Toll the Bell for Murder (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “In other words, if he’d been carrying a gun.”

  “But he wasn’t.”

  “I know. But if he had been, it would have appeared that in climbing over the hedge, he’d tripped, fallen down, head first, and the gun had exploded in his face as he fell?”

  Mr. Lee paused and rolled his eyes again.

  “Exactly. You put it so plainly that you might be describing precisely what I see in my mind’s-eye. You know, Superintendent, you have a great talent for description. The other day, during our conversation, you so vividly depicted what happened on the tragic night of Sir Martin’s death, that I was completely carried away.”

  That was all. It remained to say good-bye to Mr. Lee and to wish him well. He had caused the police a lot of trouble, but at least he’d been responsible for bringing Littlejohn back to the Isle of Man. He got a good mark for that.

  The scene at the vicarage door as they shook Mr. Lee’s dirty hand, was like an excerpt from Uncle Tom’s Cabin, The farewell to a liberated negro slave! That was how Littlejohn always remembered him, his black face, the rolling whites of his eyes, and the sooty two fingers raised in benediction on all three of them.

  It was good to be back at Grenaby. After the lush, damp flatness of the curraghs, the hidden village, with its tall trees, its circle of hills and its rattling little river, was a relief indeed.

  Knell left them. He’d promised to take his wife to the pictures to see a crime film. It would be a bit of a rest and a change, he said. Littlejohn and the Archdeacon had the late afternoon and evening all to themselves. The parson assured the Superintendent that his sermons would be all right on the morrow. If, after sixty years in the church, he couldn’t preach two sermons which would make a detective ask for more, he thought it was time to retire.

  It gave Littlejohn time to breathe and think. Hitherto, he’d been rushing here and there gathering information, impressions, background. Now they must be put into shape and into proper perspective. On this operation, the Rev. Caesar Kinrade could hardly wait to make a start.

  “Let’s take a stroll up the hill to Ronague,” he said, “and you can enlighten me about the state of affairs and we’ll digest our late meal at the same time.”

  Nothing better.

  They lit their pipes and climbed the old road which led into the deserted wilderness between Ronague and the Round Table. The setting sun cast long shafts of light across the moorland. The crests of the hills were massive and golden and the valleys lay in misty shadow. In the melancholy evening light, the deserted cottages, the tholtans of crofters who had tired of struggling to wring a poor living from arid soil and fishing, looked sad and forlorn. Nobody cared to remove the stones which might harbour the spirits of their departed or some hearth-fairy who refused to vacate. Some of the houses had stood the ravages of time well and were sturdily erect, roofless, their gardens wild and still blooming in memory of those who were gone. All that remained of others was a ground-plan of stones and rubble.

  The Archdeacon and the Superintendent leaned over an old gate leading to a deserted croft and smoked in silence. It was as though neither wished to destroy the peace of the dying day by talking about murder.

  “Funny thing, that as soon as Sullivan Lee is released and in circulation again, a second crime, similar to the first in many ways, is committed.”

  “I think it’s purely fortuitous, parson. Both crimes were carefully planned by the look of things. Take the first, for example.”

  “Sir Martin.”

  “Yes. It seems likely he was murdered elsewhere and the body brought to the curragh. Although shooting after dark is illegal, it’s a common practice in the hills, isn’t it? The sportsman, if such he may be called, uses a powerful light from a torch to paralyse and pin-down the fascinated rabbits whilst he shoots them. This goes on in remote places all over the Island. A shot in the dead of night in those parts is a commonplace. A score of shots wouldn’t waken anyone. But in the curraghs, it’s too near habitation. The police could be there in a matter of minutes. A shot there at such an hour causes a commotion. In fact, the exact number of shots would be counted.”

  “Yes. There was one report on the night Skollick died.

  That came from Lee’s gun. But Lee’s gun didn’t kill Skollick, who died from a cartridge of smokeless powder. Therefore, Skollick was killed in some place where shooting after dark is a common event.”

  “We’ll make a detective of you yet, sir.”

  “Judging from your questions to Lee and his replies, it would appear that the body of Skollick was brought to the curraghs and placed in a position where it would look as though he’d died from an accident, after he had climbed a bank with his gun.”

  “He might easily have been walking home after his car dried-up, and have taken his gun with him for safety. It was valuable and a means of defence in the dark. He was known to carry it in his car. It was therefore reasonable for him to have it with him. He was known to be ‘out’ for Casement, who was abroad in the curraghs at such unearthly hours.”

  “Climbed the hedge to investigate some sound or sight, fell down, and was killed by the accidental discharge of his own gun.”

  “Exactly, Archdeacon. The body was placed to substantiate such a theory.”

  “But the gun wasn’t there when the body was found by Lee. In other words, someone passed by even at that hour in such a lonely place, took the gun, and callously ignored the dead body. Casement?”

  “Yes. He was around, heard a car, which he said was without lights, held his peace until the coast was clear, went to investigate, and found the body and the gun. Or perhaps Lee in his confusion and terror overlooked the gun and left it behind when he carried away the body. Casement couldn’t resist the gun. We know he was nearby, because Lee saw the dog. Probably Casement’s queer conscience was clear about taking the gun. The owner was dead and he hated him. By removing it, he threw someone’s cunning plan awry. And Lee almost put it to rights again by his tomfoolery. Had the gun from the jumble-sale been more modern and fired smokeless cartridges, he might have been in a tight spot.”

  They were now slowly climbing the old forsaken road to the Round Table, where the wheel-tracks of carts of crofters and fishermen, gone generations ago, were still visible among a knee-deep riot of bramble, bilberry and heather. A spectator from the heights they were approaching, might have mistaken them for father and son, engaged in argument, for the arm of the old man was linked with that of the massive younger one beside him, and they halted now and then to make a point, gesticulating or lighting a pipe forgotten in the discussion.

  “Casement might have seen who brought the body to the curragh, then?”

  “That is very likely. When first Casement and I met at Sulby he’d something on his mind. He was at pains to convince me, that whatever I heard about him and his hatred for Skollick, he himself hadn’t killed Sir Martin. I can’t bring myself to think of his blackmailing whoever he saw with the dead body that night. I quite took a fancy to Casement. He had a kind of fierce code of his own. I’d rather think that when we had him at Douglas police station and questioned him, the full significance of Lee’s position struck him. The Reverend Sullivan Lee was perhaps going to be found guilty of a crime Casement knew he didn’t commit. He decided he’d better talk over the matter with whoever he’d seen dump the body in the curragh. It was in keeping with his autocratic, independent ways. Instead of telling the police, he wrote a letter, arranging a rendezvous. He signed his own death-warrant when he wrote that letter, sir. And had it not been committed in the atmosphere of the first crime and tallied in many ways with it, Casement’s death might easily have been put down to accident.”

  They turned round and retraced their steps towards Grenaby again. Night fell very gently. The last cries of roosting blackbirds ceased. The familiar noises of the day died away.

  “Who committed these cunning crimes, Littlejohn? Have you any ideas?”

  “No, sir. There’s a handful of suspects, b
ut nothing pointing particularly to anyone of them.”

  “All of them hating Skollick?”

  “All with motives. Lady Skollick, who loved him and from whom it’s said he wished to obtain a divorce. Dr. Pakeman, who loved Lady Skollick and hated Sir Martin for his cruelty and for taking her from him in the past. William Fayle, whose sister Skollick seduced. And Ellen herself, who told me Skollick had promised her marriage when he’d obtained a divorce, and yet, he didn’t seem to have taken or intended to take steps to fulfil his promise. Mrs. Vacey, with whom Sir Martin had promised to break, according to Ellen, but who herself says Skollick never mentioned or intended such a thing.”

  “Some will have alibis.”

  “Most of them have. The Fayles were at their grandfather’s deathbed that night. But deathbeds are emotional and stunning disasters and the comings and goings of an odd person are not always noticed. Ballagonny is only ten minutes from where Sir Martin was found. Pakeman was hurrying to the deathbed when the shots were heard, but at the actual time of the crime might have been anywhere. Lady Skollick says she was asleep in bed. Mrs. Vacey was at home.”

  “And Sullivan Lee was abroad in the night and has behaved like a madman ever since.”

  “Yes. That’s the lot, so far. The investigation is only just starting, but on routine lines now.”

  “You’ll be working tomorrow, too. Sunday?”

  “Yes, parson. A policeman’s job is usually for seven days a week. Crime takes no rest. I promise to hear you preach, however, at evensong.”

  They played chess all night until bedtime and the curraghs and their mysteries were forgotten until the morrow.

  12

  NINETY YEARS OLD

  LITTLEJOHN WAS WAKENED by the bell for early communion and lay for a minute or two, half asleep. Everything was still, and in the distance he could hear the bells of Malewand Arbory answering that of Grenaby like echoes. He felt ashamed to think that the Archdeacon must already be up and officiating in the church. He hurriedly got out of bed, bathed, and shaved, and was waiting for the vicar when he returned.

  The Rev. Caesar Kinrade was excited. His blue eyes glistened and he gave Littlejohn a look and a greeting which had mystery in them.

  “A letter, Littlejohn. The postman has just given it to me. I thought we’d open it together.”

  And he went on, as he slit the flap of the soiled envelope with his penknife, to explain that although there was no official postal delivery on Sundays, the Grenaby postman, who lived on the outskirts of the village and usually came to early service, would often bring with him letters which had arrived for the parson after the single delivery on Saturday and normally wouldn’t arrive at the vicarage until Monday morning.

  The envelope in the Archdeacon’s hand was simply addressed in illiterate writing.

  Rev. Kinred, Archdecn oj Mann Isle ot Mann.

  It contained another envelope, sealed, and inscribed.

  In case of mi deth, only to be oppened by Rev. Kinred, Archdecn, (sined) Finlo Casement.

  The Archdeacon raised his eyebrows.

  “The two envelopes of Mr. Kneale? Is it a confession, do you think?”

  The second envelope held a single sheet of grubby paper, obviously mauled in Casement’s efforts to write and make himself understood. A few lines of writing which must have taken much of Casement’s time and cost him a lot of tiresome effort.

  There was no date or address. The letter had been posted in Ballaugh, probably on the Friday night, for it bore Saturday’s postmark.

  Master Kinred.

  Yew are the ony man I can trust proper. I have bisness to sea to. I mai not cum back. It not. there is’ twenty five punds in Pilgrim Progress. Same to be used to by a stoan tor mi mother’s grave in old Ballaugh, were I want to rest to.

  Trusting yew and thanking yew tore favor.

  Finlo Casement. (Sined)

  Pleese look ajtur dogs. It not wanted by ennybody to be shot and bury with me.

  The two men stood side by side reading the letter and when they had finished, they remained silent, deeply moved by the sad and kindly last wishes of the dead man.

  “In spite of the illiterate writing and spelling, Littlejohn, it is a beautiful document. Not the kind written by a man off on the business of blackmail.” said the Archdeacon at length. He must have posted it on his way to his death, and, instead of having the business, as he calls it, foremost in his mind, and telling us what it is, he thinks of his mother and his dogs. There was something very fine about Finlo Casement.”

  They were quiet over breakfast, as though they’d received bad news or were mourning a friend. Littlejohn was grim and anxious to be off on the case, Sunday or not. Skollick and his amours and the ghastly death they had brought him, were in a different class from Casement’s. Sir Martin had courted misfortune for years. He was, as he had told Ellen Fayle, doomed. But Finlo Casement had been a harmless man who’d stumbled across some scene, some information in the dead of night, which had cost him his life.

  “I’d better be off to the curragh again, parson. I’ll be back for your evening sermon.”

  “Never mind the sermon; find who shot poor Casement in cold blood.”

  Knell was due there at ten with the car. It seemed hours before he arrived. He had to read the letter through twice, slowly, before the full implication dawned on him. His customary smile vanished.

  “He wasn’t going blackmailing, if this is the letter he wrote before he was murdered. I could kill whoever did it with my bare hands.”

  Littlejohn pocketed Casement’s simple will, which the Archdeacon handed to him.

  “Please, both of you, not a word to anyone about this letter, for the time being.”

  The early sun had been too bright and it began to drizzle as Knell and Littlejohn reached the main road which runs from Castletown across Foxdale to Ramsey and the curraghs. The hillsides were misty and rain dripped from the overhanging trees.

  “Where are we going, sir?”

  The pair of them had merely hurried to the trail of murder without thinking much of anything except being on the spot which harboured the criminal.

  “Pakeman’s, Knell. And let’s hope he isn’t at home. I want a word with Mrs. Vondy alone, if possible:”

  The weather cleared at Kirk Michael, but low clouds still hung about the hills behind. Farther north, over the curraghs and the flat lands of the Ayre and Andreas, the sky was blue again and looked freshly shampooed. The rain of early morning had drenched the garden of Tantaloo and the scent of the wallflowers met them from the road. Pakeman was not at home.

  “He’s been away an hour, sir,” Mrs. Vondy told them.

  “He’s gone with the gun and if it’s urgent you’ll get him at Mr. Baron’s, Ballabreeve, Andreas.”

  “Might we come in and have a word with you, Mrs. Vondy?”

  “If you don’t mind the untidy house. I’m just giving it a clean-up while the doctor’s out of the place. Come in. Maybe we’d better go in the study.”

  The same room again, fireless this time, and chilly. The dampness seemed to be ever about, ready to take possession as soon as the fire went out.

  Mrs. Vondy entered behind them and stood for a moment wondering what they wanted.

  “Sit down a minute.”

  The three of them sat down. Mrs. Vondy indicated by a shuffling gesture like that of a hen settling on a lot of eggs, and by a look of exaggerated repose, that she was ready to hear what Littlejohn had to say.

  “We’re enquiring from as many people as possible what happened in this neighbourhood at the time of Sir Martin Skollick’s death.”

  Mrs. Vondy’s face assumed a stubborn expression.

  “But I had nothin’ whatever to do with it, sir. I was fast asleep in my bed when it was done.”

  “It’s just a formality, Mrs. Vondy, and sometimes, some little thing remembered by people not connected with a case at all, may be of great use to us.”

  “You can ask your questions
if you like, sir, although what use I’ll be to you I can’t think.”

  Littlejohn took out his envelope on which was scribbled the schedule of events on the fatal night.

  “Early on the evening of Sir Martin’s death, Dr. Pakeman tells me, he himself had gone to Ballabreeve, Andreas, to see the owner about some shooting.”

  “That’s right, sir. Immediately after tea, he went.”

  “You were in all the evening, Mrs. Vondy?”

  “Yes. My sister from Ramsey came and kept me company till nearly ten.”

  “At ten there was a telephone message?”

  “Yes. From Ballagonny. Old Mr. William Fayle was bad again and they wanted the doctor. I took a message for when he got back.”

  “You write them on a pad near the telephone, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it there now?”

  “No, sir. It’s torn off every day and thrown away. Like as not, it’s been burned. used to light the fire along with the other paper.”

  “Never mind, Mrs. Vondy.”

  She seemed bewildered and a bit afraid. She couldn’t understand what it was all about. She was flushed with confusion.

  “What time did you go to bed?”

  “I didn’t look at the clock, but I remember as soon as I’d wrote down the message from Ballagonny, I started to make my supper and get the doctor’s tray ready with his meal, too. Then I went straight up to bed.”

  “Did you hear the doctor come in?”

  “Yes. I’d been asleep, but I never settle proper till he’s home. It half woke me.”

  “Any idea of the time, Mrs. Vondy?”

  “Nearly midnight. I put the little lamp on I have at the side of my bed and looked at my mother’s watch which I always keep there on the little table.”

  “And then you went to sleep again?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And slept till morning?”

  “I heard the doctor go out to Ballagonny and turned over and fell asleep again.”

  “You heard him go out to Ballagonny! What time would that be?”

  “Midnight, or just after.”