lies in Lashbrook 9

 I didn't post, I'm so sorrry I didn't post I feel so ill I don't even know whiah way up I am 

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Chapter 9

 

Jeff Morrell arrived as the company was finishing eating.

“Here, we’ve some odds and ends left over, dig in,” said Alexander.

“Well, I don’t mind if I do; it isn’t like accepting a drink,” said Jeff. “I wanted to find out where everyone was, yesterday, between ten-fifteen when Helen spoke to Irma, and half after midday when Alexander and Jimmy Campbell found the body. It’s a fairly tight window.  We believe she walked down Sandy Lane – oh, all right, Lover’s Lane,” he amended as he heard an interrogative noise from one of the cast, “And on to the footbridge over the weir. Which is visible at its centre from the road bridge the other side of Lover’s Lane, because I tested it.  I don’t know that you could identify people though. But anything anyone saw, might help.”

“Oh! I must have been on the footbridge right before that poor child got there!” cried Miss Thripp. “I went to Oxford to buy... something.” She flushed.

“They do better lingerie there than one can get locally,” said Ida.

“Oh! Well, I don’t know if you’d call it l...lingerie,” said Miss Thripp, blushing again.

“I don’t need details about a lady’s undergarment needs,” said Jeff, hastily. “You went to Oxford, that’s all I need.”

“Yes, I remember, you almost missed the train,” said Fred Chaffinch.

“I thought you left in plenty of time,” said Edgar.

“I did,” said Miss Thripp. “I... I encountered a problem on the way. I had to find a secluded place and a safety pin. And do you know, I would swear the elastic had been cut but who would do a thing like that? Or look in my tallboy for... for...” she fell into blushing incoherence.

Ida drew her aside.

“Shopping for corsets and had your drawers fall down on the way?” she asked, quietly.

“Oh, my dear! Such a thing to have to mention in front of policemen!” said the poor little woman.

“I have no inhibitions about such things, but there are ways and ways to go about it,” said Ida. “I’ll handle it. A nasty trick if it was cut.”

“I suppose anyone could wander into the house when I am teaching; Edgar goes out for walks or cycle rides, and nobody locks their house, of course!  I don’t recall any little boy being truant – it is such a prank of a small boy, such as Fred might have perpetrated when he was young, but of course, he grew out of such things! But I had to find a bush where I might be private and join the two ends in a hurry so I would not miss my train, because the Easter holidays are not long, and my corset is quite worn, and I had to have another, and one cannot attend church if one is not properly accoutred, and I was ashamed that I was starting to sag quite horribly!”

“Indeed, any woman understands,” said Ida. “Would Edgar play such a trick?”

“Oh, my dear! Surely he is too old for such... and he is so attentive to me, I cannot think... I know he has tales of high jinks he and other students cut at Oxford, but... no, surely not!”

Ida personally suspected that Edgar’s attentiveness owed more to a cash flow problem than familial respect, and did not put it past him to embarrass his aunt if it could not be brought home to him, but she did not push the matter. It might, after all, be down to her personal dislike for Edgar, who had made a pass at her on Monday.

Jeff had determined that Fred, the Busby brothers and Les Edgington were at work at the station, and Sam Reckitt was in the post office, as post master.

“I was out, delivering a car,” said Sid Smith. “I can’t prove my whereabouts, but there was a cow which ate my hat when the damn junkpile broke down again, and I had to stop and fix it, again. I fixed the damn thing with chewing gum this time, which I should have done in the first place instead of doing it all Sir Garnet.”

“It’s all Sir Garnet if it works, never mind the method,” said Alexander. “Is that the new Model T Ford David bought?”

“Yes, that’s the one, it got a hole in the radiator,” said Sid.

“David will drive on gravel,” said Alexander. “Fourwinds is in the other direction than the station.”

Jeff made a note.

“I can’t prove where I was,” said Dan Reckitt. “I’d been out to Heywood Hall, and I was just setting out with second post.”

“You brought the bill for Fred’s new braces as I was hanging out the washing,” said Polly Chaffinch. “I heard the up train to Oxford whistle, so it must have been about eleven.”

“I didn’t see Irma when I crossed the footbridge, and I stopped, because Ma came out with two official-looking envelopes to add to the post, in case they were important,” said Dan. “I did see Miss Thripp coming out of a bush, looking nervous; I thought she might be caught short so I didn’t greet her, in case it embarrassed her. Sorry ma’am,” he added.

“Most sensitive of you,” twittered Miss Thripp.

“I did drop off a parcel for you, from your friend in Wales,” said Dan. “I took it inside as nobody answered the door.”

“I had gone back to bed with a coffee,” said Edgar. “I’m sorry, Aunt Betty, I ignored the knock.”

“I rang the bell,” said Dan.

“Did you? I didn’t hear it. I thought I heard a knock but it must have been you shutting the door,” said Edgar.

“Well, I need to have a word with Mrs. Reckitt, to see if she saw anything on her way back from catching up with you,” said Jeff. “No sign of Irma at all?”

“I... she may have been on the path along the river from Lover’s Lane,” said Dan. “Ma took Weir Alley to catch me, it’s a shorter route to the footbridge. I saw... I thought I saw a couple of people on the footpath, but I might be wrong. Or it might have been another day. I walk it every day; I don’t notice ordinary things like passers-by.”

Jeff nodded.

“Understood. I’d like to know who the couple were, if people would ask around,” he said.

“I doubt Ma can tell you much,” said Dan. “She won’t wear her glasses in public, and even if she looked along the path, I doubt she could tell you if there were people or bushes.”

“Well, I can but ask,” said Jeff.

Sam Reckitt frowned and opened his mouth, but shut it again, as Alexander noticed. He caught Dan’s eye and gave him a quick, approving nod.

 

 

Alexander caught Jeff’s arm.

“Best let Sam introduce you to his wife; she has a reputation for being a bit knacky,” he said. “And if you missed the byplay, Dan was protecting his mother by making her eyesight out to be worse than it is.”

“Sharp lad,” said Jeff. “Of course, she’s on the suspect list.”

“And might have used important letters as an excuse to meet Irma, I know,” said Alexander. “To be honest, I’m formulating a suspect in my mind, but I can’t for the life of me see why, or what there is to be gained.”

“I thought it was all about these here hormone things women get,” said Jeff. “Makes them loopy for a while.”

“Which is why I’m confused,” said Alexander. “Bear with me; I’ll go through my notes with you later.”

Jeff nodded.

“You have the flair for this, where I only have order and method without the advantage of the little grey cells fine tuned like that fellow in the books,” he said.

“I also have the advantage of knowing some of the protagonists,” said Alexander. “Do you want me along?”

“Yes; these people accept you as one of theirs,” said Jeff.

They fell into step with Sam and Dan Reckitt.

“What’s the missus having for tea, Sam?” asked Alexander.

“Oh, I had Braithwaite drop her off a fish supper first so she wouldn’t resent us staying,” said Sam. “She got upset about Irma and hardly slept, worrying that she might be the last person to see her alive.  She isn’t well, but she likes to pop out to catch up with Dan if there’s important mail, rather than lie all the time on the couch. I think it does her good, but it often knocks her back for days on end.”

Alexander nodded.

He had no idea if Mrs.Reckitt imagined her illness half the time, or if it was just something doctors did not yet know, but he had seen pain lines on her face, which made it real enough for her.

 

The Reckitts lived behind and above the post office and newsagent shop, a reclining chair behind the counter for Mrs. Reckitt, though a spotty youth was currently manning the shop.

“No problems, Hugh?” asked Sam.

“Nossir, I made herself a cup of tea, and myself, and she enjoyed the fish,” said the boy.

“You’ll be Hugh Carlton, one of the lads who was friendly with Irma Savin?” asked Jeff.

“Yessir, and I wish I’d made her tell me who she saw. And there I was parsing Latin and she was being killed,” he added, looking upset.

“I doubt she’d have been forthcoming if you pressed her; more likely to clam up,” said Jeff.

“Yessir, I tell myself that, but you know how it is. I... I took this job because I wanted to save up for a token for her while I was at university,” he added. “Mr. Reckitt doesn’t mind me doing my prep here, and having a cuppa over it.”

“It won’t do you any harm to have some funds behind you, Hugh,” said Alexander. “And what’s more, it must be quieter here; don’t you have half a dozen stepsiblings?”

“Fancy you knowing that, sir!” said Hugh, impressed. “Yes, it is nice and quiet, a few people come in from working in London or Oxford and want evening papers, or tobacco or cigarettes. Mr. Savin gave me a hand with my algebra; he likes an excuse not to go home too soon,” he added.

Alexander gave an enigmatic smile over his apparent omniscience; he had most of his intelligence from Mary Fringford.

Sam showed them through into the back room, which was a large kitchen, made into a kitchen dining room, with a piece of furniture which could not make up its mind if it was a sofa or a chaise longue. Here Emily Reckitt reclined, with a table beside her. She had cleared away the newspaper of the fish supper, and a knife and fork resided in the sink.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one to like eating irons but to eat straight out of the paper,” said Jeff.

Emily Reckitt smiled a tired smile.

“I don’t like using my fingers,” she said. “Dan and Sam laugh at me, but now I can say that the distinguished man from London does the same.”

“Not that distinguished, but I am official,” said Jeff. “I’m also a friend of your own local man, Alex Armitage so I’m not too much of an interloper.”

“Ah, you understand how people will feel,” said Mrs. Reckitt. “And you want to talk to me because I may be the last person to see Irma Savin alive.”

“I let it be known you couldn’t recognise anyone because you’re too vain to wear glasses, Ma,” said Dan.

His mother frowned.

“I only have reading glasses for close work,” she said.

“But nobody knows that, so you won’t get killed for knowing anything,” said Dan. “Like Irma, who I wager was at least half playacting.”

Mrs. Reckitt gave a little gasp and clutched at her throat.

“Your son was wise,” said Jeff. “Once a poison-pen starts killing, it can get nasty; and we still believe that the killing was because of Irma claiming to know who it was.  It may have been dressed up to look like the Braithwaite girl, but there are too many coincidences.”

“Yes, I see,” said Mrs. Reckitt. “I don’t think I saw anything useful, but that might still be enough, if only in being a timing.”

“Quite so,” said Jeff.

“It was almost quarter to eleven,” said Mrs. Reckitt. “I recall I heard the church peal the third quarter after I left Dan.”

“Oh, that’s right, I heard it too,” said Dan.

“I thought of it particularly because of the words to the Westminster chimes, and it seemed appropriate,” said Mrs. Reckitt.

“Words?” said Jeff.

Mrs. Reckitt flushed.

“Oh, I thought it was common knowledge, like nursery rhymes,” she said. She sang to the sound of the distinctive Westminster chime,

Now then, young man

Tis time you ran,

Kiss her goodbye...

“And of course, the last phrase for O’clock is, ‘Tis time to fly,’” she added.

“And this seemed appropriate?”

“Well, I saw Irma Savin; you can’t mistake that bright shingled head, and her red tam-o-shanter, and matching jacket,” said Mrs. Reckitt. “She seemed to be in a passionate clinch with someone, which I assumed at the time was kissing a swain of hers. But there was vegetation in the way; that path is badly overgrown, and should be cut back. I’ve complained about it before, but the Parish council does nothing.”

“I’ll see if Widow Hall will bring her goats down,” said Alexander, hastily, knowing that this was the parish council’s usual means of dealing with verges. That, or Oliver Oliver and a scythe. The goats were more efficient and less inclined to divert their labour into the snug of the Clene Shepe.

“Well, that’s it, really,” said Mrs. Reckitt. “I did not really want to watch that little hussy sharing her tonsils with someone, so I averted my eyes and went back up Weir Alley. I had no intention of pushing past what I thought was such blatant lewdness. But... but I can’t help wondering if it wasn’t a passionate kiss, but someone strangling her. And I can’t swear it was a man, just that I had that impression, and I expected her to be with a man.”

“We need to see if we can find her tam o’shanter,” said Alexander, “And maybe footprints near the hat, which may give some clue.”

“Too dark now,” said Jeff. “Before breakfast.”

“When’s Harris coming?” asked Alexander.

“He isn’t; silly fool broke his leg showing off playing football,” sighed Jeff.

“Oh, well; Campbell will help,” said Alexander.

 

 

Lies in Lashbrook dramatis personae

 I thought you might like a cast list as it's rather extensive.

 

Dramatis Personae

 

Inspector Alexander Armitage: a police inspector and descendant of the ‘Gentleman Bow Street Runner’; engaged to Ida Henderson

Inspector Jeff Morrel: colleague and now friend of Alexander, after a rather acrimonious start to their relationship.

David Henderson: Brother to Ida, and to the deceased artist, Basil; relict of murdered Helen.

Gregson: his man, rather too fond of female company.

Ida Henderson: Archaeology student, and engaged to Alexander.

Elinor Henderson, née Truckle: sometime companion to Ida, now married to David for mutual benefit.

James Campbell: Alexander’s man of all work, valet and chauffeur; previously man to Basil Henderson

Gladys Price: Nominally Ida’s maid, more her companion and secretary and chauffeuse

 

In Lashbrook

 

Mary Fringford: housekeeper at the Elizabethan house owned by David Henderson which he leased out to build a more modern house

Ruth Fringford: her daughter

Millicent Mary Margaret AKA Millymollymegsie: Ruth’s daughter, age 5

 

Cecily, Lady Baskerville: young widow of the late Major Dennis Baskerville

Cyril: Lord Baskerville: age 6

Aggie: the faithful servant

Dr. Richard Brinkley: vicar, a learned man

Oliver Oliver [light baritone]: sexton and man to Dr. Brinkley, brews hooch in the crypt. Dropped out of the role Koko. Plays the organ indifferently if Miss Brinkley cannot do s

Dr. Craiggie: the village doctor

Miss Serena Craiggie:  his sister, keeps house for him.

Miss Elizabeth [Betty]Thripp: a spinster lady who is the teacher of the village children.

Edgar Thripp: the nephew of Miss Thripp, son of her ne’er-do-well brother,

Miss Amabel Brinkley: a niece of the vicar who teaches the infant class of the village school; helps with Brownie-Guides, and plays the organ in church.

 

 

Fred Chaffinch [bass]: Stationmaster. Playing the title role of the Mikado

Polly Chaffinch [mezzo-soprano]: Fred’s wife; playing Yum-yum

 

Sam Reckitt [tenor]: Postmaster, playing Pooh-Bah

Emily Reckitt:  his wife, something of an invalid

Dan Reckitt [tenor]: their son, postman, playing Nanki-poo

Tim Mapp: local bobby, also runs the Boy Scout troop with help from Dr. Brinkley and Oliver; playing Pish-Tush

Maggie Squires:  Constable Mapp’s best girl; one of the schoolgirl chorus

Emma Squires: Maggie’s younger sister, one of the schoolgirl chorus, Girl Guide

Thomas Squires:  Maggie’s father and master baker

Marion Squires: Thomas’s wife, Maggie’s mother, runs the teashop and bakery with Maggie’s aid. Runs the local Girl Guides and Brownies

Edward [Neddy] Braithewaite:  fishmonger

Billy Braithwaite: His son who does the morning shift with fresh fish

Maud Braithwaite: the fishmonger’s daughter, nicknamed ‘Haddock’ by her contemporaries.

Stan Florey: the fishmonger’s boy, an orphan, lives in with the Braithwaites. A boy of about 12 years old. A dreamer, possibly brain damaged, but quite capable of calculating change.

Thruppence: Butcher, wife, Nancy, hair stylist and manicurist.

Annie Thruppence: his daughter, fancies Sid Smith

 Simon Smith: Farrier and blacksmith

Sidney [Sid] Smith: Simon’s son, runs the village garage and is the mechanic. Part of the chorus

John Fringford: Landlord of ‘The Clene Shepe’ and brother of Mary

 

[Maggie and Emma Squires,] Claire Busby, [Annie Thruppence,] [Maud Braithwaite,] Irma Savin, Helen Newell: Girl Guides, members of the schoolgirl chorus

 

Violet Savin, indifferent artist, and Theodore Savin, clerk; Irma’s parents.

 

Bert and Jack Busby: brothers, and brothers of Claire, members of the chorus. Bert is the ticket clerk at the station, and Jack is a porter. Claire works in Oxford as a typist.

Leslie Edgington: member of the chorus, ticket collector.

 

Pete Reynolds, painter and decorator, one of Irma’s admirers

Hugh Carlton, staying on at school in hopes of university; one of Irma’s admirers. Has half a dozen step siblings. Pimply.

Tony Ambridge a grammar school boy, a bit of a player

Pike Primus and Pike Secundus grammar school boys

 

Vera Tweedie-Banks, neighbour and cousin to Theodore Savin and family

Marjorie Goodie and Winnie Harmon, neighbours of the above, a stable couple.

 

Velma Hodges, eleven years old, sister of Mabel Hodges, fifteen years old, both Girl Guides, but not involved in the acting. Velma has a temper and adores her sister.

 

lies in lashbrook 8

 

Chapter 8

 

“I’m in two minds over whether I should go to the inquest,” said Alexander.

“Oh, you must go,” said Ida. “All the other Lashbrook Players are going; we don’t have a proper uniform but Fred asked us all to wear blue blazers or jackets with white duck skirts or trousers, and to borrow from the props if need be from when the troupe did ‘HMS Pinafore.’ Irma was one of ours, and we have to show due respect.”

“I must get sizes, and buy the troupe blazers with ‘Lashbrook Players’ on the pocket,” said Alexander. “And the two masks of comedy and tragedy.”

“That’ll please Fred no end,” said Ida. “He’s arranged replacements for himself, the Busby brothers and Les Edgington at the station. They may only be chorus but they are still players.”

“Dear me! I am glad Fred knows what to do, the station would fall apart short the station master, porter, ticket clerk, and ticket collector. The Busby sister is a member of the players too, so they can’t get family members to fill in; Polly too,” said Alexander. “I’ll wear my boating ducks which are more respectable than my cricket bags, and my boating blazer is blue. I wasn’t more than half expecting to get that out.”

“Most of the lads are wearing the short jackets they wore as sailors,” said Ida. “Polly phoned me, and said it was the best they could come up with as a uniform to honour Irma.”

 

The Lashbrook Players sat in a phalanx on one side of the village hall, and managed to look remarkably uniform for a disparate collection of clothing. Those girls still in the Girl Guides had dressed in Guide uniform, which being a dark blue skirt with a jacket-blouse over it in Guide blue was not out of place. Mr. Savin, a quiet, bald man with a small moustache, and a face ravaged with grief, came over to shake hands and thank them for coming.

“Sit with us, sir,” said Alexander. “And your wife, of course,” he added, politely.

“I’ll accept for myself; Violet will please herself,” said Mr. Savin. There was a coolness in his tone, and Alexander suspected that he blamed Violet Savin for not keeping a closer eye on Irma.

“If you need a place to stay in London while you think things through, see me later,” he murmured to Mr. Savin.

“I... thank you, I might take you up on that,” said Savin.

Theodosius Montague Ffoulkson,  an acidulated man, the coroner, banged his gavel to open the proceedings.

“Opening the inquest into Irma Violet Savin, spinster of this parish, occupation, trainee secretary. I understand there is no question about the identity of the body?”

Savin choked on the word, ‘body.’ He rose.

“I confirm that the... the deceased is my daughter,” he said. “I am Theodore Savin, clerk.”

“Thank you, Mr. Savin; and my commiserations for your loss,” said Ffoulkson. “I will try to get through this as sensitively as possible.”

“Thank you,” said Savin.

Ffoulkson hurried through the evidence, pausing only to censure Mrs. Savin on her apparent unconcern about her daughter’s whereabouts. “And did your daughter say nothing to you about where she was going? I find that astonishing,” he said.

“Oh! She might have mentioned someone,” said Mrs. Savin, dropping her mulberry-shaded eyelids over her eyes.

“And who was that?” asked Ffoulkson.

“Oh! I cannot be entirely certain,” said Mrs. Savin. “It might have been someone she was going to see, or it might have been in connection with something else entirely. I couldn’t be certain, and I would not want to give any kind of false lead or slander anyone.”

Ffoulkson peered at her irritably over the half-lenses of his reading glasses.

“Either she told you she was going to see someone or she did not,” he said.

“Oh! She may very well have done so,” said Mrs. Savin. “But I am an artist and I was too much caught up in my muse to be fully aware of the world around me, or what the girl was saying; she was always full of her own doings, and I cannot say I always listened.” There was something of a gasp at this admission, and Mrs. Savin’s Rose Foncée cheeks flushed a less becoming colour. “It’s normal for artists to be caught up in their work! Ask the Henderson chit, she dabbles a bit!” she cried.

Ida rose.

“It is possible for the fugue of creativity to enfold an artist, whether painting, writing, or composing, but one generally is attuned to the voices of one’s nearest and dearest, to snap out of it to take notice,” she said. “At least, I do, but I was reared to have manners.”

Mrs. Savin gave her a filthy look.

“But then, my dear, you dabble a little to be like your brother Basil, whereas I am a true artist,” she said.

Ida smiled.

“Of course; I merely paint and sell my work whereas you can afford to be an amateur,” she said.

“Is it possible that Mrs. Savin did not hear or cannot swear to remembering what her own daughter said?” asked Ffoulkson.

“Eminently,” said Ida. “I knew Irma through Girl Guiding, and she and her mother were never close, and I would certainly deliberately shut out hearing my brother, David, if he was in my ear whilst I was painting.”

Ffoulkson made a noise of discontent, and pressed on, dwelling briefly on the evidence of Dr.  Hammond that the style of strangling was very similar to that of a young girl some seven years previously.  He heard Tim Mapp on the poison pen letters, and Dan Reckitt on Irma’s comments about knowing who the poison pen writer was, and hinting that she was going to benefit from this. He sighed.

“Surely enough detective stories have been published by now for the general public to be aware that bottling up knowledge and confronting a villain is the best way to become a murder victim!” he expostulated. “I urge anyone who knows anything to go to Sergeant Mapp, or Inspectors Armitage or Morrell... I beg your pardon?” Alexander stood up.

“I’m not here, Mr. Ffoulkson,” he said. “I’m still on medical leave, though I’ll listen if anyone wants to approach me. But I’m plain Mr. Armitage for the next two weeks.”

“Duly noted,” said Ffoulkson.

“I didn’t see nothin’!” blurted out Stan. “It were dark in the porch that early, and I didn’t see no hat to say if it were man or woman, I didn’t!”

“There, lad, nobody blames you,” said Ffoulkson.

Alexander narrowed his eyes. Stan had come close to admitting that he had identified the note-sender’s sex by the hat he swore he had not seen. Stan could not be expected to be more forthcoming, but he must be watched.

Maud leaned over.

“Da isn’t having anything delivered until this is all cleared up,” she murmured. “Stan’s staying home.”

Alexander nodded, in relief.

The verdict was brought back, as everyone expected,  as ‘Murder, by person or persons unknown.’

“And we have to be aware that, though it might be unrelated to the poison pen letters, in taking into account the murder of Sarah, known as Sally, Braithwaite seven years ago, it is also possible that the murderer of the said Sally has, for some reason, taken to writing poison pen letters, presumably with some mistaken idea of enforcing morality, perhaps taking their ideas from the eponymous Mikado from the current venture of the local players,” said Ffoulkson. “I note that the only people to receive poison pen letters are those who are in, or associated with, the players, the only exception Mr. Braithwaite, who has the distinction of being the late Sarah Braithwaite’s father.  I strongly urge the writer to give herself or himself up, and seek help, whether guilty of the murders or not. It is not too late to receive treatment rather than punishment. However, the law will be less lenient if this blight upon the community continues.” He stared over his half-spectacles at the gathered villagers. “And once again, I urge you to approach the proper authorities rather than, as one might say, making a little list of one’s own.”

The public filed out.

“Mr. Savin, do you want us to call off the play?” asked Fred Chaffinch.

“Most certainly not!” said Mr. Savin. “My Irma was just full of it, over the moon that she was old enough to be included in the chorus, full of the pretty costumes, and she sang the songs all the time.”

“We’ll put a memorial to her on the programme,” said Alexander.

Fred nodded, glad Alexander had thought of it.

“Indeed,” he said.

“You are all very good,” said Savin. “I know it gave her daft-like ideas of going on stage, but I told her that for every Lillie Langtree, there are a dozen Miss Nobodies, who don’t make it. And she was a good girl, sticking at her correspondence course as a back-up: I said I’d take her to auditions if she got her certificates, and she was working really hard, I saw what she did, even if she did skive off at times. My wife...” he hesitated. “My wife fancies herself a great artist, and she wasn’t above interrupting Irma at work to tell her to make a cuppa, or run into the village for cakes.”

“I see,” said Alexander. “I can also see why Irma might be hoping to find a means to leave home.”

Savin sighed.

“Violet thinks the world owes her, and I was trying to make sure Irma did not feel the same, but it’s hard for a father who is away a lot of the time, mothers and daughters so often grow alike.”

The players murmured various sympathies which hid their mildly contemptuous pity of a man with an entitled and inadequate wife.

 

oOoOo

 

“Let us hold two minutes’ silence for Irma, and also in memory of Sally, before we start,” said Fred Chaffinch, as they gathered for a Wednesday afternoon rehearsal. The company bowed their heads in silent contemplation that one of their number was gone forever and taken from them in a cruel way.

“Mr. Morrell has been asking about her men friends,” said Maud, when Fred cleared his throat, signifying that two minutes had passed. “Ooh! I wouldn’t like to be in their shoes.”

“Three of them have unassailable alibis of having been in Oxford, at work,” said Alexander, having ascertained this. “Pete Reynolds was painting the frontage of ‘the Clene Shepe’ in full view, and came with us to look for her,”

“Hugh Carlton was in school,” said Helen. “He’s working to matriculate and is hoping to get into Oxford.”

“And good luck to him,” said Alexander. “I had intended to be topical by adding a verse to the list song, but it seems a little disrespectful now.”

“Give it to us, Alex, and cheer us up a little,” said Fred. “Get us in the mood for the rehearsal.”

Alexander sang.

“And poison-pen offenders, who think they know a lot,

But only show their ignorance by sending heaps of rot,

For they made their list unwarily of people they don’t know

For they’d like to be insulting but they really don’t know how

And it doesn’t really matter whom you put upon the list

For they’d none of them be missed, they’d none of them be missed.”

“Aye, and that’s what we must remember,” said Fred. “This sad person is so far removed from village life, they probably couldn’t even name which married couples are having affairs, and which are not, and who is with whom.”

“Fred! Behave yourself,” said Miss Thripp. “Dear me, you always did know more than was good for you, even when we were at school.”

“You take all the fun out of watching people, Betty,” said Fred. “As bossy as ever you were as a student-teacher while I was cooling the ardour of... what was her name... Miss Bentine... balancing a bucket of water on the back door of the schoolroom when she slipped out to kiss Constable Hacker.”

“You were a caution and no mistake,” said Miss Thripp, severely.

“Forty years ago, yes, I was,” said Fred. “Right! Overture and beginners! We need an orchestra.”

“We shall have to make do with Amabel on the piano,” said Miss Thripp. “Perhaps we shall raise enough for a small organ.”

“It’d be nice,” said Fred.

“So long as nobody wants a Wurlitzer,” joked Alexander.

“If anyone wanted a Wurlitzer, we could have the organ and organist, and we’d have to do the plays outside,” said Polly. “Now then! We’re lucky to have Amabel play for us. Before she joined us in the village we had a chorus of Girl Guides on comb and paper.”

 

Doctor Craiggie had accepted the invitation with alacrity, to come as medical advisor and eat fish and chips afterwards.

“What Serena misses out on,” he said, carefully mopping his mouth with his handkerchief. “I do like fish and chips.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” said Alexander. “Here you are, deceiving your sister, for the innocent pleasure of eating fish and chips. I wonder how much any of us knows about anyone else.”

Dr.  Craiggie laughed.

“Well, the poison pen doesn’t know me at all,” he said. “I had one this morning, accusing me of cheating on my wife with sundry of my female patients. And me not even married; if I was, I could give Serena her marching orders”

“That is a serious lack of knowledge,” said Alexander. “I mean, making mistakes about Ida and Gladys and me is not perhaps unreasonable, Ida having been living with my parents, with Gladys to keep her company. And I’m a relative newcomer and was mostly at Foursquares.  Ida, my poppet, what name is David going to foist onto slightly-less-square?”

“It being on the hill, he’s going to change the name slightly and call it ‘Fourwinds,’” said Ida.

“Do you really not listen to him?” giggled Helen.

“Well, I pretend not to,” said Ida. “I do listen, to get Alex to head him off from any of his dafter ideas, though. But it drives him up the pole to have me pretend not to have heard him.”

“Bad chit,” said Alexander. “And then he sounds off to me.”

“And you head him off so beautifully,” said Ida. “I suspect that most of the gossip goes through Nancy Thruppence’s parlour.”

“Oh, how’s that?” asked Edgar Thripp.

“Why, Nancy supplements Thruppence’s income by doing hairdressing and manicures three times a week in their front room,” said Ida. “She goes out to people as well, and passes on whatever has been said in her salon. Even Vi Savin goes there, though she thinks herself a cut above the usual clientele. It doesn’t stop them all knowing about her affair though; because she always has a facial, and manicure on Thursday morning, before she takes the train into Oxford for the afternoon, and comes home smelling of rather male cologne. And I’ve seen her when I was cataloguing finds, with a professor of English Literature.”

“Talk about tea and scandal!” murmured Alexander.