“Stop! Stop! I can bear no more of it! Will you please go and leave me to my packing. I must get away.”
“Away from whom? Lady Skollick, who, until a few days ago, was another man’s wife. Or, Gillian Vacey, notoriously loose in her ways, and mistress of Skollick and heaven knows whom else. Or, could it be Ellen Fayle, a girl almost forty years younger than yourself, who might cause tongues to wag here and elsewhere and make the pastoral work of a parson impossible? Which is it, sir?”
Lee’s sins and troubles might have materialized into a swarm of bees, judging from his behaviour. He raised his hands and shielded his face and then started to flail around his head like someone beating off a cloud of insects.
“I wish that I, not Skollick, had met my death recently.
I cannot face any more torture.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t prolong this interview. It is growing late and my friends don’t know where I am and will be anxious. I tell you this, however. In a few days, we shall arrest the murderer of Skollick and Casement. You will then know who committed the crime. If it should happen to be this woman who has captivated you, sir, then she will disappear from your life. If not, her name will be cleared and you will have to decide what to do. Believe me, you are not alone in your trouble. Many a good man has faced it and solved it. When this sordid affair is over, you will be free, provided you have not involved yourself as an accessory. I ask you again, Mr. Lee, did you, on the night of the crime, see anyone in the vicinity of the body when you found it?”‘
“No.”
“Why are you interested in capturing Casement’s Great Dog?”
“I feared it would kill whoever shot its master.”
“And you think you know who did?”
A chill breeze, smelling of damp leaves and earth, stole into the room through the open front door like a ghost from the marshes. In the distance, J. Hoover Kilbeg, drunk on rhubarb wine, was playing Yankee Doodle on his horn in the road at The Cronk and the notes floated across the curragh and into the vicarage like the trumpets of a different world.
“I cannot say who did it. I do not know who murdered Skollick. But I can think who might have done it, and no word of mine shall incriminate him.”
“Why?”
The clenched jaws and the fluttering eyelids relaxed, and the will, strained beyond endurance, broke down. The Rev. Sullivan Lee’s eyes burned and he raised his arms and thrashed the air again.
“Skollick was a scoundrel. An evil man. He ruined three women, at least. His wife, a drunkard now through his cruel indifference and unfaithfulness. Gillian Vacey, a decent woman until Skollick arrived and made her what she is. And Ellen Fayle, promised marriage after the divorce of Skollick, to try to expunge the sin she and Skollick committed together. Whoever killed Skollick wiped out a scourge, a menace, a plague, a hypocrite, a scoundrel.”
The list of synonyms for a plain rotter ripped out from Lee’s shouting mouth until he could utter no more, his throat gave out, he panted, and drank up the dregs of some cold tea which remained in a dirty cup on the table.
“What must I do?”
He calmed down suddenly and sprung his despairing question at the surprised Superintendent, as though Littlejohn himself were his father confessor.
“Tell me the truth. Who do you think killed Skollick?” Lee had suddenly grown calm. He had been stretched to breaking-point and past it, and now could resist no longer.
“It was Pakeman.”
“And why, may I ask, did you not tell the police right away? What did you see on the night Skollick died?”
“As I already told you, I went to the school for my spectacles. What I did not tell you was that the lights of the room had been switched off at the main. I used my pocket torch. I recovered the glasses and was just about to leave, when I heard a car slowly drive past the school. It halted some distance along the road, and, as I stood behind the trees watching it, for its lights were extinguished, I saw someone inside light a cigarette. It was Dr. Pakeman.”
“You saw the dog?”
“Yes; that was as I said. I had picked it out by the light of my torch at the school door. I did not fire at it. I stood watching the car. I had the gun in my hand in case I saw the dog again. By this, my eyes were used to the darkness. I saw Pakeman get out of the car and then hoist out what I assumed was a drunken person. I couldn’t think who it might be or what it was all about. Then, suddenly, what appeared to be a scuffle ensued. I saw Pakeman take the other person in his arms, almost turn him upside down and then lay him head first, inclining down the bank of the hedge. Then he took out what looked like a gun from the car and seemed about to shoot the prostrate man. I hurried forward to prevent it, caught my foot against a root or some obstruction, fell, and fired the gun off. The rest you know. I collected myself, by which time the car had driven hurriedly away and I went and found the dead body of Skollick. I didn’t know whether I or Pakeman had killed Skollick. As Pakeman did not fire the gun, I assumed, at first, that my shot had been the fatal one. I have given this much thought and until you told me you had scientific proof that I had not done the deed, I hesitated and refused to speak. I was sure that if Pakeman had killed Skollick before depositing him in the curragh, he would not have let me take the blame. I waited in prison for him to confess if he had committed the crime. I have known him a long time. I was sure he would speak. He did not. Therefore, I am justified in telling you this. You must take it as my own theory and must confirm it before acting upon it.”
“Have you told Pakeman all this?”
“No. He must think I did not see him, or else that I refuse to speak of it. But I am sure Casement, who was there, too, must have told the doctor he was watching. Why else should he have killed Casement?”
“So, you’ve thought all that out, too, sir?”
“Over the past few days, I have had food for much thought. First, you told me that you had proof that my shots did not kill Skollick. Then, you said that probably the dog I saw was Casement’s. He was presumably poaching in the vicinity and saw the crime committed or the body in the arms of Pakeman and perhaps blackmailed him. This would stimulate the murderer to wish to eliminate Casement. Had I told Pakeman that I was there, as well as Casement, I fear I would have suffered Casement’s fate as well. I am afraid now for the first time. I fear that it may suddenly strike Pakeman that I know who killed Skollick. In fact, I wonder if that was the purpose of his call to-night. Your presence about the place saved me.”
“But Pakeman had gone when I knocked at the door.”
“He must have seen you in the garden. Did you make much noise or shine a torch?”
“I put on my torch for a brief second.”
“That would be it. He said,
“There is someone in the garden. Have you been granted police protection, then?”
I said I had not, and he smiled and said, “They are on your trail. You are under observation still.”
“You were released yesterday and slept here last night?”
“No. The Maddrells, in the village, kindly offered me a bed. This place had not been aired. So I accepted.”
“I see. What do you propose to do to-night?”
“I don’t quite know, Superintendent. If I bolt all the doors and fasten the windows?”
It was a great temptation to use Lee as bait and let him stay in the vicarage with the police hidden to spring the trap. Littlejohn resisted it. Lee was at the end of his tether, and, as likely as not would, at the approach of danger, go off the deep-end and spoil it all.
“You’d better come to the Maddrells’ again with me, sir.
Just for one more night.”
“Very well. I’ll be guided by you. They invited me, but I declined. One can’t be cowering in fright for ever. I’ve got to pull myself together.”
“One last question. May I ask you the name of the lady you mentioned? The one from whom you propose to flee.”
Littlejohn said it half humorously, hoping to get un
der Lee’s veneer of solemn sinfulness about his choice of a second love.
Lee’s glance darkened.
“I ask it with friendliest of motives, sir.”
“Very well, but I trust you not to mention it elsewhere. You have been most kind to me. It is Lady Skollick.”
It was almost comic! The idea of persisting in running away from the lady of the manor! A little flattery, a little indulgence in operatic talk, a little patience, and the job would surely be done. Not only that, Lee would be good for her. His solemn and obstinate ways would probably result in her signing the pledge, encouraging the Band of Hope, enthusiastically persisting in increased good works in the curraghs, and generally making him a good partner.
“Haven’t you a rival, sir?”
Lee reared and his eyebrows shot up. He even squared his shoulders, as though ready for the fray. It was like a dose of tonic.
“A rival! Whom, pray?”
“Dr. Pakeman, the man you say murdered her husband.”
“But that is ridiculous! He has thoughts of only one woman. Mrs. Vacey.”
It was Littlejohn’s turn now to rear. “But who told you that, sir?”
“Not Pakeman, you may be sure. It was Sir Martin himself. During one of my pastoral visits to the manor, he returned somewhat the worse for drink. He chided me for calling during his absence and in drunken fashion hinted that I called to pay court to his wife. Then, impudently, for Lady Skollick was present, he said that we professional men were all the same. Pakeman took advantage of being Mrs. Vacey’s doctor to importune her with declarations of love. She had told Sir Martin and they had been amused. Sir Martin talked of giving Pakeman and me the sack as medical and spiritual advisers. I am sure I would have known, in fact, she would have told me, for we are good friends, had Pakeman had the audacity to approach Lady Skollick in unseemly fashion.”
“Let us go, then, sir. I’ll see you safely to the Maddrells.” They walked down the garden together, leaving behind them the candle still burning at the shrine. The damp air was mild and soothing after the musty house. Littlejohn turned aside for a minute to look in the shed again. The rat was still asleep and apparently coming to no harm.
“If I may say so, Mr. Lee, you ought to stay over here instead of running away. That’s what you’re doing. Running away. Lady Skollick, in her present state of health and mind, needs the guidance of a good man. Remember that. You might even make up to her for.”
A car was approaching with headlights full on. It halted as the two men drew level and Knell thrust his head out of the window. The Archdeacon was sitting calmly with him.
“We thought you’d either got lost or kidnapped, sir.”
He said in a voice so moved that Littlejohn hastened to apologize and excuse himself more profusely than was necessary.
They dropped Lee at the Maddrells’, and then they drove home to Grenaby.
14
MONDAY MORNING
MONDAY, AND a bright sunny morning. Sam Callister slid noisily between the quiet houses of Castletown in his little red van and steered out of the maze of silent streets to the road which led past Marown church to the cross-ways and thence to Grenaby. In spite of the weather, Sam wasn’t feeling too cheerful.
“Mornin’, Fred,” he called out to the roadman who, although he’d enjoyed a good breakfast at home before leaving, was now eating another before starting to mow the grass verges.
“Mornin’, Sam. Nice sunny mornin’.”
Sam wished he were a roadmender. Anything rather than a postman. He passed the last houses of the little town, settled so securely under the walls of its great castle, and turned to look at it as if for the last time. Before he quite knew where he was, he was passing Malew churchyard. It gave him quite a turn. He eyed the granite memorials and the little white marble slabs and thought he might be there himself before long. He accelerated to the cross-roads and there, clad in a grey suit of Manx tweed, stood Inspector Knell. Callister resented the light suit. After all, they weren’t going on a picnic!
Knell had arrived in a police-car in which Littlejohn and the Rev. Caesar Kinrade were now sitting. They were both smiling pleasantly and bade Sam a hearty good morning. Sam was a little chubby fellow, with red cheeks and jolly blue eyes, as a rule. This morning his eyes weren’t so jolly and his cheeks were pale pink.
“Remember, Sam, just be natural. We’ll see you come to no harm.”
They’d briefed him earlier before he dealt with his mail.
When they’d told him that the post might be held-up that delivery, he hadn’t quite realized what they meant. But after they’d gone and he’d had time to brood as he sorted his round, he hadn’t liked it at all. True, they’d offered to dress a bobby in postman’s uniform and let him do the round, but Sam had dismissed such a silly idea with great indignation. What would people say when he didn’t turn-up as usual! Besides, the postmen were as good as the police any day. They’d proved that a time or two at the annual football matches between them. Sam had insisted on doing his own work whatever came along. He remembered the Wells-Fargo serials his kids read every week in their comics. Men pursuing a mail-coach firing bullets right and left. It wasn’t comic to Sam.
“You’re sure you’ve got it all. We’ll look after you every inch of the way.”
Knell was insisting on briefing Sam again and Callister resented it.
“Of course I’m sure. Get in.”
Knell opened the back of the van and climbed inside. It contained one large mail bag, sagging with emptiness, because it wasn’t a very busy morning. There were also an old tyre, a new one, Sam’s lunch in a paper bag, the morning paper, and a large bunch of herbs which a colleague had given Sam as a specific for his wife’s rheumatics.
Knell scrambled about among the contents, sat on Sam’s lunch, which made strange noises as he squashed the hardboiled eggs, drew himself up just behind the driver’s seat, and concealed himself behind the two tyres and the large bunch of comfrey. That was why Knell was wearing Manx tweeds. His gardening suit, which he could soil to his heart’s content.
“Just be natural,” he murmured to Sam, who was too disgusted to reply.
Somewhere between the cross-roads and Grenaby, they were sure somebody would try to waylay the postman and take Casement’s letter addressed to the Archdeacon, which they thought was still on the way. The loneliest stretch of the round was approaching and in some quiet part of it the attempt would be made. It might be by force, or stealth, or a dodge, or even boldness. Sam was sure it would involve a man on horseback brandishing a six-shooter. After all, they hadn’t told him a full tale for fear of upsetting him completely. He just knew there might be a plot to take his letters from him. He thought of teddy-boys, the I.R.A., Russians, rustlers, outlaws and bandits. He read his boys’ comics as eagerly as they did themselves after they’d retired to bed. No reading in bed, he always told them, and made them leave their literature behind.
“Get moving, then, Sam.” They were off.
It had all been planned beforehand. Every inch of the road was being watched. Policemen behind bushes, in barns, even among the branches of trees. And posted here and there were half-a-dozen marksmen with rifles who would shoot if Sam seemed in grave danger. Finally, here was Knell at his elbow, bent in the shape of a sack of flour.
“Have you got a revolver with you?”
“No, Sam. It’ll hardly come to that,” said Knell comfortably.
Oh, what’s the use! thought Sam, and the sound of the whistle of the little train leaving Castletown for Douglas brought back so many happy memories, that the thought that he might never hear it again brought tears to Sam’s eyes.
They called at several farms first. The countryside looked clean and peaceful. Sam had never noticed before how patient and friendly it could be. The grass was very green, with dew still upon it, and all around there was a perfect riot of birdsong.
“Are you not too well, Sam?” asked Mrs. Robertson at Vollan Veg.
�
��Come in and I’ll make you a cup of tea.” Sam looked back at the van as though questioning Knell telepathically, and then decided he’d better get it over.
“No, thanks, Mrs. Robertson. I’ll be all right. I’m late as it is.”
A parcel for Ballahot, and then Sam would have to run the gauntlet. Ahead were the signpost and the turning to Grenaby, and the narrow country road running between hedges and wasteland, with hardly a farm or a living soul to be seen. As he turned and passed the fingerpost marked Grenaby, so well-known to Littlejohn, Sam cast his anguished eyes across at Fildraw, the place where he’d done his courting.
This was the dangerous stretch, with occasionally a bit of relief when Sam turned-in at the long “streets” which led to the isolated farms of Ballavell, Ballakewin, Ballabeg. There was only one letter between the three of them this morning. A free detergent coupon, but to Sam it seemed like a lifebuoy.
After Ballakewin, a long deserted span, with poor moorland soil on either side and ahead the massive wilderness of Moaney Mooar. Every bush, tree, tuft, ditch and hedge was a menace to Sam, harbouring hidden danger. And yet, there seemed to be nobody about! Looking at the road between the turning to Quayle’s Orchard and the dip down to Grenaby itself, he couldn’t see a soul in sight. Hardly a place to hide anybody, in fact. Sam’s spirits began to rise. Perhaps it was a hoax, after all. Driving with one hand, he turned over with a forefinger of the other the spane Monday mail for Grenaby.
Ahead, the roadmen had parked an old steam-roller which had lain neglected there all last winter. This was the only remaining spot where anyone could hide, and, thought Sam, the police had surely taken care of that. The huge ungainly obstacle made single-line traffic absolutely essential where it poked its sprawling bulk into part of the roadway. Not that there was ever any need for regulating traffic in this god-forsaken bit of highway.
Toll the Bell for Murder (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 18
