Murder Flies the Coop

by Jessica Ellicott

  “That would explain his collection of books on the subject of pigeon breeding,” Edwina said. “What does Mr. Morley think of your regime?”

  “He has said nothing on the subject whatsoever. He has not agreed nor has he told me to my face he believed anything to the contrary. But what you have to understand about Morley is that he’s really above his station in our club.”

  “Above his station?” Edwina asked.

  “Indeed. The vicar was insistent that we invite him after hearing from Mr. Cunningham that Morley had a level of experience with the birds that the rest of us did not. If it weren’t for that he never would have been allowed to join. The man’s a short-distance pigeon racer, no doubt about it,” Mr. Scott said. He helped himself to a bun of his own.

  “Is that so? How does one know?” Edwina asked.

  “He’s a miner, isn’t he?” Mr. Scott said. “A workingman, not a tradesman or a gentleman. Workingmen are invariably short-distance pigeon racers. They can’t afford to do otherwise.”

  “So Mr. Morley is only a part of the club because of his experience as someone who ran a mobile pigeon loft during the war?” Edwina asked.

  “Of course. We heard about Dennis through Cunningham, and the vicar was eager to include him. He thought that it would improve everyone’s chances at the races. Considering I continued to win most of the time it hardly seemed useful to me to have him join the club. But I had no real objection, other than the fact that he wasn’t quite one of our sort,” Mr. Scott said.

  Edwina was all the more glad she had been the one to speak with Mr. Scott. She could only imagine Beryl’s reaction to his comments. His mention of class distinction would certainly have put her back up. No, it was altogether better for someone with a greater understanding of local sensibilities to handle a man like Mr. Scott.

  “What about Mr. Cunningham? Was he the right sort even though he was involved in work at the mine as well?” Edwina asked.

  “Cunningham was different because he had a job in the office at the colliery rather than working down in the pit. A bookkeeper is really a sort of professional and he managed to barely squeak by. Not that I thought he was much of a bookkeeper, as well you know,” Mr. Scott said. He dabbed at the crumbs clinging to his bushy mustache with a dainty, chintz serviette. Edwina thought, not for the first time, that he put one in mind of a disgruntled walrus with his gleaming bald head and fleshy torso. It was no wonder the other members of his club gave little credence to his dietary recommendations for birds or otherwise.

  “I’d hate for anyone to form the wrong impression concerning the nature of your disagreements with Mr. Cunningham,” Edwina said pointedly, glancing over at Minnie. Mr. Scott followed her gaze and nodded slowly. “Perhaps it would be in your best interest to make sure the story was known all about as to where you were when Mr. Cunningham died.”

  “While I appreciate you thinking of my reputation, as I have no idea when he was killed, how could I possibly say that?” Mr. Scott said.

  “To be on the safe side perhaps you should tell me your movements for the day of the race,” Edwina said. Mr. Scott nodded. “Would you mind terribly if I took notes? I feel it is important to be sure to get this absolutely right.” She would have to risk reticence from Mr. Scott and unabashed curiosity from Minnie if she wished to keep the details straight. Edwina pulled out her trusty notebook and well-sharpened pencil without waiting for an answer. She placed them upon the table between them and gave him an encouraging look.

  “The morning of the race I was at the shop receiving the day’s quantity of fruits and veg from my suppliers. Then I attended to customers on my own until my boy came in to help,” Mr. Scott said, pausing for Edwina to catch up with her scribbling. She nodded and he continued. “After that I took my van over to Blackburn’s garage to be seen to. The engine has been playing up a bit lately and I wanted to be sure to have them look at it before something small turns into an expensive repair job.”

  “Very sensible, I’m sure. What did you do when you left the garage?” Edwina asked. Minnie spotted the notebook and was making a beeline for their table. Mr. Scott noticed her approach and lowered his voice.

  “I returned to the shop and spent the rest of the business hours there. My boy can vouch for that. I had my tea at home with my wife and then headed out to the pub for a pint that evening. After that I headed home and went to bed.” He snapped his jaw shut as Minnie sidled up to the table. Edwina closed her notebook and returned it to her pocket.

  “Interviewing a suspect, are you?” Minnie asked. “Do you have a guilty secret, Mr. Scott?” Minnie turned her practiced gaze on the greengrocer and playfully waggled a finger at him most unbecomingly. Having been the frequent subject of idle gossip herself in the recent past Edwina felt a white lie was in order.

  “Mr. Scott was simply giving me the benefit of his wisdom on the subject of animal husbandry. I was enquiring as to whether or not my dog might benefit from an addition of fruits or vegetables to his diet. As Mr. Scott has had so much success raising his pigeons I thought he might be the one to ask,” Edwina said. Mr. Scott’s eyes widened slightly before he caught himself and gave her a slight nod.

  “That’s right. I was very flattered that Miss Davenport would look to me for advice,” Mr. Scott said. Edwina noticed he lied quite convincingly. She would have to take that into account when considering all he had shared.

  “Are you considering racing your dog?” Minnie asked, her eyes widening with the possibility of a story to spread around the village.

  “Certainly not,” Edwina said. “It’s his overall health that prompted me to solicit advice from Mr. Scott. The very idea of dog racing is quite preposterous.”

  “The idea of you opening a private enquiry agency would have seemed preposterous just a week ago, Edwina. I thought there was every possibility a decision to participate in dog racing was simply another fit of eccentricity on your part.” Minnie placed the check on the table squarely in front of Mr. Scott before stomping off.

  “I would say your reputation is in a great deal more danger than mine, Miss Davenport,” Mr. Scott said.

  “I daresay you may be right,” Edwina said.

  Chapter 22

  Beryl felt the slightest bit disloyal as she whipped down the country lanes on her way to the village of Hambley. While she thoroughly enjoyed Edwina’s company almost all of the time, it felt quite wonderful to open up her automobile full throttle and to really put it through its paces. She took each curve in the road with verve and arrived at the mining village in record time. Once again a gaggle of men and boys clustered around the vehicle and she came to a stop in the center of the village. By the time she had answered their questions and thanked them for their admiring comments, any time that she had saved on the road had been well and truly used up.

  She finally managed to make enquiries as to the whereabouts of Dennis Morley. Luckily he had been on an earlier shift and she was told, if he were adhering to his usual routine, he could be found tending to his pigeons on the outskirts of the village. A grizzled old man pointed the way. She thanked him and headed straight for a grassy patch stretched out beyond the small living quarters.

  There were quite a number of pigeon lofts clustered together but one seemed more professionally assembled than the others. She guessed it likely that a man with Mr. Morley’s experience would be the one in charge of such a thing. It was large, far larger than the one Mr. Cunningham had assembled on his allotment. In fact, it was large enough to look more like a toolshed than a coop. It put Beryl in mind of the potting shed where she had often enjoyed a furtive tipple with Simpkins.

  She rapped upon the door and waited for a voice from within to beckon her to enter. When one did so she pressed on the latch and stepped inside. There at the end of the small room sat a man in his twenties. Unlike so many others, he had all his limbs intact and no visible facial disfigurements. Perhaps his work with the pigeons had kept him far enough back to avoid some of the worst of t
he fighting.

  “My name is Beryl Helliwell. I’m looking for Mr. Dennis Morley,” she said, taking a step forward.

  “Then you found him. Aren’t you one of the detectives who found Lionel Cunningham’s body?” Mr. Morley asked.

  “As a matter of fact I am. I also happen to be acquainted with your wife,” Beryl said.

  “My Alice told me all about you and your business partner, Miss Davenport. She’s all excited about getting the mining community involved with the May Day celebration. Are you here about that?” Mr. Morley asked. “Or are you here in your capacity as an adventuress? Do you have some new lark planned involving coal mines?”

  “As intriguing as your suggestion is, I’m here to speak to you about your involvement with the long-distance pigeon racing club over in Walmsley Parva,” Beryl said. “Do you mind if I sit down?” She pointed to an upturned milk crate. Mr. Morley nodded and she took a seat.

  “What is it you want to know?” Mr. Morley asked. “Is this about Cunningham, because I already told that police constable everything I know about him.”

  “Actually, I’m far more interested in Mr. Scott’s winning streak,” Beryl said. “I wondered if you had any thoughts as to what explained his remarkable amount of success on the race course?”

  Mr. Morley leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. The birds in their nesting boxes cooed and ruffled their feathers.

  “I have a few thoughts as to what might explain his recent number of wins, but they aren’t too flattering,” Mr. Morley said.

  “It sounds like you are a man with a story to tell. I make a very good listener,” Beryl said. She reached into a pocket on the inside of her jacket and pulled out a silver flask. The flask had been a gift from one of her ex-husbands—she couldn’t remember which—and it had helped her to make friends in many far-flung locations. Which was ironic, she thought, when one considered how unfriendly the state of most of her marriages had become. She waggled the flask at Mr. Morley who leaned forward and took it with a smile.

  He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig before passing it back to Beryl. She capped it but left it out in open view in case he might need further encouragement to share his thoughts.

  “I’ve been racing pigeons for a long time. My father raced them, short-distance, mind you, when I was a lad. I put as much stock as the next man in the value of a good diet for the birds, maybe even more, considering,” he said.

  “Considering what, exactly?” Beryl asked.

  “Men like Gareth Scott haven’t sacrificed for their birds the way workingmen and their families have done down through the years. Many’s the night the family went to bed hungry so that my father would have enough money to buy food for his birds,” Mr. Morley said.

  “And your mother let him?” Beryl asked. It wasn’t a criticism; not really. She hadn’t any real maternal instinct herself but she was well aware she was an anomaly and that most mothers were quite insistent that their children should be fed. Everywhere in the world she had traveled she had noticed the same behavior, women doing without to make sure their children had all that they needed and quite often things they simply wanted. She had seen cases of abuse, naturally, but she had never encountered pigeons getting a meal when the children were forced to do without.

  “Do you know anything about the mines, Miss Helliwell? Anything besides what you read in the newspapers about strikes and coal shortages?” Mr. Morley crossed his arms over his chest. She was in danger of offending him. If she wanted the investigation to stay on track she would have to shore up the rapport. Sometimes she had found the sharing of a confidence was required to cement a new connection. “Do you know about what a life in the mines does to a man’s soul?”

  “I confess, I know very little about them. I shouldn’t like it to get around but I have something of a horror of going into spaces below ground and I cannot bear thinking about it. Cowardly, I know, especially when speaking with a man such as yourself who has served his country bravely.” Beryl reached for the flask and took a long tug before setting it down once more.

  “But you’re known for your steely nerves and risk-taking,” Mr. Morley said. He dropped his arms down from their defensive position and leaned forward with an astonished look on his face.

  “I like to go fast and I like to go up. I have no interest whatsoever in descending underground. So I am absolutely certain that you will have my respect no matter what the state of your soul,” Beryl said. Considering the surroundings and the whiskey, she felt the conversation had taken an unexpectedly ecclesiastical turn.

  “I shan’t burden you with the details of the dark or the damp or the sense of panic many miners feel until they become accustomed to the conditions. What matters most to understand is how it changes the heart to be so cut off from the natural world. No grass, no insects, no sunlight or refreshing breeze,” Mr. Morley said.

  “It sounds bleak beyond measure,” Beryl said. She felt a trickle of perspiration slither down the back of her neck and beneath her collar.

  “That isn’t the worst of it,” Mr. Morley said. “The life of a miner is filled with hard labor and uncertainty about his wages and his health. What isn’t uncertain is that he will spend his days covered in coal dust and has no claim to distinction in his own eyes or that of anyone else. He’s just another strong back, just another pair of hands. And he is made to remember he should be grateful for the job despite all that.”

  “It sounds like a sort of a prison,” Beryl said.

  “It is. The men all need a manner of escape and for many of them it is found in the pub where they drink the grocery money and then return home to beat their wives and children.”

  “Was your father such a man? “Beryl asked.

  “No, that’s just it. My father took a notion to try racing pigeons. It gave him something to think about, to plan. It gave him a way to be a winner in a world that did not generally see him as one. My mother, and all of us children too, were willing to do whatever it took to help him to have that chance.” Mr. Morley smiled. “Mother said if it meant missing a meal a few times each week to keep him out of the pubs she was more than happy to oblige.”

  “It sounds as though you were fond of your parents,” Beryl said.

  “I still am. My father taught me everything I know about keeping birds healthy under harsh conditions and about racing them, too.”

  “Is that one of the reasons you ended up in charge of a mobile pigeon loft during the war years?” Beryl asked. It was a touchy thing talking to a man about his time in the service. Some of them were eager to share their stories. Others clammed up so tightly you couldn’t have pried their lips open with an iron bar. Or a flask, no matter its contents. She held her breath waiting to see what sort of man Dennis Morley was.

  “That’s right. The pigeons were a vital part of our communication system and they needed people who were familiar with keeping them to serve in that unit. In a lot of ways I was very lucky. I got to keep doing something that reminded me of home, but I still felt as though I was contributing an important service to the effort,” Mr. Morley said, reaching for the flask again. Beryl obliged.

  “So you are in a position to have a trustworthy opinion on what goes into making a champion racer?” Beryl said.

  “That’s right. It might sound like bragging but it simply is the truth.” Mr. Morley reached over to a window well and laid hold of a pair of small books. Beryl squinted across the loft to read their spines. Pigeon Husbandry and You and A Breeder’s Guide to Champion Racers both looked well thumbed. “Anything I don’t already know, I read up on.”

  “Very commendable. And you feel capable of offering an opinion on Mr. Scott’s chances of winning with such regularity?” Beryl asked.

  “I know birds and I know when something just doesn’t add up. Gareth Scott’s claims that his birds keep winning because of the feed is one of those things that just doesn’t make sense,” he said.

  “You don’t believe what the birds eat has
anything to do with performance?” Beryl asked.

  “I’m not saying the feed makes no difference. Everybody wants to provide their birds with the best that they can afford. But no amount of fruits and vegetables explains his recent string of wins. I venture to say my birds are just as well fed as his but I keep coming in second or third place most of the time.”

  “I heard that second and third place almost always went back and forth between you and Mr. Cunningham,” Beryl said. “Was Mr. Cunningham just as suspicious of Mr. Scott as you seem to be?”

  “He was. The two of them argued about it at the last meeting. I think that’s the reason Gareth accused Lionel of fiddling the books.”

  “You think that Mr. Scott was feeling defensive and wanted to change the scrutiny to someone else?” she said.

  “That’s the impression I had, yes. He wanted to take the spotlight off his own behavior,” he said. “It worked, too. Everybody took a keen interest in what Gareth had to say.” One of the pigeons took a notion to leave its nesting box and fly across the loft to a roost on the opposite side. It soared just above her head and Beryl thought fleetingly of Cyril the parrot.

  “Mr. Scott told Miss Davenport and me that he questioned Mr. Cunningham’s bookkeeping. Even if you suspected him of trying to point fingers elsewhere, do you think there was any truth in his concerns?” she asked.

  “Maybe I am blinded by envy, but to tell the truth, I wouldn’t believe a thing Gareth Scott had to say. If he told me water was wet I’d check it out for myself.”

  “Did you know that the funds for the pigeon racing club disappeared at the same time Mr. Cunningham went missing?” Beryl asked. “Surely that has to make you wonder if Mr. Scott was right.”

  “It also might mean that Gareth set the whole thing up on purpose. He might’ve planted the seed of accusation at the meeting and then taken the money himself,” Mr. Morley said.