"Leave that to us. And, mind you, not a word about this. Not even to your wife, till I say it's right to do so."
"Right. I hope we'll soon be able to get back home. When can we go? My business needs me."
"I'll let you know."
"As soon as you can. Remember. . . ."
They rose to go as Norton's hand reached again for the whisky. He tried to rise.
"Don't bother. We'll let ourselves out. Thank you for your help, Mr. Norton."
Already Norton was drawing the income-tax papers to him and fumbling for another cigar. The door closed between them.
As they made for the hall and the main door, Littlejohn saw Mrs. Norton, still pale and shaky, descending the stairs, holding the handrail. She beckoned him.
"Shhh. . . ."
Her fingers on her lips.
"I heard you from upstairs leaving the room. I was lying dressed on the bed, so thought I'd come down just to thank you for being so kind. We mustn't disturb my husband again; he's very busy. The mail has been a large one, so I mustn't let him know I'm down. Is everything all right now? Has he told you all you want to know?"
Her tired eyes searched the Chief Inspector's face anxiously.
"Yes, I think so, Mrs. Norton."
"You must forgive his abrupt way. He has had a very trying life with hard work and worry. And I am much to blame. You see, but for the course of events . . . you understand, I know. But for the course of events, we would have married long ago. He loved me in the old Manninagh days and has been true to me all his life. He waited for me, Mr. Littlejohn. I can never repay him enough for his love. You understand why I was anxious that he should tell you everything and rid himself of the burden of trouble all the recent happenings have caused. . . . "
Tears ran down her cheeks and, as she drew close to the Chief Inspector to shake his hand, he got a blast of brandy. She had taken too much.
As she spoke, the door of the sitting-room opened, and Norton stood on the mat. He reeled a little and joined them.
"What's all this? What are you doing down here?"
"Just saying good-bye to Mr. Littlejohn, Nim. He's been so kind. I couldn't let him go without a word of thanks, seeing that this is the last time he'll need to question us."
"Well, tell him good-bye and get back to bed. You're not fit to be down here."
He took her arm and led her upstairs again.
The landlord of the Dandy Rig was standing on the seafront with a bucket of crusts with which he was feeding the swans.
"You going, sir? Queer pair, the Nortons, aren't they? Believe in drowning their sorrows, and no mistake. He's gone through a bottle of whisky, except what you've drunk with him which wasn't much, I'll bet, from the look of you, in less than an hour. And she's had another couple of double brandies in her room since he took her one up when you arrived. Rum couple. . . ."
Squabbles, black eyes, bruised wrists, drinking bouts. . . .
Littlejohn agreed. Since Mary Gawne betrayed Nimrod Norton on the Manninagh years ago, they'd had their share of sorrows and things they wanted to forget.
18
MASTER AND MEN
"AND now for Morrison. . . . It's an awkward day, just after his wife's funeral, but there's nothing else for it. Meanwhile, Knell, take a constable with you, get the diamonds from the Douglas police, and bring them here to me. I want Norton to value them."
The pair of them parted at the castle gates and Littlejohn went on to Framley Lodge.
Dusk was falling over the town A melancholy half-light over everything. The trees round the great house looked like twisted limbs reaching from the earth, which smelled of autumn damp and dead leaves.
There were already lights in the rooms; the hall, the library where Littlejohn had so recently met Mrs. Morrison, and another smaller window at the side of the house. Upstairs, more lights, where presumably the children of the Grebe-Smiths were either playing out of the way, or being put to bed.
Littlejohn rang the bell, asked for Mr. Morrison, and was told by the maid to wait in the hall.
Morrison appeared from the library. All the life had left him. An old bowed man, he had aged ten years in a week.
"I'll be all right. No, I'll manage. . . . "
He sounded to be ending an argument already begun with the occupants of the room, whoever they might have been. An argument probably started because they wanted him to tell Littlejohn to go away and come again another day.
"Shall we go in my study?"
Morrison indicated the next door.
This was more like an office, with a large mahogany desk, a swivel chair and a number of smaller ones, book-cases and filing cabinets, and pictures of ships, framed, on the walls.
Littlejohn apologized for disturbing Morrison.
"I realize . . . on such a day, sir. . . . But this is of most vital importance to the cases I'm on. There's no time to spare."
"I understand. A cigar?"
Morrison passed across a large box, took one himself, and offered one to Littlejohn, who, however, declined.
"Now. . . ."
"I have called alone, sir, out of respect for your present position and grief, so I shall not caution you, nor use any formal words of arrest. That will come later, if necessary. But I must tell you, that you are under grave suspicion in connection with the murders of Crennell and Cribbin and I hope you will answer all my questions honestly . . . or else show me the door. In which case, I must warn you, that I shall at once return with a colleague, caution you, and arrest you."
Morrison fixed his eyes on the burning end of the cigar he held between his fingers. His expression of resignation did not change. He looked like one whose cup of misery had overflowed and any addition to it would make no difference.
"Go on. . . ."
"You are the father of Nancy Cribbin, formerly Gawne."
"Who told you?"
"Her mother."
"Very well. I don't mind who knows now. My wife never knew, and that was all that mattered. Thanks to the great fidelity of Finlo Crennell, my wife never paid for my folly by a moment's sorrow."
A shade of doubt seemed to enter his eyes.
"If she guessed, she never even hinted at it. Now she is gone, I am free of one fear, at least. Every day has been a nightmare of anxiety lest her trust in me be broken by some chance word by a gossip or ill-wisher. It's over now."
His voice was tired and monotonous.
"So, you see, it doesn't matter."
"Only a small body of people you could trust knew of it. Nancy's mother, Crennell and his wife, Finch, yourself. . ?"
"Yes. Did Mary tell you that, too?"
"I found it out from one place and another. Nancy also knows."
"I agreed to that, only in case of dire need and then to Nancy only."
"Her husband found out. He overheard Mrs. Norton telling her daughter. Then, he began to blackmail you?"
"Yes. He wrote a letter anonymously, telling me to leave a parcel of five thousand pounds in notes in the doorway of an empty house in Quay Lane, and to go at once. He would collect it and I must not try to find out who he was, or he'd tell the truth about Nancy Gawne."
"You followed instructions?"
"No. What harm could he do? The reason of blackmail was over. I only cared for my wife. Rather than she should know, I'd have killed him. But he couldn't get at her, try as he would. Only a week before I received the blackmail letter, the doctor had said my wife might die at any time. She was confined to the house and attended only by a nurse and maid we could trust, the doctor, her children, and myself. I dealt with all letters to her. How could she get to know?"
"So you ignored the letter."
"Yes."
"Yet you knew it was Charlie Cribbin. . . ."
"Not at first. On the night mentioned in the letter Finlo Crennell vanished from the town. I heard no more from the blackmailer. Then Crennell returned and was shot. . . ."
"Did you ever suspect Crennell of trying to black
mail you? He was one of the few who knew the truth."
"Never. I knew and trusted Crennell implicitly. The idea never entered my head. But the blackmailer thought I thought it was Crennell and that I'd killed him because of it. He rang me up to say I'd got the wrong man and if I didn't call with the money at the same place in Quay Lane the following, Sunday, night, I'd lost my last chance."
"You traced the call?"
"Well, I persuaded the operator at Douglas to tell me whence it came. It was a man's voice speaking in a ridiculous falsetto . . . a foolish attempt at disguise. Ridiculous. I told him to go to blazes. The call came from a box at Michael. I guessed then who it was. Mrs. Norton had told Nancy, who had, in turn, told her rascal of a husband. I knew Cribbin in days of old. He was never any good."
"So you didn't murder either Crennell or Cribbin?"
"Certainly not. Is that what you base your suspicions on? I must say, you've been clever to get so far, my dear Littlejohn, but you must stop short now. Crennell was a dear friend of mine; Cribbin, I despised too much to risk my neck on. I'm sorry I've no alibis. You see, my wife is dead, Littlejohn. I was reading to her at her bedside when Crennell died, and as for Cribbin, I don't even know when that happened."
"Let's leave that for a minute. You have a man called Finch on your pension roll. . . ."
"Put it that way, if you like. He is a former confidential clerk to the family and the firm . . ."
A knock on the door. Morrison rose to open it and engaged in conversation with the maid who had arrived.
"Very well. I'll come."
The door on the right opened. More conversation.
"You shouldn't have disturbed him, Kitty."
"I'll come, of course. . . ."
Morrison spoke over his shoulder to Littlejohn.
'You'll excuse me. It's the children going to bed. I always have to bid them good night when they're here. Five minutes, please."
Littlejohn heard him slowly mount the stairs. To kill the time, he strolled round the room, looking at the photographs of the old Morrison Line boats, one of the Manninagh, another of her on the stocks in the local shipyard, almost ready for launching. There was a fine photograph of Mrs. Morrison on the desk. . . .
Littlejohn sat down again and lit his pipe. A pretty kettle of fish! If Morrison were guilty, he was a good advocate for himself. He'd either thought it all out and made his case watertight, or else he hadn't committed the crimes at all.
"That's that. Sorry. . . . We were talking about Lucas Finch. . . ."
Morrison sat down heavily again.
"A drink, Littlejohn? No?"
He took whisky and a glass from a cupboard in the desk and mixed himself a drink.
"Yes, sir. Finch tried to shoot me this morning before the funeral. He had a rifle down on the shore and, pretending to kill ducks, brought down a gull and a jackdaw and took a pot at me as well. . . . "
Morrison showed interest for the first time.
"The fool! Whatever did he do that for? He's like Crennell was; a very devoted servant of the family. He must have thought you suspected me of the crimes. How came that idea to his mind?"
"I certainly didn't suspect him. He'd a cast-iron alibi. He was in the Jolly Deemster on both occasions of Crennell's accidents. As for Cribbin's death, the idea never entered my mind. I'd even played a pleasant game of cards with him the night before."
"Did you mention anything then?"
"Only about the diamonds. By the way, do you know anything about them?"
"What diamonds?"
"Crennell's diamonds. I believe that in the financial settlement you made with Crennell about Nancy, part of the funds were paid over in precious stones."
"That's right. I'd almost forgotten them. My brother gave them to me. He'd brought them from Kimberley. I was very short of funds at the time. Trade was bad and we had many commitments. I don't mind telling you now, that if my brother hadn't returned when he did with a fortune which he lent to the firm, we'd have been ruined. He died not long afterwards and what he left put us on our feet . . . ."
"The diamonds, sir. How did Crennell come to obtain and keep them?"
"I had to have the money to settle the matter of Nancy. My wife had a little, but I obviously couldn't use that for such a purpose. My brother, who was here, lent me such ready cash as he possessed, but it wasn't much, because all his affairs were in Kimberley and in course of clearing-up. I wanted the money at once. How could I say in the circumstances, 'I'll owe you the money,' or 'I'll pay you by instalments'?"
"So you paid Crennell in precious stones?"
"Yes. I scraped about two thousand to give to Mary and I told Crennell I'd give him four thousand to educate the girl and as a token of my gratitude. I handed him the diamonds as security. I'd the devil's own job to get him to accept four thousand. It seemed a fortune to him. He talked of a few hundreds, provided I saw Mary right. His wife intervened and he finally agreed. Then a funny thing happened. The stones increased considerably in market value. I was glad about it, but daren't tell Finlo. When I finally took him the four thousand, he said he'd rather keep the stones. He'd had them six months and I think he'd grown fond of them. He said they'd probably go up in time . . . such things always did . . . and he might as well have them as banknotes or savings-bank deposits. Had I told him the truth he'd have handed them back to me like hot coals. But my brother had died and left me wealthy again and I could never repay Finlo for all his decency and faithfulness. I let him keep them."
"You mention telling the truth. What was it?"
"The stones were worth, according to my brother, about five thousand pounds. They were very choice and some of them rather large ones. He'd had them specially selected and polished for a necklace for my wife. I asked him to keep it a secret from her until I'd had them made-up. Meanwhile I let Finlo have them as security. My brother died soon after, leaving a similar collection for another woman of whom he never gave us the name. I had a necklace made of those for my wife. It's in the bank. She was afraid to wear it."
He chattered on and on, his grief forgotten in his memories. Five thousand poundsworth of fine stones! Littlejohn was staggered. Now they were probably worth twice as much!
"We have the stones here, sir. At the Douglas police station."
"Is it likely that Crennell was murdered on account of them? Could it be that somehow the skipper or mate of the Rijswijk knew of them from some source, and shanghaied Crennell. . . ?"
"No. Crennell was seen after the Rijswijk had cast-off and both men were aboard."
Littlejohn told Morrison how the stones had been to Holland and back and how the police had recovered them.
Morrison leaned forward and spoke earnestly.
"Now that the stones are back, I wish to buy them whatever the price. But I think that as they were given as security for four thousand pounds, that figure should be accepted by the executors of Crennell, whoever they might be. Those stones are mine and if I repay the loan, should be returned. . . ."
"But I understood you didn't mind his keeping them?"
"I didn't want to upset him and I'd no objection to his selling them provided he benefited. Now he's dead, I claim them back and will repay the loan. They will not require valuing. I'll pay the full four thousand and keep them, not for profit, but out of sentiment. They were associated with both my brother and my wife. You might see that the police turn them over in due course to me and I'll give them a cheque, after the exors have agreed."
"We'll see that the lawyers of Finlo's estate know of this. By the way, did Finch know of the diamonds and their value, sir?"
"Of course. He supervised the financial arrangements."
"Did you see much of Crennell when he was alive and about town?"
"Not of late. I went out very little after my wife took so ill."
Littlejohn thanked Morrison, they shook hands, and Morrison took him to the door. At the outer gate, Littlejohn paused to collect his thoughts. What next?
; At least, there now seemed to be a plain motive. No family mix-up, no more sordid history. Just plain diamonds! Diamonds and greed!
19
DIAMONDS
THE constable in charge at Castletown police station was very relieved to see Littlejohn again.
"I'm glad you're back, sir. Finch has been carrying-on something shocking since you left. He wants to see a lawyer and demands to be released at once. He says he's duties to perform in connection with the death of Mrs. Morrison."
Littlejohn realized that, during their interview, Morrison had neither protested about the detention of Finch, nor his enforced absence from the funeral. He'd been too upset by the day's events or wrapped-up in his own affairs to trouble very much about the tragedy of his one-time faithful steward.
"Bring him in, constable."
When Finch arrived from the cells he was a different man from the one who'd been placed in them earlier that day. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair dishevelled and he stood blinking before his captors with all his spirit gone.
"What am I being kept here for? It's very awkward, Mr. Littlejohn. Can I be released on bail, if I promise to come back when . . . "
"What's all the hurry? Sit down, Finch. Cigarette?"
Finch's hangdog expression lightened as he found himself treated more kindly. He took the cigarette from Littlejohn's case and accepted a light, puffing it with obvious relief.
"Don't you think it would have been very awkward for me, too, if you'd managed to hit me with your rifle shots?"
Finch cleared his throat nervously.
"I apologize about it. I'm sorry. . . . But I was at the end of my tether."
"About something I was going to discover about you?"
"Not exactly. . . . "
"Something about Morrison, then, which would have made matters awkward for you? Perhaps something which would have brought an end to the pension you receive and put you on the rocks?"
Finch made no reply, but it was obvious Littlejohn was getting warm on the trail.
"Something which would have put Mr. Morrison in gaol!"
Still silence.
"Well, I've just had an interview with him and he's been able to answer all my questions satisfactorily. . . . "
Death Treads Softly (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 21
