A Different Kind of Summer

by Jennie Melville

  But properly to interpret this secret voice you have to call on expert help. Even while Pratt was riding with William Burton a quiet little procession of a van followed by a police car was transporting the body to the police mortuary for the attention of the police examiner. The coffin and the clothes were going to be investigated by technicians in the small laboratory at the rear of the new police station. It looked just an ordinary coffin. In a short while a doctor was gazing at the body and wondering whether to draw what he had seen to the immediate attention of Inspector Pratt.

  “Might be an unsound deduction,’’ he murmured, bending to study a scar again. “ Leave it till later.’’

  Meanwhile, Willie Burton, not knowing Pratt was listening to this secret voice, had been left standing at the kerb, unable to say goodbye, and once again summing up John Pratt as a cold beggar.

  Chapter Four

  A woman had gone missing in Midport, her reasons for disappearing were her own affair (or so she thought), and for some time no one bothered that she was gone. Then things started to explode.

  She was Rose Chapman, a married woman living apparently amiably with her husband, although shortly he was going to ask himself on whose side the amiability and complaisance had been. He thought she was staying with her mother in Effingham, a suburb of Midport, and that she had been there for the past ten days. She had written no letter after the first one, which had simply said:

  Dear Len,

  I arrived safely. I find Mother really bad so I will not be

  able to write very often. I left everything ready for you in

  the kitchen. Don’t forget to feed the cat. I hope you keep

  well, Len dear, don’t expect to hear from me.

  With love from

  Rose.

  She could have written it all on a postcard and in fact she had hardly bothered to seal the envelope, which was flapping open. Len did feel faintly aggrieved; in his way he was a loving husband. At any rate, he attended to the one positive suggestion in her letter and he fed the cat. As a faint reproach he did not reply even with a postcard himself. Later, he was the first to admit that this had been a mistake. Always to write a reply promptly to the address from which you have just received a letter should be advice given to all whose kin have fled from home. It may not produce an answer, but it may flush something up. But in this case, of course, Leonard Chapman did not yet know his wife was gone. Still, it was a precaution he would always take in future—if he ever got another wife, or even the old one back.

  They continued in this way for nine days after the receipt of the letter. On that day Len opened his paper on the way to work and saw an account of a fire which had gutted a cinema used as a Bingo Club in Effingham the night before. There was a picture of a woman casualty being carried out on a stretcher and although he had no reason in the world to think that Rose had attended a Bingo Session in the Electra Cinema, Lower Road, Effingham, he was at once convinced he had recognised her in the photograph.

  He got off the bus and hurried straight round to the hospital in Regent Street, Midport, where the injured had been taken. There he learned that no one bearing his wife’s name had been admitted, and although he waved the photograph and clamoured to see the woman, he was told she had gone home, that her name was not Chapman and, no, in the circumstances, they could not pass on her address. So, anxious and angry, and yet with a feeling in his heart that perhaps he was being a fool (and of course he had to do something now to justify taking time off from work) he went round to his mother-in-law’s home. The first piece of news she handed to him was that Rose was not there, had never been there, that she hadn’t seen her for three months. Indeed she had a slight grievance herself about Rose: she had forgotten her mother’s birthday. She also pointed out that, far from being ill, she herself was enjoying exceptionally good health.

  Her son-in-law was at first incredulous.

  “But I had a letter from her,’’ he said, taking it from his breast-pocket.

  “Yes, that’s Rose’s writing.’’ She peered at the letter.

  “I know it’s Rose’s writing.’’

  “But she didn’t write it from here. Full of lies too,’’ she added spitefully. “I bet she didn’t even leave everything ready in the kitchen like she said. Have you got a cat?’’

  “She did,’’ said Len helplessly. “Yes, we have got a cat. What’s the point of talking about a cat?’’

  “You ought to have answered that letter straight away.’’

  “I don’t know where she’s gone. I don’t even know exactly when she went. Are you sure she never came here?’’

  “If you’d answered that letter at once, I could have let you know then that she was never here,’’ said his mother-in-law with cruel logic. It is hard to be condemned for your own unkindness of behaviour and he felt the sharpness of it. Especially as he could now see that Rose had counted on him being unaffectionate. She must have been both cleverer and more fed up with him than he had ever suspected.

  At once he wanted terribly to have her back. Leaving his mother-in-law’s peevish face, he hurried back to the police station nearest his home and reported her missing. He could have gone into the big station in the centre of Midport, which he passed on his way home, and he did consider going in; perhaps one got better service in a big place, but a sort of sentiment made him want to make the report in the police station close to his house. It made it more homely, and the disappearance of a wife is, after all, a homely and local affair.

  No one promised him very much help, because, as the station sergeant pointed out, his wife had clearly gone freely and of her own accord. She did not want to be found. Leonard was outraged to discover that you couldn’t claim a missing wife like a lost motor car. Nevertheless they did take her name and address and a short description. Leonard also insisted on leaving a snapshot. This was the photograph that later appeared in the press. The small mystery of who handed the picture over for publication was never solved. No one accepted responsibility.

  Within a few hours Pratt received a brief report on the body from his technicians. At his request they had hurried. But they had done a good job.

  The report had been written by the only doctor who had any sense of style. He said, among other things:

  … the body of a woman who had reached maturity, but had not begun to degenerate in any way. Therefore she was probably between eighteen and twenty-five. It is difficult to assess height accurately, owing to the absence of the head and neck, but if her proportions were normal she was probably about five feet five inches. You’d better add or subtract an inch either way … The body is well covered with fat; she probably weighed about one hundred and forty pounds. She was a plump girl … The skin is fair and the body hair is fine and fair. She was certainly a blonde and probably one with naturally straight hair.

  There are no birth marks or other congenital marks which could aid identification … There is a scar from an operation for a laparotomy done according to the unusual Schick-Leyden technique.

  She was not pregnant and has never borne a child.

  She had been dead over three days and less than ten.

  Pratt read the narrative rapidly and glumly. His gloom increased as he noticed that the cause of death had not been discovered and presumably had resulted from injuries to the neck and head. She had not died from asphyxiation. The report on the clothes and the coffin itself was not yet complete, but what little information the laboratory had to offer him was so far negative. The clothes were good but ordinary and without any laundry or cleaning marks. The coffin was a simple mass-produced one, the origin of which it might be possible to trace in the end. In the end was the operative expression here. Work was continuing on the study of the clothes, the coffin, and the sacking which had been wrapped round it.

  So ran the first report. No one’s attention had been drawn to a crucial fact, though Pratt ought to have noticed for himself. Perhaps Charmian Daniels would. Someone should.

 
So passed the first day.

  Although it was late Pratt got in touch with the police at Midport and asked them about women missing from their area. They had quite a selection to offer him but since Rose Chapman’s name was a new one and in their mind, they passed it on.

  This was hard luck or good luck for Rose, according to how you looked at it.

  Chapter Five

  The new police station at Deerham Hills, although much admired architecturally, was a source of dissatisfaction and grumbling to the people who worked there. They said it was too hot, they said it was too noisy, they said there were strange winds and breezes and that you could hear what people said two floors up. They said it was like living in glass boxes.

  Charmian had a tiny office, hard by Inspector Pratt’s. His every cough was audible to her, although oddly enough he could not overhear her. Probably just as well, Charmian thought. She shared this office with her new assistant, a girl called Christine Quinn, and her former assistant Grizel, who was now a married woman with a child and only came in to help with the files and card index system. Charmian lived by her card indexes.

  Grizel looked up and smiled as Charmian came in, but did not speak. She was a pretty girl who always looked composed. Unlike Charmian’s, her hair was always tidy and her clothes matched. It was no effort to her; she seemed to do it unconsciously. Even her baby always looked clean. Probably it cried like other babies, Charmian thought, but if so it never did in public. Both it and its parents had mastered to perfection the art of presenting themselves to the world.

  “Hello,’’ said Charmian, going to hang up her coat. Fretfully she noticed she had got green paint on the sleeve. Immediately on leaving the hospital she had taken Grace home as she had promised. Grace had quietened down and been peaceful on the way home, even showing an interest in Charmian’s job.

  “Do they always send for you when they want help with women?’’ she asked in a detached way; she had certainly seen a lot of Charmian herself these last few days.

  “Very often.’’

  “I suppose you’re kinder.’’ She said this half ironically, as if she hadn’t found Charmian so kind herself.

  Charmian did not answer. A percentage of her working life was taken up with girls like Grace and women in trouble and children who were lost. She had found silence a protection. You couldn’t afford to get too close. That was the thing: you couldn ‘t afford to get close. She was beginning to be something of an expert on missing girls. Last summer she had taken a vacation course in certain aspects of criminology at the University of Midport; now she was writing a short thesis on Girls Who Leave Home, for a Master’s degree. Her husband had encouraged her. “There’s no way forward for you in this career, except by work like this. I’m ambitious for you, Charmian.’’ And he smiled. “I want to be supported in my old age.’’ He was many years older than she was.

  “Eh?’’ prodded Grace.

  “It’s my job.’’ The last thing she wanted was to talk about herself to Grace. The less Grace knew about her the better. She couldn’t afford Grace’s interest.

  “I know that.’’ Grace turned and stared out of the car. “You can let me out now. This is where I live.’’

  “I know. I’ve brought you here before. Twice in fact. I hope this is the last time.’’

  They had arrived at the row of houses in Abbot’s End where Grace lived. Abbot’s End is not the most beautiful part of Deerham Hills. The streets had been carefully planned but somehow the intention of the planners to provide a lot of homes for a host of people at the lowest cost had come across very plainly. You could be grateful for a house in Abbot’s End, and many people were, but hardly glad.

  “Want me to come in with you?’’

  “No.’’ Grace stalked off and Charmian watched her. It was the third time this week she had watched Grace walk in and the pattern was always the same. Grace threw open the gate, banged it shut, then hurried up the little path to the front door where she would pause to search for the key. Or possibly she only pretended to search for a key. At any rate, she hadn’t found one yet, and so she always climbed in through a window which seemed left open on purpose.

  This time however there was a variation. Charmian saw her stop, give a little skip as if after all she wasn’t so unhappy and charge straight through the front door which for once seemed to be open.

  Charmian gave a small shrug and drove off. Grace was crazy. Why not admit it?

  For the rest of the day she was busy with the routine of her business. She saw the tearful mother of a child who was in trouble for stealing a bicycle; she interviewed a boy who was suspected of having put a length of old metal across the railway line in the hope of derailing a train, and she ate a hurried lunch in her own home, waiting for a telephone call from New York which never came.

  After eating, she hurried back to work, which included calling at the local infants’ school, and a little errand of her own.

  This errand had been in the background of her mind all day, and she had an idea it was on Grizel’s now. Accordingly she tried to avoid her eyes. But Grizel wouldn’t have any of this.

  “What did the doctor say?’’ she demanded, putting down her work.

  Charmian gave her a wry smile.

  “He said: young married women often have fancies of that sort.’’

  Grizel looked sympathetic.

  “I’m not a young married woman,’’ cried Charmian indignantly.

  “You’re not so old.’’ Grizel was divided between sympathy for Charmian, who must have hated the whole encounter (poor Charmian, she was going to have to learn!), and amusement.

  “I’m a professional woman. I don’t have fancies.’’

  “Still, I expect you were relieved. I mean, it’s the way you wanted it. Anyway, at the moment.’’

  “I don’t believe I shall ever have any children.’’

  “Practically everyone says that. It’s amazing that it seems to come as a shock to people that the reproductive system actually works.’’

  Charmian looked cross.

  “And it goes on working,’’ said Grizel, allowing her amusement to show, “ for much longer than you’re apt to think.’’

  Charmian sat down at her desk and belatedly consulted her letters. Nothing important.

  “I had a telephone call this morning.’’

  “Oh?’’ Grizel stopped work again.

  “New York.’’

  “Oh?’’

  “But it never came through.’’

  “Oh.’’ Grizel returned to her work. She was working economically and fast as usual. “What’s the new girl like?’’

  “Awful. A real time watcher. Always working out her off-duty and when she’s got leave due.’’

  “You can’t be like that in this business,’’ said Grizel placidly. She had always been sensitively aware of the passage of time herself but she had managed it tactfully. Chris clearly couldn’t.

  “No.’’

  “But you never like new people.’’

  “It’s the policeman’s disease,’’ smiled Charmian.

  There was a moment’s silence, then:

  “You know the latest, I suppose?’’ asked Charmian.

  “Oh yes. We’ve got a gunman in Deerham Hills. Only he’s using paint, not bullets. It’s peanuts.’’

  “I’d like to know how he’s working. It must be quite a thing technically. He could patent it … And about the body?’’

  “Who doesn’t?’’ Grizel swivelled round in her chair. “What are they going to do about it? I mean, will Pratt call in London for help?’’

  Charmian shrugged. “I think Pratt’s hoping she’ll sit up and identify herself.’’

  “He’s all booked up for a cruise to Madeira,’’ explained Grizel. This was the sort of information she dealt in.

  “I’ve got news for you,’’ she went on. “Pratt’s sending you to Midport on an identity check.’’

  “Midport?’’

  “T
he word’s Midport. And the reason is Willie Burton put him on to it.’’ She watched Charmian with bright eyes.

  Charmian got up and started to roam restlessly round the room, doing what Grizel called her ‘restless tiger’ walk. It was her hair and her skin that made her look tigerish.

  “I think I’m going to see more of Willie Burton,’’ she said. “ I think I shall see him again.’’

  “You’re going to have to. He lives in the same road as you,’’ observed Grizel drily. Charmian had several card indexes and knew the secrets of half Deerham Hills, but she never knew this sort of practical everyday fact about her own life.

  “You like him, don’t you?’’ said Charmian suddenly.

  Grizel considered. “He’s part of my life here. I’ve known him all my life,’’ she said.

  “Is he honest?’’

  “Oh yes, completely.’’ She was surprised.

  “Because there’s something funny about that business down at the railway station, you realise that? He may not be telling us everything.’’

  “I haven’t heard the full story.’’

  “Only someone familiar with the railway system could have put that coffin on its travels.’’

  Grizel was silent. Charmian continued her uneasy pacing of the room.

  “I liked him too,’’ she said. “ I liked the way he was there with his friend. I don’t like what I’m probably going to have to do. These people have a real solid relationship going and I feel intrusive. It’s my job, but I feel raw. I’ve never felt like that before. Why not?’’

  “For the first time you’ve got a real solid relationship going yourself,’’ observed Grizel shrewdly.

  “You think it’s solid?’’ She couldn’t keep the hope out of her voice. Grizel merely gave a smile and a little nod. “But you aren’t helping me,’’ Charmian went on with an ironical little groan. “This new sensitive me has a problem.’’