Murder Under A Green Sea

by Phillip Hunter

  “I do,” Max said. “If I’m somehow a suspect, then my employment at the paper becomes embarrassing.”

  “But other papers would print it, wouldn’t they?” Martha said.

  “Maybe, but they might not have enough. By the way,” Max said, turning to Lyle, “did you get a copy of the Standard from Friday?”

  Lyle reached behind him, into his coat pocket, and pulled out a folded paper, handing it to Max. “What did you want it for?”

  Max unfolded the paper and began to scan through. There was mention of Eden’s address to the House, earlier that afternoon, regarding Germany’s violation of the Treaty of Locarno. There was nothing of any note in the article. There were a few smaller items of news, each only a few inches of column: flooding in the United States; a man and woman killed by a car in Stratford; illegal strike action at the Bow railway works; investigation into bank corruption. “Burton had a copy on him when he came to meet me,” Max said to Lyle as he flicked over to another page. “I think there must’ve been a reason.”

  Max went through the paper, scrutinising each page, turning over to a new one with more and more annoyance. He paid particular attention to any reports of crimes, but these were proving as frustrating as everything else: the body of an unidentified man had been dragged from the canal close to Enfield Lock, on the Lee; a Danish man had been arrested for the murder of a woman in Streatham; a male and female, both young, names unknown, were being sought by police for an armed robbery on a jewellery shop in Brent; an elderly man had been assaulted and seriously injured by two others, following an argument outside a pawnbroker’s in Lewisham.

  Finally, Max sighed and tossed the paper aside.

  “Is there anything?” Martha said.

  Max shook his head. “The trouble is,” he said, “I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  Lyle stood and helped himself to another drink. “So, it might be there, then,” he said. “I mean, if you don’t know what you’re after, something there might be important, it’s just that you don’t know what it is, yet.”

  Max sighed again. “Sure. It might be there. Maybe Eden’s speech about Locarno is the key. Maybe the price of carrots is of vital concern.”

  “Max,” Martha said sharply. “It’s not Sherry’s fault.”

  “Sorry, Sherry,” Max said. “I’m just… I’m scared.”

  “You know,” Lyle said slowly, “if I were a journalist who’d been assigned to look into a murder, I might start with the victim’s background. Your friend’s home, for instance.”

  Martha glanced at Max. Looking back at Lyle, she said, “Would we be allowed to do that? I mean, if there’s this secrecy about it all?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way. I, as an editor at the Chronicle, could reasonably ask Max, as one of our journalists, to dig a little. I could do that, couldn’t I? Nothing illegal there.”

  “You’re right,” Max said. “But I don’t know where he lived. He had a ticket stub from Peterborough, but other than that—”

  “Ahem,” Martha exclaimed. “I have his address.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, from the hotel. When I pretended to have a message for him, the receptionist suggested I mail it to him. So he gave me Burton’s home address, which was in the registration book.”

  She reached into her coat pocket and produced a piece of paper.

  “You’re a genius,” Max said.

  “I know.”

  Chapter Thirty

  It was early evening by the time Max and Martha alighted the train at Peterborough. They’d packed for a couple of nights away, Max carrying the leather grip and suitcase, and complaining that Martha really didn’t need three dresses and a trouser suit.

  “You never know what the future might bring,” she said.

  They booked into the Great Northern Hotel, which was next to the station. After unpacking, they went down to the front desk and asked the young male receptionist to order them a cab to Wisbech.

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  The receptionist made no response except to seem a little alarmed that anyone would go to Wisbech voluntarily.

  The cab driver, unusually, didn’t have much to say on the journey, and Max and Martha were quiet too, rattling along the causeway towards Wisbech, now passing through high-hedged roads, now through the flat fenland that seemed dark and empty in the early evening dusk. They passed small farms, the odd light in a window and pale smoke rising straight from chimneys. They passed a farmer leading his team of plough horses back home. They passed a couple of windmills, survivors from an old age, slow and silent and solemn, like the passing of time itself. They passed groups of farm workers, ghostly visions of shade against the rich dark soil.

  Mud. Lots and lots of dark, dank, clinging mud. When Martha looked at it all, she thought of the seasons and the cycles of life, and of the history of toil for people who were doing here what their ancestors had done for hundreds of years. These were people from a Hardy or Lawrence novel.

  But when Max looked at the mud, he saw it quite differently: a sea of dark fecund land in which generations would be buried.

  The cab slowed at one point and turned on to another road, and they passed a group of men tramping home, spades slung over their shoulders, wellington boots thick with the slimy mud, the peaks of their flat caps pulled low. Max saw them for a moment as soldiers on their way to the front. More ghosts.

  Finally, the cab pulled up and Max paid the driver and asked him to wait for them. Then he and Martha walked through the wrought iron gate, along the small garden path to the door of number forty-six.

  The house was a red-brick two-up two-down, one of a short terrace, identical to the one opposite and all the others around.

  There was a light on behind the door, a yellow line at the top.

  Max braced himself, glanced at Martha, and knocked.

  A thin woman of medium height opened the door and stared out at them. She was somewhere in her mid-forties, Max thought, but seemed older by decades, toil and pain evident in her eyes and the lines on her face. But there was a kind of grace and strength in her bearing, which was erect, almost belligerent.

  “Mrs Burton?” Max said.

  She glanced fiercely at him, then at Martha, moving a wisp of greying hair from her eyes in a subconscious act of self-consciousness, if such a thing could exist.

  Martha felt exposed in some way, as if the woman before her had described an obvious flaw in Martha’s character. She felt awkward, embarrassed. Or was it something else? It felt more like guilt.

  And then she remembered what she never should’ve forgotten: this woman’s husband had been murdered.

  “I’m sorry,” Martha said, her voice low. “For your loss. I’m sorry.”

  Max glanced at her, never having heard her speak in such a soft, uncertain manner. He looked back at Mrs Burton. “My name’s—”

  “I know who you are,” Mrs Burton said. “You’re Lieutenant Dalton. You were in Dan’s company.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you’re here. And I’ve already had the local police come and tell me my husband’s dead and asking about you and him.”

  “Yes,” Max said again.

  “We wondered if you’d talk to us,” Martha said.

  “Why would I do that? What do I care about you and him?”

  “I didn’t kill him, Mrs Burton,” Max said.

  “So what if you didn’t? He’s still gone from me, from us.”

  Max didn’t know what he could say to that.

  There was a silence, which seemed to grow louder to Max as it stretched beyond a few seconds.

  Martha, still quietly, said, “My name’s Martha. And this is Max. Your husband was called Daniel, wasn’t he?”

  Then Mrs Burton seemed to fade, very slightly, and
her bearing diminished, as it seemed to Max.

  “We think your husband had something important to tell Max,” Martha was saying. “We think he was killed for it. We want to find out what it was, and why it was so important.”

  “Well,” Mrs Burton said, “I don’t know anything about that. You’ve wasted your time coming here. Still, you’re here.” Then she turned and walked from them, leaving the door open. “You might as well come in,” she said over her shoulder.

  They followed Mrs Burton along a narrow hallway, stairs to one side, kitchen at the end, and into the small parlour. Mrs Burton pressed a switch on a floor lamp and a dim bulb emitted its orange light.

  There was a black ribbon around the fireplace – which was unlit – and around a photograph on the mantelpiece. Max looked at the photograph and saw that it was Daniel Burton, as a very young recruit in the Guards. He looked like a boy. Most probably, he was.

  It was a dark place, the parlour. The wallpaper was mostly brown with small white flowers, and the heavy curtains had been drawn. The furniture was solid, all in dark woods like mahogany or stained oak. There was a brown sofa and a matching chair opposite, both around the fireplace. In the winter, and with a family, it would’ve been cosy and warm and intimate. Now, it seemed austere and oppressive. Funereal, Max was thinking, which was precisely as it should be.

  Mrs Burton stood in the middle of the room, on a dark red and blue Axminster, patterned like a Persian or Indian rug. She was unsure of herself, her arms tight by her side and her eyes flicking around.

  Martha, seeing this, said, “May I ask what your first name is?”

  Mrs Burton sat in the armchair, one hand clutching the other. Martha nudged Max, and nodded to the sofa. She sat, and Max sat, letting his wife do what he knew she was good at: connecting with people.

  “My name’s Lillian,” Mrs Burton was saying. “But everyone calls me Lilly.”

  “Lilly, do you have any children?”

  “We got two boys. One at school and one at the brewery as an apprentice. That’s where Dan…” Mrs Burton paused. Her lips closed and tightened. Then she took a breath and said, “They’re with my sister while arrangements are made.”

  Max felt Martha tense. He put his hand over hers.

  Another silence fell, another pall over the atmosphere.

  Max cleared his throat. Mrs Burton looked at him, a mixture of fear and pain in her eyes. “Mrs Burton,” Max said, “Dan was my friend. I hadn’t seen him since shortly after the war, but I always knew he was there if ever I was in trouble, and he knew the same of me. I think he must’ve been in some kind of trouble for him to come down on Friday. I think—”

  “Friday?” Mrs Burton said abruptly.

  “Uh, yes. He came to London on Friday. We have… that is, the police have a train ticket. Peterborough to London. He booked into a hotel on Friday evening.”

  Now Mrs Burton’s eyes weren’t betraying fear or pain or grief. Now they were showing incomprehension. “He left on Thursday. In the morning. He was supposed to go to work, but he told me he had something to do and he’d be back as soon as possible. I had his manager here on Thursday afternoon looking for him. He hadn’t even told them he wouldn’t be at work. He worked at the brewery. They’ve had to lay off a lot of workers in the last couple of years, and Dan can’t afford to… I mean, he couldn’t afford to lose his job. He’s lost it now, though.”

  For a moment, Mrs Burton didn’t say anything. Max and Martha glanced at each other, neither one willing to break the silence.

  But then Mrs Burton broke it herself. She said, “What’s gonna happen to us now? Who’s gonna bring the money in?”

  “We can help you,” Martha said. “I’m sure it’s been terrible for you.”

  “Terrible? What would you people know about it?” Mrs Burton said coldly. “I bet you’ve never had to cut back on food and coal, just so you can pay the rent. And I don’t want no charity.”

  Martha’s face paled.

  “Actually,” Max said softly, “I came from a place like this. In East London. My father was killed when I was young. So I do understand.”

  Mrs Burton wouldn’t meet his eye, but her silence was, in itself, enough. Then a crease appeared between her brows and she looked up at Max. “Peterborough?” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “You said he took the train from Peterborough, on Friday. Why would he do that? He would’ve got it from here. Station’s not far.”

  “What happened? Why did he suddenly decide to go? What was he after?”

  Mrs Burton shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t understand it. There was a man here on Wednesday night, but I don’t know who he was or what they talked about.”

  “A man? Can you describe him?”

  “He was an older man, above sixty, I’d say. Quite tall. Posh.”

  “Posh?” Max said.

  “Well spoken, like you. And rich, I’d say, judging by his clothes. Nice suit and Crombie. Expensive, like. And good shoes.”

  Martha sensed Max tense. “Can you tell us what happened?” she said. “When this man came?”

  “I don’t know any more than that. There was a knock at the door in the evening and we was in the kitchen, and Dan got up and went to see who it was. I could hear them talking for a few minutes. Then Dan comes back and he looks… I dunno, different. Then there’s this tall man behind him, in the hallway, and he looks in and says, ‘I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Mrs Burton’. Then he and Dan come into here and shut the door, and I’m in the kitchen, ironing. They’re in here for about an hour, talking. One time Dan comes out and says, ‘cuppa tea would be nice, love’, so I made them the tea and took it in, and this gentleman is sitting right where I am now, and that’s when I see him closer, and see his shoes, and I knew they was expensive.”

  “Brown leather Oxfords?” Max said.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “And the man had grey hair, well cut.”

  “You know him?”

  “I think he was called Rice.”

  “Rice?” Mrs Burton said. “Major Rice?”

  “Yes. Did Dan ever mention him?”

  “He was in your battalion, wasn’t he? But I didn’t know I’d ever meet him. And Dan didn’t introduce him to me. I don’t understand that.”

  “And Dan didn’t say anything about this man’s visit?”

  “No, sir. Nothing. Next day, Thursday morning, he kissed me on the cheek, like he did every day. He said he had to do something and he’d be back first thing. Then I gets a visit from the police on Sunday and they tell me they think my husband’s dead, and they show me a photograph. They asked me some questions, but I couldn’t answer them.”

  “Does the name John Crawford mean anything to you?”

  Mrs Burton shook her head. “Should it?”

  “Apparently Dan was carrying a driving licence in that name.”

  “I never heard of anyone called Crawford.”

  “Did Dan take anything with him when he left?”

  “No, sir. He wore his good suit, though.”

  “His good suit?” Martha said.

  “He had two suits – one he wears to work and his Sunday best. He was wearing that when he went.”

  “And cufflinks?” Max said. “The police said he had silver Guards cufflinks.”

  “He did, sir. Although, in truth, they were silver-plate. I didn’t know he’d worn them, though. I bought ’em for him for Christmas one year.”

  Mrs Burton had been staring at the floor as she’d said this, almost as if she’d been reciting it from memory, the words merely functions of thought. But now she looked up at Max, and he could see the depth of grief there, and the fear of her loss. “They told me you was likely the last person to see Dan alive. They told me there was a witness who said you’d had an argument, and that Da
n had been acting violently, angrily.”

  “That’s not how it was. It wasn’t an argument. I… I was drunk, and Dan was trying to tell me something important, something that got him killed. And I don’t know what it was. That’s why I’m here.”

  “What’s it all about, sir?” she said. “Why would he leave me?”

  “Lilly, I wish I could tell you. But I think he wouldn’t have done anything to hurt you. I think he was doing something important. That’s how I always knew him, anyway. Honourable.”

  Lilly nodded, but said nothing.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Max was saying. “Rice – if it was Rice – came here on Wednesday evening. He and Dan talked and first thing the next day, Dan left. Then he arrived in London on Friday evening, probably meets Rice again, and is killed later that same day.”

  “So what was he doing from Thursday morning until Friday evening?” Martha said.

  “Yes,” Max said. “What?”

  He turned to Mrs Burton and said, “Did he ever talk about the war?”

  Mrs Burton sniffed, took a small lace handkerchief that had been tucked into her sleeve, and dabbed her eyes, wiped her nose. “He never told me about the war,” she said. “Never mentioned anything about it, really, except now and then when he’d had a few. Then he’d talk about you, Mr Dalton. And sometimes about other things. I never knew him then, see. I didn’t meet him until nineteen and twenty-two. I remember one thing he told me, about nineteen seventeen. Passchendaele, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember he told me how so many men died and were buried. Not in funerals, but by the mud, by others just treading ’em into the mud. And then he told me about times when you’d be marching on them wooden things—”

  “Duckboards,” Max said.

  “Yeah. Duckboards. And he told me how they was covered in slime and you slipped off as much as you walked. And he told me how, sometimes…”

  Here she started to cry.

  “Sometimes,” Max said, “we’d see fellows slide off and into liquid mud. They usually disappeared beneath the surface. Most of them are still there, entombed in that damned stuff.”