The Saint Valentine’s Day Murders

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

All fifteen of us then, snugly accommodated together in Block H. Horace chuffed: it makes for feeling of solidarity.

  5:30–6:00 Tea in recreation block followed speech of welcome from small, fidgety centre manager. Listen to Graham and Tony arguing about the merits of their respective routes to Twillerton. Melissa the belle of the ball in ill-fitting denim boiler suit. Try as she does, she cannot avoid looking pretty. All over-forties wear nondescript sports jackets. Charlie hadn’t been briefed on Melissa so shot over to her at first opportunity to try chatting-up. Returned crestfallen with flea in ear after three minutes.

  6:00–7:00 Open session. Horace and self on dais as my plea to be allowed to sit with minions has been rejected as damaging to my authority. Horace read half-hour speech about essence of seminar being to decide what job we are doing and how we can do it more effectively. All stones are to be turned over and all worries fearlessly exposed. Peroration same as I got on my first day—about centralized purchasing being the rock on which success is built. Sat down and called for questions or comments. Silence. Self had anticipated this and had intelligent query re Buying British policy. Answered by Horace. No follow-up from rank-and-file. Glared at Charlie who responded nobly by making suggestion about how our approvals procedure might be streamlined. Horace tossed idea at audience where it fell like stone until picked up by one of his team who proved it unworkable.

  Henry saved the day with a long tirade about the newfangled procedures contained in BC/P/4396 being contrary to the common sense displayed by the framer of BC/P/632. Even Graham slightly animated by that one.

  Session ended. All balls-aching, of course, but Horace optimistic. Thinks that after an evening of communal fun the troops will have loosened up and tomorrow morning will see the fur really flying.

  7:00–7:30 Pre-dinner drinks. Offered to buy one for Melissa and had head snapped off for being patronizing. Told her she looked even more beautiful when angry. Curried favour with Henry by asking for explanation about ambiguous point in BC/P/4396. He seems to know the whole canon off by heart.

  7:30–8:00 Dinner. Large dining room with six long tables. PD clustered around one. Other tables occupied by massed rows of beery technicians on three-week refresher course. No contact between us and them. PD group identity shows signs of burgeoning.

  8:00–11:00 Booze and recreation. Premises to ourselves. Technicians have gone off to nearby town. Parts of evening almost jolly. Tony beat the pants off me at table-tennis and admitted coyly to having been platoon champion. Graham played darts with considerable accuracy until he went flat and disappeared to bed. Session in bar with Henry and PD1 chap telling us stories of National Service. Some disgusting but not all unfunny. Tiny tried to organize poker game but got nowhere so we broke up at closing-time. Horace wasn’t seen all evening. Presumably in his bedroom farting about with the agenda.

  11:00–6:00 In own room asleep apart from one visit to bog. No, I’m not trying to do a Ulysses. Apparently insignificant details may prove important.

  Saturday

  6:00 Woken by fire alarm. Rushed into grounds where large crowd assembled looking for fire. No fire visible. Manager arrived and instituted thorough search. Still no fire. Nor anyone admitting to having sounded the alarm.

  6:30 All head back towards bedrooms. Beat the rush to a bathroom. Have cause to regret this as loo-brush holder full of water falls on head as enter. Shout of pain and rage echoed by others around block: Tiny, Melissa and Charlie have suffered similarly, though Charlie has quicker reflexes and has escaped most of the deluge. All non-sufferers have fits of giggles except Horace, who is distressed.

  6:45–7:45 Get dry and doze a little. Dress and leave room. Notice large tea-urn on table near exit. Remember this is supposed to arrive at 7:30 each morning so conclude it’s probably too stewed for me and go for walk.

  8:15–8:55 Breakfast. Outbreak of sneezing. Turns out someone has laced the sugar on all the tables with sneezing powder. After a few chortles, everyone decides it’s not funny.

  8:59 Enter seminar room. Only self, Charlie and two PD1 chaps present. Horace arrives ten minutes late complaining of stomach upset. Turns out that’s a euphemism for diarrhoea. Others roll in by degrees announcing same problem. Next hour spent in post-mortem on breakfast food interspersed with sufferers running in and out to bogs. Process of elimination demonstrates that the morning tea must have been responsible. None of four unaffected had sampled contents.

  At my suggestion, seminar disbanded until 11:30 and Horace and self go to discuss with manager question of tea-urn. Manager says someone in block must have added laxatives. Sounds reasonable. Manager getting pissed off.

  11:30 Reassemble, though four still absent. Horace shaky but determined to carry on. Distributes questionnaires about aspects of PD work that could be improved. All commence writing and Horace cleans blackboard preparatory to leading brainstorming, chalk in hand. Suddenly begins to scratch hands and arms furiously. You’ve guessed? Yes. Itching powder on blackboard duster. Horace goes out to wash hands and returns upset. Blackboard now unusable until major cleaning job is done. I suggest analysis of questionnaire be undertaken by him and self in bedroom and other ranks excused until after lunch. Point out that absentees will probably be well enough to participate then. Horace unhappy at waste of valuable time but gives in.

  12:15–1:00 Read dreary answers to questions. Try consoling Horace for negative nature of same by saying people still not 100% and will probably amplify answers and be more positive after lunch. Interrupted by loud knocks on door. Distraught manager. Doors to recreation rooms have been glued up and TV indoor aerials are all missing. Maniac at large. Obviously from PD. No trouble during last two weeks with technicians. Won’t take any further responsibility for us. We can all get the hell out as soon as we’ve eaten.

  Horace in despair. Begs. Pleads. No avail. Tries pulling rank. Manager contemptuous. I eventually suggest Horace ring Shipton on sick-bed and ask for ruling on whether to fight or quit. He rushes off and comes back with the news that Shipton says quit. I always thought he was intelligent under all that fat.

  1:00–2:00 Unhappy lunch. Several still toying with clear soup only. People glancing covertly at each other. Horace makes stumbling speech. I really feel for the poor bastard. He put so much work in. I had expected a farce but not a fiasco.

  2:15 Enter car-park to find Tony and Tiny uttering little cries and wringing their hands over their cars. Turns out someone has let the air out of most of the tyres, motor bikes not exempt. Hardly anyone taking it philosophically. If it takes fifteen men—Melissa included—with three footpumps two hours to inflate forty-seven tyres, how long did it take one nutter to let them down?

  Nightmare journey home with Horace. Steering wheel quivering under his hands.

  And that, my sweet, is the full story. One of our little band has flipped. Horace spoke wildly about plots against PD by some technician ill-wisher, but ultimately admitted it was unlikely. It’s a prankster from one of our team all right. Horace is being loyal to his lot and dropping dark hints about Tiny, but I don’t think these events were Tiny-like. He’s always been more boisterous than nasty. It could have been any of us who had come prepared and didn’t mind sacrificing several hours of sleep. As far as I can gather, everything necessary could have been done during the hours of darkness except for meddling with the tea-urn.

  I suppose there’ll have to be an investigation. Personnel won’t take kindly to footing the bill for a total cock-up. What’s worrying me is whether, as Horace would say, this is a one-off, or whether it’s going to go on. One way or another, I’m not looking forward much to next week. But unless some joker pushes me out of a window I’ll be waiting for you at Heathrow at 7:00 on Friday our time. And I promise not to spend all weekend talking about PD.

  Much love, Robert

  Chapter Ten

  29 November

  Shipton lay immobile throughout Horace’s lengthy and confused account of the Twillerton débacle. When the witterings
had ceased, he shifted himself slightly and said flatly: ‘Call in Security.’

  Horace’s mouth opened in protest.

  ‘No, Horace. It’s no good. You know perfectly well we can’t keep this quiet. In fact I’m not at all sure we shouldn’t call in the police. The glueing of the doors must constitute criminal damage.’

  This was the longest speech Amiss had ever heard him make. He admired its crispness and tactical sense. The mention of the police worked magically on Horace: his opposition to an internal investigation collapsed instantly.

  ‘And, Robert, while Horace is telephoning Security I’d like you to draw up a time-table of the incidents. Oh, and provide them with a staff list and mark the names of those who were at Twillerton.’

  Amiss nodded obediently and led Horace back to his office. He hoped this business would be sorted out quickly. Horace was looking ghastly and all the PD staff seemed subdued and jumpy.

  He had just finished his notes when Shipton rang through to announce the arrival of the investigators. ‘You and Horace can brief them, Robert. I’ve got a lot to do. They’re using Room 510.’

  Amiss collected Horace and went along to 510. His first reaction was one of disappointment. Whatever he had expected, it hadn’t been the shifty-looking little Smithers or the large and benign Cook. As a team they bore a disconcerting likeness to Peter Lorre and Sidney Greenstreet, though it rapidly became apparent that for once Lorre was in command.

  Lorre studied Amiss’s papers and passed them over to Greenstreet without comment. Horace, sitting at the head of the leather and teak conference table, quivered with impatience as Greenstreet slowly read through the material, his lips moving in synchronization with his eyes. When he eventually looked up, Horace broke into impassioned speech. ‘It must have been those young technicians. Our people are all mature and they’d all been looking forward to the weekend.’

  Lorre was having none of it. ‘We’re not interested in opinions at this stage, Mr Underhill. All we want from you are facts. We intend to interview everyone who was at Twillerton last weekend and take statements.’

  Poor chap, thought Amiss compassionately. He must be a frustrated policeman, banished for ever from Arcadia by the misfortune of being only five feet four.

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. But you will keep me closely in touch with your investigation, won’t you? You’ll need advice on how to handle my people. I don’t want them upset.’

  Lorre raised his hand in a silencing gesture. ‘You must understand, Mr Underhill, that our findings have to be kept confidential until we are in a position to make a report. At this moment in time I regret to say that everyone—do I make myself clear?—everyone—in PD is under suspicion until proved innocent.’

  ‘Except Mr Shipton,’ said Greenstreet helpfully.

  ‘Of course except Mr Shipton.’

  ‘And the clerical assistant and the typist,’ said Greenstreet, who had been studying the staff list carefully.

  Amiss noticed Lorre’s hand twitch as if it ached to land a blow on his moronic colleague’s fleshier parts—but he confined himself to a quick grinding of teeth. ‘Now, Mr Underhill. If Mr Amiss will leave us, we will take an account of your movements on the night of the outrages.’

  Amiss melted silently away, but not before he had observed Horace’s near-catatonia at the suggestion that he might himself have fouled up his seminar.

  ***

  Summoned for his interview half an hour later, Amiss was amused to see that by now the furniture had been rearranged to more forbidding effect. There were now only three chairs in evidence. Lorre and Greenstreet shared one end of the table and the lonely chair at the far end was intended for the interviewee. No blinding lamp, alas. Amiss felt tolerantly disposed towards them. This case must be rather fun compared to their usual work. As far as he knew, Security usually had a pretty dull time organizing rosters for the guarding of BCC property and investigating petty theft. Why shouldn’t they play Special Branch when the occasion presented itself?

  He had to admit they were thorough. They led him efficiently through all his movements between arrival and departure and asked detailed questions about who had been in his company throughout the evening. As he finished, Greenstreet passed his notes over to Lorre, who scanned them quickly and nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Amiss,’ said Greenstreet with a beam. ‘You have been most helpful. We shall be coming back to you next week when we have completed our preliminary interviews…’

  ‘Assuming we have not already identified the culprit,’ broke in Lorre darkly.

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed. Assuming we have not already identified the culprit. Then we will want to look for motives and consider the…er…psych-ol-og-i-cal dimension.’ He smiled proudly and the interrogation was at an end.

  ***

  Amiss’s weekend with Rachel was a much-needed break. Although Lorre and Greenstreet had disappeared to Twillerton after two days in PD, they had left behind them an edgy staff who talked little and laughed less.

  He was surprised to be called to Room 510 at 9:15 on Monday morning. They must have worked fast—presumably they got double time for the weekend.

  He smiled brightly at them. ‘Did you enjoy yourselves at Twillerton?’ Then recognizing from Lorre’s face that that had been the wrong thing to say: ‘I mean, did you have a productive time?’ That wasn’t successful either. Lorre glowered at him.

  ‘We got the job done, Mr Amiss.’

  ‘You mean you’ve…identified the culprit?’

  ‘Let us say,’ said Lorre, placing the tips of his fingers together, ‘that we have considerably narrowed the field of suspects and are therefore closer to reaching a conclusion as to the perpetrator of…’

  ‘The outrages?’

  Lorre nodded grimly.

  ‘Oh, well done,’ said Amiss heartily. Christ, Lorre was looking affronted again. ‘How can I help you?’

  Lorre leaned over the table and looked at him keenly. ‘Acting on information received, we are now pursuing a new line of investigation.’

  Amiss kept his face straight and tried to look encouraging. ‘And that is…?’

  ‘The sequence of practical jokes that has occurred over recent months in PD.’

  ‘Oh, surely they’re entirely irrelevant. They were all quite harmless.’

  ‘That is for us to decide, Mr Amiss. Now, we know that you were a victim of several of them. We want facts. What happened and when?’

  Amiss found himself dithering. How the hell could he protect Tiny without pleading the Fifth Amendment? He stalled.

  ‘They were all so trivial. It’s hard to remember them.’

  ‘Try, Mr Amiss.’

  Amiss stumblingly cited three or four of the most harmless. Lorre looked unimpressed.

  ‘You can do better than that, I’m sure.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if I went away and thought about it? Then I can write down what I remember.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Greenstreet, clearly delighted to have his note-taking cut down.

  Amiss thankfully got up to go. This would give him time to cook up an agreed story with Tiny. ‘Just a moment,’ said Lorre. ‘We want to see Mr Short next. Kindly ask him to come here immediately. And Mr Amiss—no collusion. We shall be keeping Mr Short with us until your list is available.’

  Shit, thought Amiss, stamping back to his office in frustration. They knew already. Who the hell had tipped them off? Now he was well and truly trapped. Presumably they’d get it all out of Tiny. And if not out of him, there would surely be plenty of others anxious to help. He’d have to come clean himself now. Otherwise he’d be seen to be obstructing them.

  After passing the message to a worried-looking Tiny, he retired to his own office to begin his absurd list. He had made the decision to omit anything these clowns might regard as criminal damage to BCC property. His brief notes with approximate dates came to a page, which he put in an envelope and gave to Cathy to take along to 510. When he heard Tiny’s voice agai
n, he called him into his office and explained what had happened. Tiny looked astounded.

  ‘But they told me they’d had a lot of useful information from you and of course I thought you’d spilled the beans.’

  ‘Bastards. I never mentioned you.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ wailed Tiny. ‘What was I supposed to think? Why should you cover up for me? I told them everything I could remember about any jokes I or anyone else has ever played here.’

  Amiss groaned. ‘I’ll have to plead absence of mind, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, if you didn’t tell them, who did?’

  ‘If we knew that,’ said Amiss, ‘we’d probably know who’s responsible for the whole Twillerton mess.’

  Chapter Eleven

  It was two days before Amiss was called to 510 again—two days during which relations among members of his staff had fallen to an all-time low. No one was prepared to talk about what he had told Security, and as no one was thinking about anything else it made normal intercourse almost impossible.

  His interview started inauspiciously. Lorre was looking triumphant and Greenstreet unnaturally grave. Neither of them did more than nod a perfunctory greeting.

  Lorre opened on a challenging note. ‘Would you please explain to us why you omitted to tell us about the following occurrences? First, the placing of jelly in your briefcase.’

  Amiss had already decided to stick to his guns. If he admitted he’d been trying to protect Tiny they probably wouldn’t believe him and would seek some darker motive. Anyway the whole business was so idiotic he couldn’t feel conscience-stricken about telling a few white lies. His mind flashed back to Milton and the contrast between their two moral dilemmas almost made him laugh aloud. As it was, he snorted slightly and then, seeing Lorre’s face, wished he hadn’t. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘And the upended pot plant?’

  ‘I forgot that too.’

  ‘And you will say the same, no doubt, about the drawing pins on your chair and the dirty postcard?’