Corpse At The Carnival (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series)

by George Bellairs

  Corpse at the

  Carnival

  George Bellairs

  © George Bellairs 1958 *

  *Indicates the year of first publication.

  TO

  CHARLES AND MARIE JOWETT

  With Happy Memories

  CONTENTS

  1 THE DEATH OF UNCLE FRED

  2 QUITE A DAY

  3 'SEA VISTA'

  4 THE ARRIVAL OF MARTHA BOYCOTT

  5 THE INVALID OF CREGNEISH

  6 QUEENIE

  7 SUSIE

  8 TRIMBLE VANISHES

  9 FINNEGAN BOLTS

  10 AGNEASH

  11 THE CALF OF MAN

  12 THE OTHER WOMAN

  13 THE FUNERAL OF UNCLE FRED

  14 THE STRANGER ON CALF ISLAND

  15 THE LAST NIGHT

  16 THE LONG TRAIL HOME

  1

  THE DEATH OF UNCLE FRED

  IT was like a summer day on the Riviera. Not a cloud in sight, the hot sun pouring down, the air humming with the heat, white sails on the calm blue sea. . . .

  The long curving promenade of Douglas Bay shone in the sunshine and the two massive bastions of Douglas and Onchan Heads, which seemed to hold the bay in their giant arms, looked to be two-dimensional, like scenes on a backcloth.

  The tide was in and the sea was like a sheet of glass. The waves gently beat the shingle and, now and then, one larger than the rest struck the promenade wall and cast a fine salty spray over the baked asphalt. The Tower of Refuge on St Mary's Rock in the middle of the bay looked like a sham cardboard castle through the trembling heat.

  A horse-tram, half full of people, halted to take on two girls who looked naked under their flowered sun-frocks. The horse lazily watched them mounting, relieved himself voluptuously of a pile of droppings, and moved off with a jingle of harness when the conductor rang the bell.

  From a side street, an elderly man, short and thick-set, round-faced, and with a thatch of white hair, came in view. He walked slowly and unsteadily as though either drunk or ill, putting his feet down hesitantly, one arm hanging loosely by his side, the other holding together a raincoat flung casually across his shoulders like a cloak. He wore a suit of shabby blue serge and had an old panama on his head. Now and then, he paused as a spasm of coughing or nausea shook him, and then he gathered himself together and moved on. There was nobody about. All the people had formed a mass like a swarm of bees farther along the promenade, where something unusual was going on. The old man didn't seem interested. . . .

  A tall, hungry-looking photographer in a light, stained suit and down-at-heel brown shoes, instinctively took a snap of him for want of something better to do, and handed him a ticket. The old man absent-mindedly slipped it in his pocket and deliberately shuffled to what must have been his favourite spot, leaned wearily over the promenade railings, braced himself against them, and gazed blankly out to sea. A coal-boat was approaching the harbour of the old town, strings of little freshly-painted pleasure-boats bobbed about on the water, and an elegant private yacht, large, white, and self-conscious, appeared opulently from behind the pier and put out in the direction of Liverpool. On the skyline, the faint smoke of passing ships. . . .

  At the old man's back, the casino-like Villa Marina and its cloister of shops were almost deserted. The great dome, too, shimmered with the heat and inside, the staff with nothing much to do, were looking through the windows as though expecting something to happen.

  Fate, the monstrous scene-shifter, was setting the stage for the death of Uncle Fred, the elderly man.

  In front of the Palace, farther down the promenade, things were much livelier. What was going on there had drawn the vast holiday crowds which normally packed the sea-front and the beach from end to end. An actress, famous for little but her unctuous figure, was crowning the holiday queen. Miss Mannin-veen . . . Miss dear Isle of Man! And when the ceremony was over, there was to be a carnival. Already the procession was forming. Huge tubular figures, with little human legs and grotesque faces, were bobbing about and, in the decorated horse-tram, they were pushing the queen and the actress, all curves and dentifrice smiles. . . .

  Everything seemed to wake up at once. People began to move in the direction of Uncle Fred; first a thin trickle of them, then a river. In no time, they had formed a solid pack on each side of the wide causeway of the promenade and began to cheer and clap as the procession slowly rolled along. The old man found himself torn from the rails by the sheer surging power of the good-natured mob and engulfed in the thick noisy mass. A light breeze swept from the sea like a refreshing breath, and then all was hot and sweltering again.

  The tall, grinning carnival figures led the way. Then a brass band, and the floral horse-tram, with the queen in a white bathing-costume and a bit shy and embarrassed by the commotion she was causing. She wore a white silk sash with her name embroidered in gold on it, across her body. Miss Mannin-veen. By her side, the actress, all bosom, hair and teeth, sat confident that she was the main attraction. Then, a procession of vehicles bearing tableaux of all kinds, and a crowd of competitors on foot and in fancy dress, already sweating and following the decorated lorries like a long convulsive tail. Finally, a bagpipe band. A policeman's helmet here and there, cameras clicking, merrymakers in false noses and paper caps. And among them all, Uncle Fred, fighting to get away and find a place where he could be quiet and watch the fabulous blue sea.

  The carnival and the onlookers slowly moved down the promenade like bees clustered round the queen. Close-knit, buzzing, humming, clinging together. In the distance, the hands of the Jubilee clock stood at five minutes to three. Two sleek white boats of the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company, due to leave at four, were moored at the pier, their smoke gently rising straight from their funnels. The procession moved towards them, a thick nucleus and then a lot of loose tentacles, with stray spectators running here and there on the fringe, trying to find places where they could see and join in the fun.

  As the showpieces trundled past the Villa Marina and left it behind, the crowd thinned and faded out as though swept away by a huge invisible brush. There was nobody left but Uncle Fred, the waitresses at the windows, and a little Manx cat without a tail, chasing a piece of toffee-paper, and which by some miracle had not been trampled to death. The cornets of the brass band could be heard all over the town playing a popular hit from the latest film . . . I left my heart in the bluegrass country. . . .

  And then, in the wake of the comedy, tragedy started a little side-show. The old man on the empty promenade died, without a complaint, a convulsion, or a single sound. He just gently sagged to his knees, extended his body, slowly rolled over on his back, and it was all ended.

  A waitress saw it from the window of the Villa Marina, and was within a few yards of him when Uncle Fred quietly died. She ran wildly, calling as she went

  'Uncle Fred!'

  She was followed by the doorman and a man who kept a tobacco shop in the arcade.

  'He's fallen in a fit or something. It's the old man who comes down here every day. Uncle Fred. The crowd must have been too much for him . . . .'

  He didn't look dead. His face was calm and there was a tiny smile on his full lips. His eyes were closed and he might have been enjoying a pleasant snooze.

  The tobacconist, an elderly man with a large moustache and dressed in an open-necked white shirt and flannels, to whom the waitress had appealed, didn't quite know what to do. He rescued the panama, which had rolled a few feet away, and laid it down beside the body.


  'Is he all right?'

  A crowd had begun to gather and the tragedy soon developed in active competition with the organized comedy now winding round the Jubilee clock in the direction of the shopping centre. You could see people running from one to the other. The old man, peaceful in death, was spoiling the pantomime!

  'Carry him across to the doctor's. . . . Somebody telephone for the ambulance. . . ."

  A young policeman, with a red face and athletic muscles bulging from his tunic, appeared.

  'What's going on here?'

  'The man we call Uncle Fred is ill.'

  'Well, is nobody doing anything?'

  Those who knew him looked at a loss for an answer. Uncle Fred was a familiar figure round the Villa Marina. It was his favourite spot. He would sit on the seats facing the sea or lean on the rail of the promenade, motionless, for hours, and pass the time of day or crack a joke with anybody who greeted him. Now, somehow, they all seemed afraid of him, as though they scented death and were afraid of that, too.

  'We thought it might be dangerous to move him. Somebody's gone for the ambulance and to get a doctor.'

  A taxi drew up and the driver, a man with a profile like a greyhound's, sat in his cab watching it all. Charabanc owners were seeking fares for trips round the island. They did it cautiously, for touting was illegal. They were too busy with the job to notice Uncle Fred, his eyes calmly closed, his face turned full to heaven.

  'Here's the ambulance.'

  The vehicle drew up with businesslike precision, the attendants dismounted, and slid out a stretcher. The crowd was now enormous, and two more policemen were needed to keep a space round the body and make way for the ambulance men. They gently manoeuvred Uncle Fred to get him on the stretcher.

  One of the attendants raised his hand and looked at it in stunned horror. It was covered in blood.

  'He's been stabbed. . . . And he's dead. . . .'

  Women began to scream and faint. The doors of the ambulance closed on the body, and the vehicle tore away, with its bell clanging, to the hospital, although everyone knew now that Uncle Fred was past all help.

  The plane which had been droning over the bay turned to the airport at Ronaldsway, glided into the wind, and made a perfect landing.

  Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, was almost exactly overhead when Uncle Fred died. He didn't see it happen, of course. He had his eyes closed. He was feeling liverish.

  The International Police Conference had just been held in Dublin. Littlejohn had been invited. It had depressed him. It had made him feel his age. Most of the old faces had gone. Schwenk, of the FBI, had been shot by a gangster; Luc, of the Sûreté, had retired to a house his mother had left him near Flers, in Normandy; Sanchez, of Madrid, was in disgrace. . . . A lot of young men Littlejohn had never seen before had taken their places. They'd all treated him with respect, almost reverence, but he couldn't help feeling that they regarded him as a venerable old buffer all the same . . . an elderly uncle with out-of-date ideas. They'd asked him to lecture on his methods. It had shocked them to discover that he hadn't any.

  'Have a good rest,' his wife had told him as she saw him off at London Airport.

  He'd had that, right enough. . . . But the wrong way. Receptions, conferences, banquets. Good food, good company, and no exercise. He could still taste the Irish whisky in his mouth.

  Then, providentially, he'd had a letter forwarded from his old friend, the Rev. Caesar Kinrade, Archdeacon of Man.

  When are you coming over? I want to see you, and celebrate your promotion to Superintendent.

  It only took half an hour from Dublin to the Isle of Man. That was, according to the time-tables. But it was August and there were so many planes in the air and claiming a landing at Ronaldsway, that Littlejohn's pilot was told to take a run up the coast and back and wait his turn. So, Littlejohn was overhead, sleeping off his torpid liver, whilst Uncle Fred was being murdered.

  Yes; it was murder. They found a wound through the heart when they stripped the body at the hospital. The doctor said it might have been inflicted by a bread-knife.

  As the plane taxied to the airport buildings Littlejohn could make out his old friend the Venerable Archdeacon. The fine white head held high, the froth of white whiskers, the pair of sturdy gaitered legs. . . . When they opened the door of the plane, a salty gust of Manx air blew through, and the Superintendent felt better already.

  The Archdeacon began to wave excitedly as soon as Littlejohn's head appeared from the plane and when the two men met, a handclasp seemed inadequate. They gripped each other by the shoulders in a half embrace. Passers-by in the crowded waiting-hall watched the pair of them enter; some who had met Littlejohn before greeted him; and the sergeant-in-charge at the airport made for his office and picked up the telephone. 'Give me Inspector Knell, Douglas Police . . .' Nobody ever enters the Isle of Man without somebody or other sending a message to interested parties on the Manx grapevine!

  Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard . . . friend of the Archdeacon. . . . People nudged one another and it went round the airport. A group of spectators, half expecting the distinguished pair to be met by the Governor's car, were amazed to see them climbing into an old rattletrap of a vehicle, spotted by the white exclamation marks of hens and seagulls, and driven by a man in a cloth cap decorated with the hair of the cows he milked and with his two front teeth missing.

  'Kynnas-tha-shu . . . and how are ye at all, Inspector?'

  Teddy Looney, the driver, bared the gap in his teeth.

  'Fine, Teddy. . . . Brauw, brauw.'

  'He's Superintendent, now, Teddy, and mind you remember it.'

  'Whatever he is, it's good to be puttin' a sight on him again.'

  The old car staggered noisily into the sunny interior of the island. Grenaby. The same little signpost apparently pointing to nowhere, and the quiet country road leading to the hidden village in its hollow sheltered by trees, with the river driving its way under the bridge beside the deserted old mill. . . . Littlejohn felt he'd never been away from the place and he remembered how, in the heat and noise of London, he'd often thought of it and been refreshed.

  The old gate, the walk under the trees, the broad, pillared door with its wide fanlight, and they were there. The old housekeeper, Maggie Keggin, met them in the hall. She was undemonstrative in her ways and expressed her feelings in her cooking. They were soon sitting down to roast partridge, shot for the occasion by a farmer of the parish who said he'd forgotten the date. And they had cherry tart to follow.

  All through the meal, the parson questioned Littlejohn about himself and his affairs, his bright blue eyes sparkling whenever crime was mentioned and Littlejohn got the impression that this good old man could have wished for just a little murder to happen to give the pair of them an exercise to do together.

  'And now, I've a present for you. I've had it a long time, and I don't get any younger, you know. I'll give it to you to celebrate your promotion and at the same time ease my mind that it's in good hands. . . . It's in the other room.'

  The Archdeacon rose and led the way.

  'There it is, and it's all yours, with my deepest regards.'

  It was a picture hanging over the fireplace, a work by the Manx artist, William Hoggatt. The Black Sunbonnet.

  Littlejohn felt a lump rise in his throat as he looked at it. The wide hilly landscape rising to the Sloc in the south of the Island. A Manx farmstead nestling in the hollow, and the smoke of the stubble fires floating in the air over the little, brown autumn fields. In the foreground, a sturdy Juno of a peasant girl in a black sunbonnet looking with quiet longing in the direction of a ploughman with his team. At her feet, an old woman grubbing in the potato rows. A prophecy of what the girl might become in another forty years.

  There was a sudden sharp knock on the front door. Maggie Keggin could be heard greeting someone angrily.

  'He's only just come. . . . Can't ye leave the poor fellah alone for even an hour?'

 
The housekeeper entered the room followed by a tall, thin, grinning man with large prominent teeth and an uncontrollable quiff of hair. Detective Inspector Knell, of the Manx C.I.D. He looked bashful after the housekeeper's onslaught, and delighted to see Littlejohn at the same time.

  'Knell! And how are you? You're putting on weight.'

  'I just thought I'd call round, sir, and congratulate you on being made a Superintendent.'

  Littlejohn had happy memories of collaborating with Knell on previous cases. He was a good sort. Knell himself thought even more than that of Littlejohn. In fact, he boasted that he owed his own promotion to the Superintendent, who was also godfather to his baby son.

  The Archdeacon searched Knell's eager face with his keen blue eyes.

  'Well?' he said at length.

  'Well what, Archdeacon?'

  'What else, Knell? I can see you're excited, and it's not about the Superintendent's promotion.'

  Knell tried to look nonchalant.

  'This was just by the way of a social call, Master Kinrade. You see . . .'

  'For heaven's sake, Knell, stop beating about the bush! Out with it man. What's wrong?'

  'Well, Archdeacon, there has been a murder in Douglas today. An old man's been stabbed on the promenade in the middle of the carnival.'

  'And . . . ?'

  'And I'm in charge of the case, sir.'

  'Have a good rest, Tom,' Mrs Littlejohn had said as she kissed the Superintendent good-bye at London Airport!

  2

  QUITE A DAY

  'PERHAPS we'd better put a sight on the scene of the crime first. Then, you might like to see the body?'

  Somehow, Littlejohn always felt sorry for Knell. He was so modest, earnest, and anxious to please, and, although eager to enlist the Superintendent's help and advice, he was a bit afraid of making a nuisance of himself. His face now wore the pleading, ingratiating look of a dog eager to be taken for a walk.

  'Do you want me to come back to Douglas with you?' Littlejohn had asked him, and the way Knell's face had lighted up was answer enough.