by Pam Weaver
‘What time did you take her back?’ asked Amy.
Lettuce sighed. ‘About seven-thirty. They go to bed very early at the home, and Grandmother didn’t want to miss her evening cocoa.’
‘And you saw her in?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Lettuce. ‘I had to. Grandmother could hardly walk.’
Amy paused for a second, remembering what her great-aunt, Ada Atherton – Britain’s first woman police detective – would have told her: ‘When conducting an interview of a suspect, keep calm, take it slowly and be logical. That way you will get a clear picture of what was happening and when. Watch your suspect. The expression on their face may say a lot more than they’re telling you.’
She glanced up at Lettuce’s face and said, ‘The home seems to think she spent the night with you.’
Lettuce frowned. ‘I can’t think why.’
‘They say they’ve been trying to telephone you.’
‘The telephone belongs to my landlady,’ said Lettuce. ‘I heard it ringing, but she keeps the door to her rooms locked when she isn’t here. She’s visiting her sister in Devon.’
‘So this isn’t your house?’ said Amy.
‘Good Lord, no,’ said Lettuce. ‘I rent the three downstairs rooms, that’s all: kitchen, sitting room and the dining room, which I use as my bedroom.’
Amy nodded. ‘Did anyone see you when you took your grandmother back to the home?’
Lettuce shook her head. ‘Come to think of it, no. Normally I would ring the bell, but someone – a man – was just leaving as we arrived. He held the door open for us. Grandmother was pleased because, when I wheeled her in, we could hear the vicar taking evening prayers in the sitting room, and it meant we could sneak into her room without anyone knowing. She can’t . . . er, she couldn’t stand the man.’
‘Did you put her to bed?’
‘Oh no,’ said Lettuce. ‘Her cocoa was on the bedside table. I kissed her goodbye and left through the French doors.’ Her voice had become a small squeak.
‘And no one saw you leave?’
Lettuce squeezed the end of her nose with her handkerchief. ‘I don’t suppose they did.’
‘Where was the wheelchair when you left her?’
Lettuce frowned. ‘In her room, of course.’
‘Would any of the other residents in the home use that chair?’ asked Amy. ‘I mean, do they swap them around?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Lettuce. ‘That was Granny’s personal chair.’
Amy nodded but said nothing. There had been no wheelchair in Vera’s room, and its absence had led matron to believe that Vera was with Lettuce.
By the time Amy had asked a few more pertinent questions she had a good idea of the sort of person Lettuce Bottomley was. Before the war she had been working as a governess in Germany, but had escaped at the beginning of September 1939. Forced to leave everything behind, she had arrived, penniless, in Worthing, where she had lived off the charity of friends until she could get a job. Because she only rented her rooms, she was unable to look after her grandmother, but she visited her on a regular basis. She had a job, but it was all rather hush-hush (something to do with radio), and she could say no more because she had signed the Official Secrets Act. All in all, Lettuce Bottomley came across as a caring granddaughter, genuinely upset at her grandmother’s death. However, on her way back to Worthing, Amy popped back to the nursing home to check on something, and she was left with a conundrum. The staff were adamant that Vera Bottomley hadn’t slept in her bed that night, nor had she drunk her cocoa. And if her granddaughter had brought her back, where was Vera’s wheelchair?
When Amy got back to Thurloe House, she found a little gaggle of women standing by the noticeboard. Pink-cheeked and glowing from her bicycle ride, Amy joined them.
‘We’re trying to work out who did this,’ said Liz, who worked in the cells as the police matron. She was pointing to the notice appealing for participants for the pancake race on Shrove Tuesday. There was a reasonably long list of volunteers, but several names – all of them women – had been crossed off.
‘PC Waller crossed my name off,’ said Amy. ‘He said women weren’t allowed.’
Liz put her hand on her hip. ‘Why ever not?’ she said crossly.
Amy shrugged.
‘That’s ridiculous!’ cried Molly, the woman who worked as the station cleaner. ‘Surely, if this is in aid of charity, anyone should have the right to join in.’
‘I’ve had just about enough of this,’ Mrs Dixon said indignantly. She worked in the canteen and was affectionately known as Mrs D. ‘What gives them the right to do this? We’re just as good as anyone else.’
‘Perhaps they’re afraid we’ll show them up,’ said Liz.
‘Bloomin’ men,’ said Mrs D. ‘Half the time they’re no better than a load of silly schoolboys.’
‘Why don’t we challenge them to a race?’ said Amy with a shrug. Everyone turned to look at her. ‘If it’s just a bit of fun, why don’t we throw down the gauntlet?’
‘Could we really do that?’ asked Liz in hushed tones.
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Mrs D. ‘In fact it’ll make it a bit more exciting.’
‘I’m game if you are,’ said Amy, and the women giggled.
‘I’ll get my daughter to do a poster,’ offered Molly. ‘She’s good at drawing.’
‘We’ll have to have a bit of practice,’ said Mrs D. ‘I’m not so fit as I used to be.’
‘Does anyone know someone who’d give us a bit of training?’ asked Liz.
‘My husband can do that,’ said Mrs D.
‘Good,’ said Liz. ‘When shall we start?’
‘No time like the present,’ replied Mrs D. ‘My old man is the Scout master and they meet in the Scout hut across the road. They’ll let us have it free of charge.’
So they all agreed to meet the following evening.
‘Won’t you have to ask him first?’ Amy cautioned.
‘I won’t be asking,’ said Mrs D with a grin. ‘I’ll be telling him.’
‘Good,’ said Liz, ‘then let’s do it.’
‘You don’t think getting a trainer, and all that, is making it a bit too serious?’ said Amy when she and Liz were alone.
‘No, I don’t,’ Liz retorted. ‘We’re going to teach that lot a lesson. And what’s more, we’re going to raise a ton of money at the same time.’
‘Coo-eee. I’m home.’ When Amy came through the front door and hung up her coat, she noticed a letter addressed to her on the hallstand. She recognized the handwriting instantly. It was from her sister, Rita:
Dear May-me [a hark-back to the days of her childhood and Amy’s inability to say her own name]
How are you? I’ve got a couple of days leave next week and I was wondering if I could come and see you? It seems like an age since we were together, just the two of us. It would be lovely to have a proper natter. Do you know any cheap boarding houses nearby, or is there a chance Mrs Smith would let me stay at your place? I’ll sleep on the floor if necessary.
Everything is fine at home. Mum sends her love. Let me know as soon as possible.
Love, Rita
Amy’s heart leapt with excitement. Rita, here in Worthing! That would be grand. If she could persuade Martha to let her sister sleep in her room, it would be even better. It would be like being kids again. She smiled as she recalled talking in whispers until the wee small hours or until their father called, ‘That’s enough now, girls’ from the other side of their paper-thin walls.
When Amy had been seconded to Worthing, it was a stroke of luck that her mother’s cousin lived in the town. Martha Smith, a no-nonsense type but with a heart of gold, offered to put Amy up straight away, which meant she didn’t have to scout around for digs and perhaps end up in some sleazy back street, paying an exorbitant rent.
Now Amy could hear her landlady talking in the kitchen, but when she burst through the door waving her letter in the air, the woman who was with Martha suddenly
stood up.
‘Oh,’ said Amy, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
The woman was very thin, with dark circles under her eyes. She wore a headscarf, which she had pulled forward in a vain attempt to hide the bruise on her cheek. She still had her coat on, even though she had been sitting at the table drinking tea with Martha.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I was just going anyway.’
It was obvious that Amy’s interruption had spoiled something. The woman couldn’t wait to get away.
‘Please don’t leave on my account,’ cried Amy. ‘I’m just on my way upstairs to change.’
‘I have to go,’ the woman insisted. ‘Eddie will be wanting his tea.’ And with that, she hurried out of the room, keeping her head down and avoiding eye contact.
‘I’m sorry,’ Amy repeated helplessly as the back door closed.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Martha, rising to her feet. ‘I think she’d said all she wanted to.’
‘I couldn’t help noticing she had a big bruise on her face,’ said Amy. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘I can’t betray a confidence,’ said Martha, putting their cups and saucers into the washing-up bowl in the sink.
She hesitated for a second and, when nothing was forthcoming, Amy said, ‘Well, if ever you do want to talk, you know where I am.’
‘Thanks,’ said Martha, reaching for the dishcloth. ‘I’ll tell you something you can do for me, though. Quite a lot of people around here are getting stuff pinched. Some of them have been to the police station, but no one is interested.’
Puzzled, Amy frowned. ‘Really?’
‘It’s small stuff, see?’ said Martha. ‘Well, it’s not small to the folks who’ve lost their things, but compared to murder and such, it’s trivial, as far as Sergeant Goble is concerned.’
‘Go on,’ said Amy, sliding onto a kitchen chair to listen.
‘Hilda Marsden, for one,’ said Martha. She had nearly half a hundredweight of coal taken from her coal shed a couple of nights ago. She’ll struggle to keep warm in the rest of the cold weather.’
Amy gasped. ‘How on earth did they get away with all that, without being heard?’
‘Oh, she heard them all right,’ said Martha, ‘but when she opened the bedroom window to see what was going on, someone shouted at her. She thought it was the ARP warden, yelling at her for showing a light.’
Amy resisted a wry smile. ‘Cheeky monkey.’
‘You’re not wrong there,’ said Martha as she began to lay the table for tea.
‘You said other people have had things stolen?’ said Amy.
‘Milk from the doorstep; a really pretty party frock from a washing line; and somebody stole Mrs Colman’s chicken – the one she was saving for when her son comes home; and young David Webb’s bike has gone missing,’ said Martha. ‘It may seem hardly worth bothering about, but to the people concerned, it’s important when there are so many shortages.’
‘Give me their names,’ said Amy, ‘and I’ll pop round to see them on my day off.’
‘Thanks,’ said Martha, returning to her dishes. ‘Tea will be ready in about twenty minutes.’
Amy turned to leave.
‘When you came rushing in just now,’ Martha went on, ‘you were waving a letter or something in the air.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Amy. ‘I almost forgot. It’s from my sister. She’s got a couple of days off next week and wondered if she could come down. Is it possible that she could stay in my room? We don’t want to be any trouble. We’ll pay you, of course, and I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.’
‘There’ll be no need to sleep on the floor,’ said Martha. ‘I’ve got an old army camp bed in the loft. Help me get it down and she can sleep on that.’
Amy beamed. ‘Thanks, Martha, you’re a brick.’
‘And don’t worry about paying me, either,’ said Martha, pretending to be slightly offended. ‘Just remember to tell her to bring her ration book.’ And with that she turned away, muttering, ‘Pay me, indeed!’
Amy was dying to give her mother’s cousin a hug, but she knew that would only embarrass her. Martha wasn’t the ‘hugging’ type.
As she went upstairs to change out of her uniform, Amy felt a bit annoyed that no one else at the station was interested in these thefts, but with so few officers available, she knew they were struggling to keep up with the more serious crimes. Stolen milk bottles and bikes were trivial in comparison.
Sergeant Goble was in a buoyant mood when Amy arrived for work the next morning.
‘I’ve just sent DC Cooper over to Ferring to bring that granddaughter in for questioning,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
Amy’s jaw dropped. ‘Whatever for?’
‘Well, you see, Miss Clever-clogs, DC Cooper found out that the old gal’s solicitor says that Granny changed her will, leaving everything to Cabbage . . .’
‘Lettuce,’ Amy corrected.
Sergeant Goble’s eyebrow shot up. ‘You knew about that?’
‘No, sir,’ said Amy. ‘Her name is Lettuce.’
He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Cabbage, cucumber . . . we’ve got the motive now, haven’t we?’
‘But, sir,’ Amy began again, ‘why take her grandmother back to the home, only to turn round and dump her in the river?’
‘Ah, but we’ve only got her word for it that she took the old gal back,’ said the sergeant. ‘It sounds to me like another case of drowning the old ’un for the inheritance.’
Amy could tell there were echoes of one of Cooper’s tall tales in all this, yet in spite of having nothing but circumstantial evidence, Sergeant Goble seemed to be completely taken in. ‘Yes, but—’
‘Yes, but – nothing, ’Obbs,’ he said, pushing all the paperwork back into the folder. ‘As far as I’m concerned, that girl took the old lady to the river and pushed her in. I told you there was something fishy about it, and I was right all along. Now, run along and make me a cup of tea. All this brainpower has given me a thirst.’
Amy opened her mouth to say something, but he waved her away.
Making the tea in the kitchen, Amy’s thoughts turned to Lettuce Bottomley. Call me naive, she thought to herself, but I really can’t believe she had anything to do with her grandmother’s demise. And another thing . . . if it isn’t in the river, where is that wheelchair?
After work, as she crossed the road on her way to the Scout hut, Amy spotted a tramp resting in a doorway. She should move him on, but she hadn’t the heart to do so. What harm was he doing? And besides, he’d probably be gone by the morning.
The door to the 1st Worthing Scouts hut opened and twenty-five noisy and over-excited boys spilled out onto the High Street. Amy had seen most of them before. The Scouts had a good reputation around the town for being very helpful – among other things, running messages for the ARP wardens and organizing paper salvage. In March 1941, long before she had arrived in Worthing, they had gained a good reputation when they’d helped to put up some Morrison shelters. Named after the Minister of Home Security, Herbert Morrison, the shelters were designed to be used indoors to protect the occupants from the debris of a bomb blast. The shelters had to be bolted together in situ and, after a little training, those boys had been a godsend to many people in the town.
Amy and her companions waited until the last of them had gone and then made their way inside the hut. Beyond the heavy blackout curtain the hall was empty, apart from the Scout master, who was polishing his glasses, and two of his helpers, who were putting on their coats.
‘Yes?’ said one of them. ‘Can I help you, ladies?’
‘It’s all right, Ray,’ said the Scout master. ‘Leave this to me.’
Amy guessed that he must be Mrs D’s husband. He was a well-built man with strong, hairy-looking legs, which were exposed above and below the knee in between the hem of his shorts and the beginning of his thick woollen socks. For a second or two she wondered why such a robust-loo
king man wasn’t in the armed forces, but when he put on his polished glasses, she understood why. They were as thick as the bottom of a jam jar.
Amy and her friends sat on the chairs around the hall until the helpers had gathered their things and left. The walls were covered with the artistic efforts of the boys who used the hut. They must have had some sort of a competition. Amy was impressed by their efforts, and one boy’s work stood out from the rest. It was a picture of the tramp – the same one she’d just seen across the road – a man Amy knew often sat in Steyne Gardens or sometimes in Montague Street. The likeness was so realistic she almost expected him to speak. The artist had captured the wrinkles on the man’s face, his rough and dirty beard, the grease-mark on his shirt and the frayed cuffs on his jacket. The portrait was worthy of a gallery filled with professional works. She wondered if it had actually been done by Mr Dixon, but in view of the thickness of his glasses, that was hardly likely.
‘Right,’ said Mr Dixon, breaking into her musings, ‘you all want to get fit for a run. When is it?’
‘Shrove Tuesday,’ Mrs D said, rather irritably. ‘I already told you that.’
Her husband shrank a little in size. ‘Yes, yes, my dear. So you did.’ There was a slight pause, then he said, ‘Have you all got suitable footwear?’
Everyone said yes, but on closer examination, Molly’s friend Effie, who had come along to swell the numbers, only had her furry ankle boots. Mrs D tut-tutted as her husband suggested that she get some plimsolls.
‘We’ve only got three weeks,’ he went on, ‘but I have worked out a plan and, if you stick to it, there’s no reason why you couldn’t win.’ The girls felt greatly encouraged. ‘Tonight I’ll give you some stretching exercises,’ he continued, ‘and tomorrow we’ll have a short run.’
They spent the next twenty minutes running around the hall, discovering muscles that hadn’t been used for a while. It was exacting, but fun.
‘Is this really necessary, Donald?’ Mrs D grumbled. ‘It’s only a pancake race, for heaven’s sake.’