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

by Hugh Morrison

  ‘Seems like it to me. Now we’ve got to build up a case and that means getting as much evidence as possible.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Inspector, drawing himself up and holding the lapels of his raincoat in the manner of a barrister. ‘I think we’re going to get enough to nail him. That’s mainly why I’m here. I’ve got men checking the line again for any more clues they might have missed first time round. Some more bicycle tracks, perhaps.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Shaw. ‘I understood from the newspaper report that some evidence had been found regarding those.’

  ‘Yes, that’s another thing I have to give you credit for, sir,’ said Ludd. ‘You spotted those bicycle tracks in the mud by the railway line. Well, they’re an exact match for the tyres of a bicycle we found in West’s back yard.’

  Shaw nodded. ‘There was also mention that Mr Cokeley’s money bag was found with it. It would seem to be somewhat damning evidence.’

  ‘It puts him in the frame alright,’ said Ludd proudly.

  ‘Forgive me Inspector, but one thing puzzles me,’ said Shaw. ‘As I understand it, your theory is that West may have disguised himself in women’s clothing to gain access to Cokeley’s compartment.’

  ‘That’s right. It sounds a bit queer, I’ll grant you, but stranger things have been heard of.’

  ‘Indeed. After killing and robbing Mr Cokeley, presumably West then changed back into his ordinary clothes, exited the train and then made his escape by bicycle.’

  ‘Well done, Mr Shaw,’ said Ludd with a smile, still clutching his raincoat lapels. ‘I see you have an analytical mind, like mine.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Shaw. ‘But, if your theory is correct, what puzzles me is how West knew that the train would stop at the exact spot where he had left his bicycle for his getaway.’

  ‘I’m one step ahead of you on that one, Mr Shaw,’ said Ludd. ‘It seems obvious to me how he did it.’

  ‘You have the advantage of me, Inspector.’

  ‘Yes, it’s my belief he studied the timetables of the trains and knew that the local had to stop at that signal to let the London express pass through further up the line.’

  ‘It seems cleverly planned. But from what I recall of the previous robbery of Mr Cokeley, it was done on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘It may well have been the first time. But he’s a clever one, this West. He’s putting up a good job of convincing us he had nothing to do with it. But remember, he’s had five years inside to plot this one.’

  A chill spring wind with the promise of rain swept through the churchyard, sweeping Shaw’s greying hair away from his forehead. He shivered.

  ‘Since there is no funeral reception, Inspector, perhaps you might like a glass of sherry at the vicarage? One does not like to be nosey, but it is fascinating to discuss the details of such an intriguing case with you.’

  Ludd frowned. ‘Thanks all the same Mr Shaw, but I’d better not; I’m on duty. And I’d better be getting back to my lads on the railway line.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So thanks once again, and perhaps you’ll drop a line into your sermon this Sunday to assure your parishioners they can sleep soundly in their beds. I’ll stake my pension on West being the killer.’

  Shaw smiled. ‘I will bear that in mind Inspector. Good day to you.’

  Once Ludd had gone, Shaw stepped into the relative warmth of the little parish church and walked into the vestry, pausing only to bow from the neck in front of the altar. Once inside the little room he took off his cassock and surplice and changed into his usual three piece suit of dark grey tweed.

  Had he gone too far in inviting the Inspector for a glass of sherry, he wondered? It was tempting to play the amateur detective, of the type one read about in yellow-back novels, but he reminded himself that this was Saturday and he ought to prepare himself for Sunday, the busiest day of his working week.

  As he walked from the church over to the vicarage, however, he could not help thinking again of Herbert’s hymn. ‘A man that looks on glass, on it may stay his eye…’

  Was Ludd looking on glass when he said he would stake his pension on West being the killer? Shaw shook his head to rid himself of such speculations. He had a sermon to complete.

  ‘Did the funeral go well, Lucian, dear?’ asked Mrs Shaw, as the clergyman hung his hat in its usual place on the hall-stand. When Hettie had first started as their maid, she had asked if she should perform that function for him. It seemed ridiculous to Shaw to pass a hat to a maid only for her to hang it on a peg two feet away, so he had instructed her to leave that ceremony for visitors only.

  ‘As well as might be expected,’ sighed Shaw, as he kissed his wife on the cheek and bent down to pat Fraser, who jumped up in excitement at seeing his master return home. ‘A sad business,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘I know dear,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘Anyway perhaps this will cheer you up.’ She picked up a parcel wrapped in newspaper from next to the hall stand. ‘It’s a rather jolly picture I spotted in Cokeley’s shop.’

  She unwrapped the parcel and displayed the picture to Shaw. He smiled as he realised it was a watercolour painting of a Norfolk scene, the same picture he had thought of buying her for her birthday.

  ‘You see, it’s already cheered you up,’ said Mrs Shaw brightly. ‘I thought it would be at least a small help to Mrs Cokeley to buy something from her. And it will cover that damp patch by the door there very well’.

  She held up the picture to the wall, concealing a patch where the Regency striped wallpaper was discoloured.

  ‘It’s very pretty, my dear,’ said Shaw.

  ‘And it wasn’t at all expensive. Only fifteen shillings.’

  ‘Strange,’ said Shaw. ‘The ticket says five shillings. You’re not trying to cheat me out of the housekeeping money, are you?’ he asked with a smile.

  ‘Don’t be silly dear. No, that was a mistake, according to the girl.’

  ‘Miss Ellis?’

  ‘Is that her name? Yes I think so. Well anyway, she said it was priced wrongly and ought to have been fifteen shillings. I did wonder about refusing as that sort of thing does annoy me rather.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘Shop assistants who get muddled with prices. It’s not the first time she, I mean, Miss Ellis, has done that. Do you remember that little silver bell I bought in there, so that we could ring for Hettie?’

  ‘I believe so. I recall at the time being rather amused that such a thing was necessary in a house of this size. We could simply shout for her, or clap our hands twice, as the Arabs do.’

  ‘Oh you are silly, Lucian. Yes, it rather annoyed me that she said the price of that was wrong as well. It was definitely a few shillings more. So it was such a disappointment when the same thing happened with the painting, and I was going to leave it, but then I thought of poor Mrs Cokeley and decided an extra ten shillings might help her. And it’s such a pretty scene, don’t you think?’

  Shaw did not reply. His attention had been caught by newspaper that had been used to wrap the painting, and which was now lying on the hall-stand.

  ‘I said isn’t it a pretty scene, Lucian?’

  ‘Er, yes, quite, dear, quite. I say, may I have this newspaper?’

  ‘Of course, but what on earth for? It’s weeks old.’

  Shaw picked up the torn paper. ‘To, ah, light the fire in the study.’

  ‘A good idea,’ replied Mrs Shaw. ‘I’ll tell Hettie to lay it. It’s turned rather chilly so don’t stint yourself, we’ve plenty of coal, they delivered far too much last time anyway.’

  ‘Very well, I ought to get on with my sermon.’

  ‘Of course dear,’ replied Mrs Shaw. I’ll leave you in peace.’

  Shaw closed the door of his study behind him and smoothed out the newspaper on his desk. It was the local Midchester paper from a few weeks previously. He scanned the headlines until he found the one that had caught his eye in
the hall. Yes, there it was: ‘Addenham train robber released’. Beneath the headline was a blurred photograph of a young man with a sullen expression, which Shaw assumed was what was known as a ‘police mug shot’. He read on.

  Reginald West, 26, of 12, Railway Cuttings, Midchester, was released from prison yesterday after completing a five year term for robbing and assaulting businessman Charles Cokeley in a railway carriage. The attack shocked the village of Lower Addenham where Mr Cokeley is a respected antiques trader. Mr Cokeley was unavailable for comment but his assistant, Miss Sybil Ellis, 29, said West’s release was ‘an unpleasant reminder of something we’d all rather put behind us.’

  Shaw sat back and lit his pipe, puffing thoughtfully as he stared through the window into the garden. There was something, he thought, not quite right about all this, despite Inspector Ludd’s belief that the case was all but closed.

  He did not believe in mystical insights, but he did believe that the Almighty worked His purpose out through His creatures. He had thought before that he ought not to play at being a detective, but now he was not so sure.

  He was interrupted from his reverie by a knock on the door; it was Hettie, come to lay the fire. He resolved to put the matter out of his mind until Monday, his day off, and took out his fountain pen to make the final adjustments to his sermon.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘B looming Monday again,’ sighed Symes as he hung his raincoat on the peg near the door of the estate office. ‘Had a good weekend, Joe?’

  Davis, who had come in to the office a little earlier than usual, looked up from his copy of The Sporting Life.

  ‘Eh? Oh, not bad thanks Symsie, not bad. Didn’t see you at the George.’

  ‘The George?’ replied Symes airily. ‘Oh, no I wasn’t around much. Had a few things to catch up on.’

  ‘Busy, eh?’ said Davis, lighting his first cigarette of the day. ‘How about a cup of tea? Where’s Ruth? It’s gone nine now.’

  Symes sat down at his desk. ‘She overslept, I assume.’

  Davis tutted. ‘We’ve got to sort that girl out. She swans around as if she owns the place.’

  ‘Give over will you?’ said Symes, shuffling through some papers on his desk. ‘I need her on side at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’ enquired Davis, with a suspicious expression.

  ‘Old dame Cokeley likes her, that’s why. They get on like a house on fire, talking rot about the wireless and women’s things and what-not.’

  ‘Women’s things?’ asked Davis with slight alarm in his voice.

  ‘Yes, you know,’ replied Symes. ‘Make-up, clothes, that sort of thing. And right now we need all the help we can get with that Mrs Cokeley.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I think she’s taking a leaf out of her husband’s book. She’s umming and ah-ing about what we’re offering her for the house. I can’t afford to pay her any more.’

  ‘I thought she was happy with the offer.’

  ‘She was but now she seems to think she’s not as well off as she was. Lord knows why. Anyway, I told her I’d be round with Ruth today to go through her books. Hopefully we can convince her to accept our price.’

  ‘Hopefully,’ mused Davis. ‘Or we’re stumped.’

  ‘We will be,’ replied Symes. ‘We got lucky with Cokeley but we’re not likely to be as lucky a second time.’ Symes straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Ah, here she is,’ he exclaimed.

  Davis looked up to see Miss Frobisher enter, filling the little office with the aroma of her cheap perfume.

  ‘You’re ten minutes late, dear,’ said Davis with annoyance.

  ‘Oh, am I?’ said Miss Frobisher lightly. ‘I got, erm, held up.’

  ‘If you say so Ruth,’ said Symes. ‘Now, let’s have a nice cup of tea before we tackle Mrs Cokeley.’

  Davis folded his paper and cast a suspicious glance over the pair as they both smiled at each other in what seemed to him to be a conspiratorial manner.

  Shaw always kept Monday as his day off. He enjoyed the sense of calm after the feeling of being on show all day on Sunday, from the early Holy Communion service through to Evensong, having to deal with the myriad ‘quick words’ that his parishioners wanted to have with him.

  He sometimes envied the unchurched, who spent their Sundays lazing in bed or reading the newspapers or drinking in public houses or working on allotments, but reflected that such a life must ultimately be unfulfilling. It was the calm sense of having nowhere to go and nothing to do that he really liked, and he was content to be able to achieve that on at least one day a week.

  This particular Monday, however, Shaw did have somewhere to go. His unease over the murder case had been building all through Sunday, and he had felt his mind starting to wander during the Evensong collects. A prayer recited perfunctorily, he always thought, was no prayer at all, and so he decided he would try to put his mind to rest on one or two matters.

  Mrs Shaw was out on her usual Monday excursion for morning coffee with the village ladies at the Tudor Tea Rooms. She called it ‘taking Fraser for a walk’ but the little dog rarely got much exercise, having to sit quietly under the table where he eyed the more pampered lapdogs of the parish with suspicion.

  Shaw stepped into the small back kitchen of the vicarage. ‘Just going out for a while, Hettie,’ he said to the maid, who was busying herself with the breakfast washing up. ‘I’ll be back for luncheon’.

  ‘Right you are sir,’ said Hettie, taking her hands out of the sink and drying them on the roller towel.

  ‘Oh and sir,’ she added, ‘Madam asked me to hang that picture so I’ve put it up in the hall next to the door like she asked. Good job you’ve a picture rail there as I’m no good with a hammer.’

  Shaw stepped into the hallway to look at the painting.

  ‘Thank you Hettie. Well done.’

  Hettie then walked up to the picture. ‘Oh I’m ever so sorry sir,’ said Hettie. ‘I’ve left that little tag that says five bob on it.’

  Shaw looked at the small ticket on a short length of string which hung from beneath the picture.

  ‘That’s quite alright, Hettie. As a matter of fact, that’s reminded me of something. Good day to you.’

  He smiled and opened the door, taking his hat from the hall-stand as he went out.

  As he strolled down the high street, Shaw noticed a man and woman walking towards Cokeley’s shop. He realised it was the estate agent, who worked with Davis. Shaw remembered his name after a moment: Symes. The woman was a young, attractive blonde and Shaw realised this must be the Miss Frobisher that Davis had mentioned. Before he came close enough for them to see him, they disappeared into the gloom of the antique shop.

  Shaw walked on until he came to the railway station. There did not seem to be any reporters there now; presumably they had moved on to new scandals elsewhere now that a suspect had been charged with the murder.

  Shaw entered the vestibule of the station and was pleased to see that Ambler, the black-clad and grimy train driver whom he had spoken to a few days earlier, was on the platform, oiling the wheels of the little engine which sat waiting, hissing and creaking.

  There did not appear to be anyone else around so he stepped on to the platform and bade good morning to the driver.

  Ambler squinted at Shaw and then smiled as he recognised the clergyman. ‘Ah, morning vicar,’ he said. ‘Off to Great Netley again are you? It’ll be a few minutes yet before we leave.’

  ‘Good morning Mr Ambler,’ said Shaw. ‘I enjoyed my little tour of your engine so much the other day. I must confess to being something of a railway enthusiast.’

  ‘A lot of parsons seem interested in trains, they say,’ said the driver. ‘I reckon it’s because a parson and a train driver are both concerned with keeping everybody on the straight and narrow, and not letting anyone fall by the wayside, so to speak,’ He chuckled at his own joke as he continued oiling the train wheels.

  Shaw smiled polit
ely. He was not generally amused by clerical humour.

  ‘Indeed, very apt. What interests me is not just trains, but railways in general. I believe we previously discussed signals.’

  Ambler paused. ‘I recall that we did. I can’t say I’ve ever had much interest in those apart from what I has to, but it takes all sorts to make a world, they say. Well, this branch has only the one signal at the mainline junction, to tell me to give way if there’s a mainline train going through. As I mentioned last time, that one’s controlled by the signal box at Great Netley.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Shaw. ‘Most interesting.’

  ‘Funny you should mention that again,’ replied Ambler. ‘Those policemen were asking me about that the other day, after the murder. They asked me why I’d stopped the train that time and I said, well, I had the stop signal, didn’t I? Nothing more to it than that. Perhaps he thought we’d got bandits on the line, like in the American films.’

  ‘I suppose you always have to stop there?’ asked Shaw.

  Ambler wiped his hands on an oily rag. ‘That’s the odd thing. I don’t recall that particular service has to stop at that signal for a London express. One of the morning trains does, but not that afternoon one. But it could be that there was a hold up on the London line, or a special going through.’

  ‘A special?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes they lay on an extra train that’s not on the timetable, to take people to a football match or summat. Get a few games on Wednesday afternoons, don’t you? So that could have been it. I don’t work the main line and I don’t follow the football, so I wouldn’t know. But the police fellers seemed satisfied with that explanation anyhow.’

  ‘I see,’ said Shaw, turning to go. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Ambler. I shall let you get on with your work.’

  ‘Tell you what, vicar,’ said Ambler. ‘If you really wants to know more about signals, hop on and I’ll take you up to Great Netley and introduce you to the lads at the box. They might even let you have a look around.’