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

by George Bellairs

  'She says you were afraid she'd tell the police that you'd killed Uncle Fred.'

  'That's what I gathered, thinking it out while I've been sitting with Charlie here.'

  The bobby blushed to the roots of his hair. His hands even blushed.

  'I'm the man on the beat here, sir. We've known one another for a long time. I come in now and then for a bite of supper when it's not the busy season.'

  The look he gave Susie showed that he, for one, was on her side.

  'You do, do you, Charlie?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Poor Charlie stood at attention, wondering how he'd fare when reports were made.

  'Well, Charlie, will you kindly go and ask Inspector Knell to remove the bulb from the fitting over the dressing-table, and bring it, together with the glass from which Mrs Trimble's been drinking, down to me? Just that, as quickly as you can.'

  He turned to Susie.

  'Did anybody try the light over the dressing-table after the rescue party arrived ?'

  'I don't know. Vincent, the boy who plays the accordion in Number 8, was the first to appear and separate us. Then Mrs Nessle came in. Vincent held me, while Mrs Nessle went to the top of the stairs and called down for help. I remember. . . . Mrs Trimble kept shouting, "Take her out of here," so Vincent pushed me on the landing till the others arrived. Then I was taken down. . . .'

  'The room was empty for a minute after Vincent took you out ?'

  'Yes. It took a minute or two for the others to get up. They were making such a noise. . . . It was their last night and some of them were a bit lit up . . . . Vincent stood holding me outside.'

  'Now, just one more question, Susie. How was Uncle Fred killed?'

  'They said he'd been stabbed in the back.'

  'What with?'

  'The papers said it might have been a bread-knife. I don't know. Why?'

  'Have you a paper-knife in your room?'

  'Yes, sir. You don't think . . . It was one a lodger gave me. He'd won it dancing. It's on my dressing-table, as a sort of ornament. It looks good, you know . . . all silver like. . . .'

  'Go and get it, Susie.'

  'Alone?'

  'That's all right.'

  She was quickly up and quickly back again, this time accompanied by P.C. Charlie, who tenderly piloted her before him into the room. She carried the knife, he the light-bulb and glass.

  'Take them both to the station and if there's anybody there who understands fingerprint work, compare those on the glass with any on the bulb. Be careful. The bulb's dusty and the prints look fresh. . . . Please go now, Charlie, and be quick, and telephone the result.'

  After doing himself up respectably, shoes, tunic and hat, Charlie was off.

  The paper-knife was a good stainless steel affair, like a dagger, with a leather handle. It was shining, clean and dry.

  'It was in its usual place?'

  'Yes. I'm going to be all right, sir? You do believe me.'

  'Don't excite yourself, Susie. One way or another, it will soon be over. You'd better make yourself a cup of tea. You look all-in and I'm sure the Archdeacon and I will be glad to share one with you.'

  As she filled the kettle and set it to boil, they sat there with absolute silence in the house around them. Everybody seemed asleep. Littlejohn went into the hall. There he could hear some snores from the floors above. The honeymooners had ceased their chanting, the eternal accordion was silent, and the Greenhalgh children at peace for a change. Somewhere, a half-turned-off tap was whistling. . . .

  Then, suddenly, the sound of padding footsteps, and Knell appeared around the balusters. He was in a hurry. He expressed a wish, in pantomime, to speak earnestly with Littlejohn and when he reached him whispered hoarsely:

  'Mrs Trimble's coming down. . . . We can't stop her. She's getting rough. . . . Mrs Nessle's trying to pacify her. She wants to know what Susie's telling you.'

  It was dim in the passages and staircase. One light only in the hall. Suddenly, the lot were illuminated by someone switching on above. Mrs Trimble appeared, fastening as she descended the innumerable buttons which ran down the front of her long, trailing house-coat.

  'I won't stay there while she tells you a lot of lies. . . . I'm coming down.'

  She shouted at the top of her voice and the noise rang round the stairs and corridors. Voices, doors opening, shafts of light shooting from rooms and holding in their beams half-clad, sleepy, exasperated figures. Two of the Greenhalgh children began to wail dismally and finally Greenhalgh himself appeared, dishevelled and hideous after a final holiday binge and a brief drunken sleep.

  'What the hell's goin' on? How much longer is this goin' to last? Hey! You the police? Somebody's pinched my raincoat. I want to report it. I hung it on the 'atstand when we arrived and 'aven't needed it since. And when I came to pack it, I found it 'ad been swiped. . . .'

  The rest was drowned by the voice of the man so anxious about salvation, thundering texts and exhortations from the floor above. Greenhalgh told him to go to hell. The heads of the Teddy-boys, tousled and oily, appeared, too, at the top landing, but their attention was quickly diverted by the arrival of Maria from her attic, clad in almost transparent pyjamas and looking like a wraith from the Folies Bergère.

  From behind the door of No. 3, a dull free-chant arose, like a crowd of monks singing a midnight Mass. Miss Arrow-brook, to whom Mrs Nessle had transferred her ministrations, was asking for a doctor to stifle one of her does.

  Only Finnegan, the sinner, the seducer, seemed at peace. His snores burst rhythmically from the gap under his attic door. Now and then, the steady tide of his harsh breathing broke and seemed to stop. Then it was resumed with redoubled fury.

  The telephone bell rang. All the spectators on the stairs and in the doorways held their breath. The Mullineaux even stopped their litany and crouched listening. Finnegan alone took no heed. He snored on like a great furnace, gulping-in air, until Maria tapped on his door. There was a pause and then a shout.

  'All right. I'm waken. I'll 'ave early mornin' tea for once, seein' I'm crossin' by the first boat.'

  He'd mistaken the noise for his customary knock! Then, he must have seen it wasn't daylight. They could hear him thinking it out. The snoring started all over again, this time accompanied by shrill whistling.

  The telephone message was a brief one. Mrs Trimble's prints on the glass tallied with those on the bulb. She'd obviously removed it herself. There was one other set they couldn't identify. Littlejohn grinned. Knell's!

  'That's all for the present,' called Littlejohn blandly to the audience on the stairs. 'You'd better go back to bed and get some sleep.'

  'Wot the hell's it all about?'

  Greenhalgh was cut short by the evangelist, who heaped biblical texts, threats and abominations upon him until, drowning in a sea of divinity, he fled to the bosom of his family, where he smacked two of them soundly, thus relieving his feelings. The people and the noises died away and all that remained in the stillness was the snoring of Finnegan and the midnight Mass of the Mullineaux. . . .

  Back in the kitchen, Susie and Mrs Trimble faced each other in silence. The Archdeacon, apparently as fresh as a daisy, in spite of the hour, at which first light was now appearing across the sea, had ordered them to be quiet in a manner which filled their superstitious souls with a feeling of dire consequences if they disobeyed.

  Littlejohn's reappearance broke the spell.

  'Isn't it time you stopped messing about and arrested her for murder, Superintendent? I won't have her here another minute. The police-station's the place for her. . . . And I hope she swings for all she's done.'

  Mrs Trimble, majestic in her blue house-coat, her finger pointing at the culprit like a pantomime Lady Macbeth, drew herself up in majesty and demanded justice.

  The melodrama was spoiled by an intrusion. Mrs Nessle, wearing a long flowered dressing-gown which, for elegance, put Mrs Trimble's robe to shame, opened the door apologetically. She looked tired and very old after
her vigil during which the powder and paint had worn from her face and revealed the pathetic ravages of the years.

  'Please excuse me . . . Miss Arrowbrook is very unwell. I think we ought to get a doctor. I know she's a hypochondriac but I, personally, am not prepared to take the responsibility.'

  Miss Arrowbrook! Littlejohn frowned. Miss Arrowbrook, the invalid, the malade imaginaire, whom everybody laughed at and ignored. The woman who went her silent way, constitutionals, doctors, quack medicines . . . and nobody cared. The poor soul nobody wanted to bother with, because she was a bore. She ate at a little table by herself, came and went alone, avoided the rest, lowering her eyes as she passed. . . . In fact, the invisible woman, the nonentity, the one who didn't count. And Littlejohn realized that he'd behaved exactly as everyone else did. He'd treated her as though she didn't exist. . . . A flush of self-reproach filled him. He took a clean glass and the whisky bottles from the tray on the table, whence some of the favoured addicts of Sea Vista had been refreshing themselves after hours, in secret, because the licence didn't embrace spirits.

  'Will you come up with me, Archdeacon . . . ? And you, please, Mrs Nessle?'

  Miss Arrowbrook's room was woefully different from the Trimbles' next door. A shabby mat covered the linoleum and the heavy oak furniture was drab and second-hand. Miss Arrowbrook was sitting up in bed under a glaring lamp shaded by a dusty parchment cover. She revived when the men entered.

  'Mrs Nessle! I didn't ask for a minister. . . . And who is this?'

  'I'm a police officer, here on duty, Miss Arrowbrook, and I heard you were ill. . . . I wondered if I could help until a doctor arrives. . . . This is the Venerable Archdeacon of Man, who also wishes to help.'

  The atmosphere changed. Miss Arrowbrook liked attention in spite of her retiring ways. She almost bowed herself out of bed at the parson, whilst, with one hand, holding a plain nightdress closely to her throat.

  'It is kind of you.'

  'Take a little of this.'

  Littlejohn poured out a couple of fingers of whisky and offered her the glass. She sipped and savoured the contents and then swigged it off. Her colour rose right away.

  'This is the medicine which Mr Snook used to give me when I had my turns. It always did me so much good. He would never tell me what it was. A little secret of his own, he always said.'

  She still sat there, gaunt and awkward, with brown circles under her grey eyes, her greasy nondescript hair awry, her thin pale hands picking at the bedclothes.

  'Miss Arrowbrook, did the police ask you where you were on the afternoon of Mr Snook's death . . . at, say, about three o'clock?'

  She put both hands over her heart as though suffering from palpitation. Her eyes turned beseechingly to Littlejohn.

  'Yes,' she whispered. 'I was very upset about it all. It put me back quite a lot. I'd been feeling better.'

  'And you told them you were out in the town, didn't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Were you?'

  Her eyes grew panic-stricken and she looked at first one of the surrounding group and then the other, seeking a single ally or a pitying glance.

  'Please tell me, Miss Arrowbrook, one way or the other. Nobody's going to hurt or reproach you. In fact, only the three of us here need know.'

  'I do not tell lies. I must emphasize that. I am a truthful person. But when the policeman asked me, I was afraid. You see, I simply could not appear in court to give evidence. My heart would not allow me. I would have another of my attacks right in the witness-box.'

  'There's no question of that, I assure you, Miss Arrow-brook. Just the truth and you'll not be worried. It won't be mentioned to you again. You have my word for it.'

  The lonely figure in the shabby bed grew more composed.

  'Do you mind if I have another dose of the cordial? It has done me so much good. What is it, may I ask?'

  'Scotch whisky, Miss Arrowbrook.'

  She thrust aside the glass in horror.

  'But I am strictly temperance! I cannot touch it. I have signed the pledge of the Band of Hope . . . I did wrong in taking the last dose you gave me.'

  The Archdeacon intervened.

  'This is purely a medicine, Miss Arrowbrook. I assure you, you do no wrong in taking it. Why, a doctor may, unknown to you, even include alcohol in a prescription. . . . Come now.'

  'You really think I am doing right? You are a clergyman and would not trick me, I know.'

  'You must take it in medicinal doses. It will do you much good.'

  A pause whilst she laboriously pondered the problem.

  'Very well.'

  She drank off the whisky again and nodded sagely.

  'It is very beneficial. And now, if you promise, I will tell you what happened. I did go out, but the crowds were so dense that it brought on one of my attacks of breathlessness and palpitation. I came to my room . . . .'

  'At what time, please, and did anyone see you?'

  'It was just after half past two. The front door was loose and I hurried to my room as best I could, for I didn't want to faint. I got in bed.'

  'Then?'

  'I laid in bed getting my breath back. Someone came upstairs shortly after me. It was Mr Snook and Susie. I heard their voices. I couldn't tell what they were saying; they spoke almost in whispers. They passed my door and then I heard them go up to Susie's room in the attic . . . I must confess I was horrified!'

  'How long were they there?'

  'I can only guess. About ten minutes. Then I heard one of them descending. It must have been Mr Snook, judging from the footsteps.'

  'Yes?'

  'After Mr Snook and Susie had gone to the attic, I heard a door open and close softly on the floor below.'

  'Can you say which room?'

  Miss Arrowbrook looked distressed and gripped the clothes again, looking all the time at Mrs Nessle, who was standing at the foot of the bed, listening, saying nothing.

  'Why are you looking so queerly at me?'

  'It was your room, Mrs Nessle. I'm sorry, but it was . . . .'

  'Mine! But I was out at the time. I went to the crowning of the carnival queen. I was with a friend. She will tell you I was. . . . You must be mistaken.'

  The thin lips of the figure in the bed tightened.

  'I'm quite sure. I have a good sense of direction. During the war, when I lived with my dear father in London, I could always tell exactly where the German planes were in the sky at night. He used to rely on me and we would emerge from the air-raid shelter when I said they'd passed over. I was never wrong.'

  'Well, you're wrong this time, my girl.'

  'No, I'm not.'

  Littlejohn intervened in what looked like developing into a bitter and protracted duel.

  'Does anyone come in and out of the rooms during the day? I mean, after the usual morning tidy-up.'

  Mrs Nessle's eyes opened wide.

  'Why. . . Yes. Someone did go in my room that day. When I got up and pulled back the curtains that morning, they stuck, and I tore two of the hooks from the material in my struggles. I told Mr Trimble and he said he'd see to it. They needed stitching. It hadn't been repaired when I went up to wash before lunch, but when I returned for tea, the hooks had been stitched back again. . . . Yes, that's right.'

  'And after the door opened and closed, Miss Arrowbrook?'

  'Someone climbed the stairs and stood in the passage outside my door. I knew it. I'm good at sensing things like that. My dear father always said I was clairvoyant.'

  'Any idea who it was?'

  'No. But I think there was a sound of someone sobbing or out of breath. That's what it was like, two big gulps. . . . You understand? Then, I heard Mr Snook come down. Whoever it was must have gone back to the top of the stairs. As he got there, I heard voices. I think he said, "What are you doing here? I thought you'd gone to the carnival." Or something like it. And then a low voice just said a few words and I heard a sound like a . . . like a mixture of a loud grunt and a cry. Either Mr Snook struck someon
e, or they struck him. It was a noise like one makes . . .'

  'What then?'

  'Mr Snook sounded to go down the stairs. His heavy footsteps, you know . . .'

  'What about the other unknown person?'

  'He or she went in the room next door . . . the Trimbles'. I heard the water running and then quick footsteps coming from the room and hurrying down the stairs to the front door, which I heard close. Susie came down soon after. . . . That was all.'

  'Thank you, Miss Arrowbrook.'

  'And I won't be needed in court or get into trouble about not telling the police?'

  'I give you my word.'

  'Thank you. And it will be all right, Archdeacon, my taking the cordial. . . the whisky, as medicine?'

  'Of course.'

  And then, as though she hadn't said anything which could hang anybody, Miss Arrowbrook lowered herself beneath the sheets, Mrs Nessle, with trembling hands and contorted features, tucked her in, and she fell asleep.

  16

  THE LONG TRAIL HOME

  'WHAT have you been doing up there all this time? Keeping us all standing about here like a lot of fools in the middle of the night! It's nearly dawn.'

  Mrs Trimble was overwrought and in a rage. She had now grown dishevelled, too, and her sagging cheeks and the lines of fatigue round her mouth and eyes added ten more years to her appearance.

  'Shall we all sit down for a minute or two?'

  Susie looked almost asleep as she stood, uncertain what to do, leaning against the table, her hands clasped tightly, with the constable, who had returned, hovering about her. Knell was sitting by the stove with Mrs Trimble occupying the only other chair in the place. Knell hastily bowed the Archdeacon into his seat and Charlie, the bobby, hurried quietly to the lounge and brought in chairs for Littlejohn, Susie and the Inspector.