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.
