Case for Sergeant Beef

by Bruce, Leo

‘For ever measuring this way and that, and shifting round that line he used to plan paths and beds and what not, then never giving any orders for them to be changed. Harold Richey, who comes here two days a week to work, says it was chronic. You better ask him about it, if you’re that interested.’

  Beef’s note-book was out at once.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I will. Was he doing this measuring and that on the day of the murder?’

  ‘Was he not. First of all in the morning he had his old line out shifting the pegs here and there and standing back to see how it would look. That was on the village side of the garden where the vegetable patch and a few ramblers are. Then after lunch he was round on the wood side, where there’s a bit of lawn, stretching it out this way and that till you wondered what he thought he was going to make. He came in about half past two and I don’t know whether he played round with it any more before he went for his walk, because I usually have five minutes to myself in the afternoon and my room’s on the other side of the house -’

  ‘Half a minute. Half a minute,’ said Beef. ‘You say you go to your room in the afternoon. Yet you were with Mr Chickle at a quarter past three when the first shots were heard.’

  ‘That was a bit different,’ said Mrs Pluck. ‘It was Christmas Eve and I knew he had a bit of a Christmas box for me. I took it off to my room and did not come out again till it was time to get his tea.’

  ‘You didn’t see him go off then?’

  ‘No. My window faced towards Barnford. But I tell you what I did see not long after he’d gone.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Young Joe Bridge with a gun under his arm going towards Barnford,’

  ‘Towards Barnford?’

  ‘Yes. He was then. Must have come down the footpath through the wood from Copling.’

  ‘You did not see him on his way back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about these shots?’

  ‘I’m tired of going over them. There was the two at three-fifteen, and two more about half past four, and one more I heard with Mr Chickle at five past six.’

  ‘One more?’

  ‘Well, it sounded like one to me. Mr Chickle said it was two barrels let off almost at the same time. So it may have been.’

  ‘Where did they come from?’

  ‘So far as I could tell, the first and second lots were from some way away. The third sounded quite close.’

  ‘Where were you for the third one?’

  ‘In Mr Chickle’s sitting-room making up the fire. He’d just gone out into the garden to take up his measuring line. Said someone might trip over it. He was always very careful of other people. And when the shots went he came in at once. “Someone poaching,” he said. “Ah, well, we can spare them a rabbit or two.” He was kind, mind you. I told him it sounded very near, but he said no, it was far away in the woods. I didn’t argue about it, but I still think it was close at hand. Then he went out to finish bringing in his things. And that’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘H’m. There’s still one or two things I must ask you, Mrs Pluck.’

  ‘So long as you don’t start on things you’ve no business to ask I’ll tell you what I can.’

  Beef leaned forward impressively.

  ‘Did you know Shoulter?’ he asked.

  There was no doubt that the woman was flustered. I could see her great bony hands moving nervously.

  ‘Shoulter?’ she repeated, as though to gain time.

  ‘Ron Shoulter, that was murdered,’ amplified Beef.

  ‘Never seen him in my life. Not till he was carried by on a stretcher. Then I only saw his feet.’

  ‘Quite sure?’ asked Beef. ‘Far better speak out if you did.’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Pluck. ‘I never knew no Shoulter.’

  ‘Then we’ll leave that. Can you fire a gun?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ever tried?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘I don’t see anything funny in it.’

  ‘Have you ever said you could?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You never told young Jack Ribbon, for instance, that you were a farmer’s daughter and firing guns before he was thought of?’

  ‘Did he say that? The young so-and-so. I’ll tell him what I think of him – you see.’

  ‘But is it true?’

  ‘Course it’s not true.’

  ‘You’re not a farmer’s daughter?’

  ‘Well, my father might have had a bit of land.’

  ‘And you might have shot over it?’

  ‘No harm in that, is there? A girl’s as much right to do a bit of shooting as a man. Only when there’s been a murder done with a shot-gun and you come and ask questions like that it’s no wonder I’m careful what I say.’

  ‘Then you can shoot?’

  ‘I’m not saying I don’t know how to. But I never have done. Not round here.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Pluck,’ said Beef, closing his note-book. ‘Why, gracious me, it’s past seven. Mr Chickle will be wild. He was afraid if I kept you too long you’d have to hurry over his dinner. We must go out the back way.’

  We did. And for ten minutes as we groped our way back towards Barnford, Beef did not speak.

  ‘Come on,’ I said at last, ‘what did you think of them?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ confessed Beef. ‘It’s a funny case, and no mistake. There’s a lot of things I’d like to know. Why, for instance, did Chickle tell Miss Shoulter that he didn’t like shooting? And what was Joe Bridge doing on that path that afternoon?’

  ‘We’d better ask him,’ I suggested.

  ‘No. We won’t do that. Joe Bridge will tell us everything in time.’

  ‘Not if you don’t go and question him.’

  ‘I think he will,’ said Beef obstinately.

  ‘Why? Why should he incriminate himself? He did not tell the police he was on that footpath that afternoon.’

  ‘But he’ll tell me,’ persisted Beef. ‘Just you wait and see.’

  I plodded on in silence.

  ‘Yes, he’ll come,’ said Beef thoughtfully. ‘Ever hear of Mahomet and the mountain?’

  And since it was opening time when we got back I was pretty sure that that was all I should get out of him for that night.

  I retired early and was just dropping off to sleep when Beef came into my room. I could see at a glance that he was flushed and talkative from the alcohol he had consumed in the bar downstairs. I admit that he never gets drunk, but in his present condition he could certainly be described as ‘happy’.

  ‘I’ve seen Richey,’ he announced, gripping the foot of my bed for support.

  ‘Richey?’ I asked sleepily. ‘Who’s Richey?’

  ‘Odd job man. Does a bit of gardening for Chickle. Says the old man’s always playing round with his line and two pegs, and never decides anything. Richey privately thinks Chickle’s a bit weak in the head. Says he’s been fooling round for a fortnight now with his line and has not made a single change in the garden. He went up there on Boxing Day and old Chickle hadn’t planned a thing. Not a thing. What d’you think of that?’

  I decided to tell Beef exactly what I thought.

  ‘You barge into my room half intoxicated -’ I began.

  ‘Who’s half intoxicated?’

  ‘And wake me up to tell me a bit of nonsense like that. I think it’s –’

  ‘You don’t think it’s important, then? What I’ve just told you?’

  ‘No!’ I shouted.

  Beef gave his hoarse laugh.

  ‘Good night,’ he said, and reeled off to bed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Elevenses with the Curate

  ‘I SHALL be glad when we finish with these interrogations,’ said Beef next morning.

  ‘So shall I,’ I agreed fervently. ‘What we need is to do something and not so much chit-chat.’

  ‘There you go, thinking of your book all the time. What I wan
t is to find out who is the murderer, not give entertainment to one or two lending library subscribers. However, there’s only two more for now.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘First this curate’s sister, and then Flipp. And I shouldn’t be surprised but what we find out something important from each of them. We’ll see Miss Packham this morning, as soon as I’ve gone through my notes.’

  It was eleven o’clock before we reached the little house on the outskirts of the village in which Mr Packham and his sister lived. The former was Curate-in-Charge of Barnford, which belonged to a parish nearer Ashley. He seemed to be fairly popular in the place, it being said that he ‘didn’t interfere’. We had gathered that he was agreeable to dances being held in the village hall and had no objection to cricket matches on Sunday. But I was not greatly impressed by his appearance when he opened the door. He was a large young man with a big white shining face, a skin of lard, and bright red ears. He had his mouth full when he appeared and there were cake crumbs on his black shirt front.

  ‘My sister? Yes. Come in. We’re just having our elevenses.’

  His sister was as beefy as he was porcine, a weather-beaten young woman in a hand-knitted jumper.

  ‘Have a cup of coffee?’ she suggested. ‘And try these cakes. Given us yesterday.’

  She handed the plate to Beef who refused, saying something about ‘eating between meals’.

  ‘If you can get the meals,’ she said, biting at another rock-cake. ‘It’s so difficult nowadays. Rationing hit Edwin very hard, I’m afraid.’

  Rev. Edwin Packham seemed determined to make up for this now.

  ‘You’re trying to solve this mystery, aren’t you?’ he mumbled, showering fragments of pastry over himself. ‘Working for Miss Shoulter, I understand?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Beef.

  ‘How are you getting on? Plenty of suspects?’

  ‘Too many, I’m afraid,’ I interjected.

  ‘Still, you’ll sort it all out in the end, I expect,’ said Miss Packham comfortably. ‘Now what on earth can you want to know from me, I wonder. I didn’t even know Miss Shoulter’s brother.’

  ‘I want you to recall your last Jumble Sale,’ said Beef.

  ‘Great success,’ said Mr Packham. I wished he wouldn’t use so many sibilants while he was eating. ‘And I won the cake weighing competition.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Beef. ‘I understand that you had an old clothes stall, Miss Packham?’

  ‘I did. And I sold every stitch. With clothing coupons and so on it wasn’t difficult.’

  ‘I’m going to ask you to try to recall one particular item sold,’ said Beef seriously.

  ‘I’ll try.’

  It was a pair of shoes belonging to Miss Shoulter.’

  In spite of our sober faces there was a sudden roar of laughter from the two of them.

  ‘Edith Shoulter’s shoes!’ cried Miss Packham at last. ‘I wondered what on earth I’d do with them. Have you seen her feet? They’re gigantic. Size twelve, I should think, if they have any size as large as that. They tell me policemen have big feet. I always say Edith Shoulter ought to join the Women’s Constabulary!’

  ‘And what did you do with them?’ asked Beef when a fresh burst of laughter from the curate and his sister had subsided.

  ‘Well, what could I do? I couldn’t refuse them; it would have offended the poor woman. So I made up a basket of old shoes and put hers in with the rest. Then I sold it as a Lot.’

  ‘Who bought it?’ asked Beef grimly.

  ‘Who did buy it? Do you remember, Edwin?’

  I could see that Beef was almost holding his breath in the anxiety of the moment. It was evident that he attached the greatest importance to this query.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t remember,’ said the curate. ‘I was looking after the fruit and vegetables.’

  ‘It wasn’t Mrs Flipp, I know,’ said Miss Packham.

  ‘I hope you’ll manage to remember,’ said Beef. ‘It’s most important.’

  ‘But why? What in the world can Edith Shoulter’s outsize shoes have to do with her brother’s murder?’

  ‘These things cannot always be explained,’ I pointed out. ‘You may be sure that if Sergeant Beef says it is important it is important.’

  Mr Packham took the last cake.

  ‘You told me you sold the lot in an old clothes-basket,’ he said.

  Suddenly there was a shriek from his sister.

  ‘I remember! I remember perfectly clearly now. I can’t think how I came to forget. It was our dear little Mr Chickle who bought the whole collection. He’d seen a pair of carpet-slippers of my brother’s which he wanted. You remember those carpet slippers, Edwin? Old Miss Sant back in Horn-sey made them for you and you never would wear them. My brother hates being given that sort of thing by parishioners, and Miss Sant was a butcher’s sister and could easily have sent us a leg of mutton. They were almost new and I put them in with the rest and little Mr Chickle fancied them. Just right for him, too. So I rather wickedly made him buy the lot, poor man.’

  ‘Did he take them all away? Or just his slippers?’

  ‘No. He took the lot. I made rather a good joke about it, I remember. I asked him if he was going to grow boot-trees in his garden! Boot-trees, see?’

  And there was another hearty laugh from the brother and sister.

  ‘Very funny,’ said Beef politely. ‘And he took the whole lot?’

  ‘Yes. Richey was at the Sale, and he does a few days’ work each week for Mr Chickle. About the only work he does do. The rest of the time he’s in the Crown. And little Mr Chickle called him over to the stall and asked him to bring the basket up next day. Seven pairs, he said, and the basket. Well, you have to be like that with Richey.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Beef.

  ‘I could tell you a very funny story about our little Chickle,’ said the curate.

  I had really had more than enough of the Packham humour and said that really we ought to be going. But Beef grinned and asked what that might be.

  ‘It’s about eight months ago now,’ said Mr Packham. ‘Bluebell time. The whole of Deadman’s Wood becomes carpeted with bluebells, a really gorgeous sight. I was walking through on my way to Copling and had just reached the very spot at which Shoulter’s body was found. I happened to glance over the fallen tree there, and what do you think I saw?’

  It was quite clear that the curate was preparing to give us the laugh of our lives. He could scarcely contain his own mirth.

  ‘Little Mr Chickle!’ he roared. ‘Crouched down behind the tree like a rabbit and peeping over the top at me! I could scarcely believe my eyes. He looked so funny. Like something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “Picking bluebells?” I asked him, and he said he was. His suit was covered with mud and dead leaves.’

  Mr Packham and his sister seemed in no hurry to see us away, and Beef leaned back in his chair comfortably.

  ‘Do you know this Mr Flipp at all well?’ he asked.

  ‘I know Mrs Flipp better,’ said the curate’s sister. ‘She’s a good soul and very helpful in the village. They keep a lot of poultry, you know.’

  ‘Excellent birds,’ put in Mr Packham with gusto. ‘Splendid layers and good roasting fowl.’

  ‘What about Mr Flipp?’

  ‘We don’t know him very well,’ said Miss Packham.

  ‘We don’t know him at all well,’ said Mr Packham stiffly.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ asked Beef.

  ‘No–o. Nothing really. We find him rather a coarse individual. Language and so on.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Well, there was one tiny thing I didn’t like just at Christmas time,’ Miss Packham remarked. ‘It showed, I’m afraid, that he isn’t quite truthful. You see we managed to get hold of some Christmas cards and sent them out on the evening of the 23rd. And when I called on Mr Flipp on Boxing Day I noticed that although he had quite a display of Christmas cards on his mantelpiece ours was not amongst
them. I asked him about it, and he said he had never received it. He spoke with such violence that I felt sure he was not speaking the truth. He got quite worked up about it, complained of inefficient postal service, and repeated again that he had never received our card. Now I happen to know that that was an untruth.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, I asked the postman. In a small place like this everyone at the post office knows everyone else’s business, besides when they take the lonely roads I expect the postmen take a peep at postcards and open letters. The postman remembered my card perfectly well. He delivered it on Christmas Eve-it was the only letter for Mr Flipp by that post. He says he met Mr Flipp at the gate and handed it to him. Mr Flipp put it in the pocket of his mackintosh as soon as he had glanced at it, and marched off.’

  ‘What time would that be?’

  ‘Well, he came here about half past two that day. I think it was an extra delivery. Didn’t he, Edwin?’

  ‘That’s right. Brought that parcel of sweets from Betty Clough.’

  ‘Ours is almost the last house he would call at before he went up to Deadman’s Wood. So it must have been before three when he got there.’

  ‘And Mr Flipp was going out?’

  ‘So the postman said. He was dressed to go out. But he only saw him making his way to the mixing shed by his chicken run, which is between his house and the wood.’

  ‘Well, I’m very very grateful to you for all your help and information,’ said Beef.

  ‘I only hope we’ve been of some use,’ said the curate. ‘I’m afraid we’ve just given you a lot of gossip. My sister and I cannot help seeing the funny side of things, you know. If you had seen little Chickle squatting down behind that tree I’m sure you’d have roared I’

  Both the curate and his sister laughed for some time over this pleasant recollection, but were recalled to sterner thoughts by a call from the butcher’s. We left them having a heated debate in which ‘rations’, ‘Offals’, and ‘extra’ were words which seemed frequently to occur.

  ‘Are you satisfied?’ I asked Beef as we left the house.

  ‘Yes, quite.’

  ‘You don’t seriously suspect little Chickle?’ I asked.

  ‘I should like to know what he did with those shoes.’