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

by George Bellairs

  Mrs. Littlejohn had been telling the parson about Cromwell.

  "We'll be very glad to see him, Littlejohn. He can sleep in the attic. Quite a nice room with grand views."

  "Please don't let it be known he's from the police, sir. It's not fair to Perrick to fill the Island with Scotland Yard men when he's so competent himself."

  "I understand. And now about Ned Crowe. Can I help? If he won't talk to you, he may do so to me. If you'll drive me to Peel after an early dinner, I'd like to call on the Corteens now that Johnny's back. Perhaps we might meet Crowe there. I'm sorry to hear he spends a lot of time at the Captain Quilliam."

  "That suits me, sir."

  Someone had shot some partridges and the housekeeper had cooked them for the evening meal. They followed it with blackberry fool, according to Mrs. Littlejohn's recipe, and topped it off with Manx cheese. The lamp on the table spread a warm glow over the room; the logs spluttered on the fire and threw out a comforting heat; the dog snored on the rug, yapping in her dreams. Over the fireplace, the Hoggatt picture of the little fields of Man seemed alive even in the dim light and shone like a benediction.

  "I don't feel like moving. . . ."

  Littlejohn inwardly cursed Levis and Crowe, Fallows and his wife, everybody connected with crime. Here, everything seemed different.

  The Archdeacon was putting on his overcoat and muffler.

  "It's a nice night and all the stars are out. You'll enjoy it."

  At Peel market-place they parked the car and parted.

  "See you here, then, in an hour. . . ."

  Time seemed to stand still in Peel. In the town there was hardly a soul about. The footsteps of those at large echoed and were magnified in the narrow streets. The lights shed pools at the bases of their standards and beyond the periphery it seemed darker than ever. If you looked upwards, it was like seeing the stars at the top of a chimney, so close were the buildings in the old quaint alleys.

  The waterfront was deserted. The promenade lamps shone across the water and met the coloured reflections of the navigation lights at the pier and breakwater. The tide was in and the waves splashed gently on the shore. A boat rode calmly out of the harbour, the light steady at her masthead, the throb of her engine punctuated by the ringing of the bridge telegraph. Aboard, someone was shouting in Dutch.

  The Captain Quilliam was full, as usual. The crew of the French vessel, which had put in for repairs, were strung-out at the counter drinking rum and apple-brandy, which the landlord kept specially for such occasions. They spoke Breton and one of the Manxmen was comparing it with native Manx.

  "If ye want to curse a man bad, ye say 'my hiaght mynney mollaght ort', my seven swearin's of a curse on ye, see? Wad would ye say in the Breton, now? Compris?"

  The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

  "Curse, eh? Nom de Dieu, hein?"

  "There, what did I tell ye? He says Modha-doo, black dog. I told ye they spoke the Manx. . . . "

  "Aw, shurrup, Clever-Dickie from Foxdale!"

  They started to quarrel among themselves.

  In another group they were busy getting Johnny Corteen drunk.

  "Fill up agen, Johnny-boy. . . . You don't get Manx ale in the prizzen, eh?"

  "I've got to be home sober to-night, else the old lady'll be in tears. I promised to be sober in future."

  "Just a little one for the road. Jus' a li'l jough-a-dhorris an' then we'll see ye to your ole mother's own dhoor."

  Corteen had spotted Littlejohn.

  "Come to tek me back again, eh? Perrick says I'm free, and nobody's goin' to stop me. . . ."

  Littlejohn sat in his corner drinking his beer without a word. It had got round that he was responsible for Johnny Corteen's release and everybody was anxious to make him welcome.

  "Aw, come on, Johnny. The Inspecther from London's seen to it they set you free. He's your friend."

  "Is that so? I never even seen the man till now, but Perrick told me what you look like. Perrick's the man got me free, jus' as Perrick's the man put me in. Asked all the questions when I was in the prizzen, too. What did I see when I was asleep on the Peel Road the night they say that rat, Levis, died? Did I see anybody? Anybody walkin', or on a bike, or in a motor-car? O' course I didn', an' I tole him so. I was ashleep, wasn't I? Don' remember nawthen. An' with that, he says, 'Johnny, you're free, my bhoy,' he sez. An' he ups and drives me back to Peel. Perrick's my frien'. Good ole Perrick. . . . I'm goin' home. . . ."

  He made for the door unsteadily and his mates shambled after him to see him off.

  The door opened first, however, and a lanky, gangling, pale-faced fisherman entered, pushed the crowd aside, and made rapidly for the bar. He was so loose-limbed that he looked half-drunk already. He wore a navy blue suit, a jersey under his coat, and a bowler hat. He had been on his way to do some courting.

  "Give me some rum, Rhoda. Quick. . . ."

  The buxom girl at the bar stared at him in amazement. He looked like a ghost come to spoil the fun. One of the French sailors had been flirting with her in sign language and had got to the stage of slipping his arm round her waist across the counter.

  The crowd around the door had returned to the bar, eager to learn what had happened.

  "Has she giv'n ye the go-by, Ernie? Has she got herself another chap?"

  The newcomer downed his drink and pushed the glass back.

  "Another. . . ."

  "My! Ye mus' have got it bad, Ernie-bhoy. . . ."

  The fisherman gulped down his second tot and found his tongue.

  "So would you have got it bad if you seen what I seen. I was jus' comin' down the broo by Creg Malin and in the steepest part, lek, I has to jump for the side on account of a car dhrivin' like the devil himself. Mus' have been doin' sixty. Sixty, down the hill there . . . !"

  "Well, that's not frightened you all that bad, has it, Ernie?"

  "Naw. But there was another ahead of me, see? Another who didn't get out of the way fast enough. The car caught him full an' tossed him lek a mad bull. I shouted but it was too late. There he lay, flat on the road, all bashed about."

  There was a roar of sympathy. Somebody ordered Ernie another rum. Littlejohn sat waiting for the sailor who, with characteristic Manx skill, was making a drama of his tale.

  "Who was it, Ernie boy?"

  Ernie emptied his third glass and his colour returned. His eyes sparkled.

  "Ned Crowe! Poor Ned comin' here for his nightcap, peaceable and quiet. Next minute, whoosh . . . jus' a bundle in the road. . . . "

  "You didn' leave him, Ernie, did ye?"

  "Naw. I yelled me head off as I ran to him. A bobby arrived from nowhere and now Ned's on his way to Noble's 'ospital in Dooglas, unconscious, lek as not dead. . . ."

  "Didn't I tell ye. . . ? There's the evil eye on the Peel Road. . . ."

  They'd forgotten Johnny Corteen in the excitement, and there he was, back again, standing in the doorway, pointing an accusing finger at Littlejohn, as though he could do something about it.

  "The police was axin' me about goin's-on at Peel Road, but it'll need more than them to settle the black witchcraft that's there."

  Then he halted and a dead silence filled the room.

  Inspector Perrick, hands in the pockets of his raincoat, stood in the doorway looking as black as night.

  10

  NO ALIBI

  PERRICK strode to where the loose-limbed sailor was draping himself over the bar, seized him by the arm, and spun him round.

  "What the hell are you doing here? The police have been looking for you all over the place. And put that stuff away. We don't want you drunk before we get your statement."

  He angrily snatched Ernie Quiggin's half-empty glass from his hand and, with a gesture of disgust, splashed the contents on the floor.

  "I thought you'd done with me, sir; honest, I did. . . ."

  "You should have stayed at the station till they said you could go. Now, come on with me. . . ."

  Perr
ick's bright eyes fell on Littlejohn, and his anger evaporated. For the first time the Chief Inspector felt he'd caught his colleague out of countenance. Perrick had always tried to be as unperturbed as Littlejohn in the face of events and now he had, for a minute, lost control.

  "Evening, sir. I didn't expect to find you here."

  "I came to see Johnny, but he'd already drunk himself hors de combat by the time I arrived."

  "Care to come along, sir?"

  "Thanks. We'll pick the Archdeacon up first."

  "Oh; is he here, as well? Right, sir. . . ."

  The Frenchmen watched the whole affair with ironic smiles. First the scared sailor, still more frightened by the terrier of a man in a raincoat; and then the pair of them nearly kowtowing to the big smiling man who'd suddenly risen from his corner. . . .

  The skipper of the Robert Surcouf, St. Malo, shrugged his huge shoulders. A powerful, bearded, villainous-looking man, with piggy eyes and a broken nose. He was in a foul temper. The propeller-shaft of his boat had broken and he'd limped into Peel under sail. Now it would take two days to repair and that would only be a temporary job, according to the local blacksmith, who had said he'd patch it up enough to see him to his home port, where they'd have to fit a new shaft.

  All the Frenchman wanted was a bit of peace in which to get drunk and people kept upsetting him. He spat on the floor and ordered more rum.

  The Archdeacon was sitting in the car, a shawl draped round his shoulders.

  "You here again, Perrick? Was there ever such a man for work?"

  "We've got a lot more since I last put a sight on you, sir. There's been more violence in Peel."

  They told the parson what had occurred and then the quartet made its way to the police-station.

  It took them the best part of an hour to get a proper tale out of Ernie Quiggin. The rum had befuddled him and he kept pausing to sort out his thoughts.

  It amounted, for the most part, to a refined version of what Littlejohn had already heard at the Captain Quilliam. Quiggin had been on his way from where he lived at St. Germain's to do a bit of courting in Peel.

  "I hope someborry's let Nessie know where I am. There'll be sich a scawl if herself's kep' waitin' for me . . . . "

  "Never mind that, Ernie. What did the car look like? Did you get a sight of it?"

  Perrick was putting the questions and the thin constable was taking them down in good longhand and pausing patiently for the answers.

  "Aw, one of the li'l Austins . . . or mebbe it was a Morris. One of the li'l cars you see so much of these days."

  "Have you seen it before? Was it a Peel car?"

  Quiggin thought hard. You could almost hear the wheels turning in his head.

  "Maybe. I didn' see the numbers. It was thravellin' too fast. There's so many of 'em around. Even the police have them."

  The scribbling policeman looked up and sighed. It was like getting blood out of a stone.

  "An' then, there's others like it. The doctor, f'r instance. It was like his . . . ."

  "Which doctor?"

  "Docthor Fallows. He's just got a new one. . . ."

  There was a significant silence. The clock struck nine-thirty and the policeman hastened to say it was a quarter of an hour slow and lost half an hour every day.

  "And what time would it be when this happened, Ernie?"

  "I toul' ye afore. Just after eight. I heard the town clock strike eight a li'l while afore."

  "That checks right. The police were on the spot at twenty past eight. So it must have happened about a quarter past, if what you say is true, that a constable arrived almost as soon as you gave the alarm."

  "Maybe it was, though it seemed nearer eight than that. I'll give it to ye, though."

  Perrick turned to the attendant bobby.

  "Ned Crowe was pretty regular, was he, in his habits of calling for his drink in Peel?"

  "Of late, yes, Inspector. He got to the Captain Quilliam reg'lar about half-past eight or nearabouts."

  "H'm. News reached Douglas at about eight-thirty and I set out right away and got here before nine. That seems to work out right. Very well, Ernie, sign the statements and then you can go and make your peace with Nessie. We'll want to see you again."

  "Any news of Ned Crowe, Mr. Perrick? He's not dead, is he?"

  "No. He's unconscious, though, and it's touch and go."

  Outside, Perrick took Littlejohn's arm in the dark.

  "Perhaps you're thinkin' the same as me, sir, that it wouldn't be a bad idea to call and see Dr. Fallows and get to know how he spent the night. He's not free from suspicion yet on the Levis count. His wife and Levis, you know. . . . There's been funny goings-on around Cursing Stones and it's quite likely Ned Crowe knew a bit too much about somebody. He's had a lot of money lately, and maybe he's come by it by keeping his silence. I'm not even suggesting that Dr. Fallows did run him down, and if he did, it might have been accidental in the dark. . . ."

  "If you're going there, Perrick, I'd like to come with you."

  "You'll be very welcome."

  The doctor was at home when they got there. A maid who looked fresh from the country let them in.

  "Is Dr. Fallows in?"

  "Yes, sir. He's just finishin' the surgery. He's had a busy day and didn't get started till after eight. If you don't mind waiting, I'll tell him you're here."

  She looked scared after Perrick had mentioned his name and rank and seemed eager to get away. The doctor came at once from the room he used as a surgery. Outside, a brick lean-to served as the waiting-room. There were still people to be attended to; you could hear them coughing and shuffling as they waited.

  "I've patients in. Will you be long?"

  The doctor looked tired and drawn. His face was dead pale and his spectacles were dirty. He might have been up all the night before by the looks of him.

  "We won't take long, sir."

  Perrick did all the talking.

  "Come in the consulting room, then."

  He spread out his arm wearily in a gesture of ushering them in, but Archdeacon Kinrade held back.

  "You'll excuse me, doctor. I'm only keeping the Chief Inspector company. This is no business of mine and you won't want the three of us. I'll just stay here in the hall until they come back. It's quite comfortable."

  Fallows didn't seem to be listening. He just left the parson to his own devices without a word.

  The surgery was stuffy and smelt of iodine and ether as well. A desk, a lamp with a green shade, cabinets of instruments and medicines, a hypodermic and a stethoscope on the desk, and on a small table a kidney-dish and a scalpel; the dish was bloodstained. Fallows must have been lancing a boil or something as they'd interrupted and in his haste hadn't thought to clear up the paraphernalia. The alcoves on each side of the wide fireplace were crammed with medical books on shelves; there seemed to be hundreds of them.

  "We won't keep you, doctor. I understand you've been out to-night."

  "Yes."

  "What time?"

  "I was called out urgently at half-past seven, just as I was in the middle of surgery. I didn't get back till after eight."

  "Where did you go, sir?"

  "St. Germain's. It was a false alarm. I was very angry. It's the first time in my experience anybody has called me out for a joke or a bit of malevolence. I've heard of it being done to a fire-brigade but not to . . ."

  Perrick, his eyes glinting, couldn't wait for the sentence to finish.

  "A false alarm! What do you mean, doctor?"

  "Somebody telephoned. There was an accident at St. Germain's and a man was unconscious in the road. I hurried there and could find nothing. I asked at the nearest house to the spot described, Ballahaslitt, but nobody knew anything about it. It was a cruel hoax, especially as I was in the middle of surgery."

  "So you came straight back, sir?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "Past Creg Mallin and down the hill to Peel? About eight o' clock?"

  The doctor rose f
rom his chair impatiently. Outside, you could hear the patients coughing louder than ever, perhaps to remind Fallows that he ought to get a move on.

  "What is all this about, Perrick?"

  Hitherto, it had always been Mr. Perrick or Inspector. Now, you could feel Perrick grow tense at the sudden shedding of respect.

  "Let me ask the questions, doctor. You were in your car?"

  "Of course I was. You could hardly expect me to walk. Will you get to the point? My patients have been kept long enough already."

  "May we see the car?"

  "What for?"

  "I want to see the car."

  Fallows took out a bunch of keys and flung them angrily on the desk.

  "Go and look at it yourself, then. I haven't the time. The key's on the ring and the garage is, as you know, down the slope under the waiting-room. Annie will show you. And now, I'll thank you to leave me to my patients. . . ."

  He glanced at Littlejohn, who had said nothing hitherto, and half shrugged his shoulders as though they both couldn't understand what Perrick was getting at.

  The garage was half underground and overhead was the waiting-room, reached by four stone steps and a door at the top of them. Above, they could hear the patients shuffling and moving their chairs with impatience. Now and then someone coughed or spoke louder than the rest.

  The car was a small one, as described by Ernie Quiggin. The garage was only just large enough to hold it, all the same. The place was neat and clean. Tools on shelves on the walls, spare tyres hanging from pegs, petrol tins, a bench.

  Perrick was busy examining the car. He pointed without a word to a dent in the left front wing. That was all. They looked right round the car and closely examined it for other traces of the accident. Nothing.

  Back in the house, Perrick tapped again on the surgery door. Inside, voices and then the closing of an outer door. Fallows appeared.

  "You again! What is it now?"

  Perrick entered the room without any formality. He threw the keys back on the desk.

  "Where did you get the dent in the left mudguard of your car, doctor?"

  "What dent? I know of none."

  "When did you last examine the car?"

  "I don't know. I'm a busy man. I'm in and out of if all day. I know of no damage to it, though. It was new three months ago and as far as I know . . . "