The middle-aged woman from the office was crossing the yard, gingerly picking her way between piles of slates, stones and timber, like a cat on a rainy day.
"Mr. Parker wants to know what's going on, Mr. Lawrence."
"Tell him. . . . Tell him. . . ."
He glanced in the direction of the office. The old man was still looking through the window, his hat on his head, his eyes peering intently at the group outside.
"He says to come in and see him. . . ."
With an angry gesture, Lawrence Parker turned on his heel and left Littlejohn without a word. He entered the office and you could see him appear before his father at the window, like a small boy called to the headmaster's study. Parker, senior, remained motionless, only his mouth moving. His son's arms flailed as he gesticulated and tried to explain or excuse what was going on.
"I think you'd better come inside, too, sir. He wants you."
The woman had not left with Mr. Lawrence, but remained standing, waiting for Littlejohn to jump at the boss's orders. A dark, faded, baggy little woman, who looked scared to death of displeasing anyone. Life to her was one long apology. If she got the sack from Parker's, she'd probably have difficulty getting work elsewhere. . . .
The Inspector followed her. The room where the old man held court was hot and stuffy. A fire burned in the grate and there was an electric radiator near his chair.
"Here he comes. He can tell you himself. He says they've been smuggling on the Jonee. It's a lie!"
"Be quiet and let me deal with this."
Old Humphrey Parker spoke slowly, hardly moving his lips and flecks of foam appeared at the corners of his mouth, as though it strained him to talk. The tone was slurred and monotonous; the eyes were cold and cruel.
"What do you want?"
"In the first place, I've called to ask your son, who's a director of the company which owns the Jonee Ghorrym, why they tried yesterday to take passengers wanted by the police, and to warn him that the Customs people are instituting inquiries about smuggling activities aboard her."
Humphrey Parker sat immobile. His slumped figure, with the black, out-of-date hat crowning the lot, might have made a good illustration for a Dickens novel. Scrooge, Dombey, Squeers, Quilp. . . . Any old reprobate due for reform. Except for the eyes. There was nothing comic about them, nor any character. They moved, taking all in, but they were dead; dead to compassion, the gentler things of the world around, even the details of what was going on. All they contained was malevolence.
"You'd better talk to me. He only holds the shares in the company on my behalf. My son's no good at business. He only achieves bankruptcy. . . . He does as I tell him, here and everywhere else."
Littlejohn looked from father to son and back again. Lawrence Parker was biting his lips and taking out another cigarette.
"That's all he can do. Smoke!"
It was incredible! A man in his late forties, completely dominated by his father. Why didn't he pack up, defy the old man, salvage his pride, and launch out for himself?
The Inspector caught Humphrey's malicious glance, and he was aware the old man knew what he was thinking.
"What do you want?"
"That's all for the present. . . ."
Littlejohn had more important work to do than wasting time with a mad old man and his nitwit son.
"I may be back, sir, when I've got a little more information. . . ."
"Information?"
He said it slowly, with difficulty, syllable by syllable.
"About the Jonee Ghorrym and what happened to Captain Teare, the night he died on his own bridge. Good day."
He left them at that and as he turned through the gate, he saw that the old man had roused himself. They were helping him out of his chair. . . . His hat was still on his head. . . .
Harborne-Smith lived on the Lezayre Road in a bungalow built on colonial lines, with palm trees in the garden. He was sitting in a bath-robe on the verandah enjoying the warm morning sun.
"Morning. Drink?"
He indicated the bottle, syphon and glass at his elbow. He was starting early on his whisky. The type who, in the colonies he'd left, would disgust his compatriots by his slipshod habits.
"Did you know that Irons was murdered last night, sir?"
"Yes. Tremouille 'phoned me. Funny business. You'd have thought the police would have . . ."
He waved his glass about and fixed his bloodshot blue eyes on the Inspector's face, his lips twisted in mockery.
"Also, sir, the Customs people are making inquiries about contraband on the Jonee Ghorrym. . . ."
Harborne-Smith gulped at his whisky.
"No good, Inspector. They'll not nail us for that, you know."
"You're a director, I believe, Dr. Smith. . . ."
"Harborne-Smith, please. Too many simple Smiths. Got to have a sign of distinction, you know. Yes. I'm a director. I'd know if any queer stuff was going on. Who told you the tale about smuggling?"
"Alcardi. . . . Irons. . . . Fannin. . . ."
"Alcardi? He was dead before you caught up with him."
He paused. It was obvious he wished he hadn't said it.
"Yes? How did you know he didn't see me before he died, doctor?"
"Somebody told me. . . . Jules, I think."
"You were a director when Captain Teare was drowned?"
"Yes. It was accidental and the court ruled it that way. No sense in frying old fish, Inspector. It'll lead you nowhere."
"And all the crew at that time have left?"
"They're always changing. Sailors are that way."
"Not if she's a good ship."
"The Jonee's all right. Sure you won't have a drink . . .?"
"We'll have to find out, sir. . . ."
Inside the house, someone was moving about. A door opened and closed and the scent of bath-salts wafted on a hot blast through the open french window beside which the doctor was sitting. A girl in a dressing-gown entered the room behind, shook out her dark hair and was making for the window when suddenly she spotted Littlejohn. She disappeared as quickly. Harborne-Smith's blue, codfish eyes sought those of Littlejohn and his mouth twisted.
"My housekeeper. . . ."
"Do you still practice, doctor?"
"No. Why?"
"Do you keep a stock of drugs?"
"No. I'm not registered here and I don't propose to get registered. Why?"
"The Deemster died of prussic acid and Irons of arsenic. They're a bit difficult to get. . . ."
It didn't shake Harborne-Smith at all. He was too indolent even to jump up in temper. Instead, he looked amused.
"You don't think I . . ."
"No. But you associate with company formerly frequented by Irons and Alcardi. . . . And Alcardi murdered the Deemster."
"Who says he did?"
"We know."
"Well, the poison didn't come from me. I don't keep poisons around. All I want is a quiet life, not murders or suicides. . . . I can't help you. . . ."
Littlejohn made his way back to town to see Tremouille. A motley crew, he thought. Parker, tied to his father's apron strings and afraid of something. Harborne-Smith, sowing his wild oats like mad on his remittance money. Tremouille, a good lawyer, but living above his means with an embittered wife he obviously was mad about. . . .
Knell was waiting with the car at the police-station. He looked relieved to see Littlejohn.
"All right at The Duck's Nest last night, sir?"
He looked as if he might have expected them to fish the Inspector from the harbour with his throat cut.
"Yes, thanks, Knell. The next thing is to find Mr. Tremouille, if he's in Ramsey to-day. . . ."
"That's easy, sir. I saw him going in his office as I drove in. Just off Parliament Street."
Tremouille looked to be suffering from a hangover when they ushered Littlejohn into his office. His eyes were baggy and dull and the lines in the dark-shaded sockets were deeper than ever.
"Still in Ramsey, Ins
pector?"
The room was shabby. An old desk, old chairs upholstered in worn horsehair, dusty dog-eared law volumes on the mantelpiece and window-sills, more of them on shelves on each side of the fireplace, and a carpet which had seen better days. The room obviously hadn't been decorated since the tenant took over. The office was a cheap, second-rate one. Opposite, a greengrocer's shop, with somebody playing the piano in the living quarters above it. A tinkling, badly played tune, over and over again.
I'm singin' in the rain . . .
The bottom halves of the windows were covered by gauze screens. Lander and Tremouille, Advocates. Lander had been dead for years.
"You've heard that Irons died last night, sir?"
"Yes. That was a bad business. Somebody was slow. . . ."
He stood before the fire, his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. His shoes were old and well-cleaned and his suit, though neat and tidy, was threadbare; shiny at the elbows and the bottoms of the trousers frayed.
"I don't agree, sir. Irons insisted on having his supper brought to his cell. Fish and chips and coffee. The constable who was good enough to pander to his gluttony and bring in the stuff, wasn't to know that someone was going to put arsenic in the jug."
Tremouille looked nettled. He was used to deference from the police. Here was one back-answering him. His face grew thin and pinched.
"Don't try to excuse them. The police haven't been too bright by any means on the Quantrell case. It's time we had results instead of more murders. . . ."
Littlejohn slowly lit his pipe.
"Mr. Tremouille. . . . If we'd had a little more help from you and one or two others, things wouldn't have been quite so complicated. For example, why did the Jonee Ghorrym, the controlling company of which has you on its board, try to smuggle a couple of men wanted by the police, off the island? That wasted us a lot of time. There is also a smuggling charge in connection with her in the hands of the Customs people. If you and your friends would kindly assist and let us get on with the case, instead of having us chasing all over the Island after red herrings, we might now be showing the results for which you seem so anxious. . . ."
"Look here. I won't stand your insinuations. What Captain Kewley does when in command of his ship is no affair of mine or my co-directors. We don't run her, even if we own her. And I resent your remarks about obstruction. I didn't like the way you carried on at Ballagarry yesterday. After all, the Deemster had only just been buried. You might have spared the widow the ordeal of. . ."
"Everything was done at her request. You've seen Lamprey?"
"Yes. Why have you resisted bail? He's not likely to run away."
"Isn't he? That's not the reason, though. I resisted bail because I'm having no more meetings of plotters like the late Irons, Fannin, and the lamented Alcardi. This case has been complicated enough so far. I'm going to keep the parties under our eye from now on. . . ."
"We'll see. Habeas corpus runs in the Island, too, you know."
"I'm well aware of it. But I really called to ask if it would be possible to see the log of the Jonee Ghorrym for 1945, sir."
Tremouille's eyes narrowed. He brushed back his sleek hair.
"What has that to do with it? How can the log of a ship help you with the case in hand?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Tremouille, but I'm not prepared to argue the pros and cons of the matter. Can you or can't you, tell me where I can find the log?"
"I think I can, but I'm not at liberty to hand it over. There'll have to be a directors' meeting first. I've no power to produce it to you nor has any other director without a meeting to agree. . . ."
"I think you're being deliberately obstructive, sir. I'm not asking to take it away from the office where it's kept. I want to see certain entries. . . ."
"I've told you, Littlejohn, I'm a lawyer and my conduct must be strictly correct. A court order or the permission of the board is what I need and even then I'm not sure I can lay my hands on the book."
"Very well, sir. Kindly call your meeting and call it soon. Your board is composed of local men. I suggest to-day will be a good time. I'll telephone to-morrow. . . ."
"I can't manage before to-morrow. I've to be in court in an hour. I'll let you know. . . ."
"In that case I shall have to speak to Deemster Milrey. . . ."
"That won't help. He'll order it to be produced in court and that will take a week. I'll see what I can do in a day or two. . . ."
"Don't bother. I'll have to take the long way round. But please don't talk to me in future about the speed of the investigation, sir. Or about results. I think you know a lot more than you tell me about the murder of the Deemster, the affairs of Irons and Alcardi, and the whole set-up of the Jonee Ghorrym, and I intend to find it all out. Good morning. . ."
"Here. . . . Come back. . . ."
But Littlejohn was in the street. Above, the piano was still tinkling away. . . .
Singin' in the rain; yes, singin' in the rain . . .
"Let's drive back to Grenaby, Knell. I'll come back to The Duck's Nest for my bag later. I've not finished there. . . ."
The Archdeacon was snoozing in the hot morning sun in his neglected garden when they drew up. It was like another world. Great clouds casting shadows over the hills and, in the distance, the moors were on fire.
"Glad to see you back, Inspector. You, too, Reggie. How are you getting along? Any nearer a solution?"
"No, sir. . . ."
He told the parson all that had happened since they last met.
"And now, I want your help, sir. Do you know where I can find the widow of Captain Teare who was lost on the Jonee Ghorrym in the Spring of 1945?"
"Yes. She married again. She's getting on now, too. Turned sixty. . . ."
And Archdeacon Kinrade was eighty-three!
"She and her husband are farming near Cregneish . . . that's in the South, almost opposite Calf Island. Did you want to see her? We could make it in half an hour. . . ."
"We? Would you like to come along, parson?"
"Sure I'll come. . . . But after we've had our lunch. . . ."
Cronkbreck Farm consists of eighty stony acres at the very south of the Isle of Man. Littlejohn and the other two drove over the moor and dropped down a narrow mountain road to Port St. Mary, and then took the steep road to Cregneish. Cronkbreck was in sight of the sea beating itself against the steep rocky coast, with Calf Island, isolated and wild, beyond the treacherous Sound.
Mrs. Teare had, after her husband's death, married Arnold Maddrell, and they were happy and, in spite of the stony ground, moderately prosperous. She was making butter in the dairy when the party arrived. The sight of the Archdeacon smoothed the way and she took them to her best room, cold and damp from lack of fires and from the salt air. The place was full of knick-knacks. A large sideboard, an ancient piano, a suite upholstered in red plush, and what seemed to be hundreds of family portraits, singly and in groups, all of them looking either surprised or agonized at the ordeal of 'being took'. It spoke well for the generous spirit of Arnold Maddrell, that he allowed a large, framed portrait of Mrs. Maddrell's 'first', the late Captain Teare, to dominate the room from over the fireplace. Bearded heavily, with a stern glance and an old-fashioned captain's cap and reefer jacket, he seemed to stare out of countenance the many relatives the former Mrs. Teare had acquired through marriage.
"We've come to have a word with you about Ebeneezer, Mrs. Maddrell," said the parson after he had introduced his companions. Mrs. Maddrell had known Knell's family back to about the fourth generation from Reggie, and felt at home with him. She was a bit shy about Littlejohn. She insisted on giving them tea and her home-made soda cakes.
"Good job we haven't a lot of places like this to call on," said Mr. Kinrade as they waited for the kettle to boil. "They get insulted if you won't take a bite with them. Very hospitable. After a round of calls, you get quite blown-up with tea and soda buns. . . ."
"You remember the spring Ben was lost, Mrs. Maddrell? The
Inspector wants to talk to you about him and the time he died. . . ."
Could she ever forget it! Mrs. Maddrell told them in a voice full of lamentation of her last good-bye to Ebeneezer Teare, of the night of the storm, of their bringing the news he'd been washed overboard. She made up her mind after that, never to marry a sailor again. And she'd kept her word. Maddrell was good to her. She was very comfortable. But she'd rather have been farming inland, where you couldn't see the cruel sea. . . .
"Did your late husband ever talk to you about his trips and his ship, Mrs. Maddrell?"
"Yes. . . . I don't remember much about it now. Time passes, doesn't it? It passes, and we forget. . . ."
She looked up at the stern countenance of her 'first' and nodded at it, just to reassure Captain Teare that she hadn't forgotten him, though she couldn't recollect much of what he'd said and done.
"He kept a little diary. My first husband was a bit of a scholar. He was powerful good with the pen. . . ."
"You still have the diary?"
"Of course. I wouldn't part with it for all the money in the world. Maddrell once went to sea before he took to farmin'. Sometimes in winter, when we sit by the fire with the wind howlin' round the house, I read parts of the diary to Arnold. He likes it better than made-up stories from the library. Says it's real good. Not that I'd be one to judge, but Arnold has done a fair bit of readin' in his time. . . ."
"Could we see the diary, Mrs. Maddrell?"
"I'll get it. . . ."
A Manx cat entered carrying a kitten by the scruff of the neck, laid it at Littlejohn's feet, and started to rub round his legs. He picked her up, stroked her, and she settled in the crook of his arm and started to purr.
"Here it is, sir. . . ."
It was a large heavy book with stiff backs marked Diary on a label in front. It had been well-thumbed, presumably for the delectation of the absent and generous-hearted Arnold Maddrell. The pages were filled with writing, under date headings, in a bold, rather boyish hand. On the fly-leaf, in another script, someone had written a jingle.
Captain Teare it is my name,
Master Mariner is my station,
Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 18
