The Mother's Day Mystery

by Peter Bartram

  ***

  A single street lamp shed a thin yellow pool of light at the foot of Burdock Slope.

  I stood clear of the light and looked around me. The slope led up to the school grounds. At the top, I could make out the black silhouette of the school's buildings.

  The street was silent. No late night loiterers staggered home from the pub. No lovers swapped kisses in the lamplight. No burglar, swag bag over his shoulder, lurked in the shadows.

  I looked around anxiously for Sneath. There was no sign of the lad. I wondered whether he'd developed the frights and decided to call off this risky rendezvous. But Snitcher was a greedy type. He had too much riding on this caper to abandon it.

  I whispered: "Sneath".

  Answer came there none.

  I moved around the pool of light to the other side of the slope and called again. This time loud enough to make me worry whether the sound had carried too far on the wind.

  I glanced behind me. A stone flint wall turned in a dog-leg into what looked like an alley. The entrance to the alley was black. Then something in the blackness moved. Snitcher stepped forward and grinned at me. Like he'd just been playing cricket for the school eleven and scored a century.

  He was wearing a dark navy raincoat and had blacked up his face with make-up.

  I pointed at it and said: "Where did that come from?"

  "The school drama society's make-up box. Last year, they did Othello."

  "No doubt with you as Iago."

  "Actually, I was in charge of the props." He giggled. "After the show, I snitched Othello's handkerchief. I wrap my unfinished gobstoppers in it."

  I frowned. "And who said Shakespeare can't connect with the modern generation? But what were you doing in that alley?"

  He said: "Taking advantage of the natural cover."

  "It's time to stop playing hide and seek and show me where Hooke stashed his papers."

  A little dribble appeared at the side of Snitcher's mouth. "This way," he said.

  We crept up the slope like hunters stalking a deer. At the top, we reached a path which led to a door. We edged our way along the path, sneaking glances over our shoulders. I wondered whether there were late-night patrols. It was a boarding school and there'd be teachers on duty most of the time. I should have checked more thoroughly.

  We reached the door.

  Snitcher whispered. "This isn’t the main way in. It's not used much, so nobody bothers that the latch is loose."

  I gave the door a tentative shove. The latch rattled like loose change in a Scotsman's sporran.

  Snitcher said: "If you pull the handle upwards and lean your shoulder against the frame, it'll open."

  I grasped the handle and heaved it north, shoved my shoulder onto the frame.

  Nothing.

  I tried again.

  No dice.

  I said: "It doesn't work."

  Snitcher said: "You have to twiddle the handle while you lean with your shoulder."

  Snitcher, the master cracksman.

  I tried the lock another time. With extra twiddling. And a heavier push. And a fleeting thought that they never covered this in my journalist training course.

  Clunk.

  The latch snapped back. The door swung open. And I stumbled five yards into the building like a clown doing a pratfall.

  Snitcher followed me and giggled. "That wasn't supposed to happen," he said.

  I said: "We're not here to entertain each other." I pulled out my torch, switched it on and let the beam play over the walls.

  We were in a corridor painted an institutional green. There was a worn wooden parquet floor. Doors led off the corridor on each side, every twenty feet or so into classrooms. At the far end, the corridor was crossed by another running from left to right to create a T-junction.

  The place smelt of disinfectant. Dettol. The Widow splashes it around my bathroom every Friday. Apparently, it kills 99.9 per cent of all known germs. Not that that gives me any comfort. It's always the 0.1 per cent that gets you.

  I turned to Snitcher and shone the torch in his face Gestapo style. He blinked and raised his hand to shade his eyes.

  "Now let's have some straight answers," I said. "Where is Hooke's hiding place?"

  He snickered and said: "Follow me."

  We crept down the corridor and turned left at the T-junction. Ten yards along there was a door off to the right.

  Snitcher pointed. "In there."

  I knew what we'd find even before I opened the door. The Dettol pong left little doubt this would be a lavatory.

  "The bogs," Snitcher announced unnecessarily.

  I opened the door and we went in.

  Snitcher said: "There are no windows in here, so you can switch on the light."

  I shone the torch along the bottom of the door. There was a half-inch gap underneath it. The light would shine through the gap into the darkened corridor. I might as well set up a neon sign flashing "intruders at work".

  But if we were going to study Hooke's secrets, there was merit in switching on the light. I shone the torch around the room. Along one wall was a set of urinals. Along the opposite wall there were four cubicles. At the far end a couple of washbasins. Each had a grimy towel hanging beside it.

  I trotted across the floor, unhooked the towels and stuffed them into the gap under the door. Then I switched on the light.

  I said: "Right, Snitcher, let's make this quick. Where did Hooke hide his secrets?"

  Snitcher twitched a thumb at the fourth cubicle, the one furthest from the door.

  We crossed the room and pushed open the cubicle door.

  Snitcher pointed to a spot on the wall above the lavatory cistern.

  "See those white painted bricks?" he said.

  I nodded.

  "The third brick from the left is loose. There's a cavity behind it. Hooke's stuff is in there."

  "Why haven't you had a look?"

  "I tried but I'm too short to reach. You have to stand on the lavatory seat and reach over the cistern. I'm about a foot too short. There's nothing I could do about it."

  I believed him. The cistern was a substantial porcelain item, big enough to bath a baby. It was held high on the wall by a pair of rusting brackets and operated by a chain which hung down from the lever which made it flush. The whole thing was a testament to the genius of Thomas Crapper who invented the floating ballcock which controlled the refill mechanism.

  I looked at Snitcher. There was an eager light in his eyes. "So Hooke's secrets were so near yet so far? I bet that annoyed you," I said.

  I put one foot on the lavatory seat and pressed down. It was a sturdy wooden job. It would need to be in a school with strapping schoolboys. I decided it would take my weight.

  I levered myself up, taking great care not to slip sideways so my foot went into the pan. The last thing I needed right now was a shoe full of lavatory water. I'd need to soak my foot in Dettol. Besides, I'd leave a trail of footprints as I made my getaway. It would look like a one-legged bloke with a leaking foot.

  I reached across the cistern. I could see Snitcher's problem. The bulk of the cistern provided a considerable obstacle to reaching the loose brick. I inched along the lavatory seat and stood on tiptoe. My fingers barely brushed against the brick.

  I flattened myself against the cistern and leant in as far as possible. My fingers closed around the brick and I felt it move a little. I worked my fingers into a gap. I loosened the brick, took it out of its place, and balanced it on the edge of the cistern.

  I reached into the black hole left by the brick. My fingers closed around something cold and metal. I got a grip on it and pulled it out.

  It was a cash box. The kind you used to see in small shops before cash registers became popular. The kind aged spinsters hide their savings in before stuffing the box underneath the bed. The first place any self-respecting burglar looks.

  Like an acrobat making a dangerous move, I pirouetted off the lavatory seat.

  Snit
cher leaned into my face "What is it?" His breath smelt like an explosion in a sugar factory.

  I said: "It's the kind of box we're not going to be able to open."

  "Isn't there a key?"

  "First, nobody keeps a key in the same place as the box holding their valuables. And second, this box doesn't operate with a key. It's the kind with a lock opened by a three-number code."

  I pointed to a rotor arrangement on the side of the box. You needed to change the rotors so that they displayed the right three-digit number and the box would open.

  Snitcher looked at me with defeated eyes. "That means there are nine hundred and ninety-nine possible combinations."

  "One thousand," I said. "It's possible the three digits could all be zero."

  "Just start at the beginning and try each number after the other."

  "We don't have time for that. Besides, these boxes often have a cut out after so many incorrect tries. Usually three."

  "We could have a lucky guess," Snitcher said.

  "And with an unlucky failure," I said. "We need to think about what number Hooke might have used."

  "What about 1, 2, 3?" Snitcher said. "Easy to remember."

  "And too obvious. I think we can exclude any three consecutive numbers. That rules out nine possibilities, if we include 0, 1, 2 and 8, 9, 0 as consecutive sequences."

  "Then it has to be three same numbers."

  "Also too obvious. Hooke sounds like the kind who'd have been more subtle than that. I think it's more likely to be a number that's special to him."

  "Like his birthday?"

  "Not special enough. He'd know that other people knew it."

  "What about his locker number in the changing rooms?"

  "Also known by other boys. So I don't think so. What other number might have been special to Hooke? Think, Snitcher."

  The lad's face creased with worry, his forehead wrinkled, then he grinned.

  "I bet it's his highest score in cricket. But I know that he was really out leg before wicket before he'd scored. He claimed he'd nicked the ball before it bounced off his pad. The umpire believed him."

  "What was his score?"

  "One hundred and six."

  "And you think he'd use that even though other people would know it?"

  "I'm certain. He was always boasting about it."

  I shrugged. There was nothing else. I shifted the rotors so the number read 1, 0, 6. I heaved on the handle. The lock creaked but didn't budge.

  One chance gone.

  "We have to think of something else," I said. "Isn't there anything about Hooke that would give us a clue? Come on, Snitcher, it's about time you lived up to your name."

  "I don't know," he whined. He scratched his head. "Wait a minute. I've remembered something. It was last year. I went into the library and Hooke was sitting in one of the alcoves reading a paperback novel. You're not supposed to do that during study time. I cheeked him about it. He told me to buzz off. But later he showed me the book and told me it was the best he'd ever read."

  "How does that help us?"

  "It was called Fahrenheit 451."

  "The Ray Bradbury novel." I'd remembered it'd been around for a few years. It was the kind of dystopian tale I've never really taken to. Why invent weird new worlds when the current one is strange enough for anyone?

  But perhaps Hooke had used the number on his cash box. I flicked the rotors - 4, 5, 1. I pulled on the handle. The box rattled. Didn't open.

  Two chances lost.

  We weren't going to crack this. I'd taken a big risk that wasn't going to pay off. Snitcher looked miserable.

  "Think harder," I said to him. "Did Hooke have any other favourites?"

  "He said he'd enjoyed the 1812 Overture in musical appreciation."

  "Too many digits."

  "In the summer, he always chose a 99 ice-cream from the tuck shop."

  "Too few."

  Snitcher slumped down on the floor. He held his head in his hands. I wasn't going to get any more out of him. And how could I guess the very personal number of someone I never knew?

  I turned towards the door. It was time to go.

  But wait a minute.

  There was one thing I did know about Hooke. He was proud of his bicycle. The one he was riding on the Bostal. I remember it was a special model. The model number had been painted on the front of the handlebars. It was a 77I. The I stood for Invincible. A great marketing name for a bike. Except it hadn't proved invincible for Hooke.

  There were only two digits and one letter. But suppose that letter was interpreted not as an I but as a number 1. That would make the number 771.

  My hand quivered with excitement as I twiddled the rotors. I pulled gently on the cashbox handle.

  There was a click and the lid swung open.

  Snitcher jumped to his feet. Hurried to my side. I pushed him back.

  "I'll take a look at this privately first," I said.

  Snitcher gave me a look like he wanted to see me boiled in oil. He slunk over to the washbasins and leaned sulkily on one.

  I reached into the box and took out a book. It was a dog-eared Mayflower paperback with a pink cover. The book was Fanny Hill, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. It had been written in 1748 by a bloke called John Cleland who had a way with words and a fantasy about wicked women. I'd read on the books page of the Chronicle that literary historians had tagged it as the first example of a pornographic novel. Only the previous year the police had seized copies of it from a London bookshop. The court had fined the owner for distributing an "obscene publication". But, evidently, not before Hooke had laid his hands on a copy.

  Over by the washbasins, Snitcher sprang alive when he saw the book.

  "I've seen that book before," he said. "Hooke used to charge boys a shilling to read it. I saved up my pocket money but he said I was too young."

  I tossed the book to Snitcher. "Be my guest."

  Snitcher caught the book, ripped it open, and buried his nose in the first page.

  He didn't notice as I reached into the cash box and took out the only other item in it.

  It was a passbook for the Sussex Coast Building Society. It had been issued by the Worthing Branch in the name of Spencer Hooke. I opened the book. There was a record of cash deposits going back at least two years. As I flipped the pages, I noticed that the number and size of the deposits increased. I made a mental note of the total: £1,793.17s.8d. It was a colossal sum for an 18-year-old boy to have on deposit. It would take me a year to earn that. But then I'd be doing it honestly.

  I glanced at Snitcher. His ears had turned red and some yellow stuff had seeped out of his nose. His left leg was wobbling, like it was powered by electricity. He hadn't noticed me look at the passbook.

  I slipped it back into the cash box.

  I said: "Okay, Snitcher. There's nothing else in the box. Come over here and give me that book before you have a laundry accident."

  Snitcher said: "Can't I keep it a bit longer?"

  "It must go back in the box and the box must go back where it came from."

  Snitcher gave me a surly sneer. But he sloped across the room and handed me Fanny Hill like he was losing a lover.

  I put Fanny back in the box. Then I pushed my way back into the cubicle. I climbed back on the lavatory, stuffed the box back, and replaced the loose brick which hid it.

  Snitcher watched me with resentful eyes.

  "What do I get out of this?" he asked. He had a scowl on his face that could have clouded the sun.

  I said: "The knowledge that you've helped one of Her Majesty's journalists in the performance of his clandestine duty."

  "You think you're clever, don't you? But you'll find I'm cleverer," Snitcher snarled. "Wait until I let people know you've been sneaking around the school at night. The rozzers will put you in prison as one of those men who prey on young innocent boys like me."

  "I don't think so."

  "They'll believe me. You see if they don't."

 
; "You've overlooked a couple of points, Snitcher. First, I've got an alibi. My landlady will swear blind she saw me go to bed this evening and not reappear until tomorrow morning. And, second, when the cops are tipped off that they'll find a porno book in the lavs, guess whose fingerprints they'll find on it? None other than young innocent Ranfurly Snitcher Sneath's."

  "It'll have your prints, too," Snitcher wailed.

  I held up my hands. "Ever wondered why I've been wearing these gloves throughout? The cops won't find any evidence to connect me to this. But plenty to nail you. Now beat it."

  Snitcher looked like he'd swallowed a frog. Sounded like it, too, when he tried to speak. He turned, kicked the towels away from the door, flung it open, and stormed out.

  I listened as the sound of Snitcher's running feet receded down the corridor. Then I switched off the light and flicked on my torch. I removed the towels from where Snitcher had kicked them. I rehung them on their hooks, and slunk silently into the corridor.

  Around the bend in the corridor a door opened, then slammed shut. Feet shod in heavy leather-soled shoes clumped over the parquet. Not the feet of a boy. The feet of a man.

  And they were heading towards me.

  Chapter 9

  I winced as the tendons in my arms and legs tightened, like an invisible puppet master had just yanked on the strings.

  I couldn't move. The feet clumped closer. This was going to be the moment when Crampton's career ended in disgrace.

  It was going to be difficult when this all came out - but I'd have to find a way to feel ashamed.

  I could see the Chronicle's own front-page headline: Rogue Reporter Jailed for Five Years.

  If I was lucky, Frank Figgis would give me a goodbye gift of some Woodbines to trade as snout with my fellow inmates.

  Mrs Gribble would gossip to her neighbours that she'd known I was a bad'un all along.

  Shirley would slap my face, cry a bit, and then return to Australia where she'd marry a jackeroo with his brains in his saddlebag.

  My life would be in ruins.

  Nemesis was a pair of feet just ten yards away.

  Their steady tread moved towards me. They were approaching along the main corridor. Towards the T in the T-junction. I was around the corner to the left.