Half-mast for the Deemster (Inspector Littlejohn) Read online

  2

  HEARING ADJOURNED

  As Littlejohn was embarking for the Isle of Man, the court held in Castle Rushen, Castletown, was opening. There was a short list for Deemster Quantrell, but some of the cases looked like taking a lot of time. They were civil actions, giving rise to many opportunities for argument and patience.

  One by one, the officers and advocates gathered in the sunlit room. It was a lofty, well-lit, old-fashioned place, used for many purposes, from magistrates sessions to high-court suits. A constable started to adjust the ventilation in the roof lights to please a barrister who had started sneezing. He self-consciously tugged at the cord, growing redder as it resisted. . . .

  Members of the Manx bar and their clerks opened their brief-cases and scattered papers on the long table which dominated the well of the courtroom. Two pressmen sauntered to the desk behind the lawyers and opened their notebooks. There was nothing exciting in the day's programme and the atmosphere was flat and prosaic. There was a lot of shuffling and whispering; the clerk to the court entered and took his place under the bench facing the advocates. On the raised dais behind him, four small chairs, upholstered in red, with a fifth, larger one, in the centre under the Royal arms. The two chairs on each side of the heavier one were all used by magistrates in petty sessions. To-day, the Deemster would sit alone, with a jury.

  Two or three holidaymakers tiptoed in and a small wiry man with a heavy moustache and a pale wrinkled face followed them. He was the town undertaker and when trade was slack he haunted the courts or the swing bridge over the river where the boats tied-up. The sightseers looked amazed at coming upon the light intimate courtroom in the midst of the huge stone mass of the castle. They had arrived there through dark, chilly passages and worn stone staircases to the ramparts, and then through the small door into another cosier and more civilized world, albeit an old-fashioned, Georgian one.

  The Coroner, a necessary part of this Manx institution, walked in, heavy-footed, workmanlike, chubby, benevolent, mainly concerned with process-serving, but filling few of the more imposing forensic offices of his namesakes on the mainland. In some cases, he could, for a fee of 2/-, represent accused persons, who needn't attend the court at all, and whose fines he would later collect if they were imposed ! He looked round the place, counting the occupants, nodding here and there, and took his seat in a small pew near the back, next to the dock reserved for prisoners in days when criminal as well as civil cases came to Castle Rushen.

  Along the right side of the well of the court ran a jury box, and behind this, a passage, hidden from view and leading to a private door, whence a dark spiral staircase ran down to the Deemster's private quarters. All ears now seemed cocked in the direction of this passage; it was five minutes past the hour of opening. . . .

  The occupants of the courtroom began to shuffle one by one to their feet, the Deemster's pattering footsteps sounded, and a tall, wiry lantern-jawed man appeared on the dais, bounded to his chair and faced the court. He wore black robes and a bob-wig and carried a sheaf of papers. The bar bowed to him and he acknowledged the salute with old-world grace and a wry little smile of the thin lips. He seated himself with a rustle of his gown, cleared his throat, and slipped a pastille in his mouth.

  Deemster Quantrell was in the last year of his office. At the end of that time, he would retire from being first judge, deputy-Governor and second civil officer of importance on the Island, and sink to the level of an ordinary citizen again. That did not bother him much; his chief worry was the fact that his income would fall considerably when he took his pension. He was a poor man, owing to calls on his purse not only arising from his rank, but from elderly members of his family whose fortunes had declined. His shrewd dark eyes glistened as he settled himself. There was ironic humour in his thin mouth, wisdom in his broad, clever forehead, worry in the lined pale face, and parsimony in the long, narrow nose. He glanced at the Coroner, who rose and coughed behind his hand.

  "I fence this Court in the name of our Most Gracious Sovereign Lord the King. I charge that no person do quarrel, brawl or make any disturbance and all persons answer to their names when called. . . . I charge this whole audience to bear witness that this Court is now fenced. . . ."

  The Coroner intoned it slowly and solemnly, like someone tasting the sweets of holding the stage for a brief moment. The court was in session. The jury were sworn without a hitch.

  Willoughby versus Cooil.

  Somebody had been having a garage built and now refused to pay for it, because it wasn't what he had ordered. . . . Or so he said.

  The advocate for the plaintiff rose, hitched his gown on his shoulders. . . .

  Outside, the custodian of the Castle looked glumly at the sky from the office at the main gate. It was a poor day for visitors; too sunny and soft out of doors to tempt them to inspect dungeons, royal and lordly apartments, and prisons which had housed episcopal dignitaries. People nowadays didn't seem to want to learn anything. Once upon a time, he had been kept busy all day and every day with crowds who asked a lot of questions. Now, all they wanted was to whizz around in motor-coaches, gape round the town, eat large quantities of ice-cream and candy-floss, and career about on the dodge'ems on the fun-fair. He sighed. . . .

  "Will you show us round, mister?"

  Suddenly, as from nowhere, three boy scouts clicked their way through the turnstile. Their eager faces glowed with admiration at the peaked-capped, uniformed official, with bristling white moustaches and haughty manner. They thought he owned the place !

  At one, the court adjourned. The Coroner cleared his throat. He had been snoozing, lulled to sleep by the hot autumn sunshine falling across his large bulk through the windows, and by the droning of the lawyers at the bar and the blow-flies on the window-panes.

  "By order of His Honour the Deemster Quantrell this Court stands adjourned. . . ."

  They all rose and the bar bowed to the Deemster and he bowed back to them and withdrew, The occupants of the room gathered in groups and sauntered away to lunch. His Honour had looked preoccupied, they thought, returning with a jerk from time to time to the case in hand, but never once losing grip of the thread, delivering his judgments with dry, impeccable precision and complete grasp of the facts and the law.

  The custodian of the castle was sitting down to fish and chips in his quarters and the Deemster was opening a packet of sandwiches in his room. A policeman deferentially brought in a tray of tea.

  "Thank you. . . ."

  Without his wig and gown, His Honour seemed less like a corpse. Deprived of their black and grey background, he looked healthier and bore the pink of his outdoor jaunts in the small yacht he kept. He always ate sandwiches; his stomach wasn't so good and he was faddy about where and what he ate. There was no canteen here at the court. . . . Some said it was all an excuse of the Deemster's to save the expense of a full-course meal.

  He ate and drank thoughtfully, hardly aware of what was passing his lips. There were books of law on the table before him, his papers at his side, journals and the daily newspapers, but His Honour did not bother to read. He was lost in his own thoughts, scarcely troubling to watch the tea as he poured it from the silver teapot into the cup at his elbow.

  The room was dark and musty and smelled of stone and damp soot. A small fire burned in the old fashioned grate, for even in mild weather, the old building seemed to hold cold and moisture in its grip. His Honour was dining at the head of a large table, the top covered in green baize cloth, with two chairs on either side of him. The bow window facing him in the wall ahead, lighted the place and gave views of the town, of a corner of the bay and little port, and of the gaunt slated gables of Bridge House, once a bank, now an auction-room. The fire flickered and the glass of the framed SPY cartoons on the walls cast back the reflection of the flames. Near the window another door led to a spiral staircase and a private entrance, which was locked.

  Nobody intruded on the silent man eating his simple meal. He had a fixed routine
at the luncheon adjournment wherever he went. He ate his food and then took a nap of forty minutes. He didn't like it if they disturbed him. At 2.15, the constable would call him for the afternoon session. . . .

  Deemster Quantrell wiped his fingers on his napkin, very slowly, meticulously, one by one, and flung it back on the tray, which he pushed away at arm's length. At close quarters, his eyes were pouched and tired. Inch by inch, it seemed, he had, over forty years, made his slow steady course from the bottom to the top of the legal ladder. He had started without money or any influence save the good name of his old family and his personal integrity. He had established a practice, nursed it into becoming the most prosperous in Athol Street, Douglas, the street of advocates. He had married the girl he had always loved and they had been happier than most. He had brought up two nice daughters and seen them married to good men. Then he had been elevated to the bench with everybody's approbation and good wishes; he had risen to first Deemster. On the mainland, as well as on the Island, he was regarded as a wise, reasonable, sound judge and the King had honoured him. Before him stretched years of retirement and leisure in which to write his book, sail his boat, pursue his love of Manx antiquities, amid the friendly and approving people of his own land. . . . Now. . . .

  He sighed and taking off his black-framed spectacles, passed his hand over his brow and rubbed his eyes vigorously, boring into the sockets with his fingers as though he were blinded by his thoughts. Then he opened the drawer above his knees and took out paper. He dipped the pen in the ink and with firm vigorous strokes drove it before him.

  "My dear Inspector Littlejohn . . ."

  And then the nib broke.

  With a gesture of impatience, His Honour screwed up the paper, flung it in the direction of the waste paper basket, took out his fountain-pen, and prepared to begin again. He also began to cough. . . .

  Deemster Quantrell's cough mixture was a standing joke. In winter, when his chest grew worse, he had his medicine on the bench with him and spooned it in his mouth as required. Now, when his spasms were intermittent, he took a dose before he entered the court, sucked lozenges of the same brand during the hearing, and then more liquid after his meal. His cough was a legacy from the first world war, when he had served in the Navy, and had spent a day in the water after a submarine had dealt with his small craft.

  Brandywine's Electric Linctus. That was it. It was a fad of the Deemster's. Nothing else did him so much good, he said. He rose, took the bottle from his overcoat which hung behind the door, and after shaking the mixture, poured a dose in the spoon provided for the purpose on the tray. Then, he sat down to resume his letter. . . .

  The constable found the Deemster sprawling in his chair when he came to wake him. He wasn't a pleasant sight, with his staring eyes, contorted features, and his hands gripping the table before him. At first, P.C. Lace thought His Honour had had a seizure. In fact, he told everybody that, even after he found the judge was dead.

  As they moved the body, they saw the spoiled letter to Littlejohn at the Deemster's feet, where it had rolled after his bad shot at the paper basket.

  That was why they were anxious to see Littlejohn, who had no idea what it was all about and, as Looney's tumbledown chariot trundled over the swing-bridge and along the roadway under the grim walls of Rushen Castle, he felt suddenly like one in a dream, transported to a Kafka world of castles and towers where strange things happened.

  But ahead was the police-station with a man on the doorstep in a helmet and uniform waiting to receive them. The Inspector snapped back into the familiar mood and surroundings of work again.

  A knot of men had gathered in the police-station, a little stone building with a pepperpot tower, admirably in keeping with the ancient town and the great castle which faced and loomed over it. This sort of thing did not happen every day. In fact, murders were rare indeed on the Island and when they did occur, were the work of cranks or crackpots. That of a Deemster was unprecedented. There was no babble or fuss; only bewilderment and grief at the event and a grim determination to avenge it, though how to start had not yet become apparent.

  The police surgeon had stated that Deemster Quantrell had died from a dose of cyanide. How it had been administered, he had yet to find out, and there was to be no delay in the autopsy. But it was cyanide of potash, or prussic acid . . . no doubt whatever about it. You could still smell it faintly on the air around the body.

  The police—two uniformed constables, a sergeant and a plain-clothes man—greeted the Archdeacon civilly and he introduced them to Littlejohn. They didn't know what to say. Shyness overtook them in the presence of a distinguished member of Scotland Yard. There was a sickroom atmosphere about the quiet, plainly furnished office; you might have thought Littlejohn was a specialist, there to consult with a group of general practitioners about a patient. And that he had brought with him a parson, just in case they couldn't do the victim any good. . . .

  The officer introduced as Sergeant Cregeen was temporarily in charge. They were waiting for the Chief Constable to arrive from Douglas. The sergeant was a good, rule-of-thumb officer, who went by the book. And as the book contained no reference to "Deemster, death of. . . .", he was rather at a loss. They had left everything as it was; even the body. The photographers and finger-print men were on the way and due any minute. Meanwhile, they looked to Littlejohn for a lead. "Did you have a good crossing, sir?" asked the sergeant, after clearing his throat behind an enormous hand. He wished to show he was friendly and co-operative.

  "Yes, thanks. . . ."

  "Nice weather we're havin' for the time of year. . . ." He paused and then thought he had better show willing about the case.

  "Maybe you wouldn't mind waiting till the Chief Constable arrives, sir?"

  Littlejohn nodded. "Of course, sergeant." They grinned at each other and the tension was eased.

  Outside, the afternoon sun was shining and the town seemed charged with expectancy and curiosity. Knots of people gathered silently around the castle and police-station, shopkeepers stood at their doors, a party of men demolishing a building had ceased work and were discussing the news.

  "Never knew the likes of it. . . ." one was saying and in the quietness he sounded to be shouting.

  The flag above the castle tower hung torpidly in the still air. Littlejohn looked out and took a turn in the narrow street.

  On the right, the little port with a small coaster tied-up in the river and seeming huge in its surroundings. A pair of swing-bridges, a customs house, and beyond, a small riverside promenade, bordered by old artillery pieces with muzzles buried in the concrete to serve as a palisade. Then a little harbour, a lighthouse, rocks beyond, and a sweep of bay, with a steamer passing on the skyline. A group of large, old houses and a brewery in the foreground. . . .

  To the left, the town-square, with grey stone houses or stuccoed imitations of those in London, copied and erected, it seemed, with a certain nostalgia, by the English garrisons exiled in the capital of the Isle in days gone by. A church with a curious rococo front, square tower, plain glass windows and a view over a wide sweep of the bay. In the centre of the square, a tall sandstone memorial, like a weathered, fluted candlestick, to Cornelius Smelt, one-time governor of the island.

  The town centre was large and dominated, as was everything else, by Rushen Castle, with its one-handed Elizabethan clock, grassy, filled-in moat, sundial and palm trees. The surrounding town houses of past gentility filled two sides of the square, in different colours and styles, still elegant in their shabby way, with a monstrous modern shop-front defacing the façade of one of them, which, until the outrage, must have been a little gem of its kind. The whole setting, the streets, the square, the river, the port and the people standing around reminded you of the first act of a Verdi opera, where, in a medieval, sunny town, the chorus and the supers hang about, woodenly waiting for the principals to enter and bring with them life, excitement and the first stirrings of tragedy.

  You could tell things
were warming-up by watching the movements of the spectators on the road to the town along the riverside. A large red 'busful of sightseers and sensation-seekers halted at the brewery and the passengers eagerly alighted and started asking questions of those loafing there. They had heard things were happening in Castletown and had rushed in hot-foot for news and whatever they could see of horror and of the law steadily and relentlessly functioning. Suddenly, a spasm of attention rooted them where they stood. Then they stirred, craned their necks, and ran to witness the approaching procession.

  "They're here. . . ."

  Seven cars and a van, containing police-officers, reporters, technicians, doctors, lawyers, representatives of the family and a film unit stationed on the Island to produce a thriller. They crossed the swing-bridge, drove one after another along the causeway under the walls of the castle, and into the public car-park near the church. One by one. . . . Like the motorcars on the fun-fair. You almost expected the accompaniment of a steam organ and a wooden hobby-horse, ridden by raffish excursionists, to leap in the midst of them by way of a change. The tailpiece of the procession was an alien red brewery lorry. "Kinnish's Conister Ales !" The driver stolidly held his place, broke from the procession at the memorial candlestick, pursued a wild course down Malew Street, and away, contemptuous of a lot of fuss, and eager to be rid of his barrels of beer. . . .

  The cars emptied themselves, and their occupants formed a ragged procession to the police-station. Somewhere, at sea, a steamer hooted, and a child in a perambulator outside a shop began to wail dismally.

  3

  THE NEW APPRENTICE

  "I THOUGHT he'd had a stroke. I tried to give him a drink of water. . . . There was a bit of a smell of almonds, but I thought he'd been eatin' nuts. . . ."

  The constable who had found the murdered man kept telling it first to one, then to another, over and over again, as though trying to clear himself of suspicion.