‘Fancy old Tweedy Knickers coming up to us like that?’ Kick said.
‘Clarissa Fulton–Howard, please’ Billy corrected putting on a comically snooty voice.
‘How did she know it was us?’
‘I know her,’ Billy said. ‘She’s seen me with “Reggie”.’
‘Reggie?’
Billy giggled. ‘That’s his name, old Hadfield. He’s called Reggie.’
Kick looked at him crossly. ‘What’s to laugh about? My dad’s called Reg.’
Billy shrugged, hiding his look of guilty amusement. ‘I think I should go and see her,’ he said. ‘There’s sommat going on there. Why is she suddenly so friendly? She’s up to sommat. I’d like to know what.’ He began to imagine what such a meeting might be like and soon wished he had not suggested it. ‘Will tha come wi' me?’
Kick thought of Doctor Fulton-Howard’s tweed bound frontage, stern face and icy glare and quickly decided that there were plenty more urgent calls on his time.
‘I mean to say, all for one and one for all, like we agreed,’ wheedled Billy.
Kick blew a sigh. ‘Okay, burram not asking her owt. Tharz got to do all the talking.’
They slid down from the loft and squeezed passed Beattie, rubbing her neck and shoulder. The old mare whickered and leaned into their petting, thoroughly enjoying it.
They left the warm, horsey smell of Mister Leaper’s yard and tramped thoughtfully up to the noise and bustle of South Road. Trams rattled by bringing home the last of the day shift. At his fruit and veg shop, the owner, Mister Lambton, was only just closing up, even though it was gone six-thirty, an hour past normal closing time. Lambton’s fruit and veg, was often the last shop to close. He liked to clear his shelves daily, to make way for the fresh stock he would buy each dawn in the wholesale market. He tossed the lads an apple each and grinned at them – possibly – for Mister Lambton had a squint, and it was never easy to be sure who he was actually looking at. ‘Billy! A word?’ the fruiterer said, twitching his head conspiratorially.
Billy bit into the apple and followed him into the darkened shop. ‘What’s up?’
The greengrocer bent close to Billy’s ear. ‘I hope you’re not gerrin thee sen mixed up wi’ that owd rogue Sutcliffe,’ he whispered. ‘Thart not, are tha?’
‘No, what do you mean?’
Mister Lambton looked about his empty shop as if to make sure they would not be overheard. ‘One of my customers, I can’t tell thee who, saw him steal a bloke’s jacket from a car down Rivelin.’
Billy’s spine tingled with excitement. He almost choked on his apple. ‘Who were it? What sort of car?’
‘I just told thee, I won’t say who it were. I’m just giving thee a warning cos I heard he were trying to sell it to thee mam.’ He eyed Billy suspiciously for a second. ‘Everybody knows she takes old jackets for thee dad for work. I’m just warning thee, mek sure she dunt buy it. It’s stolen goods. She could gerrin to trouble if t’coppers ever found out.’
Billy’s shoulders slumped. ‘Thanks,’ he said miserably. ‘She dint buy it. It were like a brand new ‘en. He wanted ten bob for it. She dunt usually pay owt for ‘em.’
‘Good! I just wanted to warn thee, that’s all.’
‘Can’t you even tell me what sort of car it was?’
Mister Lambton shook his head. ‘No and tha can try as much as tha likes, but I waint tell thee his name neither, nor nowt else.’
‘A man then? It were a man?’ Billy’s eyes bored into one of Mister Lambton’s.’
‘Who sez it were?’
‘You did. Tha just said “his name” so it must be a man.’ Billy gazed at him, willing him to weaken and divulge the name of the witness. ‘A man who comes in here shopping,’ he went on. ‘It’s mostly women who shop here. So, that means it’s a man who shops for himself. An old man, whose wife's dead?’
Mister Lambton looked alarmed. He groaned and bustled Billy out of the shop. ‘Go on, bugger off. I’m not telling thee. And think on, keep clear of Sutcliffe, he’s trouble.’
Outside in the street, young men smelling of shaving soap and Brylcreem were dashing for the pubs; The Rose House, The Walkley Cottage and the Freedom. They had just enough time to down a quick pint before meeting their girlfriends in the Palladium queue. Realizing the lateness of the hour, Billy glanced at the time on St Mary’s clock tower - ten to seven. Again, he was missing Dick Barton. He groaned and vowed that when he had solved this case he would never miss another episode, no matter what.
The doctor’s surgery would close at seven. On the dot, Clarissa Fulton-Howard would close the blind, lock her consulting room window, and leave for home. Billy and Kick stood by her car parked in the surgery yard and waited quietly, their stomachs churning with apprehension.
Betraying no reaction on seeing them there, Doctor Fulton-Howard locked the surgery's front door and marched towards them across the gravel drive. ‘What are you two doing here?’
‘I thought you wanted to speak to me, Miss,’ Billy said stiffly.
‘Doctor. You say Doctor, not miss.’ She fiddled in her large shoulder bag and fished out the ignition keys for her Rover. ‘We said all we had to say earlier today.’
‘I was wondering if you were friends with Professor Darnley, or his friend Mister Longden?’
‘Doctor Longden,’ she corrected. ‘He’s a physician … Look, what’s all this about?’
‘A woman was killed during the war. She was their friend. She worked at the museum with Professor Darnley. Somebody smashed her head in and buried her under some rocks, to make it look like bomb rubble, same as the rest of them in the Marples Hotel. But it wasn’t. It was cold blooded murder.’
‘You bold boy! How dare you say … What on earth does that have to do with Doctor Longden?’
‘There was no enquiry into her death. No Ortosky.’
‘Ortosky?’ she queried.
‘Autopsy,’ Kick put in, stony faced. ‘They just added her to the list of them killed in the Marples' bombing.’
‘Well if she was there, and her body was under rubble, what else could it be?’
‘It wasn’t rubble. It was building stone from when they built the main Post Office. It’d been piled on top of her to look like rubble.’
‘Well I don’t know,’ she said crossly. ‘Without the full facts it’s impossible to say.’ She opened the car door and slid inside, her face fixed like a stone carving.
‘Every death should be accounted for, even in wartime,’ said Billy repeating what he’d been told. ‘This was murder, anybody could see that. So, how come there was no enquiry of any sort and no – er - autopsy?’
Doctor Fulton-Howard stared ahead as grim faced as a York Minster gargoyle. She fired up the shiny Rover saloon and lurched away spraying gravel about their shins.
0o0o0
Chapter Twenty-One
A couple of days later Billy arrived home to find his mam waiting for him. She looked pink faced and worried. ‘What’ve you done?’ she asked, meeting him at the door. Billy looked up from the bottom step, his mind rapidly sifting through all possible misdeeds, errors and omissions for which he might be culpable. As usual, there were far too many to concoct an effective defence, especially at such short notice.
‘I’ve had the doctor here,’ his mam said.
Billy took a step back and checked her over for any obvious signs of illness or injury; spots, pot leg, eye patch, crutches. ‘What’s up mam, aren’t you well?’
‘No, it’s not me. It’s you!’
‘Thiz nowt wrong wi’ me.’
‘He was asking for you. He was very cross. What have you done?’
‘He’s me friend, mam. I expect he were just looking for me. I’ll go round after me tea and see what’s up wi’ him.’
‘He’s not your friend, Billy. He’s a doctor, a grownup. You’re just a kid.’
‘I’ve told you before, mam, he likes me, and he likes being a detective. We talk about all sorts. He knows all a
bout the ancient Greeks and knights and cricket.’
Billy squeezed passed his mother into the living room. The smell of simmering cowheel and dumplings steamed his glasses up and set his mouth watering. He wiped the lenses with the thumb and finger of one hand whilst fending off his ecstatic dog with the other. It was time for Dick Barton. He pulled up his favourite stool, leaned close to the wireless set and tuned in the programme. His dad glanced up at him from his newspaper, gave him a secret wink, and tut-tutted theatrically. ‘In trouble again – eh? What’ve yer done this time?’
‘I ‘aven’t done nowt. Doc Hadfield’s a pal. I expect he wants to tell me sommat.’
*
Billy and Yvonne waited by Doc Hadfield’s car after surgery the following day. They had found it parked in its usual spot in front of the coach house doors.
‘Get in!’ Hadfield snapped, as he bustled out of the surgery door, one arm in his raincoat sleeve, the other loaded with medical bag, university scarf and a bulging manila folder of patients' notes for the night round.
Mystified, Billy shrugged and squeezed into the little Austin Ruby’s rear seat. Yvonne followed and sat in the front. Hadfield took his seat, banging and bumping about reproachfully as he stowed his scarf and bag and stuck the ignition key into the starter switch. ‘What the devil have you done?’
Billy shot Yvonne a puzzled frown. She looked back at him equally bemused. ‘Me mam said you came to the house yesterday. We’ve been looking for you since. What’s up?’
‘You’ve got to stop all this, the pair of you.’ Hadfield turned awkwardly in the cramped driving seat and eyed them both sternly.
‘Stop what?’ Billy asked.
‘You’re upsetting people; Sarah – err - Doctor Beckett, and now my boss. I’m in enough trouble with her as it is. I don’t need you adding to my problems. You’re blundering around like a bull in a china …’
‘Is this cos we spoke to old tweedy knickers?’ Billy asked.
‘She came to us first,’ Yvonne said, springing to Billy’s aid. ‘You were there, Doctor. You saw her come and speak to us. She asked questions. Billy was just going on from there.’
‘Yeah, on from there,’ said Billy giving Yvonne an appreciative nod for the support.
‘Well, she’s been on my back all day. She said you and Kick were insolent monkeys.’ He was glaring at Billy in the rear view mirror. The Austin’s engine shuddered into life and Hadfield drove out of the coach house yard and headed up the leafy street of small Victorian villas. He was staring grimly ahead, his cheek muscles pulsing with tension.
‘We asked her about Mary Scott’s murder, that’s all,’ Billy explained. ‘We wondered if she’d ever heard about it. I told her there was no - ort – ort – autopsy. I thought she might’ve known why. Did you know she’s pals with the top man in the morgue?’ He caught Hadfield’s eye in the mirror. ‘We were polite and careful. We weren’t rude nor nowt. Then, all of a sudden, I don’t know why, she got all stroppy and drove off.’
‘You’ve got to stop this, Billy,’ said Hadfield. ‘First, you go bowling into Sarah’s – er - Doctor Becket’s luncheon break, then you upset my boss. It’s got to stop.’
‘Well, if we're nuisances, Doctor Hadfield, that’s nothing compared to poor Mary Scott. She’s dead,’ said Yvonne passionately. ‘Somebody killed her, and whoever did it has been free to enjoy over ten years of life since then; ten Christmases, ten summer holidays and ten birthdays stolen from poor Mary Scott. Whoever did it thinks they got away with it. Well I don’t think they should. I think the least we can do is try to catch them, and it doesn’t hurt anybody to answer a few questions, even snooty old lady doctors.’
Hadfield almost ran off the road, surprised at Yvonne’s opinion. ‘Crickey! That’s quite a mouthful.’ He shrugged feeling somewhat chastened. ‘Huh, you’re right, of course. Look, I’m sorry...’
‘And I never upset Sarah Becket,’ Billy said, piling in righteously. ’She were reight nice to me. I could’ve ‘ad one of her sandwiches, burra dint. I were reight polite and just had a crisp.’
Hadfield pulled up outside his small octagonal house and switched off the engine. He sat in silence for a moment then grinned at his passengers. ‘Jam and tea, anybody?’
A few minutes later, between sips of tea in the doctor’s living room, Yvonne leafed through her ubiquitous notebook, attempting to summarise the progress of their investigations. A raspberry jam seed clung distractingly to her cheek as she spoke. Billy interrupted her indiscriminately, thereby ensuring their collective analysis was hopelessly random and confused.
‘The paint mark on the jacket is crucial,’ Hadfield said reviewing what he had heard. ‘At the very least it connects the jacket to the dance floor timbers. It’s a pity we can’t prove that Darnley was actually wearing it at the time. Even so, it’s pretty strong circumstantial evidence that he was either in that basement store, or under the dance floor. Both are locations in which he had no good reason, or authority to be.’
Yvonne wiped her face with her hand, but missed the raspberry jam seed. ‘We need to make sure the coppers check that out, Billy,’ she said, adding a line to her notes. ‘They need to make all the same connections that we’ve done.’
‘Yeah, I’ll tell John Needham,’ said Billy. ‘He can pass it on to ‘em.’
‘Old Clarissa has been really strange these last couple of weeks,’ Hadfield mused into his cup. ‘I thought she might be out to get me, and now - well I know she is. She hates me you know. Can’t think why.’ He spread jam on another slice of bread and butter. ‘She's as looney as a booby.' He laughed at some recollection. 'I remember she sprained an ankle at Oxford, and used to stamp around with a croquet mallet for a walking stick. Woe betide anyone who sniggered. She's still as crazy as ever, only nowadays she's only got me to pick on. She accuses me of everything that goes wrong. I think she even blames me for that scratch on her car. I’m waiting for her to pounce. It's like the sword of Damocles. Mind you, she might not. I think she knows very well who did it. She's been hitting the sauce, you know. Oh heck! I shouldn’t have said that. For God’s sake don’t ever repeat that. Promise, promise me now, both of you.’
Yvonne and Billy mumbled their assurances and nodded bemused. ‘What do you mean, “hitting the sauce” what sauce?’ Billy asked.
‘Nothing. Forget it. The old girl has a lot on her mind. She’s under great stress.’
The three sat in silence for several moments, deep in thought. ‘What will you tell Marlene?’ Yvonne demanded suddenly, her tone dramatically restrained. Billy sat up, surprised, and saw that her dark brown eyes were boring into the doctor’s.
Hadfield reddened slightly. ‘I haven’t seen your sister for several weeks, Yvonne,’ he answered feebly. ‘We – er – we had a drive out to Bakewell, as you probably know. It was nice. We picnicked by the river. In fact, we enjoyed it so much we promised ourselves a picnic at Chatsworth the following weekend. I don’t know why, but it never happened. We just sort of - stopped - seeing each other.’ He was quiet for a moment then shuffled in his chair before speaking again. ‘To be frank, I rather thought that Marlene had dumped me. Though of course, you’re absolutely right, I do owe her an explanation. However, I can assure you, Yvonne, Doctor Becket has nothing to do with it. We’re just friends, nothing more.’
‘Huh, not for long – Reggie,’ Billy quipped, grimly sarcastic.
‘Shut up!’ Yvonne snapped at him, her angry reaction finally dislodging the raspberry jam seed from her cheek.
*
John Needham listened as Billy explained how he thought Professor Darnley could have drowned James Hepburn, and made sure the body remained hidden until he was far from the swimming baths and suitably armoured by a concrete alibi.
Billy had tracked the constable to the Rivelin Valley gardening association’s clubhouse. It stood on a hillside at the edge of an expanse of allotment gardens, wedged between a school and a shirt factory. It was a dusty, wooden shed, about t
wenty feet wide and forty long. As dry as snuff, it smelled of blood-fish-and-bone fertiliser, tobacco and sisal. Around its walls were piled stocks of garden canes, bales of hessian, hanks of raffia, plant pots, balls of sisal, bags of lime, and a clutter of used gardening tools for sale. A couple of notice boards displayed posters announcing details of various gardening events and competitions. Want-ads, mostly scrawled on fag packets, convened in irregular groups on the wooden walls like moths at rest.
When Billy finished his presentation, John Needham agreed to pass his theory about the paint-stained jacket to a friend of his on the forensics’ team. He led him to a corner of the shed where a wooden bench seat had just become vacant and sat down. He immediately turned his attention to Darnley’s possible motive. ‘They were well acquainted, you know’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘They went to the same clubs and social events …’
‘And the Turkish baths,’ Billy said sitting beside him.
‘But not best mates. Close acquaintances, as you might say.’
Billy wondered whether to tell him about the unknown witness to Sutcliffe’s theft of the coat from a car in Rivelin Valley, but decided not to, not yet anyway. First he would try to trace the man himself, and the car too. At worst, old Sutcliffe could answer both questions. If he couldn’t trace him by other means he could always try to persuade the old devil Sutcliffe to talk. Huh, fat chance, he thought.
A group of allotment holders shuffled noisily into the shed, breaking the dusty silence. They all carried vegetables or blooms. Nodding amiably at John, they huddled round an old packing case, which served as a desk, kettle stand, and samples table, and laid out tomatoes, early chrysanthemums, and runner beans for inspection. John looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. ‘Crickey, I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back to you about that paint mark, but I need to know where that jacket was really found. I know you showed it to your mother …’ Billy blushed and started to protest, but John stopped him. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody, but I want to know how you got it. Whoever gave it to you could be in big trouble. I might be able to help them if they just tell me where they found it.’
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