'We would like to talk with her quietly sometime, sir, and see if she could throw any more light on what happened.'
'I don't see what good that will do, Littlejohn. She is still too upset to be even reminded of Saturday night. I hope you will not insist.'
'The inquest is tomorrow, Mr. Croake, and after that, I assume, the funeral. When these are over, I hope she will agree to meet us then.'
'We must see how quickly she recovers. I'll let you know.'
'Meanwhile, may I ask you one or two questions. If they seem personal, or inquisitive, I hope you'll forgive me. I shall only ask what I think is absolutely necessary.'
'Do. I was prepared to take the Archdeacon fully into my confidence. He is an old friend. But I reserve the right to decline to answer.'
He said it quietly; no suggestion of anger or even irritation.
'Your brother was a wealthy man?'
'Yes. He inherited quite a large amount from my father. He was the youngest, but the inheritance was shared equally. My brother considerably increased his fortune by careful investment.'
'He was a bachelor, I believe.'
'Yes. Are you going to ask me who was his heir? I don't mind telling you, for I am his executor along with his lawyer. There are only two of the next generation, as my sister never married. Joseph is my late brother Edward's son. Edward was a doctor in England and died seven years ago. The other is my own son. He is a farmer in Kenya. He is unmarried, as yet, although I gather he shortly proposes to change that.'
'And the two nephews will inherit your late brother's estate.'
'No. This house and estate and certain farms in the north of the Island are subject to a family trust. My brother's share of the estate goes into the trust for the benefit of coming generations. It has always been a point of honour in our family to keep this home intact and also the income from the farms which keep it going. It has been so for generations. As for my brother's personal fortune . . .'
He shrugged.
'I am telling you all this in detail, because I know that, if I don't, you can ferret it out if it suits you to do so, and I would not care to have our family affairs surreptitiously investigated by outsiders. You understand?'
'I do, sir, and thank you for your help.'
'It is, from my point of view, not help at all. Merely a safeguard. To continue. My nephew Joseph didn't please my brother John at all. Joseph's ways are not ours. In the first place, he drinks too much. My brother John never touched it and neither do I. It has degraded too many of our family already . . .'
A bitter twist of the lip betrayed some wound or other which stung at the thought of it. Later, the Archdeacon told Littlejohn that Ewan Croake's wife had died an alcoholic. A member of an old family with not a few rakes in it, she had finally given way to the old weakness.
'. . . Joseph is a young man of very extravagant tastes and habits. No amount of remonstrance on our part seems any use. My late brother, therefore, left Joseph an income under the trust. To have left him capital would only have encouraged him in increased dissipation and the squandering of his heritage. My own son, Henry, was John's favourite nephew. He left him fifty thousand pounds. I tell you that because you will only go to the Rolls Office and get full details if I don't.'
'One other painful matter which is public property, I believe, sir. It is that your brother had talked of altering his Will?'
There was not a sign in the hard face of Ewan Croake that he felt any anger or bitterness about it.
'You're thinking of the girl Jenny Walmer of the Bishop's Arms? He had, I gather, spoken of marrying her and thanks to her father's public outbursts of rage at the idea, it has spread all over the Island. John never mentioned it to me. If he had seriously contemplated marrying the woman, he would have spoken about it. He'd have been compelled to do so. I am one of the trustees of the family estate. However, what has happened has put an end to that matter. He didn't reach the point of altering his Will, even if he'd thought of it.'
Nessie came hurrying in, her pleasant composure disturbed. She tried to whisper to Croake, but her excited voice almost rang round the room.
'Miss Bridget's had another of her does. She wants you, sir. You'd better come, I think . . .'
Croake shook hands with the two visitors as a gesture of dismissal.
'I'm sorry, if there were anything else to tell you, I'd still have to leave it unsaid. My sister needs me. I must go . . . The funeral will be at Andreas church tomorrow at two. I would like you to be there, Caesar. You, too, Superintendent, if you care to do so.'
He turned back on his way to the door.
'Please excuse my not offering you the usual hospitable drinks. I am a little confused and am forgetting my duties . . .'
He smiled blandly. His first smile.
'Nessie will give you refreshment if you care for it. Please do come to the funeral if you can, both of you. Good-bye.'
And he was gone.
Nessie showed them out. As he left the car to close the gate, Littlejohn caught sight of Red Juan, who appeared round the corner of the house, red with anger and determination. He entered by the front door.
Littlejohn walked quietly back again. The front door and that of the vestibule were both open. He could hear angry whispering inside and stopped to listen. It was Red Juan and Nessie. Anxious not to disturb the family, she was keeping her voice down, but sounded in great distress. Juan's voice rumbled angrily.
'Tell me what was said. What did you tell 'em, and what did you hear Mr. Ewan say?'
'I won't. It's none of your business. Leave me alone . . . Leave me . . . If you don't, I'll call for help. Let me go . . .'
Littlejohn turned into the hall. Juan was there holding Nessie in his arms. But it wasn't in any amorous manner. He was squeezing the breath out of her to make her talk. Littlejohn took him by the shoulders and spun him round. Juan faced him with blazing eyes and the Superintendent thought he might turn violent. He was glad he didn't. A powerful man with muscles like iron and the temper of the redheads.
'What are you up to, Curghey? Let her go. And don't let me find you intimidating her again. If I hear you've pestered or bullied her in the slightest next time I call, I shall haul you in for assault.'
Curghey struggled to control himself and then took to his heels.
As he reached the door he turned and faced them with an outstretched forefinger.
'You be careful, my girl . . . And you be careful, too, policeman. Or else it'll be worse for you both. You leave the Croake family alone, or there'll be another murder.'
And he hurried off to one of the outhouses and slammed the door to sulk in solitude.
5
The Bishop's Arms
LITTLEJOHN DROVE slowly along the promenade hunting for a place to park. Finally, he managed to ease his car in a gap surrendered by a motorist with a load of children bound for a run round the Island.
It was a scorching day. The sea was like blue-green glass. All the pleasure-boats were out, bobbing about in the bay, and a white speedboat, a large moustache of spray fanning out around it, was skimming round Douglas Head on its way to Port Soderick. You could hardly have thrown a penny between the thick mass of sunbathers on the sands. Portable radios blared out dance music and an almost naked man, his bearded face contorted with his emotions and with a girl in a bikini lying across his knees, was sitting-up strumming a guitar.
Yoo Hoo! Rock ma baby an' me.
He was playing it with such gusto that he looked like somebody in a fit.
Everybody seemed to be moving in a voluptuous daze of warmth. A horse, pulling a passing tram, crossed its legs as it ran, looking drunk in the heat.
The Bishop's Arms was half empty. Most of the holiday crowds had gone farther afield or else were sporting in the sun on the beaches. It was a cosy little pub. The landlord collected Toby jugs; in fact he was an acknowledged expert. There were jugs in every available nook and corner and they stood on the shelves behind the bar between the bo
ttles as well.
Although it sported a clerical name, Littlejohn thought it best to leave the Archdeacon outside, in spite of the good man's insistence. So he sent him to buy a new book he'd been talking about all week.
The landlord, Peter Walmer, was at the bar. A stocky, portly, grizzled man in his shirt sleeves, with a heavy, grey moustache, a large Roman nose, and a florid complexion. He gave Littlejohn a queer, questioning look. He'd never seen him before, but seemed instinctively to know he was from the police.
'What'll it be, sir?'
'A word with you in private, landlord.'
Mr. Walmer looked out of patience. In working hours, especially in the high season, he liked to be around the bar.
'You from the police?'
'Yes. I won't keep you long.'
'I suppose it's something about the teddy-boy affair the other night. Nothin' I can tell you. I've been through it all before with the police. It's becoming a nuisance. Everybody's pesterin' me about it. It's good for trade, you might say, but I don't want that sort of trade. It's in bad taste . . . Well, if you must . . . I'll call the barmaid. She's takin' a bit of a rest before things warm-up.'
He left the room and quickly returned with a large blonde girl with an overwhelming bust. She looked like a lion-tamer's assistant.
'Come in here.'
A small room, obviously the landlord's private retreat. More Toby jugs. Dozens of them. All colours. Every shape and size. Some of them looked happy; others malevolent. One looked like the landlord himself.
'You've quite a fine collection here, landlord.'
The man's eyes lit-up.
'You interested?'
'My wife is. She has a few of her own.'
'Tell her to call any time. Perhaps it'll be better when we're closed. Then we can compare notes.'
'I'll do that. Meanwhile, I mustn't take up your time. It is about the affair of Saturday night.'
The Toby jugs seemed to have oiled the wheels. The landlord was quite friendly and ready to talk.
'I shouldn't say it, but the murder's solved a problem for me. I guess you know what it is. Everybody's talkin' about it.'
'Your daughter?'
'You're tellin' me! You can't tell what women are up to. I defy anybody to explain 'em. They don't know themselves half the time. By the way, will you take some beer?'
'I don't mind.'
The landlord went out and returned with two pint tankards. It was good stuff, too. A special brew he kept for his intimates.
'Where were we?'
'Women don't know what they're doing half their time . . .'
The landlord nodded rapidly.
'Take my girl, for instance. Jenny. Though I say it myself, she's a damn' good looker. She's had plenty of chances. Good ones, some of them. Yet, she lets herself reach the age of thirty, unattached, and then goes and takes up with a chap twice her age. I don't mind her bein' unattached. Since her mother died when she was in her teens, she has been everything to me. I only want her to be happy. She couldn't possibly have been if she'd married Croake . . .'
The landlord took a good swig of his beer.
'I gave her a good talkin'-to a few times, but it was no good. I asked her if she loved him, although, to my mind, it was a silly question. She said she was fond of him. I ask you. I even asked her if it was the money, or the position she was after. She got mad at that. She said Croake was a good man, she wanted a place of her own, and a good man to look after her. She said again, she was fond of him. There's no understanding or arguing with women. I admit, I told her she'd marry him over my dead body. I must be honest and tell you I said it because I didn't know what else to say. I was bein' a bit dramatic and don't you go and put me down among your list of suspects because of it. I wouldn't have murdered Croake. As I said, I only wanted Jenny to be happy. If she'd married him, I'd just have had to grin and bear it. But I didn't fancy being father-in-law to a man a year or so older than myself.'
The landlord stopped suddenly. He'd got a bit out of his depth.
'Where do you come-in in this lot? You're not one of the Island police, are you?'
'No. I'm from Scotland Yard. I'm here on holidays and I'm just keeping my hand in helping my friends. I'm not officially on the case, at all. You needn't talk about it if you don't wish.'
'I don't mind. Not that there's much to say. But it comes easy chatting with you and tellin' you my troubles. By the way, don't mention any of this to Jenny, will you? She's upset enough already. What do you want to know?'
'What happened on Saturday night?'
The landlord hurried out and refilled the tankards.
'This is as much as I care to drink. It's a strong brew, Mr. Walmer.'
The landlord grinned.
'Special jubilee brew. It's like wine, isn't it? Saturday night? Croake usually came down from Ramsey to Douglas on Saturdays with his sister. Sometimes, he came down midweek, too. Miss Croake doesn't drive a car, so one of them has to bring her to do her shopping and see her special friends. Until Croake took-up with Jenny, he seemed to escort his sister round the town. Then, he got to calling here. He used to come around six and Jenny brought him in this room. There was nowhere else to put him and I didn't like the idea. It made him like one of the family, and I objected to it. But Jenny won, as usual. It was awkward, you see. He was rabid T.T. He must have been fond of Jenny to do it. But there it was.'
Walmer looked hard at Littlejohn and smiled wryly.
'He must have been a very important person if they've brought in Scotland Yard on the case so soon. And don't you try to tell me it was by accident, or because you happen to be on your holidays. There's more in this than meets the eye, Superintendent. However, to get on with my tale . . .'
It was very quiet there. They could hear the rumble of voices and the rattle of bottles in the bar. Now and then, the door to the main street would open and close and a newcomer would cheerfully give an order. Everybody seemed boisterous in the lovely sunshine.
There was a door from the room through which Croake had passed to his death in the alley. There was a glass panel in the door and the sun shed a blinding square of light through it.
The special brew began to do its work on Littlejohn. He felt he didn't want to move, or even to think. He just wished to sit there, eyeing the Toby jugs, listening to the pleasant chatter of Peter Walmer, lolling the hours away.
He could imagine the peaceful existence of Walmer and Jenny in their little pub. The pair of them together, calmly eating breakfast, chatting, comparing notes before they opened up for the day's rush. Again, at supper, happy in each other's company when the crowds had gone. And, in the winter, when the season was over, enjoying together the languid days when hardly a soul called for a pint. Then, John Charles Croake had arrived. An outsider, a man out of their class altogether. And Jenny had talked about wanting a home of her own.
'Jenny and me have to go to the inquest tomorrow . . .'
'Where is your daughter?'
'A friend called and took her out. Said it would do her good to get away a bit. She's upset, as you'll no doubt guess. She should be back before long.'
'How long have you kept this place, Mr. Walmer?'
'Call me Pete; it doesn't sound so starchy. We've been here twelve years. My wife always wanted to come and live in Douglas. I was at sea. Merchant Navy. I got I wanted to see more of my wife and girl, so I looked round here for a pub and found this one. We'd just got comfortably settled when my wife died. Jenny was eighteen at the time. She was going steady with a young pilot in the R.A.F. He crashed and got killed. It was less than a year after Jenny's mother died. Jenny never seemed really interested in men after Will got killed. Until she started this ridiculous business with Croake . . .'
He stopped, drank and was silent.
The flies buzzed round the room, the Toby jugs all seemed to be looking down at the two men at the table, and through the open window they could hear the winches rolling and unrolling, loading a coaster at th
e quay.
'What happened on Saturday night, Pete?'
'Croak turned-up, as usual. He was later. It was round about half-past seven. He said he'd been detained with a friend. We keep the side door locked, so Croake used to enter at the main door, through the bar, and come in here. I told him it would be all right that way. What else could I do? I couldn't have him hanging about the bar, a man of his sort. The regulars are always a bit noisy on Saturday and some of them are half soused by the time we close.'
'He came right in here. What then?'
'It was a sort of routine. Jenny would come in and sit with him for half an hour and then return to the bar. She couldn't be spared from seven or eight till Croake decided to go about ten-fifteen. We're busy on Saturdays. When Jenny left him, I'd go in to pass the time of day, but Croake and me never had much to say to one another. I didn't approve, but put up with it for the sake of Jenny. He knew that. So, when I'd had about a quarter of an hour there, I'd go back in the bar. He didn't mind. He'd sit here quietly on his own, reading the paper and drinking his lemonade, quite content. After half an hour at the bar, Jenny would come back for a bit, and then spend her time between talking to Croake and returning to the bar to give a hand. And it went on like that till it came time for Croake to go. Queer, I called it. It beat me. As I said, I'd have shown him the door long ago, if I hadn't known it would upset Jenny.'
Littlejohn filled his pipe and passed his pouch over to Walmer.
'No thanks, I've stopped smokin'. I like snuff best . . .'
He took a huge pinch from a box from his waistcoat pocket, wiped away the remains with a coloured silk handkerchief and sat back quietly. Littlejohn puffed away contentedly. He was beginning to appreciate Joe Henn's little joke. 'You'll see . . .' The atmosphere of quiet about the place encouraged the thought that the problems of today could wait until tomorrow.
'What was Croake after?'
'I don't know. Nothing wrong, I can tell you. He never laid a finger on Jenny. Never an arm round her waist, never a wrong look. He might just have been her favourite uncle.'
The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 5
