'No, sir. That's going to be a tougher problem. By the same argument, he wouldn't bring a knife with him. But he might have bought one here. It's Sunday and we'll have to leave that till tomorrow. We'll do the round of the shops. Anybody could get a knife . . . table or potato-knife . . . which would do the job, from any ironmonger's.'
'Cryer said the elderly man was emerging from the side door of a pub. Was that right?'
'Yes. The Bishop's Arms. The landlord said he was there until about ten-thirty. That, too, confirms Cryer's account.'
'But a big Methodist, an ex-M.H.K., a prominent man . . . It sounds a bit out of character. What was he doing there? Boozing?'
'No. I suppose he signed the pledge once, and he kept it. He used to call for a lemonade or some other soft drink. It wasn't the drink he was after, though. It was the barmaid.'
'Indeed! '
'Well . . . The landlord's daughter, to be precise. Jenny Walmer. The old chap was sweet on her.'
'Half his age, I suppose.'
'Thirty. He was sixty-two. It was becoming the talk of the town. All straight and above board, though. It's said he hoped she'd marry him. He seems to have gone up the wall about her. They sometimes do at that age, don't they? Her dad told us and he was furious about it, but I gather Jenny wasn't averse. Croake had plenty of money, you know, and he wasn't a bad sort. Jenny's one of those bouncing, motherly women, good-looking in a lush kind of way. Walmer, her father, told me the old man met her at a charity fete he opened and since then, there's been no doing any good with him. They've been seen here, there and everywhere in his car and whenever he comes to Douglas, he calls at the Bishop and drinks a glass of bitter lemon with her in the private room. Very embarrassing for her father, though she doesn't seem to mind. Proud of it, in fact.'
'So, there begins to be more in this than a mere hit and run robbery. Croake, lying unconscious in a dark lane, might have tempted other people to finish the job. What do you say?'
'I hadn't thought of that, Superintendent. It might be so.'
'You haven't had time to think of it yet. Cryer was the obvious suspect, wasn't he? He might turn out to be the killer after all. However, until he confesses, we might take a look into Croake's general background.'
Knell, sitting with Littlejohn and the Archdeacon, listening to it all, gave the Superintendent a questioning look. Littlejohn pretended not to see it, but he knew what was coming.
'You know the Croakes very well don't you, Reverend?'
'Yes.'
The Archdeacon said nothing more, but his eyes twinkled.
'Would it be possible . . .?'
'Don't beat about the bush, Reginald . . .'
Knell flushed. It would be 'Reginald' all over the force now for weeks to come. When he was a constable, it had been 'Nellie'. Now . . .
'I thought perhaps you might call to offer condolences and take the Superintendent with you. If the local police call, the family might not like it. It might look as though . . . well . . .'
'We weren't satisfied with their share in the matter? Have they been interviewed?'
'No. Miss Bridget made a confused statement about what they were both doing when she and her brother came to Douglas yesterday, but after that, we took her home. She was prostrated, of course. We thought we'd let it simmer down a bit.'
'Quite right. So, you want me to take Superintendent Littlejohn to Ballacroake and investigate. That will be easy. First thing this morning, Ewan Croake, who is an old friend of mine, telephoned to say he wished to see me urgently. Just that. He didn't say what about. It must have been about his brother's murder. Since it has become known that Superintendent Littlejohn is a close friend of mine, the idea has got abroad that I, too, am a detective. I told Ewan that I would call tomorrow. I've evening service at six-thirty tonight and I must get back to Grenaby. First thing tomorrow morning, we'll go . . . I beg your pardon, Littlejohn. I hope you agree.'
'Of course. Anything to help. Unofficially.'
'Thank you very much, sir.'
Nobody reproached the Archdeacon for hiding this trump-card up his sleeve. He was often absent-minded or full of surprises. None of them grudged him his bit of fun.
As they said good-bye, they heard Cryer shouting for attention. He knew there was something he wanted; something they always wanted, the big shots in a jam on television. A lawyer. That was it.
'I want my lawyer,' he was shouting.
'They're not open on Sundays,' they told him, and gave him a cup of tea instead.
4
Ballacroake
IT TOOK Littlejohn and the Archdeacon an hour to reach Lezayre; less than twenty miles of a journey, but the morning was so fine and the country so attractive that they couldn't persuade themselves to go any faster.
Moorland covered in gorse and bracken, graceful sweeping hills constantly changing shades under the shadows of high-riding clouds, valleys thick with foliage through which the road twisted like an intruder. Finally, a long run with the sea in view, and then the mountains suddenly ended and the flat land spread to the north like a fertile green carpet. A huge triangle terminating in the Point of Ayre, with a lighthouse behind which the channel seemed incredibly narrow in the deceptive light of the sun and made the Mull of Galloway appear but a stone's throw away.
Kirk Christ Lez Ayre . . . Lezayre for short. They halted to smoke and enjoy the scene, sorry the pleasures of the cross-country run were over.
It was eleven o'clock in the morning.
They resumed their journey, turned left, splashed through a ford in the Sulby River, and drove along a narrow country road for over a mile. Tall banks, topped with gorse, on each side. Through the gates which intermittently broke the hedges, were vast fields, vivid in the green of reclaimed marshland, intersected by dykes, and relieved by patches of gorse, bog willow and myrtle and dotted here and there with dark, still pools, fringed with tall, twisted trees.
In a break in the hedge, a white iron gate, slung between two solid whitewashed posts with conical caps. Thence a long, straight road, a 'farm street', climbed slowly uphill to a house in a ring of grim trees. An old painted wooden sign on the gatepost, with a single word just recognisable. Ballacroake.
Littlejohn opened the gate, drove through, and closed it again. The road led through well-kept parkland, with sheep feeding here and there. The whole set-up was trim and carefully managed. A workman in rough tweeds and a cap, with two sheepdogs at his heels, was walking in the same direction and Littlejohn stopped the car as they passed him.
The man turned and when he recognised the Archdeacon, touched his cap. He was past middle age, tall and heavily built, with a shock of red hair and a clean-shaven, ruddy face. From his air of self-assurance and the straight look he gave them with his green eyes, he might have been the owner of the place instead of the hired hand.
'Good day to you, pazon.'
'Good day, Juan. Are the family at home?'
'They're all up at the house. You've heard the news. A bad thing.'
'If you're going in, we'll give you a lift.'
'I'd rather be walkin' . . .'
They left him. He was locally known as Red Juan. Through the mirror, Littlejohn could see him watching the car until they left him out of sight.
Littlejohn drove slowly. He was in no hurry to spoil the fine day by becoming involved in the shabby business of murder again. A flock of geese led by an old gander crossed the drive and he slowed down to let them pass. The gander stood and hissed at him.
The view from the rising ground was magnificent. In the distance, the Ayre lighthouse with a backing of still green sea. To the left, the tower of Andreas Church, lost in the fields.
Another iron gate cut in a low whitewashed wall which surrounded the house and garden. Again, the ritual of getting out of the car, opening it, driving through, setting it to. They were in a courtyard in front of the house.
'This is Ballacroake. It was once called the Deemster's House. Deemster Croake was a judge on the
Island a hundred and fifty years ago. He was shot dead by a madman on his way to Ramsey courthouse. It was built on the site of a previous farmhouse in Georgian times by a notorious rake and it became the haunt of a group of local bucks, a sort of miniature hell-fire club, who gambled here and met their women. It had a bad reputation. Two suicides, a murder, and one or two owners have gone out of their minds. Now there's another murder to add to the list.'
A good start. Now, all the blinds were drawn and there wasn't a sound. You imagined that somewhere behind the blind windows someone was cutting his own or someone else's throat and that at any time the dead quiet would be broken by the wild cries of yet another occupant going crazy.
A good architect or some intelligent local builder must have been responsible for erecting the house. It was Georgian; tall, almost gaunt, with a stucco finish. The exterior had been recently painted and shone in the hot morning sun. A large front door stood at the top of a small flight of stone steps. Two tall sash windows on each side of the door, and above it, a long and splendid window, presumably lighting the staircase, with the two-a-side repetition of the windows on the floor below.
There was a well-polished brass knocker on the front door and Littlejohn left the car, climbed the steps, and beat a tattoo with it. The Archdeacon joined him. They stood side by side listening to the silence.
Behind them, the garden was as tidy as the exterior of the house. Flower beds had been constructed under the protection of the low surrounding wall and were alight with the orange, reds and pinks of marigolds, geraniums, sweet-williams and snapdragons. There was an old well-head in the middle of the yard, with ferns springing from the top, and two palm trees standing at each corner of the wall, absolutely still. Beyond the wall, a kitchen garden, also scrupulously tidy, and then the park, with its old fine trees dotted here and there in the grass. Under the nearest tree, just beyond the vegetable garden, was an iron table and three chairs. And farther still, the magnificent bastion of the Manx hills, suddenly ending and falling away to the plain.
The gate to the yard creaked and Red Juan was there with his dogs. The animals disappeared behind the house, presumably seeking food. Juan didn't seem surprised to see the visitors standing there, waiting for something to happen.
'Have ye knocked?'
'Yes. There doesn't seem to be anybody about.'
'They're about, all right. Nessie must be somewhere in the back. The family are inside, but they won't answer the door. They alwiz leave it to her. I'll go and see.'
He went round the house, his nailed boots clinking on the stones of the courtyard. A door banged somewhere at the back. Then they could hear someone moving indoors, light feet hurrying and boards creaking under her weight. The door opened.
It must have been Nessie. A dark, rather tall woman with plump arms and hips, middle-aged, with white in her hair. Her face was still handsome and full of character; quiet dark eyes and healthy red cheeks. She was soberly dressed in a black cotton frock with a white collar. She greeted the Archdeacon pleasantly and then stood there patiently waiting for them to state their business.
'How's your father, Nessie?'
She was a local girl.
'Middlin', Reverend, middlin'. Ninety-four last birthday. He's beginnin' to feel the weight of his age. He's livin' with my sister down at Bride. He'll be glad to hear I've put a sight on you, sir.'
'Are any of the family at home?'
'They're all at home, sir. Terruble trouble they're in. You've heard?'
'Yes. Mr. Ewan asked me to call. I expect he needs the comfort of his friends. This is a friend of mine. Mr. Littlejohn.'
She gave the Superintendent a dignified greeting, half a nod and half a curtsy.
'They're not seein' anybody, Reverend. They're all that cut-up. All the same . . . The Reverend Archdeacon isn't anybody. I'll tell Mr. Ewan you're callin'. Please come inside.'
'Just a minute, Nessie . . .'
Littlejohn laid a hand on her arm to prevent her hurrying inside. She turned her placid eyes on his.
'Yes?'
'How many of the family are at home now?'
'Mr. Reuben, Mr. Ewan, young Mr. Joseph and Miss Bridget . . .'
'Where were they all on Saturday, particularly at night, whilst Miss Bridget and Mr. John were in Douglas?'
'Would you be from the High Bailiff's office?'
She raised her eyebrows and turned her ear slightly for the answer. At the end of the question her voice rose in the Manx lilt.
'The High Bailiff over here is the equivalent of your Coroner in the matter of inquests . . . No, Nessie. Mr. Littlejohn's from the police.'
'God preserve us! '
It sounded like a prayer and not a frivolous interjection.
'There was only Mr. Ewan at home. He's on the Methodist plan and was takin' service at the Curragh Chapel yesterday. He was indoors preparing his sermon. Mr. Reuben was out with Mr. Joseph most of the day. They left early in the afternoon to go fishin' in Ramsey Bay. Mr. Joseph has a boat in Ramsey. They got home around half-past eleven at night. I'm sorry to say they were the worse for drink. Mr. Joseph ought to know better. He knows the drink isn't good for Mr. Reuben. A good job Mr. Ewan was busy with his writin' when they sneaked in and upstairs . . .'
'Mr. Joseph is . . .?'
'The son of the late Dr. Edward Croake, who died in England. Mr. Joseph lives there but spends most of his time here in the summer.'
The house itself remained still during all this talk in the hall.
'Where is everybody, Nessie?'
'They're all inside, Reverend. Mr. Ewan's up in his room, praying most of the time, judgin' from the sounds when you pass the door. Mr. Joseph and Mr. Reuben are in the morning-room and I'm tellin' no secrets when I say there's a bottle of whisky there with them. Miss Bridget is in her room, also, and from what I can guess, she's turning out the drawers in her clothes-chest. She always finds comfort in that when in trouble.'
A door banged in the rear and Red Juan appeared in the hall. His face was livid and he strode up to Nessie and roughly turned her round to face him.
'What's the meanin' of all this? The Archdeacon and his friend called here to see the family, not to stand listenin' to your gossup all the mornin'. Go and tell Mr. Ewan they're callin'.'
He turned her with her back to the visitors and gave her a push. Then, without a word, he left them standing there alone.
Nessie was back quickly.
'Mr. Ewan will be down in a minute. I'm to ask you to wait in the drawing-room.'
For a moment, they could see nothing in the room except the large sash windows at the front. A yellow light filtered through and gradually, as their eyes grew accustomed to the half-dark, they could make out the furnishings and pictures. Exquisite Sheraton and Hepplewhite cabinets, mirrors, a large dining-table on twin pedestals, with Hepplewhite chairs set round it. The cabinets were full of fine china. There were a number of gilt-framed portraits on the walls and the picture opposite the Adam fireplace was a Corot or a good copy. Littlejohn stood there looking round in amazement until footsteps approached and a man entered the room.
Ewan Croake was a large man; taller than Littlejohn by a couple of inches, which made him about six feet four. His enormous body filled the doorway. He had a massive brow and a face which might have been modelled in bronze; firm, strong, fanatical. Even in the badly-lighted room his eyes shone, but when he moved, swiftly and quietly for a man of his bulk, to the window and drew up the blind, it seemed to Littlejohn that he had been weeping. Nothing but the eyes showed it, but it was there; the bright, confused sight which sees through tears. He was not too heavy for his height and his body gave evidence of immense strength. He broke the spell by offering both his hands to the Archdeacon.
'Caesar! It is good of you to come.'
The Rev. Caesar Kinrade offered his condolences and introduced Littlejohn.
'Nessie told me the police were here. May I ask why, Superintendent?'
'I am quite withou
t official authority, Mr. Croake. The Archdeacon said you wished to see him and suggested I might accompany him. I'm his guest at Grenaby. I'm naturally interested in this case; very sorry about it, too. Please accept my condolences. I have a professional interest in the matter, though. A young fellow, as you know, is being held in custody in Douglas. He was found with your brother's wallet in his possession and he is suspected of murdering him. The police case, however, will have to be constructed on more than surmise. I'm sure you will agree. We must be quite certain of all the details before a charge of murder is made.'
'I agree with you. That is why I asked the Archdeacon over. I am anxious that the fullest investigation shall be made. I don't want it assumed that because a young thug stole my brother's wallet, he also murdered him. I am anxious that something more than a circumstantial case shall be made of it. I need advice.'
There was a silence. Ewan Croake was in full possession of himself, quite calm. The only sign of any nervousness was in his stroking his thick grey moustache, which stretched the length of his upper lip.
'You will probably want to know as much as possible about my brother's movements before his death. My sister had arranged to meet him at the car-park in Douglas. When he didn't arrive, she went to look for him. She had an idea where he might be. I suppose the police know of all that.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Probably you have already found out about my late brother's haunts. He had grown friendly with a young woman half his age, the daughter of a publican in Douglas. You know that, Caesar? "
'Yes, we do.'
'And that he was in the habit of visiting her when he was in town? Briefly, my sister knew this, too, and made her way to the side door of the public house. When she got there, she found a small knot of people, including the police, standing round my brother's body. He died as she arrived. The police were kind enough to see her safely home. She was very upset, in fact, prostrate, and they asked her a few questions and sent her here. There seems little more to say.'
The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 4
