The Superintendent was in Littlejohn’s room reciting all the details in a bewildered, apologetic fashion. He seemed to feel that he was responsible for the lack of clues. Before his arrival Cromwell had given his chief a brief report on his labours since they parted.
“It’s quite obvious that we must concentrate our enquiries here in Mervin,” said Littlejohn. “With Harry Keast shot dead on our doorstep it’s no use running far and wide and wasting our energies.”
They were having afternoon tea at a table by the window. It was warm and sunny outside. The fuss created by Keast’s violent death had died down. Father O’Shaughnessy and Shearwater had just come in and had joined the rest in the lounge for tea. People had settled down to their holiday routine again. Nothing exciting might have happened. The hotel lounge had a large alcoved bow-window and from where he was sitting, Littlejohn could see the priest and his companion drinking their tea and telling a long tale to the assembled guests.
“One thing I’d like you to do, Bowater. Get some of your men on thoroughly examining Bolter’s Hole at low tide. And you go with them, Cromwell, please. Nothing might result from it. On the other hand, you might strike something….”
“Such as … ?” said Bowater. He was out of his depth entirely.
“I don’t quite know. But it’s been the centre of two murders now and we’ve neglected the topography of that part a bit. Meanwhile, could I see Shearwater? Don’t let the priest come with him. I want a word with him alone.”
Mrs. Littlejohn had gone for tea downstairs by way of a change and the two police officers left Littlejohn alone as they went off to their jobs. The Inspector gazed vacantly through the window and down the road which ran along the quayside and finally petered out in a path leading to the golf-links. They were improving and widening the road and there was a watchman there at night to keep an eye on the roadmenders’ tackle. He had just come on duty and was busy overhauling and filling the red lamps. Littlejohn’s eyes narrowed and he nodded to himself….
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” called the Inspector, and gulped down the last of his tea. A moment’s hesitation and then the door opened. It was Shearwater.
He looked greyer and more bent than ever.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, Inspector.”
Shearwater was apprehensive. You could tell by the tone of his voice that he expected the worst.
“Sit down, Mr. Shearwater. Just a word or two about this fresh murder. You were with Father O’Shaughnessy when it happend, I believe.”
“Yes, we were together. I stayed with the body when O’Shaughnessy went for help.”
“Have you known the priest long?”
“No. We met about a fortnight ago. Both on our own, so got friendly.”
Littlejohn filled his pipe slowly.
“Do you mind passing me the matches from the table there? Thanks. How long have you been in Mervin, Mr. Shearwater?”
“A little over six months. Why?”
Shearwater had been a bit apathetic until now, but suddenly realised that he was being questioned instead of allowed to tell his tale of the afternoon’s happenings. He looked put-out.
“Why am I being questioned on personal matters? It’s nothing to do with the case, has it? I’m not suspected….”
“No. But the bishop was your brother-in-law, wasn’t he?”
You could have heard a pin drop. Outside the guests were scattering after tea. Father O’Shaughnessy appeared among the loungers on the terrace. He cast his eye up to Littlejohn’s room and waved at the inspector. The priest certainly didn’t miss much.
“Who told you that?”
Shearwater was trying to bluff it out, but his very manner answered the question.
“Never mind. You are Mr. Rupert Creer, aren’t you, sir?”
“I was. But I changed my name legally. The family didn’t want anything to do with me; and I was the same about them. I changed it to make a clean start.”
“When did you return from … let me see, Africa, was it?”
“Yes. Rhodesia. About six months ago, I said.”
“And came right here.”
“Had a week or two in London making arrangements and then settled in Mervin. Where is all this leading to?”
“Did you meet your sister and brother-in-law when they were here?”
“I met my sister, but not the bishop.”
“That’s funny, isn’t it?”
“I kept out of his way. He always disliked me. It wasn’t difficult dodging James. His routine was very fixed. He went out a lot walking alone.”
“Where?”
“Mainly the golf-links and beyond. It’s very quiet and he seemed to want it quiet.”
“You met your sister, you say. Often?”
“Two or three times. I tried to keep out of her way, too, but we bumped into each other one day on the stairs. I’ve changed a bit but she recognised me at once.”
“You told her you’d be keeping out of the bishop’s way?”
“Naturally….”
The evening sun was hot and the view across the water very beautiful. Littlejohn sighed and wished he could have had a peaceful holiday. All this mix-up …! He leaned and opened the casement, letting in the noises of the quay. The watchman was still clattering about with his lamps and one of the yachts moored to the jetty had a wireless-set going. Dance music. People were trying to dance a bit on the deck on which you couldn’t whip a cat round.
“Did your sister tell you anything about your brother-in-law?”
“Oh, they were here for a rest for him. He’d been overdoing it. I did see him without speaking to him. He looked a bit queer to me.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“A bundle of nerves …”
“Naturally. He was here for nervous strain.”
“Yes, but it looked more than that. They’ve always been a queer family, the Macintoshes. Jim had a sort of tick of the face. Kept twitching and I saw him sort of kicking himself on the calf with the other foot as he walked. You know, just as though he were itching and rubbing it. You know what I mean….”
“Yes. And those long walks alone. Did you ever meet him?”
“No. Why should I? Look here, are you thinking I killed him? Because I’ve got an alibi. Father O’Shaughnessy …”
“Yes, I know. He’s your alibi for both murders. He was putting you to bed when the first occurred and walking with you when Keast was killed.”
“Yes. Why should I want to murder my brother-in-law? I grant we didn’t hit it but …”
“What about the bishop, though? You gave him little reason for liking you. In fact, I should think he’d hate the very sight of you.”
“What’s somebody been telling you?”
“I know why you left the country years ago, Mr. Shearwater.”
“Well, I’d nothing to do with either of the crimes, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going.”
Life must have dealt hardly with Creer, alias Shearwater. The man whom Littlejohn had imagined as a gay philanderer in his young days had become prematurely aged and timid and shifty-looking. A bit of a soak, too, from all accounts.
As he reached the door, however, Shearwater drew himself up. His dull eyes glinted as he faced Littlejohn and he squared his shoulders.
“I did hear,” he said clearly. “I did hear that Jim got a bit rough on Evelyn in his queer moods. Didn’t speak to her for days and neglected her. By God! if he’d touched a hair of her head I would have killed him. She’s had quite enough with that family….”
“What do you mean, quite enough?”
“Have you seen her?”
“Yes….”
“And have you seen his family?”
“Yes, why?”
“Once there wasn’t a more vivacious girl in the county. Riding, dancing, high-spirits…. All the Creers were that way. What was she when you saw her? A faded, tired, middle-aged woman
. The Macintoshes did that to her. Repressed and tortured her between them. What a different life she’d have had if she’d married Frank Tennant….”
“Tennant? That Judge Tennant?”
“Yes. He wanted her, too. Still a bachelor.”
“Has he been telling you things?”
“Certainly not. Frank’s not that sort. But he’d have given her the place and happiness she ought to have had. He’d taste, position, culture, breadth of mind and above all, kindliness, sweet sanity and an outlook akin to Evelyn’s. Now, if he still loves her, and I know he does, he can come into his own if it’s not too late….”
“You knew he was staying here?”
“Yes. He comes here a lot. Of course, I didn’t know when I booked rooms here, any more than I knew that Evelyn and Jim were coming….”
“Seems a bit of a coincidence….”
“What are you getting at? I guess Tennant perhaps came to get a look at Evelyn and see was she all right, but I was established here when they all arrived.”
Littlejohn sat alone for a bit when Shearwater had gone. The evening sun shone across the water like molten gold. A string of little pleasure boats bobbed across the bay and turned in to the harbour to tie-up for the night. They were still dancing on the yacht by the pier and the watchman on the road was trying to light a fire in his brazier.
A maid entered the room to clear away the tea-things.
“Just hand me that pad and pencil on the mantelpiece, will you, please?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Littlejohn scribbled a note.”
Mr. Littlejohn at the hotel would like a word or two with you. Come up right away. It will mean ten shillings for you.
“Please give that to a page, will you? Tell him to take it to the watchman down on the road there and bring him back with him and show him the way to my room.”
“Very good, sir.”
The maid looked surprised. What was the Inspector doing wanting a disreputable night-watchman up at Cape Mervin Hotel? She shrugged to herself, gathered the tea-things and left.
Littlejohn watched the page in his violet uniform hurry down the drive to the road. The watchman took the note hesitantly, turned it over and round and round in his hand and then decided to read it. It took a long time before he grasped what it was about. He seemed to be arguing the point with the page, who pointed back at the hotel. The man indicated his lamps and swept his arm in the direction of the barrows and shovels he was supposed to be guarding. Littlejohn smiled as he thought he wouldn’t be quite so fussy and diligent when the pubs opened.
The man and boy were on their way, one brisk and trying to look haughty and businesslike; the other shambling along, slowly and a bit resentfully, as though showing he was making the journey under protest and just to oblige. The ten shillings had probably done the trick.
The watchman looked bewildered when he entered Littlejohn’s room. So did Mrs. Littlejohn who had just come up to see that everything was all right.
“Sit down,” said Littlejohn. “I’m a police Inspector and I’m seeking information about what happened on the road the night the Bishop of Greyle was murdered. Remember it?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said the visitor.
He was a little man with an overgrowth of thick grey stubble covering the lower part and sides of his face. His eyes were pale blue and bleary and one looked to have a cataract growing over it. He wore corduroy trousers, an old serge jacket and twiddled his cap in his hands.
“You were on duty on the night of the crime?”
“Yes, but …”
“In your hut?”
“Yes, but…”
“Did you leave it at all?”
“Not after hal’ past ten. I went fer a drink then, but come back and stopped …”
“Did anybody pass after that on the way to the golf links?”
“Yes, but …”
“But what?”
“They’s allus a lot passes. Proper courtin’ shop those links is. Me and me missus went up so long since. Goings-on up there….”
“Never mind that. Did you know the Bishop of Greyle?”
“Not as such, but ’ad ’im pinted out to me. Didn’t sort o’ wear bishop’s leggin’s, but ’ad a purple dickey on instead of a black’un like other parsons….”
“Did you see him pass your hut on the night of the crime?”
“No. It was dark. Too dark to reckernise anybody who passed.”
There was something funny about the fellow. The way he set his mouth. His lips grew tight as each question was asked and he chewed the insides of his lips nervously before he answered. He looked like one who’s been told to keep his mouth shut.
“Do you know Mr. Shearwater who’s staying here?”
There was a flicker of hesitancy and then the man worked his jaws again, chewing away.
“No. Don’t know nobody ’ere. Not my sort. Toffs, they’re supposed to be, though to see what some of ’em do, you wouldn’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothin’.”
“Come on, now….”
“Nothin’.”
“Did you know Harry Keast?”
“Yes. Bloody shame somebody done ’im in….”
“Who’d want to do him in?”
“Don’t ask me. That’s yore job to find out.”
Still evasion. Like getting blood out of a stone.
“There’s a telephone-box just at the hotel gates. Can you see it from your cabin?”
“Yes. Only patch o’ light on the quay on this side after they put out the lights at eleven.”
“Did you see anybody telephoning there on the night of the murder? Later on, I mean. Say about eleven.”
The man didn’t answer. He fumbled with his cap and looked down at his large boots.
“Come now. I promised you ten shillings, but this isn’t earning it. You can’t even answer a civil question properly.”
The thought of losing his ten bob stung the man into a bit of activity. He thought gravely for a bit, his jaws still moving.
“Yes. I see somebody.”
At last!
“Who was it?”
Littlejohn asked the question quietly, as though afraid to frighten the fellow back in his shell.
“’arry Keast.”
‘’‘Harry Keast!”
“Yes. Knew him by his cap. Plain as a … plain as a … Wore it back to front.”
“H’m. Well here’s your money and thank you for coming.”
The man shambled off, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, stimulated no doubt by the spare cash. He didn’t even say good night.
Littlejohn sunk his head on his chest. He was weary.
Lots of possibles, but no probables until suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, comes the tale of the man who telephoned. Harry Keast again. And Harry had got himself murdered that very afternoon!
Littlejohn asked Letty to telephone to Bowater and ask him to have the watchman watched, in case he tried to contact someone he was shielding.
“I expect he’ll put a big, flatfooted bobby on the job, and scare the quarry off. So, please tell him to have his most inconspicuous plain-clothes chap on, will you? Watching the watchman! That’s a good one. Like taking care of the caretaker’s daughter while the caretaker’s busy taking care….”
“Whatever’s the matter with you, Tom?”
“I don’t quite know myself….”
He certainly didn’t. He felt light-headed a bit. But suddenly cheerful. Just as he always did before some bright thought or intuition on a case came to him.
“Run along and tell Bowater, there’s a good girl.”
He nodded off whilst she was away and she let him sleep a bit when she returned. The dinner gong wakened him. He looked through the window.
“My God! Come here, Letty….”
Along the road from the town to the quay was approaching a plain-clothes man with ‘copper’ written
over every inch of him. From where the Littlejohn’s were watching, you could almost see his regulation boots.
With ostentatious nonchalance the officer approached the watchman’s hut.
“Now what’s he going to do?” said Littlejohn with a chuckle. He might not have been on the case, but watching a farce on the stage.
Still devil-may-care, the plain-clothes man entered the telephone kiosk and pretended to telephone, his eye all the time on the watchman. The latter was cooking a kipper on a spike over his fire and didn’t notice anything.
Littlejohn hobbled down to dinner. The ’tec was still telephoning and the watchman, having cooked his kipper started to eat it with his fingers, gnawing bread from a large chunk to help it down.
CHAPTER XV
THE “PATRICK CREEGAN”
HARRY KEAST’S home was one of a row of cottages in North Street. An untidy dark woman with a baby in her arms opened the door after Littlejohn knocked. She had been weeping and looked at the Inspector in dazed enquiry. Then she invited him in.
“I’m Mr. Keast’s daughter. We don’t live here, but I come down to see to mother.”
The house had two up and two down. A large room in front and a smaller kitchen behind. There was a bed in one corner of the living-room.
“Mother’s been an invalid for years. She can’t get upstairs, so we have to have the bed down here.”
A pale thin face and two small, almost transparent hands showed over the white counterpane. Bottles of medicine on a side table and a bunch of wildflowers in a pot on the mantelpiece. For the rest, cheap odds and ends of furniture. A few family photographs on the walls and some lustres and an old case-clock on the sideboard. The place was overflowing with furniture, which the bed had packed into one side. A big fire was burning. The room was hot, stuffy and unhealthy.
The old lady lay in her bed like someone in a trance.
“She can’t realise it,” said her daughter. “She’ll not last long now….”
“Is it the Pastor?” asked a feeble voice.
“No, mother, it’s a gentleman from the police come enquiring about dad.”
“He’s a good man, is your dad. I’m sure he’d never do anybody any harm….”
“There, now. Try to sleep, mam. Here, I’ll give you your medicine.”
The Case of the Famished Parson (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 11