'How's the teddy-boy, Knell?'
'Still protesting he didn't kill Croake. He's trying to persuade his lawyer to get him out on bail . . .'
Knell chuckled.
'He'll be lucky! '
'No news about the knife?'
'No. Nobody seems to have sold one to Cryer, who persists he's never possessed or used a knife illegally in his life.'
'I think we ought to get a little more information about Walmer and Ross Bottomley. The principal characters in the drama now seem to be Cryer, the Croake family, Jenny Walmer and her father, and Ross Bottomley, who seems to haunt the scene, too. Will you set about it? Find out where Walmer and Bottomley originated, and what they did before they started living here. Have you any records?'
'No, sir. They've never been on the wrong side of the law, as far as I know. Excuse me. I'll just go down to the office and set things moving. Somebody over here must know quite a lot about them.'
He was quickly back.
'We can get a line on Walmer from the brewery, I think. As a licensee, he must have applied for the pub from the brewery, who would check his credentials. As for Bottomley, one of the sergeants says he thinks that before Bottomley came over here to settle, he was an art master at some boys' school in England. He thinks it was Colchester way. He'll find out from the art shop. The owner's been a friend of Bottomley's for years.'
'Also, will you enquire if any antique dealers, say in Liverpool to begin with, have been offered valuable Meissen figures lately?'
'If the information comes to hand before evening, Reggie, would you like to join us for supper at the vicarage?'
Knell, for ever seeking invitations to such gatherings, was radiant.
'Of course, Archdeacon. I'll see the job's done before I set out for Grenaby.'
They joined Mrs. Littlejohn on the promenade, which was now completely dry and crowded with people again, all looking tremendously bucked at the change for the better in the weather.
Littlejohn took the old Castletown road back. He always enjoyed that way best, with its quiet farms, fine trees, surprise views of the sea, and wild coastal scenery.
'I've just remembered . . .'
This meant that Littlejohn had to pull up, and he did so. His wife was sitting in the back of the car and to listen properly he needed to give himself crick-in-the-neck and at the same time risk running off the road.
'I was just thinking what a fuss the dog will make of us when we get back after a day away and I suddenly remembered something Nessie said to us. It was about Red Juan's dogs. They hadn't barked in the night for years. Suddenly, the other night, they started, and he couldn't stop them. Could it have been that the thief who took the Dresden figures was about Ballacroake? If so, he couldn't have been one of the Croake family. The dogs know the Croakes and, it's unlikely they would have barked the place down if any of them had been afoot. You remember the Sherlock Holmes story about the dog that didn't bark? It may be the same here.'
'That's a point we might investigate when we go over to Ballacroake again tomorrow . . .'
'There's another thing, too. Nessie keeps talking about the ghost of Ballacroake walking again. Was the ghost somebody prowling about the china cabinets when the rest were in bed?'
'Nessie didn't seem to think so. But we can look into that, too. I don't know how we're going to manage it without causing a lot of questions and suspicions among the Croakes, but we'll try.'
After a day on unpleasant business, Grenaby seemed more delightful than ever. Joe Henn was prowling about his summer-house – his 'ut, as he called it. He thrust out his head.
'You've got a reception committee up at the vicarage, parson.' And then he turned to Littlejohn with the usual prediction.
'Feeling like coming to live over here, yet? One day you'll come and never go back. You'll see. . . .'
There was a motor-coach at the gate of the vicarage, filling-up with a crowd of excursionists. There was a label on the windscreen. Mystery Tour.
'This is the vicarage of Grenaby, said to be haunted by a ghostly pig, known as the Purr Mooar. There is also a phantom dog, called the Moddhey Dhoo. The Archdeacon lives 'ere. The Archdeacon of Man is an expert on crime and his friend, Superintendent Littlejohn, of Scotland Yard, often stays here when on murder cases. All aboard, ladies and gents. We're now on our way to the cottage built by his own and his wife's hands, of the late Tom the Dipper, the famous Manx poet. . . .'
The charabanc full of satisfied customers moved on, to reveal, hitherto concealed by its huge bulk, a small red sports car.
'We've visitors,' said the Archdeacon.
Maggie Keggin received them on the threshold. She seemed pleased with herself. Whoever the caller might be, he must have been charming to move her to such a smile.
'You've company, Master Kinrade. . . .'
Sitting drinking tea in the dining-room and perfectly at his ease, was Joseph Croake.
13
The Confidences of Joseph Croake
IT WAS not very surprising that Maggie Keggin had found the company of Joseph Croake agreeable, for he was a tall, well set-up man, with a natural grace of manner. When he rose to meet them, he bowed over Mrs. Littlejohn's hand and shook hands with the other two with a charming sophisticated gesture, which made it difficult to believe that here was a young man with a reputation for heavy drinking and a love of soft living. Now, he was different from the man who had treated Littlejohn so rudely at their first meeting.
In repose, Croake's face still wore a worried look. Almost petulant, as though he were sorry for himself and the way life had treated him. Something had happened to him since last they met, however. The indulgent mouth was still there and always would be. But the weak face seemed in some way to have grown stronger, more tense, as though some challenge had arisen and he had made up his mind to face it.
He was well dressed and wore the same club tie. But all his arrogance had gone. He was out to please now, or else make his peace with Littlejohn.
Mrs. Littlejohn left them to themselves and joined Maggie Keggin in the kitchen. As soon as the door closed behind her, Joseph Croake apologised.
'I'm sorry to intrude on your peace, Archdeacon, and I hope you'll forgive me . . .'
He turned to Littlejohn.
'And you, too, Superintendent. Last time we met officially, at Douglas police station, I was very rude to you. And since, when we've seen each other at Ballacroake, I've not had a decent chance to make my peace with you. I ask your pardon. I was worried when I saw you in Douglas. I still am. That's why I'm here. There are things we must talk over before they grow worse.'
Maggie Keggin brought in more tea and smiled at the newcomer as she poured it out.
'Mr. Joseph's a perfect gentleman,' she told Mrs. Littlejohn in the kitchen later. 'But then all the Croakes are that way . . .'
Joseph wasted no time in explaining his visit.
'I've not called to discuss my Uncle John's death with you, sir. That, I take it, is settled officially, and the teddy-boy will be tried for it. . . .'
'It is not settled, Mr. Croake. I feel I ought to make that quite plain before we begin. The case is purely circumstantial and there are a number of things to clear-up before the teddy-boy is even charged with it. He is being held at present on a charge of robbery with violence.'
'But my uncle died through the violence. Surely . . .'
'The teddy-boy admits that he hit your uncle with a stone in a sock. That is all. Mr. John Croake died of a knife wound, as you know. The accused, Cryer, denies that he ever possessed or used a knife.'
'That is a mere tale, an excuse to save his neck. He is obviously guilty. He must be.'
'Suppose we leave that part of the argument, for the time being, Mr. Joseph. What did you want to say to me?'
Croake's expression was decidedly sulky. He liked his own way and resented opposition of any kind.
'I called to ask for your help. But before I explain, I wish you to know that this is an unof
ficial matter. I could have gone to the police, but that would probably cause a scandal, which my family could not tolerate. I can only speak my mind, if you will regard what I say as confidential. You are a close friend of the Venerable Archdeacon and your reputation is well-known on the Island. I know that if you give me your word, the matter will go no further.'
'That depends. If there is nothing criminal or illegal about your problem, and you merely want advice, I'll try to help. But if this matter is involved with the recent crime or any other, I can make no promises. You'd better make an honest statement about it to the Manx police.'
The sulky look was back again and it seemed that Croake was controlling himself with difficulty. He looked ready to rise and leave the room.
The Archdeacon intervened.
'There have been many strange things happening of late at Ballacroake, Joseph. If your visit here is in connection with them, I beg of you to tell the Superintendent what is on your mind. If you do not, and there are any other tragedies there, you will be responsible. I'm afraid we haven't yet seen the end of it all. It is up to you to take all the steps you can to put an end to it. Superintendent Littlejohn is the man to help you. You'd better overcome your family pride and reticence and confide in him.'
Joseph Croake took a drink of tea as though it were some powerful stimulant to decisive action. And then, as though determined to take an irrevocable step and pass a point of no return, he suddenly thrust his hand in his jacket pocket, withdrew it quickly, and placed something carefully on the table at his elbow.
It was a Kändier figure of a harlequin!
Littlejohn lit his pipe slowly.
'So that is what you wish to talk about?'
Croake was surprised and disconcerted.
'What do you mean? I've never mentioned it to anyone. How can you know what it's all about?'
'My wife happens to be something of an expert on porcelain figures. The one at your elbow is, I imagine, worth several hundred pounds. Many like it have recently disappeared from the cabinets at Ballacroake. My wife, in looking them over this morning, noticed that a number of cheap replicas have taken the places of some very valuable ones. Now, Mr. Joseph, what do you wish to tell me?'
Joseph tapped the little figure with his forefinger.
'I found that in the bottom drawer of my dressing table after you left today. It was hidden under some clothing.'
'Did you expect to find it?'
'No.'
'Why the sudden search of bottom drawers after we had gone?'
'Nessie told me to look for it and put it back in the case. It seems that, over a week ago, she went in that drawer to get out some new underwear she wanted to air for me. She saw the figure, but thought nothing of it. She thought it was perhaps a present for Aunt Bridget I'd hidden for an appropriate time. Later, however, when Uncle Reuben started kicking up a fuss about the inventory, she remembered, too, that you and your wife had seemed very interested in the collection. She asked me about the figure in my drawer. I said I didn't know it was there. Which was true. I've called, Superintendent, to ask what it's all about and how you have suddenly become so seriously interested in the collection of figures. You seem to have given me the answer. They're being stolen. And it looks as if whoever's doing it, is trying to frame me. How would it look if the figure was found hidden among my belongings? It would seem that I've been stealing and selling them. How much did you say they were worth?'
'As far as we can gather from the inventory, the whole collection is priceless, because many of the pieces are unobtainable now. Mrs. Littlejohn handled several fakes today, and a simple calculation might imply that many thousand poundsworth of figures have been taken. That is, of course, assuming that for each fake, a genuine piece was stolen.'
'They were all genuine. Aunt Bridget wouldn't have found room for phoney stuff. Until she began to lose her sight, which, as Nessie told me, made her lose heart altogether, she regularly examined and kept them all clean. What does it mean?'
'It certainly means that someone was going to accuse you of the theft, Mr. Joseph. Whoever planted it would have demanded a search of all the rooms and furniture in the place.'
'What do I do next?'
'Put the figure back in your drawer. Tomorrow, your Uncle Reuben has invited Mrs. Littlejohn to examine all the china in the cases. She will then be able to disclose that much of it is mere cheap replicas. If the theft is publicly made known when it's found out, someone may try to spring the trap involving you. Let's see what happens.'
'But it surely couldn't be one of my uncles. Why should they do that?'
'You know the reason better than we.'
The Archdeacon suddenly intervened. He had been sitting quietly, curiously eyeing Joseph as he told his tale.
'There is a reason, isn't there, Joseph? Do you think it fair, when you expect the Superintendent to help you, to withhold half the tale? What is all this about? And why are you afraid or ashamed to tell the truth?'
Joseph looked ready to flare up again. Then he flushed and subsided.
'I think Uncle Reuben put it there.'
'Have you any proof of this?'
'I said I thought . . .'
'Why?'
'Because he hates me and wants me out of the way.'
'I thought you and he were great friends. You go about everywhere together.'
'That doesn't prevent his hating the sight of me.'
'Are you suggesting that your uncle stole the other figures and was trying to put the blame on you if the thefts were discovered?'
'I don't know.'
The Archdeacon made an impatient gesture.
'This is getting us nowhere, Joseph. You were going to tell us the background to all this. Instead, the Superintendent is having to tear it from you in monosyllables. If you can't do better than that, you'd better go. In such case, the Superintendent will pursue his enquiries and find out himself. I might tell you he already has several leads.'
'It's very difficult and concerns intimate family matters.'
'Far better to divulge them discreetly here than have a public display of them if the official police take over. Well?'
Joseph Croake looked a picture of misery now. All his nonchalance had gone and he was like someone undergoing torture.
'Very well. Early this year, Uncle John came to see me in England. He asked me to come over, stay at Ballacroake, and take care of Uncle Reuben, who was drinking heavily again. I suppose you know he's been in a home for inebriates in England twice already. Uncle John and Uncle Ewan couldn't take on the job of being a sort of full-time keeper and seeing that he kept sober. So, I was the choice. It was a job I felt I'd like and could do. You see, I've always loved Ballacroake, although some people might not think so. I came. That's the reason why I've been described as Uncle Reuben's shadow. And that's also the reason why I know Uncle Reuben had nothing to do with the thefts of the porcelain figures. I was never away from him long enough for him to rifle the cabinets.'
'Was your effort to keep him sober successful?'
'Yes. I earned a certain amount of odium because I used to drink with him. But that was part of the treatment. I slowly decreased the doses and, in time, I got him down to reasonable proportions. You see, he had to do as I told him. Otherwise, as my uncles warned him when I came over, he'd have to go to England again for a third course of treatment. I'm hoping that before long I'll be able to wean him from it altogether . . .'
He paused and wiped his lips. He looked ready to ask for a drink himself, but took a large swig of cold tea instead.
'Funnily enough, but quite scientific in such cases, he grew to hate me. You see, it humiliated him to have to beg for drinks in the first stages of the treatment. He never forgave me for that. But, he had to put up with it. The alternative was England and he swore if that ever happened again, he'd go mad. He's like the rest of us. Ballacroake is in his blood and is just heaven to him.'
Littlejohn understood. In his mind's eye he could see t
he place. The fine house with its vast windows facing south and the incomparable views. The neat courtyard in front, the flowers, the spreading tidy fields, the hills, and sea beyond. And the close-knit, happy family, until all this disaster had fallen upon them. Far better than the turmoil of the world outside.
'He grew to hate me and did everything he legitimately could to shake me off. I think he planned to have me found guilty of pilfering Aunt Bridget's collection, selling the loot, and then coming back for more. He wanted me to be sent home again, which would have satisfied him. You see, he was almost cured and thought he'd manage nicely on his own. He was wrong, but that's what he thought.'
'And you think he'll still carry out his plan and have your belongings searched and then denounce you.'
'Yes. I do. Unless the real thief is found, I can't prove myself innocent. My reputation in the family isn't too good. I'm said to be a lazy spendthrift, a good-for-nothing. It's the way I was brought up and I have to fight it, just as my uncle has to fight his love of the bottle.'
'And what do you wish me to do, Mr. Joseph?'
'To find out who really took the figures and free me from suspicion.'
'But, the figure having been found before your Uncle Reuben springs his trap, you should be in the clear.'
'I don't want it that way. I want to use this opportunity to find out if Uncle Reuben definitely had anything to do with the missing figures.'
'Returning to your uncle's chances of taking the figures, you weren't able to watch him in the night. He might have done it then.'
'He was given sleeping-tablets. We weren't forgetful of the fact that he might get up and start tippling when we were all asleep. He usually slept until early in the morning and, soon after that, Nessie and Juan were around the place.'
'Nessie talked of the ghost of Ballacroake walking again. Could that have been Uncle Reuben? He might have been crafty about the sleeping-tablets and merely pretended to take them.'
'Noises in the night, you mean? There are always noises in old houses. I heard nothing.'
The Tormentors (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 14
