Betty Church and the Suffolk Vampire

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  ‘Oh yes,’ they remembered.

  ‘But we weren’t realleh—’ Algy began.

  ‘Listening,’ Sandy concluded.

  ‘It’s where you are going to keep look-out,’ I snapped.

  ‘Oh we thought that was… just—’ Sandy said tentatively.

  ‘Make pretend,’ Sandy confessed.

  I took a long deep breath before deciding not to waste it.

  ‘Wait here,’ I ordered and went up another twenty feet to the driveway of Sandy View – aptly named, for there was sweet damn all else to see except that, crucially for me, it backed onto Pinfold Lane. Even more luckily, this was a dormer bungalow with two hip windows in the red-tiled roof overlooking the Wickses’ Treetops House across the road.

  ‘I don’t think Stumpy knows her either,’ Sandy whispered. ‘I think she is bluffing.’

  Either I had superhuman hearing – and I don’t think I did – or the modern generation had not been taught how to whisper. Dodo was hopeless at it and they were little better.

  In contrast to the unkempt rear of the property, there was a nice little garden at the front with a path curving round a rockery stocked with doubtless a great variety of heathers, although they looked identical to me.

  I rang the bell. It was answered almost immediately by a little old lady with a pleated linen mob-cap Jane Austen’s great-aunt might have worn and an overly large apron with shoulder ruffles and a pattern of what looked like little swastikas but were, I decided, faded pansies or butterflies.

  ‘If you’ve come about my George, it was her fault for leaving the cage open.’ She trembled.

  ‘George is your cat?’

  ‘And her canary flew into our garden.’

  ‘Has she made threats against you?’

  ‘She threatened to call the police,’ the old lady quavered, which was no use to me. I wanted to be doing her a favour rather than begging one that she could refuse. ‘Then she said she would drown George in the bath.’ That wasn’t much but it would have to do.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘we take these threats very seriously Mrs… I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘Violet Scrup.’

  ‘Oh, I had an aunt called that.’

  ‘Scrup?’ She lit up. ‘Really? It’s not as common a name as you might think. We must be related.’ She held out her arms for an embrace that was never to be consummated. ‘You must call me Aunty Vi, dear, and I shall call you Deirdre.’

  ‘Inspector Church might be better while I’m in uniform,’ I suggested.

  ‘Oh!’ She shrieked so suddenly and loudly I thought she might have been stabbed by an unseen assailant. ‘Your poor poor arm. What have they done to you, darling?’

  ‘It’s just gone for repair,’ I said. This seemed to satisfy Mrs Scrup, which was more than most of my inventions did with most people.

  ‘It’s wonderful what they can do these days,’ the woman who would never be Aunty Vi to me enthused while I struggled to get back to the reason for my visit.

  ‘We take these threats very seriously, Mrs,’ I repeated, ‘Scrup, and we have assigned two policemen to guard you until the threat is over.’

  ‘Sergeants?’ Mrs Scrup’s face lit up. ‘Oh I love a sergeant.’ She clasped her hands joyfully.

  ‘Constables.’

  ‘Burly?’ The light had dimmed but was almost instantly rekindled. ‘Oh I love a burly constable.’

  ‘I can let you have tall.’ I hadn’t been expecting to haggle.

  ‘With ginger hair? Oh, I—’

  ‘In the right sort of light,’ I hastened to say as confidently as I could be bothered and motioned them over. ‘This Constable Grinder-Snipe will keep watch in one of your rear upstairs windows.’

  ‘But George mainly uses the front garden,’ she objected.

  ‘Our intelligence tells us to expect an assault from the roof, madam,’ Sandy said, with commendable quick-wittedness but rather spoiling the logic of my next announcement.

  ‘And this Constable Grinder-Snipe will hide in your potting shed at the back.’

  Mrs Scrup blinked repeatedly. ‘They look very similar.’

  ‘We have to mass-produce them in wartime,’ I told her. ‘Not handcrafted like the older officers. Well, I shall leave you in their capable hands, madam. And please don’t feel the need to offer them anything. They might pretend to want tea or food but that’s just their little joke.’

  ‘Ohhh,’ they both gasped.

  That’ll teach you to call me Stumpy within earshot, I thought and whistled as I went back up the road, which was all the more enjoyable because I had been brought up with the belief that ladies never whistle.

  89

  THE ALLIGATOR AND THE CHAIN

  The phone rang on the hour. I know for certain when it was because Rivers’ shift had finished. In motion Rivers reminded me of an alligator I had seen in Anglethorpe Zoo. It had drifted in a concrete moat like a log. ‘It’s a fake.’ A smart young lad in a sleeveless pullover had leaned over the railings and prodded it with a stick. In an instant the water was a foaming mass and the alligator had whipped round and ripped that stick out of the intelligent child’s grasp, tragically not quite dragging him in with it.

  The moment the minute hand of the station clock clicked into place, Rivers the waxwork became Rivers the rival to Jesse Owens and was out of the door.

  Brigsy was doing what Brigsy did best – brewing up a big brown pot of tea – so I picked up the handpiece. ‘Sackwater Central Police Station.’

  ‘Church?’ I recognised that voice immediately.

  ‘Yes this is Inspector Church, Mr Wicks. Have you had any news about your wife?’

  ‘I have received instructions about the demand.’

  ‘Was this by letter in the same way again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you remember what I said about not touching the note?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course I fricking did,’ he assured me in the enchanting and sober manner that had become his trademark as far as I was concerned.

  ‘What does the note say?’ I pressed on.

  ‘Tell Inspector Church to be at your house in one hour. Delivery instructions to follow.’

  ‘He asked for me by name?’ I said in surprise.

  ‘I have just said so,’ Thurston Wicks pointed out with every justification.

  I briefly mulled it over. Why would the kidnapper choose me? Was it because he had read about my connection with the ‘vampire’ murders or had Lavender given my name as somebody who could be trusted?

  ‘And it has just come?’

  ‘Hot off the press.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘Do you think I wouldn’t have told you if he had?’ Thurston Wicks sneered.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ I told him.

  The Wolseley was parked round the back but I couldn’t drive any more and Brigsy had never learned. I briefly explained what had happened and got out my trusty Raleigh Ladies’ Popular.

  It was already late crow-time when I freewheeled off the forecourt.

  ‘Good evening, Inspector.’

  I wobbled in surprise as Toby Gregson appeared at my side on the pavement.

  ‘Oh hello, Toby. You aren’t here on police business, are you?’ I hoped not. I was glad to see him but I had no time to spare.

  ‘No, just on my way home from the office.’ He stepped back into the shadows. ‘Any information on the killings?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Toby, I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘Perhaps we could have another drink and talk things over?’

  ‘I’ll give you a ring,’ I said and meant it but, for some reason, it sounded like I didn’t.

  It was only after I had pedalled off that I thought about it. Toby Gregson lived in Mafeking Gardens, the opposite direction from the Gazette’s office on Straight Street.

  90

  THE TRACTOR, THE CAT AND THE RAT

  The evening was surprisingly mild though still da
mp after the heavy rain earlier. An ambulance went by, but it seemed in no great hurry so I assumed it was nothing too urgent. The sun was low and, of course, straight in my eyes so I kept my head as low as possible. A tractor chugged past with a pile of manure on a trailer, two farmer’s lads sitting happily on top of it.

  One put his fingers in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. ‘Keep those legs pumping, darlin’.’

  ‘She int got no crossbar,’ the other jeered. ‘Want to straddle my crossbar, darlin’?’

  ‘Bet that muck didn’t smell half as bad until you climbed onto it,’ I muttered to myself but did my best to maintain a dignified aloofness – not easy when I was pedalling along the gutter to avoid the filth showering onto the road. Luckily I was at my turning and they were soon out of view, only their wolf-howls and even more obscene suggestions following me down Pinfold Lane.

  I never understood why men did that. Did they really imagine their leers and jeers would entice me to roll abandonedly in cow shit with them?

  There had been a drift of fine sand a few inches deep and my bike wheels were spinning uselessly on the higher ridges, so I dismounted and walked to Treetops House. Across the road was the back of Sandy View, Mrs Scrup’s home. I could clearly see the potting shed in her back garden. This was where Sandy was supposed to be hiding but the door was wide open and, unless he had taken camouflage classes, my constable was not inside.

  ‘Grinder-Snipe,’ I bellowed, terrifying a pheasant out of cover but failing to get my constable to break his.

  I stacked my bike against a gorse bush and scrambled up the low dune. One reason I had chosen Sandy View and not the next house along, which had just as good a view of the front of the Wickses’ home, was that it had no rear fence so Sandy, on getting a signal from his twin, could burst out and nab whoever delivered the ransom instructions. This was perhaps not very subtle but I was confident that, if we could catch the kidnapper or his accomplice, we could persuade him to reveal the whereabouts of Lavender rather than face a more severe charge, kidnapping and murder carrying a mandatory death sentence. It seemed a better plan to me than trying to follow the messenger and risk losing him, or simply paying the ransom and relying on the kidnapper keeping his side of the bargain.

  I was fully aware that the Essex force regarded this as their case since the crime was committed on their territory but, as far as I was concerned, the victim came from my patch, I had been instructed to deliver the ransom and it was my duty to try to save Lavender Wicks.

  I trampled down the other side of the dune, snatching at a clump of marram grass to stop myself sliding.

  ‘Grinder-Snipe,’ I yelled repeatedly, bulldozing through a patch of bracken and traipsing over an uncut, ankle-high lawn.

  I had almost reached the back door when it flew open.

  ‘Ohhhh, mam.’ Sandy stood flapping his fingers. ‘It’s all gone ’orribly wrong.’

  I marched up to Constable Lysander Grinder-Snipe.

  ‘How?’ This had better be good. If they had fallen asleep or left their posts for a tea break, they would find themselves on the uncomfortable side of a disciplinary hearing before the week was out.

  ‘It’s Algernon, mam. ’e’s…’ Sandy choked, swallowed and tried again. ‘’E’s…’ Sandy burst into tears and then I remembered the ambulance. It had been travelling quite sedately – but then it wouldn’t bother rushing for a fatality.

  ‘Is he—?’ I began.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he—?’ I began again.

  ‘Been tekken to ’ospital,’ Sandy managed.

  ‘Is he—?’ I tried a third time.

  ‘Broken leg.’ Violet Scrup came into the kitchen behind the constable, her mob-cap flopping forlornly. ‘And it’s all my fault.’

  She didn’t look capable of breaking anybody’s leg but then, I suppose, neither does a swan, which everybody tells you can do that with its wing.

  ‘What happened?’ I glanced at my watch. It was four thirty and the dark was creeping up steadily. ‘And make it quick.’

  ‘I screamed,’ Mrs Scrup confessed shamefacedly. ‘George brought a rat in and was running upstairs with it. Your brave boy in blue came running down to save me, tripped over George and fell headlong into my umbrella stand. There was a horrible crack. I thought it was the nice ebony cane Mr Scrup used to take to chapel on Sundays but it was poor Constable Gutter-Snipe’s hind leg.’

  ‘Did you see anyone go to Treetops?’ I asked Sandy.

  ‘No, mam,’ he sobbed. ‘And I did go straight upstairs even though…’ he coughed back his misery, ‘poor Algernon was in such pain and not being in the least bit brave about it…’ At least, I consoled myself, Sandy had had the dedication and initiative to take over his brother’s watching post – but then he spoiled that delusion by admitting, ‘Because I couldn’t stand the racket any longer and the potting shed is very uncomfortable.’

  ‘I gave the poor wounded man a cup of tea and an iced bun,’ Mrs Scrup assured me, which was good news because we all know those things heal a broken leg and, if you need an anaesthetic, it’s always a good idea to have a full stomach.

  ‘If I come out of Treetops and wave both arms, come out for instruction.’

  ‘You will ’old your left one ’igh up, won’t you,’ Sandy mithered. ‘Only…’ He fumbled for words.

  ‘I have noticed that it’s shorter,’ I assured him. ‘If I wave just one arm – my right – you may go to see your brother.’ I awaited his gratitude.

  ‘Do I ’ave to, mam? I ’ate ’ospitals. They remind me of illness.’

  ‘Yes,’ I insisted. ‘But on your way, let them know at the station what’s happening and say not to do anything until they hear from me.’

  Sandy Grinder-Snipe wrinkled his forehead. ‘The railway station?’

  ‘The police station.’ I missed out an expletive after the in deference to Mrs Scrup.

  ‘Whatever you were up to, it’s a fucking cock-up, isn’t it?’ she suggested sweetly.

  91

  THISTLES AND THE TEARDROP COUPÉ

  I raced back through the garden.

  ‘Mind my flowers,’ Violet Scrup called after me but, apart from daisies, died-down dandelions and a lonely thistle I could see nothing the head gardener at Kew might recognise as a flower.

  I hurtled over the dune back onto the road, seeing my bike at the last moment and hurdling it in a leap that would have got me straight back into the athletics team Miss Addison removed me – but not Hortensia Bogwhist – from for smoking even though Hortensia had given me the cigarette.

  Cars rarely came down Pinfold Lane but a very sleek and very, very expensive cherry-red Talbot-Darracq Teardrop Coupé that was clearly exempt from all traffic regulations came skidding to a halt.

  ‘Get off the bloody road, woman.’ The driver honked imperiously. I straightened myself up, turning for him to see POLICE printed in black on my helmet. Oh sorry, Officer, I imagined him saying, but only getting, ‘Bloody bobby should know bloody better.’ As he swept away I recognised the driver as Arthur, Lord Stovebury’s son. We had danced together once at Stovebury Hall a long time ago. I never forgot him, so dashing and aloof, but to him I was just another local girl getting a taste of noblesse oblige. He had better not park on the pavement outside the Stovebury-Furnace Estates Office while I was in the area again.

  Pooky came to the door.

  ‘Oh it’s you.’

  ‘Thank you for that invaluable information.’

  Pooky turned her head from side to side like I was a modern painting that nobody was quite sure which way up to hang.

  ‘Give them a uniform and the power goes to their heads.’ She sniffed.

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’ I gazed at hers and Pooky sniffed again.

  ‘Come in and wipe your feet.’

  I did as I was bid, unable to resist saying, ‘Kindly announce me to your master.’

  Pooky’s face went rancid but she didn’t have a chance to respond because
a door flapped open.

  ‘Inspector Church.’ Thurston Wicks strode into the hall, glass in hand. ‘You took your time.’

  I wanted to ask who else’s time I could take, and I certainly wasn’t going to apologise for having had to cycle to his inconveniently situated house.

  ‘Have you had any more messages?’ I asked and he scowled.

  ‘If I had, your men would have told you.’ He drained his glass and let it fall unharmed onto the thick-pile carpet.

  ‘They were called out on an emergency,’ I lied.

  Wicks clenched his fists. ‘A bigger emergency than this?’

  ‘We think it relates to this case but I cannot tell you any more at present.’ And it flicked through my head how Sister Millicent had warned that little lies lead to bigger lies and so on ad infinitum and that, if anybody should know, she should. ‘Can I see the latest letter?’

  ‘I never touched it,’ Pooky insisted, though I had not even asked her. ‘Well, only quickly.’

  ‘Come to my den.’ Mr Wicks led me down the long whiteness that was his hall. He had a long easy stride and kept his head level – like Sister Millicent had taught us to do with a Bible on our heads because she knew that we would make sure not to commit the sin of letting God’s holy word slide to the floor – but I noticed he weaved like Stanley Matthews on his way to score a goal, except with considerably less grace.

  We passed Lavender’s snug on the right and took the next door on the left.

  The word den had conjured up an image of the tree house I had built in our sycamore despite my father’s assistance, but this room was a bit more sophisticated than that – there was not one nail jutting through the floorboards when we went from the whiteness into a yellowness that turned out to be his study.

  This room was wood-lined and everything in it – the panelling, the desk and chair, the bookcase, the ceiling – was painted in slightly different shades of yellow. Only the floor wasn’t painted and that was because it was carpeted – in yellow.

  It was rather a nice colour but, as I was told by Sister Millicent – who seemed to be cropping up in my thoughts an awful lot lately – you can have too much of good thing. I never believed it until she gave me a whole bag of sugar to eat one lunchtime.