"Never mind. Your uncle told you shortly before his death, didn't he?"
"You don't mean to say my aunt's turned against me and blown the gaff on all my uncle said. . . ."
He paused as if he'd said too much.
"All your uncle said. . . . Including the murder of Captain Teare on the night he brought Jules of The Duck's Nest across from Quiberon to Ramsey."
Lamprey's complexion turned from excited pink to yellow.
"I'd nothing to do with that. Whatever my uncle found out had nothing to do with me. I wasn't connected with the company then. . . . It was only a theory of my uncle's. . . ."
"A theory which he'd backed up by facts later."
"I don't know anything about it. He got mad with me because I'd got the shares. As if I could do anything. I wasn't even on the board. All I did was. . . ."
"Was what?"
"Nothing. I want a doctor. I'm not well. It's the treatment I'm getting. I couldn't help it, if my uncle tried to play detective and landed himself in trouble."
"You knew all about the smuggling and your friends told you if you didn't do as they wished and get them the keys, you were in trouble yourself. . .?"
"I didn't know they wanted them so they could kill him. They said they wanted the proofs he'd got in his papers."
"Who are they?"
"It was Irons asked me for the keys. The directors of the company knew about the smuggling, but there was somebody else at the back of it. I don't know who it was. . . . Can't I have a doctor? This is killing me. . . . If they don't let me out quick, I'll commit suicide. I swear I will. . . ."
"Better get Lamprey a doctor, sergeant," said Littlejohn on the way out. "Your prison doesn't seem to agree with his kidneys. And, by the way, take away his necktie and shoelaces; he's threatening to commit suicide. . . ."
The sergeant smiled. He'd heard it all before.
"We followed up your idea, sir."
He showed Littlejohn some doodles and hieroglyphics on a pad to prove it. It looked like a combination of a chemical formula and a diagram illustrating nuclear fission.
"We got in touch with the tours-round-the-island people . . . McHarrie's. . . . They remembered the party they picked up for Castle Rushen. They didn't remember 'em singly, of course, but the whole crowd, bar about three, came from The Eldorado Hotel. . . . A boardin'-house, by rights. We rang up The Eldorado. They remembered the little man. He was swankin' afterwards, they said, that the Scotland Yard man on the Deemster's murder was a friend of his; often had a beer together. Where, he didn't mention. Well, he checked out to-day. Left by the eight 'plane. His name was Sammy Crook, of Liverpool. . . ."
"You might get his full address from the register. . . ."
"It's here. 34, Minshull Street. We looked it up in a directory. It's a well-known multiple-tailors' shop. We rang 'em up. Never heard of Sammy Crook. . . ."
"You've not let the grass grow under your feet, sergeant! Well done! Did you check the 'plane schedule, too?"
The sergeant smiled contentedly. . . .
"Yes, sir. He was on board, all right. And now, he's vanished into the blue. . . ."
"That's right. But perhaps not for long. We'll have to see. You've excelled yourself, sergeant. Well done, again!"
The policeman blushed, his moustache bristled, and he lowered his eyes modestly and started to draw more nuclear fission diagrams on the blotting-paper.
This time, Knell drove the car fast over the T.T. road, across the mountains past Snaefell, through the thin upland air, and down into Ramsey round the Hairpin Bend.
Deemster Milrey was taking morning coffee before cases. He looked surprised to see Littlejohn.
"Could you spare me just a minute or two of your time, Your Honour . . .?"
In his black gown and wig the Deemster looked stern and imposing.
"Certainly. . . ."
With his smile all formality vanished.
"You mentioned the Carrasdhoo Men when we called the other evening. Was there any significance in the name, Your Honour, and did the idea of Ullymar Glen convey any meaning to you?"
Deemster Milrey nodded two or three times.
"I've thought of it since our talk the other night. It implied smuggling, I thought, although the Carrasdhoo Men were wreckers. Quantrell had discovered, it seemed, that a Ramsey ship, the Jonee Ghorrym was, or had been, engaged in smuggling, and it was his theory that a previous captain, on discovering that some of his crew or his employers had been, unknown to him, carrying on the trade, had threatened to denounce them and was killed for it. He said he had a theory about who committed the crime."
"Is that all he could say, sir?"
"Yes. Except that he thought his nephew was mixed up in it and that he was worried, because he was responsible for interesting young Lamprey in the shipping business."
"He mentioned no names?"
"No. He said he'd have to see me later. He was following a certain line of inquiry. The reason he came to me was, that if young Lamprey was in any way guilty of the offences of smuggling or other illegal uses of the ship, Quantrell would have to resign his offices on the bench at once."
"You saw him after that?"
"Yes. In Douglas two days later. He said he'd see me in a day or two with the full facts of the case. He was killed the next day."
"Thank you, Your Honour. . . ."
They drove down to the water-front again. It was mid-morning and the tide was in. The sky looked as if some one had washed it clean, and little white clouds drifted idly across it. The vast bay was peaceful and the old and new promenades were almost deserted, except for a few men airing their dogs. The quayside was active with traffic; cars parked in front of warehouses and shops, lorries carrying produce to and from the merchants and chandlers. Two coasters were unloading coal in large buckets slung from cranes.
The Duck's Nest was deserted. Inside, you could see the tables piled up and Silas was mopping the floor of the bar. Littlejohn leaving Knell with the car, entered.
"There's nobody in and the bar's closed."
Silas didn't want to be bothered with customers.
"How long have you been here, Silas?"
"Since the place opened in 1947. Why?"
"Has Jules been here all that time?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Did he live over here before he started this place?"
"Came durin' the summer the year before. Said he was just lookin' around for a place. Bought this in the autumn and opened up for the next season. That's when I started. Why?"
"Don't keep saying, why, Silas. I can't tell you all my business. Curiosity killed the cat."
"I know. Just an 'abit of mine. Can't seem to get out of it. Won't do me no good to know why, will it?"
"You a native of the Island?"
"Why? Do I sound like one? I come from Newmarket and I wish to God I was back there. But it ain't too 'ospitable, as you might say, to the likes of me . . . old, sewperannyated jockeys. . . ."
"Where is everybody?"
"Jules and Amy gone out buyin' in. They won't be long."
"Are they on good terms?"
"Meanin'?"
Silas bared his yellow, uneven teeth.
"How friendly are they?"
"As much as needs be. Though they don't show it in public. But I know all that goes on here. No use tryin' to kid me, however much they do the others. Get me?"
"But I thought there was something between Amy and Joe Alcardi."
"The Eyetalian, you mean? Naw. Not fer the Eyetalian's want o' tryin'. But Amy hadn't no eyes for anybody but Morin. Sort o' mesmerized by 'im."
"Has she been here ever since the place opened?"
"Came a coupla years since. Her and Morin fell for one another, so she stopped on. What 'e can see in 'er, I don't know. Skinny, that's wot I call 'er. Give me women with a bit of upholstery on 'em. Not skinny, flat-chested bags o' bones, like Amy. From the way I seen 'em carryin'-on, though, when they thought they was on their own, I'd say Amy was a bit 'otter th
an she looks. No accountin' for taste. . . ."
"Quite a specialist in the arts of love, aren't you, Silas?"
"Done me share in me time, though to look at me now with me mop an' bucket, you'd doubt it. Thank you, sir. . . ."
He spat on the half-crown and slid it in his waistcoat pocket.
"By the way, Silas. The other evening, when old Mr. Parker gave his party. . . . Was Morin in all night?"
"Dunno. But I never see 'im after half-eight, when the cookin' was done and the stuff on the 'ot-plate ready for servin'. Left me with the drinks for a spell. . . . Champagne cocktails! Pah! Gimme beer, a proper drink."
Littlejohn strolled to the door. No sign of Jules or Amy. There was a constable talking to Knell at the car. He held a paper in his hand. He saluted Littlejohn.
"Note from the Archdeacon, sir. We took it over the telephone. He said to let you have it immediately. Perhaps you know what it means. We don't."
Teare. . . . . . .Dead.
Vondy. . . . . . .Married at Bride. Emigrated to U.S.A.
Skillicorn. . . . . . .Engineer on liner. At present on high seas.
Killip. . . . . . .Still on Jonee Ghorrym, now first hand.
Fred Moore. . . . . . .Still lives Onchan. Now working on the roads.
Kermode. . . . . . .No Trace.
Philip Moore. . . . . . .Dead. Buried Onchan.
Gostain. . . . . . .Now farming at Cregmanaugh Farm, Bride.
Gordon. . . . . . .No Trace.
Fred Moore and Costain were all who were available, and Fred had not been able to sail after falling in the quay after a bout of drinking.
Good old parson! His grapevine had worked well. Littlejohn could imagine him marshalling all his clerical colleagues, running them round in search of present and ex-parishioners, hustling them on. And, as a result, here was Costain at Cregmanaugh. . . .
"Where's Cregmanaugh Farm, constable?"
"Have you a map, sir?"
He pointed it out, circling round and round it, like a man picking winners with a pin, and then stabbing it long after the other two had spotted it, with a large index.
"There!"
It was up near the Point of Ayre at the very north of the Island.
"Have you ever heard of the Ullymar Curragh, Constable?"
"I once did, I'm sure. It's not far from Jurby. . . . On the Ballaugh side. If I was you, sir, I'd make for Ballaugh after you leave Bride and then ask again. . . ."
"Thank you. Is that the Friendship Inn along the quay there?"
"Yes, sir. A seamen's house. Landlord's called Gawne and a very decent fellow he is, too. . . . But you won't get a lunch there, sir, if that's what. . ."
"No. Just a word with Mr. Gawne. . . ."
Just a word! It was a masterpiece of understatement, for Mr. Gawne revelled in a little chat, as he called it . . . another understatement. But his memory was good. . . . Excellent.
"Fred Moore, did you say? Used to be on the Jonee Ghorrym? Dear me! Don't make me laugh! Fred Moore. . . ."
Mr. Gawne was a little fat man, with a round tight face and charming kindly eyes. He had a button nose and a button mouth and his eyes were like little smiling blue buttons as well.
"Fred Moore. . . ."
Mr. Gawne started to laugh and Littlejohn, by the volcanic convulsion which seized the landlord, began to fear the fat man would burst before he could confide his secrets or the reasons for his mirth.
"Fred Moore. . . . Oh, dear me. A fellow comes in here and starts to be pally with Fred. . . . Oh dear. . . ."
Between the gusts which seized Mr. Gawne, he told his tale in instalments of three words at a time.
"Starts to pay for drinks . . . ow, ow, ow . . . till Fred's full to the brim . . . oh, oh, oh. . . . Then, out they go by the front door . . . ow, ow, ow. . . . Stranger turns right, Fred keeps straight on . . . oh, I can't stand it . . . funniest thing you ever saw. . . . Straight on and into the quay. . . . We could hear him splashin' about in the water, shoutin' he was drownin' . . . ow, ow, ow. . . . Fished 'im out with a boathook. . . ."
Mr. Gawne pushed Littlejohn in a jolly fit of mirth and the Inspector reeled and clutched the counter for support.
"Then with Fred gettin' his death o' cold, the stranger goes an' gets his berth on the Jonee . . . ow, ow, ow. . . ."
He mopped himself, drew them both a pint of beer to cool them off and after a deep draught, spoke in a normal, sober voice, full of gravity.
"My opinion is, that the stranger got Fred tight so's he could get his job. . . ."
"Well, well, well. . . ."
And they both started to laugh again.
As Littlejohn made his way back to the car parked in front of The Duck's Nest Amy was returning loaded with a shopping basket full of vegetables. Littlejohn signalled to her in greeting and raised his hat.
"Amy!"
She halted and waited for him, a question in her eyes.
"Good morning, Amy. Where's Jules?"
She shrugged her shoulders. She was her old sallow, flat-chested, slightly bedraggled self again. She removed the cigarette from the corner of her mouth.
"Somewhere about the town. . . . Buying-in, I think."
"Do you remember the night of old Mr. Parker's party? The night I stayed at The Duck's Nest. . .?"
"Yes. . . ."
She tapped the cigarette nervously with her forefinger.
"Was Jules in all the time till he came up to bed?"
Her eyes flickered.
"Yes."
"Sure?"
"Quite sure."
"In the kitchen all the time?"
"Yes. Till the party ended."
"I'm in a hurry now, but I'll probably be back this evening. You'll both be in?"
"Why not?"
She looked Littlejohn in the eyes, turned pale, tottered, then ran indoors, staggering on her high heels and under the load in her basket.
16
THE MASTER OF CREGMANAUGH
THEY took the road to Bride, nestling from the winds in its gentle hills. Knell grew excited.
"I was born here, sir. The loveliest village you ever saw. And it's here I hope to end my days. . . ."
Littlejohn could understand his enthusiasm. The sun shone on the snug little place, with its foreign-looking church-tower, its cosy cluster of clean houses, its large prosperous farms. To the north stretched the flat barren land of the Ayre and between this and the village lay Cregmanaugh. A few children playing round the village shop, two old men basking in the sun and gossiping, a dog lying by the roadside and stretching himself voluptuously. . . .
Costain of Cregmanaugh was wiring a fence in the home field. The place was beautifully situated, in full view of the Point of Ayre and its neat lighthouse, with the sea in sight, and beyond, the coast of Scotland, visible miles away. A large white farmhouse, a tidy yard, solid outbuildings; long lawn and wild garden leading to the front door. Tall palms and a monkey-puzzle sheltered the neat porch. The land looked rich and the cattle well-fed and strong. Costain had done well for himself. According to old custom, the master of a farm sometimes took its name instead of his own. He liked to be called Cregmanaugh instead of Costain, for Costain was a one-time ship's fireman. Cregmanaugh implied prosperity, position, security. He laid down his roll of wire and removed his leather gloves, approaching the policemen with slow easy strides.
Costain was tall and wiry, with a shock of fair hair and a shaggy moustache straggling across his top lip. His face was long and thin, with high cheek bones, hooked nose, tight-lipped mouth and secretive grey eyes. He was tanned and healthy-looking and dressed in a stained navy-blue suit and cloth cap. In his mouth, a curved pipe.
He didn't speak, but stood in their path, inquiring their business with a look.
"Mr. Costain?"
"That's me. . . . Cregmanaugh. . . ."
"We're from the police. Can we have a talk?"
You could see Costain pondering his recent conduct, trying to think of any misdoings that had
been found out.
"Come in. . . ."
He cleaned his large boots on the scraper at the front gate and led them down the garden path. At the front door he rubbed his boots again on a piece of sacking. Then he turned the knob and found the door locked.
He must have known the door was usually fastened, but now he seemed to resent it. He shook the handle and beat on the panels with his clenched fist.
"Open up, mistress. . . . Do you hear?"
"All right. Can't you go round?"
"No. Open up. . . ."
Two small children, a boy and a girl, about school age, peeped shyly round the corner of the building and withdrew looking scared.
You could hear someone drawing bolts and unfastening a chain behind and then there was a struggle to get the door open. It mustn't have been used for some time, for the woman inside was unable to get it to budge. Costain put his shoulder to it and it flew back almost projecting him flat on his face.
"You took long enough. . . ."
The woman was small and dark, with a healthy round face, and hair parted in the middle giving her a Madonna-like placidity. She glanced anxiously at her husband and looked surprised at his ill-temper.
"Police wanting a word with me. We'll go in the front room. You've got the gun licence and the ration cards handy? It's that you're after, isn't it?"
Littlejohn knew Costain didn't think that at all. There was something deeper and he was scared. Mrs. Costain threw open a door on the right and indicated they might enter. The place was chilly and smelled of mildew. The furniture was of modern shiny light oak and the three-piece suite was new. The usual photographs of family and friends on the walls and mantelpiece and a framed one over the fireplace of Mr. and Mrs. Costain on their wedding day. He hadn't had a moustache then and his face wore a sickly grin as though someone near the camera were making fun of him. Below the large frame stood another small picture of Costain again; this time he wore a jersey and a sailor's cap. His expression was wooden. . . .
Mrs. Costain withdrew and closed the door quietly. There was no sound of retreating footsteps and Littlejohn imagined her listening, scared, with her ear to the panel. In spite of Costain's surly manner, they seemed tolerably happy together at Cregmanaugh with their little family. Littlejohn felt sorry for her; she had much to lose. . . .
Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn) Page 20
