"If you'll go and wait for me at the police station and go through the letters and find what the local men have done about them, I'll just slip along to Mr. Morrison's down Malew Street. He once owned a yacht called the Manninagh in which Cribbin seemed to take an interest, judging from a note in his diary. I'd like a bit of the history of that ship."
Littlejohn strolled through the pleasant main square again and in the direction of where he'd been told Morrison lived. A big house off Malew Street.
He had never quite so much as now appreciated the style of the property, large and small, of Castletown. Here it was, when the little town had been the administrative capital of the Island and the castle the governor's residence, that the garrisons, the officials, the remittance-men from the mainland had lived. And they had built their houses in the styles of home. Rows of neat Georgian terrace-houses, with stuccoed fronts, oblong sash-windows, neat panelled doors and fine porticos, bright brass knockers, and iron railings to their basements or small gardens. More pretentious small mansions, with walled gardens, pillared porches, well-proportioned and, in their prime, opulent-looking. They were like the familiar rows and blocks of Chelsea, which might even have been their prototypes, nostagically transplanted by exiles two hundred years or more ago.
After asking for the house from a pork butcher who was chasing a dog from his shop, Littlejohn at last found himself at the heavy double gates of the Morrison home.
Framley Lodge. The very name had a homesick sound. The place was certainly more than a hundred years old and probably had once been called something else. It was nearly a hundred years since Trollope had written of Framley, and perhaps some official newcomer or his wife had renamed the house to remind them of England, Barchester, Hogglestock and the rest.
A large, square, double-fronted house, with a pillared doorway, a long sweep of drive, a flight of stone steps to the front door, and fine old chestnut trees hiding it from the road. The lawns and flower-beds were well-kept and the fabric of the stuccoed building well-painted and in good repair. Littlejohn tugged the brass bell-pull and waited. An elderly maid opened the door and eyed him suspiciously.
"Yes?"
"Is Mr. Morrison at home? Chief Inspector Littlejohn."
He handed her his card.
"Come in. I'll see. . . ."
Littlejohn stood waiting in the large hall. It was like going back a century in time. To Trollope, in fact. Heavy prosperous furniture, thick luxurious red carpet, two portraits in oils of men who might have been wealthy bankers, and a wide staircase mounting in a graceful curve with a delicate handrail.
Morrison didn't send the maid to bring in Littlejohn; he came himself. He wore a suit of heavy grey Manx tweed and red leather carpet-slippers. He had a curved pipe between his teeth.
"Good morning, Inspector. So you've kept your promise to call. Come in. Coffee's just ready."
He put a hand on Littlejohn's shoulder and piloted him into a room on the left.
This was the library, a large panelled room with books filling three-quarters of the walls on three sides. Books which, by the looks of them, weren't read much, bound in calf and in uniform bunches. Books of the past, old histories, complete sets of novels, theologies, encyclopædias. But on the shelf which topped the book-case at eye level for a man of Littlejohn's build, stood an array of china figures, colourful and exquisite, scores of them. Bow, Staffordshire, Chelsea, Worcester, Meissen. They gave the heavy room a touch of feminine lightness and charm.
At one end, a large open grate with logs burning. Over the mantelpiece a very fine pair of Regency ormolu and glass wall-lights, and a bracket clock which was a collector's piece. A neat early eighteenth-century eight-light chandelier, converted to electric current, hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room. A deep carpet, a set of sturdy Queen Anne chairs with needlework panels in bright colours. The whole place held an atmosphere of wealth, good taste, and well-being.
There were two armchairs in front of the fire and between them, an invalid chair.
"This is my wife. . . ."
Littlejohn understood the china, the tapestries, the air of expert arrangement of the place when he saw Mrs. Morrison.
A frail shadow of one who once had been very beautiful. The bone formation of the features, the high fine nose, the large dark eyes, the forehead, all told of early loveliness, and the hands, now almost transparent, were long, slender and graceful in movement.
"You must forgive me. I'm tied to my chair, you see . . . ."
The gentle voice, the tired look about the eyes, the blue lips, the gentle resignation in the way she held herself, told of some deep, perhaps deadly illness against which she was bravely holding out.
Morrison hovered round her, all his aggressiveness of the day before at the Dandy Rig gone.
"I was just admiring, out of the corner of my eye, your fine collection of china, Mrs. Morrison."
"My collection. I can't lay claim to that. It was my sister, Louise, who gathered it all here long before she died. I'm afraid she spent nearly all her patrimony running about the country and the Continent in search of fine pieces. All I can do is cherish and protect it."
Her glance turned to a portrait in oils on the wall to the left. A beautiful woman in a late Victorian evening gown, who looked somewhat as Mrs. Morrison herself must have done in her prime.
"And the name of your house . . . Framley. . . ?"
"Yes. Trollope, of course. Aunt Louise this time. The house used to be called Ballagorry. Uncle Harry came over here as government secretary and he and Aunt Louise bought this place. It was the time Trollope was writing. They had no children and my parents were dead. I came later to live with them and they left me the house."
She began to breathe with difficulty. It was obvious the past was very dear to her and she grew excited as she spoke of it.
"You see, Belle, you're tiring yourself. Just rest. . . ."
Morrison spoke gently and solicitously, his own tired eyes watching his wife's every movement.
"She only comes down for two hours a day. She soon tires, don't you? When the spring comes back . . ."
His voice trailed away as though he knew there would never be another spring.
The elderly maid entered with coffee for the men and milk for Mrs. Morrison. Morrison himself continued to puff at his cold pipe.
"If you care to smoke, Inspector. . . ."
"No, Belle. I'm sure the Inspector won't mind. It's not good for you with smoke around. I'll put my own pipe away and then it won't tempt him. It's empty, you know."
"Please don't trouble about me, Mr. Morrison. I've smoked enough for one morning."
They drank their coffee.
"Is this an official visit, Inspector?"
"Semi-official, sir. You're sure Mrs. Morrison won't be upset? It can very well wait."
"I can't wait. I'm all agog, Inspector, to know what it's all about. Every time my husband goes out, I can hardly contain myself waiting for his return with news of the town and the Island."
"You've heard, then, that the husband of Crennell's daughter, Cribbin, was found murdered last night in Druidale?"
"Yes. A shocking business. What's to happen to his wife and children? Is there to be some fund to raise money for them, because if . . . ?"
Morrison looked at his wife.
"Yes. We must help."
"It may come to that later, sir, but now we're anxious to know all about Cribbin and his associates. The crime must be connected with Crennell's death and one solution may cover both. First, may I ask if Crennell worked for you long?"
"Yes. My father owned two boats here and I inherited them. From the age of fourteen, Crennell was on one or the other of our ships, the Lothan. . . . Manx for Northern Lights . . . and the Lhondoo . . . Manx for Blackbird. He ended up as first-mate and then took on the job of harbourmaster here. A very decent, god-fearing, charitable man of whom everyone speaks nothing but good."
"He also served in the Manninagh?"
Husband a
nd wife exchanged strange looks.
"What do you know of the Manninagh, Littlejohn?"
Morrison sounded annoyed, as though some secret had been probed.
"There was, among Crennell's papers, a photograph, which, I think, was taken at Cannes in 1929, with you, Crennell and others beside the Manninagh."
"Yes. Her maiden trip. She was my yacht."
"A present from his wife. . . . "
As she interjected it, there was a note of profound sadness in Mrs. Morrison's voice.
"That's all over, Belle. We said we'd never . . ."
"The Inspector wants to know all about the Manninagh, dear. You must tell him."
Morrison passed his hand across his face as though trying to wipe something into forgetfulness.
"She went down at Dunkirk. A direct hit and she was seen no more. All aboard were lost, including our younger son. Now you know. . . . "
Utter silence. The bracket clock ticked away the minutes. Morrison shook himself.
"The picture you saw was taken on her first trip. Crennell was skipper. A tout on the quay took the photograph. It was a good one."
Littlejohn hesitated before the next question. Then he made up his mind.
"How would Cribbin be interested in that trip, sir?"
Morrison turned to him with a jerk and a puzzled look in the dark eyes, which were a shade too close together.
"Cribbin? What, the man who was murdered? I don't know. Why?"
"Because, in a note-book we found in Cribbin's pocket after his death, was written Manninagh, 1929. There must be some connection."
Silence again, as though each were waiting for the other to speak.
Again the quiet voice of Mrs. Morrison.
"You might as well tell the Inspector, dear. He'll find out sooner or later. Scotland Yard always do."
"Oh, well. It won't do any good to the case. It can't do. I suppose Cribbin must have been nosing into past history, or something. Who told him, I don't know. Perhaps it was Crennell. After the maiden trip we got home in early November. A lovely voyage. It might have been June. We put in at Castletown and, naturally, there were high jinks, everybody in holiday mood, including ourselves and the crew, because she was such a lovely ship and we were safe home after a splendid run."
He told it slowly, almost reluctantly, but his wife's eyes on him made him keep on.
"Somebody brought cases of champagne. We had a little party on board. Crennell's wife wouldn't come. She was very strait-laced and I think she anticipated some kind of Bacchanalia with the wine. Her sister went with Crennell instead. Mary was wilder than her sister . . . much wilder. She didn't mind champagne. She drank quite a lot. Too much, in fact. So did Crennell. I think he did it to spite his wife for not coming. We left Finlo and Mary on board, alone. He was tidying up. The champagne and the excitement. They must have. . . ."
Mrs. Morrison seemed relentless now.
"Cribbin must have heard about it from someone. Hence the date. About nine months after, Nancy Gawne was born. That is all."
Morrison gathered up the coffee cups and put them back on the tray.
"So, you see, it couldn't have to do with the crimes. Cribbin probably just made a note of it."
"Yes. That's right, sir. It settles that point. I'm very grateful to you both for the explanation. By the way, did you know that Mary Gawne, now Mrs. Nimrod Norton, is on the Island again, staying with her husband at the Dandy Rig in Derbyhaven?"
"Yes, we knew. We haven't met her. She has forgotten all her old friends in the town. I think I saw her pass with her husband in their car. I wouldn't have known her. She's changed."
Yes, she had changed. From the high-spirited, adventurous girl who led the steady Finlo Crennell into mischief, into the quiet, cowed wife of the Big Shot, Nimrod Norton.
Littlejohn rose.
"I mustn't disturb you further, Mrs. Morrison. Thank you for your hospitality and for clearing up a little obscure point. I trust you'll soon be well again."
"I'm glad you came. It isn't often we get a real Scotland Yard Inspector here in Castletown. I read a lot of detective stories when I'm resting in bed. You are not like many of the detectives I meet in my books. Not ferocious enough. Too philosophic, if I may say so. A man who understands the tears of things."
Morrison laughed uneasily.
"Come, Belle. You're getting sentimental. Don't embarrass Littlejohn. . . . "
"I'm not doing that. He will find the solution all the same."
He left her, sitting patiently, her hands in her lap, waiting to be taken back to bed.
As he stood with Morrison in the hall, a car drew up to the door, a key turned in the lock, and a crowd of newcomers entered. A woman in a fur coat, holding by the hands a boy and a girl, twins by the look of them, and aged around four or five.
"My daughter, Barbara, and my grandchildren, twins . . . William and Louise. Shake hands with the Inspector, my dears.
"My daughter is over on a holiday. She lives in Salisbury. Her husband is a canon there. The Reverend William Grebe-Smith."
A fine blooming woman in her thirties, with all the grace of her mother. Tall, dark and very beautiful, as her mother must have been.
They shook hands and passed a casual word, and then Morrison saw Littlejohn to the gate.
"Come again, Littlejohn, when you feel like it. I think my wife enjoys your company. A real, live detective. She's lonely these days. Don't forget."
Littlejohn walked slowly back to the police station. The lovely face of Barbara Grebe-Smith, wife of the canon of Salisbury, haunted him. He wondered where he had seen her before.
8
NIGHT
MONDAY drew to a close. None of the day's events seemed to bring the detectives any nearer a solution of the two crimes. The High Bailiff of the Island, sitting in his capacity as Coroner for Inquests, adjourned the inquiry on Finlo Crennell and expressed his intention of holding a similar one next day in the case of Charlie Cribbin.
There was no more news from Scotland Yard about the Dutch angle of the case. When Littlejohn and Knell called at the Dandy Rig for lunch, the place was deserted. Nimrod Norton and his wife had taken Mrs. Cottier and Mrs. Christian to Kirk Michael to see Nancy and her family about arrangements for Charlie's inquest and the funeral which they hoped to hold at Ballaugh Old Church on the Wednesday afternoon.
The undertaker had claimed the body of Finlo Crennell.
It seemed that the curtain had fallen completely. Every one of the main actors had vanished from the scene, and the body as well.
Then one of the constables arrived with some news. Charlie Cribbin had been in Castletown on the night, at the very time Finlo Crennell had met his death. He had called in at the Trafalgar Inn, a fisherman's pub in the town, and stayed there until nine o'clock. The landlord, his wife, and several other customers had confirmed this. He had left, saying he must be getting home, just as the nine o'clock news was coming on.
Other bobbies, who had scoured the town for any hints of happenings on the night of the murder of Crennell, or on the chance of anyone having seen Finlo or Charlie around, had drawn a blank.
After lunch, Littlejohn felt the need of thinking things over, of trying to assemble in some kind of intelligent pattern the bits of odd information which had come his way in the brief course of his inquiries. He therefore left Knell in Castletown and drove back to Grenaby himself.
In the quietness of Archdeacon Kinrade's study, Littlejohn turned over the strange facts of the case, telling the parson of them, making notes on the back of an old envelope, talking as if to himself. It was mild outside, a soft day, and they even sat with the window open. Hardly a sound, but the rushing of the water under the bridge, the footsteps of a passer-by occasionally, a stray gunshot now and then, the rhythmic sound of Joe Henn, in his rambling house by the river, sawing and chopping-up a tree which had fallen. . . .
Finlo Crennell had a thousand pounds in his pocket, recently drawn from his Post Office account,
when the Rijswijk picked him up. Practically all the money he had in the world.
Charlie Cribbin was bankrupt, ready to be sold-up, owing money all over the place. He needed a thousand pounds to put him straight. Was he going to borrow it from Crennell?
"It's very likely Finlo would have given it to him. A most kindly and Christian man. I've known him nearly all his life. He was always religious."
From his own brief knowledge of Crennell, albeit the Manxman was not himself at the time, Littlejohn felt that the vicar's commentary was right.
Yet, Crennell had seduced his sister-in-law who lived under his own roof. Or, as Morrison had put it, after a jollification, on board the Manninagh. It was, somehow, quite out of character, although there was no telling what Crennell might have been like after a night of champagne drinking.
And his wife had apparently agreed to accept the situation. They had more or less adopted Mary's child, to the extent that she had run away with Tramper and left her sister and Finlo to bring up Nancy.
Charlie Cribbin. What about Charlie? Had he known Finlo was coming home to Castletown on Saturday night and turned up to claim the money Finlo had promised him before the Rijswijk carried him off? Or had Charlie known that his wife was sole residuary legatee under her father's will and that the money would be absolutely theirs when the old man died?
What had happened on the Manninagh years ago, just before Nancy Gawne had been born. Was Charlie Cribbin's note simply a reminder of his wife's history, or was it more significant?
The Big Shot, Nimrod Norton, too. He had married Mary Tramper, nee Gawne. He'd said he knew all her past history. Did he? He might know of the illegitimate Nancy, of the runaway affair with Tramper, and a lot more besides. But from all accounts, Mary and Tramper were almost penniless when they married, and soon after, suddenly blossomed out in business, running a car, Mary in a flashy fur coat. Who had provided the money? Was it Crennell, and where had he got it from?
"You know the Morrisons of Castletown, sir? I called there this morning."
The parson nodded.
"Yes. A very old family, with origins on the mainland, I believe. Very wealthy, but all their wealth hasn't been able to restore Mrs. Morrison to health. A charming woman, always. And one to whom death might come any time. Her heart is very bad and she's quite unable to walk. Their daughter married a very nice fellow, a canon of the church. Salisbury, I think. And their son is an Oxford don. A very clever boy . . . a classical scholar. Mrs. Morrison is very dear to them all. She has been the centre of the family and I don't know what Morrison will do when she dies. They are very attached."
Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 9
