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

by Hugh Morrison

  ‘What do you mean, disappeared?’

  ‘I checked on the addresses his partner gave me last night, but Symes still hadn’t shown up at his hotel and Miss Frobisher’s landlady said the same thing.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘Should we alert the ports, sir?’

  Ludd snorted. ‘You’ve been at the cinema too much, son. Do you think every port in the country’s going to stop people because some country coppers want to talk to them? I suppose you’ll want me to put through a call to Croydon Aerodrome as well.’

  ‘Well…’ replied McPherson doubtfully.

  ‘No, that’s a wild goose chase,’ said Ludd. ‘I don’t think it’s them, and we know it can’t be West because he was here.’

  ‘But we know it was’nae some random burglary,’ interjected McPherson. ‘There were no signs of forced entry and nothing was taken.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Ludd. ‘There’s got to be a connection. Remember what the vicar told us? He thought there might have been two men running from the train.’

  ‘Aye, I do that, sir,’ said McPherson. ‘And I looked into it. I managed to get through to Lower Addenham station on the telephone this morning. Took a while but they found that engine driver, Ambler, just arrived for the day. He confirmed he saw a man running from the right side of the train, no’ the left’.

  ‘Well it’s a pity whoever took his statement originally didn’t know his something from his elbow - or his right from his left.’

  ‘Och, it was one of the young coppers,’ said McPherson. ‘Remember we didn’t bother paying the driver much attention because back then we all thought that Goggins was the most likely suspect.’

  ‘And that was another wild goose chase,’ said Ludd wearily. ‘But it looks like there were definitely two men on the job now.’

  ‘Aye, seems like it could be. Cokeley was a big man, probably no’ a pushover. West’s a wee runt, and maybe a bit unsure about tackling him on his own, so he got a bit of outside help.’

  ‘You could be right,’ said Ludd. ‘I’ve looked up the case files for the original robbery five years ago. Cokeley put up quite a fight.’

  ‘Right,’ said McPherson. ‘So one of them, maybe West, because he’s short and slim, puts on the wig and dress and a scarf over his face, makes out he’s Jean Harlow.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Blonde American girl in the talkies.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Anyway, he manages to get into the railway compartment. Sits in the corner with his face covered, all coy like, then somehow gets Cokeley to drop his guard.’

  ‘Urgh,’ said Ludd. ‘I don’t like to think of it.’

  ‘Then the other fellow climbs in from another compartment, they both overpower Cokeley, stab him, West changes clothes and then they make off in separate directions once the train’s stopped at the signal.’

  ‘Hmm, but that means the other man had to be in one of the other compartments on the train.’

  ‘Aye, it does. If the second man got on the train when it stopped, you’d think the driver or the guard would have seen him.’

  Ludd rubbed his chin and gazed intently out of the office window at the grimy brick wall opposite. ‘But the only other men on the train were Goggins, and we know he’s physically incapable of climbing along a moving train; the vicar, and those two estate agents.’

  ‘One of who’s gone missing,’ said McPherson, ‘with an attractive blonde girl in tow.’

  ‘Yes, but Symes and his mate Davis were both at Great Netley station when the train arrived,’ said Ludd. ‘So it couldn’t have been one of them the driver saw running off over the fields, could it? And besides, if it had been one of them climbing along the side of the train, surely the vicar would have seen him going past the window? Or at least the driver or the guard might have noticed.’

  ‘What if the vicar and the train crew are all in it together?’ said McPherson, punching his fist into his palm in excitement.

  ‘Oh don’t be daft, McPherson,’ said Ludd wearily. ‘You’re Scots, not Irish. What would a parson and an engine driver be conspiring to murder an antiques dealer and his wife for?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose you’re right sir,’ said McPherson. ‘I can see it’s most likely it was West and an accomplice that killed Cokeley. But why kill his wife, as well?’

  ‘Who knows?’ replied Ludd. ‘My guess is they knew Cokeley had an antiques shop and the second man decided he’d see what he could rob from it while his partner’s safely behind bars. That way he doesn’t have to share out any of the loot. Mrs Cokeley finds him and he ends up killing her.’

  ‘Maybe so, sir,’ said McPherson with a sigh. ‘It’s a rare puzzle right enough.’

  Ludd stood up and pushed his bowler hat further back on his head.

  ‘Look. I think we’ve done enough theorising. We’ve charged West with Cokeley’s murder. There’s all the evidence with the bicycle tracks and the money bag for that. He’s up before the magistrates tomorrow and then he’ll be on remand until his trial at the next Assizes. That means he’ll be in Ipswich gaol, most like. So it would make our life a lot easier if we can get him or whoever he’s working with charged with Mrs Cokeley’s murder as well as soon as possible.’

  ‘Right sir,’ said McPherson. ‘I’ll get him in the interview room for a wee chat.’

  ‘…grant that this day we fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger, but that all our doings may be ordered by thy governance, to do always that is righteous in thy sight, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen’.

  Shaw concluded the collect and read the remainder of Morning Prayer in his somewhat chilly parish church, feeling a little disrespectful as he read the Prayer for the King’s Majesty a little more quickly than usual.

  He concluded with the Grace, turned to nod to the altar and strode to the west door to greet the three elderly parishioners who had turned up. Morning Prayer was read daily in the church at 8 am by either Shaw or Laithwaite, the curate, regardless of whether anybody was there to hear it, and more often than not there was nobody.

  He listened politely to the gossip of the three elderly ladies, who were of course concerned about the recent murders.

  ‘Something must be done about these awful Bolsheviks before they kill us all!’ declared Miss Kendrick, smelling faintly of mothballs and gin, as usual. Shaw informed her that the police were doing a sterling job, which seemed to reassure her somewhat.

  Once the last parishioner had gone, he walked quickly back to the vicarage. Breakfast was served at 8.30 by Hettie. Although he did not have much appetite this morning, he did not want to keep his wife waiting.

  He realised, as he entered the vicarage and smelt the aroma of kippers and toast emanating from the little back kitchen, that he felt a lack of hunger. There was some physiological reason for it, he assumed. It was not fear exactly - fear of sudden death or injury had left him permanently in the war - but perhaps a sense of moral duty waiting to be carried out, which made the body baulk at such luxuries as kippers, toast and Frank Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade.

  Shaw kissed his wife on the forehead and sat down at the breakfast table.

  ‘Good morning dear,’ said Mrs Shaw, who had, as usual, still been asleep when Shaw had risen to say Morning Prayer.

  ‘Good morning, Marion,’ said Shaw. ‘Now what has Hettie brought us today?’ He lifted the cover of the metal serving dish with curiosity. ‘Ah, scrambled eggs,’ he said, without much relish.

  After he had eaten a small amount, Mrs Shaw looked at her husband with wifely concern.

  ‘Are you alright dear? You look a little pale.’

  ‘Quite alright thank you. A little distracted, that is all.’

  ‘I suppose we all are,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘This awful murder business. It’s all over the papers again today and I dare say it will be on the wireless as well. Absolutely shocking. One hears of that sort of thing in London but not in a place like this.’ She offered a litt
le piece of kipper to Fraser, who was sitting at her feet, but he merely sniffed it and settled back down to snooze under the table.

  ‘There is no particular reason why we should be spared from such things here,’ said Shaw, looking down at his plate. ‘For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.’

  ‘Romans. Chapter three I think,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘No idea what verse, sorry.’

  ‘Twenty-three’ replied Shaw.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Mrs Shaw briskly. ‘Lucian, are you sure you are alright? You don’t normally start quoting the Bible unless there’s something particularly important going on.’

  Shaw paused for a moment before replying. ‘If you were able to persuade someone to seek atonement for a terrible sin, would you attempt to do so, even if it turned out that you were wrong?’

  ‘What a peculiar question,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘Is this about something metaphorical, or something real?’

  ‘Sometimes the metaphorical can be more real than the real,’ said Shaw.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, Lucian, dear. Oughtn’t you to speak to the bishop if you’re having some sort of theological problem?’

  How was he to ask his wife if she believed he should confront someone he thought responsible for two murders? He realised it was not possible. It would merely frighten her and, at any rate, he hoped that his suspicions were not correct and that such a confrontation would result in, at worst, a law suit for defamation of character. He pushed aside his plate, stood up and kissed his wife again on the forehead.

  ‘Pay no attention, my dear. I was getting far too down in the dumps about things. It is hardly surprising, with all that has happened recently. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some parish visiting to do.’

  Mrs Shaw looked at her husband with a puzzled expression, then returned to reading the lurid account of Mrs Cokeley’s death in the East Anglian Gazette.

  Once he was in the hallway and the door to the dining room was closed behind him, Shaw picked up the candlestick telephone and asked the operator to connect him with Midchester police station.

  Once he was put through, he asked to speak with Inspector Ludd, but was informed that he was in an interview and that he ought to try again later. Shaw replaced the receiver and filled his pipe, determined to telephone again once he had smoked it.

  ‘What’s all this about then?’ asked West, as he sat in his usual place at the scarred table in the interview room. ‘Thought I was supposed to be going up before the beak today.’

  ‘If by “beak” you mean the magistrate, then that’s tomorrow,’ said Ludd, looking with distaste at West’s appearance; crumpled and unshaven after several nights in the police cells. ‘We want to ask a few more questions before you get shipped off on remand.’

  ‘How about a fag first?’ said West.

  ‘How about you don’t speak unless you’re spoken to?’ said McPherson, looking at the prisoner with contempt.

  ‘It’s alright, sergeant,’ said Ludd. ‘I think we can afford our clients a little luxury from time to time.’ He gave a Gold Flake cigarette to West and lit it for him. West sucked down the smoke hungrily, then leaned back and exhaled it lazily.

  ‘That’s better,’ said West. ‘Now, what can I help you gents with?’

  ‘Who are you working with?’ asked Ludd.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said West, with what seemed to Ludd to be genuine surprise.

  ‘You know what we’re talking about,’ said McPherson. ‘We know there were two of you on the train when Cokeley was murdered.’

  ‘I weren’t on the train. And I got an alibi. Them girls at Maisie’s place,’ said West defiantly.

  ‘Och we’ve some bad news for you about that, son,’ said McPherson. ‘We finally got to speak to them and none of them remembered anyone of your description. Said they’d had dozens of men in that night.’

  West’s face fell but he remained defiant. ‘Well, so what if I ain’t got an alibi? All you’ve got on me is, what do you call it, circumstantial evidence.’

  ‘My, my,’ said Ludd, shaking his head. ‘Sounds like you became a barrack-room lawyer when you were inside. We’ve already had enough to charge you with and once we’ve built a case we’ll have enough to hang you with, lad, you mark my words. We’ve got witnesses who’ve said they saw a man of your description leaving the train.’

  Ludd knew that was not strictly true, as the vague descriptions from the train crew and Shaw were unlikely to convince a jury, but he was convinced West was the right man. Who else could it be?, he thought.

  ‘I told you, I want to speak to a lawyer,’ said West.

  ‘And we’ve already told you if the court sees fit to appoint one you’ll get one,’ said Ludd patiently. ‘There’s a new Act of Parliament just passed says you’ll get one free of charge. But unless you’ve got five guineas or thereabouts to pay for one before that, you’re not getting one anytime soon.’

  Ludd noticed that West now looked distinctly uneasy; he was puffing hard on his cigarette, which he then stubbed out fiercely into the tin ashtray on the table.

  Ludd sensed his advantage and continued with the attack. ‘The tyre tracks on that bike of yours matched those we found by the railway line. The mud on the wheels matches the mud there too. It’s a very particular type of mud, apparently. I always thought mud was just mud, but no. There’s different types, according to the lab boys, and those two are a perfect match.

  ‘Plus we’ve got your dabs all over the bike. I reckon that’s enough to convince any jury.’ Ludd leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. He did not offer one to West.

  ‘Alright, listen,’ said West. ‘About the bike.’

  ‘We’re listening,’ said Ludd.

  West pointed to McPherson. ‘When he asked me where I’d got it, I kept quiet ‘cos I knew it was probably stolen.’

  ‘You do surprise me,’ said McPherson.

  ‘I’m not saying I stole it, am I?’ replied West with an angry glare in the Scotsman’s direction.

  ‘So what are you saying?’ asked Ludd.

  ‘I bought it off a bloke in the street. I knew it had to be nicked ’cos it was so cheap, and Mother said she’d seen him hanging about near the house looking shifty. He only wanted five bob for it. Well I reckoned I’d need a bike, for looking for work, and that.’

  McPherson snorted with derision. West ignored the interruption and continued.

  ‘So I nips into the house and manages to borrow five bob from me ma, then I pays the chap and puts the bike in the wash-house. Thought I’d best leave it there a few days in case anybody was looking for it.’

  Ludd took a deep drag on his cigarette and thought for a moment before replying.

  ‘Did he give you a name, this chap?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ replied West. ‘He wasn’t going to do that, was he? I could tell he was itching to get it off his hands as quickly as possible. Looked like he had the devil on his tail.’

  ‘Could you describe him?’ asked McPherson, opening a fresh page in his notebook.

  ‘About my age, same height and build I’d say,’ replied West. ‘Didn’t get much of a look at him as he had his cap pulled down and his collar up.’

  Ludd now took out his notebook and began leafing through the pages. ‘When was this?’ he asked.

  West paused for a moment before speaking. ‘Last Wednesday sometime, after lunch sometime I think. About two o’clock. I remember it as it was after I came back from Maisie’s.’

  ‘Where they don’t remember seeing you,’ said McPherson.

  ‘Alright, I know that, don’t I?’ said West angrily. ‘Anyway, I comes up our street and he’s hanging around the back gate. Says do I want to buy a bike? I realised right away it was nicked so I says alright, come in our yard, out of sight, like. I said I’d buy it. He said ‘don’t leave it around here then, push it into that wash-house,’ so I did. Then I popped in to borrow the money off mother. Took a while to persuade her but she
coughed up in the end.’

  ‘Did your mother see this fellow?’ said Ludd. ‘The truth now, lad, we’ll find out soon enough if she didn’t.’

  West looked crestfallen. ‘No. She never come out in the yard, she was doing out the front parlour all the time I spoke to her. I came out, paid him his five bob and then he was off like his rear end was on fire.’

  ‘Alright, now think carefully, lad,’ continued Ludd. ‘Was he carrying anything else, this fellow, when he came into the yard?’

  West paused and bit his lip. ‘He had some sort of sack, over his shoulder, like.’

  ‘Was he still carrying it when he cleared off?’ said Ludd.

  ‘Think so,’ said West. ‘Although now you mention it when he come in I thought it was full but now that I think of it, when I saw him turn to leave, it looked like it was empty. What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Ludd. ‘Right, that’s all for now.’ He turned to the silent officer by the door. ‘Take him back to the cells.’

  The constable stepped forward and took West by the arm.

  ‘What’s going on then?’ asked West. ‘Why you asking all them questions about a stolen bike? Thought I was supposed to be in for murder.’

  ‘You are,’ said Ludd. ‘When that changes we’ll let you know.’

  Once West had been removed from the cells, Ludd sat back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, sir?’ said McPherson.

  ‘If you mean was the bike planted, then yes,’ replied Ludd. ‘Assuming West’s telling the truth, and he doesn’t strike me as a very good liar. Sounds like whoever this fellow was who sold him the bike wanted him to be found with it. And wanted him to get his dabs all over the handlebars.’

  ‘Aye,’ said McPherson. ‘That’s what I’m thinking. And I’ll bet you that’s what the sack was for. Probably had Cokeley’s bag in it. While West was inside talking to his ma, he planted that in the wash-house. West’s thick as a plank but even he’d be suspicious if somebody asked him to look after a bag full of money.’