A Meddler and her Murder

by Joyce Porter

  Miss Jones, however, felt obliged to continue with her protests. ‘It smacks of fraud, Constance,’ she insisted.

  ‘Oh, pish!’ snorted the Hon. Con, realizing that she had come up against her chum’s bourgeoise morality again. She sighed and offered a compromise. ‘All right, I’ll send any money I get to the charity and I’ll only charge ’ em half price for the blooming tickets.’ She dragged the front door open. ‘That suit you?’

  ‘Well,’ began Miss Jones but the Hon. Con could move pretty nippily when circumstances demanded it and the slamming of the door cut off any further objections.

  The Hon. Con’s optimistic ideas about the lower classes’ love of gambling didn’t survive long. There were six bungalows and her reception at the first five left much to be desired. She had hardly expected, as she told Miss Jones later, to be treated with the deference which was her due but she had thought that she would be met with common politeness.

  Bungalow Number One took a surreptitious peek from behind lace curtains and sensibly refused to open up in spite of the assault made by the Hon. Con with fist and foot on her door.

  Number Two answered the door with alacrity and hair that struck even the Hon. Con as being highly improbable. The raffle tickets were proffered and subjected to an expert scrutiny through a pair of elaborately bejewelled spectacles. The date of the draw was spotted instantly and the Hon. Con found herself being threatened, in shrill tones and wildly abusive language, with the law. She beat a hasty retreat down the path and took the only retaliation available to her. She left the garden gate wide open.

  Number Three was away on ten days’ holiday in Torremolinos and Number Four proved to be a small, knickerless child whose limited vocabulary was none-the-less such that the Hon. Con was obliged to threaten to wash its mouth out for it with carbolic soap. This offer failed to bridge the generation gap and the child reached inside the front door and produced a yellow plastic chamber pot. The Hon. Con, acutely mindful of her best costume, didn’t wait to see if the revolting little perisher could throw straight. It could, as it happened, but by then the Hon. Con was well out of range.

  She was out of both breath and temper when she jabbed her finger on the bell of Number Five. Number Five didn’t hurry and the Hon. Con was forced to endure more abuse from the foul mouthed little brat across the low party wall. At long last the door opened and the Hon. Con found herself face to face with one of what she liked to call the old school. He was a very old man, decrepit but respectful. The Hon. Con bellowed a brief explanation of her presence on his doorstep.

  ‘Raffle tickets?’ quavered the old codger vaguely.

  ‘Jolly good cause!’ boomed the Hon. Con.

  The old codger waggled his head and reached dutifully into his trouser pocket. To the Hon. Con’s indignation he produced, not his wallet, but a magnifying glass and proceeded to mouth his way through the small print.

  ‘Ten new pence each?’ he gasped.

  ‘Half price if you take a book of six,’ leered the Hon. Con.

  The old codger sniffed and returned to his perusal of the tickets. ‘What would I do with a bloody twenty-eight pound turkey?’

  The knickerless child popped up over the garden wall and told him.

  ‘You revolting infant!’ spluttered the Hon. Con, taking an ineffectual swipe at the small curly head before turning back to her real victim. ‘ Look on the bright side, my man! You probably won’t win it, anyhow.’

  ‘And who,’ demanded the old fool, ‘are the Needy Nobility when They’re at home?’

  The Hon. Con, tight-lipped, explained.

  The old man continued to look puzzled. ‘You mean lords and ladies and dukes and things what have fallen on bad times?’

  The Hon. Con nodded, gratified to find that he was so quick on the uptake.

  ‘Swelp me!’ said the old man.

  ‘They feel it so much more than ordinary folk,’ explained the Hon. Con persuasively. ‘Try and put yourself in their shoes. How would you feel about having to dismiss all your servants and sell the family portraits and travel by public bus instead of in your chauffeur-driven Rolls? You’d be feeling pretty cheesed off, I’ll bet.’

  The old chap shuffled uneasily in his carpet slippers and acknowledged the force of the Hon. Con’s arguments. ‘I’ve known what poverty’s like myself,’ he admitted. ‘ I could tell you tales about the thirties that’d have your hair standing up on end.’

  ‘No doubt,’ broke in the Hon. Con before they had any more of that sort of business, ‘ but that’s all in the past, isn’t it? Your troubles are over now because we taxpayers are keeping you in the lap of luxury. You want to think of those less fortunate than yourself.’ And, thus launched, she treated the old fellow to such an eloquent exposition on the iniquities of income tax, surtax, capital gains tax, company tax and death duties that, being touched both in the heart and the head, he actually bought a couple of tickets.

  It was only when she was considerately closing the garden gate behind her that the Hon. Con remembered that the real purpose of her expedition was not to sell out-of-date raffle tickets. She should have been pumping the old fool about the murder. Oh well – she pocketed the money – it was too late to go back now. The Morrison-Burkes never retreated. She’d just have to be a bit more on the ball at the last remaining bungalow.

  Number Six was to restore the Hon. Con’s flagging faith in human nature. Hardly had the melodious sound of the two-tone door-chimes died away when she found herself confronted by a smiling, rosy-cheeked woman in her early thirties.

  ‘Well, fancy that!’ screamed the woman delightedly, taking in the Hon. Con and her bundle of raffle tickets with one expert glance. She winked familiarly at her caller. ‘I’ll wager your feet are killing you, love, aren’t they? Ooh, I thought so! I could tell from the look on your poor old face. Well, how about a nice cup of tea? I’ve just put the kettle on.You come right in! Yes, that’s right, love, go straight through to the kitchen. No need to stand on ceremony, is there? Now, you just sit yourself down at that table and rest those poor old feet of yours. Hell – isn’t it? – all this tramping around from house to house. Oh, I know, love, I’ve done it often enough myself. Now, help yourself to milk and sugar, will you? Goodness, you have got a sweet tooth, haven’t you? And quite right, too. If it’s going to spread, let it! – that’s what I say. Help yourself to biscuits, love! That’s what they’re there for.’

  The Hon. Con was all but overwhelmed by the warmth of the hospitality but she didn’t let it put her off her stride. ‘Quite a nice set-up you’ve got here,’ she remarked patronizingly as she gazed round a kitchen that would have sent Miss Jones sea-green with envy.

  ‘Oh, we believe in labour saving,’ said the owner smugly. ‘I mean, why work yourself to death when there’s no need?’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed the Hon. Con, moving subtly towards her target ‘’specially when it’s so deuced difficult getting decent servants these days. Or,’ she added, focusing all her attention on stirring her tea, ‘keeping ’ em when you’ve got ’em.’

  The Hon. Con’s hostess was called Mrs Kelson and there were absolutely no flies on her. She picked up this cunning reference to the shortage of domestic help on the gallop and whipped the conversational gambit right out of the Hon. Con’s mouth. ‘Talking of servants,’ she said leaning eagerly across the table, ‘did you hear about that au pair girl they found dead up the road? Awful, wasn’t it? Not but what some of these kids don’t go around asking for it with both hands but it’s still a dreadful thing to have it happen practically on your own doorstep.’

  ‘Did you … ?’ began the Hon. Con but Mrs Kelson needed no prompting. Armed with the scoop of a lifetime and perfected by no less than five previous rehearsals, she had to tell her tale or bust.

  She tried not to look too self-important as she continued.

  ‘Of course I take a special interest with our Desiree being involved in it all. Well, you do, don’t you?’ She answered the Hon. Con’s interro
gative eyebrows. ‘Desiree’s my sister’s girl. We’ve always been very close, of course, but I don’t see so much of her since we moved out here. My sister, that is. We were hoping she might get one of the other bungalows but they were all gone before she and her husband made their minds up. He’s like that, Harold. Never leaps before he’s had a good long look – if you see what I mean. He …’

  The Hon. Con might be prepared to sit patiently through lengthy discourses from the Mrs Urquharts of this world but she was blowed if she was going to extend the same tolerance to the Mrs Kelsons. She scowled impatiently. ‘You were telling me about the murder!’

  ‘So I was!’ Mrs Kelson laughed good naturedly. ‘The original babbling brook, that’s me! Yes, well, you see – our Desiree’s a policewoman.’

  ‘A policewoman!’ howled the Hon. Con, giving the table an almighty thump which set the cups rattling in their saucers. ‘A policewoman?

  ‘That’s right, love.’ Mrs Kelson eyed the Hon. Con warily. ‘With the local force.’

  ‘With the local force! The Hon. Con slumped back heavily in her chair. At last! With a contact like this, the case was as good as solved.

  Some private detectives would have been down on their knees thanking whatever Providence was shaping their ends, for such an incredible stroke of luck. But not the Hon. Con. She was merely annoyed that the break in her fortunes had taken such a dickens of a time coming. Pity that Mrs Kelson had been chosen to be the instrument of enlightenment but the Hon. Con reckoned she could soon lick her into shape. This feather brained rambling needed a stop putting to it for a start ‘ Right!’ said the Hon. Con, assuming a masterful air. ‘Your niece is in the local police, eh? What rank?’

  ‘Er – just an ordinary policewoman.’

  ‘Uniformed?’

  ‘Er – yes.’

  ‘Pity,’ grunted the Hon. Con. She’d have been much more help if she’d been a plain clothes detective, you know.’

  ‘Very sorry, I’m sure!’ murmured Mrs Kelson who was beginning to wonder what she’d done to deserve this.

  The Hon. Con’s face broke into a kindly, if fleeting smile. ‘Not your fault,’ she said generously. ‘ Now what’s the girl’s seniority?’

  ‘Seniority?’

  ‘How long has she been in the force?’ The edge came back into the Hon. Con’s voice.

  ‘Oh, nearly two years.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Hon. Con with a certain grimness. A mere tyro. ‘Well, go on!’

  But Mrs Kelson had lost her head of steam. Go on with what? All she’d wanted was a cosy little gossip over a nice cup of tea. She began to get rather tearful. Really, it was too much! She didn’t see why she should put up with being brow-beaten by this old battle-axe, not in her own kitchen, she didn’t!

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked the Hon. Con.

  ‘I’m not quite sure what it is you want to know,’ muttered Mrs Kelson resentfully.

  The Hon. Con was prepared to be helpful. ‘ Everything,’ she said.

  Mrs Kelson still seemed to be at a loss.

  The Hon. Con made a gallant effort not to lose her temper. ‘How soon was it after the crime that this dratted girl of yours arrived at the Hellon house?’

  ‘Oh, she never went to the Hellon house.’ The Hon. Con – loudly – said nothing.

  Luckily, Mrs Kelson’s pump had now been primed again and she was capable of continuing her story without further prompting. ‘Oh, no – that’s a job for the high-ups, you know, actually going to the house. They’d never let our Desiree meddle in anything like that. Well, I mean, she’s not trained for it, is she?’

  The Hon. Con could restrain herself no longer. ‘ But, for the love of heaven, she’s got some inside information about the murder, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Mrs Kelson, ‘but not from going to the house. Only from the post mortem’

  ‘From the post mortem!’ The Hon. Con really had a very powerful voice.

  ‘That’s right! Mind you, I Shouldn’t like a daughter of mine to have to do things like that but my sister doesn’t seem to mind and Desiree says you get used to it. Get used to it? I’m sure I’d never get used to helping cut up dead bodies, not if I was to be at it for a thousand years. I couldn’t believe my ears the first time Desiree told me what they had to do. Well, did you know that these young kids of policewomen had to help the doctors do their post mortems – and clean up after them when it’s all finished? Ooh, the mere idea’s enough to turn my stomach right over! Blood and guts everywhere, Desiree says.’

  ‘Not like the recruiting posters,’ said the Hon. Con, who had no intention of letting on to Mrs Kelson that she was absolutely astounded by this insight into police duties.

  ‘It certainly isn’t!’ agreed Mrs Kelson with a shiver. ‘ Mind you, I told our Desiree at the time it wouldn’t all be mopping up the tears of lost children. And I was right! Friday nights are the worst, she says, when the drunks …’

  ‘Yes, well never mind that now! Let’s get back to the murder. What did your Desiree have to say about the post mortem?’

  ‘Well,’ – Mrs Kelson hitched her chair closer to the Hon. Con’s and lowered her voice – ‘the girl was in an awful state, seemingly. All battered round the head and face. Whoever killed her had had a real good go at her.’

  ‘Do the police know what was used as a weapon?’

  Mrs Kelson nodded her head. ‘ Her own umbrella. It was one of those telescopic ones, you know, and they’re terribly heavy. It was found lying by the body, Desiree says, but the police don’t reckon They’re going to get any fingerprints off it.’

  ‘Pity,’ said the Hon. Con, chewing her bottom lip as she concentrated on this wealth of information.

  ‘Of course, that wasn’t what killed her.’ Mrs Kelson knew how to build up to her climaxes.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No, she was strangled! With her own head scarf. Desiree said it was an awful shame they had to cut it because it was ever such a pretty one. All covered in fluffy little kittens.’

  ‘Why did they have to cut it?’

  ‘To preserve the knot.’ Mrs Kelson had got back to normal and was having a most enjoyable time. ‘They’ll examine it, you see, in case it was tied in some special way. Like by a sailor.’

  The Hon. Con thought this was a line of investigation that was unlikely to prove very fruitful, sailors being rather thin on the ground in Totterbridge. ‘How was the girl dressed?’ she asked.

  Mrs Kelson lowered her eyes to the formica top of the table.’ Well, she wasn’t, dear.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the Hon. Con gruffly. ‘Thought it might be like that.’

  ‘Her nightdress had been ripped clean off her.’

  ‘Hm,’ said the Hon. Con, trying not to look as uncomfortable as she felt. ‘There’s an awful lot of if about, of course.’

  ‘An awful lot of what, love?’

  ‘Sex,’ said the Hon. Con and blew her nose with great application.

  Mrs Kelson knew better than to laugh. ‘That’s very true, love,’ she managed in a choked voice. ‘Still,’ – she made an effort and pulled herself together – ‘she hadn’t actually been – well – you know.’

  A nod is as good as a wink. The Hon. Con was surprised,‘Hadn’t she?’

  ‘No. Well, of course, she wasn’t exactly what you might call a …’ – Mrs Kelson had never experienced any difficulty in calling a spade a spade but she was finding the Hon. Con extremely inhibiting – ‘a virgin,’ she gulped.

  Several beads of perspiration broke out on the Hon. Con’s forehead.

  Mrs Kelson averted her eyes and hurried on. ‘Desiree was quite definite about it because it was one of the first things they looked at … into … for, and the doctor put it down in his report. She wasn’t what my mother used to call a good girl but she hadn’t had any recent …’ – Mrs Kelson was begmning to perspire now as she sought for a mot juste of sufficient delicacy for the Hon. Con’s pink ears – ‘relations,’ she almost w
hispered.

  The word hung reproachfully in the air.

  ‘Oh,’ said the Hon. Con.

  Mrs Kelson took heart. ‘She hadn’t had any relations with a man,’ she repeated courageously, ‘for some considerable time before she was killed.’ She glanced doubtfully at the Hon. Con.‘Seems they can tell,’ she added.

  ‘Glad the poor girl wasn’t violated,’ said the Hon. Con, mopping away at her face with a large white handkerchief. ‘Jolly warm in here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Have another cup of tea, love!’ urged Mrs Kelson and, under the cover of this little social ceremony, both ladies cooled down.

  But the Hon. Con was not there to enjoy herself and she returned to the fray. ‘What do the police think happened?’

  ‘Well, love,’ – Mrs Kelson settled herself comfortably back in her chair – ‘ I don’t reckon there’s much doubt, do you? She was a bit of a flibbertigibbet, that girl, and it’s my belief she was pulling the wool over Mrs Hellon’s eyes in no uncertain way. Out painting the town red two or three nights a week, her own latchkey and coming back home at all hours. Well, what do you think happened? She brought somebody back with her, that’s what. Probably done it dozens of times before but, on this particular occasion, her ladyship picked the wrong one.’

  The Hon. Con frowned horribly as she thought this out. It would certainly explain why the Hellons’ house showed no sign of breaking and entering. ‘You mean, the O’Coyne girl smuggled a man into the house? she asked.

  ‘What else? You know what these au pair girls are like. Right little tarts! They come over here from God knows where and slog their guts out looking after other people’s kids for about three pounds a week. Well, I ask you! Does it sound likely? All they want is to get away from home and have a damned good time where nobody knows them.’