Devotion to Murder

by Steve Eastwood

  ‘Morning Alby, would you like a cup of tea, dear?’ said Doris, standing proud with the trolley blocking his doorway.

  ‘Good morning, Doris. Yes, tea with no sugar, thanks.’

  She looked like an Amazon warrior, complete with matching scarf- hat and pinafore.

  Upon payment of a threepenny bit, she did the honours and brought the mug to his desk. As was often the case, Doris sat down opposite him for a couple of minutes and lit up a Woodbine. She offered him one, which he politely declined.

  Doris was around fifty years of age and, although slightly overweight, she was attractive in a mature way. She was always good for a chat, but he never knew her to indulge in malicious gossip, which was a pleasant change from the back biting that some of the staff tended to indulge in.

  After she bemoaned her varicose veins and following her usual complaint about the tea trolley being the potential death of her, they exchanged pleasantries. ‘Anyway, you’re looking pleased with yourself this morning. You in love or something?’

  ‘Only with you, Doris, light of my life.’

  She laughed heartily. ‘How you getting on with your murder then, ducks? Caught anyone yet?’

  ‘No, but things are going quite well. It’s early days yet, Doris. It’s an interesting one though, that’s for sure. You don’t have Catholic nuns murdered very often these days, so we must be breaking new ground.’

  ‘You know, my old man Vic and I were only talking the other day about how the Catholic Church must be the richest club in the world. All that gold in their churches and cathedrals. It does make you wonder where it all came from in the first place. He says that it was mostly stolen by those Spanish matadors in South America, and that they made it on the backs of the poor. I bet there were a few wrong-uns among them as well, lining their own pockets. There usually is where money’s concerned. And you can’t trust anybody these days. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly does,’ said Cooper, almost overwhelmed by her outburst. She had been referring to conquistadors, but he wasn’t going to correct her.

  ‘Anyway, Alby, I can’t be sitting here gossiping with the likes of you all day,’ she said, with a chuckle. With that, Doris stubbed out the cigarette on the sole of her plimsole and stashed the dog-end in the pocket of her pinny for later. Then, almost in one movement, she stood up and kicked the frame of the trolley, as if inflicting some form of punishment on a capricious beast. It immediately jumped into life and she continued on her way along the corridor towards the big office.

  Soon after midday, Cooper started to prepare for his departure to London. As Brian Pratt was to be left behind to hold the fort, Cooper would be the driver for this journey, so he took the Wolseley up to the town hall to collect the superintendent.

  Cooper needed to be alone with him to discuss his idea for tackling the press leaks. To ensure success, it would be imperative for very few people to have prior knowledge of the action he was intending to propose. Although Cooper trusted Pratt implicitly, he did not need him to be cognisant of the plan.

  During the journey up to London, Cooper was pleasantly surprised to find that the further his boss got from his patch, the more pleasant and chipper he seemed to become. It was as if a heavy weight was gradually being lifted from his shoulders. Stockwell did most of the talking as Cooper feigned total concentration on his driving. This was a deliberate ploy on Cooper’s part, which afforded him thinking time and enabled him to word his pitch with care. In the past, he had learned to his cost that Stockwell had a propensity for leaping on unguarded or injudicious comments. Now, with several hours of exclusive access to the boss, he might have the chance to get through to him, whereas, previously, Stockwell had always seemed too preoccupied to hold a detailed conversation on any given subject.

  Cooper was quite looking forward to visiting Tatler and witnessing at close quarters how Stockwell would approach the situation. Dealing with the press was always a tricky business. It could make or break a senior officer’s career: “Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.” There was a healthy distrust on both sides. Senior officers, with little or no training, just had to use their own judgement, common sense and do their level best. In some cases, this led to unholy alliances and in others it led to antagonism. It was an extremely difficult balance to strike so, for selfish reasons, Cooper was very happy that Stockwell would be taking the lead on this aspect of the investigation.

  Upon arrival in the Tatler building and after introducing themselves at reception, they were both shown to the waiting area where they were given tea.

  As they sat waiting, they were treated to the sight of several bright young things, who came and went with files under their arms. Cooper felt that the whole place had an atmosphere of style and positivity. This was an invigorating and pleasant experience, after so many years of austerity and strife. It certainly gave a strong indication of the kind of lifestyle being enjoyed by much of the upper echelon of British society and their familiars. Cooper reflected that it was a shame that the same level of opportunity had not yet been extended to the wider population.

  After a few minutes, Quentin Smallpiece appeared before them.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said Smallpiece with his cut-glass accent and a slight lisp.

  Cooper carried out the introductions, and, in their turn, they shook hands with Smallpiece. He had the grip of a Girl Guide.

  ‘If you would care to follow me, gentlemen, I will take you through to the studio.’

  Cooper observed the man as they followed him along the corridor. He was about six feet in height, and was of a very slim build, clean shaven with blond hair. He was coiffured to within an inch of his life. To have said that he was effeminate would have been a gross understatement. Still, one can’t always judge by appearances, thought Cooper. The man was clearly of service age, and this made him wonder what contribution Smallpiece might have made to the war effort.

  After walking through a maze of corridors, they finally arrived in the studio. Cooper saw that the walls were festooned with photographs of the rich, famous and notorious. Already in the room was the photographer, who, upon their arrival, looked up from his work and, with a smile, stood up to greet them. Thrusting out a sturdy hand, he introduced himself as Harry Grimes.

  He was altogether different from Smallpiece: tall and well-built with spectacles. He spoke with a heavy cockney accent. Bethnal Green, sprang to Cooper’s mind.

  ‘Afternoon gents, how can we help you?’

  ‘Mr Grimes, as I explained to your colleague on the phone, we are investigating the murder of a Catholic nun, which was committed last Tuesday; the same day as an art exhibition that was covered in Kensington by both of you, I believe.’

  ‘That was for Mr Devaux, wasn’t it, Skip?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one,’ said Smallpiece.

  ‘Only, we did two last week. The other one was in Knightsbridge. They seem to be all the rage at present.’

  ‘The murder was in the grounds of Beaumont Hall, the home of Lord and Lady Roding,’ said Stockwell.

  ‘Really? Well, we know Lord Jeremy and the Lady Fanny of old, don’t we Skip?’

  ‘I must stress that she is not a suspect as such, but, like several key individuals, we are seeking to establish the whereabouts of Lady Fanny Roding at the time of the murder. She told us about the exhibition and the fact that she was present throughout the event. We’re hoping that this can be confirmed by recourse to your photographs.’

  ‘Yes, Superintendent, I am sure that we can assist you. The thing is, as you know, we are a business and in the spirit of police-journalist cooperation, I wonder whether we could come to some arrangement. Maybe, Tatler being able, in due course, to produce, say, an exclusive article,’ said Smallpiece.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure that we can do that,’ said Stockwell.

  He was almost interrupted by Smal
lpiece, who appeared quite anxious to get his point across. ‘We could agree content and you could have full editorial rights before publication. You see, the thing is, Lady Roding is a person of interest as far as we are concerned. She married into money. She is not of the nobility and she is a rather colourful character. One might say that she is something of a gift for a society journal such as ours. We really have heard quite a bit of gossip about her,’ said Smallpiece tantalisingly, ‘and, of course, we could give you access to our extensive archive.’

  Yet again, Stockwell was to surprise Cooper with his response as it was quite apparent that he was not going to dismiss the proposal without some consideration.

  ‘Clearly, we appreciate your cooperation, Mr Smallpiece; I would have to seek authority from our chief constable. But if you would leave your proposal with me, I will see if anything can be agreed.’

  ‘Happy with that, Skip?’ said Grimes.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Smallpiece.

  ‘Then the contact prints are over here on the table, gentlemen. You’ll see that Lady Fanny’s image is splashed across most of them,’ said Grimes.

  He guided Stockwell and Cooper across the room to a long table where they examined the images.

  ‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Cooper, ‘She told us that she’d “worked the room” and she wasn’t joking, was she? She’s on nearly all of them,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Yes, she does get about, does our Lady Fanny,’ commented Smallpiece with a wry smile.

  Cooper then turned to Grimes and almost as an aside he said, ‘Of course, Mr Grimes, we’ll need a short witness statement from you producing the sheets in evidence, and that might mean you having to attend court.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ said Grimes, ‘I spend half of my life at the Old Bailey as it is.’

  ‘What time did you take the final photographs?’

  ‘That would have been about 6.30pm, wouldn’t it, Skip?’

  Smallpiece nodded in agreement, then said, ‘We both stayed on until about 8.30pm.’

  ‘They were serving free cocktails and it seemed a bit of a shame to let them go to waste,’ said Grimes laughing, ‘It was a good night, from what I can remember of it.’

  ‘Peasant!’ said Smallpiece, with mock indignation. ‘Please do forgive my working-class colleague, Inspector.’

  ‘In fact, these events give me a good opportunity to engage the guests in conversation and collect some gossip for the journal,’ said Smallpiece. ‘We meet a lot of high society figures in our line of business, and we do tend to run across the same people time and again. This adds to the gossip factor, of course, which is fundamental to Tatler, and one has to try to keep up with it all.’

  ‘Was Lady Fanny still there when you left?’

  ‘Yes. In fact, she was the one who locked the door behind us. We were the last to leave the gallery apart from her ladyship and Marcus.’

  After taking witness statements, Stockwell and Cooper were escorted to the front of the building by Grimes.

  ‘Just one thing, Harry. As a matter of interest, why do you refer to Mr Smallpiece as “Skip”?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘We served together in the RAF during the war, Inspector. We were in Lancasters. He was my skipper and I was the bomb aimer. You wouldn’t think so to look at him, but underneath all that foppery, he’s a tough customer and a bloody good bloke.’

  One can’t always judge by appearances, indeed, thought Cooper, as they bid Grimes farewell and descended the steps into the street.

  As they walked back to the Wolseley, Cooper turned to his boss.

  ‘Are we really going to give them their exclusive, sir?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem, Albert, provided we can edit the content and influence the time of its release so as not to comprise any court proceedings. Besides, I’d like to see what they have in their archive about Lady Fanny.’

  ‘Yes. That lady has a colourful history, I should think.’

  ‘Anyway, Albert, judging by the photos, and the witness statements you’ve just taken from Messrs Grimes and Smallpiece it does look as though our Lady Fanny could not have been the killer.’

  ‘No, sir. Not in person, perhaps. But she has money and influence, and, according to the letter, she’s the only person we’ve found with any kind of motive. She could still have murdered Sister Margaret by proxy.’

  *

  By the time Cooper had got back to the CID office, Brian Pratt had stood the murder team down for the day.

  Cooper and Stockwell had left Central London shortly before 5.00pm; consequently, they had copped the full inertia of the rush hour even before reaching the Strand. They got a bit further on, but then it had taken them the best part of an hour to travel the few miles from Aldgate to Stratford. It was now almost 8.00pm and they had only just arrived back in Colchester.

  On returning to the police station, Stockwell and Cooper went their separate ways. Cooper had partaken of quite enough intrigue for one day, and he told himself that it was time for a well-earned pint of Double Diamond.

  He thought he’d give the Hole in the Wall a swerve lest he bump into the pain in the arse that was Nobber Gibbs. He certainly couldn’t be doing with any more banter from that quarter. It might develop into fisticuffs, and where would that get him? The sack, probably.

  No, he would go to the George Hotel, a much more salubrious establishment altogether.

  The George wasn’t busy. In fact, the saloon bar only had a few customers and they were seated in a couple of small groups. As was his habit, Cooper quickly sized them up and subconsciously evaluated them during his visual sweep of the room. He was content that they posed no threat as they appeared to be a mix of local traders and hotel guests.

  Cooper bought his usual pint of beer and he noted, without surprise, that it was a penny more expensive than that sold by his local, one and six [one shilling and sixpence] that’s bloody scandalous. Still, only to be expected, he told himself.

  He sat with his back to the wall at one end of the bar, which, again, was something he did automatically. This gave him a chance to see everything before him, thus allowing for no unwelcome surprises.

  Good, he thought. A nice pint. That’s all that’s needed to initiate the relaxation process. But one and bleeding six? It ought to be bloody good for that price. Cooper sat and supped his beer quietly, while ruminating over the day’s business.

  He then became aware of a group of men walking into the bar area from the dining room. They appeared particularly well refreshed, and he soon realised, from their banter, that they were journalists working for national newspapers.

  Fortunately, the barman had given no sign of recognising him, so he reasoned that he’d be fine if he just drank, relaxed and kept his own counsel. This could prove to be an interesting and informative exercise.

  As the evening progressed a couple of members of the group gravitated along the bar in his general direction. This was, apparently, more by way of drunken momentum than any intent on their part. Although he could monitor their every word, he studiously avoided making eye contact. He soon picked up on the fact that they were attempting to engage the barman in conversation about the murder.

  After a while, they finally understood that the barman was playing dumb and that he didn’t want to be drawn on anything in relation to the murder, so they gradually lost interest in him.

  The room slowly emptied of other patrons until Cooper became the only punter in the bar other than the journalists. He had removed his jacket, collar and tie, and they were lying in a pile on the bench next to him.

  One of their number had obviously decided that he would move along the counter and approach Cooper, who was reading that day’s copy of the Daily Sketch and was still intent on minding his own business.

  This man was a corpulent, ruddy-faced individual with an arrogant manner, and, as soon became clear, an
overblown sense of his own importance. Cooper did his best to ignore him, but then he was tempted to have a bit of sport. The man introduced himself, but did not have the good grace to even attempt to ascertain Cooper’s identity.

  ‘I’m Robin Grosvenor of the Daily Sketch. You’ll probably have heard of me. We’re covering the murder. Are you a local man?’

  Here we go, thought Cooper. ‘Yes, I am, boy. Born and bred.’ For the purposes of this exercise, Cooper adopted a broad North Essex / South Suffolk accent.

  ‘Have you heard about the murder?’

  ‘Which murder is that then, boy?’

  ‘Which murder is that then?’ said Grosvenor mockingly, ‘The murder of the nun, of course!’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard about that one.’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Yes, I have indeed, boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I said yes!’

  ‘What did you mean when you said yes?’

  ‘I answered yes. Just confirming what you were a saying.’

  ‘So, you meant yes then.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Somebody killed her. Do you have any theory as to who might have killed her?’

  ‘Yes. Matter of fact, I do.’

  Grosvenor moved in closer, hoping to be taken into Cooper’s confidence, ‘Who was it then?’

  ‘Yes, I do, boy.’

  ‘Can you tell me who murdered the nun?’ said Grosvenor, losing patience and starting to raise his voice.

  ‘No, but I know someone who can.’

  ‘Who is that then?’

  ‘Her husband.’

  ‘Whose husband?’

  ‘The nun’s husband.’

  ‘But surely, she wasn’t married, was she?’

  ‘Of course, she was!’

  ‘Who to?’