A Third Class Murder: a cozy 1930s mystery set in an English village

by Hugh Morrison

  Detective Sergeant McPherson got out of the car and closed the door noiselessly; a slammed car door on a street like this could attract attention.

  McPherson turned to the two constables emerging from the vehicle. ‘Right lads. We’ll go round the front and the other lot will go in through the alley at the back. Remember this West is wanted in connection with a murder so he may not be the type to come quietly. And remember, no rough stuff unless you have to. We don’t want him up in front of a magistrate with two lovely black eyes, do we?’

  ‘Don’t worry sarge. We won’t leave any marks on him,’ said one of the burly constables with a chuckle.

  ‘Hey,’ admonished McPherson tersely. ‘We’re no’ in Soviet Russia. We do this by the book. And it’s Detective Sergeant, no’ sarge.’

  The constable looked crestfallen. ‘Yes sar…I mean, yes, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘Good man,’ said McPherson. ‘Right, let’s go.’

  He waved at the two officers at the other end of the short terraced street, who moved through the alleyway to the back of the house.

  McPherson strode along the greasy pavement, littered with orange peel, cigarette ends and scraps of newspaper. He noticed a twitching of net curtains in the parlour windows of one or two houses, and hoped no warning would be given by the neighbours. He arrived at number 12, a small terraced house whose front door opened directly off the pavement. He then banged hard on the partly rotted door, which shook in its frame.

  There was no answer, so he banged again, and this time called out.

  ‘Reginald West, open up. This is the police’.

  McPherson raised his fist to bang a final time when the door was flung open.

  The imposing bulk of what he assumed was West’s mother, or perhaps landlady, filled the door. Dressed in a dirty apron with her hair tied up in a turban and brandishing a mop, she demonstrated the impressive ability to shout loudly while retaining the stub of a lit cigarette in her mouth.

  ‘Are you Reg’s mother?’ asked McPherson.

  ‘Yus, sorry to say,’ replied the woman. ‘What you bleeding coppers want here? Reg ‘as been clean as a whistle since he got out.’

  ‘We’re no’ saying he hasn’t,’ said McPherson. ‘We just want a wee word with him. Is he in?’

  ‘’Ave you got a warrant?’ asked Mrs West, her narrow eyes peering suspiciously at McPherson through the blue haze of smoke rising from the cigarette in her mouth, which seemed magnetically attached to her lips.

  ‘Look missus,’ said McPherson impatiently. ‘We’ve no’ got a warrant. We just want a nice quiet word with your son. If we have to come back with a warrant we will, but it’ll look the worse for him.’

  ‘Gawd’s sake,’ breathed Mrs West, and turned towards the rickety narrow staircase behind her. ‘Reg!’ she bellowed upwards. ‘Get up, that’s the police ‘ere to see you.’

  She turned to the front door. ‘Suppose you’d better come in,’ she grumbled.

  Seeing a neighbour looking out from the house opposite, she yelled out. ‘And you can get inside an’ all, nosey mare.’ A face darted back behind grimy net curtains.

  McPherson and the three constables with him trudged into the tiny hallway with its gloomy chocolate brown paint, peeling wallpaper and smell of cabbage; McPherson did not bother to remove his hat.

  West appeared at the top of the staircase, wrestling his braces over his shoulders.

  ‘Police want a word with you,’ said Mrs West in an accusing tone. ‘I don’t want nothing to do with it.’ She disappeared into the little back kitchen, leaving a trail of smoke behind her.

  ‘Whatever it is you think I done, I never done it,’ said West, guardedly.

  ‘That would depend on what you think we think you’ve done, would it not, son?’ replied McPherson with a grin.

  ‘Alright then, what’s it all about?’ said West, as he trudged down the stairs and pushed his way past the men into the small front parlour.

  He threw himself onto the shabby little sofa by the empty fireplace and lit a Woodbine cigarette from a crumpled packet pulled from his trouser pocket.

  McPherson and the constables stood in front of him. West glowered silently at them. ‘We’ll stand, thanks,’ said the Scotsman drily.

  ‘Suit yerself,’ said West. ‘And pardon me if mother don’t make you a cuppa tea neither.’

  ‘That’s fine, son,’ said McPherson.‘We wouldn’t want to outstay our welcome. My name’s Detective Sergeant McPherson of Midchester CID, and I’d like to know where you were Wednesday afternoon, between twelve and two pm.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘Can’t remember, mate.’

  ‘Try a bit harder then. And I’m no’ your mate.’

  ‘Alright, I was with a friend.’

  ‘Has he got a name, this friend?’

  ‘It’s an ‘er, not an ‘im.’

  ‘Oh right. Your old sweetheart, waiting for you faithfully after five years inside, was it? Or just some tart you picked up?’

  West sneered. ‘Why don’t you go and…’

  With lightning speed, McPherson cuffed West’s face with the back of his hand.

  West howled with indignation. ‘You hit me!’

  ‘That was just a wee slap, lad,’ hissed McPherson. ‘If I hit you you’ll no’ be able to talk afterwards. I did what I’d do to a puppy if it made a mess on the carpet. Now keep a civil tongue in your head and we’ll get on just fine.’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ sniffed West. ‘Yeah, I was with a tart. She works down at Maisie’s.’

  McPherson exchanged looks with the constables.

  ‘The knocking shop? And we’re supposed to take the word of someone who works in that den of iniquity?’

  ‘Take it or leave it,’ grumbled West, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘What you need to know where I was for, anyway? What am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘Remember your old friend Charles Cokeley?’ said McPherson.

  ‘Who?’ said West, with a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘You know who,’ replied McPherson. ‘The gent you did over, five years ago.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, him,’ said West. ‘What’s he want? I’ve done my time for that, they can’t dredge all that up again.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ said McPherson.

  West sighed and stubbed out his cigarette on the worn linoleum floor. ‘Heard what?’

  McPherson looked genuinely surprised. ‘Do you no’ listen to the wireless or read the papers?’

  West folded his arms and glowered up at the policemen. ‘We ain’t got a wireless and I don’t read the papers.’

  ‘Don’t or can’t?’ sneered McPherson. ‘Well never mind, I’ll tell you. Cokeley’s dead. Someone stabbed him.’

  ‘Lord,’ exclaimed West sarcastically. ‘Poor old soul.’

  ‘Spare us the mock sympathy,’ said McPherson. ‘Thing is, he was robbed and killed in a railway compartment over Lower Addenham way. A very similar modus operandi to yours.’

  ‘Modus…what?’ asked West, his face twisted in annoyance.

  ‘Did they no’ teach you Latin at Borstal?’ said McPherson. ‘Modus operandi means method of operation. And Cokeley was robbed using exactly the same method as you did last time, except this time he was killed.’

  ‘Well I ain’t got nothing to do with it,’ said West, ‘and you can’t prove it. Just speak to Maisie or any of the girls down there and they’ll vouch for me.’

  Before he could reply, McPherson was interrupted by the sound of shouting and banging from the direction of the kitchen. Mrs West burst into the parlour rattling her mop and bucket, huffing and puffing indignantly.

  ‘I ain’t having it,’ she exclaimed. ‘They ain’t got no right to go poking around my yard. You tell your men they ain’t got no right. I got my mats airing out there.’

  ‘You invited us in, Mrs West,’ sighed McPherson. ‘I told you we didn’t have a sear
ch warrant so you could always have said no.’

  ‘I don’t mean you, I mean that lot in the back yard. One of them’s knocked my best Axminster off the line and left ruddy great boot prints on it.’

  ‘Alright, dear, we’re leaving now anyway, I’ll call the lads off,’ said McPherson, turning to go.

  Just then he was confronted by one of the constables assigned to watch the rear of the house. The man glanced into the parlour at West and then leaned towards McPherson’s ear to speak in a low tone.

  ‘I think you’d better come and have a look at the wash-house, Detective Sergeant.’

  After he had showed Inspector Ludd the tracks he had found by the railway line, Shaw decided he ought to refrain from amateur detective work and instead concentrate on his parish duties.

  After luncheon he strolled along the high street and stepped into Cokeley’s antique shop, and again breathed in the aroma of musty upholstery and old furniture polish. Miss Ellis, the assistant, was at the counter, her thick horn-rimmed spectacles on the end of her nose, absorbed in reading some sort of ledger. Shaw cleared his throat. Miss Ellis jumped slightly, looked up and blinked through her thick spectacles.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good afternoon. Miss Ellis, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Can I help you?’

  ‘I was rather hoping to see Mrs Cokeley.’

  ‘What was it regarding?’

  ‘A pastoral visit.’

  Miss Ellis paused for a moment, then replied. ‘I’ll call her.’

  As she turned to go into the little back parlour, she snatched up the large ledger and closed it quickly. Shaw noticed a long list of entries in red ink on the pages before it was snapped shut.

  Miss Ellis disappeared and he heard her call up the stairs, followed by a muffled reply from a female voice. Miss Ellis returned into the shop and indicated to Shaw to walk around the side of the counter.

  ‘Come this way please. Go up the stairs and turn right.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Shaw. ‘I know the way.’

  After exchanging formalities, Shaw sat down in the little sitting room at the top of the stairs. Shaw noticed that this time, Mrs Cokeley hummed as she prepared tea in the little back kitchen, and she was no longer dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief as she had done on his first visit. The dance band music emanating from the wireless seemed louder than before.

  ‘I spoke with police this morning,’ said Shaw, ‘and they assured me that the necessary arrangements with your husband’s body will be concluded within a few days.’

  ‘Oh well that’s a relief, I must say,’ said Mrs Cokeley brightly. ‘Some tea, vicar?’ she asked, putting down the pot with its garish knitted cosy on the table.

  Shaw took the cup offered to him and received the rather stewed looking brew.

  ‘It is indeed a relief, Mrs Cokeley, but I must warn you, that you will be required to identify your husband’s body at the mortuary in Midchester. I will be happy to accompany you if you wish.’

  Mrs Cokeley waved her hand airily. ‘Oh, that’s alright vicar. I’ll manage. No, as I say, it’ll be a blessed relief to get all this over and done with.’

  ‘The murder investigation is likely to take some time, I fear,’ said Shaw, sipping his tea.

  ‘Oh I don’t mean that,’ said Mrs Cokeley. ‘What’s done is done. No sense worrying about investigations and such, I leave all that to the professionals. What I mean is, it will be a relief to get shot of this place.’

  ‘This…place? I hope that your husband’s death has not made you feel afraid to remain here?’

  ‘Bless you vicar, me, afraid? I’ve got nothing to fear here. I’m sure it was that fellow West who killed Charles. You know, the one that robbed him last time. The paper said the police are looking for him. Once they find him that will be the end of that.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ murmured Shaw.

  ‘No, what I meant was,’ said Mrs Cokeley, who leaned forward and conspiratorially touched Shaw’s knee, ‘I’m getting shot of this place. This house. I’ve had a very good offer made for it. To sell up.’

  ‘Indeed? And where will you go?’

  ‘That’s the lovely thing. I can stay right here in Lower Addenham. Or to be more precise, New Addenham.’

  ‘New Addenham?’

  ‘Yes, the new housing estate they’re building down at the end of the village. It’s them who’s offered to buy this place. Well, Charles didn’t want to sell, he kept upping the price even though I said he ought to take it. That nice Mr Symes was round and he was pleased as punch about it all. Said it was a relief for them to finally get this place.’

  Shaw thought for a moment and then remembered that Symes was the man who, with some sort of business partner, had also been on the train the previous day.

  ‘Yes, it’s a funny thing really,’ continued Mrs Cokeley. ‘To think I’ll be walking on top of where this old place used to be.’

  ‘Walking on top?’ exclaimed Shaw, with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. They’re knocking this place down, the builders. That’s why Mr Symes and Mr Davis are so pleased to be buying it. They said they stood to lose a lot of money if they couldn’t, something to do with making a short cut to the station. Well, I don’t mind telling you vicar, once they told me that, I thought why not get a good price? Of course I didn’t ask as much as Charles wanted. But I did a deal with them.’

  ‘A deal?’

  ‘Yes, I asked for a discount on Anne Hathaway.’

  Shaw finished his tea and put down his cup and saucer on the little occasional table next to him. He wondered what on earth the wife of William Shakespeare could possibly have to do with all this.

  ‘Forgive me Mrs Shaw. Anne Hathaway?’

  ‘Yes, vicar. It’s a house. One of the new ones they’re building on the estate. You know the sort of thing, it’s got up to look like an old place from the outside, but inside it’s all mod cons.’

  ‘Mod cons?’

  ‘Modern conveniences. Oh, it’s going to be lovely. Two receptions, downstairs cloak with H and C, and even a garage. Mind you, I haven’t anything to put in it, but with the insurance policy I’ll probably be able to afford something soon, although I’ll have to take driving lessons. Goodness, just think! Me driving a motor car!’ Mrs Cokeley chuckled and slurped her tea.

  Shaw stood up. ‘I am pleased to hear that things are looking bright for you, Mrs Cokeley. I shall call again when I am able to provide an exact date for the funeral.’

  Mrs Cokeley walked ahead of Shaw down the stairs, and he continued speaking.

  ‘It is particularly interesting to hear about your husband’s life insurance policy. On our previous meeting I was given to understand that it was somewhat… disappointing.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Mrs Cokeley, as they entered the small back parlour behind the shop’s counter. ‘Mr Symes is ever so good with figures and that sort of thing. He offered to take a look at the policy and made some telephone calls and found out I’m due a lot more than I thought. And do you know, as another favour, he’s going to have a look through my books.’

  ‘Your books?’ asked Shaw. ‘Do you mean, antiquarian works?’

  ‘No, bless you vicar, I mean the accounts for the shop. Frank, Mr Symes I mean, says he can’t for the life of him understand why a place like this wasn’t making more money. Thinks he might be able to get something back on taxes or the rates or something. Well, wonders will never cease. All in all I can’t help thinking Charles’ death was a blessing in disguise’.

  Shaw could not think of anything to say to such a remark, and instead simply bid Mrs Cokeley good day.

  As he passed through into the shop he noticed Miss Ellis frowning with a worried expression over the large ledger. He paused for a moment. She resembled…he could not think who it was, but somebody else that he had seen recently.

  Miss Ellis looked up and saw that he was watching her.

  ‘Forgive me for asking, M
iss Ellis,’said Shaw, ‘but may I enquire how you are bearing up?’

  ‘Bearing up?’ asked Miss Ellis with a quizzical expression. She quickly shut the ledger in front of her.

  ‘Yes,’ continued Shaw, ‘after Mr Cokeley’s death. It must have been quite a shock for you.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ replied the assistant quickly, pushing a wisp of dark hair back from her forehead. ‘I’m quite well thank you’.

  ‘A nasty business,’ said Shaw, shaking his head. ‘A respectable businessman killed for the sake of, what, a pound or two?’

  Miss Ellis paused. ‘Something like that I think.’

  ‘Doubtless the police have spoken to you by now?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Ellis tersely. ‘I can’t see what for. It was just an ordinary day and I gave Mr Cokeley a normal week’s takings to the bank just as I always did.’

  ‘The police have to be thorough, Miss Ellis, they will have asked similar questions of many people.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ replied the assistant. ‘Well if you’ll excuse me, I do have rather a lot of work to do.’ She turned back to the ledger.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Shaw. ‘Good day to you, Miss Ellis.’ He put on his hat and left the shop.

  ‘Well, well,’ said McPherson, looking into the little brick wash-house in Reg West’s squalid back yard. ‘What have we here? He turned to the constable next to him. ‘Bring him out.’

  A few moments later the constable emerged from the kitchen door, holding West’s arm firmly. The two men crossed the weed-strewn patch of soil that passed for a garden. McPherson pointed through the doorway into the wash-house. ‘These yours, are they?’

  West’s eyes widened as he peered into the gloom. ‘What you talking about?’

  ‘Well let’s bring them out and give you a better look, shall we?’ said McPherson. Taking care not to touch the handlebars, he lifted a man’s bicycle out of the wash-house. ‘Exhibit A. A man’s bicycle with mud spatters on the frame and tyres.’

  ‘So what?’ said West nonchalantly.

  ‘Is it yours?’ said McPherson.

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘Mrs West,’ shouted McPherson towards the house. ‘Does your son own a bicycle?’