Everybody had forgotten the man with the bowler hat who'd first found Crennell.
"I thought he was drunk when I first put a sight on 'im, and then it came to me that somethin' was wrong."
The sergeant questioned him and gave it up as a bad job. The man in the bowler didn't know a thing about the murder. All he'd done was trip over the body.
At just before eleven, the flying squad arrived from Douglas. Photographers, fingerprint men, detectives, and an Inspector from the C.I.D., officially in charge and unofficially known as 'Nellie' because his name was Knell. A tall, thin, angular man, wearing a raincoat and a slouch hat with the brim turned down all round.
Half a dozen people started to tell Knell all about it right away.
"All right, all right . . . One at a time."
Photographs were taken and then the body was moved to the town morgue. The crowd dispersed and the police party turned in at the police station.
"He didn't get home till dusk. He'd been missin' for a while and finally Scotland Yard picked him up wanderin' in London. They sent an officer across with him and we thought it was safe to leave him at home with Mrs. Cottier. Who could have wanted to kill a harmless old man like Finlo Crennell? Why, he wouldn't hurt a fly. . . ."
The sergeant was angry about it. He and Crennell had been buddies when the ex-harbourmaster had been in office.
"Mrs. Cottier came here in great trouble just before nine. It seems Finlo had been quiet and well-behaved after the doctor left him, so she thought, as he was accustomed to havin' his glass of beer at night, she'd go and fetch him one. She locked the door when she went and when she got back, he'd opened it and wandered out. She came straight here and I went back with her. Somebody must have followed Finlo when he left home and killed him. But why? That's what I keep askin' myself. Why?"
Knell looked profound.
"That's what we've to find out. Now, the officer from Scotland Yard. Did he go back?"
He pondered.
"No. He couldn't, could he? There's no boat till Monday and all the 'planes are grounded on account of the fog."
"It was a senior man . . . Littlejohn . . . Chief Inspector Littlejohn. It seems he was sent on account of his knowing the Island. He's gone to stay with the Archdeacon at Grenaby for the night. . . . "
"Littlejohn!"
Knell leapt to his feet and rubbed his bony hands together.
"Littlejohn! What a stroke of luck! He's a great friend of mine. Ring up Grenaby right away. . . . Well? What are you waiting for? Get Littlejohn on the 'phone for me."
Knell was so delighted at the news that he forgot that he was on a murder case and performed a little step-dance with excitement and glee.
3
SUNDAY MORNING
IT was one o'clock when Littlejohn arrived at Castletown police station in the official car they'd sent to Grenaby for him. Only with difficulty did he manage to persuade his venerable friend the Archdeacon to stay at home on account of the bad night and the full day's work of the Sunday.
The thin rain still hung over everything and fell in large drops from the trees. It gave the sounds of the night a smothered tone; the fog-horn, the loud bellowing of a cow, and the bark of a dog as the car passed a farm, all sounded to be coming from under a blanket. The police car was warm and comfortable, for the driver in honour of his distinguished companion, had switched on all the gadgets. Heater, de-mister, de-froster, fog-lamp, special windscreen wipers. All going full blast.
"You quite comfortable, sir?"
In spite of the cosy vehicle, the smell of the damp air penetrated. Dead leaves, wet earth, and the faint scent of mushrooms.
The little police station at Castletown was like a power-station functioning smoothly whilst everyone outside slept. Not a soul about in the streets, or the harbour, or the waterfront. The silhouette of the huge castle seemed to stand guard over the sleeping town. Odd street lamps shone through the mist, there was a light in one of the banks to enable the constable on the beat to see if the safe was intact, and a window in a front room of the hotel in the square was illuminated. The occupant had just wakened from a bad dream and had switched on to reassure himself. That was all.
"After all, it's as much your case as ours, isn't it, sir? You were a sort of bodyguard for him, weren't you?"
Detective Inspector Knell was convincing Littlejohn beforehand that he ought to stay and see the case through. Knell was so delighted at finding himself again on an inquiry with Littlejohn, that his usually lugubrious face shone with pleasure and well-being.
This was the first case of any importance that Knell had been engaged on since his promotion to Inspector. The Superintendent had told him to get on with it until they could arrange with Scotland Yard for Littlejohn to assist.
"It'll be like old times to serve under you again, sir."
Littlejohn felt the same. He'd always been fond of Knell. A polite and proper young officer who didn't pretend he knew everything.
"Did you find out the name of the boat that left Castletown the night Finlo Crennell vanished?"
"Yes, sir. It was a timber boat from Amsterdam. The Rijswijk."
Knell read the name from his notebook and he looked to be chewing gum as he pronounced it.
"She went out on the night tide in ballast, calling for a cargo in London. We get a few of them coming here. A small boat."
Littlejohn slowly filled and lit his pipe.
"Crennell left here on October 28th and turned up in London on November 5th. Eight days. . . ."
He picked up the telephone on the desk and asked for Scotland Yard.
"Littlejohn here. Any news yet about boats in the port of London from the Isle of Man on the night Finlo Crennell was found in Whitechapel. . . ? Yes, Crennell, Superintendent Jenks' case. You might ask about the Rijswijk, R-I-J-S-W-I-J-K. Got it? When did she get in, where was she from, and where did she go to? Let me know as soon as you can, thanks. . . ."
There were four of them in the police station. Littlejohn, Knell, the sergeant in charge, and a constable. Lights shone out from the windows and came to a dead end in the mist. The weather seemed to paralyse everything. Nothing to search the streets for, nobody to question, no clue to follow. Just a blank from the start.
The police surgeon hadn't performed an autopsy. The bullet had passed right through the skull and out, and might have been fired from an army automatic.
"Whoever did it wasn't going to make a mistake the second time."
The doctor was the first to suggest in actual words that Crennell's first accident had been a put-up job.
The four men in the police station were quiet. The mood of the small hours and the weather outside had fallen on them. Now and then the constable yawned. The sergeant was busy making a report. On the table, four cups drained to the dregs of tea. Littlejohn after his two days of travel with Finlo Crennell, felt like falling asleep as he sat there. His eyes wandered to Knell's face. Marriage seemed to suit him. He looked happier and was putting on weight. His cheeks were fuller.
The telephone made them all jump.
Scotland Yard had been quick on the job.
The Rijswijk had arrived in London on October 30th, taken general cargo aboard, and left for her home port on November 3rd.
Littlejohn raised his eyebrows.
"Didn't they report picking-up Crennell at Castletown? You'd better inquire from the dock police then. And get the district stations to go the rounds of the dockside pubs and lodging-houses to see if anybody answering to Crennell's description stayed there between October 30th and the fifth of November, when our men found him rambling around Whitechapel. It might be worth a call to Amsterdam to ask the master of the Rijswijk why he didn't report about his passenger. Let us know first thing in the morning, if you can. . . ."
Littlejohn stood for a minute with his hands in his pockets, his pipe in the corner of his mouth. The rest watched him, waiting for a verdict of some kind. There was nothing much to be said. A smiling harbourmaster,
a blow on the head, a shot in the night, and the captain of a Dutch timber boat who hadn't reported picking up an unconscious man and taking him all the way to London and there presumably losing him. . . .
It was going to be a complicated case by the looks of it.
Things didn't work in this quiet little town as they did at Scotland Yard. No midnight autopsy; Finlo Crennell would have to rest in the morgue until the doctor had time for him. No flying-squad spreading out the net right away and bringing in a motley assortment of the dead man's friends and associates; they could wait until to-morrow. They couldn't get far; no 'planes on account of the weather, no packet boat until Monday morning.
"I think we'll call it a day."
Knell drove Littlejohn back to Grenaby. As they entered the car he sniffed the air.
"It should clear by morning. There's a bit of a wind already. You can tell by the way the foghorn doesn't sound as plain."
All Littlejohn felt he needed was a good night's sleep and he wasn't going to get one. It was three o'clock already.
"Did you know Crennell well, Knell?"
"Moderately. I did a spell in Castletown as a constable. He was harbourmaster then and we met quite a lot. Always a nice sort of chap. Harmless. Did his work well and never made an enemy. I can't understand why all this bad luck has come to him just at a time when he ought to have been enjoying retirement. . . ."
Past a farm with lights showing in the cowshed, and then the cry of a cow in calf.
". . . I could do with your help, sir. Think they'll let you stay?"
Littlejohn smiled to himself. Good old Knell! Never afraid to admit his limitations.
"I daresay it'll be all right if the usual formalities are arranged. Scotland Yard is interested in Crennell, after all. I think we can fix it."
They ran downhill and over the bridge at Grenaby. The mist hung over the river, which swished between the stone piers. Then quietness. All the windows of the cottages dark, just the fanlight of the parsonage throwing out a thin beam.
"Drop me this side of the gate, Knell. We don't want to wake the parson. Good night. See you first thing in the morning."
"Good night, chief. I'll call for you around ten."
Chief! Knell had given Littlejohn the top job in the investigation already!
The car whined slowly back up the hill and quietness descended again. Littlejohn stood at the gate for a minute and listened to the melancholy drip of rain from the old trees. Funny the effect this place had upon him. His duties had taken him all over the world, but Grenaby always seemed to be waiting for him, as though he'd been there before and wanted to get back.
The dead leaves rustled under his feet as he made his way to the door. They had given him a key, but Maggie Keggin was waiting for him with some sandwiches and coffee.
"Master Kinrade would have stopped up for ye, sir, but I packed him off with a sleepin' tablet. To-morrow's his busy day. Come to think of it, it's Sunday now."
Littlejohn awoke at eight in the morning, had a bath, and started to shave himself. He hung his shaving mirror to the fastener of the window because the light was poor. He had slept well and spent a long time in the hot water. The clock in the hall struck nine as he wiped the lather from his face.
Knell had been right. The weather had changed. The rain had gone, there was a breeze blowing, and it was colder. Through the window Littlejohn could see the road. The surrounding trees were gaunt and leafless and let in a thin wintery light. The sky was blue and looked as if it had been shampooed. High white clouds scurried across it and hung over the sweeping hills visible through the bare branches.
A land-girl drew up in a milk-cart drawn by a stocky little horse, and Maggie Keggin sent her back for another bottle of milk because they had 'company' at the vicarage. Along the road a group of children dawdled to morning Sunday school.
Archdeacon Kinrade was eating a good meal of ham and eggs when Littlejohn joined him.
"Morning, Inspector. What news after your night's work?"
"None, sir. But Knell is calling for me at ten. I'm sorry I'll have to miss your sermon this morning."
Maggie Keggin gave him a black look.
"Workin' on Sunday! No good'll come of it . . . . "
She was dressed in her best black.
"Did you happen to know much about Finlo Crennell, parson? He's said to have been a decent chap without enemies, but someone must have wanted him out of the way badly. . . ."
The Archdeacon laid down his knife and fork.
"I've known him for more than forty years and always found him a very nice fellow. I've known him even better since he gave up the sea and settled to his job in Castletown. He lost his wife about ten years ago. I must confess they didn't get on very well together. She nagged him a lot and he was heard more than once wishing he'd never left the sea. Still, that hasn't anything to do with this case. . . "
"Any children?"
"No. Two nephews, I think. One in Canada and the other in Castletown, a linesman on the telephones. A decent man."
"Much money?"
"I don't think so. He'd his pension, of course, but I never heard he'd much more beside. Mrs. Cottier is a distant relative and has kept house for him since his wife died. What Crennell did in his spare time, I don't know. Probably just hung around the port and gossiped. . . ."
Parson Kinrade looked Littlejohn earnestly in the eyes.
"You'll be staying to see this thing through, Littlejohn?"
"I suppose so, sir. Knell is on the case and he seems to want it. He's probably got it all fixed up already. . . . "
The complete answer drew up at the gate in the shape of a police car from which Knell stepped and jauntily walked up the path from the gate. It was obvious he had already settled it all.
"Is the chief in?"
Maggie Keggin, annoyed by his furious assault on the bell, met him sternly on the doorstep.
"Who?"
"The Chief Inspector. . . . "
"Why don't you call him by his proper name, then? And what's all this about taking him to work on Sunday?"
"Come in, Knell. Come in."
The parson's voice put an end to the ordeal.
"Had your breakfast?"
Knell rubbed his bony hands.
"Yes, sir. Good and early."
"That's good, because there isn't any left!"
Mrs. Keggin fired the parting shot as she closed the door.
Knell couldn't hold his news.
"It's all fixed up, sir. Scotland Yard told the Chief Constable they'd be much obliged if you'd stay and see the end of the Crennell case. . . . "
"Much obliged, eh? That's a new one!"
"Well, words to that effect, sir."
He paused and took out his notebook for refreshment.
"There's also one or two items of information from the Yard, chief. They're busy combing the likely places where Crennell might have dossed after he left the boat."
The parson raised his eyebrows.
"Dossed? I don't remember teaching you that word when I gave you lessons in English, Reggie?"
"Nautical word for lodging or sleepin', sir. In common use among sailors. But there's more serious news from Amsterdam, sir. London rang up the Dutch police. The Rijswijk reached Amsterdam on November 5th, in the afternoon. The same night Captain Leeuwens, the master, was found drowned in the river with a nasty blow on the head. So there'll be no explanations about Mr. Crennell from him. . . . "
They had to explain to the impatient vicar what it was all about.
"It would have to happen on Sunday," was the reply.
Everything was more cheerful on the way back to Castletown. As though a melancholy blanket had been lifted from everything. November sunshine, people chatting and cheerful on their way to church, farmers busy getting done for their afternoon's relaxation, cars on the roads and off for the day already.
To look at Castletown, you'd think the last thing to happen there was murder. The Parade in front of the ch
urch was alive with churchgoing, idlers smoking at the corner of Arbory Street, milkcarts and newsboys busy on their rounds, and the town band climbing in a charabanc, their instruments bright, off to distant parts to play at a memorial service.
Last night's dismal happenings might have been a sordid nightmare dispelled when the fog lifted.
In the middle of a knot of loungers, the man who had found the body outside the Jolly Deemster was telling the rest all about it. Whenever a new-comer arrived, he started all over again.
"It was like this. . . . If I hadn't . . ."
"Here we are."
Knell sounded eager to be getting on with the job.
The neat little police station and the decent squad of local police. A fresh lot of men on duty this morning.
"Nobody to relieve us, eh chief?"
Knell's spirits were rising.
"Where do we start?"
"I don't know."
Littlejohn really didn't know. Sunday was almost as bad as the fog. Everything shut up, everybody in their Sunday best, and an atmosphere of sanctimoniousness which put paid to any real start.
"No good'll come of it," Mrs. Keggin had said, and it looked as if she was right.
Two murders now. Crennell and Leeuwens, and the Dutchman killed in the way somebody had originally tried on the Manxman. The second crime was the business of the Dutch police, but what they discovered might profoundly influence the Crennell affair.
"Where could we find Mrs. Cottier, Knell? She won't have spent the night alone in Queen Street, will she?"
"No, sir. She went to stay with her sister, Mrs. Christian. She lives on the promenade."
They crossed the lesser swing bridge. More idlers standing on the quayside, watching the swans and gulls which children were feeding. Everybody seemed to be celebrating the disappearance of the mist by taking an airing.
A pleasant Sunday morning. Littlejohn realized that this was one of the places he had neglected during his past visits to the Isle of Man. Well, he looked like getting plenty of it now!
They passed between groups of tall old houses, once opulent dwellings, now used for anything from offices to salesrooms and warehouses. Now and then, down alleys adjoining the property, the sea came in view.
Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 3
