Betty Church and the Suffolk Vampire (A Betty Church Mystery Book 1)

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  Teddy, tall and bony, rose from behind his by-the-door counter, where he had been perusing one of his wares.

  ‘Oh good morning, B— Inspector.’

  ‘Tell him off,’ Dodo urged before turning to the proprietor with a stern, ‘she does not like to be called that.’

  ‘But…’ Teddy flapped in confusion.

  ‘But is as but does,’ Dodo informed him as if that meant something. ‘Daddy says so.’

  Something shrivelled. I think it was me.

  ‘Mr Moulton, this is Constable Chivers,’ I introduced them.

  Teddy propped his tortoiseshell glasses on the knobbly ridge of his brows and his eyes shrank like anemones when the tide goes out.

  ‘You have a lot of books.’ Dodo threw out her arms, tipping a propped-up family Bible flat onto the table.

  ‘I am aware of that.’ Teddy smiled. He had teeth that looked like they were designed for plucking thistles and a jutting shaven-to-the-point-of-rawness chin.

  ‘Good.’ Dodo’s eyes flicked from side to side. ‘Because there would be something wrong with you if you did not.’

  Teddy pushed his brown fringe back but it flopped down again. ‘Are you a plainclothes policewoman?’

  ‘Plain?’ Dodo straightened indignantly without managing to look any taller. ‘You are not exactly Beau Brummell.’

  This was true, if uncalled for. Teddy favoured brown corduroy trousers and tweed jackets. The trouble was he favoured them for many years at a stretch.

  ‘Constable Chivers doesn’t start until next week,’ I explained as she picked up the Bible, knocking an atlas onto the floor in the process.

  ‘Actually I’m waiting for my uniform too,’ Teddy said with a proud toss of his head, trying but failing to puff out his sunken chest.

  ‘Are you going to be a clerk?’ Dodo stroked her chin. ‘You seem well suited to doing something tedious,’ she added without malice.

  ‘Air Raid Precautions warden,’ he announced, his spectacles rising to share my surprise. ‘This will be a war of the people and we will be on the front line in East Anglia.’

  ‘But why?’ Dodo picked up the atlas, which had fallen open where Teddy had bookmarked it, and the Bible overbalanced.

  ‘Because we are the closest part of England to Germany.’ Teddy pointed to the map.

  ‘No, I mean why are we supposed to rely on someone like you?’ Dodo’s finger traced the stretch of North Sea separating us from the enemy. It had seemed vast when I crossed it on a ferry but it looked alarmingly slender when I thought of the thousands of bombers poised to hurtle across it. ‘We need real men to protect us.’

  ‘Come on.’ I grabbed my constable’s arm and dragged her out. ‘Did you have to be so rude?’ I said when we were on the street.

  ‘Oh but…’ Dodo stared at me. ‘Surely he cannot have taken offence at that?’ She reached back and pushed the door open. ‘I’m sorry if I insulted your weedy physique,’ she called, pulled the door shut again and rolled her big eyes dreamily. ‘I think he rather liked me,’ she declared.

  ‘How to Win Friends and Influence People,’ I muttered.

  ‘That is the name of a book,’ Dodo told me. ‘Oh I wonder if Mr Moulton stocks it.’ She glanced back. ‘I could buy it for you, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  We passed up Mulberry Road, pausing before we crossed for a bus to go by. It was packed with evacuees, probably from London – children pressing their faces to the window looked out on us, some waving excitedly, some crying, some terrified, some of the younger ones obviously confused. A little girl hugged an even smaller girl. One shaven-headed boy made an obscene gesture.

  ‘They must be boy scouts.’ Dodo smiled and gave him the V-sign back.

  ‘Remind me to have a word with you about that later.’

  ‘But where are we going?’ Dodo spun a complete revolution on her heel.

  ‘To the hospital.’

  She spun again, two turns this time.

  ‘Oh but oh why? Are you poorly-sorely?’ Dodo staggered dizzily sideways.

  ‘No but you will be if you don’t start acting like an adult.’ I stopped outside the main entrance, taken aback by the cruelty of my words until she drove me to the brink of a rage with a stomach-churning, ‘Sowwy.’

  I let it pass. It was either that or shaking her until bits fell off and I wouldn’t wish that on anybody – well, hardly anybody.

  *

  There was a different nurse on duty. She had the face of an unloved pug.

  ‘The woman who came in last night? She discharged herself this morning.’

  ‘Did she leave a name?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ Her projecting lower teeth teetered on nipping my nose.

  ‘Do you know where she went?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ The nurse put her hands on her hips. ‘She went out of the front door.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then I went off to mind my own business,’ the nurse said sourly. ‘Just like I’m doing now.’ And off she set down the corridor, straight to the vets, I hoped.

  ‘She seemed like a nice lady,’ Dodo observed loudly. ‘What a pity that she is not.’

  19

  THE PRICE OF PRIMATES

  An army truck had pulled up on High Road West and a dozen youths all still in civvies were scrambling into the back of it.

  Two scraggy girls stood at the front of a gaggle of women on the corner, flapping their none-too-clean handkerchiefs.

  ‘Farewell my own true lover,’ a scrawny girl sobbed.

  ‘Oi’ll write every day, my darlin’,’ her scrawnier friend vowed tearfully.

  A corporal raised and clipped the tailgate and the lorry set off, taking all those boys to their great adventures and leaving me with their mothers waving and weeping and their girlfriends calling endearments that might have been better whispered on the back row of the Trocadero.

  ‘Oh oi’ll not be forgettin’ him,’ the scrawny girl sobbed. ‘But thank durg he a’gorn. I’m gaspin’ for a cuppa.’

  ‘Oi’ve got futhers in me crop,’ her scrawnier friend agreed.

  ‘What language are they speaking?’ Constable Chivers enquired.

  ‘Suffolk,’ I told her. ‘You won’t notice after a while.’

  ‘Gracious, I shall have my work cut out correcting their grammar,’ she pondered.

  ‘They will not thank you.’ I skirted a smashed bottle of milk.

  ‘Daddy says goodness is its own reward,’ Dodo quoted piously as she traipsed obliviously through the puddle and broken glass.

  ‘Let’s hope Daddy’s right then.’ I sighed. I had given up trying to stop Dodo calling her father that and it was probably one of the less annoying of her habits now.

  We made our way down Beggar’s Lane – more salubrious than the name suggested, a cobbled street with a deep central gutter and bordered by a mix of stables, some still in use, others converted into mews cottages.

  Across the road somebody was playing a record – Artie Shaw’s ‘Begin the Beguine’.

  ‘Oh I love Al Jolson.’ Dodo did a twirl. ‘The Spaniard that blighted my life,’ she warbled loudly.

  Number 6 opened straight onto the road and was nicely kept up with a navy-blue door and matching windows either side.

  ‘Oh this is jolly as a jam jar.’ Dodo skipped with one foot either side of the channel. ‘But why have we stopped here by the sweet little brass sign saying Bric-a-brac and curios?’

  Apart from my resisting the urge to throttle you?

  ‘A Mr Peatrie, lives above his shop here,’ I replied. ‘He’s almost retired now but he sells odd knick-knacks.’

  ‘As well as bric-a-brac?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And curios?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But oh, Inspector, what is the difference?’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘But you do know, do you not?’

  Those trusting eyes looked up at me and I realised I had a d
ilemma. Either I must admit that I didn’t, and fall in my constable’s esteem, or pretend that I did and think of a reason why I wouldn’t tell her.

  ‘I think you should find out for yourself.’ I twisted the brass handle.

  ‘To hone my investigative skills?’

  Oh for goodness’ sake. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And are you going to purchase a knick-knack, bric-a-brac or curio, perhaps as a welcome-to-Slackwater gift for me?’ Dodo jiggled about.

  ‘No. It’s just that Mr Peatrie hasn’t kept his appointments with my father.’

  ‘Crikey.’ Dodo gaped. ‘You arrest people for missing their appointments?’

  ‘I want to check if he’s all right. He dropped his lower denture in for repair and he can’t eat much without it.’ The bell tinkled genteelly as I opened the door. ‘He’s a bit deaf.’

  ‘I had an aunt who was deaf,’ Dodo told me. ‘It made it very difficult for her to hear.’

  I waited for a moment, to no avail.

  Hamish Peatrie’s shop was in a single room that would have once been the front parlour, crammed full of what was mainly junk – a stuffed owl frozen in flight; a stack of mismatched plates, some chipped; another of saucers, ditto; old magazines tied in piles; a box of used postcards with messages from aunts and uncles and schoolchildren and photographs of churches and donkeys. He was a nice old man who used to let me spend hours polishing his brass candlesticks and silver teapots – in retrospect more slave labour than kindliness.

  Before the First World War he had owned a much larger shop on High Road West but his son, Danny, was a conscientious objector and Mr P shared his son’s convictions. The shop was smashed and looted and he lost almost all his customers. The fact that Danny was killed rescuing a friend who had fallen down the cliffs at Hunstanton did little to assuage the people’s righteous anger because the friend was ‘conchie’ too so they both deserved to die.

  ‘Hello,’ I called, ‘Mr P.’

  ‘But his name is Mr Peatrie,’ Dodo corrected me. ‘You told me so yourself.’

  ‘I have always called him Mr P.’

  ‘Except when you call him Mr Peatrie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps he is out and has forgotten to lock up or is deafer than you think or having a bath or ill in bed or hiding or sleeping or sulking,’ Dodo suggested. ‘Or perhaps he is tending to his garden if he has one.’

  ‘Stop jabbering.’ I raised my voice. ‘Mr P?’ Nothing.

  ‘Or dead,’ Dodo added dramatically.

  ‘Hello, Mr P.’

  ‘Nobody is replying,’ Dodo informed me helpfully.

  A furled umbrella projected from a blue-glazed pot. ‘Mr Peatrie? Hello.’ Again nothing.

  ‘I do not think you should go in, Inspector.’ Dodo hovered in the road. ‘It might be dangerous.’

  ‘It’s a junk shop’ – I stepped inside – ‘not a snakepit.’ There was always a mouldering monkey playing a trumpet in the corner but it had gone now. He had been asking £3 for it but who the hell would have bought that – unless it was for somebody they hated?

  ‘Oh do they have snakey pits in Slackwater?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But when shall they have them, Inspector Church?’

  ‘Just as soon as they are ready.’ I paused. She was making a simple visit into a three-act drama. ‘You wait there if you’re worried.’ After all, she wasn’t officially on the force yet.

  The shop was deserted.

  ‘Not blooming likely. Excuse my befouled language.’ Dodo followed me in.

  There was an upright piano with the sheet music for ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ on the stand. The old war songs were having a revival until we could write some new ones.

  ‘I’ll have a look upstairs.’

  ‘I wonder if he is hiding behind this counter on the left-hand side of his emporium, waiting to jump out shouting boo to scare us.’ She clasped her face in both hands.

  ‘I think that unlikely. He must be nearly eighty.’

  ‘I might take a look.’ Dodo crept towards it, then stopped. ‘Oh but do I dare to?’ she dithered. ‘Or do I not?’ She put a crooked finger to her temple. ‘I do dare,’ she decided and poked her head gingerly over. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Good. Now…’

  ‘He could be crouched in the footwell underneath,’ she speculated.

  ‘Oh for—’ I began as she went behind the counter in a sudden rush.

  ‘Oh!’ Dodo jumped and covered her mouth, but not enough to stifle her squawk. ‘Dead,’ she said through her hand.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Dead,’ she cried again. ‘Dead as a dodo.’

  20

  THE LAST ARMENIAN

  I hurried towards my constable. ‘Mr Peatrie?’

  Dodo shook her head, her hair fluffing out like a red feather duster.

  ‘Then who?’ Dodo Chivers had become an obstruction. ‘Get out of my way.’ She stepped back but only blocked the space between counter and wall even more. ‘Move.’

  My constable seemed paralysed with shock. I grasped her shoulder, thrust her to one side and pushed past. His stock books were on the floor, the ones where he painstakingly itemised every scrap of rubbish in his shop with details of where he had bought them and who he had sold them to.

  ‘Where?’ I demanded and Dodo crooked her finger.

  ‘Spider,’ she hissed as if confronted by a grizzly bear rearing up to unzip her abdomen. ‘They may be God’s creatures but I hate them.’ She rummaged through her hair.

  ‘Go away,’ I said as evenly as I could.

  ‘Yes, B—Inspector.’ She went to stand beside an empty umbrella stand, emitting an odd high whine.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Humming “I Want to Be Happy” from No, No, Nanette!’

  ‘Then stop it.’

  ‘It distracts me.’

  ‘You’re distracted enough already. Stop it.’

  Dodo took a deep breath. Her cheeks were different shades of pink. ‘I am quite recovered now,’ she announced, ‘despite your unsympathetic attitude.’

  ‘Good.’ I came out from behind the counter.

  ‘Perhaps he has gone for a walk or shopping or to the cinema,’ Dodo mused. ‘Robin Hood is on – it is awfully good, I hear – with Errol Flynn – he is awfully good too, I hear. Or perhaps he has gone to visit friends or relatives or on holiday.’

  I waited for her to finish and, after the proposals of a visit to the doctor’s or a religious retreat, she did.

  ‘Shut up,’ I said when she already had. Dodo opened her mouth. ‘And stay shut up,’ I added. ‘You are a disgrace, Constable Chivers. Policemen are not frightened of spiders and policewomen are not frightened of anything policemen are not frightened of.’

  ‘Yes but—’

  ‘You will speak when I tell you to and not before. Not only that, policewomen are braver than policemen. When policemen tremble, we stand firm. Got that?’

  Dodo nodded dumbly.

  ‘You may say yes.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector,’ Dodo said meekly.

  ‘We are not silly and we are certainly not soppy,’ I instructed. ‘We do not use expressions like crikey or heavens-to-Betsy and you may say no, now.’

  ‘No, Inspector.’

  ‘Right,’ I said with considerable foreboding. ‘Go outside and stay outside.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’ She meekly obeyed.

  ‘And, if anybody turns up, call me.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’ Dodo took a deep breath and straightened up. ‘It was a whopper though,’ she whispered to herself loudly through the open door.

  Not surprisingly, I had never been upstairs though Mr P had told me he lived there. Mrs P had run off with a third-rate Armenian author, though her husband let people believe she was dead, even putting little bunches of bluebells occasionally in a milk bottle on the grave of a Maude Peatrie who was buried there in 1748.

  The most I had ever seen wa
s the stairs running steeply up on the other side of the solid back door and I remembered thinking how great it would be to toboggan down them on a tea tray but never getting the chance to try.

  I turned the handle; the door swung open and Hamish Peatrie shot into the room.

  21

  THE DIAMOND SLIPPER

  I stepped aside automatically.

  ‘Oh,’ Dodo shouted from the pavement, ‘I knew you were a prankster.’

  But Mr Peatrie’s japes did not end there. He did not so much spring out as tumble at my feet.

  ‘Oh,’ Dodo repeated, never at a loss for an Oh. ‘Is he—’

  ‘Dead,’ I confirmed and waited for the shrieks.

  ‘Oh, that is all right,’ Dodo breathed in relief. ‘From the way he is lying with his neck all twisted I thought he must be in awful pain.’

  ‘I think it’s broken.’ I touched Mr P’s cheek. It was stone cold.

  ‘I didn’t hear it break.’

  ‘It was already broken,’ I told her. ‘Come in and shut the door.’

  Dodo pranced into the room. ‘At last,’ she declared merrily, ‘a real murder.’

  I didn’t bother to argue with the at last bit.

  ‘I think he just fell downstairs,’ I said sadly. I didn’t like to think of him lying unfound on the other side of that door. Perhaps other customers had come, given up and gone unknowingly. He was dressed in grey trousers and a brown corduroy jacket.

  ‘Oh but he is only wearing one slipper,’ Dodo objected. ‘Surely the missing slipper is a vital murder clue. Perhaps the murderer has stolen it because there were diamonds or gold doubloons sewn into the sole or heel.’

  I looked up towards the gloomy corridor.

  ‘The other slipper is near the top of the stairs. I imagine it came off, he tripped over it and fell.’

  ‘Should we not be deducing things rather than imagining them?’ Dodo brought out her notebook.

  ‘It is what I infer from the evidence as it presents to me.’ I crouched wearily to straighten the body up. It was a question of respect. ‘He’s been dead for a couple of days at least. His body is cold and rigor mortis has worn off.’