They reached the house and paused irresolutely. In the silence they could hear water babbling somewhere.
‘Well? What are you two waiting for? Get on with it.’
The two Candell boys obeyed. Their nailed boots clattered across the flints and then fell silent as they met the soft mould of the hedge. Their father strode boldly up the path of trodden earth to the front door. Before entering he peeped through the window at the side, but the curtains obscured all that was within. He hesitated before trying the door and looked back to where his sons had left him. He could not see them, but the noise of crackling twigs and the dancing light of the torch they were carrying indicated that they were vigorously tackling the job in hand.
‘Hey!’
The shrill shout breaking the silence pulled them up. Their father hurried down the path and found them knee-deep in the ditch.
‘There’s no body here. I said she’d imagined it and we’d be made to look fools . . .’
‘Shut up! And what do you think you’re doing there? If you find the dead man and the police are brought in, there’ll be a hell of a row because you’ve trampled all over the place and spoiled the clues with your big feet . . .’
‘Fine fools we look . . .’
‘Shut up, I said. We ought never to have started searching for the body. And it’s me who is the fool turning the pair of you loose on the job. I might have known you’d mess it up.’
He paused and blew through his mouth.
‘There’s only one thing for it. We’d better get the police. We can’t run the risk of interfering any more. It’s their responsibility. Put that light out and come back to the road . . .’
The three of them scrambled out of the mud and peat of the ditch and stood in the road hesitantly.
‘It’s as near to the village as going back home to telephone. Baz, you’d better walk down and get the policeman. I’ve had enough of this. Somebody else had better take the responsibility. As it is, there’ll be trouble when they find how the pair of you have trampled all over the place.’
‘It’s a good half hour’s walk from here . . .’
‘Don’t argue with me. I’d send Joe, only he won’t be able to tell a proper tale. As it is, I’m sure you’ll make a mess of it, too. Just go and knock up Kincaid and tell him that Isabel Varran has come and told us that she’s found her brother Joss dead in the road, and he’d better come right away. Got that? Nothing else. Don’t start spinning a long yarn. I know what you’re like when you get talking. So watch your tongue if you don’t want trouble. Bring Kincaid here. We’ll wait in the house.’
Baz was too bewildered even to argue and went off in the darkness. His hobnails rang on the road and gradually receded until there was silence again.
‘We’d better go in and wait. No sense in standing out here in the dark.’
They crossed the road and down the path to the house. Candell was first and fumbled with the latch.
‘What the . . .?’
He pushed open the door and in the shaft of light from the room looked at his podgy hand.
It was covered in dark congealed blood.
He hurried indoors and his son shambled after him.
The room was as neat and tidy as Isabel Varran had left it. The table was covered with a red velvet cloth and in the middle stood a half-empty bottle of whisky without a cork.
The centre of the stage, however, was occupied by a solitary figure slumped in an arm-chair before the dead fire. The head lay on one side in an attitude of great weariness and the arms dangled one each over the arms of the chair, the hands outstretched and the soiled broken fingernails almost touching the floor.
The features were those of a man of middle age, lined and grubby, and with several days’ growth of beard. The square head, with its thatch of close-cropped iron-grey hair, was thrown back and the eyes were open and staring. He wore an old suit and soiled shirt without tie. The shirt front was soaked in whisky, the reek of which filled the room, as though someone had tried to revive him by forcing it between his teeth.
The younger man stared wild-eyed at the body, his lips moving soundlessly. Then he ran out into the garden and his father could hear him retching.
The older man approached the corpse, his fat arms ahead of him, like someone forcing his way through a thick hedge. He touched the cold forehead with the flat of his hand, uttered a noise like a sob and then, with a quick gesture, closed the staring eyes with his forefinger and thumb. Then he ran to join his son outside.
Half an hour later when Baz and the village constable arrived in the latter’s official car, they found the fat man and Joe sitting on the doorstep with the door locked behind them, staring into space.
2
Dead Man’s Dossier
IT WAS evening when Inspector Knell, of the Isle of Man police, in charge of the Close Dhoo case, finished his enquiries on the spot. He had been hard at work all day, and, as he left the dead man’s house, he drove to the main highway through Ballaugh village, along the road skirting the central hills and through the silent valley to Grenaby parsonage.
Chief Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, had arrived at the vicarage there, the home of his friend the Archdeacon of Man, late that afternoon. Early in the day, the Manx police had telephoned Scotland Yard for information about the murdered man, who had just been released from Wormwood Scrubs prison after serving a sentence for attacking a sailor with a broken bottle in a drunken brawl in Limehouse. Any opportunity of visiting the Isle of Man was pleasing to Littlejohn and he had had as much information as possible collected and had brought the file in person.
Knell, as usual, received a frosty welcome from Maggie Keggin, the Archdeacon’s housekeeper.
‘So, it’s you again. You’re a nuisance. When you call here it’s either because the supper is just on the table or else there’s been a murther. What is it this time?’
She was Knell’s second cousin and, as one of the family, could speak her mind without reserve whilst resenting any criticism by outsiders.
Knell bared his large teeth in a friendly grin.
‘I called to pay my respects to the Chief Superintendent and, of course, to you as well, Maggie. Has he arrived?’
‘He got here less than an hour ago and here you are, botherin’ him before he’s even had time to unpack his bag. It’s another murther, isn’t it? I can tell by the way you’re avoiding giving me an honest answer . . .’
The argument was interrupted by the arrival of the Venerable Archdeacon in the hall.
‘What’s all this chatter about? Who is it?’
The old man cut a fine figure, with his froth of white beard, his old-fashioned cut of ecclesiastical clothes including gaiters, and the red leather house-slippers on his feet which gave a final splash of colour to his clerical black.
‘Oh, it’s you, Reginald. Come inside. You’re quick to follow the bad news . . .’
‘I knew it! He’s like Berry Dhone, the witch, trailing the bad luck about with him. There isn’t enough supper cooked for him, so he can go hungry as he intrudes on Inspector Littlejohn.’
‘Chief Superintendent, Maggie. How often have we to tell you?’
Maggie Keggin’s lips tightened to a thin line. She refused to admit that a Superintendent in any walk of life stood higher than an Inspector and persisted in giving Littlejohn the rank he had carried when first she met him years ago.
They went indoors.
Littlejohn was standing at the window watching the last light of the day vanishing behind the hills. In such surrounding, talk of murder seemed like brawling in church.
‘Hullo, Knell!’
Maggie Keggin would have been more pleased if Littlejohn had received Knell in an off-hand manner for disturbing his peace, but as the pair of them seemed delighted to meet again, she relented, and laid a third place at table.
‘It’s pheasant and a good job it’s a big one. And I’m just going to serve it, so don’t you start discussing murthers, R
eginal Knell, till I’ve cleared up after the meal. Eat and enjoy your food without adding the sauce of horrors to it, and thank the good God for his bounty.’
She did not add that the bounty had been provided through a well-known local poacher, who, to keep his luck alive, now and then, unknown to the Archdeacon, gave a portion of his spoils to the church through the vicarage back door.
It was not until the remnants of the meal had been cleared and the port placed on the table that the three men began to discuss the crime. Maggie Keggin left them to their own devices and went to enjoy her private television.
‘We’ll not be disturbed until bedtime,’ commented the Archdeacon. ‘There’s a boxing match on tonight. Maggie watches them all. One of her family was a famous boxer years ago . . .’
‘Jimmy Cregeen.’
‘I’d forgotten he was also a relative of yours, Reginald. Want to join Maggie in her sitting-room?’
Knell’s face assumed a faint expression which for lack of anything better would have been a smile.
‘Shall we get on with the Close Dhoo affair, Archdeacon?’
Littlejohn produced a thin file which he had brought with him and Knell took out the leather-bound notebook which he used on special cases and which his eldest daughter had bought for him last Christmas. Littlejohn indicated that Knell had better speak first and lit his pipe.
Knell’s account assumed the nature of a lecture. He had been busy in the Close Dhoo neighbourhood from the small hours of the day almost until dusk and had accumulated a lot of information. Now and then, as he refreshed himself from his notebook, his face assumed a puzzled expression, for in the excitement of the enquiry he had written at great speed and in places couldn’t read his own writing.
‘I was wakened early this morning . . . three-thirty, to be precise . . . by headquarters who said the constable at Ballaugh had reported a murder in the curraghs at a place called Close Dhoo. If I might have a map, I’ll show you exactly where the place is . . .’
The Archdeacon not only produced the map, but opened it and placed his finger on the spot without hesitation.
‘Close Dhoo,’ he said, ‘means Black Enclosure. The Manx word “Close” usually refers to a croft or small holding. ‘Dhoo’, or black, is not as ominous as one might think. It probably refers to the nature of the soil or the colour of the peat on the land. The Chief Superintendent tells me that Joss Varran was the victim of the crime. Do you know the background of that family?’
‘Not very well, sir. We’ve been concerned with the details of the murder all day.’
‘Mind if I intrude with some information?’
‘Not at all. It would be very helpful.’
‘Years ago, when I was a young curate, I deputised for the vicar of Ballaugh whom illness kept from his duties for six months and I became familiar with that neighbourhood. I was, for a time, very occupied with Close Dhoo, because during my stay in Ballaugh it became the centre of a rumpus in which I had to arbitrate.’
He paused to refill the glasses with port.
‘In those days, it had ceased to be worked as a croft and had been used as a tied cottage for labourers at the neighbouring farm of Close-e-Cass, which has been occupied by the Candells for generations; another Close which in course of time has grown into a large and prosperous farm by the buying-in of neighbouring holdings.’
‘It was the Candells who informed the police of the murder, sir. When his sister found Joss’s body, she went to Close-e-Cass and roused them.’
‘Close Dhoo was empty in the days when I arrived in Ballaugh and, I imagine, although I haven’t seen it for many years, it is still in the ramshackle state in which I found it then. Briefly, it was, as I say, empty, and the trouble arose because Michael Varran, the father of the murdered man, brought his family there and squatted in the house. I don’t know where he came from. It was said, at the time, that he came from the south of the Island. That may have been so; but it is the custom, as you know, for the northern folk to try to prove all the local reprobates are of southern origins and the southern folk to return the compliment about all the rascals of their parts. Mike Varran brought his wife and two children, and another on the way, and settled in Close Dhoo.’
The discourse was then interrupted by a wild hulla-balloo from the room across the passage where presumably Maggie Keggin’s boxing match was heating-up.
‘The Candells, who owned it, were, and still are, a wealthy prosperous lot and, of course, resisted the intrusion of the Varrans. They tried to evict them and there were fisticuffs. Mike Varran was a shiftless type, but his wife was hardworking and decent and naturally, as she had two small children and was again pregnant, local sympathy was on her side. I was asked to arbitrate and try to come to some arrangement with the Candells. It was difficult, for they were a stubborn family, but I finally managed to arrange a small rent for the place, arguing that it was in poor condition and likely to tumble down unless cared for by somebody, for example, a tenant. The Varrans had a pretty thin time, but, largely owing to the mother’s efforts, I think they kept up with the rent. I believe Joss Varran eventually bought the place for a song. They were a large family . . .’
Knell consulted his notebook.
‘I’m told there were ten children . . .’
‘Yes; I’d an idea that was the case.’
‘I got a list of the survivors from Isabel Varran. There are only five of them left.’
‘I know several died in childhood. There was a lot of infant mortality in those days. Even five of them with their parents must have lived like peas in a pod in that little place. Damp, ill-nourished . . . and with consumption running in families, it’s a wonder so many of them survived.’
‘Of the five remaining, Joss, Isabel and Rose, who married a farmer called Handy at Narradale, were living on the Isle of Man. The other two, Bennie and Nessie, married and emigrated, one to Canada and the other to Australia. Isabel is regarded as a bit queer. Who wouldn’t be, living, for the most part, all alone in that lonely cottage in a spooky part of the marshes? There isn’t even a decent road to it. Only a rutted lane. Her only regular visitor is her sister, Rose. Her only near neighbours are the Candells, who won’t have any truck with her. That’s largely due to Joss, who’s spent several spells in gaol and is a bit of a local outcast. The Candells hadn’t seen Isabel for years until she turned up asking for help. Mrs. Candell has been very decent to her and she stayed with them at Close-e-Cass last night.’
Littlejohn opened the file at his elbow.
‘Have you tried to check Joss Varran’s movements since he left gaol, Knell?’
‘Our men have been working all day gathering what information they could. Our results are a bit scattered and begin at Liverpool, where he caught the morning boat home. That was yesterday. One of the sailors on the boat recognised him and spoke to him. Joss was a surly sort and the sailor got nothing from him. He did, however, spend a lot of time in the bar, drinking, and then he left the boat immediately she docked in Douglas. There we lost his tracks. We have a photograph of him in our records. He’s been in prison a time or two here. Our men enquired at most of the pubs in the centre of the town, but nobody had seen him. Nor had any of the bus or electric railway staff. He must have thumbed a lift from Douglas to Ramsey, because he turned up at the “Eagle and Child”, Ramsey at about 5 o’clock. The landlord there remembered him. Joss was as sulky as usual and little conversation passed between them. The landlord said the encounter was a bit embarrassing with Joss just having come out of prison and he didn’t know what to say to him. After a couple of drinks, Joss left. That would be about half-past five. From then onwards, we find no trace of him. He may have walked home, or begged a lift. We’re enquiring about that. So far, we’ve drawn a blank on all his movements . . .’
Littlejohn passed over his file.
‘Between hearing from you at nine this morning and my taking the afternoon plane, I managed to get a little about Varran. You’ll have some of the infor
mation on your own files, but from our records you’ll see he was a deck hand on a cargo boat before he was gaoled. The Mary Peters, registered at Preston. He and some of his mates got drunk in Limehouse and Varran got in a fight and went for a man with a broken bottle. His two companions got light sentences for being drunk and disorderly, but he got two years, because in addition to his offence, he had a previous record. He seems to have been a violent man and was birched at the age of eighteen for criminal assault in Ramsey. After that, he served short terms for petty larceny and drunk and disorderly conduct.’
‘I see he got remission for good conduct.’
‘Yes. He behaved himself, but was surly, as may be expected. He left the Scrubs at nine in the morning of the day before his arrival in Douglas. He told the warder at the prison gate that he was going home on the next available boat, which he did, apparently. We don’t know where he stayed overnight.’
‘I see you enquired about any friends he may have made whilst inside.’
‘He appears to have been far from friendly and confiding, but for most of his term he shared a cell with two men, a safebreaker called John Jukes, otherwise Cracker Jack, and a housebreaker named Cliff Larkin. Both men were released a week or two before Varran. We’ve still to trace them and enquire if Joss had anything interesting to say to them about his programme when he got out.’
‘You think that perhaps he was killed for something he did before he was gaoled?’
‘That may easily be the case.’
‘Was he alone when he left the Scrubs?’
‘Yes. The man at the gate was sure of that. Are you thinking that someone was waiting there for him intent on killing him?’
‘Yes, sir. It may have been someone connected with the man he damaged in the fight, or even the man himself. He might not have wished to kill him, but just beat him up for what he’d done. Because the police surgeon’s report is rather strange. Death was due to brain damage caused by a blow on the head, but previous to that, Joss had been badly knocked about. There were bruises on the face and some on the body which might have been caused by someone putting in the boot.’
The Night They Killed Joss Varran (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 2
