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

by George Bellairs

  “Cattle, I guess. Messy game, specially when its stormy….”

  “Cattle … and the rest, eh?”

  “And the rest … Here … What you gettin’ at?”

  He had been so busy thinking of his music that he’d spoken too quickly. He suddenly realised that he was being quizzed.

  Littlejohn didn’t press the matter. He left the man tuning-up again and made for his hotel.

  It was getting late, but there was still a lot to do.

  Bowater was waiting for Littlejohn in the small deserted smokeroom. The place was so old-fashioned and uncomfortable that nobody ever used it. They preferred the bar. The Superintendent was standing with his back to the fire. He had been there half an hour and someone had put a match to the sticks and paper, which burned as though undecided whether or not to give up the ghost.

  Bowater didn’t seem to mind being kept waiting. The business in hand seemed to worry him more.

  “I don’t know what good it’ll do, but I’ve got them for you.”

  He produced a snapshot showing Shearwater and Father O’Shaughnessy walking along the promenade. The priest was holding his hat on but hadn’t hidden his face.

  “Our man did the usual trick. Snapped them and gave them a ticket, numbered, advising them the photos would be ready at the address given to-morrow morning, price one and six each. The address was a genuine studio, just in case …”

  “This is very good … I’m glad. Now send one to the Dublin police and the other to Scotland Yard. Did your man manage to get the fingerprints?”

  “Yes … They’d been playing billiards and he collared their glasses from the waiter….”

  “Get going on those, too, will you?”

  “Where’s all this leading?”

  “I don’t quite know, but I’d like to find out if that pair have any criminal records. By the way, have you seen Father Walsh about?”

  “Yes. Saw him going in the Allains’ private room. He calls on them sometimes, I believe. They belong to his church.”

  “So I gather. I asked him to call …”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Let’s try to find him and we’ll see.”

  On the way they passed the lounge. The gamblers were still playing busily in their usual place in the window. Hennessy looked bored to death. Only Rooksby seemed to be concentrating on the game. Sharples kept looking nervously around and Wentworth was almost asleep. Sharples spotted Littlejohn and said something to the rest….

  “By the way, Bowater, is that gambling gang interested in the Dublin and Mervin Steamship Company?”

  “Yes … Hennessy’s chairman and the rest hold shares, I think. Why?”

  “I was just wondering….”

  Bowater seemed to take it for granted that the questions were leading somewhere. He didn’t know where, but was too bewildered to pursue the matter.

  Father Walsh was sitting with the proprietor in his private room. A small, stocky man with a rugged face and a pleasant smile. Very popular with his flock, especially the children. He had a glass of brandy at his elbow. It was a balloon-glass and you could tell by the way he handled it that he appreciated a good thing when he got it.

  “Well, father … ?”

  The priest looked up and smiled. He warmed his glass in the palms of his hands.

  “O’Shaughnessy’s a funny priest. Allain pretended to introduce him to me just fortuitously. We had a little talk. I’m Irish, too, you see. He knows quite a lot about Ireland, but he doesn’t know much Latin. I searched him out a bit … I think he’s masquerading as a priest….”

  “So I thought….”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t quite know how you set about finding out whether a priest is genuine or not, but as he’d been to Rome, he said, and knew all about the Vatican, I tried him on the only test I knew. He never corrected me when I told him I’d seen all the pomp and ceremony of six Swiss Guards being sworn-in in August….”

  Father Walsh threw back his head and roared.

  “Very good, Inspector. Very good….”

  “They never swear in less than ten publicly and never in August….”

  “That’s right. I call that smart of you….”

  “Well, O’Shaughnessy’s such a know-all, he’d never have failed to correct me if he’d known the true facts, which he ought to have done …”

  Allain looked very disturbed.

  “I hope I’m not housing a nest of thieves here, Inspector.”

  “No, no, sir. Nothing may come of it. O’Shaughnessy may simply have nothing to do with the present case at all, but we’ll have to make quite sure of that…. By the way, father, have you heard of a place called Ballykrushen in Eire?”

  “No. Why?”

  “O’Shaughnessy’s supposed to be parish priest there….”

  “No. I guess it’s like him. A fake….”

  “We’ll find out. Perhaps you’ll do that for us, Superintendent….”

  Bowater nodded. He, too, was busy with a balloon-glass, but didn’t quite know what it was all about. He gazed in bewilderment at the large vessel and the small drop of brandy in the bottom of it….

  Cromwell’s face appeared at the glass door. He had an earnest questing look on it, which turned to triumph when he spotted Littlejohn. He knocked and entered.

  “Can you spare a minute, sir….”

  “Yes, Cromwell. What is it? You can tell me here….”

  “I’ve been enquiring the movements of Shearwater and the priest on the afternoon you were shot. They went off for the day in Shearwater’s car. A day’s pleasure excursion, I believe….”

  “These two always seem to be together, don’t they? Especially when an alibi’s wanted. Are they in the bar?”

  “The priest is…. Shearwater’s not there….”

  “How did you get the information … ?”

  “From the head-waiter. They had to tell him with not being back for lunch.”

  “I see. A good idea asking the head-waiter. Anybody who stayed here for lunch couldn’t have taken a pot at me. Too far away. Did you enquire about any of the others?”

  “Yes. The doctor … Rooksby, wasn’t in. But it was near his consulting time and he always has lunch in his rooms then. The other three dined-in.”

  “You checked Rooksby?”

  “Yes. I rang up his secretary pretending I’d forgotten an appointment that day and asking if it was all right. She said my name wasn’t down and that things had gone on normally. It would appear he was on duty then.”

  “Yes. Anybody else?”

  “Sir Francis Tennant was out for the day fishing. Went off alone early in the morning and didn’t get back till late….”

  “Oh. Let’s see the priest and Shearwater then, before they go to bed….”

  Father O’Shaughnessy was just emerging jovially from the bar. He halted to wish Littlejohn good night.

  “You remember the day somebody shot at me, father? I believe you and Mr. Shearwater were out on an excursion … Now, you needn’t answer if you don’t want, but as I’m checking up everywhere, perhaps you’d help me….”

  “You don’t mean to tell me I’m suspect of firing a rifle at you, do you, Inspector? My dear fellow, I think far too much of you for that….”

  “I know, father, but…”

  “Of course, Inspector, I don’t want to break your usual routine. We went to Faithness to look at the lighthouse and had lunch there. And returned by Cleary Glen and Ruston Caves. We’d tea at a café near the caves and lunch we took as sandwiches provided by our friend the head-waiter.”

  “Did you go in the lighthouse?”

  “I’m afraid not, Inspector. There were a lot of charabanc parties there and the place was so busy. We sat on the shingle for a time. It was hot and pleasant and we enjoyed the scene. So, as usual, Shearwater and I are one another’s alibis, unless, of course, you care to track down the charabanc parties. We spoke to several members, but I expect by this time they
’ll all be home with holidays almost forgotten.”

  “Let’s see Mr. Shearwater, too, just to confirm that, father. Not that I doubt a word you say, but his account will be taken in any case.”

  “He’s gone to bed, Inspector. He seemed very tired, so after a drink in the bar, he retired. Abount three-quarters of an hour ago, that would be.”

  “Right, I’ll see him in the morning. Thank you, father, and good night.”

  Fennick was on duty and pottering about the hall waiting for time to collect his shoes and settle down for the night.

  “Just get Mr. Shearwater’s shoes for me, please, Fennick, will you?”

  The porter’s eyes almost dropped from his head.

  “But …”

  “Just do as I ask, please. It’s important.”

  Fennick patted his wig and went off. He was soon back.

  “He ain’t put out his shoes and he ain’t in his room, as far as I can ’ear.”

  Littlejohn hurried upstairs as fast as his game leg would allow, Cromwell following and sympathetically moderating his pace with his chief’s.

  There was nobody in Shearwater’s room and his hand-luggage had gone, too. It looked very much as if he had bolted.

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE DEPARTURE OF THE “PATRICK GREEGAN”

  MRS. MACINTOSH was in bed when Littlejohn telephoned her at Greyle, but they brought her to speak to him.

  She sounded tired and afraid.

  “You knew your brother was staying at the hotel here at the same time as you and your late husband, Mrs. Macintosh?”

  “Er … er …”

  “He’s already told me you met, so you need have no fear….”

  “Yes, I met him, but we kept the meeting quiet. I didn’t want my husband to know. He’d have been very upset.”

  “Well, madam, your brother has just disappeared….”

  There was a gasp at the other end.

  “Did you know his London address? It may be that he has gone back there without telling anyone.”

  “Yes. We kept in touch. We were very attached to one another in times past. But I didn’t let the bishop know. He wasn’t fond of my brother.”

  “Can you give me the address, please? It’s imperative that I get hold of him.”

  “He’s not going to be arrested for anything, is he?”

  “No. But maybe his life is in danger. I must find him. Please hurry.”

  “He lodges with an old servant of the family. Mrs. Greer, 13, Benson’s Mews, off Eaton Square. I do hope you find him….”

  Littlejohn telephoned Scotland Yard at once to send a man along to watch Benson’s Mews. Shearwater had not yet had time to reach London. Driving at his fastest, his car wouldn’t make it for another two hours. Police patrols were warned to be on the look-out.

  The young detective detailed to keep an eye on the watchman on the quay turned-in with a negative report. The man he was watching had done nothing all night except tend his lamps and ruminate over his fire.

  “Bring him in to the police station. Perhaps there he’ll talk better than in the hotel. I’ll come along with you, Bowater, and we’ll see him together. Meanwhile, I want your man to stay here and report if Father O’Shaughnessy leaves….”

  The priest had gone to bed quite unperturbed by his friend’s disappearance, but it was as well to keep an eye on him in view of Father Walsh’s opinion about him.

  The watchman was furious at being brought away from his fire and his lamps at that time of night.

  “What’s the use of bein’ a watchman if you’re not there to watch?” he asked.

  But he was more impressed and subdued by the charge-room at the police station than he was at the hotel. Furthermore, he’d had a few drinks and was a bit sorry for himself.

  “A policeman’s keeping an eye on your pitch whilst you’re away, Jeale, so you needn’t worry,” said Bowater. “And by the way, haven’t you and I met before? Let me see, what was it? Yes … Drunk and disorderly and assaulting an officer….”

  “You can’t bring that up against me. Miscarriage o’ justice, that’s what it was. The bobby hit me first….”

  “We won’t discuss that now, Jeale. What we want to know is, what comings and goings after eleven have you to report over the last few days, say the night the bishop was killed,—remember it?—and since …”

  Jeale wasn’t comfortable at all. Whether or not he’d seen people passing at the stated times, he certainly had something on his conscience.

  “I seen nothin’ important, as I told him before. Courtin’ couples and the like….”

  Littlejohn intervened.

  “How long have you been on that job, Jeale?”

  “Nearly twelve months.”

  “What did you do before?”

  “Labouring on the docks….”

  “Casual?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who found you this work?”

  “The Corporation, of course. They’re doin’ the job.”

  “Have they been at it nearly a year?”

  “Yes. But had to leave it for a while on account of the men makin’ roads for the new housin’ scheme.”

  “Seems funny to me having a watchman there all that time if the job’s in abeyance.”

  “Nothin’ to do with me. I gets my pay and I’m satisfied.”

  “Who in the Corporation got you the job?”

  “Borough Surveyor’s Department. Under the Highways Committee.”

  “Who on the committee recommended you?”

  Jeale paused and sucked his gums.

  “Come on now, Jeale. No stalling any longer. If you’ve got information you’d best tell us. This murder business will soon be cleared-up now and I hope you’re not going to be mixed-up in the end of it.”

  The policemen were locking up a drunk in one of the cells. He was shouting the place down.

  “Shut that door and stop that row….”

  Bowater’s temper was frayed. The case was getting on his nerves.

  “I ain’t done nothin’ about the murder. I swear it. All I can tell you is Councillor Sharples got me the job….”

  “Sharples. Is that the little man who plays cards at the hotel?”

  “Yes,” said Bowater. “But I don’t see what all this has to do …”

  “Wait a minute. Are you doing anything for Councillor Sharples now, Jeale? I mean casual work or something in exchange for the job he got you?”

  Jeale was properly scared. He kept looking at the door as though getting ready to make a run for it.

  “Come on now, or I’ll lock you up till morning….”

  Bowater looked ready to punch Jeale’s head for prevaricating.

  “If you do, your man’ll be on my job all night, that’s all, and I’ll be cosy here. So that’ll not do much good.”

  “All the same, Jeale, you look as though you’re set on being mixed-up in all this dirty work. Very well, if you want it that way….”

  Littlejohn waved a hand towards the door. This time, Jeale didn’t seem interested in getting away. He was deciding what he had to say and how to say it.

  “It’s this way. Mr. Sharples asked me to say nothing about it if I wanted to keep the job, but I do him a favour now and then which doesn’t matter a cuss to anybody but him….”

  “Well?”

  “Well … He’s the main man of the Dublin and Mervin boats and says the harbour lights here are poor. While we have the lamps on the quayside job, there’s two of them right at the end can be seen from the sea, he tells me. Well, at certain times to help navigatin’ his ships, he says the lights on my pitch’ll help his captains. On some nights a red on the left and a white on the right, shows the state o’ the tide, and on others a white on the left and a white on the right, shows another tide. He was to tell me when which was which. He’s only told me twice, so I haven’t done much to earn my job yet.”

  “I see. Well, you’re not to tell a soul you’ve told us this. Understand?”


  “Course I do. Think I’ll go blabbin’ when me job depends on it?”

  “And another thing. Tell me whenever you get one of those messages from Councillor Sharples. I’m very interested in the tides here, Jeale. And now you can go, thanks.”

  “Red lights and white lights. It all sounds daft to me,” said Bowater.

  “Not so daft as you’d think. We’ll soon see?”

  Outside the night was clear and starry. The Patrick Creegan was still tied-up at the pierhead as Littlejohn made his way back to the hotel. The men on board were busy getting ready to cast-off. No sign of Captain Bradley, however.

  “Any passengers this trip?” asked Littlejohn of one of the men.

  “No, guv’nor. This ain’t much of a luxury liner. Specially in rough weather.”

  “When you due back?”

  “Night after to-morrow….”

  Suddenly the door of the captain’s little cabin opened and Bradley came out, climbed the little iron ladder and stood on the bridge.

  He didn’t issue any explicit orders.

  “Right …”

  The hawsers were slipped from the bollards, the engine-room telegraph clanged and in a few minutes the Patrick Creegan was gently gliding into the middle of the river. The screw began to revolve faster, and she quietly slipped out to sea….

  There was still a light in the customs-house. Littlejohn tapped on the door and somebody unlocked it.

  “Hullo. What you after at this time o’ night?”

  It wasn’t Dunblow but a young fellow with a fresh, humorous face.

  “You keep late hours. May I come in a minute?”

  “These aren’t official hours, you know. I’ve been out with my girl and left my overcoat here while we went to the pictures. I’ve just called for it. Another minute and the place would have been in darkness….”

  “What’s your job here?”

  The young chap didn’t seem to mind being quizzed, but kept smiling patiently. He must have had a good time with his girl at the pictures.

  “Im third man here. Mr. Dunblow, Mr. Medlicott, and then me. Who are you, by the way?”

  “I’m the man from Scotland Yard investigating the death of the Bishop of Greyle….”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of you. But surely we’ve nothing to do with that down here.”