"All the same, tell me."
"I don't remember. It's a long time since."
"Think. When did Johnny get home from his National Service?"
"August 19th. . . . But he didn't do it. I swear he didn't."
"We can check the date."
"No need to. It was the day after little Bob's second birthday and Johnny said even if it was a day too late, he'd buy him a present. He got him a wooden horse. . . . "
"Bob is the child?"
"Yes. Who do you think I'm talkin' of? It's not his little fault he's . . . he's . . ."
"I know. You were telling me where you were on August 21st."
"I recollect now. In Douglas. It was early closing and I went to Douglas and came home on the last bus."
"Who were you with?"
"I met a friend. I don't see what it's got to do with you, or Cedric's dying."
"Who's the boy-friend?"
"You've got a nerve!"
Her aunt intervened.
"Tell him, Fenella, and let him get going. He's keepin' customers out of the shop. They'll be thinkin' we've done something dishonest."
"If you want to know then, his name's Fred Harris. . . ."
"The grocer? I heard he was a bit keen on you, Fenella."
"Well! You'll be telling us you can read our thoughts next!"
"I wouldn't be surprised. Like me to read yours now? You're wanting me to get going so you can find Johnny and tell him what I said. You're fond of Johnny, aren't you?"
"Nobody ever had a better brother, and don't you dare say a thing against him . . . or . . ."
"All right. But I shall get to him first, Fenella, so you can get on with your baking. I'll be seeing you again. . . . Good-bye. . . . 'bye, Mrs. Quilleash. And good-bye to you, too, Mr. Quilleash, standing just round the corner there, listening-in, with your shadow falling right across the doorway. . . . "
With a chuckle, Perrick let himself out, drew his coat around him, and made for the waterfront.
The rain had swept the place clean and driven the old-timers and gossips from their meeting-place round the weather-glass at the corner of the quay and the promenade. They had adjourned to the fishermen's pub, the Captain Quilliam, called after the Manx hero of Trafalgar.
The Manx Shearwater was again tied-up at her moorings after a further spell of scallop-fishing. There were two of her sister ships with her. A French fishing-boat had put in for medical attention to a deck hand who had slipped and broken his collar-bone. On board, some of the crew were getting ready to continue the voyage and two carpenters in oilskins were hammering on deck. At the far end of the quay by the bridge, some partly painted overturned rowing-boats whose owners had abandoned the job. At the head of the breakwater, a knot of anglers, undeterred by the weather, huddled over the water patiently fishing.
Perrick turned in the Captain Quilliam. It stood in a side-street just off the East Quay and had once been a large old house. A blast of alcohol greeted him as he opened the door. The bar was full of sailors and idlers rained-off from their usual routine. Some of the crew of the French ship were among them, talking broken English. The rack behind the counter seemed to hold every conceivable kind of drink. Calvados, Drambuie, Schnapps, Vodka. . . . Everything. Macallister, the landlord, boasted that he could meet the tastes of every ship that put-in. . . . The French skipper was standing drinks of Calvados all round.
Perrick beckoned Macallister.
"We're busy making hay while the sun shines . . . or while it doesn't, to be exact. Can't it wait?"
"I won't keep you. Is Johnny Corteen there?"
"Yes. Want him?"
"Send him outside. Can I use your private room?"
"Sure. . . ."
Some artist had done four good charcoal sketches of Peel on the walls of Macallister's little room in exchange for drinks. The landlord had had sheets of plate glass riveted over them. Perrick was admiring them when Johnny Corteen entered.
"What do you want?"
"Sit down, Johnny."
"I'm all right as I am."
Corteen had been drinking with the rest and was half-seas over. A lad of about twenty-one or two, dressed in a fisherman's jersey and blue serge trousers tucked in rubber boots. You could see a resemblance to his sister. Well-moulded features, good healthy complexion, a turned-up, slightly impudent nose, and sensual sarcastic lips. Only where his sister was, by accident or artifice, blonde, Johnny was dark, like a foreigner. They said some of the Manx had a dash of Spanish blood from the survivors of an Armada galleon.
"All right. Stand then. I've called to tell you Cedric Levis is dead. He's been identified as the body the Shearwater pulled in the other week."
Corteen rocked on his heels. The Calvados had given him Dutch courage. He sneered at Perrick.
"Why tell me? I didn' do it. Good riddance for Fenella, if you want to know what I think."
"The night you came back from the army, didn't you threaten to do-in Levis on account of what he'd done to Fenella?"
"Miss Corteen to you. I won't have my sister used familiarly. . . . Seems she hasn't been able to look after herself while I've bin away. Well, I'm back, see?"
"Don't you cheek me, Corteen. Just answer my questions or I'll sock you on the jaw. Pity you've nothing better to do than drink away what bit of money you saved in the army. Now. It seems Levis was killed on the afternoon of August 21st. Where were you then?"
Corteen grew a bit shamefaced. He'd known and liked Perrick since his boyhood and the idea of physical violence between them seemed all wrong.
"I dunno. . . . I got drunk every night for nearly a week after I came home. The chaps would stand me drinks, you see. . . ."
"You came home on the 19th and almost at once, after you'd seen little Bob and heard who was his father, you started to talk about swinging for Levis. You said that here, you know. Did you see Levis on the 21st?"
"No, I didn't. I don't even know the fellow. Never seen him in me life. If I had met him, I wouldn't have promised what I'd do. The dirty li'l swine."
"Were you here on the 21st?"
"Yes. Every day that week. Celebratin' after the long thirst in Malaya."
"Where did you go after closing-time on the night of the 21st?"
"I don't know. I was a bit squiffy. . . . One over the eight, if you get what I mean."
"Did you go home?"
"I don't know. . . ."
Perrick stood up and faced Corteen, took him by the jersey and shook him.
"If you don't know, I'll have to tell you, then. At five o'clock on the morning of August 22nd, a constable on patrol, P.C. Walker to be exact, picked you up drunk under a hedge on the Peel Road. Out of the goodness of his heart, instead of locking you up, he took you home, knocked up your mother, and you were put to bed. Walker reported that at the station. You were out all night. What were you doing?"
Corteen rolled his head from side to side.
"I don't know. I was drunk."
"Mightn't it be that some time during the day, you met, fought and killed Cedric Levis, hid the body, and then, when it was dark, you pinched a boat from the harbour, rowed out to sea and, having weighted the body, sank it, little thinking the scallop boats would be dredging there later?"
Corteen milled around and started to look rough. Perrick seized his wrists with a powerful grip and held him.
"Don't be a fool, Johnny! Rough-house won't do you any good. I ought to arrest you on suspicion, but I'm going to let you get properly sober and then you can try to think what happened to you that night. Think who was with you, if anybody, where you went, what you did. You couldn't have been so blind as to wander around all night and know nothing of what you did."
"I tell you . . ."
"And I tell you. Don't try to leave the Island. Don't even try to leave Peel, or it'll be worse for you. I want to know where to find you when I want you. Now get going. . . ."
Corteen didn't join his mates, but reeled out into the street and along the quay, mu
ttering to himself.
A loafer standing silent in the passage overheard it all and in an hour everybody in Peel knew it. Johnny Corteen had murdered Levis, on account of what he'd done to his sister. They were all on Johnny's side and Perrick got some black looks as he moved about in the City. It was all over the Island by nightfall, even at Grenaby, where Archdeacon Kinrade spent a sleepless night because Annie Corteen, Johnny's mother, had, before her marriage, been maid at Bride parsonage when the Archdeacon had been rector there. At nine the following morning Teddy Looney's old rattletrap of a taxi drew up at the door of the Corteen house. Teddy had gone in the wrong direction down a one-way street and his ears were burning from the words the bobby had said to him before he spotted the Archdeacon in the back.
Mrs. Corteen had hardly time to greet her old master before she was in tears, telling him the full tale, swearing Johnny was a good boy and innocent. And the night before, there had been so many people there talking the thing over, that old Corteen had sensed trouble, got excited, tried to get up, and had a stroke.
"I've always tried to lead a good life, parson. I always tried to do my best for the children. And got nothing but trouble. First my husband, then Fenella, and now Johnny likely to be took for murder. He's a good boy and wouldn't do anybody harm, but he was out of doors all the night that Mr. Levis was killed and he can't remember what he did. The police seem to think he won't remember, but I know Johnny better. . . ."
When he got home, Archdeacon Kinrade went half a dozen times to the telephone and then returned to his study. He felt old and tired and unable to cope with the ordeal of a long-distance call to London. Finally, he drew up to his desk, took pen and paper, and began to write. He sealed the letter and then took up the telephone and asked for the hotel at the airport. He was through in a minute.
"Can you give me the steward of the Northolt 'plane to-morrow, please?"
There was a pause.
"Hullo, Archdeacon. Casey here. Anything I can do for you?"
"A favour, if you don't mind, Casey."
"Anything. Only say the word, sir."
"Could you take a letter over with you and see it delivered at once in London? I know it's asking a lot, Casey, but this is a matter of life and death. . . ."
"Sure, sure. A pleasure, sir. Want me to come out for it in the runabout?"
"That's very good of you."
"What part of London do you want it delivered, sir?"
"Scotland Yard. To Chief Inspector Littlejohn. . . ."
3
NIGHT AT THE CAPTAIN QUILLIAM
. . . I am sure he had nothing to do with it and all his friends here—in fact, everyone in Peel—think he's innocent. But the circumstantial evidence points so damnably in his direction. I would not have troubled you, only he is a good lad, if a bit hot-headed, and he is the sole comfort of his mother, who's had a lot of trouble. You did say you would bring your wife over to see me before very long. Would it be possible . . . ?
It was ten o'clock in the evening and Littlejohn and his wife had been sitting reading before the fire with the dog between them. Littlejohn had fallen asleep over a thriller and Letty was reading the latest translation of a Colette novel when the bell rang and a messenger from Scotland Yard handed in Archdeacon Kinrade's letter.
"Who's it from, Tom?"
"Archdeacon Kinrade. He wants us to go over if we can, right away. A young chap he's very fond of looks like being arrested for murder. What do you say?"
She looked at him with understanding. Warm hearted, full of compassion, in spite of all his years in the force, he was easily imposed on. In three days they were due to leave for the wine harvest round Bordeaux as guests of a vintner to whom Littlejohn had done a good turn. They were going off to celebrate Littlejohn's promotion to Chief Inspector. But the Rev. Cæsar Kinrade was another thing altogether. His friendship had brought something into the Inspector's life which couldn't be counted in cash or kind.
"I don't mind. I've been a bit afraid with all that wine and food at your age you might come back worse than you go. We'll have to take the dog, of course."
"Of course."
Meg, their old-English sheep-dog, seemed to understand, rose, yawned voluptuously, barked, turned round twice on the same spot, sank down, and fell asleep contentedly.
Littlejohn read the three-page letter aloud to his wife. It gave, in a robust, firm hand, details of the Peel dredger case.
"It's a bit awkward. I can't butt-in on the Island police, although they're a good lot to get on with. I'll just have to play the amateur for a bit. . . . Right, then. I'll ring up the Yard and arrange to go to-morrow. We'd better not go by 'plane with having the dog. There's an afternoon boat from Liverpool."
Letty was already in the bedroom, sorting out the contents of the half-packed trunks, throwing out the flimsies and adding the warmer things, substituting woollen pyjamas instead of Littlejohn's nylons. . . .
The dog, confident that her interests were in good hands, snored before the fire and now and then yapped joyfully in her dreams.
As the Littlejohns gathered their luggage on Lime Street station, Liverpool, the following day, they became engulfed by a crowd of travellers from the incoming Manx boat on their ways to London. And in the mêlée, the Inspector spotted the fresh face and cheerful teeth of Sergeant Knell, who had helped him so much in connection with the murder of Deemster Quantrell. Knell was accompanied by an amazingly good-looking, dark girl, with a flawless unadorned complexion and a figure which made men turn and stare in admiration.
"This is Miss Teare. . . . I mean, Mrs. Knell, sir. We're on our honeymoon."
It was as much as Littlejohn could do not to ask what had held up the wedding! Almost a year ago, the banns had been up!
"I'm an Inspector now in the C.I.D., sir."
"My congratulations on both events. . . ."
They hadn't much time together, but Knell had a shrewd idea what was taking Littlejohn to the Isle of Man again.
"Johnny Corteen, sir?"
"It's really a promised holiday with the Archdeacon, but I might help if I can."
"Sid Perrick is in charge. What a pity it's not me. You'll find Perrick is one of the best. He'll appreciate any help you can give him. He's not proud."
The porter arrived with the loving couple's baggage and Knell and his bride were hustled away. As the Manx Inspector inverted the woman's umbrella he was carrying and waved it in farewell salute to the Littlejohns, a shower of confetti and rice fell upon him from it. . . .
The sea was like a millpond and they reached the Island as the sun was setting beyond the backbone of quiet hills. As the boat entered the harbour, they could see the sturdy, gaitered figure of Archdeacon Kinrade standing with the harbour master at the pierhead. His glorious froth of beard was as white as snow and his clear blue eyes shone with welcome. He had hired a "drive yourself" car for the Littlejohns during their stay.
"I thought Looney's rattletrap was hardly the thing for a lady."
They reached Grenaby about eight o'clock and the place seemed to enfold them in its peace. "It'll get you. You won't want to leave when the time comes," someone had said to Littlejohn once about Grenaby. It was true. The rustling of the trees, the rush of the river driving its way under the bridge, the hooting of the owls and, somewhere in the distance, the loud cry of some wild thing in the night. . . . The Archdeacon had talked to Letty all the way, but as they entered his parish, he grew quiet as the spell fell upon them all. All except Meg, sprawled on the floor of the car, sleeping off the surfeit of buns, biscuits and meat-pies with which a large group of admirers had stuffed her on the voyage.
They dined and it was striking nine as they finished. And now Littlejohn having parked the car and left the vicar of Grenaby to call on Mrs. Corteen for news, was making his way to the Captain Quilliam. Nothing like a prompt start!
The holiday season was over, the coloured lights of the promenade had been removed, and now the city . . . for such it calls itself on a
ccount of its ruined cathedral . . . was quiet and dimly lit. A string of lamps along the seafront, some sodium bulbs along the quay, the warm glow of curtained windows, and, overhead, the moon almost at full with high white frothy clouds slowly drifting across it. The French fishing-boat was still moored at the harbour. Her lights were on, for she was due to leave early next morning. Across at the West Quay, three ships of the herring fleet were tied-up. A light shone from the fo'c'sle of one of them, the Manx Shearwater, which was off early to the scallop-beds and some of the crew of which were sleeping on board. Across the sea shimmered the reflections of the lights of the waterfront. Somewhere somebody was playing a mouth-organ.
Littlejohn pushed open the door of the Captain Quilliam and turned to the right into the public bar. The place was full, the atmosphere thick with smoke, and you couldn't hear yourself speak for the hubbub of chatter and the shouts of half-drunken men. The crew of the French ship were having a farewell spree and spirits passed freely. They'd drunk all the Calvados and were now on whisky and schnapps. One wall was covered with the labels of various ships which had entered the port. Boats from Brittany, Scotland, Norway, Denmark, Iceland. The skipper of the French ship was unsteadily fixing his own card with a drawing-pin. St. Yves, Tréguier.
Littlejohn found a seat in a corner. He was surrounded by sailors, sitting on benches at marble-topped tables or lolling with their glasses against the walls or at the bar. Nobody bothered much about him, except the landlord. He wasn't known and visitors on holiday often called for a drink and a bit of local colour. The presence of another stranger only made one or two of them swank a bit more. They raised their voices and talked of fabulous things which had happened to them. The rest aided and egged-on the yarn-spinners. They were of the seagoing fraternity, a race apart from the land-lubbers, whom they liked to bait now and then.
"Can I get you anything, sir?"
The landlord, tall, muscular, calm amid it all, and in his shirtsleeves, stood before the Inspector.
"A bottle of red label."
"There's another room at the back if you find it a bit thick in here."
The Cursing Stones Murder (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 3
