“Yes. What time did the hot-pot supper break-up at Mylecharaine, Knell?”
“The last of them left at just after eleven. Two or three of the women testified to that.”
“They were busy to the end?”
“They’d rather a lot of stuff to deal with for the jumble sale. They said they really ought not to have had such a big meal. It made them late starting again. Then, just after half-past ten, when they’d finished pricing and arranging all the stuff, they made themselves another cup of tea, for the road, so to speak.”
“Was the Rev. Lee there all the time?”
“Yes. He’s a flair for printing labels and wrote them, or rather printed them in block letters, while the women priced and set the goods out. Mr. Lee was there all the time after the hot-pot supper, and left the last. He locked-up, in fact.”
“Meanwhile, Sir Martin was with Mrs. Vacey in Ramsey. He left at midnight, his car conked-out short of petrol just through Lezayre, and he started to walk. Did Lee go straight home from the meeting in the school?”
“Mrs. Armistead and another woman, Mrs. Cregeen, walked with him to the cross-roads by the telephone-box. He left them there and was making for the vicarage as they went to their own houses.”
“Suppose he got home about eleven-thirty. Unless he went out in the dark long afterwards, prowling the lanes, how could he have met Sir Martin? Furthermore, what was he doing with the gun? And finally, and most important, how could he possibly have got to Ramsey and run-out the petrol from Sir Martin’s car? Didn’t we say that it might have been a premeditated crime and that whoever committed it, might have arranged beforehand for the car to give out and thus to waylay Skollick and kill him. That would be impossible for Mr. Lee. He couldn’t have got to Ramsey in time. He couldn’t even have got to Lezayre by the time the car stopped. If Skollick left Ramsey at midnight, he’d be in Lezayre ten minutes later. Lee would have needed powers of precognition as well as a car to do it in time.”
“So, he’s not guilty after all?”
“I don’t know. He’s not the type, nor had he the opportunity. And yet.”
The telephone interrupted them. Maggie Keggin entered and gave Knell a blistering look. She disliked the instrument as a perpetual disturber of the peace at the best of times. When Knell was around, it never ceased from ringing.
“It’s for you.”
Knell rose to answer it. He was soon back.
“It’s Douglas. They say the Ramsey police have been on.
They’ve been putting a sight on the Red Haggart. There’s no sign there of blood or anything. But they went a bit further afield. The schoolroom’s not so far away. just over the road. In the grass by the roadside just beyond the schoolroom, they found a petrol-lighter marked M.S. They enquired if it’s Sir Martin’s. Jinnie Kermeen, the maid, recognized it. She’s been in the habit of filling it for him regular. He always carried it.”
“So, it might be the Rev. Lee, after all. He might have got up in the night for some reason, perhaps wondering if he’d locked the door, gone to the school, and found Skollick on his way home. He could have gone inside, taken the gun, and shot him there.”
“But what about the car, Superintendent?” Littlejohn shook his head.
“The whole thing’s a complete puzzle. Why can’t Lee talk? What game is he playing?”
“If he were guilty, I’m sure he’d confess. He’s that sort.
He’s shielding somebody. I’m convinced of it.”
“Well, sir, I can’t sit here trying to think out a solution.
Do you mind if I leave you for a night or two and go and stay on the spot?”
“If you think that’s best, by all means go, my friend.”
“Where shall I stay, parson?”
“There’s an hotel at Sui by Glen station. It’s quite a decent little place. They’d put you in there. Knell could ring them.”
It was all arranged.
“It’s two or three miles to the middle of the curraghs from there and three miles to Myrescogh and Mylecharaine.”
“We could lend you a car, sir.”
“No, thanks, Knell. I’ll do some walking. It will do me good and I’ll get down to earth with the people, too, if I’m on foot. You can drive me there, if you will.”
They arrived at Sulby Bridge just in time for dinner and Knell left reluctantly. He even shook hands as though they were parting for ever.
“Don’t forget, sir. If you want me at any time of the day or night, let Ramsey police know over the phone and I’ll be here right away.”
“I’ll not forget. Good-bye, old chap.”
Knell waved two or three times as he vanished in the distance. Littlejohn liked him better and better the more he knew and worked with him.
A comfortable, quiet hotel, with nobody else staying there.
It was the slack season. In summer they were full-up for months.
Littlejohn’s table was set in a corner near the window.
He could, by raising the curtain, see down both directions of the main road to Ramsey from Peel and Castletown which passed the front door.
The landlady attended to him herself. She looked a bit scared. She daren’t ask any questions, but she seemed as if she would have liked to. For days, there had been terrible news from the curraghs and now, here were the police from Scotland Yard.
“I hope you find the fowl to your liking, sir.”
It was lovely, but she said it in a voice which implied that she feared arrest if it wasn’t.
“It’s beautiful. No wonder you’re full every summer, with cooking like this. What do people do when they come to stay here?”
“They walk, sir, and there’s good fishing in the river.
Salmon and trout. Would you like trout for breakfast?”
“I certainly would.”
She went away a changed woman. She looked proud.
What queer goings-on! After years and years of peace and quiet and nothing much to relieve the monotony, suddenly drama and mystery had invaded the little place. Real murders and a London detective. Things you read about in paper-backed novels which visitors brought for rainy days and left behind. Every time she entered she smiled and cast a look of complicity across at Littlejohn.
“You’ll take a liqueur with your coffee, won’t you?”
A car drew up. A little fast two-seater, and a couple climbed out. Littlejohn could vaguely make out the pair of them. They were dressed in tweeds. A tall full-bodied woman and a man a few inches smaller, or that was what he looked.
The landlady was clearing away Littlejohn’s dishes and serving the coffee.
The voices of the newcomers sounded in the hall, loudly calling for drinks.
“Who are those?”
“Mrs. Vacey and Mr. Kinley from Ramsey, sir.”
“Don’t tell them I’m here, please. Don’t even mention my name.”
The woman gave him a mysterious look and nodded knowingly.
“I understand. She was a big friend of Sir Martin, wasn’t she?”
“So I heard. She seems to like them smaller than herself.”
“Yes, come to think of it, she could give Sir Martin a couple of inches. She’s a bit big for a woman, but they always look taller than men. Every inch taller than a man makes them seem three or four. Or that’s how it seems to me.”
“Do they often come here?”
“Now and then. When they’re passing. They’ve probably been to some sale or other. She attends all the sales. She collects antiques.”
“Just friends?”
“If you like to call them that. She’s always some man or other with her. They’re coming in here.”
A dark-haired, good-looking woman with a lovely face, sensual lips and hard, insolent eyes. They said she was a widow of just over forty. She didn’t look her age, except there were tiny lines round her eyes. She looked as though she was always wanting something she couldn’t get. Sir Martin had, from all accounts, been that way, too.
“You said whisky, darling?”
“I didn’t say anything, but you know I never drink anything else.”
She eyed Littlejohn over as soon as they were alone. “Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening.”
That was all. She took off her tweed jacket, revealing a yellow long-sleeved jumper which accentuated her breasts brazenly, like some self-advertising film-star. She examined herself in the mirror over the fireplace, titivated her face with powder, and savagely applied lipstick.
Charlie was back with the drinks and a syphon.
“Put me some soda in and give me a cigarette.”
It was a wonder Charlie stood for such manners, but he was apparently delighted with them. He was revelling in the fact that, with Skollick out of the way, the field was now his own.
Littlejohn filled his pipe and started to smoke. There was an old copy of the Times there and he read it casually. Now and then, Mrs. Vacey looked across at him as though she ought to know him. He took no heed.
They drank whisky after whisky. After the third, Mrs. Vacey seemed to make up her mind about something and rose and crossed to Littlejohn.
“I knew I’d seen you before. You’re the Superintendent from Scotland Yard, aren’t you? I saw you once at the airport with the Archdeacon.”
Littlejohn rose and put down his paper. Charlie stood in the background. As far as Mrs. Vacey was concerned, he might not have been there at all.
“That’s right, madam. And you are?”
“My name’s Vacey. Gillian Vacey. You’ll have heard of me, no doubt.”
“Yes. You were a friend of the late Sir Martin.” She smiled a slow, sultry smile.
“That’s right. But tell me this. Why have they sent for Scotland Yard when they’ve arrested the parson? The mad parson, we call him. The eccentric from Mylecharame.”
“They’ve not sent for me, Mrs. Vacey. I happen to be here staying with my friend, the Archdeacon.”
“Jolly old chap, the Archdeacon. Good scout. All very fond of the old boy.”
Charlie thought he’d better chip-in with a message of good will. He smiled all over his face and offered to buy Littlejohn a drink.
“I’m just going out, sir. Thanks all the same.”
“Don’t mention. Perhaps another time. Time we went, too, Jill, isn’t it?”
She might not have heard him.
“Are you staying here, Superintendent?”
“Yes, for a day or two.”
“Why? There’s nothing much here for a man from London, is there? Or perhaps you’re a fisherman.”
“No. I’m not fishing just now.”
“Interested in bigger fish? Well, I’ve nothing to hide. As I told the police, he left me dead on twelve o’clock the night he died. That was the last I saw of him. It’s put my lights out, I can tell you. He was such a decent sort. And to go and get himself killed by a wretched half-wit of a parson. It just doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“His car gave-out for petrol at Lezayre, I hear, and he had to walk home. Was he usually forgetful like that?”
“Not he. He was always most particular about his car. I just can’t understand it at all. Think somebody syphoned it off deliberately? It was standing outside my place for a good two hours. We’d been to Peel and found it a bit boring, so I suggested we went home for a drink or two. I’m sorry I did, now. He might have changed his programme and gone straight to the manor. In which case.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Get my coat, Charlie. It’s cold, and we’d better be going.”
Charlie trotted to where the coat hung over a chair, trotted back, and helped her into it, giving her shoulders a squeeze as he did so.
“Don’t do that. Don’t maul me.”
“I was only.”
“Well, don’t. I’d like another drink for the road.” She was all keyed-up, a bundle of nerves, and Littlejohn wondered why. Her face had grown sulky from too many drinks and she kept looking Littlejohn straight in the eyes as though somehow they shared an important secret. They were fine eyes, but she squinted slightly from a surfeit of whisky.
“Well, if I can be of any use, call to see me. In any case, you can call. My address is in the telephone book. Don’t forget.”
She gave him a nod and a good-night and Charlie followed her to the car. One minute, they were there; the next they had vanished with a roar.
So that was Mrs. Vacey. The last person, except the murderer, to see Skollick alive. And, judging from her treatment of Charlie, she hadn’t yet found a replacement for Sir Martin and was still either grief-stricken in her own selfish way, or else badly scared. The whisky, the twitching fingers with their long, pointed reddened nails, the effort to control her nerves behind a mask of indifference and impertinence, all told the same tale.
Littlejohn left the hotel and strolled along the road, smoking his pipe. Night was falling fast and the last of daylight was shining from across the sea behind Jurby, the church of which was silhouetted against the red of the evening sky like a fortress. Everything was still and the landscape over the curraghs was set against the background of the coming night like a great etching. An odd blackbird was shouting his final challenge before going to roost.
A group of people stood gossiping in front of the village stores which had a petrol pump hanging over the front door. There was a week-night service at the Methodist church on the opposite corner, where a few cars were parked. From where Littlejohn was standing, he could hear the organ playing and voices singing.
He felt he ought to be doing something; but what, he didn’t know. It had been a day of indecision, of collecting bits and pieces of information, of chasing here and there for nothing at all. Now, when perhaps he ought to go walking in the curragh and find out what it was like there after dark, somewhere near the time when the murder had been committed, he felt drowsy and lazy, anxious to idle about, to enjoy the peace of the melancholy twilight. Perhaps drink a final glass of beer with the landlord, and then go early to bed.
Across the road at the church, they were singing a hymn he knew before they broke-up. It brought back memories. He thought of himself singing it in the village choir, clad in a surplice which was too big for him, ashamed because the sleeves came over his hands and impeded him when he wanted to turn over the page.
“You the policeman from London?”
Littlejohn turned to find a large powerful man at his elbow. In the remaining light he could make out that he hadn’t had a shave for several days. He was half-seas over, too. Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have had the nerve to accost Littlejohn.
Two or three men were standing at the door of the hotel watching them. It was obvious that the man at his side had been dared to speak to him.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“My name’s Casement.”
“The poacher?”
“Who’s been talkin’?”
“Nobody, You’re well-known, Casement. You don’t make a secret of your poaching, do you?”
“No. It’s a trade like any other. I could name a policeman or two who.”
“What nice dogs you’ve got.”
They were nice, too. A pair of sheep-dogs, long-haired collies, quite unlike the usual lurchers favoured by poachers. One was huge, the largest of his breed Littlejohn had ever seen. The other was of normal size, which made the big one seem larger than ever. They stood at Casement’s heels, quiet and serene, the large one confident in his strength, the smaller with his eyes fixed adoringly on his master, hanging on his every word.
“Aye, master, they’re a grand pair. You see, I earn an honest livin’, as well. I’m a shepher
d in Druidale. Many a prize these two have won me. The big ’un never misses a win. When he shows himself at a trial, the rest of them as owns dogs starts to groan or shed tears. They know they’ve not got a chance. You know any thin’ about dogs, master?”
“I’ve one of my own. An old English bobtail.”
“Have you, now? They’re a grand breed, but too long in the coat for rough work, leek we have over here. I do believe they used to be good on the English short grasslands downs, don’t they call ’em?”
“That’s right. What are the names of these?”
“I call ’em the Moddey Mooar and the Moddey Beg.
Know any Manx?”
“Only a word or two.”
“Moddey Mooar means the Great Dog and Moddey Beg the Little ’un.”
“It’s a good way of naming them.”
“I jes’ came over to tell ye not to believe what you’ll be hearin’ about me takin’ a shot at Sir Martin. I hated him, that’s true. Hounded me all about the place, he did. Had the police out on me. Me, that, till he came, had the free run of the curraghs and was the friend of everybody. What did they care for a rabbit or two, or a hare now an’ then? But to hear Sir Martin, you might ’ave thought I was robbin’ his hen-runs or his pig-styes every night in the week. No, I wouldn’t have wasted a cartridge on him. It’s with me two fists I’d have let him have it. Don’t you be believin’ any thin’ about me firin’ off two barrels of a gun at once.”
“Thanks for telling me. I’ll bear it in mind.”
“See that ye do. And while we’re together, let me say I’m glad to be meetin’ ye, you’re not the sort I thought you were. One of these nights I’ll stan’ ye a drink. I spoke to ye out of swank, because the boys there dared me to do it. Now I’m glad I spoke to ye at all, because I feel ye’ll give me a fair deal and not be takin’ heed of all the gossup. Good-night.”
At least the man was honest! Littlejohn felt he’d helped to eliminate another possible suspect. One who’d despise himself ever after if he fired two barrels of his gun at once.
In the distance the two dogs hung on their master’s heels, the shadow of Great Dog looming like that of a wolf in the sad evening light, which brought back vague remembrances and regrets for another day gone.
Toll the Bell for Murder (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 6
