Chapter 13
The respectable neighbourhood was undergoing door by door enquiries by the police. Barbara Grey’s seemingly casual comment to Detective Constable Perkins had borne fruit. Perkins had indeed passed on the information about the canal trips to Claire Naylor and John Brent, once told, had ordered the search area to be widened. Claire had shown Hilda’s photograph, now enhanced with grey rather than brown hair, to the waitress in “The Willow Tree Tea Rooms”. The girl, Bryony Fraser had havered for several minutes, saying she really couldn’t say, she really wasn’t sure, but there had been a woman in there on Saturday…… not quite their usual clientele, she had been wearing a coat which smelt faintly of mothballs, a brown woollen coat, completely unsuitable for the time of year, and a woolly hat. Claire had felt quietly triumphant. This matched the description that they had obtained from the Reception staff at the Journey Lodge.
“She looked like a bag lady. She had this awful shopping trolley. A sort of blue pattern I think, stuffed with all sorts of rubbish by the look of it. She left me 10p for a tip, I’d have thought better of her if she’d left nothing. 10p,” the girl sniffed, “it’s an insult. What do you want her for anyway?”
“We are pursuing enquiries,” said Claire vaguely, “and we think she can help. Did you see where she went when she left here?”
“Sorry, I was just thankful to have her out of here. She had a sort of, I dunno, a sort of presence that was a bit malevolent. That sounds a bit melodramatic I know,” she smiled, “I just wasn’t comfortable somehow, I couldn’t put my finger on it, just a feeling, you know? A sort of charisma in reverse.”
Claire nodded, “woman’s intuition. That’s a useful instinct you have there, Bryony, hang on to it.”
Chapter 14
Hilda had persuaded Lettie to forego the church visit and come shopping with her. Not that she particularly wanted Lettie’s company, but once again she considered that two women out shopping would attract less interest than a lone shopper. The police, so far as she knew, were still looking for a solitary pensioner.
They were in a large newsagents shop. Lettie was trying to choose a suitable postcard to send to Mother. Apparently the old woman would expect a postcard every day. Hilda had spotted a machine knitting magazine. Should she buy it? Would the police have put out an order for any purchases of machine knitting books to be reported to them? They knew of her hobby after all. Hilda desperately wanted to buy the magazine, but would it be her undoing? She decided to compromise. She glanced around, no-one was looking. She stood and scanned through the pages. Looking at the photographs of the garments, which ones would she like to make, this cardigan perhaps, and that sweater was lovely with the cable detail round the neck.
A full page advertisement caught her eye. “Machine Knitting Exhibition” 10 am to 4pm, to be held at Danemouth Girls’ High School.” It was this Saturday, the day after tomorrow, and she would be there, in Danemouth. Hilda had attended an Exhibition years ago, in Bristol. It had been a wonderful day out. She hadn’t been since, it was too far, but she would go to the Danemouth one this year. This would be her special treat. Hilda slipped the magazine back onto the rack, picked up a gossipy woman’s magazine and went across to the till.
The excursion arrived in Danemouth just in time for dinner at their hotel. The porters came out and took charge of the luggage while Hazel sorted out the rooms. Hilda found herself allocated to a small single room at the back of the hotel, overlooking one of the long chines leading down to the beach. By rights she should have been sharing a twin room with Lettie as she had taken over her friend Mary’s ticket, but Hazel had managed to get her a room on her own in each hotel they had stayed in so far. Hilda was pleased, she didn’t want to share with a stranger, and what would happen if she talked in her sleep? Whether she did this or not she didn’t know, but it wasn’t safe to take the chance. She could have done away with Lettie if she had had any suspicions of course, another death at her door wouldn’t faze her, but it would draw attention to the coach trip, and Hilda really wanted to keep a low profile.
Hilda glanced at the woman dozing in the seat next to her. Lettie really was a very trusting woman. Hilda could easily slip into her room any night and just smother her in her sleep. It had been a couple of weeks now since Hilda had last killed. She loved the thrill that went through her when she felt the spirit leaving the men’s bodies. The knowledge that she, Hilda Hopkins, had absolute power over life or death was intoxicating. Lettie’s head lolled against Hilda’s shoulder and she snored gently. Hilda sat rigidly, hating the feel of another human being in such close proximity to her. Would she risk another killing? Hilda gradually relaxed, probably not; Lettie had been very useful to her in her own innocent and unwitting way. Besides, thought Hilda, with a grim smile, it wouldn’t really do for Lettice Leverson to end up as a murder victim, Mother wouldn’t like it!
After dinner most of the party retired to the Lounge to watch the television. There was a small segment about the Merrydown Crescent murders. Police enquiries had been extended out to Neston, where there had been a positive sighting of Hilda Hopkins. The Morris’s were due back about now. Would they have noticed that anything was amiss in their home?
Hilda needed to make plans. She really wanted to visit the Knitting Machine Exhibition. She would probably be safe for that, they wouldn’t have worked out yet where she was. She was far cleverer than they were, she knew that. So, tomorrow she would go to the Exhibition. She would tell Hazel she had been called back home. Some sort of domestic crisis, that would do. She would go along to the railway station and take the first train out to wherever. It would be exciting seeing where she would end up.
She went back up to her room and checked the money in her handbag. There was quite a considerable amount. Hilda sat and cogitated. Eventually she came to a decision. She sorted the money into four lots. Three lots went into plastic bags, the fourth share was returned to her handbag. She slipped downstairs and walked out, heading towards the shopping centre. She bought a child’s spade from a souvenir shop and made her way towards the fringes of the town. There were long valleys, called chines, leading down towards the sea.
Hilda dug holes in the side of the chine, and buried each bag of money. She was careful to note landmarks, a gorse bush here, an outcrop of rock there. Once all the money was safely stashed away, she climbed higher up the chine, dug a hole, laid the spade in it, wrapped in a carrier bag, and smoothed the ground back over it. She might not have a spade if she needed to come back and dig up the money, a bit of forethought, that was what was needed. That was what made her a cut above ordinary killers, she was much better at the planning aspect of it all.
Chapter 15
“Sarge, sarge,” Barbara Grey hurried into the incident room, waving a brightly coloured magazine, “look at this.”
She laid the magazine in front of Claire Naylor. Naylor picked it up.
“It’s a knitting mag, so what?” she asked.
“The Hopkins woman. She’s into that machine knitting malarkey, look at this,” she repeated, opening the magazine at a page with a turned down corner, “there’s a convention or Exhibition or something. And it’s taking place tomorrow in Danemouth. Anyway, it’s a big day out for machine knitters. I bet we’ll find her there.”
Claire sat back and perused the advertisement.
“She’s on the run for multiple murders, is she likely to pop off for a day’s knitting?” she asked.
“She’s certainly full of herself enough to,” replied Barbara, “have there been any other sightings of her Sarge, since Neston?”
“Nothing,” admitted Claire, “but how would she have got to Danemouth. It’s nearly fifty miles from here?”
“Flew on her broomstick like the old witch she is,” suggested Barbara venomously. “I have no idea Sarge, but much as I dislike the woman, I think she would be capable of getting there somehow. You’ve seen her workroom, she’s obviously besotted with the subject. She even made trophies
of her victims in knitting. I just feel it’s somewhere she would gravitate to.”
Claire ran her hand through her short hair and looked at the magazine.
“It’s not our jurisdiction, we’ll have to get the Danemouth police to stake the place out,” decided Claire, “I’ll have a word with the boss.”
“That won’t work,” retorted Barbara, “look at the picture.” The advertisement showed a crowd of visitors from the previous year’s exhibition. The majority of the women ranged from middle aged to elderly, and many of the women had white hair. “She’d disappear amongst that lot, they‘d never spot her. Can’t we go, we know her.”
“Let me speak to the boss,” repeated Claire. “We’d have to liaise with the Danemouth lot whichever way we do it. Can’t go round stepping on other Forces’ toes Barbara.”
She looked at the younger woman’s anxious face and suggested she went and changed into her uniform for her shift while she spoke to John Brent. Reluctantly Barbara acquiesced. She would have to find Clive Barcroft and tell him all about her idea. They were on lates today so he should be here at any minute.
Claire hadn’t returned when it was time for Grey and Barcroft to go out on patrol. Barbara was on tenterhooks. She really felt that they were on to something. She let Barcroft drive, she felt too keyed up to concentrate on driving.
“She needs to be caught Clive. She has to spend the rest of her life in prison, she’s just too dangerous to be left out in the community. Surely she must be tired of being on the run, she must know we’ll catch up with eventually. I’m just afraid she’ll kill again if she gets cornered somewhere. The woman has no conscience.”
“Just relax, Barb, I’m sure the Sarge will chat Brent into following up your lead.”
“Maybe,” replied Barbara, “I just want to be in at the kill!”
Chapter 16
When Hilda walked into the Danemouth Machine Knitting Exhibition, she felt that she had come home. All around her were stalls selling patterns, yarns and all the minutiae of machine knitting. A Fashion Show was advertised for half past one, and there were a couple of workshops later in the afternoon which Hilda decided she would like to attend. She had several hundred pounds in her handbag, the rest of the money was safely stashed away in one of the long chines that dotted the coast around here. A useful little back up if she needed to go on the run again. Hilda was proving to be a quick learner.
She had thought she would have a problem with Lettie. For the past three days the two women had been almost joined at the hip. Hilda found her new companion a little wearing. She was used to doing what she wanted, when she wanted, and she had found cooperating with another person very difficult indeed. Thankfully Lettie had wanted to go on the optional excursion to the Aquarium. Hilda had said that she had no interest in fish, other than on a plate with a mound of chips, well doused in salt and vinegar, and declared her intention of walking around some of the antique shops in Danemouth. She had dutifully waved Lettie off after breakfast and set out to find the venue of the Machine Knitting Exhibition with Lettie’s wishes for her to have a good time still ringing in her ears..
Hilda knew she would have to try and find a permanent place to stay so that she could get a new knitting machine. Well a second hand machine of course, but it would be new to her. She really missed her knitting. She could take up hand knitting again in the meantime, but she loved the possibilities that a machine opened up to her. Even if she was just staying in a bed sit she would find room to set one up. It could live in a corner of the room. Her mind buzzed with possibilities.
She strolled around, looking at all the exhibits, handling the fabrics, running her fingers down the cones of yarn to test their softness. She paused by the Knit and Knatter stall where the knitters were sitting working on Dorset buttons. She watched fascinated as one woman picked up a small plastic curtain ring, then deftly covered the edges with blanket stitch. Several spokes of yarn were stretched over the ring before the woman began to weave the yarn in and out, her needle flashing under the light, as she filled in the centre.
‘What an excellent idea’ thought Hilda. She could make those to match her jackets, instead of searching high and low for buttons of the same colour as the yarn. And what else? Yes, draughts, or checkers as the Americans called the game. If she made twelve white buttons and twelve black ones and knitted a board in black and white squares she could make a travelling draughts game. Hilda liked playing draughts. She had occasionally played the game with some of her gentlemen, those who had managed to stay with her for some weeks of course.
She started to go through the calculations, seven stitches and ten rows to a square inch. She would need a board eight squares long by eight squares wide. One inch wide squares might be a little too small, maybe two inches. That would be one hundred and sixty rows long and fourteen by eight stitches wide. She stood there, engrossed in mental arithmetic. Four eights were thirty-two, add eighty that would be, yes, one hundred and twelve stitches. She would only need to punch out two rows on the punch card, she could lock the card so long as she was careful about changing the colours every twenty rows. If she backed the squares, she could make a pocket to keep the playing pieces in, maybe sew a zip across the top so that the pieces were all kept tidily in place. Hilda was nearly dizzy with delight; her mind was brimming over with ideas.
At the front door, Detective Sergeant Claire Naylor, accompanied by PC Barbara Grey, was speaking earnestly to the Exhibition Organiser. Both women showed their warrant cards, and were ushered through into the main hall. Two officers from the local Force stayed on guard by the front entrance.
Hilda had wandered away from the Knit and Knatter stall. She headed towards a small room just off the Main Hall. One of the helpers was beavering away at a tuck stitch lace scarf on a machine similar to the one which Hilda had used. She looked up at Hilda and smiled.
“Would you like to have a go?” she asked cheerfully.
Hilda changed places with her with alacrity. She looked at the punch card, and the set up of the needles, looking to see which needles were out of work to form the “holes” of the lace, and which were set to tuck the yarn to give a delicate ruffled appearance. She lovingly took hold of the carriage handle, and in a single smooth, fluid movement pushed the carriage across the needle bed. It felt so good. Hilda swung into the familiar rhythm, passing the carriage back and forth, not too far, but making sure she cleared the edge of the stitches. The scarf grew in length in front of her eyes. She must make a note of the needle set up and the number of the punchcard that was being used, this was a lovely pattern, it would be a useful addition to her library.
A hand gripped Hilda’s shoulder as Detective Sergeant Claire Naylor recited the Police Caution………….
“Hilda Beatrice Hopkins, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Albert Johnson and there may be other charges to follow…… You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court, anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
Hilda’s hand shot out and grasped a large ribber weight sitting on the table behind the knitting machine. Like a flash she snatched it up and dropped it onto Claire Naylor’s foot.
The Detective Sergeant let out a squawk of anguish and hopped back, bending down to try and clutch at her injured foot. Hilda sprang out of her chair and sprinted towards the door with a surprising turn of speed for someone of her age and stature.
PC Barbara Grey stepped into the doorway and seized hold of Hilda’s arm, snapping a pair of handcuffs onto one wrist, before twisting the woman’s other arm to complete the action, pinioning her arms effectively behind her. Claire Naylor had taken the seat which Hilda had so rapidly vacated. Grey grinned over Hilda’s shoulder,
“You okay Sarge?”
“I think my big toe is broken,” replied Naylor through gritted teeth. “Give Barcroft a call on your radio, Barbara, get him in here to give us a hand. You can drop
me at Casualty on the way to the Station.”
Flanked by Constables Barcroft and Grey, Hilda Hopkins was escorted out to the waiting police car. A crowd of people had abandoned the Exhibition to come out and gawp as the trio made their way across the car park, with Detective Sergeant Naylor limping in the rear.
As the back door of the car was opened, Hilda looked round haughtily at the onlookers. A line from one of her favourite Fu Manchu films came into her mind. She drew herself up to her full five foot four inches and announced in stentorian tones….
“The world shall hear of me again.”
Hilda Hopkins, Murder, She Knit Page 6
