"A shipowner, I believe."
"Used to be, until he sold his ships and retired to look after his wife. A family of shipowners for generations."
"Do you remember his yacht, the Manninagh, sir?"
"Yes, vaguely. He spent a lot of time on her in the old days. She was lost at Dunkirk with the second son aboard. A great tragedy in their lives and one which I'm afraid has hastened Mrs. Morrison's end."
Maggie Keggin brought in tea and they were still discussing the case. Over and over again, the same points, the same obscurity.
Why did Charlie Cribbin make the trip to Castletown? Had he called for his money and had Crennell, in his disordered state, proved awkward? But Cribbin was hardly the kind to turn out armed with a heavy army pistol and use it on his benefactor. And who had caught Charlie unawares in the old house and shot him with a similar, or the same, weapon? Did Charlie know something about his wife's past or about Mary Gawne, which hadn't been generally known? If so. . . . Nimrod Norton. . . . Littlejohn kept coming back to the volatile, ill-tempered, slant-eyed Norton. What was he doing in the Isle of Man at all? He didn't look ill, and yet he said he was there for his health. As soon as Norton had arrived, things had started to happen. Crennell knocked out on the quay, wandering about in London, back to the Island again and then . . . a shot in the brain. And Charlie Cribbin had been next on the list. Both of them closely connected with Nancy.
"I'll have to tackle Norton and his wife and get a full account of their affairs. Norton keeps bullying and dodging the issue. And I must talk to Mrs. Cottier, too. The picture isn't clear in my mind. There are gaps in Crennell's makeup I just don't understand."
"You'll leave it till to-morrow, Littlejohn?"
The parson was wanting a night of slippers and pipes in front of the fire. Pity to disappoint him.
"I'm afraid not, sir. I'd better be getting back. The funeral to-morrow will upset things. I'll stay in Castletown overnight. I'm anxious to get the atmosphere of the place. Crennell met his death in those narrow, dark streets. I want to see them for myself. Where shall I stay? I'll be back in the morning, sir."
Archdeacon Kinrade sighed. He was eager to join in the chase, and here was Littlejohn . . .
"The Governor's Arms in the main square. I'll ring up for a room if you like."
Yes; they could let Littlejohn have a front room at the Governor's Arms. One evening only? The landlord didn't seem very enthusiastic about it. All the same, seeing that it was the Archdeacon. . . . Would the gentleman want dinner?
Littlejohn put on his hat and coat. He'd have preferred a night in the company of his ripe old friend, by the fireside with a glass of grog apiece, but the confusion of the notes he'd taken, the cross-trails which didn't seem to lead anywhere . . . He felt he couldn't rest until he saw the way clear.
The Chief Inspector drove back to Castletown along the old familiar road. Dusk was falling and there was a change of wind which boded no good for the weather. As he topped the rise and the sea came in view, Littlejohn could see the shortening visibility, the low woolly clouds rolling in. Another night of damp and mist. Even as the thought entered his head, the fog-horn at Langness started to bleat.
The Governor's Arms stood in the Market Place, a solid, stone-built hotel, with a large doorway and iron balconies outside the front bedrooms. There was hardly a soul about as he took his bag indoors. The landlord wore flannels and a suède windjammer jacket and was drinking at the bar with a man who looked like a commercial traveller. After Littlejohn had signed the register the landlord grew more interested. He'd expected a parson. New Scotland Yard. . . . He hastened to take the Inspector's luggage and carried it up to his bedroom. On the way they passed a woman with a small child in her arms. There was a perambulator in the hall.
The room felt cold as though long unoccupied. The landlord, a tall, thin, heavily-moustached man of middle age, asked him if he'd like a fire, or a hot-water bottle in the bed. All in a dull, detached voice, as though his mind were on football pools, smuggling, or the bottles in the bar instead of innkeeping. He switched on an electric fire and left Littlejohn to his own devices.
The fire died away almost as soon as the landlord had turned his back and Littlejohn had to put another shilling in the slot to bring it back to life. A large double bed with brass knobs, a wash-basin with running water, notices on the walls . . . Times of Meals . . . No Washing Clothes in Bedrooms. In the room above a baby started to cry.
Littlejohn went down to the bar and ordered a whisky to warm him up. The commercial traveller had gone and the landlord was alone with his wife, a chubby little woman with hennaed hair, who, judging from the photographs on the walls, had been somehow or other connected with the stage. Portraits of variety artists autographed in stupid, gushing terms. All my love to Gertie, Gus. To my charming Gert, with loving wishes, from Carol. Memories of never-to-be-forgotten days with Gertie, Love from Linda. . . . Love by the bucketful!
"My wife used to be on the halls. . . . Ever heard of the Spider Lady? Contortionist. That's 'er."
Funny in what strange places people fetched-up. Here in Castletown was the woman Littlejohn had seen years ago at the Holborn. Under a green light, walking on all-fours like a crab, with her limbs tied in knots. Now she was so solid she could hardly move.
"You here on the Crennell murder?"
"Yes. Helping the local police."
"What could anybody want to kill a harmless chap like him for? We've been here three years. Came over from London for my health . . . thinkin' of going back in spring. Too quiet for us. I was sayin', Crennell was a harmless old buffer. The landlord at the Jolly Deemster's a friend of mine. Crennell used to go there for his pint every night, regular as clockwork. Sometimes he'd make up a four at cards. But a quiet and kind sort of chap. Beats me. You'll want dinner. . . . Seven o'clock, say?"
"Right."
Everywhere the same. Even comparative strangers thought well of Finlo Crennell. Littlejohn put on his hat and coat again, turned up his collar, and went into the square. The weather had changed completely. A soft sea mist was billowing about; you could almost feel it touch your face. Visibility about ten yards and the beams of the headlights of the police car met it and returned to dazzle you. Moisture gathered in small globules on Littlejohn's coat.
Knell was patiently waiting at the police station. No more news. Littlejohn handed over the car and told Knell to get home and have a change.
"Take your wife to the pictures, or something. You deserve a break."
"That's a good idea, sir. There's a good crime picture on."
That would be a change! Swift action, rough-houses and shooting, instead of patiently plodding along in this quiet old-world little town.
Littlejohn telephoned to the Dandy Rig. Norton wasn't yet back. He'd told the landlord there that he and his wife would be in for dinner. That was all.
The castle clock struck six. Outside, the town lights were on, confused, intermittent lamps in the mist. The fog-horn sounded, somewhere a bus started up, whined in low gear, and then sped away.
Everybody seemed to be indoors for the evening meal. Not a movement or a sound in the Market Square or the little streets surrounding it. Far away, on the by-pass road, the faint muffled noise of passing cars, brakes, horns; but that seemed another world.
Littlejohn made his way to the swing bridge, crossed it, and walked swiftly towards the promenade where Mrs. Christian lived. Her house was in darkness, the only one with windows not illuminated. Across the water on Langness, the faint halo of the lighthouse in-and-out through the mist. Overhead a sea-bird flew in the dark and cried.
Nothing to do but wait. Past the lighted windows, back to the bridge, across, and along the quayside. The tide was in and the river high. Littlejohn could make out the masts of a ship tied up in the basin. Lights aboard and muffled voices. Two lovers leaning over the parapet of the bridge, watching the water, their arms about each other. The sort of thing Finlo Crennell must have seen every night on h
is way for his evening pint and his game of solo or nap.
There were lights on at the Jolly Deemster. Littlejohn turned-in, ordered another whisky and took it to a seat by the fire. His feet were cold.
"Evenin', sir."
The landlord was a ruddy, stocky man who'd first seen Castletown on a holiday and taken a fancy to it. A man from the mainland who probably, now and then, met the landlord from the Governor's Arms for a good grouse.
"You the Inspector from across on the Crennell case?"
"Yes."
"Bloody shame, that! Never knew a nicer, better behaved customer than Finlo."
He pointed to a table in one corner under a wall-lamp made to look like a candle in a candlestick, melted wax and all. The place was old, but it had been done-up, with fake oak beams, modern lighting, and an up-to-date bar and little tables with basket chairs here and there. Renovation for summer visitors had probably swept away all the old character of a fisherman's pub. Now, Crennell and his friends would find themselves a bit out of their element there, but kept on coming from old custom.
"See that table there? Till his first accident, Finlo was there from eight till ten nearly every night. Four or five of them met. You see the old chairs? They didn't like the modern ones, so we kept that lot for them when we improved the room. They'd play cards or dominoes, have a talk and a drink, and then break-up at closing-time. It's not the same without Finlo. Two pints he'd drink; that's all. A good steady man, who paid his corner and wished nobody any 'arm."
"His old friends still gather here? They'll be here tonight?"
"Yes. Certain to be here. It's the funeral to-morrow and they'll be making arrangements for the wreath and for carrying the coffin. You'll find them here after eight if you're this way."
Littlejohn drained his glass. Dinner time. He left and made his way to the Governor's Arms.
A scratch meal of cutlets, and peaches out of a tin, served by a waitress in a clean cap and apron, but with shoes the size of a man's. She hobbled to and fro with no idea of economy in movement; each dish separately, every one delivered with a smile.
And after the meal a few customers gathered in the bar. Tradesmen mostly. The butcher from down the street who seemed to spend half his days chasing dogs from his shop; the ironmonger Littlejohn had earlier seen setting-out paraffin heaters in his window; the man from the boot-shop in Arbory Street who passed so much time at his door in his alpaca jacket and black apron. . . . They all peered in the dining-room at Littlejohn. News had quickly spread that he was staying in town.
Littlejohn felt a heavy blanket of damp depression, like the weather outside, descending on him. He went to find the telephone for his nightly call to his wife. It was in the hall outside the door of the dining-room and anybody in the bar could hear all that was said.
". . . I'll ring you up from Grenaby to-morrow and tell you all the news, Letty. I'm staying at an hotel in Castletown to-night. Oh, just for a bit of local colour. I'll report fully to-morrow. . . . "
He looked in the bar. Nobody was drinking, nobody speaking. They were like petrified dummies, listening to what he was saying, expecting to hear some vital point, some hint of an imminent arrest.
". . . The telephone's just by the bar, and they're all listening-in. . . . "
Feverish drinking, everybody trying to look as if he weren't eavesdropping, eager to start some conversation.
"Good-bye, Letty. I'll be back in Grenaby to-morrow night. . . ."
Littlejohn went straight out into the dark again. There were more people about. The lights of the cinema lit up a bright cave in the mist and darkness. A large church in the main street was dimly illuminated and the thin notes of a choir practising emerged. Past the Morrisons' house with a light in the front bedroom, another in the porch, and a third in the drawing-room. A car parked in the street by the gate. Not a soul about; not a sound.
Back in the Market Square, Littlejohn crossed and entered Queen Street, past Crennell's old home. The pavement grew rougher and rougher and filially ended by the open sea. Littlejohn remembered, it led to Scarlett Rocks, a beauty spot. The mist lay heavy ahead and he turned back.
In an old schoolroom along the street, the town band were rehearsing. The Long Day Closes. . . . The first two lines over and over again.
No star is o'er the lake, its pale watch keeping,
The moon is half awake, through grey mists creeping; . . .
And then back to the beginning again. Very inappropriate for such a night!
And then Littlejohn looked at Crennell's old house and saw a gleam of light under the front door. Perhaps Mrs. Cottier was back. He tried the knob and the door opened with a gentle creak.
No light downstairs, except the single bare bulb in the hall, livened-up by a shade made of coloured glass beads. He softly made his way to the stairs and looked up. Someone was moving at the back, in Crennell's old room.
Littlejohn hesitated. Perhaps it was something in preparation for to-morrow's funeral . . . the grave-papers, some formality needed. And then he heard a man's voice, soft and gruff.
"Didn't he keep a diary or letters or anything?"
The Chief Inspector mounted the stairs softly, his shoes sinking in the carpet, and he was at the open door of Finlo Crennell's old room before the occupants knew he was there.
Mrs. Cottier was standing, her hands on her hips, watching a man rifling Finlo Crennell's seaman's chest. The man looked straight at the Inspector as he entered. It was Nimrod Norton and he sprang to his feet like someone stung.
"What do you want?"
"Might I ask the same question?"
"We've come for the grave-papers. This intrusion of yours is quite unwarranted. You've no right to come in like this."
Norton's neck was inflated like a tyre and purple with rage. Mrs. Cottier was obviously startled and, if they'd only been on a normal search, as Norton had said, she wouldn't have looked so guilty.
"Is that so, Mrs. Cottier?"
She didn't reply.
Littlejohn looked at Norton's hands. He was holding the bunch of papers containing marriage lines, Nancy's birth certificate, and Crennell's tickets as first and second mate.
"If it's the details of the Manninagh you're searching for, I have them. I took them when I went through the papers yesterday."
It was a random shot, but it hit Norton.
"What the hell do you want with them . . . ?"
And then he shut-up.
"So you are interested in them?"
"No. What do I know about the Manninagh? I don't know what you're talking about."
Mrs. Cottier was wringing her hands.
"That's what you came for, isn't it, Mrs. Cottier?"
"I don't rightly know, sir. Mr. Norton just asked me to let him see if there were any papers about Nancy."
"That's right. After all, Nancy's my wife's daughter, you know. It's only right the papers should go to her mother."
Norton had recovered himself now.
"But you surely don't need to come like a thief in the night to get them."
"I'll damn' well come when I like or how I like and you can't stop me. You're exceeding your duty. . . ."
Littlejohn took the papers from Norton's hand, put them back in the box, and closed the lid.
"What do you think you're doing? Those are mine . . . or rather, my wife's."
"They belong to the executors and are the lawyer's affair. And now, sir, I want to speak to you, to your wife, and to Mrs. Cottier. Shall we do it here in the cold house, at the Dandy Rig, where it's warm, or at the police station?'
Norton controlled himself with difficulty.
"It's late. I won't have my wife disturbed. What's it all about?"
"I'll tell you when we get to the Dandy Rig. You have your car here, I presume?"
"Yes. It's parked in the square, but . . ."
"Then you can take Mrs. Cottier and me along with you. I want to ask you all some questions which are very important and they can't wait. It'
s that or the police station for you all. . . . "
"Oh, very well. But I shall complain about this. You've exceeded your duty, you know, and I'm not a man who . . ."
"Lead on, sir."
They put out the lights and locked up the house again.
The band were still practising.
The moon is half awake, through grey mists creeping. . . .
Littlejohn smiled to himself, but Norton didn't seem to hear. He was so annoyed that he almost broke into a run to keep ahead of Littlejohn.
9
WHAT NORTON WANTED
NORTON drove the big car in silence, taking risks in his rage, hooting loudly round corners, forgetting or deliberately omitting to dip his headlights. Now and again, he grunted to himself,
Over the swing-bridge, along the other side of the river, down the narrow streets to the seafront, and then along the promenade.
There was a light in Mrs. Christian's cottage.
"Stop here, please, Mr. Norton. I'll talk to Mrs. Cottier inside and you can drive on to Derbyhaven. I'll walk and join you there . . . I won't be long."
"You can take your time. I haven't had a meal yet. But then, I don't matter, do I ?"
Norton didn't even wait until the door of the house opened, but drove on without another word.
Once inside, Mrs. Cottier started to weep.
"I don't know where this will all end, Mr. Littlejohn. I suppose I'll get in trouble now for lettin' Mr. Norton in the house an' lettin' him put a sight on Finlo's private papers."
Mrs. Christian listened impatiently. Her huge bulk filled the doorway between the living-room and the kitchen.
"Don't be so silly. Nobody's goin' to harm you. Pull yourself together."
Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 10
