Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  "What are you chattering about . . .? And don't speak Manx in front of a man who doesn't know it. It's rude, Maggie. . . ."

  The parson forked a mouthful of kipper and small bones into his mouth and shook a finger in protest.

  "Change of work is rest, then, if you want it that way. This burying will be like a holiday for you both. . . . You and your crimes. No good comes of it. . . ."

  "And what's that you're carrying about with you, Maggie?"

  "A piece of luck-herb for the Inspector's button-hole. It's ter'ble good to bring good luck and to keep off the butcheraghey and evil eye. . . ."

  She stuck a small sprig of St. John's Wort in Littlejohn's coat and left the room in confusion.

  "Let her be, Littlejohn. . . . It's just to show she's overlooked what you did to Kenneth. Butcheraghey, by the way, is witchcraft. Quite a lot in these parts still believe in it. . . ."

  Littlejohn quietly enjoyed his food. He'd something to say to the parson and he wondered how best to put it.

  "I'll be leaving you for a day or two, sir," he said at last. "I've got to get to work in Ramsey. There's something going on at The Duck's Nest that needs investigating. I hope you don't mind. . . ."

  "I've been expecting it. . . ."

  The parson laid down his knife and fork.

  "It's too much of a holiday for you staying here, isn't it? The whole Island, in fact, isn't conducive to hard work. Traa dy Liooar, they say. . . . Time enough. Always putting off what should be done to-day till to-morrow. It gets you. . . . Am I right?"

  Over and over again; the same thing. "You'll find it getting hold of you. You'll see. . . ." as the red-headed reporter had said.

  "Yes. It's quite true. I'll have to take a hold of myself and see the job through. Then I can enjoy the rest of my stay with you."

  "Are you going to stay at The Duck's Nest . . .? Silly name!"

  "They do take one or two in, but I doubt if I'll be welcome there. I can try."

  "Let me book you in, if I can. I'll not give the name. . . . I'll just say I want a room for a friend from over. . . ."

  The parson went to the telephone right away and came back smiling.

  "That's done. . . ."

  The car with the Archdeacon and Littlejohn met the Deemster's cortège at Ballagarry, his home, and the long procession of vehicles started for the church of St. Luke, where the Quantrell family vault was waiting for them. There were no women present in accordance with an old custom of the Isle. A brief family service had been held in the house and they had then bidden good-bye to the last of the Quantrells.

  The long file of cars wound its way through a tunnel of autumn-tinted trees, slowly climbing uphill, until finally they reached the open where the small stone church of St. Luke, surrounded by a graveyard, was visible. Behind, the sunlit background of Injebreck and the hills which form the backbone of the Isle of Man, framed the scene like a giant backcloth, with Snaefell mountain towering in their midst. High white clouds passing quickly on the wind cast great shadows over the hills. . . .

  They were removing the coffin from the hearse and six young law students were shouldering it ready to bear it along The Rough Road—Raad Garroo—which skirts the churchyard and leads to the ruin of Keeill Abban, the former chapel. Littlejohn remained in the road, watching the proceedings, whilst the Archdeacon adjusted his gown and joined the vicar of Braddan at the graveside. The throng included the Lieutenant-Governor of the Island, his officers, members of the upper and lower Houses of Parliament—the Legislative Counsellors and the Keys—the surviving Deemster and the law officers, members of the bar, and innumerable other officials and notables. Young Lamprey was well to the front by the graveside and at his elbow, Tremouille, the advocate, who, it turned out, was the lawyer of the Quantrell family. Somehow, Littlejohn got the impression that, standing, as he did between Tremouille and Deemster Milrey, Lamprey was held in their custody. . . .

  "Are you Inspector Littlejohn . . .?"

  Most of those present had eyed Littlejohn with curious or friendly interest, but, so far, nobody had addressed him except in brief greeting. The man at his elbow was small and elderly, with a wrinkled pink face and watery blue eyes. He wore a black suit, which, owing to his increased paunch since it was bought, missed meeting at the buttons by several inches and looked pinched and crumpled at the waist. He carried a bowler hat and his thin white hair fluttered in the breeze.

  "I thought you'd like to know . . . ahem . . . that the mouse and the bread . . . ahem . . . you sent for examination . . . ahem . . . contained poison . . . ahem. . . ."

  He looked sadly up at Littlejohn as if disappointed to have to tell him this. After every phrase, he cleared his throat as though he had difficulty in speaking at all.

  "My name is Godfrey . . . Dr. Godfrey. . . . They asked me to . . . ahem . . . examine the ahem . . . I gather you, ahem . . . thought they might contain . . . ahem, ahem . . . prussic acid. . . you were quite right. . . ahem. . . Enough to kill a man or two even on the bread . . . ahem . . . which might have been used for bait to kill the . . . ahem . . . the mouse. Excuse me . . . ahem. . . . You'll get my official report. Got to ahem. . . ."

  He hurried to the graveside, without another word, clearing his throat loudly above the noise of intoning.

  Littlejohn forgot the ceremony.

  X, the brain behind the crime, had tricked Alcardi into murder, but, it seemed, had followed on the heels of the Italian to see the job was properly done and, perhaps for some other purpose after the Deemster died. X had hidden in the coach, then slipped up after Alcardi had left His Honour's room. As he returned through the private door, did he hear footsteps and hide in the dark coach? Enter little Willie Mounsey, who made straight for the coach to confirm what his pals and the custodian wouldn't believe was there? Willie opened the door. . . .

  X had wanted to be sure the Deemster was dead and sure that Alcardi should take the blame for it. How would he lay the trail to the Italian? By placing the newspaper cuttings and the dud notes in the Deemster's pocket? Sooner or later, the police would find them, make inquiries, and, perhaps, deduce that the Deemster with his flair for detection, was on the track of the counterfeiter. . . . But how to bring in Alcardi if nobody had seen the slippery Italian around on the day of the crime?

  Littlejohn saw himself and Knell the first time they visited Douglas and Ballagarry together. Lamprey ringing up Alcardi ostentatiously from an outside telephone box as the police passed by. Then, Irons telephoning Alcardi and getting him on the run. X, whoever he might be, had worked it all out, enmeshed Alcardi in the web of murder, set the pointers in his direction, fooled the police into thinking they'd solved the crime by finding Alcardi guilty. And then, X had slipped up. They'd got Alcardi so much on the run that he'd panicked and tried to get to Littlejohn to confess his share and try to excuse himself by saying he'd been deceived in the contents of the bottle. Perhaps after hearing the Deemster was dead, Alcardi had tried the contents of the bottle as mouse-bait with terrifying results. . . .

  It fitted after a fashion.

  X had kept Alcardi under surveillance. He might have followed him himself, or kept a man posted at Grenaby to see that the Italian didn't get near the vicarage. . . .

  Yes; Fannin had been sent there as scout because he knew the place and, as he waited, Fannin had tried house-breaking to kill time and, being unsuccessful, had wakened his grandmother and extorted more money from her. Then, when somebody arrived in the dark, he'd hit him hard, as instructed. But he'd got the wrong man, Knell. So, X watching others doing his dirty work, had needed to intervene when Alcardi arrived. Fannin thought he'd killed Knell and was mistaken. But X made sure about Alcardi, especially when the terrified Italian drew a gun and fired at him.

  It would have been all right had it worked to plan. But it didn't by a long way. Alcardi was never seen in the castle. The police had never had a chance of interviewing him. The trail was laid right to him and his counterfeiting, with the Deemster on his
track, and then . . . Alcardi wasn't expected to turn informer. They hadn't thought of that, or of the Italian's temperament.

  Fannin, ordered to keep Alcardi in sight, loses him in Douglas and gets drunk. So X has to take over and do the trailing himself. Fannin, fuddled, combines house-breaking and cadging with his watching for Alcardi and then hits the wrong man and not hard enough. Otherwise, as likely as not, the Italian would have appeared guilty of murder and silenced in the garden at Grenaby, would have been unable to tell his tale to the police.

  The main slip-up by X was that he didn't know of Amy at The Duck's Nest being Alcardi's girl and that, cast-off by his confederates at The Duck's Nest, by Irons, and by the Jonee Ghorrym lot, he told Amy the whole story, either to clear his conscience or else to put the police on the right track. . . .

  So, all the dud notes, the smuggling, the Deemster's amateur detection were red herrings. There was some deeper motive, as he and the parson suspected. . . .

  The procession was leaving the graveside and Littlejohn made for the car to join the Archdeacon again. An elderly, rheumaticky man, evidently dressed in his best suit of black and wearing an old billycock, raised a large hand to indicate that he had something for the Inspector. It was Crellin, the Quantrell's gardener. He held a note in his fingers.

  "Inspector. . . . Herself gave me a note for ye. . . ."

  If you care to be present when the Will is read and the desk opened, I shall be pleased to see you after the funeral.

  Lucy Quantrell.

  He joined the Archdeacon, told him of the message and together they followed the family cars to Ballagarry. Tremouille looked hard at them as they entered. Littlejohn showed him the note.

  "Bit odd. . . ."

  Tremouille smiled sourly and bared his even white teeth. At close quarters his face looked old and lined. His thin hair, so close-plastered to his head, was grey, his eyes pouched, his thin lips tight.

  "I suppose it's all right. . . ."

  Lamprey had already helped himself to a drink and was offering one to the lawyer. He frowned as he saw Littlejohn.

  "I say. . . . This is hardly the time for police. . . ."

  "We're here at the special request of your aunt. . . ."

  "Oh, very well. I didn't mean you, Archdeacon. You're always welcome. . . ."

  With this final cut at the Inspector he turned on his heel.

  The blinds had been raised and in the drawing-room a small knot of relatives had gathered. Two old men, the Deemster's cousins; three old ladies, his aunts; and a tall, stooping very old man with a fine scholarly face and a shock of white hair. He carried a stick and turned his sightless eyes on Littlejohn. He was introduced as the Deemster's father, Juan Quantrell. The Deemster's widow hardly ever left the old man's side. They were like a pair of dignified and bereaved strangers among a lot of fussing outsiders.

  The old man did not mention the murder or the death of his son. Instead, he allowed the Archdeacon to lead him aside and they spoke together quietly.

  Tremouille entered accompanied by the surviving Deemster. They both looked upset and made for Mrs. Quantrell. She indicated the Inspector and the three of them approached him. Tremouille cleared his throat. All eyes turned to the little gathering round Littlejohn.

  "I think you ought to know, Inspector, that the desk has been unlocked and the private papers removed. . . ."

  He looked at the Deemster to give him his cue.

  The quiet, cultured voice took up the story.

  "I've been saying. . . . I was with Quantrell about a week ago and he opened his desk to refer to his diary. It was chock-a-bloc with papers. . . . In every pigeon-hole. . . . Now, with the exception of knick-knacks, printed matter and the manuscript of his book, it's empty. The diary, even, has gone. . . . I can't understand it. . . . He kept the key himself and it hasn't been broken open. . . . The drawers seem to have been cleared of all but printed matter. . . . I just can't understand it. . . ."

  "I can. . . ."

  They all looked at Littlejohn.

  "I beg your pardon. . . ."

  Tremouille's voice was harsh, as though Littlejohn might be having a joke.

  "I can quite understand it all. But first, you have the Will?"

  "Of course. That was kept in my safe."

  "Suppose you read it, then, and we deal with the other later. The relatives and servants are waiting. . . ."

  Tremouille's look was almost one of hatred. He didn't like being told what to do by anyone.

  The Will seemed fair enough. The Deemster's father had sufficient money of his own and was simply left mementoes. You couldn't tell what the old man was thinking. His firm face and sightless eyes reflected none of his thoughts. His fingers shook as he gripped his cane and he rested his chin on his hands.

  The servants were to have their legacies. . . .

  The rest was all for Mrs. Quantrell, absolutely. The dead man said he knew he could leave to her his family commitments, the allowances to the elderly relatives, the charities they had supported. . . . All his belongings except those already bequeathed, were hers as well.

  And that was all. . . .

  There was a pause as though everyone expected a lot more.

  Littlejohn stared hard at Jeremy Lamprey. His face bore the astonished look of one who had been completely thrust out against his wishes.

  Then, everyone started to talk at once. The elderly ladies, it seemed, had for long been dependent on the Deemster's bounty. They did not ask outright what they were now to do, but started to make small talk with Mrs. Quantrell in the pathetic hope of reassurance. "He has left everything for me to attend to and it will be just as before. . . ."

  "But. . . ."

  One of the male cousins could not contain himself, in spite of the circumstances and the recent tragedy.

  "But I understood that he wasn't a rich man. Just his pay as Deemster and a few insurances. Not enough to keep things up as when he was alive, even if the government give you a nice pension, Lucy. . . ."

  "Really! You seem to forget yourself, Charles. . . ."

  The Archdeacon put a hand on the shoulder of the importunate cousin.

  "That's all right, Mr. Kinrade. My husband was wealthier than we all thought. There's quite enough to see me through with all he wished. . . ."

  The eyes of the relatives sparkled with curiosity and those of the old men with greed as well.

  "Oh. . . . If that's the case. . . ."

  The three old ladies were pathetically pleased and wept with relief and gratitude. One by one they put on their outdoor things and crept away. Only Tremouille, Deemster Milrey, Lamprey and the Archdeacon remained with Littlejohn and the late Deemster's wife and father.

  "Now, sir. What's all this about your knowing that the desk had been opened?"

  Tremouille said it like a policeman interviewing a malefactor.

  "That can wait, sir, until a more suitable time. We must be going now. . . ."

  "I insist that you tell us at once. This is a serious matter and, as the deceased's lawyer, I must press for your explanation."

  "Don't you think you'd better, Inspector?"

  Deemster Milrey's soft voice broke in more diplomatically.

  "No, sir. I'd like a word alone with Mrs. Quantrell, if she doesn't mind. . . ."

  "This is preposterous!"

  "Please, Henry. . . ."

  Tremouille shrugged his shoulders.

  "Very well, if that's the way you want it. But I don't like it, and I must say, I take great exception to the Inspector's high-handed way of doing things. If he knows anything about the desk, we've a right to know, surely. . . ."

  The Deemster, the advocate and Lamprey left the room, Lamprey hesitantly, but obviously intent on seeking more drink if he had to go. Littlejohn followed them and closed the door, before Juan Quantrell and the Archdeacon had reached it.

  "Will you two please stay. I want you both to hear this. . . ."

  They stood in a group on the hearthrug.
/>   "Mrs. Quantrell, has the Deemster ever spoken about losing or missing his keys of late?"

  "Not to my recollection. Why?"

  She looked puzzled by the question.

  "Please think if you remember anything associated with keys. . . . ."

  She smiled a thin smile.

  "I can think of a lot of things . . . mere trifles. He insisted on carrying them in the side pocket of his trousers and was always wearing holes in the linings. Yes. . . . I do remember a silly incident quite recently. . . . It was really a joke I made about them, and he got quite annoyed. . . ."

  "What was it, Mrs. Quantrell?"

  "Quite silly, really. He went to a dinner a little over a week ago. . . . The Medical Society, I think. He was a guest. . . . Next morning, he couldn't find his keys. They turned-up in the side pocket of his dinner jacket. He said he was absolutely sure he'd put them on his dressing-table the night before when he undressed. I was asleep when he got home and I just said he must have taken too much wine and forgotten what he was doing, and also that I was pleased he'd put them in his jacket pocket instead of wearing out his trousers. . . . He was quite annoyed with me. First, for suggesting he might be a bit tipsy, and secondly for doubting his lucidity in putting them on the dressing-table over night. . . ."

  "Do you occupy the same room, madam?"

  "Yes. The Deemster had a dressing-room just off it. . . ."

  "With a separate door to the landing?"

  "Yes. . . . ."

  "It was kept locked?"

  "Of course not. Why? We trust everyone here."

  "The keys. . . . Would they be put on the dressing-table of his dressing-room, or yours. . . ."

  "The Deemster's. . . . Why?"

  "I'm afraid someone must have borrowed them and taken impressions. I suspected that, before you mentioned this incident. They were taken from the dressing-table and whoever did it was either absent-minded or in a hurry and put them back in the pocket of the jacket. . . ."

  The rest of them looked thunderstruck and Mrs. Quantrell spoke what was on all their minds.

  "But who . . .?"

  "Was Mr. Lamprey here at the time?"