The Cursing Stones Murder (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series)

by George Bellairs

  "And Corteen doesn't remember whether or not he spent the night at Eddie's place?"

  "No. He doesn't remember a thing, except being vaguely wakened by a policeman in the open air and taken home. He only got properly lucid when he woke in his own bed at home next day."

  Later in the morning, at Peel, Mrs. Littlejohn went to hunt for some wool.

  "It's too cold to sit on the beach in a deck-chair. I'd better start knitting you a pullover in my waiting-time, and I look like doing a lot of waiting. I'll sit in the car till you and the Archdeacon get back."

  It was as though a blight had fallen on the Corteen home. The old man was up, dressed, and in his chair by the fire again. He sat helplessly there, his cold pipe in his mouth, slowly twiddling his horny thumbs, firmly convinced that as people died in bed, it was safer to be up.

  The child had been farmed-out with a relative and Mrs. Corteen was carrying on alone. The house was spotless. The old furniture shone from ceaseless polishing, the iron fireplace was newly blackleaded, and the hearth was white with fresh stoning. An iron kettle steamed on the hob. There was a very old harmonium in one corner. On top of it, one or two books; a Bible in Manx, a hymn book, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. In the other corner, a large grandfather clock with a painted dial showing the phases of the moon. Its steady ticking punctuated all that went on. Tick, tock; tick, tock.

  The old lady behaved like a wild thing caught in a trap. Moving here and there without much aim or reason, completely terrified and bewildered by events.

  "I'll never get over this, parson. I'm at me wits' end. I wish the Lord would take me and himself both together. It's more than I can bear. . . . "

  "There, there. . . . It's not all that bad, my dear. Here's a friend of mine from as far away as London to help you out. . . ."

  "Tell me what happened the night Johnny came home late, Mrs. Corteen. The night Mr. Perrick has been asking you about."

  Littlejohn filled his pipe and then sat in a chair opposite the old man, filled his pipe, as well, and helped him to light it.

  "What is there to tell, sir?"

  "Was it raining when he got home?"

  "No, sir. A middlin' fine night, but dark."

  "What time would that be?"

  "Five o'clock. The church clock struck as I brought him in through the door."

  "Did you notice his boots? His sea-boots, were they?"

  "Yes, sir. Nothin'. . . . A bit muddy, but then . . . well . . . he wasn't ezac'ly in the habit of cleanin' them reg'lar."

  "Did he say anything to you?"

  "No. He was sort o' fuddled. He hadn't slept off the drink. In a sort of maze, he was, and after I'd pulled his boots off I led him up to bed and he let me tek off his jersey and trousers . . . jus' like when he was a boy . . . and fell on the bed asleep right away."

  "Was he in any sort of temper or bad mood?"

  "No, sir. When he woke next day, he didn't seem to recollect what had happened the night before. Seemed to think it nacherall he should be in his own bed, lek."

  "Did you know this man Levis, Mrs. Corteen?"

  The old woman started to whimper and wipe her eyes on her apron. The mention of the man had reminded her of her own unhappiness.

  "No, sir. I never set eyes on the man. When the baby was born he said it wasn't his, lek, but Fenella's aunt and uncle hired the lawyer and they made him admit it and he paid for the upkeep of it through the lawyer. He wasn't the likes that would come here."

  No; Levis, with his fancy ways, his easy money, his flashy house and car, wasn't the kind to be seen in the back streets of Peel. He paid his way out of trouble until finally his money couldn't save him.

  "Johnny wouldn't do it. I swear he wouldn't. . . . "

  "How did Johnny come to know Levis and all about your daughter's troubles?"

  "Well, sir, with the baby playin' in the house, it didn't take him long to ask and find out. Him and Fenella was always as thick as two thieves. Always took one another's part, even against me and their dad. She must have told Johnny everythin'. She was bitter and liked to talk about it all and how she'd been wronged."

  "And what did Johnny say?"

  "He took it bad, sir. He swore he'd get even with Mr. Levis. But he would never have killed him. I know Johnny. He's not that bad, sir."

  "Did he know Mr. Levis?"

  "He saw him, sir. He came one day to Peel and they must have pointed him out. But it seems he was in his car and got away, which was a good thing, sir, with Johnny in the mood he was."

  They rejoined Mrs. Littlejohn who was sitting in the car with the windows open on the promenade. It was mild for the time of year and the sea was calm, with the waves lapping as the tide ebbed. The dog was hanging through the window, barking at the seagulls skimming over the water. The eyes of all the old fishermen and loafers at Weatherglass Corner turned in the direction of Littlejohn, whom they regarded with complacent curiosity. They felt that, on account of Archdeacon Kinrade's presence, the Chief Inspector was somehow on their side and would see right done to Johnny Corteen, whom they supported as a member of their seagoing fraternity.

  The harbour and waterfront were a riot of bright colour in the thin sunshine. The beautiful cliff-bound sweep of bay, the hillsides dotted with new houses and villas, the old narrow streets sweeping to the promenade, the glow of the red local sandstone and the green background of rising land. Across the water, St. Patrick's Isle with its ruined cathedral and castle. . . .

  Mrs. Littlejohn raised some hanks of wool.

  "It's the colour of the fishermen's jerseys. I'm going to knit you a pullover of it. . . ."

  The parson was thoughtful and anxious to be getting on with the business in hand.

  "If you want to see Dr. Fallows before lunch, we'd better be off. He'll just about have finished his rounds."

  The doctor's house was near the golf links on the main road from Peel to Douglas, about half a mile out of the city. A large bungalow, whitewashed, with access through a door in a high surrounding wall. On the door, two brass plates. L. J. Fallows, Physician and Surgeon. Pamela Fallows, Architect and Chartered Surveyor.

  "So his wife has a profession, as well."

  "Yes. It seems she was an architect on the mainland before he married her. She gave it up after they married, but she's started again in the last twelve months. I suppose it finds her something to do. She's in partnership with another woman."

  The bungalow was built in Riviera fashion, with large windows, a glass door inside a porch which broke the wind, and a long loggia facing the south. The garden was trim and full of exotic plants. Palm trees, pampas grass, bamboo, hydrangeas, fuchsia and tall cypress. Littlejohn rang the bell.

  The doctor himself answered the door. A tall, heavy man, with tufts of dark hair over his ears and a large, domed bald head. He looked in his late forties, with a smooth florid face, protruding brown eyes behind round gold-framed glasses, a large Roman nose and a heavy firm chin. He wore a soiled flannel suit and a nylon shirt with his collar and tie in disarray.

  "Hullo, Archdeacon. What brings you here?"

  A rather thin voice for such a big frame. The parson introduced Littlejohn and told the doctor the purpose of their visit.

  "Come in. . . . In there. . . . It's warmer than the surgery."

  They entered a large room which ran down a whole side of the house. One wall was almost entirely of glass and a door in it led to the verandah. A big modern stone fireplace, rugs on the polished block floor, comfortable chairs and a large settee scattered about, with little tables and a cocktail cabinet. On the walls three large reproductions of pictures by Van Gogh, Utrillo and Renoir.

  "Drink?"

  The doctor was busy at the cocktail cabinet before they could reply. He was evidently seeking an excuse for a drink himself. He handed a whisky and soda to Littlejohn, brown sherry to the parson, and helped himself to a large neat whisky.

  "Now, gentlemen . . . "

  Before they could say a word, the door from the
hall opened. A woman put in her head and then withdrew it.

  "Pam. . . . Say, Pam. . . . Come back."

  The newcomer returned. She looked at her husband first, with a bored tolerant expression and a trace almost of contempt, or the resignation one shows at the antics of exuberant children or dogs.

  "Pam, I want you to meet Chief Inspector Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, who's on holiday and staying with Archdeacon Kinrade. He's interested in the case I told you of—the one about the body they found in the scallop-beds."

  Even that didn't arouse much enthusiasm in the good-looking woman who had entered. She must have been about ten years younger than her husband. Medium built, on the thin side, with a wide intelligent forehead, brown wavy hair, grey eyes set well apart, high cheek bones, straight nose, firm chin and a generous mouth with a trace of a sarcastic smile. She had the preoccupied look of someone suddenly torn from interesting work and eager to get back to it. And yet within her you sensed great vitality and the power of immense concentration to achieve the ends she desired. The type who attracted and stirred men whenever she entered a room, even in the company of more beautiful and artful women.

  "How do you do, Inspector . . . Archdeacon . . ."

  She shook hands with them, a small firm hand with a good grip. Her eyes never rested. Here, there and everywhere, but never a straight look for long at once. She held the Chief Inspector's gaze for a second and then her eyes moved to his tie, then to his right shoulder, then to the Archdeacon. Littlejohn told his wife afterwards that he wondered for a second if his neckwear were in bad taste or his suit badly cut.

  "Dora is here. . . . I can't stay."

  "Bring her in for a drink," said the doctor irritably.

  Pamela Fallows turned without a word, left the room, and returned accompanied by a small, thick-set, dark girl, with hair cropped almost like a boy, dressed in a mannish costume. She even wore a tie and a masculine cut of blouse. All smiles and energy, she shook hands all round, baring her strong even teeth, her dark eyes sparkling.

  "This is my partner, Dora Quine."

  An incongruous pair, yet perhaps well-matched as a team. The one eager, enthusiastic, hard-working; the other dreamy, imaginative, moody, full of ideas which her partner probably slaved to bring into effect.

  The doctor's wife poured herself a whisky and soda and mixed gin and French for her companion.

  "We'd better take the drinks with us to the office. We're in the midst of drawing plans for the Martin place at Lezayre. . . ."

  It was plain that Dora Quine was not as anxious to get back to work as her partner. She wanted to know all about Littlejohn's share in the case, about Scotland Yard itself, about London, the current shows, the autumn season.

  "You'll excuse us. . . ."

  Pamela Fallows led the way out and Dora followed slowly.

  "Hope to see you again, soon. Pam's got the creative instinct moving strongly just at present. She gets that way at times. Cheerio!"

  The door closed. It looked as if the Archdeacon had been right in his summing-up of affairs in the doctor's household. "There's unhappiness there. He's a brilliant man who would have gone far on the mainland, but he got himself mixed up with a woman and it looked like wrecking their marriage. They have two children at school in England, so divorce seemed out of the question. They pulled up their roots and came over here to start again. It doesn't seem to be working out very well. She has her work and he has his. Maybe that will be their ultimate salvation."

  The doctor was helping himself to more whisky.

  "Another drink, Littlejohn?"

  "No, thank you, doctor."

  Fallows brought out a duplicate file of the Levis autopsy and some gruesome photographs.

  "It was obviously murder, doctor? There's no chance the drags from the fishing-boat could have caused the injuries?"

  "Not the slightest. The post mortem bears out the date as deduced from alternative evidence, August 21st. The man was dead when he was put in the water. I'd say the blow was a fearful one, and, as likely as not, Levis's assailant was face to face with him when it was struck. A short weapon would have needed somebody powerful to deal him such a blow. On the other hand, a long bulky piece of hard wood, say oak, could almost have been handled by a child, because its own weight would do the trick. Or again, somebody might have dropped a rock on him from a height."

  The doctor was lost in his subject. You could see him, in imagination, actually witnessing the killing. His precise, clear manner of expression told of the undoubted expert.

  "The body would be a fairly heavy one, I suppose?"

  "I knew the man by sight and judging from memory of him and the body, such as it was, that I saw, I'd say around thirteen stone."

  "If he was murdered on the island and carried to a boat, then it would need someone fairly strong to get him aboard and out to sea."

  "Certainly. Unless, of course, he was killed near a beach and dragged along. That's a likely hypothesis."

  "Well, thank you, doctor. It's been very kind of you to tell me about it informally. I'm only an amateur on the job; just interested because of the Archdeacon's friendship with the family of the accused. It has saved me having to bother the police and perhaps cause a bit of embarrassment."

  The doctor rubbed his chubby forefinger along his smooth chin.

  "The accused? Is Corteen likely to be charged with the murder?"

  "I can't say that, sir. There is a faint chance he might be able to prove an alibi. In any case, the evidence is purely circumstantial."

  "Many a man's been hanged on it, though."

  "Certainly. But Levis, it seems, was a man who might have had many enemies. That always complicates a case."

  "I guess it does."

  Littlejohn picked up his hat and gloves.

  "By the way, doctor, do you happen to know a fellow called Ned Crowe? A fisherman who lived just out of Peel, I gather, on the road to Kirk Michael."

  The doctor paused and looked over the rim of the glass he was emptying.

  "Crowe? No. Can't say I do. Why?"

  "Just one of those interesting things that sometimes intrigue me. I was in the Captain Quilliam in Peel last night and Crowe was there throwing his money about. Everybody was surprised. He's a poor and steady chap as a rule. I wondered if he might be a patient of yours."

  "No. There are two other doctors here, you know. I can't say I know him."

  The Archdeacon was on the alert right away. His blue eyes shone and his large beard bristled.

  "Are you sure, Fallows? I'm certain I read in the local paper only a week or two ago that Crowe was before the magistrates for being drunk and disorderly and when he was arrested, he said he was ill, not drunk, and you were called to say that you'd examined him on the night in question and he was drunk as a lord. . . . "

  Fallows cast an odd look at the parson.

  "Ned Crowe. . . . Oh, Ned Crowe! That's right. I know who you mean now. Yes. That's the one occasion I met him. He was a stranger to me otherwise."

  "That's funny," said the Archdeacon solemnly as they got back in the car. "Either Fallows is losing his wits or else he was lying. I wonder. . . ."

  5

  THE HOUSE AT BRADDA

  AFTER lunch, they left Peel for Port Erin, where Littlejohn said he would like to see the home of the murdered man. Guided by the Archdeacon, Littlejohn took the coast road leading south through Patrick, Glen Maye and Dalby. The parson described the places on the route to Mrs. Littlejohn. "There was once a murder here," he said as they passed through Glen Maye, as though Littlejohn might at once halt and start another investigation.

  The day had become fine and clear and a stiff inshore wind had sprung up. High waves were breaking over The Niarbyl, a spreading tail of rocks beyond Dalby, and across the white-capped sea in the west, the Mountains of Mourne in Ireland could just be seen. A good road led them through lonely and magnificent country with mountains—South Barrule, Cronk ny Irree Laa, the Carnanes and Bradda—stretc
hing away in a glorious chain to the southern tip of the Island. They climbed through wild stretches of heather, bracken and waste land, with ruined farms dotted here and there and a long succession of mighty cliffs and bays along the whole of the coast to the Calf of Man. Just past the junction of four ways at the Round Table, the car coasted down to crossroads, where the parson showed Littlejohn the turn to Bradda, They didn't go short of people to direct them to Thie Aash, Levis's home, which of late had become a place of morbid pilgrimage.

  Mrs. Ashworth was in the bungalow with two policemen to keep her company. Since the bad news of Levis, she had refused to sleep there, as though the event had put a curse on it and one night the wraith of her master might return. P.C. Lowey was officially in charge of the house until the mystery was cleared up, but, as his many duties precluded him from making it a full-time job, a young police cadet from Douglas had been sent to assist him.

  "Now then, me lad, just go see what they want," said Lowey very officially to his pupil. He was determined to keep the cadet well-disciplined during his spell of duty in the south. The apprentice, a lanky lad with a fresh complexion and a nose too big for his face, put on the flat cap which distinguished his lowly rank and hurried to the gate to meet the car which was pulling up.

  "More gawkin' sightseers," he flung back over his shoulder at Lowey and then he put his hand over his mouth as though trying to take back what he had said, for he had seen the gaitered legs of the Archdeacon scrambling out of the back seat.

  "Crikey! It's Parson Kinrade."