Betty Church and the Suffolk Vampire

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  ‘Open the curtains.’

  Constable Bank-Anthony crossed to the window at the front of the building, holding his right arm across himself as if it was in a sling. A blackout board had been propped against the wall.

  I took a look at the room – a small office with two upright pine chairs for customers facing the dead man across his desk, a green metal filing cabinet, the bare floor painted cream and grey Anaglypta wallpaper. There was a picture over the unlit gas fire set into the chimney breast of Edward VIII looking rather silly in bales of braid and sporting more medals than the average battalion. Had nobody told the dead man we had gained a new and better king three years ago?

  The man himself was probably in his mid-thirties. He had a good head of wavy gingery hair, neatly barbered, and the suit was well tailored, though heavily stained now.

  ‘Why is there no blood on the desk?’ I wondered aloud. ‘It doesn’t look like he was dragged here.’ I crouched, pulling my skirt over my knees to avoid my sergeant’s leering gaze.

  ‘What is it?’ Bantony watched me reach under the pedestal.

  There were footsteps in the hall.

  ‘It looks like’ – I pulled it out – ‘a sack.’

  It was a jute one, the sort of thing you might get grain in, and it was encrusted in gore. I held it up towards the window. There were five vertical rips in it, each about an inch long.

  ‘The murderer put this over his head before stabbing him,’ I said.

  The holes were only on one side of the sack and corresponded roughly to the dead man’s wounds.

  ‘To stop ’im strugglink?’ Bantony hazarded.

  ‘Partly,’ I agreed. ‘Also it stops the murderer getting splattered with blood. I suppose this is definitely Skotter Heath Jackson?’

  ‘Mrs Milligan identifoid ’im.’ Bantony brushed some dust off his sleeves.

  ‘Where is Mrs Milligan now?’

  Bantony jerked his head like he was trying to shake water out of his ear. ‘Down there.’ He pointed so vaguely that for a minute I thought he meant under the floorboards.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  My constable considered the matter. ‘Not bad,’ he decided, ‘bit old for moy but quoite trim.’

  I breathed hard and tried again. ‘Is she all right being left sitting by herself?’

  Bantony shrugged. ‘What else could oy do?’

  ‘You could have comforted her. Her boss doesn’t need consoling.’

  ‘Oy was lookin’ fer clues.’

  ‘And did you find any?’ I held up the sack as an example.

  ‘One,’ Bantony declared, proud as a cat presenting its owner with a disembowelled mouse, and I went to look – five footprints in the blood on the other side of the body, four of them smudged but one quite clear – a flat round-toed shoe with parallel cleats in the sole.

  ‘Do not let anybody near that. Guard it with your career,’ I instructed. ‘We need a police photographer.’

  ‘Do we ’ave one?’ Bantony rolled his head back.

  ‘Of course.’ I glanced at the blotter. It was fresh and blank. ‘He starts in about ten years’ time.’ I went back onto the landing. ‘And don’t touch anything.’ Another thought struck me. ‘Where on earth has Chivers got to?’ I raised my voice to a bellow. ‘Constable Chivers!’

  And from downstairs I heard, ‘Here I am, Inspector.’

  I peered over the bannister but could see no sign of her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Talking to Mr Jackson’s secretary.’

  ‘Get Mr Gregson of the Gazette.’

  A little face appeared at the bottom of the stairs, peering up. ‘Do you mean arrest him?’ She glowed with excitement.

  ‘No, I mean ask him to come in.’

  ‘Shall I tell him bossily, like…’ her voice rose half an octave, ‘You there, come here this instant.’

  ‘Constable Box,’ I called over her head. ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘Might the inspector have a word, please, sir?’

  ‘Ohhh.’ Dodo swung her left leg sulkily. ‘I could have done that.’

  ‘Go back to Mrs Milligan.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’ She was a thousandth of a decibel off stamping.

  Gregson squeezed past Box. One day I would see if East Suffolk did a stepping-out-of-the-way course and send our sturdy constable on it. He had already forgotten the lesson I had given him.

  As I went down a thought struck me. ‘Where’s Inspector Sharkey?’ I asked Box.

  I had expected Old Scrapie to be hot on my heels, barging me out of the way.

  ‘I think I can answer that.’ Gregson grinned. ‘There was a sighting of a German spy signalling from the allotments.’

  I could not imagine Old Scrapie passing up that opportunity. He would be national news if he arrested a Nazi.

  ‘So why didn’t you go?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘Well…’ Gregson looked a little, but only a little, abashed. ‘This is only a theory but maybe it was a quiet news day even by Sackwater standards so somebody started that rumour before he heard about this story.’

  ‘You do know it’s an offence to waste police time?’ I asked as sternly as I could manage.

  ‘Certainly do.’ He adopted that guilelessly innocent look that only the guilty can carry off successfully. ‘And the moment you capture the villain, the Gazette will be strident in its condemnation of him.’

  I smothered a smile. ‘Want another scoop?’

  ‘If it’s the one about the duck warning the farmer about the fox, that’s already in tomorrow’s edition under Dauntless Duck Foxes Fox at French’s Farm.’ His eyes were Oxford blue, almost black in the dull, Box-filtered light.

  ‘I think you can hold the front page,’ I prophesied and those dark eyes flashed.

  ‘So it’s true.’ His face was alive with excitement and his finger underlined the air between us as he underlined his headline. ‘The Suffolk Vampire Strikes Again.’

  40

  THE FATE OF THE EEL

  I was only surprised Gregson had taken so long to ask. A London reporter would have copy on his editor’s desk by now.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘As you well know, he doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Do you believe in the Loch Ness Monster?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Neither do I but he sells papers.’ This was a healthier and more assertive man than the one I had met at the station. I hesitated. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. ‘As, I’m sure you know, there has been a murder.’

  ‘Skotter Heath Jackson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Mrs Milligan?’

  ‘No.’

  Gregson clicked his tongue. ‘Pity.’

  ‘You don’t like Mrs Milligan?’

  ‘I don’t know her but a double slaying would have tripled circulation.’

  ‘If I let you up there will you promise to take one photo of the clue that I point out to you and nothing else and not write anything about what you see up there without putting it past me?’ I waited for his outburst about freedom of the press and democracy. It was a speech they must all be taught in the Journalists’ School of Hypocrisy.

  ‘Yes,’ he said simply.

  ‘Why?’ I asked warily.

  ‘Because if I say no, I’ll be back on the street with no more story than any casual bystander got. Also, if I break my word, you’ll never give me any information again. So’ – he swung the lever to wind on his film – ‘what is it? An axe?’ His ambitions soared. ‘The bloodied corpse?’

  ‘A footprint.’

  Gregson’s face fell until he found a glimmer of hope. ‘In the blood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excellent! That has to be a front page.’ His finger drew again. ‘Footprint of a Murderer.’

  ‘Only if you prefix it with “Is This The” and end with a question mark,’ I advised for both our sakes. ‘Can you manage the stairs?’

  ‘Race you.’ He looked up them wryly.

  ‘You’ll hav
e to give me a good start,’ I replied and we set off, me first, the reporter taking the steps one at a time and pausing on each to replenish his oxygen.

  I stopped near the top. ‘It’s not a pretty sight.’

  ‘It is from where I’m standing.’

  ‘Is that an attempt at charm?’ I reached the landing.

  ‘The British press never lie.’

  ‘The British press just has.’ I went into the room.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Bantony tried to look busy but, having been told not to touch anything, he had nothing to look busy about.

  ‘A reporter from the Gazette.’

  ‘Why’s he wobbling?’

  I spun round and leaped out just in time to catch Gregson’s lapel as he swayed and staggered backwards towards the abyss.

  *

  ‘Maybe a bit too ambitious,’ Gregson said after I had sat him on the top step and got him to put his head between his knees.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I put a steadying hand on his shoulder. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.’

  ‘Not just the bellows.’ Gregson raised his head. ‘I’ve never seen a murder before,’ he admitted bashfully.

  ‘Can I have a go with your camera then?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Gregson clutched it protectively to him. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  I helped him up. ‘Tell me if you feel dizzy.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ he repeated tetchily. Obviously the very idea that he might not be was an unwarranted slur on his manliness and, if there’s one thing you must never do with a man’s masculinity, it’s slur on it.

  Gregson tugged the bottom of his blue blazer down. I don’t really like blazers but at least it was single-breasted and didn’t have anchors on the brass buttons. Gregson dusted his beige trousers and tipped the brim of his panama down, like George Raft on a killing spree only not quite as menacing. He tightened the knot of his earthy-green and lemon-yellow striped tie, inflated his chest and marched in.

  Gregson of the Gazette did himself credit. He was pale and tense but he kept on his feet this time, had a closer look at the body, whistled once and said, ‘Nasty.’ He took three photos of the footprint, two of them with popping flashbulbs.

  He scanned the area, mesmerised by Skotter Heath Jackson’s corpse now.

  ‘We’d better discuss what I can and can’t reveal. I wouldn’t want to mess up your investigation. Dinner tonight?’

  Was he trying to pick me up? Even if he wasn’t it would be far more professional to tell him to go to the station. Gregson smiled. He was not a handsome man and he had a crumpled air, possibly due to his illness. Adam was the kind of man fortune tellers tell every girl she will meet: tall (by Maltese standards), dark and very handsome, but Adam was not there and Gregson was. Gregson had a winning smile and, for today at least, it won.

  ‘I’ll meet you for a drink,’ I decided.

  ‘Do you know the Compasses?’

  ‘I certainly do.’ I’d been thrown out of there by Walsaw Welch for trying to buy a drink underage but there was a different landlord now. Walsaw had choked to death trying to swallow a live eel for a bet. The eel survived long enough to be the main attraction of a stew.

  ‘Shall we say eight?’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said.

  ‘Yes you are.’

  ‘Very nearly,’ I agreed.

  I saw him out. His eyes were cobalt in the sunshine, I noticed, with golden flecks in them.

  41

  THE BONE-HANDLED KNIFE

  I went to the downstairs office, where Dodo was holding the hand of a woman seated behind a typewriter at a small wooden desk. Her hair was greying round the roots and coming unclipped.

  ‘Mrs Milligan came in just before nine. Mr Jackson, her employer, usually came in around eight because he got the early bus from Tringford where he lived. The door was locked so she thought he might be late until she saw the blood. He left before her last night. I was just asking Mrs Milligan if she knows anyone called Lavender Wicks.’

  ‘Who—’ I began.

  ‘Mrs Milligan,’ Dodo replied with great patience.

  ‘No, who is—’ I tried again.

  ‘I have already told you that I don’t.’ The woman looked up. ‘I hope you catch the bastard and I hope you string him up.’ Her face was blotchy and streaked with tears and, from the dent in the bridge of her nose, she normally wore glasses.

  ‘Do you have any idea who it could be?’ I asked but she shook her head.

  Her wire-framed spectacles lay hinged open between old splots of ink on the desk’s pine top.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies? Anyone who complained too much about his bill or blamed him for their taxes?’

  ‘Why on earth would anybody do that?’ she demanded as if I had done so myself. ‘He was a good accountant and considerate employer. Everybody liked him – except the cleaner, who left in a paddy because he asked her to wipe the skirting boards. I believe she is making parts for Spitfires now.’

  ‘Did she make any threats?’

  Mrs Milligan grasped a lethal-looking bone-handled knife. ‘Called him a dunt chop-logger-head.’ She slit open the letter.

  ‘How very rude.’ Dodo tossed her head indignantly. ‘Unless, of course, he was one.’

  ‘Was he married?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Happily?’

  ‘With three sons. Somebody will have to tell them.’

  ‘I can do that,’ I said. ‘Do you know his home address?’

  ‘The Chestnuts, Moss Lane, Tringford.’ She exhaled shudderingly. ‘If he hadn’t come back to work yesterday he would still be alive now.’

  ‘He’d been away?’

  ‘With a terrible cold.’ She picked up an unopened letter. ‘He took a whole week off. He hated doing that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but can I see your shoe?’

  ‘What? Oh for goodness’ sake.’ Mrs Milligan twisted round in her chair, sticking her right foot out as if she would have liked to kick me with her pointed stiletto. Even before I asked, I knew I was wasting my time.

  ‘And if you could lift it, please.’ There were no cleats and no dried blood. ‘Do you have any other shoes here?’

  ‘What a stupid question.’

  Don’t ever let me catch you scrumping apples, I thought, but said, ‘Some women wear shoes for walking to work and change when they get there.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  I paused, puzzled by her lack of cooperation.

  ‘Do you resent my trying to catch your employer’s killer, Mrs Milligan?’

  ‘I resent you treating me like a suspect.’

  ‘I am trying to eliminate you as one.’

  ‘Then kindly do so.’

  ‘Daphne is very upset,’ Dodo explained helpfully. ‘She’s never had an employer murdered before.’

  ‘Oh this is such a waste of time,’ Mrs apparently-Daphne Milligan burst out. ‘We all know you won’t catch him and you’ll end up blaming it on the Suffolk Vampire.’

  42

  THE STAKING OF CAREERS

  It was with some difficulty that I persuaded Mrs Milligan that she had to leave the premises. She was paid to stay until five, she told me, and looked more shocked than by anything else when I told her, ‘Not any more.’

  Dodo brought out her notebook. She had already almost filled it with her tiny neat handwriting. She licked the pencil and began to print. ‘The suspect wore a brown coat,’ she murmured.

  ‘What?’ Mrs Milligan tied then untied her belt in confusion.

  ‘Goodbye, Daphne.’ Dodo wiggled her fingers. ‘I hope you have better luck with your next employer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mrs Milligan said to my surprise and trudged out of the front door when I held it open for her.

  ‘Hold it… Lovely,’ I heard Gregson say. ‘Is there anything you would like to say to our readers, madam?’

  Mrs Milligan growled something and I caught sight of him flinch
ing.

  ‘I don’t think I could print that.’ Gregson put his notebook away. ‘I’m not even sure I could spell it.’

  I shut the door. ‘I hear Inspector Sharkey has gone in pursuit of a German spy.’

  ‘Oh yes. A new waitress rang Slackwater Central from Henrietta’s Café,’ Dodo told me airily as if that was an everyday event. ‘Only…’ She hesitated.

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘I think she heard that nice little man from the sweet shop talking and jumped to the wrong conclusion. I saw him come out of the café on my way from the bus stop.’

  Exactly how many spies can there be in this town? They must outnumber the trippers.

  ‘But you didn’t tell Inspector Sharkey?’

  Dodo twiddled the lower brass button of her jacket. ‘I thought we might manage better without him.’

  ‘How unprofessional,’ I scolded and gave her a wink.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Dodo said, ‘have you got pixie dust in your eye?’

  *

  Sharkey didn’t exactly froth at the mouth – I’ve never seen anyone do that unless they’ve overdone the tooth powder – but he did the closest thing I’ve ever seen to it without the bubbles.

  ‘Bloody wild goose chase,’ he fumed. ‘It was that damned Kraut off to clean out his fucking doves. It’s a bloody joke.’

  ‘Geese bleeding? Doves making babies? I don’t understand’ – Dodo wrinkled her brow – ‘why that’s a joke.’

  ‘Mr Sterne keeps racing pigeons,’ I told her. ‘He has quite a few prizes for them but they are his babies really, the children he and Mrs Sterne never had.’

  Sharkey rounded on me. ‘You set it up, didn’t you?’

  ‘When and how?’ I didn’t need to ask why because it was obvious he thought I was stealing his case.

  ‘When this brainless mopsy turned up late again.’

  ‘I shall look that word up later,’ Dodo warned. ‘You are not supposed to abuse fellow officers.’

  ‘And while you’re about it, look up the word late,’ he retorted, with some justification, I thought.

  ‘We only have one phone so I would have had to make the call in front of all the men,’ I pointed out but it was obvious that even Scrapie did not really believe his own accusation.