'I suppose even the real ones were souvenirs at one time. That's what the generations of Croakes who've collected them have bought them for. Souvenirs of happy holidays. And in course of time, through scarcity, they've become almost priceless.'
'Except that in the old days, the figures happened to be those of great masters whose work was timeless. Now, many are done by mediocrities for sale in their hundreds. Whatever has been going on here? I'm sure Miss Bridget would never have given house-room to some of the stuff hiding itself behind the lovely figures on the front rows of the cabinets.'
Mrs. Littlejohn unlocked one of the cases again and thrust her hand behind the front row of the top shelf and drew out a pretty figure in a crinoline.
'That one is quite modern. You remember there's a shop in Cannes, just off the promenade, which sells all kinds of modern pottery and porcelain. I always stop there and take a good look at what they've got when we pass. They have a whole case full of figures like this. They tell you openly that they're modern work, and they cost the equivalent of three or four pounds each. A genuine Meissen of the great years, you might, with a bit of luck, get at thirty or forty pounds. That's a simple figure of what, so to speak, was the bread-and-butter porcelain. But Miss Croake's best figures were modelled by the all-time masters of the art. Some of them, I'm sure, judging from the prices they make at auctions, would go for hundreds, perhaps thousands each . . .'
They were both silent and bewildered, wondering what strange affair they had stumbled upon almost by accident. Finally Littlejohn turned and tugged at the old-fashioned bell-pull by the side of the fireplace. They could hear the bell tinkle in the kitchen. Nessie appeared almost at once.
'You were wanting me, sir?'
'I wanted to return the keys to you, Nessie. Thank you very much. The china is very beautiful. It must be very valuable. Is it insured?'
'Of course, sir. It was valued years ago and Mr. John looked after the insurance. I don't know who's going to attend to them now both Mr. John and Miss Bridget have gone.'
'Did Mr. John interest himself in the china?'
'No, sir. He only looked after the insurance. Miss Bridget was the only one of the family who had anything to do with the cleaning or handling of it. The men regarded it as feminine and left it to her.'
'Did she handle it much . . . You know, dust or wash it?'
'The cases are supposed to be airtight, sir, and didn't let in the dust. That's what they said, but there was some dust got in. You can't keep it out however hard you try.'
'How long is it since Miss Bridget handled the porcelain or examined it?'
'Three or four months since. Of late, she seemed to lose interest in it a bit. It must have been her eyes. They've been troubling her and she was perhaps too bothered to attend to her potteries.'
'Did other visitors come to see the collections, like Mrs. Littlejohn and I are doing?'
'Yes. But not lately. Miss Bridget didn't seem to want company and the little people, as she used to call her figures, have been neglected.'
'Do you know anything about such things, Nessie.'
'Very little, sir, except what I've learned by looking at them and hearing poor Miss Bridget talk.'
'What company looks after the insurance, Nessie?'
'I don't know the name of the insurance company, but Mr. Filey, from Douglas, has been down a time or two about it. He has all the insurances here.'
'Well, thank you very much, Nessie.'
'Do you mind if I bring in the tea-things, sir? I can see from the back window the cars are returning from the funeral and they'll want a bit of refreshment, I'm sure.'
'Of course. We'll just stroll in the garden. It's still fine?'
'Yes, sir. The clouds are blowing over, I think.'
Littlejohn and Letty strolled about the rose garden at the side of the house. They were very quiet.
'What are we going to do about this business, Letty?'
She actually laughed at him.
'You are supposed to be the expert in these queer matters, not I. Isn't Ewan Croake head of the family?'
'Not exactly. Reuben's the elder brother, but he's not much good at anything. John Charles used to deal with the intricacies of family life. Ewan is in charge of the estate and is a local preacher.'
'Why not speak to him, then?'
'I don't know. It seems to me that neither Bridget nor any other member of the family would think of mixing cheap modern figures with such a magnificent, almost unique, collection of genuine ones. Suppose someone has taken advantage of the men's indifference to the collection and Miss Bridget's increasing blindness and stolen genuine figures, sold them, and, to keep up the packed appearance of the cabinet, substituted cheap almost valueless fakes. The key is easily accessible and the house frequently half deserted. It would be easy.'
'Do you think, Tom, that there might have been a motive in all this for the murder of John and the suicide of Bridget?'
'It might be quite a likely theory.'
'Could Bridget have sold them for some reason?'
'Most improbable; almost impossible. These were a family collection and she cherished them accordingly. From what I've gathered about her, I think she'd rather have died than see one of them go . . .'
'That's a strange thing to say. She did die. Could she have known about it?'
'I'll tell you what . . . We'll not mention this to a soul at present. If we tell Knell and the Douglas police, it will probably have public repercussions. The Croakes may have sold some, or else the cabinets were filled-up with cheaper figures behind the good ones, just to make the shelves less bare. We'll talk it over with the Archdeacon first. Then, we'll decide what steps to take. Right?'
'I think that's best, too.'
The cars were arriving and mounting the slope to the house. The family entered together. Uncle Zachary Finlo, who had an immense appetite for sweetstuff, was complaining about being hungry.
'. . . And tell her to put out the big cups for the tea. It takes about ten cups from those little doll's tea-services to quench your thirst . . .'
The Archdeacon joined Littlejohn and Letty and told them Ewan would be glad if they'd remain for refreshment.
The family had gathered in a little group round the large chair occupied by Uncle Zachary Finlo, who was already sampling Nessie's soda-cakes approvingly.
The Archdeacon introduced Mrs. Littlejohn to them all and Uncle Zachary Finlo insisted that Mrs. Littlejohn should preside over the teacups, one of which was larger than the rest – almost half-a-pint measure – to please him. Even that was an exquisite green Rockingham breakfast-cup with a handle in the shape of a lizard. This was not lost on the aged one.
'A very nice cup, this. Who's going to look after all the pots now that Bridey's gone? I suppose the girls at Close Croake, being the next in line, will get them . . .'
The use of the word pots to begin with, made Ewan wince. The idea of the collection leaving Ballacroake got him on the raw.
'Certainly not! They stay here, where they belong. We'll decide later what has to become of them. The girls at the Close are too heavy-handed, for one thing. Please see that the matter isn't mentioned to them, Zachary . . .'
The old man was affronted.
'I wouldn't think of such a thing. It's unkind of you, Ewan . . .'
A family row seemed imminent and the Archdeacon tried to change the subject.
'Mrs. Littlejohn is keenly interested in porcelain figures. Have you seen the collection, Letty?'
'Yes. We took the liberty of looking over the cases whilst you were all away. The collection is beautiful. It takes one's breath away. Outside the big museums, I've never seen anything so wonderful.'
The ice was broken. The contents of the cabinets made a good topic of conversation in the circumstances. Uncle Zachary Finlo suggested the cabinets be opened for Mrs. Littlejohn's inspection. Littlejohn didn't, on any account, wish this to happen at present. To have the assembly examining the figures and perh
aps discovering the fakes might cause a very premature commotion.
'We'd both like to see them, but perhaps it would be better if we called another day. I'm sure it might cause some of you a certain amount of grief in the circumstances . . . The associations, you know . . .'
Reuben, who had been standing with Joseph, his unshakeable companion, suddenly awoke and started to be gallant. He asked for some more tea for Mrs. Littlejohn, said he was delighted they had an expert with them, and invited her to come round for tea again in a day or two to see the collection in detail.
'There's an inventory of the collection in John Charles's desk. You might like to take it with you and study it before you come again . . .'
Both Ewan and Joseph seemed taken aback. It wasn't often that Reuben talked so freely in a gathering.
'I'll get the list . . .'
Reuben hurried out with purpose large on his face. It wasn't often he hurried, either. He was absent a long time, greatly to Ewan's consternation. He had an idea that this was an excuse for a visit to the bottles in the study.
'Go and see what Uncle Reuben's doing, Joseph . . .'
The two of them were back very quickly. Reuben was red in the face and his cheek was twitching with his tic.
'Who's been rummaging in John's desk? The papers are all anyhow and the inventory isn't there . . .'
They managed to calm him down and the conversation turned to other matters. Now and again, however, Reuben made disgusted noises and showed he was still thinking about John's desk.
'I've got his keys, but I didn't lock it. I never thought anyone would presume to rifle the drawers. Was it you, Joseph . . .? Or you, Ewan . . .?'
'Let it drop, now, Reuben. We'll discuss it when our guests have gone.'
The blind had been raised and Littlejohn saw Red Juan crossing the lawn to his flat. He was dressed in black and wore a billycock hat which had seen better days. His eyes were on the ground and his shoulders sagged. He was taking it all very badly.
Nessie entered to enquire if they needed more tea. Uncle Zachary Finlo, who apparently had a soft spot in his heart for the girl, complimented her on her good looks. But there was no time for compliments. Reuben was still worrying about the inventory.
'Nessie, have you seen anybody looking through Mr. John Charles's desk? The papers have been interfered with . . .'
Nessie's eyes grew wide and full of fear and she dropped the cream-jug on the carpet.
Mrs. Littlejohn relieved the situation.
'Let's go and find something to wipe up the cream,' she said, and led Nessie away to the kitchen.
12
The Inventory
WHEN THEY left Ballacroake, the clouds were mounting up again for another thunderstorm. They slowly drew in from the west, covered the hillsides and peaks, and hung there, menacing, making the whole countryside hot and oppressive. Then, by a peculiar freak of weather, the flat lands of The Ayre stood out in full daylight, whilst over the mountains, it was almost as dark as night. Across the water, over the Mull of Galloway, the sun was shining.
Littlejohn drove on through Ramsey. Although it was high season, everyone seemed to have fled from the streets in anticipation of the storm and the place appeared deserted. Like those arid streets in wild-west films, emptied in anticipation of the arrival of a couple of gunslingers intent on shooting it out.
Letty, the Archdeacon and Littlejohn hardly exchanged a word, except laconic, polite comments about the weather. They all had important matters to discuss and seemed to be turning these over in their minds, framing them properly before confiding in their companions.
'We've got to have a conference,' said Littlejohn, finally. 'I'll drive up to Maughold and pull-up by the church. It should be quiet there.'
To the left just beyond Ramsey the road forked, undulated across the railway line to the little village of Port-y-Vullen, with its small colony of charming villas and a magnificent view of the whole blue sweep of Ramsey Bay right to the Point of Ayre. From where Littlejohn halted the car, they could see the storm begin over Ramsey. No thunder; no lightning; not a sound to break the ominous stillness. The heavens just opened and emitted a deluge. When they reached Maughold, a little more than a mile away on the same narrow road, it was quite fine and the grass of the village green was dry.
Littlejohn pulled-up in front of the ancient church, passed a box of chocolates from the pocket of the car to his wife and whilst she and the Archdeacon started to enjoy them, filled and lit his pipe.
'May I speak first?' said Mrs. Littlejohn, opening her handbag and taking out a folded paper, which she laid on Littlejohn's lap. He opened it and she laughed at his surprise.
It was an inventory of the china contained in the three large cabinets at Ballacroake.
'Where did you get this, you cunning woman?'
'Nessie gave it to me.'
'And where did she get it, may I ask?'
'You remember Reuben leaving the room suddenly to find the inventory? He rushed out and took it from John Croake's desk, where the key to the cases was kept. Nessie told us. As Nessie passed the door of the study, she was just in time to see Reuben take out the paper from the drawer and hide it in a book on the shelves at the side of the fireplace. It seems she doesn't trust Mr. Reuben. She thinks he and Joseph are up to something.'
'When did she tell you all this?'
Mrs. Littlejohn smiled.
'You remember how she upset the cream-jug and I went out with her to wipe her down and bring back a cloth to clean up the carpet? I asked her what caused her such a fright. She wanted someone to confide in and she told me. She removed the paper from the book where Reuben had hidden it and then got scared. She didn't know what to do with it, except put it back, and was afraid someone might see her do it. So, I persuaded her to let me have it and said I'd be responsible for it. Here it is.'
There were two pages of it, composing what must have been a complete catalogue of the Croake collection. It was carefully typed and obviously a professional job.
Almost a hundred figures listed and identified, with the names of the artists.
A hundred more without the artist's names.
Two complete dinner-services in Meissen; one in basketwork pattern and another described as having tureens in the shapes of vegetables. Details of the work and the decorators' names were given.
A complete Worcester service in blue and gold with a panelled crest of the Croake family on each piece . . .
The value of the whole, for insurance, was stated at ten thousand pounds!
'It's not nearly enough,' said Mrs. Littlejohn.
'Probably it's just a nominal figure placed on the whole;' said the Archdeacon, 'to value the lot would be really impossible. Some of the figures, for example, could not be repeated. I'd guess there are only one or two like them still in existence.'
Then Mrs. Littlejohn told him of her discovery of the fakes mixed among the treasures.
'What are we to think of it? And what are we going to do?'
The Archdeacon lowered his head and his white beard spread across his chest.
'What a hornet's nest the teddy-boy seems to have stirred up.'
'Ought we to tell the police?'
'What about me?' said Littlejohn.
'I mean the Douglas police . . .'
'We must make up our minds before tomorrow. As I said goodbye to Reuben, he asked me to bring you both along to take a proper look at the collection then, when things will have settled-down there.'
'But who could be at the bottom of this queer business? It can't have been Bridget, Littlejohn. She was too sweet and uncomplicated to sell off precious pieces of the china and replace them by cheap imitations. For the rest, what good would it do anyone of the family? They don't need money. They wouldn't be likely to take and sell any of the figures. Except Joseph. He's always without money. Could it be that he has been robbing the cabinets, selling figures, and, to avoid suspicion, filling-up the gaps with cheap modern reproductions?'
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br /> 'The only one who might have found-out the fraud would be Bridget. I suppose. Joseph may have discovered that her sight was failing, her interest in the collection waning, and therefore, he took advantage of it.'
'I wonder if Bridget did find out what was going on, Littlejohn. And did she confide in her brother, John? Could it be that, in some way, this business is connected with the death of John Charles?'
'It is appalling to think that a member of his own family murdered him.'
The Archdeacon stared ahead through the window at the magnificence of Maughold Head, the old church in the foreground surrounded by its ancient burial-ground. The sun was shining again and catching the distant sea with shafts of golden light. All very far away from the sordid affair they were discussing.
'Someone will have to tell Ewan about all this. He is so occupied with his own solemn affairs, that he has probably noticed nothing untoward going on.'
Littlejohn shook the last of his pipe through the window, and slowly refilled it.
'We have to remember that if Ewan is told, he may, being of a fiery disposition, start rampaging right away and spoil our chance of ever discovering who stole the figures and killed his brother. We'll have to be careful.'
'Meanwhile, the first thing to decide is, do we, or do we not, keep all we know to ourselves?'
'I think we'd better confide in Knell and ask him to keep it quiet for a day or two. We shall certainly need official help in the course of the investigation. Besides, I don't like the idea of keeping Knell in the dark in a matter like this. We'd better tell him.'
They drove on to Douglas. On the way, they ran through several storms and when they arrived, the last of the rain, which had swept the promenade clear of holiday-makers, was vanishing out to sea to the mainland. Here and there, anxious visitors were turning out gingerly to explore the weather, testing it with worried faces, like skaters on uncertain ice.
Littlejohn and the Archdeacon called at the police-station and Letty went to do some shopping. Knell received them with delight.
The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 13
