Johnny Swanson

by Eleanor Updale

  But Johnny had plenty of time to think, and his determination to persuade the world that his mother couldn’t be a killer was gradually matched by an obsession that the real murderer must still be on the loose. Johnny realized that he knew something the police did not: Dr Langford had been working on the BCG vaccine – or at least someone at a laboratory ‘out in the wilds’ had been doing it on his behalf. Suppose that was the reason he had been killed? Johnny remembered how determined the Langfords had been to keep it a secret – how worried they were that someone might find out. What if somebody had? Johnny agonized about his promise not to say anything. Mrs Langford had been unambiguous: Whatever happens, whoever asks you, however much you feel like boasting – not a word. Did that mean he shouldn’t tell the police? Dr Langford was dead. He couldn’t suffer any more. But what about Mrs Langford? She might get into trouble if Johnny spoke out. But maybe she was in danger anyway. Suppose the killer found her in France, or was waiting for her to come home, so that he could strike again? Johnny decided that he would have to break his silence. After all, the police were used to keeping secrets themselves. Then he remembered how much the reporter had found out about his mother from officers who couldn’t resist passing details on. Was it worth the risk? In the end he decided that if it might save his mother, it was. On his first day off school he steeled himself to go back to the police station.

  *

  This time the desk sergeant recognized him straight away. He was just as hostile as before.

  ‘What do you want? Your mother’s not here any more. She’s in the big prison now.’

  ‘I know. I want to talk to you. I want to help you find the real killer.’

  ‘We already have the real killer, son.’

  ‘No you don’t. My mother could never hurt anyone. Someone else did it.’

  ‘And you know who, do you?’ The swing doors opened, and a man came in from the street. The policeman broke off from talking to Johnny. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, sir. This won’t take long.’ He turned back to Johnny. ‘Well? Do you have a name to give me?’

  ‘Not a name, exactly,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’

  The newcomer was leaning against the counter and looking down at Johnny with a patronizing smile. Johnny felt he couldn’t go into details of Dr Langford’s secret in front of a complete stranger.

  ‘It’s private too,’ said Johnny, hoping the policeman would take him somewhere they could speak without being overheard.

  The policeman laughed. ‘If it’s so private, you’d better keep it to yourself, son. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Now, this gentleman would probably appreciate a little privacy. You’d better be on your way.’

  ‘But it’s important.’

  ‘I said get out of it.’

  Johnny stood for a moment, stuttering, but the policeman just pointed to the door. ‘Now, sir, what can I do for you?’ he asked the man.

  ‘I want to report a lost dog.’

  The policeman started making a note. Without even looking up, he bellowed at Johnny again. ‘Go!’

  Johnny knew there was no point in staying. He ran away, not letting the tears of fear, anger and dismay break through until the door swung shut behind him.

  That afternoon, he hit on a different tactic. He would write down his ideas about an alternative killer in a note to Inspector Griffin. He thought at first that he would do it in Auntie Ada’s name, but then he envisaged the scene when the inspector came round and found out that she didn’t really exist. So he wrote everything out as neatly as he could, and signed it himself. He slipped it into his bag when he went on the evening paper round, and as soon as the last newspaper had been put through the last letter box, he made his way to the police station again. He was barely through the door before the desk sergeant was shouting at him.

  ‘Wasting police time is a crime, you know.’

  ‘I just want to drop off a letter for Inspector Griffin.’

  ‘A letter about what, exactly?’

  ‘It’s about the murder. To help him find the person who did it.’

  ‘And why should he listen to you? He already has the murderer in custody, as you know only too well.’

  ‘But she didn’t do it!’

  ‘So who did?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly. But all my ideas are in this letter.’ Johnny put it down on the counter.

  ‘And why should Inspector Griffin take any notice of that? Why should he believe a small boy trying to save his mother, and ignore witnesses who’ve given sworn evidence against her in court?’

  ‘Because I know something they don’t know.’

  ‘And it’s all in here?’ said the sergeant, picking up the envelope.

  ‘Yes. Please take it.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll take it, son. I’ll take it and I’ll file it in the appropriate place.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Johnny. But his momentary relief turned to anguish again as the sergeant tore the envelope in two and dropped it behind him.

  ‘Now I’m warning you, boy,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of your time-wasting. Keep away from here.’ The sergeant lifted a flap in the counter and walked through to the ‘public’ side of the room. Through the gap, Johnny could see the torn letter in the waste-paper basket. The policeman grabbed his arm and manhandled him through the door. ‘I don’t want to see you here again,’ he hissed as Johnny tumbled down the steps. ‘I’ve a good mind to come round to your house to tell that aunt of yours that if she can’t control you, we’ll put you with someone who can.’

  As he helped Hutch close up the shop, Johnny worried that the police were ransacking his home and discovering that there was no Auntie Ada.

  Hutch noticed his agitation. ‘Are you all right, son?’ he asked. ‘You don’t seem yourself today.’

  Johnny wanted to tell him everything, but he didn’t think he should betray the Langfords’ secret to anyone except the police, and he feared that if he told Hutch that he’d lied about his auntie he might lose the only person he had on his side.

  ‘No. Well. I’m just worried about … Well, you know,’ he said.

  ‘I understand,’ said Hutch, awkwardly restraining himself from giving Johnny a hug. He took a jar of strawberry jam from a shelf. ‘Here. Take this home to your auntie. She must be worried too, poor thing.’

  Johnny took the jar and ran home. The door was still locked, and there was no sign that anyone had been inside. He got a pillow and some of his mother’s clothes, and pulled round the big armchair so that it had its back to the door. He pulled the curtains almost shut, leaving just enough of a gap to satisfy anyone who was determined to look inside. Everything was arranged so that they would think they saw an old woman asleep by the fireplace. He hoped they’d be too polite to try to wake her up.

  Chapter 26

  THE FARMER

  Even with the pretend Auntie Ada in place, Johnny was lonely – perhaps even more lonely than before. Sitting by himself, eating jam straight from the jar with a spoon, he desperately wanted to talk to someone, to tell them what was happening to his mother, and how no one except Hutch believed that she was innocent.

  He decided to try again to find Olwen. Although he had met her only once, she’d been on his mind ever since. She’d been kind when everyone else was bullying him, and she hadn’t heard any of the nasty rumours about Winnie. He felt that she would understand. He wanted to write to her, but all he knew was that she was with relatives somewhere in Wales. He remembered that she had lived on a farm outside Stambleton, so next morning he set off to walk there, hoping the farmer would know her new address. It was a harder, colder walk than he had expected, and even when he reached a sign saying NEWGATE FARM (which was nailed to a very old-looking gate), a long track wound its way towards the farmhouse. Johnny was trudging round a corner when a battered van came the other way. He jumped aside, expecting it to pass, but the driver, a weather-beaten man wearing an ill-fitting suit, stopped and spoke to him.<
br />
  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the farmhouse. I want to talk to the farmer,’ Johnny said.

  ‘I’m the farmer. What can I do for you? There’s no work here – if you’re looking for work, that is. You seem a bit young for that.’

  ‘No, I don’t want a job. I’m looking for information. I’m trying to find someone who used to live here.’

  ‘Well, there’s no one at home. And I’m on my way to a funeral. That’s why I’m all dressed up like this,’ the farmer said, running his finger inside the stiff collar of his shirt. ‘I can’t stop for long, but you can get in if you want, and we can talk in the warm.’

  Johnny climbed in and sat beside the farmer. He’d hardly ever been in a car before, let alone a big van like this. It was a real treat. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to get out of the wind. Do you mind if I ask you questions?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said the farmer. ‘But you’ll have to speak up. I need to leave the engine running, otherwise it could conk out and I might never get it started again. Now, who are you trying to find?’

  ‘It’s a girl called Olwen. She came to my school in September. But she had to leave again. I think her baby sister died.’

  The farmer gripped the steering wheel. ‘I wish I could help you. I’ve been trying to find her myself, poor love. It’s her father’s funeral I’m off to now. He’s being buried near that big sanatorium up at Emberley. Her mother’s only been gone a couple of weeks. Olwen’s all alone now – though she probably doesn’t know it. Her folks packed her off to try to keep her safe, and now it’s too late to ask them where she is.’

  ‘Olwen told me you knew her dad in the army.’

  ‘He saved my life – dragged me from a shell-hole at the battle of Ypres. He carried me on his back all the way to the dressing station. We lost touch after the war, but I couldn’t refuse him when he wrote saying he was in trouble. I’d promised I’d do anything for him. He was desperate. I thought I could give him a roof over his head and a job.’

  Johnny had read stories like that in the Boy’s Own Paper. It was thrilling to hear that such heroism and gratitude happened in real life. He’d often wished that someone would appear on his doorstep with a tale about his own father’s war exploits, but this was the next best thing. He was proud on Olwen’s behalf, and glad that the farmer had done the decent thing.

  ‘It was kind of you to help them,’ said Johnny. ‘I know Olwen was grateful. It was one of the first things she told me when I met her. Hasn’t she written to you since she went away?’

  ‘Not a word. I think that’s odd, don’t you? You’d think her people would be in touch. I wish I’d taken more notice when they sent her away, but it was all such a rush, and it wasn’t my business, was it?’

  The farmer sounded as if he wanted Johnny’s forgiveness. Johnny tried to make him feel better. ‘Oh, I’m sure you did everything you could. They were lucky you helped them in the first place.’

  ‘To be honest, there have been moments when I’ve regretted it. People don’t trust my milk since they brought the TB here. And burials don’t come cheap, even without fancy carriages and flowers.’

  ‘So there won’t be anyone else at the funeral?’

  ‘Probably not, unless the hospital’s found somebody. But it’s not fitting for anyone to be buried without a friend at the graveside, so I’m going: as a last thank-you for what he did for me, and on behalf of the relatives, you might say. It doesn’t seem right for young Olwen to miss her chance to say goodbye, but what can I do?’

  ‘Dr Langford said she’d gone back to relatives in Wales.’

  ‘Ah, but Wales is a big place. I know they were from Swansea, but who’s to say where their relations live? I couldn’t even track down their old home. I must have had their address once, when her dad first wrote to me, but I’m darned if I can find the letter anywhere. If I’d known all this was going to happen, I’d have taken more care. I never expected them all to drop dead before I had the chance to ask where Olwen was.’

  ‘Do you think I could come to the funeral too?’ asked Johnny. He remembered a phrase he’d heard his mother use. ‘I’d like to pay my respects.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine talk from one so young. You’re not really dressed for it, but I don’t see why not. There won’t be anyone there to take offence.’

  Johnny looked down at his tatty clothes. In his mother’s absence he hadn’t paid any attention to washing or ironing, and he knew he must be even more grubby than usual after his long walk. ‘I really would like to come, if you don’t mind, sir.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure to take you. And good company for me,’ said the farmer, releasing the brake.

  The van rolled forward, let out a couple of loud bangs, and moved off, bumping so much on the uneven road that Johnny’s bottom kept bouncing off the seat. They both started to laugh. That didn’t seem right on the way to a funeral, so they decided to sing hymns instead. After ‘All People That on Earth Do Dwell’, ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’, ‘Praise My Soul the King of Heaven’ and ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’ they arrived at the graveyard at Emberley.

  A young vicar was waiting for them. He supervised the burial with minimal ceremony. The gravediggers started filling in the hole, and Johnny and the farmer returned to the van. Johnny was trying not to cry. He was sad about Olwen’s father, even though he had never met him, and about Olwen’s sister and mother in two fresh graves nearby; but really he was thinking about his own mother, and how she might be buried soon unless he could do something to save her. He wanted to tell the farmer about it. But he couldn’t find the words.

  In the end, it was the farmer who brought the subject up as they drove back towards Stambleton. He wasn’t meaning to, but he recalled that Johnny had mentioned Dr Langford.

  ‘So you knew the old doctor?’ he said. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard he’d been murdered.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ve known him all my life. He was a really nice man.’

  ‘A terrible business. Dr Langford was a real gentleman. And so good with children. He took good care of a fair few at that sanatorium. They were his two specialities, see: children and TB. You should have seen him when we had the epidemic in 1916. I don’t think they’d ever have built that sanatorium without Dr Langford raising money and making speeches everywhere. It was thanks to him that Olwen’s family were taken in there as charity cases. We’ve been robbed of a good man. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. That evil barmaid had better swing for it.’

  Johnny didn’t know what to say. Should he risk letting on who he was? Should he try to explain that Winnie wasn’t guilty? Best to say nothing, he thought. He’d be out of the van in a few minutes. He might never see the farmer again. He stayed quiet. But the farmer filled the silence: ‘Do you know her? You’re from Stambleton. She has a kiddie about your age. You must have seen him at school. You must have come across his mother?’

  Johnny started to stutter a reply. He could hardly get any words out. He didn’t want to sound as if he was disowning Winnie, but he didn’t know how to explain why he hadn’t mentioned her before. He wanted to tell the farmer all about her, and how she couldn’t possibly have committed the crime. All he managed to do was make himself sound shifty.

  The farmer was suddenly suspicious. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, glancing across at his small passenger, ‘why aren’t you at school today?’

  ‘I don’t go any more,’ said Johnny. ‘I can’t because—’

  ‘What’s your name?’ said the farmer, driving faster and faster as it dawned on him who his passenger might be.

  ‘Johnny …’

  ‘Johnny what?’

  ‘Johnny Swans—’

  ‘You’re that boy, aren’t you?’ gasped the farmer, slamming on the brakes so hard that Johnny was thrown forward against the dashboard. ‘You’re that woman’s brat. Get out. Get out! You’ve got a nerve. I can’t believe you tricked your way into my van
.’

  ‘But you asked me in. I was only—’

  ‘I should have known. A boy of your age wanting to go to a funeral? You’re sick. Go on. Get out. Now!’

  Johnny fumbled with the door handle. At last he was able to climb down onto the road. They were still a couple of miles from Stambleton. The farmer tried to move off, but the engine had stopped, and he had to get out and crank it with a handle. He stood in front of the bonnet, cursing.

  ‘She didn’t do it,’ Johnny shouted, with tears in his eyes. ‘She’s innocent.’

  The farmer didn’t look up. Swearing under his breath, he kept cranking the engine until it spluttered and started running again. Then he pulled out the heavy iron handle and waved it at Johnny. ‘Get out of my sight!’ he yelled; and, terrified that the man was going to beat him or fling the handle at his head, Johnny turned and started running towards town. A few seconds later, the van swept past.

  Johnny was shocked by the speed with which the kind man had turned on him. His words had revealed more about local gossip than Johnny had dared to imagine. People really hated Winnie. And there was no hope now of finding Olwen, the one person who might not know what had happened; who might listen to Johnny’s version of the story, take pity on him and understand his grief.

  Chapter 27

  OUTCASTS

  At least Johnny had Hutch. He went straight to the shop. It was quiet. A few people came in to buy stamps or cash their pensions at the post office. Some had Christmas parcels to send. One or two used the phone booth just inside the door. But several people cancelled their papers, and even more followed Miss Dangerfield’s example and decided to shop elsewhere for their food.