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

by Hugh Morrison

‘He’s certainly no criminal genius,’ said Ludd. ‘But whoever that man is - or men, I should say, as more than likely there’s two of them- are clever.’

  ‘They must have known West had done over Cokeley before and that he’d be the first person we’d pick up,’ said McPherson.

  ‘They could’nae just creep in at night to plant the bike in the shed, as West would wonder what the hell it was doing there. No, they had to get him to keep it there and make sure his prints were on it. And that’s why when I found the bag it was shoved away under the table at the back. That needed to be a bit harder for anyone to find, so’s West didn’t spend the money and chuck the bag away.’

  ‘But not so hard to find that it didn’t get missed in a police search,’ said Ludd.

  ‘West’s place in Midchester is’nae far from where the train got stopped,’ said McPherson. ‘Someone could easily have got there by bicycle, half an hour or so after killing Cokeley. So that fits with the machine getting planted on West early afternoon sometime.’

  Ludd stood up, put on his jacket and straightened his tie. ‘Right, get down to Railway Cuttings and start asking around if anyone saw this chap with the bicycle. And start asking around the bicycle shops to see if anyone’s bought that model recently.’

  He looked at McPherson, who was leafing through the contents of a buff manila folder on the table.

  ‘Are you listening to me, sergeant?’ said Ludd with annoyance. ‘I said get down to…’

  ‘Sorry sir,’ said McPherson hastily, scanning the contents of the folder. ‘I only just got this in the post this morning, but at the time I did’nae think it was important.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Ludd, craning his neck to look at the sheaf of foolscap papers.

  ‘It’s from the fingerprint boys at Ipswich.’

  ‘What do they want? They’ve already matched the prints on the bike with West.’

  ‘Aye sir. They found several positives on the handlebars of the bike. All nice clear ones of West. They told us that already. And that the rest of the bike looked like it had been wiped down.’

  ‘That ties in with our theory,’ said Ludd. ‘Probably done by this other fellow while West was inside the house getting the money,’ said Ludd. ‘Pity, if we’d had any other prints that might have helped us.’

  ‘That’s just it sir,’ said McPherson with mounting excitement. ‘All we wanted was to make sure West had touched the bike and that was the first thing they found out for us. But it says here now they’ve also found a partial match of another print found on the underside of the handlebars. It took them a while, but they’ve found a match in the records office.’

  Ludd looked down at the neatly typed name and address.

  ‘Well don’t just stand there,’ he said, taking his bowler hat from under his chair and plonking it onto his head. ‘Get a car round the front now.’

  ‘Should we not notify the local station, sir? They’re nearer.’

  ‘What?’ said Ludd. ‘And have some bumpkin constable plod over on his bicycle to make the arrest before we do?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose you’re right sir,’ replied McPherson. ‘I’ll get the car ready.’

  ‘And get two of the lads along too. With two murders on our hands I’m not taking any chances of there being a third. Now, get going.’

  Before Ludd could leave the building he was stopped by a constable who told him he was wanted on the telephone by a Reverend Shaw.

  ‘What on earth does he want?’ muttered Ludd as he picked up the proffered receiver.

  ‘Yes, Mr Shaw?’ said Ludd.

  He listened for a moment, then replied angrily. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t have time for your fanciful theories, Mr Shaw. You’ve been very helpful up to now but I’m about to make an arrest and this really isn’t the time or the place. Good day to you sir.’

  Ludd slammed the receiver back into its cradle with a resounding crash, and hurried out into the yard, muttering again under his breath. This time it was something about ‘interfering amateurs.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  S haw replaced the receiver and took a deep breath. He decided he had done all he could to alert the Inspector, but to no avail. He left the vicarage and walked purposefully along the high street to the end of the village, past Symes and Davis’ little office and toward the last of the houses, a small row of cottages on a ridge close to the railway line.

  The fine spring weather had changed, with low grey cloud obscuring the sun, and a chilly breeze waving the daffodils in the grassy banks by the road. Shaw shivered slightly, partly from the cold but also from distaste at what he had to do.

  Suddenly he heard the clicking and scraping of metal heel protectors on tarmacadam, and he realised somebody was running along the road behind him. He turned to see Davis, red faced, rapidly approaching him.

  ‘Reverend,’ he shouted. ‘Stop a minute.’

  Shaw stopped and waited for Davis to catch up with him; he then waited a few more moments as the man caught his breath.

  ‘Glad I caught you,’ said Davis, taking the handkerchief from the top pocket of his suit jacket, and using it to mop his forehead.

  ‘Got some news for you, about Symes, and the murders.’

  ‘Yes?’ replied Shaw, concerned that his carefully wrought theory about the killer might be about to be destroyed.

  ‘Looks like it might be to your advantage. Him and Miss Frobisher are back. They didn’t do a runner to Paris or anything like that. They only got as far as Brighton.’

  ‘Brighton?’ asked Shaw, in a puzzled tone.

  ‘Yes, you know, seaside holiday place.’

  ‘I am aware of what it is, Mr Davis, but what is the relevance?’

  ‘Well,’ continued Davis, whose face had now returned to its usual sallow colour, ‘there’s me thinking they had something to do with Mrs Cokeley being killed as they disappeared so sharpish, and all the rest of it, what we talked about. But it turns out they couldn’t have.’

  ‘Indeed, and why not?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘It says in the paper today that the police reckon Mrs Cokeley was killed some time between 12 and 1.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well…I don’t know how exact these things are, I mean, I’m not a doctor, but I think that puts Symes and Miss Frobisher in the clear. See, I told you last night, they were back in the office around 12. But now I think it was more like 11.30. I remember now that I saw them come in and I checked the clock.’

  ‘Another horse race?’ asked Shaw with a slight smile.

  ‘Not this time reverend, no,’ replied Davis, with slight impatience. ‘I was a bit hungry and I was hoping it was lunchtime. So anyway, I don’t see how it could have been them. And from what they told me today it all made sense anyway.’

  ‘Your suspicions are allayed?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘No, they’ve all gone,’ replied Davis. ‘I thought they were thick as thieves those two, what with her going on about “extracurricular activities” and him saying nothing was going to stand in his way to getting Cokeley’s house. I started to think Joe, old chap, there’s something funny going on here. And then when they disappeared after Mrs Cokeley got herself killed, well that was the final straw for me.’

  ‘And that is when you came to me last night with your suspicions.’

  ‘That’s right. But you can imagine how daft I felt this morning when they turned up in the office. Seems they had a long lunch to celebrate Mrs Cokeley agreeing to sell the house. One thing led to another and they ended up on the late train to Brighton. I won’t say any more but you’re a man of the world, I’m sure reverend, so you can imagine what the extracurricular activities were.’

  ‘I would hope that I am in the world but not of it, as St Paul puts it,’ said Shaw.

  The mention of the seaside resort reminded him, coincidentally, of another part of his theory on the murders, and he resolved he must now take what he hoped would be the final step in his investigation.

  ‘I am awar
e,’ he continued, ‘of Brighton’s reputation for, shall we say, discreet liasons.’

  ‘But that’s just it,’ said Davis, beaming. ‘That’s why I said it could be to your advantage. It’s not a discreet liason as you call it, they came back on the early train this morning and they’ve only blooming gone and got engaged! So you’ll be doing the honours soon I hope.’

  ‘Please offer them my congratulations,’ said Shaw with relief, ‘and tell them that I look forward to meeting with them at the vicarage if they wish to discuss the arrangements.’

  ‘I will, but I’d best be getting back. Symes has left me to try to make sense of Ma Cokeley’s accounts and other things to do with the business. He reckons she was losing money for years. She wasn’t too pleased about it either when he told her. That’s why she agreed to sell up so easily.’

  ‘I imagine it must have been a strain for her, poor woman.’

  ‘I suppose so, but let’s hope she’s in a better place now, eh?’ replied Davis, with a quick glance upwards. ‘Well, I’ll say cheer-oh then reverend. I’m glad I got all that off my chest,’.

  ‘That is what I am here for, Mr Davis,’ said Shaw. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I have some pressing business to attend to.’

  ‘Right-oh. I’ll probably be seeing you again soon - he’s only gone and asked me to be the best man!’

  Shaw raised his hat as Davis turned and trotted back up the road to his office. What a strange little man, he thought.

  Shaw knocked on the door of the last cottage, noting the general air of neglect in the tussocky front garden. The door opened a crack and a heavily bespectacled woman’s face came into view.

  Shaw raised his hat. ‘Good day, Miss Ellis. I am calling as promised to see how you are getting on.’

  ‘Really there’s no need,’ replied Miss Ellis with an irritated tone. ‘I’m perfectly alright.’

  Shaw smiled, determined not to be put off. ‘I have no doubt of that. You are clearly a capable individual. My call was more with regard to the police investigation.’

  ‘Police investigation?’ asked Miss Ellis.

  ‘Yes, as the person who found the unfortunate Mrs Cokeley, there will undoubtedly be further questions from the police. It will be in your best interests, I am sure, to be prepared for the sort of questions they may ask, and as someone with a passing acquaintance with the investigating officer, I may be able to assist you in this.’

  Miss Ellis continued to look irritated, but her expression softened somewhat. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

  Shaw removed his hat and wiped his feet on the mat. Miss Ellis showed him in to the small front parlour.

  Shaw looked around the room, with its trappings of down-at-heel, lower-middle-class respectability; the embroidered text on the wall, the anti-macassars on the chairs and the coloured engraving of the King and Queen above the chimney-piece. He noticed a large trunk on the floor with items of clothing half in, half out of it.

  ‘Are you going somewhere?’ he enquired, pointing at the trunk.

  Before she could reply, there was a thudding on the ceiling and Shaw heard a muffled voice from upstairs.

  ‘Who’s that you’re talking to Sybil?’

  Miss Ellis turned to the doorway of the parlour and called up the stairs. ‘It’s nothing mother. Just a visitor.’

  ‘If it’s the workhouse people you can tell them I shan’t come,’ she called with feeble defiance. ‘I told you, I was born in this house and I’ll die in this house.’

  Miss Ellis turned back into the room and closed the door. She smiled awkwardly and pushed back a strand of hair. Shaw noticed that despite her dowdy appearance, she was not an unattractive woman.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said. ‘We’re putting mother in a nursing home. She thinks it’s the workhouse. She’s getting worse, so we’ve made arrangements.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ replied Shaw. He looked down at the trunk and the spring frock, silk stockings and fashionable cloche hat on view. ‘Forgive me, Miss Ellis, but I cannot help noticing some of the items you are packing. They appear to be more suited to a woman of your own age.’

  Miss Ellis folded her arms. ‘I…I’ll be going to the home myself for a few days to help mother settle in,’ she said quickly. ‘Look,’ she continued, ‘what’s all this about, anyway? We don’t go to your church - mother’s a Methodist and I’m, well I’m not really anything anymore and Jack certainly isn’t. So I don’t see what the point of this visit is.’

  Shaw took a deep breath. ‘Before I say any more, Miss Ellis, this is a chance for you to unburden yourself of anything that may be troubling your conscience.’

  ‘My conscience? I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Miss Ellis, glaring.

  ‘Very well,’ said Shaw. ‘I will come to the point. I have come here because I believe you to be complicit in the murders of both Mr and Mrs Cokeley. If you come to me now, as your parish priest, with contrition, before we both go to the police, a jury is bound to look more favourably upon you.’

  Miss Ellis flushed a deep crimson. ‘Contrition? I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to be contrite about,’ she said angrily. ‘So why on earth should I go to the police with you or anyone else?’

  ‘Because, Miss Ellis,’ said Shaw gravely, ‘if you speak now, it could mean the difference between imprisonment, or the hangman’s noose.’

  ‘Absolute nonsense,’ she snapped. ‘They’ve caught the man who killed Cokeley. The papers said so. They’re bound to catch whoever killed his wife soon as well.’

  She walked over to the trunk and began hurling items into it. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ she said, looking over her shoulder, ‘I have things to do.’

  ‘If you don’t do it for yourself, Miss Ellis,’ said Shaw, ‘at least do it for your brother.’

  ‘My brother? What on earth has he got to do with this?’

  ‘There is something the law calls joint enterprise. If two persons are involved in a murder, both may hang, even the one who did not strike the fatal blow.’

  Miss Ellis paused, an expression of suspicion on her face. ‘What do you know about my brother?’

  ‘You may not be aware, Miss Ellis, but I was travelling in the same train in which Mr Cokeley was murdered. Consequently, I have an involvement in the case beyond that of an ordinary member of the public. It was your brother that first alerted me to the fact that the case was not as straightforward as the police imagined.’

  ‘What…what has he told you?’

  ‘Your brother Jack and I have never spoken,’ said Shaw. ‘But I noticed him on his bicycle, cycling past the vicarage shortly before I departed on the train for Great Netley last Wednesday. At that time I did not know who he was. But I then saw him returning in the afternoon, after the murder, this time without his bicycle.’

  ‘He…he would have been going to work,’ said Miss Ellis. ‘He works at the station in Great Netley. He probably had a puncture and left his bicycle somewhere. Yes, I think that’s what he told me.’

  ‘I fear not, Miss Ellis. You see, he was not working that day. Wednesday is his day off.’

  ‘Alright, perhaps it is,’ said Miss Ellis. ‘They’re often changing his days off. I still don’t see what this has to do with anything.’

  ‘After the day of the murder I took a walk along the road to Great Netley. I had occasion to notice that there were indications of somebody moving around the signal on the line where the train stopped.’

  ‘What does a train signal have to do with all this?’

  ‘You said yourself you have read the papers,’ said Shaw. ‘You will know then, that the train stopped at a signal along the line and it was there that the presumed killer made his escape from the train.’

  ‘Alright, I think I do remember something about that. What on earth are you suggesting? That Jack killed Cokeley?’ She snorted with derision.

  ‘No, Miss Ellis, I do not think he did. But after speaking with the good men of the Lower
Addenham branch railway line, I concluded that it was your brother who used his knowledge as a railwayman to manually change the signal, in order to stop the train in which Mr Cokeley was travelling.’

  ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense,’ said Miss Ellis. ‘It’s sheer fantasy. You’re not a detective, so all I can conclude is you’ve got carried away with playing at investigating and got everything wrong.’

  ‘It is true I am not a detective,’ said Shaw. ‘But I have thought over what I have seen and heard many times and it all leads to one conclusion. That it was you who killed both Mr and Mrs Cokeley.’

  ‘You’re jolly lucky there’s nobody with me to hear that - it’s slander. If you think that I killed them why on earth don’t you telephone for the police this instant and have me taken away? There’s a box in the lane. I shan’t mind in the least, as I’ll enjoy seeing you made a laughing stock. I might even sue you.’

  ‘Do you think that such a possibility did not occur to me, Miss Ellis?’ asked Shaw. ‘That is why I am still giving you the opportunity to give yourself up. But I see you are still reluctant, so may I go on?’

  ‘If you must. I really ought to know what I’m supposed to have done, after all.’

  ‘If you have read about the case you will remember,’ said Shaw, ‘that an attractive young blonde woman was seen entering the compartment of Mr Cokeley at Lower Addenham. But when the train arrived at Great Netley, she was nowhere to be seen.’

  ‘I remember something about it. The papers said when this chap, what’s his name, West, got in and murdered Cokeley, he killed her as well and dumped the body somewhere. Or she went mad with shock and ran away.’

  Shaw shook his head. ‘No, Miss Ellis. I do not believe the lurid theories of the newspapermen. Nor do I believe the equally lurid theory of the police, that the woman was in fact West, in disguise.’

  ‘What on earth…you mean, they think he disguised himself as a woman? Well, it makes as much sense as anything else you’ve said,’ replied Miss Ellis with a hollow laugh.

  ‘I believe the truth to be far more prosaic. I believe that the mystery blonde woman was in fact, you. You knew of your employer’s predilection for attractive women and so you made yourself look as glamorous as possible, as you knew the only person who would be able to gain access to Mr Cokeley’s compartment would be just such a woman.’