"All right. There'd better not be many. We want our meal. We've got to get back to Kirk Michael to-night and Lord knows how the weather'll turn out. This is a pretty kettle of fish for a sick man, I must say. Get it over, then."
There was nobody else in the room and, as the waitress entered with another course, Mr. Norton angrily waved his hand at her in dismissal. The detectives stood at the table like applicants for jobs.
"You were born in Castletown, Mrs. Norton?"
"Yes. In Quay Lane. My sister, as well."
"You lived with Mr. and Mrs. Crennell when they married?"
"Yes. He was at sea and my sister wanted company."
"Did Mr. Crennell have any enemies then, or was he ever in trouble of any kind?"
Norton went on with his meal, busily eating his cold roast beef, trying to look as if he didn't care, but his slanting eyes were busy watching all that went on.
"No. Finlo was a good man. I don't think he ever had an enemy. Nobody had a bad word for him."
"What did he do at sea?"
"I think he started as a galley-boy and rose to second mate on a coaster. Then, he left to be harbourmaster here. He had his first-mate's ticket, you know."
"Was he ever master of a private yacht?"
A flicker of fear or uneasiness in the blue eyes and then,
"He always worked on one of the Morrison boats. They were Castletown owned. Mr. Morrison had a yacht and he manned it from his own sailors when he used it. Finlo went on one or two trips with the yacht."
"You've seen Nancy a time or two since you and your husband arrived?"
"Yes. My husband took me to-day, but, as he didn't want to go before, I hired a car."
"Did you know the farm wasn't paying?"
"Yes."
Mr. Norton struggled to empty his mouth.
"So did I. Cribbin wanted to borrow money from me, but I don't invest in farms. Told him so."
"When was that, sir?"
"Just before we came here. He wrote to me asking me to lend him a thousand pounds. The season had been bad, he said. I've been ill, as I said before. That stopped me considering it properly. I'd have turned him down flat, but my wife wouldn't let it drop. Didn't feel disposed to go and look into his affairs till to-day. Now, it's too late."
He returned to his meal.
"Better let her finish her meal now. We don't want to be here all night. We've to go to Kirk Michael."
"Do you think he was arranging to borrow the money elsewhere?"
Mrs. Norton looked timidly at her husband and then replied.
"He might have asked Finlo."
"Who would, doubtless, have let him have the money?"
"Certainly. But I'm sure Nancy would try to persuade him not to ask Finlo, because he was retired and living on his pension and his small savings."
"I see. Well, thank you for your help."
"Goodnight."
Mr. Norton applied the closure and rang the bell for the next course.
Knell and Littlejohn stood on the doorstep of the hotel for a minute and looked across the bay. The tide was in and had filled the harbour. The navigation lights shone on the breakwater. The hotel on Langness was closed, but a solitary window was illuminated, giving the place a haunted look. The lighthouse at Langness flashed its beam across the water. The curtained windows of the cottages glowed softly. Out at sea, the siren of a passing ship. They started out for Castletown.
No more news at the police station, only alarm and excitement at yet another murder. Knell and Littlejohn left for Grenaby, and Knell dropped his companion at the vicarage gate and went off home to Douglas, where he had lived since his marriage.
Littlejohn stood for a while, listening to the noise of the river and the distant voices of people leaving church. The air was clear there and stars were shining. An out-of-the-way place, but homely and serene after the tragedy and loneliness of the hills they had just left.
The vicar was not yet home, so Littlejohn, after telephoning to his wife, sat to wait in the study for him. The house was empty and silent. Mrs. Keggin had left the evening meal ready and gone with the parson to service.
The Chief Inspector put his hand in his pocket for his pipe and his fingers met the photograph he'd thrust there earlier in the day in Finlo Crennell's house. It seemed weeks since. He took it out and looked hard at it.
The group of men standing by the yacht in Cannes harbour. Crennell in his uniform, smiling, as usual. Morrison, the owner in his yachting cap, nautical jacket, and flannels. Two more hands. The boat itself was trim and white, worthy any day to tie up with the finest craft in Europe at Cannes.
The photograph was a sharp one and the name of the yacht was clear but diminutive. Littlejohn took out his pocket lens and examined it. Manninagh. He turned over the card. In pencil, Cannes, 1929.
With a start, Littlejohn opened the diary he had removed from the pocket of the dead man at Druidale that afternoon. Hastily he turned to the list of addresses again and the note scribbled alongside them.
Manninagh. October 1929.
7
THE FATE OF THE MANNINAGH
MONDAY was a good drying day. High clouds, clear blue sky, a stiff little breeze, and everybody's washing flapping on the lines, waving horizontally like bunting.
There had been a preliminary shower about dawn which had cleared away all the tarnish from the fog. The streets of Castletown were fresh and clean and even the old castle carried a well-washed look. The two narrow main streets which met in the square were filled with shoppers and delivery vans; shopkeepers were busy sweeping out their premises and arranging their windows. A kind of spring-cleaning was going on after the week-end's mist and damp.
When Littlejohn and Knell arrived at the police station as the castle clock indicated around 9.45 with its single finger, the officer in charge had almost done a day's work. He had a bewildered expression.
"Look at all these, sir. I just don't understand it all."
He waved six or seven letters in his large fist.
"Three people . . . separate people, have already confessed to the murder of Finlo Crennell and another four have solved the crime for us. To say nothin' of a dozen or more telephone calls askin' us what we're doin' to capture the criminal, as it's not safe to go out."
Littlejohn laughed and lit his pipe.
"You're not used to murder here, are you, Moore? You should see the post-desk at Scotland Yard every day. It needs a special department to sort out the wheat from the chaff. Sometimes we get a hint but for the most part the letters come from all the clever boys, the crackpots, and the malcontents of half the country. What have you got?"
I shot Finlo Crennell because he was in love with my wife. . . . I am waiting for you to call and arrest me and I will show you the shotgun I used. . . . Henry Geddes.
"Geddes is a bit potty. He's given himself up a time or two in connection with crimes we knew somebody else did. There's one here, too, like it. This chap's off his rocker, as well."
Another confession, only this time the motive was public service. Finlo Crennell had been swindling the harbour board of its dues for years. It was signed Pro Bono Publico.
"He thinks he's anonymous, but everybody in town knows who it is. Mortimer Skillicorn, an alcoholic."
Littlejohn turned over the letters. The ones telling the police how to do the job were a bit more interesting.
Have you asked the woman called Norton what her maiden name was and what she's doing in the same town as the man who once betrayed her? You'll find her at the Dandy Rig.
"Perhaps the writer's got something there, although we're well aware of it all. What's this?"
Why don't you ask Charlie Cribbin what he was doing in Castletown on Saturday night? Funny his illegitimate father-in-law should be murdered just as Charlie was around?
"This was written before news of Charlie's death got about. I must say our correspondents have got quickly off the mark."
"Yes, sir. All the envelopes we
re local. Five were pushed under the door here; the others must have been posted yesterday and the post office brought them in specially after the collections."
"Well, Moore, I'd like you and your colleagues to get round in Castletown and try to find out if Cribbin actually was here on Saturday night. Most likely one of the pubs will have seen him. . . . "
"Very good, sir. Shall I file the letters?"
"Yes. Look into them all, though. It wouldn't do for us to get a real confession, ignore it, and then, after a week or so, find ourselves led by other hard-working ways to the very doorstep of the confessed criminal. As for the rest of the good advice, we'll look after it."
One anonymous writer had indicted Mrs. Cottier, point blank. Another had again accused Mrs. Nimrod Norton of murdering her brother-in-law in connection with what was described as the mysterious death of the late Mrs. Crennell, which had all the signs of poisoning.
"Let's go and talk to Mrs. Cottier again about Mrs. Nimrod Norton, Knell. Funny, she didn't tell us she was staying at Derbyhaven. You'd think that Mrs. Christian, living on the road there, would surely have seen them passing."
But Mrs. Christian hadn't.
They found the two sisters sitting at the table writing letters. A bottle of ink between them, as they sat facing one another on opposite sides, a cheap writing-pad apiece, and a scratchy pen. To see them dipping alternately in the inkpot reminded Littlejohn of a rhythmic game or of the monotonous little endless processes carried-on in mass-production workshops. A small boy admitted the detectives.
"We're just sendin' out invitations to the funeral, which is to-morrow. The inquest's this afternoon. Walter's boy, Fred here, is going to take them round the town when we've finished them."
"And I'm gettin' twopence hal' penny a letter, like the post," added the bright lad.
"We've a lot of relatives and friends of ours on the mainland to write to as well."
There was a pause in the correspondence.
"Did you want anything?"
"Of course they want something. What else should they call for?"
Mrs. Christian was getting annoyed with her plaintive sister.
"You've heard that Charlie Cribbin died yesterday, Mrs. Cottier?"
The late Finlo's housekeeper was suddenly seized with such a fit of trembling that she had to lay down the pen. Her fingers were all covered in ink.
Mrs. Christian made clicking noises with her tongue.
"You shouldn't have mentioned it. Since the news arrived at eight o'clock, I've been able to do no good with her. She thinks she'll be the next. I'd only just got her settled, and now you come and start her off all over again."
Mrs. Cottier made wailing noises and her teeth chattered.
"Somebody's goin' to wipe us all out. Mark my words. As soon as poor Finlo's laid to rest, I'm goin' off the Island. I'm not havin' my throat cut in my bed."
"Be quiet! Nobody's going to cut your throat. The police are here, aren't they? Who'd want to kill you? You haven't done anything."
Whereupon Mrs. Christian rose, uncorked the bottle labelled Mixture, filled up a tablespoon with the transparent contents, rammed it down her sister's throat, and took a good dose herself. Then she administered another half spoonful apiece for makeweight.
"Pull yourself together."
Mrs. Cottier hiccoughed to show she was doing her best.
"A secret recipe of my grandfather's," explained Mrs. Christian. "A tonic and pick-me-up."
Littlejohn could have recited the prescription from the aroma which was slowly filling the room.
The remedy seemed to have an immediate effect on Mrs. Cottier. She drew herself up and denounced Mrs. Christian.
"And don't you keep pickin' on me. I know they called to see me, so why do you keep interferin'? Speak when you're spoke to. This is my murder business and I'll have you know it."
Mrs. Christian rose, breathed heavily, and looked ready to start a scene like one of long ago between Betsy Prig and Sairey Gamp.
"Do you mind, Mrs. Christian?"
Mrs. Cottier took another dose of the Mixture, this time without the assistance of the spoon.
"Yes. Do you mind?" she said.
Whereat Mrs. Christian rose with great dignity, put on her hat and coat, took out a large purse from one of the drawers of the congested furniture, and made for the door.
"I'm going to do some shopping. I hope you'll realize the wrong you've done me when you come-to. For myself, I forgive you. You're under the influence of drugs, not being used to overdoses of grandfather's tonic like I am. I'll come back when I'm wanted."
The door slammed and they were left in peace.
"What did you want to see me about, Mr. Littlejohn?"
"Just this, Mrs. Cottier. Do you know that Mrs. Norton, who was Mary Gawne in the old days, is staying on the Island at present; in fact, at Derbyhaven. She's been there for a couple of weeks."
"No! I never knew. And believe me or believe me not, if I'd known, I'd have told you before this. It's so long since . . . I wouldn't know her now."
"You knew she'd married again? She's Mrs. Nimrod Norton now. Has been for some years."
"I didn't know that either. I've never heard a word or put a sight on her since she came over with that Tramper man she married, just after the war."
"Funny. They must have been knocking around Castletown. And they presumably pass here every day they go far afield. They have a big saloon car."
"As God's my judge, I didn't know about it. Either her bein' here or married again. Did Tramper die?"
"Presumably. Hasn't Mrs. Christian seen them either?"
"She's not said nothin'. But then, she was in Ramsey till last Friday, where she was nursin' a sister of her late husband for a month. So it's not to be wondered at if she didn't see them."
Either her sister's absence or the power of the Mixture was making Mrs. Cottier much more bright and talkative.
"I suppose you two gentlemen will be comin' to Finlo's funeral. We'd take it as a favour if you would. There'll be a lot of people there, an' if they put a sight on the pair of you and know who you are, it'll look as if we're doin' our best about the murder."
"We'll come."
Knell looked a bit put-out. He was wondering whether or not he ought to wear a black suit, or uniform. If they went in black, he'd have to borrow one from his brother-in-law.
"I'd like to know a bit more detail about Mrs. Norton, or Tramper, or Gawne, or whatever she's been called from time to time. How did she meet Tramper, in the first place?"
Mrs. Cottier thought for a minute.
"He was a commercial traveller who did the rounds of the Island. He used to stay in Castletown from time to time. Mary was in a shop and Tramper called there sellin' his things. Smallwares, I think it was. Any rate, he was a no-good sort. Hardly a penny to bless himself with. His landlady told me that. Had to borrow from 'er till his firm sent him out some money."
"Yet, when you saw them after the war, they seemed nicely-off, you said. Fur coat, and all that."
"Yes. They set-up in business after they married. Liverpool way, I believe."
"Who provided the money for the business? Tramper was hard-up. Had Mary any money of her own?"
"Not that I'd know. But then, of course, it was before I properly knew Finlo and his family. Don't you think you'd better ask Mary if she's at Derbyhaven? She's the only one who'll know now. All the rest are dead and gone."
She sniffed back her tears.
"Are you comin' to the inquest?"
"I think not. It will be adjourned, unless there's an open verdict. We know the details of the case and we're rather busy. The coroner will let us know all about it."
There was then an interruption in the shape of a small, battered car which drew up at the front door. A heavy man in blue overalls with a grey jacket over them and a bowler hat topping the lot, descended. He had a heavy red face, heavy boots, and a heavy gait. In fact, everything about him was heavy.
"I
t's Walter. Finlo's nephew. What's he want?"
The door opened and the new-comer started to talk before he saw the policemen.
"'Ello, 'ello, 'ello! Just passin', so I thought I'd jest pop in and put a sight on ye, Mrs. Cottier, and ask if you wanted any 'elp. Oh. . . . Didn't know you'd got visitors. 'Ope I'm not in the way."
They were then joined by Walter's young son, who had returned from delivering his first batch of funeral invitations.
"Take yer cap off," said Walter sharply to his offspring.
"Ten letters at twopence hal' penny," said young Fred, as though his parent hadn't spoken.
"I just called to see if you're takin' Uncle Finlo in chapel before the cemetery. We ought to, you know."
"We'll be going," said Littlejohn.
"Don't let me intrude."
It was obvious that once they'd left, Walter would start throwing his weight about as nearest relative.
"Well, that's not yielded much," said Knell as they stood outside on the promenade again.
"We know now that there was money from somewhere when Mary Gawne and Mr. Tramper married and started in business. Neither of them had much. Did they get it from Finlo Crennell, who, after all, must have owed Mary a debt for landing her with an illegitimate child? Or did he think he'd done his share when he adopted Nancy?"
They trudged back along the road to Castletown, the road which had become so familiar that the people of shops and houses on the way now greeted them or waved a friendly hand, as if they'd known Littlejohn and Knell all their lives.
A coaster was tied-up at the basin as they reached the waterfront; a Ramsey boat which brought coal from the mainland. The new harbourmaster was standing talking to the captain; the customs officer was smoking at the door of the customs-house; the custodian of the castle in his trim uniform had come to the gate for a breath of fresh air. Life was going on in its easy, pleasant way, just as it presumably had done for Finlo Crennell when he was there. Two lorries were taking on barrels of beer at the brewery on the quayside; a large bus came to a halt at the swing-bridge and turned about, because the bridge wouldn't bear its weight. Two children fed the swans in the river. Just the same as always.
Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 8
