lies in Lashbrook 11 cliffieish bonus

 

Chapter 11

 

Alexander spread out the broad sheets of ‘The Times’ on the ground in the lane beside the galvanised rubbish bin.

He took off the lid. Most of what was in there seemed to be wrapping paper and spoiled food. He wrinkled his nose.

“The less pleasant part of being a copper,” he said. “Jeff, you get on the other handle, we’ll hold it by the handles and the base and tip slowly, walking backwards to spread it.”

“Gently does it,” said Jeff, gloomily. “We ought to have told off young Mapp to do this.”

“Dammit, you’re right,” said Alexander. “Well, we’re here now; there’s the Oxford train whistling on the curve before it runs into Shiplake.”

“That’s on this side of Lashbrook, isn’t it?” asked Jeff.

“Yes, they sort of run into each other, but it’s far enough to have its own station, or at least, whistle-stop. Steady... steady... walk backwards as it pours.”

The two men managed to empty the dustbin onto the sheets of newspaper, in a fairly thin layer of the week’s rubbish.

“No girl’s clothes here,” said Jeff, using a stick to push the rubbish around. “Well, here’s proof she hasn’t become pregnant by her fancy man. Used sanitary pads. Hmm, and she must have been relieved; here’s a ‘little something for the weekend,’ as condoms are marketed, and it appears to be split.”

“Someone’s little soldiers might have been as dangerous as the scorpions in King Midas’s sperm,” sniggered Alexander.

“Well, I am getting an education,” said Ida.

“Sorry, my poppet; if you want to wait in the car while we make disgusting jokes to cope with a disgusting job, do so,” said Alexander.

“No, I’m interested,” said Ida. “It’s what I do, only without several thousand years in the ground.”

“I can’t find anything which looks like a diary,” said Jeff. “Ida, what would you use as a diary?”

“You can buy leather-bound journals, but I can’t see Irma spending money on that when she could spend it on cosmetics and costume-jewellery,” said Ida.  “I would think she would buy a composition book, or a ledger, cheap and easy to get, Reckitt’s holds them.”

“Well, that should help us find what we are looking for,” said Alexander. “Who peeled those potato peelings? They’ve left half the potato on them.”

“Irma in a mood, I imagine,” said Ida. “Though there’s enough spoiled food to make me think that Violet is not the world’s best housekeeper.”

“If I was Theodore Savin, I’d eat at a restaurant in town before coming home,” opined Jeff. “How can you spoil pork chops?”

“By forgetting about them until they become past charred, by the look of it,” said Alexander. “I see no notebook or anything which could pass as a journal. Discarded bills... no suggestion they are even paid. Novel with a load of something spilled on it... gravy, I think... and it’s a library book too, to add insult to injury. No saving it, though. By Virginia Woolf, ‘Night and Day,’ which looks into love and marriage. I wonder if she’s considering leaving Theodore for her professor.”

“If she’s reading that, I’d say it was highly likely,” said Ida. “Woolf is almost as depressing a writer as the Bronte sisters.”

“Well, let’s get all this back in the bin as there seems to be nothing to find,” said Alexander. “I thought we could wrap each portion in the newspaper.”

“Makes sense,” said Jeff. “Now I know why you put down a layer under overlapping sheets.”

“I’ve searched bins before,” said Alexander. “And been caught by what was between sheets and got into trouble for it, and speaking of trouble, I think some is looming.”

A large, angry woman had crashed out of the gate of the adjacent cottage, and stood with arms akimbo.

“You nasty tramps!” she screeched. “I’ll have you know that I’ve telephoned the police and you’ll be arrested! And you picked the wrong bin to rifle through, Vi Savin can burn water!”

“Madam, we are the police...” began Jeff. He was interrupted.

“Oh, what lies! Why, you are not in uniform and since when has a baggage like that been in the police?”

“I am an archaeologist, and a witness, you besom,” said Ida.

“We are Scotland Yard, madam, and I have my identity card here,” said Jeff.

“I don’t believe a word! I’m going back to hurry the police along,” said the woman, bouncing back into her cottage.

Ida sighed, and moved towards the car, then gasped.

“What is it?” asked Alexander.

“I... no, I was wool-gathering and imagined I saw someone, but it’s only a postbox,” said Ida. [1]

“Well, it happens,” said Alexander. “I could wish that female had been but an apparition, and here’s poor Tim Mapp puffing along on his bike.”

“Hello sirs, Miss Henderson,” said Tim, almost falling off his bike. “Mrs. Tweedie-Bank said there were vagrants.”

“She plainly doesn’t recognise Alex’s Saville Row style,” said Jeff. “You can confirm for Mrs. Twiddly-Bonk that we are on our lawful occasions as she’s come out and is waiting for our arrest with malicious enjoyment and folded arms.”

Tim saluted sharply, and turned to the neighbour.

“Neither inspector has seen anyone suspicious, Mrs. Tweedie-Bank,” he said.

“Those are the vagrants!” cried the woman.

“You are mistaken; when I asked for aid from Scotland Yard, Inspector Morrell was sent, and Inspector Armitage lives locally and is well known to me, but is on leave helping out as a courtesy. I’ve never seen vagrants in Saville Row suits and driving a nice car before,” said Tim, paying off several old scores. “Now, about you wasting police time....”

Mrs. Tweedie-Banks found she had to hurry indoors.

“Load up your bike over the spare wheel, Tim, and we’ll give you a lift back,” said Alexander.

“I won’t deny that’s welcome,” said Tim. “When she spoke of vagrants picking over the Savins’ rubbish, I confess I wondered if the killer was looking for anything Irma wrote.”

“We were,” said Alexander.  “Apparently, she kept a diary in Morse Code, which Mrs. Savin claimed to have thrown away, and dustbins on the road are not covered by needing a warrant. No joy, though.”

“Mrs. Savin lies like most people breathe,” said Tim, stowing his bike with the aid of a stout length of cord. “She could tell me she watched Irma being murdered and I’d not believe her.”

“The girl was murdered; we should have a warrant to search her room,” said Alexander. “We should have perhaps done that first but I wanted to get testimonies as soon as possible.”

“And that’s important; her room isn’t going anywhere,” said Jeff.

“Unless Mrs. Violet Savin decides to throw it all out,” said Alexander. “We should try to catch her on the way home and tell her that if she goes into Irma’s room and moves anything, it is contempt of court and she could go to jail for it. Once we have the warrant.”

“I’ll ring up a judge and get a warrant,” said Jeff. “Most bereaved couples would be glad to help, but I wager that woman would make a brouhaha of it.”

“I don’t say you’re wrong,” said Tim.

 

 

Tim Mapp stopped Violet Savin on her way back from the station.

“Oh, Mrs. Savin, the warrant has come through to search your daughter’s room to see if there are any clues as to her killer, so please do not go into it or touch any of her possessions,” he said.

“Why not? She was my daughter,” said Mrs. Savin.

“Because it’s interfering with evidence and can land you in jail for three months,” said Tim. Mrs. Savin looked frightened.

“What if I already did some tidying because I did not know that?” she whimpered.

“Then you will have to explain to the searchers exactly what you touched and moved,” said Tim. “Many young girls keep diaries, which may have what she knew recorded in it.”

“Much good it will do you, it’s written in Morse Code,” said Mrs. Savin, savagely.

“Oh, I read Morse Code,” said Tim. “I learned when I was a Cub Scout.”

“Of course you would,” said Mrs. Savin. “Good little Cub Scout you probably were.”

“I expect your grief is causing your bad manners; I understand,” said Tim.

“You’ll excuse me; I want to get home to put on a meal for my husband,” said Mrs. Savin.

“To be sure; perhaps you can ask him to phone in about a good time to come and look at Irma’s room.”

Mrs. Savin tottered off with a muttered comment which Tim hoped had not been what it sounded like.

 

oOoOo

 

“I was glad of a bath after that foray into the dustbin,” said Jeff. “Thanks for making sure there was enough hot water, Ruth.”

“It’s part of my job to see the boilers are topped up, sir,” said Ruth, stiffly.

“That’s as maybe, but what sort of fellow would I be not to appreciate the comfort that comes as a result?” said Jeff. “I’m no Edgar Thripp to only thank a lady or give her compliments because I want to misbehave, nor am I the sort of man who goes around swindling people and killing them when they find out like your late husband. You’ve had a bad time of it but please allow that some people are decent!”

Ruth flushed.

“You and Mr. Alexander are gentlemen, but something in me turns prickly. I’m not sure why.”

“I... could it be that you are afraid of making another mistake?” asked Jeff. “I like Millie and I like you, and if I have been too forward, I do apologise.”

“You have not behaved improperly at all,” murmured Ruth. “But... but I am very much aware of it when you are present.”

“Well, then! Perhaps we can get to know each other better?” said Jeff. “I don’t know that there are any films on at the cinema fit for children; though I think they are showing a few of Buster Keaton’s shorts which might not bore Millie, and she might enjoy humorous chase scenes.”

“Well now! You’re the first man who has put Millie first,” said Ruth. “I went out with a young man who took her to the zoo but he got cross when she was upset by all the animals being locked up.”

“She’s a sensitive and thoughtful little girl,” said Jeff. “It’s too long a journey for her to go to the seaside for the day, but there’s Port Meadow, near Oxford, where one can paddle. Er, I might be cheeky, and ask Alexander for a loan of the car.”

“If you three will share the back seat, so Gladys can go too, I should think Campbell will happily drive you and take a day of there, himself,” said Alexander. “And then there’s another woman for support.”

“I should have thought of that,” said Jeff.

“You are both so very kind,” said Ruth.

“Think hard, though,” said Alexander. “Being a copper’s wife isn’t easy. We work all hours, go through other people’s rubbish, dig up partially burned and decomposed bodies, can be morose when a case is hard, and get phoned at any time of day or night. And we’re waiting for Tim Mapp to call us to say when we can search Irma’s room.”

“I should think that waiting for a man who has an honest job is better than waiting for one who has a string of women,” said Ruth.

“The most intimate relations I usually have with women is dead ones,” said Jeff, with dry humour.

“There’s the phone,” said Alexander. “Excuse me.” He went to answer the phone.

There were a number of other clicks and dings on the line.

“This is Heywood Hall,” said Alexander into what was suddenly a long silence. “Please clear the line if this is not your call.”

There were two clicks, which was fewer than those who had picked up when their own phones chirped that a call was going through on the party line. Alexander sighed; it was the nature of villages.

“Inspector Armitage? This is Theodor Savin,” said the voice on the other end.

“Oh, Mr. Savin, Tim did say he had asked your wife to relay the message that you should phone him,” said Alexander. “But no matter, I can call him.”

“I... I haven’t had a message from my wife,” said Savin. “I... oh dear! She has been unable to talk to me. I don’t want to say it on a party line.”

“Clear the line now, I have your numbers in front of me on a special Scotland Yard phone and this is police business,” snapped Alexander, mendaciously; but the listeners did not know he did not have a special piece of equipment.

There were several more irritable clicks.

“Now, Mr. Savin, I think we have got rid of them all,” said Alexander.

“Thank you,” said Savin.  “I... I can’t get a message from my wife because she’s dead!” He finished with a hysterical laugh.

 

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[1] On the A145 heading for the A12 there is a post box on a post which as you approach looks like a bent little old man in the middle of the road until you come up the hill.

lies in Lashbrook 10

 

Chapter 10

 

Campbell drove Alexander and Jeff to the end of Weir Alley, which was a narrow walkway between the cobbler’s shop on the one side and a hardware store on the other. The mingled smells of polished leather and cut timber, wax, and paraffin[1] was, thought Alexander, a delightful combination which was so very quintessentially English. The hardware store had a paraffin pump which was operated by a token purchased at the counter to dispense exactly a gallon. There was electric lighting in the centre of the village, and at Heywood Hall, but many outlying cottages and farms still operated with the efficient Tilley lamp, or more basic paraffin lamps in barns, and as often as not a paraffin stove to keep livestock warm, and in the outside toilet, even if baths might be taken in front of the kitchen fire. Hot and cold running water was not a given in rural parts of the country, and Alexander had yet to see a gas fire replacing coal and wood anywhere. Save, no doubt, at Fourwinds, which would probably cook on gas and have underfloor heating all from a sewerage treatment plant of its own, since David took such things to greater lengths than most. It had almost got the family killed when the house was Foursquares, but then, one might hope that David would not be hiring another greedy drug-dealing chemist as housekeeper.

It was a shorter cut to the river than lover’s lane, though by no means as attractive, lacking the overhanging trees and honeysuckle branches which draped over the wall one side and fence the other of lover’s lane, from the grounds of the grammar school for boys on the one side, and an empty property on the other. The grounds of the empty house, and doubtless the house itself, contrary to warnings and caveats from parents, was a kind of wild playground for the local children. It was unlikely, however, that the board school children, on holiday before the grammar school, had seen anything useful.

 

“The path really is overgrown,” said Alexander, as they fought their way down to the riverside. “I did wonder if it was worth canvassing the residents in the High Street to see if anyone had been looking out of the back window, but the bank of the river is so overgrown they’d be hard put to even see that there is a path. I doubt that even Irma’s scarlet hat and jacket could be seen.”

“Speaking of which, is that her hat?” said Jeff, pointing. The scarlet tam o’ shanter lay sadly in a bush, at head height, probably plucked off during her struggles to survive.

“Campbell, nip back to the bridge where Mrs. Reckitt stood, and see what you can see,” said Alexander. “Here, Jeff, strangle me.”

“What a tempting request,” grinned Jeff. They struggled together, and Campbell rejoined them.

“I couldn’t tell if you was fighting or rutting like bunnies,” he said. “Or wevver you was male or female.  There’s a ruddy great branch in the way.”

“And I wager that our killer was well aware that the spot he chose was as private as one might be,” said Alexander. “Look at the speed of the river, he wouldn’t even have to drag her up to the weir. There’s concrete sides where she could have been battered by the river before being carried across to the weeds where she fetched up.”

“Well, now we know a bit more, and corroborate witness statements,” said Jeff. “This whole path is an invitation to a murderer.”

“It wants more than goats or Oliver,” said Alexander. “I’ll have a word with the vicar, and see if we can’t get people out by this afternoon. And nothing else we can do here; we might as well get back for breakfast.”

 

Ida discussed breakfast without waiting for the men, and having discovered that the bicycle she had owned before they had to let out the Hall was still in working order, she cycled into the village. If she was a little wobbly at first, she was confident by the time she got into the High Street, proving that you never forget how to ride a bike. She came to a halt outside the butcher’s shop, and wheeled her bike down the passage between the shop and the fishmonger next door, open for fresh fish at one end before it became a chippy for lunch and in the evening. There was a small back garden where Ida left her bike, knocking on the back door, where she was swiftly admitted.

Nancy Thruppence did not make appointments, save for going out to clients; she worked on a first come, first served basis.

“Come on up, I’ve tea on the go, and I’ll just latch the door up so people can come in,” said Nancy, a buxom red-head.  Ida suspected that much of the startling shade of hair owed more than a little to a bottle, but it suited Nancy. The salon she used overlooked the street above the butcher’s shop, with a bay window and chairs in it for those waiting to look out on what was happening. Ida asked for a shampoo and set, as that would give her the opportunity to hang around while her hair dried under the dubious efficiency of the hood dryer.  Ida had a hand-held dryer at home, and was quite capable of dealing with her own hair, but the gossip mill would prove invaluable, especially if she became a regular, and therefore invisible.

Nancy greeted her next customer, a spare woman with her hair in a bun.

“Doris! I do wish you’d let me shingle you, you have such a nice shaped head.”

Doris shook her head.

“I’d do it in a shot, to have it easier to care for, but Wilfred won’t hear of it. You know how men are, ‘I won’t have my wife give up her crowning glory to look like those hussies in magazines.’”

“Ooh, they are behind the times, all of them,” said Nancy. “I had to lay down the law to Thruppence to get my salon set up, and only because he likes the convenience of the hood dryer when he washes his hair does he really accept it. What can I do for you?”

“A trim; I cut it shorter myself, and he grumbled that it’s untidy.”

“Can I make a suggestion,?” said Ida, from inside the froth on her head where Nancy was shampooing her. “If you have it neatened at the ends but so it hangs about your face, and say that Nancy had to cut it that short to make it even, he won’t like that, and you can suggest a regular bob and get him used to it being shorter.”

“Ooh, that is a good idea,” said Nancy. “This is Ida, Doris; come back home.”

“Between going off to Oxford,” said Ida.

“I’ll do it,” said Doris. “I was thinking of having it done a bit shorter each time, but that’s a reel good idea.”

Soon Ida was installed under the dryer with a magazine she had picked up at random, to seem not to be prying. Doris was having a drastic trim, and a couple of other women were waiting, one looking out of the window while the other read ‘The People’s Friend,’ a Scottish story magazine.

“I do not believe it!” said the one at the window.

“What’s that?” asked the other. “Goodness, how some people mess with food! This one has what it calls bacon olives; put stuffing and gravy on thin slices of bacon, roll it up and cover it in oatmeal or batter and fry.”

“Sounds nice,” said Ida.  “Party food.”

“Well, it is February, it might go down well for Valentine’s day,” said the reader.

“Never mind bacon, look out there!” said the one at the window, sounding scandalised. “It’s Vi Savin, and it looks like she’s coming here!”

The reader cast aside her paper, and leaned towards the window. Ida wriggled out from under her hot hood and joined them.

The unmistakable golden head teetering as Mrs. Savin tottered on her high heels was indeed turning down the alley.

“How she has the nerve!” whispered the former reader. “Nellie, she is coming here!”

“It might just be that she’s clinging to a routine,” said Ida.

“Oh, my dear! She only comes here to be done up for her fancy man,” said the reader, Ida thought her name was Edna.

There was the sound of feet on the stairs, and Violet Savin came in, flushing to find all eyes on her.

“What?” she said.

“I want to offer you sympathy; I was a Girl Guide with Irma,” said Ida.

Violet scoffed.

“And a lot of good that did her,” she said. “The wretched girl even kept her diary in Morse code so I couldn’t read it anymore.”

“Why, Mrs. Savin! That might help the police if she recorded who she had seen,” said Ida.

“Like I care; I threw it away with all her clothes,” said Mrs. Savin. “God! What a tiresome girl she was. I’m just figuring out how good it is to be free of her.”

She seemed indifferent to the horrified silence which settled on the other clientele. Nellie gave Ida a significant look. Edna picked up her magazine again.

“This sounds more wholesome, turnip soup with sago; and leftover meat rissoles with rice. That makes a change from making them with potato,” said Edna, as if this was the most important thing in the world.

“That’s a good idea for rissoles,” said Ida.  “I must see Mr. Reckitt and order this magazine if it generally has such good ideas.”

“They were advertising the new Bird’s Custard Powder last month,” said Nellie. “Suggested slicing banana, covering it with jam, and then pouring made up custard on it.”

“I don’t know that you’d even have to bother with jam,” said Edna. “I got some of that custard, and some broken biscuits, and I served up the biscuits broken more and a few raisins with the custard over and the kids et the lot.”

“Kid’s’ll eat anything as long as it’s sweet,” said Nellie. “Mind, this new custard is a good way of making not enough go round by adding a good dollop of custard to half a serving of any pudding.”

“I never eat a dessert with a meal,” said Mrs. Savin.

“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” said Nellie. “Reckon it shows that you need sweetening.”

“I reelly don’t know what you mean,” said Mrs. Savin.

“Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it?” said Nellie. “Can’t even say anything civil about your pore dead girl, no, nor be civil and show proper feeling to this poor lass who was a friend of your Irma and in Guides with her. And now you’re off to your fancy man without a thought for your poor husband.”

Violet Savin flounced.

“Him! Theodore has no more feelings than a goldfish has; he eats, goes to work, eats and sleeps. He has no idea of deeper feelings, or how the artistic muse has to deal with upset to the household.”

“That would hold better if you hadn’t already said you were glad your daughter was dead, or that’s what you as good as said,” said Nellie.

Violet turned a pointed shoulder, getting out a cigarette holder.

“Not in here, you don’t,” said Nancy, sharply. “I got peroxide and the like for your highlights, and it explodes. I’ve seen you flicking ash without caring where it goes.”

Violet Savin sighed, shrugged one shoulder delicately, and put aside her smoking paraphernalia.

Ida was glad that Mrs. Savin would be last; she had a chance to get home before the woman did, to tell Alexander and Jeff that they needed to search the household dustbin.

At last her hair was dry, and she paid Nancy.

“I’ll maybe be back for you to do my nails, but they are still recovering from digging up Saxon monks,” she said, gaily. “Not as exciting as Egyptian tombs, but we discovered that some of them would go skating on the ice; there were bone skates.”

“Well, I never!” said Nancy. Ida suspected she would use the same tone if Ida had told her a recipe, if she confessed to murdering children to make mince pies, or if she declared that the king had been seen dancing with the prime minister.

 

 

Ida skidded into the house.

“You have to go and search Mrs. Savin’s dustbin now!” she said.

“It ought to be done only with a search warrant,” said Jeff.

“Why?” asked Alexander.

“Irma kept a diary in Morse code,” said Ida. “Mrs. Savin, who is, by the way, going to see her lover in Oxford, said she had thrown it away.”

Alexander leaped to his feet.

“We’re on our way,” he said. “Jeff! Nine out of ten people leave their dustbins on the roadside in plain sight. It counts.”

“You’re right,” said Jeff. “Do they have a collection around here, or only middens?”

“There’s a collection in the village on a Monday,” said Ida. “I asked Mary on the way up.”

“Good; anything she threw out should still be there,” said Alexander. “What a wicked waste if she threw out all the girl’s clothes.”

“I doubt she did,” said Ida. “She’s the sort of woman who speaks out from spite, and lies as often as she speaks the truth. But we have to act on the information, in case she did.”

They fairly flew over the hump-backed bridge over the railway line.

“Look, she’s on the platform,” said Ida. “Goodness look out, there’s Edgar Thripp not looking where he’s going.”

Edgar was cycling to the station, and wobbled as the car went the other way on the narrow street. Alexander stopped, and cranked down the window.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Fine!” said Edgar. “I wanted to visit the Bodleian for a reference. I’m writing a book about Village Life; it’s a comedy of manners but I do want to check a few things.”

“Don’t forget that John Fringford, landlord of ‘The Clene Shepe’ is a local historian, and so is his sister, Mary, my housekeeper.”

“Thanks!” said Edgar. He ran into the station with his bike.

“I wronged him,” said Alexander. “I thought he was a layabout, sponging off his aunt, but if he’s writing a book, then he is working, even if he is sponging off Miss Thripp.”

“You don’t like him,” said Jeff.

“He’s a spiff, which is more or less what you thought me to be,” said Alexander. “And it wouldn’t surprise me if he did drugs and got involved with dealers when he was at Oxford. However, it’s not my business unless he thrusts it in my face.”

 

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[1] kerosene

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 

***********************************************************************************

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.