by Joyce Porter
She sat down heavily on the chair by the cooker. ‘Oh, heck! said the Hon. Con.
She knew, of course, who had killed Teresa O’Coyne.
It was a bit of a turn up for the book but it was the only explanation. There wasn’t much in the way of what you might call proof, not the sort that would stand up in a court of law, but no doubt the police would soon be able to furnish that once the Hon. Con had put them on the right lines.
It was a distasteful business, though.
For one craven moment the Hon. Con considered shirking her bounden duty but – well – you just couldn’t let people go round murdering other people with impunity, could you?
The Hon. Con miserably consulted the kitchen clock again. Twenty five past seven. She wondered what time Sergeant Fenner came on duty. It was Sunday, too. Still having collaborated with old Fenner before, she didn’t fancy telling her story to anybody else. He was a sympathetic chap, too, and she’d always promised him that he would get the credit. She cheered up a bit as she thought of how delighted he was going to be to have his case solved for him.
Well, even if she had to wait at the police station until they could get Sergeant Fenner for her, it would be better than staying on in this house. The Hon. Con shivered. Much better. Once she’d made her mind up, the Hon. Con acted quickly. Not very good-mannered, perhaps, to rush off without a word but – in the circumstances … She hurried upstairs and grabbed her few belongings, stuffing them in her coat pockets.
‘Miss Morrison-Burke! Miss Morrison-Burke!’
That was Mrs Hellon Senior screeching her head off. No doubt she was wondering where her early morning cup of tea was.
The Hon. Con put a spurt on which took her down the stairs out of the front door, down the garden path and round the corner into Old Arbour Road before anno domini and thirteen pounds excessive weight put the brake on. After that she proceeded at a more appropriate and increasingly sedate pace until she reached the bus stop from where she could get a bus into the centre of Totterbridge. She had a long wait and, even when the bus came, her trials weren’t over. The bus conductor insisted on being paid and there was a moment of some embarrassment while the Hon. Con performed a strip search before eventually producing enough fluff-covered coins to cover her fare.
The police station was very quiet and the Hon. Con smoothed her hair down. Pity she hadn’t remembered to take a comb with her to the Hellons. She presented herself to the sergeant behind the counter.
‘Sergeant Fenner?’ he repeated, looking the Hon. Con up and down with some misgiving. ‘Can you give me some idea what you want to see him about ?’
‘I am in possession of some vital information pertaining to the murder of Teresa O’Coyne,’ said the Hon. Con.
‘Oh, yes?’ The confident statement had not quelled the sergeant’s doubts but he picked up his telephone. ‘ What name was it, madam?’
Life had taught the Hon. Con some pretty unpalatable lessons and she remembered one of them now. ‘Mrs Urquhart,’ she said, cunningly keeping her hands in her pockets so that the sergeant wouldn’t notice the absence of a wedding ring.
‘Sergeant Fenner’s pretty busy at the moment but I’ll see if he can spare you a few minutes. About the O’Coyne case, you said?’
Judging by the distorted squawks coming from the telephone, Sergeant Fenner was not only willing but even anxious to see Mrs Urquhart. There was a short delay and the Hon. Con passed the time reading some notices on a nearby notice board. They were all about sport and she was half-way through a fascinating account of how the Totterbridge police had walloped the Old Shooter Street Comprehensonians 63-nil at Rugby football before a strapping, carroty-haired constable arrived to conduct her to Sergeant Fenner. The Hon. Con examined her escort with a speculative eye. He looked very fit. Eventually she asked him how he did it and he modestly admitted that he turned out as scrum half for the police team.
The Hon. Con nodded her head thoughtfully. ‘Good sort of game, Rugby – is it?’
The strapping, carroty-haired policeman gave it as his opinion that Rugby was an absolutely smashing game. It was tough, he conceded, but character building and very manly.
The Hon. Con was unable to continue the conversation as they had now arrived at Sergeant Fenner’s office. Here, alas, the relaxed friendly atmosphere died the death.
‘Oh, no!’ howled Sergeant Fenner. ‘Here, Struddy!’
But the strapping, carroty-haired constable had already gone.
The Hon. Con closed the office door and beamed reassuringly at Sergeant Fenner. ‘Sorry about the little deception but I didn’t want them to know who I was. If we want you to collar all the kudos, it’s best if we keep my name out-of it. Otherwise, she chuckled, ‘ somebody might start smelling a rat. Mind if I sit down?’
‘Well, yes,’ said. Sergeant Fenner, mustering his resolution, ‘as a matter of fact, I do!’ He had only just got back to his office after spending most of the night in a series of conferences and really didn’t feel that he could take much more.
‘Now, now!’ the Hon. Con twitted him as she settled herself down on the chair in front of his desk. ‘Not like you to fall a victim to professional jealousy!’
‘Professional jealousy?’ Sergeant Fenner knew he was starting to gibber like the village idiot but he was unable to stop himself. ‘Professional jealousy has nothing to do with it.’
The Hon. Con crossed one substantial leg over the other. ‘Jolly glad to hear you say that, old chap, because some people get dashed small-minded about these things. It was just the luck of the draw that in this particular case, I had all the advantages. No reflection cast on the efficiency of the police, of course, and none taken, I hope.’
‘Oh, God,’ groaned Sergeant Fenner before he remembered that he was speaking to the daughter of a viscount and a member of the general public. He tried to think constructively. There was absolutely no future in arguing with the old girl but, suppose he had a shot at humouring her? It might speed things up. He pulled some sheets of paper towards him and picked up a pencil. ‘You told the sergeant on the desk that you had some information about the O’Coyne case.’
‘I’ve solved it!’
Oh, of course, thought Sergeant Fenner bitterly, what else? With an expressionless face he carefully counted up to ten, and then up to twenty. He looked up. ‘Would you care to tell me who, in your opinion, did it, miss?’ he asked pleasantly.
‘Josie Hellon.’
If the Hon. Con had suddenly stripped off and started performing a belly dance, the effect on Sergeant Fenner could hardly have been more electrifying. All the colour drained out of his face and he instinctively clutched at his breast pocket. ‘How the devil did you find?’ He stopped and bit his lip.
The Hon. Con grinned happily. ‘ Bit of a facer, eh?’
Sergeant Fenner swallowed hard. ‘ Yes,’ he said. ‘ I’ll just make a note of – er – what you say.’ He bent his head down and wrote ‘Hell’s teeth!!’ with a trembling hand. If his superiors ever got to hear about this, there would be the most almighty row – and guess who would be at the receiving end? He risked a surreptitious glance at the Hon. Con. ‘Er – any particular reasons for your supposition?’
‘Not a supposition,’ the Hon. Con corrected him firmly. ‘And, of course, I’ve got reasons. Not come here to waste your time, you know. My solution is based on rock solid evidence.’
Sergeant Fenner grimaced. ‘I should have known.’
‘Want to hear it?’ asked the Hon. Con with awesome playfulness.
Sergeant Fenner nodded.
The Hon. Con had worked out her speech on the bus. ‘The main significance of the murder of Teresa O’Coyne is that it occurred here in Totterbridge, not more than a couple of minutes walk from my own residence.’ The Hon. Con uncrossed her legs and leaned back complacently. ‘That’s where the murderess made her first mistake.’
Sergeant Fenner managed a half-hearted smile.
‘It was the fact that this murder took p
lace practically on my doorstep that gave me such a crucial advantage over the police. I knew the people concerned, you see. Knew the district. Knew all the hidden currents and the deeply concealed motives which no policeman in a million years could hope …’
Sergeant Fenner raised his wrist and pointed to his watch. ‘I have an urgent appointment in ten … in five minutes,’ he warned
‘Well,’ continued the Hon. Con, tidying up history a bit as she went. ‘I started off by building up a word-picture of the deceased. I collected – and collated – evidence as to her appearance, character, habits, etc. from a wide range of people who knew her. Now, what kind of a girl was Teresa O’Coyne?’
The trouble with asking rhetorical questions is that there’s always some silly beggar waiting to answer them. Sergeant Fenner opened his trap now. ‘ She was a money-grubbing little bitch who wasn’t going to give her all without a wedding ring!’
‘Quite!’ The Hon. Con glared the interrupter into silence. ‘ What she really wanted was a rich husband and’ – she wasn’t going to miss having her little joke – ‘she didn’t care much whose husband he was, either! Now, everybody assumed that she had rashly invited some man up to her room, refused him her – um – favours and been murdered by him in a fit of unrequited passion. The fact that she had not been – er – ravished didn’t entirely invalidate this theory.’
Sergeant Fenner’s attention, which had been wandering a little, came back with a snap. ‘ Who told you that?’ he demanded
‘Not at liberty to reveal my sources,’ said the Hon. Con smugly. ‘You ought to know that, sergeant! However, this fact did start me wondering whether we could be absolutely certain that a man was involved.’
Sergeant Fenner was looking extremely sceptical but the Hon. Con continued her peroration without a blush of shame.
‘That led me straight to Mrs Hellon,’ she said, daring the ceiling to fall down on her head. ‘I made further, discreet enquiries and soon came to the conclusion that Teresa O’Coyne had been setting her cap at Mr Gilbert Hellon. Well, why not? He’s a wealthy man and he was getting pretty fed up with his wife. She’s older than he is, too much wrapped up in the baby and generally seems to be pretty much of a drag. Add to that the fact that he’s been living for some considerable time in the same house as a predatory and attractive young woman and you’ve got a classic situation on your hands. You and I, sergeant,’ said the Hon. Con squinting down her nose, ‘are men of the world. We know what goings-on such propinquity can lead to.’
Sergeant Fenner fidgeted impatiently. ‘ You did say something about evidence, didn’t you?’
‘The milk,’ said the Hon. Con. ‘You never thought of questioning the milkman, did you?’
Sergeant Fenner gave the Hon. Con the compliment of his undivided attention.‘ The milkman? No, I must admit I don’t think we did.’
‘If you had, you’d have discovered that on the morning after the murder, Mrs Josie Hellon – a notorious late riser – was up at seven o’clock waiting for the milk to arrive so that she could make herself a cup of tea. I trust you appreciate the significance of that, sergeant.’
‘Well, not exactly.’ Sergeant Fenner frowned. ‘It was unusual behaviour, perhaps, but hardly criminal – was it?’
‘It meant that there was no milk in the house.’
Sergeant Fenner sighed. ‘I see.’
‘There was no milk in the house because the O’Coyne girl had drunk it all when she came in the previous night after her trip to the cinema. She was always doing it. Several people commented on it and how it used to drive Josie Hellon wild.’
Sergeant Fenner looked bewildered.
‘Oh, come along, sergeant!’ The Hon. Con shook an admonitory finger. ‘Give the old brain pan a shake! If Teresa O’Coyne had smuggled a man into the house for immoral purposes, do you honestly think that she’d take time off to make herself a nightcap of hot milk?’
‘Well, no, I don’t suppose she would,’ admitted Sergeant Fenner.
The Hon. Con folded her arms. ‘I rest my case.’
Sergeant Fenner had had no sleep for several days and the Hon. Con’s explanation left him groping. ‘You mean you think Mrs Hellon killed her au pair girl because she drank up all the milk?’ he asked.
‘Of course not, you chump!’ The Hon. Con’s affection for Sergeant Fenner was only just strong enough to stand the strain. ‘The consumed milk merely proves that there was no man, that’s all. And, since the house hadn’t been broken into, there’s nobody left except Josie Hellon, is there. All that stuff about taking pills and sleeping right through the murder is just a cock-and-bull story designed to pull the wool over the eyes of the police. Seems to have succeeded, too,’ sniffed the Hon. Con rather pointedly. ‘Haven’t you got it, yet? Josie Hellon killed the girl herself and tried to make it look like one of those nasty sex murders. Afterwards, she couldn’t sleep, of course. Like Lady Macbeth,’ added the Hon. Con obscurely. ‘That’s why she was wide awake at crack of dawn, longing for a cup of tea and waiting for the milkman.’
Sergeant Fenner didn’t know what to do. He’d no authority to take the Hon. Con into his confidence but it did seem a bit of a shame not to let her know the truth. If only one could rely on the old girl’s discretion.
But, before Sergeant Fenner could make up his mind, the door opened, and a tall man with a sallow, discontented face poked his head in. ‘You ready, Fenner?’
Sergeant Fenner jumped to his feet. ‘Yes, sir!’
‘You’ve got the – er … ?’ The tall man glanced at the Hon. Con and left his question unfinished.
Sergeant Fenner patted his breast pocket. ‘Yes, sir!
‘Well come on, then! Let’s bloody well go and get it over with!’ The tall man was obviously in a bad temper. He gave the Hon. Con another bleak stare and disappeared.
Sergeant Fenner smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Vouch.’
The Hon. Con’s eyes opened wide. ‘The chappie in charge of the investigation? I ought to have a word with him.’
Sergeant Fenner was at the door. ‘I’m afraid you’re too late.’
‘Too late?’
The sergeant half-pulled a folded paper from his pocket. ‘This is a warrant for the arrest of Mrs Josie Hellon. We’re going along to serve it now. We’ve been waiting until she was fit enough to be moved from the nursing home.’
The Hon. Con’s face fell with a bump. ‘ You knew all the time!’ she protested.
Sergeant Fenner tried to soften the blow. ‘Not about the milk. We missed that, honestly we did. We were just very humdrum and unimaginative and went straight for the obvious person.’
‘The obvious person!’ repeated the Hon. Con bitterly.
‘Well she was, really, wasn’t she? She was all alone in the house with the murdered girl and there was absolutely no indication at all that anybody else had been anywhere near the place. Then we found her fingerprints on the drawer where the girl kept the scarf she was killed with. That wasn’t conclusive, of course, but it was an indication that Mrs Hellon had opened the drawer fairly recently.’
The comers of the Hon. Con’s mouth sagged even further.
Sergeant Fenner glanced anxiously over his shoulder and hurried on. ‘ Mr Hellon’s statement was pretty revealing, too. Naturally he tried to cover up but anybody with half an eye could see which way the wind had been blowing. He’d been having it off with the O’Coyne kid all right and, once we knew Mrs Hellon had a motive …’ He sighed unhappily. ‘We had our suspicions right from the start, you see, but, what with her collapsing and everything, we had to …’
The Hon. Con was not fooled. She knew that the police would have arrested Mrs Hellon without her assistance and it was a bitter pill to swallow. She expounded her total disenchantment with criminal investigation to Miss Jones who was called on yet again to minister to her friend’s hurt pride.
Miss Jones was extremely s
ympathetic and extremely relieved. ‘I do think it’s better to leave these matters to the police, dear,’ she said ‘ They’re usually such sordid affairs, aren’t they? Maybe you could find yourself another little hobby, dear?’
‘Got one!’ said the Hon. Con, who wouldn’t have abandoned the idea of being a private eye so readily if she hadn’t already got another iron poked in the fire. ‘Been thinking about it for some time.’
‘Have you dear?’ Miss Jones steeled herself for the worst.
The Hon. Con raised her arms and rippled her biceps. ‘Going to concentrate on sport,’ she announced.
‘Ah, sport!’ said Miss Jones. ‘That’ll be nice, dear.’
The Hon. Con was gazing starry-eyed into a glorious future. How ripping if she could induce some really athletic types like Charlie to take an interest! ‘I’m going to organize the first ever Ladies’ Rugby Football Club in the world!’ she breathed. ‘And you, Bones’ – she smiled generously at chum – ‘are going to be the secretary. Non-playing, of course.’
Copyright
First published in 1972 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson
This edition published 2013 by Bello
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello
ISBN 978-1-4472-4518-6 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-4472-4517-9 POD
Copyright © Joyce Porter, 1972
The right of Joyce Porter to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Every effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of the material
reproduced in this book. If any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publisher
