A Quarter Past Dead

by TP Fielden

  ‘Rr-rrrr-rrrrr! Don’t do that, Betty!’ thundered the editor. ‘Just wear a nice dress and hang around him till he’s told you what you want to know.’

  ‘What you want to know, Mr Rhys.’

  ‘Yes, well. Off you go. And don’t tell anybody about this conversation.’ For heaven’s sake, thought the editor, since I left the Royal Navy I have been a novelist, a reporter, and an editor. My life has moved far away from the carpetless underground corridors of the Admiralty, yet still I can’t escape. They have me in their grip and that dreadful Auriol Hedley with her superior manner – telling me what to do. Spying on a spy! When I came to the Riviera Express I’d hoped that the thorniest problem I’d ever have to face was whether to get rid of the crossword!

  He picked up his disgusting briar pipe and started jabbing at it with an old pencil-stub.

  Over at Buntorama they were having trouble getting a huge steam tractor through the gates. It carried on a low-loader a vast piece of machinery which towered over the surrounding buildings. Inch by inch, the driver manoeuvred his gargantuan payload through the narrow gap until he could make a steady forward progress.

  ‘Where ja wannit?’ he bawled down through the steam and smoke.

  ‘Over there, by the fence,’ shouted back Mr Baggs, who was directing operations.

  ‘What? Over by yon hotel? You sure?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ called Baggs, ‘nearer the better!’

  The great leviathan clanked and huffed its way forward. Behind it came several lesser vehicles carrying the ancillaries.

  ‘Got it through?’ asked Bobby Bunton, newly arrived in his Rolls-Royce.

  ‘Went in a treat,’ said Baggs.

  ‘How long do they say to set it up?’

  ‘Be done by nightfall, they reckon.’

  ‘So we can get the Devil’s Dodgems started first thing tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Sure can, boss.’

  ‘Get it going at breakfast-time, then. And make sure the volume’s turned up to maximum.’

  Baggs gave him a wintry smile. ‘So it’s war, is it, boss?’

  Bobby Bunton took out a cigar and stuck it importantly into his lips. ‘Nobody threatens me,’ he said, squaring his shoulders inside his ugly suit. ‘The snob!’

  ‘’E can’t prove anything,’ said Baggs. ‘Nothing to prove!’

  ‘He can go to the press.’

  ‘What, that tinpot rag with the fortune teller and the reporter in specs? I warned their photographer to stay away.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Bunton. ‘If he wants to dent my reputation he’ll go to the nationals. “MYSTERY BOBBY BUNTON BABE SHOT THROUGH THE HEART” – that’ll be the headline.’

  ‘They can’t write that sort of thing. There’s such a thing as libel laws.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Bunton. ‘But those Sunday papers. They manage to tell a story with nods and winks so you know what’s being said without them actually printing it.’

  ‘Well, so what?’ said Baggs. ‘Not as if you made a habit of it.’

  ‘It was enough to get Radipole at my throat, though, wasn’t it?’ laughed Bunton. ‘His girl – and me? Ha, ha, ha!’

  ‘What about Fluffles?’

  ‘Well, that’s it. If she finds out about it I’m a dead man. But I can’t control what Radipole says to the press and so the only thing to do is fight fire with fire.’

  ‘The Devil’s Dodgems.’

  ‘I can ruin his business in a week with the racket that ride makes,’ sneered Bunton. ‘He’ll get a taste of it with his ruddy Oxford marmalade tomorrow morning.’ He pronounced it ‘Orxford’.

  ‘You don’t think he’ll try any funny business? You know…?’ Baggs lifted his hand with two fingers thrust forward and pulled an imaginary trigger.

  ‘I think we are more than capable of withstanding any such threat, don’t you, Bert?’ said Bobby and patted his top pocket.

  His henchman offered a twisted smile at the thought.

  SIXTEEN

  Betty was on strike. She sat at an awkward angle to her desk with a pile of magazines beside her, pushing from view the lost opportunity with Sticks, and the increasingly dismal prospect of a night at the Picturedrome with Dud. She took refuge in reading ‘How To Dress To Please Your Man’ by Enid Chandler in Everywoman.

  Enid was something of a heroine to Betty, who dreamed of making the switch from local newspapers to being a columnist on such a vibrant magazine. Anything – anything! – to get away from Temple Regis!

  ‘This week, a special emphasis on personal grooming,’ whispered Enid. ‘He likes you to be soft and silky!’

  She was more forthright when it came to instructing her readers on how to hook, net, and land their man: ‘A girl won’t get far without polishing up her good points and disguising her bad ones so that he’s completely befogged by glamour!’ she commanded, to which Betty nodded vigorously in agreement. ‘It’s at this stage that the romantic compliments are paid and the diamond engagement rings are shopped for!’

  The redoubtable Miss Chandler had further strong words of advice once those engagement and wedding rings were safely slipped on: ‘Don’t try to be the boss, don’t be the slightly abnormal woman who wants to have her cake and eat it.’

  Betty could see some point to this, but then she thought about Dud and his devotion to the Freemasons, and couldn’t altogether go along with Enid. The fellow spent all his spare time, when he wasn’t instructing Betty about the shade of her hair-colouring or the size of her waist, with his nose pressed into books which all had to be learned word-perfect.

  So, thought Betty, looking again at the advice page, what would it be like married to Dud? Who’d be the boss? Would I ever see him, or would he be out masoning with his chums every night?

  Would he expect dinner and slippers when he got home? She was beginning to realise what a mistake she’d made in reheating this particular soufflé.

  Just then the telephone rang.

  ‘You coming?’ It was Sticks, his voice no more than an inviting drawl. ‘London’s calling!’

  ‘I can’t, I’m working,’ wailed Betty. She felt wretched.

  ‘Thought you wanted to solve this murder.’

  ‘Well, of course! It goes without…’

  ‘So I’ll see you Friday night.’ He sounded quite determined.

  How, thought Betty, would Enid react in the circs? Her watchwords for the modern Fifties woman were ‘sincerity, humour, understanding, reliability and tact’. Which of these to choose?

  ‘Bye, Sticks, have a lovely life.’

  As Betty replaced the receiver she felt a surge of rage at the male of the species – whether it be Dud with his stone-age attitude, or the iron-faced and compassion-free Rudyard Rhys, or that beastly Sticks with his pesky paradiddles – all messing up her life!

  She went in search of Athene and a cup of her special tea.

  They didn’t go to the pub. Terry was feeling – well, he’d never admit it – but he was surprised by Judy’s outburst over taking Betty to see Moomie Etta-Shaw. It made complete sense to invite her, after all she’d written the story up for the paper – and anyway, Judy didn’t like jazz. For heaven’s sake, what was it all about? Women!

  On the other hand he knew something wasn’t quite right – the way she was sniping at him, the way she looked down that nose of hers. Something had to be done.

  ‘Not going to the pub,’ he said firmly as they got in the Minor, ‘I’m taking you to lunch. The Marine does a budget menu on Thursdays.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Judy, looking at him. This wasn’t like Terry at all.

  ‘We’ve got to get on to Riverbridge after,’ he reminded her, ‘see what’s happening there. Otherwise nothing in the diary. And the view from the dining room is wonderful.’

  Well, you’d know all about that, thought Judy, having splayed your elbows all over the table last night while you were paying court to Betty Featherstone. But she bit her lip – it was clear Terry intended to pay. Just as well she’d fin
ished the Townswomen’s Guild article before leaving the office!

  There had been one of those outbursts of meteorological bad temper this morning – a sudden influx of grumpy-looking clouds which raced in and hovered over Temple Regis in a particularly threatening manner. Holidaymakers who’d dressed for a glorious day ahead were forced to scamper back to their hotels and boarding houses for jumpers, umbrellas and Pacamacs.

  But just as unexpectedly the clouds moved on to upset somebody else’s day further up the coast, and as the Minor came over the hill towards the Marine a shaft of sunlight lit up the Ruggleswick shoreline. The long empty sands had a mere handful of people dotted across their wide expanse, and the waves came in with a satisfying clumping sound, signalling a turn in the tide. A few idle rooks patrolled about and in the distance a sand-yacht made a few experimental curves, waiting for the tide to recede before racing off to who knows where.

  Through the windscreen you could see the stark but imposing lines of the hotel and from this angle its bulk obscured the more proletarian profile of Buntorama’s wooden huts. But the moment Terry and Judy opened the car doors they knew Bobby Bunton’s famous creation was alive and kicking.

  The Devil’s Dodgems were doing their work, and furiously. The clashing and banging as the cars careered into each other was overlaid by a veneer of screams, shouts and whoops from the campers who’d awoken this morning to a new addition to the splay of fairground attractions. A cannonade of sound aimed like heavy artillery at the snobs who lived next door.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Terry, ‘what a racket!’

  ‘Isn’t that, er, Lord Rockingham’s XI playing through the loudspeakers?’ asked Judy with barely disguised joy. A brazen saxophonist was bellowing his rocked-up version of a Scottish melody, interspersing his rude parps with raucous shouts of:

  ‘Hoots mon –

  There’s a moose

  Loose

  Aboot this hoose!’

  . . . which the holidaymakers seemed to enjoy bellowing out at full volume. Again and again.

  ‘Let’s get inside,’ said Terry, shaking his head in disgust.

  ‘I thought you liked jazz,’ smiled Miss D, with only the merest hint of sarcasm. It was bedlam out here all right and unsurprisingly the Marine’s terrace, the lawns, and the poolside cocktail bar were bereft of custom this late morning.

  Inside the hotel’s marbled reception, guests were stamping about in sulky fashion while a long queue had formed at the check-out desk, looking like a better-dressed version of the evacuation of Dunkirk. Just as they came in Cornish Pete and Mike Manifold made an appearance, and Terry went over to them.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Those buggers next door,’ said Pete, who despite his name spoke with a pronounced south London accent. ‘Been like this since eight o’clock this morning! If somebody doesn’t do something soon the hotel’ll be empty.’

  ‘Moomie’s right upset,’ added the Manifold. ‘This is her first gig outside London and she was promised peace and quiet – she’s writing songs, you know.

  ‘But don’t write that,’ he added urgently to Judy, ‘we’re recording an LP in a few weeks’ time, all Moomie’s songs! Top secret!’

  He shared this information like a Hatton Garden jeweller shows you his loose diamonds – one eye on you, the other on the door – but Judy wasn’t about to scarper with the earth-shattering news. She was more interested in the Devil’s Dodgems.

  Over at the other end of reception she could see the tall figure of Hugh Radipole surrounded by a group of elegant but very angry people. He gently waved his arms as if their soft breeze could blow away the racket from next door, but there was a crease in his forehead – for these were people demanding their money back. Important people, rich people, the sort of people he’d come to live among and who last night were calling him by his first name and offering him drinks in the Primrose Bar.

  ‘’E ought to get those Noise Abatement Society people round ’ere at the double,’ said Terry, straight to the point. ‘It’s just as bad in ’ere as outside.’

  ‘Might be difficult,’ said Miss Dimont. ‘Chairman of the Society is Patrick Marchbank and he supported Bobby Bunton putting his holiday camp here – he believes in equality. As a result, Mr Radipole cut his name out of the invitations to the Marine – shouldn’t think Patrick could give a hoot, but it would make it difficult for Radipole to beg a favour of him now.’

  ‘You’re sweet on him,’ said Terry accusingly. He hadn’t been listening to her explanation but he suddenly came to when she mentioned Marchbank’s name.

  Miss Dimont smiled.

  ‘Even though his wife did those dreadful things.’

  They quite often discussed the case of the Hon. Adelaide Marchbank and her mad desire to put people away.1

  ‘What d’you think,’ said Terry, ‘do you still want to have lunch here? It’s chaos – all these people with their suitcases all over the place, that din going on out there.’

  ‘I think it’s fun.’

  ‘OK, then – we shouldn’t have any difficulty getting a table.’

  As the couple mounted the broad sweep of the staircase, the walls hanging with pictures which could have been painted by Mondrian, a slight figure scampered down the stairs towards them. As they paused on the half-landing to let him past, the man spotted Terry and stopped in his tracks.

  ‘You were here the other night,’ he said. ‘Photographer.’

  Terry nodded encouragingly.

  ‘I’m Sticks, the drummer. That reporter you brought along is useless!’

  Miss Dimont’s ears pricked up; he must be talking about Betty. Judy was of the old school that would not allow an outsider to criticise her family and near ones, but then on the other hand…

  ‘Hello, Sticks,’ she said beguilingly, ‘I’m Judy. Are you talking about Betty?’

  ‘Just a bit,’ said Sticks, but when he answered he still looked at Terry. Some men were that way with Miss Dimont – they just did not see her. She couldn’t care less.

  ‘Not useless, surely? She wrote a very nice piece about your being here at the Marine, I read it.’

  ‘Not that,’ said Sticks, looking over the banisters now. He seemed unconcerned about bringing his eyes to rest on the person he was talking to. ‘The murder. That dead woman.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Judy, and the way she said it finally caught the drummer’s attention.

  ‘She was supposed to be coming up to London this weekend – my cousin thinks he knows who the murder victim was.’

  ‘Really?’ said Judy, looking over Sticks’ shoulder at Terry and nodding hard, ‘we’re just having a spot of lunch. Won’t you come and join us?’

  The whole story was out before they were halfway through the first course – Sticks’ recognising the dead woman in the bar downstairs, his recollection of her at fancy London parties a few years before, the cousin who catered the parties remembering something odd – the eagerness of Betty to get to London to gather the information, then the last-minute turndown with no explanation offered.

  Judy poured Sticks a glass of wine. Terry and she had some in the bottom of their glasses but it was just to keep the drummer company, they weren’t drinking.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police this?’ asked Judy.

  ‘I don’t talk to police,’ said Sticks forcefully. ‘Every time I do, it always ends up the same – “turn out your pockets, let’s see if you’ve got any Mary Jane”. So no.’

  Miss Dimont wasn’t sure what Mary Jane was but assumed it to be illegal – musicians live by a different set of rules, poor lambs. ‘Well, tell you what,’ she said with a smile, ‘why don’t I come in Betty’s place?’

  The drummer looked at her oddly. Perhaps in his explanation he’d failed to make clear there was more to the weekend invitation than the mere solving of a murder. He looked across the table at the lady of a certain age, in an ordinary dress with no make-up, sensible shoes, and wayward hair, and did not see her beauty.r />
  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘No, really, it would be a pleasure.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Sticks more urgently.

  ‘No, I insist!’ pressed Judy. ‘I have somewhere to stay, it would be no trouble at all.’

  The penny finally dropped. ‘Oh!’ laughed Sticks in relief. ‘Yes! Ha, ha! Yes, you come along and I’ll introduce you to Constantinos, he’s sure to have the answer! Will you be coming?’ he added to Terry, just to be on the safe side.

  Terry shook his head. ‘I expect you’ll be busy polishing your Leica,’ said Judy with just a hint of acid.

  Terry looked at her, then wandered off to collect the car, the surly set of his broad shoulders speaking volumes in a way no words could.

  The door to the branch office of the Riviera Express opened with a lively ting.

  ‘Hello, Peggy, just passing, thought we’d drop in and say hello,’ trilled Judy as she stepped into the relic of newspaper history with its Dickensian counter, all brass and mahogany, and ancient hand-printing press filling the front window. Here the paper was called the Riverbridge Advertiser to satisfy the vanity of the local populace but it carried just the same news, with only the occasional variation to justify its title.

  ‘No, you didn’t, dear,’ came the crisp reply from Mrs Walthorp, the office manager. ‘You’ve come for him and I can tell you, it’s a relief – you can take him away. He’s no use here!’

  ‘No, no… it’s just that Mr Rhys is concerned. He hasn’t heard from Mr Charles for three weeks, and when he rings up he’s never in the office.’

  ‘He’s always in the office. Never leaves. Sleeps under the desk, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Peggy nodded sharply towards the closed door of the inner office. ‘The man’s a hermit.’

  ‘Well,’ said Judy, ‘we’re always warned to remember he was on the beaches on D-Day and…’

  ‘I wish you’d take him to the beach in Temple Regis and do something with him,’ said Peggy, sharply. ‘It’s like having a dead body around the place. You expect a nasty smell every time you open the office door.’