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

by George Bellairs

  "I tried the B.E.A., but nobody in that name had booked."

  "Did you see the booking list?"

  "Yes. But I couldn't do much. You see, she might have booked in another name."

  "She might have gone back to her old hotel. . . ."

  "I tried it. She wasn't there. At the same time, I checked that she was there the day Levis was killed. That gives her an alibi. Thought I might as well kill two birds with one stone."

  "I'm very grateful, old man. You seem to think of everything. All right. You know her. Better be down at Northolt first thing, just in case she's taken panic and is hurrying home. You didn't get a chance to tell her about her father, did you?"

  "No."

  "In that case, someone else might have forestalled you. We might be worrying about nothing. Perhaps you'll find her on the 'plane to-morrow."

  "Yes, but why has she left her aunt's to-night? You'd have thought she'd have slept there and gone off in the morning."

  "See what you can find out. I'll ring you again tomorrow or, if it's anything vital, you ring me first. Goodbye, old chap, and thanks again. "

  Littlejohn replaced the receiver and then took it up again.

  "Exchange?"

  A sleepy man's voice replied after a pause.

  "Yes."

  "Were you on duty when the call from London came to Grenaby about eight o'clock this evening?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Was there a call to the mainland, to East Croydon, shortly after that call?"

  A pause.

  "Sorry, sir, I can't answer questions of that sort. It's against the rules."

  "This is the police. . . ."

  "I beg your pardon, sir?"

  "Police. I'm a police officer staying at Grenaby parsonage."

  Another pause.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't answer you. How am I to know you're police? Anybody might say that. You see what I mean? It's as much as my job's worth."

  "I'll come along to the exchange then. It'll probably take me half an hour. You'll let me in, won't you?"

  "Certainly, sir. If you can prove you're police, I'll be glad to do all I can."

  Littlejohn hastily dressed and got out the car. He found his wife beside him dressed and ready, too.

  "I'm coming with you, Tom. All this second sight business and Joe Henn's anxiety make me anxious, too. Two of us will be better than one."

  They struck the main road at Colby and Littlejohn took the inland route through Ballasalla, and then past Mount Murray. It was one o'clock and they passed only a solitary car travelling south in the opposite direction from themselves. At Richmond Hill, the lights of Douglas, shining over a calm sea, appeared. Littlejohn forked right through Kewaigue and it was near Kewaigue day-school that he saw another larger car moving at high speed along the old Castletown road which converged with that along which he was travelling. Judging from his own pace, he should meet the crossroads well ahead of the other lonely car. . . .

  But just at the corner, the strange vehicle suddenly increased speed and made straight for Littlejohn as he rounded the bend. Luckily, Littlejohn was climbing and as he raised his toe from the accelerator, the gradient helped him as well. Even then, he had to take the footpath, run parallel to the other vehicle, and mount the hedge. Before he could stop to investigate, the large car had righted itself, swept into the main road, and vanished, with all lights extinguished, in the direction of Douglas.

  "Are you all right, Letty?"

  He put his hand on his wife's arm. She was trembling.

  "Yes, I'm all right. Are you? That was deliberately done, Tom. I wish this was over and we were going back home. . . . It's not safe."

  "Don't worry. It soon will be, now. Whoever's guilty is getting rattled, and that means he or she is going to make a slip. That was a big car. Put out his lights as he approached us. Pity. I didn't even see the make."

  "It looked like a big taxi to me. Let's get on, Tom, and get back to Grenaby. I'm scared. . . ."

  They ran into Douglas and to the Post Office for the telephone exchange. The man on duty was expecting Littlejohn. The Chief Inspector showed him his warrant-card.

  "Scotland Yard, eh?"

  The operator was a middle-aged man, dressed in flannels with an open-necked shirt. He looked to have been asleep. There wasn't much doing at that time of night.

  "Are your lines tapped at all?"

  "What do you mean, sir?"

  "Does anyone listen in to the calls . . . the police?"

  "Since the murder they have done to certain ones."

  "To the mainland, you mean?"

  "Yes. Some of the insular exchanges are automatic, but we report any special ones we can, especially to and from the mainland."

  "What happens?"

  "We report anything special to the police and then, if they want to listen-in, we can switch it over to the police-station, where they can record it if they want."

  "My calls to and from Scotland Yard, for example; were those reported or listened to?"

  "They were reported along with the rest, sir, but nobody listened-in."

  "You just telephone the list to the police?"

  "Yes. About every half-hour, if there are any."

  "And my incoming call from Scotland Yard to-night, how long after did you report it?"

  "Nearly right away."

  "I see. And was it followed by another call from this side to Croydon? An East Croydon exchange number?"

  "No. There's been nothing out to-night for that."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. Quite sure."

  "In case you've forgotten, let me see your list, please."

  The man was up in arms at once. He took a pad from the switch-desk and slipped it in a drawer.

  "I'm not allowed. It's against the rules. You've no right to ask."

  "Why have I no right?"

  "You're not the Island police. You're not on the job and it's not right of you to insist."

  "Who told you I'm not on the job?"

  "Everybody knows."

  "Do they? Very well. Thanks for your help. I won't trouble you any further."

  "No offence, sir. But it's as much as my job's worth to break the regulations."

  "I don't blame you at all. Have the police been to see you to-night?

  "Yes. They generally call to see things are all right. Things get a bit quiet, sir, at this time of night."

  Littlejohn turned suddenly on the man.

  "Who are you reporting calls to besides the police?"

  The operator recoiled.

  "Nobody . . . I tell you, nobody. I won't keep being quizzed like this. It isn't fair. I've my job to do and it's against the rules for me to be interrupted. . . . "

  The buzzer on the switch was going and the man hurried to answer it.

  Littlejohn waited.

  "Put me through to the police-station, please," he said when the man was free again.

  "Very good, sir."

  Littlejohn spoke to the officer on duty at the police-station and reported the event at Kewaigue.

  "I can't even describe the car, but if any of your men saw it on the road or in Douglas just around one o'clock, you might let me know. You'll look into it, won't you?"

  "Of course, sir. I'm sorry it's happened. Was it deliberate?"

  "No doubt about it."

  "Phew! We'll do our best."

  "Let Inspector Perrick know when he comes in, will you?"

  "Yes, sir. He's only been gone ten minutes. Shall I ring him up at home and tell him?"

  "No. Don't trouble him now, officer. It's late. . . . "

  Littlejohn was sitting at the switchboard with his instrument plugged in to the police-station. In his younger days he'd done a training spell on telephones at Scotland Yard. Before him were the trunk switches to the mainland. He removed the plug from the local switch and thrust it in the Liverpool one.

  "Liverpool. . . . Liverpool. . . ."

  The man on duty hurried to Littlejo
hn's side.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Just a minute. . . ."

  "But it's against . . . "

  "I know. Now please be quiet. Liverpool? Did you book a call to East Croydon from here about eight to eight-thirty? This is the police."

  "Just a minute . . ."

  The man at his side didn't know what to do. He looked to be pondering whether or not to use force.

  "Yes. . . . East Croydon 03452 . . . . 8.32. . . ."

  "Thank you very much."

  He turned to the agitated operator at his side.

  "That's all I wanted to know. Your work is confidential, I agree, and you have to be careful about inquiries. I shall say no more about this and neither will you; not to a soul. You understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Very well. My visit here is to be forgotten. Understand that, too?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good night, then, and thank you."

  All the way home, Littlejohn was silent. He couldn't make head or tail of things. Probably because he didn't know the local background. Perhaps the telephone operator was a relative or good friend of some party to the crime. Fallows, Dora Quine, or the unknown lover of Margat Crowe. Certainly it wasn't Ned Crowe, now. Ned was in Noble's and would never have thought of the car incident at Kewaigue, or been clever enough to find out what went on between Littlejohn and Scotland Yard over the telephone. Or again, the local police might have ordered the man at the switch to remain mum.

  Margat Crowe's unknown lover. He'd be the likely man to get in touch with her and warn her not to let the police get hold of her and question her, because then, ten to one, his name would come out.

  They dropped down the hill to Grenaby. It was always the same. The peace of the place got you and you forgot the world outside and its crimes and troubles.

  The vicar was up and fully dressed, standing at the door with the dog waiting for them.

  "Come in, come in. There's a cup of tea for you and a bite of something. You'll need it after your night ride. Have you found out anything?"

  "As much as ever. . . . A dead-end again. We're up against someone very clever, someone who tried to smash us up in a collision on the way."

  The Archdeacon threw up his hands in horror.

  "Maggie Keggin's Sight seems to be right. I beg you be careful, Littlejohn."

  "I will be, sir. Now I know what we're up against, I'll take care."

  They ate a hasty snack and drank some tea, and Mrs. Littlejohn left Littlejohn and the Archdeacon together. The old man was obviously eager to say something else to Littlejohn.

  "There's just one thing I want to ask you, Littlejohn. It's probably a stupid business, but I must get it off my mind."

  "Fire away, sir."

  "I went to the hospital and saw Ned Crowe, as you know. And I told you I read a chapter of the Psalms and had a little prayer with him. I used his Bible; the one kind Mrs. Kelly brought for him from Cursing Stones . . . his own Bible. It's a very old one. In fact, it must have been his mother's and her father's before her, for I remember looking at it with curiosity.

  Jamys Kelly is my name,

  Peel-town is my station.

  The Isle of Man's my dwelling-place,

  And Christ is my salvation.

  That's what is inscribed in it. There were also a lot of little cards marking favourite chapters and book-marks commemorating dead and gone Kellys and Crowes."

  "Yes?"

  "Now this is what I'm getting at. One of those bookmarks fell out as I was reading. I went on reading and picked the card up when I'd finished. I must have held it in my hand as I was praying, for when I got up after you were called out, I found it in my coat pocket. I must have slipped it in unconsciously in my preoccupation. When I came upon it, I looked at it and the writing seemed familiar. I can't think where I've seen it. Does it strike any chord with you, Littlejohn?"

  The anxious-faced old man handed over the card. It was a simple, cheap greeting card. To My Valentine, with a lovers' knot under the title, and then a verse.

  The sky above is blue, love,

  The Bird is on the dhrine,

  My heart beats true for you, love,

  My flower, my Valentine.

  "Dhrine means thorn-bush, Littlejohn, but read on . . . ."

  Margat, Neen beg villish my chree.

  Pat. 1938.

  "Margat, little, sweet girl of my heart. She must have been about twelve then."

  "Well?"

  "May I see the note that was waiting for us when we got in to-day?"

  "You mean . . . ?"

  "Yes."

  Littlejohn took the paper from his pocket and placed it beside the card. Together they examined the writing and looked in amazement at each other.

  "It's the Pat that started me thinking, Littlejohn. You see, it's a diminutive of Patrick, isn't it? Well in Manx, the garbled version of Patrick is Perrick!"

  16

  THE RETURN OF MARGAT CROWE

  "I'VE got to think things out, parson. I can't let it rest there and I shan't sleep till I've settled things in my own mind. I think I'll take a long walk."

  Outside, the moon was shining and it was almost as clear as day. A rare night for a long tramp if only you could enjoy it.

  "I'll come with you, Littlejohn. Let me get my boots on and then . . . "

  "It's past two, parson, and you ought to be in bed. It'll knock you up."

  "I couldn't sleep, either. And it won't knock me up; I'm used to watching by the sick, even at my age. If you'll have me, I'll come. It may do you good to have someone to talk to when you feel like it."

  "I'll be very grateful if you will. . . ."

  The trees round Grenaby stood etched in the moonlight as they set out. There was hardly a sound, except the river rushing under the bridge and the cries of owls. From the village, they took a minor path which brought them out at Ballamodha on the long straight road from Upper Foxdale to Ballasalla and Castletown. All around spread the little farms, sleeping in the night, and behind and to the left of them, the massive hills stood silhouetted against the clear sky.

  "I can't believe it, parson, but it makes very many things clear. The obstruction of the police, for example. I thought the men at Ramsey were friends of mine, but when I went to ask their help, they were as tight as oysters. Perrick must have told them . . . ordered them . . . to say nothing about the case to me, because I wasn't officially on it. And then there was the way Perrick was always on my heels, quizzing if I'd found anything he didn't know. He was quite angry when he found I was what he called 'a step ahead of him'. He was scared about what I'd find next."

  Their pipes kept going out and they halted now and then to light them. The Archdeacon strode out at Littlejohn's side like a young man. The Inspector kept shortening his stride out of respect for his companion's aged legs. Then the old man got ahead of him. They ought to have been enjoying the beauty of the night; instead of which . . .

  "I can't understand it, Littlejohn. Perrick comes of an old and well-liked family and is known all over the Island for his industry and integrity. I never thought for a minute he was in love with Margat Crowe."

  "What else could it be? He must have killed Levis to prevent his taking her away and treating her like he'd treated all his other women. I can't say I blame Perrick. Levis had it coming to him and it may have happened during a fight. I wish I'd never got mixed up in this case. Now I've got to see it through. I'll have to speak to the Chief Constable to-morrow."

  "Has it occurred to you that Maggie Keggin's Sight, as she calls it, somehow scented danger for you when you were alone with Perrick? And the anxiety of Joe Henn about prowlers, as he called them. Might you not have been in real danger for your life when you were alone to-day."

  Littlejohn halted in his stride and faced the Archdeacon.

  "That's what worries me, sir. The attempt to wreck my car and, presumably, kill me on the way to Douglas to-night. It's not like Perrick at all. I've worked with the m
an for a week, know him and his ways intimately, admire his manner and his modesty, like him as a man. . . . It's not right, sir. I'd almost as soon think my old colleague, Cromwell, would try to kill me. If Perrick did it, I shall feel like resigning from the service, taking my pension, and keeping hens. I'd feel my knowledge of human nature had failed me. . . ."

  "Oh, come, come, Littlejohn. Perrick must be in love and men in love are completely changed, for good or evil. He must have gone demented to think of Margat and Levis. What did he call her in his Valentine? 'My flower. . . .' He must have sought every way to save her and failing, gone mad and killed."

  "It's not that, parson. I'm not a Sherlock Holmes, an intellectual detective, who sits in an armchair and solves his cases. Neither am I a scientific one, hunting for clues, fingerprints, cracking alibis. I've always depended on my simple knowledge of human nature. I've tried to get background, the feel of cases, to soak myself in the environment of crimes and those who commit them. I've grown to depend on the solution coming almost instinctively, or subconsciously, after I've got to know all the parties and their homes and their circumstances in a case. Now. . . . If Perrick has done this, I shall lose confidence in myself. I shall lose, so to speak, the password which has opened so many doors. Better pack up when that happens. . . ."

  "Could it be that Perrick is shielding Ned Crowe, the father of the girl he's in love with?"

  "I hope to God he is. . . . Anyone but Perrick. That's how I feel and it does me no credit."

  They were standing at the top of Ballamodha, looking to the east. The long white road, the "straight", shone in the moonlight as far as they could see, and beyond it, the "fish tail", the spreading peninsula which holds on one side the wide Castletown Bay and on the other, the quiet hamlet of Derbyhaven. At one point, St. Michael's Isle was plainly visible and, at the other, the lighthouse of Langness flashed across the water and then over the land rhythmically. And farther than that, the moonlit sea and the horizon along which the light of to-morrow was faintly showing.

  Another day! Both men wondered how it would end.

  "What are you going to do now, Littlejohn?"

  "The first thing is, to get hold of Margat Crowe. We can't ask Perrick face to face how things stand between them. We've got to ask Margat. If she was ready to run away with Levis, she can't love Perrick much, and therefore she's the weaker vessel of the pair. Perrick must be very strong in his love to do as he has done. We must find Margat. . . ."