Postman's Knock (Inspector Pitt Detective series Book 1)

by J F Straker

  ‘It wasn’t. But it is now. I’m thirty-four, Sue, and I haven’t had the smell of a job for months. And since I don’t intend to earn my living on the streets, the only alternative is a husband.’ She got up and began to wander restlessly about the room. Neither of them had thought to switch on the light, and the room was illumined only by a faint glow from the street-lamp outside. ‘I can’t batten on Mum and Dad for the rest of my life. Donald’s not bad-looking, and he’s crazy about me. I’ll have no trouble with him. But he’s such an awful stick, and so horribly suburban. We’ll live in this ruddy street until we peg out. Never travel, never own a car, never spend a bean extravagantly. He’s splashing it about now, of course, but I can see it worries him. He’s not used to spending money. He’ll clamp down like an oyster after we’re married. I know men.’

  ‘You should do, dear,’ said Susan. ‘Well, it’s a grim prospect.’

  ‘You’re telling me! And I shan’t be allowed even to look at another man. He’s as jealous as sin.’

  ‘How does he react to your affair with the artist, then? Or doesn’t he know about that?’

  ‘Not all the details, I hope. But enough. He looks like the wrath of God whenever Jock’s name crops up. But at present he’s too damned scared of losing me to make a song about it. Hello! There’s the post.’

  The postman’s cap glistened in the rain and the lamplight as it glided, seemingly unaided, along the top of the high hedge that marked the boundary of No. 13. Dorothy waited expectantly as it reached the end of the hedge and paused, above an equally wet and glistening mackintosh cape, while the postman considered his mail. Then, to her disappointment, he passed the gate and disappeared up the path of No. 14.

  ‘Damn! Nothing for me. And Jock was so certain I would get it yesterday or today.’

  ‘What’s he giving you?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he ordered it from a jeweller in Town — and he’s the generous type. It ought to be something pretty good.’

  ‘Why not ring him up and tell him it hasn’t arrived?’ her sister suggested. ‘He might ask us out for a drink — which, after all that tea and cake, would go down very nicely, thank you.’

  ‘He’s probably still in Town,’ said Dorothy. But she went out to the hall, and Susan heard her pick up the receiver and dial a number. Presently she returned, switching on the light viciously as she entered the room.

  ‘No reply,’ she said shortly. There was a frown on her pretty face.

  ‘Well, that’s what you expected, isn’t it? Why the display of temper?’

  ‘I expected him to be out, yes. But he isn’t — he’s there. I heard him pick up the receiver, and then he replaced it as soon as I spoke.’ She threw herself into an armchair. ‘He’s got another woman there, blast him! And on my birthday, too — the mean skunk!’

  *

  ‘What can have happened to the postman?’ asked Mrs Gill. ‘He’s never as late as this.’

  ‘It’ll be the Christmas mail, I expect,’ said her friend. ‘And he won’t know the district, him being a new man. He was already late when I saw him outside No. 5; nearly twenty-five past four, it was.’ She laughed. ‘Maybe Miss Fratton has murdered him. Mr Gofer was always saying he thought twice about calling at No. 14, she looked that frightening.’

  Mrs Gill did not echo the laugh.

  ‘That’s something I’ve never been able to understand,’ she admitted. ‘Just why has she got her knife into postmen? They always seem such inoffensive men.’

  It was evident that lack of this particular piece of information worried her. But Miss Plant could not supply it. ‘I did hear a rumour that she’d been crossed in love by a postman,’ said Miss Plant. ‘Miss Weston would know, I imagine. She and Miss Fratton are thick as thieves. Odd, isn’t it? You wouldn’t think those two had much in common.’

  ‘Neither they have, Ethel. Miss Fratton is merely a stupid, lonely creature who has been hoodwinked by a designing young woman. She’s got no relatives to leave her money to, and Dorothy Weston knows it. There’s nothing odd about that. Disgusting, perhaps; but not odd.’ Mrs Gill frowned. ‘But I do wish I could get to the bottom of her hatred of postmen. It annoys me, not knowing.’

  Miss Plant found that easy to believe. ‘It’ll all come out at the trial,’ she said, and giggled.

  Mrs Gill stared at her.

  ‘The trial? What on earth are you talking about, Ethel? What trial?’

  The giggle stopped. ‘It was only a joke,’ her friend explained lamely. ‘I meant, if Miss Fratton really had murdered the postman.’

  *

  Behind the front door of No. 14 Miss Fratton stood poised, ready to strike as soon as the postman’s finger should press the bell or his hand push open the flap of the letter-box. She had seen his cap pass under the street-lamp opposite No. 13, the beam of his torch as he walked up the path; and with a grim chuckle she had moved away from the window to be ready for him.

  Tall, gaunt, and balding, she looked like a vulture hovering over its prey. The skin dropped away in deep pouches from under fierce, protruding eyeballs, the hooked nose overshadowed the drooping chin, from which sprouted small tufts of coarse bristle. A sack-like grey dress, high at the neck, enveloped her. In her skinny hands, as she clenched and unclenched them expectantly, the veins ran like ridges.

  As she heard his foot on the step and saw the flap lift she flung the front door open. A long arm reached out, clutching the man’s shoulder. But even as she felt the wet cape under her fingers she realised he was a stranger. He did not seek to evade her as Gofer would have done, so that she might reach him only with her tongue and not with her hands. In place of Gofer’s ‘Now, now, lady! None of that! I’m a married man, I am,’ the stranger stood staring, paralysed into immobility by the shock of his unusual reception.

  Exulting, Miss Fratton looked him up and down. Water trickled from the peak of his cap on to his nose and ran in rivulets from the mackintosh cape. His collar was turned up; but though she could not see his face she sensed the fright she had given him.

  Her fingers tightened on his shoulder in delicious anticipation of the unexpected treat. Gofer had become so used to her that he knew all her tricks; she could not startle him. But here was a postman unversed in her ways, a man whose ears were unprepared for the threats, the curses, the vindictive hate that were about to assail them.

  ‘You’re late, my man,’ she croaked, her voice deep, mannish. ‘What’s been keeping you, eh? What wickedness have you been up to this time? Thieving, no doubt, like the rest of them. Or is it a girl you’ve got into trouble with your lying, deceitful ways? I know your sort, you see. There’s nothing I wouldn’t put past a postman.’ She peered closer at him. ‘Seems to me you’re scared about something. What have you done? Is it murder this time? Eh?’

  She shook him, her bony fingers biting deeper into his shoulders; until suddenly he wrenched himself free, flung the letters at her feet, and ran down the path to the road.

  But he could not escape her so easily. Where workmen had been re-laying the drains a narrow ditch split the garden path. Into this he stumbled; and although he regained his balance without falling, he had dropped his torch and could not find the latch of the gate. As he fumbled for it Miss Fratton, shrieking abuse and heedless of the rain, hobbled purposefully after her victim.

  *

  ‘I hear Thomas Cabell’s are not doing too well,’ said Miss Plant. ‘Standing off quite a number of their employees, they say. And just before Christmas, too. So unfortunate for the poor things.’

  ‘It won’t affect the Averys,’ said Mrs Gill, sniffing as though the name were an unpleasant odour. ‘Not with her father being a director. Donald Heath, though he works for them. And Mr Harris, at No. 17. It would be a nasty blow for them if he got the sack, with three young children to feed and Mrs Harris so poorly. But he’d be one of the first to go, him being more or less a newcomer.’

  ‘Poor man,’ sympathised her friend. ‘I always think he looks terribly
unhappy. And not at all strong, either. So different from his neighbour, Mr Morris. But then they say fat men are always cheerful.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what he’s got to be cheerful about, living alone and doing all his own housekeeping,’ said Mrs Gill. ‘But I suppose he’s got money, and he looks healthy enough. I don’t think much of some of his friends, though. Very odd-looking men — not at all the type we usually get in Grange Road.’

  ‘I understand he has something to do with horse-racing,’ said Miss Plant.

  ‘That I could well believe, Ethel, if I didn’t know it to be false. According to Mrs Archer — and she ought to know, living next door to him — he’s a retired merchant. Used to be in the City.’

  ‘Mr Archer works at Cabell’s too,’ said Miss Plant. ‘I don’t suppose they would sack him, though. He’s been with them for years.’

  But Mrs Gill had temporarily lost interest in her neighbours.

  ‘I do wish the postman would come,’ she said anxiously. ‘I’m expecting a letter from my daughter out at Rawsley. I can’t make any plans for Christmas until I hear from her.’

  *

  As the double rat-rat sounded on the door of No. 17 William Harris rose wearily from his seat at the kitchen table and walked down the hall to pick up the three letters that lay on the floor. In front of the stove his wife was bathing the baby, her tired voice striving vainly to hush its almost incessant screaming. How can I concentrate on accounts, he thought irritably, with all that infernal din?

  He looked fearfully at the letters, dreading to open them. Not that it made much difference if they were bills; he couldn’t pay them, anyway. Today had been pay-day, and now he had exactly eight shillings and twopence left in his pocket. Eight and twopence with which to buy presents for Marion and the kids, Christmas cards for relatives and friends, all the little extras that the season demanded. Eight and twopence, and God knew how many bills still unpaid! Next Friday he would get another six pounds, less the usual deductions. And maybe, if he were lucky, he would have another princely sum of eight and twopence to add to that already in his pocket.

  He scowled at the letters. Six pound a week and commission — only there wasn’t any bloody commission. Not now. He’d been transferred to Service because Sales were so bad and they didn’t want to give him the sack. Six pounds a week, plus the children’s allowances, to keep a family of five and pay the mortgage and the rates. And sixteen shillings and fourpence, if he didn’t smoke or drink, to spend on a slap-up Christmas with all the trimmings.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he swore aloud.

  ‘What’s the matter, Will? More bills?’ his wife asked anxiously.

  He shook his head, his attention focused on the letter he had opened. He peered inside the envelope, spreading it wide with his fingers. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he thrust it into his pocket and tore open the others.

  ‘Martin’s account,’ he said. ‘Well, we can’t pay it this side of Christmas. They’ll have to wait. Oh, Lord! A ruddy solicitor’s letter!’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The money we owe Cheetham’s. They’re going to sue us.’

  ‘Oh, Will!’

  ‘They pick a nice time to do it, don’t they?’ he said bitterly. ‘Christmas, the season of goodwill! Well, let ‘em get on with it.’ He paused, fingering the letter in his pocket. ‘It’s stuffy in here, Marion. I think I’ll slip out for a bit.’

  ‘But it’s pouring with rain,’ she protested.

  ‘Only for a moment,’ he said. ‘Just down to the gate and back.’

  What’s come over him? she wondered, as she heard the front door open and shut. There was little warmth in the house; how could he say it was stuffy? And Will never opened a window, anyway. He was all for a good old fug and disliked too much fresh air.

  It was the solicitor’s letter, she decided, as she turned the baby over on her lap and sprinkled powder on his pink bottom. They had been hard up all their married life, but this was the first time they had been taken to court. And to get a letter like that tonight, when she had wanted to ask him about the pram! He would never agree to it now.

  I wish to God something had happened to the postman before he got here, she thought unhappily. Now I’ll never have that pram.

  *

  ‘You young fool! I’ve told you a thousand times I won’t have you bringing your stuff here,’ said Morris, the indignation in his voice contrasting with his cherubic expression. ‘I don’t want you here at all, come to that.’

  Sid Blake scowled. He was young in years, but old in experience. It wounded his vanity to be told off by this old buzzard. ‘I had to park it somewhere while I had the car,’ he said. ‘Where else would I take it?’

  ‘You can take it to hell and back for all I care,’ replied the other. ‘This is a private house, not a repository. I’ve built up a good solid reputation in this place, and I’ll not have you or any other cracked-brained idiot queering my pitch because you’re too scared to hang on to the stuff until the morning. Take it over to the shop tomorrow and—’ He broke off and looked at Blake through narrowed eyes. ‘What’s this about a car? You haven’t got a car.’

  ‘I have — for tonight. You don’t think I’d be carting the stuff around on foot, do you? I — er — I borrowed it.’

  Morris’s anger swelled to bursting-point.

  ‘You’ve left a stolen car outside my house? Good God, man — what do you use for brains? Move it, damn you! Move it quick. Get the hell out of here — you and the car!’

  ‘Keep your wool on,’ said Blake. ‘The car’s fifty yards down the road. Nobody’s going to connect it with you.’

  ‘I don’t care. Get it out of this road. Go on — get weaving.’

  ‘What about the stuff?’

  ‘Leave it,’ said Morris impatiently. Anything, he thought, to speed his unwelcome and dangerous guest. He let Blake out of the back door, and watched him vault the fence that separated the garden from the links. Then he went back to the sitting-room, poured himself a large whisky, and swallowed it neat.

  Bloody young fool! he thought.

  He picked up the case that Blake had left and locked it in a cupboard. Then, lighting a fat cigar, he wandered into the hall to collect the mail.

  But the box was empty. He heard a car pass the house, gathering speed as it went, and gave a sigh of relief.

  He was smiling as he returned to the whisky. Sid Blake, he told himself cheerfully, would have to pay for the fright he had given him.

  *

  Sam Archer belched contentedly, apologised, pushed his chair noisily away from the table, and swung his feet on to the arm of the sofa.

  ‘I’ve eaten too much,’ he announced, patting his paunch. ‘Dripping-toast always was a weakness with me.’

  ‘That’s no excuse for making a pig of yourself,’ said his wife. ‘Goodness knows how you can expect good manners from the children when you set such a bad example yourself.’

  But she smiled as she uttered the reproof, and then turned her attention to the youngest of their three children, who had lost the scramble for the last cake and was now noisily reviling his fate. ‘Hush, Johnny,’ she said, rumpling his hair fondly. ‘I’ll get you another. A bigger one.’

  ‘You spoil that child,’ said Mr Archer.

  ‘You’ll turn him into as big a pig as your husband.’ He stood up, stretched himself lazily, and walked over to the window, where he pushed the curtains aside to peer out. ‘Still raining, damn it!’

  ‘You’re not going out tonight, Sam, are you?’ asked his wife.

  ‘Got to. Darts match at the Goat. And I’ve the van to take back to the garage first. What’s the time, Maisie?’

  ‘Nearly five.’

  ‘Is it, though? My word, but the postman’s late! He’s just gone past. Nothing for us, apparently.’

  ‘Poor man,’ said Mrs Archer sympathetically. ‘I wouldn’t like his job on a day like this. He’ll be absolutely soaked.’

  �
�I wouldn’t like his job at any time,’ retorted her husband. ‘Talk about exercise! The very thought of it makes me sweat. Ah, well. I’ll just have another cuppa, Maisie, and then I’ll be getting.’

  *

  Ethel Plant, happily replete, leaned back in her chair and gazed out of the window at the pelting rain.

  ‘What a night!’ she exclaimed. ‘I hope it lets up a bit before I go home. Weather like this makes one sorry for people who have to be out in it. Postmen and policemen, for instance.’

  Mrs Gill nodded. ‘But they know what they’re in for when they take on the job,’ she said. ‘It’s no excuse for shirking. I dare say our postman is sheltering in somebody’s porch right now — which he’s no right to do, with people waiting for their letters. Some of them may be urgent.’

  A car came down the road and turned into the drive of No. 25. Mrs Gill looked at the clock.

  ‘Five to five,’ she said. ‘Avery’s late. Usually home for lunch. But not today.’

  ‘Is she any more friendly these days?’ asked Miss Plant. ‘Mrs Avery, I mean?’

  ‘Folks like you and me, Ethel, aren’t good enough for Mrs Avery,’ declared her friend. ‘Not in her opinion, anyway. Though goodness knows what she’s got to be snooty about. Her father may be Sir Oliver Golding, but he was only knighted because he made a lot of money. He’s quite a common old man, really. He bought her a husband, too. A sour-faced, bad-tempered woman like Susan Avery wouldn’t have got one any other way. I must say I feel sorry for Avery sometimes, even if he did marry her with his eyes open and one of them — if not both — fixed on her money. Talk about rows! You wouldn’t believe the way she goes on at him. I’m not one to be interested in other people’s domestic squabbles, but when I’m in the kitchen I can hear them quite plainly if I open the window. They go at it hammer and tongs, though it’s usually her as starts it.’

  ‘What do they quarrel about?’ asked Miss Plant.

  ‘Everything under the sun, seems like. The poor man can’t do a thing right, she’s that suspicious. As like as not she’s going for him now; she always makes trouble when he’s late. But we wouldn’t hear it from the kitchen. They’ll be in the lounge.’