The girl announced them and whispered as she left them, 'Speak loudly. His hearing's not as good as it used to be.'
Mr. Jasper Clucas Kallen was sitting very upright in a large swivel armchair, padded and with a high back. He was very old. He seemed to have hardly any eyelashes and was almost bald as well. Yet, the eyes were very much alive and sparkled maliciously as the pair of them entered. Littlejohn found it difficult to believe that Mr. Kallen and the Archdeacon had been boys together.
'Good morning, Clucas.'
'Good morning, Caesar. And you've no need to shout. My hearing's quite good. You're not looking very well, Caesar. You ought to take more care of yourself. You're not as young as you were, you know.'
Littlejohn realised that it was a pious hope. Like a runner in a race, with only one man between him and the tape, who wishes his rival would trip and measure his length on the course. The Archdeacon was the picture of health. Mr. Kallen's skin was tight and shining, and the bones of his skull were faintly visible through it.
'What are you after, Caesar? Want to make another Will? And who's this you've got with you?'
The Archdeacon introduced them.
'Aha. Something about John Charles Croake's murder, I'll bet. Well, don't forget I'm a lawyer, Caesar, and I'm bound to secrecy about my clients' affairs. So precious little you'll get out of me.'
He paused to take breath.
'Sit down. You're too old to be on your feet too much. What do you want?'
He blinked his eyes rapidly several times and licked his dry lips. Treated diplomatically, it might not be a difficult matter to get him to talk.
'You've guessed it, Clucas. It's about Croake.'
Mr. Kallen hooked his hand round his ear the better to hear what was being said.
'Speak up, Caesar. Your voice is getting feeble with age and it's hard to tell what you're talking about with all your mumbling. Croake, did you say? John Charles? What about him?'
'Was John Charles involved in a scandal some years ago? A scandal with a woman?'
Mr. Kallen looked like a wasp about to attack a ripe plum. He was getting ready to enjoy himself.
'You ought to know better, Caesar, than ask questions of that type. You know that matters between a lawyer and his clients are sacred. I can't answer your enquiry.'
The Archdeacon's eyes flashed.
'In that case, I'll turn you over to Superintendent Littlejohn, Clucas. He is investigating a case of murder. The murder of John Charles Croake. I agree about your customers' business being sacred. Even if you are a superannuated lawyer. But you also owe a duty to justice as an officer of the law. If at all possible, you ought to divulge anything you know which might result in the murderer being brought to book.'
The lawyer's eyes glinted maliciously again. Littlejohn saw that if he let this battle between the two old men get started, it was going to persist for hours. He cut in quickly.
'The police are, at present, trying to discover if John Charles Croake was being subjected to blackmail at the time of his death, sir.'
Mr. Jasper Clucas Kallen fixed Littlejohn with his dry gaze and then smiled artfully. He thrust his head forward and chuckled. Now, he looked like a jocular old tortoise.
'I like you, Superintendent Little-what's-your-name. My old friend Caesar is growing senile to the extent of indiscretion. You, on the other hand, know what you want. You said blackmail?'
'Yes, sir. If, in confidence and within the bounds of your discretion you could indicate incidents of a nature leading to blackmail, I'd be very grateful. . . .'
The lawyer wriggled in his padded chair and made chewing movements with his jaws.
'I have no right whatsoever to divulge to policemen, inquisitive clergymen, or anyone else, the secrets of my clients. I therefore cannot give you any direct help. I will, however, venture to give you a push in the right direction. Go and ask the same question of Margaret Foster-Leneve. She may be able to help you. That's all . . . And now it's time I had my malted milk. So I'll ask you to excuse me. Glad to see you both. I hope, Caesar, you'll soon be feeling better.'
And he rang the bell and asked the girl with the beehive to show them safely to the street.
'It's a long time since you and I came first and second in the mile, isn't it, Caesar? I was first; you second . . .'
'Your memory's failing, old friend. I was first.'
'I'm not going to argue with you, Caesar. It's childish to argue at our age and it might bring a stroke on you. Goodbye, then . . . Where's my malted milk . . .?'
Out in the street it felt like stepping back to the present after a spell in the late 1850s. The Archdeacon looked upset.
'Clucas Kallen's in his dotage. It disturbs me to find him so obstinate and losing his faculties. Margaret Foster-Leneve lives up-town. We'd better go in the car. Which doesn't mean I can't walk it with ease, in spite of Kallen's jibes. I'm in a hurry to hear what she has to tell us. I wouldn't put it past that old reprobate to telephone her and advise her against helping us.'
'Who is she?'
'An island aristocrat and, until ten days ago, the wife of a very eminent archaeologist. Margaret is now a widow. It's a bit awkward asking her, so early in her widowhood, to delve into the past. All the same, this matter is urgent. It's taking us far too long to solve the crime . . .'
Another square, old-fashioned house in a garden of old trees and matured lawns. The door was set back in a large, square, pillared porch and when Littlejohn rang the bell, it was answered by yet another elderly woman in cap and apron, who looked ready to defend the place against all comers. She smiled when she saw the Archdeacon and bobbed a bit of a curtsy to him. He had prepared her for confirmation over forty years ago.
'Good mornin', Venerable Archdeacon, sir. It's good to be puttin' a sight on ye. Were you callin' on Mrs. Foster-Leneve?'
'If you please, Rosie. And how are you?'
'Middlin', sir. Come along in. She's very low and will be pleased to see ye, I'm sure.'
The hall was heavily and magnificently panelled and hung almost from top to bottom with framed drawings and photographs of the results of the archaeological researches of the late Mr. Foster-Leneve. Ancient stone crosses ornamented with ring chain and interlaced decorations, the sculptures of Gaut, the greatest of Norse stone carvers. Carved slabs commemorating Norse heroes and gods. Photographs of excavated Viking ships. Pictures of Manx castles, models of roundhouses, sketches of ancient burial grounds and tombs . . . Scattered about the floor were cursing and swearing stones, slabs inscribed with ogams and later inscriptions, old burial stones and the keystones of ancient churches. Then, in contrast, along the remaining wall, a lot of ancient Egyptian odds and ends. The Archdeacon was lost in contemplation and seemed about to forget the reason of his visit, in spite of his earlier impatience.
A tall, handsome woman of sixty or thereabouts suddenly appeared at the door of one of the rooms, made a joyful noise of greeting, rushed to the Archdeacon, and took his hand in both her own, and burst into tears.
It may have been his beard, or his kindly eyes, or his general appearance of soothing serenity, but whatever it was, the appearance of the Rev. Caesar Kinrade always seemed to make the afflicted weep. He comforted her. 'There, there, Margaret,' and she at once cheered up and invited them to take coffee with her.
Littlejohn left the Archdeacon to break the ice of the interview.
'We've just been to see Clucas Kallen, Margaret. I must tell you candidly, that we were there in an effort to persuade him to inform us if he knew anything in the life of John Charles Croake or any of the Croake family, for that matter, which might give rise to blackmail . . . Some scandal, for example, or some indiscretion which might have got known to some unscrupulous. . . .'
He didn't get any further. Mrs. Foster-Leneve was pouring out the coffee. She turned deathly pale, carefully placed the silver coffee-pot on the table, and conveniently fainted across the couch.
After eighty years of life, sixty of them spent in
comforting and ministering to the distressed, the Rev. Caesar Kinrade showed no distress himself. He dipped his handkerchief in the water of a large rosebowl, placed a cushion under the unconscious lady's head, and gently slapped her face with the wet linen. She made gasping noises, sat upright and apologised.
'I'm so sorry. It came as a great shock to hear you mention the death of John Charles Croake and the unpleasant word of blackmail. Would you care to look at the flowers in the conservatory, Superintendent Littlejohn, whilst I have a moment's private conversation with my old friend?'
Littlejohn, who had already noticed a riot of huge begonias and assorted fuchsias in the greenhouse beyond a glass door at the end of the room, said he would very much like to spend a little time among them. He was not exaggerating. In his boyhood, his grandfather at Ulverston had pursued a mania for spending his time in his greenhouses, which he raised to tropical temperatures for the benefit of cucumbers, tomatoes, passion-flowers and other exotic plants. The very scent of hothouses always brought back happy memories to the Superintendent and the delights of stolen fruits; peaches, small oranges, the fruits of egg-plants. Once, in his grandparent's absence, he had stolen and eaten a whole cucumber, and been removed to the cottage hospital with suspected appendicitis.
The Archdeacon quickly joined him.
'Mrs. Foster-Leneve asks if you'd like to leave us alone for a long chat, Littlejohn. Not, she says, that she doesn't trust you, but the matters she wishes to talk about would embarrass her so much if she confessed them to anyone but me, that she'd not be able to talk freely. I think it would be best for you to agree.'
'Of course. I'll take a little run round Douglas and rest from thinking about the Croake case. . . .'
They arranged to meet again at the Inis Falga Club in time for lunch.
Outside, the rain had ceased and the sun was drying up the town. Everybody seemed to have turned out at once along the promenade. The place was packed from end to end with holidaymakers celebrating the return of good weather again. Children were paddling along the edge of the incoming tide and there were bathers in the water.
Littlejohn drove slowly through the crowds to Onchan Head. The Fun Fair was in full blast, fortune-tellers were busy, and a hypnotist was giving a show in a marquee. The fairground was massed with people. The weather had changed for the better too late for morning excursions, and they were filling-in the time before lunch. The rides were all busy, many of them jammed to capacity with screaming sensation-seekers and the sideshows were flourishing.
Littlejohn had never been there before. He parked the car and mixed with the crowds. He even felt like taking a ride on the dodgems; the spirit of the place seemed to infect him. He fired a lot of shots at a rifle-range. His rifle was faulty, but after several wides, he was able to adjust his shooting and landed a couple of bulls. He drew his winnings in bars of chocolate. At the coconut-shy he failed to dislodge several nuts which seemed to be screwed down, but finally knocked one over and carried it away under his arm. He was at the Inis Falga Club in time to meet the parson.
The place was half-full, but they found a quiet table in a corner. The Archdeacon had obviously had a successful interview with Mrs. Foster-Leneve and had much to tell him.
'I am amazed at how well the secret has been kept. It is like a story in a novelette. Mrs. Foster-Leneve agreed that I might tell you what she confessed to me. I explained to her that we had suspicions that the teddy-boy might not have been responsible for the death of John Charles Croake. I told her again that you thought he was being subjected to blackmail, although I must say, I was surprised when you used the word. What was he being blackmailed about and how did you arrive at the conclusion?'
'You have probably learned what it was about, sir. I got the idea that he might have been involved that way because he was paying off, not in cash, but in valuable Dresden figures. We now know that Bottomley was selling figures to American buyers. Croake was certainly not selling them to Bottomley. The Croakes aren't short of money. I got the hunch that Bottomley had some sort of hold over him and wouldn't take cash. He could do better with the figures. The rendezvous was at the Bishop's Arms and Croake took the figures there. That accounts for the well-known teetotaller being found frequenting a pub. There had to be a public explanation for this. So someone put around the rumour that Croake was sweet on the landlord's daughter. She never admitted it; neither did the Croake family. Someone, and I think it was Bottomley, had so firm a hold over Croake that he made him surrender his sister's collection of figures at a place where Croake would get a maximum of humiliation. Vulgarly, he made him sweat. And why? I think because, when Bottomley took a fancy to Nessie at Ballacroake and began to hang about the place, Croake threw him out bodily. To a little madman like Bottomley, that was an unforgivable affront.'
They ordered lunch and after the first course the Archdeacon began his tale.
'Margaret Foster-Leneve was the only child of a very wealthy Manxman, Frank Baron Curwen. He left her all he had, estimated at about half a million, earned in the Australian goldfields. He came back home to end his days. Foster-Leneve was a well-known explorer and archaeologist. He'd been up the Amazon, travelled in the Congo, and made a name for himself in the Valley of the Nile. Over thirty years ago, he first came to the Island with a university party surveying gallery-graves. They were here, on and off, for two years. During that time, he met and married Margaret Curwen. Foster-Leneve was then a handsome man and, I gather, almost penniless. In between his excursions, he lived extravagantly and, although his wife didn't know it when she married him, was a rake who couldn't resist a good-looking woman. She had evidence of this before they'd been married long. He'd obviously married her for her money. She, being high-church and opposed to divorce, took no steps to free herself from him . . .'
As this climax was reached, the club bore intervened, crossed to their table, shook hands with the Archdeacon, insisted on being introduced to Littlejohn, started to discuss the Croake case and many others in which he seemed to have participated, and finally asked to be allowed to join them for lunch. This was too much for the Venerable Archdeacon.
'Some other time, Benjamin. Some other time. We're at present engaged on private business, which can't be delayed. I'm sorry . . .'
The bore looked sorry, too, but he took the rebuff in a good spirit. He said he quite understood and tiptoed away, as though trying to escape without being caught. He joined another solitary diner, a bank manager, and spoiled his lunch.
'The marriage was a strange one. Foster-Leneve was absent half his time exploring abroad. He returned now and then when he was short of money. Finally, he went off to Patagonia for almost twelve months. The pair of them had then been married four years and Mrs. Foster-Leneve had lived most of the time like the single woman she was before her husband turned-up. Now, this is where John Charles Croake enters the picture. . . .'
The waiter entered the picture too, and his solicitude and the length of time he took in meticulously attending to the Archdeacon almost wore away the good man's patience.
'We ought not to have come here at all! We ought to have taken sandwiches and eaten them in a quiet part of the country where we wouldn't have been disturbed . . . I was saying, John Charles now enters the drama. People often wondered why he never married. If what Mrs. Foster-Leneve says is true and isn't a product of her romantic imagination, he was in love with her all his life and never married because of it. Manxmen are often slow in declaring their affections, and it seems John Charles delayed too long and Foster-Leneve beat him to the post. So much the worse for everybody. Not long after our explorer friend left for Patagonia, John Charles and Margaret met on a charity committee, which was held every week. Their seats, it seems, were adjacent, and soon they began lunching together, now and then, at a quiet hotel off the beaten track. What puzzles me is, how did they manage it without being caught out! The Manx capacity for detecting such irregularities is usually phenomenal. However, Mrs. Foster-Leneve confesses that soo
n their moral scruples were drowned in a gust of passion. They were quickly involved in a secret love affair. It did not last long. She soon found she was pregnant and the commotion of dealing with such a grave and illicit emergency seems to have separated them for ever. . . .'
'By jove! It does sound like a penny novelette, as you say, parson.'
'Jam pudding, sherry trifle, ices, or cheese, gentlemen?'
The waiter was back, offering his wares.
'Whatever you say, Herbert.'
'As you don't seem keen about any of them, I'll do my best to get some strawberries and cream, Reverend . . .'
'Penny novelette or not, the pair of them seem to have arranged matters very efficiently. Margaret left almost at once for a village in the South of France, where the child was born. It was a boy. John Charles must have taken his family into his confidence, which is easily understood. They are a very close lot, tightly bound to each other. Edward Croake was practising as a doctor in Birmingham at the time. He was married, but they had no children; nor were any likely, for his wife was, even then, suffering from the complaint which later grew more grave and resulted in her eventual death. Edward and his wife adopted the child. Joseph Croake was that child. I don't know whether or not he knows it. Probably not. Telling him that his mother was one of the wealthiest and most respected women on the Isle of Man, to say nothing about his paternity, must have been quite a fine point, a problem.'
There were no strawberries and cream, so the waiter brought strawberry ices with his apologies. He later told them in the kitchen that the Archdeacon was ageing fast and breaking up. He'd asked for butter and biscuits to eat with his ice cream!
'. . . Now to tell you where the blackmail comes in . . .'
'Did Margaret and John Charles start a correspondence about the whole business, sir?'
'How did you know that?'
'They always do in blackmail cases . . . and in crime stories.'
'You're right. She must have written to him from a village near Grasse to tell him of her safe arrival. How frequently they corresponded I can't say, but he wrote to her suggesting she divorced her husband and married him. She kept that letter. Again, he wrote after news of the child's birth. He asked her again about a divorce. She gave her reason, which I mentioned before. He later wrote about the idea of adoption by Edward and his wife. This delighted her and she agreed. In all, she kept six of his letters. They were locked in a drawer of her desk. Five weeks ago, they disappeared.'
The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 16