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

by George Bellairs

  Since the investigation of the death of Deemster Quantrell, the parson had earned an unsought and rather spurious reputation for being the local Sherlock Holmes!

  "What are you bletherin' about?" said Lowey from the terrace and then he, too, said Crikey! He had spotted Littlejohn, whom he remembered from a previous visit at a time when he had been in the Castletown force.

  "Now things'll really begin to 'um," he assured Mrs. Ashworth, whose jaw dropped because she didn't know what Lowey was talking about.

  Mrs. Littlejohn stayed in the car admiring the view as the small procession, composed of the parson, the Chief Inspector and the dog, made its way along the garden path, where Cadet Skillicorn joined it and, after deferential greetings, ushered it into the bungalow. P.C. Lowey met them on the threshold.

  "Good mornin', gentlemen. Nice weather we're having. . . ."

  He fell back and prodding his pupil in the ribs with his elbow said sotto voce, "Scotland Yard."

  "Eh?" said Skillicorn. Lowey raised his eyes to heaven and sighed. The dog was busy touring the terrace gobbling up the scraps of bread Mrs. Ashworth had thrown out for the gulls. Normally, Meg would have turned up her bulbous nose at dry crusts, but when they were put out as food for something else, she developed a sudden appetite for them.

  P.C. Lowey introduced everybody to everybody else. He was fond of the Archdeacon. His father, aged eighty-eight, lived at Grenaby and Parson Kinrade signed a paper every month which testified to the ancient's continued existence and right to draw his pension from a mainland institution from which he had been retired for more than thirty years.

  Mrs. Ashworth stood eyeing the parson up and down suspiciously. His gaiters fascinated her. She belonged to a sect of Plymouth Brethren which met in a house at Port St. Mary. "I don't hold with Papists," she told them at the next meeting. "And I think that old man is one of 'em."

  Lowey was a mine of information about all that went on for miles around. He led the Inspector and the Archdeacon to the lounge and bade them both be seated, as though the place were his own.

  "I'll look after this," he said to Mrs. Ashworth and indicated the kitchen with a large thumb. She had been packing her things and as many of the late owner's as she could safely appropriate, ready for leaving the place for good. With a sniff, she turned her back and went to finish the good work.

  Littlejohn was admiring the view from the windows. The land fell away sharply to the Port Erin beach and thence a long curve of bay and clean sand swept round and terminated in cliffs which the sea was lashing and covering in foam. A small lighthouse at one end and, midway, a ruined breakwater constructed of great masses of concrete which the sea had broken up and tossed about like corks. High above, the spectacular mass of Bradda Head with the Milner Tower sprouting from the top.

  "Come to investigate the crime, sir?"

  Lowey stood deferentially beside Littlejohn, looked out to sea, and forgot himself.

  "Well! If the ruddy fool hasn't put out to sea again on a day like this! Him an' his birds! That's Professor Tipstaff from over and he's bought a little boat to study birds in. Always chooses the roughest days to go out a-studyin' them and then they have to put out the lifeboat or somethin' to bring him in again. He's balmy. . . . Excuse me, sir. I was just carried away. . . ."

  In the distance a small boat bobbed dangerously round the breakwater in the direction of the open sea. Hurriedly Lowey tramped into the hall to telephone the lifeboat-station to keep an eye on it. Then he took up his task again and led Littlejohn and the Archdeacon round the bungalow. An exotic place, the home of a "fancy man"; an erotic, almost depraved taste manifest everywhere. Tortured pictures and bits of twisted sculpture, dubious novels, locked book-cases containing "Collectors' editions". Lowey indicated the latter.

  "Dirty rubbish," he said portentously. "I don't think Mrs. Ashworth can read, else she wouldn't have stayed here as long as she has. As she says, the job was good and well paid and, like the late Lord Nelson, she used to apply the blind eye, so to speak. . . . She always shut her eyes when makin' the bed, she says."

  He waved his large paw at a coloured print of naked women dancing in a ring, which hung over the bed, and blushed himself and coughed behind his hand.

  "A shocking chap," he added. "My nephew's young lady came here helpin' with the spring cleaning one time and, findin' one of those book-cases open, just took a look at some of the books. For weeks after she wouldn't let my nephew come near her. Sort of brainstorm it gave her. . . ."

  Littlejohn lit a cigarette to hide his grin.

  "How long has this place been built, Lowey?"

  "Six years next summer, sir," replied the bobby with precision.

  "Did Levis build it?"

  "Yes, sir. Put up this main part first and then had a bit of a wing added last year."

  "A nice job."

  "Yes. Architect done. Miss Dora Quine's first real effort. Does her credit."

  Lowey exchanged a knowing look with the Archdeacon to show they both knew Dora and her skill.

  "That the girl who's partner to the doctor's wife at Peel?"

  "The very one, sir. Matter of fact, Miss Quine and Mrs. Fallows both attended to the extension when it was put on."

  "Were both of them on the job, then?"

  A twinkle showed in Lowey's eye.

  "Yes, sir. Two strings to his bow, in a manner of speaking. They gave the job quite a lot of attention. One or the other down every day. Not often you get such keen supervision on the part of architects, is it, sir?"

  The Archdeacon frowned.

  "If you're trying to imply something, Lowey, will you kindly say it outright, instead of insinuating?"

  The constable jumped.

  "I thought you'd have heard already, reverend. There was quite a lot of talk about the pair of them and Mr. Levis at the time."

  Littlejohn ground the stub of his cigarette in an ash tray consisting of a naked nymph holding a bowl in bronze.

  "Let's get this quite clear in our minds, officer. You're suggesting, to put it vulgarly, that something was going on between Levis and Miss Quine?"

  "Both, sir. . . . Both Miss Quine and Mrs. Fallows. Mrs. Fallows, they say, put Miss Quine's nose out, to put it vulgarly, as you say. But then, that was only hearsay. No doubt Mr. Casbon, the builder on the extensions, could tell you more. He was workin' here at the time it happened."

  "Where can we find him?"

  "His office and yard are in Castletown, but I think, if you're going back to Grenaby from here, you'll put a sight on him just past Mallew Church. He's doing a job at a farm on the right. Ballakilbride is the name."

  "Right. What's going to happen to this place now? Has Levis any relatives?"

  The constable rubbed his chin.

  "They do say he has a wife over on the mainland. She might be interested. There's a brother, as well, but he's in Kenya, I believe. They wired to him and it's said one of the lawyers from Douglas is winding things up. Mrs. Ashworth's had notice and I suppose the place will be sold before long."

  "Has anybody been through Mr. Levis's papers and effects, yet?"

  "Yes, sir. The lawyer, Aspinall, was down here with Inspector Perrick the other day. They put everything in a suitcase and took the papers away with them."

  Littlejohn strolled from one to the other of the rooms. The lounge with a dining-alcove, Levis's and Mrs. Ashworth's quarters and the kitchen seemed to be the only ones used. There was another bedroom, a study with a bed-settee in it, and a small morning-room; all were sheeted and had apparently not been occupied for a long time. Lowey, anxious to help, opened the drawers of the desk in the lounge, and the chest and the dressing-table in the bedroom.

  "You see, sir, they've taken all the papers. And, if I might say so, you can depend on them taking all that matters. If Inspector Perrick is on a job, it's done properly."

  "I'm sure it is."

  There was a player grand-piano to the left of the window. On the lid, two photographs, cabinet size,
the only two in the place. One was of a handsome officer in colonel's uniform. A dark man with a small black moustache, regular features, a firm jaw and a sensual mouth. In ink across the bottom of the picture: Best wishes to Cedric from Ralph.

  "According to Inspector Perrick, that's his brother, sir. The one in Kenya. His name's Ralph. . . ."

  The other portrait showed a fair, clean-shaven, smiling man with wavy hair swept back from a broad forehead, a straight nose and a cynical fleshy mouth. There was a self-satisfied, cherubic look about him and a small dimple in the square jaw accentuated it.

  "That's of Mr. Levis, sir."

  Littlejohn knew it without being told. The man was in keeping with the place. You could almost smell his exotic scented brilliantine and after-shave lotion. Impudence, self-indulgence, assurance with everybody, most of all with women. . . . The type who would put his own portrait on his own piano.

  From the window Littlejohn could see his wife with the dog on the beach at Port Erin below. She must have strolled downhill to the village. The cadet was drinking tea with Mrs. Ashworth in the kitchen as the Chief Inspector and the other two entered the hall. Lowey gave Skillicorn a blistering look and the pupil choked over his drink, leapt to his feet and, for lack of something else to do, sprang sharply to a salute. Mrs. Ashworth came to the kitchen door. She was sulking at Lowey for sending her about her business and pouted heavily.

  "Had Mr. Levis any frequent visitors just before his death, Mrs. Ashworth?"

  "No. Tradesmen, that's all. He didn't entertain much here. Did it mostly at some hotel or other."

  "Which hotels? Do you know?"

  "No. I knew nothing of his private affairs. I was here to look after the place for him and after that we went our own ways. "

  "Did he always come home at night when he was on the Island?"

  "Not always. Sometimes he'd telephone that he was staying with some friend or other and I needn't wait up."

  "Do you know who were his friends?"

  "Not particularly. As I said, he entertained them out."

  "I see. Thank you, Mrs. Ashworth."

  The Chief Inspector and the Archdeacon got in the car again, ran down the hill to Port Erin, and picked up Letty and Meg. The dog had been in the sea and they had to dry her on the towel they purposely carried for her. She didn't want to leave the beach and kept barking at the waves as they broke on the sand.

  Just past Mallew Church a small country bungalow was going up. There was a builder's board erected in the garden. Casbon, Builder, Castletown. Three workmen, squatting on a pile of bricks, were drinking tea.

  "Mr. Casbon about?"

  One of the men removed his fag and waved it over his right shoulder in the direction of a farm behind.

  "He's just gone to 'phone the works. We've run out of mortar. . . ."

  The three of them looked delighted about it, poured out more tea, and one of them settled an iron kettle on a brazier with a view to making yet another brew.

  Across the fields a small, chubby, bothered-looking man was hurrying back to the job. He stared hard at Littlejohn and the Archdeacon and then, as he saw in them possible clients for a new house, his brow cleared and he smiled an oily smile. He had lately become a worried man. Building was declining and he looked like being out of business if things didn't buck up. He had come over from Lancashire to put up a lot of houses, make his fortune, and save income tax, and now trade had dried up on him. It wasn't good enough!

  "Good day, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

  "We'd like a word with you about the extensions you did to Thie Aash, the late Mr. Levis's bungalow at Bradda."

  Mr. Casbon's face lengthened and he eyed the Archdeacon up and down, wondering what he was getting at.

  "Why? Nothing wrong, is there?"

  "Not a thing. We're just interested in Mr. Levis and what he did before his death."

  "You from the police?"

  "Yes," said Littlejohn.

  "Not much I can tell you. Levis paid well. Prompt with the cash. Different from a lot of people nowadays. Business is terrible."

  "You built on an extension last year under supervision of architects?"

  Mr. Casbon cast a baleful look at his workmen, who thereupon gathered together their tea things and shuffled into the house to enjoy their drink out of sight.

  "Supervision, did you say? Humph! They drew the plans and drew up specifications and took their per cent of the money as it fell due, but most of the time, they was hanging round Levis. First of all, it was Miss Quine. Thick as thieves with Levis, she was. Riding about in his car, rollin' her eyes at him. But about that time, she'd no more sense than to take herself a partner, that Fallows woman. She soon put Miss Quine out of the runnin' with Levis. The three of them would be lookin' round the place for hours, but you could see Levis and the Fallows dame smilin' at one another, that sort of secret look they get when there's somethin' going on between them, you know. . . ."

  Man-of-the-world Casbon put a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, lit it, drew lungsful of smoke, and ejected it in a spray from his mouth and nostrils.

  "How long did that go on?"

  "Months. We were there from April to September on the extension job. It got in the end Mrs. Fallows came on her own without the Quine girl knowin'. She'd go off in the car with Levis and Miss Quine would come and find her boy-friend flown. Scandalous, it was. I don't mind a bit o' fun myself, but not with married women with children. But then Levis didn't mind so long as they was good-lookers. . . ."

  Casbon recited it all dolefully, without a trace of relish. In between drawing furiously at his cigarette and coughing harshly, he sighed deeply, puffed out his cheeks, and deflated them again with blowing sounds.

  "Levis had a bad name with women, you know. Somehow, he attracted them. Sometimes, when we was building the house and then again when we was extendin' it, a good-lookin' woman would stop and look what we was doin'? You know how interested women are in houses goin' up. . . . If Levis was on the spot, he'd invite the dame to come and see what the place was like. Before they'd been there five minutes, you'd have thought they'd been friends for life. Now and then, he'd offer to take them back to where they were stayin' in his car and before you could say Jack Robinson, off they'd go. Dangerous, you know. Can't say I'm surprised he came to a sticky finish."

  "I suppose gossip about Levis and Mrs. Fallows got around."

  Casbon's sad protruding eyes opened wider as he warmed a bit to his tale.

  "They got a bit indiscreet. People saw them together all over the Island in his car. In the end, Dr. Fallows got wise to it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Mean? Why, he came down to Port Erin, drinkin' in the pubs and generally hangin' round trying to see what he could see. He never asked any questions, but was just keepin' his eyes open. There must have been many a chap doin' the same where Levis was concerned. They ought to look farther than the lad they say they've put in jug at Peel for the murder. Women he's had his fill of and chucked aside and their husbands and menfolk are far more likely to have settled Mr. Levis's hash than the Peel fellow. . . . Excuse me; got to be seein' to this."

  The lorry of mortar had arrived and Casbon hurried to abuse the driver for taking time to bring it and to rouse the workmen to unload it. The three workers on the job reluctantly left off feeding Littlejohn's dog with bits of meat-pie and shambled away to give a hand. Having got them going, Mr. Casbon returned to Littlejohn to finish his tale.

  "I haven't much more facts to tell you, but I can say this. It looks very much to me as if the Fallows dame spared no pains to get Levis in tow. . . . No pains and no expense, see? My wife 'as a friend who was there when the pair of them was first introduced. . . . "

  Mr. Casbon paused for dramatic effect, lit another cigarette, and had to have a good cough before his voice would clear. He tapped Littlejohn on the chest.

  "There's an hotel just near Sulby Claddagh, an old mansion it was, and a fellow called Greenhalgh from Eng
land . . . chap with plenty of money and over here to work an income tax querk, if you get what I mean. . . ."

  He paused questioningly.

  "I follow, Mr. Casbon."

  "Well Greenhalgh made it into a real swell place and there's quite a lot of private parties held there. At one of 'em, where the friend of my missus was present, Mrs. Fallows met Levis. My wife's friend says she never left him alone all night, in spite of the fact that her own husband was with her. She just fell for Levis. Well . . . if you know anything about women, you'll know they've a way of gettin' what they want."

  The man of the world nodded sagely and shrugged his shoulders. Parson Kinrade had joined Mrs. Littlejohn who was looking over the new building, and Casbon felt more free to enlarge.

  "If you ask me, the Fallows woman went out to get Levis with all she'd got. She even went in partnership with Miss Quine, so's she could, in a manner of speakin', get a free pass to Levis's house. She was an architect herself and that was lucky for her. Once on the job, she worked fast. She got Levis in her clutches right away. Not that it would be hard. She was a good-looker, specially when she took a bit of trouble to spruce herself up, like. Made Miss Quine look plain, I'll tell you. A wonder the two women didn't get scrapping about it. But they just carried on. Difficult to understand, is women. Guess they're so used to competing with one another that they get used to reverses. I'll have to be off, now."

  The expert in female psychology thereupon went to try to infuse enthusiasm in his workmen. Littlejohn waved good-bye to him, gathered his passengers, and they all drove back to Grenaby.

  Evening was settling over the quiet interior of the Island. The sun cast the long spiked silhouettes of trees across the road. At the farms on the way to the parsonage, milking was finished and farmers and their hired men were pottering about the farmyards doing their last jobs, chatting leisurely. They greeted the parson with a wave of the hand as he passed and signalled to them through the open window. A tractor hurrying home in the opposite direction pressed Littlejohn's car close to the hedge. At Grenaby village the smoke from the cottage chimneys rose straight and high in the air, for the wind had dropped and it was still in the sheltered valley. Joe Henn was fishing for trout with a worm from the bridge. Traa dy liooar, time enough, as they say on the Island.