Littlejohn was delighted. This was just what he wanted!
"Thanks, Tom. I'll be glad to. But first, I'll 'phone my wife and ask her to pick me up on the road near Devil's Elbow at . . . when shall we say?"
Cashen consulted a large watch.
"It's half-past twelve, sir. We'll sail on the tide at about one. We'll be havin' a bite of food on board instead of waiting for dinner here and if you'd care to join us . . . I could have you ashore again about five."
"With pleasure. I'll just telephone to Grenaby and then I'll see you down at the quayside."
At ten past one, the Manx Shearwater put out to sea with Chief Inspector Littlejohn aboard.
8
TROUBLE AT CURSING STONES
THE Manx Shearwater sprang into life with the starting of her 66 h.p. Diesel, controlled from the wheelhouse. They hoisted no sail. The gossips at Weatherglass Corner, and a smaller group of sightseers at Munn's Corner, puffed their pipes and waved farewells as the trim little boat left the river, passed the breakwater, and made for the open sea.
Littlejohn stood by the skipper as he manoeuvred into deep water. It was as much as the small cabin could do to hold the two big men. In front, the wheel, a small binnacle, and the controls of the Diesel in the hold below; at their backs, a compact radio set; and in one corner, a radar Echo-Meter, which in the herring-season was used for detecting the shoals passing between the bottom of the vessel and the sea-bed.
"It's a bit lonely for Manxmen in the fishing now. Only four of us among a lot of Scots, Dutch and Scandinavians. In the old days, Peel harbour was full of nobbies and nickeys, local owned, lek. Under the command of the Admiral, like I was tellin' ye. And plenty of prayin' an' hymn-singin' on account of good catches. . . . All that's gone. . . ."
Cashen seemed to find his tongue in the comfortable presence of the Chief Inspector. They might have been shipmates all their lives.
The skipper turned the Shearwater due west.
"First, you can be puttin' a sight on the Island from out at sea; then we'll turn to Gob y Deigan."
They had aboard a crew of five and the skipper. Cashen handed over the wheel and showed Littlejohn over the boat. The sea was calm and it was easy moving about on deck. They inspected the engine and then went for' ard.
"That's where we put the body, sir."
Cashen removed the hatches from the hold, disclosing the large gloomy space below deck for stowing the herring or scallops according to the season. It was empty except for the dredging tackle, which the crew started to haul up.
The Chief Inspector followed the skipper down to the fo'c'sle. A narrow cabin, shaped like a flat-iron, with bunks in the bulkheads. An enamel teapot on a table covered with oilcloth, an iron stove with a pipe rising through the roof, sea-boots piled in one corner, provisions and cans of milk and food in a rough wooden cupboard with the door open. . . .
The youngest of the crew descended to prepare a meal.
When Littlejohn got back on deck they were out at sea, due west of Peel. The whole of the west side of the Island was now visible from the Point of Ayre to the Calf, with Peel Hill and Corrin's Folly, a memorial tower over an eccentric grave, seeming near. The wild coastline from Contrary Head to the Mull Peninsula to the south; the red cliffs and the long stretch of the Ayre beach ending in the Point lighthouse, to the north. Cashen stood at Littlejohn's elbow and pointed out the landmarks, as the Inspector looked through his binoculars. . . . Jurby Point, Cronk ny Irree Laa, South Barrule, Bradda, and the rolling range of the Island hills behind the changing coastline.
"The Cronk ny Irree Laa there, means Hill of the Risin' Sun, and in the old days the custom used to be for the herrin' boats to haul in the nets and sail for port when they saw the sun risin' over the top of it. . . ."
He pointed to a spot at sea west of Calf Island.
"The Mooir ny Fuill, the Sea of Blood, where there was once a terr'ble great loss to the Peel fishin'-fleet. . . ."
"And now we'll make for the scallop banks. Tanrogans, we call them over here."
Cashen waved his hand to the man at the wheel and the ship began to bob as they turned again towards land.
"We bring Cronk-y-Voddey trees in line with Gob y Deigan in the south an' Jurby Head in line with Rue Point in the north to get our bearin' for the fishin' mark, where we found the body. . . ."
On the way back to land, they ate stewed steak and beans and drank dark tea, Littlejohn sitting on a box on deck to avoid missing the view and the strong sea air.
"I wish to God I hadn't to leave and start detecting again, Tom," he said to the skipper.
Cashen laughed.
"We'll be fishin' here for weeks yet. Come along with us when you've finished the job. Try a rough day, sir."
"That's a bargain."
The dredging tackle was assembled on deck ready for business. The man in the wheelhouse made signs that they were getting above the tanrogan beds. Cashen beckoned Littlejohn aft where the gear was hanging over the stern ready for the word. The winch spun and the hawser slid rapidly across the deck; with a splash the huge sea-bottom comb and nets vanished. Before Littlejohn left the ship, the winch was reversed and hauled aboard the dripping catch of shellfish. Bits of timber, old iron, stones too large to slip the mesh, seaweed, two tin cans, bottles . . . and then two or three score of fan-shaped shellfish. The latter were sorted out and flung in the hold, the rest jettisoned.
"Threepence apiece, or thereabouts, to us; more than a shilling a time, they tell me, in London markets."
Cashen contemplated the tanrogans reproachfully, as though they might be responsible for the price they commanded on the mainland.
"This is where we found the body, sir."
Nothing whatever to indicate that they were sailing over the fatal spot. The sea calm, the white wings of accompanying gulls flashing in the sun, one of the crew whistling shrilly as he sorted out the rubbish from the gear. Another Mooir ny Fuill, a Sea of Blood, but nothing to show it.
Two of the crew were lowering the small boat from the deck and tying a rope-ladder to the rail. Cashen himself took the wheel for a minute, stopped the engine, and brought the boat about to quiet water. It was three o'clock. Littlejohn watched the skipper speak a word or two in the mouthpiece of the radio and then Cashen emerged on deck.
"Just a word to the wife," he said. "I allis pass the time o' day with her over the set when we're out at sea. The virtue in it is that herself can't back-answer me."
The boat was lowered; Littlejohn and Cashen climbed in and the skipper took the oars. With strong, slow strokes he shot the little craft from the side of the larger one and soon they were skimming across to Gob y Deigan.
Littlejohn examined the shore they were approaching, through the binoculars Tom Cashen had lent him. Most of the coast thereabouts was rocky and consisted of high cliffs, topped by turf. Sometimes the rocks plunged right into the water itself; at others the slope was more gentle and gave access to fine little beaches of golden or white sand. For the most part, the cliffs were of red sandstone, but at one spot a splash of dark rock broke the regularity, as though from somewhere inland a long spur of granite were ending in an outcrop. This granite breach tumbled roughly into the water, split by a stream flowing down a gully and cleft by fissures and a number of large caves. This was Gob y Deigan, Devil's Mouth.
Littlejohn turned his glasses on the spot which Cashen described to him. The grandeur of the coastline, the massive caves of Lynague, the stream tumbling down and its water still flowing like a separate little river far into the sea, where it finally lost itself in the lighter blue of the ocean. On the beach, secured in a narrow cove backed by a cave smaller than the rest, was a boat, barely large enough from where Littlejohn was watching it, to hold a solitary passenger.
Out at sea, they were still busy on the Manx Shearwater. The rattle of the winch and the grinding of the dredging gear as they flung it overboard and drew it in again sounded across the intervening space and flung back echoes f
rom the rocky shore.
"There's a boat there, Tom."
"Yes, sir. There's a farm above and I reckon its theirs. They make out with a bit o' fishin' now and then. Plenty of crabs, lobsters, and blockan round them rocks an', if you care to go further, the tanrogan beds, where you can, mebbe, hook up a shell or two if you're lucky."
Cashen was obviously anxious to get back to his ship and his trawling. He put Littlejohn ashore, pointed out the way to the road above, and then pushed off back to the Shearwater.
"I'll be seein' ye, sir, as promised. Don't forget. Next time come for a full day an' a night's trip. . . . "
The tide left a clear path along the beach and the water line was already below the caves of Lynague. Littlejohn scrambled among the rocks and reached the boat, now high and dry on the sand. It was a small affair, large enough for two, stoutly built and freshly painted in white. Neither the boat itself, the shore, the caves, nor the rocks gave any tangible evidence of dirty work. But here was the perfect set-up for a crime of the kind the Chief Inspector was investigating. Caves in which to hide a body, shingle with which to weight it, a boat in which to row it out to sea and from which to sink its ghastly cargo.
Littlejohn stood and watched Cashen on his way back to his ship, propelling his little boat with powerful steady strokes. Tom waved to him and he waved back. He waited until the skipper had reached his destination, saw them haul him and his boat aboard, heard the rumble of the gear as the dredger sank to the sea floor and the ship moved again with its hawser taut astern. Then he turned to find his way to the road where his wife should be waiting with the car.
The best way back lay alongside the stream which tumbled down a gully to the beach. This fissure, covered in long water-weeds and rushes near its mouth, and crossed by a bridge carrying the Isle of Man Railway, gradually widened as it reached soft land and near the road formed quite a deep glen with small trees hanging over the water. Close to a bunch of these, out of sight of the road, stood a structure like a caravan without wheels, a kind of summer-house or cabin in which holidaymakers or week-enders might spend a quiet spell facing the sea. The shack was in good order, clean and painted, but locked-up. There were no traces of recent use and any footprints which might have been made had been washed away by rain or overgrown by the grass of the site.
Littlejohn walked round it, tried the door, and finding it fast, climbed on the beading which ran round the bottom of the cabin and looked in through the window. There was no sign of habitation. A couple of bunks, a small table hinged from one side, a lamp screwed on a bracket, a mirror hanging on the wall, a few paperbacked novels on a shelf. . . . Nothing more. The place had been cleaned up and secured.
The Chief Inspector mounted higher in the little glen until finally he reached the level of the road, where the stream ran through a field and then disappeared in another fissure mounting higher inland. Mrs. Littlejohn and Meg were sitting in the car. Letty waved through the open window. She had parked at a spot where the road widened and was carried by a bridge across the gully. A short distance farther on, the highway twisted in a vicious curve round the Devil's Elbow.
There was a farmhouse in the last field, a small shabby place surrounded by windswept trees in tortured postures. The breeze from the sea blew the smoke from the chimney flat across the roof. A wide iron gate gave access to it from the field and around it a few hens were picking and paddling in the mud. The door faced Littlejohn, and was protected from the elements of the rough exposed coast by a stout porch. This door suddenly flew open and a gesticulating figure appeared. His cries were lost in the wind.
Littlejohn halted in his tracks and faced the shouting man. He wore a fisherman's jersey, dark trousers tucked in gumboots, and a cap. The figure, strong, stocky and aggressive, seemed familiar and as with obvious haste and rage the man opened the gate and made for him in a stumbling run, the Chief Inspector remembered him.
It was Ned Crowe, the drunken sailor of the Captain Quilliam!
When Crowe recognised Littlejohn he became even more angry. His bellowing rose over the singing wind.
"What the hell do you want? What you doin' on my land? Get to 'ell out of 'ere. . . ."
Littlejohn turned and walked towards Crowe in an equally aggressive manner.
"Hullo, Crowe. I've been down to the shore. No harm in that, is there? I understand people picnic here and go down regularly in the season."
"Well, it ain't season now and we don't want no trespassers. You ain't been down to the shore. You come up from it, but I sighted you rowin' in from the Shearwater. What game are you up to?"
At close quarters Littlejohn could smell the rum on Crowe's breath. He was obviously carrying on in private what he did in public in Peel.
There seemed to be nobody else about the farm, not even stock. Littlejohn wondered what Crowe was doing there, all on his own, steadily getting drunk for some reason or other. At the end of the overgrown main track from the farm to the road stood a decrepit signpost. Teas. But nobody had taken tea there for many a year by the look of things.
"I've just been looking over the spot where the murder happened. Your shore's the nearest land to where the body was found."
It temporarily took all the fight and stuffing out of Ned Crowe. He looked to shrink in his clothes, licked his lips, and shifted his eyes from Littlejohn's face to the ground. Then he bucked up.
"An' what might that be to you? You ain't got the authority. This is a Manx police job. They don't want no foreign comeovers poking their noses in Manx affairs . . . ."
"Who said so, Crowe?"
"It's said all over Peel. You ain't got authority. You're committing a trespass. Get off my land or I'll get my gun to you."
"So you keep a gun? Is that your boat, too?"
"No business of yours. . . ."
"And the caravan, there. Is that yours, too . . . or did it belong to Cedric Levis?"
At the mention of the name, Crowe completely lost control. He lowered his head and rushed for Littlejohn, his arms flailing, his eyes wild. He seized Littlejohn's left arm in a grip of iron and raised his fist to strike. The Chief Inspector, almost a head taller than Ned Crowe, released himself with ease, and thrust the farmer away.
"That will do, if you don't want to get hurt, Crowe. Now, take yourself off. If you've any complaints to make about my being here, tell the police. And next time I call, I'll expect a more civil reception."
Crowe stood for a moment, clenching and unclenching his huge scarred fists.
"I'll make you pay for this. You'll see. An' don't you come anywhere near here agen, else I'll pepper ye with gunshot. Ten years since, when I was in me prime, I'd have killed you. . . ."
He turned and shambled off without another word and stood at the gate glowering until Littlejohn reached the road.
"Whatever were you doing with the man from the farm?" asked Mrs. Littlejohn, as her husband joined her.
"A reception committee from Ned Crowe. He doesn't seem to like me. He talks about my having no authority to investigate the case or question him. Strange talk from a simple farmer. I wonder who's been putting ideas in his head."
"I thought he was going to murder you. One minute he seemed to be talking quietly, the next he was trying to beat your head in. . . ."
They both grew silent.
"Are you thinking what I am, Tom?"
"Yes. Sounds rather like a second edition of Cedric Levis, doesn't it? When I mentioned his name, the old Crowe got mad. I wonder if Levis did own the caravan down there and they quarrelled. And all Crowe's rum drinking is an attempt to ease a guilty conscience."
"The name of the farm is certainly appropriate. Before you came I asked a man I gave a lift to from Peel, what the place was . . ."
"Yes?"
"It's called, in English, Cursing Stones Farm. The man said that there used to be a mound in the far field with two round stones on top of it. In the centre of each stone was a little hollow and if you wished anybody ill, you twisted your thumb
in it against the sun and cursed him with a prayer of cursing. The stones have been gone for many years. The man was seventy and he said they went when he was a boy."
"Queer."
"Yes. And he said the field where you and Crowe had your argument was once called Magher ny Ruillick, the field of the graveyard."
"Good heavens! Let's get going."
"I feel like a cup of tea. The next farm along the road has a sign out. Shall we try?"
"So has Cursing Stones Farm, but I don't think we'd be welcome. . . . "
The next holding, Ballacurry, TEAS, was more hospitable. It was little more than a croft, but a neat, clean cottage and the woman, although a bit put-out at the arrival of guests out of season, gathered together some bread, jam, soda-cakes and tea and put the visitors in her small parlour. She fetched a bowl of buttermilk for Meg. The place was full of old-fashioned furniture which left barely room in which to whip a cat round. It was little used and smelled damp, and to relieve it, Mrs. Kelly, the farmer's wife, a comely, solidly-built, large-boned woman, brought in a cylindrical oil-stove which gurgled and gulped out heat and smoke. From the walls, photographs of family groups, weddings, christenings, studio portraits of frozen-looking country people in their best clothes, and pictures of young men in army, air-force and naval uniforms, closely watched the Littlejohns over tea.
From the window, Littlejohn could see the Shearwater still busy dredging across the wide bay. It would soon be dusk and the sun was beginning to fall over Peel, the town and castle of which were plainly visible from where he stood. In the farmyard at the side of the house, the farmer was gently piloting a cow in calf to the water trough.
Facing the window stood an ancient piano with a silk front and projecting tarnished brass candlesticks. As Littlejohn raised his eyes to it over his teacup he spotted, with a slight shock, a snapshot in a frame. A group of people, including two sailors in reefer jackets and peaked caps. A festive family gathering . . . . In the middle, sitting on chairs, Mrs. Kelly, their hostess, and the lanky farmer, her husband, who was still attending to the cow outside. On Mr. Kelly's left, stood Ned Crowe, smiling self-consciously, and beside him, with one of the sailors close to her and obviously in thrall, a lovely, dark-haired girl, tall and proud-looking, with a happy smile. The rest of the party looked like farm-hands.
The Cursing Stones Murder (A Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Inspector Little John Series) Page 9
