The Stratford Murder

by Mike Hollow

  ‘So Hitler’s ambitious? You don’t need a horoscope to know that.’

  ‘But don’t you see? For all we know, Hitler may have decided to invade Poland or France on the basis of advice from his astrologists. If our leaders consulted our own experts on the stars we might be able to anticipate his moves and save lives. Churchill’s no fool. I’ve written to him about it and I’m expecting a positive reply.’

  ‘Right, but I’m more concerned about events a little closer to home.’

  ‘And I share that concern, Inspector. It may surprise you to know that my work has already saved people’s lives right here on our own doorstep.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, a girl who works at a local cinema came for a reading a while back and I told her the stars said it wasn’t a good week for undertaking anything underhand or secret. She came back the following week and said her manager had told her to go to a rival cinema to spy on the competition, find out what they charged for their ice creams or something, but because of what the stars had told her she didn’t go. And do you know, that very night that cinema was bombed. If I hadn’t told her what was in the stars she might well’ve been one of the people killed there.’

  ‘Was that Joan Lewis?’

  ‘No. Why? Did she work in a cinema?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. No, it wasn’t her. It was a young woman called Cynthia. A bright girl, I thought, and she had the intelligence to respect the stars.’

  Jago and Cradock said goodbye to the Ballantynes and made their way back to the car. Jago noticed a cheeky expression on the younger man’s face that he’d seen before.

  ‘What are you grinning at, lad?’ he said.

  ‘I was just thinking what an odd pair they were, sir. How about that Madame Zara, or should I say Madame Vera? All that stuff she was coming out with about you having to make a difficult decision and take the plunge … Was she right?’

  ‘That’s none of your business. And even if it were, you should pay no attention to it. Everyone has to make difficult decisions, and these people say things like that because they sound personal, but they could apply to anyone. Ten years ago there were none of these horoscopes in the papers, but now you see them everywhere. It’s just a fad.’

  ‘My mum reads hers every day.’

  ‘Good luck to her, then. We didn’t have them when I was a young man. Can you imagine what your horoscope would’ve said in 1916? “A good day for going over the top – look out for opportunities to be cut down by enfilading machine-gun fire”? No, it’s all about making people feel happy and confident when life’s just the opposite.’

  ‘People do say these psychic types can see into your heart, though, don’t they?’

  ‘Well, I can assure you she wasn’t looking into mine. And even if there were someone important in my life, it wouldn’t be you, so it’s none of your business. These people just use tricks. At its most innocent it’s all pure poppycock, but at its worst it’s creating a public mischief.’

  Jago looked through the car’s side window back towards the Ballantynes’ house. He was about to start the Riley’s engine, but put the key back in his pocket.

  ‘Wait here a moment,’ he said to Cradock. ‘I need to pop back and check something.’

  Before Cradock could answer, Jago was out of the car and striding towards the Ballantynes’ front door. He knocked, and Ballantyne opened it.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ said Jago apologetically. ‘I wonder whether you might do me a favour. Could I come back sometime and talk to you about my father? When this investigation’s over, of course. I was so young when he died, I thought I’d have him for ever. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask him about his life, the things he’d done before I came along. Now I’ve no family left, so there’s no one to ask. You’re the first person I’ve met who knew him when he was a young man, on the stage, and, well, I’d like to hear some more of your stories about him.’

  ‘Why, of course,’ said Ballantyne. ‘I should be delighted. You could perhaps come and join us for tea and a gentle trip down memory lane, as they say. I would enjoy thinking back to those good old days myself. Just get in touch when you’d like to do it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jago. ‘I will.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Jago drove in silence. He felt irritated – how dare that woman put ideas in his head about a ‘difficult decision’ and ‘taking the plunge’? If he’d only been considering whether or not to buy a new hat he would have taken it lightly, but as soon as she’d said it his thoughts had flown to Dorothy. It was annoying. He knew it was standard fare with that kind of person – as he’d told Cradock, they just came out with some general statement like that knowing it would produce an echo in most people’s minds. But in his case the echo had been Dorothy – and for that he was more annoyed with himself than with Madame so-called Zara. He tried to push the thought away: he wasn’t going to have his actions dictated by some self-appointed mind-reader.

  ‘So those seances,’ said Cradock. ‘That’s all a bit weird, isn’t it?’

  Jago felt his body twitch. Surely the boy wasn’t starting to read his thoughts too? He turned to Cradock to check his expression, but found nothing disturbing in it.

  ‘All that stuff with mediums and fortune-telling, I mean,’ Cradock continued. ‘Strictly speaking, it’s not legal, is it? We could nick her under the Vagrancy Act 1824, couldn’t we?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, you’re right, although I must say I don’t recall hearing of anyone being convicted in my time, so I’m not proposing to take any action unless we uncover some kind of racket. It’s just a shame that people get exploited. It was the same after the last war. All those people grieving, and someone says there’s an afterlife like a paradise where all the lads who’ve been shot or blown to pieces will live on, physically whole. I suppose people who’d lost loved ones didn’t want to accept that death was the end, so they turned to people like her to try to contact them. She as good as said it herself.’

  Jago turned the car into the eastern end of Windmill Lane and stopped.

  ‘But right now I’m more interested in our sailor friend Ernie,’ he said. ‘I want to know whether his memory about Sunday night’s improved. Let’s just pop into the Cart and Horses, in case Ernie’s in there having a lunchtime pint. His dad said he was living it up.’

  The pub was busy when they went in, the air heavy with the smell of beer and cigarette smoke, but there was no sign of the sailor. They came out again and Jago looked down towards the other end of the street, where the Railway Tavern stood on the corner of Angel Lane.

  ‘He must think he’s in clover living here, with a pub at each end of the street,’ said Cradock, following Jago’s gaze.

  ‘Yes, we’ll take a look down there if there’s no one at home,’ said Jago. ‘But we’ll see if there’s anyone in first.’

  They walked down Windmill Lane, where the lingering smell of beer in their nostrils gave way to the more pungent odours from the London and North Eastern Railway’s cattle depot. A little farther on they came to the flat they had visited the previous day. Jago knocked on the door.

  They heard the sound of feet clattering down stairs, and the door opened. The man before them, however, was neither Ernie nor his father.

  ‘Is Mr Sullivan in?’ Jago enquired.

  ‘Depends which one you want.’

  ‘We’re looking for Ernie.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, you’ve missed him. He’s gone up west. He said he was going to the theatre, so I reckon he must’ve gone to the Windmill – it’s probably the only theatre still open in London. Cheeky lad. I bet it’s where all the sailors go when they’ve got a bit of leave – so they can remember what girls look like, eh? Maybe if he tells them he lives in Windmill Lane they’ll give him a discount. Either way he’ll come home with empty pockets. He likes to have a good time, does my brother.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘And who are you?’<
br />
  ‘We’re police officers. Perhaps you could tell me who you are.’

  ‘Don’t see why not. I’m Martin Sullivan.’

  ‘And you’re Ernie’s brother.’

  ‘Like I said, yes.’ The young man stood on the doorstep, affecting a cocky expression as if challenging him to ask another question.

  ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’ asked Jago.

  ‘No, I don’t, but I’ll be sure to tell him you called. He’ll be so sorry he missed you. Now, as it happens, I’m just on my way out myself, so if that’s all, I’ll bid you good day – I’m a busy man.’

  ‘That will be all, Mr Sullivan. We may see you again.’

  ‘Bye, then,’ said Sullivan. He edged past them on the doorstep and closed the door behind him, then hurried away down the street.

  ‘Charming fellow,’ said Jago to Cradock as they turned away.

  ‘Yes, a bit full of himself,’ said Cradock. ‘He’ll come a cropper one day with that sort of attitude – and it might not be long, if I’m right.’

  ‘Right about what?’

  ‘Well, I’ve just remembered – I’ve seen him before. It was at the Regal, when I was there with Emily on Sunday night. The film ended, and we all stood up for the national anthem, and then they played “Spread a Little Happiness”’. Just right for a war, eh?’

  ‘Get to the point, please.’

  ‘Sorry. Emily needed to powder her nose, so she went off to the Ladies, and I went to the Gents. It was very busy, of course, and as I was going through the door, he barged in ahead of me, then had the cheek to turn round and say something very rude to me. Quite foul, it was. Anyway, he went straight off into one of the cubicles, so I was out before him. When I got out, there was this long line of women queuing for the Ladies, including Emily, so I signalled to her that I’d wait for her there. I thought I’d keep an eye out for him too, and have a word with him about his language.’

  ‘Very commendable. And what did he say?’

  ‘Well, that’s the funny thing. In all the time I was waiting for Emily, I never saw him come out of the Gents.’

  ‘Perhaps you were too busy thinking about Emily and didn’t notice.’

  Cradock looked suddenly bashful.

  ‘No, sir, really – he just never came out.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Back at the car, Jago checked his watch. DDI Soper had instructed him to report at six o’clock sharp to brief him on the progress of the case. Probably just so Soper could keep the area superintendent off his back, he imagined, but he needed to keep an eye on his time this afternoon. Cradock’s mention of what he thought he’d observed on Sunday evening had put him in mind of the break-in at the Regal again. Blowing a safe open with gelignite was undoubtedly a serious offence, but even so, it was only money they’d taken, not a life: he needed to keep his main focus on Joan’s murder. And something was niggling him.

  ‘Peter,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, guv’nor,’ said Cradock, keen to please.

  ‘That green outfit – the tunic and what have you. We carted that suitcase halfway round the borough before Joan’s friend Carol finally confirmed that it was Richard’s – or at least that Joan had said it was.’

  Cradock briefly considered correcting his boss on the matter of who had done the carting, but instead simply said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Beryl said Joan asked her to look after it because she didn’t want Audrey to find it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, when we showed it to Bert Wilson, he said it was what he and Richard both used to wear when they were boys in that Kibbo Kift thing. And yet when we asked Richard’s own sister, she said she’d never seen it.’

  ‘I see what you mean, sir. Elsie’s only a couple of years younger than Richard, so she must’ve seen him dressed up for his meetings or whatever when they were kids.’

  ‘Exactly. I think she knows more than she’s told us, and I want to know what it is. We need to pay her a visit.’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten what the pawnbroker said, have you, sir? You said we need to talk to Evans about those rings.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the blasted rings. No, I hadn’t forgotten. I suppose we’d better see the man.’

  They found Evans at home, in his shirtsleeves and wearing a pair of worn-out slippers. He appeared not to have shaved. When he opened the door to Jago and Cradock he welcomed them in, but he sounded preoccupied.

  He showed them through to the kitchen, where he edged past Jago to remove a newspaper from one of the chairs.

  ‘Have a seat, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? My wife’s not here, but I think I still know how to work a kettle.’

  It sounded like an attempt at a joke, but he delivered it in a voice that was somehow morose, not like his breezy manner the last time they’d seen him. ‘Forlorn’ was the word that crossed Jago’s mind.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Jago. ‘Is your wife well?’

  ‘Oh, yes, fit as a fiddle,’ said Evans. He found the tea caddy and dropped a couple of spoonfuls into the pot sitting on top of the range, then poured in boiling water and left it to brew. ‘But like I said before, she goes out to her sister Cissie in Epping for the night, on account of the bombing. She went off a bit early today – the trains are playing up again. But it’s terrible, isn’t it? There’s no such thing as a front line any more – it’s all happening right here. To think a woman can’t spend the night in her own home because of this war. It’s not like it was in the old days, when the men did the fighting and the women stayed safe at home.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jago. ‘I remember what Mr Chamberlain said last year, when he was still prime minister. He said if we do end up in a war, even if we’re not all in the firing line we may all well be in the line of fire. He might not’ve been right about everything, but he certainly got that right, didn’t he? It makes no difference whether you’re a soldier or a shop girl when the sirens go.’

  ‘It’s wicked, that’s what it is,’ said Evans. ‘I miss my Amy when she goes out there, and I wish she didn’t have to, but it puts my mind at rest to know she’s away from the bombing at night. I can be thankful for that, at least.’

  He poured three mugs of tea and handed one to each of his visitors. He failed to offer them sugar, but Jago didn’t ask.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Inspector,’ he continued. ‘I’m a bit down in the dumps. Sometimes when Amy’s not here and I’m on my own, things get on top of me. It’s not just her I miss, it’s everything. We have a word for it in Welsh. We call it hiraeth – there’s no English word for it. It’s a bit like homesickness, but it’s more than that. It’s what I feel when I get to thinking about Wales, and the past, and the way things used to be. That’s when I start wanting to be back there.’

  ‘I’m told Wales is very beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Evans. ‘But not all of it, mind. When I left school I worked in the quarry, and you couldn’t call that beautiful.’

  ‘Are you still in touch with people from those days?’

  ‘With some, yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It was just what you said about wanting to be back there. And when you went to work in the munitions factory – that was in Wales too?’

  ‘Yes, it was – during the Great War.’ His lips began to twitch into a faint smile, but in a moment it was gone. ‘You’d have thought all those years in the quarry digging holes in the ground while the earth exploded behind me would’ve suited me to being a soldier, but they didn’t seem to need me. It was hard work, I can tell you, but at least I wasn’t underground. Most people seem to think if you’re Welsh you spend all your time either coal mining or singing in male voice choirs, but I never had to go down the pit. Very glad of that I was, too. If I had, it would’ve been at Gresford, and you know what happened there.’

  ‘The underground explosion.’

  ‘Yes. Two hundred and sixty-six men killed, including two of my school pals. Six years ago, and I still have
dreams that I was in it too.’ For a moment Evans seemed lost in his own thoughts. He sipped his tea, cradling the mug in his hands.

  ‘And the rest of them aren’t much better off, are they?’ he went on. ‘How is it we’re more than a year into another war, with everyone telling us the country’s got to live off what we can produce, yet half a million of them are out of work? And instead of putting them back into work to dig the coal we need to make the steel for ships and tanks, some bright sparks, English no doubt, are saying they should be dragged out of their villages in the valleys and put to work clearing up the bomb sites in London. It doesn’t make sense.’

  Jago felt sorry for Evans, but had to do his job.

  ‘There’s something I need to ask you, Mr Evans,’ he said, drinking the last of his tea. ‘Could you please show me your pawn ticket?’

  Evans looked puzzled. ‘Pawn ticket?’ he asked, as though he’d never heard of such a thing.

  ‘It’s no good, Mr Evans, we’ve seen the entry in the pawnbroker’s ledger. I’m talking about the pawn ticket he gave you yesterday for two rings.’

  ‘Ah, that pawn ticket,’ said Evans.

  He moved to the mantelpiece over the range, where he reached behind the clock and pulled out a mix of papers. He singled out one small ticket and passed it to Jago.

  ‘Here it is.’

  Jago read out what was written on the ticket: ‘Pawned with W. J. Horncastle, pawnbroker, of 37 Manor Road, West Ham, for the sum of one pound and fifteen shillings, one lady’s wedding ring and one engagement ring.’

  He looked Evans in the eye. ‘Now, Mr Evans, tell me how you came by these rings.’

  ‘They were my grandmother’s,’ Evans replied. ‘I’ve had them since she died, but things have been tight recently – you know how it is. I’d kept them for sentimental reasons, but my wife and I don’t have any children, let alone daughters, so we’ll never have a use for them. I just decided it was time to turn them into some useful cash to help pay for my wife’s train fares out to Epping.’