"I'm just going to have some tea, thanks. Go on with your tale, Mr. Greenhalgh."
The landlord drew close. He reeked of whisky as though soaked to the very marrow in it.
"Well, it's like this. The Sunday before the . . . the inspection, Perrick called here, all on his lonesome, to have dinner. He cast his eyes round at the drinks to some tune, and I'm sure he made a note to send the Ramsey squad the next Sunday. The place was full and we gave him a good time. In fact, he'd such a good time, it was a dirty trick of him to tip off the police on us."
"What sort of a good time?"
"You know how stern and starchy he is. There wasn't a free table, so we asked him if he'd share one. He jibbed a bit, but then said he would. There was a lady at the table, a neglected lady, if you get what I mean. After the fish, the ice thawed and they got on together as if they'd been friends all their lives. It ended by him taking her home in his car. Friends had dropped her here and were calling back for her. You should have seen their faces when they found she'd gone."
"Who was the lady?"
Greenhalgh closed one eye.
"You'd never guess. She'd come here to make a scene. I'm sure of that. For some time previous, she'd been coming here with a man, and he'd let her down for somebody else. She must have expected him being here, you see, and was wantin' to see who'd put her nose out or else kick up a scene with him. He was the chap who was murdered, Levis. And the woman was Mrs. Fallows. . . . Last time Perrick was here, he tried to pass it off lightly. It might have been something and nothing in the way of a bit of gallantry, so to speak, but what I objected to was him going and turnin' loose the Ramsey police on us the week after. I've a score to settle with Mr. Perrick. . . ."
Littlejohn didn't tell Greenhalgh how fully he had paid accounts! He was quiet all the way back to Grenaby. They called with Margat Crowe at Cursing Stones, where she lit a fire and then made arrangements to stay with the Kellys until her own home was in ship-shape. Littlejohn promised to take her down to see her father as soon as they'd dropped the rest of the party at the vicarage.
At Grenaby, Maggie Keggin met them at the door.
"That man's here again," she said ominously. "He insisted on waitin' this time. He's in the dinin'-room."
But Perrick had followed her to the door.
"No; here I am. Hullo, Chief Inspector. . . . "
His eyes turned to Margat Crowe.
"Kynnas-tha-shu, Margat. So they've found you at last! And this, I presume, is Sergeant Cromwell. Glad to meet you, Cromwell. I just called to take Margat to her father. He's fit to be seen now."
17
THE RETICENCE OF NED CROWE
LITTLEJOHN went with Perrick and Margat Crowe to Douglas. On the way they chatted amiably about all kinds of things, including Margat's stay in London. Relations between Perrick and Littlejohn seemed just as they'd always been from the beginning, friendly and cordial.
"I understand your anxiety to get Miss Crowe over here to see her father," Perrick had told Littlejohn in the moment they spent alone before leaving Grenaby. "But why did you send out the B.B.C. call without mentioning it to me? I could have helped."
"The Archdeacon had seen Crowe the night before and the old man was asking for Margat."
"How did you get the message over?"
Littlejohn cocked one ear. So . . . But Perrick went on quite openly:
"I know it wasn't telephoned over. You see, since this case began, we've tapped all the lines to the mainland and there was no outward call either to Scotland Yard or the B.B.C."
"It went by radio. Our friend Tom Cashen was good enough to send it on the set of the Shearwater. I didn't want the telephone operators cutting-in and interfering. . . ."
There was a pause and, for the first time in their association, the air grew tense.
Littlejohn changed the subject.
"A much more serious thing happened last night, Perrick. I took my wife to Douglas and on the way, a large car tore at us and tried to smash us up. . . ."
Perrick changed countenance; his healthy colour grew dead white.
"Where, was this, sir?"
"At Kewaigue."
"You didn't report it."
"I did. To the man on night duty, with a description of the car, such as it was. You were off duty, of course."
"I heard nothing of it."
"I intended to see you about it. However . . . "
They drove on in silence.
Ned Crowe was in a single ward at Noble's. There was a policeman sitting by his bedside; a nice comfortable type of constable, reading a novel by Ethel M. Dell from the hospital library. He had his false teeth in a handkerchief on his knee. They were new and hurt him. He tore himself away from his book, with abashed and furtive gestures replaced his dentures, and left the party with the patient.
Ned Crowe with his head shaved and his pale face, looked a shadow of the formidable drunken sailor Littlejohn had first met in the Captain Quilliam. Margat rushed to him, put her arms round him, kissed him, and wept.
"Margat, my chree . . . me villish. . . . You've come back. I knew you'd come back home to your ould daa. . . . "
The old man was mixing his tears with his daughter's. He looked better already. He turned his face to Perrick.
"Thank you, Master Perrick. You promised to bring her back, and you did. Bless you!"
Littlejohn didn't say a word. He didn't even glance in Perrick's direction.
"You'll stop with your dad, now, Margat veg?"
"I'll never run away again."
"You'll be able to get the house tidy and nice for me. . . ."
"The kettle'll be on the hob ready for you when you come in at the door. You'll soon be home now. . . ."
"Margat. . . . Graih villish."
They let them take their fill of homely talk and endearments. Never once did Perrick show the least emotion about Margat or Ned. He just stood there quietly, letting them have it out.
"Do you feel fit yet, Ned, to tell us what happened the night of the accident?"
Margat sat on the chair beside the bed and Ned Crowe looked hard at Perrick.
"Not a thing, Mister Perrick. Not a thing. The docther said it might tek months for me to be rememberin'. "
"I see. You don't call anything to mind?"
"I just seemed to be walkin' along the road and then I don't remember anythin' else. I wasn' dhrunk. . . ."
Littlejohn spoke for the first time.
"What time was it?"
Perrick jerked his head in the Inspector's direction and gave him a keen look.
"Eight o'clock. The clock in Peel-town had just sthruck."
"I thought you couldn't remember anything?"
Perrick was on it like a shot.
"I don't, Mr. Perrick. But in me mind I still seem to hear the Peel clock chimin', lek."
"Very well."
"Do you remember anything about the day you saw Mr. Levis dead on the shore at Gob y Deigan, Mr. Crowe?"
Littlejohn took it up again.
Ned Crowe looked hard at him.
"You're the man I ordhered off my farm. When was it? Who are you . . . ?"
"A friend of mine," said Perrick, and Littlejohn was sorry that their ways were slowly drifting apart. He still admired the Manxman.
"I don't remember a thing. Maybe when I'm home at me farm an' see the place again, it'll all come back."
"Who did you see on the shore beside the body?"
Ned Crowe began to show signs of distress.
"I can't remember. I tell ye, I don't recollect. It makes my head ache when I try to think."
He grew excited, pressed the bell above his bed, and a nurse appeared.
"They're botherin' me, nurse. The doctor said I wasn't to be bothered. Don't let them keep on at me."
"All right, Mr. Crowe. They won't say anything more. They're going now."
"Margat isn't goin', yet?"
"No. She'll stay and have tea with you."
"That's righ
t, me villish. . . ."
Outside, Littlejohn and Perrick parted. They had come in Perrick's car and Mrs. Littlejohn had promised to follow to Douglas with Cromwell to pick him up, and take Margat Crowe to her lodgings at Ballacurry on the way back.
"Sure I can't take you back, sir?"
"No, thanks, Perrick. I'll just take a walk around. I've never had a moment to relax since I got here. It'll be nice to have a change."
"Right, sir. If Crowe says anything, I'll let you know."
The Inspector tried to put the whole thing from his mind and enjoy the stroll. He went down to the quay, across the swing bridge, and along the steep road to Douglas Head. When he reached the top, he could hardly stand. The gale was rising and the sea below was churned into heavy white-topped rollers. A small coaster making for harbour was taking it right in the teeth; every wave washed her from stem to stern. Out at sea, vessels of all kinds were running for shelter in Douglas Bay. The storm cone was dangling from the harbour-master's office at the pier-head. The sea pounded the rocks below the Head with a noise like thunder.
On the way back, Littlejohn passed a telephone-box overlooking the old quay. He entered and rang up the parsonage. Letty was just ready to leave.
"Do you mind taking Cromwell down to Peel, get him to run round to all the garages he can find, and see if they hired out a car last night after midnight. Don't worry about me, Letty. I'm just going for a breath of air along the promenade. I'll be at the Fort Anne Hotel at five. That do?"
"Mr. Henn's been here wanting to see you. He had something on his mind, he said, and he thought he ought to tell you . . ."
"Did he tell you what it was?"
"He told Cromwell and Cromwell told me and the parson . . ."
Suddenly Littlejohn stiffened.
"Don't tell me now. Wait till we meet."
He remembered that now even the telephone wasn't safe.
"Take care of yourself, Tom."
He walked down to the promenade. The footpath on the sea side was out of bounds; the sea was washing over in great waves and filling the gutters with foam and water. Littlejohn had to hold his hat. The wind tore along the length of the gardens and the long level curve of the bay. Every wave and every gust of wind seemed mightier than the last. Finally, quite exhausted with battling against the elements, Littlejohn turned in at Fort Anne Hotel and ordered himself some tea. The rest of those in the place were gathered round the window watching the heavy seas, talking about the storm, and wondering when the boat from Liverpool would arrive.
"It was just such another night when the Ellan Vannin was lost," said an old man. "I remember it well. An' she'd battled all the way over again' it, and just at the Mersey Bar it was too much for her, and she went down with all aboard. . . . Fifty years since, nearly, that was."
Silence. Nobody commented. An event still remembered with grief and softly spoken of on the Island. Grief so deep that it seemed indecent to speak of it in public.
Outside, more boats seeking shelter between the two great headlands and, in the distance, others running for safety to Ramsey Bay.
"A dirty north-wester. They'll cop it in Peel to-night."
The man who said it looked happy to be indoors and swallowed a toasted muffin almost whole with satisfaction.
Littlejohn thought of the Robert Surcouf, still tied up in Peel harbour. The stupidity of the skipper had caused them to miss the weather. They might be here now for another week.
Cromwell and Letty arrived at Fort Anne, at last.
"I went round Peel garages, sir. None of them had a taxi out, but one of them which runs a little hire-and-drive business, lets out a big pre-war Austin sometimes. It's used all hours, so they keep it in a lock-up, at the side of the main garage. It was out last night, after they closed at ten."
"Who hired it?"
"Dr. Fallows has a key of the lock-up. If his wife has their own car out and he's called out, he can get at the hired one."
Littlejohn sighed. Over and over again, round and round, like a man on a treadmill. Every time it came back to Fallows, the man who had a perfect alibi for the day Levis was murdered! Could he be trying to kill everyone who might bring suspicion to bear on his wife?
"Mr. Henn was a bit agitated about you, too, sir."
"Joe! He told me as much the other day. He thought I was in danger, but was relieved to find Perrick guarding me when he called at the vicarage. What's troubling Mr. Henn?"
"Just this, sir. On the day he called to warn you, he said he was up a tree in his garden, looking round it on a ladder because he's thinking of pollarding it later. Looking down at the vicarage, he saw a woman carrying a rifle, peeping in at the windows over the hedge. He thought she was out rabbiting or something. Then he found she was watching the house as if she might be ready to take a pot at someone. Perrick came up, saw her, and went and spoke to her. They both seemed angry and he sent her off. She went away looking very grim."
"Who was she?"
"Perrick, Henn said he recognized; but he'd never seen the woman before."
"Let's drive to Noble's and pick up Margat Crowe."
They didn't go in the ward again to disturb Ned Crowe, but picked up Margat and took her straight to Kellys', Ballacurry, where she was to stay until her father's return home. Margat said little on the way. She was relieved to find her father so much better, but, it seemed, he had confided nothing to her about happenings at Cursing Stones on the fatal afternoon of Cedric Levis's murder.
Mrs. Kelly, on the other hand, was very talkative when they arrived at Ballacurry. She was full of Ned Crowe's accident and of the wickedness of motorists who knock down pedestrians and leave them to perish on the road.
The newcomers sat round the large blazing kitchen fire and drank tea. Mr. Kelly was in his rocking-chair, a legacy from his grandmother, in which he spent a lot of his scanty spare time, rocking to and fro in a kind of silent ecstasy.
"Did you see anything going on at Cursing Stones Farm on the night Ned Crowe met his accident, Mrs. Kelly?"
She turned to Littlejohn with a gesture of regret.
"I was out at the Chapel that night, Mr. Littlejohn. It was Mothers' Meetin', and I remember they told me the news when I got home. . . ."
Mr. Kelly stopped his rocking and pondered a minute.
"I saw Ned Crowe leavin' the farm that night. I'd been in the yard shuttin' up the hens and I see him lockin' his door and a bit afther I heerd him walkin' down the road. Between seven an' half-past, it would about be. Mother had been gone to the meetin' around half an hour."
He paused and thought again and then seemed to decide to hold his peace.
"Did anything else happen after that, Mr. Kelly? Was there anybody else around the place?"
The rocking ceased again.
"Somethin' an' nawthen'. . . . Jus' a woman sittin' there in a car . . . in the bit where the road widens round the corner, lek. She sat there a while and then druv off."
Everyone stiffened except Charlie Kelly, who relaxed in his chair, started rocking again, and puffed his pipe contentedly. He seemed to think he had had his say.
"But you never told me o' that!"
Mrs. Kelly was up in arms.
"Tell us exactly what went on, Mr. Kelly," said Littlejohn.
"Aw. . . . Afther I heeard Ned passin', I looked up the road an' I see the lights o' the car, parked there, lek. I thought perhaps it was someborry from the town doin' a bit o' courtin'. When I got inside, I fills me pipe for a li'l smook, an' then it comes over me, there's been a lot o' robbin' of hen-roosts goin' on, so afther I'd lit me pipe, lek, I went an' had a little sleech round to see what was happenin'. "
"Do get on with your tale, dad. You an' your li'l smook. We don' want to hear about your smookin'. "
"I was comin' to it, missus. It's my field comes down to the road by the corner there, so I walks along the hedge and looks over. It was a woman in the car. Not one as looked like hen-stealin'. So with that, I come indoors agen an' finished me smook.
As I shut the door, I hears her tek off in the Peel direction."
"You're sure it was a woman, Mr. Kelly?"
Charlie Kelly chuckled in his innocence.
"Not likely a man would be wearin' a green hat with a feather in it, unless it was one of the li'l people, the fairies, lek, drivin' a fairy car."
A woman! So it looked as if Fallows had been at it again. Taking the blame for his good-for-nothing wife.
There was nobody but the maid at the Fallows's home as Littlejohn and his wife and Cromwell drove back to Grenaby.
"May I leave a note, please?"
"Come in, then," said the girl. "The office'll be the best place for writin'."
She led Littlejohn to a room he'd not seen before. It was the office in which Pamela Fallows and Dora Quine had been working on the first day he called.
A large airy room, with a wide fireplace holding an anthracite stove, two desks, a case of books, and the odds and ends of an architect's job. At one end, a broad window occupied almost the whole wall.
The maid handed Littlejohn a writing-pad and showed him a number of pencils lying in a tray on the desk. Littlejohn glanced quickly round the room. Over the fireplace hung a framed diploma in architecture and beneath it, a small silver shield, mounted on an oak surround. Littlejohn scibbled his note, saying he had called and would return the following morning. On his way out, he glanced at the silver shield.
Awarded to Pamela Fallows for the best
rifle-shooting at the 1948 contests.
Hopley Ladies' Rifle Club.
He paused and screwed up the paper in his hand.
"I don't think I'll leave a note after all," he said to the surprised maid, and hurried out.
18
THE TRAP IS SPRUNG
"THE whole thing is fantastic, but there seems no other explanation . . ."
It was seven o'clock when the party got back to Grenaby and, much to Maggie Keggin's dismay, they didn't want any food. Luckily, she had prepared cold chicken and salad.
"It won't spoil. That's why I did it. Cookin' for anybody in this queer house nowadays is a thankless work, an' no mistake. Shall I make it into sandwiches, then, and give ye coffee wi' it?"
The Cursing Stones Murder (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 19