Toll the Bell for Murder (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “He’d come in, stayed about ten minutes.”

  “Just time to eat the supper I’d left him. He never took a hot drink with it. He mixed himself a glass of whisky. Then he was off out again.”

  “Did you hear the doctor return?”

  “No. He always comes in quiet, leek, when he’s been out late. So’s he won’t wake me. Very kind and considerate, always.”

  “Were there any other messages for him when he returned that night, Mrs. Vondy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Where’s the telephone?”

  “On the hall-stand, with an extension to the doctor’s room.”

  “And there were no more calls that night?”

  “No. I think the doctor rang-up Ballagonny just after he got in to let them know he was comin’, and be like to ask how the poor old man was.”

  “You heard him speaking, then?”

  “No. My room’s too far from the telephone for that. I can just hear the bell when it rings.”

  “And you heard it that night just after the doctor got home.”

  “Yes. Or at least, I think I did.”

  “And why did you come to the conclusion it was an outgoing call and not one to the house?”

  “It sounded too short for one comin’ in. It sounded like, like the little tinkle you get when you put back the telephone on the stand. You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean, Mrs. Vondy. Or perhaps the doctor was near the telephone when it began to ring and snatched it so it wouldn’t waken you. You say he’s very considerate.”

  “It might have been that. Easily, it might. I must say, I’d never thought of it that way, though.”

  The sky had grown overcast again and through each successive breach in the clouds, the sun cast shafts of intermittent beams, like the limelight of a stage, which travelled swiftly across the landscape and vanished. Rain fell angrily against the windows and then ceased before the sun again. Melancholy daylight entered the room and the damp smell of the earth and trees mingled with that of the weather beaten flowers in the garden.

  There was little more to ask. Mrs. Vondy still waited, her hands patiently laid in her lap, and in her nervousness, she had clasped the fingers together and was slowly rotating her thumbs one round the other.

  “I think that will be all, thank you, Mrs. Vondy. I’m most grateful for your help.”

  “What is it all about, sir? How does whether I slept or not through the murder of Sir Martin matter?”

  “It’s just a formality. We’re asking everybody questions, you see. Thank you again.”

  They left her still wondering, and quite sure to mention it to the doctor when he returned.

  As they entered the car again, a large blue motor-coach which was travelling in the opposite direction, suddenly began to pull-up and the driver indicated by waving from his cab that he had something to say to the police. Littlejohn and Knell strolled in his direction.

  The coach was half-full and Littlejohn was astonished by its contents. It reminded him of a tour on the Continent organized by a group of Americans. A dozen or fourteen souls all told, most of them wearing the modern hygienic looking bifocals of the U.S.A., clad in light suits and costumes, and many of the men carrying expensive-looking cameras.

  The driver leaned from his cab. “The old man wants a word with you.”

  Littlejohn gently shrugged his shoulders. Another mystery. “You know who it is? It’s old Juan Kilbeg. He’s ninety years old to-day, and he’s insisted on a run round the Island to celebrate. He’s not really fit to travel, but we’ve had to humour him.”

  Littlejohn and Knell climbed aboard, helped by half a dozen welcoming American hands. The newcomers were passed along the bus to the front where sat Old Juan himself.

  “I saw you. I saw you,” said the ancient of days in a quavering brogue. “I knew this chap as soon as I put a sight on him.”

  Knell shook the frail hand, almost like a claw, lined with purple veins and withered and brown. He’d known Juan Kilbeg ever since he was a boy. He wished him many happy returns of his birthday and Old Juan replied he didn’t want too many.

  “And this is the other fellah. I seen his picture in the paper. Not so much about the police as I don’t know.”

  He shook Littlejohn’s hand, too, with a remarkably strong grip, and Littlejohn congratulated him, as well.

  “They didn’t want me to take me farewell trip rouri’ the Islan’. But I won. Said I was too feeble. Except for me legs, I’m as good as a fellah of sixty. Now I’ve said good-bye to my lovely li’l Mannin-veen and I’m content.”

  He then insisted that his wife, who sat beside him, should introduce Littlejohn and Knell all round.

  “My grandchildren from Americky. Here to wish me many happy returns. Come over with the homecomers.”

  A cascade of handshakes. Wash. or Washington, Stan. or Standish, and their wives. Then Wesley, Wilbur and Elmer, the last two twins and as alike as a pair of book-ends. Juan Hoover Kilbeg and his missus, and Brigham Young Kilbeg from Salt Lake City and descended from the Kilbeg who’d become a Mormon. A real decent lot and as proud as Punch of their aged ancestor.

  Then Old Juan wanted another word with Littlejohn. His eyes sparkled. Littlejohn looked at the hollow of the thin mouth, the toothless jaws, and sharp nose almost like a billhook. The old man’s vitality was amazing. He wished he knew more about this ancient who had led an adventurous life, no doubt, locked away in an obscure island village.

  Hitherto, all that had been visible of Juan Kilbeg was his thin withered neck and his sharp, shrewd old face, with a head almost bald, covered in very thin down. The rest was swathed in rugs.

  “Take these things off!”

  On this day of days, Old Juan’s word was law and his wife, a red-cheeked, smiling woman in her sixties and devoted to her husband, loosened the wrappings from his shoulders. Littlejohn received another shock.

  The old man was wearing a policeman’s tunic! It was made of better stuff than nowadays and of the cutaway variety of very long ago. The silver buttons were bright and bore the Three Legs of Man on each.

  “I said I’d wear it again on me ninetieth birthday. Been in mothballs many a year. It’s me warmest jacket, too. Used to be in the police-force, Superintendent. P.C. Juan Kilbeg of the Isle 0’ Man police, sir. Stationed in Ballaugh, an’ there I stayed till I retired on me pension in nineteentwenty-eight.”

  He sat down and they tucked him in again.

  “That’s why we stopped. To ask the both of ye to my party to-night. I’d like a policeman or two about, specially the ones who’s goin’ to find out who killed Finlo Casement. My friend Finlo. Many’s the rabbuts he’s brought for me. I’m partial to rabbuts. Poor Finlo.”

  He wasn’t sad for long. The old sly, shy smile returned as he rested from his talk and excitement.

  “Don’t get excited, dad,” said his wife. “Who’s gettin’ excited? Not me.”

  He tugged Littlejohn’s coat.

  “Come to-night, won’t you, the both of you? And bring the Venerable Archdeacon along to speak with me in the Manx.”

  Littlejohn was feeling a bit anxious. The old man was certainly excited, not only about his birthday, but about his new friends from the police. They could do no other than humour him.

  “Very well, sir. We’ll come. But I’ve a lot to do still, and to call and pick-up Mr. Kinrade. You’ll excuse us, then, and we’ll see you later in Ballaugh.”

  The old man’s wife told them the day’s programme.

  “It’s as well it’s a Sunday. If it hadn’t been, I don’t know what he’d have had going-on. I can’t control him. We’ve all to go to church this afternoon. There’s to be a sermon in Manx.”

  Littlejohn smiled. None of the Americans presumably knew the language. He could imagine Old Kilbeg lapping it up and the rest sitting there like a lot of teetotallers escorting a wine taster.

  “There’s a tay at eight after church. It’s in the schoolroo
m at The Cronk, so you’ll find your way there.”

  Old Juan tugged at Littlejohn’s coat again.

  “You’ll come along now, just for a minute, just to drink me health on me birthday. It’s not far.”

  “We’ll be very glad to, sir. We’ll follow your coach in our car, but it’ll have to be a very short drink. We’ve things to see to before coming to your party.”

  “A quiet party, it’ll be. No dancin’. Glad of that. Used to do a bit of dancin’ myself in my young days. When I see these moderns dancin’. Tain’t dancin’, but they call it that. When I see ’em, I thank the Lord I shan’t be long before I die. Men aren’t men any more. Dancin’ was dancin’ in my days.”

  Littlejohn and Knell left the rest to quieten Old Juan down and followed the party in the police-car. At his cottage outside the village of Ballaugh, his relatives hoisted him from the coach and carried him indoors, for he could not walk. There Littlejohn and Knell drank the old man’s health among his many relatives. There were so many there that several of them overflowed into the road.

  Old Juan was tired after his morning’s efforts and was soon to go to bed to rest himself ready for his party. He sat in his chair by the fire and beckoned Littlejohn over. His voice had grown feeble.

  “Sit by me a minute, leek.” Littlejohn drew up a stool.

  “Spoiled me birthday, it has, Finlo dyin’ leek that. I’ve not told the rest. They been so kind to me an’ comin’ all that way over to wish an old useless bag of bones like me a happy ninetieth birthday. I didn’t tell ’em, but it spoiled my fun. Finlo called to see me on his way to gettin’ himself killed. He made me laugh tellin’ me how he’d been telephonin’ someborry from the call-box in the village. He didn’ say who, but he imitated it. Very good at imitatin’ was Finlo. He wasn’ used to telephonin’ and got himself in a bit of a mess to start with. ‘Soon be your birthday, you ole rascal,’ he sez to me and he gives me a fine rabbut. Blest if I ever reach that age,’ he sez. ‘In fac’, I dunno I’ll be around much longer,’ an’ he told me he’d just posted off his will to the Reverend Archdeacon. I been upset about it all the day.”

  “Have you told anyone that, sir?”

  “No. Not a one. As I said, I can’t bear to spoil it all for ’em.”

  “Please don’t, then. But do you feel strong enough and able to assist the police, sir? I don’t want to trouble you on your day o’ days, but perhaps you could help without any effort.

  “I’m still a policeman. As you know yourself, Superintendent, once a policeman, always a policeman. It ‘ud do me good, be somethin’ to remember in the few days I got left leek.”

  “Then, sir, I suppose quite a lot of people will be calling to congratulate you?”

  “Oh, yes. The Governor himself, this afternoon. Chairman of the Ramsey Commissioners, Captains 0’ the Parishes of Ballaugh and Kirk Michael. A whole lot. Jest to wish me well. Very kind of ’em all.”

  “The doctor?”

  “Aye. Dr. Pakeman, too. And Lady Skollick. Never ‘ad much time for Sir Martin. But she’s a lady. Comin’ to see me in spite of her sorrow.”

  “The Fayles of Ballagonny?”

  “Them above all. William Fayle, Ballagonny, was my oldest friend. Used to say to him, leek, which of us’ll last longest. All my old friends have gone, now. William last month, and now Finlo.”

  “Could I ask you to tell the Fayles, the doctor, and Lady Skollick, when you see them, that Finlo Casement posted a letter late on Friday to the Archdeacon? Don’t say it was his will. Just a letter. And before you tell them that, will you say that Finlo knew who killed Sir Martin Skollick and has written to the Archdeacon. Say Casement told you that, and that the letter should be at Grenaby vicarage first delivery on Monday morning.”

  The old man passed his thin hand across his sunken eyes.

  “Am I asking you too much, sir? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dared bother you, to-day of all days.”

  Juan Kilbeg made an irritable gesture.

  “It’s not that. I’m jest puttin’ it carefully in my memory what you said. The doctor, Lady Skollick, the two Fayles. Did Finlo know who shot Skollick?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then why didn’t he tell me, or the police?”

  “He hated Skollick and didn’t much care, until he got involved in our enquiry himself. After he found that the Reverend Lee didn’t do it, he remembered somebody else he’d seen around that night. He had to think it over and make sure. He arranged to meet that somebody. It was his way of doing things. He lost his life through it.”

  The quavering lips met in a thin line.

  “I got it. I’ll tell ’em. But surely those four, those four wouldn’t be killin’ Finlo. They’re nice people.”

  “Perhaps not, sir. But if you tell them about the letter, they may tell someone else and it might be like putting a ferret down a rabbit hole. It might make someone bolt into the daylight and help us catch them.”

  “I see what you mean. A ferret in a hole. I’ll do it.”

  Mrs. Kilbeg interfered to tell them it was time for rest and the old man was taken to his adjoining bedroom.

  “See you at my party. Ain’t forgot what you said. Thank you for comin’, Superintendent.” He said as he left.

  The many offspring of Juan Kilbeg piled in their motor coach and, after more handshakes and promises to meet Littlejohn and Knell again that evening, were taken off to their hotel in Douglas. All was quiet again, and the old gentleman slept.

  “One more trip, Knell. To the manor again. Lady Skollick, if she’s been to church, should be home by now.”

  He wondered if it would be yesterday’s liver for lunch. The curragh folk had at last become fully aware of the Superintendent’s frequent visits and his interest in them. Now, with the death of Casement, they manifested even greater curiosity in his comings and goings. His presence lulled many of them into a sense of greater security in the face of the killer at large in their midst.

  As Knell slowly drove along the narrow roads which led to the manor and as they passed the clusters and the isolated dwellings in the fens, sentinels seemed to keep watch at every window and he was aware of curtains billowing as they passed, blinds trembling, doors moving ajar. An eye would be visible, sometimes accompanied by a flattened nose against a window-pane. News passed from house to house that he was about. Now and then, the watcher would appear entirely, but with a can or bucket in hand to make the gesture of feeding hens, watering a clump of flowers, or throwing clothes on the maiden in the corner.

  There were other things Littlejohn did not know. Among the clumps of women who gathered in the hamlets every morning or in the schoolrooms to perform works of charity or help balance the chapel budgets, he was invested with great courage and skill. He was, according to all of them, biding his time, and then would pounce and denounce the criminal against whom they now double-barred their doors and the men cleaned and loaded their guns. And when finally someone more inquisitive than the rest found out about the Legion of Honour with which the Superintendent had been decorated for his work with the French underground during the war, their cup of gratitude and joy was full. The awe-stricken children who listened in silence to all this going-on were regularly given the same advice.

  “Do your homework and be a good boy, and one day you’ll be like him!”

  Myrescogh Manor was as silent as ever as they approached it along the gloomy drive. Every time they visited the place, Littlejohn found and added another detail of it to his mental picture. Now, he noticed the gate on the north side which gave on to the open curragh and the derelict summerhouse, overgrown with brambles and with the roof falling in, in one corner of the garden. Ahead, the hills were tinged with bluish shadows alternating with patches of sunlight as the clouds floated across the sky. There had been rain in the curraghs earlier in the day. The forlorn garden of Myrescogh was drenched and the shrubs still wet from the showers. The daffodils and wallflowers, so bright and fresh when Littlejohn had first se
en them, were beaten to the ground.

  Jinnie appeared in answer to their knocking. She was still resentful, her old dear-cut face expressing disgust and aggressive defiance.

  “She’s just eating her lunch.”

  “I’m sorry, Jinnie, but I’ll have to disturb her. Please tell her I’ve called.”

  “Wait, then.”

  She returned quickly, looking all the more annoyed because she was to show him in. Knell remained in the car and the Superintendent entered the sitting-room on the ground floor where they had waited for Pakeman on their first visit there. Lady Skollick came to him at once.

  This time she was sober, very sober, as presumably she’d been to church and had little time to brood or drink. She received him courteously and shook hands. Her trip out of doors had brought some colour and freshness to her cheeks. She looked now more like her picture taken with the horse at the show.

  “You wished to see me?”

  “Just to ask if you heard anything unusual on Friday night when Casement met his death?”

  “No. I didn’t even hear the shot which they said was fired.”

  “So, you can’t help us on that score, Lady Skollick?”

  “I’m sorry, no. Is that all you wish to know?”

  “Yes. I’m glad to find you much better, and I thank you for seeing me again. You heard, of course, that Casement died from a shot from Sir Martin’s gun?”

  She nodded gravely, quite unmoved by the mention of it.

  “He must have stolen it from the car. An impudent trick which did him no good at all.”

  “Are you interested in guns, Lady Skollick? The one in question was a very fine one.”

  “It was. I bought it for Sir Martin myself. A birthday present many years ago.”

  “You chose the pair yourself?”

  “Yes. I grew interested in shooting after I married Sir Martin. I became quite a good shot myself. Why I tell you this, I really don’t know. But you seem interested in guns, too.”

  “I am fond of shooting when I have the time. Dr. Pakeman does a fair amount, too. He’s out at Andreas with the gun this morning.”

  “Is he?”

  She said it in a bored tone, as though the doctor and his affairs were of little interest.