by J F Straker
Postman’s Knock
J. F. Straker
Copyright © J. F. Straker 2005.
The right of J. F. Straker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by his in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
First published in the UK by Linford Edition 2005.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
1—The Postman’s Late
2—A Lovely Spot for a Murder
3—A Few Queer Types
4—Footsteps Behind Us
5—A Tricky Business, Blackmail
6—Maybe Murder to Follow
7—Deader’n a Doornail
8—It’s Murder All Right
9—A Very Serious Admission
10—Bodies All Over the Place
11—A Dose of Bicarb
12—You Would Be the Corpse
13—So It Was You
14—All Very Clever
Extract from Death on a Sunday Morning by J F Straker
1—The Postman’s Late
Miss Plant deposited her wet umbrella in the hall-stand of No. 24 Grange Road, stripped from her squat figure the transparent plastic mackintosh that enveloped it, and implanted a damp kiss on the proffered cheek of her friend.
‘What a wretched afternoon, Hermione!’ she exclaimed breathlessly, peering in the narrow mirror at her straggling grey locks. ‘I ran all the way. And just look at my hair! It was so nice this morning, too.’
It did not occur to Mrs Gill to query whether it was the hair or the weather that had been nice that morning. Ethel Plant’s hair was never nice. She steered her guest into the front parlour, gave the fire an expert poke, and carefully balanced a fresh lump of coal over the solitary flame.
‘I thought we would have our tea in the window,’ she said. ‘I know it’s dark, and one can’t see much on a day like this, of course. But I like it in the window. You aren’t cold, are you? You don’t want to sit by the fire?’
Miss Plant, warm from her unwonted exercise, raised no objection. She knew that her friend never moved far from the front window, from which vantage-point she could observe the comings and goings of her neighbours. And if she herself lacked the inquisitiveness that possessed Mrs Gill, she had no desire to spoil the other’s pleasure.
She settled herself comfortably and waited for the tea.
It was, as Miss Plant had said, a wretched afternoon. The rain that had begun to fall shortly after lunch had turned to sleet, and was being driven in fierce gusts against the windows. Although the curtains were still undrawn, Miss Plant found no pleasure in gazing out at that small portion of Grange Road made visible by the street-lamp outside No. 24. She preferred to think of her tea.
Only the knowledge that it would be a good one had brought her the length of Grange Road in such weather.
She tucked in zestfully when the tea arrived, begrudging the pauses necessitated by conversation. With Hermione there was always plenty of the latter.
‘The postman’s late,’ said Mrs Gill. ‘It must be this awful weather that’s delayed him. Never after 4.30, as a rule. Had he called at your place when you left, Ethel?’
Miss Plant shook her head and swallowed rapidly. ‘There was nothing for me,’ she said. ‘But I saw him outside No. 5 — Mr Carrington’s bungalow. He was just going in as I passed. Only it wasn’t our usual postman. Not Mr Gofer. A little man — rather surly, I thought. He just grunted when I said good-evening.’
‘They take on lots of extra postmen at Christmas,’ said her friend. ‘I hope we haven’t seen the last of Mr Gofer. Such a nice young man, I always think.’ She frowned. Miss Plant had unwittingly reminded her that there were some inhabitants of Grange Road with whom she was unfamiliar. It was a state of affairs Mrs Gill always sought to rectify. ‘I suppose you still haven’t got to meeting Mr Carrington, Ethel?’ she asked. ‘It seems odd, you being such a close neighbour and yet knowing so little about him.’
‘It’s not odd at all, Hermione,’ Miss Plant retorted. ‘Mr Carrington’s not a friendly type. I doubt if he’s ever spoken to a soul in the road. Except Dorothy Weston, of course. Maybe he’s shy, or maybe he thinks we’re not good enough for him. Or perhaps it’s just because he’s an artist.’
‘I never did trust artists,’ declared Mrs Gill. ‘Quite unreliable. And all those nudes — disgusting, I call it. I shouldn’t be surprised if she poses for him like that.’
‘I don’t think he paints people,’ said Miss Plant. ‘Just scenery and things.’
‘That’s what he says, I’ve no doubt. But they’re all tarred with the same brush. And that reporter from the Chronicle — a Mr Bullett, wasn’t it? He was no better, if you ask me. Just like his friend, never spoke to anyone. Does he still visit there, by the way?’
‘I don’t know, Hermione.’ Miss Plant helped herself absently to the last muffin and wiped her fingers on the paper napkin. ‘The bungalow is so far back from the road; and all those trees and bushes, they quite shut it off. And there’s the Alsters between us, you see. I really know very little of what goes on at No. 5.’
Mrs Gill regarded her friend with tolerant contempt. Such hindrances as Miss Plant had enumerated would not have prevented her from obtaining the information she desired. ‘I have an idea,’ she said slowly, ‘that there may be trouble brewing for your friend Carrington.’
Miss Plant bit squelchily into the muffin and munched contentedly.
‘Because of Miss Weston?’
‘Yes, Ethel. I may be old-fashioned, and I know artists have a different code of morals from other people — and Dorothy Weston does earn her living in the chorus (or did; I imagine Carrington is now her main source of income. They say he’s very well off). So I’m saying nothing about the way they carry on together — her being so brazen about it, and spending half the night at the bungalow. But when she’s practically engaged to another man it — well, I know what I’d do if I were her fiancé.’
‘But Donald Heath isn’t her fiancé,’ Miss Plant protested.
‘Maybe not. But it’s an understood thing that they’re to be married as soon as the firm gives him a rise. I had that from Mrs Heath herself. And you can’t say it’s wishful thinking on her part, for she can’t stand the girl. No, Ethel. If I were Carrington I wouldn’t sleep too easy in my bed. Donald Heath is a quick-tempered young man, and he’s quite infatuated with the girl. He won’t take it lying down, her getting involved with another man. It’s my belief he’ll warn Carrington to keep away from her — or else!…’
‘I don’t think Mr Carrington would be easily frightened,’ said Miss Plant. ‘And although he isn’t very tall he’s quite broad. I should say he could give as good as he got.’
‘I’ve no doubt he could in a fair fight.’ Mrs Gill looked solemn. ‘But there are other ways of disposing of a rival, Ethel. And Donald Heath has a lot of his father in him, or I’m no judge. There’s a mean streak somewhere. If he hated someone bad enough I wouldn’t put even murder past him.’
*
‘It’s getting on for five, Donald,’ Mrs Heath called from the kitchen. ‘Come and have your tea.’
Donald Heath shook his head irritably and continued to stare at where he knew the garden gate to be. For over half an hour he had stood in the dark parlour gazing out of the window, so that his eyes were now attuned to the gathering gloom. Half an hour ago he could see the gate clearly; could pick out through the scurrying rain and sleet the white sandbox on the eighth tee across the road, the haze of the sea beyond. But sea and links, even Grange Road itself, were n
ow engulfed in the darkening night. Only his long vigil enabled him still to distinguish the white blur that marked the garden gate of No. 9.
Mrs Heath, annoyed at her son’s lack of response, came shuffling into the room, her feet encased in the habitual carpet slippers that had once belonged to her late husband. ‘Standing there in the dark!’ she scoffed, switching on the electric light. ‘If you’ve nothing better to do than—’
‘Turn it off!’ he said sharply. When she did not move he lunged past her and snapped up the switch, plunging them once more into gloom. ‘I wish you wouldn’t interfere, Mother. I know what I’m doing.’
‘So do I,’ she retorted. ‘You’re waiting for the postman — though goodness knows why you have to wait in the dark. Anyway, he must have passed the house ages ago; it’s well after his usual time. Don’t be a fool, Donald. Come and have your tea, there’s a good lad.’
‘It’s easier to look out with the lights off,’ he said. ‘And he hasn’t passed — I’d have seen him. I expect he’s late because of the Christmas mail.’
He moved closer into the bay-window. Even the white blur of the gate was gone now, thanks to his mother’s interference. Because of the strain under which he was labouring the incident annoyed him unduly. He said angrily, ‘You know as well as I do how important it is that we should get Aunt Ellen’s letter. Where else should we raise two hundred quid?’
‘Where indeed?’ she said wearily. ‘But a watched pot never boils. If there’s a letter your standing there won’t bring it any quicker. You might just as well have your tea. And you said yourself they most likely won’t check the cash until they close for Christmas. There’s time enough.’
‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘If the money doesn’t come by this post it may not come at all. I told her I’d got to have it before the weekend, and she’s had bags of time to make up her mind. That’s what scares me — that she may not send it.’
‘She’ll send it,’ said his mother. She said it to reassure him, and then realised that she believed it. ‘Today’s only Friday. If it doesn’t come by this post it’ll come tomorrow. You’ll see.’ There was bitterness in her voice as she went on. ‘While your father was alive we could have starved to death, for all she cared. She wouldn’t help her own sister then for fear he’d benefit, she hated him that bad. But it’s different now. All that money, and you her only nephew — and your father dead. Oh, yes, she’ll send it, if only to salve her conscience for the way she’s neglected us in the past.’
‘Well, I hope to blazes you’re right,’ he answered, slightly cheered by the conviction in her tone. ‘And in that case it’ll come tonight. It must do. You know, Mother, I can’t say I blame Aunt Ellen for not wanting Dad to get his hands on her money. A fat lot we’d have seen of it if he had.’
‘That’ll do, Donald,’ she said sharply. ‘I’ll not have you speak like that about your father. And you’re a nice one to malign him, I must say! At least he never stole money from his own firm.’
It was not meant as a defence of the late Mr Heath. She was annoyed at Donald’s smug criticism of his father, embittered by the further worry and disgrace he had brought to her. She had thought she had become hardened to both; but that was before she knew her son to be a thief.
Donald shivered. Even to himself he had not cared to think of it as stealing.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have told her why I needed the money,’ he said, his fears returning. ‘My borrowing it from the firm, I mean. Only how else could I make her realise the urgency? She might have held it up and sent it as a Christmas present. And a fat lot of use it would have been to me in gaol.’
Mrs Heath did not wince at the thought of this possibility. Gaol or the threat of gaol had loomed large in her married life. ‘It’s as well you didn’t tell her how you spent the money,’ she said. ‘If she knew it had all gone on that woman she wouldn’t send you a penny. Your father all over again, she’d think.’
‘I’ve told you before, Mother, I won’t have you referring to Dorothy as “that woman.”’
‘Hussy, then, if you prefer it. It’s nearer the truth,’ said his mother. ‘No, Donald, I won’t be shut up. She is a hussy, and if you weren’t an infatuated fool you’d know it. Look at her hair! It wasn’t always red, I’ll be bound. And the way she wears it, the way she dresses; trying to pass herself off as twenty, when she’s at least thirty-five. And that’s eight years older than you, Donald. A nice wife she’ll make you!’
‘I don’t care how old she is. I love her, and that’s that.’
‘The more’s the pity,’ answered his mother. ‘However, from what I hear there’s no need for me to put you against her. She’ll not marry you with Carrington around. Carrington’s got money. And money speaks louder than love to a girl like Dorothy Weston.’
He was silent, realising the truth of her remarks. Much as he loved Dorothy, he was not blind to her faults. Money was Dorothy’s god. If Carrington was in earnest about her…
‘I’ll deal with Carrington,’ he said viciously, clenching his fists. ‘I’ll not have him—’
The click of the garden gate, the faint crunch of feet on gravel, caused him to break off and rush to the front door, ready to open it against the expected knock. Aunt Ellen was a careful woman. The letter would be registered.
But no knock came. There was the sound of feet shuffling on the step outside, and two envelopes fell with a plop into the wire cage. Donald fished them out hastily. A circular and a Christmas card. Nothing from Aunt Ellen.
Panic seized him. He flung open the door and stepped out into the driving sleet.
‘Hey, postman!’ he shouted.
The white beam from the man’s torch paused in its jerky progress down the path and then swung back towards him.
‘There should be another letter for me,’ Donald said desperately. ‘A registered letter. Are you sure you haven’t mislaid it?’
‘Sorry. That’s all,’ came the disembodied voice from behind the torch.
He watched the beam move on down the path, shine momentarily on the white gate, and then pass through it and disappear into the night.
‘Any luck, dear?’ Mrs Heath asked anxiously.
He showed her the two envelopes, his mind in a turmoil. She had been so certain that the money would come — and didn’t she know her own sister? It was inconceivable that Aunt Ellen could have failed him. The money was there: it just had to be there, somewhere in the postman’s possession. The man was lying. Either he was a thief, or he was too damned careless to sort the mail properly. And with every second the precious cheque was going farther and farther away…going…going…
‘Donald! Donald, come back!’
If he heard her he took no heed. His slippers splashed in the puddles as he ran down the uneven path and out through the gate. A few yards up the road the white beam danced ahead of him. With no thought in his mind but that he must get the letter at any cost, Donald Heath went after it.
*
‘I can’t say I’m over-keen on Mrs Heath either, come to that,’ said Miss Plant, her plump fingers hovering indecisively over the cakes. ‘If Donald gets his meanness from his father he gets his bad temper from his mother, I’d say.’
‘She went through enough to sour any woman, while that husband of hers was alive,’ said Mrs Gill. ‘I’m sorry for her. But she hasn’t managed to knock any sense into Donald, for all the lesson her husband taught her. He’s got his father’s itch for flashy women, has that young man. What sort of a wife will Dorothy Weston make him? Apart from being years older, she’s got the typical chorus-girl’s attitude to life.’
Miss Plant wondered vaguely how her friend could consider herself an authority on chorus-girls. But she was not sufficiently interested to seek enlightenment.
From some motive she could not explain, she was moved to speak in Dorothy Weston’s defence.
‘She dresses smartly, Hermione. And she doesn’t talk common. I don’t think she’s so bad really, even if
she does rather throw herself at Mr Carrington.’
‘Nonsense, Ethel. She dresses like a tart — and behaves like one, too. I’m surprised at your sticking up for her.’
‘I met her mother in the High Street this morning,’ said Miss Plant. ‘Apparently today is Dorothy’s birthday, and they are having a small family party to celebrate. Her married sister’s coming down from Town. That doesn’t sound very immoral, does it?’
Mrs Gill snorted.
‘It doesn’t sound like Dorothy Weston, you mean. If it’s a tea-party this afternoon it’ll be something very different this evening.’
*
‘Whose idea was the family get-together, Dolly? Not yours, surely? So out of character,’ said Mrs Gault. ‘And what has happened to the new boyfriend you told me about? The wealthy artist? Why isn’t he devising something gayer in the way of a birthday celebration? Something with a drop of sparkle?’
Dorothy Weston frowned.
‘I’m worried about him, Sue. I think he’s cooling off, blast him! He rang up this morning to wish me a happy birthday and to ask if I’d had his present (which I haven’t. I’m hoping it will come by this afternoon’s post). But he said nothing about our getting together. In fact, he talked of going to Town.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, well. It was fun while it lasted.’
‘In love with him?’ asked her sister.
‘No, I don’t think so. But he’s such good fun. He and I have the same ideas about life.’
‘H’m! I can imagine what they are,’ said Susan dryly. ‘Well, don’t let him go without a struggle, my dear.’
‘I don’t intend to. All the same, I’m becoming more and more convinced that I’m destined to be Mrs Donald Heath. I can’t say the prospect thrills me; Jock’s at the top of the list and Donald’s at the bottom. But Donald’s the only one I can really count on.’
‘He doesn’t sound wildly exciting,’ her sister commented. ‘And why this preoccupation with marriage? It’s not in your line at all.’