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.