by Lynne Truss
‘That is CHARITABLE of you, sir. But in fact, it is sadly true, people are SHEEP.’
‘Well, if you say so,’ he said. ‘But I’m glad to say that I’m not easily led, and I never have been.’
Miss Lennon regarded him, speechless. Then, with a little cough, she turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her. She patted the framed picture on her desk. This was a moment to be treasured for the rest of her life: Inspector Steine claiming he was not a sheep when tomorrow she would lead him, frisking and baaa-ing, straight to his own personal abattoir.
Pandora was very happy to have a cup of tea with the reporter she’d met outside the police station. She had caught an extremely early train down from Norfolk, and had not stopped for refreshment. She didn’t normally drink tea with strangers, especially representatives of the press, but once she had enquired and it turned out that Twitten was not expected back until later, she found she had time on her hands.
‘He’s got one of his blooming driving lessons at half-past eleven,’ said the bluff Sergeant Baines. ‘And I hope he don’t miss it, because I changed my shift specially. The look on Sergeant Masefield’s face when young Twitten settles himself behind the steering wheel and says: “Remind me what these pedals do, sir.” Ha! It’s blooming priceless.’
And so Pandora had accepted Hoskisson’s offer of tea – partly because of Twitten’s inconvenient absence from the station, but also because of the reporter’s interesting reaction when he first recognised her. Normally people said, ‘You’re the Milk Girl – wait ’til I tell Mavis!’ But Hoskisson had said, ‘You’re the Milk Girl – you’re at the top of my list!’
As they sat in the tea room now, it occurred to Hoskisson that he’d never met anyone like Pandora before. Normally, he divided interview subjects into two types: ones who didn’t mind talking about themselves, and ones who hated it and required a lot of coaxing. Pandora, however, represented a whole new category: people who were incapable of talking about anything else, and positively enjoyed seeing someone making a note of every word she uttered. Within twenty minutes of sitting down, he knew all about Pandora’s longstanding crush on Peregrine Twitten, her schoolgirl years at an exclusive Brighton clifftop school, her year as the Milk Girl, her place at Oxford to study classics, and the clever way that Blakeney (the local station-master’s dog) had managed to sneak into her compartment on the Milk Train at five o’clock in the morning. Just fifteen minutes after meeting Pandora, his notebook was half-full, and they hadn’t even touched on the day of the Milk Bar Riot.
‘Shall we get another pot?’ he said, waving to a waitress. All this time he had been expecting Pandora to ask him what story he was working on. He was braced to come clean about it, if necessary, but she simply wasn’t curious. When he had explained that he worked for the Mirror, she had immediately launched into a description of a large picture of herself the Mirror had once printed, listing the errors in the caption. And then, when he artfully mentioned the shooting at the House of Hanover Milk Bar, she happily launched into yet another story. For her, this last narrative was of precisely the same significance as all the others, but for him it certainly wasn’t. It was – potentially – journalistic dynamite.
Was this it? Was he about to secure the story ‘STEINE IS LIAR, SAYS MILK GIRL’? He listened to Pandora Holden’s critical first-hand account of the milk-bar incident with mounting agitation.
‘You see, I was sheltering under a table,’ she explained. ‘It was all very frightening, Mr Hoskisson. And my dress was ruined.’
‘Oh, dear,’ he said, purposefully not looking up from his notes.
‘Someone had thrown a rock through the window and there was glass everywhere. The police cordon outside was keeping back a rioting crowd – and the noise! The noise was really awful. And that poor cow—’
‘Did you say “poor cow”?’
‘Yes!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘There was always a cow; that’s one of the reasons I gave up the job as Milk Girl. You can tell your lovely readers that I was plagued by cows, Mr Hoskisson. This particular cow was called Pansy. Anyway, you probably know all the details about what happened with Mr Chambers, there was so much in the papers! When I close my eyes, sometimes I still hear the shots!’
She paused, waiting for him to catch up. ‘Am I going too fast?’
‘No, no.’
‘Did you get the cow’s name?’
‘Er, yes.’ He scanned back a page or two. ‘Pansy?’
‘That’s right. Good. Well, and nowadays Inspector Steine is everywhere on the television and on the wireless, isn’t he? I expect that’s why he won’t agree to see you: he’s become such a big celebrity, you see. After the shooting I decided enough was enough, and I resigned as the Milk Girl and you can tell your readers that I don’t regret the loss of attention one bit and that I hope to be married soon to a lovely young police officer, while at the same time continuing my budding career as an artist.’
Hoskisson glanced up at her. He had to be careful how he put this, so as not to arouse suspicion.
‘Going back a bit,’ he said. ‘You’re saying that you witnessed the actual shooting? I can’t imagine what that was like.’
‘Can’t you?’
It was the first time she had queried him, and for a moment he was worried. Was she suspicious?
But then she smiled and dispelled any anxiety. ‘Well, the thing is,’ she said, in a friendly and confidential tone, ‘it wasn’t a bit like everyone said afterwards.’
‘No?’ In a bravado show of nonchalance, Hoskisson reached for his cup and took a sip of tea, still with his eyes cast downwards. When he replaced the cup in the saucer, there was a telltale rattle of china (from his trembling hand).
‘The papers all said the inspector knew about what Chambers had done when he shot him! Do you know, though, it’s a funny thing—’
Hoskisson closed his eyes. Here it comes, he thought. I can quote the Milk Girl that when Steine shot Chambers, he did not know what had occurred at the Metropole! He just shot him anyway! I’ve got him! I’ve got him!
‘—but in fact, he didn’t even know who he was!’
‘What?’ Hoskisson’s jaw dropped.
‘It’s true! I know it sounds too funny for words, but Inspector Steine didn’t even know that the man was Terence Chambers, not until afterwards. Also, it all happened at about a quarter to two, and not at noon, but I suppose when they labelled it High Noon at the Milk Bar they were using poetic licence, which we learned about in English for the General Certificate.’
She stopped and sipped her tea, while Hoskisson tried hard to remain calm.
‘Are you sure about this, Miss Holden?’
‘Oh, yes. I remember looking at the clock. It was one-forty-seven.’
‘No, I mean about the other details of the shooting.’
‘Absolutely! And I’m so pleased you’re interested, Mr Hoskisson. No one else has wanted to hear about it. But what happened was, this man came in and walked up to the inspector and announced he was from the Metropole.’
‘Those exact words?’
‘Yes. Like it was a code. I’m from the Metropole. It was a bit odd. I was very close, you see, so I heard him even above the noise from outside. The inspector studied him for a while, then reached into a briefcase and seemed to be studying something in there as well – as if he’d got written instructions or something! So it didn’t happen straight away. Then eventually Inspector Steine pulled out the gun and shot Chambers twice in the chest. It was awful. And he didn’t look pleased with himself – not at all. In fact, when he put down the gun, he said, “Now someone should arrest me.”’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘I know. Isn’t it peculiar? Are you all right?’
‘He asked for someone to arrest him? This is fantastic, Miss Holden! I mean, how awful for you to have to see all this, a lovely young woman like yourself with such a promising future ahead of her.’
‘Thank you. Yes, it was.’
> ‘But let’s get this clear. You are saying that at this point Inspector Steine not only didn’t know what Chambers had done, he didn’t know who he was?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘But he soon did, of course, because there was a nice young reporter there who jumped up and said: “That was Terence Chambers; you shot Terence Chambers!” And I was saying, “I’ve never heard of Terence Chambers; who’s Terence Chambers?” because obviously I don’t know much about such things, I live in Norfolk, did I mention that? And then Peregrine – that’s Constable Twitten – came running in with news about all the dead bodies at the Metropole. And then I suppose it was quite comical in a way, because Inspector Steine kept saying, no, the man wasn’t Terence Chambers—’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Oh, yes. He was very emphatic about it, but Peregrine and the reporter kept saying, “Yes, it is Terence Chambers, and you’ve been a bally hero!” And the inspector was saying, “No, it isn’t,” and so – really, are you all right, Mr Hoskisson? You look a bit peculiar.’
‘No, I’m very well, thank you. Please go on. You’ve had such a packed and interesting life for such a well-brought-up young lady, Miss Holden. I’m a bit overwhelmed.’
‘Well, that was it, really. After a little time, the inspector seemed to accept he had done this heroic thing, and told everyone not to bother about arresting him, it wasn’t necessary after all. And then he cheered up and the papers called it High Noon at the Milk Bar and that’s how it will be remembered, when in fact, as I said, it all happened at quite a different time! It is quite funny, looking back, though – the way at first Inspector Steine didn’t have a clue what he’d done!’
Back at Inspector Steine’s house, Twitten and Adelaide Vine sat opposite each other. Her turquoise coat was a perfect complement to her chestnut hair and hazel eyes. It occurred to Twitten that there would be another unexplained rush to the Mantle department at Gosling’s today – this time in search of beautiful blues and greens.
‘I suppose I should go,’ she said, standing up.
‘No, please don’t do that, Miss Vine,’ said Twitten. ‘Please sit down again. I haven’t decided yet whether to arrest you.’
She obeyed, prettily, but demurred. ‘Oh, surely that’s out of the question, Constable. I’ve explained what happened. The intruder!’
Twitten realised he had never spoken to her one-to-one before. It was troubling, and he wondered if he was up to it. How was it possible that he and she were roughly the same age? The difference in their mental outlook, and in their breadth of personal experience, was phenomenal. He had divided much of his (quite recent) adolescence between a) enthusiastically compiling a scholarly directory of literary locked-room mysteries (with sophisticated cross-referencing), and b) trying to establish a formula for calculating a fair target cricket score for the team batting second in a limited overs match interrupted by weather or other circumstances; meanwhile, she had spent all of hers as an active member of a gang of real-life con artists who tricked innocent women out of their money, slaughtered them, and melted their bodies in acid.
‘Miss Vine, I think you should understand one thing,’ he said, at last.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Your womanly wiles. They’re useless against me. I am impervious to them.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, I know that, Constable!’
‘You do?’
‘Of course. I know that Constable Twitten is much too clever to be taken in by – what did you call them – my wiles?’
This was very difficult. On the one hand, it was important to be blunt with this woman. But on the other, she was bally beautiful and she was laughing at him. Adding to his discomfort was the unexpected fact that she was not even bothering to deny that she was a devious person.
‘Yes, I call them wiles,’ he said steadily. His cheeks might be burning, but he knew he had to be clear. ‘Miss Vine, I have seen their effect on both Inspector Steine and Sergeant Brunswick. And since we are being frank, I don’t blame you for using your beauty – your extreme beauty, if I may say so – on men who are so pathetically susceptible to it. I mean, the inspector and the sergeant are quite pathetically weak-minded when buttered up by a pretty woman, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid they are.’
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am. And I promise I shan’t use any wiles on you.’
‘Good.’
‘Although I feel obliged to point out something, since we are being frank.’
‘What?’
‘Well, if I were using my wiles right now, you wouldn’t know it. That’s how wiles work, you see.’
This was worrying because it was true. But he decided to ignore it for now.
‘But tell me one thing,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘If you aren’t affected by my womanly wiles, why were you so upset yesterday when I ignored you?’
He stiffened. ‘I wasn’t. I hardly noticed.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, all right, I thought you were being bally rude.’
As he said it, he heard how unconvincing it sounded. He was also aware that somehow the tables had turned and instead of Adelaide Vine answering his questions, he seemed to be answering hers.
‘Miss Vine, I need to ask you about a certain umbrella that was taken from the scene of a murder,’ he said, producing his notebook.
‘Well, I don’t want to talk about umbrellas,’ she said, briskly. ‘So put that thing away. I need to ask you something much more important.’
‘What?’
‘Why are you so loyal to the despicable Mrs Groynes?’
At the police canteen, Brunswick finished his cup of tea, and the second of his currant buns. On his way out of the station he had collected three notes left for him with Sergeant Baines. One was from Mr Winslow apologising for his drunken state the night before. One was from Mrs Thorpe inviting him to dinner at seven o’clock. The last was from Adelaide Vine requesting help. Could he meet her this evening at the old wax museum at six o’clock? She couldn’t explain right now (she said), but she felt she was in danger, and he was the only person she could turn to, being a kind man with a big heart, who wasn’t quick to judge a friendless young woman such as herself.
Had Mrs Thorpe witnessed the way Brunswick prioritised these notes, she would have been crushed. Whichever way he shuffled them, Adelaide Vine’s kept coming out on top. Even worse, Winslow’s was usually the next one down.
Naturally, the sergeant recollected Twitten’s words of warning in regard to Adelaide. But then, with ease, he set them aside. Was there the slightest proof of her involvement in Professor Milhouse’s death? No. And besides, the words ‘kind man’ and ‘big heart’ described him to a T! Had anyone ever accused Constable Brainbox of being kind or big-hearted? No, they flaming well had not.
Twitten felt more uncomfortable than ever once the subject turned to Mrs Groynes. For three months he had railed (mentally) at his strange and undeserved predicament. ‘No one knows what I know about our charlady’s criminal empire! I can’t tell them because they won’t flipping believe me! Everyone believes I was hypnotised!’ All this time, he had yearned for a sympathetic confidante. But now that he had the chance to discuss the wickedness of Mrs Groynes with Adelaide Vine, he found he was tongue-tied. Shouldn’t he be demanding to know what had happened to Barrow-Boy Cecil? What if the poor mutilated bunny-man were still alive somewhere? But if he pressed this line of inquiry, wouldn’t that prove that he was loyal to Mrs Groynes? It would certainly prove he was in her confidence.
‘I’m not sure that loyal is the right word,’ he said eventually, with care. ‘I mean, I have grown to like Mrs Groynes, it’s true. But if you know so much, then you’ll know I’ve been completely unable to expose her true nature. She played a brilliant trick that made it seem to the entire world that I’d been hypnotised onstage at the Hippodrome
into believing she was a criminal. In her own words, she stitched me up like a bally kipper!’
‘Pah!’ said Adelaide contemptuously.
Twitten was shocked. ‘I resent that immensely, Miss Vine.’
‘Well, if you thought about things properly, you wouldn’t. A “Pah” is what such a pathetic answer deserves. I sent you a photograph on Tuesday – a photograph that could expose her – and I know for a fact you’ve done nothing with it.’
‘So it was you! Well, I guessed as much.’
‘And … ?’
‘And I did do something, if you must know. I sent it away for safe keeping.’
Again, his own words sounded hollow to him. What was happening here? It was like being cross-examined in a courtroom drama by a merciless barrister over whether or not you stole a postal order from a fellow naval cadet. ‘Look, I haven’t bally decided what to do with it yet. And you hurt a photographer in retrieving that photograph, you know. He had to go to hospital and he kept saying “Ow, my head!”’
‘I repeat, Constable Twitten: have you done anything with the photograph? Yes or no!’
‘No!’
‘Thank you.’ Adelaide sighed. ‘I need to explain something important to you, Constable, and it might be hard to take, but I advise you to listen.’ She sounded very serious. ‘You believe that, in your cleverness, you discern the hidden causes behind what other people do.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. That’s correct. My father is a noted psychologist, and I like to think I have picked up a working knowledge of the human psyche from the many scholarly books and articles I’ve read.’
‘Yes, I know. Mister Harold showed me the book you recommended to him and I could see how it would appeal to you. But there is a significant gap in your understanding, Constable: you don’t apply it to your own behaviour. I spent a lot of time talking with Professor Milhouse before he died, and I now regret I had to shoot him because I think you would have benefitted very much from talking to him.’
