'This is Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, Mr. Joseph. He's on holiday, but he's helping us on the case.'
Joseph looked quizzically at Littlejohn. He had a careworn look as though he found life hard for some reason.
'Case, Knell? Case? I didn't know there was any case. I thought you'd got the teddy-boy who killed my uncle. Why need any help?'
'The accused talks only of robbery. He says he didn't use a knife. In fact, he says he hadn't got a knife. And we haven't found one . . .'
'That's absurd. It's obvious who killed him. The little swine did it and chucked the knife away somewhere. Because you police can't find it, it doesn't mean he didn't do it. It's ridiculous. The family's upset enough by the death of my uncle, without the police starting to wash a lot of dirty linen to no purpose . . .'
'Is there any dirty linen to wash, Mr. Croake?'
Joseph Croake turned his tired eyes on Littlejohn. He was growing annoyed. Probably the main reason was that he was anxious to get off and buy himself another drink or two.
'I'm not answering that question, Superintendent . . . Let me see, what's your name? I've forgotten it. . . .'
Littlejohn removed his pipe and smiled blandly.
'Littlejohn.'
'Well, I'm not here to answer foolish questions. I called for information, not to give it. If you go on like this, you'll put your foot in it. This isn't a C.I.D. case. It's a murder which is already solved. The Croakes are influential people and I warn you . . . You're in for a lot of trouble if . . .'
'If what, Joseph? This is a case which hasn't yet been fully investigated. If the teddy-boy is to face a charge of murder, it must not be based on what appears to be true, but what is true. Now mind your manners when you speak to Superintendent Littlejohn and don't behave like an ill-bred puppy.'
Joseph Croake turned and faced the Archdeacon in surprise and met the clear blue eyes with his own for a minute. Then he lost countenance.
Littlejohn followed it with another thrust before Croake could recover.
'Where were you at half-past ten on Saturday evening?'
'What are you getting at?'
'I simply asked you a plain question.'
'You've no right. I'm not a suspect, am I?'
'No. Don't answer if you don't feel like it. I can find out if I wish.'
'I'll save you the trouble. I was in Ramsey. My uncle Reuben and I had been fishing in Ramsey Bay. We stayed out rather a long time. We put-in at Ramsey about ten and went for a drink. It was a hot night. We got home around eleven. They got us out of bed to tell us the news about Uncle John. Satisfied?'
'Yes. When did you last see your Uncle John?'
'About one. He and my aunt set out for Douglas immediately after lunch. Uncle Reuben and I left just after. Anything else?'
'No. You can go.'
Croake didn't know what to say or do. He wanted a drink and yet he wished to squash Littlejohn with a cutting retort. He couldn't think of one. He rose with as much dignity as he could muster and made for the door. Then he turned and tried a parting shot.
'I warn you. Cause any scandal or trouble for our family, and you'll regret it. I shall tell my uncle the way I've been bullied here.'
'Very well, Mr. Croake. He will know where to find me. I shall be with the Archdeacon at the funeral tomorrow . . . '
Croake was already closing the door. They heard him stamping down the stairs, missing two steps and staggering down two more in his haste. Then the outer door slammed.
'A nasty piece of work.'
He left behind him the sickly smell of brilliantine and whisky.
Littlejohn knocked out his pipe in the ash-tray on Knell's desk.
'How's Cryer?'
'All right. As I said, still denying he killed Croake.'
'It might be a good time for me to have a word with him. I'll go alone, if you don't mind. He might be more forthcoming.'
The Archdeacon drew his chair up to the fire and smiled.
'Don't mind me. I'll give Reggie here an improving talk whilst you're away.'
Knell rang and told the constable who answered it that Littlejohn wished to see Cryer.
'He's all yours, sir.'
Cryer seemed surprised to see a visitor. A very clean and comfortable cell. Cryer had been before the summary court and had been remanded without bail. Shortly he'd be transferred to the gaol at the top of the town to await trial at the General Gaol Delivery. He was lying on the bed in his shirt sleeves with his shoes off. He was proud of his shoes. They stood neatly on the floor and he must have cleaned them carefully. He'd ask for shoe-polish and cleaning-tackle and they'd granted them. Now he was resting.
The cock-of-the-north of the inward boat trip was now deflated. He looked shocking. Rings under his eyes, hair disordered, shifty, guilty look. When he saw Littlejohn, he mistook him for another lawyer.
'No need to come here trying to trip me up. I've my own lawyer and I'm sayin' nothin'.'
'Don't, if it suits you . . . '
The policeman who'd brought Littlejohn down turned on Cryer.
'Keep a civil tongue in your head, Cryer. This is Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard. He's here to help you.'
Cryer lost his voice and then found it again, only this time it was weaker.
'Scotland Yard! Crikey! They're not takin' me to London to try me, are they? I want my lawyer. I'm not sayin' anythin'.'
'Listen to me, Cryer. I'm here to try to help you if what you say is true. You insist you didn't kill John Croake . . .'
'I didn't. I'd swear it on a stack of bibles, if that'd do any good. But it won't, see? They've got it in for me, and they're out to see me swing.'
'Nothing of the kind. They're anxious that justice shall be done. They've allowed me to see you. I'm here on holiday, but in case I can help, they've given me a chance of it. Now, will you talk sense?'
'It'll do no harm, I guess. But what can I tell you, except I had no knife and I didn't kill the old man? I pinched his wallet, but that's all. I'm ready to take my medicine for that. But they're not satisfied. No. They must hang me for a murder I didn't do.'
He slumped back on his bed, muttering to himself.
'Listen, Cryer. I'm going to ask you one or two questions. Don't answer if you don't want. I've no power to make you. Nor has anybody else. But I'm doing it for your own good.'
'You win! What do you want to know?'
'Tell me exactly what happened on Saturday night.'
'Again! I've told the police here a dozen times. They won't believe me.'
'Try me, then.'
Cryer rose up again. He couldn't sit still. He rolled from side to side, clasped his hands behind his neck, finally swung his legs over the side of his bed and put his hands in his pockets.
'Got a cigarette?'
Littlejohn gave him one and lit it for him.
'Now . . .'
'I suppose I've got to start where that little twerp Wanklyn left me. As I said before, I found myself some digs off Peel Road. I went to my room, unpacked my traps, laid on the bed, and fell asleep. I'd been up late the night before. When I woke, it was seven o'clock. I went out then to get some chow. That made it eight when I started to walk along the prom. I felt like a drink and stopped at a pub on the prom. I sat there drinkin' till ten. I felt better, then. So, I took a walk to where the boats go from.'
'The quay?'
'Yes. It was nearly dark.'
'You had, by then, put the stone in the sock and were ready for anything?'
Cryer hauled himself back on the bed, lay down, and put his hands behind his head.
'If that's the way you're talkin', I might as well stay mum. I thought you were a friend of mine.'
Littlejohn smiled. The idea of being a pal of Cryer's didn't appeal to him much, but it would do.
'We'll forget that part. What next?'
'I got fed-up loafin' round the boats, so I turned up a side-street to get me back to where there was a bit of life. I began
to wish I'd got some company . . .'
'And then?'
Cryer grew graphic. He started to wave his hands and draw pictures in the air.
'This can't be used in evidenks against me. I've told them all about it already. They wrote it down and I signed it. So it'll do me no harm to tell you. Although you're a funny Scotland Yard man. I thought they always told you about taking down the evidenks and using it against you.'
'This is off the record. Go on.'
'As I was going down the lane, an old bloke came out of the back door of a pub into the lane . . .'
'How did he come out?'
'What do you mean? He wasn't chucked out, if that's what you're after. He just walked out a bit unsteady, as if he'd had one over the eight.'
'Are you sure?'
''Course I'm sure.'
'Did you tell the police that?'
'I forgot. They asked me so many questions, I couldn't remember everything. They were tryin' to trap me.'
'He came out looking a bit drunk.'
''Sright.'
'Then what?'
'He'd a pocket-book in his hand and he seemed to be trying to push it in his pocket, but couldn't. Too unsteady, see?'
'So you decided . . .'
'Here. What's your hurry? Let me tell it. I'm not havin' things wot I didn't say put down in evidenks against me. I was tempted. I snatched at the pocket-book, hopin' to run off with it. Instead, the old bloke sort of lurched over me and got hold of me. He'd a grip like iron. I couldn't shake him off. So I hit him. I hit him with the sock. What would you have done? Let him hold you and shout the place down? He'd started to yell for help . . .'
'What was he shouting?'
'I don't know. It wasn't 'help!'. It was like somebody howlin'. Like women do when you hit 'em one and they can't cry tears. Just a sort of wailin'.'
'Was there anybody else in the street?'
'Not a soul. I looked round and saw that.'
I'll bet you did, thought Littlejohn. He could almost see it all happening.
'Did the old man start to fight you as he gripped you?'
'No. He just held on. It made me think later how he was like a man who was drownin'. You heard of 'em. They hang on an' even drown them as dive in to save them. Like that, it struck me when I come to think about it after.'
'You hit him and he released you. Did he fall unconscious?'
'I didn't hit him hard enough. I couldn't get my hands free enough. He'd got me tight. When I managed to get me sock out and gave him a tap, he seemed to crumble down an' just lie there. They usually stagger a bit before they drop.'
'You should know. You ran to the main street and were caught. That all?'
'Isn't it enough? I wish I'd never come to this blasted place. I did me best not to harm the old perisher and this is where it's got me. If I'd coshed him good and proper and then took the pocket-book calm and decent like, I'd have got away with it.'
'Don't break my heart, Cryer. Just tell me the facts.'
'That's all.'
'Did nobody come out of the back door of the pub when the old man began to howl?'
'No. I suppose there was so much row going on inside, they didn't hear him.'
And yet, with the inner door closed, shutting off the noise of the bar, it was all peaceful and quiet there.
'You're sure?'
'Somebody might have come out after I run off. I didn't stop to see. I was on my way.'
'How long was it between you snatching the pocket-book and breaking away and running, do you think?'
'Not so damn' long. Too long for me. It was like hours. I couldn't get myself away from him. Like one of those . . . those fish with a lot of feelers . . .'
'An octopus?'
'As you say. That's it. All over me, he was.'
'And you didn't use a knife?'
'I thought that was comin'. I was waitin' for it. No, I didn't use a knife. How many more times must I tell that I hadn't got a knife? It's not my technique. I learned my technique from a pal who'd been in the commandos. You don't need no knives for that. I'll say.'
'And that's the lot.'
'Isn't it enough? Shall I make somethin' up? About knives? Well, you're out of luck. That's all. And now, I'm goin' to sleep. I'm tired-out with police, police, police. I didn't do the old man in, and that's the lot.'
Littlejohn left him at that. He was asking for his supper. He seemed to have lost any idea of time. All he knew was that he was hungry.
Upstairs the Archdeacon and Knell were chatting cosily.
'Isn't it time we got back to Grenaby? Maggie Keggin will be very annoyed if she has to keep back the dinner. You coming with us, Knell? All work and no play . . .'
'I've finished. You sure it'll be all right. With Maggie, I mean. She might not. . . .'
'I thought you two were relatives.'
'That's right. I'll come, thanks.'
Looking back as they drove home, Littlejohn could hardly believe that the long day's events had been real. Somehow, those he'd met and talked with, and the places they'd visited seemed parts of a fantastic dream. Only Grenaby and the Archdeacon's fireside seemed real. He was asleep when they reached the vicarage and his dog wakened him by bounding in the car and licking his face.
7
The Ghost at Ballacroake
'IN A straight line from Ballacroake to Kirk Andreas without breaking hedges or standing corn . . .'
John Charles Croake's testamentary instructions for his funeral were precise, but he forgot the water-jumps and they had to build a temporary bridge for him over the formidable drainage trench at Ballajockey.
'It's enough to turn your hair white,' said the undertaker, who had previously been over the course arranging with all the farmers for a right-of-way. Nobody thought of demurring, for John Charles was a well-liked man – one of themselves.
The undertaker, Mr. Bertie Corkill Core, was hard-pressed. He was busy building houses for comeovers eager to reside on the Isle. He was put out by a death in August. People didn't die in August on the Isle of Man. It upset the holidaymakers to see funerals knocking about. Passing on, as Mr. Core called it, in the sunny summer time seemed unnatural and like base ingratitude to him. Death in a storm was much more appropriate, if a bit inconvenient.
All the same, for J. C. Croake he didn't mind. He was going to see to it that he got the finest burial the North had ever had. For B. C. Core, the North was the Island. He never travelled to the South; it was furrin' to him. Dressed in his ceremonial undertaking attire ('funerals reverently arranged', ran his advert in the Northern paper) and wearing a billycock which showed the wire in half the brim, he toured the farms, obtaining transit rights and issuing invitations. He promised a meat-tea after the ceremony, in the Ballacroake guest-house.
It was a typical summer afternoon for the burying. The hot sun was tempered by a soft wind across the curraghs from the Lhen. Dead silence struggled to reign in a vast square of the Ayre between the main Castletown-Ramsey highway and the sea. The only disgraceful counterblast came from Ballacronkey-Beg, where the farmer, an intruder from across the water with the name of Serene, had decided to sell up. His sale had been mainly boycotted in the North where they knew there was nothing on the farm worth buying, but the South had attended in their numbers and could be heard bidding and shouting the odds for miles around. Someone even irreverently tried out a harmonium – Lot No. 13 – on the lawn. Riverboat Rock. The instrument was quite inadequate in wind and pace for this masterpiece and cast it forth on the still air in a form resembling Lead Kindly Light. Like a cockeyed imitation of one of those electronic machines into which English is fed and comes out translated into French.
At ten-to-two, a farm-cart, drawn by two fine Manx farm horses, one of which was wall-eyed and seemed to be weeping, pulled up in front of Ballacroake. They had crêpe ribbons plaited in their manes and the cart had been washed clean and painted black; B. C. Core's reverent handiwork. But for the black, it might have been a prize entry at a show
. It was followed by B. C. himself, now in top hat and long frock-coat, and buttoning up his waistcoat, for he had been stripped to the shirt (a blue one ornamented with a dicky and white starched detachable cuffs) giving the equipage its finishing touches. He looked round as though anticipating a round of handclaps, but he got none.
'No sign of anybody yet,' he said to the wall-eyed horse. 'So there's time for a drink,' and he sought out Nessie and said he was thirsty. It was to be an all-male funeral and Nessie was wearing her black frock with a black satin apron over it. She had been weeping and looked scared. She went and brought B. C. Core a glass of buttermilk, which B. C. (there were four brothers in the firm, so initials were always used to identify them) drank quickly to be rid of it. His elder brother, A. D., who had just arrived, observed this with obvious joy, for he was himself a teetotaller and suspected B. C. of secretly drinking the profits away. A. D. was representing the firm, not undertaking, that afternoon.
'It's enough to turn your hair white.'
A. D. thought his brother was referring to the buttermilk and his face fell.
The relatives and friends of the dead man began to gather. Many of them had not met for years and the courtyard was massed with handshaking figures dressed in black. They all looked incongruous in the sunshine and the very formal clothes they rarely wore. Littlejohn and the Archdeacon joined them. More handclasps and friendly exchanges reduced to a whisper to suit the occasion.
A few strangers had turned up. Some of them looked like holidaymakers out for the day; others just lost and embarrassed, but they stuck it out in respect for the dead man. There had been murders and violence at Ballacroake before, and here was yet another to keep up the excitement and the reputation of the family and the queer house they lived in.
The coffin appeared, carried on the shoulders of six farmers, of whom Red Juan was one. Dead silence, and then the bidding at Ballacronkey-Beg could be heard rapidly rising. Someone even had the effrontery to fire off a gun which was for sale; the pigeons at Ballacroake and Ballacronkey-Beg took to the air, swept over the funeral gathering in a huge circle, and grounded again. The rooks in the rookery behind the house started cawing and milling about.
The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 7
