"Did he seem excited about it?"
"He did a lot of talking . . . more than usual, if that's what you mean. He talked about what he'd do with the money that was coming to us."
"Yes. Well, shall we go? And again, thanks, Mrs. Cribbin."
They crossed the quiet road back to the little school. Dusk had fallen and the mass of the hills seemed to loom more than ever above the curraghs. Lights glittered on the hillsides and in the cottages. There was a smell of wood-smoke on the air and from the sea, a sharp salty breeze. The mourners were saying good-byes and going home. Only the old gossips showed a tendency to remain, exchanging ancient tales of their own little land and the people in it.
Littlejohn and Knell gathered up the Archdeacon, sitting among a group of old Manxmen, and little was said on the way back. It was not until they sat drinking coffee before the vicarage fire that Knell spoke what was on his mind.
"Queer way to go to Douglas from Druidale. All the way round by Ballacraine, instead of straight down through Baldwin. Miles out of the way. Do you know what I think?"
"What do you think, Knell?"
"Charlie Cribbin didn't go to Douglas at all the night Crennell first vanished. He went to Castletown instead, and he was there at the time Crennell was attacked."
"You mean . . . ?"
The Archdeacon sat up aghast.
"I mean to my way of thinking, Charlie Cribbin had more to do with Finlo Crennell's disappearing than we thought."
Littlejohn removed his pipe and knocked it out against the side of the open grate.
"Your knowledge of the roads and geography of the Island is far better than mine, Knell, but I agree with you. I do agree."
And he took out his note-book and made another entry.
Oct. 28th. Finlo Crennell disappears, about 10.0 p.m. Charlie Cribbin in Castletown about that time.
"Do you think Charlie Cribbin murdered Crennell, then, Littlejohn? Surely not!"
"No, sir. But I think Charlie was blackmailing somebody and, for some reason or other, Crennell got mixed-up in it and the victim murdered the wrong man!"
14
A GAME OF SOLO
NIGHT again. As Littlejohn crossed the market square there wasn't another soul about. The fluorescent street lights were all burning, the great mass of the castle, with the candlestick memorial flanking it, loomed through a screen of leafless trees, the only sound was the caterwauling of cats, fighting in the bushes of the filled-in moat. It was like a scene set for some pageant or great historical tragedy, waiting for the entrance of the players from the side-streets to left and right.
Littlejohn puffed his pipe, hands deep in the pockets of his coat. He had sent Knell home and was once again wandering like somebody fascinated among the narrow streets of the silent little town. As though he expected Finlo Crennell suddenly to shuffle, smiling, from the shadows and re-enact the scene which ended in his death.
Lights glowed behind the curtains and blinds of the houses and in the rooms above shops. One or two of the shops were illuminated still, cafés and a fish-and-chip restaurant from which now and then emerged the blast of boiling fat. Several of the houses had their wireless-sets going and as the Chief Inspector walked along, he could hear the programme uninterruptedly, from set to set as he passed.
Finally he turned into Queen Street again and made for Crennell's old house. The blind was drawn but there was a light in the front room. After the funeral, Mrs. Cottier had returned there. It was her home, and tired of bickering with her masterful sister, she had gone to it until she could make up her mind about the future.
Littlejohn knocked at the door. Footsteps down the corridor and Mrs. Cottier stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim light from the hall lamp with its shade of beads, which swung about and rattled together as the draught caught them.
"Oh, it's you, sir. . . ."
She was wearing spectacles and hastily removed them.
"May I come in and talk to you, Mrs. Cottier?"
Littlejohn didn't quite know why he'd called there, except that he thought that somewhere in the house might be a clue which would unlock the case for him. He knew a lot about Finlo Crennell, but not enough. Not enough to confirm a vague suspicion which had been growing in his mind. . . .
"Come in. I was just havin' my tea. It's a bit late, but I've been puttin' things in order. It's surprisin' how dusty and cold a house gets even if you only leave it for a day or two. I thought I'd come back till I made up my mind what to do. No use livin' away and the place gettin' damp for want of fires. Besides, it's my home and Finlo left it to me."
In the living-room the table was spread for one. A plate of cold pork, half eaten, tea things, a butter dish, and a large half-empty bottle of tomato ketchup. A half loaf on a bread-board with a carving-knife to cut it. A newspaper propped-up against the milk-jug. The pork looked so good that Littlejohn wouldn't have minded picking up a piece in his fingers and tasting it. He grew suddenly hungry. He'd only had a light tea and was taking supper late at the parsonage.
The room was warm and cosy again. The furniture had been polished and the whole place dusted. The clock on the wall had been wound-up. Littlejohn realized that its rhythmic ticking was what he had missed last time he was in the room. Now, the atmosphere seemed complete again. The queer ticking, like the bouncing of a ping-pong ball. Pink-ponk, pink-ponk. . . .
Everything ready for the return of Finlo Crennell. . . .
"Would you like a cup of tea?"
Littlejohn said yes, and almost said he'd try the pork, as well.
"Sit down, sir."
He took the rocking-chair and Mrs. Cottier sat in her chair at the table.
"You don't mind if I . . ."
She indicated the food, and then hastily removed the newspaper and put it under the cushion of one of the other armchairs. She began to eat quickly.
"Take your time, Mrs. Cottier. Don't give yourself indigestion on my account. I'll smoke, if you don't mind."
Littlejohn filled his pipe, took a folded spill of paper from a little brass ornament on the mantelpiece, and lit it. The smoke slowly drifted across the room.
The pair of them sat there, one on each side of the fire. Just as she and Crennell had done in the old days.
Pink-ponk . . . pink-ponk . . . pink-ponk . . .
Mrs. Cottier seemed to have recovered her composure after her ordeal of recent days. She sat quietly eating, unmoved by memories of the past or fears of the present, content to be home again. The only change Littlejohn noticed in her was that she had aged. Her face looked thinner, her hair greyer and more unkempt, her eyes heavy and more lines beneath them.
"You've known Mr. Crennell all your life, Mrs. Cottier?"
She stopped chewing for a moment, as though surprised to hear him speak.
"Yes. He was a friend of my husband's and a distant relative of mine. He was best man at our weddin'. Him an' my husband had been friends all their lives. Finlo wasn't born in Castletown. He came from Ballabeg, but his father an' mother moved to here when he was a child. My husband and him were brought up together, went to the same school and chapel. . . ."
"You're a native of Castletown?"
"Yes. I was a few years younger than Mr. Cottier and Finlo, but I went to the same chapel, too, an' I remember them as big boys when I was little."
"You were in Castletown when Nancy was born?"
A pause. Delicate ground again.
"Yes."
"What did you think about it all?"
"I don't understand what you mean."
To hide her nervousness, she started to wipe her hands on her apron.
"I think you do, Mrs. Cottier. Were you and the rest of the town surprised at the local scandal ? Did you think it was the sort of thing Finlo Crennell would do?"
"No, we didn't. He didn't seem that sort. Never eyes for any woman 'cept his wife. But it was done. There it was, so what could we say?"
Silence again. The clock ticked on and coals fell from th
e fire and tinkled on the hearth from time to time. Littlejohn drained his tea-cup and put it back on the table.
"Suppose you try to tell me what happened when Nancy was born. I mean, the gossip of the town, the surprise of everybody, what they said . . . and so on."
It was very cosy there. Littlejohn felt settled for the evening, gently rocking to and fro in Crennell's old rocking-chair, smoking his pipe, gossiping. . . .
"It's a long time ago."
"Try."
She pushed her cup and plate away, drew back her chair from the table, and sat facing him, her hands quietly laid in her lap on top of her apron.
"We was all surprised. He was a man with a good reputation. A churchgoer when he was back from the sea; read his Bible and his Pilgrim's Progress. And by no means a hypocrite."
The last phrase came out like a challenge to Littlejohn to say anything wrong against Crennell.
"Was he a heavy drinker?"
"Never. I've never seen him the worse for drink. You'd perhaps smell it on him when he came back o' nights from the Jolly Deemster, but he was always steady and talkin' sense."
"And yet, he seems to have drunk more champagne than was good for him on one occasion and landed himself in a lot of trouble which lasted his lifetime and, in the end, caused his death."
Her mouth opened and she looked afraid.
"His death? What has that to do with Nancy?"
"Nothing actually with Nancy, but somehow, Charlie Cribbin was involved in the tragedy."
"I don't know what you're talkin' about!"
She had grown paler and her features were drawn with some kind of emotion.
"It's a long story, Mrs. Cottier. Too long to tell now. But you haven't told me what the town said about the birth of Nancy."
"Oh, I'm sick of Nancy!"
It came out suddenly, as if Mrs. Cottier couldn't hold it in any longer. Then she looked sorry she'd said it.
"Well. . . . I'm waiting."
She fumbled with her apron, took out a handkerchief and wiped her lips, and seemed to be lost for words.
"I'm not meanin' that Nancy's to blame, but when you come to look at all the trouble. . . . "
"You mean the rift between Finlo Crennell and his wife after Nancy was born, the flight of Mary, the misfortunes and death of Charlie Cribbin, the death of Finlo . . . ?"
Mrs. Cottier gazed vacantly ahead, listening to the string of catastrophes, trying in her slow way to follow what Littlejohn was getting at. Then she returned to the first misfortune.
"Who said there was a rift between Finlo and Ethel?"
"You did. You said they hardly spoke to one another after Nancy was born."
She paused again, obviously trying to clear her thoughts and find words. The clock ticked on. Pink-ponk, pink-ponk. Littlejohn filled his third pipe and lit it with another of Finlo Crennell's paper spills.
"I didn't mean to say they fell-out . . . never spoke to one another again. They didn't speak much at any time. Ethel was such a worker. Busy all the time keepin' the house clean. Mornin', noon and night, moppin', sweepin', dustin' . . . Finlo was a talkative sort, but he liked to talk about ships and the harbour and such like. Ethel wasn't interested. They just got on well together without much fuss. After all, the harbourmaster's house on the quay is a big place, you know. And Ethel wouldn't have any help."
"So, you didn't get the idea that Mrs. Crennell disapproved of Nancy and never forgave her husband about it."
"I never said that."
"No, but when I asked you before, you gave that impression."
"I never. . . . Perhaps it was because my sister was there and I was bothered."
"In other words, you know more about the life of Finlo and his wife than you care to tell. You know more than outsiders, shall we say, and you never talk about it. You were a close friend and saw or knew things others didn't. Is that it?"
A catch of the breath and a mouth opened ready to speak. Then, a silence and the same reserve shown by Nancy and Mary Norton.
"It's nothin' of the kind. I only said they didn't speak much, an' you twisted it to mean somethin' else."
She rose and started to gather the tea-things together as an indication that the interview was coming to an end.
"Did you know that Finlo Crennell had a bag of diamonds he'd got from somewhere?"
She paused and turned.
"Yes. I've seen them. Only handled them once, though. Finlo was very secret about them. They was very valuable. It's been on my conscience to tell you that them was what Mr. Norton was after the night you found us here searchin' in the sailor's chest upstairs. Mr. Norton told you a lie. I didn't like it, but what could I do?"
"Mr. Norton told you outright that was what he wanted?"
"Yes. He'd had a letter from Finlo about them and wanted to be sure they hadn't been stolen. We never found them."
"They are now at Douglas police station."
"What! What are they doin' with them? Did you take them?"
"No. They were taken from Finlo when he was aboard the Dutch ship the first time he disappeared. We got them from the mate."
"Finlo had them when I came here as housekeeper. When he showed them to me, he said he was keepin' them because the price would go up. Then he'd sell them for more, some day. He never let anybody else know he had them, for fear he might get robbed and he made me promise not to tell about them. Now and then, when we were in alone, he'd lock the door and get them out and put a sight on them and count them. Like a child playin' with toys; or a magpie. It didn't seem healthy, somehow."
"Did he ever say where they came from?"
"No."
"But you guessed?"
"No . . . no . . . I never . . ."
She seemed flustered and shut her lips firmly.
"Very well. Don't get excited. But you're not telling me all you know, are you, Mrs. Cottier? Is it because I'm a stranger . . . a come-over . . . probing family secrets? Or are you sworn to secrecy or just being commendably loyal to someone?"
"I . . . I don't like this talk. It's tryin' to twist things out of me and make me tell things I know nothin' of."
The cosiness seemed to have gone from the room. Hostility and a sense of being unwelcome had taken its place.
Littlejohn rose and took up his hat.
"When did Finlo become harbourmaster here?"
"In the year Nancy was born."
"Why did he leave the sea?"
"A lot of them did. Shippin' went down. There was a lot of unemployed. Ships were laid-up. My own husband, who had a master's ticket, had to ship as second officer on a Liverpool boat . . . "
"The Castletown boats were laid-up then?"
"Sold, sir. It was a bad knock. . . ."
She seemed to cheer-up even on such a tragic topic, as though relieved to change the subject.
"They were sold because the owners fell on bad times."
"The Morrisons, you mean."
"Yes. The family was nearly bankrupt. It's said they'd have been sold up if Mr. James hadn't come back from abroad with a fortune. He died within a year. About the time Finlo became harbourmaster, it was. He left all he had to his mother, who was still alive, because he'd never married himself. And old Mrs. Morrison died soon after and the money went to Mr. Gabriel . . . that's the one whose wife has just passed over. A lovely woman, she was. Such a sad loss. I'll never forget all she did for me."
"Why?"
"I was in service with the Morrisons from leavin' school till I married. I remember Mrs. Morrison comin' to Framley Lodge as a bride. She was beautiful and so good to us all there."
"You were . . ."
Then there was a knock on the street door, they heard the knob turn, and Mrs. Christian entered. She glared at Littlejohn as though he'd no business to be there and her face took on a peevish look.
"I called to see if you'd settled. But if you're busy I can come another time."
"I'm going, Mrs. Christian."
"Were you goin' to ask me so
methin', sir?"
Mrs. Cottier was showing her sister it was purely official. It was obvious that the strait-laced Mrs. Christian frowned upon finding her sister alone with Littlejohn, in tête-à-tête.
"Never mind, Mrs. Cottier. I'll go now. Good night and thank you."
In the quiet streets again. Quay Lane, the quay itself, the harbourmaster's house, the harbour. . . . Not a soul in sight. The lapping of the tide against the jetties, the flash of the lighthouse across the bay, the sound of a radio playing in the harbourmaster's house. . . . Lights in cottages on the waterfront, the glow of the street lamps in the sky over the town, the rumble and rush of traffic along the by-pass road. . . .
Littlejohn found himself in front of the Jolly Deemster, the cosy glow from the curtained windows shedding a soft light in the street, just as when Finlo Crennell had died. He opened the door.
A large room with a bar at one end. A few neat tables and chairs and an upholstered seat which went round the room by the wall. The mingled smells of beer and spirits, and smoke hanging round the three shaded lights which illuminated the place.
It was mid-week and custom was thin. Two men drinking at the bar and, in one corner, on the old chairs and table which Littlejohn remembered from his first visit there, four men playing cards.
"I'll go misere. . . ."
All eyes turned on Littlejohn. The landlord nodded from behind the counter, where he stood framed in bottles of all kinds and colours. His wife was talking to the two men beside the beer-pumps.
"Good evenin', sir."
" 'Evening, landlord."
The card game had ceased and the men were listening. Finlo Crennell's cronies, and now the man with a glass eye had taken Crennell's place and was playing his hand. He wore a bowler hat on the back of his head. The other three were bare-headed. Littlejohn eyed them quickly and got a mental snapshot.
Three typical men of the port. One, small and chubby, like Crennell himself, with a red face, large puffy hands holding his cards fanned-out, a short pipe in his mouth, a round head covered in short, grey, wiry hair.
Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 17
