Betty Church and the Suffolk Vampire (A Betty Church Mystery Book 1)

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Sterne,’ I greeted her as steadily as I could.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘Thank you for coming. We have turned off the gas, water and electricity.’

  ‘If you give me the keys, I will lock up,’ I promised.

  ‘And will you guard it while we are away?’ Sammy demanded. ‘Or will we come back to find it wrecked and looted like last time?’

  Why in God’s name didn’t you apply for citizenship? I thought. Half the town would have vouched for you.

  ‘I have a nephew who will come this afternoon with some friends and board it up,’ I said. ‘And I will instruct the beat officers to keep an eye on the place.’

  But I knew there was little we could do to protect their home. Sammy’s shopfront had been smashed that morning, the shelves ransacked and the walls daubed with swastikas, but I saw no point in telling him. Only God knew if they would live long enough to return.

  My arm was throbbing dreadfully. I felt hot and sick but not, I thought, just because of the infection.

  A private stepped forward and I was about to try to restrain him when he put out his hand.

  ‘Can I help you with your bag, ma’am?’ he offered and Abbie smiled.

  ‘That’s the difference,’ she told Sammy and I hoped she was right and didn’t see the two small boys across the road goose-stepping, right arms out straight and left first two fingers on their lips in imitation moustaches.

  73

  THE VISITORS

  If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was in hospital, I might have quite enjoyed my stay at UCH in London. The pain had eased considerably after the operation and Mr O’Sullivan, the surgeon, assured me he had had to remove very little of my stump to get back to clean bone. He would try a new kind of arm on me, he promised, which was much lighter than the ironmongery I had been sent home with before.

  I must get complete rest, Mr O insisted. I had been banned from reading any newspapers and all visitors were put on their honour not to talk about work.

  Aunty M came twice every day. Sometimes we chattered non-stop. Sometimes she just sat beside me, holding my hand. We were comfortable in either situation and I could not help wishing that I had known her in her youth and shared some of her – less distressing – adventures. March Middleton never stopped working, though, and it was she who discovered why all the patients’ false teeth had gone missing.

  Carmelo came every week, despite the expense coupled with the difficulties he had with the public and officials thinking he was a Nazi. The Maltese accent sounds nothing like the German – it is more melodious with Italian influences – but all foreigners were Germans in many people’s eyes and the fact that the captain had British citizenship only served to reinforce their suspicions.

  Jimmy came. He had matured – sort of – though there was still something of the schoolboy about him. He had had a couple of skirmishes, he told me, but not killed any Huns yet. His moustache had come on well. He had trimmed it into a very natty Clark Gable style and, going by how the nurses greeted him, I was not the only one who approved. Jimmy still called me Aunty but his manner towards me was more sympathetic than it used to be and, when he left, he gave me a long kiss goodbye. I can’t pretend I discouraged it – if truth be told, I was disappointed there was only one. I was lonely and bored, in need of affection. I would have a serious talk with him when I got out.

  Dodo came in a long fur coat – a present from Daddy, she told me – and a short tight-fitting dress that a passing junior doctor seemed to thoroughly approve of. Dodo inspected the lady in the next bed, who had been in a coma for four days, peeling back both upper eyelids with her thumbs. ‘She does not look well.’

  ‘That’s why she’s in hospital.’

  Everything was tickety-wickety-boo-boo, Dodo assured me, dumping a huge handbag on my feet and her coat over my knees. No, they hadn’t found the Suffolk Vampire yet.

  ‘Don’t call him that.’

  ‘Everybody else does – even the London Times.’ She stood peering down like I was the corpse at a wake.

  ‘He is not a vampire,’ I insisted. ‘When we catch him, I guarantee he will have a reflection.’

  ‘I suppose he will have plenty of time to reflect in prison,’ Dodo agreed. ‘Anyway, boss, I have been given strict instructions by Dr O’Sullivan not to talk about it.’

  ‘Mr.’

  ‘Missed who?’

  ‘He’s a Mr not a Dr.’

  ‘Oh heavens to Halesworth.’ Dodo threw up her arms in horror. ‘You let a man who is not a doctor operate on your arm?’ She shuddered more violently than if I had thrown a bucket of iced water over her and I almost wished I could. ‘No wonder you only have one hand.’

  ‘He’s a surgeon. They call surgeons Mr.’

  ‘Oh.’ She calmed herself down. ‘I see.’ Dodo pulled up the strap on her dress, though it hadn’t fallen down. ‘I think I would still want a doctor to look after me.’

  Though time lay heavy on my hands I did not have enough of it to pursue those thoughts.

  ‘Anyway, Mr O’Sullivan is not your senior officer,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I promised.’ She crossed her heart on the right-hand side.

  I decided to change tack. ‘How did Inspector Sharkey get on in Paris?’

  ‘He has not actually returned to our cosy nest yet,’ she told me.

  ‘Really?’ My feelings oscillated between hoping the murderer had been caught and hoping Old Scrapie wouldn’t be the one to have done it. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Superintendent Vesty told us that Inspector Sharkey was arrested as a spy,’ Dodo recited so matter-of-factly anyone listening in would have thought it was something my colleague made a habit of.

  ‘Why?’ Had he tried to photograph the Maginot Line? I wondered, though I couldn’t quite imagine Sharkey as a tourist with a Brownie camera.

  ‘Apparently – and this is only hearsay so it must be true – he kept speaking to people in German.’

  ‘Gooten morgan,’ I remembered.

  ‘Exactly.’ Dodo pounced on my words triumphantly. ‘If he had stuck to what I taught him, Old Scabies would have been safe as a sausage. He wanted Superintendent Vesty to come and vouch for him,’ she continued. ‘But the super has been so busy recently he has not had time.’

  It did not sound like Vesty to be deliberately callous. ‘Busy doing what?’

  ‘Fortifying his desk with piles of books mainly.’ Dodo patted her hair all round for no reason I could think of. ‘I think all this talk of war has upset him. His head has been hurting a lot.’

  ‘Has he seen a doctor?’

  ‘Dr Jackson comes every day.’ Dodo pulled a hair out from the side of her head. ‘He is a proper doctor and he says Mr Vesty just needs a rest.’ She scrutinised the hair. ‘Oh, I thought it felt black.’

  ‘How are the other men getting on?’ I was not sure I wanted to know.

  ‘Oh very well,’ she assured me. ‘The twins made their first arrests last week.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dodo sat on the edge of the bed. ‘They had an argument about who looked more like the other and arrested each other for insulting a police officer.’

  ‘Please tell me that’s a joke.’

  ‘I will if you want’ – Dodo picked at a loose thread on my blanket – ‘but it is not. Brigsy told them to drop the charges or he would arrest them both for wasting police time and so they did but they are still as snappy as sardines with one another.’ She peeked at my bandaged stump. ‘Would you like me to rub that for you, boss?’

  ‘I would not,’ I told her firmly.

  ‘Oh’ – she knotted her fingers in disappointment – ‘but I have recently discovered I have healing hands.’

  ‘How?’ I looked at the clock. There were still twenty minutes before visiting time was over.

  ‘Bantony told me.’ Dodo simpered. ‘He gets terrible cramps and I am the only one that can massage them away.’r />
  ‘And whereabouts does he get these cramps?’

  ‘Oh, usually in the back room when the station is quiet.’ She crept her fingers over the top blanket towards me.

  ‘Do not even think about it,’ I warned.

  ‘I cannot stop myself thinking,’ Dodo protested and I refrained from telling her that she usually managed.

  ‘What part of him gets cramped?’ I persisted.

  ‘Oh, it varies.’ Dodo put her fingers into reverse. ‘It started with his shoulder and then it was his arm and yesterday it was his thigh – but just his inner thigh, which was just as well. Outside thighs are rather embarrassing, do you not think, Inspector Church?’

  ‘I think you should stop massaging Constable Bank-Anthony,’ I said. ‘In fact, that’s an order.’

  ‘Except his tummy?’ Dodo returned to tugging on the thread.

  ‘Any part of him.’

  Dodo wrinkled her nose. ‘Are you allowed to give orders from your bed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dodo thought about that, thought of a response then thought better of it.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said brightly and that seemed to be all she was going to say until she chirped, ‘I did not promise Mr O’Sullivan not to tell you about another interesting case.’

  I shuffled up a bit on my pillows. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘What?’ Dodo had pulled a good couple of feet of thread out by then. ‘Promise Mr O’Sullivan not to tell you about another interesting case?’

  ‘No.’ I reached for the carafe on my side table. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Well.’ Dodo wrapped the thread round her left hand to get a better grip. ‘Navigable – that is my clever nickname for Rivers – read about it first and showed it to Briggs – that is my clever nickname for Brigsy – who showed it to Superintendent Vesty – I do not have a nickname for him as I believe that to be disrespectful, though Shirty and Vesty would be clever and amusing – who rang them up but they said it was their case and none of our business.’

  The end-of-visiting bell tinkled and all the visitors stood immediately because they knew Matron would ban them if they didn’t.

  ‘Is that the bell for tea?’ Dodo perked up hopefully.

  ‘Time to go,’ I said and Dodo Chivers – just when she might have started saying something interesting – jumped off the bed.

  ‘I have brought you something to read, boss.’

  Oh please not Fenula the Fluffy Kitten.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ She plonked the bag heavily on my stomach.

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘Oh sorry. I thought it was your stumpy-wumpy that hurt.’

  ‘I don’t have a stumpy-wumpy,’ I snapped, ‘and it doesn’t mean the rest of me is immune to pain.’

  ‘Immune is an interesting word,’ Dodo mused as she unclipped her almost-suitcase-sized bag. ‘Daddy says it comes from the Latin word immunis so it must be true.’

  She lifted out a stack of papers tied in brown string and dumped it on my chest.

  ‘Ouch,’ I said, unheard.

  ‘A lot of our words come from Latin – like bungalow.’

  ‘Bengali,’ I corrected and Dodo brayed so loudly that the ward fell quiet.

  ‘Oh I do not think that is a Latin word.’ She clipped her bag up again. ‘I had better go.’ Dodo swung her bag off me. ‘Goodness, this feels light as a lifeguard now.’ She bent low over me as if to give me a kiss and I was just wondering if I should stand on my dignity and forbid it when her nose touched my forehead. ‘Oh, is that a grey hair?’

  ‘Where?’ I asked stupidly.

  ‘On your head.’ Dodo straightened up. ‘There is a big hole in your blanket now,’ she told me with a cheerful wave.

  *

  At three we had what was described as afternoon tea – liquid tannin with a slice of dry bread cut into four triangles.

  I nibbled the bread and took a look at the file. It was headed The Dunworthy Hotel but it didn’t look like a holiday brochure. I flicked through to the end.

  ‘What?’ I felt the papers being whisked out of my hands.

  ‘No work until you are better.’ Matron stuffed them under her arm.

  ‘Give those back!’ I yelled, waking the old lady in the bed next to mine from her coma.

  ‘Doctor’s orders,’ Matron told me with grim satisfaction.

  ‘Oh I’ve missed my tea,’ the old lady realised. ‘Thank goodness.’

  74

  THE PREVALENCE OF UNICORNS

  I protested vigorously about the confiscation of police files but anyone worried about the police state would be better focusing their attention on the medical state. In a hospital Doctor’s word is law except when Matron is fiercer and, when these two teamed up, a battalion of grenadiers could not have made them give me back those papers until they were handed over in a large brown envelope as I stepped out of the front door into Gower Street.

  I stuffed them in my suitcase and turned my attention to March Middleton, who had brought Jenny along to carry my bag and who took it upon herself to scold all the ragged children crowding round my godmother for the sixpences and sweets she was always dispensing.

  There followed five days of rest, gin and gossip. While I had been lying uselessly in bed, Aunty M, with the assistance of her new microscope and two burly Glaswegian perfumiers, had caught the Bloomsbury Butcher and she had a great deal to tell me about that.

  ‘I still feel guilty smoking in the house.’ She handed me a Turkish from her father’s gold case and laughed lightly. ‘But that doesn’t stop me doing it.’

  At the end of the five days, much invigorated by her company and largesse, I was helped into a taxi for Liverpool Street with strict instructions to contact her immediately if I felt unwell.

  The station was packed with servicemen and women saying goodbye to their loved ones, waving through the smoke and steam and shouting over barriers and from platforms above the whistle of engines and clatter of carriages about taking care of themselves and how they would write every day. Such scenes had become part of our everyday lives by then.

  Sergeant Jim Foxley was there, keeping an eye on things. I knew him from my Met days – a pinch-faced man in his forties with flickering eyes, jaundiced skin and tight lips – the sort of face you might expect to see on a Wanted for Murder poster, but he was a decent, unassuming man, a good copper who had done a great deal to make the station safer since setting up a not-quite-official office at the station.

  ‘Even if you get on, you’ll never get a seat,’ he predicted. ‘But most of ’em ’ave to be back at camp before dark, so you might find the next train less busy.’

  Jim invited me to join him in his room for a cup of tea, all the more welcome for the generous measure of brandy he added to it and the flickering coal fire we settled beside.

  We chatted a bit about how I liked Suffolk – more than it liked me, I suspected – and whether they would let me stay – I was not sure I wanted to.

  ‘You should.’ This was as close as I would get to being told I was a good copper. The men don’t say it to each other so they certainly won’t say it to a female.

  I offered Jim a cigarette and he took it gratefully before telling me he had been ordered by his doctor to give them up.

  ‘Don’t suppose they see many women police in that neck of the woods.’

  ‘Rarer than unicorns,’ I agreed.

  ‘Took a while to get used to ’em ’ere.’ He struck a match on the sandpaper of his Webb’s matches to offer me a light.

  ‘And you are one of the few who have managed,’ I told Jim and he was just sucking greedily on his smoke when he was called out to deal with a drunk and disorderly on platform 5.

  With nothing better to do, I settled back to look through the case notes that Dodo had given me what felt like a long time ago.

  75

  DEATH AT THE DUNWORTHY

  Police reports tend to be heavy going, badly written and generously padded with irreleva
ncies.

  This report, however, was a model in brevity. Either somebody had painstakingly condensed it or, more likely, the Essex Constabulary were being frugal with what information they were willing to share. Either way it was relatively easy to extract the gist of the events.

  On the night of Tuesday 3 October a young man and woman checked into the Dunworthy Hotel, Bocking, in Essex. They gave their names as Mr and Mrs Ian Henshaw of Bath Avenue, Sackwater.

  The lady was described by Maggie Morgan-White, the receptionist, as petite in a green dress and overcoat. She had a mustard headscarf, little finches flitting over it, pulled further forward than usual and dark glasses, worn, she explained, because she was suffering from a migraine.

  Mr Henshaw was tall, well built and smartly attired in a well-cut grey suit with wide lapels. He had a fedora hat on, which he had pulled over his eyes in the style of an American gangster.

  Harry Bright, the night porter, took them with their one case up to room 14 on the first floor. The man gave Harry a very generous five-shilling tip, saying that he would like his shoes polished later. The woman, Harry reported, seemed to be annoyed about this. It was Mr Henshaw’s insistence that they were not to be disturbed under any circumstances that made Harry Bright wary – so much so that, when he went downstairs, he discussed his concerns with Maggie.

  At ten thirty Harry Bright locked the front door for the night. He then did the rounds of the hotel. There were five other rooms occupied and all of them had put at least one pair of shoes in the corridor. When he went to room 14, a black pair had been left outside the door and, as Harry went to collect them, he heard noises that he later described as creaking bedsprings, grunts and moans.

  Harry went to his office to make himself a mug of tea before setting to work with his brushes. About an hour later he returned all the polished shoes to their owners. As the porter approached room 14 again, he heard more noises. The grunts were louder now and increasingly like cries, but Harry had heard and seen many unsavoury things in his career and was just deciding that he would mind his own business when Maggie Morgan-White came down from her attic room, greatly perturbed about the sounds reaching her room. She was almost certain she had heard a cry for help.