'You might say if you liked your supper, Reginald Knell. It's like you to say nothing about it when I've specially prepared it for you.'

  'I'm sorry, Maggie. It was lovely and I thank you for it. I didn't intend to be rude. You see, I'm very busy, and I was just concentrating . . .'

  'Concentrating on what?'

  'A murder.'

  'It's funny, when the Inspector's here, you're always getting people murdered. When he's not here, you're busy reading the numbers of motor-cars that can't find places to park in, or else runnin'-in little boys who're doin' nothin' wrong . . .'

  She swept an enormous pile of dirty dishes on her tray and tottered away with it. Knell rose to open the door for her.

  'I don't need your help. I can manage myself very well, thank you.'

  Knell breathed heavily.

  'I've put my foot in it again. Where was I?'

  The Archdeacon opened his eyes.

  'You were waiting for us to ask you what Bottomley did before he taught art at Colchester. . . .'

  'He worked in the porcelain department of the Victoria and Albert museum in London.'

  Knell paused as though waiting for a round of applause. The dog leapt up, whining, and rushed for the door. They let her out and she followed the trail of cold game pie to the kitchen.

  'Good work!' said Littlejohn.

  The Archdeacon didn't seem impressed.

  'Are you asking us to believe that Bottomley modelled the fake figures himself?'

  'I'm not expecting anything of the kind, sir. I'm just suggesting that he knew the value of the real articles and might have wished to get hold of them himself. . . .'

  'And sell them and make his fortune?'

  Knell smiled archly.

  'I was coming to that. We 'phoned Liverpool police, as the Superintendent suggested, and in less than two hours, they seem to have visited all the local antique dealers and drawn a blank.'

  'Good work! '

  Knell rose, helped himself to more port, drank it off in two, and seemed much better.

  'But an antique dealer called Flewker, in Church Street, told them something very important. He told them that a man, answering Bottomley's description, had met an American at his shop by appointment. It seems the man is the representative of . . . of . . .'

  He consulted his large black notebook, snapped the elastic band in place decisively, and intoned the name.

  'Of . . . Of Devine, Mashiter & Co. Inc., Dealers in Fine Antiques, of New York. Bottomley has been selling him Dresden figures! '

  Everyone sat up.

  'I thought that would interest all of you.'

  'Have another glass of port, Knell. You've earned it.'

  'Thank you, sir. I don't mind if I do.'

  Knell was even more eloquent after that. Mrs. Littlejohn's knitting-needles clicked, like a metronome keeping time for a Greek chorus.

  'It seems this American buyer calls about once a month at Flewker's, which he sort of makes his headquarters when he's over. He buys antiques for the American market and this isn't the first time that Bottomley has sold him things. As a matter of fact, Flewker told the police he'd always thought Bottomley was in the antique trade himself.'

  'Has Bottomley been over there recently, Knell?'

  'About a fortnight ago, to meet the Yank. He sold him some figures. Flewker saw them afterwards. They were Meissens.'

  'Genuine stuff, like the figures at Ballacroake?'

  'I don't know that, but Flewker said they were very valuable. The American was delighted and it seems he and Bottomley arranged to meet again next time the man comes over.'

  'When is that likely to be?'

  'It should be next week, if the American comes over every month.'

  ' In which case, if Bottomley has been stealing the figures from Ballacroake, he'll have them hidden somewhere until he meets his
friend again in Liverpool.'

  'That's quite possible. We ought to get a search warrant and give his place the once-over.'

  'Where does he live?'

  'Just outside Douglas. At a place called Keristal. A bungalow above the cliffs on the Marine Drive. It's a wild place, but it seems to suit him.'

  'What about Walmer, Knell? Any news of his past?'

  'The brewery say that he's a record of service at sea. Merchant Navy in the last war and then when the war was over, he opened a second-hand junk-shop in Liverpool. Whilst he was doing that, he got interested in antiques and used to go off into North Wales, which, I understand, is a rich field for collectors. He'd gather them up and sell them to legitimate antique dealers. The police in Liverpool asked Flewker if he knew him. He said he did. It seems Walmer had a mania for Toby jugs and now he's got one of the finest private collections in the British Isles. He came over here after he'd had a fire in his Liverpool shop. Flewker hinted that Walmer might have set fire to the place himself . . .'

  'So we've two experts in antique figures at the Bishop's Arms. Add to that Mr. John Charles Croake, whose family have a fortune invested in porcelain figures, and we have a very pretty mystery. What were they up-to between them before John Charles got himself killed?'

  Knell looked confused, either by the port or the problem of the three men and their porcelain.

  'Could it be that Bottomley was thieving down at Ballacroake? Wasn't Nessie saying something about a ghost walking. It might have been Bottomley.'

  'It might.'

  It certainly might! He looked like a fantastic object that walked by night, with his thick glasses, his silly moustache, his cigarette holder, his yellow gloves and his stick.

  'He may try it on again, then. Do you think we ought to put a man on to watch the place?'

  'Not just yet, Knell. We'll hold our horses until the Archdeacon and I have been to Ballacroake tomorrow. We're taking Mrs. Littlejohn to inspect the little people . . .'

  Knell's jaw dropped. The only little people he knew were the fairies, and, as a Manxman, he placed great store by their friendship.

  'Miss Bridget Croake used to call her porcelain figures her little people . . .'

  'Oh, I see. Even if Bottomley burgles Ballacroake tonight, we'll get the loot back when we search his place, won't we?'

  'I hope so. Meanwhile, what about getting to know something more about Bottomley? We know he's been to Ballacroake and is aware of the existence of the valuable collection. But how does this tie in John Charles and his visits to the Bishop's Arms? Bottomley's a big pal of Walmer's and almost one of the family there.'

  Maggie Keggin had arrived with the coffee. The old clock in the hall had just struck eleven, and this was her intimation that it was time for Knell to go. A stirrup-cup. She laid out the cups and poured out the coffee.

  'I wonder if Bottomley's been indulging in a little blackmail with the Croake family. I wouldn't put it past him.'

  Maggie Keggin paused and gave Littlejohn a strange smile as he said it.

  'Why that enigmatic smile, Maggie?' said the Archdeacon.

  'I was just thinkin' of the day when Mr. John Charles Croake threw him out of Ballacroake. Picked him up and threw him right out into the front garden.'

  'Whatever for?'

  'He caught him tryin' to kiss Nessie in the hall. It must have been ten years ago, that. It was when the Reverend Archdeacon was vicar of Andreas. Bottomley suddenly got sweet on Nessie, who was a good-lookin'girl then. He wouldn't leave her alone. Mr. John Charles, who was a powerful man in those days, just threw him out like a sack of rubbish. It's all forgotten now, but at the time, Bottomley swore he'd get even.'

  'Who told you all this?'

  'Nessie and me were big friends at that time. We still are, but we don't see much of one another nowadays. She was housekeeper at Ballacroake and I was mindin' you, sir, at Andreas Vicarage.'

  'And you used to meet for a gossip, a li'l cooish, now and then.'

  'We did.'

  'Any other gossip you could tell us about the Croake family, which might help the Superintendent and Reginald in their investigations?'

  'You were saying about blackmail. Is that when you threaten to tell about someone if they don't pay you to keep quiet?'

  'An excellent definition, Maggie.'

  'Most families have somethin' they don't want others to know about, haven't they?'

  'That's true. What have you in mind, Maggie?'

  'The Croakes are no different than the rest, I suppose."

  'They could be blackmailed?'

  'I suppose so, by someborry who knew things about them.'

  The Archdeacon sat up in his armchair and frowned on Maggie Keggin.

  'Put that coffee-pot down, Maggie, and stop trying to be mysterious. If you've any secrets to tell the Superintendent, you can tell them here and now. Nobody of us is going to betray them. No need to look so hard at your second-cousin Reginald. You can depend on him, especially as he's one of your family. Well . . .?'

  'Well, it's well known that Red Juan Curghey wanted to marry Miss Bridget when they were young. She wanted him, too. She was lovely in those days. The family stopped it and she lost all her good looks after that. They tried to marry her off to someborry else, but she wouldn't. And Red Juan stayed on and was faithful to her all his life. It was a scandal and a shame. A daycent man, too . . .'

  'Yes; I think that's more or less common property among the gossips of the North, isn't it?'

  'Well, you asked me, Reverend Archdeacon . . .'

  'Can you tell us something we haven't heard before, Maggie?'

  She began to pluck at the strings of her apron nervously. The next revelation was obviously one of those things which daycent women didn't divulge in public gatherings, especially with men present. It was the sort of information whispered in corners, at sewing-meetings, or in the kitchens preparing for a tea party at the chapel, and unofficial judgment passed on it forthwith.

  Mrs. Littlejohn put down her knitting.

  'I'll give you a hand with the dishes, Maggie. It's late and time you were getting to bed, too.'

  They went off after bidding Knell good-night. Shortly afterwards, the Inspector left in his little car. Littlejohn stood at the door for a while after he'd seen him off.

  He could hear the river rushing under the little stone bridge and the swish of the trees as they caught the breeze in their spreading tops. Somewhere in the wastes of Moaney Mooar a dog was howling and a couple of owls were screeching at each other in Joe Henn's garden. His dog joined him at the door, licked his fingers, and then vanished into the garden for her final prowl among the trees. She yapped as she disturbed a rabbit which she didn't know how to harm. She joined her master and they went indoors.

  Mrs. Littlejohn and the Archdeacon were waiting for him. They were talking about Manx witches and she didn't seem to have mentioned any revelations made by Maggie Keggin in the process of washing-up.

  It was only as Littlejohn, first in bed, was finding a comfortable resting place for himself in the depths of the feather-bed, that she tapped him on the shoulder.

  'I almost forgot, Tom. Maggie Keggin told me something over the dirty dishes in the kitchen before she went to bed. The sort of thing that a respectable Victorian lady blushes to mention in front of men . . .'

  Littlejohn sat up.

  'Well? I'll put the light out if you'd feel better telling me in the dark.'

  'It's just that John Charles Croake sowed a few wild oats in his youth. There was a scandalous affair with a married woman, which was hushed up. It caused a ferment at Ballacroake . . .'

  15

  The Tormentors

  THE ARCHDEACON had heard nothing of the scandal in the life of John Charles Croake, so the secret must have been very well hushed-up by the family. Over breakfast, Littlejohn told the parson what Maggie Keggin had disclosed to his wife the night before.

  'There's only one thing to do. If it turns out to be a mere piec
e of feminine imagination, we'll be foolish to pursue it. But, if it's true, it may lead to a solution for us. We'd better pay a call on old Jasper Clucas Kallen . . .'

  'Who'd he be, sir?'

  'John Charles's lawyer. He and I were at school and Cambridge together. He's turned eighty and only does a few hours' work a day now, looking after the affairs of special people of his own age. He's jealous of me because I won't die before him.'

  Littlejohn longed for a bit of peace. As far as he could see, the case was as far away from a solution as ever. Now, another exhausting lead had presented itself, perhaps to peter out like the rest. Jasper Clucas Kallen. It sounded like a name invented for the villain in a melodrama.

  Outside, it was raining. Straight, gentle rain, which made the air scented with the perfume of wet leaves and eager garden flowers. A soft morning, which tempted you for a long walk under dripping trees and through the wet grass.

  Instead, they were off to see Jasper Clucas Kallen!

  They drove to Douglas. It was still raining and seemed to have set-in for the day. Instead of looking depressed, the holiday-makers they passed on the way were out in their plastic raincoats or without any rainwear at all. After the heavy heat of recent days culminating in yesterday's thundery damp, the air was refreshing and the rain sweet.

  In Athol Street, among the advocates' offices, the Archdeacon indicated a converted Georgian house with a bright brass plate on the door jamb whence by time and energetic polishing, the names had almost been worn away. Kallen, Kinrade, Kallen & Kewley.

  The offices were of another world, another century. You almost expected to see men in peg-top trousers and beaver hats and women in crinolines knocking around. Instead, a pretty girl with a hair-do like a bee-hive met them.

  'Mr. Kallen, senior, please.'

  'With pleasure, Archdeacon.'

  In spite of the beatnik bee-hive, the girl was all smiles and good manners. The Archdeacon had christened her nineteen years before. But, of course, she'd had no hair at all then and had howled all through the ceremony.

  The Reverend Caesar Kinrade recognised her quickly, patted her on the beehive, and asked her how she was. She said she was very well, thank you, and hoped he was the same, and straight away led him and Littlejohn to a room on the ground floor.