At the police station, the solitary constable was surprised to see the Inspector.
"I thought you'd have been at the funeral, sir. Everybody who is anybody's there."
"Quickly, Costain. Is there a rifle-club in Castletown?"
"Yes, sir."
Costain was taking it easy still, thinking Littlejohn ready for a chat.
"Have you a list of members permitted to own rifles?"
"I wouldn't put it that way, sir. We've a list of the rifles and who owns them. . . . "
"Get it out as quickly as you can, please."
The files and books were neat and in good order at Castletown police station and the record was produced right away.
Littlejohn ran his finger down the list.
Two Caines, three Callows, a Corteen, and four Costains . . .
Finch. . . . Lucas Finch. . . .
"Do you know anything about Lucas Finch, Costain?"
"A local man, sir, and was a friend of the late Finlo Crennell. He was cashier, or someth'n for Morrisons before they closed up business."
"What does he do now?"
"Retired several years, sir. Has a pension from Mr. Morrison. He'd been with the Morrison family all his life. . . ."
"Is he a good shot?"
"One of the best. Why? Nobody's been . . . been shot."
"No. I'll be seeing you."
Littlejohn raced along the street and down Malew Street to where the cortège had gathered in front of Morrison's home. There was a constable on duty there, keeping back the crowd of townspeople gathered to show respect. Littlejohn beckoned him and he saluted smartly.
"Is Mr. Lucas Finch here?"
"He's just joined the procession in his little car."
"Go and tell him he's wanted here, please. Don't say who wants him."
The constable looked puzzled and had he been without helmet, might have scratched his head, but he obeyed. He went a few yards along the street, put his head in a little car, and spoke to someone. Lucas Finch seemed to argue a bit, but the bobby got his way.
Finch scrambled out, put down his left foot gingerly, and gently limped after the policeman. Then he spotted Littlejohn. He looked ready to turn and run at first, but, surrounded as he was by sightseers and all of them with their eyes on him, he had to brazen it out.
"You wanted me, Inspector? I must say this is a bad time to be bothering anybody. They're just going to carry out the coffin."
"Had an accident, Mr. Finch?"
"I trod on a tack at home just before I left. Why?"
"It looks more like a sprained ankle to me."
Littlejohn looked at the black jacket, the black hat in Finch's hand, the build of the man. . . .
"You got back quickly from the seashore, sir."
Finch licked his thin lips and his eyes shifted.
"I don't know what you're talking about. . . . "
Littlejohn beckoned the bobby again.
"Take Mr. Finch quietly to the police station, officer. There's a lane just here. Take him that way without fuss."
Finch flushed and blustered.
"Have a bit of sense. I don't know what you're doing, but you'll pay for this. At Mrs. Morrison's funeral, too. Where's your respect for the dead? It's as much as your jobs are worth, both of you, when Mr. Morrison gets to know of this."
"That's our business. Now, are you going quietly or are you going to make a fuss?"
"I don't know what it's all about. . . ."
The crowd was beginning to scent a sensation and was thickening round Finch.
"What's all this for?"
"Only attempted murder, sir."
Finch turned chalky white and the constable did the same. His eyes roamed over Finch's apparel in the region of the pockets, hunting for bulges.
"Take him along, officer. He's not armed."
The pair of them, captor and captured, disappeared down the alley, the constable wondering whether or not to hold Finch by the arm or handcuff him, or what. . . .
The crowd melted away again in the direction of the Morrison house, where the hearse was now standing and the undertaker's men fussing round ready for the coffin.
The bearers, the coffin, the wreaths filling two cabs, then the mourners. One by one . . . Morrison, his son holding him by the arm, his daughter and her husband, the canon. Relatives, dignitaries, Archdeacon Kinrade and the Vicar General, Island notables, prominent business men. The procession started to move slowly. Bared heads, the sun shining, the white wings of a solitary gull exploring the street.
The hearse passed Littlejohn as he stood to attention, his hat in his hand. Then the first coach of mourners; Morrison was looking straight ahead. By the window sat a woman in deep mourning with Canon Grebe-Smith on her left hand. The sun striking through the opposite window silhouetted the profile of the woman, beautiful and perfect in its maturity. Littlejohn's eyes fell on her. He was standing half-bemused by the morning's events. The narrow escape he'd had earlier, the remembrance of Mrs. Morrison, and now, her last journey. Almost without thinking, as though someone were asking the question at his elbow, a vivid thought entered his mind.
"What is Nancy Cribbin doing there?"
And then he understood, and he saw the solution clearly before him.
16
DATES IN A DIARY
AS soon as the funeral of Mrs. Morrison passed out of Castletown public gossip turned to a new and exciting event.
Lucas Finch had been arrested for the murder of Finlo Crennell!
When his card-playing companions heard of it, Sammy Craine left his cottage in The Crofts and Cretney his boat at Derbyhaven and turned up at the police station to give Finch indignant alibis. Why, Lucas had been playing cards with them at the very time Crennell first disappeared and again when he was shot outside the Jolly Deemster! But the police didn't release Finch for all that.
At the police station, Littlejohn had questioned Finch.
"What's the idea of taking a pot-shot at me, Finch? Did you think I was perhaps getting too near the murderer of Crennell?"
Finch licked his lips. It was a habit he had and he did it almost before every sentence.
"I didn't take a shot at you. I told you, I was out shooting birds."
It had never dawned on Finch that Littlejohn hadn't actually recognized him on the foreshore. He took that for granted.
"Shooting birds just before you were due at a funeral? I suggest you followed me, made a detour in your car just past Balladoole, and caught up with me again at the bottom of Fishers' Hill."
"I did nothing of the kind. I'd an hour to spare before the funeral; the boy who brought the milk said the ducks were down on the shore; and I took my rifle to try and get one for supper. That was all. You're making a lot of fuss about nothing and Mr. Morrison will be angry when he hears you took me from the funeral for this. If a bullet did pass you, it was a mistake and it must have re-bounded off a rock on the beach."
Just the excuse Littlejohn had anticipated.
"For a man who's fond of shooting, you don't seem to know the difference between a duck and a seagull or a jackdaw, Finch. You killed two birds that obviously weren't ducks before you shot at me."
"I tell you, I didn't shoot at you. It was all an accident. I'm sorry. I can't say more than that, can I ?"
"You shot a gull and a jackdaw, you sighted and shot at me. You must have seen me go down, you came to investigate and then, when Mr. Kermeen arrived in his van, you skedaddled as fast as your legs would carry you, and you sprained your ankle into the bargain. Then you said you'd trodden on a tack. Do you expect me to believe you, Mr. Finch?"
Finch's little eyes seemed to have sunk deeper than ever under his large projecting forehead. He was stubborn and would need a lot of questioning before he broke down and gave any information at all.
"I can't make you believe me, Mr. Inspector. But I've told the truth. I didn't shoot at you. Why should I? I've nothing against you."
"Haven't you? Don't you know a
bit more about Finlo Crennell's diamonds than you care to tell? In fact, don't you know the whole tale which through the years led down to Crennell's murder? And didn't you think I was getting too close to learning the whole wretched story?"
Finch rolled his head from side to side like someone with a bad headache.
"I don't know what you're talking about. As far as I'm concerned I can't imagine why anybody should want to kill Finlo. I hadn't anything to do with it . . . . "
"Where did Crennell get his diamonds from?"
"How should I know?"
Littlejohn picked up his hat.
"Lock him up in the cells, Costain, and let him be quiet and make up his mind what's best for him. I'm going out. . . ."
Finch started to wave his arms about.
"You can't do this to me. I've not done anything. You can't put me in gaol for an accident. I didn't shoot at you. What's the charge?"
"Obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty. That's a light one for you, Finch, and you're lucky it's not attempted murder. The charge may be altered to that later. Or, if you decide to tell me all you know, I may forget the pot-shots. Think it out. . . ."
Finch was led off, asking for a lawyer, demanding his midday meal, threatening what would happen when his old boss, Morrison, heard the way he'd been treated.
Knell bustled in. His face was flushed.
"You've made an arrest, sir?"
Littlejohn told him all about it. Knell wanted to take up where Littlejohn had left off and give Finch a first-rate grilling. Third-degree and passage à tabac would have been nothing compared with what the outraged Knell would have given Finch if they'd let him loose.
"Calm down, Knell, and come and look at this diary with me again."
Littlejohn opened his note-book.
"You see, Knell, here we have it. Between October 10th and 23rd, Charlie Cribbin was on tenterhooks hunting for funds to pay his debts and keep his farm going. Norton had been approached and had put him off; he'd then asked Crennell, who was withdrawing his £1,000 from the Post Office and, from all appearances, going to sell his diamonds, as well."
"That's right. But why give all he had to Cribbin? Was it on account of Nancy, his girl? He must have thought a lot of her to do that."
"Yes. He was a decent fellow and generous at that, too. But why, as an old man, who might, in the event of a long illness, need money to fall back on, should Crennell completely beggar himself? I can only think of one solution. That the diamonds were Nancy's property and Crennell was going to sell them and give her the money. Meantime, to keep the wolf from her door, he was going to let her have such ready cash as he held in the Post Office."
Knell's face was a picture of bewilderment.
"It doesn't make sense, sir. Where would Nancy get all those stones? She was only a poor girl."
"Look at the diary again. Cribbin is worried to death about money. Finlo comes to his rescue. Then Finlo vanishes with his money and diamonds in his possession. That should have been the end of Cribbin's hopes, for Norton, to whom he'd also appealed, was a very doubtful proposition. But was Charlie overwhelmed? Not at all. Nancy tells us he was optimistic and full of assurance. Hardly the way a bankrupt whose backer had vanished would behave. What had happened meanwhile?"
Knell shook his head.
"What had happened, sir?"
"Look here again. October 25th. . . . Mrs. Norton at Druidale. There she held a private talk with Nancy. What was it about? And let's assume that Cribbin, supposed to be busy in the milking-shed, is actually changing buckets in the dairy and overhears the women talking. He's only to slip through the door into the kitchen and he can listenin to it all . . . . "
"It must have been something very dreadful to cause all this trouble. . . ."
"Not at the time. Nancy has grown-up now, has a family, and her mother can talk to her, woman to woman. Suppose they discuss money matters and Nancy says they're on their beam-ends, but Crennell has offered to give them a thousand in cash and sell some securities for the rest. Mrs. Norton, Mary Gawne, owes Finlo Crennell a great debt of gratitude. He's taken and brought-up her illegitimate child. . . .'
"But it's his child, too, sir. He owes Nancy that, surely."
"Suppose Mrs. Norton says something like this: 'You shouldn't have done that. Taking all he has. It's just like him to help anybody, especially as he's so fond of you'. And Nancy points out that it's only what a good father would do anywhere. . . . "
Knell was breathing hard again.
"Yes?"
"And then Mrs. Norton comes out with it. 'But he's not your father'. . . . And she then tells Nancy the whole tale."
"But . . ."
"Wait. Cribbin hears it all. And he makes up his mind to cash-in. He's bound by no promises, like Finlo, Mary, and the rest. He's not been paid to keep his mouth shut or play a part. He's free to put the squeeze on someone . . . someone who can pay through the nose to keep an old secret dark."
"But what proof have you, sir?"
"None. It's purely circumstantial at present. But Mrs. Norton is going to tell us now. I'm going to face her with it. But, first, we might get some sort of proof."
"Where?"
"Look at the diary again. On the 25th, Mrs. Norton was at Druidale. Let's say that Cribbin overheard the truth about his wife. Without saying a word to anyone, he writes the usual blackmail note to somebody. Perhaps like this, 'I will tell the whole story about Nancy Cribbin unless you pay me five thousand pounds in cash . . .' and he goes on to arrange how the money is to be handed over."
"But what's that to do with Crennell, if Charlie was doing the dirty work?"
"We assume that, like all blackmail notes, the letter is printed. The victim doesn't know who's written it. All he knows is that he's to pay five thousand, say, and he's raging mad, so mad he's prepared to commit murder. Now. . . . The diary again."
Knell bent over the entries as though to eat them.
"Let's say Charlie couldn't wait and wrote at once. October 25th. The letter would reach somebody on the Island on October 27th. This victim thinks a bit, first. Who knows the secret? Mary Norton, of course, and perhaps Nimrod Norton. But let's assume the printing and the paper eliminate a woman or an educated man like Norton. However he arrived at it, the victim decided in the end that Finlo Crennell was the blackmailer. The next day, the 28th, Finlo Crennell is attacked in the dark at a place where everyone knows he frequents. He walks round by the harbour for old times' sake every night after leaving his favourite pub."
"The victim intended to kill Crennell?"
"Yes. He hit him, but not hard enough. Crennell lurched into the water and was saved."
Littlejohn paused, filled his pipe, and lit it. Knell was busy consulting the diary again.
"But what happened then? There's no entry here between October 28th and November 6th, when you brought Crennell back and he was killed. . . ."
"You'll notice Charlie was in Castletown the same night. October 28th. Nancy confirmed that. He told her he was going to Douglas on the tractor. Remember? He went via Michael and Ballacraine instead of over the hills by the short cut through Baldwin. In other words, he came to Castletown and he got home after midnight. He was here when Crennell disappeared. He either came to see Crennell or his blackmail victim. Crennell's disappearance must have shattered and bewildered Charlie. He didn't know what to do. So he sat tight and waited. Then Crennell came back."
"And when Charlie heard you were bringing him, he came to Castletown again . . . perhaps to see him again for some money."
"Yes. And he waited until he heard Crennell was killed and then he beat it. But this time, he wasn't being fooled. He knew that his victim had killed Crennell. Who knows, he might have seen it happen as he hung about the Jolly Deemster waiting for Crennell either to arrive or come out of the pub. He must have been around Queen Street and found others there. His business was private, so he went back a time or two to the Trafalgar and waited till the coast was clear. But
whatever his movements and whatever he saw of the crime, he wasn't as I said, being fooled again. He got in touch with his victim and let him know quite definitely that the note hadn't been written by Crennell and perhaps he also put up his price on account of the murder. Who knows?"
Knell's head was down over the list of dates again.
"But Charlie was killed the next day, Sunday. He couldn't have posted another blackmail note to get there in time."
"No. I think he made his big mistake then. We'll soon find out. He beat it home and on the way, thought out his plan of action. He decided, I think, on something very stupid. He telephoned his victim and his victim thereby discovered who was on his trail."
"He traced the call? But that's not possible, is it?"
"It depends how you go about it. Now I want your help. How many automatic exchanges are there on the Island, because you can't trace a call through them, can you? It all depends on that."
Knell's face fell.
"The only manual exchange is Douglas. The rest are all automatic."
"Oh, dear. That's torn it! We'll have to start again and find another way. My theory there must be adrift. The victim couldn't have . . ."
Knell almost leapt in the air.
"Wait a bit, sir. If Cribbin rang up on the way from Castletown. Let me think. . . ."
Knell paused and went into a brown study.
"I've got it. If Charlie, as soon as he heard Finlo was killed, went to a 'phone-box in Castletown, he'd use the automatic. But if he 'phoned from Douglas, he'd have to get the exchange. . . ."
"But if he 'phoned from Douglas, that would be just as bad for his victim to trace. The reply he'd get would be, somebody or other in a Douglas call-box. No use at all. . . ."
Knell looked abashed and then showed his large teeth in a hopeful grin again.
"Charlie's a slow-thinking countryman, I'll bet. He'd ponder and put-off his next move for some time. Suppose he thought it all out on the back of Sammy Joughin's motor-bike on his way to stay the night at his dad's place at Michael, and when he got there, he 'phoned from a box."
"You know the psychology of the Manx farmer better than I do, Knell. I'm in your hands."
Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 19
