The Crime at Halfpenny Bridge

by George Bellairs

  The houses are in varying states of repair for, although they all belong to the same landlord, the vicar of St. Titus’ Church, the reverend gentleman’s agent has his own favourites among the tenants and spreads himself in some cases more than in others.

  There is, however, a monotonous uniformity about the street. A stern matriarchal council reduces everybody to the same level in the way of exterior appearances. For example, the lintels and door-jambs are all stoned white and neatly frame the entrances. The doorsteps and window-sills, too, are of the same snowy colour. Nobody knows when, in the dark century and a half’s existence of the property, the convention was started, or by whom, but the business of the convocation of women which governs the street is transacted during the early part of the day, which is devoted to this embellishing of entrances and thresholds. The case of anyone daring to break the unwritten rules of Pleasant Street comes for hearing before a score or more of matrons, arms extended over the doorways, like saints before a beatific vision, or else on their knees furbishing the steps like the anchorites who wore away solid stones by their genuflections.

  The window-curtains of the street are uniformly drab and of plain net. Any fancy tenant daring to make her dwelling conspicuous and thus expose the shabbiness of the rest by an outstanding pattern, will soon get to know about it and suffer the tortures of sniffs, scornful looks, bodily rigidity and chattering behind her back until she returns to normal.

  If anybody wants to put on a show, she had better remove her roost, bag and baggage, to a more progressive district.

  At the head and tail of each row stands a shop. An off-licence and a small grocer’s face each other at one end. At the other, a baker’s in whose windows stand every morning rows of loaves and piles of pies, which have all vanished into the insides of the houses or their inhabitants in Pleasant Street before nightfall. The baker himself must suffer either from defective vision or faulty ovens, for his products are always overdone. As though he temporarily forgets them when they are out of sight and cooking and is only reminded of them by a smell of burning. Opposite the baker’s is a fish-and-chip shop, the aroma of which bathes the whole street like incense when its owner, Mr. Menelaus, is frying.

  Pleasant Street runs parallel to the quay of Werrymouth and is connected with it by side-streets running at right angles from each end. The names of these tributaries are Gas Street, the scene of the Werrymouth Corporation’s long gone and historic experiments in a new illuminant, and Gladstone Street, founded by an admirer of William Ewart.

  If the outsides of the Pleasant Street cottages are all alike, the insides and indwellers are not. Some have been there all their lives; others are here to-day and gone to-morrow. Some live orderly moral lives; others, like the woman at No. 32, who calls herself a widow and dresses like the Queen of Sheba, are no better than they should be. There are a lot of dark secrets hidden there. For instance, the pair posing as Mr. and Mrs. at No. 21 are not married, and if the truth were known about Mr. and Mrs. at No. 13, she, although possessing marriage-lines, isn’t Mrs. at all, because her Mr. has committed bigamy; but nobody knows.

  The man at No. 7 gets drunk three times a week and beats his wife. The pair of them turn upon anyone daring to interfere between them, although she screams the street down during the periods of flagellation. Now and then, internecine warfare breaks out in the street, blows have been known to be exchanged and the police called to restore peace. On one occasion, the man at No. 4, having come by a tumbledown piano as a legacy from his uncle, played it until his frenzied neighbour at No. 6 rushed in and crowned him with a beer bottle. No. 4 was in hospital for a fortnight after that and No. 6 went down for seven days. The sympathetic neighbours passed round the hat for both of them and gave their lonely wives four and threepence halfpenny each with which to keep their homes going whilst the mainstays were absent.

  That was the nearest anybody got to murder in Pleasant Street until the night of October 23rd, 1943.

  On that night everything was very quiet in the street. In fact, there was quite a benign atmosphere there, for Mr. Menelaus, who had been closed for a week owing to shortage of cooking-fat, had received a fresh lot that day and was frying like mad and filling the air with the unctuous aroma of his labours. Thin streaks of light escaped from badly blacked-out windows, revealing dark forms passing to and from the fried-fish shop like phantoms of the dead hovering round the libation poured out by some Ulysees or other. There was no other traffic than this, for the pubs had not yet turned out. From the upper room of the “Welcome Home,” which backed on to the rear of No. 13, emerged the strains of “Lead Kindly Light.…”

  In the living-room of No. 27, two women were sitting at a table reading by the light of an oil lamp. The gas-fittings were so old that they impaired the supply and the vicar’s agent would do nothing about it because the tenant was a Catholic, although she paid her rent on the nail.

  One of the women was very old; in fact, eighty-one. She was reading a religious periodical with the help of a magnifying glass, for over her dim eyes cataracts were developing. There was an opaque dome-shade on the lamp, which diffused a soft white glow above and threw down a fierce circle of light over part of the table. The hands of the aged lady, lying in the full glare, were deformed with arthritis, but well kept. The face, illuminated by the gentler rays, showed a bright intelligence in spite of her years. Small features, sagging flesh on the cheeks and throat, and the skull beginning to show itself plainly, like an omen, through the tightened skin of the upper half of the head. The forehead was narrow, the nose small and stubborn, the dim, clouded eyes deep set. She was small and wiry, too, and remarkably active when about her business. Her name was Harriet Prank, a spinster, and she was worth £20,000, which her father had left her after a lifetime of cheeseparing and greed. She inherited, too, her father’s parsimony and carried on the small house in which he had done his scratching and scraping over sixty years.

  Miss Prank was having difficulty in seeing the print and stretched out her knotted hand to draw the lamp a bit nearer. There was a sharp intake of breath from the woman on the opposite side of the table as the moon of light travelled away from the book before her and left the page she was reading in a state of eclipse. She reached to prevent the move. The hand revealed the character of its owner as it clutched under the full harsh glow. Soft and flabby with ragged nails and fat, coarse fingers. There was meanness in the very way she used it. The fingers wrapped themselves round the stem of the lamp like white slugs and encountered those of the old woman. For a second or two the pair of them tugged whilst the flame leapt, flickered and smoked, and then the elder released her hold with a protest.

  “Really, Jane.… You forget yourself!”

  Jane Prank was a heavy, sulky woman, with a round, stupid face, blue eyes in which simplicity and cunning seemed mixed, a broad common nose and a thick, porous skin. Her hair was grey and untidy; her figure floppy, large-breasted and ungainly; her complexion muddy. All of them characteristics of a woman too lazy to wash, dress and tidy herself properly. She dragged back the lamp to illuminate the page of a twopenny romance she was devouring and drew her tongue across her heavy lips in an unconsciously repulsive suggestion of appetite.

  “Well … I like that,” she said, thrusting her face aggressively towards her companion.

  “You like what?”

  The old woman’s mouth tightened and her clouded eyes seemed to wake up and flash with temper.

  “You … and your wantin’ all the lamp. Bad enough to ’ave to sit in with you on Saturday night when everybody else’s enjoying theirselves, without you expectin’ me to sit in the dark as well.…”

  “That will do, Jane.… You forget yourself.…”

  “Forget myself, do I? Me, your own flesh and blood as gave-up a good job to come and look after you … sacrificin’ my time and chances … and what do I get?”

  “You know you only came to me for what you could get out of it, Jane, so you needn’t make a martyr of
yourself.…”

  The old woman spoke in a slow, controlled, well-bred voice. The younger, spluttered in temper and her face twitched with rage.

  “… In fact, Jane, I may as well tell you, I’m tired of this arrangement, too. I pay you quite well for what you do for me. You have a decent home here, plenty of liberty and I’ve promised that if you’re with me when I die, I’ll see that you’re not forgotten. What could be fairer? Yet, you take it all in ill-grace, every service is grudged, your whole attitude one of grievance.…”

  “That’s right … go on! Think because you’ve been paying me a pound a week and keep you’ve bought me body and soul. But I won’t stand it. Do you hear …? I won’t stand it. I’ll go to-morrow, that’s what I’ll do. Me, that could be earning my five and six pounds a week on munitions … me … here I am, looking after an ungrateful old woman for twenty shillings. I won’t stand it a minute longer.…”

  And with that, Jane burst into harsh sobs and lumbered from the room. Her heavy footsteps shook the house as she stormed upstairs.

  The old woman sat perfectly still. The lamplight glowed on the well-polished good mahogany furniture. A coal fell from the grate, tinkled in the hearth and threw off a plume of acrid smoke.

  Miss Prank slowly rose to remove the still burning brand. As she got on her feet she clutched the table, swayed and slowly sank in a heap beside her chair. There was not a sound in the house except the ticking of two clocks, a small busy alarum cheekily racing the grandfather in the corner. The red-eyed slut upstairs was lying on her bed, chewing her handkerchief to ribbons with rage.

  Thus matters remained for five minutes or so, then the younger woman stamped down to recover her book. Seeing her relative—they were cousins—lying on the hearthrug, Jane paused, drew back, hissed sharply and hurried to her side.

  The doctor had warned Miss Harriet to be careful about her heart. No shocks, or agitation. Take things easy.… As a rule, Jane took things so easily that the old woman lost patience and set about the housework herself. Now, the excitement of quarrelling had brought on one of her attacks. She soon got over them, as a rule. Jane, exerting herself, picked up the small, wiry body and lifted it on the couch. Then she thrust her ear close to Miss Prank’s nose and listened, her own breathing coming in snorts. Her cousin was still alive, her chest rising and falling gently, her lips blue and her cheeks floury white.

  That morning, Jane Prank had drunk up the last of the brandy they used for such emergencies.

  She wasn’t going to the quay for a drop from one of the pubs at that time of night if she could help it. In fact, she half hoped the old woman would pass out and leave her in peace. She was getting past standing much more of this quarrelling and so, apparently, was cousin Harriet. Jane was too big a coward to face her conscience for the rest of her life, however. She threw a shawl round her shoulders, gave a last glance at the patient to see that she was all right, and rushed out to obtain brandy and help from the house next door.

  The offending coal had died-out leaving a choking smell in the room. The old woman lay there like a corpse laid-out and ready for the last offices. The two clocks ticked away.… Footsteps were heard approaching. The gate of No. 27 was opened, then the front door, which gave right on to the living-room.

  “Hullo, hullo, hullo!” said a voice boisterously. As the lonely, still form on the couch came into view, the tone changed.… Hulllllllo!”

  The newcomer was a tall, slim man dressed in a sailor jersey, and blue trousers and jacket. He wore a cloth cap at a rakish angle and did not remove it as he entered. He was an unpleasant-looking young fellow, with a heavy hooked nose, sneering lips, long face and small, close-set eyes in hollow sockets. He had an air of cheeky familiarity and walked with a swagger. Hitching-up his belt and pants, the newcomer crossed to where the old lady lay and whistled between his teeth. There was a glass half-full of milk on the sideboard. This he picked-up as if to give her a drink. Then he put it down again. His eyes narrowed. With easy impudence, he opened a drawer in the sideboard thrust in his hand and drew out a purse. Still whistling softly he extracted the notes he found there and stuffed them in his pocket. He paused again.… Not a sound, but the ticking of clocks and distant foot-falls in the street.

  “Anybody in?” he called.

  No reply.

  On the chair the old woman had been occuying earlier in the evening lay a heavy cushion. Swiftly the intruder seized this, deliberately and callously placed it over the face of Miss Harriet Prank, and pressed it down. Then, with quick, lithe steps he was at the door and there he turned, saluted his victim with a flick of his hand and was gone. He did not ask himself where Jane was or how the old lady had come to be lying unconscious as he found her. All he knew was that the circumstances suited his purpose. He had always been an opportunist and took his luck as it came.… He was nearly at the quay before he remembered the glass of milk he had handled. He swung round to retrace his steps and put things right if he could. But Nemesis had caught up with him.…

  Had Jane Prank chosen No. 29, instead of No. 25 Pleasant Street in her search for help, matters would have been different. There was some delay at No. 25, because the lady of the house, Mrs. Dabchick, was expecting a baby and was too far gone to bustle around. In fact, her husband, who was ever in attendance, put a brake on such slow speeds as his wife essayed. Mr. Dabchick was subject to a type of premature couvade, as though the pangs of labour were upon him every time his wife made the slightest move or exertion.

  Mrs. Dabchick produced a bottle of brandy as soon as she had heard Jane Prank’s breathless tale of how her aunt had had another of her “do’s.” She expressed her intention of accompanying Jane and rendering what assistance she could, for she was an active-minded little woman who made light of the perils of her condition and yielded only to her husband’s importunities out of pity for his nervous state.

  “Cissie! You mustn’t think of going out at this hour,” cried Dabchick, agitated like a hen which, after mothering a brood of ducklings, sees them take to water for the first time. “I’ll go with Miss Prank. You must stay quietly here and I’ll be back as soon as I can.…”

  Dabchick was a weedy, little sandy-haired man with a small yellow outcrop of moustache on his upper lip and teeth like a rabbit. It is to be hoped that his expected firstborn, when it arrived, took after its mother.

  “Of course I’m going, Wilfred.…”

  And so on. Meanwhile Miss Harriet Prank was suffocating on the couch next-door.

  At last, they made a start, Dabchick lighting the way with a torch and pursuing an apprehensive and solicitous course in front of the procession.

  They were met at the door by the most cantankerous-looking tabby cat Dabchick had ever seen in his life. He halted as though uncertain whether or not to sound the retreat. The two women, however, were too set on their main purpose to heed the animal, and walked past the man, who, recovering his composure, scuttered in after them like a rabbit to its burrow.

  And there lay Miss Harriet, past the help of brandy or anything else.

  “Who put that on her face,” said Mrs. Dabchick, snatching off the offending cushion and bending over the recumbent form of the old lady. Jane Prank stood by wringing her hands.

  “I didn’t … I didn’t. I just left her as she was.…”

  “Somebody must have been in, then.… Why, she’s not breathing. She’s dead…”

  Mr. Dabchick became convulsed with apprehension again.

  “Go home, Cissie.… You can’t do no good here.… Leave it to me.… You know you oughtn’t to …”

  “Shut up, Wilfred! Don’t you realise …? Miss Prank’s dead. Somebody must have …”

  “You mean … murder …?”

  “What else? She couldn’t ’ave done it herself.”

  “I’d better get the police, Cissie …”

  “Yes. And a doctor. Though what good he’ll do …” Jane Prank had, since the tragic discovery, stood silently wringing her hands and moving
her lips, like a sinner reciting mea culpa. The words murder and police breaking on her ears seemed suddenly to release a great spasm of agitation. Grief, dreadful in its violence, shook her. Her cries startled the two Dabchicks who gazed helplessly at her. Then, with a wild shout, Jane Prank rushed into the middle of the street.

  “Help …! Perlice …! Help, help!! MURDER!!!” she yelled.

  Heedless of blackout regulations, the occupants of Pleasant Street streamed forth and light poured out of their houses like water released from a dam. Some were in their night clothes. Others, were half-intoxicated and fresh from their week-end Saturnalia. The man at No. 7, just beginning to beat-up his partner, paused, and making a hasty truce, hurried out with her, this time to be a spectator instead of an actor.

  The woman at No. 32 appeared at her front door clad in a startling kimono and little else, whilst a distinguished visitor she had been entertaining clambered over the wall of her back-yard and was off hot-foot.

  From the chip-shop of Mr. Menelaus teemed a motley crew of customers, shortly to be followed by Mr. Menelaus himself, fat, slow-moving, soaked to the very marrow of his bones in the grease of his craft and diffusing a strong, ineradicable aroma of stale fish-and-chips wherever he went, so that as he approached, the crowd parted to avoid proximity with him, as before a leper.…

  When the police arrived they had to fight their way through a solid, vociferous human mass which filled Pleasant Street from end to end.

  That sensible woman, Mrs. Dabchick, however, had wisely locked the door of No. 27 and pocketed the key. Otherwise, the scene of the crime would probably have resembled the aftermath of a cattle stampede.

  III

  IN THE SMALL HOURS

  SUPERINTENDENT HOGGATT was sitting in his office at the police station talking to Dr. Swann, the surgeon. In the ante-room a number of important witnesses were awaiting questioning, but the two men were oblivious of all but the problem they were discussing.