The Night They Killed Joss Varran (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  They decided to call at the manor again and have a further talk with Duffy and Quantrell. On the way, they met Kincaid in his van. He signalled to them and pulled up.

  He saluted Littlejohn smartly and then turned his attentions to Knell.

  ‘I was wanting to see you, sir. Earlier this morning I had E. D. Cojeen at my place. He said he’d just passed by Close Dhoo and called to express his condolences, as he called them, to Isabel. She asked him to give me a message if he was coming my way. It was that last night, she went into the shed at the back of the house to get some paraffin for the fire and she found some of Joss’s clothes in a bundle in one corner. There was his razor among them and nearly fifty pounds in money. I’m just on my way to Close Dhoo now to investigate. Cojeen, when I asked him, said Joss’s kit-bag wasn’t with the rest. He’d asked Isabel, because that’s the sort of thing a sailor usually has in his bag . . .’

  ‘We’ll come with you, Kincaid,’ said Knell, and they all went off together.

  9

  The ‘Mary Peters’

  ISABEL VARRAN was at home, busily occupied in turning out the house. Now that Joss was dead the property was her own, for Joss, in an unexpected gesture, had long ago made a will and left to her all that he had. She was turning over a new leaf and asserting an unusual independence. Her sister, Mrs. Handy, declaring that blood was thicker than water in spite of her husband’s protests, had taken Isabel’s side. Mr. Handy had denounced the will as unjust and threatened to contest it, a forlorn hope, but characteristic of his ‘initiative’ which, at every crisis in his life had let him down.

  Rose had, Isabel told her visitors, gone to Ramsey in the van and there proposed to make the funeral arrangements and find a lawyer to deal with the will. This act of charity had been undertaken before Isabel had found the money in the outhouse and when the Handys had thought that only the house at Close Dhoo was covered by the will. What would happen when they discovered that there was now cash as well was anybody’s guess.

  The bundle of clothes, money and personal effects found by Isabel in the woodshed was lying on the table when Knell and his friends entered the house. Isabel told them how she had found it. It seemed to indicate that Joss Varran had arrived home whilst Isabel was asleep by the fire, but before entering he had dealt with the matter foremost in his mind, the digging up of the treasure, or whatever it was, from its hiding place in the bog. And probably, to make available something in which to carry it, he had emptied his kit-bag in the outhouse, where he may have been finding a spade. Whoever had killed Joss had carried off the bag and its precious contents.

  Isabel who seemed to regard the police as her friends, hospitably provided them with tea and soda cakes again as Knell examined the property abandoned by her brother. She seemed quite bewildered by it.

  ‘Why should he throw his things and all that money in the shed, instead of bringing it in the house?’

  ‘He must have been in a hurry to unearth and take away whatever was hidden in the Shaking Field. And he probably didn’t wish you to know and ask questions about it. Have you any idea what it might have been?’

  ‘No. I’m as puzzled as you are.’

  ‘Did Joss come home on his last trip in the Mary Peters to Ramsey before he went to gaol?’ asked Littlejohn.

  ‘Yes. I remember it. He arrived early in the morning before I’d got up. It was dark.’

  ‘Had he been drinking?’

  ‘Not as much as usual. He came earlier than he’d been in the habit of doing. He was in a good temper for once.’

  ‘Did he seem excited about anything?’

  ‘Funny you should ask that. He seemed very pleased with himself.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘He said, after I’d quizzed him a bit, that he’d another job in mind, with better pay and when I asked where it was, he said over in England. I didn’t push him to tell me more. I’d heard the same story before.’

  ‘Do you remember the date?’

  ‘Yes, I do. It was early on March 24th. I’d had a rates demand which was due on the 30th and he usually paid it. I remember the date exactly because it was just a week before the final date for payment. I told him so. He said he’d give me the money before he left for his ship, but he didn’t. He was like that. He never said “Good-bye” or “Take care”. Just up and away.’

  ‘He had his kit-bag with him on that occasion?’

  ‘Yes. He always had it with him when he came home from sea. I used to wash the soiled clothes he brought home in it. I don’t know why he didn’t have it when he came home from prison.’

  ‘But he did have it when he arrived, apparently. And he emptied it in the shed to make room in it for carrying whatever he dug out of the bog.’

  Isabel looked worried.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably money.’

  ‘But he never had much money . . .’

  ‘Do you remember who brought Joss home from Ramsey just before he went off and got gaoled?’

  ‘Yes, I do. He came in a taxi. I remember it well. I saw the taxi. It came right to the door. When I complained about the expense, Joss brushed it aside. He actually said he’d soon have a car of his own, although where he was going to get the money from I don’t know. He only stayed for less than an hour, and he kept the taxi waiting. He told me to shut up when I asked him why he was in such a hurry.’

  ‘Before that occasion, how did Joss usually get home when his boat docked in Ramsey after the last bus had gone?’

  ‘It isn’t hard to get a lift from Ramsey as far as Ballaugh. After that, if you aren’t lucky, you’ve to walk from Ballaugh the rest of the way.’

  There was a pause. The wind was getting up again. It hardly ceased there at that time of year. Now and then a gust brought a puff of aromatic smoke down the chimney into the room. Outside, the willow and bog myrtle bushes on the roadsides shook in all directions.

  ‘Do you know the Duffys from the manor house, Miss Varran?’

  ‘She sometimes passes here on her horse, but we’ve never spoken.’

  She looked straight at Littlejohn wondering what it was all about.

  ‘Did Joss know them?’

  ‘He might have done, but he never told me. Never even mentioned them. Why, sir?’

  ‘We’ve been told that on the night he died he got a lift from Ramsey in an old car which might have been the one belonging to the Duffys. That seemed to indicate they knew one another if it was their car.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. He never said anything before about them. Are you sure it was the Duffys?’

  ‘Not absolutely. But there are only three vintage cars – old cars, you know – of the kind described to us as giving Joss a lift, on the Island. One is quite out of commission, the other is away on a rally in England. That leaves only the Duffys’ car. And the Duffys say they weren’t out in it that night. So, there we are.’

  ‘Who told you that Joss was seen in the old car?’

  ‘Mr. Cojeen . . .’

  Isabel threw her hands up and shrieked.

  ‘Mister Cojeen, was it? Cojeen the Rags? He’d tell you anything. They used to call him Cojeen the Liar, until he got to know about it and threatened to take it to court.’

  ‘Why should he lie to the police?’

  ‘Just to seem clever.’

  There seemed no point in further questioning and discussion. It was obvious that E. D. Cojeen wasn’t popular with Isabel Varran, to say the least of it. Knell would have to find out his reputation from someone less prejudiced. This was soon forthcoming. After they had thanked Isabel and said good-bye and the door was closed again, Kincaid saved them any further trouble.

  ‘I wouldn’t put too much on what Isabel Varran says about E. D. Cojeen, sir. Some years ago, E. D. took a bit of a fancy to Isabel and got to calling at Close Dhoo pretty regular. One day Joss came home unexpected and found him with his feet under the table enjoying a meal. Joss had the drink in him and hit E. D. on the nos
e and chucked him out of the house. That was the end of that. And that, I reckon, is why Isabel is trying to cast doubt on E. D.’s testimony. He’s harmless enough.’

  Littlejohn changed the subject.

  ‘When is the Mary Peters due in Ramsey next, Kincaid?’

  ‘She’s tied up there now. She’s due off on the night tide.’

  ‘We’d better get along to Ramsey then. We don’t wish to wait until she turns up there again several days from now.’

  After a hasty lunch at the local hotel again, they made for Ramsey. It had rained there during the night and the town and sea front had a pleasant well-washed appearance and the sky was clear and the air invigorating. There was a slight breeze and the calm water of the port lapped gently against the stone quays. Here and there, idlers had gathered, talking in small groups.

  The Mary Peters was tied up in the river, loading containers. She was trim and well-kept. A smell of hot oil hung around her. Nearby a Norwegian boat was unloading timber. Piles of damp planks standing on the quay ready for loading on lorries gave off a fragrant smell. Chains and winches rattled. Little pleasure boats, tied up here and there, added colour to the scene. A brewers’ dray was drawn up nearby and two brawny men were discharging metal barrels of beer.

  Knell drove to the narrow gangway which connected the Mary Peters with the quay. Overhead, a crane was hoisting the cargo aboard. A man leaning over the rail smoking a pipe and spitting in the water called to them before they even had time to enquire for the captain.

  ‘Wantin’ somethin’?’

  ‘Is Captain Buckle aboard?’

  ‘In his cabin eatin’ his dinner.’

  ‘Tell him we want to see him, please. We’re from the police.’

  The man gave them a hard look and made off in the direction of the bridge. Some deck-hands stopped work and waited expectantly. The knots of idlers on the quay suddenly grew animated. It was as though a soundless message had passed from group to group and they all began to move nearer to the ship to obtain ringside seats for what they were sure was going to be a dramatic encounter. They were disappointed. The sailor reappeared.

  ‘Come aboard. He’s in his cabin. This way . . .’

  They followed him to the small, neat cabin under the bridge. The sailor ushered them in without another word and disappeared. Outside the crane was whining and men were shouting.

  The captain was eating steak puddings and potatoes piled on a large thick plate on a mahogany table covered with a square of oil-cloth. He rose to greet them. He was a square-set fair man with a big belly and close-cropped hair. He knew Knell.

  ‘Hello, Mr. Knell. To what do we owe this pleasure?’

  He sucked his teeth and eyed the Archdeacon suspiciously, puzzled by his presence there. Knell introduced his friends and told Buckle right away why they had called on him.

  ‘Sit down, if you can find room.’

  There was only another chair besides that the captain was occupying, but opposite where he was sitting was an alcove containing a long seat like a shelf. The three newcomers seated themselves side by side on it, like patients in a doctor’s waiting-room.

  ‘Mind if I get on with my dinner? There’s a lot to be done before we leave on the evening tide.’

  He resumed his enjoyment of his steak puddings, although by now they had gone cold and greasy-looking. He didn’t seem to mind and talked as he ate.

  ‘Joss Varran? I heard about him. He was murdered near his home, wasn’t he?’

  He took a good drink from a large glass of stout at his elbow and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  ‘I can’t see that I’ll be much help to you about that. I haven’t seen Varran since he left the Mary Peters in London and landed himself in gaol. Nice mess he made of things for me, getting himself and two more of my crew remanded in custody. I’d to take on two fresh hands. He pleaded guilty to the charge of drunken violence, or something of the kind, so I wasn’t needed in court. I never saw him again alive.’

  ‘It’s about what happened before he made his last trip to London that we’re concerned now. What date would that be?’

  ‘A year last March . . .’

  He turned and took a dog-eared notebook from a drawer in a chest behind him. Licking his forefinger he slowly turned over the pages.

  ‘Here we are. March 28th.’

  ‘You run a regular schedule of services?’

  ‘We do. Twice weekly each way, with occasional runs to London as circumstances arise.’

  The captain, having finished his main meal and disposed of with apparent relish a piece of revolting apple tart, took out a short pipe and lit the remains of his last smoke.

  ‘How long had Varran been with you?’

  ‘About two years before they gaoled him. He was with us almost from the beginning of these Preston-Ramsey runs. We only started them about four years ago, mainly container traffic.’

  ‘What did he do before that?’

  ‘A casual deck-hand. He was a restless sort of chap. Never in one job for long. He seemed more settled after I took him on. You see, it gave him a chance of getting home more frequently. Not that he was what I’d call a home-bird, but he seemed attached to Ramsey and its locality.’

  ‘Could you give us some clearer details of Varran’s movements immediately prior to his imprisonment?’

  Captain Buckle consulted his grubby little book again and Knell took down the details he patiently read out from it.

  March 23rd Preston-Ramsey. 22.00

  Varran went ashore at Ramsey, with permission.

  24th Varran aboard again, 7.0 a.m.

  25th Ramsey-Preston 3.0 a.m.

  26th Preston-London 11.00 a.m.

  28th London, 18.00

  ‘I’ve got fuller details in the log . . .’

  ‘Leave them for the time being. We’ll ask you later if we need them,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Varran was with two of his shipmates when he was arrested?’

  ‘Yes. The other two were remanded, but got off with fines. It was Varran who was violent. The other two were charged with being drunk and disorderly.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Sam Carran and Charlie Bott.’

  ‘Still members of your crew?’

  ‘Bott is. He’s a good man. No reason for holding his escapade against him. Sailors like their little fling ashore. Sam Carran got a job on Liverpool docks. He said he was tired of the sea, but I think his wife had a finger in the change.’

  ‘Is Bott around?’

  ‘He’s probably on deck.’

  ‘May we have him in?’

  Captain Buckle wobbled to the door and put his head out of the cabin.

  ‘Bott! Bott!’

  There was a lot of incoherent shouting outside as Buckle’s voice rang round the quayside. Several dogs started to bark.

  A little slip of a man in old trousers and a seaman’s jersey put his head round the door. He squinted at the assembled party and looked ready to run away again.

  ‘Come in, Bott.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The police want a word with you, Bott.’

  Bott had been drunk the night before and wondered if he’d been disorderly again, although he couldn’t remember it. He fixed his eyes anxiously on the Archdeacon, as though he might have broken the law of God as well as men.

  ‘Well, come in. They’re not after you, although judging from the looks of you, you might have been up to something.’

  ‘I haven’t done a thing, Captain. I swear . . .’

  ‘Shut up and listen. They want to see you about Varran.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know he was out.’

  ‘Will you be quiet and answer their questions. Nobody said you murdered Varran. It’s about the brawl you joined in on the London docks.’

  ‘Tell us exactly what happened, Bott. Who started it all?’ said Littlejohn.

  ‘It was Varran, sir. He’d never been like that before. The funny thing was he�
�d not had all that much to drink. I’ve seen him nice and peaceable on far more than he had that night. If he’d wanted to get himself put inside, he couldn’t have been worse. He deliberately provoked a Welshman who was a friendly chap, just taking his drink quietly. He kept saying that one Manxman was as good as three Welsh. Over and over again. In the end the man hit him. I’d have done the same myself. And that started it. They went outside to settle it and on the way, Varran picked up an empty bottle and smashed it so that he had the jagged neck in his hand. Well . . . Sam Carran and me got hold of Varran and tried to stop him. There was a mix-up, others joining in, and the police were there in no time. As I said, if Varran had wanted to get himself a stretch in gaol, he couldn’t have done more. The rest of us got fines, but the broken bottle and Joss’s previous record for drunkenness went against him. You see, he went for the police with the bottle, too. Lucky they got him before he did some real damage, although there was blood about.’

  ‘Had you and Varran been shipmates long?’

  ‘Two years about.’

  ‘Had he been behaving badly or queerly before the affair at London docks?’

  ‘He’d been jumpy. As a matter of fact, him and Carran, who was a good shipmate of Varran’s, had had a row only a few days before.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Something and nothing. Carran said Varran was suggestin’ that he was a thief. It all blew over.’

  ‘Why was Carran a thief, Bott?’

  ‘He wasn’t. Never a man more honest.’

  ‘What was all the fuss about, then?’

  Bott was chewing what might have been tobacco. He paused in his chewing, as he tried to remember exactly what, had happened. Then, he began again with a curious twisting thrust of his jaw.

  ‘It’s a long time since and I’m trying to remember how it all started. Varran was a bit late aboard. We were due to sail at ten, I seem to recollect, and he was only just in time. He arrived, carrying a white parcel, like a pillow-slip, full of something . . .’

  ‘Was he drunk?’

  ‘No. Which was unusual. He was always at least half drunk when he’d been long ashore. He’d had a drink, I know, but that was all. I remember he took a good swig of rum that he kept in a bottle in his locker, when he arrived. Then he tucked the parcel in his bunk under the blankets. He wasn’t as a rule so careful about his kit. Matter of fact, he always left his things lying about. That’s what Carran remarked about. He asked him what was so precious that he needed to tuck it away in bed. Joking like. Varran flared up and they’d a real row.’