Lies in Lashbrook 24

 

Chapter 24

 

Miss Thripp had not, in point of fact, locked her back door when she stumbled out into the village after the cruel beating Edgar had given her. It was unlikely that she ever locked it until she went to bed at night, and not then if Edgar was out. Ida tripped upstairs to Miss Thripp’s bedroom arming herself with an umbrella on her way. She opened every door upstairs, standing back to listen for the sounds of anyone within. She tied a scarf round the handle of the door with brown man’s shoes visible under the bed, pulled it shut, and tied the other end to the bathroom door. If Edgar was there, he might be able to get out, but not without a lot of noise. She might then work on packing without fear of being interrupted. It was not something a man should do; Miss Thripp would be shocked at the idea of a man rifling through her underwear.

Ida discovered that Edgar had had no such niceness of feeling, and had not only rummaged, but emptied out every drawer, searching for money. Ida made a noise of disgust, sorted out what to pack on the bed, and tidied everything else away. Technically, it was interfering with a crime scene, but they knew who they were after. And pilfering was the least charge against Edgar.

 The top of the closet yielded an old fashioned carpet bag which would do admirably for the necessities of life for a visit. Ida swiftly made sure there were a sufficiency of drawers, stockings, and petticoats, and a couple of warm vests in case the weather, so uncertain at this time of year, should prove inclement.  A couple of skirts and blouses to ring the changes, and a coat-dress should be ample, as well as walking shoes, carpet slippers, and a clean nightdress and dressing-gown.

There had been no frantic attempts to escape, so Ida risked undoing the scarf to get Miss Thripp’s toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom, and a couple of towels. That should do.

The men came upstairs after having performed a relatively perfunctory search downstairs, acquiring a picture of Edgar, to send to other police districts. They went into his room, without much expectation of finding much; and indeed, Edgar had stripped most of what he had brought with him.

His shoes, however, yielded a nice clear thumb print.

“If we can match that to the partial thumb print on the tweezers, we shall tie him to the workroom,” said Alexander, pleased. “But now we need to find him.”

“Do you suppose he was bold enough to stay in the abandoned house?” asked Ida.

“This is Edgar Thripp we’re talking about,” scoffed Tim. “Sorry, sirs, but he’s always been a nasty little beast, but a cowardly one. I know he meant our deaths, but I reckon he could guess that people would know where we went, and that meant sooner or later there would be a search party. I don’t think it occurred to him that there was ventilation and he meant us to suffocate, but even if we did not, it delayed pursuit. He knows now he’s wanted on the railway, and he’d have to hide somewhere until the weekly bus into Oxford. And catching that would be fraught with danger of people recognising him. He has all his clothes, I think he would try to thumb a lift into either Oxford or London, and is walking to the main road.”

“It’s a reasonable supposition,” said Alexander. “Tim, if you go with Campbell, and drive into Oxford, to let them take a picture of that portrait, and then on into London, you might even overtake him.”

“It’s worth a try,” said Tim. “Oxford City Police can telegraph the photo to London, but it’s worth going part way and coming back then on the London road.”

 

Alexander was glad to be dropped off back at Heywood Hall with Ida. They had taken a detour to the other end of the village so Ida could give Miss Thripp her valise, to that lady’s heartfelt gratitude. She declared her positive intent to sing Katisha in the full rehearsal on the morrow. Alexander smiled when Ida told him.

“Fred will be pleased,” he said. “Oh no. Someone needs to tell Miss Brinkley.”

“I expect the vicar will,” said Ida. “You need to lie down; you look all in.”

“I’m all in, I’m afraid,” he said. “Ida! When I proposed to you, I was hale and hearty. That damned belly wound and subsequent things is making me feel like an old man. I... I’m ten years older than you, if you want me to release you from the engagement, I will understand.  And I know I will have to leave Heywood Hall, which is essentially yours, but perhaps you’ll let me stay until....”

“Alexander Simon Caleb Frederick Armitage!” Ida put her fists on her slender hips and glared at him. “I love you. I adore you. You are going to marry me, even if I have to mummify you in bandages to get you to the altar, you adorable, overly-noble, idiotic fool!  You are injured. It’s taking a while to heal. I’d love you if you were in a wheelchair for the rest of your life.  I’m not going to put up with such morbid maunderings, do you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Alexander. “I didn’t want you to feel tied by pity for me.”

“Now that is the biggest bunch of baloney I have ever heard,” said Ida. “I don’t pity you; what is there to pity? You are a brave man with too much bravery at times... no, I take that back, you wouldn’t be the same man if you didn’t go into the weir after drowning people, but you have to accept the consequences. And if it takes years for you to heal, it takes years for you to heal, though I’m not sure what the Yard would think.”

“Ida... would you mind if I sent in my resignation and became a private eye?” blurted out Alexander.

“You know, that would be a jolly good idea,” said Ida, taking the wind out of Alexander’s eye.  “Have you been hesitating over suggesting it?”

“Well, yes,” said Alexander. “An inspector of police at Scotland Yard is a respectable man; but a private eye might be seen as a bit... seedy.”

“Oh, pooh,” said Ida. “With Sherlock Holmes, and Hercule Poirot, and now a new hero, a Lord Peter Wimsey, in a new book I’ve been reading, I should think private eyes are becoming quite respectable.”

“Well, if you don’t mind...”

“You should call yourself a consulting detective, to associate yourself with Sherlock Holmes, rather than some sordid gumshoe, sleazing around people’s infidelities,” said Ida.

“Yes, dear,” said Alexander.

That was when the doorbell jangled in a frenzied carillon of cacophony.

Mary answered the door.

“Where is he?” it was Amabel Brinkley. “Where’s Armitage?”

“Mr. Armitage is not well,” said Mary.

Amabel pushed past her, and into the library where Ida had gone to the door.

“You did this!” she screamed. “You slandered my Edgar! Everyone is saying he’s the poison-pen, and a murderer!”

“He is the poison-pen and a murderer,” said Alexander, rising.  “He tried to kill me twice today.”

“You’re lying! Or at least wrong!” cried Amabel. She advanced on Alexander, and managed to rake his face. Fortunately, her nails were cut short as befits an infant teacher,

Ida grabbed her arms.

“My fiancée was hurt this morning by Edgar; I was there, I saw it,” said Ida. “He reopened an old wound.  And then he locked Alex and Tim Mapp and Mr. Campbell into the cellar in the abandoned house where he compiled his poison-pen letters expecting them to suffocate down there.”

“There was a letter to you,” said Alexander. “I was going to make sure it never saw the light of day, but I’m going to tell you that he was not kind. He wanted so much to throw the blame on Miss Thripp that he wrote to you too, and I fancy, because it’s truly spiteful, that he meant every word, because he was only romancing you to be able to hint to you that it was Miss Thripp. I can’t say what he wrote to you, it was foul.”

“I, however, won’t hide the letter I saw when we were taking the evidence to lock it up,” said Ida, grimly. “He called you a silly old maid for thinking that a handsome and personable young man might fancy you. I don’t know who he meant, as I didn’t know you were going out with a handsome and personable young man, since I thought you were going out with Edgar.”

“How dare you!”

“How dare I what?” said Ida. “Tell the truth? He was using you.”

Amabel slapped Ida.

Ida slapped her back, turned her arm up behind her, and frog-marched her out of the front door. She slammed it. Amabel hung on the bell and hammered at the door for several minutes. Ida phoned the rectory.

“Dr.  Brinkley?” she said. “I wish you will come to Heywood Hall and pick up your niece; ask Dr.  Craiggie to drive you and bring a sedative, she is having a breakdown.”  The earpiece quacked in enquiry. “She is upset about Edgar Thripp being a fugitive, and thinks that Alex has somehow made it up. She’s hysterical. And no, I don’t care if it is a party line, she was most intemperate. I think she may need a nursing home.” She listened. “Yes, thank you.” She rang off.

“Poor woman,” said Alexander. “I don’t want to expose what he said, but she needs to appreciate that Edgar was using her.”

“I doubt she will,” said Ida. “Not for a while, anyway. I don’t see what she sees in him, myself, he makes me feel grubby. Well, we shall have to sing without music.”

“Let me put through a call,” said Alexander. He telephoned his father.

“Pater! How are Ruth and Millie?” he asked.

“Fine, and don’t call me Pater,” said Simon Armitage.

“I want a favour,” said Alexander.

“Nothing new,” said Simon “And what’s that, son?”

“I need to borrow a parlour organ, an organist who knows Gilbert and Sullivan, and to have them here by tomorrow at one o’clock,” said Alexander.

There was a long silence.

“I’ll handle it,” said Simon.

“Thanks, dad! You’re the best,” said Alexander. “We have an extra couple of list verses, and an extra more humane Mikado verse.”

“I can handle it,” said Simon.

“You saved the show,” said Alexander. “Our pianist was in love with our murderer.”

“Never helpful,” said Simon. “Can Ruth and Millie come home?”

“No,” said Alexander. “Chummie is still on the loose.”

“Not good,” said Simon.

“Out of my hands,” said Alexander.

The screeching and accusations began again as Alexander rang off, and Alexander heard Tim Mapp’s voice telling Amabel to calm down. The screeching continued.

“I’m not taking this,” said Jeff. “You’re under arrest, my girl, for wasting police time, suspicion of harbouring a fugitive, and suspicion of being an accessory after the fact. Tim, my lad, we need to get back to her cottage and see if she’s hiding Thripp there.”

“Drop me short of it, so I can get round the back,” said Tim. “I was looking forward to dinner with you, too. What a nuisance! I shall have to stay in the police house if I have her in the lock-up.  Miss Brinkley, stop that noise, you sound like one of your mixed infants.”

Tim had the advantage of not having been taught by Amabel Brinkley, who was only a couple of years older than he was, but it still took an act of will not to defer to the rector’s niece.

And then the rector and Dr. Craiggie arrived.

Alexander opened the door.

“Doctors!  Come in and partake of pot luck with us when Jeff and Campbell return; I’m sorry, Tim, another time, you and Maggie. If Miss Brinkley is not harbouring a fugitive, you can probably let her go on her own recognisances tomorrow, and Ida will not press charges of assault.”

“Assault!” cried Dr. Brinkley. “Amabel! Surely not!”

“They are saying that Edgar is the poison-pen and killed those women!” sobbed Amabel.

“Well, yes, and I fear I was praying for advice on how to break it to you when Major Armitage phoned me that you were hysterical,” said Brinkley.  “My dear, I am so sorry, but better to find out now than after marriage and perhaps being with child.”

Jeff firmly manhandled the distraught woman to the car, and the doctors came into the house.

“Dear me, poor Amabel, I hope the police will not have to hold her long,” said Brinkley.

“That depends if she was harbouring a fugitive, and if she can be brought to understand that I am not running some kind of vendetta against Edgar Thripp,” said Alexander. Dr. Brinkley looked at his scratched face, and winced. “If she is harbouring him, and cannot be brought to understand that he is a criminal, it may take going before a magistrate and being censured. And I hope it will not come to that, as she would have to be dismissed as a schoolteacher, as the school cannot have a whiff of scandal, and that would be a shame, since she is a victim too, used and victimised by Thripp.”

“Dear me, yes, indeed,” said Brinkley. “I will arrange for her to go to a nice quiet nursing home until September, so it can all be forgotten. I am sure one of the older girls will take over for a term.”

“Maud Braithwaite,” said Alexander. “I plan to employ her as my secretary, the child is in need of more stimulation than serving fish and chips.”

“Child? She’s not more than a year younger than I am,” said Ida.

“She seems much more of a child,” said Alexander. “Gladys will lick her into shape.”

Ida nodded; she was not jealous of Maud; she was secure in Alexander’s love.

 

Lies in Lashbrook 23

 

Chapter 23

 

Whilst Alexander was having his knees patched up, Jeff Morrel had managed to obtain the necessary warrants, being able to add to his evidence the guilty flight of the suspect as telegraphed by Ida.  Unable to do anything more than alert the local constabulary, Jeff retired to the train, to return to Lashbrook. He was hoping to be back in time for lunch. It was only by coincidence that he glanced out of the window at Shiplake, where the train slowed, and looked into the eyes of Edgar Thripp. Jeff swore, a habit he had learned in the force, and which would be deplored by his strict Methodist parents.

He was given a shocked look by a stern looking lady with a moustache, but heeded it not as he leaped for the communications cord. The train wheezed to a stop, and Jeff leaped out, waving his ID at the irate guard.

“Murder fugitive,” said Jeff and barrelled through the small station in pursuit of Edgar. He got out of the door in time to see the man sailing away on his bicycle.

Shiplake was a smaller settlement than Lashbrook, being no more than a hamlet, and on Dan Reckitt’s rounds as a postman for two of the four deliveries Lashbrook ranked. There were no stray bicycles to be requisitioned, and the only vehicle in sight was a six-horsepower Burrell traction engine,[1] pulling a cartload of turnips. Jeff considered requisitioning the engine, and discarded it, managing to laugh at himself over the idea of a slow speed chase. He had heard that traction engines could reach twelve miles an hour under ideal conditions, and only when well-tuned.  This one was more likely to reach a top speed of five miles an hour, and a man on a bicycle could easily double that. He made a mental note to ask Ida to sketch the idea.

Jeff bethought himself of the pay-telephone in the station, and dialled the police house in Lashbrook.  The phone rang until a bored sounding operator spoke up.

“Sir, the other party isn’t answering, please clear the line,” she said.

“Can you get me the station in Lashbrook, then?” asked Jeff.

“Please insert another penny in the slot,” said the operator.  Jeff did so, and after a couple of rings, he was answered.

“Lashbrook station,” said Bert, or was it Jack?  One of the Busby brothers, members of the chorus, and one of the brothers the ticket clerk.

“Is Fred there?” asked Jeff.  “I’m trying to reach Tim Mapp.”

“I’m sorry, sir, Tim’s off ferreting out some tramp in the abandoned house,” said Jack [or Burt.]

“Can you let him know Edgar Thripp is heading back to Lashbrook, if you see him?” asked Jeff.

“Yessir, of course,” said Burt [or Jack.] Jeff hung up.

“Well, damn,” said Jeff, preparing to walk the two or three miles into Lashbrook.

 

 

 

 

“Well, damn!” said Campbell, unaware that he echoed Jeff Morrell’s words of some half an hour previously.

“People do know we’re here,” said Tim. “I didn’t hide the intent to search for the man who assaulted you.”

“We have three choices,” said Alexander. “Sit tight because people will come; use the jemmy on the hinges of this door; or go searching for the ventilation shaft many of these old cellars have to help air flow and keep things cool. I saw something in the garden which looked a bit like an overgrown beehive, and that could well be the ventilation. It stops condensation.”

“There is a zinc screen over here,” said Tim. “I... I’m trying not to panic.”

“You’ll be fine; help will come and we can’t suffocate with an airway. Pry it off, and let’s see what sort of shaft there is,” said Alexander.

Campbell made short work of stripping off the zinc screen.

“Nice forty-five degree shaft wot turns into a chimbley,” he said. “Shouldn’t be much of a climb.”

“Can you fit in it?” asked Alexander.

“Piece o’ piss,” said Campbell. “You wait there, sir, and I’ll ’ave you both aht o’ there in a jiffy.”

He disappeared into the shaft. Several cockney and a few French obscenities drifted down to the other two men. Alexander winced.

“He only swears in French when much moved,” he told Tim. “If need be, I imagine we could also get out that way, but if he comes round and unlocks for us, even better. Now! Let us use our time wisely. We have evidence to take up, and I see a few old crates in the corner into which to put it.”

Tim nodded, glad of something to do.

“I’m not keen on underground places,” he confided.  “I don’t much like going to see Fred’s railway layout even. That has a shaft like this one,” he added.

“Yes, you need it in an air-raid shelter for people to breathe, as much as for stores,” said Alexander. “When this was built, it was on the outskirts of the village, which was much smaller, centred around the green and the ‘Clene Shepe.’ They would have laid in stores for the winter, no doubt.”

“We can get a good snow if the wind is in the right quarter,” agreed Tim. “I confess with a big posh house, I thought it would be a wine cellar.”

“I’m sure that some wine was kept down here,” said Alexander. “But as this is at the front of the house, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was another cellar at the back.”

“There’s servants’ stairs, and a cubby under them but it’s full of junk,” said Tim. “And it’s dark and creepy at the back.”

“Well, if I buy it as a community centre, it will be cleaned and bright everywhere,” said Alexander.

“Oh! Is that what you were thinking of, sir?” said Tim.

“It seems a shame to waste it,” said Alexander. “The building itself seems in good nick, I don’t know about the roof, but it shouldn’t take much to get it mended and weather-proof. Then we can have half a dozen typewriters and sewing machines in for lessons, whether for careers or hobbies doesn’t matter, but with women taking bigger roles since the war, it seems sensible to have training for suitable roles. And not limited to women, of course. We could have room for the railway club Fred hankers after, we can make costumes for plays more easily with sewing machines, have cookery classes, which would help many a bachelor or widower, maybe gardening classes and how to prune without killing things, and start a library as well.”

“You have it all thought out!” said Tim, in awe.

“No, but I am getting there,” said Alexander, hoping that if he kept burbling on it would keep Tim from claustrophobia. “These sorts of houses often have music rooms as well, which are designed for good acoustics, where music lessons could be held.  I was thinking that we might hold a subscription to belong, and have subsidised or free classes for subscribers.”

“I’d join,” said Tim. “A library would be wonderful.”

“I confess, even though I hope to be a P.I., I shall want something more to occupy me, and running a community centre could help no end,” said Alexander. “I have been thinking that with going for a little swim after Emma, and coming off my bike, I really do not want to climb that shaft. My knee is still complaining, and so is my belly. I’m not fit to be a copper, and I suspect it will be a year or more before I am. And they won’t let me stay off that long; I’d have to cash in my chips. I’ll keep up with the Yard, of course, through Jeff and others, but that little brush with mortality caused me more trouble than I was prepared to admit at first.  I want to keep the ownership of the community centre so no damned county authority can mess about with it.”

“Very wise, sir, or close it down to strip the assets so some councillor can have a new car,” said Tim.

“Ah, a cynic; very wise,” laughed Alexander. “Hark! I hear the key. Either it’s Campbell or gnomes.”

“I ain’t a gnome, I got a gnome to go to,” said Campbell, coming in. “An’ ’ere’s Miss Ida ’oo I runned into in the garden, lookin’ for you.”

“Oh Alex!” said Ida, running forward to hug him. Campbell stayed by the door.  He did not want anyone else shutting them in again; his chauffeur’s uniform was already somewhat spidery from the cobwebs in the air shaft and he had had an encounter with what he later described to Gladys as ‘The biggest bleedin’ spider you ever saw.’ Campbell would not profess to be scared of spiders; not exactly; but he did admit to finding them a trifle unnerving. He would rescue them from the bath stoically because he had been brought up with the superstition that killing a spider was bad luck; he was just taken aback to come face to face with a particularly fine specimen of Tegeneria parietina, otherwise known as the Cardinal Spider, so named because this species is said to have terrorised Cardinal Wolsey in Hampton Court Palace.  She had woven her web to take advantage of flies creeping through the slats in the wooden beehive-like structure over the air shaft, and took exception to some clumsy human breaking through it. Her appearance had been what had moved Campbell to French, declaiming, ‘Merde! Gerratavit you ’airy-legged monster, sales araignée, une tricoteuse de Guillotine, bloody knittin’ webs in front o’ me.’

What Madame Tricoteuse replied, if anything, remains unrecorded, but she retreated before the sheer bulk of her unusual catch and waited for the wind of his passing to settle before setting out to restore her web.

Between them, without bothering to get the vicar and his man, they loaded the car with evidence, and drove to the church.

“Disturbing your distillery again, I’m afraid, Oliver,” said Alexander, seeing the lugubrious sexton cutting back grass from around the graves.

“Have you got a body there?” asked Oliver, suspiciously.

“No, only the body of evidence,” said Alexander. They unloaded the car and locked the crypt, and returned to the car as Jeff’s weary figure rounded the side of the churchyard, heading for the road to Heywoods Hall.

“Hey, Jeff, you look like you lost half-a-crown and found a thruppenny bit,” said Alexander.

“I feel rather like it,” said Jeff. “I saw Thripp out of the window and pulled the cord, but he got away on a bike.  Ida, you’d have laughed and drawn my thoughts when I considered borrowing a Burrell general use engine to pursue him. I didn’t, of course, and found you out of the police house, so I called the station and walked.”

“Oh, dear, the hare and the tortoise. But the tortoise won because it was dogged,” said Ida.

“As it happens, we know he’s been in Lashbrook,” said Alexander, ruefully. “He locked us in the cellar of the abandoned house, and Campbell had to argue a spider into undoing her knitting to let us out.”

“You will be whimsical, Major, sir,” said Campbell.

“Well, if I understood your French invective well enough, that was what I understood you to say,” said Alexander.

“There was a lot o’ eyes and mandibibbles,” said Campbell.

“And you braved them manfully for which we are grateful,” said Alexander. “Truly so, I’m not taking the Mickey.”

“It was a bit much,” acknowledged Campbell. “Well, her’n’me decided not to interfere wiv each uvver.”

“Wise,” said Alexander. “Spiders can give you a nasty bite, if they’re irritable and some people are allergic, and to have you pass out on your way to release us would not have been good for either of us. No, I’m not joking, it’s not as common as people who can die of a bee sting, but it happens. I knew a lad in Arles, he had been bitten as a child, and got bitten again, he lost his arm.”

“Strewth!” said Campbell. “I’ll be real polite next time.”

“I want to search the Thripp house,” said Jeff. “He may have made a run for home.”

“Not if he knew you were after him,” said Alexander. “Oh! That was why he came here, hoping that Tim would have given it a superficial search and then he could come back to it. We have all the evidence of his poison-pen manufacturing, and I’m glad we intercepted it, there’s a filthy one to Mrs. Reckitt, accusing her of faking her illness so she can have an affaire with Craiggie and it bothers me that if her heart is weak, it could kill her from shock.”

“Nasty,” said Jeff. “I know it will upset Miss Thripp, but can we please go and search?”

“Miss Thripp is safely over the other side of the village with Miss Harmon and Miss Goodie,” said Alexander. “I suggest we use burglarious means to break in, and Ida can pack a valise for Miss Thripp and we’ll take it over and break it to her that he is a fugitive.”

“I fancy she already knows,” said Ida. “She’s very sharp. And having taken a beating from Edgar may have been a bit of a giveaway as well.”

“I imagine the whole village knows,” said Alexander. “But at least that’s two hundred pairs of eyes watching for him. If you phoned the station, Jeff, I reckon at least a dozen people listened in.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Jeff. “I’m a Londoner and I’m not used to party lines!”

“I know that there are three main party lines, and Mrs. Thruppence, Mrs. Braithwaite and Mrs. Kennings, the hardware man’s wife, you know, wait for a triple ding from one or other, and the information passes on with that,” said Ida.

“Worth knowing but at times a nuisance,” said Jeff.

 

---

[1] A 1909 model found everywhere on farms and towing loads, in service until after WW2 in places.

Lies in Lashbrook 22 requested bonus

 

Chapter 22

 

“I feel a fraud, asking for a lift, now I’ve had a rest,” Alexander said to Campbell.

“Jus’ accept that we worry about you, major,” said Campbell, gruffly. “I’ll see you in, then I’ll be back to ’elp young Mapp search that ’ouse. You be’ave yourself.”

“Yes, Campbell,” said Alexander, meekly. He let himself be installed in a wing-back chair in the library in slippers and a dressing gown,  fetched by Campbell, and pyjama bottoms to replace his torn and bloodied trousers. Campbell also covered Alexander’s wounds with Lady Armitage’s comfrey cream, and re-did the dressings with swift gentle efficiency which Alexander appreciated. Alexander found himself wrapped in a rug, with a tot of whisky, a plate of ginger-nuts, and a magazine called ‘The Wizard.’

“Really?” he said to Campbell.

“It’s a boy’s magazine from DC Thomson, so you know it’s quality,” said Campbell. “It’s got some ripping good stories in it – Ruff the Ruthless, he’s an RFC ace, like Mr. Basil, and the Wolf of Kabul, a spy out on the Whodostans. You’ll enjoy it.”

Alexander found himself enjoying the boys’ comic more than he expected, sniggering at the concept of Wilson, who was supposedly born in the eighteenth century but had acquired mastery over his own body, and was involved in derring-do, faking his death and re-inventing himself from time to time; reading about Ruthless Ruff, a bittersweet reminder of his friendship with Basil Henderson, and sniggering at the outrageous spy story set on the northwest frontier of India, or what Campbell referred to as the ‘Whodostans.’

 

 

Alexander jumped at the ring of the telephone, and answered  the extension which was in the library, having finished the magazine, and being in a better frame of mind than he had expected. Perhaps it was Jeff, or Fred, with a telegram regarding a sighting of Thripp.

“Hello?” he said, cautiously.

“Sir? This is Tim Mapp. I do apologise, but I’ve sent Campbell to get you, this is outside my pay grade. I know you’re on sick leave, but you are a Police Inspector, and you can advise me.”

“That sounds very ominous, Tim. Yes, I’ll come. And you’d better not say a word more, I heard at least five more clicks on the party line from those avid for details.”

“Yessir. I mean, nossir,” said Tim.

It was a nuisance that they were on a party line, but that was the way it went.

 

Alexander went up to his room to change into decent trousers and a matching jacket, and put his shoes back on. He returned downstairs, picked up his hat, where he had left it on the coat rack by the front door, and absently plied the clothes brush in the vestibule to deal with the detritus it had picked up when he came off the bike.

“My goodness, I must have looked a fright,” he said to his reflection in the mirror.

The mirror made no comment, but then, Alexander would have worried if it had. He heard the car coming up the drive, and tried to run out and found himself limping rather more than running. He grimaced. Gravel rash was a minor injury but it hurt out of all proportion to its seriousness.

He would loosen up in a day or two, no doubt.  He waved a bandaged hand to Campbell.

“You were right about the comic, I enjoyed it,” he said. “Very far fetched.”

“You say that, Major, you say that,” said Campbell, “But where Ruthless Ruff is concerned, some very strange things happened in the war to aviators. Why, Mr. Basil leaped from a burning plane early in his career, when he was gunner in a Brisfit, and ’is pilot jumped too, and Mr. Basil came through spruce pines with snow on, which broke ’is fall, and landed gentle as gentle in a snowdrift; and ’is pilot landed on an ol’ dead tree which impaled ’im good an’ proper like a vampire wiv a stake frough ’is ’eart. Fair give Mr. Basil a turn when ’e fahnd ’im, I can tell you!”

“Indeed, I imagine so,” said Alexander. “He told the story of another Brisfit which came home and made a perfect three point landing, and pilot and gunner were stone dead, and judging by how cold they were, had been for hours.”

“An’ other weird stories,” said Campbell. “Strewf! You can’t make it up.”[1]

“So, what’s amiss in the house that it’s too hush-hush for the party line?” asked Alexander, getting back to the matter in hand.

“Well, we don’t rightly know, on account o’ the locked door,” said Campbell. “Which Tim didn’t like to break open nowise wivaht aufority, see?”

“Yes, I see,” said Alexander. “Not put on by the kids?”

“Nah, not nowise,” said Campbell. “That’s a proper job, you would’n’ get a lock like vat in vat little bit of an ’ardware store on the main street. I don’ say it’s been put on proper-like, because it ain’t, not nowise, an’ it should’n’ be ’ard to jemmy, but it’s a deadlock. An’ Tim wants your aufority to jemmy it, me ’aving the tools, but ’im ’avin’ the wind up wivaht orders, not bein’ a matter of immediate life an’ deaf.”

“Quite, and some chief constables can be very bluenosed about country coppers taking initiative,” said Alexander.

“Erzackerly,” said Campbell. “I know Lieutenant-Colonel Poulton was a straight guy over fings when Foursquares burned dahn, but you dunno ’ow ’e might be wiv a bobby wivaht a war record.”

Alexander nodded.  There was very much the divide of ‘us’ and ‘them’ between those who had served in the Great War, and those who had not; and moreover, though in theory any man could rise through the force, some of the top brass were stricter with the uniforms than with detectives.

“Well, I was half considering retiring to become a P.I., anyway, so if I get bawled out it doesn’t really matter,” said Alexander. “And as well to not make Jeff Morrell make the decision for the same reason.”

“Jus’ wot I fort, him needin’ the salary and you not,” said Campbell, turning into the overgrown drive of the abandoned house without pause. Alexander ducked instinctively as branches impacted the windscreen. The car had a roof, but the overgrown trees made him feel that way. They scraped overhead.

“Are we in danger of them coming in?” asked Alexander.

“They ain’t big, jus’ noisy,” said Campbell.

Tim was sitting on the front step of the Victorian house, built, Alexander thought, before the railway. It was red brick, and he judged it to have five or six bedrooms, too large really for most of the village people.

It would, however, make an exceptionally good community centre for lessons and as a hobbies and arts centre. But that was for the future.

“Lead on, Macduff, if I may misquote,” he said to Tim.

“It hasn’t been out of scrutiny,” said Tim. “I left Jim here while I went down to the hardware shop to call you. I thought I ought to ask you officially.”

Alexander nodded. He would have been as happy to have come if Jim Campbell had asked him to attend, but it was perhaps as well that Tim was rather proper about protocol. Tim led the way into the house, which was dark and gloomy for the boarded up windows, save where the odd board had been pulled down. The hall was generous in size, with side rooms off either side, and a narrow corridor after going through a green baize door to the nether regions of the house, once occupied by servants. To the side, and under the staircase was another door. It had a remarkably modern looking lock on it.

 “It goes down to the cellar,” said Tim. “There’s a steep and rather creepy stair and another door at the bottom. When I was a kid playing here, we used to dare each other to go down the stairs and knock on the door at the bottom. One time when I did it, the lower door was off the latch and when I knocked, it swung open with a creak. I think I beat any record there may be for climbing stairs to get away.  I suspected Edgar Thripp of having slipped down to open it a little before challenging me.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me; he does seem to have been rather a little beast all round,” said Alexander. “I wonder if he was the Boy Scout who suggested killing someone naked to avoid blood stains on clothes.”

“Matter of fact, I think it was,” said Tim. “If it wasn’t, he was there, and I bet he remembered the idea. Anyway, this door has a lock on it. I thought it would be easiest to take off the hinges.”

“I can get a jemmy into the lock,” said Campbell.

“Go on, then,” said Alexander. “Rather than wholesale destruction of the fittings.”

Campbell made short work of the lock, which did not appear to have been fitted terribly expertly, and the door opened.

“I got my bicycle lantern,” said Tim. “I thought it would be a good idea.”

“Good man,” said Alexander. “I’ll go first so you can say I did any breaking and entering.”

“I’m not scared any more,” protested Tim, but his voice shook.

“You ’old the light for us,” said Campbell. “Don’t worry, we won’t snitch.”

“This is a place which is redolent with memories for you, and not pleasant ones,” said Alexander. “Not so for us, so we’ll go ahead.”

“Thanks,” said Tim, ruefully.

They negotiated the steep stairs, which went down parallel to the staircase above, and Alexander opened the door at the bottom. It did not creak at all.

“Oiled,” said Alexander. “I see a Tilley lamp, here, Campbell, can you see any meths to get it going?”

“Yerse, some ’ere,” said Campbell. “Don’ forget to let the pressure orf of it.”

Alexander had not forgotten, but also checked that there was kerosene in the lamp. Campbell produced matches and got the pre-lighter going, and when it went yellow, Alexander ‘tickled’ the pump until the bright, blue-white light threw every corner into sharp relief; and revealed the poison-pen’s workroom.

“I should have taken fingerprints first,” said Alexander. “But it does help to have some light upon the subject.”

“There’s a notebook here with suggested messages,” said Tim. “I think a handwriting expert could match it.”

“And I’ll dust the mantle of the lamp,” said Alexander. “We have to move the lot of this out. But we’ll do the chairs, the table, there’s a dictionary and I wager he did not bother with gloves down here. Tweezers. Fine, we have about two hours’ work here with fingerprinting; go get my kit from the car, please, Campbell, and then when we’ve done that, you can run and ask for aid from the vicar and Oliver, we’ll lock it all in the crypt.”

 

They worked with grim determination to catalogue any possible finger print; the door proved a good source. Tim was sure none of the local kids would ever come into the cellar.

“I hope there will be a sufficiency of prints in his own home to prove his guilt,” said Tim. “What if he wiped everything before he fled?”

“I wonder if he wiped the chamber-pot,” said Alexander. “It’s of no moment, we’ll have the prints waiting for when he is picked up, and he’s bound to be picked up sooner or later. The telegraph has gone out describing him and asking for him to be detained. I’m inclined to think he’s more likely to go to Oxford than Aylesbury; he knows Oxford, knows how things are done, and can sign up as an academic reader under a false name. We can ask to speak to all new academics, and go through the hotels as well. Or rather, the Oxford city police can do so. Miss Thripp has photos of him to copy. I don’t think he can elude arrest for long.”

“Major? I thought I heard a noise,” said Campbell, cocking his head on one side.

“If any of those dratted kids have come into the house for a necking party, I wager they’ll think we’re ghosts or vampires and will leave quicker than they came,” joked Alexander. “If they peer down the steps, the lamp is going to be casting an eerie blueish glow on the wall through the gap of the door.”

“I wonder if I ought to go up and warn them off,” said Tim. “We don’t really want half the local youths tramping all over the place and gawping.”

“Yes, maybe you should,” said Alexander.

Tim moved towards the door, but suddenly it slammed.

“A draught...” said Alexander.

Outside, a key turned.

“That was not a draught,” said Campbell. “Hey! You kids! We’re the police! Unlock that door!”

There was a rather high pitched male giggle from the other side of the door.

“Now who’s stupid, Mr. Nosy-Parker Armitage?” said Edgar’s voice in a sing-song. “There’s no way out and you’ll die down here.”

He did not trouble to hide the sound of his footsteps on the stairs going up.

 

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[1] Both stories are documented occurrences from the Great War.