A Meddler and her Murder

by Joyce Porter

  The young man retrieved his Racing Times from the waste-paper basket and shook it out angrily. ‘In the yard round the back! Knock twice and ask for Charlie. And, lady,’ – he talked across the Hon. Con’s attempts to thank him – ‘ do us a favour, eh? Next time you want a taxi – try some other bloody firm!’

  If the Hon. Con had not been so hot on the trail, she would have taken the young man severely to task for such impertinence. As it was, she picked her way through a maze of spare parts, old engines and narrow plaster board corridors until she eventually found herself in a large cobbled courtyard at the back of the Methodist chapel. There were several cars parked here and there with a large black hearse standing over in one corner. A stocky figure in oil stained dungarees was lethargically hosing it down.

  The Hon. Con, hands in pockets, slouched over. ‘Er – Charlie?’

  The figure swung round and there was a moment of mutual double-take.

  ‘Oh,’ said the Hon. Con, straightening up and assuming a broad grin, ‘didn’t realize you were a girl.’

  ‘Short for Charlotte,’ explained Charlie, letting the hose dribble over the cobbles while she examined the Hon. Con with interest.

  The Hon. Con responded by brushing a few bits of fluff off the front of her duffle coat and pushing the hair back out of her eyes. Then she leaned companionably across the bonnet of the hearse. ‘What,’ she asked throatily, ‘is a pretty girl like you doing in a dump like this?’

  Charlie giggled and shrugged her shoulders before letting the hose drop to the ground and fishing a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of her hip pocket. In spite of a rather grubby face and filthy hands, she was quite a good looking specimen. Short, dark curly hair, hazel eyes and a pretty, upturned nose. The Hon. Con was beginning to find her quite fetching.

  ‘Want a fag?’ asked Charlie, leaning on the other side of the bonnet.

  And generous, too! The Hon. Con shook her head. ‘Don’t use ’em,’ she apologized. ‘Well only a cigar or two at Christmas, if somebody gives me a box.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ said Charlie, dragging several cubic yards of smoke into her lungs. ‘Bloody waste of money and it plays hell with your wind. Did think of taking up a pipe but’ – she gazed morosely round the courtyard – ‘it’s too difficult to manage when you’ve always got your head stuck in one damned engine or another.’

  The Hon. Con goggled at her with evident admiration. ‘Gosh! You don’t actually repair cars, do you? Aren’t you clever! I’m not in the least bit mechanically-minded myself.’

  ‘Just a knack,’ said Charlie as roughly a third of her cigarette transformed itself into a thin grey cylinder of ash. ‘Always been good with my hands ever since I was a kid.’ She waved a paw at the vehicles in the yard. ‘I do the maintenance on all this lot, you know.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’d like to have a garage of my own one day,’ Charlie confided as she flicked the ash off her cigarette with a practised and nicotined finger. ‘Just a small one. Mostly workshops, really, with a couple of pumps, perhaps.’ She eyed the Hon. Con with just a hint of speculation in her glance. ‘You need a hell of a lot of capital, though.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ The Hon. Con nodded understandingly and without any of the caution she usually displayed when newly-made acquaintances started talking about money.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother with taxis,’ Charlie went on, shaking her head in a way which the Hon. Con found most attractive. ‘ More damned trouble than they’re worth – taxis. Nobody ever, wants ’em except in the middle of the bloody night.’

  ‘But you do drive taxis occasionally, don’t you?’ asked the Hon. Con, not too bemused to forget entirely what she’d come for.

  Charlie spat out a shred of tobacco as if to the manner born. ‘Joe Muggins, that’s me. He’ – she inclined her curly head in the direction of the office – ‘runs this place on a bloody shoe-string. If he’d get up off his fat backside and do some work himself, he could make a real go of it.’

  Even the Hon. Con could hardly help noticing that Charlie was a little on the common side but an appropriate euphemism sprang readily to mind. Charlie was a rough diamond, and anybody who had the time and the energy for a spot of polishing would doutbless finish up with a real jewel. The Hon. Con sighed. Pity her hands were so full with this detective business. Still – first things first. ‘Understand you drove Mrs Urquhart’s grandson from Sneddon Avenue to the railway station on Monday night?’

  Charlie winced and looked away. Then she pulled a duster out and began polishing one of the hearse’s headlamps with great concentration. ‘I did all the jobs on Monday night,’ she mumbled. ‘As bloody usual.’

  A sudden shaft of illumination penetrated the Hon. Con’s mind and, for a moment, quite took her breath away. Charlie was hiding something! ‘You’re hiding something!’ she said aloud.

  Charlie scuffled her feet. ‘No, I’m not.’

  The Hon. Con rather fancied herself when it came to drawing young girls out. She stretched across the hearse’s bonnet and gave Charlie a friendly pat on the arm. ‘ You can trust me, m’dear! Just look on me as a sort of father confessor.’

  ‘I nearly became a Roman Catholic once,’ said Charlie, brightening up momentarily. Her face fell again. ‘Pity I bloody didn’t. I wouldn’t, be in the mess I am now if I had.’ Look,’ – she turned to the Hon. Con with a gesture of trust and confidence that quite won that old softie’s heart – ‘if I tell you what happened, will you stick up for me? Christ, I don’t want to go to prison for a damned stupid thing like this.’

  The Hon. Con’s breath steamed up an impressively large area of the gleaming bonnet of the hearse as she waited excitedly for the revelations which she knew were about to come.

  Chapter Eight

  Charlie took her time about letting the dog see the rabbit. ‘Men!’ she spat. ‘ They make me sick! Well, I mean – take him in there.’ She jerked her head once more in the direction of the office. ‘Stingy? He’d nick the pennies off a dead men’s eyes! And you should see the wages he dishes out. Talk about exploitation! What he pays wouldn’t keep a bloody church mouse in crumbs. So’ – she avoided meeting the Hon. Con’s eye – ‘you can hardly blame me if I try and get my own back sometimes, can you?’

  In happier circumstances the Hon. Con would have been more than content to listen to Charlie’s husky tones for the remainder of the day, but now she began to get impatient. ‘What,’ she asked, ‘has all this to do with driving Mrs Urquhart’s grandson to the station?’

  ‘Everything!’ proclaimed Charlie, hamming it up a bit and even going so far as to strike her head dramatically with her fist. ‘ Because – I didn’t!’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘I didn’t! Oh, the booking was for the station all right but as soon as the lad got in the car he says scrub the so-and-so railway station and take him but straight to ‘‘The Martyr’s Head’’.’

  ‘The Martyr’s Head?’ squeaked the Hon. Con, her voice achieving a dizzy height in her excitement.

  Charlie edged nearer. ‘ Well you see the point, don’t you? The fare from Sneddon Avenue to the railway station is fifteen new pence more than it is from Sneddon Avenue to The Martyr’s Head. I told young hopeful that he’d have to pay for the journey that’d been booked for and he said that was OK by him. He coughed up a bloody good tip as well. Well you see my predicament, don’t you? There I was with fifteen pence sheer profit (to say nothing of the tip) and the best part of five miles buckshee on the clock and old Skinflint in there not knowing a thing about it.’ Charlie broke off to look questioning at the Hon. Con. ‘You following me, ducks?’

  The Hon. Con was actually miles away in the Old Bailey, busy outlining her case to an appreciative and deferential judge in Number One Court, but she interrupted her daydream to inform Charlie tartly that of course she was following.

  ‘Well,’ said Charlie, ‘that’s that, really. I entered it up in my log-book as a journey to the station, pocketed the cash and
used up the surplus mileage nipping home to lunch the next day. I wouldn’t have thought any more about it because, God knows, he’s made enough out of me in his time, but then there was this blooming murder in Sneddon Avenue and, before I knew where we were, we had the fuzz around. Well, I was right up the bloody creek, wasn’t I? They had me in the office and asked me if I’d taken this lad from Sneddon Avenue to the railway station at six o’clock on Monday evening. Well, there was old Scrooge, sitting at his desk with the bloody log book open in front of him. I hadn’t any choice. Well’ – Charlie tossed her head defiantly – ‘what would you have done if you’d been in my shoes?’

  The Hon. Con had no intention of wasting valuable time answering questions which were not ony rhetorical but faintly impertinent as well. ‘You didn’t tell the police that you’d taken Torquil to The Martyr’s Head?’

  ‘I couldn’t, could I? Not with him sitting there with his ears flapping?’

  ‘Gosh!’ said the Hon. Con.

  Charlie rang a hang-dog finger along the paintwork of the hearse. ‘Do you reckon I ought to call in at the cop shop and make a clean breast of it?’

  ‘Of course!’ said the Hon. Con, speaking severely as she remembered that she held pretty strong views about the moral standards of the artisan class.

  ‘Oh, hell!’ said Charlie despondently. ‘ I’m probably going to finish up in bloody Holloway!’

  The Hon. Con, once pretty well known for her charitable exploits in picking up fallen girls, decided that it might be advantageous to temper justice with mercy. She stopped glaring at Charlie as though she were an errant parlour maid due to be turned out into the snow and prepared to be helpful. ‘ Tell you what – how about if I went and saw them on your behalf? I happen to know Detective Sergeant Fenner personally and I’m sure I can get him to realize this whole thing has been nothing more than an unfortunate misunderstanding.’

  ‘Oh, could you?’ Charlie broke into voluble and gratifying thanks, an effusion only marred in the Hon. Con’s eyes by her insistence that the vicarious confession should be made as soon as possible. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, still bubbling over with relief and gratitude, ‘I’m due off for my lunch in a couple of minutes. Why don’t I borrow one of the cars and run you down to the police station right away?’ She gave the Hon. Con a conspiratorial wink. ‘ It won’t cost you a penny! I’ve got ten miles up my sleeve on the Austin.’

  The Hon. Con was torn, definitely torn. She was not one to sniff at a free taxi ride but, on the other hand, she had no intention of making Sergeant Fenner a present of her own special clue a minute sooner than she had to. There was such a thing as carrying one’s sense of duty too far. Well, when all was said and done, you didn’t find the cops breaking their necks to assist her, did you? The Hon. Con had no difficulty in reaching her decision: she would certainly tell the police about Torquil … but not just yet.

  Charlie was already wriggling out of her overalls.

  ‘Hang on a sec, m’dear,’ said the Hon. Con, forced to prevaricate. ‘Things are not – er – quite so simple as you might think.’ She looked Charlie straight in the eye. ‘Look, here – can you keep a secret?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die!’ said Charlie.

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I am working with the police on this murder business you mentioned in Sneddon Avenue. Hand in glove.’

  ‘Go on!’ gasped Charlie, eyes popping.

  ‘I’m a sort of – er – freelance collaborator,’ explained the Hon. Con, frantically trying to remember the jargon from that play she’d seen on the telly the other night. ‘I can sort of infiltrate places that are barred to the usual authorities. It’s jolly risky at times, of course, but it does enable me to cut a few of the old corners. Can’t say much about it but I daresay you’ve got the general picture.’

  Charlie had. ‘You’re a kind of real life Miss Marples!’

  It was not a comparision that struck the Hon. Con as particularly felicitous, especially as she had taken great pains to model herself on an original mixture of Lord Peter Wimsey, Maigret and James Bond. ‘The point is,’ she continued rather brusquely, ‘that if certain parties saw you accompanying me to the police station, the cat might well be out of the bag.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Charlie.

  ‘So I shall have to see to that little job myself. However,’ – the Hon. Con’s face broke into a smile as she thought of a way to get her free taxi ride after all – ‘what you can do is run me to The Martyr’s Head. In view of what you’ve told me, there are a few enquiries I ought to pursue there.’

  ‘OK, chief!’ said Charlie, entering into the spirit of things. ‘You’re on! And I can help you there, too. The doorman’s by way of being a mate of mine. You just slip him half a bar and …’

  The Hon. Con drew herself up with considerable dignity. Slip him half a bar, indeed! ‘ That won’t be necessary,’ she said. ‘I have my own contact. The manager himself will provide me with all the information I require.’

  But things never work out as neatly as that in this wicked world. The Hon. Con and Charlie had hardly set foot in the direction of the Austin with its accumulation of illicit miles when the young man from the office appeared on the far side of me courtyard.

  ‘Charlie!’ he shouted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rush job to London, love! Some silly old bastard can’t start his car. Well, move it, girl! Get your bloody skates on! And don’t forget the fare’s gone up to seven quid!’

  Charlie hesitated, ‘But I was just going to drive this lady …’

  The young man performed a brief Red Indian war dance. ‘Never mind her!’ he screamed, ‘I’ll do her. You get off on this other job and don’t forget to pick the address up on your way out.’ He disappeared back into the Methodist chapel and left an oasis of embarrassed silence behind him.

  ‘Bloody hell’ said Charlie miserably.

  The Hon. Con patted her on the shoulder. ‘ P’raps it’s all for the best,’ she said, remembering that Miss Jones would be expecting her back to lunch, ‘You can take me to The Martyr’s Head later on, when you get back.’

  Charlie cheered up. ‘OK. Look, suppose I pick you up at your place round about seven? Ill be back for sure by then.’

  ‘Excellent! My address is 14, Upper Waxwing Drive. Oh, and by the way, my name’s the Honourable Constance Morrison-Burke.’

  Charlie took the joke in good part. ‘And mine’s the Queen of Sheba! Ta-ra for now. I’ll be round for you dead on seven.’

  It was only when she was nearly home, complete with shopping, that the Hon. Con realized that she had made a serious error. Not in anything to do with her detective work, of course, but in the more important realm of her private life. What, she asked herself, was old Bones going to think about Charlie? Not that old Bones was really what you might call jealous – well, damn it all, the Hon. Con had never given any cause to be – but she wasn’t going to go into raptures over Charlie. The Hon. Con could have kicked herself for not suggesting another rendezvous, well away from Shangrilah. The trouble was that the whole business was going to look so fishy, especially to anyone with as suspicious a nature as old Bones. The first thing she was going to cotton on to was the sheer incongruity of the Hon. Con, with a perfectly good, if elderly, Mini in the garage and the bus stop at the bottom of the road, hiring a taxi to take her to The Martyr’s Head at seven o’clock in the evening. And, if the Hon. Con explained that the taxi was for free, that was only going to make things worse.

  Oh, heck! The Hon. Con vented her expression on a passing cat which only just got its rear end out of the way in time. Women!

  It took the Hon. Con a long time to break the news to Miss Jones. She finally began by enquiring nonchalantly if supper could be served a little earlier. Miss Jones, eyes already narrowing, wanted to know why. The Hon. Con said she had to go out. Miss Jones asked where. The Hon. Con explained about Torquil not having gone to the station after all but to The Martyr’s Head. Miss Jones got the
point straightaway and confessed herself as being most impressed with the Hon. Con’s ability to ferret out essential information. She also confessed to some slight feelings of anxiety.

  ‘What are you worried about?’ asked the Hon. Con twitching guiltily.

  ‘You know I don’t like you driving in the dark, dear,’ cooed Miss Jones affectionately. ‘ I know you’ll deny it, but your eyesight isn’t nearly as good as you think. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear. RAF pilots used to suffer from it during the war. They call it ‘‘ night blindness’’.’

  The Hon. Con was impressed – she’d often fancied herself as one of The Few – but she didn’t neglect to grab hold of the life-line which had been so fortuitously chucked at her. She explained about the taxi.

  ‘There was no need to go to all that expense, dear,’ said Miss Jones, a mile huffily. ‘I could have easily driven you.’

  Somewhat incoherently the Hon. Con explained that the taxi ride was not going to cost her anything.

  Miss Jones’s raised eyebrows invited further elucidation.

  The Hon. Con stoutly put all thoughts of the Spanish Inquisition out of her mind. ‘ The driver,’ she said, carefully avoiding any mention of sex, as was her wont, ‘ seemed to want to lend a hand with my investigations.’

  ‘That was very kind of him,’ said Miss Jones.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ said the Hon. Con.

  At five to seven, much to Miss Jones’s astonishment, the Hon. Con was hovering outside the front door in the pouring rain. When the taxi arrived, she hurtled down the garden path and scrambled in before Charlie had chance to get out and open the door.

  ‘Stinking night!’ puffed the Hon. Con, sprawling damply on the back seat

  ‘Filthy,’ agreed Charlie, exaniining her fare through the rear mirror. ‘ You should have waited inside.’

  ‘Didn’t see why you should get soaking wet just for me,’ said the Hon. Con smarmily.

  ‘Oh, I’d just have given you a toot on the old horn!’ laughed Charlie as she drew away from the kerb.