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.

 

Lies in Lashbrook 7 cliffie bonus

 

Chapter 7

 

Alexander’s police whistle was repeated by the next nearest person, and presumably by others.

“Go an’ wave at them, sir, I’ll swim over an’ check she’s beyond ʼelp,” said Campbell.

“Photograph first,” said Alexander. He had brought his vest-pocket Kodak, and photographed the floating body in the reeds.

Campbell nodded, and began stripping. Alexander went back up lover’s lane, waving to Braithwaite and Billy, who were nearest.

“Not good news, I’m afraid,” he said to Braithwaite. The older man paled.

“Is it the same devil who killed our Sally?” asked Billy, pugnaciously.

“It seems unlikely but I don’t rule anything out,” said Alexander. “We have to rule out accident as well.”

“You don’t believe it’s an accident,” said Braithwaite.

“No, I don’t,” said Alexander. “But the best way to catch a killer is to go with due process, however slow it is, because it’s methodical.”

“They didn’t catch whoever killed my Sally.”

“And when was that?”

“June, 1918.”

“It sounds as if it was bungled, but I imagine with troops moving around at the last German offensive of the war it got more difficult, as well as resources being stretched before returning troops increased the numbers of available policemen.”

“Sally reckoned she was going to do well for herself,” said Braithwaite. “It’s one reason I’m so strict with Maud.”

“You ought to tell her that, you know Mr. Braithwaite,” said Alexander. “Now this is being raised again. And when we’ve stopped this poison pen, I’ll reopen Sally’s killing, I promise, and try to get you closure.”

“I’m not sure I’d have accepted it out of the blue, but with all this bringing up memories, I’ll say, ‘thank you,’ and do what I can to help. You can call me ‘Neddy.’”

“And I go by ‘Alex’ to friends,” said Alexander. “I’ll get to the bottom of it. And maybe the killer is the same; if it’s some old biddy deranged over something who is poking at what she sees as immorality, especially a relative of the young man who got Sally into trouble, she might have killed someone she saw as a seducer of a virtuous young man. It doesn’t have to be true, only the perception of the killer. Was she strangled by hands, or a ligature?”

“With her own silk scarf,” said Braithwaite. “Oh – a woman could do that.”

“Or a weak man,” said Alexander. “We don’t have to consider only a man strong enough to subdue someone who, like Maud, I assume, was used to shift boxes of fish.”

“Nobody ever brought that out before,” he said. He had accompanied Alexander back to the river, leaving Billy to bring others. “Mind, neither the missus nor I recognised the scarf, either; reckon it was something the killer said was a gift, and put it on her, then...” he tailed off.

Campbell swam to the near bank, towing a limp body.

“Life’s extinct,” he said. “No chanst at all. All battered from the drowning machine in the weir I s’pose?”

“Quite likely,” said Alexander. “Dress, and run into the village to get warm, and phone Barrett to ask for the police surgeon and Mr. Morrell now it’s murder.”

“Yessir,” said Campbell.  

Alexander gave the body a cursory look over. Petechiae could be caused by drowning or strangulation, but the crossed scarf tightly biting into the neck spoke its own story.

“That’s how Sally’s scarf was,” said Braithwaite, who had gone white.

“Sit down, man,” said Alexander. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Absolutely,” said Braithwaite. “And the ends crumpled the same like they were held tight and wrapped round the hand.And look, it’s still got the price tag on it. Fifteen and six! Irma didn’t have that sort of money to throw around.”

“Then I’ll recommend the reopening of the case, in order to link them,” said Alexander. “Right now, we need to take her to the church and into the cool of the crypt to await the police surgeon. And her parents need to be notified.”

“And that ain’t your job,” said Braithwaite, with rough kindness. “It’s up to Timmy Mapp.”

“I... yes, it would be impolite for someone unofficially associated to do so,” said Alexander. “I had thought that I should take it on myself as senior officer, but I’m not officially here.”

  The next few hours were filled with the removal of the unfortunate Irma from the water, the borrowing of a sheet, and making of a makeshift stretcher to carry the body to the church and into the crypt.

“Poor young thing, so unfortunate, so foolish,” said Dr.  Brinkley, the vicar.

“She boasted of having seen something,” sighed Alexander. “And apparently she said she had written to someone.  It looks as if she saw enough to make someone want her silenced.”

“You don’t think it might just be like Sally, nothing to do with the poison pen?” asked Dr.  Brinkley. “I fear I could imagine Irma misbehaving with a man friend.”

“It’s possible, but it is a huge coincidence that she told Dan Reckitt that she knew who had delivered a letter to Braithwaite,” said Alexander.

“Dear me, yes, it does rather argue cause and effect,” said Brinkley. “I could wish she had taken advice of wiser heads.”

“The problem with people like Irma Savin is that they think themselves too clever for most people, and she was certain she could gain some advantage from her knowledge,” said Alexander. “I suspect she tried a little blackmail.”

“Dear me, yes,” Brinkley sighed. “I recall, when she was newly in the Girl Guides and started coming to church to show off her uniform... dear me, I should not say that, it is most uncharitable.”

“Doubtless true, however,” said Alexander. “She was already fond of blackmail?”

“She sidled up to me after church and said, ‘I seen you. I seen you with a lady, putting her in a car.’  I’m afraid I permitted my tongue to answer before my brain, and I replied, ‘Why, that was no lady, that was my sister,’ which is a calumny, but when I spoke to my sister next and told her, she laughed, and said it was the best way to deal with a little madam like that. It did disconcert her, and I never had any more trouble.”

“Good that your sister has a sense of humour,” said Alexander.

“Ethel has,” said Brinkley, gloomily. “If it had been Alice, now, I should still be hearing about it. Alice corresponds with Serena Craiggie.”

Alexander winced. Dr.  Craiggie’s sister ran him with a rod of iron.

“I must ask the doctor to come over to see the rehearsals on Wednesday, in case of injury in acrobatic dancing,” he said.

“Dear me, I did not realise the ‘Mikado’ calls for acrobatic dancing,” said Brinkley.

“It doesn’t; but we’re having fish and chips, which Miss Craiggie does not permit him, and we can always claim he vetoed any athletic moves,” said Alexander.

“For a policeman, you are altogether too good at economies of truth,” said Brinkley, severely.

“That’s because I serve justice more than I serve the law,” said Alexander.

There was a disturbance and Mrs. Savin clattered noisily into the crypt on high heels, teetering dangerously on the uneven flags.

“Where is my little girl? Did nobody check if she still lives? What is wrong with you all? Why have you brought her here not home to me?” she screeched.

Alexander headed her off.

“My man swam out to check if she lived, and found that she did not,” he said. “He has had medical training. As this is a murder enquiry, she is here for a post mortem examination to find out as much as possible about who did this.”

“I don’t permit it!” said Mrs. Savin.

“I’m afraid you have no say in the matter,” said Alexander. “It is now sub judice and the law will take its course. Though I would not be surprised if the coroner, when it comes to inquest, does not have something to say about you permitting her to wander off willy-nilly without check or hindrance. If she had felt she might confide in you what she saw, you could have told her to go to the police and she might now be alive. I do not advise you to look; the killing has not left a pretty corpse.”

Alexander disliked those who threw blame on others, but he had to shock Mrs. Savin enough to stop her trying to destroy evidence in sheer ignorance.

She stared at him foolishly, and fished out a cigarette.

“Madam! You are on church premises!” said Dr.  Brinkley.

“What of it?” said Mrs. Savin.

“You can hardly feel it proper to smoke here!” said Brinkley.

“You lot, you’re all ruddy Victorians,” said Mrs. Savin, but put her cigarette away. “What happens now?”

“The autopsy will be performed this evening, and inquest will be heard tomorrow,” said Alexander. “And then the death will be investigated, and hopefully, an arrest will be made.”

“I never got who you are,” she said, insolently.

“Inspector Alexander Armitage of Scotland Yard, on medical leave,” said Alexander. “I have called in a colleague to handle the case.”

“Gawd! The Yard for my little Irma?” said Mrs. Savin.

“Indeed,” said Alexander. “I suggest you go home; there is nothing you can do now. And your husband will doubtless need your support. You may make arrangements for `your daughter’s obsequies; the law will be finished with her soon enough.”

“Will I get anything from the government for her being murdered?” asked Mrs. Savin. “We haven’t got no child tax allowance since she turned fifteen, so it’s only fair.”

“The payment of wergild is, I fear, no longer practised in this country,” said Alexander.

“Wot?”

“The law forcing a killer to pay the family of his or her victim was abandoned in 1066 when the Normans came,” said Alexander. “No, there will not be any money.”

Mrs. Savin left, sobbing theatrically into a lace handkerchief, sincerely mourning a lack of wergild.

“I cannot like her,” said Alexander.

“I don’t believe you are alone in that,” said Dr.  Brinkley, dryly.

 

Campbell met the train bearing the police surgeon and Jeff Morrell.

“Can’t keep himself out of trouble, I see,” said Jeff. “I know he was worried about a bad outcome, but barely two days round before there’s a body?”

“It looks as if the silly little mutt tried blackmail,” said Campbell. “You’re eating at ʼEywood ʼAll first, Mrs. Fringford brought dinner forward. It’s a nice piece of ʼaddock, wiv all ve trimmings, an’ pea soup first, an’ ice cream an’ treacle tart after.”

Jeff  let a beatific smile cross his face.

“Mrs. Fringford and Miss Ruth set a good table,” he said.

 

 

oOoOo

 

Alexander went with his colleagues to the autopsy. Dr.  Craiggie attended out of courtesy.

“What have we here, now,” said the police surgeon. “I hate seeing them this young. But they will do these things, my dear chaps, they will do these things, and it gets them into trouble. Well-built girl somewhere between sixteen and twenty.”

“She was seventeen,” said Craiggie.

“Thank you,” said Dr.  Hammond.  “Interesting note about her clothing; she has the most up to date and quite dashing corsetry, sheer stockings, but, well, her undergarments are, hrm, definitely the heavy sort worn by schoolgirls rather than the lighter weight kind or camiknickers most girls favour nowadays.  I don’t know if it means anything. Death almost certainly caused by asphyxiation; probably caused by the ligature, but I’ll test the lungs for water. She is not virgo intacta, so one has to assume she had had intercourse at some point, unless she rode, or rode a motorcycle, or did strenuous dancing?”

“I believe she was one for dancing,” said Tim Mapp, who was also there, and looking as if he wished he was anywhere else.

“Well, well, it can happen,” said Hammond.  “But I do need, in that case, to check if she was with child at all.”

“Go ahead,” said Jeff. “If not, then nothing need be said about the state of her hymen unless there is some question of the cause of her demise being something like cheating on her best boy.”

“I am given to understand she kept a number of swains on a string,” said Alexander.

“That’s almost a motive in itself,” said Jeff. “I’ll need to question them all as a matter of form. In case it is not about her knowledge; I understand there was a former girl strangled in the same way?”

“Yes, and she was with child and swore she would confront the man who got her in that condition,” said Dr.  Brinkley. “But she never told anyone who it was.”

“No pregnancy here,” said Hammond. “Let me test the lungs... no, no fluid there. Cause of death, strangulation by ligature, to whit, one silk scarf, curiously mangled as if the strangler felt a need for a better grip. Possibly someone of low physical strength. A pity you can’t get fingerprints off silk; I wager those ends could tell a story.”

“No fingernails caught in it?” asked Alexander.

“No such luck,” said Hammond, examining the ends of the scarf. “Shortish nails, I should think, the silk’s not cut any more than it has torn off any nail. Presumably a man.”

“Some women keep their nails short, too,” said Alexander. “Maud does, because of working with fish; and so does Miss Thripp. And, I believe, Mrs. Reckitt, from recollection of seeing her.”

“And those are your suspects?” asked Dr.  Brinkley. “All seem unlikely.”

“Poison pen is usually a woman’s crime,” said Alexander, unhappily.  “They are three who may have some jealousy motive, though if Miss Thripp’s voice improves, it makes her less likely. Maud can have odd moods, I believe, and Mrs. Reckitt is jealous of the time her husband and son give to the players.”

“Of the three, I’d say she was the most likely, but to kill?” said Brinkley.

“I’d have added Mrs. Savin to the list, bored, not very clever, but fairly well educated, spiteful,” said Tim. “But her own daughter? That’s a long stretch.”

“It’s been done before,” said Alexander. “But her nails are a mile long, and they were not chipped when she came into the morgue, which I am sure they would have been for the rough treatment of that silk.”

“Saved by her vanity,” said Tim. “They were a dark pink this morning, sort of maroon; was it still the same colour?”

“She had a moon manicure[1] in  Rose Foncée, this morning and in the crypt,” said Alexander. “And you don’t manage a moon manicure in a hurry.”

“And you wouldn’t strangle anyone with that force without causing damage to a manicure,” said Hammond. “The girl’s father?”

“Likely came home on the train after you,” said Alexander. “He will be called to the inquest. And Fred Chaffinch would mention if he had come home during the day.”

“It’s likely to be person or persons unknown for now,” said Hammond. “I brought up the evidence of the girl who was killed in 1918; but there’s precious little to go on.”

“We’ll do what we can,” said Alexander.

 

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[1] With the cuticle and the end of the nail left white, very popular with those who could afford it. Shades of pink were all that were available, though there may have been green. Rose Foncée is literally deep rose.