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

by Hugh Morrison

  ‘As the modern Biblical scholars frequently remind us,’ said Shaw with a wry smile.

  ‘Er, yes, quite,’ said Ludd, with the wary look on his face that Shaw recognised as that of awkwardness around spiritual matters.

  ‘Well it’s interesting to hear your theories, but I must be getting along now Mr Shaw,’ said Ludd, so if you’ll excuse me…’

  ‘Of course Inspector. I might add though that I have no desire to waste your time with my theories. My concern is for my parishioners. If a killer is on the loose, he may kill again, and as their clergyman I will be called upon to reassure them.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Shaw,’ said Ludd. ‘If it’s of any help, I think that it’s highly likely West is working with an accomplice, and I’m also pretty confident we’ll find out who he is pretty soon. I don’t think this is some lunatic killing at random. That might be scant reassurance for your parishioners but at the moment it’s the best I can offer.’

  ‘Thank you Inspector,’ said Shaw. ‘That is indeed reassuring.’

  The two men left the shop under the watchful eye of the police constable on the door, and hurried to their respective destinations, away from the gaze of the growing huddle of newspapermen on the road opposite.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I f the murder of Mr Cokeley had created a sensation in the village, the murder of Mrs Cokeley just a few days later had more than double the effect. Somehow the murder of a rather unpopular man in a railway carriage several miles away seemed less shocking than the slaying of a woman in her own home right in the middle of the village.

  The charging of West with Cokeley’s murder had had the effect of restoring a degree of normality to the village. ‘That West fellow will hang for sure,’ said one of the public house sages. Another added ‘I always knew old Goggins was innocent,’ and the fact that he had bet several shillings on his guilt was forgotten about.

  This time, however, an atmosphere of foreboding lay over the village. Elderly spinsters refused to venture out alone, farmers oiled and checked their shotguns. Doors which were rarely locked were now bolted and barred as night fell. The tea room and the pubs were full of whisperings of crimes far worse than ordinary domestic murder. Some thought it was the work of Irish Republicans, others imagined a network of Bolshevik spies waiting to rise up and slaughter the middle classes at a secret signal from Moscow.

  Mr Eustace, the minister of the little Methodist chapel, had blamed the first murder on the incursions of the modern world into the countryside. He linked the killing to the deleterious effects of jazz, motor cars and the cigarette habit amongst women. Now, however, he spoke in low tones of ‘dark forces’. He called a special service to entreat the protection of the Holy Spirit upon the village, to include refreshments and a retiring collection for the Fabric Fund.

  Some, however, were not overly displeased by the disruption; since Mr Cokeley’s murder and the arrival of the gentlemen of the press into the town, the landladies and publicans of the village had not seen such profits since the war, when their establishments had been filled with soldiers from the nearby training camp.

  This time the incomers had not worn khaki nor carried rifles, but wore belted raincoats and carried notebooks and cameras. They had promised the village’s more attractive young women that their pictures (accompanied by their thoughts on the recent murders) would appear on the front page of the Daily Mail or the Daily Sketch.

  Now that there had been a second murder, some of the more enterprising people of the village braced themselves for more such visitors.

  Shaw, who with his clerical collar had been seen emerging from Cokeley’s antique shop by the journalists, was easily identified by them. He dealt as politely as he could with the steady stream of reporters who knocked at the door of the vicarage that afternoon and evening, or who telephoned from as far afield as London and Manchester, but after a while he reluctantly had to instruct Hettie to break the Ninth Commandment and inform callers that, unless they were parishioners, he was Not At Home.

  He felt somehow that the hour of reckoning was approaching, and he needed a time of quiet to gather his thoughts and pray for guidance on what to do next.

  The quiet time did not last long. Shortly after dinner, Shaw was in his study attempting to deal with some administrative matters of the parish, which he had neglected during the excitement of the last few days. He heard an insistent ring at the doorbell and then Hettie’s voice loudly admonishing whoever it was who had called.

  Good old Hettie, thought Shaw; she had started off seeming to be something of a shy and innocent girl, but the last few days had revealed her to be a highly resolute door-blocker. She was wasted in a country parsonage, thought Shaw with a smile, and would be of more use in a house which lived in constant fear of debt collectors.

  Hettie’s voice was now clearly audible even with the study door closed.

  ‘I don’t care,’ said the servant. ‘Pretending to know the vicar so that you can get a story for your paper, no doubt. I’ve had this before and I’m not falling for it again.’

  The caller said something inaudible and Hettie replied reluctantly.

  ‘Alright. Wait here.’

  There was a knock at the study door. ‘Enter,’ said Shaw, and Hettie came in, giving her usual token bob.

  ‘I’m very sorry sir,’ she said, ‘but there’s a…man to see you. He says he knows you but I can’t see how he possibly can, a flash sort like that.’

  ‘Does he have a name, this flash individual?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘Says his name’s Davis.’

  ‘That is quite alright Hettie. Please show him in.’

  ‘Well…if you say so, sir,’ said Hettie doubtfully, as she withdrew into the hallway.

  A few moments later Shaw and Davis were talking as they sat in the two small armchairs by the little fire in the study.

  ‘We meet under rather less covert circumstances than last time, Mr Davis,’ said Shaw. ‘Would you like tea? Or something stronger, whisky, perhaps?’

  ‘No thanks reverend,’ said Davis, who was looking around him uncomfortably. ‘I’ve never been in a vicar’s house before. It’s not quite what I expected.’

  ‘What exactly were you expecting?’ asked Shaw as he filled his pipe.

  ‘I dunno,’ replied the estate agent. ‘Lots of crosses on the walls and pictures of saints everywhere I suppose.’

  ‘The Reformation rather put paid to that sort of thing,’ said Shaw, as he puffed clouds of fragrant smoke into the air. ‘We clerics now live much as other men. Sometimes a little too much as other men.’

  ‘No harm in that,’ said Davis. ‘Nice house in the country, pipes, whisky, servants opening the door, it’s not a bad life. I might even take the preaching game up myself,’ said Davis with a nervous laugh.

  ‘Forgive me Mr Davis,’ said Shaw, ‘but I suspect you did not come here to discuss the living standards of the clergy. May I help you with anything?’

  ‘You’re right. Matter of fact I will take a glass of whisky if there’s one going. I could do with it after the day I’ve had. Another blooming murder on our doorstep, it’s enough to scare anyone out of his wits.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Shaw. ‘As you say, it has been a rather unusual day.’ He poured two glasses of blended whisky from a bottle on a tray in the corner of the room. ‘Soda, or just as it comes?’ he asked.

  ‘Straight up, please reverend,’ said Davis.

  Shaw handed the glass of whisky to Davis who raised it. ‘Well here’s how,’ he said. Shaw silently raised his glass in return and two men drank.

  ‘Thing is, said Davis, ‘I wanted to talk to you again about the murder, or murders, I should say. I was a bit cagey about it last time but today, I said to myself, Joe, it’s your civic duty. Hold your head up high and visit the vicarage like an honest man.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow. What exactly is your civic duty?’

  ‘To tell you some more about how I think it happened,’ said Davis insi
stently.

  ‘Surely this is a matter for the police?’

  ‘That’s just it. After what happened today I can’t go to the police without being sure. I needed to run it by you first. As a, what do you call it, a neutral party, so to speak.’

  ‘I see. And what have you discovered?’

  Davis drained the last of his whisky and leaned forward. ‘I’m even more worried now that Symes is mixed up in this. And Ruth - that’s Miss Frobisher. Yes, her and all, I reckon.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Last time we spoke I told you he was thick as thieves with Miss Frobisher. Attractive slim blonde girl. I may be knocking on, reverend, but I can still see that. And the papers say the police are still looking for the mystery blonde woman who disappeared off the train. Then, there’s the business with wanting Cokeley’s house. Twice he’s said he’d be willing to go to any lengths to get his hands on it. Then there’s me falling asleep in the railway carriage, giving him time to slip out and do in Cokeley.’

  ‘This much we discussed last time we met,’ said Shaw. ‘Something else has presumably happened to deepen your suspicion.’

  ‘I’ll say it has,’ said Davis. ‘First it looked like Mrs Cokeley might not be going to sell the place after all. Upping her price and that. Symes wasn’t happy about that.

  Then he and Miss Frobisher went round earlier today to finalise the sale of the shop.’

  ‘Yes, I recall seeing them in the high street.’

  ‘Right. And they both came back all smiles, and he says to me we won’t be having any more problems with Mrs Cokeley.

  ‘Then he says let’s all shut up the shop and go somewhere to celebrate. Well, I says, who’s going to look after the shop? I’ve got a pile of work to get through. Suit yourself he says, me and Ruth are off, and next minute he’s telephoned that place by the station to send a taxi, they both jump in and he tells me he’ll see me tomorrow.

  ‘But then later I had the law round the office. Well, I knew something was up as we’d seen police cars and all sorts rushing up the high street with the bells going. Like the General Strike all over again. But blow me, if they didn’t come in to the office and say there had been another murder.’

  ‘Mrs Cokeley.’

  ‘Right. This ‘tec comes in. A Jock, he was, or Irish, I dunno, they all sound the same to me, anyway, McPherson was his name. He comes in and starts asking if Symes and Miss Frobisher had been to Cokeley’s place. I say yes, they had a meeting with her earlier. What time was this? he says, and I say, about 11 to about 12. Then this McPherson says Mrs Cokeley’s just been found dead!

  ‘Where are they now?, says this copper, and I say search me, they’ve gone off for a long lunch somewhere and left me holding the baby, so to speak’.

  ‘Would you like a top-up, Mr Davis?’ asked Shaw, pointing to the man’s glass.

  ‘Oh, er, don’t mind if I do. That’s good scotch, that is. Yes I will, thank you.’

  While he poured a drink for Davis, Shaw mentally reviewed all that he had heard from the man. He handed Davis the glass of whisky.

  ‘Well, here’s how, reverend,’ said Davis, raising the glass to eye level.

  ‘Quite,’ replied Shaw. He had decided not to have another drink himself.

  ‘You are sure about the time, Mr Davis? They were definitely back in the office by 12?’

  Davis thought for a moment before replying. ‘Yes, give or take a few minutes. Definitely back by ten past twelve, I remember the time because there was a race on at Doncaster. I had a bob each way on something, what was it, oh yes, Idlewind. You don’t happen to have a Life lying around, do you, reverend?’

  Shaw was puzzled. ‘A…life?’

  ‘Yes, you know,’ said Davis. ‘The Sporting Life. It’s a paper. So’s I can see the result.’

  ‘No,’ replied Shaw with a smile. ‘I fear you will have to wait until tomorrow for the results. Perhaps we could return to the matter in hand?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ replied Davis. ‘Sorry. So what do you think? What’s going on?’

  ‘Did the detective say anything else?’

  Davis thought for a moment. ‘Not really. He seemed to lose interest a bit by the time he left. Just said to tell Symes and Miss Frobisher to get in touch with him soon as possible. He wrote a telephone number down. I’ve got it somewhere. Here, I see you’ve got a telephone in the hallway, you want I should put a call through now? Spill the beans, I mean?’

  Shaw was beginning to find Davis’ rapid patter and use of unfamiliar slang a little wearing.

  ‘I do not think that will be necessary,’ said Shaw, ‘at least not at this juncture.’

  ‘But what do you think? Did Symes do in the Cokeleys? I mean, if he did, we’ve got to tell the law, surely? What if I’m next?’

  The man was becoming increasingly agitated, thought Shaw. Perhaps, he wondered, he ought not to have given him that second glass of whisky.

  ‘Calm yourself, Mr Davis,’ said Shaw. ‘From what you have told me it would be inopportune to speak to either the police or Mr Symes about your suspicions. Mr Symes lives locally, I think?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Davis, who appeared to have calmed down a little. ‘He’s got digs at the George, down the corridor from me.’

  ‘Then I suggest you simply leave him a note informing him that you wish to speak to him on his return. He may perhaps have returned already.’

  ‘What if he’s done a bunk?’

  ‘Done a…?’

  ‘Cleared off. Run off to France or something, to lie low.’

  ‘I think that is improbable. But I suggest that if he has not returned by tomorrow morning, you yourself telephone the police and tell them what you know.’

  Davis breathed out a long sigh. ‘Alright. I think you’re probably right. All this murder business and the police hanging round has got me on edge.’

  Davis stood up to go and Shaw showed him to the door.

  ‘Well thanks, ’ said Davis. ‘I can’t say you’ve exactly put my mind at rest but it’s done me good to have a chat.’

  ‘You are always most welcome to call,’ replied Shaw. ‘And do not trouble yourself too much. I have a feeling that matters will be resolved very soon.’

  ‘Had privileged information from Him Upstairs, eh?’ said Davis with a grin, as Hettie handed him his hat and raincoat.

  Shaw smiled. ‘I have been applying reason and logic to the consideration of the problem,’ said Shaw. ‘And those abilities are given to us by God. So in a sense yes, perhaps I have had privileged information.’

  ‘You’ve lost me there, reverend,’ replied Davis, ‘but all the same I’m glad we’ve had a chat. Good night to you.’

  The two men shook hands and Hettie shut the door behind Davis. Shaw, lost in thought, walked back into his study and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  T he following morning, the inhabitants of Lower Addenham woke to the promise of a fine spring day. Some of the more nervous villagers knelt at the side of their beds to offer humble prayers of thanksgiving for their preservation from murder during the night; most, however, dressed hurriedly and walked briskly to the little newsagent’s shop in the high street to buy the morning papers, hopeful that they might see the name of their village in print, perhaps even with a photograph for them to cut out and keep as a souvenir.

  Children passing Cokeley’s shop on the way to the village school glanced at the building, with its lone policeman guarding the front door, and hurried on, fearful lest the murderer should be lurking there, or worse, that the ghosts of Mr and Mrs Cokeley might rush out to assail them.

  Breakfasts of porridge or kippers or bacon and eggs were hurriedly devoured by the journalists in the dining room of the George; pipes and cigarettes were lit, pencils sharpened and mackintosh belts tightened as the little army of reporters prepared to fight for ‘scoops’ in the village. Although a brief mention of Mrs Cokeley’s murder had made some of the evening papers, this was
the first opportunity for a full day’s work on the story, and it was a story that no paper wanted to miss out on.

  Upstairs in the George, in the room in which he lived as a permanent lodger, Davis began to awake from his fitful sleep. Two doors down the corridor, the note he had pushed under Symes’ door the night before still lay there, unread.

  In the basement of Midchester police station, the spring sunlight shone in shafts through the barred windows set high up in the white-painted brick walls. Cell doors slammed and slop-buckets clanked as the handful of prisoners kept overnight began to rouse themselves after a cold, sleepless night.

  Inspector Ludd and Sergeant McPherson were up early, much earlier than usual, determined to get to the bottom of the case. One murder in this part of the world was rare; two in such a short space of time was unheard of; and the last thing they wanted was for Scotland Yard to get wind of it and start interfering.

  The morning briefing in the office was over, and the other detectives and some of the uniformed constables began sleepily exiting the station to climb into cars and onto bicycles to carry out their orders for the day. There was work to be done in Lower Addenham; doors to be knocked on and statements to be taken.

  Ludd, sitting at the interview table next to McPherson, fingered a small cut on the underside of his chin where he had cut himself shaving. He checked with his finger to see if it had stopped bleeding, and satisfied that it had, he turned to McPherson.

  ‘Nothing from the roadblocks, then?’ he asked.

  ‘You already asked me that, sir,’ sighed McPherson. ‘Pretty much every vehicle that went in and out of the village after we got there was checked, as was everyone getting on the trains. Nothing suspicious turned up.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ludd. ‘What about those two from the estate agents? Symes, and, what was the other one?’

  ‘Miss Frobisher,’ said McPherson, glancing at his notebook. ‘Nothing there either. They seem to have disappeared.’