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

by George Bellairs

  "Yes, I do."

  "How do you think it'll all end, sir? There's no clue, not a trace of one. Mrs. Fallows might have done it out of revenge, or Ned Crowe to save his daughter, but if they don't confess, how can we hope to bring home the crime to them?"

  This was a different Perrick from the buoyant Inspector who had first met Littlejohn, ready to arrest Johnny Corteen and secure a conviction right away!

  "The only thing to do, Perrick, is to keep plugging away patiently. You have your suspects, your ideas of what went on. Keep at them till sooner or later just that little bit of information, just that little straw in the wind indicates the right trail. Then follow it. You can't think of putting the case in the unsolved files yet, you know."

  Perrick sighed.

  "I guess you're right, sir. It's a bit discouraging to find all the paths lead into the sea, as they say over here; all the trails peter out. We're not beaten yet. Or rather, I'm not. You'll be leaving us soon, I expect. We can't keep you here for good, although I'd like it. But if the Chief is to ask for Scotland Yard to help, I'll have to confess to him that I'm beat. I wouldn't like that just yet."

  "No. You take my advice and plod along patiently. You'll hit the right trail before you've done. I'll be here a few days more and if I can help, let me know."

  "You'll be in the same boat as I am now. We know the suspects, but we can't pin anything on them. By the way, where's the Archdeacon? I haven't seen him around."

  "When we got your message about Ned Crowe turning religious, the parson went off to Noble's just to see if he could do anything for Ned, spiritually."

  Perrick jumped to his feet in anger.

  "Jumping Jehoshaphat! First the scene of the crime's like a football match, and now it's Noble's Hospital! Why the hell can't they leave Ned Crowe alone? Parson Kinrade'll be there reading and praying with Crowe and upset him that much that he'll not be fit to tell me a thing . . ."

  "On the contrary, he might get something from Ned that neither of us could get. The parson's got a way with him you and I haven't got. People tell him what's in their hearts, whereas with the police they just get stubborn and shut up. If you care to wait, the Archdeacon won't be long, I'm sure."

  "All right, then. I only hope he hasn't upset Crowe, that's all. Are you holding the fort alone, then?"

  "Yes. The dog and I. Mrs. Keggin's gone to the farm for the milk and my wife's out to tea. They'll be back soon."

  "There are one or two things I'd like to discuss with you then, before they come back. . . ."

  Perrick rose and stood with his back to the fire. He looked ready to expound some long theory or other, but the dog interrupted him by raising her head and barking gruffly at first, and then with added vigour.

  "What's wrong with the dog?"

  "There must be somebody coming. She's sounding the alarm."

  Perrick strode to the window.

  "Yes. It's that gasbag Henn from the village. What does he want?"

  Joe Henn, the parson's neighbour, was making his way up the path. He wore old clothes and no collar. Just a necktie round his scraggy throat, and a bright brass stud shining in the neckband of his shirt. An old cloth cap on his head. On the way, he kept pausing to look at this and that in the garden. Littlejohn met him at the door.

  "Hullo, Mr. Henn."

  "Kynnas-tha-shu, as we say in Manx. That means, how d'ye do. . . ."

  Mr. Henn had come from Lancashire long ago, but pretended to those who didn't know it, that he was a native.

  "You on your own, Inspector?"

  "No, Mr. Henn. Inspector Perrick's here with me. Come in, won't you?"

  "Not if you're busy. It'll do another time. Traa dy lioor, plenty of time, as we say in Manx. If Inspector Perrick's with you, it's all right. You're safe. But I think I ought to tell you, there's been prowlers round here that's up to no good. Ask Perrick. He'll know. There's not much here the police don't know."

  "Come in, then. We'll talk to Perrick."

  "No. I'm not fond of the police myself. That is, exceptin' present company. I've had one or two quarrels with 'em. You remember how last time you was over here, they trampled all over my garden huntin' for clues without so much as a by-your-leave, and they even let one of the criminals drive a car over my garden and park it in the 'ut I built. But when intruders come pinchin' the fruit in my garden, me gooseberries and raspberries, me apples and me pears . . . even me daffodil bulbs . . . there's no police about. Never there when they're wanted. I went to Douglas and gave 'em a piece of me mind, and now them and me's not so friendly. I'll come another time, thank you. But just you ask Perrick about the prowlers round this place."

  Joe Henn turned and slowly made off the way he'd come.

  "I'll be seein' you, Inspector. I'll call again. You must come across and see me garden, too, and the 'ut I built. . . . So long, then."

  "So long, Mr. Henn."

  Littlejohn scratched his head. Joe Henn was getting more and more eccentric! Usually you couldn't get rid of him; now he was anxious to be off!

  Prowlers! Littlejohn remembered the reputation Grenaby had for strange goings-on. Ghostly prowlers, in fact. There were at least half a dozen regular haunters accredited to the village. Jimmy Squarefoot, a sort of man with a pig's head, the Purr Mooar, as the natives called him. And a satyr, the phynnodderree, who haunted the bushes. To say nothing of the water-horse, the cabbyl-ushtey, who appeared in the river now and then; the buggane, or evil one; and the night-man, the dhooiney-oie, who called to foretell disaster. Prowlers, indeed! The place was alive with them!

  "What's he after?"

  Perrick stood in the doorway of the dining-room watching Littlejohn intently.

  "Henn says there are prowlers around, and you know all about it. What's he mean?"

  "Oh that! Henn's got a bee in his bonnet. The lads keep coming and ravaging his garden and he thinks we ought to have a constable perpetually there. An all-the-year-round watch. He never eats the fruit he grows. He can't do. There's too much of it. It does no harm to have some of it pinched, although it's immoral for a policeman to give vent to such sentiments. . . . Half of it rots away. The kids might as well take it. Is that all he wanted?"

  "That seemed to be all. He was embarrassed when he heard you were here."

  "I'm not surprised. I was the one who interviewed him when he came to complain in Douglas. We'd a right ding-dong row."

  The dog bounded from the house, along the path, and to the gate. Mrs. Littlejohn was returning with Maggie Keggin, whom she'd picked up on her way home. Littlejohn was glad to see her. She brought a cheerful spirit to the depressed atmosphere of crime and criminals and unsolved cases that had been haunting him. . . .

  Far away the rattle and whine of Teddy Looney's car, coming nearer every minute, judging from the growing noise.

  Evening, the little everin' of the Manx, was approaching. The sun was sinking over the high hills of the interior, and the quietness which falls before dark was settling over the village. The odd noises seemed intensified. The clanking of a milk churn somewhere, the distant siren of a ship at sea, the rattle of someone's buckets as they fed the calves, the lowing of cattle turning out of the cowsheds after milking. . . . Then the crash and thud of Looney's rattletrap at the gate.

  "Hullo, Perrick?"

  The Archdeacon appeared, his cheeks pink and his white hair and whiskers a bit dishevelled from his wild ride.

  "Hullo, sir. Did you see Ned Crowe?"

  "Only for a minute, Perrick. There's a constable there with him. I don't know why you're doing that. It hardly seems fair."

  Perrick looked ready for a hasty reply and then controlled himself.

  "You see, sir, Crowe might have important evidence about the murder and we can't be sure when he'll talk. Our officer stays with him just in case he gets lucid and says something that matters. We can't help it, and our man's quiet and doesn't interfere."

  "I see. Crowe still seems very dazed. He keeps asking God to forgive him, in a so
rt of delirium. He's evidently got something on his mind. I read him a passage or two from the Bible, which his good neighbour, Mrs. Kelly, brought for him, and then we had a little prayer and he settled. There's obviously something upsetting his conscience. I quite understand your anxiety to get a statement from him, though I fear he won't be fit for it for some time."

  Perrick nodded his head gravely.

  "Someone is going to have to answer for Ned Crowe's accident in due time. But that will all come out when Crowe can talk lucidly."

  "Won't you come in for a meal with us, Perrick? You're very welcome."

  "No, thank you, Archdeacon. It's very kind of you, but I've still got work to do. Shall I see you to-morrow, Chief Inspector? You know I'll be grateful for all the help you can give."

  "Of course. I'll ring you up if I have any ideas, and you do the same if you need me."

  "Thank you, sir. Well . . . good evening to you all . . . "

  Watching him on his way to the gate, Littlejohn thought Perrick's step less jaunty than when he'd arrived. He felt somehow that he'd deflated Perrick and robbed him of some of his self-confidence. The Manx Inspector was putting up a gallant fight, but was gaining no ground.

  "What's the matter, Tom?"

  His wife took his arm and looked questioningly at his serious face.

  "I'm afraid Perrick's getting a bit out of his depth. So am I, for that matter. I can't make head or tail of this case. It eludes me. The murderer was either very lucky or very clever. It's either a perfect crime or a fluke."

  "You'll feel better after a good night's rest . . . ."

  But Littlejohn didn't get his rest that night.

  15

  THE VALENTINE

  IT was late when Cromwell rang up Littlejohn to say he had found Margat Crowe at her aunt's house in East Croydon.

  "She'd got a job in a local shop and I found her there behind the counter. She absolutely refuses to come back to the Island. . . . "

  "Why, old man?"

  "I had a long talk with her. In fact, I took her out to lunch. After all you'd told me about her running away and going to meet the murdered man and take a trip with him to San Remo, I was able to lead the conversation. I told her Levis was dead. She knew already, of course. It had been in the mainland papers. She said she had booked in at an hotel in Bayswater and he was to pick her up there. When he didn't arrive, she didn't know what to do. She hadn't much money and she naturally thought that Levis had left her in the lurch."

  "So she went to her aunt's?"

  "Yes. After three days, she went to East Croydon. It seems she's a great favourite with her aunt there. She didn't tell the old lady anything about Levis. Just said she'd had a row with her father and had come to London to get a job. Her aunt took her in. She was too ashamed to go back or even write to her father for the time being. Even now, I can't persuade her to come back to the Isle of Man with me."

  "What is she doing?"

  "She is in a large stores at present, learning her way about. From what I can gather, they're going to train her to be a mannequin. . . . She's just the type, you know. A real beauty."

  "So I believe. Well, you'd better tell her that her father has met with a serious road accident, is very ill in hospital in Douglas, and is asking for her."

  "Is he really very bad?"

  "Bad enough. He'll pull through, but you'd better not tell her till you get on the way home. Bring her by 'plane as soon as you can. She ought to have been here long ago. She'll probably turn out a vital witness in this murder case."

  "Very good, sir. I'll get her along as soon as I can. Anything else?"

  "Only that we'll both be very glad to see you, old man. Also, don't say you're a policeman when you get here. Just a friend of the Archdeacon over for a few days' holiday. . . ."

  "I've already told the girl."

  "Tell her to keep quiet about it, then . . . especially on the Island. It won't seem right for me to bring over another man from Scotland Yard when I'm not officially on the case. Come straight to Grenaby when you get to the airport, and bring the girl with you. If I can't meet you myself, I'll send somebody else."

  "Right, sir. Good night. . . ."

  "Good night, old chap. See you to-morrow."

  After supper, they drew round the warm log fire in the parson's study and discussed the only topic in their thoughts.

  "They seem a bit baffled by Ned Crowe at the hospital, Littlejohn. I asked the sister about him. He pretends he can't remember anything of what happened in connection with his accident. . . ."

  "That, of course, might be quite right, sir. In such cases, the victims often forget events just before they lost consciousness. That is so, isn't it, Letty? You're a first-aider."

  "Yes. Quite right. They do."

  But the parson shook his head.

  "That's not all. He also says he doesn't remember Gob y Deigan on the day of the murder. If what Fallows and Dora Quine say is right, Ned Crowe was there all the time. Now he pretends to have lost his memory about it. And yet, when he asked for his Bible, he told them where to find it at the farm. It just doesn't tally."

  "He doesn't want to remember; that's it, sir."

  "Which looks very suspicious. At present, there's no evidence that Crowe didn't murder Levis himself, Littlejohn. I'm sorry to say it, but that's the only conclusion I can reach."

  "The motive was a very strong one. Margat was so obviously going off with Levis. I confess I wouldn't blame Ned Crowe for trying to stop it. He'd every right to protect his daughter."

  The parson knocked out his pipe.

  "I think I'll go to bed. The way this case runs round and round in circles makes my head ache. Dr. Fallows, Pam Fallows, Ned Crowe . . . or even Dora Quine. Dora might have been fonder of Levis than she makes out, and have killed him in a fit of jealous rage when she heard he was going away with another woman."

  "Margat Crowe should be home to-morrow. When she arrives here, we'll ask her for fuller details of Levis and his affairs, if she knows them. He might have confided in her."

  "Could it be, Littlejohn, that Margat had another lover who killed Levis out of jealousy, or to protect Margat?"

  "Quite easily. Ned Crowe might have seen him do it and be keeping quiet to save him. In such a case, we've a lot of work to do. We'll have to comb the Island for the missing lover. Anyhow, Margat might be able to throw some light on that to-morrow. We'll sleep on it, shall we?"

  "If we can. This case has taken complete possession of me, Littlejohn. I lie awake thinking of it, trying to see the way out, and arriving nowhere."

  Maggie Keggin closed the kitchen door, called goodnight to them, and they could hear her mounting the stairs.

  "By the way, parson, is Maggie gifted with second sight?"

  The Archdeacon sat down again.

  "The Sight, they call it over here. Yes. Now don't ask me the metaphysics of it. It's a peculiar phenomenon found among Gaelic peoples. The Highlands of Scotland, for instance, too. It runs in families. Maggie is one of the Kaighens of Michael, a family famous for generations as having 'queer things' running in it. I can't explain it and I'd be tempted to pooh-pooh the whole idea, if Maggie hadn't a time or two told me beforehand things that were going to happen, which eventually have come about. But why do you ask?"

  "Just a remark she made this afternoon. She told me about the Sight and said I was in danger. . . . Or rather, that I'd been in danger and it had passed off."

  Mrs. Littlejohn stirred uneasily.

  "No need to be afraid, Letty. I'm always in danger. It's my job. . . ."

  "All the same, Littlejohn, let it be a warning to you not to take your safety lightly. I often think, myself, how easy it would be for a criminal, as the detective draws nearer to him in establishing guilt, to kill the detective. I wonder why it isn't done more frequently. After all, the police can't be on their guard against violence all the time."

  "It doesn't often happen, sir, so be easy in your mind. It was strange, however, that af
ter Maggie spoke to me, Joe Henn called to warn me against prowlers. He's done that when I've been here before, though. He believes, of course, that there are a lot of ghostly intruders around Grenaby, doesn't he?"

  "Yes. But what in particular did he mean?"

  "He didn't say. Perrick was with me at the time, and that seemed to comfort Joe. He thought I was being well looked after, no doubt. He left easy in his mind."

  The parson rose again.

  "It's rather late to be discussing the supernatural just now. We'll be imagining things. At any rate, you'll have the dog in your room. She'll give the alarm in case of prowlers or intruders. . . ."

  As a rule, Littlejohn soon got to sleep. He had the capacity for putting aside the cares of the day as soon as he got in bed and this night was no exception. The creaking of the old house settling down after the day, the call of owls, the rush of the water under Grenaby Bridge, and the rustle of the leaves of tall trees overhanging the parsonage did not disturb him. Nor did the snores of Meg, curled up on the mat at his bedside.

  Littlejohn didn't seem to have been asleep long when the dog barked. Two or three short wuffs, a protest against noises in the night, that was all. Not the angry alarmed barking against intruders.

  "The telephone's ringing," said Mrs. Littlejohn, who always awoke quicker than her husband. Littlejohn hurried into his dressing-gown and ran downstairs.

  It was Cromwell again.

  "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I thought I'd better ring and tell you that Margat Crowe has gone. After I spoke to you, I thought I'd go to Croydon right away, tell her, and arrange to pick her up and take her to Northolt first thing to-morrow. When I got there, her aunt said there was a 'phone call for her just after she arrived home from the shop. She didn't know who it was, but it upset Margat. She packed her bag and left right away. She said something about her father being ill and she had to leave at once. Her aunt pointed out that she couldn't travel tonight, but she wouldn't listen. Said she'd let her aunt know all about it later. Then she went off and her aunt couldn't stop her."

  "Have you tried the airport bookings? Has she booked for the 'plane in the morning?"