by Joyce Porter
‘I thought they’d be playing this one close to their chests,’ said the elderly man with great satisfaction. ‘ National security, of course.’
Eventually the Press conceded defeat and, stuffing its notebook back in its pocket, came waddling over to the cluster of spectators.
The cluster gazed hopefully at him.
‘Anybody know where there’s a telephone?’
‘There’s a box in Seymour Drive,’ volunteered one of the housewives.
‘Ta!’
He was about to walk off when the Hon. Con, who’d got more gumption that the rest of them put together, detained him by grabbing hold of his sleeve. ‘What’s happened?’ she demanded.
The young man shrugged his shoulders, ‘ Some young girl’s supposed to have been found dead in bed.’
‘Do the police suspect foul play?’ asked the Hon. Con and basked in the awed respect which her mastery of the jargon evoked in the other onlookers.
‘Search me!’ The plump young man wasn’t the most dynamic member of his profession. ‘They wouldn’t even tell me her name. That copper on the gate says they’ll probably be making a statement sometime this afternoon.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to phone my office up and ask ’em what they want me to do. I’m supposed to be covering the opening of that new car showrooms in half an hour.’
The Hon. Con, not appreciating how much advertising revenue a new car showroom could be expected to produce, watched him duck back into his Fiat with astonishment. No stamina, these youngsters! She herself was prepared to stick it out in the wet and the cold for the rest of the day, if needs be. Of course, she acknowledged smugly, that sort of devotion to duty was simply the hall mark of your finest criminal investigators and it was probably unfair to expect mere local newspaper employees to possess it.
When it came to the crunch, however, the Hon. Con’s sticking point wasn’t quite as adhesive as she would have liked to believe. It wouldn’t have been so bad if only something had happened but the morning wore on in crushing tedium. Gradually the other members of the original group of spectators slipped away. The two housewives went first, muttering something about their husbands’ dinners. Then the baby in the pram began grizzling and its mother seized thankfully on the excuse and wheeled it away. Finally the elderly man cracked, woke his dog up and, raising his hat once more to the Hon. Con, continued with his interrupted walk. Other people drifted up to share the vigil but, somehow, it didn’t seem quite the same.
The Hon. Con stamped her feet and flapped her arms. There was one heck of a cold breeze blowing right down Sneddon Avenue and, if it hadn’t been for the ‘I-told-you-so’ looks she would get from Miss Jones, she would have been jolly tempted to go back home, empty handed or not. It was all so deuced unfair! How could you even start detecting when you couldn’t get hold of the facts? At last, and summoning up all her undoubted courage, the Hon. Con decided to beard the policeman on the gate. She ambled over, watched intently by the current crop of gawpers.
‘Morning, constable!’ said the Hon. Con cheerfully.
The policeman gazed solidly over her head. ‘Hop it!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard!’ The policeman suddenly switched his attention and stared straight right into the Hon. Con’s eyes. ‘I’ll do you for obstruction, else.’
The Hon. Con, used as she was to lack of co-operation from the police, retreated in some disorder. This was getting impossible! She saw the other onlookers still watching avidly. ‘Hell’s teeth, she was blowed if she was going back to be bombarded with their impertinent questions! She looked around somewhat desperately for salvation and found it in the shape of Ye Olde Paisterie Cooke Shoppe. What a stroke of luck! There she would be able not only to find some shelter from this dratted rain but she would be able to enjoy a bit of a pow-wow with the proprietresses of the quaintly named establishment, both of whom were reputed to rival the Almighty in their observance of the falls of sparrows and such like.
The Hon. Con set off briskly and with renewed hope. Ye Olde Paisterie Cooke Shoppe, in spite of some evidence to the contrary, had only been opened a couple of years. It was situated in the middle of a row of antique but rather poky cottages and enjoyed an uninterrupted view of the Hellon house. The Hon. Con’s spirits rose. Yes, sirree, if anybody knew what was going on, it would be the Miller girls!
The Miller girls were a pair of elderly, unmarried sisters who had devoted their lives to caring for an aged father. He had been a major general but, when he died, his pension had died with him. Being totally unskilled, the Misses Miller had been obliged to open a little shop in order to eke out their now drastically reduced income. Not an ordinary shop, of course – that would have been too humiliating – but a shop that would put the community under an obligation to them. The Misses Miller hitched their star to the natural food band-waggon. It was a shrewd move. The comfortably-off, middle classes of Totterbridge longed for the simple life and spent small fortunes on sets of golf clubs and high-powered motor boats to get it. Lolling in their plastic contoured chairs and staring glassy-eyed at their colour television sets, they pined for the crusty bread and home-made cakes of their youth. The Misses Miller had guaranteed to provide both and for several weeks had done a roaring trade. Who, after all, could resist the lure of patisseries made from flour nurtured only in the very highest grade of genuine farmyard manure?
Well, most of Totterbridge’s elite could, actually, though they would rather have died than admit it. Gradually the swing back to the super-markets began and the sales of nice white sliced bread (so handy) and standard-mix cakes in cardboard boxes (so hygienic and you did know what you were getting) returned to normal. The Misses Miller did not go bankrupt, however, as these adulterated goodies could only be-enjoyed secretly in the bosom of the family. When guests were present, it was de rigour, to serve only the products of Ye Olde Paisterie Cooke Shoppe, thus preserving one’s reputation for truly gracious living. There was one unexpected fringe benefit. The staff of life, as provided by the Misses Miller, needed so much resolute mastication and their cakes were so unappetising that the cost of running a tea party was nearly half what it had been in the bad old days.
The Hon. Con pushed open the shop door and an ancient bell on a rusty spring rang out a tinny warning. A Miss Miller shot through the bead curtains with all the vigour of a demon king making his first entrance in a provincial panto. The Misses Miller had an unholy dread of shop-lifters and one of them was always on duty, ready to pounce before a customer had got more than one foot over the threshold.
‘Morning!’ said the Hon. Con, casting an eye over the grey misshapen objects laid out on the shelves and counters. Blimey, old Bones would do her nut if she got presented with any of this muck! The Hon. Con averted her gaze from a black, sweating lump which was labelled ‘ parkin’ and cunningly asked for the one thing she couldn’t see.
Miss Millers, not taking her eyes off the Hon. Con for a second, produced a whole trayful of sausage rolls from under the counter.
The Hon. Con sighed. ‘ Oh good,’ she said.
‘How many do you require, Miss Morrison-Burke?’
‘Er – oh, just a couple,’ said the Hon. Con with a false smile.
Miss Miller sniffed. This was not only a reflection upon the paucity of the order but a reminder that the business of the trouser button in the tea cake had not yet been forgotten. The Misses Miller didn’t take kindly to complaints though, in this case, whether they objected more to the slur on their morals than to the implied criticism of the cleanliness of their back kitchen is not clear. Either way, the Hon. Con had no intention at the moment of blowing on the embers of an old quarrel, no matter how gloriously it had blazed at the time. She watched as Miss Miller, who acted as though she had never seen a paper bag or a sausage roll in her life before, began to pack her purchases up. It was likely to be a lengthy business.
‘Looks as though there’s been a tragedy of some sort over at the Hellons’,’ s
aid the Hon. Con, pretending to be engrossed in the study of some brutally ravished maids of honour.
Miss Miller took time off from her labours to glance through the shop window. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘The police started arriving just after nine o’clock.’ She tut-tutted crossly to herself and swept a pile of pastry flakes off the counter on to the floor. ‘Really, I think people are too bad, don’t you? Standing around staring like that! So ill-bred!’
The trouser button in the tea cake was still rankling.
The Hon. Con choked down the hard answer. ‘I wonder what’s happened?’ she said.
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Miss Miller indifferently.
‘As I came past, I happened to overhear somebody saying something about a girl being found dead in bed,’ fished the Hon. Con.
‘Really?’ Miss Miller had now got both sausage rolls in the bag and could afford to relax a bit. ‘I suppose that would be their au pair girl. Is there anything else? No? Well, that will be twelve new pence, please.’ She caught the Hon. Con’s gasp of horror. ‘ We always use prime quality pork, of course.’
The Hon. Con searched reluctantly through her pockets and eventually produced the money. It was, she consoled herself, a small price to pay for her first real snippet of information – and she’d got the sausage rolls as well. ‘Au pair girl, eh?’ she said as she waited for her change. ‘ I suppose she’d be a foreigner of some sort?’
‘Hm.’ Miss Miller was busy working out how much twelve was from twenty on the edge of a spare paper bag. ‘Irish, I believe,’ she said triumphantly, having got the answer to eight twice in a row.
‘Irish, eh?’ said the Hon. Con and her mind leapt delightedly to petrol bombs, Protestant militancy and the IRA. Gosh, with a bit of luck this might be a political assassination! ‘What sort?’
Somewhat hesitantly Miss Miller handed the eightpence over. ‘What sort?’ she echoed.
‘North or South? Orange or Catholic? Republican or Unionist?’
‘Good heavens, I haven’t the least idea! She was a very pert girl, that I can tell you. After all, most of our customers prefer their milk loaves a little on the well done side. Neither my sister nor I cared for her manner in the least. I was going to mention it to Mrs Hellon when next I saw her.’ Miss Miller looked out through the shop window again. ‘ Well, perhaps I shan’t have to bother now.’ Her eyes narrowed.
The Hon. Con turned round to see what had captured Miss Miller’s attention.
Holy cats!
She snatched her bag of sausage rolls from the counter and bolted from the shop, creating such a flurry as she went that a tray of coconut moulds disintegrated where they stood.
Chapter Two
Detective Sergeant Fenner reckoned he’d got enough on his plate that morning without adding a confrontation with the Hon. Con to it. He’d come hurrying out of the Hellon House with an urgent message for one of the police drivers and had been too preoccupied with his official worries to notice the old girl bounding like a two-year-old out of that mucky little bread shop.
It was only when he turned away from the car that he found her, planted beamingly in his path.
‘What-ho, sergeant!’ chortled the Hon. Con warmly. She had always had a bit of a soft spot for Sergeant Fenner – and never more so than now.
‘Miss Morrison-Burke.’
The Hon. Con forgave the coolness of the greeting. Sergeant Fenner was always a pretty restrained sort of chap. ‘Dashed glad to see they’ve put you in charge of the case,’ she said smarmily and rose unobtrusively on to the balls of her feet so that she was poised to counter any evasive action which her prey might be contemplating. ‘ Shows the police have got some common sense after all, eh?’
Sergeant Fenner’s eyes flickered round in the hope of finding deliverance but there wasn’t an anti-tank gun or a battering ram in sight. Nothing but that little crowd of interested spectators and the odd smirking policeman. ‘ I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong, miss,’ he said, trying to keep the apprehension out of his voice. ‘ Detective Chief Inspector Vouch is in charge. They sent him down from County Headquarters. I’m just one of the dog’s-bodies.’
The Hon. Con’s grin widened. Really, being a sleuth was as easy as falling off a log! She couldn’t for the life of her see what people made such a fuss about. Look at her! Hardly done more than pass the time of day with old Fenner here and she already knew that there actually was a case tucked away in the Hellon house and that it was such a serious one that they’d despatched a high-ranking detective along to deal with it. If that didn’t add up to murder most foul, she’d eat her boots!
Sergeant Fenner took a tentative step to his left. The Hon. Con took a resolute one to her right They were still eyeball to eyeball.
‘Poor girl!’sighed the Hon. Con.
For a moment she got Sergeant Fenner’s undivided attention. ‘You knew Miss O’Coyne?’ he asked sharply, scattering further vital information as other people scatter bird seed.
‘Not well,’ said the Hon. Con carefully. ‘Know Mrs Hellon though. She must be feeling pretty sick. Thought I might just pop in and do a bit of the old hand holding. Friend in need, you know.’ She cocked her head on one side to see what this produced.
But Sergeant Fenner wasn’t completely mesmerized. ‘She’s all right,’ he said. It wasn’t strictly true but there was no percentage in being too scrupulous with the Hon. Con. ‘She’s bearing up very well, in fact, and we’ve got a policewoman with her.’
‘Not like an old chum,’ insisted the Hon. Con, interested to learn that Mrs Hellon had not gone the way of the au pair girl. ‘Still, I suppose a husband is a great comfort at a time like this.’
‘He’s away at the moment,’ said Sergeant Fenner, getting careless again through concentrating too much on escape.
‘Is he now?’ The Hon. Con out-matched Sergeant Fenner with another smooth side-step. ‘ So there were just the two of them in the house when it – er – happened, eh?’
‘And the baby,’ said Sergeant Fenner, wondering what the chief inspector was going to say if he didn’t get back soon.
‘Oh, and the baby,’ agreed the Hon. Con blandly. ‘Still, I don’t suppose that could have played much part in the proceedings, could it?’
Sergeant Fenner put his foot down, but the Hon. Con was shod in the stoutest of brogues and didn’t feel a thing. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Miss Morrison-Burke, but I’ve really got to get back. Chief Inspector Vouch is a bit of a stickler, you know, and we do have to work pretty quickly at this stage.’
‘Of course.’ The Hon. Con was all sympathy and understanding. ‘The first twenty-four hours are vital in a murder investigation, everybody knows that.’ Since the remark about homicide wasn’t contradicted, she chalked up another point to herself and accompanied Sergeant Fenner in his quick dash for the gate. ‘But there’s something else that’s jolly important, too, Sergeant! Local knowledge!’
‘Naturally, naturally!’ If I can just get through that gate, thought Sergeant Fenner, I’ll be …
‘That’s where you’ve got the pull over this chief inspector they’ve sicked on you. Bit of a feather in your cap if you could solve the case before him, eh? Do you no harm at all, that wouldn’t. And’ – the Hon. Con hauled the sergeant back in the nick of time – ‘with me to help you, you could do it.’
The policeman on guard at the gate was having difficulty in keeping his face straight as Sergeant Fenner tried as gently as possible – well, there was enough in the papers these days about police brutality without assaulting an honourable in full view of the public – to unhook the Hon. Con’s fingers. ‘I’m sorry, miss!’
‘You can have all the credit and the glory and the publicity and everything. I’ll be quite happy just to be one of the backroom boys. I’ll snoop around and tell you everything I find out and you keep me in the picture about your side of things. It’ll be a piece of cake. Two heads, you know.’
‘Police investigations just aren’t conducted like that.’
‘More’s the pity,’ scowled the Hon. Con. ‘You might get a higher rate of success, if they were.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Look here, you’re not holding that other little business against me, are you?’
This reference to the last time the Hon. Con had forced her co-operation on an unwilling constabulary inspired Sergeant Fenner with a ruthlessness that was usually only aroused by the very nastiest type of criminal. He freed himself from her grasp. ‘ Miss Morrison-Burke, I really must ask you not to meddle in things which don’t concern you!’ He spoke loudly enough for the sniggering idiot at the gate to hear. ‘This is a job for experts. Any interference by outsiders will be regarded extremely seriously and will in no circumstances be tolerated.’ He softened a little as he saw the disappointed pout on the Hon. Con’s rubicund face. ‘Now, why don’t you just go home and leave it all to us, miss? You’ll be able to read all about it in the papers.’
The Hon. Con watched Sergeant Fenner nip smartly up the garden path and back into the house. The sergeant might have been quite a good detective but his knowledge of physiognomy was weak. The Hon. Con’s pout had not been expressive of disappointment but of rage. To be called an outsider was more than flesh and blood could stand. She, without whose deductive genius one murderer for sure would not be languishing behind bars at that very moment! The Hon. Con’s dander was now well and truly up. Head high, she marched back to the shifting group of onlookers and resumed her vigil. She’d show ’em, by golly she would! Nobody was going to toss her aside like an old glove!
Things began to get quite lively. The doctor left, looking suitably preoccupied. Then the perfidious Sergeant Fenner appeared again, accompanied this time by a man with a camera. The two of them began making a detailed inspection of the front door, the path and all the downstairs windows.
‘Looking for signs of a forced entry,’ pronounced some clever devil from behind the Hon. Con.