“The ones who leave presents for me in Billingham Street,” the little girl said. “They live there, but Granfer never lets me meet them. I call them my Aunts although they’re not really. I think I like Aunt Madge the best of all. She’s the one who gives me toys.”
“One of my father-in-law’s games,” Ken explained to Jack quietly. “He’s a great hand at story telling.”
“Do they live next door to you?” inquired Jack, entering into the make-believe. “Sisters, perhaps?” he suggested. “How many of them are there, and what do the other ones give you?”
“They’re not exactly next door,” the child said. “They live on the other side of the walls of our sitting-room, but you can only get to them by finding the secret passages. And they’re not related. At least, I don’t think they are.” Edith’s lips formed the word “neighbors”, while Ken mouthed: “Through The Looking Glass,” and he winked. Elsie’s fingers were plucking at the large gold chain that stretched almost in a straight line between the upper pockets of Jack’s waistcoat. His head was bent and he was smiling down at her, the flesh of his neck creased over his high constricting collar. His thick dark hair was brushed into a quiff. “There are three of them,” Elsie said. “Granfer says I can meet them one day but not quite yet—when I’m a little older. Aunt Selina leaves sweets, usually gumdrops and jelly babies but sometimes penny bars of milk chocolate. Penny ones,” she emphasized grandly, “not halfpenny ones.”
Amy came in and began to lay the table. “I hope she won’t ruin your teeth for you, dear,” she said practically, resolving to speak to her father on the subject.
Elsie did not rise to this implied criticism of her benefactress. “And Aunt Dorothy,” she said, “leaves me picture books. Some of them are rather babyish, but she means to be kind.”
“I’m sure she does,” said Ken. His attention began to wander. He was thinking about Edith and Jack. He could not have wished for a better chap, but even so he would miss her when she had gone.
“They’re not really old,” said Elsie. “My Godmothers, I mean. Granfer sometimes calls them ‘the girls’. About your age, Cousin Edith. He once told me so.” She was proud of having won their attention and was determined to hold the floor. “Aunt Dorothy’s fair and pretty and Aunt Madge has wonderful red hair and Aunt Selina’s a bit on the plump side, but she’s ever so jolly.”
Amy Donaldson put the pork pie down on the tablecloth. “That’s enough, Elsie,” she said.
The little girl clapped her hand to her mouth guiltily. “Don’t tell Granfer what I’ve been saying. It’s supposed to be our secret. Cross your heart?”
“Say goodnight now and run along,” Amy said. “I’ll come and tuck you up in a few minutes.” Somewhat to her surprise the child carried out her instructions without argument. Ken was kissed, a cheek proffered to Edith, and Jack was the recipient of a bear hug and a close and damp embrace.
Elsie paused in the doorway. “It’s not another secret, is it?” she asked. “About you and Edith, I mean. I can tell my Godmothers if I see them on Monday? Granfer told me he might arrange a party with them when he came out of hospital.”
“It’s not a secret,” said Edith pettishly. “Who shall we ask to be the other bridesmaid . . . Winifred Tetley?” She straightened the yellow rosebud in Jack’s buttonhole.
“No,” said Elsie decisively. “I want to be the only one.” She made a great labor of climbing the stairs, and pretended sleep when Amy crept in to turn out the gas; but after she had left Elsie lay awake for a long time staring into the darkness and listening to the muffled talk and laughter from the room below. She heard Amy and Ken come up to bed, and after that there was only the deep and intermittent rumble of Jack’s voice. She did not hear him go.
It was a most unpleasant mixture of rain and sleet that rattled this Wednesday afternoon against the window panes. The twisted clay-like pillars of the gas fire glowed and popped, but failed to make the sombre room cheerful. Enforced confinement had made the child restless and bored.
“Granfer,” said Elsie, “have you forgotten your promise?” She peered down at the stencilled shamrock which she was embroidering with big clumsy stitches.
The old man knocked out his pipe. “Have I ever done so?” he asked seriously.
“No,” the child admitted reluctantly. “I suppose not. Then when can I?”
“Can you do what?” asked Albert Piers, smiling.
“Meet my Godmothers. I want to thank them. I’m sure they’ll be fun.” She gave him a seductive look.
“Oh yes, they’re fun,” he said. “They’re fun right enough.”
“Then can I? Today?” she persisted.
He was a large and square-shouldered man and he stood staring down at her. He had startlingly blue and innocent eyes, and his hands, although the finger joints had thickened, were still strong, and his carriage as straight as that of a man many years his junior. He had been a widower for sixteen years. “Are you ready, do you think?” he said at last. “Well, time goes so quickly, maybe you are.” He went on softly: “I’m getting on, Elsie. I won’t always be here to look after you, and, whatever you may hope, I shouldn’t rely too much on that young chap of Edith’s, if I were you. He won’t have a lot of time for you, not after they’re wed. He allowed his eyes to rest on her and his tongue passed over his lips as if his mouth were dry. “It might be best for you to get to know the girls,” he said at last. He seemed lost in thought and after a minute had gone by he said: “I’ll ask them to tea, shall I, say, in an hour’s time?”
“Will you, Granfer? You are a duck!” Elsie bit off the green thread which she had been using, peeking up at him from under her long lashes.
“If you wish it.” He stood with his legs apart, his hands balled deep in his trousers pockets. “And now you run along to your bedroom and tidy up, and don’t come back until I call you. It’ll be a surprise party and there are a lot of preparations that I have to make.”
“What fun, Granfer!” Elsie stood up and looked around the room critically. Now that the day for which she had waited so eagerly had arrived she was rather nervous and obscurely dissatisfied. “We’re a bit shabby, aren’t we?” she suggested. “For a grown-up tea party, I mean? Didn’t you tell me that you were going to finish putting up the new wallpaper when you came out of hospital?” Already she had a hostess’s pride in her surroundings.
“The aunts won’t notice,” said her grandfather. “They’re used to humble surroundings. They never spend much money on themselves.” During his working life Albert Piers had done expert plastering and painting. “Be off, Elsie, and make yourself look extra pretty for me . . . and for the girls. Put on the new dress that Amy gave you, and tie a ribbon in your hair.” He watched her as she left the room and he seemed to catch her anticipation and excitement.
When she had gone he closed the shutters against the lashing of the rain, turned up the gas and locked the door.
Sergeant Edward Tomlinson was due shortly for retirement. Not that he wished for it. He had lived the past twenty-three years of his life in Midhampton and, despite his origins having stemmed from East Anglia, he had made the grimy industrial town his own and it was there he intended spending the rest of his days.
On this, a Friday, afternoon, he had dealt with the routine business of the station and was now sitting tipped back in his chair, his thumbs tucked into his belt. There was no one in the inner office with him except Constable Stock absorbed in paper work. He pondered this young man with approval. Finally he said: “What’s all this that I heard from my Missus last night?”
Jack raised his head, his brown eyes alert. “All what, Sergeant?” he asked.
“About your deciding to get yourself spliced, young fellah-me-lad. That’s what!”
“Any objections, Sergeant?” Jack was grinning, his forehead creased. “Not against the
law, is it—even for a bloody copper?”
Sergeant Tomlinson grunted. He had a weakness for this boy. One of the best lads in the district. At his age he was lucky to be able to afford to get married, but then he’d been told that he had private means, about a hundred a year, or so it was rumored. Very useful. He was in favor of young marriages, kept a man out of trouble. “According to my Missus you’ve picked yourself a nice girl, not like some of those empty headed flappers you see about nowadays. Mrs. Tomlinson knows her mother.” He said this as if he were conferring an honor.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Yes, what?” demanded Edward Tomlinson in pretended disgruntlement. “That’s no answer.”
“Yes, I have,” Jack agreed mildly. He picked up his pencil and resumed his labors. He was all right, was old E.T. Pity they were going to lose him. They all of them regretted it. Called him The Walrus behind his back. It had become a term of affection.
“You might bring her round to the house one of these evenings. I’d like to meet her.”
“Righto, I will. Thanks, Sergeant.” Jack’s tone of voice told the older man that he was being gently ribbed.
“She’s an only child, I’m told. Edna. Isn’t that her name? Pretty name, Edna.” In the atmosphere of the strictly masculine surroundings in which they were sitting Sergeant Tomlinson’s clumsy playfulness sounded false, and he was made vaguely aware of it.
Jack closed the book in which he had been working. “Edith,” he said.
“Ah, Edith,” repeated the sergeant. “That’s right. I remember now. You can have a fag if you feel like one,” he encouraged.
“Not during working hours.” Jack Stock got up and took the register over to a filing cabinet. “Yes,” he said, “Edith’s an only child, but there’s a kid cousin who’s been staying at the house temporarily. Rum little thing! Going to be our bridesmaid. Lives with her grandfather in Billingham Street. Attractive. Full of—what do you call it? . . . whimsy. Told us a story when I was last there about a lot of imaginary godmothers who came when she was asleep and left presents for her. Her Grandpa fills her up with all that stuff. His name’s Albert Piers. Queer sort of a cove from all accounts. Used to be in the building trade.”
“Albert Piers?” said the sergeant. “It was more decorating,” he corrected. “Had his own business up to about six years ago.”
“That’s right,” said Jack.
The sergeant lit a cigarette and Jack followed suit, his prim resolution forgotten. He perched on the edge of a table and contemplated his polished boots. “Ah!” said Edward Tomlinson, more to keep the conversational ball rolling than for any other reason.
“Let me see,” Jack said, “what did she call those fictitious characters?” He felt rather than saw the sergeant’s quick glance at him. He chuckled silently, knowing the other man’s aversion to what he thought a lah-di-dah manner of speaking. Jack snapped his fingers. “Got it,” he said. “Aunt Madge, Aunt Dorothy and Aunt Selina. Selina, I ask you! One dark, one fair and one redhead. The Three Graces. Lovely girls, all. Not wizened old maids as you might have thought! Wonderful what you can do with a bit of imagination, isn’t it? She keeps on pestering the life out of the old fellow to let her meet them, but no, it must be their secret, and she can’t be allowed to do so until she’s older, although he hinted that she might not have to wait long.”
Edward Tomlinson frowned. Somewhere at the back of his brain a muted bell was ringing. About what? Jack had been saying something that had once been familiar. “Go on, Jack,” he said. Constable Stock was a Londoner originally, although he’d been in Midhampton nigh on four years. He, himself, could cast his mind back a great deal further than could young Jack, especially where Midhampton affairs were concerned. “Go on, Jack,” he said again quietly.
“It’s all a lot of nonsense,” the young constable continued, “but children enjoy it. I’ve not seen Edith or any of them since Saturday, been kept on the hop here,” he said pointedly, “but I’m calling round tonight.”
“We’ve all been busy,” the sergeant said. “Two men off sick. It happens sometimes, but I won’t forget it. Carry on with what you were saying.”
“That’s about all,” said Jack. “I expect Elsie’s back with her grandfather by now. She was going on Monday, after giving him a chance to settle down.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the saucer of his tea-cup. “He’s been ill. Why, what’s the matter, Sergeant?” he asked.
Sergeant Tomlinson was staring at him fixedly. “Tell me those names again, lad,” he said.
“Which ones? The godmothers’? Dorothy, Madge and Selina?” He regarded his superior in astonishment. “They’re only made up. No surnames.” He gave a brief laugh. “It’s a kid’s story, there’s no more to it than that.”
Sergeant Tomlinson was on his feet, his hands fastening the collar of his tunic. “Perhaps there is, lad, perhaps there’s not. Tell Parkins to bring in the files for ’ninety-four and ’ninety-five—and look sharp.”
“Right you are, Sergeant.” Jack hurried out. A few minutes later two men sat beside one another at the table, the dusty files opened between them, with Jack Stock standing attentively at their side. The sergeant’s face was grim as he looked up. “When did you say that the little girl was being returned to Billingham Street?”
“Last Monday, Sergeant.”
“And she went there?”
The young man shook his head. “I couldn’t rightly say.”
“What number is the Donaldsons’ house?”
“Sixty-two, Radcliffe Grove, Sergeant.”
Edward Tomlinson said abruptly: “There’s no telephone, of course?”
“No, Sergeant.”
“Then get your bicycle and pedal over there like hell, and if that kid is still with them tell them to keep her. Then report back to me at Billingham Street, to the old man’s flat.”
“Very good, Sergeant.” Jack opened his mouth to ask a question. Then shut it again and, reaching up for his helmet, went out.
It took him seven minutes to reach the Donaldsons’. He strode up to the door and banged on the knocker. He waited, but there was no sound of movement so he knocked again. Edith would be at work, and his future mother-in-law probably out shopping. He fumbled under his coat for his watch. It was half past four and already dusk. Mr. Donaldsons’ printing works were, he knew, in Ruddington Street, not more than a few hundred yards away, and usually he did not leave until a quarter to six. He would go there to inquire about Elsie. He ran back to his bicycle, wondering what had made the sergeant so grave. At the bottom of the road he encountered Amy as she turned the corner carrying a shopping bag. Jack swerved over to her and dismounted.
“Why, hello Jack,” she said, “found no one at home?”
“That’s right.” He hesitated. “Where’s young Elsie?”
“Elsie? I took her round to her grandfather’s on Monday, didn’t you know? He’s made a wonderful recovery. They’re off on a holiday together on Saturday, so I don’t expect to see them for a while. They’re going for a month. He’s taking Elsie to France. Abroad,” she explained. “It’s a marvellous opportunity for her, but personally I think she’d appreciate it more when she was bigger. When you think of his age, it’s ever so good of Dad.” She moved her basket to her other hand. “I’m going in now, if you’d care for a cup of tea?” She fell silent and then said: “Why did you ask about Elsie? Is there something wrong?”
Jack Stock did not know what to answer. “Sorry, Mrs. Donaldson,” he said. “I’m on duty.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Can’t stop. Look in later if I may?” He remounted and rode off, leaving Amy staring after him in slight bewilderment.
A quarter of an hour’s hard exertion and he reached Billingham Street where, outside number thirty-three, the station wagon was standing. A knot of spectators had assembled a
nd a uniformed man stood on the pavement by the door, whom Jack recognized as Charlie Morland, who had been posted recently to them.
“Sergeant Tomlinson here?” he asked him.
The other man nodded. “Proper lark, this is!” he said.
“Why, what’s going on?”
“You’d better go in and see for yourself.” The boy’s bland face went deliberately blank.
Jack walked up the steps. When he reached the hallway he halted. A grey-faced old man whom he would scarcely have known to be Albert Piers was coming towards him flanked by two stolid constables and followed by a detective in plain clothes. Jack stood close to the wall to give them room. He saluted Detective Inspector Rowe as the group passed by. If Foxy Rowe was here it must be something important. He watched them enter the waiting wagon and then ran down the stairs into the basement flat. He was haunted by the stunned pole-axed look of the man in custody, whose expression had been that of one who had been confronted with a forgotten horror, the impact of which had been all the more devastating because it had been denied and veiled by a refusal to admit its existence. The china blue eyes had been clouded and only half comprehending.
Albert Piers’ home seemed to be full of men. Besides Sergeant Tomlinson and Parkins there were two of their own constables and a further one whom Jack did not know, as well as a police photographer and the doctor and another plain clothes officer in a brown bowler hat and a striped suit which was too tight for him. They were congregated in the living-room, which was hazy with dust. The policemen’s faces were set as they went about their appointed tasks. Two pickaxes were propped against a Windsor chair.
One wall was in the process of being hacked to pieces; it had recently been partly repapered with a thick flock pattern of crimson and gold, oddly pretentious for its surroundings, its glossy freshness accentuating the discolored chipped paintwork. Rolls of the wallpaper and size were stacked in a corner of the room by a second wall which had been prepared for redecoration, together with brushes and a step-ladder.
The Smell of Evil Page 6