Knell looked a bit disappointed. He had expected more activity on the part of Littlejohn; a notebook and pencil, a lot of keen questions, physical activity. . . . Like Sexton Blake and the like. Instead, he was listening to the Chief.
"The man must have been hiding in the coach until he could get a chance to go for the Deemster. And lad-like, the youngster opened the door of the coach . . . or else he might just have peeped in at the window. That's it. He saw the man through the window and then sneaked back to see if he was still there after he'd told the custodian and his friends. The murderer had either done the deed or was waiting to do it, and he wasn't going to have it spoiled by anybody, even a boy scout, being able to say where he was at the time of the crime and identify him. So the boy walked right into him again, and . . ."
"That's as I see it, too. I think you ought to give that view to the press at once, sir. If you don't, all the Island will think there's a killer out to murder all and sundry indiscriminately. It will prevent panic. . . ."
"I'll do that. . . ."
Shortly after, having searched the castle, dungeons, guardrooms, private apartments and all the rest without results, the party left again. Constables remained on guard.
It was almost dark as Littlejohn and the Archdeacon climbed in the police-car for home. They sped along, the headlamps making a green tunnel of the trees on the way, the rush of water announcing the bridge at Grenaby, and then they turned left to the parsonage.
"Good night, sir. . . ."
Knell saluted and went off in the night. The cosy glow of the lamp in the hall greeted them and the warmth of the good fire was pleasant in the chilling evening. Littlejohn thought he'd better ring-up his wife and ask if she'd landed safely in the Fens, and tell her that, as usual, mischief had been awaiting him for his holidays.
There was a lot of shouting and noise before they connected them, but it didn't take long.
"Hello . . . hello . . . Douglas. Liverpool? Give me Comstockin-the-Fen 5599. . . . Yes . . . Comstock-in-the-Fen. . . . Hello . . . hello. . . ."
Littlejohn remembered that the line went under the sea. In his mind's eye he saw it, deep in gloomy water, with coasters passing over it on the surface, and entangled amid wrecks, and shoals of strange and hideous fish with huge mouths. . . .
"Hullo. . . ." The pompous voice of his brother-in-law, the Canon, boomed through the fens and across the deep forests at the bottom of the sea. Soon Littlejohn was talking to Letty.
The Inspector and the Archdeacon spent little further time talking about the case. They drank some whisky, ate crackers and cheese, and then said good-night.
Littlejohn couldn't find his pyjamas, though he knew he'd brought them and, descending below to inquire from the housekeeper in the kitchen, he came upon them airing before a large fire, side by side, on a clothes-maiden, with a long white nightshirt with a collar embroidered with pink roses. The 'plane to Ireland droned overhead, owls hooted, a dog barked, the old timbers of the house creaked as though the ghosts of the Archdeacon's vanished family were back again in the place they loved. Littlejohn fell asleep just as he was wondering what Knell thought of him, and what he expected him to do.
4
THE CANARY PULLOVER
NEXT morning, after the ordeals of the previous day, Littlejohn slept late and was wakened by Maggie, the housekeeper, who, he found, was the widow of a former gardener at the vicarage, called Keggin, and had three children, one in London and two in America. She shook him gently, drew the curtains, and showed him a breakfast tray containing two brown-shelled eggs and several rashers of Manx bacon, crisp and fat with streaks of lean.
"It isn't rationed here. . . ."
She had a fine strong face, with aquiline features, high cheek-bones and a pointed chin. There was the physical strength and the fatalism of a peasant about her, and the curiosity as well.
"That young fellah from the police is here already. He's turned up in a car, large as life, and pleased with himself. Not that he's much to be pleased about, as far as I can see. He's been courtin' Will Teare's girl for it must be seven years and she's not made up her mind to have him yet. . . ."
"Where is he?" said Littlejohn, helping himself to tea from a small teapot labelled A Present from Ramsey, and with a little verse engraved on it.
Ramsey town, Ramsey town, shining by the sea.
And here's a health to our true loves,
Wheresoe'er they be.
Maggie snapped her lips.
"I sent him about his business. I told him you were still asleep and, after all they did to you yesterday, they weren't goin' to wake you. You hadn't had your breakfast and weren't ready for him, so he could take himself off for a bit."
"What's he doing while he waits?"
"Following his fancy, I've no doubt. It would do him a power o' good with Millie Teare if she could see him now. He's talking with the land girl from the farm. You might have guessed. . . .
Snaps and snails and puppy-dogs' tails,
And dirty sluts in plenty,
Smell sweeter than roses in young fellahs' noses
When the heart is one-and-twenty. . . ."
"Whoever taught you that jingle, Mrs. Keggin?"
"My uncle William, who'd been all over the world in ships. He'd picked it up somewhere, I suppose. Don't worry about hurryin' over your food. That young chap won't mind. . . ."
As he dressed, Littlejohn could see his new apprentice talking with a girl in a green jersey, slouch hat, and breeches. They were having a good time. The day was fine and the air smelled of damp leaves, peat and wood-smoke. Littlejohn had been given the best bedroom, full of old, highly-polished mahogany furniture, a great four-poster bed with curtains, like a ship in full sail, and windows on two sides overlooking the vast, silent interior of the Island from one angle, with Ronague, The Slock, South Barrule mountain, all yellows, greens and browns; and from the other, a mist of old trees hiding the village of Grenaby down the road.
Downstairs, relations between the Archdeacon and his housekeeper were a bit strained. It was his day for preparing his Sunday sermons, to say nothing of meeting a contractor about the hole in the church roof, but he had shown little enthusiasm for them, and had been anxiously waiting for Littlejohn to take him out.
"Chattering women and nosey old men, bring the Devil right out of his den," he had been told by his housekeeper, who ruled him with a rod of iron for his own good.
"I shan't be coming along to-day, Inspector. I've my sermons to prepare. . . ."
"They'd better be good, parson. I'll be in the audience on Sunday," said Littlejohn, and went to disturb his assistant's philandering.
Knell had brought a copy of the police-surgeon's report. The contents of the Deemster's stomach had included sandwiches, paregoric, ipecacuanha, chlorodyne and aniseed, and enough prussic acid to kill half a dozen. The poison had been administered through the cough mixture which contained enough to kill another dozen. The aroma of the medicine must have hidden the characteristic smell of the poison until the Deemster had taken his dose. This widened the search for the murderer, of course. The poison might have been introduced at any time, thought Littlejohn.
Knell waited patiently until Littlejohn had read the document. He looked a bit more cheerful. The night before, after his excited duties of the day, he had called on Miss Teare, who, having heard of his collaboration with a famous man from London, had smiled upon him and shown herself more susceptible to his bashful wooing.
"The sergeant at Castletown thought you'd like him to inquire round about the poison being sold, so he's sent word that every chemist in the Island has to be asked about it."
He said it as though something marvellous had happened. Littlejohn smiled as he thought of what a feat such instructions would entail on the mainland, or even in the Metropolitan Police area !
"It might have been bought on the mainland, after all. You can get it for killing wasps and other vermin of you choose the place and tell a good tale."
&
nbsp; "I never thought of that, sir. But the sergeant also told me to say, the constable who was with the Deemster before he went in court for the morning session, saw His Honour take a spoonful of his cough medicine before he went. So that narrows it down a bit. Between half past ten and one o'clock somebody must have sneaked in the Deemster's room and put the poison in the bottle in his overcoat."
"That does make things a bit easier. But why did he have to kill a boy scout afterwards? Had the lad seen him leaving the Deemster's quarters . . .?"
Knell thought heavily. You could almost hear his brain turning over the problem.
"Suppose, sir. . . . Suppose young Mounsey went back to spy on the chap in the coach, saw him come out and do what he did to the Deemster's cough mixture, and then the murderer spotted him. He'd have to kill him for fear of being identified."
"That's quite likely, Knell. I think you've got it."
Knell broke into a sunny smile. Things were looking up! He nodded his head sagely and made a note to tell Millie Teare that he was having to tell Littlejohn how to go about the case.
"Let's drive to Castletown, then. . . ."
Knell made for the car with springy steps. Littlejohn noticed that he seemed to be dressed in his Sunday best and his boots shone like polished jet. He self-consciously passed the land-girl, who couldn't take her admiring eyes from him.
"When the heart is one-and-twenty. . . ." thought Littlejohn.
They entered the town by a new route; along a by-pass, past a derelict windmill, and down the narrow high street, where Knell had to drive part of the way on the pavement to pass an approaching bread-van. The atmosphere of tragedy still hung about the place and the three-legged flag flew half-mast over the castle. Normal life had been resumed. Sightseers, attracted by news of the previous day's sensation, were flocking morbidly to the castle and the custodian had his hands full. Among the excursionists climbing from a charabanc, Littlejohn spotted the man of the big overcoat he'd met on the boat. He had shed his heavy clothing and instead, wore a bowling-club blazer with an embroidered pocket, an open-necked shirt, flannels, a beret and a pair of rope-soled sandals he'd bought in France the year before on a trip. He looked taller and thinner without the overcoat. He touched Littlejohn as they passed.
"Hullo. . . ."
"Hullo. . . ."
Knell was anxious to be getting to work.
"Are we calling at the police-station, Inspector?"
The little man's jaw fell and his eyes shot out. Inspector ! ! You could hear him thinking. He'd have a tale to tell when he got back to the boarding-house. The Inspector on the job's a pal of mine. . . .
The custodian left his conducted party to tell them the time he had taken the scouts round on the day before. The whole thing tallied with Knell's theory. He eagerly told Littlejohn so. The castle-keeper wasn't impressed.
"Don't get excited! You haven't found out who did it, yet, by a long way, Reggie. . . ."
"It must have been somebody who knew his way about the castle, Inspector. How did he know the back way to the chambers else? And he must have known the Deemster's habits with his cough mixture and also the routine of the court."
"That's right."
The custodian hurried off to join his party who were getting annoyed.
"Come on! What do you think we've paid our money for. . .?"
"Could it have been one of the lawyers, sir?"
Knell said it ominously. Although he was an officer of the law, he had a native distrust of lawyers. His uncle, Knell of Ballagoole, a farmer, had died well-off, or so they said. And all his money had vanished in family litigation. . . .
They crossed to the police-station. As they got to know each other better, Sergeant Cregeen took a fancy to Littlejohn. No fuss and no side, he told his missus in bed after their first day. The Inspector's vast, imperturbable bulk seemed to fill the little office and gave them all confidence and a feeling of security and pride in their job. He lit his pipe as they showed him round the building and pointed out the views from the windows. Knell was showing-off a bit, too. He lit a pipe, as well, and the sergeant looked daggers at him.
"One thing I'd like you to do, sergeant. Will you inquire who was in the castle on court day? Lawyers, attendants, litigants, everybody. I'd even put an advert in the papers and ask visitors who were shown over to come forward. We want to know if there was anybody suspicious hanging around and whether or not anybody saw William Mounsey after he left his friends and the custodian. Did anybody go in or out of the Deemster's private chambers whilst the court was sitting? Was anybody seen around the private staircase leading up to the chambers or hanging around the door at the bottom?"
"I'll do my best, sir."
"The private door was always kept locked?"
"Yes, sir. The Deemsters had their own keys, of course, and we have one here, and the custodian will have one."
Sergeant Cregeen indicated a board in the outer office on which numerous keys hung from hooks. "That's the key we hold."
"If nobody were in the outer office, anybody could unhook it and take a soap or wax impression?"
"Yes. But who'd be wantin' to?"
"Ah ! Somebody did, didn't they?"
"Yes. But they'd have to know which key it was."
"I said it was somebody who knew a lot. . . . A lawyer, maybe. . . ."
Knell puffed his pipe sagely; the sergeant gave him another black look, implying that he should be seen and not heard.
"This was the third attempt . . ."
They all looked amazed.
"You mean, sir . . .?"
"Yes. Three days ago, somebody tried to throw a brick on His Honour's head from a building they were demolishing in Douglas. Previously, someone had tampered with the steering of his car. It means that, not having succeeded, the murderer turned to his third scheme. It's probable, then, that the impression of the key has been taken this week, unless the door was open. Has anybody been here and had a chance of taking it?"
"I won't say they hadn't, sir. But how did they know which key?"
"As I said, it was somebody who knew a lot."
The sergeant went red again.
"No need to keep telling us. We know, Reggie. And it couldn't have been the keeper. He won't let the keys out of his sight."
"I suppose you've been getting the courtroom ready for a day or two beforehand."
"Yes, sir. It isn't used much, especially by the Deemsters. One of our men would go across to see that all was tidy, ready for His Honour. . . ."
"Taking the key from the hook and going over with it?"
"Yes. But how did they know when? They couldn't have watched the place all the time, could they?"
"Just give it a bit of thought, Cregeen. Think, and ask, if anybody has been around a lot of late."
"I will. . . ."
He looked worried. It wasn't going to be as easy as he thought, even with Scotland Yard on the job. A very modest, decent fellah, he told his wife in bed that night about Littlejohn.
"It's hardly an appropriate time to do it, Cregeen, but I'd like to talk to the Deemster's widow, if she can bear it. It's vital we get our information right away. The longer we take, the more like a needle in a haystack it will become, with all these people on holidays coming and going by boat and 'plane. She lives in Douglas?"
"Four miles out, sir, at a mansion called Ballagarry, in East Baldwin. Perhaps the Chief Constable could tell you if it's all right. . . ."
The Chief soon fixed matters, after a telephone call and a brief wait. Mrs. Quantrell would be pleased to see the Inspector. He drove off in the car with Knell right away. They turned left just before Douglas, climbed a little, breasted a slope, and then the scene from the top took one's breath away. Here it was that the two valleys, East and West Baldwin converged amid soft rolling hills, their feet lost in a rich mass of trees, their slopes covered in pines, heather and gorse, until their tops showed dark where only moss and blaeberries grew. They took the East Baldwin fork, passed a cluste
r of cottages and a school, and then, driving through an avenue of beeches, came to the home of the Quantrells. It was known as a mansion, the Manx term for a large family house in the country. It had the long, lovely façade of an American colonial house. Two drives from separate gates met in a broad sweep before a large graceful door with a wide fanlight above it. A spacious room on each side of the porch and, on the first floor, three big oblong windows with small balconies. There was a short wing on the right, the french windows of which gave on a lawn, with a bed of geraniums flaming in the middle. At the front and sides were old established grass plots, with palms and eucalyptus trees and fuchsia hedges, relieved by flower borders and with a background of old trees.
Here the sun was shining, birds singing, and behind, in the poultry yard, hens were making wailing overtures to egg-laying. All the blinds of the house were drawn. . . . Someone had mercilessly cut short the Deemster's joy in this gracious place and his anticipated pleasure in retiring there.
The door was opened by an elderly maid, who was so obviously expecting them, that she appeared in the porch almost before Littlejohn removed his finger from the bell. She eyed them shrewdly, sizing them up with bright dark eyes. She led them to a large airy room, took Littlejohn's hat deferentially, snatched Knell's from his hand as he showed no inclination to give it up, and left them.
The drawn blinds darkened the place, but you could make out, in the firelight from the broad open fireplace, the fine old furniture, the easy chairs on either side of the grate, the Hepplewhite chairs by the walls, a mahogany sideboard and bookcases, silver and porcelain figures here and there, and heavy pictures on the walls. Over the fireplace, a large oil-painting of the Deemster in his red robes and full-bottomed wig. . . .
Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 4
