by Pam Weaver
The tramp nodded, so the three of them retraced their steps. Amy bought three platform tickets and although the ticket collector wasn’t too keen, he allowed the tramp onto the concourse. As luck would have it, as they reached the waiting-room door the Littlehampton train pulled in and everyone sheltering inside left.
They sat down and, as the tramp put his bundle down at his feet, Rita mouthed, ‘Now what?’
Amy stared at the top of the man’s bowed head. ‘You’re no more a tramp than I am,’ she began sternly.
The man looked up with an irritated expression, but it melted almost at once. ‘How did you know?’
‘A young lad in the town has done a drawing of you,’ said Amy, ‘and it’s hanging on the wall of the local Scout hut. He has the most amazing powers of observation, especially when it comes to your cuffs and your hands.’
Rita’s gaze fell to the man’s hands, but she was none the wiser.
‘My cuffs?’ said the man, tugging the end of his sleeve. ‘What about them?
The material at the edge was frayed and dirty. One cuff button was hanging by a thread and his hands were white with the cold. Amy pointed to a tear on his sleeve. ‘I’m guessing that bit was started with a razor blade,’ she began. ‘Then you used your finger to make it bigger, and you kept pulling threads until it looked old and shabby. Am I right?’
The man’s expression changed to one of defeat.
‘And those hands,’ Amy went on, ‘they’re much too clean for a gentleman of the road, and I’ll wager that your barber manicures your nails when you’re not dressed like this.’
Rita did her best to suppress a wry smile. ‘So you’re a bit of a fraud, aren’t you?’
The man sat back on the bench and nodded his head.
‘So who are you?’ asked Amy.
Someone opened the waiting-room door, but as soon as he saw the tramp, he changed his mind and closed it, preferring to wait for his train in the cold, fresh air.
‘My name is Montague Rowland-Carr,’ the tramp said quietly, ‘but everyone calls me Monty, and I’m a merchant banker.’
‘A banker!’ Rita spluttered. ‘But I don’t understand. Why on earth are you dressed like this?’
‘Times are hard,’ Monty went on. ‘I lost a lot of money on the stock market when Hitler came to power, and eventually I lost my job. I came down to Worthing to end my life.’ He slid closer to the fire and reached out his hands to warm them. ‘But when it came to it, I couldn’t do it.’
‘What about your wife and family?’ said Amy. ‘Have they reported you missing?’
‘They have no idea I’ve been doing this,’ said Monty and, seeing the confusion on their faces, he grimaced. ‘I go home every night, just the same as I always did.’ He sighed. ‘When I decided to kill myself, I wandered around the town for two or three days, trying to pluck up the courage. I wasn’t thinking straight and I slept on a park bench. I didn’t bother to wash, so I suppose I must have looked pretty shabby. Then some kind-hearted soul tried to give me money. I attempted to explain, but she wouldn’t hear of taking it back.’
‘So you carried on exploiting the good people of this town,’ said Amy crossly.
‘I never once asked for money,’ said Monty with a sheepish look. ‘People just gave it to me. That first day I made nearly three pounds.’
‘Three pounds!’ cried Rita. ‘That’s a week’s wages to some.’
Monty nodded. ‘It was enough to make me pull myself together and go home.’
‘And then you came back, dressed for the part,’ Amy said sarcastically.
Monty nodded.
‘Are you saying that you made enough money to keep your wife and family?’ asked Rita.
‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ Monty insisted. ‘Like I said, I never asked for money.’
‘But it’s hardly honest, is it?’ said Amy.
Monty picked up his bundle and hugged it to himself. ‘I suppose I’d better call it a day.’
‘I suppose you had,’ Amy retorted. ‘The people who gave you money probably gave it sacrificially. We’re all scrimping and scraping these days.’
‘You’re absolutely right,’ said Monty, ‘and it’s almost a relief to be found out. It’s always been a worry that someone might recognize me. I was chased to the station the other night.’
Amy could have told him that she was the person who had chased him, but she didn’t. All she wanted was to get him off the street. ‘What about stealing milk from the doorstep?’
Monty looked up at her, appalled. ‘I wouldn’t do that! I’ve never taken anything that didn’t belong to me.’
‘Have you ever taken washing from someone’s washing line?’
‘No!’
‘Or tools from the allotments?’
‘What allotments? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘What’s in the bundle?’
Monty loosened his grip on it and let it go. Pulling the piece of string from it, he unfolded the material to reveal his Savile Row suit. ‘I can’t go home dressed like a tramp,’ he explained. ‘I was wearing this suit when I left home this morning.’
Amy nodded. ‘What about a wooden wheelchair? Have you ever taken one of those?’
Monty was pulled up short. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I saw some chap abandon that,’ he said. ‘He was only using it to deliver some bags of coal.’
Amy felt a frisson of excitement, but when she replied she tried to sound casual. ‘Oh, and where was that?’
‘I took a stroll along Lyndhurst Road,’ said Monty. ‘I heard about the bomb dropped near the gas works, so I thought I’d take a look.’
‘Go on,’ said Amy.
‘This chap was pushing the wheelchair out of Providence Terrace,’ said Monty. ‘He took a bag of coal to a house on the corner, but when he came out of the house, someone shouted at him, so he abandoned the empty chair and ran off.’
‘What happened then?’ asked Rita.
‘Nothing,’ said Monty and, giving her a shifty look, he added, ‘I sat down in the wheelchair for a while. I suppose it must have looked as if I couldn’t walk. People were most generous.’ He seemed slightly embarrassed. ‘You know, talking about all this has made me feel a little ashamed.’
‘So you should be,’ said Rita. ‘You’ve duped a lot of well-meaning people.’
‘Let me try and make it up to you,’ said Monty.
‘It’s not us you should try and placate,’ said Amy. ‘It’s the people of Worthing.’
‘You’re quite right,’ Monty conceded. They all fell silent for a second or two, then he added, ‘Tell me more about the young man who drew my likeness. Was it really that good?’
‘As a matter of fact it was,’ said Amy. ‘He has a real talent, but he comes from a poor background, so there’s little chance of his taking it further.’
‘Are you going to arrest me?’ Monty asked.
Amy shook her head. ‘I don’t like what you’ve done, but I’ve never actually seen you doing anything criminal and we’ve had no complaints.’
‘But when I get back to the Met,’ Rita chipped in, ‘I shall be checking with each of the Home County constabularies, and if I find out that you’ve been up to this before . . .’
‘I haven’t,’ Monty insisted, ‘and to be honest, I’m glad it’s over.’
‘You’re free to go,’ said Amy.
‘I promise it ends here,’ said Monty, quickly rewrapping his bundle, ‘but let me go home and get cleaned up, and then I’ll come back and see this boy’s work. If I think it merits something, I’ll talk to my contacts in London.’ He stood to his feet.
‘How are you going to get home?’ asked Amy. ‘Surely they won’t allow you on the train.’
‘I have my car outside,’ said Monty. ‘I usually get changed in the workmen’s shed at the end of the road and then drive home.’
‘Workmen’s shed?’ said Rita faintly.
‘The council keep brushes and wheelbarrows in it. I gue
ss they’re for the street cleaners. The lock is broken, so it’s easy enough to get in.’
As they talked, Amy remembered the car driving at great speed after the bus had turned the corner, the night she’d followed Monty from the town. Crafty devil, she thought to herself.
‘So where is this shed?’ Rita asked as they came out of the station.
Monty pointed to a rundown area just past the railway crossing.
The two girls nodded and let him go.
‘I’m beginning to see why you like being in Worthing so much,’ said Rita with a grin. ‘That was quite exciting.’
As they watched Monty driving off in his car, Amy picked up her sister’s suitcase and slipped her arm through Rita’s. ‘Can you really check up on him with all those different police forces?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Rita shrugged. She paused, unsure. ‘What’s she like? Martha?’
‘You’ll love her,’ said Amy. ‘She’s working at the Red Cross shop today, so until I go on-duty, we’ll have the house to ourselves.’
‘What about Elsie?’
‘She’s at school,’ said Amy. They’d reached Wenban Road. ‘Ah, here we are. Now I’ll take you to my room and make a cuppa while you unpack. After that, we’ve just got time for me to pick your brains over a very interesting case, and I want to ask you a favour.’
Chapter 7
Sergeant Goble had been complaining of a headache all day, so Amy got on quietly with her work. There hadn’t been a lot she could do about Wally Hills. Although he was still classed as a minor until he was twenty-one, at fifteen the police force considered him able to take care of himself. Boys of his age ran away to sea, moved to another town to make a new start or simply fell into the wrong company. There was no evidence of foul play, and no indication that his father knew where he was, either. All Amy could do was promise to make enquiries and keep a lookout for him.
As soon as she’d come on-duty she had leafed through the most recent reports, but she had found nothing even remotely connected to Wally. Why was it natural to presume he would be involved in a crime anyway? From what she could gather from his distraught mother, Wally was more interested in drawing than in robbing the post office at Broadwater, or helping himself to a pig belonging to the local pig club. His father had been arrested again, this time for stealing lead from a church roof. He’d been caught red-handed, trying to sell it to a local scrap merchant. Right now Eddie was languishing in the cells, and everybody was confident that when he appeared before the magistrate, given his past record, he would be remanded in custody to await trial. Sergeant Goble reckoned Eddie would get a long sentence, probably with hard labour. No, the more Amy thought about it, the more convinced she became that Wally was staying with a friend until things improved at home. Once he realized his father was locked up again, it shouldn’t be long before he was back with his mother.
In thinking about Wally, Amy found herself wondering about Montague Rowland-Carr. Would he really come back to Worthing to look at the boy’s drawings? Probably not, she told herself, but at least she’d got him off the streets.
Sergeant Goble was still sitting with his feet on the desk and his head covered with a folded copy of the Daily Sketch when Inspector Fry stopped by to get an update on the body-in-the-river case. The sergeant scrambled to attention.
‘The whole damned village is up in arms because you’ve still got Vera Bottomley’s granddaughter locked up,’ said the inspector as he threw himself into a chair. ‘Is it time for a brew?’
Amy stopped typing and stood up to get the two men some tea.
‘It won’t be long before she confesses, sir,’ Sergeant Goble said, handing the inspector the case file. ‘A couple more days cooling off in the cells and then she’ll sing like a canary.’
As Amy came back into the room, the inspector lobbed the case notes across the top of the sergeant’s desk. ‘You’ve got no proof, man,’ he said tetchily. ‘You can keep that girl in custody until she confesses that she’s Hitler’s daughter, but with no proof, no jury will convict her.’
Amy wished she had put her own observations in the file, but they were in another folder awaiting Sergeant Goble’s attention.
The sergeant took a deep breath and expanded his chest. ‘She had motive,’ he began. ‘She lives in rented rooms and the old lady is loaded.’
‘Good God, man,’ the inspector retorted, ‘if that’s all you’ve got, you may as well put half the population of Worthing in the dock beside her.’
Amy put the tea on the desk in front of them.
‘She’s been living abroad,’ said Sergeant Goble. ‘She’s only just got back into the country.’
The inspector glared at him. ‘I happen to play golf at Ham Manor Golf Club with Major Tope,’ he said. ‘He works in Rustington in a house along the sea front. I have no idea what they do there, but it’s awfully hush-hush and something to do with the war effort. That girl works for them, and apparently she’s much needed.’
Sergeant Goble lowered himself into his chair.
‘Major Tope seems to think you might be keeping her here because you are part of a Fifth Column.’ The sergeant paled. ‘Is Lettuce Bottomley being kept in your cell as part of a Nazi plot?’
‘A Nazi plot!’ Sergeant Goble spluttered.
‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility, Gobble,’ the inspector went on. ‘From what I can see, you made up your mind that she was guilty from the word go.’
‘DC Cooper agreed with me.’
‘Well, to put it another way,’ the inspector went on, ‘you’re manipulating the facts to prove your theory, rather than gathering evidence.’
Amy cleared her throat noisily. ‘Excuse me, sir. There’s more about the case in the yellow folder.’
Sergeant Goble stared at her with a blank expression.
‘You remember, sir,’ Amy went on, ‘the things I was telling you about the other day. You were a bit busy then, but you said you would take a look another time.’
Sergeant Goble seemed to be frozen to the spot.
‘Well, come on, girl,’ the inspector snapped. ‘Don’t keep us waiting. Get the folder.’
‘I don’t think . . .’ Sergeant Goble began.
‘Yes, that’s just the point, Grople,’ said the inspector, ‘you don’t think.’
Sergeant Goble winced as his name was mispronounced for a second time. Why was it so hard to remember?
Amy handed Inspector Fry the yellow folder. ‘As you will remember, sir,’ she said, addressing Sergeant Goble and knowing that of course he wouldn’t remember a thing, ‘Vera Bottomley pretended she was crippled, but she could walk.’
‘She could?’ Sergeant Goble squeaked, but then he caught sight of Inspector Fry looking at him, so he added, ‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’
‘She’d left her wheelchair in the pub that night,’ Amy went on, ‘so I wondered if someone might have given her a lift. I believe she went to the Blue Bird Cafe to collect some money she’d won on a sweepstake.’
The inspector’s face registered surprise.
‘Mrs Bottomley was an avid gambler,’ Amy explained.
‘So you think she collected her winnings and fell into the river on the way back,’ said the inspector.
‘Not quite,’ Amy said cautiously. ‘When the body was found, I was concerned—’ She spotted Sergeant Goble looking at her and pulled herself up short. ‘That is, we were concerned that she had no coat. It was a bitterly cold night, but she was only in a day-dress.’
‘Good observation,’ said Inspector Fry.
‘And she only had a small amount of money with her,’ Amy went on.
‘How much had she won?’ asked the inspector.
‘Twenty pounds.’
‘That’s a considerable amount,’ Inspector Fry observed. ‘Why didn’t you mention this before, Goble?’
Sergeant Goble’s mouth opened and shut like a fish’s.
‘The notes were ready, sir,’ Amy blurted out, ‘but I f
orgot to give them to him for signing. Sergeant Goble has been very busy.’
The inspector harrumphed. ‘Didn’t look very busy when I came in,’ he muttered.
Sergeant Goble’s face coloured.
‘Have we found the coat?’
Amy shook her head. ‘My guess is that it’s still in the Blue Bird Cafe.’ She glanced at Sergeant Goble. ‘That was what you said, wasn’t it, Sarge?’
Inspector Fry leaned across the desk. ‘Tell me what you think, Policewoman Hobbs.’
Amy chewed her bottom lip. ‘I could only hazard a guess, sir,’ she began cautiously.
‘Yes, yes, go on.’
‘I think someone took her to the Blue Bird to collect the money. Why else would she leave the wheelchair at the pub?’
Inspector Fry nodded. ‘And?’
‘There were no women’s footprints leading from the pub to the area where she was found, but there were footprints leading away from the cafe to the spot where the body was found.’
‘So what do you deduce from that?’ the inspector went on.
‘Whoever took her to get the money either frightened her or threatened her, so she tried to run home.’
‘So she fell in accidentally, after all,’ said Sergeant Goble.
‘I’m not so sure, sir,’ said Amy. ‘If he or she had taken the money, he or she couldn’t just let Mrs Bottomley go. She’d tell someone she’d been robbed. The thief had to keep her quiet.’
‘So you think it was murder?’ said the inspector.
‘I found a lot of footprints on the river bank,’ said Amy, ‘and it was hard to distinguish between the three fishermen, the undertaker and the police, but it could have been a sign of a scuffle.’
The inspector looked thoughtful. ‘I think we’d better get out there,’ he said. ‘We have to be sure of three things. Did she collect those winnings? Was anyone with her? And where is her coat?’
Sergeant Goble hadn’t moved for ages. In fact he’d even let his tea get cold.
The inspector looked out of the window. ‘It’s too late to go today,’ he said. ‘It’ll be dark soon. We’ll go first thing in the morning.’
‘We’re low on petrol,’ said Sergeant Goble. ‘My budget—’