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

by George Bellairs

  Knell got quite excited.

  'Somebody's been camping here,' he said as though he'd made a great deduction.

  The three of them stood in the doorway looking out. Not a soul in sight. The second lighthouse, on higher ground, was even more derelict and desolate. A small motor-boat crossing the intervening water to the Chicken Rock lighthouse, rising gracefully from its reef against which the waves were lapping gently. To the west some herring boats making their way out from Peel.

  'Let's take a look around.'

  The upper light was on wilder ground. Hooded crows and jackdaws circled round as the trio approached it. Nothing there. The rough turf rose beyond to a high eminence overlooking savage cliffs with gulls eternally launching themselves into the air and guillemots perching and diving from ledges. A few sea-parrots, puffins, performed little antics around their nesting-holes, the deserted burrows of rabbits decimated and cleared by disease.

  The Archdeacon opened his mouth to tell them something or other about the birds or the island itself, and then closed it again. None of them seemed interested. . . . Trimble, the flabby failure, was more important now than the majesty of the scenery or the beauty of declining day, with the sun beginning to cast a bridge of gold to the west of Chicken Rock.

  'But the green boat was there, stolen, and then hidden along the rocks on the Sound. . . . Somebody must have done that.'

  Knell sounded to be arguing with an unseen opponent.

  They stood there on almost the highest spot of the islet and looked all around them. One side of the Mull peninsula was visible, and Bradda Head and the western coast beyond. The sunlit mainland in the background. They could even see vehicles and little people moving in what looked like another world. A fulmar launched itself into space and made a wide sweeping arc before landing on the sea. Littlejohn half unconsciously followed its flight. . . . And then he saw the body.

  It lay spreadeagled on one of the jagged rocks half-way down the tremendous cliffs almost below where they were standing. They could plainly make out the form of a man, but could only guess who it might be. It was impossible to approach any nearer. The ground between themselves and the edge of the precipice was covered in dry shrivelled turf, slippery as ice and with no chance of a foothold. To lose one's balance would mean a running jump into space and certain death.

  They all stood dumbfounded for a moment.

  'Is it Trimble?'

  'I can't make out, Knell. We'll have to get some help. You might run back and find the warden and Mr Kinley.'

  Knell was glad of something active to do and scrambled off and away by the shortest route.

  'Did he fall from here, I wonder?'

  'Or higher up, parson. Shall we go and look?'

  Up the slope above them was firmer ground, a little slippery plateau of grass riddled by rabbit-holes. A puffin opened its mouth at them in silent rebuke and waddled away. At the entrance of one of the burrows lay a small green object. Littlejohn picked it up. It was a numbered ticket.

  THE MANX MUSEUM AND NATIONAL TRUST

  PERMIT TO LAND ON THE CALF OF MAN

  and a brief list of conditions.

  No responsibility for the holder whilst on the Island. . . .

  Poor Trimble! Nobody responsible for him! But. . .

  'Didn't the warden say he hadn't issued a ticket to Trimble for over a fortnight?'

  'Yes, Littlejohn.'

  'Then someone else has been here recently. If this ticket was issued today, it may be that Trimble was followed and perhaps murdered.'

  'Isn't that rather jumping to conclusions? He may have fallen over. It's very dangerous ground here. If he's been drinking. . . and the whisky we found might easily have been a part of the cargo he brought with him . . . he might have staggered to his death.'

  'That's true. We must get at the body as soon as we can. The earth is too hard and slippery even to bear impressions of footmarks or a scuffle.'

  'In other words, we get deeper and deeper. Whoever could have followed Trimble if what you say is true ?'

  They stood there, waiting for help. Utter silence and desolation, except for the birds busy about their own affairs and swooping and crying over the body of the man sprawling among their nests and territory.

  Knell and his companions appeared almost at the double. Kinley was the first to speak.

  'We'll have to get ropes and someone will have to go down for him. Who is he?'

  'It might be Trimble, the man we're searching for.'

  'Well, we can't get at him from the sea. . . . The coast there's too rocky even to land with a little row-boat.'

  'I've got ropes at the house. They'll be long enough.'

  The warden turned to go.

  'Just a minute, sir. This ticket . . .'

  Littlejohn handed over the little piece of green cardboard. 'When was it issued?'

  'Today. . . . The number's recent. Where did you get it?'

  'Just down the burrow there.'

  'But Trimble didn't take a ticket.'

  'I know.'

  Another puzzled silence punctuated by the sad cries of the gulls.

  'Didn't you say, Mr Kinley, that only your boat had brought visitors over today?'

  'Aye. Two lots of 'em.'

  'How many?'

  'Five one trip and six the next.'

  'By arrangement? I mean, were they booked beforehand?'

  'Naw. Not ezzackly. . . . A party of three booked one trip and two the other. Then the rest jes' drifted along, leck, as usual. Folk in the village recommend 'em to me.'

  'Would you know them again if you saw them?'

  'Aye, I reckon I would. I've a good memory and bein' with them most of the trip, I get to know them.'

  'Anybody special, or peculiar with you today?'

  'Naw, couldn't say they was. Both parties about even, men and women.'

  'Any of them just on their own?'

  'Two fellahs on the first trip, an' a man an' a woman on the next.'

  'Were these isolated trippers young or elderly?'

  Kinley pushed his cap to the back of his head and scratched his bald forehead.

  'First lot. . . . An elderly fellah, might have been a docthor or some eddicated sort o' chap. Asked a lot of questions, leck. The other was a young 'un. . . dressed like a hiker.'

  'And the second?'

  'The fellah might have been a writer or sech. . . . Sort who like to put a chap like me in their books. Askin' for stories and yarns, leck. He didn't go far. Stayed with me most of the time, askin' about the boat and storms, and how it was here in winter when gales blow up. Terrible smoker. . . . Lit one cigarette from the stump of the other.'

  'The woman?'

  'One o' the usuals. . . . Middle-aged an' on her own. A bit standoffish. Didn't mix or talk with the rest. Listened to what I said to 'em and was busy puttin' it all down in a li'l book.'

  'What was she like?'

  'Medium build . . . dark hair, sun-glasses all the time. I didn't see much of her face. City sort, because she was made-up . . . powdered heavy an' red lips.'

  'Dark, did you say? Very dark?'

  'Almost black, her hair was.'

  'Long, or cut short?'

  'Longish and a bit rough, or wild, leck, as though it had been blown about, as doubtless it had.'

  'What did she wear?'

  'No hat. A scarf. . . . She put it on when we got away from land. A sort o' long light-coloured coat. Almost white, it was. That's all I can remember. . . . An' here's the warden.'

  Knell insisted on going down. He'd been used to that kind of thing from boyhood, he said, when he'd climbed the rocks for gulls' eggs. The warden had brought a pair of rubber-soled pumps and Knell managed to get his feet in them, although they were a bit small. Ordinary shoes were no use on the slippery turf and rocks which led down to the body. They tied him to the rope and slowly paid it out as he slid down from foothold to foothold with remarkable dexterity. He had stripped off his coat, and his white shirt showed clearl
y against the black background of the cliff. Finally, he reached the body.

  Knell gingerly scrambled about for a bit and then took hold of the figure, examined the face, and waved back to the men above. Then, he called between his cupped hands.

  'Trimble. . . . Trimble. . . .'

  The rocks echoed the call.

  'Trimble. . . . Trimble. . . . Trimble. . . .'

  As though they were calling poor old Trimble home.

  Knell pointed to the body again and cupped his hands a second time.

  'Dead. . . . Dead. . . .'

  'Dead. . . . Dead. . . . Dead. . . .'

  He knotted the body to the second line and, as the four men at the top hauled gently, guided and thrust it onwards until he appeared again with his grisly companion over the cliff edge.

  They laid Trimble on the turf and Littlejohn patted Knell on the back.

  'A good job of work, old chap.'

  'All in the day's work, sir.'

  Trimble wasn't a pleasant sight. He'd been dead for some hours, but there was still a faint reek of whisky about him. He had caught the projecting rock with the full weight of his body, which was crushed and broken. He had bled from the mouth and his hands were torn. But it was the expression of utter terror in the face, the open mouth, the staring eyes, which turned them all up. The Archdeacon knelt and closed the eyes and tied up the stiff gaping jaws with his handkerchief. He even stroked back the thin ruffled remnants of hair and made it look decent. Finally, they found an old shutter in the wreckage of the lighthouse and carried the corpse, covered by Knell's jacket, down to Kinley's boat.

  'I think you'd better come to Douglas with us, Mr Kinley. There are one or two matters there to square up.'

  'That's all right, Superintendent. I'll come along.'

  Poor old Trimble, the failure, the man who'd run away from trouble and stumbled into worse, was driven off in an ambulance and the rest followed in the police-car. They stopped at the police-station and waited for a brief preliminary examination by the surgeon.

  'He obviously died from the fall. There are no stab wounds or bullets involved. His head isn't even damaged. He must have slipped and shot through the air, and then literally spiked himself on the projecting rock. I guess the post-mortem will show some fearful internal injuries. He probably died between noon and when you found him. I can perhaps be more precise later.'

  They hurried away to inform Mrs Trimble and took Kinley to Sea Vista with them. 'Home Sweet Home,' muttered Littlejohn to himself as the boarding-house came in sight. They never seemed to be away from the place.

  Tea was long over and all the boarders were out enjoying the evening's pleasures. The streets were full of rowdy merrymakers. It was Thursday. Only one more day for those finishing holidays on Saturday. The melancholy feeling as the sands of freedom, pleasure and money-spending run out, was gnawing at most of them. They wished they could live on the Isle of Man in the summer sunshine for good, and that every day of the 365 was a holiday. . . . To forget and cast out the thought of the daily grind again next week, they made more noise than ever.

  I left my heart

  In the blue-grass country . . .

  There it was again, like a dirge for Trimble now.

  Mrs Trimble collapsed when they brought in the news. Very different from her attitude of earlier in the day. They gave her brandy and Maria and Susie laid her on the couch. Susie was still there. After Littlejohn's departure following the row between the two women, Mrs Trimble had turned on Susie and abused her for thinking of leaving them in the lurch in the middle of high season. The pair of them weren't on speaking terms, but Susie remained. Now, Mrs Trimble was hysterical about her.

  'Don't leave me, Susie. You're all I've got.'

  They told her Trimble had had an accident on the Calf. There was no sense in making matters worse by full details. Finally, the two girls persuaded her to go to bed. She let them lead her upstairs, still clinging to the brandy bottle.

  'It wasn't any of them women. I'm sure of it. I'd swear it.'

  Kinley was emphatic that neither Mrs Trimble, Maria, nor Susie had been in his boat to the Calf that day. As for the other women, Miss Crawley had an alibi. She'd been at Agneash. Mrs Nessle was indoors, resting after a day in a charabanc.

  'I never seen her before, either,' said Kinley.

  Mrs Nessle was upset and shed a tear or two. She was definitely pro-Trimble.

  'The poor man. I knew him when he was on the halls. Not personally, of course, but I saw him perform a lot. Ferdinand of the Trapeze. . . that was he. Then he fell in love with Mrs Trimble . . . Gracie Goodson, a second-rate vaudeville artiste, with pantomime, third-rate, thrown in at Christmas. I knew her, too. My husband financed certain shows, you see. Did I tell you he was a businessman?'

  'Yes, Mrs Nessle.'

  'It was a tragedy. . . . She ruined Ferdinand. He was very much in love with her and she treated him like dirt after they married. She was good-looking in a certain kind of way, and always had a lot of men around her. Ferdinand was terribly jealous. . . . And one night, he fell from the trapeze. . . I always said it was her fault. . . As I said, a tragedy. Such a fine artist. . . . Well. . . He's at the end of his troubles now. . . . How did you say it happened?'

  Littlejohn briefly mentioned a misplaced step in a dangerous part of the coast, and left it at that. Mrs Nessle broke into a flood of tears.

  'Did they get on well together here?'

  'He still thought the world of her, but she despised him and didn't hesitate to show it. You see, he felt dependent on her for so much and acted like a failure. I was very sorry for him. He ought to have risen up and beaten her. It would have done her good.'

  'They both got on well with Mr Snook?'

  'Yes, for the most part. Now and then, they've had words. Mr Snook was always fond of Mrs Trimble, and Ferdinand resented it on occasion. But it blew over. I often suspected there was something between Mr Snook and Mrs Trimble. . . . At times they were very affectionate. I'm sure it was her fault. She tried to use her charms on every man that came her way. She was always like that right from the first days I knew her. Mr Snook was a very nice man . . . charming . . . I'm sure he was taken in by her. However, both men have gone now . . . It won't be the same here.'

  More floods of tears. Bucketfuls now. . . . Littlejohn joined the other three in the car.

  At the police-station they planned to leave Knell and drive home at once, but a constable met them at the door. They could see him from afar, shading his eyes against the dying sun, like the father looking out for the prodigal son. Cromwell had been on the line. He had seen Wilfred Gravell in gaol and Wilfred had given him the benefit of his phenomenal memory.

  'Easy! Great pleasure to be of 'elp. Don't forget to put in a good word for me in the proper quarter. I shadowed Boycott on his wife's behalf. He was knockin' about with a bit of stuff from Leicester. Name of Crawley. . . .'

  12

  THE OTHER WOMAN

  IT couldn't be helped. They just had to see Miss Crawley before the day was out. Perhaps she was somewhere among the milling crowds entertaining themselves in the town, but they must, at least, try to find her.

  Littlejohn was anxious about the Archdeacon. Since breakfast, albeit a substantial one, they'd had a cup of tea and a bun at Agneash and a couple of fresh crab sandwiches at Port St Mary. The parson must be in extremis. . . .

  'What! Leave you now just as the trail's becoming hot, Littlejohn . . . ? Certainly not!'

  So, they took the Archdeacon with them.

  It was eight o'clock and still broad daylight, although the sun was setting behind the hills and etching their gentle curves along the skyline. Everybody seemed abroad. Singing, dancing, merrymaking, and those who were tired from the day's exertions were packing the cinemas and variety shows. People were sitting on the front steps of boarding-houses sentimentally enjoying the dying day, the pubs were full, and all the dark and secret places were occupied by canoodling couples. Littlejohn even dis
lodged a pair in a passionate embrace as he entered the vestibule of Rossendale to ring the bell.

  Miss Crawley was indoors taking a cup of tea with the motherly Mrs Kelly. Miss Crawley had had a surfeit of gallivanting for one day. She had dismissed Mr Finnegan for the evening on a pretext of a bad headache, and he had rushed away for a pub-crawl to drown his sorrows. All Miss Crawley wanted was to go home. . . home to Leicester.

  Littlejohn and Knell spoke to Miss Crawley whilst the parson gossiped with Mrs Kelly, who knew him well and, once started, was quite adequate for the task of talking him to death.

  'You didn't tell us, Miss Crawley, that you already knew the late Mr Snook . . . perhaps as Mr Snowball. . . when you arrived at Sea Vista.'

  She showed no signs of panic.

  'What do you mean, Superintendent, I knew him before?'

  In spite of her blonde dyed hair and the fact that she'd run away with a married man, there was something straightforward in Miss Crawley's make-up. An intelligent woman, too, by the looks of it. And the sort who didn't easily lose her self-possession.

  'Let's sit down and talk sensibly, Miss Crawley. All this beating about the bush will do no good. We know that Mr Snook was, at one time in his life, associated with a certain Marion Crawley, of Leicester.'

  'My name is Elsie.'

  'Did you know Marion Crawley?'

  There was a brief pause as Elsie Crawley tried to make up her mind what to do. Then:

  'Yes. She was my sister.'

  'Was?'

  'She's dead. She died six years ago . . . . Committed suicide. It was through Fred Snowball she did it.'

  'Hadn't you better begin at the beginning, Miss Crawley, and tell us the whole story?'

  'There's not much to tell, and it's all been told before, one way or another. Marion went off the rails with a married man. Just like I've done, only Marion was in love with the man; I'm not.'