The Cursing Stones Murder (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series)

by George Bellairs

  "I'm quite happy, thanks."

  They all milled merrily around except a solitary figure in the opposite corner from Littlejohn. A stocky, elderly, weatherbeaten man in jersey and sea-boots, with a long moustache and huge hands scarred by old fisherman's abscesses and festers. He was drinking rum and was almost helpless. His presence seemed to throw a blight on the gathering. Men kept looking over their shoulders at him, wondering what he was trying to drown, or where he'd got the money from for his drinks.

  "That's the last, Ned. . . ."

  The landlord placed another small rum on the table before him. The morose sailor was up in arms at once.

  "Who says it's the last? I can pay for all I want, can' I? It's for me to say when I'll stop, not you . . . ."

  The landlord glanced in Littlejohn's direction from the corner of his eye. He knew from his bearing that there was something official about the Chief Inspector and he was putting on a good show for him.

  "Not here you won't, Ned. I said that's the last. You've a long way to go home and you're leaving here in a fit state to get there."

  The drunken man cast a scowling glance round the room and his eye fell on Littlejohn.

  "Ah. . . . A copper, eh? Tha's why I'm not allowed to buy what I want. I'll go where my company's wanted then. Can' enjoy me drinks with a blasted copper lookin' on. . . ."

  He downed his drink in one and, half in rage, half in bravado, dashed the glass on the marble top of the table and broke it. Then he rose, and reeled from the room.

  The silence created by the sailor's little one-act drama was broken. The men round the bar started to shout louder than before.

  "What's come over Ned Crowe and where's he gettin' the money for all his drinks?"

  "Nice and steady, he was, once. Now he gets drunk every night. It's a mystery to me. . . ."

  "They say the Almighty guides the feet of the drunks. How he finds his way home beats me. . . ."

  Their voices petered out. They began to talk in low tones to one another, their eyes now and then glancing in Littlejohn's direction, wondering what his business might be. Two fishermen more drunk than the rest got a bit truculent about it.

  "Is he from the police? He looks it."

  "So what? Let 'em all come. They'll not pin anythin' on Johnny Corteen. . . . "

  The atmosphere certainly had altered. The French sailors couldn't understand the reserve which had fallen over the rest. They gathered together in a tight group at one end of the counter on the defensive.

  "What is it?"

  The French captain couldn't stand the silence any longer.

  The drunken sailor was quick to answer.

  "We got company," he said, with a dirty look in Littlejohn's direction. "The police are with us. . . Don' you worry, Frenchie. It ain't you we don't find welcome. You're always welcome here, see?"

  He was maudlin and reeled across to embrace the Frenchman.

  "It's the same all over the world, isn' it? We sailors unnerstand one another. . . ."

  The landlord was getting afraid of a rough house.

  "I don't want to interfere, sir, but would you care to come in my room for a minute? They've been having a bit of a party with the Frenchies and some of them have had too much."

  Littlejohn smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  "I've got to go in any case."

  "Rhoda! Come and mind the bar."

  The landlord shouted for someone in the next room and a buxom smiling girl appeared and took over. There were cheers and shouts of pleasure from the sailors as Rhoda went behind the counter.

  "It's like this, sir. I don't know whether you're police or not. It's no business of mine. But the men there are very fond of Johnny Corteen. He's just got back from the East and he's a bit of a hero to them. Now, there's talk that he might be arrested for the murder of a bounder called Levis, who's been carrying on with his sister while Johnny's been away. The men seem to have got it in for the police."

  The landlord was anxious to please. He'd always been on good terms with the police and that is a sound security when you've sailors to deal with, especially foreigners who don't understand licensing laws.

  "You're right, landlord. I am a police officer, but I'm not on this case you mention. I'm here on holiday with Archdeacon Kinrade, an old friend."

  The landlord's reserve vanished.

  "Archdeacon Kinrade! That's different. I'm sorry they were a bit uncivil in there. As I said, they've been going it hard with the Frenchies. . . . Let me get you another bottle of red label."

  He was off before Littlejohn could stop him. Obviously anxious to put things right in the bar. He came back smiling with the beer.

  "Do you want to go back in there, sir?"

  He jerked his head in the direction of the bar.

  "No. I must be off. By the way, who's Ned Crowe, the one who kicked up the fuss?"

  "A decent enough chap. Runs a little farm and does a bit of off-shore fishing in his boat. His place is at Gob y Deigan, about four miles from here along the Kirk Michael road. He lives alone and used to come once a week to buy his groceries and things in Peel, have a drink or two, and then go home quietly. . . . "

  "And now?"

  "Over the last month he's changed. He seems to have got money from somewhere, he's here every night, and he leaves with a right skinful. I'm getting fed up with it. I'll have to tell him to take his custom somewhere else. It depresses the regulars to see him there, scowling and muttering to himself in a corner. I can't think what's come over him"

  "Is Johnny Corteen not here to-night?"

  "No. I'm glad, in a way, because he might have kicked up a rumpus if he'd seen you. The police are on his heels, you see. I wouldn't be surprised if they'd taken him to the station. They've been questioning him a lot lately."

  Littlejohn turned up his coat collar and paid for his drinks. In the lobby a couple of men from the bar were going home as well. They nodded genially and smiled at him.

  "Goo' night, sir."

  The landlord had evidently made peace with his customers on the strength of Parson Kinrade's being Littlejohn's friend.

  "Our mishtake. We thought you was after Johnny. . . . Thass all ri'. . . ."

  The other sailor made a swift rubbing-out gesture with his hand to show the incident was closed.

  It was chilly outside. The lights of a lot of the houses and cafés on the front and quay had gone out and the place was deserted. Somebody was playing a harmonica on the deck of the St. Yves. A tune from Moulin Rouge. It's April, my dear. . . . A hoarse voice took it up in French.

  Archdeacon Kinrade was sitting in the car in the carpark, a rug up to his chin, and his beard spread across the front of it like a bib.

  "Sorry to keep you, sir. . . ."

  "I've only just arrived back. It's a bit too late to take you up to the Corteen place now. They're getting ready for bed, though I don't suppose they'll sleep much tonight. The police have arrested Johnny on suspicion."

  "It's only a precaution, sir. Don't get upset about it. You see, if he had done it and skipped off through their not taking the usual steps, it would look bad. They must have a good case for the preliminary arrest."

  The parson sighed loudly.

  "Yes, they have. Johnny can't say where he was on the night of the murder, in addition to which, he seems to have made a point of telling everybody he met on the day he returned, what he was going to do to Levis on account of Fenella. He told them all he'd kill him. Fenella hasn't helped. She's been very vindictive about Levis. She expected him to marry her, of course. She's quite given Johnny the impression that Levis is entirely to blame. Everyone knows it was six of one and half-a-dozen of the other, but Johnny won't listen to anybody but his sister. I'm sure he believes that Levis raped Fenella. It's very awkward, but I'm sure Corteen didn't do it. He might kill a man in a fit of rage and even bury or hide the body. But to take it out to sea, weighted, and sink it among the scallop-beds. . . . No. Johnny's a sailor and knows this coast and
all that goes on there. Why go and drop the corpse in the very spot where it's likely to be hauled up any day?"

  Littlejohn started the car and they threaded their way up the narrow streets on the main road to St. Johns.

  "I'm sorry to bring you so far when you've just arrived, Littlejohn, but I had to see the Corteen family to-night. I've comforted them to the best of my ability. The old woman's like somebody in a trance. Can't believe it. As for Fenella . . . she takes it all in very unseemly fashion. You'd think she was proud of having a murder committed on her behalf. She's certainly going to be disappointed. I'm sure it had nothing whatever to do with her and her sordid little affair."

  They drove on, the headlamps making a tunnel of light through the overhanging trees.' The village of Foxdale was in complete darkness, except for a single upper room with an illuminated blind and a car standing at the front door.

  "The doctor's car. I wonder . . ."

  The Archdeacon sounded half asleep.

  From the top of the hill, beyond the thick Barrule Plantation of pines and fir trees, they could see Castletown, with a few lights glimmering and Langness lighthouse throwing its rhythmic beam over the land and back to the water again. Now and then, Littlejohn had to swerve to avoid rabbits and a solitary hedgehog bewildered and transfixed by the lights of the car. They turned right to Grenaby.

  It was more like home for Littlejohn to find his wife there. It was evident that Mrs. Keggin, the housekeeper, was already on good terms with Letty and dumbfounded by her culinary knowledge. Someone had, in the absence of the men, brought in some fresh lobsters from Castletown. Mrs. Littlejohn had cooked Homard à l'américaine.

  "We both thought you'd be hungry when you got in. It'll probably give us all nightmare, but we couldn't resist it. . . ."

  They ate their meal under the warm glow of a paraffin lamp on a round highly-polished mahogany table, with Regency chairs to sit on.

  At the foot of the stairs, Littlejohn paused and lifted his wife's chin with his forefinger.

  "Sorry we came?"

  "Not at all, if you don't have too much work to do. In fact, I'm glad we changed. And by the way, your winter pyjamas are airing in front of the kitchen fire. You'd better rescue them."

  The dog was already upstairs, making sure of her lodgings and whining at their bedroom door. She descended impatiently to hurry them up and breathed a blast of Homard à l'américaine upon them.

  4

  THE DRUNKEN SAILOR

  "YOU see my difficulty, don't you, sir? It's not within my powers to invite you to share the job. Unless I tell the Chief that the case is beyond my capacity, he won't ask for outside help. And I can hardly do that. . . . It's awkward, you'll admit."

  Perrick had called at Grenaby just after breakfast to see Littlejohn. He was still smiling and unperturbed, smoking his pipe and wearing his raincoat, but he was obviously in a dilemma. He wished to make Littlejohn welcome and encourage him to help, but red-tape and etiquette made it hard going.

  "Officially, we're on opposite sides of the fence, in a manner of speaking. I've got to prove Corteen guilty and you're here to prove he isn't . . . ."

  Littlejohn smiled and puffed his pipe with obvious relish. The sun was shining, the dog was rabbiting in the hedge—mainly flurry and joyous shouts—and Mrs. Littlejohn was picking the last of the runner beans in the back garden. Parson Kinrade was in his study answering his large correspondence.

  "I quite understand, Perrick. I'm really here on holiday. I'll help all I can and if Corteen is guilty, I shall say so. But I'm an amateur this time and I'm not trying to prize Corteen out of your grasp. If he's done it, he's yours. If he hasn't, it will still be your evidence which sets him free."

  The enthusiastic and honeymooning Knell had telephoned from London on his nuptial night to tell Inspector Perrick of his encounter with Littlejohn and to bespeak the Chief Inspector a favourable reception. That had brought Perrick hot-foot to Grenaby.

  "There's no definite proof yet of Corteen's guilt. Nothing, except that he threatened to swing for Levis all over the place and Levis happened to be murdered nearly as soon as Johnny got home. We daren't leave Corteen at large till he's absolutely in the clear."

  Perrick picked up an apple, a windfall from the old tree in the front hedge, rubbed it on his raincoat, and bit a chunk from it.

  "That doesn't stop you from asking me if you can see Corteen, sir, or anybody else, for that matter. I'm only anxious to find out who killed Levis. I never liked the man myself, but I've got my job to do."

  A passer-by hailed Littlejohn like a long-lost friend. It was Joe Henn, who owned a large tumbledown house just over the bridge.

  "Hullo, Inspector Littlejohn. You here agen? Glad to see you. Though I must say I 'ope you don't attract a lot of crime and violence down here like you did before."

  He passed on a bit apprehensively.

  "I hear Levis was a thoroughly bad egg, especially where women were concerned. Might it not be that one of them, and not Fenella Corteen . . . "

  "Maybe . . . and maybe not. It's a bit difficult when you're dealing with an old hand at concealment like Levis was. He'd plenty of good-looking youngsters round his place in the holiday season. He never went short of pretty girls with all those romantic holiday-makers to go at. His fancy ways, fancy house, and the money he was willing to fling about were all bait for the unwary. And he also possessed a peculiar fascination for women. . . . The sort of thing that disgusts ordinary men who often have a devil of a time making even one woman in a lifetime get fond of 'em. There must have been local women, too. A fellow like Levis just doesn't hibernate when the pretty strangers have crossed back to their shops and offices. Levis was promiscuous . . . always on the hunt . . . . "

  Perrick had a pretty turn of phrase and made people and events come to life as he told a tale.

  "He kept his affairs with local women very secret. I'll bet if we could find a diary or unearth his mistresses by magic we'd get some surprises."

  "Doesn't his housekeeper know what went on?"

  Perrick rocked on his heels and took another crisp bite of his apple. He cocked his head at Littlejohn.

  "You seem to know quite a lot about Levis already, sir, if I might be so bold."

  "With an encyclopædia of island lore like the Archdeacon, you must expect it."

  "Aw, I see."

  Perrick shied the chewed core of his apple at the ample rump of a picking hen and laughed as she leapt in the air and scuttered cackling out of reach. He wiped his fingers on his raincoat.

  "You were saying, his housekeeper, sir. No. Or at least she says she doesn't know anything. She knows nothing, according to her. Herself is a very righteous, self-satisfied sort of woman who likes to give the impression that she wouldn't stay a day in any house where there were carryings-on of any kind whatsoever. She says that if Levis did misbehave, he didn't do it under his own roof. Which may be true, may be not. He ran a fancy car and might have avoided scandal, especially with married women, by taking his pleasures in quiet places, hotels, or even in the open air and sunshine. Besides, Mrs. Ashworth has only been with Levis for a little more than three months. The previous housekeeper might have told us quite a lot of what went on in the winter season, so to speak, but she's dead. Died on the mainland while on holiday in the spring. Is there anything you'd particularly like to see or know, sir? I'm going over to Peel now. Can I give you a lift?"

  "It's kind of you, Perrick, but I'd better show my wife a bit of the Island first. I'll keep in touch with you. If I should come across anything useful, I'll be sure to let you know. Perhaps I'll call and see the Corteens in Peel later and also the police surgeon. I'd like his first-hand account of the autopsy. Parson Kinrade will probably attend to the introductions. You see, it might be a bit embarrassing for you with your superiors if I'm seen with you all over the place."

  Perrick looked the Chief Inspector straight in the' eyes and held out his hand.

  "Very decent of you, sir. I apprecia
te it. We'll keep in touch."

  "Just one thing, Perrick, before you go. Have you made no progress whatever with Corteen's alibi? Did nobody see him around on the night of Levis's murder after he left the pub?"

  Perrick took out his pipe and tapped the stem on his thumbnail to emphasize his points.

  "Four of them left the Captain Quilliam together that night. At the church in the market square, they broke up into two pairs. Two went up-town and left Johnny Corteen and another fisherman called Eddie Kermode to go their own ways. Both Johnny and Eddie were pretty badly drunk and the last the other two saw of them they were arguing as to where they should spend the night. Eddie was trying to persuade Johnny to go home with him and stay at his place till he was in a better condition to face his old mother, who is a religious woman and takes badly to Johnny's drinking ways. When we called at Eddie's place, the neighbours said he'd taken the morning 'plane to England in August last."

  "You mean, he might have been involved in Johnny's mischief and bolted?"

  Perrick solemnly shook his head.

  "No, sir. Mrs. Kermode is a Peel girl, with an aunt in Fleetwood, on the mainland. When we went to Eddie's place and found it shut up, we called at her mother's and got a part of the tale of the fatal night. It seems that about midnight, Eddie and Johnny turned up, drunk, at Kermode's home. His wife was within a month of having her first baby and was, in consequence, a bit touchy. The arrival of a couple of drunks made her see red. She told her husband she wouldn't have his disreputable companions in her house, and neither did she want him in his state, either. There was a row, which ended in Eddie's wife going home to her mother's to sleep. And, in the way some women have when they're in the condition of Mrs. Kermode, she said she wasn't going to have her child with a drunken husband around. She was going over to her aunt in Fleetwood. They couldn't persuade her otherwise and she left by the morning boat."

  "And Eddie?"

  "Appeared at his mother-in-law's next morning, as sober as a judge, but too late to stop his wife from crossing because it was after nine when he arrived and the boat leaves at nine. When Eddie heard what his wife had done he was terribly upset, packed his gear, and went by 'plane the same day. We got in touch with his wife's aunt at Fleetwood, through the police there. Mrs. Kermode was with her, right enough, and the baby had been born. She and Eddie were friends again and Eddie had shipped with a Fleetwood fishing-boat and was somewhere in the region of Iceland. They've wireless aboard, but till she gets back to Fleetwood it isn't much good trying to get a full tale from Eddie. She should dock in a day or two and then we'll bring Eddie back over here. Meanwhile, Johnny Corteen'll do no harm where he is. Better be safe than sorry."