"And meanwhile?"
"Meanwhile, we must be patient. If Perrick doesn't suspect what we know, he'll not make a move. You see, parson, Pat on the Valentine might be anybody. If we assume that it's Perrick, and it isn't, we'll look very foolish indeed if we start a hare with the Chief Constable. The more I think of it, the more I think patience and silence are the best. Meanwhile, we'll work away and try to find out more facts. This walk and your company have cleared my mind and perspective."
The vicar lit his pipe again.
"I'm relieved to hear you say so, Inspector. I thought earlier that you'd lost heart. Work's the best thing to restore you. Now what about Margat? How do we get her?"
"It will be difficult. I can't telephone Scotland Yard without the local police knowing. The telephone exchange report all unusual calls to the police. If I telephone Cromwell, Perrick will get to know."
"What of it? He can't stop her coming once the police on the other side find her."
"If I ring up Cromwell about Margat, Perrick will warn her to lie low. I believe he knew where she was staying in London. After all, what I can discover about her whereabouts, he can. . . . Even more so, because he's presumably a friend of the family. To-night even, after I telephoned Cromwell to find Margat and bring her over, Perrick got on the 'phone to her, and she had gone when Cromwell called for her at Croydon. You see, the telephone exchange had warned the police and Perrick knew and took steps. He must not let us get hold of Margat. Otherwise, his love affair with her would come into the open and we would connect him at once with Levis."
"You want to get a message out quickly and without the police knowing?"
"Yes, sir. I wonder if we could send a letter to Scotland Yard by first 'plane to-morrow, like you did to me when you wanted me to come over. . . ."
"Too much time wasted. I know a better way. By wireless."
"I must be slipping; I never thought of it. What do we do, sir? Where's the radio station?"
"On the Manx Shearwater. We'll go to Peel and wake up Tom Cashen, get him to send a message to Port Patrick on the mainland, who, in turn, will telephone Scotland Yard right away."
"Parson, you're a genius!"
"It won't go through official channels then. There's always the risk if we use the official radio, that Perrick will get to know sooner or later. It's very sad, by the way, to think as a result of the little Valentine, Perrick has suddenly become the villain of the piece. I hope it proves to be untrue."
"So do I. Now, we'd better cut through the fields to the vicarage and drive off to Peel without any delay."
The path they took led them out by the bridge at Grenaby and Mrs. Littlejohn was waiting for them at the door of the parsonage. Clad in her dressing-gown, she'd kept looking out every five minutes. She was pale as she greeted her husband.
"I'm glad to see you both back. Whatever's the matter, Tom? You weren't white when you went out, you were grey. Has anything happened?"
"I'll tell you later, Letty. Could we have a cup of tea? And then we've got to get along to Peel."
"Shall I come, too?"
"If you don't mind, I'd like you to hold the fort in case there are any calls from the Yard."
"All right. There's some tea ready. We kept the kettle on the boil."
Maggie Keggin, fully dressed, brought in the tea things.
"You'll take care, sir. The danger's not over yet. The Sight keeps botherin' me, off an' on. . . ."
"We'll look after it, and thank you, Maggie. Now that we have an idea where the danger lies, we can look out for it."
"I'll take the dog," said Littlejohn as they rose to go. He didn't say that Meg and he occupied a world of their own in their relationship, and when hard pressed, he got a kind of spiritual refreshment from it. The dog leapt in the back seat, settled, and was asleep before they started on their way.
Once in Peel, the main thing was to avoid the police. Any encounter with a bobby on patrol would call for explanations, and even if they didn't divulge the purpose of their visit, it would certainly be reported to Perrick that they'd been there in the small hours, and his quick brain would jump to conclusions. The parson therefore directed Littlejohn to where Tom Cashen lived in Castle Street, known locally as "the Big Street", and himself stayed in the car, parked in a cul-de-sac outside the town.
Littlejohn almost tiptoed into Peel, choosing all the dark alleys, pausing to listen for the footfall of the patrolling constables, encountering nothing but a few prowling cats wailing dismally. The little city was asleep under the moon, the light of which hardly penetrated the narrow streets. In the distance, the soft splash of the waves on the shore like the breathing of someone asleep. Nothing more.
Cashen's cottage was a low one and Littlejohn, with the help of a walking-stick the parson had lent him, was able to reach the upstairs window and gently tap on it. After three attempts, a woman's head appeared. Her hair was in curling-pins and she looked scared.
"What is it at this time 0' night? It's come to something when people's . . ."
"Let me speak to him, missus."
Tom Cashen's tousled head took the place of his wife's.
"Why, Inspector! What's bringin' ye out at this early hour o' the mornin' ?"
"Can you come down and let me in?"
"Sure. . . ."
The head was withdrawn. Littlejohn listened again. All was quiet. The door opened after a rattle of bars and a chain, and Cashen in his shirt and trousers let him in.
Littlejohn told Tom that not a soul must know of this night's work. That was enough. Tom Cashen said little at the best of times. He could be relied on.
"I don't want to disturb anybody, least of all the police. I'd hate to run into a constable on patrol at this hour, Tom. The Island police would be thinking we're a mad lot at Scotland Yard."
Cashen looked hard at Littlejohn. He scented a mystery, but was ready to fall in without questions. He laughed.
"Aw, nawthen happens in Peel at this time o' night, master. Lek as not, the police'll be by the fire in the police-station. What's to bring 'em sleechin' out in a peaceable li'l place lek Peel. They've tried the shop-doors long ago, an' afther that they'll have shut up shop for the night, unless someborry calls 'em out on a case."
He pulled on his blue jersey and put on his coat and cap. He was right. They reached the Shearwater without meeting a soul.
On about wave-length 135, they picked up Port Patrick on the neat little transmitter in the wheelhouse, and then Littlejohn dictated his message. The receiving station promised to pass it on to Scotland Yard at once, and call him back.
Tom Cashen produced a bottle of rum and glasses from his locker, boiled water on a primus, and mixed some grog. They drank it and took a turn on deck.
The sea was like glass, and silver in the moonlight. They could see far out and, along the coast, it was bright enough to make out the rocks and caves north of Peel, Gog y Deigan and Lynague, and beyond, the turn of coast to the Ayre, with Jurby church standing out clearly, high above the shoreline. There were a number of boats tied up in the harbour, but all except one were in darkness. The crews were either at home or sleeping ashore in the town. The solitary lighted ship was the Robert Surcouf, still in dock for repairs. There was a light on deck, and now and then, the man on watch coughed or cleared his throat.
"Peaceful, isn't it, sir? Better tek your fill of it, because it won't last long. The weather'll break any time now."
"Is the glass falling, then?"
"Aw, yiss. If you care to look in the wheelhouse, you'll see it's goin' down fast. An' to-day's September 21st. That's what we call here Oie'l Vian, Matthew's Eve. I believe in the year 1787, the whole of the herrin' fleet was destroyed in Douglas Bay on Oie'l Vian. Navar since then do the boats from Peel go out to the herrin's on Oie'l Vian. More modern, they're called the equinoctial gales, I believe. They're not here to a day or so, exac', lek, but they come. It won't be so quiet here to-morrow night, I can tell ye, master."
"So soon?"
"The old fishermen at The Corner there don't need the weatherglass to tell the weather, an' they've all been surprised the day's held out so good. Some of 'em h'ard the Howlaa moanin' in the dusk this everin, and that's a sure sign of gales. . . . Another glass of grog, sir?"
"The Howlaa?"
"Aw, that's the sperrit that wails on the shore before storms. A sure sign. They say nowadays it's the noise of the wind changin', but the old ones still say it's a sperrit."
He took the glasses, descended to the fo'c'sle, and brought them up refilled.
"The Frenchy there's runnin' it fine. . . ."
He pointed to the Robert Surcouf.
"The smith finished the propeller-shaft to-night and everyborry advised the skipper to up anchor an' off if he wanted to make home port before the storms break. But he's a difficult fellah, lek. He won't take advice, and said he'd not sail till to-morrow. An' the smith had been tellin' him that the repair would only see him across in calm weather, and he'd need a complete new part when he got home. Didn't make any difference. The Frenchy said he'd go his own way. Well. . . . He'll rue it if he tries to cross the channel in the Oie'l Vian storms. . . . Shall we try Port Patrick again, sir?"
The mainland station had moved fast. They'd sent the message to Scotland Yard at once; then they'd stood-by for a reply for Littlejohn. A Mr. Cromwell had been roused from his bed and had taken charge at the other end. He sent his best wishes to Chief Inspector Littlejohn and told him to listen for results before the eight o'clock news the following morning.
Littlejohn thanked Tom Cashen for all his help.
"Aw, it's nawthen, Mr. Littlejohn. Don't forget the trip we're going to have together before you go."
"What about the Howlaa, Tom?"
"He won't last long and maybe there'll be a quiet day between times. We'll see."
Littlejohn joined the Archdeacon again, and as they drove home, the Inspector gave his companion a full account of his meeting with Tom Cashen and what they had done together.
"Do you think you'll sleep now, Littlejohn?"
It was past four when they arrived back at the vicarage and Littlejohn, putting aside all his worries and fears when he got in bed, fell asleep right away. Maggie Keggin wakened them at a quarter to eight in the morning. Archdeacon Kinrade was already fully dressed and awaiting them, bright-eyed, in the dining-room, where they joined him in their dressing-gowns. The weather forecast was being read; it bore out all that Tom Cashen had said. Gale warnings in all parts, high winds, some rain; the gales gradually increasing as the day went on. Then:
"Here is an S.O.S. announcement. Will Miss Margat Crowe, late of Cursing Stones Farm, Peel, Isle of Man, now believed to be in London, get in touch with New Scotland Yard, telephone number Whitehall 1212, at once, in connection with her father, Edwin Crowe, who is lying seriously injured at Noble's Hospital, Douglas, Isle of Man. I will repeat that . . . "
"Good old Cromwell," said Littlejohn and hurried upstairs to shave. He repeated it much more fervently an hour later, when the telephone bell rang.
It was Tom Cashen from Peel to say he was coming down to Grenaby right away. That meant that, in accordance with arrangements between them and Port Patrick the night before, Cromwell had telephoned further news to be transmitted to the Shearwater on a private wave-length. Half an hour later, Tom followed his message. His brother, a farmer, had brought him along in his land-rover. All the doors opened in the village and the occupants turned out to greet him in great curiosity.
M.C. telephoned at 8.0, just after broadcast. Receptionist at an Hotel in Bloomsbury, where M.C. staying, took down and gave it to her. I went and picked up M.C. right away. Just after my arrival, there was a call for M.C. from Douglas. Told operator to say M.C. out. Did not try to trace call pending your instruction. Leaving Northolt about noon—arrive I.O.M. about 2.0. Will you please meet me?
Tom Cashen was drinking a cup of coffee with the parson.
"Will you do me another favour, Tom?"
"Anything, sir."
"A final message to Sergeant Cromwell, Scotland Yard, via Port Patrick."
"A pleasure, sir."
Airport and landing-stage likely to be watched by police. Ask Assist. Commissioner to arrange private 'plane and landing at Jurby R.A.F. airfield: Will meet you about 2.0.
Littlejohn.
Littlejohn now thought it best to get away from Grenaby, lest Perrick should arrive and cause embarrassment. True, the local Inspector might be busy at the airport or Douglas quay, but Littlejohn didn't care to risk it. He therefore took his wife off to Ramsey for lunch, and then they left for Jurby.
The Officer in Command at Jurby had heard from London. The plane was already on the way and due in twenty minutes. Littlejohn could hardly wait, and felt more excited than for a long time as it appeared over the airport and finally taxied to rest. A bowler hat appeared in the doorway and turned as the wearer helped out his companion.
Cromwell scanned the airfield and waved with frenzied joy as he spotted his friends. He shook their hands as though they'd been parted for years.
"And this is Miss Crowe."
Margat Crowe was all Littlejohn had expected from descriptions of her. Dark, taller than average, and delicately beautiful, but pale with worry and anxious about her father. She was nervous and troubled in many ways and showed great relief when Littlejohn told her Ned Crowe was out of danger and that she would soon be able to see him. For lack of somewhere better to call for a cup of tea on the way to Grenaby, Littlejohn halted at the Claddagh Hotel. Greenhalgh was sober and welcomed them.
"Good afternoon, Miss Crowe. Welcome back."
Littlejohn took a turn alone with Margat in the garden, the last roses of which were blooming and the leaves of which were gathered in heaps for burning.
"I want a word or two with you as soon as possible, Miss Crowe. There have, as you know, been strange happenings here since you went away. You can help me sort out some of them, I think."
She smiled, an open, almost childish smile.
"What do you want to know?"
"First, you were going to San Remo with Levis?"
She paused and flushed unhappily.
"Yes. We were to be married in London and going there for a honeymoon."
"You went on ahead and waited, and he never came. What did you think?"
"The worst. I knew his reputation. In fact, he was quite candid about it when he asked me to marry him. When he didn't turn up, I thought he'd changed his mind. I waited a day or two, then I went to my aunt's at Croydon, got a job and waited for news. You see, I hadn't much money. I asked the hotel I'd left to forward anything. There was nothing. Then I read in the paper he was dead. . . ."
"Meanwhile, you didn't think of returning home?"
"I had a terrible quarrel with father. He wouldn't hear of my even associating with Cedric. So I said I'd go. When it turned out wrong, I was too proud to come back. I'm sorry, now. Poor dad must have suffered terribly."
"And why did you leave your aunt's home so suddenly the other day?"
"I didn't know father was ill. A friend of ours in the police over here, telephoned to say that the newspaper men were after me for a statement about Cedric's relations with me, that they would trace me to auntie's, and I'd better lie low for the present in a London hotel. He gave me an address, and I moved out in panic. I didn't tell auntie where I was going, but promised to keep in touch with her. I was afraid, and wanted to hide."
"Who was your friend in the police, Miss Crowe?"
"Inspector Perrick. . . ."
She smiled and showed not the least embarrassment.
"Forgive a very personal question, but is Inspector Perrick by any chance in love with you?"
Her eyes opened wide.
"Why, no."
"Did he ever send you a Valentine?"
She paused and thought. She seemed amused.
"Oh, I remember. Mr. Perrick used to be the constable at Michael when I was at school. He us
ed to see me safely home quite often. He once sent me a home-made Valentine because I'd told him I didn't know what a Valentine was. How did you know that?"
"We found it in your father's Bible."
"He used to keep little keepsakes of me as a child in it. Where did you get the Bible?"
"We sent it to him in hospital. He wanted it. The Valentine fell out."
"There's never been anything between Inspector Perrick and me. His nickname was Pat in the village in those days; short for Perrick. I know there's a silly idea that a woman always knows if a man's in love with her, but I'm quite sure Inspector Perrick never felt that way about me."
"Let's go and get our tea, then."
Cromwell and the Archdeacon were getting on like a house on fire. The sergeant was telling the old man about his latest and best hobby; a boys' club in the East End. . . .
Greenhalgh was hovering round the table obsequiously, seeing that everything was right. When Littlejohn entered, he made cryptic signs that he wanted a word with him in private. Littlejohn excused himself from the party and followed the landlord into the little cubbyhole of an office under the stairs.
"Oh, Inspector, I just wanted a word with you. Is this Levis affair finished? Because I don't like the police keep hanging round here. Not you; I don't mean that. You're a friend of mine and you're always welcome. I mean that fellow Perrick. He's been twice quizzin' me, and I've got fed up with it."
"Inspector Perrick? What did he want?"
"A day or so after you first called, in walks Perrick and says he knew, of course, you'd been to see me, and would I just go over the interview again for the official record. I told him what we'd said. He didn't seem pleased. The day after, he was here again. Was I sure that was all? Of course I was sure, I said, and I asked him what he was driving at. I'm not fond of Mister Nosey Perrick. I think he was responsible for the raid, though he didn't join in."
"Raid?"
Littlejohn smiled.
"Not exactly raid; inspection. What about a drink?"
The Cursing Stones Murder (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 18