Old Mr. Cribbin returned with his escort from the garden. He greeted the visitors listlessly.
"I can't understand anybody murderin' our Charlie. It beats me. He wouldn't hurt a fly, our Charlie. Always a good boy. . . ."
The parson came down and talked quietly to the old man and then joined Littlejohn and Knell for the trip back. They lunched at the vicarage. Somebody had sent the Archdeacon a brace of pheasants from the mainland. Maggie Keggin had made a good lunch of them, but the party was too preoccupied to do it full justice.
"Seein' that there's none of 'em on the Island and we on'y get a pair every year, ye might have done 'em more justice," said the housekeeper as she cleared the dishes. "However, ye best know yourselves. If you want indigestion by thinkin' an' workin' as you're eatin', the three of ye, that's your own business, not mine. . . . "
And she served them a huge apple tart, cream, and Manx cheese.
The three of them were in Castletown for the funeral just before two. It was like a mournful half-holiday in the little town. Shops closed for the time-being; men walking about in dead black; long, sad faces everywhere; flags half-mast, for Finlo Crennell was on the official list.
There were over a hundred present, mostly men. There was to be a service at the house in Queen Street before the cortège started and so many people arrived that they overflowed into the street and completely blocked it. A huge mass of men with earnest honest faces, puzzled by the way Crennell had died, almost afraid. The women were onlookers on the fringe, mere walkers-on in the drama unfolding itself. The grim men were the ones who mattered and if the murderer was among their number, his heart must have beaten fast with fear, for as the rites progressed, their anger seemed to grow. They made way for Knell and Littlejohn, gave them friendly nods, trying to encourage them in the work they had to do.
The coffin was brought out and placed on trestles before Finlo Crennell's door and the great choir of rugged seamen and the workers of the town, among whom the familiar faces of several island dignitaries appeared, sang Finlo's favourite hymn.
It took Littlejohn by surprise in its simplicity; it was almost infantile, but it reminded him deeply of the humble, smiling man he'd brought home to meet his death only a few days ago.
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small. . . .
The sentiments of a simple, unsophisticated sailor, almost a child in many ways. And, long ago, he'd got drunk, seduced his sister-in-law, and set in motion the wheels of the drama which was ending in to-day's tragic curtain. For Littlejohn was sure the crimes were the long overdue payments of accounts of twenty years since.
The Methodist parson and the Archdeacon stood side by side as four of Finlo Crennell's former card-playing buddies from the Jolly Deemster hoisted the coffin and slid it in the hearse.
There were only four vehicles and the hearse. Three taxis for the family and the clergy and following them, the antiquated trap of a cousin of Finlo's, a farmer from Ronague, whose old car had broken down and who had unearthed this relic and hitched his milkhorse to it. The rest formed up behind the trap, two-by-two, and thus they walked the miles to Malew church.
Littlejohn and Knell found themselves in the middle of the long double queue, shuffling slowly, like conscripts, on the long straight road past Great Meadow to the graveyard. Tramp, tramp, tramp . . . and the whine of cars in low gear adding a monotonous marching tune.
Four of Finlo Crennell's old pals, men who'd worked in the shipyard in the palmy days, had got the time half an hour late and had to perform a steady solemn trot to catch up with the rest.
At first they all started to march bareheaded, but a thin breeze sprang up and, one by one, the old men, and then the younger ones, put on their hats again. Billycocks, peaked sailor caps, soft felts, cloth caps and, in the middle of the lot, the yachting cap of a dandy who was a bit wrong in his head. . . .
The horse in the cousin's trap was used to delivering milk from door to door in Ballabeg and kept halting now and then, as it was accustomed to do every day except Sundays. Then, urged on by its owner, it would break into a canter, outrun the procession, and have to be brought in line again.
At length, they arrived at Malew, a plain, graceful whitewashed church surrounded by old graves, and the interment began. Littlejohn looked at the vast gathering massed among the headstones. Dignified islanders, men who lived by their work on the sea and the soil, men intimate with nature, whose integrity had enriched their small native land. There was a dog there, too. Somebody had brought it because Crennell had once risked his life in climbing down the cliffs to rescue it and had then found it a home with friends.
"I thought he'd like to think of it bein' here. . . ."
There was another burst of loud, harmonious singing, the moving committal they gave to all their men who lived by the sea, the Manx Fisherman's Hymn. It was a rite of the most solemn kind.
The droning voices of the parsons; the frozen funereal looks on the lined, tanned faces of the elderly; and the red cheeks of the young, making any odd pale face look even paler. The thud of earth on the coffin.
They all stood about when it was over. Some blew their noses and mopped their eyes; some stamped the ground to warm their feet. Then somebody shook Littlejohn by the hand and said that Finlo Crennell was one of the best, a good man. It was like an injunction, an unspoken command to avenge him. The incident started an epidemic of handshaking and soon Littlejohn was surrounded by men stretching out hands, seizing his own, wringing it, passing it on to the next in line.
After it all, Littlejohn felt he knew Crennell even better. As though he'd lived with him in Castletown, followed him about the town, even joined the four at cards every night.
A good fellow, Finlo Crennell. One of the best, who wouldn't do anybody a dirty trick. And yet . . .
Littlejohn remembered the wife with whom Finlo was now sharing a grave which the gravediggers were already filling with earth. It was said by those who professed to know, that after Nancy had been born and the married pair had agreed to adopt her . . . the child of the husband and his wife's sister, Ethel Crennell had hardly spoken to him again for the rest of her days.
11
SCUFFLE ON THE VICTORIA
AFTER the funeral, they found more news waiting for them at Castletown police station. Scotland Yard had telephoned information about the Rijswijk. She was on her way to Douglas with another cargo of timber and Van Dam was in command.
The owners of the Rijswijk hadn't wasted much time. They were anxious to have her turned round and off to earn more dividends. They had engaged a good lawyer, who had made mincemeat of the charge of murder against Van Dam. He'd been employed by the same firm for twenty years, a sailor of industry, reliable, impeccable record. There was no proof of a quarrel or a scuffle between Van Dam and Leeuwens, who, in the absence of witnesses, might easily be said to have fallen off his ship and bashed his head against the quayside and drowned. As for Finlo Crennell's wallet—Van Dam had made a clean breast of it all. Until Crennell left the boat in London, Van Dam was keeping it safely for him. Leeuwens knew it and approved. The police in their zeal hadn't even given Van Dam time to turn in the money and explain about it. The magistrate had found no case and released Van Dam, who, having his master's ticket, had been given Leeuwens' job.
"So the Rijswijk will soon be back, Knell?"
"If she hasn't already docked. She sailed Sunday afternoon. She was fully loaded and all that was wanted was the release of Van Dam. She should soon be here."
They rang up the harbourmaster's office at Douglas. The Dutch boat was due to dock at seven that evening and was well on her way in the Channel.
"It might do no harm to have a word with Van Dam. He might throw some light on things. Perhaps being so long with Crennell after they'd picked him up. . . . We'll go to Douglas first thing in the morning. . . . "
"One thing's quite sure, sir. Van Dam has an alibi for when Charlie Cribbin died. Even if he lied about
Crennell's trip on the Rijswijk, Van Dam couldn't have anything to do with Cribbin's murder."
But the pair of them were in Douglas before next morning. Haunted or not, things always seemed to be happening in the night at Grenaby.
Littlejohn and the Archdeacon spent the evening together. To clear Littlejohn's mind of the confused case, he and the parson played chess after dinner. Archdeacon Kinrade gave Littlejohn a good beating and then opened a bottle of port to restore his spirits.
"Do you think Finlo Crennell was murdered for something he did, or for something he knew, Littlejohn? It must have been one or the other."
Littlejohn knocked out his pipe on the bars of the fire and refilled it. The clock in the hall slowly struck eleven and the telephone bell took up where the clock left off. Littlejohn hurried to answer it before it awoke Mrs. Keggin who was in bed.
It was Knell, almost breathless with excitement.
"We've got Van Dam here in custody, sir. Drunk and disorderly; striking an officer; resisting arrest; found on enclosed premises. . . ."
"Anything else, Knell? He seems to have wanted to be quite sure of a night in the cells."
"I thought I'd better let you know right away. Knowing I was on the Rijswijk case, they sent for me. I was spending a quiet hour or two at home with my wife. We're expecting a new-comer in the spring, sir. . . ."
It only needed that! Knell expecting to become a father on top of the two murders and a fracas with Van Dam!
"I'm very glad to hear it, old chap. . . ."
Old Chap! You could hear Knell swelling with pride at the other end of the line. He wanted to ask Littlejohn to be the infant's godfather, but the time was hardly suitable. As it was, Knell had worked the news in over the telephone because he'd been hitherto too shy to mention it face to face.
"If it's a boy we're going to call him Thomas after you, sir."
Littlejohn wanted to laugh, although he was sure with a serious man like Knell, who was probably scared to death about it all, it was hardly a laughing matter. But it reminded him of two knockabout comedians pattering in front of a drop-cloth behind which the stage is being set for a tremendous melodrama. Crennell, Cribbin, and now Van Dam, and here they were choosing the name for Knell's firstborn! Littlejohn felt he wanted to continue the conversation. Why not call him Caesar, after the good Archdeacon, or even Finlo, after the big case which Knell was going to solve whilst the baby was on the way?
"Sorry, sir. But I'm a bit excited about it . . . . "
"It'll be an honour to call him Thomas, Knell. For me, I mean. We might even come to the Christening, if we're invited."
"Whatever it is, sir, we both want you and Mrs. Littlejohn to be godfather and godmother. . . . But I'm wasting your time, sir. Can you come to Douglas and see Van Dam? He can't speak good English, but we've got a Dutchman here, a waiter in one of the hotels, who's a good interpreter."
"But do you need me? It's only a drunk case, isn't it?"
"There are peculiar circumstances, sir. He was meeting somebody secretly on the Victoria, a deserted Steam Packet boat tied up on the Tongue, as we call it here, in the river."
"Did they get the other fellow?"
"No, sir. The constable who found them had his lantern kicked out, there was a scuffle in the dark, and the other man got away. The officer managed to hang on to Van Dam, who even bit him on the calf in the dark. . . . "
"Good Heavens! This seems to have been an exceptionally colourful encounter. All right. I'll come. But you'll have to pick me up. It's too late to walk all the way."
"Oh, we wouldn't expect you to do that, sir."
Knell's voice was pained and serious.
". . . I'll be over in about half an hour, sir."
The parson was already putting on his boots.
"May I come, too? A night ride always does me good."
"Of course, sir. But it's just a case of drunk and disorderly. Van Dam, the master of the Rijswijk, has been painting Douglas red, it seems. Drunk, biting policemen, breaking into laid-up ships, resisting arrest. . . . And on top of it all and in the midst of the melée, Knell informs me that he's soon to become a father and the boy—if any—is to be called Thomas. What do you think of that, parson?"
"Splendid! When do we start?"
"Knell's coming for us. He's on his way."
The Archdeacon rubbed his hands.
"Splendid! Splendid! You'll be over in the spring . . . or will it be Christmas?"
"Spring."
"Wonderful! The primroses and the gorse will be out . . . and the bluebells everywhere. Grenaby will be a picture. . . . I'm so glad."
It must have been the port which made the pair of them frivolous.
"Good old Knell!"
"Yes. Good old Knell!"
The door slowly opened and an apparition appeared in the doorway. Another Grenaby ghost! Maggie Keggin, her hair in curling-pins, her dressing-gown hiding most of a nightdress which almost reached her feet and was tightly laced at the throat with blue ribbon, a cap on her head, and a candle in her hand. She eyed the two men with tight-lipped disfavour.
"I'll get some black coffee before you go out. I heard the telephone. It always means you're goin' off gallivantin' in the night. You're in no condition, either of you, for others to see. Two grown men! One a parson who ought to know better, and the other a celebrated detective who ought to be an example of sobriety to his men. You've finished that bottle of port, I expect. . . ."
She vanished without a smile and they heard her grinding fresh coffee at her little mill. They looked like two boys caught in mischief and struggling still to retain their seriousness.
When Knell arrived they were on their second cup of black coffee.
Knell was a bit sheepish after letting out his secret. They gave him some coffee laced with rum, assuring Maggie Keggin that it wasn't for them and that it was raw outside.
"Besides, Knell's expecting to become a father soon."
Mrs. Keggin didn't move a muscle of her face.
"That's nothin' new. I've had three and my sister in Ballakilpheric has had eleven. All the same, it'll be good for ye, Mr. Knell. It'll keep ye steady and off the drink."
And she gave the Archdeacon and Littlejohn a reproachful look, gathered up the dirty cups, and vanished silently like a wraith.
"I'll leave a thermos of coffee for ye when ye return, but I've hidden the rum."
At Douglas police station they found Van Dam had grown quiet. In fact, he was in a melancholy mood and tearful. By his side in the charge-room stood a little fair man in a raincoat with a full waiter's rig-out underneath it. A crafty-looking fellow who had been pestering the sergeant about his fee for acting as interpreter.
"It ought to be, ad least, seffen shillinks and sigspence the hour. . . . "
They told him to shut-up and get on with translating Van Dam's lamentations.
Littlejohn and Knell joined the party.
"How did it all start, sergeant?"
Sergeant Quaggin looked completely befogged. Things had been moving too fast for his liking and he'd had enough for one night. He longed to get home and get his boots off, for his corns were giving him jip.
"Send Corris in and be quick about it," he said to his attendant constable.
P.C. Corris appeared and limped to the desk. He glared at Van Dam, whose teeth had earlier met in the calf of his leg, which an enthusiastic member of the first-aid squad had just bound up as competently as if the Dutchman had bitten off the limb entirely.
"Tell the Chief Inspector what happened, Corris."
P.C. Corris opened his notebook, cleared his throat, and told his tale.
He was patrolling the quayside and had seen what looked like a glimmer from a flashlamp on board the Victoria. It shone dimly through one of the portholes . . .
Thereupon Knell interrupted to explain that the Victoria was an old Steam Packet boat used for summer services. A good ship still, of a little over 1600 tons. In winter, she was tied-up at the Tongue, a
long stone pier built at the head of the upper harbour and which formed a little dock there and divided it from the river.
. . . The light was shining dimly in one of the cabins and P.C. Corris had climbed aboard the Victoria to investigate. He had heard voices but on making in their direction, must have disturbed the intruders, for the light had suddenly gone out. He had then switched-on his own lamp and for a moment lit-up two men crouching in one of the doorways. One of them had sprung at him, extinguished the light, and tried to get away. P.C. Corris had hung on, finished-up struggling on the lower deck in the dark, getting his leg bitten but clinging to his quarry like grim death. Meanwhile, the other interloper had skedaddled for all he was worth. Corris had finally succeeded in sitting on his antagonist's chest and recovering enough breath to blow his whistle.
Van Dam addressed a string of mumbling to the waiter.
"What's he say?" said Quaggin.
"He wants to know what it's all about."
Another exchange of conversation in Dutch.
"What's he say?"
"He says it's not true. He was on the ship alone looking round. He says he's interested in ships and was . . ."
"Tell him to tell it to the Marines."
"Beg pardon . . . "
"Never mind. Say we don't believe him and he'd better say what he was after on the Victoria and who was with him."
More unintelligible exchanges.
"What's he say?"
"He, says he wasn't drunk and that he'd only had a few drinks. He's sorry he trespassed on the boat but he was interested in her. She is a lovely boat."
"Oh, tell him to . . ."
More muttering.
"He says he wants a lawyer."
"He's got a hope at this time o' night. He's stayin' in the cells here. What's he say?"
"He says he must get back to his ship. He's master of her and has orders to give."
Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 13
