‘Among other things.’ There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Let’s make our way to her shop. It’s not far.’
They walked to the top of Station Road then turned left, past an inn and along the high street. Soon they reached the shop. Russell pushed the door open, making the bell tinkle. At first Isobel didn’t react, keeping her back to them, intent on something on her workbench. When she did turn and saw who it was her face broke into a delighted grin and in one graceful movement she stood, turned and quickly covered the few feet between them.
‘Sonny,’ she said, pecking him on the cheek. ‘How lovely to see you. And this must be the famous Inspecteur Bruissement.’ She held out her hand.
Instead of grasping it he gently took her fingers and held them up to his lips. He beamed at her. ‘You are even more beautiful than he has told me you are.’
Isobel almost blushed. Almost. ‘And you are just as charming as I thought you would be.’ She bent to pat Aggie who was keen not to miss out. Straightening she asked: ‘What brings you here? Not that I’m not pleased to see you. I thought you’d be tied up with that dreadful case involving the murdered fortune teller,’ she added.
‘Ah well, you see,’ Russell said seriously. ‘I haven’t been able to let you know. I’m off the case.’
Isobel’s face registered real concern. ‘Oh Sonny, Why? What have you done?’ Before he could answer she said: ‘I know, it’s that awful boss of yours, Stout.’
‘Well partly. Although it’s my own fault really. Listen I know you’re busy.’ He nodded towards her bench, where a piece of jewellery sparkled beneath the Anglepoise lamp. ‘But have you got time for a cuppa?’
‘For you and this handsome gentleman? Of course.’ She turned back to the bench and switched the light off. Picking up a card reading: BACK IN 20 MINUTES she tucked it in the window frame.
Conveniently located next door was Miss Smollett’s Teashop. The three made their way inside and settled round a table near the window. Miss Alex Smollett herself served them. She was dressed in her customary grey – grey woollen skirt, neatly belted and reaching just below her knees, Lisle stockings and suede shoes with a little strap across the ankle. On an older woman it would have looked severe but the proprietress carried it off with style. She recognised Russell from previous visits. ‘Inspector. How are you?’
‘Very well thank you. May I introduce you to Guillaume? A friend of mine from Boulogne.’
Before she could react Bruissement took her hand and kissed it as he had done with Isobel. ‘Enchanté.’
This time the lady did blush. ‘You’re too kind,’ she mumbled. After a moment she sniffed and regained her composure. ‘I heard about that terrible case on the Salts. That poor woman who was murdered. Have you found out who did it?’
Russell looked up. ‘As I’m sure you realise, I can’t discuss the case, but if you have any information…?’
Miss Smollett shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not, Inspector, but if I do hear anything, of course I’ll let you know. Now, what can I get you?’
Isobel turned to the Frenchman. ‘Tea for you, Guillaume? Or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Tea would be parfait. I am très friands of your English beverage. I am often ’aving a tisane myself in my ’ome.’
‘Tea for three, then Alex,’ Isobel said. ‘I’d prefer Earl Grey, please.’ This was something Russell didn’t know and he filed it away for future reference. When Miss Smollett had gone off with their order, Isobel lowered her voice and spoke again. ‘So if you’re off the case, do you know what’s happening?’
Russell smiled. ‘Luckily Johnny Weeks is keeping me informed. As I’m sure this won’t go any further I’ll bring you up to date with what we know. There’s been another murder.’
Isobel looked shocked and put her hand to her mouth. ‘No! Who was it?’
‘It was the fortune teller who’d been at the fair before Ivy Lee – Pilgrim Petulengro. They found his body in the river. Initially it was thought that he was involved with the first death but it seems that he and Vado Boswell, the fairground owner, just moved the body. Naturally, Bonnie Parker is not convinced, but Lewis has been unable to find any evidence to link them to the actual murder.’
‘Who do you think did it?’
‘I’ve really no idea. I thought at first that Petulengro had killed Ivy but again Lewis can find no evidence.’ A waitress arrived with the tea so he said no more until she had gone. ‘There is something curious about the case though.’
‘Oh yes, what’s that?’ Isobel asked as she poured their drinks.
‘What do you know about Tarot cards?’
Isobel watched as Bruissement spooned sugar into his cup. She smiled, her eyes twinkling. ‘Probably more that I should,’ she said.
Russell looked at her quizzically. ‘Oh yes?’
She nodded. ‘First, tell me why you ask.’
He looked around to make sure they weren’t being overheard and leaned in towards her. ‘Both the victims were found with a Tarot card stuffed in their mouths.’
‘Curious,’ was all she said. Then: ‘I don’t suppose you know what cards they were?’
‘If I tell you, do you think you’d be able to interpret their meanings?’
She nodded slowly. ‘Possibly.’ Then, after taking a sip from her cup she said: ‘Listen. Why don’t you come round for supper later? You can tell me more and I will see if I can help. I’m sure you can find plenty to occupy yourselves until then.’
-0-
Boswell had been sent back to the cells and Parker had returned to his own office. He had his feet up on the desk, trouser cuffs hitched up over scuffed brogues. A customary Capstan Full Strength dangled from his lip, the blue smoke curling upwards. The DC sat opposite, his notebook open in front of him. ‘Right, Constable Weeks. What do we know?’
‘Sir?’
‘About the bloody murders, obviously’
‘We-ell,’ Weeks began hesitantly. ‘It appears that neither Boswell nor Petulengro had anything to do with the murder of Gypsy Rose Lee.’
Parker grunted. ‘Go on…’
‘And it’s unlikely that Boswell had anything to do with Petulengro’s death.’
Parker sucked hard on his cigarette then took it out of his mouth. After exhaling noisily he said: ‘I’m not so sure…’
‘But Lewis hasn’t found any evidence.’
‘Yet… I’m still to be convinced. However, we seem to have hit a brick wall. What do we do to get this bloody investigation moving?’
Weeks flipped through his notebook, his dark curly hair flopping over his face as he bent forward. ‘Um. I think we should talk to the fairground people again.’
Parker leaned back in his chair. ‘Good idea. Anyone in particular?’
‘We didn’t really talk to Boswell’s son, Duke. He seemed a bright boy. I expect he sees most of what’s going on.’
‘A kid? You reckon he might know something?’
‘We can but ask.’
‘We? I think you should go. And take that Wopsie with you. The boy might respond to the feminine touch.’
‘Wopsie?’
‘Yeah, you know, WPC Sharpe, whatever her name is. I’ve got plenty to be getting on with here.’ He sat up and started shuffling papers on his desk. When Weeks didn’t move immediately he looked up. ‘You still here?’
-0-
‘Do you think he’ll be able to tell us anything?’ Nettie asked.
Weeks wrestled with the column change on the Ford Pilot, crunching the gears – yet again. ‘I hope so. It’s bad enough having to work with Bonnie Parker. This investigation has stalled and won’t be going anywhere unless we get some more information.’ Finally he got the car into gear and they set off.
When they reached the Salts they were rather alarmed to see that many of the stalls had been packed up, the rides were being dismantled and some of the fairground people had already left. However, Boswell was still awaiting release, pending bail, so his immac
ulate caravan and pickup were still there.
‘We’d better see if we can find his lad.’
As they walked towards Boswell’s wagon they spotted Duke, chatting to a very large man dismantling the Waltzer. When the boy saw the two constables he stopped talking to the man who looked up quickly and disappeared behind the machinery. Duke ran towards them and skidded to a halt, a couple of feet away. ‘You!’ he said accusingly, ‘what you doin’ arrestin’ my dad? ’E ain’t done nuffink!’ He stood, hands on hips, glaring at them. He was trying to look menacing but at five-foot-nothing he wasn’t quite pulling it off.
‘That’s not strictly true,’ Nettie said gently.
‘’E ain’t killed no one anyhow.’
‘That’s true, but he did move the body.’
‘So?’ The boy stuck his chin out and tried for belligerence.
Nettie suppressed a smile. ‘Listen. How do you fancy a hotdog and a bottle of pop?’
The jutting chin was joined by a frown. ‘You what?’
‘Terry’s tea van is over in the lay-by. Bet you’re hungry.’
‘Might be.’ The chin softened and the boy affected a look of laissez faire.
‘Well I could do with a cuppa, anyway.’
‘Is ’e comin’?’ Duke pointed at Weeks.
‘If that’s all right.’
‘S’pose so.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘C’mon then. What are we waiting for?’
They walked the few hundred yards to the lay-by and Weeks placed the order. When the food and drinks arrived they took them over to a table and chairs at the side of the tea van. The boy bit into the ketchup-smothered hotdog and chewed hungrily. Nettie waited until his mouth was almost empty and he’d sucked greedily on the straw sticking out of the bottle of Vimto. He wiped his greasy fingers on his shorts, the oily marks blending with the streaks of grime already present. He belched noisily.
‘Now, waddyer want? I know you ain’t bought me some grub for nuffink.’
Nettie did smile this time and took a sip from her mug. ‘You really are a bright boy, aren’t you?’
He shrugged. ‘I can read an’ write, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I’m sure you can. And I bet you don’t miss much.’
‘I keep me eyes open.’
‘Would you like another bottle of pop?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ He was enjoying the attention.
Nettie looked towards Weeks. ‘Johnny?’ Happy to leave his colleague to do the talking the DC got up and went back to the counter. She turned her attention to the boy. ‘Did you see who visited the fortune teller, Ivy Rose Lee?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, I did. Spent quite a lot of me time spyin’ on ’er visitors.’
‘I thought you probably did. Anyone in particular catch your eye?’
‘That policeman, ’e went to see ’er.’
‘Which policeman was that? Nettie asked gently.
‘Short bloke. Got a big chin and small dog.’
‘DI Russell?’
‘Yeah, that’s ’im. Came over later with that fingerprint bloke.’
‘Right. Anyone else unusual?’
‘Maybe.’
Nettie smiled. ‘Do tell.’
Duke looked down, staring at his hands, clasped on the table. He paused for so long Nettie thought he was going to clam up. Then: ‘I know it weren’t my dad what killed the fortune teller.’
‘You do?’ Nettie said, keeping her voice level, not wanting to put the boy off.
He frowned. ‘Yes, for sure.’
Weeks returned with another bottle of Vimto. Nettie looked up. ‘Do you think it might be an idea if you went and talked to some of the other folk – before they all leave?’ Taking the hint he nodded and set off back to the fairground. Turning to Duke she said: ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Cos it was someone else.’
‘Oh yes? Who?’
The boy shifted uneasily in his seat, concentrating on sucking on the straw. Nettie waited patiently. After a long pause, Duke looked up, his face serious. ‘I can’t say.’
‘Why not?’ She said gently.
‘It wouldn’t be fair.’
‘But if you know who killed her…’
‘No, I can’t.’ Nettie realised the boy was near to tears.
‘Surely…’ But she got no further. Leaping up and knocking his chair to the ground Duke rushed off before she could stop him.
‘Damn!’
-0-
After Isobel had made her excuses and returned to work, Russell and Bruissement made their way to the station, arriving in time to catch the train back to Shinglesea. The Frenchman was keen to take a look at the church in Snargate so they set off in Weeks’s car. As they were travelling he said: ‘What is it you are more interested in – the murders of the two fortune tellers or the smuggling of spirits and cigarettes, without the taxes being paid?’
Russell chuckled as he changed up into third gear. ‘Obviously the murders, but I’m off the case.’
‘But that would not stop you normalement. It would be, ’ow you say, like showing a bull a rag red.’
‘You know me too well, Guillaume. But I’ve decided to stay away – for the time being – to see if Bonnie Parker digs a big enough hole to bury himself in.’
Bruissement let out a deep guffaw. ‘That would indeed be a sight to be seen!’
They travelled along the Military Road and on reaching Appledore, Russell slowed the car and pulled over to the side. ‘There,’ he said pointing towards the pillbox. ‘That’s where the body of Ivy Rose Lee was found. Where my troubles began.’
‘Very interesting, but do not forget, the case no longer belongs to you.’
‘Fair enough.’ Russell put the car in gear and drove off, turning right over the bridge, then sharp left to travel along the other side of the canal. They followed the winding lane for a couple of miles and bumped over the level crossing at Appledore station. The road wound between newly green hedges of hawthorn and field maple with an occasional willow already standing taller. In a while they had reached Snargate. Russell turned into the lane opposite the pub and parked the car. As they got out, Bruissement looked at the ancient building.
‘The Red Lion? But I though you said that was the name of the inn in Appledore – the one the smuggler runs.’
Russell smiled. ‘That is another Red Lion. The name is quite common although it is unusual to have two quite so close. Perhaps they will change it one day.’ He shrugged. ‘Come on. Let’s see if the church is open.’ They walked along the lane then up the brick path into the churchyard.
St Dunstan’s sat squat and solid, anchored between the gravestones by a beefy square tower at the western end. The ridge, running along the top of the roof, was distinctly hump-backed, the result of the building settling over the centuries it had been standing. Turning the iron ring, Russell pushed the heavy wooden door open. Although not a hot day, inside was cooler with a soothing calm. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Bruissement cross himself as they stepped on to the tiled floor.
‘Tres magnifique,’ the Frenchman exclaimed, his voice hushed.
Russell was quietly amused at the other man’s piety. Since he had discovered Buddhism he was rarely awed by Christianity. ‘Yes, it is a lovely church, around 800 years old. But look, this is what I wanted to show you.’ They walked towards the north aisle. On the wall was the painting of a ship. ‘Apparently it dates from the end of the 15th century and is a great ship, a four-master that was the successor to a carrack. It’s believed it was put there to signify that church was a safe place to store smuggled goods – which is why I think Jack Mills may have used it.’ They looked around but there were no cases or boxes piled up. The tiled and stone floor was bare. ‘I expect if he had moved them here from the pub, it wasn’t for long.’
‘Perhaps we should have arrived earlier?’ Bruissement suggested.
‘Maybe.’ The terrier had trotted in behind them and was now snuffling abo
ut in the shadows. Suddenly she gave a sharp yelp. ‘What is it, Aggie?’ Russell moved to where she was standing, excitedly wagging her tail. He crouched and reached behind a pillar. ‘Well I’ll be…’ he said, standing and holding out a piece of card. There was enough lettering to see that it was from a carton of LUCKY STRIKE.
‘American cigarettes!’ Bruissement exclaimed. ‘What are they doing here?’
Russell explained about the similar piece of card he had found stuck to the tarpaulin in the cellar of the Appledore pub. ‘I would imagine the carton got damaged and this piece got torn off too. By itself it doesn’t prove anything but it does seem to point towards Mills being deeply involved in smuggling contraband. Sadly, I think that’s all the evidence we’re likely to find here.’ They had a good look round the rest of the church, with Bruissement marvelling at the antiquity, but found nothing else.
Finally the Frenchman said: ‘Sonny. All this searching has made me thirsty. Do you think we can get a drink at the pub across the road?’
Russell slid back his cuff and looked at his wristwatch. ‘I should think it will be open by now. Let’s go and see.’
Differing from its namesake in Appledore, this Red Lion was small and dark but inviting. There was an L-shaped, marble topped bar. On its corner four beer pumps stood sentinel. The ceiling was low and nicotine-stained; on the wall a large clock ticked away the minutes. Seated on a high stool behind the bar was a small, round man. A stubby roll-up protruded from his stubbly jaws; his thinning hair was combed back over an almost spherical head. He grinned.
‘What can I get for you, gentlemen?’
‘I’ll have a pint of your best bitter, please,’ Russell said, then turned towards his companion.’ I know you’re not a fan of English beer, how about cider?’
‘Ah, cidre! Yes, I would like that.’
‘It’s rather strong,’ the landlord said.
‘Pff! I think I can manage. Can I have a glass with an ’andle please? As you can see I am a leetle – ’ow you say – indisposed.’ Bruissement nodded towards his plastered right arm.
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