Toll the Bell for Murder (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “But why didn’t you say so? Why refuse to explain it all.

  Why maintain silence and why try to run away and leave the Island by the next boat?”

  Lee had now a mulish, self-righteous look, as though he resented his motives being questioned. His voice recovered strength and he began to glare at Littlejohn.

  “I had to think it all out. I did not care to lay bare all my thoughts, motives, sins, and feelings before the magistrates. I was not clear about it all in my mind. I preferred to defer my case until I saw plainly where my duty lay. A spell in this quiet cell was just what I needed. In fact, it was very convenient. I had decided to leave the Island, consult my confessor, and then go into a retreat until my course became clear.”

  The Archdeacon threw up his hands in a gesture of despair.

  “Your confessor?”

  “I had decided to join the Catholic Church and enter a monastery. the Abbey of Vaux-le-Vicomte. The abbot is at present in London. or rather was at the time I was prevented by the police from crossing to consult him. Now he has returned.”

  He said it in a tone of annoyance as though he, not the police, had been caused a lot of trouble by the whole affair.

  “So, you remained silent. Meanwhile, the real murderer of Skollick is at large, and valuable days have passed, days in which perhaps the trails have gone cold.”

  “I’m sure I wasn’t aware that I was impeding the law, Archdeacon. I thought I had killed Sir Martin. I thought the whole sorry affair revolved round me, and I had to make up my mind whether or not I was, in spirit, a murderer or not.”

  “The law is here to help you on such matters. I’m sure when the time comes, your confessor will tell you you have committed no sin, but have just been foolish; foolish and, I must add, a trifle ridiculous.”

  “I fail to see, Archdeacon, wherein the foolishness lies.”

  “You miss your glasses in the small hours and must have them. You ought to have gone to sleep, instead of needing reading glasses. Morning would have been early enough. A poacher’s dog looks in at you as you are fumbling in the schoolroom. You load a gun, although I doubt if you know the right end of one. You go out into the night with it and fire both barrels at once, wake the whole neighbourhood, ring the church-bell, create emotional scenes, and then land yourself in gaol because you are more concerned with the rights and wrongs of moral doctrine than telling a sensible tale of what happened. You have failed in your public duty through a piece of wretched sophistry. I sympathize with your mental dilemma, but you surely trusted one of your fellow priests here on the Island sufficiently to ask for his help.”

  “I am very sorry if I have caused anyone trouble, Archdeacon. The whole business upset me very much.”

  “Well, sir, all that now remains is for you to make a statement to the police and then steps can be taken for your release.”

  “Thank you, Superintendent. And I do apologize for all the trouble I’ve caused, however, the matter is now cleared up, I hope to your satisfaction.”

  “Yes, sir. Except that we have now to find the real murderer of Sir Martin Skollick, instead of the imaginary one. You are sure you have no recollection of any incident on the night of his death which might ’help us?”

  “I fear not.”

  “He had, of course, many enemies?”

  “Yes. But none, I think, who would go as far as taking his life in cold blood. If I think of anything, Superintendent, I’ll let you know.”

  With that, they left Lee, who forgot to thank them for their help and kindness and was eagerly awaiting the warder, for he was feeling hungry and ready for his tea.

  10

  THE WATCHERS AT MIDNIGHT

  “I THOUGHT BETTER of you. Bringin’ me all the way to Douglas, leavin’ my sheep and my dogs. The dogs’ll look after them till I get back, but it had better not be for long.”

  Casement was indignant at being summoned to Douglas police station for questioning. He looked out of place in the town, too, dressed in his old rough tweeds and with a growth of several days’ beard hiding his features. He showed no fear about the situation, however.

  Littlejohn offered him a cigarette, but Casement was in no smoking mood.

  “The sooner I get back to Druidale the better.”

  “That depends on yourself, Casement. You didn’t tell me when last we were together, that you were abroad in the curraghs on the night Sir Martin was shot.”

  “I didn’t shoot him. That’s all I’m concerned about. The curraghs is free for a man to walk in at any time of the night an’ day. No fault O’ mine if he chose to get shot.”

  “If you want to get away quickly, don’t let’s argue, Casement. Were you or were you not in the vicinity of Mylecharaine school about two o’clock in the morning of April 14th?”

  “That the night of the shootin’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I was.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Settin’ snares for the rabbuts before dawn.”

  “Your dogs were with you?”

  “Never go abroad without ’em.”

  “Did you know Great Dog met the Reverend Sullivan Lee in the Mylecharaine schoolroom just before two that morning?”

  “Aye. I see Moddey Mooar at the school and I whistled him to heel. Didn’t want to get mixed-up with nobody messin’ about schools at that early hour. I’d my own work to do.”

  “Did you come across anyone else in the curraghs between midnight and the time you called back the dog?”

  “I saw noborry, but a car passed along the Mylecharaine road without lights not long before I whistled the dog. I was two fields away and didn’ see it, but I heard it and saw no lights on it.”

  “Any idea whose it might have been?”

  “I said to myself it might be Sir Martin’s.”

  “Can you be more precise about the time?”

  “Naw. I don’ carry any watch. Between one an’ two, and maybe a quarter hour before someborry fired both barrels of a gun off.”

  “How do you know it was both barrels?”

  “If you’ve lived with guns all your life, you know the sound of ’em.”

  “You didn’t by any chance take a pot at Sir Martin yourself? You say you think it was he who passed in his car. Weren’t you sure it was he?”

  “Now look ’ere, master. I didn’ like Skollick. I told you why last time we met. But I didn’ hate him enough to waste cartridges on ’im, I told you that, too. Besides, did anybody hear any other shot than the double ’un the vicar fired?”

  “You’re right there. Nobody did. Where were you when the vicar fired the gun?”

  “On my way home to Ballaugh Glen. My night’s work was done.”

  “Were you far from the vicar?”

  “Maybe half a mile down the road.”

  “And you didn’t turn to see what was the matter?”

  “I didn’ want to be mixed up with trouble with guns at that hour. Made me hurry my feet all the more to get home.”

  “You thought Skollick might be abroad after poachers?”

  “The idea did come into my head.”

  “So you can’t give us any help?”

  “Naw. An’ I hope I’ve not to get back to Druidale on my own two feet. Bringin’ me all this way for nothin’.”

  “The police will take you back. First of all, cast your mind back again to the night of the murder. The car. It came from the main road?”

  “Aye. That’s why I thought it was Skollick’s, It’s on’y the homecomers into the curraghs that drive cars there at that hour. Skollick was offen abroad at one or two in the morning.”

  “This car without lights. Did it stop at all, or did it drive right on until you couldn’t hear it anymore?”

  “I got the idea that it stopped for a minute or two, then started off again. That’s why I thought it was Skollick. He’s got some gal along with him, I sez to myself.”

  Casement bared his teeth, two of which were missing in front.


  “Where did it go on to?”

  “I didn’ follow it all the way. Maybe to the main road by Ballamooar, or to Jurby. Or perhaps to Mylecharaine. I wouldn’t be knowin’.”

  “You were in the vicinity of Mylecharaine with your dogs and your snares for how long, Casement?”

  “Maybe an hour.”

  “Between one and two?”

  “About it. I told ye I made for home when the vicar fired the gun.”

  “And you saw no other car than the one without lights during all that time?”

  “That’s right, master.”

  “Sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. A car with headlights shines all over the curraghs, they’re that flat. I wasn’t too busy to notice.”

  “You don’t get much sleep o’ nights, Casement?”

  “Enough for me. I’m usually out between midnight an’ half -past two, comin’ and goin’, and what sleep I miss I teck in the open as I’m mindin’ the sheep. The dogs work for me when I’m sleepin’.”

  “Well, that’s all, thanks. I may want to see you again.”

  “You know where to find me. I’m not the one for runnin’ away. Is the motor-car ready to teck me back?”

  “Off you go.”

  Littlejohn slowly filled his pipe and thoughtfully lit it.

  “Have you a list of licences issued for shot-guns, Knell?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get it.”

  Pakeman’s name was, - of course, on the list. Littlejohn had already seen his gun. Mrs. Vacey’s too. William Fayle, Armistead, Casement.

  “In fact, the whole bloomin’ lot,” said Knell.

  “I’m interested in Mrs. Vacey. I think we’d better make a call on her. It’s long overdue.”

  Knell’s face wore a look of exaggerated patience. This scuttering backwards and forwards to Ramsey was getting to be a bit of a bore. He wished Skollick had arranged to be murdered in Douglas, or even half-way between the two towns.

  “Shall we go over the mountain road, sir? Mrs. Vacey lives not far from where it enters Ramsey and it’ll be the shortest way.”

  The journey was made along the T.T. course all the way, and Knell, like a radio commentator, called out the landmarks so familiar to motor-cycle fans.

  “Governor’s Bridge. Hillberry. Creg-ny-Baa. Keppel Gate. Bungalow.”

  It was like taking a bus ride with a garrulous conductor. “Ramsey Hairpin.”

  The car went round the corner almost on two wheels and they pulled up at a pleasant little villa standing back in a fair-sized garden. The late Colonel Vacey had been in the Indian army and this was commemorated by a label on the garden-gate. Kashmir.

  The view from the house was magnificent. A sweep of sea right from the Point of Ayre to Maughold Head, with Ramsey Bay a deep blue, shining between. A man in his shirtsleeves and braces was slowly and methodically mowing the front lawn.

  “Is Mrs. Vacey at home?”

  “Aye. She’s upstairs, dressing.”

  He said it as though he could see through the bricks and mortar and follow his employer’s every movement.

  Knell rang the front door bell.

  Mrs. Vacey must have seen them arriving, for she answered at once. She wore a navy-blue rough-knit jumper and slacks and was smoking a cigarette. She didn’t seem very surprised to see Littlejohn and when she spotted the Archdeacon in the car where he had insisted on remaining, she went and brought him in as well.

  “I’m just going to make myself some tea. You may as well all have some,” she said, smiling, but only with her lips.

  The hall and the lounge into which she led them were chock-a-block with relics of the late Colonel Vacey. He must have been an eager traveller in his time. Native weapons from all parts of the globe. Even a Red-Indian tomahawk. Curios, handicraft, bric-ä-brac, Chinese ivories and pottery all jumbled about. During his lifetime, the Colonel had meticulously cared for them himself. Mrs. Vacey had then constantly tried to persuade him to get rid of a lot of them, to turn them into cash. Now, that she could please herself what she did with them, she wouldn’t part with a single one.

  In half-a-dozen places in the room the photograph of the Colonel looked down on the visitors. In groups of officers, sitting in the front-middle with his legs crossed and his moustache bristling; astride a pony dressed-up for polo; in hunting kit ready for a tiger shoot. And finally, head and shoulders, chest overflowing with medal ribbons, looking scornfully down at lesser mortals from over the fireplace, in which a few embers still glowed among the dead ashes.

  It was as if his widow, a woman of easy virtue, either worshipped the one ideal, strong man in her life and wished to be constantly reminded of him, or else insisted on his ubiquitous presence to remind other admirers that whatever else she gave them, her heart had gone elsewhere long ago. Or, perhaps it was just a bad joke.

  She left them to admire the confusion of collector’s pieces and photographs, one of which showed Vacey with King George V, whilst she made tea and quickly returned with a tray spread with fine china and silver utensils. It was very hospitable of her, but a nuisance. It held up the conversation Littlejohn wished to have with her and made it awkward to enjoy her tea and cakes and ask pointed questions at the same time.

  Littlejohn had an idea that Mrs. Vacey was playing for time. There was uneasiness in her behaviour. Her pale face was expressionless. Her eyes were tired too, and although the dark shadows, almost like mist, beneath them gave her a strange added attraction, they might have been due to the strain of sleepless nights.

  “You promised to call if I could help. I take it you’ve some questions to ask.”

  Knell’s mouth was full of plum-cake and he balanced a cup and saucer precariously on his knees. The Archdeacon came to his rescue by sliding to him an ebony stool inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which the Colonel had picked up in Ashanti.

  “That’s right, Archdeacon. I should have done that myself.”

  There was a pause. This fussing with food and drink was exasperating and embarrassing, but a start had to be made some time.

  “You were a great friend of Sir Martin Skollick, Mrs. Vacey?”

  “Yes.”

  She said it quietly and casually as though it were not of much significance and Littlejohn realized that something in the nature of a duel was about to begin.

  “You knew him before he came to live here?”

  “No. We had mutual friends and he joined our set not long after he arrived.”

  “His wife, too?”

  “No. She wasn’t interested in sport. We did a lot of riding and we even ran a dance-club and a motor rally.”

  It was easy to guess how this good-looking woman and Skollick had been brought together and thrown into each other’s arms.

  “He was a frequent visitor here?” She looked Littlejohn in the eyes.

  “I think you know all about that, Superintendent.”

  “Yes, I do. How often did he call?”

  “Perhaps twice a week. He was interested in antiques and so am I. I keep my collection in the other rooms; this one is too full already. We used to go to sales in various parts of the Island. There’s some fine stuff here in places and it often comes in the market at auctions.”

  He gave the Archdeacon and Knell a significant look before he asked the next question.

  “Could I see your collection? My wife and I are interested in such things. Particularly in ceramics.”

  “Of course. Come along.”

  She looked puzzled at first and then, when the Archdeacon and Knell excused themselves and left Littlejohn to go on the tour of inspection alone, she understood. When she and the Superintendent reached the morning-room next door she smiled.

  “Very tactful of them. You’re now going to ask the really searching questions, Superintendent.”

  “I am interested in your china, Mrs. Vacey. But I wanted to avoid any embarrassment, too. I hope you’ll help me by answering what I ask.”

  There were three glass-fronted c
abinets in the room, all of which were filled with tea-sets, plates, and a multitude of porcelain figures.

  “You’ve a very fine collection.”

  “Bought at sales over here, mainly at half the price of mainland shops.”

  He was stooping to examine a couple of Kändler figures of the Tailor and his Wife. She opened the cabinet and gently placed one in his hands.

  “Meissen.”

  He examined and caressed it fondly.

  “Sir Martin stayed here very late at nights, didn’t he?”

  His eyes were still on the figure of the tailor astride a goat, his pistol and his scissors in his hands, and his smoothing-iron held by the animal between its teeth.

  “Yes. He was a cultured man, a man of the world. He had travelled widely and was a connoisseur of treasures such as these.”

  She picked up and fingered a wine-glass with an engraved profile of the Young Pretender.

  “That is the last thing he bought. It cost a pound in an auction.”

  The pair of them might have been doing a deal together instead of grimly fencing about Skollick’s last days.

  “And Lady Skollick had no interest in this direction, either?”

  “No. She was concerned with her past career on the opera stage, and I believe she had a collection of souvenirs of those days. I never saw it.”

  “You never visited Myrescogh?”

  “No.”

  He laid down the figure and picked up a Ralph Wood Toby-jug.

  “His wife’s company bored him?”

  “I think so. He never spoke of her. In fact, he avoided saying anything about her.”

  “You were lovers?”

  A pause. She seemed to be making up her mind whether to tell the truth or not.