“I don’t know. What do you think of Mr. Dunblow, if it’s a fair question?”
“Between you and me, not so much. He’s panting for retirement and very fed-up and disappointed that he’s not got on faster to get a bigger pension. A bit slack now, you know. Things’ll be tightened up when he goes, I’ll tell you. Mr. Medlicott’ll stand no messin’.”
“Very efficient?”
“I’ll say. Mind you, I won’t say Mr. Dunblow would do anything wrong. But at a job like this, if you’re slack, people get to know and take advantage. There’s not much shipping here luckily, but if Dunblow and Medlicott were on duty at say, Holyhead or Dover, I know when I’d try smuggling-in Swiss watches or French wines.”
“Oh, it’s that way, is it?”
“Yes.”
“What time do you open in a morning?”
“Eight.”
“And close?”
“Normally around five. If there’s a boat comes in at a reasonable hour, we might clear her before we go, even if it is a bit late, but, as a rule, when the night boats come in, they’ve to tie-up and wait till we come on duty.”
“I guess that happens with the Patrick Creegan, too.”
“Yes. With all of them.”
“And suppose a boat came in when you were off duty and anybody tried to get ashore with contraband … ?”
“That’s not allowed till we’ve cleared them. The dock police would stop any monkey-work.”
“Well, I guess you’re wanting to be off. Good-night and thanks for the help.”
“I can’t see how that helps to solve the bishop’s murder. However, you know better than me. Good night, sir.”
Littlejohn paused at the door.
“By the way, have you a rota of duties?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Who was in charge on the day the bishop’s body was found at Bolter’s Hole?”
“What date would that be …? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. It would be Mr. Dunblow. Mr. Medlicott’s been away nearly three weeks on holidays with his family. Dunblow’s been like a bear with a sore ear. He doesn’t like holidays. Bring him extra duties, such as they are….”
At the hotel, Fennick was in his den, having cleaned all his shoes and banked-up his fires for the night. Spread before him on the table were his football pool sheets in all their glory and, scattered around, the sporting pages of several papers from which the poller was taking his pick and laboriously marking his forms. He hastily put on his abandoned wig and faced Littlejohn as the Inspector knocked on the open door.
“You’re up late, sir….”
Fennick spoke resentfully. It meant that he would have to trail up for Littlejohn’s shoes and clean them after the Inspector had retired for the night. It wasn’t fair. Took a man’s mind off his more important other duties, trying to earn enough in prize money to be able to snap his fingers at the boss and leave all the shoes dirty for a change.
“Did you get hold of Father O’Shaughnessy’s shoes for me, Fennick?”
“Yes, sir. And took ’em back again, too. Thought you’d forgotten about them.”
“Please get them again.”
Fennick smothered his annoyance and slowly emerged from his lair, crawled upstairs, crawled down again and placed a pair of clean, well-worn shoes on the table before Littlejohn.
“There …”
Littlejohn examined the shoes, handed them back to Fennick with a shilling, bade him good night and went off to bed.
Fennick spat on the coin and stuffed it in his pocket, spat on the shoes for luck, took them back upstairs and then returned to finish chasing a fortune.
He wasn’t undisturbed for long. The buzzer on the switchboard suddenly broke the silence.
“’ullo. Yuss. Wot, at this hour? Righto, wait a bit. I’ll ’ave to get him.”
Cursing under his breath the porter plugged the line through to Littlejohn’s room.
Shearwater had turned-up at Benson’s Mews, had been briefly interrogated, and told not to leave. An officer had remained there on guard.
“I’ll be along in the morning, then. I’m supposed to be on holiday and I’m dying for a night’s sleep. So keep him under observation and hold him if necessary till I arrive. Good night.”
With that, Littlejohn went back to bed.
CHAPTER XVIII
BENSON’S MEWS
FATHER O’SHAUGHNESSY met Littlejohn at breakfast the following morning. He was his usual bland, fresh self, but there was an anxious look in his eyes.
“Have you heard anything more of Shearwater?” he asked.
“No,” answered Littlejohn, returning smile for smile. “He’s a bit of a mystery, you know. Been abroad, changed his name and one thing and another. I’ve no idea why he’s run out or where to. I’m anxious that he shouldn’t go, however, till this case is settled. After all, we want to keep as many as possible of those who were here at the time of the murder about us. You, in particular, have your alibis in Shearwater. Not that I suggest for a moment, father …”
“No, no. Of course not. What are you doing to-day?”
“I’m going to Scotland Yard to clear up some arrears which I left before I came here. I’m really due back now, but my accident, of course … I hope to return to-night after a conference.”
“We shall see you again, then?”
“Probably at dinner.”
The sergeant in charge of the tracing of Shearwater met Littlejohn in Eaton Square, and together they drove to Benson’s Mews.
“We’ve watched the front, sir,” the sergeant told him. “There’s a small yard at the back, but no way out, unless he climbs a high wall and then he’d have to come out into the mews. These places were constructed from old stables, you see.”
Littlejohn knocked at the door which was opened by a tall, thin woman dressed in black. Her front teeth projected, she had wispy grey hair and her bust was laced high and tight in corsets, the outlines of which showed through her silk blouse.
Shearwater was sitting in the kitchen in an old basket-chair. The room lay at the end of a long corridor from which two other doors led to furnished bed-sitting rooms. The doors were open showing unmade beds with the sheets and blankets draping their ends. On the floor, empty ewers and slop-pails ready for carrying away….
The back room was dark, for the light from the sash window was dimmed by the walls of a narrow yard which hung over it. The place was hot and smelled of cooking. A large table in the middle, odds and ends of chairs round it, two or three framed pictures from Christmas almanacs on the walls. Littlejohn could make out The Meeting of Dante and Beatrice….
Shearwater seemed to be waiting patiently. He looked relieved when Littlejohn entered.
“I was thinking of coming back,” he said. “It was foolish of me to run off….”
“Why did you do it?”
“I got a bit scared.”
“What of?”
“I don’t know, really. The death of Harry Keast was a shock to me. I thought that I might be next.”
“Why?”
The old lady was pottering about in the room. Clattering dishes in the sink, fiddling about with the gas stove, taking things up and putting them down again. All the time with one ear in the direction of the conversation. She was evidently fond of Shearwater and kept casting an anxious eye in his direction whilst glaring malevolently at Littlejohn.
“All right, Bridget. You’d better leave us, please.”
The woman sniffed, marched out and banged the door. You could hear her rattling the slop pails in the bedrooms and stamping about the floors.
“Why?”
Shearwater paused. He seemed undecided whether or not to tell Littlejohn everything. The Inspector had an idea what was coming but did not press him.
“You see, I’ve rather foolishly acted as alibi to Father O’Shaughnessy.”
“Well, weren’t you with him when you said you were?”
“Sometimes. It’s this way. O’Shaughness
y fancied himself as an amateur detective. He wanted to investigate the bishop’s murder without your knowing. He told me that before it happened he suspected something funny afoot in the hotel and at Bolter’s Hole and wanted to find the solution first….”
“Excuse me, Mr. Shearwater, let’s get this clear. Did he tell you this before or after the crime?”
“After. He told me after that he was doing a bit of quiet sleuthing before the murder. He asked me not to tell you, and to cover his investigations in certain places he got me to give him alibis.”
“That was criminally foolish of you, sir. But go on. Give me details of these alibis, please.”
“Well, I admit I had drunk a bit too much on the night the bishop died. I’m afraid Father O’Shaughnessy rather encouraged me, too. We played billiards and he kept ordering drinks. He saw me to bed and then went out of my room right away, to go to bed himself, he said.”
“Yes, I guess he did go to bed and whilst in his room, he had his shoes gathered-in by the hallporter. So he borrowed Mr. Cuhady’s….”
Even under the tension of the moment, both men smiled at the recollection of Cuhady and his footwear.
“Go on….”
“When you were shot, O’Shaughnessy and I weren’t far away. He said he wanted to follow you to pick up any threads you might have gathered that he didn’t know. We saw you go to Cranage Farm. Then the priest parked the car, or told me to do so,—it was my car,—and left me eating sandwiches whilst he went for a walk round. He was away quite a while.”
“Had he a rifle with him?”
“No. That’s how I knew he couldn’t have shot you. A bit weak of me covering him the way I did, but I thought I was being a sport joining him in the hunt.”
“I see…. Just excuse me a minute.”
Littlejohn went out to where he had left the detective-sergeant in the police car.
“Just ring up the police station at Medhope, near Greyle, and ask for Constable Prickwillow. If he’s not in, tell somebody to give him this message. I want him to check all the rifles, the .44s licensed between Cranage Farm and Medhope, find if any one is missing and get to know why. To be reported to me per Port Mervin police station as soon as possible. Full details, please.”
“Very good, sir….”
The old woman was in the kitchen again whispering to Shearwater when Littlejohn got back. They had to send her out.
“I was only seeing about a cup of tea,” she grumbled.
“To resume, sir. Were you actually with the priest when Harry Keast was shot?”
“No. I was sitting on the seat by the tee near Bolter’s Hole and O’Shaughnessy was scrambling about, actually in the Hole. The tide was out and he said he wanted to see the spot where the bishop died.”
“You saw Keast fall?”
“Yes. The shot sounded like a snapping twig or something. I saw Keast sag down and thought he’d had a fit. The next was, the priest was running to him and calling me to help.”
“Didn’t it dawn on you that O’Shaughnessy might have shot Keast?”
“Not till the other night. Then putting two and two together, I got scared. But him being a priest, it seemed impossible. All the same, I impulsively bolted, called here for my trunk and was met by your man, who told me to stay put. In any case, I ought to have come to you at once and I’d made up my mind to return and tell you when your man arrived.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that he’s not a priest at all?”
Shearwater took it quite calmly.
“No, not now. He looks like one and behaved like one until Keast died. But looking back on events last night, I suddenly remembered how he acted with Keast’s dead body. He hadn’t somehow the priestly touch in the face of death. They generally do something reverent. Either composing the limbs, crossing themselves, praying or something. But he was too business-like. I don’t know … The thing seemed wrong instinctively.”
“I understand. So the alibis are washed out and O’Shaughnessy’s conduct throughout is highly suspicious.”
“Yes. I’m sorry to have caused you all this trouble. I’m ready to take my medicine. I guess I’ve to pay for my stupidity. But I want you to know I didn’t kill my brother-in-law, or Keast, or take a pot at you.”
“I believe you, sir. And now, I need your help badly. I’ve a plan I want to put into action and you’re a vital part in it. So vital, that unless you co-operate, O’Shaughnessy may slip through our fingers. As to your running out on us, it may turn out to have been the most fortunate move. You might have guessed rightly, too, that you would be the next victim.”
“What do you want me to do?”
The old woman came worrying in again.
“Did you want a cup of tea, Mr. Rupert?”
She ignored Littlejohn.
“Yes, Bridget, if you please. It wouldn’t come amiss. Make one for the Inspector, too.”
The woman grunted and put the kettle on.
Shearwater stood up. He hadn’t had a shave and looked haggard from being up all night, but there was a new composure about his features, as though he’d eased his mind by making the right decision.
“That priest surely led me up the garden path. I’m glad of a chance to get even with him.”
The lid of the kettle began to dance and steam puffed from the spout. The old woman rushed in and got busy with the tea things.
“One question, Mr. Shearwater. Had you any knowledge of a smuggling racket going on at Cape Mervin?”
“No. Is there one?”
“I suspect so. Something pretty big. What made you settle there?”
“As a matter of fact, I met an old friend, Sir Francis Tennant. You’ll perhaps have seen him at the hotel. A retired judge. I met him dining in the West End one night and we had a long talk. I was worn-out in London after all my travels and I haven’t been well for some time. It seems Tennant goes down to Mervin quite a lot fishing. He recommended me to try it and said he’d see they made me comfortable. It was quiet, too, he said. Looking back, I think he did it deliberately to get me to meet my sister again. Frank was always in love with Evelyn and knowing how fond she and I were of each other, maybe he did her one of his usual good turns. Her getting married to a rival never seemed to stop his looking after her. I was surprised when Evelyn and her husband turned-up, and we were both so glad to meet again.”
“So that was it. What a mix-up you got into. I suppose you met O’Shaughnessy soon after you arrived.”
“Yes. He tacked himself on to me. I always thought he was too good a billiards player for a parson. Still, you never know, do you?”
“He was looking out for some kind friend to be his alibi and picked on you.”
“Yes. I was his stooge, it seems. What do you want me to do?”
Over teacups Littlejohn explained his plan.
“The thing now is to get back to Cape Mervin?”
“Yes. And on the way we’ll call at Scotland Yard and you can sign a statement of all you’ve told me. You’ll not come out of this so badly, if you do as I say, sir.”
“Thank you, Inspector. Shall we go, then?”
The old woman cried when they left and, kissing Shearwater, told him there was always a home there for him. Then she wiped her eyes and blew her nose on the corner of her apron and went back to wash-up the dirty cups.
CHAPTER XIX
THE RETURN OF THE “PATRICK CREEGAN”
JEALE, the night-watchman, had received a message from Sharples to put a white light on the left and a white on the right. It was unusual but he’d better let the police know to keep himself out of trouble. Difficult serving two masters, but when one of them is the police … well … He spat on his hands and rubbed them up and down his corduroy trousers as he always did when he had something on his mind or was going to start a drunken brawl or argument. He shambled to the telephone box near his pitch, dialled ‘O’ and asked for the police station.
“You should have dialled 999,” said the instrument.<
br />
“Gimme the pleece and don’t argue. This is special….”
The next minute he was speaking to Bowater.
“Leave them as they usually are. One red, one white,” came the reply to the long rigmarole Jeale spoke into the telephone. He hadn’t done much telephoning in his life and was impressed by the ease with which he did it and the wonder of it all. He talked a lot about it at the local when he was half seas over the following night.
The Patrick Creegan came in on the next tide with more men aboard than she was accustomed to carry.
Earlier that night Captain Bradley looked from the bridge with his night glasses and was surprised to see the usual signal.
“Either they’ve led off that damned detective or else the boss is taking a hell of a risk. Anyhow the signal’s there, so get crackin’.”
The mate gave gruff orders and the small crew set to work. There was some cattle on board but for the most part the cargo consisted of cases of cigarettes, liquor, stockings, clothing and other stuff, either contraband or else articles you couldn’t get without coupons in the normal channels and which consequently had considerably enhanced values in black markets.
The men worked quietly loading the ship’s two boats and fixing outboard motors to them. Then they cast-off and steered right between the two lights of Jeale’s lamps until the rising coast cut them off. The mate in the first boat quickly flashed his torch three times. Three intermittent pin-points of light from land answered him. This performance was repeated at brief intervals.
The mate steered his craft into Bolter’s Hole first, flashed again, received his answer and made for the spot whence it came. The other boat followed close on his stern. The quiet throbbing of motors ceased and they glided in….
“Ahoy there!” growled the mate in a stage whisper.
Then the place seemed to become alive with dark, rushing figures. Police helmets and huge forms grew visible in the gloom.
“Come on there; better keep quiet and behave. There’s plenty of us. Oh … So it’s you, is it? Well … well …”
The sergeant-in-charge was enjoying himself. He breathed onions over the mate, for he had eaten a good supper before setting out on his night’s adventure.
The Case of the Famished Parson (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 14