Bennett sneered, ‘Don’t try to make it sound as if you were defending yourself.’ He turned to the sergeant. ‘She was frantic. First she flung an ashtray at him, and when that missed and went through the window, she bashed his head against the mantelpiece.’
‘Don’t you understand?’ said Mrs Langford. ‘He had to die. I couldn’t live with him knowing that I was selling his dream.’
Howell spoke up. ‘Listen to her. She’s speaking as if she were doing her victim a favour – killing him to protect him from the knowledge of how she was funding their old age. Don’t you see? She’s lost her mind. She’d rather her husband died than that he knew she’d let him down. She killed the person she loved most in the world to shield herself from his disapproval.’
All eyes were on Mrs Langford. She was shaking and staring ahead blankly, as if re-playing the murder scene in her mind. ‘There was so much blood,’ she said, rubbing her hands on her skirt.
Bennett shouted at her again. ‘But you didn’t do anything to save him, did you? You were more interested in saving yourself. What’s it going to sound like in court when I tell them you were on your knees mopping the floor before your husband was even dead?’
‘My mother’s apron!’ said Johnny as the constable closed his notebook, defeated by the rush of revelations. ‘You used my mother’s apron, didn’t you? That’s why the police suspected her in the first place.’
Mrs Langford snapped into defiance. ‘What about you, Bennett? You can’t pin it all on me. You made me write that letter, remember? And you showed it to the police, to make out that I was in France. How are you going to explain that? Or why you drove me back down here and forced Howell to give me shelter? I’m not a fool. I know you didn’t do that for my sake. You wanted me here to make sure Howell kept producing the vaccine. And you hid me from the police because I might have told them you were involved – not just in selling illegal medicine, but in the murder too. Well, you can’t get out of it now. I’m going to tell them everything. You’re up to your neck in all this, and if I swing for it, so will you.’
‘My crimes are going to look pretty pathetic alongside yours,’ sniffed Bennett. ‘You’ve killed your husband, you tried to kill Howell, and you wanted to kill the boy …’
Johnny joined in: ‘And you would have killed my mother! She still might be hanged because of your lies. Oh, Mrs Langford! Mum and I thought you were our friend. We’ve never done anything to harm you. I even wanted to rescue you when I thought you were imprisoned here by Dr Howell. But you’re the jailer. You knew they’d arrested my mother. You knew she was innocent and you did nothing to help her.’
The sergeant unfastened the handcuffs from his belt and nodded to his constable to do the same.
‘I’m not sure I’m following all this, Officer,’ said Professor Campbell, flapping his fan. ‘It seems I have been sorely deceived by Dr Howell and Mrs Morgan – or should I call her Mrs Langford? I thought they were among the most diligent members of my staff! No doubt there are some arrests to be made here.’
Howell sat down on the edge of the desk, put his hands, with their well-bitten fingernails, over his face, and cried. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed. ‘I don’t know how I got caught up in all this.’ Johnny wondered how he could ever have believed that Howell was the murderer, and that Mrs Langford had been scared of him.
The sergeant at last got a chance to speak. ‘I think I had better call Stambleton and see what they want me to do with the prisoners.’
Johnny picked up the dangling receiver. He heard a high-pitched ‘Hello?’ The operator was still on the line. She had been listening in to everything. Her garbled version of events would be all round the district by morning.
Chapter 43
ANOTHER PLACE, ANOTHER FIGHT
Far away from the mayhem at Craig-y-Nos, Hutch was sitting in an armchair reading (or rather dozing with a book on his lap and his glasses sliding down his nose) when he heard the doorbell. It was ringing hard and repeatedly. It must be the policeman, back with his warrant. Hutch had been in the chair for so long that his bad leg was stiff, and it took him a while to get down the stairs and into the shop. He turned on the light, hoping it would signal that he was on his way, but the bell kept going, nagging him to answer the door.
Hutch opened up. It wasn’t the policeman. It was the reporter, as impatient as ever. ‘I thought you were out,’ he said.
‘I was asleep,’ Hutch said crossly. ‘I’d nodded off. I’m allowed to do that in my own home, aren’t I?’
‘What about the boy? Couldn’t he answer the door?’
Hutch said nothing.
The reporter continued: ‘The boy. Johnny Swanson. He is here, isn’t he? Very brave of you to take him in. And just as well, as it’s turned out. I’ve had a look at his house. Every window smashed now. And rude words on the door.’
Hutch was still not fully awake, but he was uneasy. The boy. He hadn’t heard anything from Johnny. Did that mean he was all right, or in trouble? Could the phone have been ringing while he was sleeping upstairs? All the fuss about the policeman’s attack on Post Office protocol had distracted Hutch from thinking about Johnny. And now he realized that he had no idea exactly where the child was. It was nearly ten o’clock. There was only one more train due in to Stambleton. He hoped Johnny would be on it.
The reporter asked again, interrupting Hutch’s thoughts, ‘Mr Hutchinson? The boy, Mr Hutchinson? Is he well?’
‘Well? Yes … he’s well. Just not here tonight. I’m all alone. Is that all you wanted to know?’ Hutch tried to usher the reporter back towards the door.
‘Oh no,’ said the reporter. ‘I didn’t come about Johnny at all. Like you, I don’t like being up so late, especially for work, but they’ve sent me to check on a story. Trouble is, this one involves the paper itself, and we never like that sort of news to go public. The police have been round at the office, asking about bogus adverts that we’ve printed in our paper, tricking people into parting with money. Apparently it involves a post office box here. Have the police been to see you too?’
‘Yes, they have. But I couldn’t help them. I can’t go giving out people’s personal details just because some policeman decides he wants them. I told him to go off and get a warrant.’
‘And did he?’
‘I don’t know. He hasn’t come back yet.’
‘Well, we’d better wait for him together. Then maybe we can clear all this up tonight.’
Hutch didn’t want to take the reporter up to his flat. He hated the idea of the man mooching about among his things and looking for signs of Johnny. So he gave him the chair he kept for old ladies to sit on while they were doing their shopping, and dragged out the high stool from behind the post office counter for himself. He perched on it uncomfortably, but he preferred to be higher up than his unexpected guest. Their conversation was fitful. Both of them were getting more and more annoyed.
The reporter turned to the subject of the trial. ‘So whatever happens, you will accept the verdict?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think I’ll face a problem there. Mrs Swanson will be found not guilty, I’m sure.’
‘And that’s the reason you’ve taken her son under your roof?’
‘That, and the fact that the poor boy has no one else in the world.’
‘You don’t see it as a conflict with your responsibilities as a postmaster?’
Hutch corrected him: ‘Sub-postmaster.’
‘Oh, sub-postmaster. Of course. No doubt standards are somewhat lower for a sub-postmaster.’
Had he been less tired, Hutch would not have risen to the bait. But he was worried about Johnny, and about the possible return of the policeman, and the one thing he could not stand was cynicism about his duties as an employee of the Post Office.
‘Standards are the same for everyone involved in public life,’ he said.
‘Public life! That’s raising your status rather high, isn’t it, Mr Hutchinson? Selling stamps, fruitcakes and carr
ots counts as “public life” now, does it? I’ll try to remember that I’m in the presence of an eminent public official when I next pop in for some toilet paper!’
Before he had finished the last word, Hutch was off his stool and had the reporter by the lapels. They were both ex-army men. They both knew how to fight. The reporter had the advantage of height; Hutch had bulk, and familiarity with the terrain. He knew just when he could reach out and grab a jug or a wooden butter-pat to use as a weapon. The two of them wrestled and rolled, bringing jars of sweets down from the shelves. Soon the floor was covered in bulls’-eyes, pear drops and cough-candy twists. The reporter lurched towards Hutch and slipped on some humbugs. He grasped for something to steady him, but only found one of the bags of flour Johnny had filled the day before. The packet exploded under the force of his grasp, showering both men with white powder. The reporter picked up the high stool and swung it round, hoping to knock Hutch off balance. Hutch caught the other end of it, and tried to change its trajectory. The reporter pushed back, and the two of them lurched and skidded towards the front of the shop. Then, at the last minute, the reporter let go of his end, and Hutch was pulled by his own weight right through the front door, splintering the wood and breaking the glass.
It was not his lucky night. He landed right on top of the policeman, who had come to report that an angry judge, called away from a delightful dinner party, had refused to issue a warrant for the information about PO Box 9.
The equally angry constable took great pleasure in escorting the sub-postmaster and the reporter to the police station.
Chapter 44
TRANSPORT
In Wales, the sergeant was on the phone, making arrangements for a special van to take his prisoners to Stambleton.
‘What about me?’ asked Johnny, rummaging in his pocket. ‘I’ve got a return ticket, but it’s getting late. I might not be able to catch a train tonight.’
Professor Campbell broke in while the sergeant continued his phone call in the background. ‘I’m sure I could make arrangements for you to stay here.’
‘Thank you,’ said Johnny, trying not to sound as unenthusiastic as he felt. ‘And, Professor, if you don’t mind, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’ He was remembering his promise. ‘It’s Olwen, sir.’ Johnny told Professor Campbell how Olwen had been orphaned, and how badly the nurse had treated her.
Olwen gave way to tears again. The professor enfolded her into a hug. Her slight body sank into the soft folds of his Ugly Sister dress.
‘Don’t cry, my dear, we will sort this out too,’ the professor said kindly.
‘Is Olwen very ill?’ asked Johnny. ‘Does she really need to stay here?’
‘No, the symptoms she came in with have cleared up. It wasn’t TB after all. In fact, she shows all the signs of immunity. I’ve thought for some time that she could be discharged. We’ve been having trouble contacting her relatives.’
‘My uncle’s dumped me,’ sniffed Olwen. ‘And now I’ll be here for ever.’
‘Can’t she come home with me?’ asked Johnny.
‘Does she have relatives in Stambleton who could look after her?’
‘Well, no,’ said Johnny. ‘Not family, exactly. But there’s a farmer who knew her parents. I don’t know his name. Or better still, the postmaster. He looks after me. He’s called Mr Hutchinson …’
‘I can’t let Olwen go to just anyone. We must get permission from her legal guardian. She will have to stay here for now. But we will look into the matter. Perhaps you could ask this Mr Hutchinson to get in touch with me?’
‘I should phone him anyway,’ said Johnny. ‘He must be wondering what’s happened to me. I need to tell him I won’t be coming home tonight. He might be worried.’
The sergeant finished his conversation and put down the receiver. ‘No need for that,’ he said. ‘We’re going to take you. Inspector Griffin’s given us permission to commandeer Mr Bennett’s car. He wants it back in Stambleton so they can search it for evidence. I’ll be driving you myself.’
Johnny could hear angry shouts from Bennett in the police van as the sergeant opened the door of his precious limousine.
‘Why don’t you go in the back, son,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s a long way, and you’ll be able to lie down and get some sleep. Look. There’s a blanket here.’ Johnny slid across the shiny leather seat. The sergeant shook out the soft woollen travelling rug and tucked it around Johnny’s legs.
‘I’m not tired,’ said Johnny. His excitement at being in a car at all was immense, but to be in this car, a Rolls-Royce Phantom II, made his blood fizz. On his only other rides he’d been hidden on the floor of the reporter’s battered Morris Oxford, and bounced around in the farmer’s ageing van. He didn’t want to miss a moment of this journey.
Settling into the driver’s seat, the sergeant fumbled around until the headlights came on and the engine purred into life; then he pulled out of the courtyard, followed by the police van. Olwen stood on the steps of the building waving, and the professor flapped his fan in a final farewell.
Chapter 45
COMING HOME
Hours later, Hutch and the reporter were still sitting on an uncomfortable bench in a corridor at Stambleton police station. Hutch was worrying about Johnny. What if he got back to discover the door bashed down and the shop ransacked? He wanted to tell a policeman about Johnny, but he didn’t want the reporter to hear, even though they had long since patched up their quarrel. In any case, the desk sergeant was busy with something else. The phone was ringing well after midnight. A couple of drunks were taken out of the cells and allowed to go home. Plain-clothes detectives arrived, including Inspector Griffin. Hutch recognized him from Winnie’s court hearing. He knew Griffin was a very important policeman. He hoped he hadn’t been called in to deal with the fight in the shop. A criminal conviction could mean the end of Hutch’s Post Office career.
At one a.m. there was a shout of ‘They’re here!’ and all the staff who were on duty gathered by the door.
‘They made good time,’ said a constable.
‘Well, they had a fast car,’ said another. ‘Kindly supplied by one of the prisoners.’ Everybody laughed.
The reporter sensed that he might be missing a story, and tried to join the crowd of policemen. He was manhandled back to his place. A few minutes later, a strange procession of tired, deflated people passed by the bench he shared with Hutch. First came Mrs Langford, handcuffed to a stocky policeman wearing an unfamiliar uniform. She was stooping, and looked ten years older than she had before her husband was killed. Behind her was a young man in a white lab coat with his hands chained together. Even so, he managed to raise them to his mouth to nibble his nails. He was followed by another officer, manacled to a well-dressed man who was trying to shield his face with his hat. The reporter had to be forced back to his seat again when he saw that it was Frederick Bennett. At the end of the line – the only one who was smiling – was Johnny Swanson. The grumpy desk officer had shown no reservations about letting him into the building this time.
Johnny ran over to Hutch, babbling on about Mrs Langford being the murderer, and how his mother would have to be freed.
‘Thank you so much for coming, Hutch. I’m sorry they’ve kept you up so late. It was a long drive.’ Johnny couldn’t disguise how much he had enjoyed his trip in Mr Bennett’s grand car, even if the policeman who’d driven it had sometimes shown a dizzying unfamiliarity with the controls.
Hutch was embarrassed. He came clean. ‘The fact is, Johnny old chap, I didn’t know you were on your way. I got here under my own steam, you might say.’
Johnny didn’t understand. But he did notice that Hutch and the reporter were both covered in a dusting of flour, with patches of unidentified foodstuffs sprayed across their dishevelled clothes.
Hutch began an explanation. ‘This gentleman and I had a bit of a …’
‘A bit of an altercation, you might say,’ said the reporter.
; ‘About what?’ asked Johnny.
Neither of them wanted to admit that it had been, at least in part, about Johnny and his mother.
‘Good question,’ said the reporter. ‘I really can’t remember.’
Inspector Griffin approached them. ‘Mr Hutchinson, I believe,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘I must apologize for my behaviour,’ said Hutch, assuming that Griffin had come to question him about the fight at the shop.
‘Never mind that,’ said Griffin. ‘It was your own property you damaged, and if this gentleman is prepared to let the matter drop, I think we can forget the whole episode. The person I’m most eager to talk to is this young chap.’ He tousled Johnny’s bouncy curls. ‘Mr Hutchinson, would you care to sit in? I understand that you’ve been looking after Johnny while his mother’s been … away.’
‘Of course,’ said Hutch, and he accompanied Johnny into the interview room, where the three of them sat down at a small bare table. Inspector Griffin took notes as Johnny explained what had happened in Wales, summed up the vaccine plot, and described how Dr Langford had died.
Inspector Griffin scratched his head. ‘Thank you, Johnny,’ he said. ‘I think I understand. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘It’s really Mum I wanted to help,’ said Johnny. ‘She can come home now, can’t she?’
‘Yes, indeed. There’ll be some formalities, but we’ll get her back to you as soon as we can.’
‘What will happen to Mrs Langford and the others?’ asked Johnny. ‘Will they all be hanged?’
‘I can’t say. Dr Howell should get away with a prison stretch. It sounds as if he’s guilty of contravening the Therapeutic Medicines Act, and of obstructing the police; but things look bad for Mrs Langford, despite her age – and Bennett certainly seems to be implicated in covering up the murder, even if he didn’t strike the fatal blow. Don’t worry, Johnny. You’re safe. We’ll be keeping them under lock and key until we can confirm what you’ve told us.’
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