The Case of the Famished Parson (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery)

by George Bellairs

  “She doesn’t understand,” said the younger woman, and putting the child down at the foot of the bed, spooned a dose of amber liquid from a bottle into the invalid’s mouth.

  “He’s a good man, is your dad…. None better….”

  Then the old lady seemed to sleep.

  The child wailed feebly and his mother picked him up and dandled him up and down.

  “Was you wantin’ to know anythin’?”

  “Yes. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your father’s movements before his death. Do you know anything about them?”

  “Oh, yes. You see, my husband’s a porter in the fish-market and doesn’t get ’ome to his dinner. So, when I’ve done my own work, I come down here to look after mam. I leave as a rule about tea-time and then dad comes in to see to her…. Or dad did …”

  She started to weep again and had to put the child down. Then she wiped her eyes and nose on her apron and composed herself ready for more talk.

  “He was up at the golf club, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. Did a bit of caddying, but helped the men with the greens and fairways a lot….”

  “Was that all he did?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did he earn anything from other sources?”

  “Not that I’d know….”

  “Milk!”

  “Shhhh. She’s asleep.”

  A farmer hawking milk had put his head round the door. He looked shy at having shouted so loudly.

  “How is the old lady?”

  “About the same. We tried to tell her about dad, but she can’t take it in. So we’re just lettin’ her be. We’s bury him from our place. It ’ud kill her outright to have ’im brought here….”

  The man nodded gravely.

  “I’m sorry and so is me mother. She told me to tell yer….”

  He poured out a couple of pints into a measure and ladled them into a large jug held by the woman.

  “If we can do anythin’ … Good mornin’ ….”

  The woman scratched her untidy hair and looked at Littlejohn for more questions.

  “Did your father keep regular hours? I mean had he fixed times for getting home from the links?”

  “No. He was later in summer. They play till late.”

  “Have his habits been regular of late?”

  The woman hesitated and then decided to confide.

  “No. To tell you the truth. No.”

  “Tell me about it, please.”

  “Well … Sometimes he’s been out all night. He said he’d got to have more money, mam bein’ ill for so long. So he took on a job loadin’ at the docks. Some of the cargo boats load all night these days. Dad bein’ casual labour at the links, like, could get some sleep in the day when he was workin’ at night.”

  “But what about your mother, then?”

  “Well … My eldest, Norma, is thirteen and came and slept with her grandma when dad was on a job. Not that I liked it. Dad wasn’t gettin’ any younger and night work wasn’t right at his time o’ life. All the same, he was right about mam needin’ more money for little luxuries and such. She can’t eat everything. It’s her inside, you know. Had it nearly all taken away in an operation….”

  A little scraggy woman with a string bag put her head in the room.

  “I’m just goin’ shoppin’. Was you wantin’ anything? Not that there’s anything much to get. But I thought bein’….”

  “Yes, Mrs. Younghusband. Perhaps you’d get a loaf and some tripe if there is any. And maybe a trotter for mam’s tea. She likes a trotter now and then….”

  “Right. Expect me when you see me, but I’ll get ’em if I can. Things is that bad….”

  She disappeared as quickly as she had come, nodding sympathetically in the direction of the bed and making sad, clucking noises.

  “How often did your father do night work, Mrs…. Mrs…. ?”

  “Mrs. Wright, sir. Oh, one or two nights a week. When one of the Irish boats is in. There’s a regular service, you know, between here and Dublin in the summer. General cargo …”

  “I see. Several boats?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you tell me please, exactly when, lately, your dad was out at nights, Mrs. Wright?”

  The woman wrung her hands and thought.

  “Just a minute while I get baby ’is bottle. It’s all ready.”

  She filled an old medicine bottle from a jug warming on the hob, put a rubber teat on the end of it and pushed it in the child’s mouth. The child began to suck with great relish….

  “I can remember, you see, from when our Norma came to sleep with grandma. It’s been Tuesdays and Fridays these last three weeks, I do know that….”

  “Thanks very much, Mrs. Wright, and now I’ll not trouble you any more….”

  “No trouble, sir. I ’ope you’ll soon find out who … who …”

  And remembering her bereavement again, she started to weep.

  The figure in the bed stirred and spoke feebly.

  “’as your dad come ’ome yet, Lottie?”

  Down at the dock office they didn’t need to look anything up for Littlejohn. They answered pat. The boat in from Ireland on Tuesdays and Fridays was the Patrick Creegan of Dublin; master, Isaac Bradley.

  The Bishop had been murdered on a Tuesday night at any rate. Had it anything to do with the arrival of the Patrick Creegan?

  That remained to be seen.

  The Customs House was in an old dockside villa and the Chief Officer was tired and near retiring age. Not that there was very much to do at Mervin, but he could do with less.

  “Smuggling!” he said to Littlejohn. “Ha, ha, ha. Come again. No, nothing in that line here….”

  “But these Irish packets coming in and out just invite it these days….”

  Mr. Dunblow, the customs man, was large and round and red and liked rum and a quiet life. He wasn’t going to have detectives running him around and telling him how to do his job. He got mad at Littlejohn.

  “Look here, if you’re insinuatin’ that I’m not doing the work here proper, you know who to complain to. I’m fed-up with people, police and the like, nozin’ round telling me, whose been on the job forty-two years, how to do it. If they think I’m not doing proper, they know what to do. Pension me off. That’s what I’m waitin’ for. Pension. Rules, regulations, new contraband, new ways o’ gettin’ it in, a twopenny-halfpenny port with about three ships comin’ and goin’ and now you come….”

  “Oh, that’ll do, Mr. Dunblow. No need to raise the roof. I merely asked for information and I’ve not got it. I’m much obliged to you for nothing….”

  “Smart, ain’t you? What do you want to know?”

  “How’s contraband?”

  “As simple as that….”

  “Yes, as simple as that.”

  “Well contraband’s quite well, thank you very much. There ain’t no smugglin’, see …? There ain’t none!”

  “Very well, as you say, there ain’t none. Good day to you, Mr. Dunblow….”

  Littlejohn sauntered back to the hotel. He didn’t seem to be getting on so fast. From investigations he had a list of possibles in his notebook. He took it out and looked the list over.

  Sir Francis Tennant….

  Shearwater ….

  Dr. Mulroy….

  One of the Macintosh family….

  Nobody else.

  A poor lot really. And assuming that one of them had killed the bishop he’d had to take a shot at Littlejohn, fearing he’d found out more than he really had. Next, he’d had to kill Harry Keast, who might have seen too much and be trying blackmail. Sir Francis was unlikely; Shearwater had an alibi; Dr. Mulroy could hardly have known enough to make him shoot Littlejohn; the Macintosh family had just been cleared by a very satisfactory alibi collected by Prickwillow, namely, that the vicar had been there at the time the bishop was killed. The old lady had a mania for backgammon and the vicar sometimes called to play. He had
stayed late that night and swore the whole family were there….

  So, that was that.

  Littlejohn sat on a seat and rested his game leg a bit, Almost before he had settled he was joined by Father O’Shaughnessy.

  “Well, Inspector. Feeling better, I hope.”

  “Yes, thank you, sir. Much better.”

  “Any nearer a solution of your problem?”

  “No, sir. I’m completely stumped. Every little fish that comes in the net manages to get out again.”

  “Don’t say that. You fellows are very good, you know. Rarely fail to get your man, do you?”

  The little priest beamed. In one hand he clutched his breviary; in the other his felt hat.

  “Let’s talk about something else for a bit, sir. I’m tired and could do to take my mind from the problem. Then, perhaps I could come back fresh to it.”

  “Certainly, what shall we talk about?”

  “What part of Ireland are you from, sir?”

  “Ballykrushen, a small town in the south. Very sleepy. Nothing much there. Precious few sinners and plenty of time for me to go fishing when I like….”

  “Isn’t that a bit dead-alive for an active man like you?”

  “Not a bit. I like it. It gives me leisure. To tell you the truth, Inspector, I’m a lazy, restless man. If I had a big parish or activities like say the local priest of this town, I’d suffer. I like to travel and read my books. I can do it in my quiet parish. I don’t spend all my leisure being lazy in resorts like this. I’m interested in the world around. I’ve travelled a lot on the Continent and places….”

  “Yes, I like travel, too, sir. Been on the Continent a time or two. My wife’s a great globe-trotter. You two ought to get together and swap yarns.”

  “We will, we will, Inspector. What parts of Europe have you seen?”

  “Paris, Riviera, Brittany, Switzerland, Rome….”

  “So you’ve been to Rome, have you, Inspector? I like Rome.”

  “Naturally, you’ll like it, father….”

  “Yes, but apart from that …”

  “A lot going on there, I agree. The most interesting thing I ever saw there, I think, was the swearing-in of the Swiss Guard at the Vatican. A great ceremony….”

  “Yes, yes. I’ve seen it, too, when I’ve been there. Marvellous.”

  “We happened to be there in the middle of August once, just in time for the swearing-in. They swore-in six new members with great pomp….”

  “I’ve seen it. Magnificent.”

  “Wonder how things are now in Rome….”

  Still chatting they rose and walked back to the hotel.

  Fennick, the night porter, had been off duty the night before and having had a full quota of sleep had been up to the hotel for a drink at the bar. He liked doing that. Swanking on his day off and taking a sort of busman’s holiday to show that his time was his own.

  “I want you, Fennick,” said Littlejohn.

  “I ain’t on duty. My night and day off, see?”

  “I just want a word with you….”

  “It’s my dinner time….”

  “Come here. Just tell me this. What’s your routine for cleaning shoes at night?”

  Fennick looked a bit sheepish.

  “Why?”

  “Just answer the question. This is police business and it’s important.”

  “Well … They’s two floors, see? Top floor, I collects the boots as they’s put out….”

  He didn’t say that he did it because the manager slept up there and might catch him cleaning them outside the rooms on the carpet.

  “… bottom floor, well … I cleans ’em outside the doors when all’s quiet. Puts paper down to preserve the carpet, like. But you see how it is, sir. I’m gettin’ an old man. I can’t be up and down stairs like a two-year-old now, can I?”

  “No. Is that all Fennick?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right. Thanks very much. What time do you usually collect shoes from the top floor?”

  “Well … They’re usually in their rooms about eleven. About eleven. Then if they’s an odd pair out when I takes the clean ’uns back, I does ’em up there.”

  “Are you a Catholic, Fennick?”

  “Yes, sir. Why? That ain’t going to ’ave anythin’ to do with the murder, is it?”

  “No, no. Who’s your parish priest?”

  “Father Walsh….”

  “Is he on the ’phone?”

  “Yuss. At the presbytery.”

  “Very good. That’ll be all thanks, Fennick.”

  Fennick shuffled off muttering to himself. “Priest? Catherlick? The man’s barmy….”

  “Father Walsh,” said Littlejohn to himself and made for the telephone box.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE SAILOR WHO SQUINTED

  LITTLEJOHN filled his after-dinner pipe and walked down to the quay. The tide was out and it was dark. There were a few bright lamps along the quayside, but at the far end where the Patrick Creegan was moored you only had the masthead lights of the ships and the glow of the lamps over the fo’c’sles to guide you. You had to step carefully to avoid the ropes coiled round the bollards.

  The ships were low in the water, funnels and masts only visible. Here and there footsteps shambled on decks. One of the trawlers was getting-up steam and smoke poured from its funnel across the harbour. There was a sailor leaning over the side….

  “Which is the Patrick Creegan?”

  “Tied up at the far end there….”

  “When does she sail?”

  “First thing to-morrow…. She’s just waiting for the tide….”

  Littlejohn crossed the gang plank. It was quiet on deck, but there was somebody below in the fo’c’sle. Subdued voices and someone softly playing a mouth-organ. A light shone through the porthole of the small cabin below the bridge. Littlejohn’s footsteps echoed as he walked about. He knocked at the door of the captain’s cabin.

  “Come in….”

  The place was small and simply furnished. A bunk covered with a dirty rug faced you as you entered. The lower part was a chest of drawers. Two wall-cupboards, a washstand which folded into the wall, and a hinged table which let down when not in use. There was the remains of a meal on the table, which was covered with a black American-leather cloth.

  Captain Bradley was sitting reading the paper with his feet on the table. Tall and lean, big nose slightly askew, heavy jaw and loose lips. His arms and legs were abnormally long. He needed a shave.

  But the thing you noticed first was his eyes. Close set and out of true. One looked straight at you; the other squinted badly.

  “Well …”

  Littlejohn obviously wasn’t welcome.

  Captain Bradley put down his paper. He’d been filling-in a penny pool. Littlejohn introduced himself and sat down without being invited on a chair clamped to the floor behind the door.

  “Well, what do you want? I don’t see how I come to be mixed-up in the case just because the fellow happened to be a casual loading hand….”

  There was just a trace of brogue in the speech; otherwise he mightn’t have been Irish at all. The sort of man you find hanging round third-rate ships and who, in times of depression, can’t get a master’s job and has to take second or third, unless he’s on something shady….

  “You more or less make regular trips between here and Ireland … ?”

  “Yes. What’s that to do with it?”

  “Dublin?”

  “Yes….”

  “What do you carry … ?”

  “Cattle mostly, but what’s all this to do with Harry Keast?”

  “Do you know, Captain Bradley, I’ve an idea Harry Keast had something to tell me about what goes on on board this ship and for that he lost his life.”

  “Look here. I was in Eire at home when Harry Keast was killed. I’d nothing to do with it. So don’t you be trying to mix me in this murder business.”

  “Who owns this vessel?”

>   “The Dublin and Mervin Steamship Company. Why?”

  “Is she registered here?”

  “Go to hell…. You can find that out from the port authorities, or you can see from her stern who she is and where she comes from….”

  “She’s registered here, I believe.”

  “Then why ask me?”

  “Just making conversation….”

  “Look here, mister, you’re wasting my time. We sail with the tide and we’ve a lot to do. So, detective or no detective, scram….”

  With his squint and his crooked nose, Captain Bradley looked an ugly customer and his temper had not been improved by the rum he’d been drinking. The place reeked of it. He picked up a cigarette from a packet on the table and lit it without offering Littlejohn one.

  “Guess you find those cheap in your job….”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Cigarettes, silk stockings and the like come cheaply in Eire, I hear, and with a customs officer like Dunblow, I guess it shouldn’t be difficult….”

  The look Bradley gave Littlejohn was positively revolting.

  “I don’t take that from anybody, see? I’ve a good record and a clean ticket and this ship’s got a good reputation….”

  He uncurled his legs and stood up, his long arms dangling like those of a great ape. He was a good two inches taller than Littlejohn and wiry and strong with it.

  “Well, mister? Are you going? Or do I put you off the ship?”

  “I’ll go under my own steam, thank you. But I’ll be back one day, Captain Bradley. Good night….”

  Bradley slammed the door.

  The boat smelled of pitch, cattle and fish.

  The man with the mouth-organ was leaning over the side playing softly to himself. He did it like a professional, fanning the instrument with one hand and sliding it about with the other. William Tell. He must have fancied himself on the halls one day….

  “What are you carrying this time … ?”

  The man stopped the Gallop and wiped the moisture from the mouthpiece. You couldn’t make out what he looked like, except that he was fairly tall. Just a paleness for a face, and fluttering hands….

  “Coal …”

  “Not very big, is she?”

  “No. Crew of five and the captain. A pig in rough weather …”

  “What’ll you be bringing back?”