Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn)

by George Bellairs

  Costain kept on his cap. He was going to get it over quickly by the look of things. Littlejohn's eye caught sight of a telephone on the window-sill.

  "Has anyone rung you from Ramsey to say we might call, Mr. Costain?"

  "No. . . ."

  But you could see from Costain's amazed look that Littlejohn had hit the nail on the head.

  "It's about the Jonee Ghorrym. . . ."

  "I can't tell you anythin' about her. It's years since I left the sea and took to farmin'. My wife didn't like me on the sea. So I came to her father's farm. He died last year. . . ."

  Littlejohn had to interrupt. Costain was trying to talk things away from the ship, ready to tell all his personal and family history to avoid it.

  "Deemster Quantrell called the other week, I believe. . . ."

  Littlejohn didn't know anything about it, but so far, they had followed the Deemster's tracks. No reason for assuming he'd stopped before they led to Cregmanaugh.

  "Yes. Happened to be passin'. . . ."

  "Was he a friend of yours?"

  "Sort of. . . ."

  "Let's stop beating about the bush, Mr. Costain. The Deemster came to ask about the Jonee Ghorrym too, didn't he?"

  "Yes, but I told him the same as you. It's years since . . ."

  "I know that. But you were aboard the night Captain Teare lost his life, weren't you?"

  "Yes. But I don't know anythin' consarnin' it. I was in the fo'c'sle. I told the Deemster that, too."

  "Suppose you tell us all that happened that voyage. . . ."

  "There's nothin' to tell. . . ."

  "Suppose you try. . . ."

  Gostain plucked off his cap and flung it on the table in rage. His hair hadn't been brushed for some time and stood on end on the crown of his head.

  "What are you after? I told you. . . . It's so long since . . ."

  "All the same, an event like that just doesn't disappear from your mind completely. Tell me what you remember, right from the start of the trip."

  He scratched his head. His pipe had gone out and he tried to light it again, striking match after match without success.

  "We set out from Ramsey. . . ."

  "All the crew are now scattered except Killip, who's still with the Jonee, and Fred Moore, who lives at Onchan and works on the road."

  "I only know that Killip's still there. I lost touch with the others."

  "You left Ramsey with an extra hand to replace one who was laid-up. Gordon was the extra man's name."

  "That's right. We picked up coal in South Wales and discharged it at a port on the French coast."

  "Quiberon?"

  "That's it."

  "What happened at Quiberon?"

  "Gordon didn't come back. We also took on a passenger. A French chap who came over to Ramsey."

  "A sailor?"

  "No. A business fellah. Came to live here. I've seen him since in Ramsey. He keeps an hotel or something."

  "Morin, he's called."

  "I never knew his name. He came aboard with a lot of luggage. Said he was emigrating. A trunk and two packing-cases. Some of the crew said he was smugglin'. . . ."

  "Was he?"

  Costain licked his thin lips. This was evidently the part he feared.

  "I never saw inside the boxes."

  "But you knew what was in them."

  "It had nothin' to do with me."

  "That's not an answer. Did Captain Teare know what they contained?"

  "They weren't opened, I tell you."

  "Did the captain say anything about them? Come on, Mr. Costain, this is going to take us all day. . . ."

  The farmer's face contorted with rage.

  "What are you tryin' to get me to say? I didn't have a hand in it."

  "In what? Shall I tell you what happened? Captain Teare wasn't satisfied with the cases. He was an honest mariner and wasn't going to be a party to dirty work. You might have been in the fo'c'sle all the time, but someone told you all about it. They even paid you to keep your mouth shut."

  "Look here. . . . Who's been talkin'? Is it Killip? Because if it is, I'll . . ."

  "I'm not interested in a smuggling adventure years ago, Mr. Costain. I'm after the Deemster's murderer. If you think I'm here to run you in for running contraband while you were at sea, you're mistaken. No more dodging. What happened that night?"

  Costain sat down. He was exhausted with fear and all his fight had gone.

  "Killip and the captain were on watch. Philip Moore . . . he's dead now . . . relieved me in the stokehold while I went for a sleep. Moore told me after that, he came on deck for a breath of air. It was a wild night and the ship was bobbin' like a cork. She's nearly like a submarine in rough weather. Moore heard Captain Teare and the Frenchy we picked up havin' words. The captain was sayin' he'd got to see inside the cases before we docked. Frenchy talked in a low voice and Moore couldn't hear. They were in the captain's cabin. Captain Teare suddenly bursts out. Somethin' about havin' a clean record and he isn't startin' lawbreakin' now. The cases were bein' landed at Ramsey or not at all. . . ."

  "So, the Frenchman was trying to get the captain to put off the cases in one of the boats and land it somewhere quiet?"

  "That's what Moore thought, too."

  In the hall, someone started to sob, there were running feet, and a door closed. Mrs. Costain thought the end of her little world was just round the corner.

  "What about Captain Teare?"

  "After the row, the Frenchy rushed out of the cabin and slammed the door. Moore went below as the captain went on the bridge. They woke us in the fo'c'sle near on four to say the captain was missin'. We hung around till it was light, huntin'. . . . But we never saw him again."

  "And Killip, who was on watch? What had he to say?"

  "Nothin'. He saw the captain go down on deck and that was the last he see of him."

  "You think he might have been after the cases and their contents?"

  "I think he was. Either he heaved 'em overboard and fell over as he did it, or else he opened them and the Frenchy found out and killed him. The cases weren't there next mornin'."

  "And how did the Frenchy explain their absence?"

  "He said he brought them on deck and they were washed overboard. Said they held books and things."

  "And he paid you all . . . or those who knew anything, to keep quiet about the cases and his quarrel?"

  "He gave us all a bonus of twenty pounds for the trouble he'd caused."

  "You brought him on to Ramsey?"

  "Yes."

  "So, it seems that Captain Teare, suspecting contraband in the boxes, either quarrelled with the Frenchman about it and was, to put it mildly, cast overboard. Or else he opened them and the Frenchy caught him. Were they heavy?"

  "It took two men to handle them after the crane dropped 'em in the hold. Nobody could have carried them to the side or even heaved 'em over without help. He must have taken them piece by piece and thrown them in the sea. . . ."

  "Did you tell the Deemster all this, Mr. Costain?"

  "More or less. He got it out of me the same as you have. You'll not hold it against me, sir?"

  "No. You've helped us a lot. . . ."

  Costain's face lightened and he put on his cap again as though it gave him confidence.

  "Did the Deemster know the Frenchman?"

  "He seemed to."

  "Did you tell anybody about Deemster Quantrell's call?"

  "Not particularly. But I saw Captain Kewley in Ramsey one day and passin' the time o' day, just mentioned, casual, that His Honour was interested in the history of the Jonee and had he been to see Kewley, yet?"

  "So that's it. That's how they knew things were getting hot."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Nothing for you, Mr. Costain. We'll be going now. Many thanks."

  "And there won't be any . . . any . . .?"

  "No repercussions or prosecutions for you? No."

  "Thank God! I dream about that night still. . . ."
/>   Costain opened the door of the room for them.

  "Mother! You there? The gentlemen are goin'. . . ."

  You could hear his wife sobbing in the kitchen. Costain anxiously opened another door, and there she sat, her head in her arms, crying her eyes out.

  "It's all right, mother. Nothin's wrong. . . ."

  The detectives left him stroking her hair and comforting her.

  "I call that neat, if I may say so, sir. . . ."

  Knell couldn't contain himself. He was on fire to undertake a case on his own, now. . . . In his imagination, he could see another murder being committed and no Littlejohn there. Knell with a clear field. Knell on the trail. Knell solving it, just like Littlejohn. The Governor wringing Superintendent Knell's hand. 'You've saved the Island from disgrace, Superintendent. . . .'

  "Mind where you're going, Knell. If the fellow on the bike hadn't wobbled then, you'd have been over him. . . ."

  Knell blushed and coughed and clutched the wheel in a grip of iron. No sense in getting themselves killed just as they'd solved it.

  "It's not solved yet, by a long way, Knell. But we're on the way. How are we for time?"

  "Half past eleven. . . ."

  "Let's try to find the Ullymar Curragh. . . . Ballaugh way, isn't it?"

  "Yes, sir. Ballaugh, and ask there."

  Knell forded a stream with a mighty splash. Littlejohn expected the engine to fail and leave them to wade out. but they landed safely, reached the main road and sped on, along the T. T. track again under arches of fine old trees to the bridge at Ballaugh. Knell's first inquiry yielded nothing.

  "Do you know a spot called Ullymar, sir?" he asked a grey-haired, abstracted-looking man on the bridge.

  "Ullymar? Artemisia absinthium, eh?"

  They looked blankly at one another and Knell turned to Littlejohn beside him.

  "Nuts, eh?"

  The elderly eccentric heard him.

  "Not nuts; wormwood. Ullymar is Manx for wormwood. Artemisia is the Latin for it. . . ."

  "Thank you, sir. That's very useful. Good day. . . ."

  "How might it be spelled?"

  The next shot got home. An old Manxman, watching passers-by with shrewd curious eyes.

  Knell raised his eyebrows at Littlejohn to indicate that the ball was with him.

  "I couldn't really say, sir."

  "You mean Ullimer, master. Years since I heard o' that. It's a marsh now. . . . There's an old house standin' there still, I reckon, but noborry in it. Wasteland, like. . . ."

  He told them how to get to it. Loughdhoo, where the metalled road ended, and then a track to the left.

  "Terrible bad that track is. All loose little flints. Terrible bad for the tyres of a car. . . ."

  Follow the track to the end and then take the earth road to the left. The Ullimer curragh was by the ruined house.

  "They did say someborry was tidyin' up the place with a view to livin' in it, on account o' the housin' shortage. They must be hard put-to for a place, to go there. Dark and damp. . . ."

  He also knew the way from the place. A mere stride or two to a good road which soon joined the main Jurby one. . . .

  Knell carefully followed the directions. They plunged into the maze of secondary roads which covers the marshland like a net, shaded on each side by high, lush hedges, with fields beyond, some green and productive, others covered in rushes and coarse grass, with willows and bog oak growing round pools and ditches. Past Loughdhoo they had to slow-down to walking pace on the loose flint tracks. Finally, the old house of Ullymar, and not so tumbledown as predicted.

  The officers got out of the car and strolled round. Somebody had been rebuilding the place. The thatch had been roughly replaced by cheap asbestos tiles; the windows boarded-up, the gate newly hinged, and the front door secured by a padlock and chain.

  "Perhaps a farmer storing stuff. Potatoes or seeds of some kind. . . ."

  Knell looked round as he spoke. This was the worst curragh they'd seen yet. The fields behind the croft were mossy green, with reeds and rushes sprouting from them and, as if that were not enough, the land beyond degenerated into pure bog, with its surface cracked and chanelled, and with slimy pools opening here and there on the top. Littlejohn remembered Deemster Milrey's bit of poetry.

  For the Ullymar bogs have a hideous slime,

  And the Ullymar bogs wear the hue of crime!

  Quite right, too. There was something funny going on here. Deep tracks of vehicles left the front of the cottage and ran in the direction of the Jurby road. Heavy traffic had been coming and going here. Something heavier than farm carts. . . .

  Littlejohn looked round. Not a soul about. Not even a house, a farm, a fertile field. The large trees and overgrown fuchsias around screened the place from sight; nothing but barren curragh, bog and rough road, with, in the distance, the great bastion of hills, rising north of the Ramsey-Ballaugh road, straight out of the flat plain. . . .

  "Let's see what's inside, Knell. . . ."

  "It's locked. And they've seen to it that nobody can get in through the windows or the roof. Look at those boards fastened with six-inch nails."

  "Let's see. . . ."

  Knell's eyes goggled as Littlejohn produced pieces of wire and a knife with a hook in it. He juggled with the large padlock for a minute or two. Then, with a grunt, he gave it a jerk and it opened.

  "A little trick or two I learned from an old lag. . . ."

  Knell was flabbergasted. There was nothing about all this in the policeman's diary or in the constabulary vade-mecum he studied in his spare time . . . !

  The light from the little torch like a fountain-pen which Knell religiously carried about, stabbed the dark interior. Except for a couple of spades and a few planks of wood, it was empty. The earth floor gave off a dank smell and as the light caught them, you could see bats hanging from the rough-hewn beams. They examined the place without result. Littlejohn eyed the spades. They were bright and clean. He picked one up and started to prod the floor.

  "Take the other, Knell, and do the same all over the earth of the floor. . . ."

  In one corner, at length, the steel of the spade rang against some stone or brick obstruction. Littlejohn cleared the surface away and revealed a large flagstone, like a paving slab.

  "Give a hand, Knell, please. . . ."

  They levered and lifted the stone with an effort and revealed a cavity below. Knell shone his torch down it. . . .

  It was like the cellar of a wineshop! Hundreds of bottles of whisky, wine, brandy, gin. . . . A small cellar, excavated and made into a cemented cell for storing liquor.

  "How far away is The Lhen shore, Knell?"

  "I'd say three miles cross country. . . ."

  "The Deemster was around there, wasn't he? They must ship this stuff from the Continent on the Jonee Ghorrym, unload it at The Lhen at night, and then bring it here. They may have several such places round about. How do they get it to and fro, though . . .?"

  The answer was approaching. A builder's lorry labelled PARKER, CONTRACTOR, RAMSEY, was drawing slowly along the road to the house. An easy way of deceiving the curious. Builder's lorry, ostensibly bringing materials for renovating tumbledown property, actually shifting liquor to and fro. . . . The Lhen, the Curraghs, and then by instalments to The Duck's Nest and other customers as required.

  "Better make a dash Knell, and get some help. Stop a car on the Jurby road. . . . There seem to be five or six of them with the lorry. . . . I can't take on all that lot whilst you're gone, but I can perhaps talk till you bring help. . . . Try a farm . . . or . . ."

  The lorry had stopped and out of the cab and the back tumbled the toughest lot of no-goods Littlejohn had seen for some time.

  There were five of them, led by an enormous fat man, who carried a spade over his forearm like a shotgun. He was followed by another huge man, not so fat, with a broken nose, a cauliflower ear, and the stupid expression of an over-battered ex-pugilist. He was lovingly fingering a small crowbar. A
completely bald, wiry fellow, with a huge Roman nose followed. His face was more sinister than those of the other two; the two fat men looked full of brute force and no brains, but Baldy combined cunning and cruelty with strength, like some Gestapo torturer who might beat victims to death. . . . On his heels, a man who resembled a superannuated pirate; rolling gait, strong as a gorilla, a gap in his teeth and a hook where his left hand should be. He looked as if he had come off badly in a free-for-all and was seeking a dirty revenge. The rear was brought up by the driver of the vehicle, who provided the comic relief, for he was small, wizened and had only one eye. He wore a set of blue overalls a size too large for him, as though his wife had bought them with the hope that he would grow a bit. He carried a large spanner. All they needed was the Jolly Roger flying from the builder's waggon to set the tone of the party.

  Fatty halted for a moment, lowered his spade, leaned on it, and gazed at Littlejohn and Knell. His little pig eyes reminded you of a mole's, deep set in his head and hardly visible for fat. Broken-Nose, Baldy, Hook and Monoculous drew-up with a jerk and glared at their quarry, as well. Baldy, true to type, carried a stiff piece of rubber piping and Hook raised his infernal steel claw which was weapon, tool, knife-and-fork, and brush-and-comb, as well as many other things to him.

  Fatty spat on the ground.

  "Well . . . well . . . well. . . . Seems we've jest got 'ere in time. We wuz told to keep an eye on you two, jes' in case you wisited our little grey 'ome in the west, like. So out we comes and wot do we find? Wot do we find, chums?"

  Fatty considered himself a bit of a comedian. When engaged on his cover-up job of house building and repairing, he jocularly bullied apprentices, talked a lot about the young being out of hand, and of a boy's best friend being his mother. He had been known to break down and sob when a gangster shot a policeman at the movies. But he believed in divorcing business from pleasure. He licked his lips now.

  "We've come to teach you a little lesson, gents. Jest to stop yer nosin' abaht in the fewcher. . . . Which of you shall it be first . . .?"

  He eyed Knell and Littlejohn up and down, seemed to decide that they weren't worth using a weapon on, and dug his shovel in the earth and abandoned it.

  "You first?"

  He marched right up to Knell with outstretched arms, and his gang fell-in behind him.