Murders in the Blitz

by Julia Underwood

  Since the arrest of Major Parkes, who previously ran the Centre, a civilian was in charge and ruled the place with benevolent ease. Ruth Archer, the secretary and admin officer, had gone on to other war work in a hush-hush department somewhere in Whitehall and, although Eve did encounter her occasionally, they were both too busy to spend much time together. Another civil servant had taken her place, but Eve had hardly seen her.

  Katya came to the table with two steaming mugs of cocoa and thick slices of bread and plum jam and sat opposite Eve, her face eager with curiosity. Her pretty fair hair was drawn back into a loose chignon from which escaped wisps of hair flew around her flushed face, softening its starkly lean contours.

  ‘Tell me all about it. What are you working on now? Has that police inspector got you involved in another murder?’ Katya’s English was much improved since Eve first met her, but her Polish accent remained pronounced.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I think you may know the victim. It’s Malcolm Miller, you know, the milkman.’

  ‘Ah, that young man. Certainly I know him. He delivers our milk. I was wondering why there is a different man this week, much older.’ Katya muttered something Polish under her breath.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  ‘A rather untrustworthy young man, that Malcolm, I think,’ said Katya. ‘One you need to keep an eye on.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, as you must see, with so many of us here, I have a large milk order every day. Sometimes he tries to cheat me. Gives me less than I have ordered, or, at the end of the week when he comes to be paid, he tries to charge me too much. But he can’t cheat Katya like that, I write everything down. No, I know exactly what I have had, and what I owe. He thinks he can fool me because I am foreigner, but I will not allow it. I do not trust him, but I would not wish him dead.’

  Eve could well believe that it would be difficult to get one over on the efficient Katya.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard he did things like that. One of the restaurants said they were often overcharged. But most of the householders he delivered to said how charming and helpful he was.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Certainly, a very charming young man. He often came in here for tea and a, how you say, chat with me, in the morning. He is fancying one of the girls, I think, a pretty blonde.’

  ‘Oh, is it Anna?’

  ‘No Anna is moved on long ago now. She’s a Land Girl in somewhere called Dorset. She writes and tells me it is very hard work, horrible in the winter and she misses my cooking. But there are no bombs in Dorset so she feels safe.’

  ‘Good for her,’ said Eve. ‘So, there’s a new pretty blonde then?’

  ‘Oh yes, there is always a pretty blonde is there not? This one, she will be in trouble if she is not careful. I keep an eye on her, but there is only so much I can do.’

  ‘I know you look after them all wonderfully, Katya. Anyway, Malcolm disappeared for a few days and then his body was found on a bombsite. He’d been stabbed. There seem to be a lot of people who didn’t like him, but none enough to kill him, as far as I can see. And now there’s been another murder. The inspector doesn’t think it has anything to do with Malcolm’s death, but I’m not sure. I’ve got a feeling that the two crimes may be connected.’

  ‘Well, if this is so I know that the clever Miss Duncan will find out what it is. Just please be careful, I would not wish anything bad to happen to you.’

  ‘I’m always careful,’ Eve smiled. ‘I just wondered, if you hear anything about Malcolm, anything at all, good or bad, you could let me know.’

  ‘We saw him the other day, Monday or Tuesday. He said he was well ahead with his round, but he couldn’t stop to talk because he had to visit someone. An old friend from school I think he said.’

  ‘Oh, did he say who it was?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I did not ask. It would have meant nothing to me, after all.’

  For a while they sipped their hot cocoa, chatting about Pete and Charlie and the dashing airmen who stayed at the Centre during their leave. Whatever was in the oven was ready to be taken out, so Eve left Katya to it, with a promise to come and visit again soon.

  On leaving the PRC she decided to canvass more of the houses on Malcolm’s milk round. She and Charlie had not finished visiting some of the streets on the other side of the Green. She crossed over, passing the barrage balloon lorry and the vegetable patches, and began visiting the few streets remaining.

  At one house an extremely belligerent housewife chose to berate her soundly.

  ‘What’s that dairy playing at? I didn’t get the milk till nearly eight o’clock this morning. That old fellow delivering it is so slow. He shouldn’t be lugging great crates of milk around at his age.’

  ‘I’m sorry; it’s really nothing to do with me. But as you may have heard, your regular milkman was murdered and the other men have to help out. They all have much further to go now and it takes longer.’

  ‘I want to complain. I’m not satisfied,’ said the irritated resident without a pause to consider the dead young man or his more elderly colleagues who now had to do his work. ‘Tell them I don’t think it’s good enough.’

  Eve thought this remark was a bit much considering that her milk bill couldn’t have amounted to more than a bob or two a week. It’s not as if she’s getting bad service from one of the posh department stores, she thought.

  ‘I don’t work for the dairy; I’m helping the police. I’m trying to find out if anyone saw anything odd early on Monday morning, before Malcolm disappeared. Did you see him then?’

  ‘No, ‘course not. I’m not up at that ungodly hour. I would have been in my bed trying to catch up on some sleep as the Jerries were leaving us alone for a change.’

  ‘But there was milk delivered here on Monday morning? You weren’t left out?’

  ‘No, it was here as usual when I got up.’

  Just the same as everyone else was saying, thought Eve. No-one heard or saw a thing because they were asleep. She moved on to the next house, and the next, where she had more or less the same reaction. Some people kept her chatting on the doorstep for a while, curious about the murder in their midst, but Eve had very little to tell them. When she checked, they all said that they had had their milk delivery as normal on Monday; no-one had been missed out.

  At one house further along the same street she turned away after there was no answer to her knock on the door. It was several minutes before a gaunt young man opened up, just as Eve was walking along the pavement to the next place. His face appeared uniformly pale at first, but as he turned towards her Eve became aware that he had a livid scar on the right side of his face, from above his eyebrow to his jaw; a deep red slash in the white skin. The wound must have been inflicted very recently because the signs of stitching were still visible around the scar. She noticed that he moved awkwardly as he descended a couple of steps towards her. She assumed that he must also have an injury on some other part of his body, though it was not obvious where as none of his limbs appeared to be damaged. The clothes he was wearing seemed too big for him, the trousers concertinaed around his ankles and the sweater sleeves hung low at his emaciated wrists. Evidently he was home from the Front on recuperation leave after being wounded.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Eve said and went on to explain what she wanted. The little speech was becoming second nature and she had to remember to deliver it with a smile to put people at their ease.

  ‘I don’t have milk delivered to the house. I buy it at International Stores, up the road there, where my temporary ration book’s registered,’ the man said.

  It was normal practice for people back from the fighting on leave or for recovery purposes, to be given temporary ration cards to sustain them for the duration.

  ‘You can check if you like,’ the man said. ‘The name’s Daniel Kydd.’ His tone held a hint of nervous aggression.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Kydd. I’m just trying to get some information that might lead
us to find whoever killed the milkman, Malcolm Miller. You haven’t heard anything I suppose?’

  ‘No. I don’t go out much,’ he stammered as he spoke and kept his head low. It was obvious that the poor chap was embarrassed by the facial disfigurement and had become reclusive, hardly venturing out of his little terraced house.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Eve. ‘I may still find someone who saw something. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

  The young man glanced nervously up and down the street to check, Eve supposed, that he hadn’t been observed by the neighbours. Then, without another word, he turned back into the house and slammed the door so hard that the stained glass panel rattled.

  Eve continued along the milk round, knocking on doors as she progressed, but didn’t find a single person who had encountered Malcolm, missed their normal milk delivery, or seen anything in the least suspicious. One man seemed determined to help in some way even if he had to make up the facts to satisfy Eve’s investigation.

  ‘There was a big fat bloke, really sinister he looked, in a dark overcoat and a trilby hat, out at about four. I thought he looked suspicious, fifth columnist of something. I was walking me dogs, see, and thought he looked right odd. He disappeared into the alley up by the church there.’ The man pointed across the Green. ‘Didn’t like the look of him one bit; looked as if he were up to no good.’

  Eve smiled inwardly at this obvious fabrication. Apart from anything else it would have been too dark to see across the Green at that hour as it was a couple of hundred yards distant at least. It was funny how people kept inventing spies and bogeymen and reporting them to the police. Eve thought it was a way of repressing their anxiety.

  ‘Thank you for your help, sir. I may be getting back to you.’

  At least that would give the chap some hope that his story would be believed and he would have an exciting tale to relate to his mates in the pub later. Eve moved on, wondering where to go next, when Charlie appeared at her side.

  ‘Want to go to the pub and see if we can unearth one of those black market geezers?’

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea, Charlie? I don’t like the sound of them.’

  ‘They’re not real gangsters, Eve. Not violent or anything, just doing what they can to make a few extra bob.’ Charlie managed to make them sound like normal members of society. ‘There’s no need to be scared of them. Just don’t mention you’re working for the police.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone know that by now?’

  ‘No, ‘course not. These people spend most of their time in the pub or at the dog track. Nah, we’ll see what they have to say – subtle-like.’

  This discussion had covered most of their journey to the pub and they were soon standing outside. Charlie, with unusual gallantry, opened the door to the bar and they went in.

  The smoky, thick atmosphere, laden with beer fumes and residual tobacco smoke, never failed to make Eve cough before her lungs became accustomed to it. As it was past five o’clock the bar was crowded with people, mostly men, on their way home from their jobs, enjoying a pint or two. A couple of elderly men were playing chess in one corner; Mr Weissmann the pawnbroker and a crony. Another table was occupied by a group of men poring over the racing pages of the Daily Mirror, planning their bets for tomorrow or commiserating over their losses of today.

  ‘There they are,’ said Charlie, ‘in the corner.’

  Eve turned her head towards where Charlie had inclined his head.

  ‘No, don’t look at them,’ Charlie growled speaking in an unnatural way out of the corner of his mouth. ‘It’ll be a right smell out if you look.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Charlie. What does it matter? I want to look – you said they’re not a dangerous bunch, so what harm can it do?’

  ‘Well, when I said, not dangerous, I didn’t mean, not dangerous, but not likely to murder anyone. They know how to look after themselves though.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Clear as mud. So you’re saying I can’t ask them any questions about Malcolm or what happened to him?’

  ‘God, no! You can’t do that, they’d just get the dead perish.’

  ‘Well, in that case I’m not sure why we came in here in the first place.’

  ‘I thought you might like a drink.’

  ‘Oh, all right, Charlie, I’ll have a half. But I warn you, I’m going to look at them even if I can’t ask them any questions.’

  Eve, aware of hunger pangs as she had had nothing more than a slice of bread with Katya for lunch, sat on a vacant seat facing the men in the corner, and idly scanned the faces. They looked pretty harmless, if a bit sharp and oily for her taste. Each of them wore a suit, draped in the latest fashion for wide boys, and a tie, so they must have been doing fairly well for themselves. Several of the men had their hair slicked back with a hair preparation that gave it a glossy look, like patent leather, and Eve noticed that when they shot their cuffs, which seemed to happen more often than necessary, they exposed costly-looking cufflinks to match the hefty rings that adorned their fingers. There was an older man on a stool near the group who appeared to be with them. He wore a three-piece business suit and Eve thought she recognised him from somewhere. She would ask Charlie when he got back with the drinks.

  As he weaved his way back from the bar Charlie paused for a moment to speak to the group. What’s he doing, Eve thought? She hoped he wasn’t messing things up, asking the wrong questions, getting them on edge and suspicious. She watched anxiously as he chatted and laughed. Their initial wary reaction to being addressed by this stranger soon disappeared as Charlie worked his charm. They were soon laughing at something he’d said and one of them patted him on the back, his face beaming with friendship, as Charlie left them.

  Charlie made his way back to Eve, a broad grin lighting his features.

  ‘What did you say to them, Charlie? You didn’t ask about the black market, did you?’

  ‘You must think I’m an idiot, Eve. No, I was softening them up. I mentioned Malcolm, though. They seem to agree that he was a Wally to get himself murdered. But none of them looked as if he had a guilty conscience; as if he had done it. They think you’re my girl, by the way. So snuggle up close and make it look real.’

  ‘All right, I wouldn’t want them to think you’re trying to fool them. What are you going to do next?’ Eve moved closer to Charlie, draped an arm round his shoulders and giggled girlishly.

  ‘Who’s that bloke, Charlie, the one in the suit?’

  ‘That, my girl, is the local Rationing Enforcement Officer. Interesting isn’t it? You’d think he’d have more sense than to drink with that lot in a public place.’

  ‘What?’ said Eve, aghast. ‘You mean he’s mixed up with those black market spivs?’

  ‘It looks as if he may be. I’ll tell Reed later, he’ll be very interested. Nothing like a bit of corruption to get him excited. I thought that now I’ve made contact, next time I come in I can ask some more leading questions about the black market racket. They may open up to me.’

  Eve and Charlie sipped their drinks and stayed until the group of spivs began to leave. A couple of them gave Charlie a cheery handshake and a wink as they left. He seemed to have made himself a new group of friends. The rationing official lingered on his bar stool, sipping half a pint of beer and left five minutes later.

  About half an hour later, when Eve and Charlie were outside The Bush, Eve turned towards the police station.

  ‘I ought to have a word with Inspector Reed before I go home. I’ll see you tomorrow, Charlie.’

  ‘All right, Evie. I’ll get on back then. See you in the market tomorrow.’ He turned towards the Uxbridge Road.

  Eve entered the police station and a vicious whirlwind span up to her in the lobby, whirling her arms with unsuppressed rage.

  A tiny dark-haired young woman, wound up into a fury like a demented wasp, yelled at Eve: ‘Are you the one? The bloody bitch stirring all that stuff up again? Why can’t you people leave well alone? What business h
ave you got talking to my Stan, making him all upset again? Bloody cheek I call it!’

  Eve looked to the desk Sergeant for an explanation of this onslaught.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Duncan, it’s Mrs Barrett. She came in to see you. I didn’t know...’

  ‘It’s all right, Bert. I’ll deal with it.’ She turned towards the raging woman and, by holding up her arm just in time, diverted the swinging gasmask box from her face. ‘That’ll do, Mrs Barrett. Why don’t you come and sit down over here and we can discuss it calmly.’

  She guided the termagant to the bench in the corner of the lobby and sat beside her.

  ‘You must be Eileen Barrett, Stan’s wife.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s me,’ came the sulky reply. ‘You’ve gone and talked to Stan about me and Malcolm. He’d practically forgotten about it and now you’ve stirred it all up again. He was mad as a monkey when I got home yesterday. Said all sorts of horrible things. I thought he was going to throw me out, like he threatened before, but I’d managed to calm him down. Why’d you have to do that? Mess things up all over again.’ By now the woman’s raging fury had transformed to unrestrained sobbing. She dragged a hanky out of her pocket and began to dab her eyes, blackening the scrap of cotton with mascara.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Eileen, but we had to talk to anyone who might have had a motive to kill Malcolm Miller.’

  ‘There’s lots of others. Why did you have to pick on Stan?’ Mrs Barratt continued to cry and dab with the skimpy, sodden handkerchief.

  ‘We had to question everyone, Eileen. I’m sorry if it has revived painful memories for you and your husband. Look, why don’t you go home and cook him his favourite dinner, be really nice to him and perhaps he’ll forget all about it.’