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

by Hugh Morrison

  Mrs West appeared at the doorway and squinted at the bicycle. McPherson watched her and could tell she was in a dilemma as to what she should say. Finally she replied.

  ‘Yeah, I think that’s his. Why?’

  ‘Never mind, thank you missus, you can go back inside now.’

  Mrs West paused at the back step. ‘What you been up to now, Reg?’ she asked her son warily.

  ‘I said thank you, you can go back inside,’ said McPherson more firmly, and a constable ushered her back into the kitchen and closed the door.

  ‘Ain’t a crime to have a bike, is it?’ asked West.

  ‘A bike like that’s not cheap,’ said McPherson. ‘Where did you get the money for it? You’ve only been out of stir a couple of weeks.’

  ‘I had a bit saved up so I bought it.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘…I ain’t saying any more till I speaks to a lawyer.’

  McPherson laughed. ‘And what are you going to pay a lawyer with? The money you stole from Cokeley? Alright, look, son. To be honest I’m no’ that interested in the bike. What I really want to know more about is this. Exhibit B.’

  McPherson wrapped his handkerchief around his hand, lifted a brown leather bag out of the wash-house, and placed it on the ground in front of West.

  ‘One Gladstone bag, leather.’

  McPherson noticed West was nervously biting his lip.

  ‘I never seen that before.’

  ‘Let’s have a look inside shall we?’ said McPherson with a smile. He squatted down and tilted the open bag towards West. There was a sound of coins jingling. ‘About seven pounds at least in there, I’d say. But what’s really interesting is this writing here on the inside.’

  McPherson pointed to an inscription in blue ink on the inside of the bag’s canvas lining. ‘Since I’m no’ sure if you can actually read, I’ll do it for you. It says “Charles Cokeley, 23 High Street, Lower Addenham, Suffolk”’.

  McPherson stood up but immediately felt the ground give way under him as West shoved him in the chest and then broke free from the grip of the constable next to him. McPherson recovered his balance and made a grab for West, but the man had already got through the back gate into the alley beyond.

  ‘Get them round here,’ yelled McPherson over his shoulder. He careered into the alley and heard the shrill blast of a whistle from behind him, as one of the constables summoned help.

  McPherson looked around and saw West sprinting up the narrow alleyway. He gave chase and was soon joined by the two constables who had circled round the side of the house.

  McPherson skidded out of the alley into a small side road and paused to catch his breath as he realised West was trapped in a dead end; a brick wall about eight feet high blocked the end of the street. McPherson, his heart pounding, realised it was above the cutting for the main railway line into the city centre.

  He called out. ‘Come on son, you’ve had your fun now, let’s get serious. We’ve got some talking to do.’

  West called out but his voice was drowned out by the roar of a train passing through the cutting. McPherson’s vision was obscured for a moment by clouds of steam bursting over the wall but when they cleared he realised that West had somehow climbed on to the brick structure and was walking gingerly along its top, with his arms outstretched to retain his balance.

  McPherson could see what West was aiming for - an iron signal gantry a few feet away, projecting out from the adjacent brick wall on the side of the cutting. The fool is trying to get down onto the tracks, he thought.

  Approaching the wall, McPherson realised that West had used the indentations in its crumbling face for foot and hand-holds.

  ‘Here, give me a leg up,’ he said to one of the four constables who had by now joined him.

  ‘Are you sure about this, Sergeant?’ asked one of them doubtfully.

  ‘I said give me a leg up!’ shouted McPherson and the policeman quickly complied. By pure instinct, McPherson followed in West’s footsteps along the narrow crumbling edge of the wall and jumped the short distance onto the metal gantry. The rusty structure creaked and moved slightly as his weight hit it.

  West was standing still on outside edge of the gantry, his knuckles white against the rusted black metal. McPherson, for the first time since climbing the wall, looked down and then recoiled with a dizzy feeling as he realised they were both perched about thirty feet above the railway line.

  ‘I ain’t goin’ inside again,’ yelled West defiantly.

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid, son,’ shouted McPherson, as another train roared past below. ‘You’ll never jump that. Do you want your ma to have to identify your body down there?’

  McPherson looked to his right and realised that he could see over the wall to which the gantry was attached. On the other side the road was just a few feet below. West must have been so terrified that he had not even noticed the obvious escape route.

  McPherson put out his arm. ‘Come on son, I’ll help you over.’ West cautiously clambered back over the gantry railing and McPherson manhandled him over the wall where he dropped the short distance on to the road. Once there, he was immediately bundled into the police car that had just arrived.

  Chapter Nine

  S haw walked along Lower Addenham’s little high street for his late afternoon stroll, absorbed in thought. Inspector Ludd, it seemed, was confident that Cokeley’s former assailant was the chief suspect, but the idea of him dressing in women’s clothing seemed somewhat far-fetched to Shaw.

  If that were not the case, though, how did one explain the discarded wig and woman’s costume by the railway line? He also could not help thinking that Mrs Cokeley did not seem to be much of a grieving widow. He knew that they had been arguing of late and that Ludd had implied adultery may have occurred, but her attitude seemed not of one of loss, but rather of relief - almost levity.

  Shaw stepped back suddenly from the kerb as a little Austin Seven whizzed past him, hooting its klaxon as it went. The modern world with its myriad sins is here even in this little corner of rural England, thought Shaw; the world of adultery, of robbery with violence, and fast motor cars that enabled strangers to come and go at will.

  From the corner of his eye he thought he saw a figure standing in the doorway of Bland’s, the butchers, but when he turned, there was nobody there.

  Something was not right. He needed to think. A hymn tune came into his head and he realised it was Sandys. Now, which one was that?, he pondered. Sometimes inspiration came to him in the words of hymns, but the words were usually preceded by the tune in his head.

  Sandys…that was Teach Me, My God and King. Number two hundred and…forty or forty one in Hymns Ancient and Modern. Written by George Herbert. Fifteen-ninety something to sixteen something. Yes, that was it. He resolved to look it up when he got home.

  As he reached the end of the row of shops on the high street, he had a distinct feeling of being followed. Although he did not believe in premonitions, sixth senses and the like, he did wonder whether the human mind had an instinct for impending danger which went beyond the normal senses. He had noticed it once or twice in France, before the Germans opened up an artillery barrage. One’s ears seemed suddenly to hear more acutely and the hair on the back of one’s neck stood up.

  He turned again. There was someone following him. He caught a glimpse of a figure ducking into the hedgerow which lined the remainder of the high street on the way to the vicarage.

  Shaw paused and stood still. As a clergyman, he was used to being approached by odd characters from time to time, his clerical collar seeming to act as a magnet to eccentrics, but that was less common here in the village where he was well known. He took out his pipe and began filling it.

  He could see a pair of brown suede shoes protruding from under the hedge. He strolled closer and acted nonchalantly, placing his pipe between his teeth. Peering slightly round the hedge, he saw a man in a gaudy checked suit in the new double breasted style, with a wide brown tr
ilby hat pulled down over his eyes.

  ‘I say,’ said Shaw to the man, with a tentative smile. ‘I wonder if I could trouble you for a match. I appear to have run out.’

  The man leaned slightly further back, and looked from side to side. He took out from his pocket a box of England’s Glory matches, and passed it to Shaw.

  ‘Here, keep the box,’ said the man.

  ‘Thank you, indeed,’ said Shaw, striking a match and touching it to the tobacco in his pipe bowl. He looked the stranger up and down and realised that he recognised him.

  ‘We’ve met before, I think?’ said Shaw.

  ‘Yes reverend,’ whispered the man. ‘On the station yesterday. After Cokeley got killed. I’m Joe Davis.’

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Davis. A terrible business. I trust you are keeping well? Please feel free to speak to me if I can be of any assistance.’

  ‘That’s just it, reverend. I would like to speak to you about it.’ Davis looked around again. ‘But not here. Can we go somewhere?’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied Shaw. The George is just up the road.’ He checked his watch. ‘They will be opening shortly. Perhaps we might take a glass of beer?’

  Davis licked his lips. ‘Not the George. How about that little place just across from here. The, whatsit. The Bull.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Shaw. ‘Shall we walk together?’

  ‘I’d rather meet you there in a few minutes,’ said Davis, again in a low whisper. ‘You go on, and I’ll follow in a tick.’

  Shaw smiled. ‘Very well. Five minutes it is.’

  A few minutes later, Shaw entered the little public house known as the Bull. Lower Addenham’s main hostelry was the George, a former coaching inn which had been recently modernised in the mock-Tudor style, replete with fox hunting prints and electric lamp standards disguised as candles; it was a pleasant but somewhat soulless place, Shaw thought.

  The Bull, on the other hand, was a far more traditional pub, low-ceilinged, perpetually dark and with high-backed wooden benches generally occupied by retired farm-hands who spent their days drinking and reminiscing about the old times.

  ‘What can I get you, vicar?’ said the heavily jowelled landlord, who was polishing glasses behind the bar.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Shaw. ‘I believe the mild here is rather good.’

  ‘Indeed it is sir. Brewed on the premises. Not many of us left doing that now. Mug or glass?’

  Shaw chose the traditional option. ‘A mug, if I might’.

  ‘Certainly sir,’ said the landlord, taking a pink china mug from under the bar and filling it with a dark mild ale from the pump.

  ‘Nasty business about that antiques fellow yesterday,’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ replied Shaw.

  ‘Mind, the police have made an arrest this morning. Just been on the wireless. I reckon it was that same feller done him over before, don’t you? Well, it stands to reason, don’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ mused Shaw.

  ‘That’ll be tenpence ha’penny,’ said the landlord, placing the mug on the bar.

  Shaw handed over some coins and looked round for somewhere to sit. He saw an empty bench in the corner. As he walked over he saw an elderly man with a white beard without a moustache, who touched his forehead in the ancient feudal gesture of respect for a clergyman. Shaw nodded and smiled at him, then sat down at the bench and took a deep swallow of the nutty brown beer.

  A few moments later, Davis walked in to the pub, looking around furtively, with his hat still pulled down well over his eyes. Shaw smiled and wondered how the man thought he was being inconspicuous, particularly as he was wearing a loud checked suit and brightly coloured tie, making him about as inconspicuous as a music-hall comedian.

  After ordering a double scotch from the barman, Davis sat down and raised the glass.

  ‘Here’s how, reverend.’ He then swallowed most of the whisky.

  Shaw raised his beer mug in return, and Davis leaned forward, again looking from side to side briefly before speaking.

  ‘I need to talk to you about the murder’.

  As late afternoon turned into evening, Ludd and McPherson were again seated at the table in the interview room at Midchester police station. Both men appeared tired as West was brought in by a constable, who pushed the prisoner down onto the chair facing them.

  ‘Good evening, Mr West,’ said Ludd. ‘I hope you’ve had a chance to settle in to your new accommodation.’

  ‘I hope you’re feeling a bit more talkative as well now,’ added McPherson, as he turned over a fresh page in his notepad.

  West glared at the men silently.

  ‘Let’s go through a few things, shall we?’ said Ludd. ‘Where were you between twelve and two pm on Wednesday?’

  ‘I already told him,’ said West, nodding at McPherson.

  ‘Well you can tell me now as well,’ said Ludd.

  ‘Down at Maisie’s and then at home.’

  ‘The tarts will vouch for you?’

  ‘Don’t see why not.’

  ‘You’re out of luck so far, son,’ said McPherson. ‘We sent someone round to speak to them yesterday but nobody answered. Maybe it was early closing day for tarts?’

  West shrugged. ‘Can’t help it if they ain’t answering, can I?’

  Ludd leaned forward. ‘Then there’s the little matter of Charles Cokeley’s bag. Containing,’ he paused to consult his notebook, ‘precisely seven pounds, fifteen shillings and ninepence. Quite a haul. That’s about three week’s wages for someone like you I’d say. Now, how did that come to be in your ma’s wash-house?’

  West shrugged again. ‘I dunno. Most probably one of you lot planted it there.’

  McPherson rose from his chair. ‘You little…’

  Ludd gently gripped McPherson’s shoulder, and he sat back down. ‘Thank you sergeant, let’s remain calm, shall we? Now, West, I strongly suggest you don’t mention something like that again, as I’ll begin to think you aren’t being very helpful. I don’t think you realise how much hot water you’re in. A convicted felon going back to rob the same man again and killing him this time. Juries tend to take a dim view of that sort of thing.’

  ‘I never done it.’

  Ludd leaned forward again and spoke slowly. ‘Then start trying to convince me, lad.’

  ‘Honest, I never seen that bag before,’ said West with a scowl. ‘I dunno how it got there.’

  ‘What about the bike?’ said McPherson. ‘You told me that was yours.’

  West paused, as if he was trying to think. ‘So, what if I did? Ain’t a crime to have a bike, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said McPherson, ‘but here’s the thing. Some tyre tracks were found in the mud near where Cokeley was killed. And guess what? They match the tyres on your bike.’

  ‘And I reckon,’ said Ludd, ‘if we compare the samples of soil on the wheels of the bicycle it will match that on the road near the murder scene. I’ve got men working on that already.’

  ‘That’s what they call forensic evidence,’ said McPherson. ‘Now how do you explain that?’

  West’s eyes bulged and he swallowed rapidly. ‘Alright, that ain’t my bike. I lied about it.’

  ‘Why did you do that, then?’ asked McPherson.

  ’Cos I thought you were going to say I nicked it, didn’t I?’ whined West.

  ‘Your mother said it was yours,’ replied the Scotsman.

  ‘Yeah, well, she was probably trying to protect me, weren’t she? Honest, I never seen that bike before in me life.’

  ‘How did it get in your yard then?’ asked Ludd.

  ‘Search me,’ said West with a shrug.

  ‘We’ll be checking the handlebars for fingerprints to see if you touched it, mind,’ said McPherson. ‘So best you speak up now if you brought it in.’

  Ludd noticed that West had gone as white as a sheet. The Inspector took out a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes and lit one for himself, then pushed the packet across the scarred table top to West.


  ‘Have one. You look like you’re gasping,’ said Ludd.

  West took a cigarette and lit it from Ludd’s lighter, then took a long drag of smoke.

  Ludd smiled. ‘Alright, lad. Let’s talk about something else. Do you ever dress up in women’s clothing?’

  West’s eyes bulged again and he coughed up a lungful of smoke. ‘What?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘We’re all men of the world here,’ said McPherson. ‘You can tell us.’

  ‘What you on about?’asked West indignantly. ‘I ain’t one of them.’

  ‘Prison can do funny things to a man, I’ve heard,’ said Ludd.

  ‘If I was one of them what would I be doing with the girls at Maisie’s?’ shouted West.

  ‘Maybe getting some make-up tips off them?’ said McPherson.

  ‘Alright, lad, calm down, we believe you,’ said Ludd. ‘The reason I’m asking is this. The bike and the bag weren’t the only things we found. We also found a woman’s wig and clothing near the murder scene. We think whoever killed Cokeley, disguised himself as a woman.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody daft,’ said West.

  ‘Hey, don’t you learn?’ said McPherson angrily. ‘Keep a civil tongue or I’ll belt you again.’

  ‘Alright, sergeant,’ said Ludd. ‘I think we could all do with a tea break. We’ll have another chat in twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’ll have mine with two sugars,’ said West, as the detectives got up.

  ‘You’re no’ getting any tea until you start co-operating,’ said McPherson. ‘Now sit down and have a wee think about what you’re going to tell us when we come back.’

  A few minutes later the two detectives stood talking in the station canteen, sipping from their green institutional tea cups.

  ‘What do you reckon, sir?’ asked McPherson. ‘Do we book him?’

  ‘At the moment he’s about the best hope we’ve got,’ said Ludd, ruminatively. ‘Previous conviction for robbing the same man using the same M.O. Right height and build for the man seen running from the train. Found in possession of the victim’s bag and money, and with a bicycle that is highly likely to have been used in the crime.’