The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series)

by George Bellairs

  This was a profitable little venture and Mr. John Charles was one of its four directors. Mr. Ponting stayed on duty every Saturday afternoon to accommodate Mr. Croake, and took Thursday afternoon off. He was ready to talk.

  'Yes, Mr. Croake called as usual on Saturday afternoon about three-thirty. He didn't stay long. Just looked through the day-book, cargo lists, and cash book. The Bank of Mona closes at noon on Saturdays. Their half-day. But Mr. Croake used to meet the manager there on Saturday afternoons for a quiet hour. He liked to get to the bank around four. He left here to schedule . . .'

  Mr. Ponting fiddled about with papers on the counter nervously.

  'A great pity he met such an awful and untimely end. We all come to it; but not like that, I hope. Have you any idea, Reverend, who'll be taking his place on our board of directors, as it will be very important? I hope it's somebody who's as much a gentleman as the deceased. . . .'

  The girl finished her manicure, patted her hair, rose and, after a glance at the clock, went out and returned with an electric kettle which she plugged in somewhere under the counter. She was blonde and plump and seemed in a daze. She kept humming the same tune to herself. . . .

  Riverboat Rock. . . .

  Yoo Hoo!

  Rock ma baby and me.

  Mr. Ponting looked ready to do violence to her, but probably remembered that staff were hard to come-by in the high season.

  The junior entered with a packet of tea and a stack of iced buns, enough for a dozen people. Littlejohn and Archdeacon thanked Mr. Ponting and left him to his feast.

  At the Bank of Mona, they had to ring the bell at the side of the door, which was locked, bolted, and barred. There was also a gate in front of the door, padlocked and formidable. After ringing three times, they saw a junior clerk emerge from a side door higher up the street and look them carefully over to make sure they meant no ill to the bank or its cash balance.

  'We're closed,' he finally said as they approached him.

  'We wish to see Mr. Carmody. Tell him it is the Archdeacon, and please be quick about it.'

  The boy vanished, carefully locking, bolting and barring the door behind him. Two minutes later, Mr. Carmody appeared, shook the Archdeacon by the hand, and asked if it were urgent, as they'd locked-up the cash and the books, and distributed the keys hours ago.

  Mr. Carmody was an ageing man with white hair and a troubled look. He wasn't troubled about his banking. He had his customers well in hand. On toast, as some of his staff described it. He soon made his fears known after he'd taken his visitors to his room and established them on a hard chair apiece.

  'I wonder who'll succeed poor Mr. Croake on our board . . .'

  They all seemed alike. As though John Charles's presence had somehow acted as a soporific to the staff and there was now danger of some new director succeeding him and giving them all hell.

  'Two names have been suggested and I'm naturally anxious about the ultimate choice. One is a person you know well, Mr. Archdeacon.'

  Mr. Carmody placed his hand over his heart, blushed, and bowed slightly, to indicate that he was that person.

  'The other is Mr. Macollister.'

  His lip trembled at the very sound of the name and he seemed to shrink in his chair.

  'It would be very awkward for me in the latter event.'

  He whispered it to the Archdeacon as though laying bare his sins in the confessional box. Somehow, Mr. Carmody reminded Littlejohn of Donald Duck!

  It would, too! Mr. Carmody had taken off quite a lot of time shooting, fishing and bird-watching under the benign and sympathetic regime of Mr. John Charles Croake. With Mr. Macollister, it would be a different cup of tea. He was anti everything. Anti-shooting, fishing and bird-watching, in particular. To him, everything but increasing dividends was ridiculous.

  'Mr. Croake called here last Saturday about four, Mr. Carmody?'

  The Archdeacon interposed to introduce Littlejohn. Mr. Carmody said it was a pleasure to meet him. Anybody who was a friend of the Reverend Archdeacon was also his friend.

  'Yes,' he replied. 'That's right.'

  'How long did he stay with you?'

  'About an hour. I always waited for him. Whatever the time the office had finished, I waited.'

  It sounded like a sentimental ballad!

  'Did he say where he was going when he left you?'

  'We talked about the bank and the week's work. You see, Mr. Croake was vice-chairman of the bank and, as the chairman himself isn't as active as he used to be, Mr. Croake was almost a member of the executive. A great help . . . a tower of strength to me.'

  He indicated the tower with a tremendous gesture of his arms.

  Mr. Carmody sighed and gave the Archdeacon an appealing look. He almost solicited the Archdeacon's full support at the forthcoming election of a new director, but he thought he'd better not with John Charles Croake hardly in his grave.

  'You were saying, Mr. Carmody . . . The time Mr. Croake left.'

  'Around five o'clock, Superintendent.'

  'He seemed quite himself?'

  'Yes. Perhaps a bit tired and worried looking. But then, he had a heavy burden of duty on his shoulders.'

  Mr. Carmody squared his own shoulders, trying to show that he was well-endowed with the equipment for bearing heavy loads as well. He squared them so hard that he almost had a blackout with the strain and started to cough hoarsely.

  'Did he say where he was going from here?'

  'Yes, although he need not have done so. His movements on Saturdays were as regular as clockwork. He went to a bookshop along the promenade to find out if there was anything new. A great reader. And then on his way back with his car, he'd call at the Inis Falga Club, a private gentlemen's club, and have a meal. I've been there myself and seen him. I'm a member. Then he'd look at the papers and magazines and leave, usually about seven. He often made calls on his friends after that. He and his sister usually met and went home about ten. Miss Bridget was a dear lady. Very friendly with my wife. She used to leave her brother whilst he did his business. She preferred the 'bus in town. Didn't like driving in crowded traffic. She always called on one or two of her old friends here and stayed to tea with one of them. Then she went to meet Mr. John."

  'Well, many thanks for your help, sir.'

  'Is it true that it wasn't the teddy-boy who murdered Mr. Croake? I've heard a whisper that the police are continuing their enquiries.'

  'They have to make sure, you know, before making a charge so serious as that.'

  'It's been a pleasure to help you . . .'

  Mr. Carmody swallowed hard and braced himself.

  'May I ask you, Mr. Archdeacon, if you think me worthy of it, to support my election as a director should my name be put forward at the meeting? You are, I know, one of our shareholders. If . . .'

  'My dear fellow; of course I will. Nobody is better equipped. I'll make a point of being there.'

  Mr. Carmody almost danced a jig as he let them out. With the support of the Rev. Caesar Kinrade, he was as good as in! And he was right. His election caused Mr. Hosea Macollister forthwith to take his overdraft from the Bank of Mona to a rival bank. But that has nothing to do with the case. . . .

  10

  The Treasure of Ballacroake

  TEA TIME seemed to clear the promenade and main streets of Douglas just as does the siesta in Spain or l'heure de l'apéritif in France. Those who were waiting for dinner flocked into hotel lounges for cocktails; those whose board and lodging included high-tea settled down for an hour and a square meal; and those who were casual about it all left the beaches or the motor-coaches and crowded into the bars and cafés for a break in the monotony. When Little john and the Archdeacon left the Bank of Mona there was hardly anybody about. The sun was shining, the sea like glass, and the heat seemed to hit them in little soft, warm puffs which almost took the breath away.

  They drove along the promenade and turned left up Summer Hill, at the top of which stood a number of large Georgian mansi
ons with splendid views over the bay. Many of them had been turned into expensive flats; one of them was the Inis Falga Club. The Archdeacon had suggested it might be a good place to call at for tea. He was a member.

  'We may as well finish John Charles Croake's itinerary on the day he died. He ate his last meal at the club.'

  It seemed a good idea.

  There was also a bit of peace there. No noisy holidaymakers; no wandering yachtsmen dropping in; no golfers making it the nineteenth hole. It was the club for permanent residents on the Island; clergy, lawyers, doctors, business men, scholars, architects, artists, politicians. Those who run the Island when the crowds have gone.

  The hall porter greeted the Archdeacon with respectful delight.

  'It's good to be putting a sight on you again, Reverend.'

  The hall was thickly carpeted and furnished in the good old style. Heavy mahogany, with a portrait gallery of dead, gone and prominent Manx worthies who had once been members there. They took tea in a small quiet room with books lining two of the walls, a large fireplace, and well-padded easy chairs built for large men. A waiter who had been there for forty years or more served them. After he had brought in the tea and toast, the Archdeacon chatted with him.

  'I hear that Mr. Croake was here not long before his death, Alfred. A very sad business.'

  Alfred said it certainly was.

  'Such a good, decent gentleman, was Mr. Croake. A man who'll be sadly missed by everybody.'

  'Did he dine alone?'

  'Yes. There weren't many in, sir. Saturday's a slack evening. Most members are with their families, then, dining in what, by your leave, Reverend, I'd call the livelier places.'

  'Was anyone else here dining at the time?'

  'One or two. He greeted them with a friendly word and went on with his meal. Just as he was ready for his coffee, Mr. Cantrell, the antique dealer, called. Mr. Cantrell was waiting for a client who must have been late. Mr. Croake and he talked together for half an hour before Mr. Croake left. Then Mr. Cantrell's friend arrived and they went to their own reserved table for dinner. Mr. Croake seemed to be having a very earnest and, from all appearances, interesting talk with Mr. Cantrell.'

  'Were they friends, then?'

  'Not what you'd call firm friends, sir. They passed a cheery time of day when they met. But I've never seen them with their heads together so much as last Saturday.'

  'Do we follow that up, Littlejohn?'

  After the waiter had left them, the Archdeacon asked the question like a good dog who has found a scent.

  'Why not?'

  'Cantrell's shop is in the promenade arcade during the summer, when he does a very good trade. In the off-season, he just keeps his other little shop on the quay warm by opening a few days weekly. The rest of his time he seems to spend in buying on the mainland or sending off antiques to the English dealers and auctions. A very knowledgeable and decent fellow.'

  They drove back along the promenade again. There was a feeling of approaching night in the air now. The sun was hanging over the west as though undecided whether or not to set for the day. People were indoors changing for the evening and the bandsmen were turning in at the dance-halls. Littlejohn himself felt ready for the quiet of the parsonage at Grenaby, the peace of the hidden village, and the late meal with his wife and his friend in the old gracious house. Talk by the fire and then the undisturbed sleep in the big four-poster in which, eighty years ago, the Reverend Caesar Kinrade had been born.

  S. H. Cantrell. Antiques. The windows without too much in them. A tasteful piece here and there, but in the shop behind, a mass of temptation to enter and buy.

  Cantrell, himself, was a small, slim man of around sixty, with white hair. He was immaculately turned-out and might easily have fitted in Bond Street or Rue de la Paix, instead of Douglas.

  This was no junk-shop, nor was its owner a broker. In the summer time, there arrived for holidays on the Isle of Man a section of people with money to spend on other things than simple holiday-making. They were newly-rich visitors, who based their tastes for the large houses they were buying on the mainland on advice given by widely circulating women's monthly magazines. Mr. Cantrell saw to it that they found what they needed in his shop. And when the Douglas season ended, he shipped the connoisseur goods he had been cautiously buying during the Spring and Summer, to England and the Continent. In December, he was to be found in Paris; in February and March, in Nice or Monte Carlo. He met his two visitors at the door.

  'Good afternoon, Archdeacon. This is a great pleasure.'

  Mr. Cantrell knew the treasures in antique furniture and porcelain quietly reposing in the homes of the patrician Manx. Although isolated from the mainland, their ancestors had been interested in the world around, had made the grand tour of Europe in the days of elegance, and freely bought for their homes anything which took their fancy on the way. Much of it had already been sold and shipped elsewhere. There was still plenty left. The vicarage at Grenaby retained its fair share.

  The furniture in the shop was well polished and nicely arranged. There were cabinets of china along the walls. Prints and pictures here and there and the light from the window caught the glass of a fine chandelier hanging from the ceiling and cast a large rainbow on the white wall behind.

  Mr. Cantrell was delicately made, like some of the china in the showcases. He had small hands and feet and moved noiselessly across the Persian rugs on the floor. The place was more like a well-kept museum than a shop. It paid good dividends by attracting the right kind of buyers.

  'What can I do for you, gentlemen?'

  Mr. Cantrell saw in his mind's eye the genuine Hepplewhite dining-chairs, the double-pedestal table, the tallboys, the four-posters, the exquisite Rockingham dinner-service, the miniatures . . . All the treasures, in fact, which the Kinrades had amassed with the passing of time.

  When the Archdeacon introduced Littlejohn, the antique-dealer's face fell and he looked scared. There is no better trade than antiques for attracting confidence trickery, false pretences, and fraud. Now and then, Mr. Cantrell was reminded of it in a practical manner.

  'I believe you had a long conversation with the late Mr. John Croake on Saturday evening, a few hours before he met his death.'

  'That is true. But surely they've apprehended his murderer. How do I come to be involved in it?'

  'Perhaps the Superintendent will tell you.'

  Littlejohn had been taking a good look round the shop and had made-up his mind to bring his wife along before they left for home. He smiled politely at Mr. Cantrell.

  'You aren't involved, sir. We're just clearing-up one or two matters which have arisen out of Mr. Croake's death. I wonder if you would mind telling us if, when you were talking together, he discussed anything particular with you?'

  Mr. Cantrell looked relieved. He asked them to sit and indicated a couple of superb wing-chairs for the purpose. He gave them sherry in Jacobite wine-glasses and fondled a fine Siamese cat which had leapt on his knees.

  'We talked antiques all the time. Mr. Croake seemed suddenly to have taken an interest in china and was asking me about it.'

  'Did he seem worried, at all?'

  'I'd hardly describe it as worried. Earnest, that's the word. If he'd been entering the antique trade himself he couldn't have asked more questions. It was rather unusual. I've never known him so inquisitive, although he'd every reason to be. The collection at Ballacroake is one of the finest I've seen in a private house in my life.'

  'Valuable?'

  'Priceless! Worth a fortune. It began with Miss Julia Croake, who lived in the middle 1700s. A very old family, the Croakes. She and her husband visited Germany at the time when the so-called Dresden china was at its best. There are Meissen figures and services there . . . well . . . it would be difficult to put a price on them, except at a London auction. Now that the Americans are frantic for such figures again for film and television settings, it appals me to think of the value of what is reposing in the cases in the pa
rlour at Ballacroake. They are insured, I agree, but for a paltry sum at present values and I could not persuade the Croakes to protect them more adequately. They just laughed at me and said what has been good enough over the past two hundred years, is good enough now. With the exception of Miss Bridget, poor soul, who knew all about china, nobody seemed to bother. The whole collection might just have been a few old pots! They used to say that there were no burglars on the Island. It's a good job the burglars didn't know the value of the collection . . .'

  'Miss Bridget knew of them?'

  'Yes; but she, too, was too good for this world. She would never have been persuaded to believe that anybody would steal sixpence from her.'

  The Archdeacon had been taking a profound interest in it all, his white frothy beard sunk on his chest. He raised his head.

  'Wherein lies the value of it all?'

  'The value? My dear Archdeacon! Let me show you something.'

  Mr. Cantrell gently placed the cat on the floor and went in a room behind. He returned carrying a small object in his fist and gently placed it in the Archdeacon's hand.

  'What is it?'

  It was a coloured figure, about eight inches tall, of a harlequin in motley, seated on a pedestal. It was beautifully modelled and balanced, but one hand had been broken off.

  'It's damaged.'

  Mr. Cantrell laughed.

  'If it weren't, it would not be here, I can assure you. As it is, it is worth hundreds of pounds. It was modelled around 1740 by J. J. Kändler, the great Modellmeister at Meissen. He created the art of porcelain modelling in Europe. The greatest of them all! In the Croake collection, there are, at least, a score of Kändler figures in perfect condition. Groups, harlequins, animals, birds . . .'