by Joyce Porter
Bello:
hidden talent rediscovered
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Contents
Joyce Porter
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Joyce Porter
Rather a Common Sort of Crime
Joyce Porter was born in Marple, Cheshire, and educated at King’s College, London. In 1949 she joined the Women’s Royal Air Force, and, on the strength of an intensive course in Russian, qualified for confidential work in intelligence. When she left the service in 1963 she had completed three detective novels.
Porter is best known for her series of novels featuring Detective Inspector Wilfred Dover. Dover One appeared in 1964, followed by nine more in a highly successful series. Porter also created the reluctant spy Eddie Brown, and the “Hon. Con”, the aristocratic gentlewoman-detective Constance Ethel Morrison Burke.
Dedication
To Eileen and Hedley Cleaver with much affection
Chapter One
Breakfast at ‘Shangrila’, 14 Upper Waxwing Drive, Totterbridge, was usually consumed in silence. The Honourable Constance Ethel Morrison-Burke, known widely as the Hon. Con, always felt pretty liverish until she’d had her work-out in the spare bedroom and idle chatter first thing in the morning got on her wick. Since she both paid the piper and wore the trousers in the household, her word tended to be law.
She sat in her maroon tracksuit on one side of the table in the dinette and glowered at the fluctuations of her shares in the Financial Times. The occasional subdued damns and blasts showed that, yet again, black ruin was staring her in the face.
Miss Jones, on the other side of the table and having no investments to worry about, tried to concentrate on the women’s page in her newspaper. Half her mind speculated as to whether the substitution of tinned pilchards for fresh salmon would make all that much difference, while the other half reminded her that they were nearly out of All Bran and she’d better buy a new packet when she went shopping. Dear Constance was really quite impossible if she didn’t have her All Bran regularly every morning.
‘That the post?’ asked the Hon. Con, punching a recalcitrant page mercilessly into submission.
‘Was it, dear? I didn’t hear anything.’
‘Ugh,’ said the Hon. Con. ‘Trouble with you is you’re getting deaf in your old age, Bones.’
‘Am I, dear?’ Miss Jones dutifully got up from the table and trotted out into the hall. The post had indeed arrived. The Hon. Con was rarely mistaken in such matters.
‘They’re all for you, dear.’
‘Ugh,’ said the Hon. Con, holding out her hand.
Miss Jones passed the four envelopes over and the Hon. Con shuffled them moodily. Two bills, a circular and …
‘Aah,’ said the Hon. Con, perking up, ‘this one’s from the Citizens’ Advice Bureau! ’Spect they want me to do a couple of extra hours next week. Lots of people ask specially for me, you know, and I did say that they could call on me any time they were short of an adviser.’ She licked the marmalade off her knife and slit the envelope open.
Miss Jones leaned across the table and collected the Hon. Con’s cup for a refill. Of course – tinned salmon was the answer! Just as nourishing as pilchards and only the weeniest bit more expensive.
‘Well, I’ll de damned!’ The Hon. Con smashed her fist down angrily on the table. ‘ Of all the low, stinking, snivelling, underhand, lousy tricks!’
Miss Jones, whose nerves after fifteen years of living with the Hon. Con were not in good shape, put the teapot down and emptied the saucer into the slop-basin. ‘Is something the matter, dear?’
‘Of course something’s the matter, Bones!’ exploded the Hon. Con. ‘Don’t ask such damn-fool questions!’
‘I’m sorry, dear.’
‘Not half as sorry as they’re going to be!’ growled the Hon. Con, her eyes bulging and her face going a peculiar shade of red. ‘If they think I’m going to take this lying down, they’ve got another ruddy think coming!’
Miss Jones was not a particularly perceptive woman but long experience had enabled her to read the signs. It had obviously happened again. Poor Constance, she never seemed to learn and she did take things to heart so. Miss Jones steeled herself to put the inevitable question with as much tact as possible.
‘You might well ask!’ snorted the Hon. Con, stuffing the letter back in its envelope and tossing the whole thing petulantly across the room. ‘They’ve chucked me out, that’s what the rotters have done! Chucked me out!’ Her face crumpled. ‘After three lousy weeks they’ve just … chucked me out!’ Manfully she choked back a sob.
‘Oh, dear,’ murmured Miss Jones.
‘And if you say ‘‘I told you so’’, Bones,’ the Hon. Con warned ferociously, ‘ I’ll never speak to you again!’
Miss Jones tried to look as though this particular rejoinder had not been trembling on her lips. ‘Did they actually mention Mrs Egglestone, dear?’
The Hon. Con scowled. ‘Not in as many words,’ she retorted gruffly and pushed her chair back from the table. ‘I Think I’ll just go and have twenty minutes with the old punchball,’ she announced with some dignity. ‘It’ll help clear my thoughts. Might have a go with the old chest expander, too, while I’m about it.’
Left alone Miss Jones shook her head gently and began clearing the breakfast things away. Poor, dear Constance! Still, she wouldn’t be told. She went at everything like a bull at a gate and then got all hurt and bewildered when one of the posts upped and smacked her round the ears. She must have known that the Citizens’ Advice Bureau people would never overlook that Mrs Egglestone business. How could they after all those pictures in the local paper, to say nothing of the court case?
Miss Jones bent down and picked the envelope up from the floor. What a pity that poor Constance had been on duty when Mrs Egglestone went along for advice about the silly drains in her silly council house! Constance wasn’t the only one to blame, Miss Jones reminded herself loyally as she straightened out the letter. Mrs Egglestone should have had more sense. Just because somebody tells you to chain yourself to the Town Hall railings, you don’t actually have to go and do it, do you?
Miss Jones tip-toed out into the hall and listened. Judging by the grunts and thumps coming from the spare bedroom, poor Constance was putting her back into getting rid of the hump. Such courage! Miss Jones retreated back to the dinette and read the letter. It was extremely chilly in tone and didn’t mince its words. The services of the Honourable Constance Morrison-Burke on the panel of advisers were curtly dispensed with, as of now. Miss Jones had over the years – and unbeknown to poor Constance – read many similar letters. What was so depressing about this one was that it was likely to be the last. Off hand, Miss Jones couldn’t think of any local organization – social, cultural or charitable – w
hich Constance hadn’t already joined and from which she hadn’t been expelled. When you had run through the WVS, the WI, all the classes at the Evening Institute, the Bridge Club, the Ramblers’ Association plus a dozen others right down to the Totterbridge and District Society for the Promotion and Protection of Caged Birds, there wasn’t much left.
Miss Jones dropped the letter sadly into the wastepaper basket and went to get on with the washing up. She’d barely started when the Hon. Con came mooching downstairs and hoisted herself on to the kitchen stool.
‘Feeling better, dear?’
The Hon. Con shook her head. ‘Heart’s not in it. You can do yourself a serious injury, you know, if your heart’s not in it.’ She sighed deeply. ‘ Matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about it for a bit now. It’s damned lonely, trying to keep in trim up there all by yourself.’ She shot a sideways glance at Miss Jones to see how this was going down.
Miss Jones reached for the tea towel. ‘Is it, dear?’
‘Ugh,’ said the Hon. Con and helped herself to a piece of toast which had been left over from breakfast. ‘I was thinking that maybe I’d give the old physical jerks a bit of a rest.’
‘Are you going to go on a diet then, dear? You can’t afford not to watch your weight, you know.’
‘Thought I might join the Badminton Club,’ said the Hon. Con with elaborate unconcern.
‘Oh, do you think that’s such a good idea, dear?’
The Hon. Con’s face screwed up into a scowl. ‘ Damn it, Bones, I’ve got to have some social life!’
‘But Mrs Mexborough is the president of the Badminton Club, isn’t she?’
‘So?’
‘Mrs Mexborough’s mother is old Mrs Sharman, dear.’
‘And?’
‘Old Mrs Sharman was the secretary of the Darby and Joan Club that year you organized the talks for them.’
‘Oh, stuff!’ groaned the Hon. Con. ‘The whole blasted family’s not going to hold that against me, are they?’
‘Old Mrs Sharman was very upset about it. They had to call the doctor in to her.’
‘But, damn it, I’ve explained what happened till I’m blue in the face! I didn’t know that that young fellow was actually recruiting for his voluntary euthanasia society, did I? I just mis-read the letter, that’s all. I thought he was going to give an ordinary, factual lecture – same as anybody else.’
‘It still wasn’t a frightfully tactful thing to do, though, was it dear? Not for an audience of old-age pensioners.’
‘I thought they’d be interested.’ The Hon. Con let fly with a sudden yelp of laughter. ‘By Golly, they were, too! None of the old dears dozed off that afternoon, I can tell you!’
‘Most of them didn’t dare doze off for the next six months, dear. Anyhow, I think you can take it as quite definite that old Mrs Sharman has neither forgotten nor forgiven, and her daughter won’t have done, either.’
‘Oh well’ – the Hon. Con heaved herself off the stool – ‘back to the drawing board, eh? Badminton’s a pretty soppy sort of game, anyhow. Be seeing you, Bones!’
Miss Jones, once more mistress in her own domain, finished off the washing-up and started on the sitting room. She was vacuuming away industriously when the Hon. Con came thudding yet again down the stairs.
‘I say, Bones,’ she bellowed at the top of her powerful voice, ‘I’ve got it! Eureka, and all that tosh!’
With truly admirable forebearance Miss Jones switched off the vacuum and prepared to listen.
The Hon. Con, her hands rammed deep in her trouser pockets, prowled excitedly round the room. Whatever faults she might possess, lack of enthusiasm for her own brilliant ideas was not one of them. Since she didn’t want to frighten Miss Jones out of her wits, however, she approached her subject in a round-about manner.
‘I was up there, Bones,’ she began and jerked her head expressively towards the ceiling, ‘ working up a bit of the old muck sweat and trying to analyse where it had all gone wrong. Oh, I don’t just mean these stinking Citizens’ Advice Bureau wallahs. There have been one or two other little contretemps, I don’t deny it. Well, you know me, Bones. Self-criticism’s my middle name. Always has been. But, honestly, this time I couldn’t for the life of me see where I was at fault. Same with all the other occasions, too, really. When you come to examine ’em with an unbiased mind – well, you’ve just got to admit it. The faults simply weren’t on my side. With me thus far, Bones?’
Miss Jones was polishing an ash-tray. ‘Go on, dear,’ she said.
‘Right!’ The Hon. Con straddled a convenient chair. ‘Well, you see where that leaves us, don’t you? If it hasn’t been my fault, it must have been theirs. Clear as crystal. So, I’ve nothing to reproach myself with. O.K.? None the less’ – the Hon. Con assumed a serious mien – ‘we can’t deny that I haven’t achieved what I set out to achieve, can we?’
Miss Jones contented herself with a mute shake of the head.
‘Now some people, Bones, faced with a predicament like this, would just chuck their hands in and I don’t mind telling you that, up there in the old gym, I did think about doing precisely that. But, I rejected the temptation. Oh yes, Bones, I rejected it. You’re a Morrison-Burke, I reminded myself, and the Morrison-Burkes stick to their guns. Pull yourself together, old chap, I said, and fight back! After all, you see, Bones, it’s not as though I’m doing all this for myself. If it was just me I’d pack it in tomorrow and be glad to. But the aristocracy have got obligations – always have had and always will have. If we don’t look after the lower classes, who will? See what I mean, Bones? Look at those poor devils that used to come to the Citizens’ Advice Bureau! Bewildered, they were! Couldn’t cope. Didn’t know how to go about even the simplest things. Just ordinary working-class people, they were – and none the worse for that, of course. Some of ’em are as bright as anybody and I don’t – care who hears me say so. But the others, the vast majority of ’em, they need help and it’s up to people like me to give it to ’em. Same as soup kitchens in the old days.’
Miss Jones frowned. ‘I suppose so, dear,’ she agreed doubtfully.
‘Exactly the same,’ said the Hon. Con firmly. ‘And noblesse Oblige – don’t forget that! So, there it is! What do you think, eh?’
‘Er – think, dear?’
‘If you’d put that bloody duster down and listen, Bones, I shouldn’t have to keep repeating myself!’ snapped the Hon. Con. ‘It’s my bounden duty to give a helping hand to these poor nitwits, isn’t it? People look on me as a sort of father-figure – see? But, soon as I join one of these societies or organizations or what-have-you, the plebs all gang up to thwart me, don’t they? So, I’ve just got to strike out on my own.’
‘On your own, dear?’
‘It’s the obvious solution. I should have thought even you would recognize that. I’ve just got to open my own advice bureau.’
Miss Jones stopped polishing her ash-tray. Was it too late to revive dear Constance’s fleeting interest in badminton? ‘What sort of advice bureau?’ she asked in a rather strangled voice.
The Hon. Con, relieved at having got the worst over, left her chair and began pacing the room again. ‘Oh, the usual sort,’ she said airily.
‘But what are you going to give advice about, dear?’
‘Anything. All you need is a bit of the old common sense and a few reference books. Good God, my erstwhile and unlamented colleagues at the Citizens’ Advice Bureau aren’t exactly Brains of Britain, are they? Lot of old fuddy-duddies, the whole bang shoot of ’ em.’
‘But, dear, won’t some of the people want advice about … well’ – Miss Jones lowered her voice – ‘ marriage problems and things like that?’
‘Good grief, Bones, you don’t have to have the toothache to be a dentist, do you?’ The Hon. Con accompanied this rhetorical question with one of her bellowing laughs and set Miss Jones’s collection of china dogs rattling on their shelf. ‘ Well,’ she added, switching to a more emotional note, ‘jolly
glad to know you’re batting on my side, old girl! Always knew I could rely on you, of course.’ She patted Miss Jones awkwardly on the arm and, pulling out a large white handkerchief, blew her nose. ‘Got to get cracking now, Bones! No time to waste! There’s an empty shop right opposite the Citizens’ Advice Bureau. Do me fine if the rent’s reasonable. You won’t be wanting the car this morning, will you?’
Miss Jones’s mind at this point could best be described as a battlefield. On the one hand she had every faith, naturally, in the Hon. Con’s abilities and would loyally back her through thick and thin, whatever she did. On the other hand the prospect of the Hon. Con on the rampage with her own private advice bureau did take a bit of stomaching. Miss Jones was well aware that her friend already cut a somewhat equivocal figure in Totterbridge society and she had no wish to see some of the ambiguities resolved, once and for all, by such a hare-brained undertaking as this. Still, what were pals for if they didn’t stand by you? Miss Jones was forced to acknowledge that, had the positions been reversed, the Hon. Con would never abandon her.
Meanwhile the car was already being backed out of the garage. Miss Jones scurried outside.
‘Constance, dear,’ she called, ‘ could you do some shopping for me while you’re in town?’
The Hon. Con man-handled the gear lever into first. ‘Shan’t have time!’ she roared back. ‘You can get the bus, can’t you?’
‘I suppose so, dear,’ murmured Miss Jones as she waved goodbye, ‘though it’s not really frightfully convenient.’ She watched the Hon. Con shoot out into the road and then turned and walked pensively back into the house.
The Hon. Con frequently described herself as a ball of fire and on this occasion she did indeed tear through Totterbridge like a meteor. Estate agents, painters and decorators, telephone engineers, office furnishers and signwriters all quailed before her. It says a great deal for her driving power that in a mere three weeks she was ready to open for business. Left to herself she could have had the whole thing cut and dried in three days but not even the Hon. Con could force the British workman to proceed at a pace much beyond that at which he deemed it seemly to go.