The case was more confused than ever. The Nortons were obviously involved. Norton himself was blustering his way out; his wife was scared to death. The Big Shot was without alibis for both crimes. And yet, he didn't seem the sort who would murder a man in cold blood. In a fit of rage, yes, easily, if he'd a gun. Cribbin might have killed Crennell for his money. And then Norton might have killed Cribbin later for blackmailing him or his wife. But blackmail what about?
Littlejohn dismissed the problem from his mind, filled his pipe, and crossed the swing bridge into the town. There were a few people about coming from the cinema, a few local boys and girls courting under the trees of the market square. The pubs started to turn out. The customers of the large hotels in the square, the George and the Governor's Arms, emerged one by one and stood on the thresholds enjoying the last gossip of the day and saying good-night Then, quietness. In the distance, the ebb tide dragging on the shingle, the faint cry of birds flying in the darkness. In one of the old houses of the square, someone was playing a piano. Littlejohn even recognized the piece. The third Consolation of Liszt. It sounded strange, so far from sophistication in a small, neat, remote town silent under the stars.
Littlejohn turned in at the Governor's Arms and wrote a letter to his wife.
I am as far away as ever from a solution. I have a feeling that so many people know exactly what happened, but are holding out on me, a stranger, a foreigner, who has no business to inquire or to know.
On my way to the hotel here, where I am staying overnight for convenience, I heard somebody playing one of Liszt's Consolations—the third, of which you and I are so fond, and playing it very well. The landlord says it is a woman who was a brilliant concert pianist on the mainland before the war. Her son was a fascist, was interned here, and died. Since then, she's lived here, visits his grave every day . . . quite mad.
I shall be glad to be back at our dear Grenaby with the Archdeacon to-morrow night. . . .
At two in the morning, Littlejohn was awakened by the sound of a car starting from the square outside, and then footsteps and voices.
When he arrived down for breakfast as the castle clock was striking nine, they told him that Mrs. Morrison, of Framley Lodge, had died in the night.
10
THE WANDERINGS OF CHARLIE CRIBBIN
THE morning of Finlo Crennell's funeral was mild and sunny and so the weather remained all day.
As Littlejohn walked over to the police station to pick up Knell, he could sense the atmosphere of constraint about the streets. Some of the houses had their blinds drawn and some of the men were knocking about in their best black suits ready for the funeral in the afternoon. News of Mrs. Morrison's death had already travelled round Castletown and half the Island and, in spite of the cheerful turn in the weather, a damper had descended over everybody. Nobody laughed or shouted and some even looked tempted to walk about on their tiptoes as a sign of grief and respect.
A man emerged from the shop of Corlett, the Shoe, with a pair of new black boots and in Qualtrough's, the drapers, a woman was trying on a black hat and they were wrapping up some black ribbon for her. By the time of the funeral, there would be black everywhere.
Knell was waiting for 'the Chief'. He greeted Littlejohn expectantly, as though the Chief Inspector might, on the previous night, have stumbled across a missing-link and solved the case right away.
"You know, of course, Mrs. Morrison's dead, sir?"
"Yes, Knell. That makes the round dozen times I've been told."
They got in the car and made for Grenaby.
"I want to see Nancy Cribbin to-day if we can manage it before the funeral. We'll take the Archdeacon with us. He'll like a trip, I know."
Littlejohn then went on to tell Knell of his escapades of the night before.
"I always thought Norton was a wrong-'un, chief. I wouldn't be surprised . . . "
Knell's face grew stern, a special official look he'd learned to assume in the old days when he'd served summonses.
The Archdeacon was answering a mass of correspondence when they arrived at the vicarage. He was using a quill pen, made from the feathers of Grenaby geese. He hurriedly packed up his papers and put on his hat and coat when he heard of their mission. With admirable restraint he never asked Littlejohn how the case was going; so Littlejohn told him. No progress at all. . . .
"It's always the same. Then we stumble on something and the machinery starts to work."
"And you've not stumbled yet?"
"No."
It was one of those soft, island days again, the sort which fill you with gentle melancholy and make you want to abandon work and idle about. Traa di Liooar, as they say on the Island. . . . Time enough.
But Knell was neither melancholy nor slothful. He drove the car earnestly, his long nose like that of a dog on the trail, a curious look of anticipation on his face.
Difficult to believe it was autumn and the year dying. It reminded you of spring. The trees in the plantations above Foxdale looked ready to sprout and bud again, and the dead bracken and gorse of the fall seemed ripe for cutting down to reveal the new growth of grass underneath.
An indescribable sense of sadness filled Littlejohn as he looked down the valley from Foxdale. The village was still and, in the distance, a train was puffing out of St. John's station on its way to Peel, making a lot of steam and whistling cheekily. They passed great desolate slag-heaps and ruined engine-houses and warehouses, the relics of the lead and silver-mines and of Foxdale's prosperity before they all fell into decay and drove a whole population overseas for fresh work. Now the long rows of miners' cottages were occupied by a movable crowd of tenants who couldn't, through the shortage of homes, find a place elsewhere. An assorted conglomeration of people from all over the Island and the mainland.
After St. John's, they joined a T.T. road, where gangs of men were repairing the surface and trundling rollers and tar-boilers about. Names of places dear to the hearts of motor-cycle enthusiasts all over the world . . . Ballacraine Corner, Ballig Bridge, Creg Willys Hill . . . There were still faint traces on the surface of the roads, of the indication signs of past races, large red arrows urging the riders on.
The door was closed and the blinds down at the cottage of Charlie Cribbin's parents. It was as if they had shut themselves up with their grief and didn't want to be disturbed. Faces appeared at windows and heads turned as the police car drew up and the three occupants climbed out.
The constable from Ballaugh opened the door for them. He had called to see if there was anything he could do to help. In the garden behind the cottage, another bobby, this time the one from Kirk Michael, was talking to Charlie's father about potatoes. The old man was a keen gardener and the kindly policeman was trying to take his mind off his misfortune. They kept talking and then old Cribbin would pause and shed tears again.
"I keep forgettin' Charlie, as I talk about the priddahs. It doesn't seem right, does it? But I somehow can't think of him all the time."
A pity, because these were good people and Charlie Cribbin had been up to no good when he got himself killed.
Quayle, the Ballaugh policeman, a heavy, kindly man with a large red face and a sandy moustache, was a bit abashed to find himself in the middle of the Scotland Yard squad.
"You know, sir, that the doctor said Charlie Cribbin died on Sunday mornin'. . . ."
"Yes. And we know he was in Castletown after nine o'clock on Saturday night. He didn't go home from there. Where was he in the meantime?"
"He stayed here with his mother and father till early Sunday mornin', sir. I've asked them."
The three policemen had the room to themselves. Upstairs, the dressmaker was measuring old Mrs. Cribbin for a mourning costume and Nancy was with her. The Vicar's wife had taken the children to the vicarage. Outside, Kelly, the Kirk Michael bobby, was still trying to take old Cribbin's mind off his troubles by talking to him about vegetables.
The blinds of the room were drawn and Littlejohn could make out di
m objects in the shadows and just see the homely features of P.C. Quayle.
". . . His father said the fog was a bit thick here and Charlie called and said he'd better stop the night and go home in the mornin'. The road up to Druidale's bad in foggy weather."
"And Charlie left the following morning. What time?"
"Around nine, sir."
"Did he seem in any way excited or disturbed?"
"They said he seemed just himself. But then Charlie was never much of a one for showin' his feelin's. Rather a cool sort of fellah, he was, as a rule."
"Mrs. Cribbin says Charlie travelled by bus on the Saturday he went away. How did he get to Castletown? It's a long way, isn't it?"
"It is, sir. He left home about one in the afternoon. I asked Mrs. Cribbin about it all, thinkin' you'd want to know. He most likely walked into Ballaugh and as like as not, got a lift from someborry into Douglas. Plenty of people go to Douglas from these parts on a Saturday. I've been inquirin', but up to now I've not found out who took him."
"And from Douglas, he'd take a bus for Castletown, of course."
"As likely as not. . . ."
"What was he after in Castletown?"
Quayle scratched his head, took out his notebook, and went to the window, where he drew back the blind to let in a bit of light and then studied his notes with intense concentration.
"I couldn't ezzackly say, sir. But my theory is, he went to meet Finlo Crennell as was comin' back home with you, sir."
A silence as this profound deduction was digested.
"Good, Quayle. Good."
The bobby cleared his throat by way of acknowledging Littlejohn's approval.
". . . Yes, sir. You see, word came through to Mrs. Cribbin that her dad had been found in London, and that you, sir, were bringin' him back to the Island on Saturday's boat."
"How did word come through?"
"It seems Mrs. Cottier had been warned beforehand, leck, so's she could meet the boat in. She knew how put-out Nancy was since her dad vanished, so she asked the Castletown police to let Nancy know what had happened, if they could, leck. Castletown phoned me and I phoned Ballafarrane Farm, which is next to Charlie Cribbin's, to pass on the news, which they did, because I asked them over the phone this mornin'. . . . "
"Splendid."
Quayle again acknowledged the compliment by a nervous cough. A country bobby, with his little parish to look after, was Quayle, but he had his wits about him.
Littlejohn clapped him on the shoulder.
"Very good," he said again.
"Aw. . . ."
Quayle was a bit shy, but in bed that night, he treated his wife to a full account of his collaboration with Scotland Yard and she fell asleep half-way through it. Thus do the wives of the clever and the great prevent their becoming too proud or too pleased with themselves. However . . .
"So we have the reason for Charlie's trip to Castletown and the likely way he got there? Now; how did he get back?"
"On the back of Sammy Joughin's motor-bike, sir. Charlie told his dad that, when he got them out of bed at turned eleven o'clock to say he'd better sleep here on account of the weather. Charlie said he'd been to Douglas on business. He didn't mention Castletown. Now, Sammy Joughin's courtin' a girl whose mother keeps a boardin'house in Douglas. Sammy lives in Orrisdale, just down the road there. I had a word with him, sir. It seems that just after ten, Charlie Cribbin met Sammy near the car-park in Douglas and asked him for a lift. I guess he'd come in from Castletown by bus, or thumbed a lift to Douglas. Then, he hung about the road by the car-park, on the off-chance of someborry from this way bein' able to give him a ride. . . . He was lucky. Otherwise, he'd have had to take the last bus to Peel and walk home from Ballacraine . . . six miles or more to Michael. . . . "
"That's very well tied-up, indeed, and I appreciate the intelligent way you've anticipated our inquiries. Just one more thing. Charlie left here at nine on Sunday morning. How did he get to the house at Montpellier in time to be killed at eleven, which the autopsy mentions as around the time of death?"
"He got another lift from this very door. Mr. Kneale from Michael is on the plan beg and was on his way in his motor car to preach at Ramsey. He dropped Charlie at Ballaugh at half-past nine or a little before. Charlie must have walked the rest to Montpellier. . . . "
"What's the plan beg, by the way?"
Archdeacon Kinrade, a silent listener, chuckled in his beard.
"The plan beg, Littlejohn, is the Methodist rota of Sunday preachers. The plan beg covers the laymen's programme, the plan mooar the ministers'. The begs are the little men; the mooars the great ones, the parsons. . . ."
Upstairs, the fittings seemed over. Sounds of feet and whispering; and then a little woman bustled down the stairs. Her mouth was full of pins and she carried a tape-measure. The pins and measure she placed in a box on the table.
"Excuse me," she twittered and went off without another word.
More footsteps and Nancy Cribbin appeared. Even in the half-light of the darkened room, Littlejohn could see a change in her. Her dark eyes seemed to have grown larger and there was a droop in her carriage which had, until this tragedy, been straight and proud.
"Mother's just lyin' down a bit. All this has been too much for her. Perhaps you'd like a word with her, Mr. Kinrade. I'm sure it'll comfort her."
"Of course."
The gaiters and the firm step of the old man receded up the narrow staircase and then his kindly voice above, bringing the old woman the solace she badly needed.
Nancy faced the three police officers.
"Did you want me, Mr. Littlejohn?"
"Do you feel up to answering one or two questions, Mrs. Cribbin? The sooner we know these things, the quicker we can act."
"I'll try."
She didn't sit down, but held herself tensely, standing on the rug before the dim fire.
Outside, in the garden, another crony had joined the bobby from Michael and old Cribbin. The newcomer seemed to be administering Job's comfort, for Charlie's father was weeping openly into his handkerchief.
"Do you mind, Mrs. Cribbin, if I'm quite candid in my questions? Inspector Knell and Constable Quayle know all about it, and, though what I ask might be painful, we shall keep our own counsel about your replies."
"I'll do my best."
That in a timid voice as though some horror were forthcoming, like a death-sentence from a doctor.
"Your husband was in a poor way financially, I believe."
A pause. Nancy Cribbin didn't even ask Littlejohn how he knew. She answered honestly.
"We were nearly bankrupt. For two winters we've lost a lot of sheep and the farm didn't turn out to be what they said it was when Charlie took it over. It didn't pay."
"Did your late husband ask anyone for financial help, Mrs. Cribbin?"
Silence again for a moment.
"Yes. He asked the bank, but he'd no security to offer. In fact, they asked him to pay off the little he owed them."
"So, he turned to other people? To Mr. Crennell, for instance, and then to Mr. or Mrs. Nimrod Norton?"
"Yes. He asked my father. Dad said he'd only a thousand in all the world, but Charlie could have it. Dad said it would be mine one day and, with his pension, he'd manage without it."
"But a thousand wasn't enough, was it?"
"No. We owed that. Charlie talked about gettin' more capital for machinery to run the farm. I wasn't keen. I wanted us to leave Druidale for the children's sake. It's no place to bring up little children in. I wanted Charlie to start afresh on a farm that would pay him for all the work he put in it."
"But Charlie wanted to stay on at Druidale?"
"Yes, sir. He was a stubborn sort of man and said he'd never let the land beat him."
"So he wrote to Mrs. Norton, as well."
"Yes."
"What was the result?"
"They both came over. My mother came up to see us. She said Mr. Norton was a keen business man and wouldn't invest mo
ney in a proposal that wouldn't yield profits. Mr. Norton said he'd come and see the place but he never did. . . . "
"So, that looked like being a forlorn hope, too."
"Yes. My mother said she hadn't enough of her own to help us. She said that she had some invested, but couldn't get at it without Mr. Norton knowin' of it. She said he was a good husband . . . none better . . . but he'd never allow her to put her money in anythin' he didn't approve of."
"And what had your husband to say to that, Mrs. Cribbin?"
Another silence. And then Nancy Cribbin spoke in a quiet, baffled voice, higher in pitch, as though there was something she couldn't understand.
"Charlie seemed cheerful in spite of it all. For a while he was depressed about things, specially after the bank wrote for their money back. Then, he got more cheerful. After I told him what my mother said about borrowing from her or Mr. Norton, he just smiled. 'A mean trick,' he said, 'after the way she treated you . . . illegitimate and deserted, like, when young. But I've still a few ideas, a few ideas up my sleeve . . . . ' "
"And he didn't hint what they might be?"
"Not a hint."
"Do you remember anything which might have happened to change your husband's humour . . . make him optimistic?"
"No, sir."
"When did his good humour date from?"
"I wouldn't really know, sir. Come to think of it, I'd say it was about from the time of my mother's first visit . . . say a fortnight ago. She came up to see us the day after her and Mr. Norton crossed to the Island."
"And Mr. Cribbin bucked-up after that visit?"
"I'd say so, yes."
"Did he alk with your mother about his money problems then?"
"No. I don't recollect it. She just told us then that Mr. Norton was lookin' into things and he was a keen business man."
"Thanks, Mrs. Cribbin. We won't bother you any more just now. Are you going to your father's funeral?"
"No, sir. It'll be mostly men and I don't really feel I can face it all on top of what's happened."
Littlejohn looked at her lovely face, the jet hair, the large dark eyes, and the fine formation of her features. A strange proud creature indeed to originate in a drunken orgy between a sailor and his own sister-in-law. And then to fetch-up in a desolate hill farm, married to a loutish farmer, who left her in isolation to tend her children and the stock, whilst he took strange outings to the other side of the Island.
Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 12
