The Village Vicar 11

 

Chapter 11 No condemnation now I dread

 

Adam awoke Chaz by barking, while it was still what Chaz, in military parlance, referred to as ‘Oh-too-early hours.’ He seemed eager for the vicar to follow him and paced up and down yipping and growling, his plumy auburn tail wagging as Chaz arose and pulled on jeans and a jacket over his pyjamas to follow. He had gained the habit of wearing pyjamas as an officer, there being strong disapproval of setting bad examples to the men over being improperly dressed – or undressed – and behaviour unbecoming to an officer. Responding to a drill wearing only his boots and rifle had earned him a dressing-down for being undressed down, as the colonel had put it.

Adam all but dragged Chaz over to the church, and inside it.  There was a figure by the altar.

“Fank Gawd!” said a voice well known to Captain Charles Cunningham.

“Pidge?” said Chaz.

“I’m seekin’ sankchery, capting,” said Charlie ‘Pigeon toe’ Blake.

“I don’t think sanctuary works like that, any more, Pidge. But what’s wrong? I’ve never known you not to hold up your hands if it’s a fair cop.”

“Well, it ain’t a fair cop, is it?” said Blake.

“I don’t know; isn’t it?” asked Chaz.

“It ain’t, it ain’t,” said Blake. “I holds up me ‘ands over them robberies; an’ I went once too orften to the well in that MO, account o’ how the coppers couldn’t pin it on me until that ruddy fence squealed so as not to be impliculatated in murder, see?”

“No, I don’t see at all,” said Chaz. “You’re a peaceful man, Pidge, though your looks are against you, and I don’t see you being mixed  up in murder.”

“Well, that’s the problem, see,” said Blake.  “I robbed the old dame – Baroness of Rudford or some such – but I never killed her. But she were killed with my jemmy ‘cos I left it there by accident, like.”

“You are in a pickle,” said Chaz. “Come over to the rectory and I’ll get a cup of tea and some breakfast.”

“Cor, I could murder a bacon sangwidge,” said Blake. “Orl I could fink of while we was stuck in MMFD[1] was how them bloody heathens spurn God’s best food.”

To an enlisted man of limited education, the cultural differences between Bermondsey and Iraq centred around not being able to get his favourite food.

 

Chaz served tea and a bacon sandwich, and when Blake had slurped his way through the former and devoured the latter, gestured to the man to speak.

“Right, well, you knows ‘ow quiet I am,” said Blake. “And I bin doing a series o’ jobs usin’ the  mark’s own ladder, and goin’ in the winder while they’re asleep, right? Seeming people notice hearin’ winders open in uvver parts of the place but not where they’re sleepin’ right? I read some psychology books when I was last doing bird,” he explained. “So I go in, empty out any valuebubbles wot they keeps close by, and out again. And I wears gloves. Well, seems I lef’ some footprints some place or uvver, and I hear they can match the jemmyin’ to the jemmy. But I never killed the old dame, swelp me! She woke up, and I heard her gasp an’ I put an ‘and over ‘er mouf, see? Well she wears stockin’s, so I use one to tie round ‘er mouf as a gag, and one to tie ‘er ‘ands tergivver, to the bed. It bein’ one o’ vem fancy brass jobbies. An’ then I split, and realised when I were down, I’d lef’ my jemmy in ‘er room. But the paper say it were used to slug the old dame, an’ was found on the ground outside covered in blood, and that all her jools was gone. Well, I didn’t stay to nab orl of them, I took the emeralds and that’s all. You do believe me, doncha, capting?”

“I do,” said Chaz.  “Very well; you can go and kip in my spare room, and I’ll drive into the city, and see what I can do.”

 

 

 

Superintendant Murdoch was pleased to see a vicar who said he had information with regards to the Rudford killing

“Before I signed up for the duration with the Almighty, I was in the armed forces, and a certain Charles ‘Pigeon toes’ Blake served under me,” said Chaz. “Now, I might be able to get him to cough to the robberies but he swears blind he did not kill the old woman.”

“If you know where the suspect is, it’s your duty to lay information,” said Murdoch.

“The hell it is,” said Chaz. “My duty is to a man who looks to me to sort out a pickle he finds himself in, accused of murder which he did not commit.”

Murdoch frowned and shrugged.

“His M.O.; his jemmy; his footprints, and he sold the old dame’s necklace.”

“Only the emeralds which was all he had time for. He told me he tied her up.”

“Well, that’s a lie; she was not tied up when we got there, after the maid phoned us, killed in her sleep she was.”

“Inspector, when you know that Blake has never been a violent man, why would he suddenly kill an old woman in her sleep?” said Chaz. “If you charge him on that, without examining all the evidence, I will be giving a character witness, and interviews to the newspapers. Did you check the body for ligature marks? Did you look for skin rubbed off her wrists on the stocking used to tie them, and maybe brasso from the bed as well? And for saliva on the one he gagged her with?”

“Well... no.”

“Then why the hell are you not phoning the lab to check right now?”  barked Captain Cunningham’s parade ground voice nine inches from Murdoch’s ear.

Inspector Murdoch was not used to being bullied in his own office.

He was not used to being bullied at all.

He was so taken aback he meekly phoned the lab, and sent someone to collect and bag the stockings as evidence.

“Good,” said Chaz. “When you find evidence of Blake’s story, you can let me know and I’ll talk him into coming quietly while you pick up the murderer.”

“But... hang on, why should he not kill her after tying her up?” said Murdoch.

“Why should he? She was neutralised. And he won’t thank me for telling you this, but Blake is squeamish about blood. I know, ridiculous for a soldier.  But he passes out. He certainly would not be likely to be the cause of bleeding.  If  you ask me, the killer was an opportunist who probably hated the old lady for personal reasons and used the incidence of a robbery to do in the old dame who was held helpless, and then removed the gag and untied the wrists, calmly helped herself to the rest of the jewels, screeched, and phoned 999. Any blood on her could be accounted for by saying she checked to see if her mistress was all right. And then she threw the jemmy out of the window.”

“We don’t appreciate amateurs trying to do our jobs for us,” said Murdoch.

“Oh, but I’m not an amateur; I specialise in souls,” said Chaz. “Blake’s battered soul is larcenous, greedy, and shrewd, if not the sharpest stick in the bundle. And I had already seen the maid on the six o’clock news, and she was enjoying herself telling the story. And when she said ‘Oooh, it were a cruel blow, like someone hated her!’ I thought immediately that she was wishing she had struck it. It’s not too big a leap to speculating that she did. And if she did not, I wager you’ll find it was a boyfriend of hers she called in.”

“Good God!” said Murdoch.

“He is, indeed, very good, and He gathers every straying sinner to His breast when they need succour – even Charlie Blake,” said Chaz.

 

Chaz received a phone call in the rectory later that day.

“The evidence was on the stockings, and she had ligature marks,” said Murdoch. “And my boys overlooked that the stocking tying her up had been cut. Someone in SOCO is going to get a rocket, you may be sure. The ligature marks weren’t obvious until she’d been dead a while. And... we found the other jewels. You were right, but I want Blake.”

“I’ll bring him in,” said Chaz. “He’ll go quietly. Just don’t let him read any more psychology books in jail; he’s sharp enough to use them to change his M.O. regularly enough to stay a step ahead of the law.”

 

He broke the news to Blake.

“I knew you’d sort it out, Capting,” said Blake. “It ain’t no s’prise you turned to God-botherin’ as a career, you allus was omnissiment.”

“God is omniscient, and knows all about you, Pidge,” said Chaz. “But I know you. And I also know that you are inclined to interpret the text ‘God helps those who help  themselves’ rather freely. You can leave my spoons, crucifix, and anything else you picked up on the table.”

“Gawd, Capting! I wouldn’t touch your cruzy-fix, not after ‘im Upstairs ‘elped you git me aht o’ vat fix!” said Blake, with feeling. “Oh, all right.”

He emptied a pocket full of silver spoons.

“Good. Let’s go,” said Chaz.

 

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[1] British army slang for ‘Miles and Miles of F***ing Desert