Lies in Lashbrook 6

 

Chapter 6

 

“I’m glad Mr. Chaffinch liked the dances Gladys and I improvised,” said Ida. “Not that either of us is exactly Eva Tanguay, but we wanted to be more mobile than static and give the impression of being, like her, ‘I don’t care’ girls, freed from the ‘genius tutelary’ as it were.”

They were diverting Ruth with an account of how the rehearsal had gone, with a passing reference to Tim explaining that the poison pen did not know much.

“You’re both better singers,” said Alexander.

“Oh, hush; it doesn’t matter,” said Ida. “It’s her free spirit which is legendary. I enjoyed ‘Wild Girl,’ back in seventeen, when everything else was bleak. Basil took me to see it, or I took him, it was a bit of a moot point in those days.”

Alexander nodded; it was shortly after Basil had had his legs burned off when his Sopwith Camel had crashed, carrying incendiary rounds for balloon strafing. A light-hearted film in the company of his beloved sister would have been good for him.

“And the best bit was how liberating it would be to be dressed as a boy, like ‘Firefly,’ in the film,” said Ida. “I never quite dared, though.”

“Plenty of land girls wore trousers, and there are jodhpurs for women these days to ride,” said Gladys. “I wore my brother’s clothes to help with harvest before I figured that going into service would learn me more... teach me more, I mean... and be less hard work than being reared to marry a farmer.”

“You’d be wasted,” said Ida. “Campbell agrees, though he’s doing stoic and uncommunicative.”

“I likes to listen more than wot I talk,” said Campbell. “And it strikes me that this ʼere poison pen is a smoke screen.”

“Go on,” said Alexander.

Campbell pulled a face.

“I ain’t got nuthin’ concrete,” he said. “But it smells.  I was wonderin’ if the writer was sendin’ stuff out to an ʼeap o’ people to ʼide a reel letter to someone for blackmail. See, when I was a nipper, some old dear was writing filth to people like vis, only she’d lived vere all her life, see? An’ she knew what she was writin’ about, knew everyone’s secrets.”

“I know everybody’s secrets, and what everybody earns

And I carefully compare it to their income tax returns,” sang Alexander.

“Wrong operetta,” said Ida. “But appropriate enough under the circumstances.”

“Yus, and she did,” said Campbell. “Seemingly she had been upset by someat, an’ she went loopy an’ started writing down all the things she knew, an’ she was a good observer. Broke up four marriages, as I recall,” he added.

“Well, if it is a pointed campaign and most letters are spurious, it could be about breaking up a couple by someone who wants to make a play for one of them if they break up,” said Ida “Only I can’t see any of the girls playing the femme fatale at Timmy Mapp, any more than I can imagine any of the lads yearning for Maggie, who’s a good sort of girl but too hearty for a lot of men.”

“Stan did say ‘him,’ of the person delivering the letter,” said Alexander.

“Stan probably used the male pronoun because he associates delivering letters with Dan Reckitt,” said Ida.

“Fair point,” said Alexander. “That door is deeply recessed and shadowed, as well as having frosted glass in it. Unless you were peering, you couldn’t tell, when it’s in shadow in the morning, who it was. It faces north.”

“We can’t rule it out,” said Ida, “But best to proceed along the lines that it’s usually a woman.”

“According to my mother, it’s to do with the changes in life,” said Alexander. “It strongly affects feelings of self worth and loosens the inhibitions.”

“That’s interesting,” said Ida. “I trust MaMargaret’s insights over any psychologist.”

“Well, yes, so do I,” said Alexander. “She’s as shrewd as they make them.”

 

Dan Reckitt brought the Tuesday morning post.

“You ought to know that Irma Savin reckons she knows who put the letter under Braithwaite’s door,” he said.

“Irma Savin... I’m trying to put a face to the name,” said Alexander.

“The blonde one in the schoolgirl chorus; wears a wig for the performance,” said Dan.

Alexander nodded. The girl was shingled in an almost mannish fashion, which was a reminder that telling a man from a woman was not always obvious these days.

“And did she say who?” asked Alexander.

“Not to me, she didn’t,” said Dan. “I’m only the postie, but she wanted to be mysterious. Said she’d written her own letter, and was likely to benefit from it.”

“The hell she did!” cried Alexander. “She’s more likely to come to a bad end. Where does she live?”

“On the edge of the village; her father works in the city and her mother paints those weird pictures made of squares and triangles, but not like Mr.  Basil used to, his were pictures. Mrs. Savin’s are daubs.”

“I suppose if she enjoys herself, it’s valid,” said Alexander, dubiously.

Dan chuckled.

“Oh, she’s jealous of Miss Ida, whose paintings sell,” he said. “She’s the sort of artist who feels her art instead of bothering to learn how to paint.”

“Oh, I see,” said Alexander, who did. “Do me a favour, and tell Tim Mapp to be ready for me to pick him up to go visit her.”

“I will,” said Dan, who managed to traverse the village faster on his trusty bicycle than most people managed in a motor car.

Alexander went to find Campbell.

“We’re going to pick up Tim Mapp and go see a witness,” he said, grimly. “Ida, my sweet! Can you put up with Irma Savin as a guest for a few days, to keep her in protective custody, just in case she did see something relevant?”

Ida grimaced.

“If I have to,” she said. “She’s one who is likely to see the lights of a car badly adjusted and declare the moon is rising in the west, though.”

“Well, let us hope if she wrote to someone accusing them, said person is confused, not guilty,” said Alexander, grimly.

 

“I love your car,” said Tim as he got in.

“I’ll think of you when I decide to trade it in,” said Alexander. “Though I warn you, I wasn’t planning on doing so for a while yet.”

“Maybe it will give me time to save,” said Tim. “Motor-vehicles are out of the range of a country copper.”

“Yes, I can’t see the brass allowing that it’s a necessary expense when you have a bike,” said Alexander. “I’ve been thinking of a motorbike for London traffic, myself; I was considering a Royal Enfield war surplus model.”

Tim brightened.

“Now, that’s an idea,” he said. “An ambulance model with sidecar for bringing in the odd drunk to dry out, and for Maggie.”

“I’ll see what I can pick up; and I tell you what, if I can get a couple, you can pay me off at a rate that suits you,” said Alexander. “Is this the place?”

“The cottage with too much ivy and fancy benches, yes,” said Tim.

“Luytens benches,” said Alexander. “Artistic.”

Tim sniffed.

Apparently local views on Mrs. Savin’s work were fairly represented by Dan Reckitt.

 

The door opened to Tim’s knock, and they were confronted by a woman in a suspiciously clean artist’s smock over a shapeless dress, her shingled hair perfect, and no smudges on face or hands, though she had a loaded paintbrush in her hand.

“Yes?” she said, and recognised Tim. “Oh! The constabulary!  I fear you catch me having a teensy sherry whilst in charge of a paintbrush!”

“We’re here to see Irma,” said Tim. “I gather she’s home doing a correspondence course in shorthand?”

“Oh! Well, she can work the hours she wants; she told me she was going out,” said Mrs. Savin, vaguely, waving her paintbrush. She transferred it to the other hand to smooth her shiny golden hair. Alexander reflected that Ida would do so with paintbrush in hand and would likely leave a smudge. He found it adorable. He pitied Mrs. Savin, who apparently did not work, and had an avocation chosen for appearances rather than for talent.

“Where did she go?” asked Tim.

“Oh! I don’t know. Where do girls go when they are at a loose end?” asked Mrs. Savin, vaguely. “Have you got a cigarette? I’m dying for a puff. My holder is in my smock pocket.”

“I don’t smoke,” said Tim.

“Nor do I,” said Alexander.

“Really? I thought everyone smoked,” said Mrs. Savin. “Look, my paint is drying, I can’t help you. Irma goes where she wants, I’m not Victorian to watch over her every move.”

“Well, if she comes back before we find her, you’d better tell her to come down to the police house,” said Tim.

“Goodness! That sounds ominous. What’s the poor brat supposed to have done? Her father will pay any fine.”

“She said she witnessed something – possibly the poison pen,” said Alexander, grimly. “And she hinted that she was going to try her hand at a little gentle blackmail, and she might be in danger.”

“Danger! Oh, nonsense, this is Lashbrook, people don’t do nasty things here, it’s too aesthetically perfect for nastiness. Now do go away, will you?” She pushed the door to.

“Has that idiot woman no idea how much nastiness can seethe below the surface in a village?” demanded Alexander, before the door was properly closed. He heard a flounce as it shut with an angry click.

“Unfortunately, no,” said Tim. “She’s also one who believes that her daughter can be bought out of all trouble by daddy’s hard-earned cash.”

“Where is she likely to go?” asked Alexander.

“The centre of social life is the cafe,” said Tim. “Unless she took a train to London.”

“We’ll run round via the station,” said Alexander. “Fred will know if she took a train.”

 

 

Fred Chaffinch denied having seen Irma that day, so Tim and Alexander went back to the centre of the village. Irma’s friend, Helen Newell was in the cafe, wiping tables, and serving customers, this being the job she had taken to pay to go to secretarial college.

“Have you seen Irma this morning?” asked Tim, without preamble.

“Yes, she popped in, and had a coffee and an apple turnover, on her way to meet someone,” said Helen, who was a chubby girl. She sighed. “Irma can eat all she wants without putting on an ounce, I’m always banting,” she added, mournfully.

“Who was she meeting? Her young man?” asked Alexander.

Helen laughed. “That isn’t singular. She has half a dozen boys on a string. I suppose she was meeting one of them, but she did not say who. Or even that it was a boy.”

“She gave no clue who it was?” asked Alexander, sharply.

“No, but she was made up, so I supposed it was to see a man friend,” said Helen. “But then, it might have been a job interview. She did say once that she was going to see if Mr. Henderson wanted a secretary.”

Alex exchanged a look with Tim.

“We’d better drive up to Foursquares,” he said, without enthusiasm. “I’ll do the talking.”

Ten minutes later, they were at the site of the new house being built. David was supervising, and seemed very happy.

“Hello,” said Alexander. “You discovered curves, I see?” he pointed to bay windows, and the curved stair well.

“Oh, har, har, very funny,” said David. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We came to ask if you’ve seen Irma Savin,” said Alexander. “Apparently, she was hoping for a job as a secretary.”

David frowned.

“Yellow haired chit with an irritating laugh and the impression that she was irresistible to men?” he asked.

“That’s the one,” said Alexander.

“She came up here... oh, a couple of days ago,” David said. “I sent her away with a flea in her ear. When I want a secretary I’ll advertise for one, and I wouldn’t want a girl who irritates me.”

“So, she hasn’t been here today?” asked Alexander.

“Not that I noticed,” said David. “What do you want her for?”

“To try to stop her doing something stupid,” said Alexander.

“Nothing we can do now,” said Tim. “Just put out word that we want a word with her.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” said Alexander.

He dropped Tim off, and returned home to Heywood Hall.

“Any joy?” asked Ida.

“No,” said Alexander. “She set out to see someone, and nobody knows who.”

 “Oh, she is a silly piece, and cock-sure of her own infallibility,” said Ida. “She failed any number of Guide badges because she was convinced she was properly prepared, but forgot one part.”

“I’m starting to get a worrying picture of her,” said Alexander. “Would she put on makeup to see a woman?”

“Oh, yes,” said Ida. “To impress whoever it was that Irma is beautiful and nicely turned out, to emphasise her superiority.  To depress the pretensions of anyone, especially if they were socially above her.”

“Let us hope she got it wrong,” said Alexander. “I think she should be treated as a missing person, and the village raised. I’ll just take a cuppa, and then I’ll go out again to try to trace her footsteps.”

 

A phone call to Tim meant that Alexander and Campbell met a group of volunteers in the village to search for the elusive Irma. This included Braithwaite and his son, Billy.

“I wouldn’t let Maud come,” said Braithwaite. “There’s Stan quite hysterical that he never saw anything he could recognise, and he needs Maudie, and if there is unpleasantness, I don’t want her seeing it.”

“What could happen to a village girl in the village?” asked Edgar Thripp, being one of the volunteers available, as a gentleman without vocation.

“Don’t be naive, Edgar,” said the vicar. “You may have forgotten the strangling of Sally Braithwaite during your teens, but I have not.”

“Aye, and I won’t leave another young girl to suffer like my Sally did,” said Braithwaite. “Never discovered the bastard who did it, either. But the police surgeon said she was with child, and Sally would have threatened scandal if whoever it was didn’t marry her.”

The searchers headed up the high street in the direction Helen thought Irma had gone, in her distinctive red jacket, knocking on every door to ask if she had been seen, dividing off at any side street. Alexander found himself and Campbell heading down a lane known as Sandy Lane on the maps and Lovers’ Lane to the locals, which led down to the river, and was a pleasant walk, fetching up, Campbell assured him, at a nice picnic spot.

“Been there with my Gladdie,” said Campbell. “Nice soft grass on the banks and a bit of a beach below, below the bridge over to the station, and safe enough to swim in summer, being well below the weir the bridge goes over. And warning signs up, though it ain’t deep.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” said Alexander. “A weir creates what’s known as a drowning machine, because where the water falls, it circulates and keeps pulling a body under. I could get more scientific but I don’t think it matters that much.”

“It does me well enough,” said Campbell. “Gawdelpus! There’s a flash of colour in the reeds over there!”

“And that, I fancy, is Irma,” said Alexander, a sick feeling in his stomach. “And so, it begins.”