‘What more could you want than that, sir?’ asked McPherson.
‘Hmm, I don’t know,’ said Ludd. ‘Just think what the papers will make out of it. Dressing up as a woman is a bit far fetched.’
McPherson smiled. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d had my first beat at Clydebank docks. Some of the sailors down there had some peculiar interests.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Ludd with distaste. ‘There’s not much of that sort of thing in Midchester. But there’s still the possibility of an alibi from the girls at Maisie’s once we’ve managed to knock them up.’
‘Knock them up, sir?’ asked McPherson in a surprised tone.
Ludd grimaced. ‘Don’t be disgusting. I mean once we’ve managed to rouse them from their beauty sleep. I take it you’ve still got people trying, because if we don’t get an answer soon I want that door down. They should be put out of business anyway.’
‘Aye sir, we will. But who’s going to take the word of a few tarts, compared to all the other evidence? He could have paid them to perjure themselves anyway, out of the money he stole. He might have taken more than seven quid, for all we know.’
Ludd paused and looked into his teacup. He was acutely aware that the next few moments might be the beginning of a process that could mean life or death for West.
He mentally reviewed the other suspects; a mild-mannered parson, a clapped-out war veteran with one leg, a train crew all with impeccable records; two slightly suspect property dealers from London, but they didn’t strike him as the robbing and murdering type.
Of course, he thought, it could have been just some random lunatic by the railway line, who seized his chance when the train was stopped at a signal, or someone totally unconnected that they didn’t know about, but what was the likelihood of that happening? No, he thought. All the signs pointed to West.
‘Well sir?’ asked McPherson.
Ludd drained the last of his tea and plonked his cup and saucer down decisively on the table. ‘Get back down there and charge him’.
In the Bull, Davis had started on his second double whisky of the day. ‘I don’t quite know how to put this, reverend,’ he said, nervously fingering his glass, ‘but I think I might know who killed Cokeley.’
Shaw was about to mention the wireless report of an arrest being made, but something stopped him. He attempted to conceal his interest by puffing in an dispassionate way on his pipe.
‘That is surely a matter for you to discuss with the police, Mr Davis.’
Davis flushed. ‘Ah, well, you see, me and the law, well, we’ve had our differences in the past. What I mean to say is, I’d rather not talk to a copper unless I have to. The police and I haven’t tended to see eye to eye on certain financial matters.’
‘We are talking of a murder, Mr Davis. If the killer is not found, he might very well go on to kill again. I think it is your duty to tell the police what you know.’
Davis looked exasperated. ‘It’s not just that I don’t want to talk to the coppers, it’s just that, well, I don’t want to have to finger a mate.’
‘Finger a mate?’ asked Shaw in a puzzled tone.
‘Let me put it another way, reverend,’ said Davis. ‘Thing is, I’m not of one of your lot so I’m not quite sure where I stand with you. I’m what you might call Church of Turkey.’
Shaw smiled at the old army expression used by those with no religious connections. ‘I consider,’ replied Shaw, ‘those of your denomination to be just as much members of my flock as anyone else’.
Davis took a swig of his whisky and looked furtively around the empty tap-room. ‘That’s very nice of you and all, reverend, but what I really mean is, am I right in thinking that if I tell you something in the box, you can’t tell anyone who told you. Sort of an anonymous tip-off, like?’
‘Forgive me Mr Davis.’ said Shaw, putting down his pipe and then swallowing a long draught of ale. ‘I’m not with you. What box are you referring to? A telephone kiosk?’
‘Telephone? No, you know, the what do you call it. The…confession box.’
‘Mr Davis, I am a minister of the Church of England. Aside from a small minority who lean heavily towards Rome, we have not used confessionals since the Reformation. The confession of sin is generally considered a private matter between you and your maker’.
Davis appeared disappointed. ‘So you mean there’s no get-out clause for squealing on a mate?’
‘There is obviously something troubling you, Mr Davis. The sacrament of confession is not recognised in my denomination, but nevertheless, the seal of confession is still practised. To put it in layman’s terms, if you truly wish to unburden yourself of something, that information will remain entirely confidential.’
‘So you won’t go telling the law, then?’ asked Davis, an expression of relief crossing his face.
‘As I said, anything that you wish to remain a matter between ourselves, will remain so. May I suggest that we continue this discussion in a more private place, such as the vicarage, or perhaps the church vestry?’
Davis looked worried again. ‘I’d rather not reverend. I shouldn’t be here anyway, as I’m meant to have just popped out to the dentist. I can’t risk being seen anywhere out with you.’
‘Very well. Then please tell me what is on your mind.’
Davis took out a cigarette and tapped it vigorously on a silver case before lighting it. ‘Well,’ he said, while exhaling a large cloud of smoke upwards, ‘it all started when I spoke to old Goggins in the George today when I was having my lunchtime pint. You know him I think?’
‘Yes. I have not had a chance to speak with him since he was released from police custody. Is he quite well?’
‘You know these old soldiers, Reverend. Tough as old boots. He’s alright. But he told me something very interesting as we were talking about the murder.’
‘Go on.’
‘He said the police were asking about some blonde piece who got into the compartment with Cokeley.’
‘Yes,’ replied Shaw after a pause. He wondered just how much information he ought to reveal, but then decided he was perhaps over-thinking matters. ‘I also saw her.’
‘You didn’t catch a look at her face, did you?’ asked Davis.
‘No. It seems she has not been identified, nor was any trace of her seen once the train had arrived at Great Netley.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t see her face,’ said Davis. ‘I’ll be straight with you, reverend,’ said the salesman, looking around the bar furtively. He took a large sip of whisky and smacked his lips. ‘I don’t quite know how to put this but I think my business partner and our secretary might be tied up in all this.’
‘Once again I must remind you Mr Davis that this is a matter for the police.’
‘And once again reverend, with all due respect, I’m not going to the law. At least until I get a bit more evidence. I just want to know if you think I’m on the right track.’
‘Very well, Mr Davis. Please tell me your theory.’
‘Alright. Well, I’ve been having my doubts about Frank - that’s Mr Symes - for a while. Me and him, well we’re both bachelors, and lodge in rooms at the George, but lately he’s been keeping odd hours and he’s not been down for our usual game of cards in the evenings.’
Shaw smiled. ‘Perhaps he has a sweetheart?’
‘That’s just what I’m worried about. See, Frank’s been thick as thieves with the secretary, Ruth Frobisher, recently. And the other day she said something about having to carry out “extra-curricular duties” or something.’
‘I have no desire to pry into your colleagues’ private lives,’ said Shaw. ‘What intrigues me however, is why should this have anything to do with the death of Mr Cokeley?’
‘I’m coming to that. Alright, so maybe he’s just having…er…relations, with Miss Frobisher. He wouldn’t be the first or last man to do that I don’t doubt. But old Goggins told me the police were looking for a blonde woman. Reckon she got in
to Cokeley’s compartment and distracted him, or did him over herself, or something.’
‘I fail to see the connection.’
‘Ruth Frobisher’s blonde, and a tasty bit of goods as well, if you’ll pardon the expression, reverend.’
‘Attractive young women with blonde hair are not unknown in England, Mr Davis.’
‘Alright, but what about this. Now this is something you’ve really got to keep under your hat. We’ve been trying to get hold of Cokeley’s property for ages, to build a shorter access road to the new housing estate, but he wouldn’t sell.’
Shaw took a large sip of beer. ‘Let me guess. Cokeley’s death now puts you both in an advantageous position.’
‘That’s right. And I want to make it clear Symes stands to make a lot more than me. I’m just an employee, really. If the estate doesn’t get built it’s not much skin off my nose, but if this project doesn’t work out for Symes he’ll end up bankrupt.’
Davis seemed anxious to unburden himself, thought Shaw. Perhaps the man was aware of how Cokeley’s death might incriminate him as well as Symes. He allowed him to continue.
‘Cokeley’s wife’s always been more keen to sell up than him, and now it should be a piece of cake. It was Symes that had the idea of going into Great Netley on the same train and cornering him in a pub to and have a final go at persuading him to sell. But here’s the clincher, Symes said something about “solving the problem of Mr Cokeley for good.”’
‘I see,’ said Shaw, somewhat doubtfully. ‘Mr Davis,’ he continued, ‘do you have any affinity with the detective stories of Miss Christie, or Miss Sayers?’
‘Detective stories? Don’t think so. Racing Post’s about all I read.’
‘I admit to a certain indulgence in them myself from time to time,’ explained Shaw. ‘And one thing I have learned is that suspicion of an individual involves three things: means, motive and opportunity.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘If we assume the acquisition of Cokeley’s house as the motive, and the train journey to Great Netley as the opportunity, that leaves only the means in question.’
‘What do you mean by means, exactly?’ asked Davis, lighting another cigarette.
‘To put it another way, how do you think he was killed?’
‘I’ve thought about that as well,’ said Davis quickly. ‘Fact is, well, Tuesday night we had a bit of a late session in the George, so by Wednesday afternoon I was feeling a bit sleepy and nodded off for a few minutes in the train. When I come to, I saw Symes sliding shut the window, he said there had been some shouting outside and that we’d stopped.
‘Well, I didn’t think any more about it until poor old Cokeley got found dead at the station. But it was this blonde bit of stuff that made me suspicious. What if Symes got Ruth to distract Cokeley while he bumped him off?’
‘But how,’ said Shaw, draining his glass, ‘did Symes manage to, as you say, bump him off?’
‘What if he climbed out of the compartment while the train was stopped, ran along the track, got in, stabbed Cokeley then came back? He could have been coming in just as I woke up, and that was why he was at the door.’
Shaw paused, again wondering how much information he should reveal. He decided against mentioning the man who had been seen running on the track as well as the wireless announcement of the arrest of a suspect.
‘So what do you think, reverend?’
Shaw knocked out his pipe into the ashtray. ‘I think neither of us can do much at this time. If you are not willing to divulge to the police what you have told me, there is little that I can do. Except perhaps to meditate on it in prayer.’
‘I don’t want anyone thinking I’m mixed up in all this, including Him upstairs.’ Davis looked up briefly then fixed his eyes on Shaw. ‘I’m not much of a praying man, but I’ll be grateful if you could put in a word for me while you’re doing it.’
Shaw got up to go. ‘I shall, Mr Davis. Rest assured, I shall meditate considerably on what you have told me.’
As Shaw walked home in the gathering dusk, he suddenly remembered the words of the hymn that had come into his mind earlier.
A man that looks on glass
On it may stay his eye
Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass
And then the heaven espy.
Would Inspector Ludd, he wondered, ‘stay his eye’ on the most obvious suspect, or would he ‘through it pass’ and then the ‘heaven’, or in this case, ultimate truth, ‘espy’? Shaw was beginning to think there was certainly a lot more to this case than he first thought.
Chapter Ten
‘I am the resurrection and the life saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’
Shaw intoned the time-worn sentences from St John’s Gospel as he led the funeral procession from the lych-gate into the church, and as he did so, he was conscious of the weight of centuries pressing upon him. These words from the Prayer Book, he thought, must have been uttered countless times before in this place in a similar manner, and no doubt would be spoken again over countless funerals to come.
Cokeley’s funeral was a brief affair. Mrs Cokeley was dressed in mourning black, but seemed composed and almost bored during the service. Her husband, it seemed from the sparse turn-out, had had few friends or relations. A cousin had made the journey from Midchester, and Shaw also noted, with some surprise, that Goggins was sitting at the back of the church, with his arms folded and his face expressionless.
The rest of the congregation consisted mainly of the elderly spinsters of the village who enjoyed a ‘good send-off’ and who would always attend a funeral, if only because of the likelihood of some free refreshments afterwards.
They had no such luck at this particular send-off. Mrs Cokeley had told Shaw that she didn’t like funeral receptions, describing them as ‘nasty gloomy affairs with everybody arguing about what they should be inheriting’.
After the brief service in the church, Shaw spoke the final collect over the grave in the corner of the little churchyard:
‘We meekly beseech thee, O Father, to raise us from the death of sin unto the life of righteousness; that, when we shall depart this life, we may rest in him, as our hope is this our brother doth; and that, at the general Resurrection in the last day, we may be found acceptable in thy sight…’
Would Cokeley, Shaw wondered, a cheat and a philanderer, and probably an adulterer as well, be found acceptable in His sight? He prayed earnestly that he might be, but that justice might also be done.
The prayers finished, the little knot of mourners began to drift away and the sexton began shovelling earth onto the coffin. Shaw noticed that the two bored looking reporters with cameras, who had been watching from beyond the churchyard wall, had disappeared. He accepted Mrs Cokeley’s cursory handshake.
‘Thank you so much vicar, that was a lovely service, nice and short.’
‘Thank you Mrs Cokeley,’ replied Shaw. ‘And once again, if I may be of any assistance to you, please do not hesitate to ask.’
‘You’ve been wonderful, vicar. But don’t you worry about me. I know it sounds awful but I still can’t help thinking Charles’ death was a blessing in disguise. For me anyway. It’s a chance for a new start.’
Shaw chose his next words carefully. ‘Indeed, there are blessings in every circumstance, if we would but look for them.’
“‘Every cloud has a silver lining’”, that’s what Frank, that’s Mr Symes, says,’ replied Mrs Cokeley cheerfully.
‘Oh that reminds me,’ she added, ‘I must be getting back to the shop as we’ll be going through the accounts in the week and finalising the sale. I’d invite you back for a cup of tea vicar, only I’m walking cousin Ernest to the station and then it’s Variety Band Box on the wireless.’
Before Shaw had a chance to reply, Mrs Cokeley strutted off briskly, taking the arm of Cokeley’s elderly cousin and almost fr
og-marching him in the direction of the station. Shaw smiled as he heard Mrs Cokeley admonishing him.
‘I’ve already told you, Ernest. Charles didn’t say anything about that Wedgewood vase you keep mentioning so if you want it you’ll just have to pay full price like anyone else’.
‘She’s not exactly the grieving widow, is she?’
Shaw looked up to see Goggins standing next to him.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Goggins. I didn’t notice you by the grave just now,’ said Shaw.
‘I kept my distance,’ said Goggins. ‘Didn’t want to get too involved as he was no friend of mine. But I don’t want anyone thinking I didn’t turn up because I had some sort of grudge against him.’
‘And why would anyone think that, Mr Goggins?’
Shaw heard a familiar voice from behind him, and looked round to see Inspector Ludd standing by the graveside, with his hands behind his back.
Goggins bridled. ‘I thought I was in the clear with you lot,’ he said.
‘You are, for the moment,’ replied Ludd. He nodded at Shaw.
‘Mr Shaw.’
‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ replied Shaw.
‘I was in the area and I thought I’d drop by to let you have the good news. We’ve charged Reg West with Cokeley’s murder. Although you’ve probably heard that by now anyway.’
‘It was in the newspaper,’ said Shaw. ‘I understand West was the man who previously robbed Mr Cokeley. The incident occurred shortly before I became the incumbent here, so I know very little about it.’
‘Well I just hope they’ve got the right man this time,’ grumbled Goggins. He said a curt ‘good afternoon’ to Shaw and limped off towards the road, ignoring Ludd entirely.
Ludd watched the man go and then turned to Shaw. ‘Oh, and thank you again for finding that sack,’ he said. ‘I’ve got men checking the department stores to see if anyone remembers selling the wig and clothes and so on. It could be useful if one of them can put the finger on West.’
‘You’re convinced West is the killer?’ asked Shaw.
A Third Class Murder: a cozy 1930s mystery set in an English village Page 10