The little man flung his hands in the air.
'I can't enumerate them all. Miss Julia Croake bought the lot in Dresden at ridiculously low prices and they've been at Ballacroake ever since, cared for, in each generation, by a devoted woman of the family. Why, there's a set of monkeys there, playing instruments, which is absolutely priceless! And that's not all. There's fine tableware, too, and some Nymphenburg figures, also bought by Julia Croake, modelled by Bustelli, which are fantastic. I've never seen them repeated anywhere in public or private collections . . .'
Mr. Cantrell was intoxicated by the very thought of them. His voice rose to an ecstatic shriek. It looked as if he were settled for the night.
'And Mr. John Croake was beginning to be interested in them?'
'I hardly know why he had suddenly grown so enthusiastic. But he was asking about the features of the genuine articles. I tried to outline them, but I told him, one had to see and particularly feel the models to know the genuine from the fake. I wondered if he were thinking of selling some of them. I asked him to remember me if he was.'
'What did he say to that?'
'He laughed. He assured me that he had no such thoughts in his mind. He added that they were his sister's property, and that they had always passed to the distaff side of the family. He then asked me if I would care to call at Ballacroake some time in the near future and see them for myself again. I jumped at the invitation and he said he'd telephone me this week and make a date. Alas! He died a few hours later and now, I hear, Miss Bridget has taken her own life. Probably it was out of grief at the loss of her brother. They were very fond of each other.'
'Did Mr. Croake speak of his sister in the course of conversation?'
'He said he was going to meet her later. I'd enquired about her. He said she wasn't very well. She was spending the afternoon and evening with Miss Cannell. She visited her once a month. They were at school together in England when they were girls and had remained the closest friends ever since.'
That seemed to be all. They left the antique dealer in his darkening shop and made for their car, parked on the promenade. It was past six o'clock, and the evening sun was casting a golden light across the calm water of Douglas Bay. The air was turning chilly with the approach of night and everybody seemed to be moving faster. Off-shore, a man in a blue sailor-jersey was gathering up the little pleasure boats, roping them together, and towing them away to the harbour. Another day gone. The band at the Palace was already playing and the drums and saxophones were pouring out throbbing noises through the open doors.
The Archdeacon looked at his watch. He was evidently on another trail.
'Shall we call at Miss Cannell's on our way home? She lives up at the top of the town.'
Far be it from Littlejohn to spoil his old friend's pleasures! The Rev. Caesar seemed indefatigable. He would have made a splendid detective!
'Right. If you wish it, parson.'
Miss Cannell lived in a large house in the old residential part of Douglas, built on high ground, with tree-lined roads and, now and then, a view of the sea from an unexpected gap. Great gates, a long drive, and then the huge porch. They rang the bell and a maid in a white cap appeared. She didn't recognise the Archdeacon! She must have been a stranger or else an oddity.
'Is Miss Cannell at home?'
'Is she expecting you?'
'No, I don't think so, but you might tell her Archdeacon Kinrade is calling.'
'Very well, sir.'
She left them in the hall. A vast place with a marble floor, Persian rugs, heavy mahogany furnishings. A large staircase, with a wrought-iron balustrade. Heavy pictures of flowers and dead game and fish on the walls.
There seemed to be two entertaining rooms, each with a double door, and a small library, the door of which stood open revealing shelves with books in rows all bound alike. Miss Cannell was reputed to be well-to-do. Her father had been a banker.
The maid had disappeared upstairs and now returned. She was middle-aged. A very industrious and worthy woman who, belonging to a sect called the Pentecostal Wrestlers, was unimpressed by Archdeacons.
'Will you please wait in the library? Miss Cannell will be down in a minute.'
'If she isn't well, perhaps we could call again.'
'She said she would be very pleased indeed to see you, sir.'
The maid gave them both a look which said she wondered why the pleasure!
There was a fire in the library and the maid asked them to be seated. The walls were panelled in oak and over the fireplace was a portrait, presumably of Banker Cannell, in his masonic regalia. A stern man with cold, blue eyes and a black beard. There were heavy oil paintings of Manx scenes on the walls and a lovely water-colour of the Baldwin Valley, by William Hoggatt, illuminated by an electric strip. On the mantelpiece, a clock under a glass cover, the pendulum of which consisted of four mounted brass balls twisting on a wire. Littlejohn felt that if he looked at them long enough, he'd sink in a hypnotic trance.
Not a sound in the house and not a sound from outside. Miss Cannell seemed to live in a realm apart, a massive Victorian retreat, sealed from the noise of the world beyond.
They did not hear her descend the stairs, but suddenly found that she was with them. A small, grey, kindly little woman, not much unlike the sad Miss Croake who, only yesterday, they had handled so gently and so dead. Miss Cannell almost ran to the Archdeacon and took both his hands in her own.
'I'm so glad . . .'
She had been weeping before she entered. Now she wept again.
'I'm so sorry, but . . .'
It seemed a contradiction of her greeting, but, in her confusion, she seemed to smile and weep at the same time.
The Archdeacon did his best to comfort her for the loss of her best friend. Then he introduced Littlejohn. She looked taken aback.
'From the police?'
'A dear friend of mine, staying with his wife at the vicarage on holiday. He is helping me in this sad business.'
That was a good one! Littlejohn caught the eye of Rev. Caesar, which sparkled as he seemed to apologise ironically for this feat of diplomacy.
'We're sorry to disturb you at this time, but the police are naturally concerned in the two recent tragedies in the Croake family. Miss Bridget Croake was with you on Saturday evening, I hear, and we thought perhaps it would disturb you less if an old friend like myself came instead of the official investigators.'
She sat down wearily and offered them chairs as well.
'But how should I be concerned, Archdeacon?'
'As her friend, she might have confided in you something which could give a reason for her untimely end.'
Miss Cannell twisted her handkerchief in her fingers.
'I cannot understand why . . . Except that she loved her brother very much and must have known how sorely she would miss him.'
'Did she mention him when she was here?'
'She said she wished to get the 'bus from the end of the road at ten-fifteen as they'd arranged to meet at the car-park. I told her she could go in my car; I'd drive her down. But she avoided motoring whenever possible and insisted on going by 'bus. I wish I'd insisted. To think of her arriving there and finding her brother breathing his last, murdered. I can't get it out of my thoughts.'
She looked stunned.
'Forgive me, but may I ask if she mentioned anything about her brother's friendship with a young lady in the town.'
Miss Cannell's emotion seemed to have passed. She looked angry.
'No, she did not, Archdeacon. She was the last person in the world to make or imply any criticism of her brother. She was upset when she arrived, but I don't think that was the cause of it. She trusted John sufficiently to know that he couldn't do a wrong thing.'
'She arrived here after a visit to Dr. Cussak?'
There was a silence. Miss Cannell's lips trembled.
'I know, Miss Cannell. She was going blind, wasn't she?'
Miss Cannell broke down again and it took some
time for her to recover her balance.
'But who told you? She made me promise to keep her secret. She didn't wish her brothers to know.'
'She told Nessie, and, after her death, Nessie told me. Did she intend telling Mr. John?'
'I don't think so. Not yet, at least. She said he would be terribly upset.'
She glanced at Littlejohn and smiled as though apologising for not including him in the conversation.
'What do you think about all this horrible business, Superintendent Littlejohn?'
'I think, Miss Cannell, that Mr. John knew of his sister's eye trouble. Whether or not he feared she was going blind, I can't say. But he had, I think, noticed something wrong.'
'But she had tried hard to keep it from him . . . In fact, to keep it from all her family. I was the only one to know that her eyesight was failing. I persuaded her to see Dr. Cussak.'
'All the same, I think Mr. Croake was aware of it. Did Miss Bridget talk to you about her collection of porcelain lately?'
Miss Cannell looked surprised. Such things seemed irrelevant now.
'No. Why should she do that?'
'I wondered. You see, Mr. John Croake had suddenly grown interested in porcelain. He must have realised that his sister would soon be unable to look properly after her most treasured possessions. So, he tried to learn something about it himself. Perhaps he intended to take care of it for her. I suppose nobody else touched it or even cleaned it when Miss Croake was alive.'
'That is true. She daren't trust it to anyone else. It was so delicate and valuable.'
At the thought of this tenderness and pathetic concern, Miss Cannell wept again.
11
The little People
BRIDGET CROAKE committed suicide whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed. That was the verdict following the inquest and, after that, she was buried with the crowd of her ancestors at Kirk Andreas. It was a quiet funeral. No beelines across farmlands and drainage-trenches; no procession; no funeral feast afterwards. Only her brothers, Joseph, and Uncle Zachary Finlo, who would have been outraged had he not been invited, were there. The Archdeacon attended to assist at the interment and Littlejohn, who drove him to Ballacroake, stayed at the house with his wife until all was over.
The weather had changed. It was hot and sultry without a breath of the usual air from the sea. By noon, heavy clouds began to drift across the water from the direction of Ireland and an hour later, all seemed set for a thunderstorm.
Nessie served Littlejohn and Letty with tea whilst they waited for the return of the mourners. She had been weeping again and her eyes were red and her face swollen. Red Juan was nowhere to be seen, but Littlejohn guessed that he had gone, by a roundabout way, to watch the last of the woman he had so strangely loved.
'Are you here alone, Nessie?'
She was setting out the tea things with trembling hands.
'Yes, sir. She didn't wish for a funeral like the late Mr. John's. She always said it was to be quiet and only the men of the house were to be there. She also said she liked flowers best when she saw them growing on the plants; so there are no flowers, either.'
She pointed to the window of the darkened room, as though the blind were not drawn.
'She was born in a thunderstorm and now, it looks as if she'll go-out in one, too. I don't like thunder.'
'By the way, Nessie, I hope you haven't had any more disturbances in the night since you mentioned them.'
'I haven't heard any more noises, but that's because I've slept all night. I took sleeping tablets, as I couldn't get Miss Bridget out of my mind. When I don't sleep, I can't do my work properly. So I took something to make me sleep. There's enough trouble here without me confusing things more . . . .'
She paused.
'But there's still something funny about. The dogs have been howling and barking after midnight, and twice Juan has been up. One night he went and whipped them, but that didn't stop them. I heard him searching round the buildings, but there seemed to be nobody about. In the end, he took the dogs to his flat and had them in with him. They were disturbing all the family.'
'Perhaps some tramp or intruder. . . .'
'I think it's the haunting beginning all over again. The trouble's on this house again and I don't know what's to become of us all. I'm frightened, sir.'
'Don't worry, Nessie. Would you like us to send a policeman to look around in the nights until things get straight again?'
'No, sir. These aren't things the police can settle.'
She picked up the tray ready to go.
Mrs. Littlejohn whose eyes had frequently wandered to the three locked cabinets in the room, asked if she might see the contents.
'With pleasure, madam. That china has been in the family for generations and was poor Miss Bridey's great pride and joy. She'd like you to see them. I'll draw the blind a bit and let the light in. And, as I know you'll handle them carefully, I'll bring you the key and unlock the doors. Excuse me, please.'
She hurried out and was soon back with a ring on which were the keys of the cabinets.
'Where are the keys kept, Nessie?'
'In the drawer of Mr. John's desk, sir. Just a safe place to keep them. If we left them in the locks, people might handle the things and damage them. I've heard it said some of them are very valuable and can't be replaced.'
She unlocked the cases and opened the doors.
'There you are, madam. When you've finished, I'll lock them again.'
She left them alone together.
At first, Mrs. Littlejohn seemed afraid to touch the treasures so freely placed at her disposal.
'I just can't understand this, Tom. There must be thousands of pounds worth of china in this case alone. And here we are, nobody about, free to do as we like with it. Have they always been like this about it?'
'I believe so. It's one of their family possessions, almost an heirloom. They say that nobody on the Island would think of trying to steal them, any more than they would think of carrying off the Hepplewhite chairs or the Sheraton tables. I wonder if they've even taken the thought to insure them. They all lie there, unguarded, protected simply by the trust of the Croake family in its friends and neighbours. They seem to be that kind of people. They think everyone is as honest as they are themselves.'
The cabinet which Mrs. Littlejohn was examining had five shelves. The middle shelf, the one best seen from the room, was entirely occupied by a magnificent set of animal figures, 'The Monkey Band ', consisting of a conductor and a fair-sized orchestra of monkeys, each playing a separate instrument. Mrs. Littlejohn gently took them out one by one, examined the exquisite colouring and modelling, sought the marks on the bases, and replaced them carefully with apparent reluctance.
'They're wonderful, aren't they, Tom?'
'Although I'm no expert, I'm inclined to agree with you. . . .'
'And these . . . They take one's breath away.'
Figures of animals. Goats, dogs, horses, fishes, Tritons blowing horns. Then a tailor astride a goat, brandishing his scissors and with his smoothing-iron protruding from his pocket and his pistols in their holsters. The tailor's wife, with her babies in panniers, also riding on a goat . . .
Mrs. Littlejohn didn't seem to be there at all. She was lost in another world, that of the artist Kändler, of whom she'd heard and read very much, but whose work she had seen only at a distance in museums. To be able to handle it and see closely its flawless workmanship and artistry was a fantastic treat.
On the third shelf, harlequins, actors from the Italian comedy, women in crinolines, groups of lovers . . .
The remaining two shelves carried a mixture of workmen, soldiers, dancers, huntsmen, horsemen, peasant groups, courtiers . . . Mrs. Littlejohn recognised the well-known catalogued figures of Nymphenburg, Höchst, Fürstenburg and Meissen and turning to her husband uttered names he'd never heard before; Bustelli, Kändler, Feilner, Linck . . . He nodded as though they were old friends of his, just to please her.
Mrs.
Littlejohn had been examining the items which, with the exception of the monkeys' band, formed the front ranks of the shelves. Now she began carefully to remove those behind them. The first exhibits she had seemed to take for granted. Now, she began to inspect the rest more critically. She took some of them to the window, balanced them in the palm of her hand, weighing them gravely, stroking them gently to get the feel of them. Finally, she borrowed Littlejohn's pocket magnifying-glass and spent a long time studying the glaze and the paste.
'Whatever's the matter, Letty? You've done everything with some of those things, except try to eat them?'
'There's something wrong somewhere . . .'
'Wrong, my dear? How can there be? I was told the Croake collection was one for connoisseurs like yourself, and one of the finest of its kind outside the museums . . .'
Letty looked very upset. She returned to the cabinet and began taking out figure after figure, comparing one with another in looks, weight, in the feel of the surfaces and the reaction of the glaze to light. Then, she placed them all carefully away, locked the cabinet, and sat miserably on the couch.
'I don't understand it, at all.'
She looked so unhappy that Littlejohn felt nettled.
He'd brought her there for an afternoon's enjoyment, thinking of how much she'd revel in the pleasures of seeing and handling so many figures at once and realising a long expressed wish to inspect and enjoy the works of art she'd studied and spoken about with, in many cases, only pictures in books to guide her.
'I wish I'd never set eyes on them.'
Littlejohn sat down beside her.
'Look, Letty. If it's thinking of Miss Bridget and her little figures and the idea of her never playing with them again has made you miserable, let's forget it. We'll go out for a run to the sea and come back for the Archdeacon when it's all over. A bit tactless of me to bring you here on a day like this . . .'
'It isn't that, Tom. It's the fact that many of the figures, except those in front of the shelves are copies or else fakes.'
He was flabbergasted.
'Are you sure?'
'I'm positively sure. I wouldn't tell anyone but you, until they've been examined by a real expert. But I'm dead certain. At least a dozen or more of the figures in that case are modern copies, cheap replicas of masterpieces, or simply modern models turned out in thousands in Germany as souvenirs.'
The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 12
