Poppy Redfern and the Midnight Murders

by Tessa Arlen

  But Gertrude Anstruther didn’t answer. She took off her pince-nez, polished them, and then put them back on. “I suppose . . . it might be.” She peered at me: eyes narrowed, brow corrugated. She stepped closer to me. “Yes, it is the same length. But it’s the voice. It just doesn’t seem quite . . . No, I can’t think it is the same woman.” She smiled at me. “I am so sorry, my dear, that we have caused all this trouble for you.” She shook her head and turned to include the inspector, her hands held apart as if asking him to forgive her, too. “It’s her manner and her voice, Inspector. The other woman was loud instead of clear, and her voice was much deeper and harsher in tone.” And then she turned her gentle face back to me. “My apologies to you, my dear. What an awful thing to have to go through.”

  I finally spoke. My hands were cold and wet with sweat. I carefully wiped them down the sides of my trouser legs. “Not as awful as your experience the other night. It must have been dreadful sitting down in your cellar wondering what on earth was going on.”

  “It was, rather, but no harm done. Eh, Arthur?”

  The old man had lost interest in us. His faded blue eyes searched the room as if looking for someone who had probably not been there for years. “I’m hungry,” he announced. “Isn’t everyone here yet? Why hasn’t Grant announced dinner?”

  I exhaled a long, ragged breath. I couldn’t imagine how this scenario would have gone if Gertrude Anstruther was not a woman of lucidity and command. I tried not to look over at her husband, who had apparently retreated into his own world.

  “Any moment now.” His wife’s voice was soothing before she walked us out into the hall. “My husband’s mind wanders, Inspector. He lives in a happier world these days, long before these terrible wars. Arthur is getting on in years and it is frustrating for him, sometimes, when he is lost in the past. But this young woman”—she turned to me and smiled—“couldn’t possibly be the same one that came here the other night. Are you an air-raid warden in the county?” she asked me.

  “Little Buffenden.” And before Hargreaves could interrupt and bustle me out to the car: “I’m Jasper Redfern’s granddaughter.”

  “Jasper and Alice Redfern? Of course, I can see the Redfern resemblance quite clearly now. No wonder I felt as if I knew you. Fancy the inspector involving you in this awful business. Anyone can tell that you are far from being a thief!”

  She insisted on coming out to the car to say hullo to Grandad. And to the inspector’s irritation they had a long chin-wag about the people they knew in the county fifty years ago, when they were young and life was a more straightforward affair. Hargreaves stood by his car, his hat in his hands, as he patiently waited for two old people who had much to share with each other to say good night.

  As he walked around to the far side of the car to get in beside his driver, I asked Mrs. Anstruther, “How would you best describe the woman who came here the other night?”

  “She was very much like a niece of my husband. I wouldn’t like to say this in front of Arthur, because these things matter so much to him, but I thought his niece and the woman who came here were like the sort of actresses you see in bad repertory. Provincial repertory. She was stagey.”

  “Thank you, thank you so much.”

  “At any rate, she certainly wasn’t what we refer to as a well-brought-up girl.”

  Hargreaves was glaring at us over the top of his car, and I gazed back at him. I had my answer now. If tonight had been grueling, it had also been fruitful.

  “Will that be all, then, Inspector?” I asked as we slammed our car doors. “I am assuming that Mrs. Anstruther’s testimony puts me in the clear.” We watched Gertrude walk back to her house and close the door.

  “Of course you’re in the clear. Whatever next?” My grandfather’s frown was deep, and his brows were beetling in a quite terrifying manner. “Now, if you don’t mind, Inspector, we would like to go home now.”

  * * *

  —

  “I HAVE SPOKEN to Mr. Fothergill, and we both agree with you that someone was playing a very nasty joke. So, he is arranging for Sid to take over your patrols for a while. No, darling, please listen to me, this is very important.” Granny looked tired and on edge. She had been cooped up in her drawing room with the Rev and Griff all evening, listening to endless advice.

  I frowned at Mr. Fothergill. “Why?” I suspected I knew the reason, and it was such a worrying one, I could barely look him in the face. “It is important that I continue with my ARP patrol. I have made a commitment and I don’t want to break it. What happened at the Anstruthers’ was just a coincidence.” But I knew it was nothing of the kind. It had been as Mrs. Anstruther had said, a well-staged performance. Someone wanted me out of the way.

  But it wasn’t Mr. Fothergill who answered me. It was my grandfather. “Your grandmother is extremely concerned, and I agree that you should stay home for a week, or at least until the police track down the Anstruthers’ thief, who was malicious enough to try and incriminate you. And, if they are capable, they need to find the man who has been running around our village killing young women.” He was using his and-that’s-final voice. And, to make matters worse, Griff rose from the sofa to agree with Grandad so wholeheartedly I had difficulty in keeping my temper.

  I know, darling. Of course Ilona was on my side. It’s awful the way they rush in to protect and preserve, isn’t it? I have often wondered if deep down inside they doubt themselves in some small way. I gritted my teeth, kissed Granny good night, and, ignoring Griff completely, took my little dog and went upstairs to bed.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Over the next few days, I concentrated on my writing, helped Granny around the house, and made Sunday lunch, once more without Griff’s help, which turned out to be delicious.

  If I wasn’t being a paragon of domesticity, I took Bess for long afternoon walks, and at night I wrote. It was reassuring and refreshing to spend time with Ilona and her very complicated life, and by the end of the week I had only a few chapters to complete.

  What are you doing about the Little Buffenden Strangler? she chivied me one morning as I finished a chapter. You don’t want the trail to get cold, d’you?

  I told her I was thinking.

  That isn’t going to get you anywhere. You have three good suspects, don’t you?

  I had drilled it down to two good suspects.

  All right, then, time to lure them out into the open. Set a little trap. See what happens.

  So, I set off to the village. Inspector Hargreaves had paid me a visit the day before yesterday and I hoped his arrival at our front door had been conspicuous.

  “Strange sort of robbery, to be sure,” he announced as I opened the door. “With Mrs. Anstruther’s corroboration, Miss Redfern, you are in the clear. And since their property has been retrieved, we will probably let the matter drop.” However thorough Hargreaves was, simple curiosity evidently did not play a large part in his investigations.

  “Retrieved?”

  He coughed and put on his hat. “In a barn in Ponsford. Every bit of it, and none the worse for wear.”

  “Common knowledge, is it, that you have found the stolen property?” I no longer felt it necessary to be placatory to the inspector.

  “Well, gossip being what it is, I am sure all will be made known in due course. But for now, I think it would be best if you kept this information under your hat, if you would be so kind, Miss Redfern.”

  It had been then that I decided to make use of the malicious joke that had been played on me. All I had to do was wait for one of my suspects to make the right move, as soon as he heard on the village grapevine that I had information about the night of the robbery that would enable the police to make an arrest. It didn’t take me five seconds to decide whom I should use to disseminate my information to the world of Little Buffenden.

  I arrived to find the garrulous Mrs. Glossop polishing her
countertop as if her life depended on it. She looked up as I came into her shop. “I was wondering when we were going to see you. We heard about the robbery, and Sid told me that you were no longer our ARP warden. And a good thing, too. It’s no job for a young woman out on her own every night!”

  “Ten stamps, please, Mrs. Glossop, and I might as well take Grandad’s newspaper with me.”

  “That will be one and sixpence for the stamps. Awful business, that, over at Ponsford. Constable Jones told me that you were their number one suspect for a moment or two.” A sour little smile. “What is the world coming to, when thieves pretend to be officials and then go and rob two elderly people?”

  I put a shilling and a sixpenny piece down on her counter. Goodness knows what inaccuracies were flying around the village about my part in the Ponsford robbery, and that was what I was relying on.

  “Do you think someone was actually trying to lay the blame on you?”

  Here was my opportunity. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said. “But if they were, it was a silly thing to do, because in the process the real thief left behind a very clear clue as to their identity. There are just a few odds and ends I have to tie up, and then Inspector Hargreaves will make an arrest. He came over to see me this morning.” It’s amazing what writing fiction will do to stimulate imaginative thinking.

  “What sort of a clue?”

  I took a leaf out of Sid’s book. “Police business, I’m afraid. Now, I must push on. Good afternoon, Mrs. Glossop.” And I left her with my nicely baited trap.

  * * *

  —

  THERE IS SOMETHING altogether disorienting about waking up in the dead of night and hearing your name being called. I reached over and turned on my bedside light and looked at my alarm clock. It wasn’t that late, a few minutes before eleven o’clock, but I had gone to sleep with images of Ilona being stalked through London’s nightclubs by a killer who had become the master of surprise. I turned off the light, punched my pillow, flipped it over to the cooler side, and laid my head down to go back to sleep.

  A rattle of pebbles against the window, and Bess sat up. Her hackles rose in a prelude to a bark, and Bess’s barks are loud and shrill. “Hush, Bessie.” I didn’t want her waking the house. Once she gets going, it’s hard to restrain her. “Quiet, Bess.” But she continued to mutter, her ears pricked forward. I put out my hand and stroked her ears down the back of her neck, which she finds soothing.

  Another rattle of pebbles. Someone was out there. Someone who clearly wanted to talk to me. I got up out of bed and opened the window a few more inches.

  A familiar voice hissed up to me. “It’s me.”

  I folded my arms—and smiled to myself.

  “It’s me,” said the voice again. “Griff.”

  Had he already heard the rumor I had put about via Mrs. Glossop? He was obviously here to join me in the last leg of our inquiry. But I wasn’t going to welcome him back into my investigation that easily. I yawned. “I was asleep,” I hissed back. “What is it?”

  “Developments,” came the mysterious reply.

  “About?”

  “I have to talk to you. Can you come down?”

  “You are one of my developments, Griff,” I told him.

  There was a long silence. And then he said, “Yeah, I know what you mean. And I’m sorry, really, I am. But come on down and let’s talk about—you know, everything?” How much of my trap to catch the Little Buffenden Strangler had Griff’s agile mind guessed at?

  The trouble with American men—no, all men—is their conviction that if they ask you to do something, you probably will. “Of course, I can,” I hissed. “But I am not sure that I will.” I sounded just like Mrs. Ritchie giving a slow-witted pupil a lesson in grammar.

  “No, don’t be like that, Poppy. I promise it will be worth it. It’s important. Meet me up at Bart’s Field in the usual place—say, in fifteen?”

  “In the morning.” I started to close the window.

  “For Pete’s sake, Poppy. Come on, it’s important. I have something to show you.”

  I closed the window and sat down on my bed and thought it over. I didn’t like the idea of going out alone this late at night, especially since I had baited my trap. I would take Bess, and then no one could surprise me. I opened the window again. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I put on warm slacks, a sweater, walking shoes, and my old tweed hacking jacket. And then for some daft reason I found my ARP helmet and my torch. I put Bess on a leash and went down to the scullery door.

  Bess loves outings at night. She had missed our patrols so much, she didn’t seem to mind being put on a leash. We crept silently down the path to the gate; I opened it and we hurried down the lane to the High Street. Keeping close to the shadow of the buildings, we made our way toward the green, where we took a shortcut to Streams Lane through the back way.

  The night was full of stars, and as my eyes became accustomed to the pale light, it was easy for me to recognize familiar landmarks. As we padded along, I wondered what on earth Griff had to tell me that meant meeting him up by the badgers’ sett. As I neared the stile that led to the wood, I decided against the dark shadows of its heavy trees. My nerve simply wasn’t strong enough. I continued down the lane, and then, scrambling across a ditch, I pushed myself through a gap in the hedge to come out on the other side of the wood and at the bottom of Bart’s Field. I would cut across the top of the wood at the airfield’s perimeter fence to the sett.

  Bess was thoroughly enjoying herself. She stopped and looked up at me several times until I understood what she wanted. I unclipped her leash and she was off across the field until all I could see was the white flash of her fluffy tailless bottom as she made short work of the slope toward the wire fence of the American airfield.

  Although there was no need to be furtive, I bent low as I ran level with the fence until I came to the beech tree that stood sentinel over the entrance to the sett. I was almost there when a strong arm pulled me backward.

  “For God’s sake, Griff, would you please . . . stop!” I yelled as I was spun round. I couldn’t see him clearly. He had stepped back as he turned me and was standing in the shadow of the beech tree. He held a mollifying hand toward me, and I breathed easier. And then he spoke, and when he did, my heart, which was already hammering, picked up the pace to a mad gallop of fear.

  “It’s me, Poppy,” said Sid. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sid?” I said, as if it couldn’t possibly be.

  “Shush. I don’t think we’re alone.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “In the trees over there. He’s hiding in the spinney.” He jerked his head toward the group of trees behind him. “I know who it is, Poppy. I know who killed Doreen and Ivy and attacked Audrey.”

  It took me a moment to adjust to this new Sid: composed, calm, and authoritative. So, Sid knew who the Little Buffenden Strangler was. But where was Griff?

  “Listen, Poppy, just turn around and walk with me away from the spinney. I don’t think he’ll do anything now, but it’s best to be safe. All right?” I nodded, and we turned and walked back toward the wood, and the hut on the other side of it, where Audrey had waited for Bill Peterson.

  “How do you know he’s in there?” I asked. “Anyway, who is it?”

  “Poppy, you know who it is, don’t you? You know who killed them. You’ve known it for a long time. You read his note to Doreen, didn’t you? You just couldn’t bring yourself to believe it. I am so sorry.” His voice was quiet with sympathy as we reached the door of the hut and stood in its entrance.

  His note to Doreen? He must have meant the note I had found in her dress, the one that had disappeared the next day. Why on earth would Griff write a love letter to Doreen? Nothing about this bizarre evening was making any sense. And what on earth was Sid doing here in Bart’s Field?

  “I am not s
ure you have it right, Sid,” I said, wondering where on earth Bess had got to. I whispered into the night, “Bessie, here, girl, come on, Bess.”

  “She won’t come,” Sid said, and the faint note of derision in his voice sent fear crawling across my scalp. “She’s back there by the badgers’ sett. Tied to the beech tree. Luckily I brought some rope with me.” He drew closer to take me by the arm, and in that moment the last piece of the puzzle fell neatly—and belatedly—into place, and I knew exactly why Sid was here. The Little Buffenden Strangler was standing right in front of me in the middle of a dark field, and not sitting in his vicarage study planning how to silence a woman who knew his identity.

  I had watched Sid emotionally unraveling over the past weeks and had made him the lesser of my two suspects. His Home Guard training in Wickham on the night of Doreen’s murder had given him a strong alibi. But there were only two men who were capable of masquerading as a woman: our actor-vicar and Sid, whose ability to mimic was faultless. Either of them could have driven over to the Anstruthers’ house and posed as a female ARP warden, and both of them were more than partial to Mrs. Glossop’s throat lozenges.

  Well, my trap had certainly worked, but I had underestimated my suspect’s cunning. I realized that I was in incredible danger. What was Sid waiting for, standing beside me so quietly in the dark of night? I breathed slowly to calm my thoughts. Griff would be here at any moment, because he certainly wasn’t hiding in that spinney watching us. He would find Bess tied to the beech tree and know exactly where to look for me.

  I willed myself to relax and wait for Sid’s first move. If I was ready for him, I could take him by surprise. I would hopefully wind him when I threw him to the ground, and then I could reach for one of the rocks that littered the area around the hut, because there was no doubt that I would need a weapon. His grip on my arm when he had waylaid me by the badgers’ sett told me that he was much stronger than I could have possibly imagined.