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

by Hugh Morrison

  ‘It’s all over, Sybil,’ said Ellis, gently. ‘The police are here. I’ve told them everything.’

  ‘Everything?’ asked Miss Ellis, plaintively.

  ‘I told them how I planned the robbery with you, for mother’s sake. And that when Cokeley got stabbed, well, I kept quiet about that as I know why it happened. But when Mrs Cokeley got killed too, well, there was no justification for that, was there? And now the vicar? You ain’t in your right mind, Sybil. You need help.’

  ‘I don’t need anyone’s help!’ screeched Miss Ellis, and this time she lunged forward towards Jack. Shaw watched as, almost in the manner of a silent comedian slipping on a banana skin, Miss Ellis fell backwards as a strong pair of arms grabbed her through the opened sash window behind her. They were the arms of Detective Sergeant McPherson.

  ‘Drop it Sybil, drop it!’ said the Scotsman, and then there was the clatter of metal on stone as the knife fell to the floor. Shaw deftly kicked the weapon away where it spun off along the tiles into the corner of the room.

  After a brief struggle Miss Shaw went limp, her head nodded forward and she began sobbing. Inspector Ludd stepped into the kitchen from the hallway and placed his hand on her arm. After he had done this, McPherson released his hold on her and came into the kitchen via the back door.

  ‘Now come along quietly, miss,’ said Ludd. ‘We’re taking you and your brother in the same car so this will be the last you’ll be seeing of each other for a while. Make the most of it, eh?’

  Miss Ellis looked at him uncomprehendingly and sniffed back tears, as McPherson led her out through the passageway; a uniformed constable then secured Ellis’ hands behind his back with handcuffs and led him out the same way.

  ‘Wait,’ exclaimed Shaw. ‘Mrs Ellis is in bed upstairs. She is an invalid. I ought to see her.’

  ‘Best leave her out of it for now,’ advised Ludd. ‘We’ll get a constable to stay here and we’ll alert the district welfare officer to have her put somewhere.’

  Shaw exhaled. ‘Very well. But how did you know to come here?’

  ‘I might ask you the same question, Mr Shaw,’ said Ludd, pushing his bowler hat back slightly on his forehead.

  ‘I had only a theory, but it seems I was correct,’ replied Shaw.

  ‘From what I heard out in the corridor, you worked things out fairly well,’ said Ludd, in a tone of grudging admiration.

  ‘You were listening?’ asked Shaw in amazement.

  ‘For most of the time, yes. We saw you talking through the window when we arrived and I told McPherson to stop out there while I came in the front with Ellis. Fortunately the front door was unlocked.’

  ‘But why did you not intervene earlier?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘You were doing a pretty good job of extracting a confession from her, that’s why,’ replied Ludd. ‘I doubt she’d have been as co-operative with us as she was with you. I can see you have a way with people.’

  ‘Perhaps, Inspector. But I still don’t understand, how did you know Ellis was involved?’

  ‘If you’ll forgive me, Mr Shaw, it’s because we’re professionals and you’re an amateur. You might have reached the same conclusion as us on theory, but we got there on hard evidence.’

  ‘Evidence?’

  ‘Fingerprints, to be specific. After some considerable effort, a print belonging to Ellis was found on the bicycle he planted on West. Ellis’ prints are fortunately on central county files for an arrest on a minor charge some while back.’

  ‘Ah yes…drunk and disorderly, I believe,’ said Shaw. ‘Now that I recall, Ellis’ superior at Great Netley station mentioned it.’

  ‘My my, Mr Shaw, you have been busy,’ said Ludd. ‘We had his case details which mentioned that he worked at Great Netley station, so we picked him up straight away. He told us everything there and then, as if he couldn’t wait to get it off his chest, so we came here to pick up his sister. I brought him in with me in the hope of getting her to incriminate herself in front of him, but since you were doing such a good job of that I told him to keep quiet and wait in the passage.’

  Shaw sighed. ‘Will the confession be sufficient for her to be found guilty?’

  Ludd sniffed. ‘Not for me to say, sir. But a double murder? It looks likely she’ll hang. We just heard earlier that the fingerprint boys found a partial print on the handle of the knife that Miss West used to kill Mrs Cokeley. It looks like she had the presence of mind to wipe it, but once we’ve taken her prints I’m pretty sure we’ll find a match.’

  ‘And what of, what was his name, West? The man falsely arrested.’

  ‘We’ll have to let him go,’ said Ludd, ‘but I daresay we can nab him again for receiving stolen goods, or some such. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over him, sir. Nasty piece of work.’

  ‘I see,’ said Shaw. ‘I assume you will require me to make some sort of statement at the police station?’

  ‘If you would be so kind, sir,’ said Ludd. ‘And may I also say, perhaps I was a bit harsh with you on the telephone today. You’ve done us a service here today and risked your own neck doing it. It’s been a tricky case this, and I appreciate your efforts. So please accept my apologies for any offence given.’

  ‘None taken, Inspector,’ replied Shaw.

  Chapter Seventeen

  E aster came and went, then Whitsun, and finally the church calendar settled into the lull before Advent known as Ordinary Time, when the absence of major festivals meant Shaw could afford himself a little more leisure time.

  It was a fine summer morning and Shaw was at the dining table after having read Morning Prayer, finishing his second cup of English Breakfast tea after an excellent plate of kippers. Fraser, as usual, sat nearby, hoping to receive crumbs from the table. The room was silent except for the dull rhythmic thud of the little dog’s tail upon the Persian carpet.

  There was a rattle at the front door and a few moments later, Hettie entered the room, bobbed, and held out to Mrs Shaw a silver tray with some letters on it.

  ‘Post’s come, ma’am’, she said brightly.

  ‘Thank you Hettie,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘Please clear away the breakfast things.’

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ said Hettie. She bobbed again and clattered the plates and dishes into a large pile on a tray.

  Once the servant had left the room, Mrs Shaw turned her attention to the post. ‘I don’t recognise the writing on this one,’ she said, peering at a semi-legible scrawl on a brown envelope. ‘I do hope it’s not another of those odd crank letters we got a few weeks ago.’

  ‘We should not judge them as cranks, my dear,’ said Shaw. ‘They were people with over-active imaginations who formed a view from reading the newspapers that I was some sort of consulting detective.’

  ‘Well you did do a jolly good job on that case,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘I doubt Inspector Ludd and his men would have noticed some of the things you did.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But let us pray there are no more unfortunate people who believe that they require some sort of clerical version of Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘That fellow that used to be in the Strand magazine?’ asked Mrs Shaw. ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard he’s rather good. Anyway, I assume you’ve seen the article in the Times?’

  ‘About poor young Ellis being sentenced?’

  ‘I’d hardly call him poor, dear. He did after all take part in a killing with his sister, even if he claims they didn’t plan to murder him.’

  ‘I believe him,’ said Shaw. ‘I am only sorry that I was not able to help him more.’

  ‘You did your best dear, you must have visited him at least half a dozen times and you even wrote to that barrister in London. And you managed to get poor old Mrs Ellis that place in the almshouses. You can be quite sure you went the extra mile.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Shaw. ‘Still, fifteen years’ hard labour. It will break him.’

  ‘He was lucky not to be hanged,’ said Mrs Shaw briskly. ‘And so was his sister.’

  ‘Miss Ellis has bee
n committed to a hospital for the criminally insane, probably for the term of her natural life,’ said Shaw. ‘I would hardly call that luck.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Shaw with a sigh. ‘Now I’ve gone and spoilt your day, by bringing all this up again.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Shaw. ‘And you haven’t read that letter. It may be good news.’

  ‘I had quite forgotten,’ said Mrs Shaw, looking down at the envelope. ‘It’s addressed to you, anyway.’ She handed it to him.

  Shaw opened the envelope briskly using his little finger and scanned the contents.

  ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s from Mr Davis.’

  ‘Who, dear?’

  ‘You remember. The estates agent. He came here one night, somewhat agitated, with a theory about the murder.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘A rather peculiar man. Hettie wasn’t impressed by him at all. She told me afterwards that such common types ought not to be allowed in the house.’ She laughed and continued.

  ‘She has some rather snobbish ideas, that girl, I must say. I think she must have picked them up when she was working at the Manor. Anyway, what does this Mr Davis want with you?’

  Shaw scanned the contents. ‘He says he’s sorry to disappoint but his business partner Mr Symes won’t be getting married here after all. They’ve all “upped sticks”, as he puts it, and moved to Ipswich, where the wedding has already taken place. Apparently there are “rich pickings to be had in the housing game” there. They intend to build along one of the new arterial roads.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘He must be the one who had that office at the end of the high street. I haven’t seen anyone in there for an age. Does that mean those awful suburban villas aren’t going to be built here? I do hope so.’

  Shaw smiled. ‘And there you were accusing Hettie of snobbery. Perhaps it’s you she gets it from.’

  ‘Oh don’t be so silly, Lucian,’ said Mrs Shaw briskly. ‘A dislike of jerry-built houses is not snobbery, it’s simply a concern for standards.’

  Shaw raised an eyebrow, then continued. ‘Mr Davis writes that his firm is not, after all, able to buy the Cokeleys’ house and therefore, since the access road cannot be built, they have had to regretfully cancel the plans for the New Addenham estate, and are selling the land back to a local farmer.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful news, Lucian,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘We’ve quite enough people living here already. But what will happen to the Cokeleys’ house? Does he say anything about that? It’s been lying empty for an age.’

  Shaw turned over the sheet of lined paper and peered at Davis’ indelible-pencil scrawl. ‘Good Lord,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘You’re not usually one for taking His name in vain, dear,’ admonished Mrs Shaw. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It seems that since Mrs Cokeley died without making a will, the property has reverted to the Crown, which in turn has seen fit to return it to the former owner of the land, which is, the Diocese of Bury St Edmund’s. It belongs to the church!’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘But what on earth will the church do with an old antiques shop?’

  ‘I have an idea,’ said Shaw, standing up and placing his breakfast napkin on the table. ‘Do you recall that Mr Goggins was to be turned out of his cottage because he was behind in rent to Mr Cokeley?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘He was in very low spirits about this when we spoke last Sunday. It seems that Mr Cokeley’s executors are refusing to allow him to stay, and state that the house must be sold to clear various debts.’

  ‘But what has that to do with Mr Cokeley’s shop?’

  ‘If the shop is now the property of the church, it may be possible to rent it to Mr Goggins. He could use the shop for his saddlery business and live upstairs. I shall write to the bishop immediately.’

  ‘That’s an awfully good idea, Lucian,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘You really are very clever about organising these things. Now, I must take Fraser for his walk. He’s simply dying to be let out.’

  Fraser jumped up excitedly and followed his mistress out into the hallway, where she fussed about with his lead. Shaw kissed his wife on the forehead and patted Fraser’s head as the pair left the vicarage.

  The house was quiet except for the distant sound of Hettie humming in the kitchen as she washed the breakfast dishes. Shaw walked into his study, closed the door and began to compose a letter to his bishop. A tune came into his head and he realised, again, it was Sandys, Teach Me My God and King. How did it go? He sat back and recalled the words.

  A man that looks on glass,

  On it may stay his eye;

  Or if he pleaseth, through it pass,

  And then the heaven espy.

  Had he spied heaven in his amateur investigations, he wondered? Not exactly; he had seen the mixture of sin and goodness in all men, but a form of order had been restored, he believed, out of the chaos of sin. Was that order perhaps a glimpse of heaven? Shaw shrugged and decided it was too early for philosophising. He decided to give the good news to Goggins about the shop, and walked out into the warm brightness of the summer morning.