Devotion to Murder

by Steve Eastwood

  ‘Let me stop you right there, pal!’ said Cooper, ‘We have got no inkling at all of Lord Roding or the good sister indulging in that kind of behaviour. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘OK, keep your hair on, mate. I was only joking.’

  ‘Well don’t!’ said Cooper who tensed up and fixed Nobber with a stare that burned deep into his eyes, his fists clenched automatically and, on realising this, he put his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from lashing out.

  ‘Well, anyway, the press think it’s a possibility.’

  ‘Come again,’ said Cooper, not quite believing his ears.

  ‘The press think it’s a possibility.’

  ‘How do you know that then?’

  ‘They were in here at lunchtime asking questions,’ said Tim, the landlord, interceding before things turned ugly.

  ‘This woman from the press, Munson I think her name was, came in with another one, a bloke, and they were having a drink at the bar. They spoke to a few of the lads and bought them drinks. She asked me if you drink in here. I couldn’t lie, could I? So, I said that you do, sometimes.’

  ‘Yeah. And I said that I wish that you fuckin didn’t!’ said Gibbs, determined to have his say.

  ‘What else was she saying?’ asked Cooper, doing his best to ignore Gibbs.

  ‘Does anyone in here know you or drink with you? Does anyone know about the nun at Beaumont Hall?’ said Tim, ‘General stuff apart from that. Fishing, she was.’

  Cooper was incensed at this intrusion into his private life, which was completely out of bounds as far as anyone else was concerned.

  What was her game? What could he look forward to in the next edition of the local paper?

  Having suddenly lost the taste for alcohol, he left the pub and went home. He knew that he would have to do something about this woman.

  8

  DAY EIGHT

  Tuesday 19th July 1949

  Once again, Cooper had had a terrible night’s sleep, but it was nothing to do with Nobber Gibbs. Well, not directly, anyway. Awake at 5.30am, he had lain in bed just thinking about the case with his mind totally focussed on the problem of putting a stop to the series of leaks that were being made to the local press. They troubled him greatly. He knew from experience that these situations were not rare within the police force, and that they could have a very corrosive effect on the morale of the staff, causing unnecessary suspicion and bad feeling. Leaks could sometimes be just due to careless talk, but, in the more extreme cases, down to long-term corruption with somebody copping backhanders. Cooper realised that he needed to get to grips with the problem urgently. Rather than lie in bed and watch the clock, he washed and dressed, skipped breakfast and set off for work early.

  The first port of call was Sadie’s. He knew that he had to have words with her and he was just in the right mood to get it out of the way.

  ‘Morning, ducks!’

  ‘Don’t you, “morning, ducks”, me.’

  ‘Oh dear, Alby. Whatever’s the matter? Get out of bed the wrong side, did we? Tell Auntie Sadie all about it.’ She stroked his hair as though he was the child she’d known all those years ago.

  ‘You and your matchmaking. Brenda, as you call her, has only turned out to be my boss’s niece. Her name is Linda Collins and she is one of my team. I had to have a word with her about it.’

  ‘What’s she like? Is she as pretty as her mum says she is?’

  ‘Yes, she’s gorgeous, but that’s not the point. It makes things very awkward.’

  ‘Sorry, Alby. I really don’t understand what all the fuss is about.’

  He spent the next few minutes explaining the difficult position that her meddling had placed him in, begged her to use more discretion and to cease her campaign of matchmaking. After he had delivered his rebuke, Cooper turned on his heel and left the shop in despair. He wasn’t at all sure that Sadie had taken his plea seriously.

  Cooper strode off along the High Street. He was in a foul mood. An argument waiting for somewhere to happen. As he reached the news vendor, he picked up a copy of the Recorder, and his humour lifted slightly, as he realised there was nothing about the murder either within the paper or shown on the billboard.

  Then, as he wandered off in the general direction of the police station it struck him. It was only the germ of an idea, but he was sure it had potential for development, and the more he thought it through, the more feasible it seemed. At last, he had discovered a means of attack. He would have to run it past Stockwell, of course, and gain his approval. As an approach to the situation, the proposed action would be quite lawful, if somewhat irregular, but desperate situations called for desperate measures.

  As Cooper entered the foyer of the police station he noticed the familiar sight of the front-office constable dealing with a member of the public at the counter. The officer, without thinking, acknowledged Cooper and turning to the lady said, ‘Here he is now, as a matter of fact, madam.’

  The woman, approached Cooper and held out her right hand. She was tall and slim, with mouse-coloured hair that was worn in a bun. Wearing a tweed suit with brown woollen tights and brown sensible shoes, she had “head girl” written all over her.

  ‘Inspector, I’m Gladys Munson from the Recorder. May I speak to you about the murder of Sister Margaret?’

  Cooper was taken aback, he felt his pulse quicken, and his foul mood was restored, having been ambushed by the journalist whose approach had been facilitated by the constable, who should have known better. He took a deep breath and summoned all the self-discipline that he could muster.

  ‘Ah, Miss Munson. I have been following the progress of your investigation. Perhaps you’ll let us get on with ours. I understand that you were enquiring about me in my local pub, the Hole in the Wall.’

  ‘Just trying to get the story, Inspector. You shouldn’t take it personally.’

  ‘Well, I do. I don’t appreciate you asking about my private life. That is out of bounds. As for the murder, if there is anything to release to the press we will let you all know in due course. Good day.’

  He turned on his heel and nodded to a chastened constable, who immediately left his position behind the counter to open the wicket door.

  ‘When you get relieved from the front counter, I want a word with you, young man.’

  Cooper ascended the stairs to his office. He was fizzing, although he had now had the pleasure of meeting the dreaded Gladys Munson.

  He made himself a cup of tea and settled down to read the contents of his in tray. It took him some time to calm down and concentrate on what was in front of him.

  About 9.30am, Cooper walked up to the town hall to see Superintendent Stockwell. As he entered the outer office, he could see that Mavis was not at her desk and that Stockwell was on his feet, busily watering his plants. He was humming to himself, a picture of contentment, quite oblivious to Cooper until he heard him knock on the open door. A tall, spare man with receding grey hair, Tom Stockwell was entering his final years of service. Cooper noticed that, unusually for him, Stockwell was wearing civilian clothes, a three-piece suit, which made him appear rather stylish and even sophisticated. It was certainly much sharper than the old “demob” suit that he himself had been reduced to wearing since being back in the CID.

  ‘Ah, Inspector, come in. I wanted to see you. How is the murder investigation going?’

  This general question put the ball well and truly in Cooper’s court. He considered his position. Can I, for now, possibly get away with not mentioning the press leaks unless he asks me about them? Perhaps I can just play them down? That wouldn’t do any good though. He wouldn’t accept that. They are a severe problem, after all.

  As Cooper needed to discuss with Stockwell the potential risk involved in speaking to Tatler, he knew that, at some point, he would also have to talk to him about the leaks to the press and his enco
unter with Munson. But he hadn’t yet thought his tactics through and was not quite prepared for the inevitable grilling that his suggestion was likely to receive.

  Instead, Cooper began by outlining the reason for Sister Margaret’s presence at the Hall, the death of Monsignor Crecy and the lack of any acknowledgement of her existence by the Church. He overlaid this with the findings of the post mortem. In short, he hit the boss with a barrage of old information to satisfy the moment.

  ‘She was quite a mysterious woman, wasn’t she?’ observed Stockwell.

  ‘Yes, sir. She certainly was. But I am convinced that if we can find out more about her background and reason for being here, it will hold the key to the reason for her murder. We still haven’t received a response to your letter to the archbishop, I take it?’

  ‘No. They haven’t responded yet.’

  Then Cooper really chanced his arm. ‘I wonder whether it would be possible to take a direct approach and make enquiries at the Vatican ourselves through an interpreter.’

  ‘I don’t think the budget would run to that, Albert. It’s also highly irregular.’

  ‘Radical sir, yes, but it could save us an awful lot of time. We’re getting little or no response from the Church in London. In fact, when he spoke to them, they told Lord Roding that they had no knowledge of a Sister Margaret being sent to help his conversion.’

  ‘I’m not convinced that it’s necessary and I’m sure that the chief constable will take the view that we should be able to achieve our objective by speaking to the Catholic Church authorities in London. You’ll have to keep chasing them, that’s all.’

  Realising that he was wasting his time pursuing this point any further, he changed tack. ‘Sir, as you will recall, we went to Bedford Square to see Lady Francine Roding.’

  ‘And did you carry out a search?’

  ‘No sir. She provided us with an alibi for the afternoon of the murder. Apparently, she was hosting an art exhibition in Kensington with a colleague. Also present were two men from the society magazine, Tatler, who took a series of photographs which should establish her presence and support her alibi.’

  ‘So, you didn’t require a search warrant after all then?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘There you are. I told you that it wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘You did, sir.’ Cooper bristled. The words “pompous prat” came to mind.

  ‘What are you going to do about Tatler?’

  ‘Frankly, sir, I don’t think we could pursue the matter of her alibi any further without making an approach to them, although I recognise that we would have to tread carefully. Journalists being what they are.’

  Stockwell sat in silence, nodding his head in agreement. There was an awkward silence as the superintendent mulled over the pros and cons.

  Cooper rescued him from it. ‘It would serve to confirm or break her alibi, sir.’

  Then, thinking aloud, the superintendent responded in a way that totally surprised Cooper. ‘Yes, I agree,’ he said decisively. ‘It’s clear that we’ll have to speak to the people at Tatler if the investigation is to progress, Albert. There is nothing else for it. It will carry a risk, of course, so I want to be with you when the visit to Tatler is carried out, and, time being of the essence, I think that we should contact them at 9.00am tomorrow and try to get up there to pay them a visit later in the day.’

  ‘I’ll get on to them first thing, sir.’

  Finally, Stockwell broached the subject of the leaks. ‘What does concern me are these unauthorised disclosures of information. I’m beginning to think that they are coming from somebody within the force. I expect you to get to the bottom of them. Do I make myself clear?’ said Stockwell, stridently.

  ‘Crystal, sir.’

  Cooper left Stockwell to his plants and returned to the police station.

  *

  Cooper could hear loud voices and hilarity as he placed his foot on the bottom tread of the stairs and started up to the CID office. He could tell that most of the noise was coming from DC Tom Rogers, and, as he entered the door of the office, he could see why. Rogers, who had not realised that his boss had arrived, was standing, with his back to the door, with both empty pockets protruding from the sides of his trousers. He was in the process of explaining his elephant impression. Linda and Jane were doubled up with laughter. The noise level dipped and when he finally spotted Cooper in the doorway, Rogers squeaked the words ‘Sorry, governor,’ and scuttled to his desk. This made the girls laugh even more.

  ‘Right settle down, you lot. We’ve got a bit to get through. Brian, will you kick-off and tell the other members of the team about the visit to Lady Fanny.’

  Brian Pratt gave a brief outline of their visit to Bedford Square and the Tatler alibi, which led on to Cooper adding his news about the meeting that had just taken place with the boss. The team let out a collective groan in recognition of what they perceived to be Stockwell’s overcautious attitude. But Cooper felt compelled to put them straight, particularly as Linda Collins was in the room.

  ‘Let’s keep it respectful, boys and girls. He does wear the King’s uniform after all. Whatever you might think, he is the boss and must take responsibility for what goes on in his division. I can tell you though, he does have our best interests at heart.’

  None of the troops dared to comment further.

  ‘Anyway, let’s get on. Ian. Was there anything in that diary found in her room?’

  ‘Yes, governor. The diary is an Italian one and there was an entry made under Domenica 10 Maggio 1949 – that is, on Sunday 10th May 1949 to you and me – which said, “speak to Father O’Leary at St Saviour’s”.

  ‘Very impressive,’ said Cooper, smiling, ‘Can you sing it to us, Ian, in the form of an aria?’

  ‘I will if you want me to, governor.’

  The team laughed.

  ‘You know there is a church of that name in the village and the priest is called Father O’Leary,’ said Jane.

  ‘Are you happy to have an enquiry made there, governor? To see whether they know our sister?’ said Mills.

  ‘Yes, definitely a job for somebody. Go ahead, please, Ian,’ said Cooper. ‘Thank you, Jane, I didn’t realise you were that religious.’

  ‘She’s not really, governor,’ said Tom Rogers. ‘She was the one who told me about the elephant impression in the first place.’

  Cooper laughed and then they all laughed.

  ‘Anyway, An impressive bit of Italian there, Ian.’

  Mills was showing off, but Cooper didn’t mind at all. He knew that he had a personal tutor in the form of his rather beautiful and voluptuous Italian wife Rosa, whom he had “liberated” during the war and had managed to bring back home to Blighty.

  ‘Brian, have you had any reply from Father Thomas at Westminster Cathedral?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t in the office when we called in to see him, governor, although, to be fair, that was just on the off chance. I’ll keep trying, though.’

  ‘So, we still have no recognition of the existence of Sister Margaret on the part of the Catholic Church. I think it’s crucial that we speak to them and clarify the position. OK, if there is nothing else, have a good day, boys and girls.’

  The team dispersed and went about their business.

  9

  DAY NINE

  Wednesday 20th July 1949

  It was shortly after 9.00am when Cooper telephoned the office of Tatler in London, introduced himself and asked for Quentin Smallpiece. A few seconds later a very fruity, upper-class voice came on the other end of the line. ‘Good morning, Inspector. Quentin Smallpiece speaking. How may I help you?’

  ‘Good morning, sir. We were given your name by a Mr Marcus Devaux. I understand that you and a colleague covered an art exhibition in Kensington for him and his business partner Lady Fanny Roding on Tuesday last. Is that co
rrect?’

  ‘Yes, indeed we did.’

  ‘I was given to understand, by her ladyship, that you took a series of photos of the event?’

  ‘Yes, or least my colleague Harry Grimes did. He’s the photographer. I’m just the hack.’

  ‘I see; only, we are investigating a murder that was committed on the same afternoon as the art exhibition and we need to establish the whereabouts of certain individuals who knew the deceased. Lady Fanny being one of them. We are hoping that your photographs will help us in that regard.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean. I’m sure that we could make them available to you. When would you like to come and see them?’

  ‘How about this afternoon, say, 3.00pm?’

  ‘I would say, yes, Inspector, but I haven’t yet had chance to view the shots and select those that we would like to go to print. However, what about the contact prints. Do you think that they would be sufficient for your needs?’

  Conscious that Cooper was not likely to be familiar with them, Smallpiece explained that contact prints were compilation pages of individual shots, from which pictures can be selected for future use. ‘Well, I think that, provided the imagines are large enough for facial recognition, they would certainly be enough for our purposes.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, they are perfectly large enough for that.’

  Before ringing off, Cooper obtained details of Tatler’s location. ‘Thank you, Mr Smallpiece. I’ll see you at 3.00pm.’

  Cooper then telephoned the management suite and squared the arrangement with Superintendent Stockwell.

  He had a few hours to kill before leaving for London, so Cooper got on with some paperwork. After a short while he heard the telltale squeak of Doris, the tea lady, coming along the corridor in his direction. She was a delightful woman, with a cheery disposition, who gamely fought a daily battle with a tea trolley that had three cooperative wheels and one that defiantly refused to conform to the general direction of travel.