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.

 

---

[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.

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.”