'I'll see to it, sir.'
'Till tomorrow, then, Knell, and put Uncle Fred and all his affairs out of your mind till we meet. Take a rest from him.'
'I'll try.'
'Good-bye, Knell. . . . And thank you.'
'Thank you, sir.'
There was something a trifle emotional even in this temporary parting. It seemed to arise from the bond of affection which had been forged between the junior police officer and his superior. But then, the whole Uncle Fred affair had been teeming with emotion of all kinds. Buckets of it . . . .
There was an old seat in the sunshine in the vicarage garden, and when dinner was ready, Maggie Keggin seeking her master and Littlejohn, found them both sleeping, side by side, in the last of the evening light.
'Wake up, the pair of ye. . . . Ye'll both be gettin' your deaths of cold in this everin' air. . . . And dinner's ready and it's pigeons and they won't wait.'
Someone had sent the Archdeacon a bottle of Richebourg, '48, and he opened it with the meal. It stimulated them both and they talked a lot and it encouraged the Archdeacon to ask Littlejohn to tell him everything about the case and who'd murdered Fred Snook.
'I'm sorry, sir. Although I've made up my mind by instinct, I can't tell a coherent tale yet. There are one or two missing links and I'm a bit confused.'
'What about a game of chess, then ? It will take your mind off it all and meanwhile get your subconscious to work.'
They played for an hour in front of the log fire and then they drank a glass of port, which was the Archdeacon's speciality and came from a village grocer who had once supplied it to a famous Bishop of Sodor and Man. Littlejohn telephoned home to his wife and arranged for her to join him there at the week-end. The clock struck midnight and the two of them prepared to retire.
'For all the work of the day, Littlejohn, it's been a pleasant one. . . a happy one. . . because of your company. To my way of thinking, when two men get together and have much in common, their comradeship is the nearest thing to heaven we can find here.'
Littlejohn paused with one foot on the bottom step of the stairs.
Uncle Fred and Costain. . . . And then Uncle Fred and Trimble.
'Could we go back to the fire, sir? I can see it all now. . . .'
Half an hour later they were still talking when the telephone rang. Of course, it was Knell! Apologetic as usual.
'Susie's tried to murder Mrs Trimble. Stabbed her with a knife. Luckily, it was a flesh wound; she wakened up just as she was attacked in bed. . . . What do we do, sir? Do we stop all those goin' by the morning boat, from leaving?'
Littlejohn sighed.
'Can you send a car for me, Knell? I'd better come along.'
Why did it always have to happen late at night!
15
THE LAST NIGHT
IT was about two o'clock in the morning. The policeman stationed at the door of Sea Vista saluted Littlejohn and the Archdeacon.
'Inspector Knell's upstairs waiting for you, sir.'
The promenade lights were on in an attenuated way, every other one illuminated. The only sounds came from the direction of the harbour, where a cargo boat was being loaded and a skeleton staff was astir for the midnight passenger excursion from Liverpool, due in Douglas about five o'clock. Odd street lamps shone here and there. In the distance the sound of the tide beating on the promenade wall. The intermittent beams of Douglas Head lighthouse flickering across the distant water.
It was a warm night. Windows of hotels and boardinghouses wide open. Now and then, the shouts of some late reveller broke the silence. Otherwise, everybody seemed asleep. Rows and rows of them, tier upon tier. Some of them even sleeping in bathrooms and on billiard-tables, for Douglas was packed out.
One or two lights were on in bedrooms of Sea Vista. Uncle Fred's old room was in darkness and was now occupied by the evangelical-looking lodger, who kept asking everyone if they'd been saved. Now, the Teddy-boys got it in first and asked him if he'd been saved, and he didn't like it. There was a light in No. 3, and as Littlejohn climbed the stairs he could hear the dismal sound like chanting going on between the honeymooners. Mullineaux appeared at the door as he passed. He wore a raincoat over his pyjamas and stood in his bare feet. Without his large glasses, he looked a different man and his face wore the strained, flabby expression of worry and sleeplessness in the small hours.
'This won't stop us getting the morning boat?'
'No.'
'Oh, thanks. . . . Thank you very much.'
He went inside and shut the door of No. 3, and the chanting, this time presto and in a higher delighted key, started again.
Dirty shoes outside the bedrooms; a whole shopful of them at the Greenhalghs'. No Trimble to clean them. A small boy came and did it at seven, before he went to school.
Knell was waiting for them in No. 6, the Trimbles' old bedroom. The lights were on, pink shades and tassels, casting a restless glow on the figure in the bed. It was Mrs Trimble and, considering what she'd been through recently, she looked remarkably well, albeit a little pale. Her hair was tidy and there was even lipstick on her mouth. It might have been a stage bedroom.
Modern furniture in light oak, a good carpet on the floor, and all kinds of odds and ends and bric-à-brac scattered around. Cheap little porcelain figures, dolls dressed in coloured silks, small framed sentimental prints up and down the walls and, over the fireplace, now bricked-up and with an electric heater inserted under the mantelpiece, a perfect picture-gallery of variety artists, old friends of the Trimbles, judging from the affectionate superscriptions. 'All our Love to Gracie and Ferdy, Mai and Joe' – a couple of jugglers. 'With eternal gratitude and affection, Ed. and Fi.' – a pair in evening dress, the man playing a piano and the girl sitting on the top. . . . Another photograph of Trimble in tights, dark moustache bristling, muscles rippling, standing at the foot of a trapeze; Mrs Trimble, dressed as Dick Whittington, tights and all, smiling from ear to ear at the stage cat sitting tailor-wise at her feet. In the background a cardboard milestone, 'London, 10 miles.'
Knell was perched uncomfortably on a bedroom chair. He looked like a guilty party himself, moodily waiting for justice to tap him on the shoulder. There were dark shadowy rings under his eyes and his quiff sagged despondently. He smiled and bucked up when he saw Littlejohn.
'I'm glad you're both here, sir . . . . Susie came in the room and tried to stab Mrs Trimble. . . . Or that's what Mrs Trimble says. Susie denies it.'
'Where is Susie?'
'She's in the kitchen. I thought it best not to leave her on her own. One of our men is there with her.'
'Nice for him.'
'Beg pardon, sir.'
'Don't heed me. I was just being funny. How did it happen ?'
There was a moan from the bed. Littlejohn went to the bedside.
'How are you feeling, Mrs Trimble?'
'Not so bad. It was the shock more than anything else.'
She smiled bravely, the sort of smile Littlejohn thought she might have given the stage cat when, as Dick Whittington turned adrift away from London, she sat on the milestone and told him to cheer up and be brave. And the cat would answer Meeouw.
'Where is the wound?'
'At the top of my arm.'
She pushed back the bedclothes and displayed a pink nightgown with hardly any top, and a bare arm, shapely and trussed-up in bandages from shoulder to elbow.
'She tried to stab me in the chest and fought like a tiger. If I hadn't fought back and shouted for help, which came just in time, she'd have killed me.'
Meeouw !
Somehow it all sounded stagey and melodramatic.
'Tell me just what happened.'
Mrs Trimble, lying on her back, stretched out her arm again and made clutching movements in mid-air above the bedside table. This was to indicate to Knell that she wanted a dose of what smelled like brandy and water contained in a large glass there. Knell put the mixture to her lips and she drank half of it.
'I cam
e to bed early. After the funeral and the inquest . . . and I can tell you, the Coroner put me through it . . . I was whacked and I got to bed about nine. . . . Everybody was out except Miss Archibald and the two servant girls. . . . Is that you, reverend? Don't stand there looking a stranger. Draw up a chair and make yourself at home.'
'Thank you, Mrs Trimble. How do you feel?'
'Not so bad, sir . . . . Not so bad that I need praying for yet, if you understand what I mean without me being unreverent.'
'Well, Mrs Trimble?'
'Sorry, Superintendent. . . . Where was I? I came to bed about nine. I made myself a hot toddy, drank it, and fell off. I must have been asleep a good two hours when someone singing outside half woke me . . . . It was then I had that funny feeling you sometimes get, even when you can't see, that somebody's in the room. . . . I put on the bedside light, and there stood Susie, a knife in her hand and an awful murderous look in her eyes. She didn't give me a chance even to sit up in bed, but came for me. . . . We struggled and I screamed. I caught her hand, the one with the knife, between my two hands and turned the blade from my chest, and she gave a jerk and it made a deep cut in my shoulder. . . . Then somebody came in the room. It was one of the boys from the end room. He'd come up for his accordion, and next, Mrs Nessle arrived. . . . Then others . . . I fainted. Give me another little drink, Mr Knell, please. I shall never forget it till my dying day . . . the look in her eyes as the light went on.'
Meeouw !
Littlejohn knew he wasn't being fair treating it all with a pinch of salt and inwardly smiling grimly, but he couldn't help it. He needed Susie's tale before coming to a conclusion.
'Why in the world would the girl want to kill you, Mrs Trimble?'
The Archdeacon spoke, eagerly keeping the tale on the boil.
'She wanted to keep me quiet. If I told all I know, she'd be on the carpet for Fred Snook's murder.'
Littlejohn turned quickly.
'What's this, Mrs Trimble ? Have you been keeping something from us . . . ? If so, why?'
The body in the bed moved voluptuously under the sheets. The face framed by the pillows assumed a compassionate, almost motherly look.
'I didn't want to say anything without being sure. Both my late husband and me were very fond of Susie. She was like one of our own flesh and blood. But, after my husband died and I put two and two together, I began to see daylight. I asked her a few questions when I got home from the inquest today and she knew that I knew all about it.'
'Well, you'd better tell me everything at once. This is very serious and you might have wasted us a lot of time by withholding it . . . . What is it?'
'The day Uncle Fred died. . . . I was out watching the carnival.'
'Alone?'
'Yes. I went on my own.'
'Did anybody see you?'
'I can't tell you. There were thousands of people all crowded together. I'm sure I couldn't tell one from another. Why?'
'Go on.'
'The visitors all went to the carnival right after dinner. Mr Trimble stayed behind, minding the place, and Susie, too. Somebody had to be here to look after the tea. Uncle Fred was in his room. That's all. Just the three of them. On the day before he met his death, my husband happened to mention that on the day of the murder he'd seen Uncle Fred and Susie going upstairs, had quietly followed them up, and found they were in Susie's room. He didn't know what was going on there, but he guessed, and I'll bet he was right, too. The little devil! Next thing, Uncle Fred staggers down the stairs and out at the front door. . . . Give me another drink, please, Mr Knell.'
She gulped greedily. Her face was pink with excitement. 'Now, I never thought anything about it at the time, and then, funnily enough, as we were coming away from the funeral, it struck me. Uncle Fred might have been stabbed here. See what I mean? He might not have died right away, but staggered out and died on the prom. It was then it dawned on me how it had all happened. Susie had quarrelled with him in her room, after. . . after. . . At any rate, she'd quarrelled with him and stabbed him.'
'What with?'
'I don't know. Perhaps the knife she tried to kill me with. It belongs in the kitchen. A paper-knife . . . she has one that one of the visitors once gave her, one he won in a dancing competition at the Palais. . . . Or even a table knife, she might have had there.'
'Did you tell her your suspicions?'
'Yes. This afternoon in the kitchen. We were alone for a bit. I just asked her what she and Uncle Fred were doing in her room the afternoon he died and if they'd quarrelled and she'd tried to stab him. She didn't say a word. Just went out" with a jam-cake in her hand and put it in the dining-room. As if I'd not spoken at all. But she knew I knew. . . . That's why she tried to silence me.'
'What kind of a weapon did she use when she came for you?'
Knell produced it from his pocket, wrapped up in tissue paper. A small game-carver ground down by use to a fine short blade. It was stained with blood.
'A murderous-looking weapon!'
'I thought so when she came for me waving it.'
Littlejohn picked up his hat.
'Let's go and have a word with Susie, now.'
'She denies it all. Naturally, she will do. But don't believe her, Superintendent. She's a deep one. She's been hankering after Uncle Fred for a long time and he fell for her and then he must have cooled off. It's as plain as the nose on your face why she went for him. She hated him for jilting her. She even denies she tried to kill me. Is it likely I'd make this mess of myself and cook up a tale? Why should I? You'd think me potty if I started trying to kill myself, even if Trimble's death has made life not worth living any more. I'm not the sort to kill myself. I've more pluck than that. No. She was afraid I'd tell the police and she wanted me out of the way. If she'd succeeded, you would have suspected anybody but her. With a house full of lodgers, some of them not above suspicion, I must admit, the police wouldn't think of suspecting our innocent little Susie. . . . She's a dark horse, that one, though I must say, if she hadn't tried to do away with me, I might have shielded her. . . I'd have gone a long way for her, at any rate. So, you be careful if you're asking her questions. She's the sort who'll lie to save her neck, just as anybody else would do.'
Knell stayed behind again and was joined by Mrs Nessle, anxious to do all she could to prove she was a friend in need. She and Mrs Kelly, from next door, had undertaken shifts of watching the patient's health, whilst Knell saw to it that she remained safe.
Down below, Littlejohn found Susie asleep in a chair, with the bobby in charge of her reading the day-before-yesterday's paper in an armchair by the stove. Susie was physically and emotionally exhausted and all her beauty had vanished. Her hair had slipped from the little clips which usually held it in place, and hung limply framing her pale face. There were dark rings under her eyes, and the lipstick had rubbed and smudged on her small mouth showing the anaemic pink of the lips. She was breathing heavily through her mouth which was slightly open, and the breath which escaped blew up and then down a little curl which hung over her cheek.
The policeman sprang to his feet and apologized. He was in his shirt sleeves and smoking a cigarette. His shoes were unlaced. . . . He started to straighten himself up, but Littlejohn stopped him.
'Don't bother. Make yourself comfortable. It's late and regulations don't matter.'
At the sound of voices, Susie's eyes slowly opened. She smiled slightly and then remembered her plight. She passed her hand across her forehead and hair, softly teasing it into a semblance of order. It was the eyes which made the face, however. Open now, they illuminated it, the angles of the jaw tightened, the bones seemed to stiffen, and she was good-looking again. She glanced from the Superintendent to the Archdeacon and then back again.
'I'm so glad you're both here. I don't seem to have a friend in the world, now. I just can't get anybody to believe what I say, but I swear it's true.'
'Tell us your version of what's happened tonight. Do you smoke?'
Lit
tlejohn passed his case to her and then to the constable, and lit all three cigarettes with his lighter. Susie inhaled deeply and gradually relaxed. She smiled faintly again at Archdeacon Kinrade. She pointed at him.
'I know he'll believe me. He knows the difference between the truth and a lie.'
'What happened?'
'It just bewilders me. It's so ridiculous of her to lie like that. But I see quite plain that it's between her and me, and as she's the oldest and the boss, I'm likely to suffer. It's just this. This afternoon when I was getting teas ready, she came in the kitchen and said her late husband just before he died said that Mr Snook was in my bedroom, and up to no good with me, the very last thing he did in this house before he went out and died. She also said, in her opinion, he'd been stabbed when he left the house and fell dead on the promenade from bleeding to death. She said I'd done it when he was in my room with me. I naturally thought the shock of her husband dying, and the inquest and such, had turned her a bit queer. So I didn't argue. I just left the kitchen and went on with the teas in the dining-room.'
She took another puff at her cigarette and looked round at the men's faces to see if her tale was going down well.
'And then?'
'After tea, we cleared up, and then Mrs Trimble arrived. She'd been out for a walk or something and said she was going up to bed. She'd have a good sleep, she said. And she says, "And you, Susie, bring me up a large rum and milk on your way to bed." It's the last night for a lot of them and I didn't get finished till about eleven. Even then, some of them weren't in, but it's Maria's turn to stay and lock up, so I took the rum and milk up to Mrs Trimble's room. When I got in and switched on the light, it didn't light up. That was the one over the dressing-table. I knew there was another on the bedside table, so I walked over to it in the dark. Mrs Trimble seemed to be breathing regular, so I was quiet about it. Just as I put out my hand to the lamp, she got hold of my arm and started to scream. She'd something in her hand as she gripped me and when I managed with my free hand to put on the light, I could see it was a knife. She was bleeding and I don't know whether I did it or she did it, but it was at the top of her arm and she shouted I'd tried to kill her. People rushed in, she fainted, and the police were sent for. But I swear I'd no knife in my hand when I entered the room. Why should I want to kill her? She's never really done me any wrong.'
Corpse At The Carnival (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 20
