by Lynne Truss
‘Because it influenced customers unconsciously, sir! Which is what the professor’s research was all about! The thing is, Miss Vine looked so stunning in whatever outfit she had on, female customers unconsciously wanted to look like her, and shopped accordingly. I’d love to show you the relevant passage in The Hidden Persuaders, sir, but I shan’t do that because, although I don’t understand why everyone is so dead set against my reading matter in general even when it’s directly relevant to our inquiries, I’ve learned from experience that even raising the subject is a bally red rag to a bull. But the professor’s field was motivation research and I bet if you asked those customers what made them choose chartreuse or violet on those days, they wouldn’t be able to tell you. They’d just say they really liked those colours. The effect Miss Vine had on them was perfect anecdotal proof of unconscious influence!’
‘It doesn’t mean she killed him, Twitten.’
‘No, that’s true.’ Twitten’s face fell, but then brightened again. ‘But if the professor thought he was really on to something, he probably trailed about after her. And in the end – well, I don’t know. Perhaps she got sick of it, or he saw something he shouldn’t have. So she lured him to the listening booth and shot him.’
Brunswick gave it some thought. ‘That’s pretty thin, Twitten. Even for you.’
‘I resent that, sir.’
‘Possession of the murdered man’s umbrella isn’t much in the way of conclusive evidence, is it? And people buying frocks in funny shades won’t get us very far, either.’
‘No, sir. I suppose not. But you agree that we should at least regard her as a suspect?’
‘Oh, definitely.’
‘And I don’t like to speak out of turn, sir … ’
Brunswick narrowed his eyes. It was clear that Twitten was about to go all holier-than-thou. ‘Yes, you do,’ he muttered flatly, again.
‘I think it behoves us, sir, as responsible policemen and trusted servants of the public, to resist Miss Vine’s womanly wiles as far as we can on account of her being a suspect.’
‘Womanly wiles!’ scoffed the sergeant.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Twitten firmly. ‘Womanly wiles. Miss Vine’s womanly wiles are just as dangerous as the wicked Miss Sibert’s, sir. More so, probably, as she doesn’t have tiny feet and her hair pinned up in plaits, which for many men would not be effective as an aphrodisiac.’
‘Right.’
Of course, what Twitten wanted to add was: And I think she’s out to chop up Mrs Groynes and drop the bits in the sea! I think she has already killed Barrow-Boy Cecil! She wants to take over the gang-cum-organisation-cum-outfit-cum-congeries that has been Mrs Groynes’s for so long! But of course he was obliged to keep this additional charge-sheet to himself.
So he changed the subject. ‘Do we know if Miss Vine has been in touch with the inspector again, sir?’
‘He hasn’t mentioned it to me. But then he’s hardly spoken to me at all since Constable Jenkins started guarding him day and night, and he’s got this new secretary bustling round him and telling him how blooming marvellous he is.’
‘Well, let’s hope Miss Vine leaves him out of it this time. The poor man has enough to worry about with that madman after him. And as for that—Ooh!’
‘What?’
‘Ooh!’ Twitten repeated, and pulled a face. It was a particularly annoying expression that Brunswick had noticed many times before. It usually came just before the annoying clever-clogs smugly picked him up on some detail that other people had overlooked.
‘What was that you said about floor patterns triggering the madman’s murders, sir? You mentioned crosswords and chessboards as well, I think? And Miss Sibert interviewing a witness? Ein, zwei, drei? May I follow that up?’
‘Oh. Well, I suppose so. I mean, the manhunt hasn’t flushed him out, has it? And thanks to your chum at the Argus, the whole town’s out looking for him.’
‘I shall follow that up, then, sir. If I can find the bally box of files. And—Ooh! There’s something else.’
‘Oh, what now?’ Brunswick had been thinking he would go to the canteen across the road and get a cup of tea and a currant bun (maybe even two currant buns) to lift his spirits. It was funny how talking to Twitten always left him craving carbohydrates.
‘Given the choice between Gâteau de Rochefort and pink blancmange, which would you plump for?’
‘Well … ’ Brunswick was taken aback. Why on earth were they talking about puddings? ‘I’d have to say blancmange, son, not having heard of—’
‘I knew it!’ interrupted Twitten cheerfully. ‘I’ll tell Mrs Thorpe. Now, I wonder what happened to that box?’
An old, closed wax museum was in many ways the ideal place to house a recently absconded homicidal psychopath, and Adelaide Vine had chosen it quite easily. It was the place where her mother had been murdered; it was also the site of her own humiliation, when she had been disarmed with ludicrous ease by the clever Mrs Groynes.
But there were other, more practical, reasons for choosing it. For one thing, the building was empty and ignored; for another, she still had a key to the side door. This door opened into a tiny alley famously too narrow for anything other than furtive copulation. Given the well-established risk of getting wedged in (and requiring the assistance of the fire brigade), visitors to it nowadays were few and far between.
So, in some ways, how clever of Adelaide to think of the dark and defunct Maison du Wax, awaiting demolition. But from another point of view, was it wise to keep this same recently absconded homicidal psychopath in a murky museum full of gruesome effigies, some of them depicting scenes of execution? How might this affect his mood?
Chaucer himself knew none of the reasons for choosing this place. All he knew was that he hated it. His companion, Miss Sibert, kept promising him that this was a mere staging post, and that in a few days they would board a cross-Channel ferry. But he wasn’t stupid. He knew she was lying. All those regression experiments back in Broadmoor had obviously been conducted for some nefarious purpose. He had gone along with it for one reason: because he could see she was planning to break him out. And escape was all he had dreamed of, day and night, ever since his arrest.
Thus, when Miss Sibert had come along, motivated by quite blatant self-interest, he had decided to turn the situation to his own advantage. If he played his cards right, he could use her. It didn’t take him long to work out what was going on, either: she was digging to find the exact combination of factors that had been present on the three occasions he had gone berserk and deboncified a bobby. This was quite shocking, really; he found it offensive. Did she intend to set him on someone, like a dog? For a time he argued with himself that this supposition was too preposterous, but then she started showing him the films and he had to accept the truth. Because, quite crudely spliced into the celluloid, were fraction-of-a-second frames designed to convey the subliminal message, KILL INSPECTOR STEINE.
It had been a job for him not to laugh when that first message had flashed up in the middle of The Titfield Thunderbolt. Miss Sibert had sat with him in the semi-dark, pretending to be absorbed in the plot. Stanley Holloway was shovelling coal into the furnace of the steam engine, and the train was puffing along in virgin countryside and then, KILL INSPECTOR STEINE. He blinked with surprise, but otherwise betrayed no sign of having seen it. Later on, during a nice scene with the young John Gregson, another message flashed up, with Steine’s photograph and the words HATE THIS MAN. The same messages turned up in The Belles of St Trinian’s the following week. It was laughable. But if he wanted to get out of here, he knew he must play along. After each film, when the lights were switched back on, she had asked him, in a casual tone, if he had heard of someone called Inspector Steine, and he’d said, curling his fist and striking the tabletop, ‘No, but I hate him!’, which was apparently more than satisfactory.
So now here he was in Brighton: confined to the wax museum and biding his time. Miss Sibert went out each morning and returne
d smelling of coffee and macaroons and clutching a letter of instructions that she refused to show him. They slept in the old offices of the museum, upstairs. They talked of what they would do when they got to France, and she seemed genuinely to believe she had nothing to fear from him. His madness was directed only at policemen, after all. And there had to be three triggers: ein, zwei, drei.
He was quite curious to see what would happen next. The thing was, he didn’t mind if he killed another policeman. But if he once suspected that Miss Sibert’s secret plan entailed getting him caught and imprisoned again, he would kill her, too. No trigger required. He would kill her brutally, and all her little friends as well.
Back at the station, Inspector Steine (HATE THIS MAN) was escorted upstairs to his office by three constables pressed so closely around him that he had to fight the urge to push them away. Much as he appreciated their loyal protection, he was getting fed up with it. Had it really been necessary to bring him to work in the back of a Black Maria? The blasted driver had instructed him, ‘Lie on the floor, sir! That’s right! Down, sir!’ and the result was he’d rolled uncontrollably from side to side (‘Help! Stop! Help!’) as the speeding van careered round corners, and had emerged from it with his uniform caked in dust.
‘Thank you, men. I can manage from here,’ he said, with relief, when they reached the door. He made an unambiguous gesture with his arm as if to dismiss them, but they didn’t respond to it, except to smirk. If anything, they shuffled nearer.
‘Sorry, sir. Orders are to guard the door.’ The speaker was Jenkins, the officer who had stood outside the house in the rain last night; the one who had dropped heavy hints about its being customary for bodyguards to be offered cups of tea.
Steine gave him a hard look. There was something about this man that was beginning to get on his nerves.
‘Well, you can stand there if you like, Jenkins. I can’t stop you.’
And with that, he entered the office and – intending it to sting – slammed the door so hard that his Silver Truncheon rattled on its mount and his framed Outstanding Policing Certificate jumped off its hook and slid down the wall.
Brunswick and Twitten pulled faces but made no remark.
‘Morning, sir,’ said Brunswick, as if nothing had happened.
‘Brunswick,’ he replied (minimally, through gritted teeth). ‘Twitten.’
Years of experience had taught Brunswick that when the inspector was tetchy, you didn’t ask questions or raise objections. Either you pretended to be deep in study, or you simply left the building to enjoy some delicious currant buns. Twitten, by unfortunate contrast, had not yet learned this.
‘Ooh, that was a little uncalled, for, sir!’ he piped up pleasantly. ‘Poor Constable Jenkins! If you recall, sir, the threat to you from Mr Chaucer is very real.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Removing his peaked cap, Steine gave him a look. ‘As it happens, I do recall that, thank you, Twitten. I believe the man boils the heads of his victims in a bucket, although no one chose to mention this to me, presumably because they thought I wouldn’t be interested.’
‘So it’s about your safety, you see, sir.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘He’s an insane killer, sir.’
‘Thank you. Yes. I think I’ve grasped it now.’
Brunswick shook his head discreetly at Twitten, but it didn’t work.
‘Oh, good. Because the thing is, sir, you seem quite angry for some reason.’
Brunswick groaned.
‘Do I, Twitten?’
‘Yes, sir. And I’m guessing it’s because you’re scared, sir. Anger is often a direct by-product of fear, you see.’
‘Really? You surprise me. I must remember to write that down.’
‘But I’m pleased you found out about the head-boiling, sir. Because the sergeant and I realised afterwards that we had neglected to tell you the full story of Geoffrey Chaucer’s deviant modus operandi. Sergeant Brunswick, why are you signalling at me like that?’
Twitten bit his lip. Belatedly, he was beginning to suspect he had wandered out of his depth. He noticed that Sergeant Brunswick was keeping completely out of the conversation, and was studying the Police Gazette with far more assiduity than such a humdrum publication could possibly merit. He also noticed the inspector had gone quite red in the face.
‘Would it help if I changed the subject, sir?’ Twitten asked.
‘I’d give it a try, son,’ advised Brunswick quietly.
‘Well. There was a reporter outside, sir, in a white raincoat and a brown trilby hat. The desk sergeant said he’s been determined to speak to you and has been lurking out there for hours, so I said I’d ask if you were available. Did I do the right thing?’
At that moment, three women – separately – arrive at their places of work. At the police station, it is Miss Lennon. This is a relief to everyone present.
‘Lovely DAY, Inspector!’ she booms, barging in and slamming her handbag down on her big shiny table. She pulls the cover off her typewriter, then picks up the framed certificate and rehangs it before adjusting the Silver Truncheon, which has slipped slightly from its proper position. At her desk, she lightly pats the little framed photograph, as if for good luck. ‘It has stopped RAINING at LAST,’ she announces, ‘and I have MARVELLOUS NEWS, but for YOUR EARS ONLY, I’m afraid, Inspector!’
Grateful for the hint, Brunswick spots an opportunity to escape to the canteen. ‘I think I’ll go and get a cup of tea, sir,’ he says, standing. ‘That is, unless you want an update first on anything?’
‘On what sort of thing?’
‘The Gosling’s murder, for instance, sir.’
Steine pulls a face. Gosling’s murder? To be truthful, he has forgotten all about it. ‘Oh, no. Not at all, Sergeant. You go ahead. A cup of tea’s much more important.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And here’s a thought: take young Twitten with you. If you don’t, I might forget myself and dismiss him from the force.’
‘Ooh, but, sir?’ says Twitten, getting up. ‘I really wanted to look at that box of files from Broadmoor, sir. Do you know where they are?’
‘They’re on my dining-room floor. Why?’
‘May I go and consult them, sir? I have a hunch.’
Steine considers. He sees a chink of light. ‘How long will this hunch keep you out of my sight, do you think?’
‘Quite a long time, I imagine. But if you want me back sooner, I could try—’
‘No, don’t try.’
‘What I meant was, I could bring them back here and—’
‘No, don’t do that.’
‘But—’
‘No, really.’ The inspector fishes a door key out of his trouser pocket. ‘Take as long as you like.’
Miss Lennon writes the inspector’s home address on a piece of paper. ‘But don’t forget your DRIVING LESSON, Constable,’ she says, as he is leaving. ‘Today it is at half-past ELEVEN. Your instructor Sergeant Masefield says that your test is due NEXT WEEK and he is in positive DESPAIR.’
And then, when both Brunswick and Twitten have left, Miss Lennon gleefully prepares to discuss with the inspector their exciting hush-hush plans for the opening of the zebra crossing the following day at noon – the one with all the black-and-white patterns, in spectacular abundance, as far as the eye can see.
Adelaide Vine arrives at her own office on the top floor of Gosling’s to find Mister Harold waiting for her in his pyjamas. This is most irregular, but there is nothing sinister in it. He does live up here, after all. He is excitedly waving a book called The Hidden Persuaders, and clearly hasn’t slept.
‘Good morning, Miss Vine, and what a lovely morning it is. Did you know that people are like sheep? I mean, as customers? They are! They really are! It’s been scientifically tested! You can sit them down in a cinema and flash images at them saying “Buy Puffin Cigarettes”, and they just do it! It is fantastic news!’
He realises she is staring at him. ‘Oh, I�
�ll go and get dressed. But take a look at this, Miss Vine.’ He hands her the book. ‘I had no idea this was what the professor was doing in the store. Such valuable work! I feel – I positively feel that previously I was blind, but now I can see!’
Adelaide smiles at him. ‘I’m so pleased for you, Mister Harold.’ Then, once he is out of the room, she sets the book to one side and opens her desk-diary, where the main topic for the day is (a.m.) ‘CLOCK ARRIVING’ followed by (p.m.) ‘CLOCK BEING FITTED’.
The phone rings on her desk. She answers it so beautifully, you would swoon to see it. It is news from the loading bay at the back entrance to the store. A large crate has just been delivered. She thanks them and calls the clock-fitters, who confirm they will appear at two o’clock.
‘Excellent,’ she says to herself, smiling. The others had worried about how to manage this element of the plan, but it had in fact been an easy matter to persuade Mister Harold to purchase a clock for the outside of the building.
‘There will be a large crowd for this new zebra crossing on Friday at noon already, you see, sir,’ she explained. ‘And they’ll gather to see it, and then, what a thrill! At exactly twelve, our wonderful new clock will strike the hour for the very first time. They will all look up in delighted surprise, and there you will be, leaning out of the window and waving! I know it’s a bit wicked to distract attention from what the police are doing, but I’m sure once they see the amazing effect our wonderful clock has on the proceedings, they won’t be cross with us one bit!’
And finally, Miss Sibert returns to the wax museum, letting herself in by the door in the side alley. As she walked down Russell Place, she had a feeling she was being followed, but whenever she glanced back she saw nothing out of the ordinary: just a few shoppers, a stationary car and a messenger boy carrying a box marked ‘CAKE’.
‘Hello?’ she calls into the darkness as she shuts the door, her eyes not yet adapted. It is always the same, stepping in here: she has to wait, blinking, until the looming black shapes (waxworks under sheets) become more detailed silhouettes in the gloom.
