Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  "That seems to be a proper job attended to. . . . Thanks for it. At least it clears the decks. . . ."

  Littlejohn was still watching the swans and the coaster. In his mind's eye, he could see, at the same time, the knots of gowned advocates leaving the court, the witnesses and parties to cases shuffling out, a bit discontented at having to wait until afternoon, the police officers tidying up, the press chatting together, the castle slowly emptying. . . . And then, the Deemster, all alone, drinking his cough mixture. . . .

  But before that. . . . Long before. . . .

  "What time did you say the boy scouts arrived?"

  "Just on eleven, sir. . . ."

  "And the Deemster. . . . What time would he get here in the morning?"

  "Around ten, sir. . . ."

  Between ten and eleven, then, Alcardi had entered by the main gate. . . .

  "Did anybody see Alcardi enter the castle between ten and eleven?"

  "No, sir. We've checked all the comings and goings. But the man on the gate went for a walk round at about eleven . . . or just before. Alcardi or anybody else could have got over the turnstiles. There was nobody about. . . ."

  "Not even in the police-station . . .?"

  "Well. . . . It was court day and we were all a bit busy, sir."

  Alcardi had got in about eleven, then. And someone had, as likely as not, followed him, watched from the dark interior of the coach for the Italian's return through the private door from the Deemster's room. . . . Young Mounsey had arrived and butted in . . . opened the door of the coach and seen someone . . . someone he knew! Just as Alcardi was expected back from his mission, which whoever had planned it was carefully supervising, unknown to the Italian.

  "The boy scouts. . . . I mean the whole troop. . . . Did they get to know many people on the Island?"

  The attendant policemen looked at the brooding Inspector in astonishment. Knell thrilled with satisfaction. This was it! The investigation had started now, good and proper. Just like the real Sherlock Holmes. He held his breath waiting for Littlejohn to pronounce judgment and tell them whose name to put in the warrant for arrest.

  "Yes, sir. The troop young Mounsey was with were here as kind of guests. They'd won some sort of first prize for smartness at a jamboree in Lancashire, and were being honoured by the Commissioner for the Island. They'd been on conducted visits to the Museum, the House of Keys, the castles, the Laxey Wheel, and what not. . . . They had several feeds as well and been entertained at them by Island notables. There was a kind of reception for them the first Saturday they came . . . a meal, a concert, and then they did their drills and such. . . . They'd meet . . . or, at least, see and know, most of the nobs of the Island . . . saving your presence, Mr. Kinrade. . . ."

  The sergeant coughed behind his hand as he remembered the Archdeacon, seated by the desk, taking it all in silently.

  "Don't mind me, Cregeen. Tell us who they were likely to see."

  Sergeant Cregeen coughed again.

  "Well. . . . Most of the notables. . . . The Governor, the Deemsters, Members of the Legislative Council and the Keys . . . some of the police . . . the Mayor of Douglas and the councillors . . . oh, lots of people. . . ."

  Cregeen dried up at the thought of the multitude who might be involved. If they'd got to screen all that lot, they were going to have their work cut out. . . .

  "Thank you, sergeant. . . . You ready, sir?"

  Knell's disappointment was profound. His face fell.

  "Are you going to St. Mark's, Knell, because we'll drop you on the way?" said the parson. The local policemen smirked at Knell, who blushed and fled to start the car.

  They left Knell at the door of a whitewashed cottage where the Teare family lived in the village of St. Mark's, riding high and clear over the inland plain, and then turned to Ballamodda and through the old mining village of Foxdale. The parson pointed out the great mass of South Barrule rising between them and the setting sun, with the hills which sheltered Peel beyond.

  "This murder's a nuisance, Littlejohn. We ought to be enjoying the hills and the sunset, instead of chasing evil all over the Island. But I've got to see the other Deemster. The funeral's to-morrow. . . . At the family vault at St. Luke's church, near where the Quantrells live. The vicar of Braddan will read the service in English and I shall read it afterwards in Manx. That's what Quantrell wanted. It reminds me of the old days when Quantrell and I used to read the laws together every July from Tynwald Hill. . . . He'd read them in English and I'd read them in Manx . . . side by side, with the crowds listening and silent, the sun shining, and a little wind blowing from the sea and making the flags fly. . . ."

  They turned at St. John's to the Peel Road.

  "Straight over and then left at the first turn. . . . The house is called Gat-y-Whing . . . the Narrow Lane. The Deemster's called Milrey. . . . Finloe Milrey. He deals with the North of the Island at Ramsey, as well as sitting in Douglas. Now, he's set to become first Deemster, and High Bailiff Cosnahan will follow him as second. As likely as not, Tremouille will be the new High Bailiff. . . ."

  "You seem to have it all arranged, parson. . . ."

  "One can always make a good guess. Both Cosnahan and Tremouille are very good men and rank high at the Manx bar. . . . Here we are. . . ."

  Gat-y-Whing, Deemster Milrey's home, was old, turreted and dark, and surrounded by gloomy trees and untended bushes.

  "His wife died last year and he's taken it hard. He's got a bit careless about the place. If Julia had been alive, it wouldn't have been like this. . . ."

  The woodwork needed a coat of paint, but the lawns and flower-beds were tidy. It just looked too big to keep up propperly on a judge's salary. The Archdeacon tugged at a chain hanging by the front door, which was set in a square porch. Inside, a dog barked.

  "Good everin', sir. . . . Will ye please to come in . . .?"

  An old Manx woman dressed in black showed them into a large, cosy room, lined from floor to ceiling on three walls with books of all shapes and sizes. There were books on the floor and lying horizontally on top of others on the shelves. A large fire of logs crackled and sputtered on the hearth and an oil lamp with a large green shade cast a bright circle of light on a table littered with papers and more books, between the door and the great fireplace. At the table sat a grey-haired man, whose bright dark eyes sparkled to greet them as they stood in the doorway. He rose and extended his hand. . . .

  Deemster Milrey was very short and slim; you would almost have said he was dainty. He moved on small light feet and the hand he extended was white and well cared-for. He wore a black velvet smoking jacket and was smoking a pipe. But what you noticed first was the fine troubled face, the broad, high forehead, the delicate, arched nose, the trim grey pointed beard. He was the greatest of the living Manx scholars and it was said that had he remained at Cambridge, instead of returning to his native isle, he would have gone very far. . . .

  The forthright Archdeacon told Littlejohn as much as he introduced them. Milrey waved a deprecating hand.

  "I couldn't settle elsewhere than here. . . ."

  Littlejohn suddenly remembered the quartet in The Duck's Nest at Ramsey. The little, chubby, carrotty journalist had said the same. You'll find it getting hold of you and you'll find it hard to go. You'll see. . . .

  They drew up chairs by the fire, the Deemster produced cigars and whisky.

  "It's time you two met. . . ."

  "Not another murder, I hope. . . ."

  Littlejohn smiled to himself in the half-light. It was obvious that the Archdeacon had been making an excuse for bringing him over to Gat-y-Whing to meet Milrey. Hitherto, the old man hadn't so much as mentioned to-morrow's funeral. He didn't blame the parson for wanting to call on the Deemster. Here was real comfort, grace and culture. The log fire, the books, the air of scholarship and good taste, the soft glow of the lamp. Not a thing that struck a wrong note. And yet . . . the sad, unhappy face of the owner of it all. On a side-table stood a photograph in a si
lver frame of a sweet, grey-haired, middle-aged woman, standing smiling at the square-framed outer door they had just entered. . . .

  "No. . . . Not another, Finloe. We've had enough already. But the Inspector's investigations could never be complete without a word from you. That's why I've brought him."

  Littlejohn could make out in the dim periphery of the reading-lamp in which they were sitting, the grey head of the Deemster cocked inquisitively.

  "You know all about the crimes, sir?" the Inspector said.

  "More or less. The Island's a small place and news travels fast. You were in Ramsey to-day. . . ."

  Deemster Milrey laughed.

  "We have a Manx word, Cooish, which has no proper English equivalent. The French causerie is near it. It means a chat, in which the affairs of the day are slowly retailed and turned over, passing from group to group, and being gravely considered. You, my dear Littlejohn, are the main topic of every Manx cooish at present and at every fireside and in every pub and sewing-class at this moment, the subject is 'the Insthpector from over the water' and his doings. . . . There was a chapel 'tay', or tea-party, this afternoon at which Mrs. Karran, my housekeeper, attended. Mrs. Cain, the post, was present it seems, and the news came over the wire from one of the banks in Ramsey where Mrs. Cain's eldest girl works. Subsequently, of course, there was a little cooish between Mrs. Karran and me. . . ."

  Deemster Milrey lifted his glass to his lips.

  "So, you know it all, sir?"

  "Well, perhaps not quite. You arrested three men, including the captain of the Jonee Ghorrym, who was later released."

  The Archdeacon was struggling to keep calm, but there was a rasp in his voice.

  "What was the use of our coming all this way if you know it all . . .?"

  "Don't get annoyed, Caesar. It was just my joke. . . ."

  "Tell him then, Littlejohn. . . ."

  Littlejohn felt like an undergraduate taking his viva before two professors. He didn't quite know where to begin.

  "Three days ago, about eleven o'clock, an Italian named Alcardi carried out orders to drug Deemster Qudntrell's cough-mixture in order to put His Honour to sleep and enable Alcardi later to steal incriminating evidence which the Deemster carried on his person. . . ."

  "But who was this Alcardi? And who gave the orders?"

  The ash from his cigar fell on Milrey's silk lapel, and he dusted it off with a fussy gesture.

  The bottle by Fannin, the orders through Irons, the mysterious key to the Deemster's private quarters. . . .

  "Have you a key to that door, Finloe?"

  The Archdeacon said it casually as he flicked the end of his cigar and took a drink from his glass. He looked half asleep. There was a pause.

  "Yes. I carry it on my key-ring. I do go to Castletown to sit now and then. . . . Why?"

  "Nothing. . . . I just wondered. Excuse the interruption. . . ."

  "Alcardi found he had been tricked. It wasn't dope they sent in the little bottle, but prussic acid. . . . He was terrified when he found out. He realized that he was serving ruthless men and that his own life wasn't worth the candle if he didn't watch out. He made up his mind to turn informer and tried to find me. He was not successful. So . . ."

  "How did you find out all this? Not by deduction?"

  "No, your Honour. Alcardi had a mistress in Ramsey; a girl called Amy, a waitress at a place called The Duck's Nest. He told her everything in terror before he was killed. She told me."

  "I see. . . . And then?"

  "Someone was waiting to see that Alcardi did the job. A Mr. X. X hid in the old coach which stands in the passage just by the private door in the castle. A boy scout inquisitively opened the door and, I think, recognized X. It would not have done, when the murder was discovered, for little Mounsey, the scout, to prattle about the contents of that blaek coach at that particular time. X drew the boy inside and left him dead. . . ."

  "But what had Quantrell done to deserve such a fate?"

  The forged bank notes, the smuggled nylons and watches, the goings-on aboard the Jonee Ghorrym. . . .

  "All of which we don't believe were the real cause of the crimes. There was some deeper evil, Finloe . . . ,"

  In the darkened room with the firelight flickering and the three of them sitting in the shadows, the parson's voice seemed to come from another world and denounce the everyday one outside.

  "So you have three murders on your hands, with, as yet, no motive and no clue as to who was behind them?"

  "That is so, sir."

  The parson filled up his glass with a finger of whisky and a noisy splash of soda.

  "That's where you come in, Finloe. We thought you might help."

  Deemster Milrey jerked upright.

  "I might help? How can I help?"

  Littlejohn sat back in his chair. The parson had taken the initiative from his hands and was evidently following out some plan he had hatched on his own.

  "You were Quantrell's closest friend. He spent a lot of time with you. Did he never mention his amateur detection? Did he never tell you his suspicions about dirty work going on anywhere? Didn't he mention the forged notes, the smuggling, the Jonee Ghorrym . . .?"

  Deemster Milrey helped himself to more whisky, signalled to Littlejohn that he would like to fill up his glass, and then stretched his slippered feet to the fire.

  "Yes. . . . But that was, as you say, mere child's play. Unless, of course, it involved somebody of note on the Island, somebody who could not dare have a scandal round his name. . . ."

  "That may be so, sir. . . ."

  The Deemster raised his hand to indicate he hadn't finished. It was a habit of his in court.

  "What I have been reminded of in the course of your story, Inspector, is a strange remark of Martin Quantrell's made to me a month or so ago. . . ."

  He paused to thrust on more logs and stir the fire with a huge wrought-iron poker like a trident. The flames leapt and lit up his face.

  "Apropos some cases of robbery with violence we had before us in Ramsey, he said 'The Carrasdhoo Men are back. I know it.' "

  "Merciful heavens!"

  Littlejohn waited. It was beginning to savour of gothic horrors and he feared to break the spell.

  "You've never heard of them, Littlejohn?"

  The parson couldn't wait for Littlejohn to ask.

  "No, sir."

  "The Carrasdhoo men were a fearful race,

  A band of borderers none might trace;

  Whose band or lineage no one knew

  In the wild lone isle wherein they grew;

  But in the empire of old M'Lear

  None could in vice with them compare."

  The Deemster recited it in a soft, cultured voice.

  The parson was annoyed.

  "Rubbish! That was simply imagination. . . . Esther Nelson made it up for a ballad, that's all. . . ."

  "There was truth in it. They operated between Ramsey and Jurby and their headquarters were a tavern near the Curragh. . . ."

  "You're bemusing Littlejohn. The empire of M'Lear's another name for the Isle of Man, and the Curragh's the fen country north-west of Ramsey. The whole thing's a fable."

  "For the Ullymar bogs have a hideous slime,

  And the Ullymar bogs wear the hue of crime!"

  The Deemster kept on. . . .

  "I tell you, it's moonshine. . . ."

  "And I tell you . . ."

  The Manx scholars were losing their tempers with one another. Littlejohn sat back and laughed. And that brought them to earth.

  "I'm sorry, Inspector. I'm a poor host. Fill up your glass. This parson and I never see eye to eye on Manx lore. He's always on the prowl for the pagan and profane. . . ."

  "You shouldn't bait me, Finloe. . . . But did Martin say that?"

  "He did. Probably speaking figuratively, as he used to do. But he meant there was some revival of evil down Ramsey way. I can't say more."

  "It's all most exasperating. Why couldn't Martin have ta
ken somebody into his confidence? Then we wouldn't have had all this trouble."

  "Unfortunately the Carrasdhoo legend has been borne out in his case. . . ."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I rede ye beware of the Curragh glen!

  For he that will dare it, comes not again;

  In whispers his fate is told. . . ."

  "Stop it!"

  "Very well, Caesar. We'll change the subject. Is there anything you care to ask me, Inspector? Anything that you may have come across which puzzles you?"

  "Do you know anything about The Duck's Nest at Ramsey, sir?"

  The Deemster seemed surprised and said he didn't, but he would find out anything he could.

  "Or about a party which seem to make it their headquarters: a Dr. Harborne-Smith, a builder called Parker, and the lawyer, Tremouille. . . ."

  "Tremouille? He's quite above board. He practises at the Manx bar. . . . For the rest, I've heard of them casually, but I'll ask more discreetly and let you know. . . ."

  The party broke up very shortly after that, Milrey saw them to the door, and bade them good night. They left him still standing on the threshold, apparently deep in thought.

  "Poor Finloe. . . . He misses his wife. . . . Was he any help . . .?"

  Littlejohn hadn't the heart to say anything but yes to Parson Kinrade. The old man was so anxious to co-operate. All his own business for to-morrow's funeral had been done in a word or two. The rest had been an effort to further the investigation.

  Littlejohn spoke to his wife by telephone again. It refreshed him and cleared his mind to speak to Letty, but once in bed his depression returned.

  He kept thinking of Deemster Milrey in his old house, alone with his memories and his gloomy thoughts. The Carrasdhoo Men and the bogs of Ullymar. . . . And he dreamed of the journalist with red hair and the baby face. "You'll find it getting hold of you and you'll find it hard to go. . . . You'll see. . . ."

  11

  THE EMPTY DESK

  "CAGHLAA obbyr aash," muttered Mrs. Keggin to herself as she put plates of Manx kippers in front of Littlejohn and the parson for breakfast.

  She seemed better for a good night's rest and was now taking the misfortunes of herself and her unruly grandson with peasant stoicism.