The family emerged. The drawn blinds of upper rooms trembled and showed slits at the sides, as the women, who weren't joining the cortège, peeped round for a last look.
Reuben and Ewan Croake; Joseph Croake and Uncle Zachary Finlo Croake, a very aged man but as stiff as a ramrod, who was walking part of the way with John Charles and then riding the rest. Then about a score of near and far blood relatives two by two. The Croakes of Close Croake, and Bride, and Ballavoddey, and The Dhoor. Those of Bride and The Dhoor had been at daggers drawn – a family feud – for almost a century and a half, but, for the day, had declared a truce.
The coffin was placed on the farm cart, two smaller drays, smothered in flowers, emerged from somewhere behind, and took their places, Mr. B. C. Core gave the sign, and the long trek began. It wound down the farm-street to the main road, Mr. B. C. took his bearings and set his straight course, and the long crocodile of black-clad mourners followed.
They slowly tramped their way along the road for a mile or so and then the charted route took to the fields through a gate. At Close Lake, the improvised hearse halted and the coffin was taken on the shoulders of six bearers again. The cart could not be used any farther. The drays with the wreaths broke away and made off on the high road to the church, followed by Uncle Zachary Finlo Croake in his vintage Daimler. By his side sat a little grey-haired man called Rigbee. Mr. Rigbee was a music-teacher, Professor Rigbee, according to the brass plate on his door. He was the most brilliant Bach executant on the Island. His neighbours must have blessed his absence at the funeral, for it gave them a respite from his non-stop harpsichord and well-tempered clavier playing.
The mourners behind John C. Croake drove their way straight through fields and ploughed land. Now and then a diversion at a cornfield, the crop of which stood high and golden ready for harvest. They crossed the temporary plank bridge over the deep, narrow drainage trench at Ballajockey.
Through the flat green fields of Ryehill and the domains of Ballavoddan, Ballacoarey, Ballaseyr, with the tower of Andreas church straight ahead of them, like a sailor's navigation mark in a sea of grass.
At all the farms and cottages on the way, knots of men were waiting, and little tributaries in black joined the main stream behind the coffin. Mr. B. C. reverently rushing here and there, showed them their places and marshalled them into orderly pairs. Twice on the way, the bearers were changed; all except Red Juan, who refused to be relieved and stuck to his post over the whole course.
The churchyard at Andreas is large, but it seemed full almost to capacity with another black-clad crowd anxious to join the approaching cortège. The Archdeacon, who was meeting the waiting clergy, left Littlejohn, hastily assumed his surplice indoors and was there to meet the coffin at the door of the church. Left to himself, Littlejohn was better able to look around at the attendance there. The bearers cut their way through the crowd and all those following, except the family mourners, seemed to dissolve into the throng already gathered. The church filled rapidly and Littlejohn remained out of doors.
The view from the slight elevation there was magnificent. The small, trim village stood in the very centre of the flat lands of The Ayre. To the south, the bastion of Manx hills, suddenly levelling out in a spectacular descent; on three other sides the fertile acres of prosperous farms stretched to meet the sea, their white farmhouses and manors surrounded each by its circle of twisted trees, tortured by the winter gales.
To the right of the church tower, now shorn of its top tier to accommodate the flying of the nearby R.A.F. station, stood the Croake tombs. Three huge vaults, the most recent of which had been opened to receive the sad remains of John Charles. There must have been dozens of Croakes lying there. Many had died in foreign parts, some in unknown places, but their names were on the tablets; judges, governors of colonies, generals, most of them dedicated to the service of the British Empire, as it was then. One of them had gone down with the Titanic, and another had gone up with his ship at the battle of Trafalgar.
The crowd itself bore witness to the standing of the family and the member who was now joining its dead. A representative of the Lieutenant-Governor of the Isle, Deemsters, lawyers, doctors, business men, farmers and working-men. And Ross Bottomley, the only one present there in a light suit, a red tie, and lemon gloves. He was standing apart from the main crowd, under the trees which hung across the wall of the vicarage. Jenny Walmer was with him. She wore the costume in which Littlejohn had first met her and stood there like a pillar, neither moving nor speaking. Bottomley seemed delighted with her company and tried to carry on a fruitless conversation, fawning on her like a dog.
The service and committal were brief enough and Littlejohn, from where he was, heard little of them. But he got a good view of Reuben for the first time. Reuben was unlike Ewan, who stood beside him. A much smaller man and more slightly built. Clean-shaven, with a narrow face and a great dome of a bald head. His long, straight nose twitched now and then with a nervous tic and his fingers were never still. A troubled, unhealthy-looking man with filmy restless eyes, unsmiling and almost guilty. He half-heartedly attended to what was going on; eager to get away. Joseph was by his side, watching him, as though if he left him, his uncle might break out into something outrageous, something scandalous which might reveal the secret of his brother's violent death.
Ewan stood by the vault immobile, his face like a rock, his grey hair blowing in the breeze. When it was all over, he had to receive the condolences of many there, but they came to him without moving him at all. He seemed eager to be off, too. Ten minutes after the last words, the crowd had vanished. Long lines of vehicles of every kind swallowed them up, leaving a few knots of black-clad people, some ambling round the graves recalling the past, others idling about the village, reluctant to end the half-day's holiday.
The Archdeacon joined Littlejohn.
'The family asked us back for tea. Shall we go . . .?'
'Yes. I don't mind.'
In the middle of the village, Ross Bottomley was handing Jenny Walmer into his ancient car. A very old model indeed, but as it had mainly throughout its life been used for travelling to Douglas and back from a place only a few miles away, its total mileage was spectacularly low. Bottomley was still smiling jubilantly. The car started at the first thrust of the starter and they were off without even noticing Littlejohn and his companion.
In times past, the original farm which gave its name later to the mansion of Ballacroake, had been one of several on the Island which possessed a guest-house for beggars and vagrants. This place was still retained, well-kept and intact, behind the house at Ballacroake, where it had served as a granary, a studio, and then as a harness-room and been enlarged for such purposes. A two-tiered stone structure, made up of rooms about forty feet by twenty each, an upper and a lower, the upper reached by a flight of stone steps on the outside of the building. The great open fireplace was still there almost occupying the whole width of one wall of the ground-floor chamber.
In the lower room of this beggars'-roost had been set trestle-tables at which those of the visitors who cared could take a meal. There was a good spread of meats, bread-and-butter, soda-cakes, jams and tea, and the place was full of farmers and workmen. Outside, others were wandering around waiting for the second sitting. The dignitaries and friends were entertained in the house.
The Archdeacon showed Littlejohn round the room, pointing out the fireplace, giving him a running commentary about the use and routine of such places and the wayfarers who used them. Meanwhile, the present guests continued their steady eating.
'The upper room was usually the dormitory. Let's go up.'
They went outside and up the stone staircase which climbed the rear wall. The door at the top was locked. The window was in the roof and they couldn't see inside.
'We'll get the key from Ewan after tea.'
Tea indoors was a less substantial affair than that in the guest-house. Nessie and two helping women were serving it. Sandwiches, cakes and tea. T
he majority of the official mourners had had their daily work awaiting them and had apologised, or taken a cup of tea, and gone back. About a dozen relatives remained, and two or three who had come from distant places and were staying the night. Miss Bridget had not put in an appearance yet, and Reuben, Ewan and Joseph were doing the honours. None of them seemed comfortable. Reuben was talking in whispers with Uncle Zachary Finlo in a corner of the room, Joseph looked bored and eager to get it over. Ewan mechanically moved from group to group indulging in small-talk, receiving sympathy on behalf of the family, seeming to be keeping a hold of himself with some difficulty.
'Have you the key for the upper chamber of the guest-house, Ewan?' the Archdeacon asked him. 'Littlejohn is interested. It is one of the few remaining intact on the Island and I'd like to show him round.'
'Of course. Ask Juan. He'll know. Where is Juan? Nessie! Find Juan, please.'
Nessie with red eyes and cheeks and flurried by the sudden inrush of unaccustomed visitors, laid down a tray and went off. She soon came back with Juan, still stiff in his best black, mopping his forehead after some argument or other he'd been settling with one of the guests outside.
'Yes, Mr. Ewan?'
'Have you the key of the upper chamber of the guest-house?'
Red Juan's eyes narrowed.
'I don't know where it's got to, Mr. Ewan. We haven't used the loft for quite a while. The key's got misplaced. I don't have it. . . .'
'What are you talking about, Juan? I saw you up there a few days ago. Where is it?'
'I seem to remember Mr. Joseph having it last.'
Red Juan had never had much of a fancy for Littlejohn. Now he looked ready to kill him.
Joseph was talking with one of the Deemsters, with one ear cocked in the direction of his uncle Ewan's party. Red Juan gave him a forlorn look and a shrug.
'Perhaps the Venerable Archdeacon could call another day?'
'That's my business, Juan. We're not letting Superintendent Littlejohn leave without seeing the Shemmyr. It's only padlocked; you can force off the staple. Go and get it done. I'm sorry, Caesar, for all the fuss. Take another cup of tea whilst Juan does the job.'
Red Juan turned and walked out without a word. Nessie brought them more tea. The Archdeacon laid a hand on her arm.
'What's exciting you, Nessie? I've never seen you look so flushed and bothered. . . .'
In reply, she handed him his cup, burst into tears, and left the room.
'Excuse me a minute.'
The Archdeacon went after her.
All eyes followed him out. It was quite unusual for this kind old man to cause distress to anyone, to say nothing of tears. There were curious looks, too, when he returned smiling himself.
'Well, Littlejohn, shall we go and inspect Yn Shemmyr, as Ewan calls it? Manx for "the chamber".'
'Forgive my not going, Caesar. I've my guests to see to. Reuben is still entertaining Uncle Zachary Finlo and Joseph seems to have left us.'
'We'll look after ourselves, Ewan. I've been up there before. We'll see you before we leave for home.'
They crossed the courtyard and round to the back. The lower room of the guest-house was still busy. The hired women were serving the second sitting with food and tea. Out of sight of the house, the Archdeacon stopped and faced Littlejohn.
'About Nessie, Littlejohn. I went after her to find out what was upsetting her. What she told me disturbs me. She says someone's put The Eye on Ballacroake. These people are superstitious, you know, and nothing will shake it out of them. She means the evil eye. I asked her what she was talking about. She says nothing is going right these days and that the ghost is walking again. There's a ghost at Ballacroake. Or so it's said. That of a young man who was killed here in a duel a century and a half ago. I asked had she seen it. She said, yes, and so had others, including Juan. There's also a headless man been seen. We have such visitors at Grenaby, too. Lots of local people have seen them, but I was never lucky enough. But what I do know is that there's something wrong at Ballacroake. Miss Bridget is locked in her room, it seems; Ewan spends half the day saying his prayers; Red Juan is like a bear with a sore head; and Joseph and Reuben are drinking more whisky than is good for them. I tried to pacify Nessie by saying that the murder had upset them all. She turned white, knelt down and asked me to give her a blessing, at that. Which I did. I also gave her a copy of the Lord's Prayer in Manx on a postcard. She thrust it down her dress over her heart and seemed a lot better for it . . .'
'I wonder what's going on, sir. Something funny, as you say. Let's go and see if we can find Juan.'
They went in the lower room together. The inmates were hard at it.
Joseph was there, sitting by a farmer, tucking in at the ham and talking freely. When he saw Littlejohn and the Archdeacon he gave them a broad grin.
'Sit down and have a bite of real food. I got tired indoors and found it stuffy. I enjoy myself among the homely folk, though I must say it's not playing the game, Uncle Ewan cutting-off the ale. He might have made an exception today. These chaps are thirsty after the long trek to Andreas.'
'Have you seen Juan?'
'No. Why?'
'He was told by your uncle to open up the upper chamber here and let the Superintendent see it. He couldn't find the key and said he thought it was in your possession . . .'
'My possession? What would I want with the key of the place? It's of no interest to me. He must have been mistaken or else he's gone round the bend. He's been queer lately.'
On the next table, Ross Bottomley was enjoying the ham. He waved at Littlejohn, and spoke with his mouth full.
'Come and join us. I took Miss Jenny back to Ramsey to make some calls. I'm picking her up later. Came back here when I felt hungry. A good meal once in a while does a man a power of good. Tuck in, Superintendent . . .'
The word 'Superintendent' might have been a magic one. It caused a great hush in the room and mouths ceased to chew for a minute. They'd all thought the Archdeacon's companion was his nephew from 'over'. Now they understood. 'The big fellah' was there after Mr. John Charles's murtherer. It spoiled their appetites, but not for long. As soon as Littlejohn was out of the room, they all fell-to with added zest.
From the foot of the staircase, they could see the door of the upper room with the chain hanging loose.
'Juan must have found the key, Archdeacon. Let's go up.'
The place had been recently occupied and had been swept and dusted. There was a table in the middle of the room and it was covered by a decent white tablecloth. A sugar basin, a salt sifter, a bottle of sauce. The remains of a meal on a tray on the floor. The mice looked to have been at it. By the wall, an iron bedstead which had recently been used, but not by the type of ne'er-do-well for which the guest-house had long ago been erected. There were good grey blankets and clean rough sheets jumbled there and a white pillow-case.
This the two men saw almost photographically as they entered and looked round, but it didn't occupy much of their time.
Swinging from a rope looped over a hook in one of the beams was the body of a woman. It moved gently to and fro as the draught from the open door caught it. It was too late to do any good by cutting it down.
'It's Bridget Croake,' said the Archdeacon, and he covered his face with his hands.
8
The Man in the Upper Room
THE TWO men stood horrified in the oppressive sunny stillness of the room. A wasp was struggling to get out and buzzing at the overhead window. Below, in spite of the absence of alcohol at the gathering, the party was warming up. Hoarse laughter, the low hum of monotonous conversation, shouts of greeting.
Littlejohn stood on a chair, gently raised, then lowered the body in his arms and quietly laid it on the bed. It was thin and frail and hardly any weight at all. The Archdeacon leaned over and closed the eyes with a gesture like a blessing.
The woman was small, with a pointed chin and a face which tapered from high cheek-bones. The hair was long and grey and roug
hly gathered together in the nape of the neck. The skin was pale and almost transparent, like fine old parchment.
They locked the door behind them, broke the news to the family, sent for the police and a doctor, and cleared the whole place of visitors.
Littlejohn left the Archdeacon to comfort the three men, Ewan, Reuben and Joseph, and strolled alone about the silent house.
Lost in his own thoughts, he casually examined the rooms of the ground floor. The family and the parson were in a study at the back of the house, a small den used by the men as a smoke-room. The Superintendent entered the sitting-room in which he and the Archdeacon had first met Ewan. The blinds had been raised, soon now to be drawn again, and the early evening sun poured slanting beams across it.
The whole house seemed filled with fine furniture, collected by generations of Croakes, particularly in the period of elegance, a century and a half ago. A large, magnificent lustre chandelier hung from the ceiling, with a smaller one on each side of it. As the soft wind from the curraghs blew in from the open windows, the cut-glass pendants tinkled gently. Fine armchairs, a graceful dining-table with dining-chairs standing round it, cabinets, a valuable escritoire, and three large cases filled with china. In two of them, complete and exquisite antique dinner-services, in the other, porcelain figures of all shapes and sizes and obviously composing a priceless collection, made over many years. This collection greatly interested him. Not that he was, himself, anything of an expert on such things, but Mrs. Littlejohn was. They had never had enough money to permit the full exercise of her tastes but she had, at home, a few fine pieces which she cherished. For the rest, she knew almost every public collection in the country and in many places on the Continent, too, attended, as a matter of deep interest, sales of special porcelain of all kinds, and made up for lack of practical collecting by wide reading on the subject and by discussing and learning as much as she could from established authorities. Littlejohn determined to bring her with him to inspect the Croake collection, if possible, before they left for home.
The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 8
