by R. N. Morris
She turned to him with a look of confusion, which evaporated when she recognized who had accosted her. Her face lit up. ‘The very man we have come to see!’
‘You have come to see me? But why?’
Mrs Ibbott looked about her warily, as if she were afraid they might be spied upon. ‘Is there not somewhere we might go?’
‘We could go inside, if you wish.’ Quinn looked at Mary. The girl stood with her head bowed. She seemed to be shivering, and he would have said she was on the verge of tears. ‘Or we could find a teashop, if you like? It’s rather busy today in CID.’
Mary flashed a look of grateful relief at him. ‘It’s all a waste of time. I don’t even know what we’re doing here,’ she cried.
Mrs Ibbott was stern. ‘Nonsense, Mary. You know very well why we are here. You agreed with me that it was the right thing to do.’
‘Well, it’s only that now we are here it all seems so … silly.’
‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? We’ll have a nice cup of tea and a chat, and if I decide the matter needs taking further, then you may leave it to me to do so.’
Mother and daughter looked up at him with identical smiles, appreciative, yes, but also somehow vindicated, as if what he proposed was no less than what they expected.
‘And so you were at the meeting too?’
Mrs Ibbott and her daughter nodded in unison. They were seated at a table in the back corner of the Lyons teashop on Parliament Street.
‘And you saw Eve Cardew there?’
Mrs Ibbott took a sip of her tea. ‘We certainly did.’
‘Am I to take it that you know her? And the family?’
Mother and daughter exchanged a quick conferring look. Mary nodded for her mother to speak for both of them, before tucking into the iced bun that Quinn had ordered for her. ‘We do.’
Quinn sat back thoughtfully. ‘I’m very glad that you came to speak to me. Perhaps you could explain how you know the Cardews?’
‘Well, many years ago, I used to worship at that church. And Mary went to Sunday school there. Eve Cardew and her brother attended at the same time. It was because we knew Pastor Cardew that we decided to go to the meeting.’
‘You decided, you mean.’ Mary’s words came out through the wadding of iced bun that she was still chewing on.
‘Mary! Manners.’
‘And how did she seem when you saw her that day?’
‘She was so rude!’ exclaimed Mary, who had by now swallowed the mouthful of iced bun. ‘She barged through to the front of the queue so she could get her hands on some feathers, then pushed everyone out of her way as she rushed out.’
‘She was in a hurry then?’
‘I should say so!’
‘Did you see her leave the church?’
Mrs Ibbott gave a broad smile that indicated just how happy she was with Quinn’s question. ‘We saw her outside the church. There was a young man on the steps.’
‘Felix,’ added Mary.
‘Felix?’
‘He used to go to Sunday school with us. Eve Cardew was soft on him, if I remember rightly. But she always was a queer fish.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, all hoity toity and full of herself. But for some reason she fixed on Felix. God knows why.’
Quinn had his notebook out now. ‘Felix …? You don’t know his surname?’
‘I can’t remember! It was all so long ago. Mind you, seeing them together that day brought it all back. Reminded me what a horror she was.’
‘Did she have any friends at Sunday school, apart from Felix?’
‘I should say not. She was a very peculiar child. Everyone was a little bit afraid of her. That’s why she’s stuck in my mind so much, I think. I can’t remember a thing about anyone else who went there.’
‘What about her brother?’
‘I remember she had a brother. I think they were twins, weren’t they? But I don’t really remember him at all.’
‘So you saw Eve and Felix together outside the church?’
‘Yes. That’s why she had been in such a rush. She wanted to catch him.’
‘To catch him?’
‘So she could give him a feather!’ Mary’s words had a verse-like lilt to them, as if she were explaining something patently obvious to a simpleton.
‘And then what happened?’
‘She ran off. He had a face like thunder. And the next thing we know, she’s been murdered.’
‘And you think this Felix had something to do with it?’
‘Don’t you?’
Quinn pinched his lower lip between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. ‘Why did she give him the feather? Has he not enlisted?’
Mary shrugged. ‘He certainly wasn’t in uniform that day. And he was with a woman who I think was his mother – and she had a German accent!’
‘And these feathers? People were queuing for these feathers, were they? Girls, that is? Young women?’
‘I should say so!’
‘You took some yourself, I suppose?’
Mary became suddenly shamefaced. She picked up what was left of her iced bun and bit off a prodigious mouthful, such that she was unable to speak for the foreseeable future.
Quinn turned to Mrs Ibbott inquiringly.
‘I do not approve of the feathers.’
Mary gave a jerky shrug of her shoulders as her jaws continued to work on the bun.
Quinn tapped the page of his notebook with the tip of his pencil. ‘Thank you. What you have told me is very interesting.’
‘Are you going to arrest Felix?’
‘I will pass on the information you have given me to an officer who is investigating the case. I am sure he will want to talk to this Felix chap once we have been able to track him down. Do you think Pastor Cardew will know him?’
‘Most certainly.’ Mrs Ibbott replaced her teacup in its saucer with emphatic force. ‘I saw the pastor talking to Felix and his mother before the meeting began. They seemed to be on familiar terms.’
‘Excellent. It should not take too long to get to the bottom of this.’ Quinn could well imagine how Coddington’s and Leversedge’s ears would prick up at the news of the mother’s German accent. Perhaps he would withhold that detail. Perhaps he would not pass the lead on at all. It was possible that Mrs Ibbott and her daughter had got themselves worked up over nothing. Was it a lead, or simply tittle-tattle? Having said that, there was the fact that a feather had been found inside the victim’s mouth. That seemed to suggest that the feather had some significance in the case. But was it a strong enough motive for murder? He had to admit he had encountered murderers who had killed for less. It all depended on the psychology of the fellow receiving the feather. One man might be able to brush the whole thing off as nonsense. For another, it might be a wounding humiliation that he could not get over, or forgive. Especially if he had conceived some kind of violent passion towards the girl.
Mrs Ibbott gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘I felt that it was our duty to say something. I don’t want to get anyone into trouble if they have done nothing wrong. However, that poor girl is dead and someone killed her.’
‘That’s very true, Mrs Ibbott.’
Mrs Ibbott’s demeanour grew perceptibly more relaxed. She gave a sigh and helped herself to some more tea from the pot. ‘So, Silas, how are you?’
The question – and the use of his Christian name, which of course he had sanctioned – took Quinn off his guard. He gave a flustered, ‘I am very well, thank you.’
‘Have you found somewhere permanent to live yet? I trust you are not still living in a hotel?’ It was clear from the emphasis Mrs Ibbott placed on the final word that she did not approve of hotels. She tilted her head back and sniffed. It was a disdainful gesture that made Quinn suspect she knew very well what kind of a hotel he was staying in. At any rate, she knew that it was in King’s Cross, as she had forwarded correspondence to him. No doubt she did not approve of King’s Cross, a
ny more than she did hotels.
‘I … I find that it suits my needs at present. I have not yet found anywhere more permanent.’
Mrs Ibbott appeared to be unimpressed by this information.
Quinn was reluctant to say more, for fear of placing Mrs Ibbott in a difficult situation. He did not want her to feel responsible for his accommodation difficulties. ‘I wish to take my time,’ he said at last. ‘So that I may find somewhere as amenable as my last abode.’
Mrs Ibbott took the compliment with a little smile. ‘You know, if it was up to me, I would have you back like a shot.’
Her position, he thought, had subtly changed since the last time they had discussed this. Then she had been ready to defy Hargreaves and prepared to have Quinn stay on. She would permit no one to dictate to her who might or might not be a guest in her house, he seemed to remember. Now it seemed her hands were tied, presumably because of Hargreaves’ resistance.
Perhaps aware of this, she clarified the situation for him. ‘With Mr Hargreaves away with his regiment, it would not be honourable to renege on the understanding we came to – with your agreement, I think.’
‘There’s no need to explain,’ said Quinn.
‘I do wish you would find somewhere respectable, Inspector. In a nice neighbourhood.’
‘I shall apply myself to the task as soon as …’ The sentence trailed off. Quinn was unable to think of anything preventing him from doing what Mrs Ibbott had urged. ‘But now, I am afraid you must excuse me, for I fear I must be getting back to my desk. There is no rest for the wicked, they say. Well, the same is true for those whose job it is to curtail them.’ Quinn surprised himself with this remark. It was almost a witticism.
Mrs Ibbott gave him a curious look, as if she was thinking he was not quite himself.
TWENTY-NINE
By the time Quinn got back to CID, the chaos that had been beneath the surface before had burst out into open uproar. He managed to catch Inchball’s eye.
‘All hell’s broke loose. There’s been a tip-off. Via the telephone. From a member of the public. Saw the dead girl’s picture in the newspaper and recognized her. Coddersedge are all set to make an arrest.’
‘Who is it?’ Quinn’s heart began to race, a reflex reaction to the prospect of the chase closing in on a suspect. Even if he were not directly involved, he could still feel the excitement vicariously. He wondered if it was this Felix person that Mrs Ibbott and Mary had told him about. Or perhaps it would turn out to be a soldier from the Royal Fusiliers. In either case, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. It would have helped his cause if he had been the one to point the investigation in the right direction.
‘Remember the Bosch butcher in Bush?’
‘What of it?’
‘She was only there. Eve Cardew. Egging the crowd on. Ringleader, is the word what was said.’
Quinn’s brows contracted as he tried to make sense of this. ‘But she’s a girl.’
‘That’s why it was so notable.’
‘What has it to do with her death?’
‘The old man died, di’n’ ’e? The pork butcher. Well, he had a son. The son was there, in the shop, when the riot happened. Got injured in the fracas, if you remember. Well, here’s the thing – according to our tip-off, he was seen looking daggers at Eve Cardew. It was a very nasty look indeed, according to our witness. Like he meant to do her harm and no mistake.’
‘It’s rather flimsy.’
‘It’s a motive. And it’s good enough for Coddington.’
Quinn gestured around him at the tumult. The suspects who had been brought in earlier were protesting even more vociferously than before. In one corner of the room, a man was being truncheoned into submission. Handcuffs were being clapped on all around.
‘They got wind of it, di’n’ they? One of ours must have let it slip that we were all set to feel the collar of one of theirs. You could say it di’n’ go down well.’
At that very moment, DCI Coddington himself came barrelling towards them. His eyes were lit with a triumphant glee. ‘So, you have heard the news, Quinn. We have our man.’
‘You don’t have him yet, I think.’
‘Perhaps you would care to come along and see the arrest being made. It will do you good to observe a proper police operation in action. You might learn a thing or two.’
Quinn swallowed down the urge to say, ‘I doubt it.’ The truth was Coddington’s proposal appealed. Only one thing deterred him, and that was the fact that Coddington was wearing an identical ulster overcoat and bowler to Quinn.
But he found that he could not resist the thrall of action.
Coddington was leaving nothing to chance. As well as a horse-drawn Black Maria to hold the suspect, there were two police cars crammed with CID officers and a wagon lined with two ranks of uniformed bobbies.
Quinn rode in the second of the cars with Inchball and learnt from him that Coddington had also contacted the local police station so that they would send officers round to the pork butcher’s shop on Goldhawk Road in order to contain the suspect until the men from the Yard arrived.
‘All to pick up one man?’
‘If he’s our man, he’s a dangerous bugger. He’s already taken a potshot at one of ours.’
‘Did you not tell them what Macadam said? About his assailant wearing a uniform?’
Inchball heaved a shrug that lifted Quinn from his seat, so tightly were they squeezed in. ‘All this was kicking off, so he didn’t want to hear it.’
‘This is a waste of time.’
‘It might be. Or it might not be. That’s the thing, ain’t it, guv, you never can tell. You gotta look into everything. You taught me that. You can hardly blame Coddington for following it up. We’ll talk to this sausage-eater, and if he has an alibi we can rule him out.’
‘In the meantime, the soldier who took a shot at Macadam may well have been transferred out.’
‘It’s a question of resources, guv. We can’t pursue every lead.’
‘No. It’s a question of stupidity.’ There were other officers in the car, more or less loyal to Coddington. Quinn felt them bristle at his criticism.
The contingent from the local station were already in place. A fresh-faced plain-clothes detective introduced himself as Inspector Driscoll and glanced in wide-eyed confusion between Quinn and Coddington, each dressed in identical ulster and bowler.
Quinn suppressed the instinct to take charge. This was Coddington’s op, after all. And if it all fell apart, as Quinn was confident it would, on Coddington’s head it would be.
Coddington stepped in front of Quinn. ‘DCI Coddington.’ Leversedge hurried over to stand shoulder to shoulder with his mentor, blocking Quinn from Driscoll’s vision completely. ‘And this is Inspector Leversedge,’ continued Coddington.
Quinn moved to one side to see Driscoll frown at the pantomime that had just been enacted. All credit to him, he didn’t let it throw him off his stride. ‘The suspect is inside. As instructed, we have not attempted ingress. We have secured the front and rear of the premises. He can’t escape.’
Coddington nodded his approval. Quinn left them to it and turned his attention to the shop. The shutters were down on the windows. A large chipboard panel had been nailed into the frame of the door. Someone had painted the words ‘BOSH SCUM’ over it.
‘There’s your motive, Quinn!’ Coddington’s grin as he came over was insufferable. ‘Revenge. His father’s dead, his business ruined. And he blamed Eve Cardew.’
It was strange, Quinn thought, how important it seemed to be to Coddington to secure Quinn’s approval. ‘But what else is there to link the two of them?’
‘What else do you need?’ It was a rhetorical question, thrown out with the confidence of an unimaginative man. But there was something, a tremor in Coddington’s glance, that hinted at uncertainty behind the bravado.
‘I thought the theory you were pursuing was that she disturbed a German spy as he was watching the airship base on
Wormwood Scrubs?’
‘You have to be willing to modify your theory as new evidence arises. I’m surprised you don’t know that, Quinn. It’s basic detecting. But then again, nothing about you should really come as a surprise.’
‘What I do know is that the man who shot at Macadam was wearing a military uniform – that of a private in the Royal Fusiliers. So unless the dead butcher’s son has recently enlisted, he was not the one who shot Sergeant Macadam.’
Coddington’s face flushed with emotion. Whether it was anger or embarrassment, there was no way of knowing. ‘When did you find this out?’
‘Last night.’
‘And you didn’t think to inform me?’
Quinn had no desire to drop Inchball in it. ‘You have made it clear that my assistance is not welcome or necessary on the case. I had resolved to look into it myself, and if my enquiries resulted in anything material, I would of course pass it over to you.’
‘I don’t need your help, Quinn. But neither do I want you working against me. Which is what you’re doing here.’
Inspector Driscoll came over. ‘My men are awaiting your instructions, sir.’
Coddington fixed Quinn with a narrow glare. ‘I know what you’re trying to do, Quinn. And it won’t succeed.’ To Driscoll, he added: ‘Get an axe to that panel on the door.’
The axe was wielded by a burly copper who gave his helmet to a mate to hold. The first blow landed with a dead thud. The blade sank deep into the soft chipboard, so that the copper struggled to retrieve it. It came out with a sudden creak that sent the axe swinging dangerously in his hand. A few of his fellows cried out in warning and protest. A moment later, just as he was sizing up for the second stroke, the door was opened from within. A young man in a dark suit stood framed in the doorway. His expression was both defiant and wounded. It was a face of great misery, crumpled, hopeless, grieving, to say nothing of the multiple cuts and grazes that marked it.
He looked at the axe-wielding policeman with consternation. ‘What do you lot want?’
‘Are you William Edgar?’ shouted Coddington.
‘Nah, I’m William Egger, ain’t I?’ It was typical of Coddington to have got the man’s name wrong.
