Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  The lights were switched on, and a young man in a canary pullover, check jacket and corduroy trousers stood in the doorway. Littlejohn instantly disliked him. He was short and thin, with small hands and feet, and his head was long and narrow, with brown hair brushed back from a high forehead and growing long and shaggy at the back. The nose was snub and flushed, and the brown eyes set too close together. He advanced to meet them with studied nonchalance savouring of impudence.

  "I'm Jeremy Lamprey and Mrs. Quantrell is my aunt. I'm staying here for a bit and luckily hadn't gone back to the mainland. My aunt's not in very good shape. You'll appreciate that. I wouldn't want her upsetting. . . ."

  "I understand, sir, the Chief Constable has already spoken to her, and she doesn't mind sparing a minute or two of her time."

  Lamprey screwed up his face in a nervous gesture which might have meant annoyance or impatience.

  "I know it's important that you Island police should get to know as much as you can, but . . ."

  "I'm not the Island police. My name's Littlejohn and I'm from Scotland Yard. Will you kindly give your aunt my card, sir?"

  The pink left Lamprey's cheeks and he gave Littlejohn a queer, half-fearful look.

  He's done it, thought Knell to himself. He's scared stiff of the Inspector!

  Without another word, the canary pullover hurried to the door and you could hear the rubber-soles of his suede shoes squeaking on the polished floor of the hall.

  The police officers waited. In the light of the electric chandelier, the room looked even finer and the furniture shone and glowed with age and expert polishing. Littlejohn's eyes turned to the bookcases which filled the alcoves on either side of the fireplace. This was a natural attraction, for the colouring of their contents was vivid and clashed with the rest of the room. At least half of the books were still in soiled and battered publishers' jackets. The Inspector approached and examined them. Almost without exception, they were crime stories, ranging from Edgar Allan Poe and the Mysteries of Udolpho to modern classics of detection and humbler English and American whodunits.

  "The Deemster seems by way of having been a bit of a detective himself. . . ."

  "He was very interested. . . ."

  Littlejohn turned. Mrs. Quantrell had entered the room without his hearing her. Knell blushed and moved first on one foot and then on the other. She made straight for Littlejohn, after raising the blind of a side-window.

  "You are the Inspector from Scotland Yard my husband talked of . . .?"

  They shook hands. She was Manx and obviously of a class of gentility now rapidly dying-out. She was medium built, dark eyed, with a good complexion, and must have been much younger than her husband, perhaps in the middle forties. The high cheek bones, the straight nose, and the bone formation of the face must have made her a local beauty in her time. Before tragedy overtook her, she had been a happy woman, looking forward to spending the rest of life in the company of her distinguished husband in their lovely home. Even now, under the grievous blow she had suffered, she was making no fuss. Her breeding, her beliefs, her pride forbade any dramatizing of the situation. She was strong enough to bear her grief alone and in secret. At once, Littlejohn knew how it had been possible for a man to rise from early penury to the highest post in the community with such a helpmeet to support him. . . .

  "Your husband was interested not only in the judicial aspect of crime, then, but in its detection, too, Mrs. Quantrell?"

  "Yes. It was one of his main diversions. . . ."

  "I'm so sorry about all this. I do offer you my deepest sympathy. . . ."

  Knell cleared his throat.

  "And so do I, Mrs. Quantrell. . . ."

  "Thank you both. . . . I heard you were helping the Inspector, Mr. Knell. Your mother will be very proud. . . . How is she?"

  "Middlin', madam. Middlin'. She's nearing eighty, now."

  "She must be. I remember when she used to bring eggs and butter to us when I was at home. . . . That seems a long time ago. . . ."

  Hers was a native courtesy, which forgot its own troubles.

  "But this is not helping you, Inspector. Here you will find us fond of a gossip, telling tales of old times and the like. Very exasperating to people in a hurry. . . . What can I do to help you?"

  "If you would prefer to leave rather a painful interview until later. . . ."

  "No, Inspector. Let's get it over. Do sit down, the two of you."

  She offered them cigarettes from a box. Knell, who only smoked a pipe, accepted one and started to puff it with heavy breath, surrounding himself with a fog of smoke.

  "Where were you when the news reached you, Mrs. Quantrell?"

  "I was calling on Mrs. Christian at Ghlon Crusherey . . . a meeting and tea for the effort at Braddan Church. They telephoned from here to tell me."

  "It may seem an absurd question to you, madam . . . but do you know anyone who might have wished the Deemster's death?"

  She seemed amazed.

  "Martin . . .? Anyone to wish him dead . . .? It does seem absurd. As a judge, of course, those who were punished at his hands might dislike him; but murder him . . . indeed no. In fact, many of the hardened criminals he dealt with were very fond of him. They even doffed their hats to him when they passed him in the street. I don't think we have any really bad criminals over here, judging from the court cases. It is said, of course, we export them to the mainland. . . ."

  She smiled sadly.

  "Did your husband not tell you that anyone was trying to kill him?"

  Mrs. Quantrell looked horrified.

  "No. . . . But then nobody wanted to, did they? You don't mean. . .?"

  "Yes. There had already been two attempts on his life."

  "But he didn't tell me. . . ."

  "He didn't wish to alarm you, madam. First of all, someone tampered with the steering of his car; and then, when that didn't work, they tried dropping a brick on his head from an old building in the town. He merely told his old friend Archdeacon Kinrade, and that is one of the reasons why Mr. Kinrade asked me to come over here."

  "My husband said you were coming and that he was dining with you at Grenaby parsonage. But I understood that was because he was interested in detective work. He said it would be great fun meeting a famous detective in the flesh."

  "I was going to try to get to the bottom of the two attempts. I'm sorry, I was too late."

  "He should have told me, though. That explains his anxiety over the past months, then."

  "Months? But the attempts have only been made over the last fortnight, Mrs. Quantrell. Had the Deemster seemed upset for longer than that?"

  "Much longer. He's been very preoccupied since early summer. Something has been on his mind and he's been unduly excited and has spent more time out of doors doing things he'd not told me about."

  "Have you any idea what it was?"

  "No. He has gone out in the car and people have seen him driving about the Island. I thought it had something to do with his antiquarian work. He was very interested in the prehistoric remains in which the Island is so rich. I asked him, but he was very elusive about it."

  "Did those who saw him out on his expeditions say where he was?"

  "Mainly in the north of the Island. He was seen at The Lhen, which is almost at the northernmost tip, and in the Curraghs, which are what you call fens on the mainland and lie north of the main road from Ramsey to Ballaugh. But what he was doing there was a mystery."

  "You say the judge was interested in the detection as well as the punishment of crime, Mrs. Quantrell?"

  "Yes. He planned to write a book on it. He was collecting material for when he retired. He had a theory that in the detection of crime, much more of the psychology of the criminal came to light than did in the law courts. He thought such background was valuable in matters of curative or preventive detention, and in the very sentence itself. We had planned to do it together, and I had learned to use a typewriter and be his secretary. . . ."

  She gave
no sign of sentimental emotion, but in the forlorn little smile as she said it, there was grief too deep for tears.

  "Do you think he tried his hand at detection, Mrs. Quantrell? I mean, in the course, perhaps, of experiments, it is likely that the Deemster might have unearthed a hornet's nest of crime and set some dangerous criminals on his track?"

  "That might account for his preoccupation of late, but what on earth could he have found in a little place like this?"

  "Did he ever mention forged banknotes to you?"

  "Why, yes. I think it was I who first raised the point. I sold some old furniture to an antique dealer in the town and was paid in pound notes. . . . One was returned from the Bank of Mann as a spurious one. We had to let the police have it, but my husband went to see about it. He was interested in how it had got to the Island.

  "I'd better know the bank and where you got the note from originally, if you don't mind."

  "My bank is the Bank of Mann, Victoria Street, and the antique dealer is Mr. Irons, in Duke Street . . ."

  Littlejohn made a note of it on the back of an old envelope. Knell regarded this with disapproval, for he had been expecting answers to all the questions to be written down in an official black book. Furthermore, why wasn't the Inspector looking round the place for clues? There must be plenty for the finding. He almost asked if he could borrow the magnifying glass which Littlejohn must surely carry, and set about it himself.

  "Yes, Knell? Did you want to ask anything?"

  He met Littlejohn's kindly questioning eye. He gave a start. The man must be able to see right inside him !

  "No, sir. I just thought. . . . Well. . . . If you've anything you want to take down, I might write it in my book. I've got one with me. Save you the trouble, like. . . ."

  He giggled nervously and produced a fat notebook with a shiny imitation-leather back, the pages held in place by a thick elastic band.

  "Of course. I'm sorry if I'm neglecting you. Take down the addresses then from this bit of paper. . . ."

  "You'll soon have the task of going through the Deemster's papers, Mrs. Quantrell. Are you the executrix?"

  "No. The bank are looking after that. Were you wanting to search for anything?"

  "I thought there might be some indication among them which would throw light on the Deemster's recent state of mind."

  "They are all locked in his desk in his study. He was a very neat and methodical man. When we open them, you can be there, if you wish, Inspector. It will be after the funeral, of course. They will not be touched until then. I could let you know when the bank and the advocate are calling to go through them."

  "That would be very kind of you. I'll wait till I hear from you, then. . . . What a lovely view you have from here !"

  Knell's head flew up with a jerk from his labours in his notebook. Lovely view, indeed ! And them hot on the track of the Deemster's murderer! Knell felt like weeping with despair. He was a great follower of Sherlock Holmes, to whose methods he had graduated from Sexton Blake in schooldays. With as much to hand as Littlejohn had, Holmes would have solved it all !

  Littlejohn strolled to the side window to look out at the hills showing through a gap in the trees. The window was opposite the door of the room, which stood slightly ajar. Littlejohn glanced at the door instead of the view, strode to it, and flung it wide open. Jeremy Lamprey was sitting silently on a chair in the hall, listening to all that was said. He rose, slightly flushed, and tried to make light of it.

  "Didn't want to disturb you all. . . . Just waiting for my aunt. I've got to look after her you know. Don't overdo it, Inspector. . . ."

  He was recovering his aplomb as he talked and made excuses.

  "Come in, Mr. Lamprey. No sense in sitting outside like a stranger."

  Littlejohn felt like planting his foot in the corduroy backside of this little snivelling ass, who now entered the room, swaggering to show he wasn't put-out by being discovered eavesdropping.

  "Why, Jeremy. Where were you?"

  "Sitting in the hall waiting to get in a word. I wanted to say I'm going out for a bit. It's cleared up so I'll go and do some more painting. That's all. S'long. . . ."

  He flipped his hand at them all and went. He had been drinking and left a reek of whisky like the exhaust of a car in his wake. They saw him shambling to the front gate loaded with an easel, a canvas and a box of paints.

  "I'm sorry I hadn't time to introduce you, Inspector. Jeremy is the son of my late sister. He lives in Chelsea and paints for a living. He's not been well lately and has been spending rather a long holiday here. He comes over between jobs and paints and does etchings of the Island. His main work is advertising art. You've doubtless seen some of it on the hoardings on the mainland. . . . It is rather a comfort to have someone of one's own flesh and blood here at a time like this. . . ."

  She said it without much enthusiasm, and Littlejohn could well understand it. Lamprey was evidently a sponger who came over for the Quantrells' hospitality when he was hard up or didn't feel like work.

  "Is there anything more, Inspector?"

  "Not at the moment, I think. You have been most kind to see us at such a time. I hope it hasn't been too upsetting."

  "Not at all. I do want this affair clearing up, please. And I'll let you know about the papers. . . ."

  She showed them to the door herself and returned to her loneliness.

  Littlejohn and Knell entered the car and drove back to the main road. On the way stood a red telephone kiosk in which someone was telephoning. He had his back to them but there was no mistaking the check sports jacket. It was Jeremy Lamprey.

  "Did you see who that was, Knell?"

  "Lamprey?"

  "That's right."

  Knell breathed deeply with elation. Things were moving. He was keeping abreast of Scotland Yard. If it went on like this, he'd be solving the mystery on his own.

  "Just stop here, go inside, then ask, as a police officer, to use their telephone. . . ."

  They pulled up at the drive at a hospital, with outbuildings sprawling over large gardens, and a lodge and inquiry office almost fronting the road.

  "Telephone to the Douglas police and ask them to find out, at once, from the telephone exchange, where the call from the box at the cross-roads there was for. . . . I'll wait. . . ."

  "Lucky it isn't on the automatics, eh?" said Knell jauntily, and with sprightly official feet, he pranced away. Littlejohn filled his pipe lit it, and took a stroll. He wasn't even thinking deeply about the case; he was enjoying the air and the view. A man cycled past with a creel and fishing tackle on his back; then another with a gun and a dog at his heels. The Inspector wondered if he'd get any sport before the time came to go home. . . . At Braddan Old Church, down the hill, a funeral procession was approaching; the cars drew slowly along, halted, and a crowd of men got out and formed a ragged procession. They were lifting out the coffin. . . .

  "Something and nothing, sir. . . ."

  Knell was back, making light of his investigation.

  "What do you mean, Knell?"

  "The Douglas police were on it like a shot when I mentioned your name, sir. But it won't help much. Lamprey was just 'phonin' to Alcardi, at the art stores on the Promenade. Alcardi is an Italian, interned durin' the war, and he settled down here selling pictures and statues and souvenirs when it was over. The telephone exchange didn't listen-in, of course, but that's where Lamprey was ringing-up. Likely as not, he was trying to sell a picture. What else could it be? Only natural. . . ."

  Knell climbed inside and started the engine.

  "Let me give you a bit of advice, Reggie. . . ."

  Littlejohn said it in his kindliest tones. Knell blushed. Reggie ! Things were looking up !

  "Never dismiss anything in a case as something and nothing. When you've lived as long with crime as I have, you'll find out that the little things are often the most important and a lead like this may save weeks of work. . . ."

  "But I only. . . ."

 
"I'm not ticking you off. Just put down Alcardi in your little book, and don't forget him. . . . And now, drive on to somewhere where we can get a good lunch and after that we'll call at the Bank of Mann, and then have a word with Mr. Irons. . . ."

  At the church down the road, they were singing the favourite hymn of the dead man at the graveside, as was often the custom. Knell slowed down.

  "He must have been a sailor," he said as he took off his hat.

  A great surge of song filled even the little police-car.

  Our wives and children we commend to Thee,

  For them we plough the land and plough the deep,

  For them by day the golden corn we reap.

  By night, the silver harvest of the sea.

  Knell even joined-in himself, as he drove slowly past, unconsciously drawn by the native tune. It was very moving and Littlejohn liked his colleague all the better for it.

  5

  THE COUNTERFEIT NOTES

  THE marble portico of the Bank of Mann, Victoria Street, stood magnificent and aloof between a shop selling rock and an eating-house in the window of which the menu for the day was written in chalk on a blackboard. Once through the bank doors and you got a surprise. It was like one of those hidden ancient city churches which spread their glories behind a misleading and commonplace façade in which the vulgar things of life have jostled away the holy. Marble pillars, mosaic floor, and stained-glass windows ornamented with emblems of agriculture, fishery, and commerce, with the Three Legs of Man frequently repeated. The light entered through two great domes, which cast upon the clients below strange purple, yellow, scarlet and green hues, which gave misleading impressions of their states of health. The counter was long and divided into about eight sections by partitions, which formed a series of small cubicles in which deposits and withdrawals could be carried on in secret. Three cashiers were attending to the queues of customers and popped from cubby-hole to cubby-hole, like creatures seeking a place of rest and unable to decide which they preferred.

  When Knell and Littlejohn entered through the revolving doors a wave of curiosity and expectancy broke over the occupants of the bank. They all knew Knell, and swift rumour had told of his new job. The eyes of those in the queues all focused on the policemen, and the heads of the cashiers were raised expectantly. The faces of clerks appeared over the carved screen which divided the public from the secret workings of the bank. Knell made his way to the head of the first tail of clients.