They then discussed the day’s work and its implications.
Before his spell in gaol, Joss Varran had spent very little time at home and had been employed as a deckhand on a container ferry plying between Preston and Ramsey, with occasional trips to London.
‘We ought to have a talk with the captain about Varran’s character and movements,’ said Littlejohn, and Knell made a note of it. ‘Was he with shipmates when the fight blew up in London?’
‘I’ll enquire when the boat’s due to dock in Ramsey and we can see the captain then.’
‘And if the men who were with Varran when the police hauled them off for violence, are still members of the crew, we’d better get to know exactly what happened that night.’
‘According to the records, Varran returned to the Isle of Man as soon as he was released from the Scrubs. Why the hurry, I wonder? His sister implied that he wasn’t a home-bird. Let’s assume the reason was that Varran had something, probably cash, stowed away in his hiding place in the Shaking Field. He made for it as soon as possible and presumably removed it before he started for home. In recovering whatever he’d hidden, he dropped the ball-point pen from his pocket. He was killed after leaving the bog by someone who had followed him there. Was the murderer after what Varran had recovered from the cache in the peat?’
Knell scribbled a note of it in his book.
‘And don’t let’s forget,’ he said, ‘that Isabel Varran said that she couldn’t find his kit-bag when she looked for it. Perhaps he put whatever he dug up in the kit-bag and the murderer carried it off, bag and all.’
The Archdeacon filled his pipe again and lit it.
‘And now we arrive at the murderer himself. He must have known what was hidden there . . .’
Littlejohn shook his head.
‘Not there, perhaps, but somewhere. It must have been something worth following Varran for, maybe money. And Varran must have either confided in the murderer about its existence, or, at least, given some hint of it.’
‘Could it have been one of his cell-mates in gaol?’
‘. . . Or someone who knew of what was hidden, even before Varran went to gaol, and who waited patiently for his return.’
The Archdeacon turned to Knell.
‘You have the dramatis personae of the case in your little book, Reginald. Let’s run through it.’
Knell opened his notebook with enthusiasm, as though, at last, they had reached a practical stage in the case.
‘Shall I deal with them one by one, as I entered them in my book as the case unfolded?’
‘Yes. That’s as good a way as any.’
‘There’s the Candells. Father, mother, two sons, Uncle Tom, Beulah and old Junius.’
‘And they gave you a sort of composite alibi, Knell, didn’t they, saying they were all in bed at the time of the crime?’ said Littlejohn.
‘That’s right.’
‘And yet, Junius Candell talked about seeing lights in the region of the Shaking Land that night. Presumably that was Joss Varran in search of his hiding place. We can pinpoint the time Junius saw it. E. D. Cojeen saw Joss taking a lift home in the Bentley at just after nine. Isabel Varran found the body at just after ten. How long would it take to get from Ramsey to Close Dhoo in a vintage car, Archdeacon?’
‘That depends on the speed of travel, doesn’t it?’
‘Say, forty miles an hour. A vintage Bentley in good condition would do that easily . . .’
‘Let’s say twenty minutes,’ said Knell.
‘Wait! That’s assuming Varran got a lift to the very door of Close Dhoo. Did old Candell say what time he saw the lights at the Shaking Field?’
‘I asked Baz, who, you remember, was acting as go-between. He went back to the old man to enquire. He said he didn’t know; but Beulah did. She said Junius, who usually goes to bed between nine and ten, had a whim that night to stay up and listen to the weather report on the radio at ten. She went up to his room at twenty to ten to bid him good night and found him at the window in his nightshirt. He said he was waiting for the report and she told him the time and said he’d better get in bed and wait for it there, as he’d get his death of cold wandering about ill-clad. He was persuaded to do that and told her then about the light in the curragh and she looked out and saw it.’
‘Had the rest of the family retired then?’
‘I asked Baz and he said yes. Beulah always went to bid her grandfather good night before she got in bed herself.’
‘So, the family alibi might not be as tight as we thought. They weren’t all asleep, at least. We’d better go to Close-e-Cass and make further enquiries.’
‘You mean, one of them might have done it?’
‘It isn’t likely, but we must remember Baz was an enemy of Joss Varran.’
‘All the same, how was Baz to know the exact time at which to waylay Joss? In any case, the timing is very close. Ramsey at nine, a car journey of twenty minutes, a walk from where Joss was put down, lights at his hiding place at nine-forty, dead at ten. It seems to indicate that he left the car somewhere very near the Shaking Field. The car may have dropped him either near his own home or, let’s say, at the manor. It might have been the Duffys’ car after all. The manor isn’t far distant from the hiding place. You have the Duffys and Quantrell on your list, Knell?’
‘Yes. We’re waiting for information from Records about the three of them. We should know by morning.’
‘What about Joss’s cell-mates?’
‘John Jukes, otherwise Cracker Jack, safebreaker, and Cliff Larkin, housebreaker. Both released a week or two before Joss. Their reports should be along soon, too.’
‘It would seem that the Duffy pair are somehow involved. Was Joss acquainted with Sarah and was the Colonel jealous? Or were the lot of them, including Quantrell, in some illegal affair together?’
‘We may find out when the reports reach us, though I doubt it, sir.’
‘In whatever direction we cast our minds, we’re faced with the mystery of the Shaking Field. What had Joss Varran hidden there and who else was connected with it? The truth is, Knell, we’ve not got enough information and background about the parties in the case.
‘Tomorrow, we must set about obtaining it . . .’
Telephone.
‘Who can that be at this hour?’
Maggie Keggin entered. She looked annoyed.
‘A man to speak to Inspector Littlejohn on the telephone. He won’t give his name and when I tried to insist, he got impertinent. I ought to have hung-up on him, but I thought it might be important.’
Littlejohn followed Maggie to the hall.
Without giving his name or any greeting the caller began to upbraid Littlejohn.
‘. . . I’d have thought you would have at least had the courtesy to question me about the murder of Joss Varran. You ignored me during your visit this morning to Close-e-Cass and I believe you’ve been round the countryside interviewing all and sundry. After all, I’m the Varran family’s representative. I’ve a right . . .’
‘Just a minute, please. Who is that?’
‘Sydney Handy, of Narradale. Brother-in-law of the deceased . . .’
‘Have you some useful information to give the police, Mr. Handy?’
There was a pause. The question had taken the wind from Sydney’s sails and he was groping in his mind for an excuse.
‘Yes!’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve been speakin’ with Kincaid, the local constable, about Joss’s belongings. He showed me a list, but wouldn’t hand anything over. There was his knife, his watch, his cigarettes and matches, a dirty handkerchief and two pieces of string, half-a-crown and two threepenny bits in change, and his old wallet with his sailor’s papers, a dirty ten-bob note and a photograph of a naked woman in it. That’s all . . .’
‘Well?’
‘Well? Well wot? Where are his clothes and his kit-bag? Isabel says she hasn’t got them. The police say they’ve searched for them and
can’t find them.’
‘Perhaps he left them on his ship when he went off on the spree at which he was arrested.’
‘He did not. He had his bag with him at the time of the spree that you call it and when he was gaoled, it was put in the prison cloakroom, or whatever they call it, and would be handed out again when he was released. Are you aware that I was the only one who visited him in gaol?’
‘No.’
‘There you are, you see. You don’t know everything in the police, do you? I’m an important witness in this affair. I ought to have been interviewed.’
‘I’m very sorry, Mr. Handy. We have still a lot of people to interrogate and your name is among them . . .’
‘It’s taken you long enough. When will I be seeing you?’
‘Tomorrow? Unless you’ve something more you wish to tell me now.’
‘Over the ‘phone? Not likely. I’ve spent all my small change as it is. I’m in a public call-box. The police ought to reimburse me for this expense.’
‘I’ll see you get it . . .’
‘One and six. I’ll be out on my milk round till noon. Inspector Knell knows where the farm is . . .’
Judging from the noise at the other end, the telephone was about to register another sixpence, so Littlejohn bade Mr. Handy a hasty good night and went to join his friends. He told them about the information Sydney Handy had given him. Knell was surprised to hear that Handy had visited his brother-in-law in gaol.
‘Interfering in his usual pompous way. I’ll bet Joss Varran was glad to be rid of him when he left. There’s no account of this visit on the records. We’d better ask Syd what it was all about when we see him tomorrow.’
The Archdeacon then insisted that Knell return home and have a good night’s sleep.
‘You’ve had a heavy day today, and tomorrow isn’t likely to be less strenuous.’
The old grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven as they saw him off from the vicarage door. The village was asleep and all the lights were out. Somewhere, far away, a dog was barking, but until Knell started his car, there wasn’t another sound outside. There had been a long drought and the river was low and flowed silently under the bridge.
Maggie Keggin had left a tray for them, with cups and a tin of cocoa on the kitchen table, and they made themselves a drink apiece. Then, after Littlejohn had rung up his wife in Hampstead and they had exchanged the news of the day, he and the Archdeacon went to their beds. Littlejohn was asleep before midnight.
* * *
Knell, busily occupied by routine, called at Grenaby for Littlejohn and the Archdeacon late the following morning and they arrived at Sydney Handy’s farm at Narradale just after noon. This was reached by a turning from the main Ramsey Road at a spot called Ginger Hall, whence the secondary road rose through splendid country, wooded in parts, with magnificent views of the surrounding landscape. Handy’s farm, Ballablock, lay hidden in the hills, a rather ramshackle holding with a stone farmhouse which bore the year 1807 over the door and looked as if it hadn’t had much attention since.
Sydney was in the yard, noisily throwing milk churns about and met them with reproach. His eye was still discoloured and he moved about stiffly as though he’d got rheumatism.
‘You’re late. Here was I rushing round with milk on me round to be here in time. I said I’d be back at noon . . .’
Knell apologised without much sincerity.
‘We’re busy, too, you know, Mr. Handy.’
‘You’d better come inside. I’m on my own. The wife’s gone to see her sister about the funeral. I needn’t tell you that the Varrans are hopeless where initiative’s concerned. They’re always on the look-out for somebody else to do the work for them . . .’
Judging from the tumbledown buildings, the scraggy hens picking in the farmyard and the gaunt sheep and cattle struggling for food on the surrounding hillsides, Mr. Handy was afflicted by the same complaint, but Knell didn’t care to argue with him. He knew Syd’s rather pathetic history already. For some reason, known only to herself, Rose Varran had joined the W.A.A.F. during the war and, on her travels had met and married Syd, who came from Stockport on the mainland. Handy hadn’t known the first thing about farming, but was sure his initiative would see him through. He had always been an ambitious optimist. In his dreams he saw farms, flocks of prize-winning sheep and pedigree herds of cattle, wallets bulging with banknotes, and cabinets showing off silver plate. All of it his. And here he was . . .
‘Come in . . .’
Mr. Handy led the way to a small sitting-room, so full of shabby furniture that they could hardly get in it. Much of this Mr. Handy had inherited from his mother, who had once kept a second-hand furniture shop and had come to live with them after their marriage. She had insisted on bringing most of her belongings with her, in case they didn’t get on well together and she had to set up house on her own again. She had died the previous year and Syd, full of ‘initiative’, had insisted on keeping his inheritance intact, as he was sure it would ‘go up’. The other rooms of the farmhouse were in a similar confused jam and in the main bedroom there were four beds, two of which Syd said were antiques and would increase in value with the keeping.
Mr. Handy indicated chairs set round a table, the top of which had warped with the damp, and they all sat down, Mr. Handy at the head like the chairman at a board meeting.
‘With one thing and another, there’s quite a lot to be said, so we’d better get busy,’ said Sydney Handy. ‘You all know the verdict at the inquest will be murder. Why can’t we bury ’im? It’s not good enough holding things up like this.’
‘This is a matter for the coroner, Mr. Handy. The real reason for our visit here is because you told us that you’d visited your brother-in-law in prison. What made you do that?’
Mr. Handy looked at Knell angrily.
‘I might have expected a comment like that from you. Can’t a man have pity, have bowels of compassion for somebody without his motives being questioned? I visited Joss Varran because there was nobody else to visit him. Can you imagine turning Isabel loose in London? She’s never been off the Island. Somebody had to go. It was only decent . . .’
‘Did you go to gaol on business, Handy?’
The Archdeacon asked the question this time and Mr. Handy perhaps thought he’d better tell the truth to one of the cloth.
‘There were bills to pay, the upkeep of the house, rates etcetera. Isabel couldn’t afford it and I certainly wasn’t going to foot Joss Varran’s bills, knowing the type he was . . .’
He made little pecking jerks with his beaky nose, punctuating all he said. Otherwise, his face was quite expressionless, like a stupid mask.
‘But it would cost you far more in fares to make the trip than all the expenses of running Close Dhoo put together. Surely, you had some other reason.’
Littlejohn intervened and Handy’s attitude changed at once. Beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip. The magic of Scotland Yard must have scared him.
‘Tell us from the beginning what happened, Mr. Handy.’
‘Nothing much. That’s the funny part of it.’
‘Start at the beginning. What made you wish to visit your brother-in-law? It wasn’t charity. It was something more vital and compulsive to you, wasn’t it?’
‘He wrote to Isabel and asked her to come. He wanted specially to see her. And she was afraid to go. She’d written to him regularly and she said she’d even suggested herself that she might go to see him. He’d never replied. Then came this letter asking her to go. She got scared. So I said I’d go for her.’
‘She paid expenses?’
‘I was going on her account. You can’t reproach me with that. I’m not rich and besides, I left the farm and my work for two days . . .’
‘What happened when you saw Joss?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You talked, I suppose. What did you talk about?’
‘I thought he’d sent for Isabel to talk over family matters or such
like. Or else, he wanted something and was after money. Instead, if he hadn’t been such a tough fellow, with no feelings at all, I’d have said he was homesick. He asked about Isabel and how she was going on. I said she was all right and managing nicely and that she hadn’t come herself because she was scared, never having been off the Island before.’
‘What else?’
‘He asked about the house, and was it all right. Funny that. From him that was hardly ever at home and never interested in the state of the place or even if Isabel had money enough to keep it going. He even asked about the land, too. Said he’d seen in the paper that they were testing in various parts of the Island for oil. Had anybody been digging round Close Dhoo? Because if they had, we’d better let him know as he’d want to be in at any business arising. I told him there was no fear of that. Nobody had been round there digging and weren’t likely to. I thought that was funny, but he seemed to want to talk about the Island. He even asked about the Candells, who he’d never spoken to for years, and if Quantrell was still about the place and the Duffys. It went on like that till the time was up. In the end I asked him if he wanted to tell me or Isabel something particular or wanted us to do anything for him. He said No. Just like that. No, Syd, thanks and good-bye.’
‘And that was all?’
‘The lot. What do you make of it?’
‘Perhaps he was lonely and wanted to see somebody from home.’
‘What? Joss? Not him.’
‘When was this, Mr. Handy?’
‘Last autumn. He said I was the only visitor he’d had since he was put inside.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘Yes. And before you go, I ask you again, what happened to Joss’s belongings? The police say they haven’t seen them. He must have had his kit-bag with him when he left the prison. Where is it now? His money and some clothes and his razor and the like must have been in it. He’d only ten shillings in his wallet. A man doesn’t travel that distance on a dirty ten-bob note. He must have had more in his kit-bag and if you ask me somebody’s pinched it.’
They thanked him and left him. He seemed bewildered by it all now and the last they saw of him he was wandering about the yard as though he didn’t quite know where he was.
The Night They Killed Joss Varran (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 10
