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

by George Bellairs

  'How many lodgers have you in at present?'

  'We've seven rooms and our own. Four on each floor and the girls sleep in the attics. We've sixteen boarders, all told, if you include Snook.'

  'How are they spaced?'

  'On this floor, there's four young men in one room next to the bathroom. . . . That's where the fellow's playin' the accordion. Then, next door to them, Miss Arrowbrook, a young woman who's not strong, or says she's not, who comes for several weeks every summer. Then, the missus and me in room No. 6, which 'appens to be vacant just at present, otherwise we'd be in one of the attics and the girls would 'ave to share a bed.'

  'And below?'

  'The 'oneymooners, the Mullinaxes, in No. 3. . . . The Finnegans, in No. 2. They came as man and wife, but from what I've learned lately, they aren't. If the police 'adn't insisted on Finnegan stayin' on, he'd 'ave been out on 'is neck. This is a decent 'ouse. No carryin's-on 'ere. As soon as you chaps give the word about Finnegan . . . out.'

  Mr Trimble made a chucking-out gesture.

  'Number One's occupied by a regular customer. Our best room. Mrs Nessle. Widow of a foreign gentleman, who comes every year for a month or so. Rollin' in money.'

  Trimble's eyes grew greedy as he imagined a sort of Ali Baba's treasure-house owned by his favourite lodger.

  'The rest . . . Room 4. The big one. Occupied by the Greenhalghs. Father, mother and three children. Double bed and two cots. Best we can do. He's a bookie, I think. Makes a good thing out of it. Out most of the day boozin' with his pals while his missus looks after the kids. Little 'orrers, Mrs Nessle calls 'em. But business is business to us in the season.'

  Littlejohn caught the Archdeacon's eye which was twinkling. They both seemed to be imagining the same thing. Sixteen people, plus Trimble and his three women. All in Sea Vista, packed like sardines, breathing, fighting, scheming for the bathrooms, scrambling for food, joking, frisking, quarrelling, lamenting, gossiping, slandering. And then, packing-up and off, leaving their litter and their ghosts behind to haunt the empty winter house when the season was over. Only Uncle Fred had stayed on with the Trimbles.

  They went downstairs again. The musician was still playing the lament about the blue-grass country. It was the top hit of the season. Everybody whistling or humming it, dance-bands playing it. A guitar accompaniment from a recent film. . . . The air had been ringing in Uncle Fred's ears as he died.

  As they passed No. 3, a head was thrust out. The honeymooner. A man in his mid-forties with a cunning sallow face, big ears, thick lips, and thin greying hair plastered back from his narrow forehead. He wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses.

  'Sorry, Mr Trimble . . . I wanted to see you, but it'll do when you're not engaged . . . .' The door gently closed.

  'As I thought. He's goin' to say they're off, and try to get away without payin' for the whole time they booked the room. Some 'opes!'

  Down below an argument was going on. A man's rough voice, and then a woman's.

  'No need to spoil everybody's pleasure because the old chap's dead. We all come to it.'

  'Don't you argue with me. I've said he's not stayin' for dinner, and I mean it. We've enough of your family to look after without you bringing in strangers as well.'

  Trimble could hardly get down fast enough.

  ' 'ere, 'ere. Wot's all this?'

  A tallish, swarthy, pudding-faced man, half-drunk already, with another who looked like a pal, smiling awkwardly and trying to persuade his friend to let it drop and take him away.

  The woman was annoyed and her anger enhanced her good looks. She was tall, plump, and blonde, and had all the poise and sophistication of a superannuated actress. She was between forty and fifty, looked after herself well, and was dressed in a skirt and a jumper of a daring cut which showed her fine arms and as much of her bosom as decency would allow . . . and perhaps a little more. Her antagonist was Greenhalgh, father of the children, and he was wanting his friend to stay to lunch. The woman was winning hands down. Greenhalgh couldn't keep his eyes away from her arms, her figure, and the centre of gravity where the jumper ended and the white flesh began. It put him quite out of countenance.

  'Oh, all right, then. But it's a poor sort of treatment for a holiday, Mrs Trimble.'

  So this was Trimble's missus. Littlejohn instinctively looked at two framed old portraits, one above the other, to the right of the cluttered-up bamboo hall-stand. One showed Mrs Trimble in tights, presumably as principal boy in a pantomime ; the other, Trimble himself, handsome then, in tights as well, standing at the foot of a trapeze. He'd been an acrobat!

  It was all there in black and white. The handsome acrobat and the principal boy. Retired and in the boarding-house business, perhaps at first prosperous through taking in stage friends and followers. Trimble hoping for an easy life, whilst his wife did the work. Instead, she'd turned the tables. He did the work and she managed the place and strolled along the promenade when the fit took her. He'd gone to seed, and she'd kept up appearances in spite of it. Now, she despised him. It was obvious from the way she looked at him when he descended on the quarrel. She ignored him until she'd settled Greenhalgh. Then . . .

  'What about the dinner? What do you think you're doing?'

  'The police called again. This is a Superintendent.'

  'Is the parson the police, as well?'

  Then she caught the Archdeacon's eye.

  'I'm sorry, sir. Don't mind me. I'm just in a bad mood. High season, a lodger murdered, everything upset, and that Greenhalgh chap wants to bring a half-drunken friend of his in for dinner. I won't have it. We've enough on as it is.'

  In spite of the weather, she looked cool and well made-up. She had obviously been out to the shops and carried a large straw bag with parcels in it and two library books showing on the top.

  'Have you any news about Mr Snook, sir? I hope it's soon settled. We're booked up for another month and with this happening, well, it doesn't do us any good. If our clients knew, they'd give back-word, cancel the rooms, I'm sure. People don't want mixing up in this sort of thing on holidays.'

  'I quite agree, Mrs Trimble. I'm only on this job unofficially, but the case is in good hands and they'll be most discreet and considerate, I know.'

  'It'll get in all the papers. That's what's worrying me. I expect reporters along any minute.'

  'You'll know how to deal with them, I'm sure.'

  'You bet.'

  She was putting it on a bit. Adapting herself to the company, a Superintendent of police and a nice old gentleman who looked like a bishop. She wondered what the bishop was doing there at all. Perhaps, like the men she read about in books, he was a famous amateur detective who tagged along with a professional and solved the crime when the police were stumped.

  Littlejohn smiled to himself. She had perhaps been the same with Uncle Fred, the man a cut above the average. She could deal with the Greenhalghs and the Trimbles adequately in their own vulgar idiom. Strutting and striding like a principal boy, she'd have them off the stage in no time, like a pair of wicked uncles or the traditional broker's-men. But for others she thought to be 'class', like Mrs Nessle, the Archdeacon, Littlejohn, and maybe Uncle Fred, she'd turn on the manner in which she used to address the fairy queen and the pantomime king.

  'Is there anything I can do to help, sir?'

  'I see you're busy with lunches just now.'

  'Mr Trimble will look after it. If you want to know anything from me, just say the word. We'll go to our private room.'

  She almost dragged them after her into a small cubby-hole, a kind of office with three chairs and a desk full of papers, between the lounge and the kitchen. It was stuffy and smelled of boiling vegetables.

  She gave them chairs and sat down herself, crossed her legs, and made a display of sumptuous principal-boy calves, now a bit over-weight, in sleek nylons.

  'May I offer you a drink or a cigarette?'

  She spoke in a posh voice, very different from the one she used on the Greenhalghs of l
ife. She nervously lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply.

  'No thanks, Mrs Trimble. We won't keep you long.'

  'That's all right, sir. What did you say your name was?'

  'Littlejohn. Superintendent Littlejohn. This is Archdeacon Kinrade.'

  Her large blue eyes opened wider.

  'Well! Not the Superintendent Littlejohn ? I've read about you in the papers. They've been quick and lucky getting you over from London, sir.'

  'I'm on holiday. I'm just helping the local police unofficially.'

  Her voice was even more posh.

  'I see. This is a pleasure, and an honour, I'm sure. And the Archdeacon too. I've heard of you, sir, as well. Well. . . I can't get over it. To think that . . .'

  'Did you bring in some pepper? We've got none.'

  Trimble's head appeared round the door. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. His wife gave him a killing look. Pepper at a time like this!

  'Why didn't you tell me this was the famous Superintendent Littlejohn, and Archdeacon Kinrade, Ferdy?'

  'I didn't know. I never asked their names. We got busy as soon as they arrived here. We're honoured, I'm sure. Pleased to meet you both.'

  He looked completely put out and didn't know what to say, which was something new for him.

  'Well! The pepper's in my basket in a paper bag. I won't be long. You'd better get on with seeing to the serving. They'll be in shouting for their dinner any minute.'

  She said it with contempt, as though anxious to suggest to the present company that the whole set-up wasn't much in her line, but that Trimble had somehow deceived her into taking it on.

  'As soon as ever we can, we're getting out of this. I'm fed up with the whole business. I beg your pardon.'

  She returned to the courtesies of the pantomime royal court.

  'Ask me anything you like.'

  It was a job to know what to say. Littlejohn hesitated.

  'I've always been interested in crime. I read a lot of thrillers in bed after we've shut up for the night. It relaxes me. Funny thing, too. I've said to myself quite often, when I've come across some ham-handed detective in a book, "Littlejohn would have solved this in no time". Are you sure you'll not take something to drink, gentlemen?'

  'No, thanks. We must be going.'

  'You must excuse the way we're upset here. My husband in his shirt-sleeves and not shaved. We're very busy. But from what I can gather from reading about you, Superintendent, you won't mind. You seem to put everybody at their ease.'

  Trimble had left the door open about an inch and a blast of fried potatoes entered. Along the corridor they could hear the tramp, tramp of lodgers entering the dining-room.

  'Who do you think murdered Uncle Fred? You'll excuse the name; he liked it and wanted everybody to be friendly and call him by it. Such a nice gentleman. . . . It's a damned shame. You'll excuse me, reverend, but it makes me wild to think of such an innocent and harmless old man coming to such an awful end.'

  The front door slammed and they could hear the voices of a group of youths joking and shouting. Presumably the three room-mates of the accordion player. One of them was whistling. I left my heart in the blue-grass country. It was becoming Uncle Fred's theme song.

  'As far as you knew, Mr Snook had no enemies?'

  The large eyes opened wide again.

  'Who? Him? Why no. A nicer man you couldn't have wished to meet.'

  'And no friends?'

  'Well . . . if you mean pals, men he went about or had a drink with, no. He was the solitary sort. Regular as clockwork, he'd take his morning stroll round the town and down to the same spot on the promenade. Down for breakfast at half past eight. Out at half past nine; back again at just after twelve. Then another stroll after dinner. He liked a snooze before tea, and after, he'd often go to the pictures. He was fond of them. We have high tea here at five-thirty and then a drink and biscuits or such for supper when the people come in for the night. He was regular for meals and never gave any trouble.'

  'Did he get any letters?'

  'Never.'

  'Completely solitary.'

  'Absolutely.'

  She was astonishingly fresh and what some would call appetizing for her age. Ingelligent, too. She had a quick straight answer for everything.

  'How long has he been coming here?'

  'He arrived in the autumn, five years last November. He walked in, asked for a room, paid in advance, and settled down. Now and then, he's gone away for a few days. Never more than a week. We didn't know where he went and he never told us. I don't know whether he crossed to England or not. If we tried to pump him about his trip, he evaded it and shut up like an oyster. So we didn't press it.'

  The door again. This time the children and their mother. Shouting, whimpering, quarrelling still, and then all hustled upstairs.

  'So you know nothing about him, except that he lived here most of the time. Nothing about his family or where he came from?'

  'Not a thing. A complete mystery. But his company and his money were good. So who were we to bother him with our curiosity?'

  'You've nothing else to tell me, then? Was he ever ill or did he ever get drunk? Anything like that?'

  'He enjoyed very good health. I think his liver bothered him a bit now and then. He used to doctor himself with pills. I've seen them about his room, but he never said anything about being off colour. I never saw him drunk, although he liked his glass of beer with anybody.'

  And that was that. Just a blank.

  They followed Mrs Trimble to the front door and she told them to call again if they wanted anything. The delicate lady, Miss Arrowbrook, was coming in as they left. She wore a set, self-pitying look, and was dressed in a serge frock and carried an umbrella. Her eyes were ringed in dark shadows and she looked down at the floor as she passed them.

  They hadn't seen the staff, the two girls Trimble had mentioned. Littlejohn had briefly noticed the young maid who looked like an orphan of the storm, laying out the table-napkins. Now, as they stood in the vestibule, the other one appeared, carrying a pile of hot plates into the dining-room. This was no waif! She looked like an Italian. Tall, with an easy languid stride, full of energy, conscious of her attractiveness. Dark and fine-featured, with an ample figure – almost too ample.

  'Italian?' asked the Archdeacon.

  'Yes. Her name's Maria. She's been here six weeks and as soon as the season finishes, she finishes, too. If it hadn't been so hard to get staff, I'd have shown her the door long since. As it is, we have to make the best of it. She's too familiar and sexy. I have to keep her in her place.'

  Mrs Trimble looked very capable of doing that. She was venomous about Maria and Littlejohn wondered why, if relations between them were so poor, Mrs Trimble didn't give the girl the sack and get on with some work herself. She seemed to have plenty of time on her hands.

  Maria returned from the dining-room empty-handed and quickly glanced at the group in the vestibule. She looked to have been weeping. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her classic face the colour of old ivory.

  They said good-bye and promised to return if necessary. Littlejohn almost gulped the fresh sea air outside. Most houses have their own characteristic smell, and a little of the sensual, stuffy Sea Vista went a long way!

  At the police-station, where they called to report to Knell again, they found him waiting excitedly for them. He handed Littlejohn a telegram. It was dated from London that morning, at 9.30.

  CAN IDENTIFY DECEASED PHOTOGRAPH IN DAILY CRY. NAME FREDERICK BOYCOTT. MY FORMER HUSBAND. CROSSING AFTERNOON PLANE. MARTHA BOYCOTT.

  First Snook, then Boycott! Uncle Fred had certainly been an unusual type. And, judging by appearances, he'd probably had a sense of humour, too.

  4

  THE ARRIVAL OF MARTHA BOYCOTT

  KNELL was right. It was a funny case. And the victim was even funnier. Uncle Fred to begin with. Then, Fred Snook. And now, Fred Boycott. Ridiculous! It looked as if Uncle Fred had assumed the names to suit his sense
of humour. Now, some woman or other was on the way to claim him as her husband. Littlejohn wondered what she'd look like. He could hardly wait.

  'You'll be passing the airport on your way home to Grenaby, sir. Will you both call with me to meet Mrs Boycott there ? We can have a talk with her at the airport police-post. You needn't come back to Douglas.'

  So now they were on their way to Ronaldsway, an airport which Littlejohn liked immensely. You could see and hear all that was going on, it was cosy and compact, and everybody there was polite and friendly. They took the same route back; Santon, the Fairy Bridge, Ballasalla. . . . They all raised their hats to the fairies again.

  'Good afternoon, little people.'

  'I hate to spoil the fun,' said the Archdeacon, 'but you are now really raising your hats as you cross the bridge into ancient monastery lands. The fairy bridge spans the stream which defines the demesne of old Rushen Abbey and the pious used to bare their heads in respect whenever they entered. It's much more romantic, however, to think you're saluting the little people.'

  Knell grunted. Abbey lands or not, he was sticking to the fairies. He wanted all the help he could get in the case of Uncle Fred and a bit of the supernatural wouldn't come amiss.

  Littlejohn didn't care which it was. He felt half asleep. The rhythm of the police-car, the strong air, and the days of celebrations in Dublin. . . . He sat with his eyes half closed. He imagined Uncle Fred and his routine on just such another warm, languid day as this. Regular as clockwork, but Traa dy Liooar, time enough, of course. Up on the dot in the morning, pottering round in his old bedroom slippers which he kept in the tumbledown wardrobe. Easy enough in winter, of course, but in summer when the holiday crowds invaded the place, they moved him up to the second floor and he had to struggle for the bathroom and eat his meals with a flock of noisy, boisterous bores at the long table in the dining-room of Sea Vista. Then, off for his stroll on the prom, back for lunch, out again, a little snooze, tea, the pictures, and now and then, he'd vanish and come back smelling of drink and with money to spare.

  Someone in Eire last week had told Littlejohn that if he stayed there much longer, he'd find he never wanted to return to England. The charm of the atmosphere seeped into you, sapped all your powers of resistance, and you just settled down without a care in the world, like a glorified beachcomber. A new sense of proportion, fresh standards of values and of what mattered and what didn't, a new start in life. Things just didn't matter.