From behind me came a bright flash of light; at the same time I heard the roar of a motorbike. Is this it? Is this Armageddon? Before I could move, it had swept past, towards the pub's car park. I caught a glimpse of black leather, and then the darkness returned. I relaxed, resumed my normal pace, and returned to my previous train of thought.
What the Hell has Tess got to show me?
I recalled the chloral hydrate, the ball of string; the dreams of being throttled came vividly back to me. Again my step faltered fleetingly.
Don't be stupid. What have you to be afraid of? Yet the Hitchin Strangler's still out there – somewhere ...
I continued scrunching through the dead leaves on the dark path towards the Rose and Crown. I sensed as much as heard the movement behind me; the small hairs on the nape of my neck stood erect. Nevertheless, before I could even turn my head, I felt a stab of pain in my throat, then a tight constricting sensation around my neck – a ligature! Despite the danger and my cold fear, I exulted: I had been right, yet I had walked into the trap with my eyes open; I was wearing my rigid collar, and I knew that the ligature could not harm me fatally – a sore throat perhaps ...
14
Monday, 14th November 1955: I was back in the out-patients hall. It was just after six o’clock. The overhead lights were ablaze, and a young man in full kit was busy arranging the mats in the centre of the floor. It was my first visit to the London Hospital Judo Society. I had arrived early, and had changed (in one of the medical clinic examination rooms) into loose off-white cotton trousers and jacket, with rubber thongs on my feet, and a white belt tied loosely over my jacket.
“Give me a hand with these mats, there’s a good fellow … I’m Keith Walker, judo captain …”
His voice was soft and melodious, and had just the trace of a northern accent. He was somewhat below middle height, thickset, muscular, but lithe as a cat, with raven hair and deep-set dark eyes; I noted that he wore a brown belt.
“Edwin Scott …” and we shook hands solemnly.
“Well, Edwin, these mats are called ‘Tatame’, and you must always take your flip-flops off before standing on them; but wear them at all other times, to avoid catching athlete’s foot … We’ll just align the mats so that there’s no gap between them, and no overlap.”
While we worked, newcomers trickled in, all in their judo outfits. I was pleased to see Jenny arrive; then came another young lady, whom I recognized as a clinical student, and finally, two men together, also senior to me.
“This is Serena Sinclair, Jenny James, both old hands, this is Basil Spence … and can you please introduce yourself …” he indicated the last student.
“Bill Owen …”
The two girls stood together; they appeared to know each other, and obviously knew the ropes. Belts came in a range of colours: I was impressed to see that, like Keith, Serena sported a brown belt, Jenny’s was blue, and Basil’s orange; Bill was, like me, a novice – a white belt!
“In case you new boys get any ideas, the girls will practise and spar together, as will you two; in any case they would murder you … So, first of all, I would like to welcome you to the London Hospital Judo Society. It’s nice to see so many of you at our first meeting of the new academic year.”
I was unsure whether he was being sarcastic, or whether this genuinely represented a good turn-out.
He repeated the rules about the wearing of thongs, and then lined Bill and me up, barefoot on the mats. He showed us how to fasten the drawstring on our trousers, and tuck the bow in at the top, to avoid it becoming accidentally pulled undone during a contest. Next he retied our white belts for us at the waist in the approved manner.
“Hm, that’s better … Now, before you are taught the throws, you must first learn how to fall, so that you avoid injury … Will you do the honours, Jenny?”
Jenny demonstrated the forward, and then the backward break-falls several times, while we watched. Then Bill and I practised them repeatedly, until we were bruised but proficient. An hour had passed, the others watching patiently.
“Right, Bill and Edwin … we will now try our first throw ...”
I grasped the wrists, where they held the ligature behind my neck; I bent at the knees to lower my centre of gravity, backed into my assailant, and then straightened my legs. I continued to pull, while I swivelled to my left, and felt the body sail over my shoulder in a perfect arc, before landing on its back on the hard path, with a satisfying “thunk”. Seoienage – the shoulder throw!
There was just enough light for me to make out the long hair, and to recognise the familiar features – it was indeed Tess Milton. The breath had been knocked out of her; now she lay unconscious on her back, a small trickle of blood emerging from the corner of her mouth ... When I returned from the Rose and Crown with reinforcements, she still lay motionless, clutching in one gloved hand a length of thick twine ...
15
Monday, 29th November: One of the doctors had sorted through the morning post. On the side plate of my breakfast place-setting lay a post-card with a picture of an outlandish structure of curved roofs, skirted by an expanse of water; as yet it appeared far from finished. The caption read “The New Sydney Opera House”. I turned the card over, and read the brief message:
“Dear Edwin, As you may have guessed I am now a ship's surgeon (on the Orient Line). We have just arrived in Sydney, Australia, on a round-the-world trip. I'm enjoying every minute. You should try it, if you ever find yourself at a loose end, before embarking on career, matrimony, etcetera. With best wishes. Yours, Adam (Fenchurch).”
Epilogue
Why had Theresa Milton been the only one to survive a strangulation attempt? And why had Shirley Jenkins and Paula Howard been targetted? Was it because they had both been love rivals of Sister Milton, the first linked to Brian Root and the second to me. (The hapless tramp, Horatio Tupper, had clearly been a trial run, unconnected to the killer.) I had rung Charles Butter with my suspicions, and he had agreed reluctantly that I would act as the tethered goat to catch the tiger. As arranged, DS Stebbings and a detective constable – DC Cummings – were stationed in the saloon-bar of the Rose and Crown, casually dressed, inconspicuous, in case the murder was attempted on the way back. Butter had wanted to place under-cover police on the track, but I had insisted that this could blow the whole operation, that I would be in no real danger. While they waited and watched in the pub, a motorcyclist had arrived, had stripped off his leathers and goggles to reveal himself as Imran Shah. Was this their man? Had he missed me on the way up? Eventually I had arrived in the saloon bar, flushed, dishevelled and agitated, to summon help. Now Gary Stebbings took charge, summoning police reinforcements and an ambulance, while Cummings accompanied me back to the crime scene. We found my assailant still lying on the track, but moaning and beginning to move. I slumped down on the ground in a state of mild shock, surprised how weak I felt; Stebbings joined us almost immediately, and the two detectives prepared to stand guard.
DCI Butter arrived in the car park with the police contingent at the same time as the ambulance. The ambulance team examined Tess and me briefly, pronounced us fit to be moved, and then departed. The chief inspector and his sergeant cursorily checked over the scene by torchlight, gave instructions to the assembled police officers; then I was ushered into a private room in the Rose and Crown, where, with a brandy balloon in my trembling hand, I took Butter and Stebbings haltingly through my ordeal. The amber liquid burned my throat pleasingly as it went down; soon I was able to relax a little, and found that my shivering had ceased.
“It would be best if we could take you down to the station to get a fuller statement while the details are still fresh in your mind, Edwin ... Do you think you can manage that?”
Butter's mask of exaggerated bonhomie was gone, and – possibly for the first time – he addressed me with real concern, with real friendliness.
By the time we were outside again, Sister Milton had been removed to the police station for
examination by the police surgeon, prior to being housed in a cell for the night; the crime scene had been secured with blue-and-white tape and a police guard; and the forensic team in white boiler suits and rubber gloves were searching the area under powerful arc lights. I was whisked off to the police station in the back seat of the police Rover, in the company of Butter and Stebbings, to make my formal statement ...
A parking space had been saved for me in front of Hitchin police station. I emerged from Fred, and was shown by a waiting constable to reception, where I was met by Gary Stebbings. They had offered to send a car for me, but I refused – I didn't need the extra notoriety on my penultimate day at St Peter's Hospital. The detective-sergeant shook my hand with a warm, friendly smile. He seemed to have revised his opinion of me; or perhaps he was just dropping his official mask as “the bad cop”.
“The boss has asked us to meet him in the incident room ...”
This proved to be a large, well-lit chamber, cluttered with desks and chairs, and labelled items in transparent polythene bags on a trestle-table. Stebbings noticed my curious glance.
“Evidence,” he murmured.
On one wall were cork boards onto which were pinned photographs. Next to these was a blackboard with names and arrows in chalk.
Butter rose from his chair, near the back of the room. He greeted me cordially, even affectionately, and proceeded to show me around.
“It's the least I can do, Edwin, after what you've been through, and all the help you've given us in solving this case ...”
There were photos of the three murder victims: Horatio Tupper, Shirley Jenkins and Paula Howard. Then there were pictures of the suspects: Theresa Milton, Brian Root, Claud Guillam, Steve Bolton, Daniel Ellington, Russ Potter, Imran Shah, Olly Kumar, Virginia Lund, Abida Siddiqui, the casualty officer (Dr Henson), Stanley Pollett, Belinda Peach, Poppy Patterson. There was even a picture of me; and I was surprised to see one of Dr Middleton.
“Needed for elimination,” muttered Gary Stebbings under his breath. Butter pointed out Middleton's black silk scarf among the exhibits.
“After your statement, we checked this item: here is the remnant your footprint on it; but there is no blood, or tissue – in short no forensic evidence that this was a murder weapon ... On the other hand, the piece of thick cord clutched in Sister Milton's hand when she was apprehended was a potential murder weapon, and another, similar length of string in one of her drawers in the sisters' home had blood on it which matched Shirley Jenkins's. We also found tiny specks of blood on her gloves and overcoat, but these are still being processed by forensics ...”
“What's this?” I pointed to the picture of Belinda Peach, incredulous that she could be considered a suspect.
Garry smiled broadly.
“Oh, the boys were just trying to wind Tim up – that's Belinda's fiancé, Sergeant Gately ...”
We adjourned to a comfortable office down the corridor; here we were supplied with cups of strong sweet tea, and plates of Rich Tea and chocolate digestive biscuits. The two detectives lit up cigarettes (after politely offering me one, which I had declined). There was a further short pause; then Charles Butter resumed his narrative:
“We found several magazines with sado-erotic material in the drawers of Milton's room. The first murder – poor Horatio Tupper – was just a trial run, a random killing. Subsequently the killings became more personal ...”
The detective chief inspector inhaled, and a dark, serious expression clouded his chubby, normally sunny face.
“Milton was eaten up with hate. She hated Shirley Jenkins – she had stolen Brian Root from her, and she blamed Shirley for the subsequent humiliation. She hated Paula Howard for stealing you from her; she hated you for jilting her, and also Brian Root. If Brian had not been taken into police custody, she might well have killed him too ... We were getting too close to Theresa Milton – so she staged the attempted murder of herself; she was quite successful in this, it did throw us off the scent!
“We checked on Stanley Pollett. The night you saw him in the hospital car park, just after eight o'clock on Monday, 9th August, he was on a date with the radiographer, Amy Drew, and due to meet her there. He was with her (at the cinema, and subsequently at her flat) until two-thirty in the morning – a cast-iron alibi for the murder of Shirley Jenkins ...
“We continue to investigate Sister Milton. We have asked the Dorset police to look into the files at Poole General Hospital during the time she was there, as a student nurse and staff-nurse, to see if there were any unexplained deaths. She may have been experimenting even then ...”
“She told me her life changed after her brother died,” I recalled. “She had apparently been happy until then, sailing her father's boat with the whole family ... Could that have been a turning point for Theresa Milton, do you think?”
“Miss Milton was an only child. Never had a brother. Her mother was a single parent ... Dad had departed when Theresa was just a toddler ... Seems she's a compulsive liar as well as a serial killer, and I don't know what else ...”
I blushed, remembering the Mickey Finn in my whisky, the fingernail marks on my chest and the bite marks on my neck when I awoke the morning after. However the other two seemed oblivious to my reaction, and we remained seated comfortably, absorbed in our thoughts, chewing our biscuits, the detectives smoking reflectively. Abruptly, Butter roused himself, rummaged in a drawer of his desk; his hand emerged, clasping a pair of hand-cuffs.
“These are for you, Edwin, for sterling work in solving this case, and putting yourself at risk the way you did, though I still think you should have given us more warning ... Rumour is that, thanks to you, both Gary and I are up for promotion ... These cuffs make a matching pair with the ones you have already. If there's a next time we will have to make you an honorary CID officer!”
I had driven down from Hitchin with all my belongings in Fred, my faithful Morris Minor 1000, detouring for a two-hour break at my home in Clapham Common; here the whole family congregated to welcome me – even Dad was there. Jane was less bubbly, more grown-up; she bombarded me with information and questions, her dark eyes scrutinising me seriously from beneath long lashes.
“I start at Streatham High School for Girls next September ... I shall be taking the bus every day ... It's about twenty minutes' ride each way, so I shall have to get up earlier ... But it's a lovely school, and several of my friends are going ...”
November, 1953: It was a bitterly cold evening; clouds blotted out the moon and stars, and I wondered whether it would snow. We were the Four Musketeers, and we were on our way to our first Inter-Sixth Form dance – at Streatham High School. We boarded the bus, welcomed by the warmth of the upper deck …
The school hall was crowded and noisy; after depositing our coats and scarves, we split up to search for dancing partners. When my eyes had adjusted to the subdued light, I saw a gorgeous girl in a burgundy dress sitting alone on the opposite side of the hall; I observed her for a while, then approached.
“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” She scrutinised me briefly but minutely from under her long eyelashes.
“Oh, I think I’ll just sit this one out, you know,” she drawled in an offhand manner.
“But …” I faltered.
Ladies had never refused me at Maureen Upton’s School of Dancing – it was considered most impolite!
“Get lost, Buster,” and the paragon terminated our encounter.
I felt disconsolate: my first event outside dancing classes had turned into a nightmare. I moved away a few paces, and sat down again; I wished fervently I had stayed with my friends, or stayed at home; I thought dark thoughts; time passed.
After a while, the sound of the music returned and I became aware of the outside world again. Sitting next to me was a girl with frizzy brown hair and no make-up, who appeared as unhappy as I; she wore a plain white blouse, a fawn skirt and sensible shoes.
A wall-flower, I deduced. I’ll try her.
Once
more I stood up. “Will you honour me with this dance?”
“Oh, yes please.” She gazed up at me; then rose to her feet with obvious pleasure. Now that she was standing, I saw that she had a pleasing figure and was just my height!
“I’m Jill - Jill Pritchard.”
“Edwin Scott.”
As we danced, she leaned backwards from the waist, in the approved ballroom-dancing stance – yet I could still feel the soft touch of her breasts against my chest ...
“What school d’ you go to, Edwin?” she enquired after a long awkward pause, during which I struggled to say something ... anything.
“Clapham Grammar, er …”
“Oh yes, I know it ... And which courses are you taking at A-level?”
Now that she was in her stride, I learned that she was at Mayfields School in Putney, studying the same subjects.
“I want to read Medicine,” she continued to my delighted surprise. “You see my mother’s in general practice, and I aim to follow in her footsteps.” She seemed equally pleased to learn of my medical ambitions – and my reserve vanished like a summer mist.
“Once I had a secret love …”
Jill was an excellent dancer, and our foxtrot surpassed my wildest dreams. However, I couldn’t keep this up for ever; gradually the adrenaline surge passed, my concentration lapsed; imperceptibly our momentum slowed. I became aware of a faint scent of forget-me-nots, as our cheeks drew closer.
“… my secret love’s no secret any more …” Doris Day’s dreamy voice trailed away.
The lights came on, and, as we came to an uncertain halt, I found myself gazing into the depth of her violet-grey eyes.
Intermission, I thought in frustration. Just my luck! But no …
Death on the House (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 2) Page 21