Murder Under A Green Sea

by Phillip Hunter

  “But she said she had a lump on her head and couldn’t remember how that happened.”

  “Hmm,” Martha said. “Well, as long as she enjoyed herself.”

  “Yes,” Mrs Webster said, “she said she was especially impressed with Mr Lindsey. Apparently, she thinks he’s very handsome.”

  “I’m surprised she could see Lindsey, the amount of booze she put away,” Max said.

  “Nonsense. Mrs Dunaway’s a teetotaller. Always has been.”

  Max was about to dispute this, but decided to attempt a conciliatory manner and closed his mouth.

  Seymour returned with a tray on which were four plates. Each plate had a slice of bread and butter, and a selection of pickled onions. He placed these before those at the breakfast table and wandered off again.

  They all waited for him to come back. After ten minutes or so, Mrs Webster said, “Well, I think we should start.”

  They made the best of it, commenting now and then on how good the bread was.

  “These pickled onions are marvellous,” Max said, eliciting various non-verbal responses from the others.

  As they struggled through, talk turned again to Mrs Dunaway.

  “And she said there was a delightful man called Mr Hart,” Mrs Webster was saying. “Who is he?”

  Martha and Max looked at each other. “We don’t know,” Martha said. “He came with Alwyn Frost.”

  “Well, whoever he is, Mrs Dunaway was most impressed with him. Said he was as intelligent as her vicar, whatever his name is.”

  “I believe he’s called the Reverend Oliver,” Max said.

  “Is he? Well, apparently this Mr Hart is clearly on par with Reverend Oliver, and even Mr Churchill.”

  “Churchill?” Mr Webster said. “I’m getting tired of hearing from that man. He made a speech in Birmingham last week, some bash or other. Kept banging on about the League of Nations and process of the law, and saying how this Rhineland business will be the start of a slippery slope.”

  “Oh,” Mrs Webster said, “these days everything is the start of a slippery slope. It’s a wonder we haven’t all slid off into the sea. And Mr Churchill is scaring everyone silly. As Mrs Dunaway says, it’s not the Germans we should worry about.”

  “Mmmm,” Martha said quickly, glancing at Max, “I do like these onions.”

  “Um…” Max said.

  “I don’t altogether trust him,” Mrs Webster was saying. “Churchill. In the place where he should have integrity, he has ambition.”

  “I agree,” Max said, surprising everyone. “He wants the top job. He might get it.”

  Mr Webster had now lowered his newspaper and was looking down the table. “He’s a heel,” he said, having picked up that particular term from some American gangster picture.

  Max said, “He made a mistake with Ireland, and now he’s making one with India. The empire has gone. We won the war and lost the empire.”

  This didn’t meet with approval from Max’s in-laws, but, while Mr Webster simply humphed and went back to his newspaper, Mrs Webster glared with disapproval at Max and said, “I told you, Martha. This is exactly what I meant yesterday.”

  “Mother thinks you’re a Bolshevist or communist or something,” Martha said. “Are you?”

  “I’m not any kind of -ist.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Mrs Webster said. “Now, shall we attempt some cake?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mr Bacon had telephoned just before lunchtime, and Flora had explained that Max and Martha would be out until the afternoon. Not deeming it apt to leave a message, and not trusting that Martha wouldn’t again track him down and ruin his day, Mr Bacon decided to journey to Pimlico and wait for the return of Mr and Mrs Dalton.

  So, after explaining who he was to Flora, Mr Bacon removed his hat and coat, hung them up on the stand, and sat.

  He was still waiting, and hadn’t seemed to have moved, two hours later when Max and Martha returned.

  “Oh, Mr… uh… Onion,” Martha said, coming through the doorway.

  “Bacon,” Mr Bacon said, standing and shaking hands.

  “Yes. How are you?”

  That was a question that Mr Bacon wasn’t keen on answering because he hated mendacity, and he didn’t want to be rude to Mrs Dalton, especially as her father was a friend of his boss. He smiled and said, “As well as can be expected.”

  “Good.”

  “Has Flora offered you anything?” Max said.

  “Yes, thank you. She made me a cup of tea.”

  Martha offered him another cup of tea, which he now declined, preferring, conspicuously, to conclude his business as quickly as possible, so that he could salvage some kind of a weekend.

  “I apologise if we’re keeping you from anything,” Max said.

  The three sat, with Max and Mr Bacon on the sofa, and Martha opposite them in a chair. Mr Bacon pushed his glasses up his nose and said, “I first tried to learn something from the policeman investigating the case. I believe he is an Inspector Longford.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Mr Bacon glanced at Max and waited, apparently seeking affirmation. So Max affirmed.

  “Yes, well, it seems the police are not keen on divulging information,” Mr Bacon said. “I wasn’t able to speak to anyone involved in the case. I had to go to an old friend of mine and wait for him to contact me. So if anyone should ask, it’s better if you don’t admit to knowing any of this.”

  “We understand,” Martha said solemnly.

  “Right,” Mr Bacon said, snapping open his brown leather briefcase, flipping over the flap and removing a single piece of paper. He scanned it, nodded to himself. “The pathologist has made some notations but the report is not conclusive, so, I trust, can be considered by us as sub rosa?”

  “Absolutely,” Martha said, not knowing what on earth he was talking about.

  “Then I’ll begin with the pathologist’s report. Now, let me see. Ah, yes. The deceased was a white male, approximately thirty-five years of age, measuring five feet ten inches, with a number of old wounds on the left side of his torso—”

  “Oh, God,” Max said.

  Mr Bacon stopped and glanced at Max. “Is there something wrong, sir?”

  “No,” Max said. “No. Please continue.”

  Martha watched Max, and saw that there was, in fact, something wrong. She could guess what it was – Max knew about those wounds.

  “…Measuring five feet ten inches, with a number of old wounds on the left side of his torso, wounds that would approximate those obtained by a fragmentary explosive device, or from the shrapnel.”

  Now Mr Bacon paused and lowered the paper. He looked at Max and said, “I’m not sure that Mrs Dalton should hear the rest, sir.”

  Martha’s eyebrow arched and her lips thinned. Max said quickly, “My wife’s not as delicate as she seems.”

  Mr Bacon nodded, and continued, while Martha was still trying to work out whether Max had said something insulting.

  “There is considerable trauma to the face and head of the victim, and lacerations around the left cheekbone, suggesting he was struck about the face and head, possibly with fists or a simple blunt device such as a blackjack. There is a single, deep penetrative wound, which entered the thoracic cavity at a point between the fifth and sixth ribs, causing considerable incisive trauma to the left ventricle and—”

  Max had touched Mr Bacon on the arm. Mr Bacon paused, lowered the paper and followed Max’s glance, scrutinising Mrs Dalton through his glasses. Martha was now no longer seated upright, but had sat forward, with her knees together, and was holding her head in her hands. Mr Bacon considered this new situation and decided to summarise the information.

  “Well,” he said, “in short, the deceased was murdered by a knife or dagger. The pathologist has made a note here that he believes the b
lade of the weapon to be double-edged, on account of the shape of the wound, but he hasn’t officially stated such. Further, he suggests that the victim was most likely accosted about the head and made insensible prior to the fatal wound. Again, this is opinion.”

  He now replaced the paper in his case and looked at Max. “Not a great deal of information, I’m afraid.”

  “That was plenty, thank you,” Martha said, gradually recovering her colour.

  “Did you manage to find out anything else?” Max said, his tone grim. “Anything about the police’s inquiry?”

  Mr Bacon took another piece of paper from his briefcase and looked at it. “The victim had a copy of Friday’s late night final edition of the Evening Standard in his jacket pocket, and there was a ticket stub from Peterborough to King’s Cross, also from Friday, which was in his hatband. His hat was about eight feet from the victim and police surmise it was knocked from him with the initial blow.”

  He paused a moment to clear his throat, then, without taking his eyes from the paper, said, “There was found to be a noticeable odour of smoke on the clothes, and a detective constable noticed that there was a stain on the sleeve of the victim’s jacket, which, upon inspection, was determined to be beer. From this the detectives concluded that the victim had been in a public house or houses prior to his murder. Inquiries conducted at several produced a witness, the barman of a public house called The Lion…”

  While Max was listening to this, Martha was watching him closely. There was a sadness in his eyes. It was almost as if he was unaware of her or Mr Bacon, or anything really, except the terrible thoughts in his mind, or, perhaps, the terrible memories. She wanted very much to hold him, but knew he’d feel embarrassed by the action.

  “The police haven’t yet been able to find an address for the deceased,” Mr Bacon was saying. “And they didn’t find a latchkey, or any keys, on the body.”

  “Wait,” Max said, alert suddenly. “Did you say they didn’t find a key?”

  “That’s correct, sir. Does that suggest something to you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Max said. “But it’s unusual, isn’t it? Have the police checked hotels?”

  “Hotels?” Martha said.

  “If you don’t have a key, what does that suggest?”

  “He didn’t have a home to go back to,” Mr Bacon said.

  “Yes, of course,” Martha said. “And if you’re staying at a hotel, you’d hand your key into the reception whenever you go out. That’s why he hasn’t got a key. Max, you’re brilliant.”

  Mr Bacon was scanning his notes. He nodded and said, “Ah. Yes, sir. I’m afraid the police canvassed hotels in and around King’s Cross station, and near the area the deceased was found. There was no record of any Mr Crawford.”

  Max glanced at Martha. Neither spoke for a moment.

  “And that’s all there is at the moment, sir,” Mr Bacon said.

  “Thank you,” Max said. “You’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry we’ve caused you such inconvenience.”

  “That’s all right, sir,” Mr Bacon said, trying as hard as possible to chart a verbal path between what he really felt and what he felt obliged to say. “I don’t feel particularly inconvenienced today.”

  “Thank you, Mr Bacon,” Martha said.

  “Bacon,” Mr Bacon said instinctively. “Oh. I mean, you’re welcome.”

  Now that Mr Bacon had successfully concluded his business, he felt, at last, that he could enjoy his weekend, what remained of it. He removed his hat and coat from the stand, folded the coat over his arm, placed his hat squarely on his head and left, happy at last to be free.

  After she’d shown Mr Bacon out, Martha turned and said, “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

  “I think so,” Max said. “The police checked the hotels for someone called Crawford. If it’s Burton, which I think it probably is, they wouldn’t know that. I think they’ve missed a trick.”

  “What are we waiting for, then? Let’s find out where your friend was staying.”

  Max hesitated. He looked at Martha, and it was such a serious look that she found herself dreading its cause. “There’s something I have to tell you,” Max said.

  “Don’t,” Martha said, terrified now.

  “I lied, Martha.”

  “Lied?”

  She seemed, for a moment, distraught. And, of course, she was. Max had never lied to her about anything, and she knew that. And he knew that she knew it. He had to explain, and quickly. He couldn’t prolong the pain. He said, “About the pub. About not remembering what Burton and I spoke about.”

  “Why, Max? Why would you lie?”

  “Because I’m ashamed. Because I’m scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’m ashamed of what I did, back then, in the war. And I’m scared of telling you.”

  Martha seemed now like a child, the confusion evident on her face. It was, perhaps, the thing Max loved most about her. She never tried to hide her feelings. It probably had never even occurred to her to dissemble. She had no guile.

  There was relief, too. She’d been imagining all sorts of things, her mind racing through the possible reasons that Max would lie. Of course, she knew Max well enough to dismiss them, but, nevertheless, the doubt was sufficient. That’s the problem with deceit, it renders all certainties doubtful. She said, “But, you… you said you were talking about Hitler. You were calling him all sorts of names, no doubt.”

  “Yes,” Max said slowly. “Partly. And it’s true that I can’t remember much of our conversation. But we were remembering. And I remember that.”

  He stopped for a moment, unsure how to speak of the past to anyone who wasn’t there. With Martha, perhaps, Max was finding it particularly difficult. He knew he’d be risking a lot by telling her. What would she think of him? What would he think of himself?

  He knew, too, that he’d avoided talking to her about this for years, and not only for selfish reasons. Martha had never known hardship or anything, really, of the world. For her, the loss of her cat as a child had been the most frightening event in her life. How could he destroy that purity of illusion? Hers was a kind of make-believe Britain in which policemen protected the people and the law was a vessel for establishing innocence and the politicians were patrician types who knew how to do things for the best. It was a world in which truth and honesty and decency prevailed. Max might have once believed it himself, had life been a little different. Instead, he knew it was a sham, and he suspected that Martha knew it too, but, because he loved her, he wanted to keep it as it was, to keep up the pretence of not knowing that it was a sham, to keep her from ever having to suffer, or ever having to acknowledge suffering.

  Then there was, and always had been, an unspoken acknowledgement between the two that Max would talk about the war only when he felt able. Martha had never once asked him about it, and he’d never once volunteered any information, save a few generalities – the scenery in some part of France, the odd humorous moment, for there had been humorous moments, which alone helped Max to believe in hope.

  But now the situation was serious, and Max felt forced to speak of the past. And if he was going to do that, he wanted Martha to know first, and in most detail, the events that occurred. So he took a deep breath while Martha, who had guessed much of what Max was feeling, braced herself, and took a silent oath always to protect Max from his own nightmares. “There was a young soldier,” Max said finally, “a boy, really.”

  Again, he ceased.

  A boy. My God. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he could continue. But he took another deep breath, unconscious of doing so, and said, “There was a boy—”

  But he got no further because of the sudden and urgent pounding on the door. Max and Martha looked at each other, each one with their own fears evident.

  “Max,” Martha said, moving close to her hu
sband.

  He smiled at her, or tried to. It didn’t quite work.

  Flora scurried past them, her face white. She went to the door and opened it. When she did, she stood back to admit Inspector Longford and Sergeant Pierce. Both men entered, neither one seeing fit to remove their hats.

  “More questions, Inspector?” Max said, his face grim and fearful. “Can I answer them here, this time?”

  “Yes, more questions,” Inspector Longford said. “But you can’t answer them here. At the moment, I’d prefer you to accompany me to the Yard voluntarily. But, if you resist, you will be arrested on suspicion of murdering your acquaintance Frederick Rice.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  For a long time after Max had left with the policemen, Martha didn’t know what to do.

  Flora had collapsed into tears again, and was on the verge of fetching Eric to help Max escape. Martha managed to calm her, and gave her a strong sweet cup of tea, which Flora put over her apron. “He could never kill no one,” Flora kept saying. “Never.”

  “I know, Flora. That’s why we have to help him. We have to find Mr Ham.”

  “Bacon, ma’am,” Flora said.

  “Yes, well done. How long was he here, waiting for us?”

  Flora wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Well, he come just about lunchtime, ma’am. And he was here till you come. So, about two hours, I reckon.”

  “And did you talk to him at all in that time?”

  “Only a bit, just to be friendly like.”

  “Good. Did he mention anything about Villas or Bridges?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Never mind, that was yesterday. I need you to think, Flora. Did he say anything at all about where he was going or what he was going to do after he’d seen us?”

  “Um…”

  Flora sniffed and Martha pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to the girl.

  “It’s vitally important,” Martha said, giving Flora a few moments to regain herself.

  Flora dabbed her eyes. “He said something about going somewhere, I think.”

  Martha just about managed to stop herself saying something rude. Instead, she put a hand on Flora’s shoulder and said, “Just try to think, Flora.”