Murder Under A Green Sea

by Phillip Hunter

  She did hurry back, and looked sheepish.

  “Did you get through to Eric?” Max said.

  “Yes.”

  “And will he come to pick us up?”

  “Yes. Straight away. In Mr Stone’s van.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “It is, but… er…”

  “What is it, Martha?”

  “I had to buy some meat from Mr Stone, otherwise he said it wouldn’t be economical.”

  “How much did you buy?”

  “Well, all of it. Everything in the van. A lamb…”

  “Oh, well.”

  “…and a pig. And half a cow.”

  “What?”

  “It’ll be delivered to any address we choose. So, I thought it best if Eric takes us to my parents’. I’ve telephoned my mother to tell her we would have to hide out there for a while.”

  Max sighed and said, “Oh, God. What did she say?”

  “She wasn’t very happy about it. She kept saying she didn’t want a murdering fugitive in the house.”

  “I know we don’t get on,” Max said, “but that’s a bit of an over-reaction, isn’t it?”

  “I told her you were innocent.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Plus, I bribed her. The meat is hers.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Mr Stone had told Martha that Eric would be a couple of hours, so Max and Martha moved into the hotel lounge, taking their map with them.

  “You know,” Martha said after a while, “when we were considering what Burton was wearing in Peterborough, we neglected something.”

  “Oh?”

  “He was wearing the same clothes in London.”

  “So? He didn’t go home, we know that. And if he hadn’t brought a change of clothes, he would’ve had to wear the same things in London.”

  “You’re missing the point. It’s the urgency of it that’s so puzzling. Crawford didn’t turn up in Peterborough and instead of going home to collect some more things, Burton went straight to London, with Rice.”

  “I see what you mean. How does that help us?”

  Martha shrugged and lit a cigarette. “And what about those two horrible men who tried to break into our flat?” Martha said. “We still don’t know what they were up to.”

  “We have to assume they killed Rice and Burton, or were involved in it. If so, they would’ve searched the hotel room after they murdered Rice, and they must’ve searched Burton’s body after killing him, and still they couldn’t find what they wanted, so they came to our flat because they saw Burton talking to me.”

  “They don’t know your relationship to Burton,” Martha said. “Otherwise they’d be trying to question you. Or kill you.”

  “My head hurts.”

  After they’d gone over everything again, so that they felt thoroughly defeated, Max looked up and saw a young man in a woollen suit walking towards him. “There’s Eric,” Max said.

  Then he spotted a young woman straggling in his wake. “Oh, no.”

  “Flora?” Martha said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Eric called me up, ma’am. He told me what he was gonna do and I wanted to come along. I know you ain’t killed no one, sir. I’m here to help.”

  “That wasn’t a good idea,” Max said.

  “Plus,” Flora was saying, “Eric refused to leave me behind. Said that he couldn’t trust I wouldn’t get snatched while he was gone.”

  “Flora told me what happened, sir,” Eric said. “I know you didn’t do it. I know it was them men, the ones who tried to take Flora.”

  Max was about to point out that nobody had tried to take Flora, but Martha squeezed his arm, which, as Max well knew, meant ‘shut up’.

  Max sighed and said, “Well, come on, let’s go.”

  “Van’s outside, sir,” Eric said.

  They traipsed out and saw the vehicle, painted dark green with the words ‘Stone’s Butchers, Lupus Street, Pimlico’ followed by the telephone number. It was a very nice van, a Bedford, and only a few years old. However, there did seem to be one problem, which Martha expressed by stopping short and saying, “What on earth is that thing?”

  Only at this point did Eric and Flora realise they’d made an error. The van was certainly very nice, and certainly very small. There was room in the cabin for two people, or three at a squeeze, but hardly four.

  “We’ll have to travel in the back,” Max said.

  “Ah,” Eric said. “Um…”

  Max opened the back doors, stared at the contents and said, “What the hell is that?”

  “Well, sir,” Eric said, “it’s a whole lamb, whole pig and ’alf a cow.”

  “What?”

  “Your meat, sir. All butchered, like Mrs Dalton wanted.”

  “You weren’t supposed to bring it with you,” Max said. “We only wanted the van.”

  Eric was quiet for a few seconds before saying, “Oh.”

  “Right,” Max said, “we’ll have to dump it.”

  “We’ll do no such thing,” Martha said. “Do you know how much that cost?”

  Max felt they were all going mad. He said, “We’re on the run from the police. I’m suspected of two murders, you’ve assaulted a Scotland Yard inspector and there are killers out there who probably want to do us harm. And you’re worrying about the cost of a load of meat?”

  “Well, it is my mother’s. Are you going to tell her you threw it away?”

  So, after much experimentation, it was decided that Max, as the tallest, should sit by himself, which necessitated that he drove the van. Then Martha squeezed next to him on the seat, with Flora wedged tightly between her and the door. Poor Eric had to content himself with curling up on the floor, his face squashed against Martha’s legs. Flora glanced down at him now and then, to make sure he was okay, and was dismayed to see that he seemed perfectly content.

  Finally, they pulled out, Max steering the van through Huntingdon and towards Godmanchester and ultimately the Great North Road, which would quickly take them back to London.

  The Bedford was designed for light delivery work, and the total weight of four humans, a sheep, a pig and half a cow was testing it to the extent that the suspension was almost non-existent, which meant that every bump in the road shook their skeletons. Eric was especially suffering, and the appeal of lying close to Martha’s legs had soon been superseded by the dismay of knowing there were sixty-odd miles of this bone-jarring journey left.

  It was fully dark now, and there were heavy, thunderous clouds, blotting out any moonlight. The way to Godmanchester was narrow, the odd dim streetlamp and pale light from roadside cottages just enough to aid driving. A flurry of snow floated in the air and dotted the windscreen.

  Once through Godmanchester, the road became twisting, and the high hedges on either side made it seem narrower still.

  They made slow progress; each turn had to be contended with from a distance, otherwise, Max felt, the whole van was liable to tip over. So he went as fast as he could along the straights and slowed down when the headlights revealed a bend.

  Then the road suddenly lit up as a car approached them fast from behind. Max said, “What the hell?”

  He glanced in the wing mirror, and saw the car weaving left and right behind them, trying to find a gap through. Just as he was cursing the driver, he saw a flash and heard the crack of gunfire.

  “Max?” Martha said.

  Then Max saw a figure lean out of the open window of the car. He was a heavy-set man with a face that seemed spectrally pale. The man manoeuvred his shoulder and arm through the window and held out a pistol.

  The shot was wide, but they all heard it smack into the bodywork.

  “It’s them,” Max said.

  “What?” Martha said. “How?”

 
“Must’ve followed Flora from the flat.”

  He glanced at Flora, who was staring resolutely straight ahead.

  “They’re going to kill us all,” Martha said.

  “No, they aren’t. They’re trying to shoot the tyres out.”

  “They’re after Flora,” said a muffled voice from the floor.

  Flora let out a yelp.

  Max said, “They are not after – oh, never mind.”

  Eric said, “They won’t get her.”

  Max watched the car’s headlights in his wing mirror. It was a big car, and powerful, something like a Ford V8.

  “I can’t outrun it.”

  The road was narrow, and Max was able to swerve, albeit slowly, from left to right.

  Martha said, “Quick, Max. Go faster.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  “There,” Martha said, pointing to something dark on the offside of the van.

  “What?”

  “A road. Too late.”

  Max was swinging the van more fervently now, which sent everyone squishing first left, then right, then left again. Flora, at the left of the seat, was periodically being squeezed senseless between Martha and the door.

  “Ow, you bleedin’… ooof… bastar… uurgh…”

  All everyone heard from her for a full minute were sounds approximating words of dubious content. Finally, Max swung the van around a corner so violently that Flora, Eric and Martha crashed as one heap into the side door.

  After he straightened up, there was a sound like this: “Gefffoooomooooooffff.”

  “What was that?” Flora said.

  “I think your foot is in Eric’s mouth,” Martha said.

  Max, sweat now beading on his forehead, tried desperately to work out an escape. Sooner or later, they’d be forced off the road and the men in that car would have the time and means to do whatever they wanted.

  “Look for a house or something,” he said. “They won’t kill us in front of witnesses, that’s why they’ve waited until now.”

  “What if they kill the witnesses?” Martha said.

  “A farm,” Flora said. “They’d have guns.”

  “Yes,” Max said. “Look for a—”

  “There,” Martha said, pointing at something to Max’s right. “That was a farm.”

  “I didn’t see it in time.”

  “I pointed it out to you.”

  “Darling,” Max said between gritted teeth, “I can drive forwards and I can drive backwards, but I can’t drive sideways.”

  There was a crunch and the van lurched forward, which made Martha say ‘oof’, while Eric let out a cry of pain and Flora said something unpleasant.

  Then the high hedgerows disappeared, and the van entered the flat open countryside of the Fens. The road was straighter now, with only the occasional thin tree scattered along the sides.

  “Damn,” Max said.

  “That was a road sign,” Flora called out. “Offord Cluny, two miles.”

  “I can’t hold them off for another two miles. They’ll be able to overtake us now. We’ve had it.”

  “Yuuddarainitch,” Eric said.

  Max said, “What?”

  “He said, ‘use the drainage ditch’,” Flora said.

  “The drainage—?”

  Max slammed on the brakes, sending all four of them crashing into the front of the cabin, hurling them into dashboard, steering wheel, glass and metal. Immediately, Max saw the lights of the chasing car swerve left as they tried to avoid piling into the van. Max put the van back into gear and pulled off as quickly as he could, which was very slowly.

  After a hundred yards, he said, “Flora, look out of the window.”

  Flora wound the window down, stuck her head out and said, “They’re in the ditch.”

  “Well done, Eric,” Max said.

  “Flwiedlehfle,” Eric said.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Seymour entered the sitting room pushing a trolley of tea and biscuits. He then walked out, leaving Mrs Webster to roll her eyes and serve everyone, including Eric and Flora, a task that didn’t come easily to her. Furthermore, Seymour had forgotten to make the sandwiches, but Mrs Webster decided to overlook that fact; she certainly wasn’t going to make them.

  Eric dunked his biscuits, which elicited a nudge from Flora.

  Mr Webster came into the room and said, “I telephoned Mr Bacon. He seemed upset at having his supper interrupted, but when I told him what the matter concerned, he said he’d get right to it. He should be here in half an hour or so.”

  “Thank you, Donald,” Max said.

  “I don’t understand why the police let you go, Max,” Mrs Webster said, pouring the tea.

  “They didn’t,” Martha said. “I… uh…”

  “Martha rescued me,” Max said.

  “You lammed it?” Mr Webster said, falling back into his fireside chair and raising his newspaper, the crossword of which he was still trying to do.

  “Donald, I do wish you wouldn’t use those crude terms.”

  “Nevertheless,” Max said, “Donald’s right.”

  “And how exactly were you able to rescue Max, darling?” Mrs Webster said.

  “Uh, well, I walloped Inspector Longford.”

  “Walloped him?”

  “On the head.”

  The tea had stopped flowing, and Max suspected, correctly, that Mrs Webster was going to have to sit down.

  “With a wrench or spanner or whatever it’s called.”

  “You hit a Scotland Yard inspector?”

  “Yes. Like I said, on his head, and foot. I had to. And then we ran.”

  “She was magnificent.”

  Mrs Webster seemed to be on the point of fainting and had to put her cup and saucer on the small table to her side. “This is terrible, Martha. What will Mrs Dunaway think?”

  “Hell with that old bat,” Donald said.

  “Donald, really.”

  “Well, I think it shows fine mettle. Moxie.”

  “Donald!”

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  Eric and Flora, sitting quietly and not daring to speak, were becoming bewildered by the chatter, and consequently had slurped more tea and crunched more biscuits than propriety would allow. Eric, in particular, was over-indulging in the biscuit area and had a coughing fit when he forgot that he wasn’t dunking them, and had tried to swallow a large piece of shortbread without sufficient lubrication.

  Fortunately, this episode, involving some hitting of the back and much conflicting advice, was forgotten with the arrival of Mr Bacon, who was also treated to tea and biscuits.

  Max then explained to Mr Bacon that he wanted him to investigate the whereabouts of the men in his former company. “Obviously, I can’t ask the police to help,” he said.

  “They’re on the lam,” Mr Webster said.

  “Lamb, Bacon,” Mrs Webster said. “It’s very confusing.”

  Eric, now recovered from his biscuit incident, secretly agreed with the old lady.

  Mr Bacon was about to point out that he wasn’t a private investigator and wouldn’t know how to go about it, but upon seeing the hopeful expression on Martha’s face, said, “Of course, I’d love to help her – I mean help Mrs Shearer – I mean, yes, of course.”

  He took as many details as Max could provide and said, “I think you should all stay here for tonight. If the police ask me where you are, I’ll be obliged to tell them, but they can only do that if they find me, and I’ll make that awkward.”

  “Thank you,” Max said.

  “I’ll contact you tomorrow.”

  Mr Bacon left, and Mr and Mrs Webster retired for the night. Eric took Flora to her parents’ house, after which he returned the van to Mr Stone and returned the meat, which Martha had dec
ided to pay for, thus compensating for the damage to Mr Stone’s van.

  “They’re what?” Mr Stone said when Eric explained.

  “Bullet holes. They tried to take Flora.”

  Chapter Forty

  Max and Martha slept late the following morning. Max spent most of the afternoon pacing the library while he attempted to work out what was happening. Martha spent most of the afternoon trying to convince her mother not to turn him in.

  Mr Bacon returned to the house at half past six that evening and met Max and Martha in the library.

  “Have you discovered anything?” Martha asked Mr Bacon eagerly, taking his hat and coat.

  “Yes.”

  They all sat. Martha and Max prepared themselves. Mr Bacon opened his briefcase and reached in. “Of the men in your company, sir, I’ve only been able to find out about fourteen. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to do any more, but I could continue tomorrow.”

  Max frowned. “Well, it’s quite urgent,” he said.

  But Mr Bacon hadn’t heard him. He was scanning the documents in his hands. “Beginning, then, with your platoon: David Beatty is a teacher in Aberdeen. He was a lance-corporal, I believe, at the end of the war. Ernest Russell is currently living in the United States of America. In somewhere called Greensboro, which is in North Carolina. Third, there’s Joshua McLaughlin, who is a carpenter in Hastings—”

  “Mr Bacon,” Max said sharply, “you don’t need to tell us the details of those who are alive.”

  Mr Bacon nodded solemnly, cleared his throat and said, “This is where the information might become distressing to you, sir: William Halford, formerly a private, died in February this year of a heart attack.”

  “Halford?” Max said.

  “Yes, sir,” Mr Bacon said, looking up from his papers. “He was forty-four. He smoked and drank heavily, I believe.”

  “He did, yes. Damn. I didn’t know he was gone.”

  “The family had a small service in Swindon. There was another death, sir,” Mr Bacon said, running his finger down the page. “Clive Ward from Salisbury. He crashed his motorcycle two years ago. It seems that no other vehicles were involved. Finally, there’s Alan Kent. He died in November of last year. There was an inquest in that case, and the coroner ruled it a suicide. It seems he had lingering shell shock, and his death followed shortly the death of his wife.”