“By the way, Hughes,” continued the actor, “I do rather resent the implication that I am some sort of effeminate poufter. Not all thespians are that way, don’t you know. I’m as red-blooded as the next chap. I’ve already asked Daisy to marry me. Not to mention all our chaste sisters.”
Prescott guffawed. “That’s not what I’ve ’eard. Queer as a box of frogs, you theatre lot.”
Before Melrose could retaliate, Daisy said, “Shouldn’t you go and check up on Sarge, Mr. Hughes? He really might have been taken ill.”
“More likely he’s gone on strike so he won’t have to deal with such a sorry bunch of cripples. But I’d better pop over and see what’s keeping him. Miss Stevens, I’m leaving you in charge.”
He left.
Daisy spoke up. “Come on, chaps. We’ve got a job to do, and the faster we learn the better. Idle hands are only going to help Hitler in the long run.”
“Well put,” said Bancroft.
“As always,” added Melrose, “our Daisy is a veritable treasure trove of pithy sayings.”
3.
SERGEANT McHATTIE AND HIS FAMILY OCCUPIED one of two cottages that were nestled into a gentle slope about a hundred yards behind the main building. As Hughes approached, he felt a sharp twinge of uneasiness. He could see that the blackout curtains were still drawn in all of the front windows. He knew that Mrs. McHattie and her daughter always visited her family in Wem on Tuesday nights and therefore wouldn’t be at home, but where was Jock? It was so unlike him to be sleeping in. The two young laddies, perhaps, now that it was the school holidays, but not the sergeant. Hughes glanced over at the other cottage nearby, where Mrs. Fuller, the cook, lived with her son. Hughes had seen her earlier serving breakfast in the dining room, and, as he would have expected, her curtains were all pulled back and the windows were wide open.
He stepped up to the front door of the McHattie cottage and knocked. No answer. Had the sarge indeed been taken ill? He knocked again. Silence. He tried the doorknob, which turned easily. He pushed open the door and went inside.
The place was in darkness.
“Sergeant McHattie? Jock? Are you home?”
There was no response.
Hughes switched on the overhead light.
“Anybody home? It’s me, Hughes.”
There was no wireless playing, no dishes on the kitchen table, no sign that anybody had been up and about. Jock’s bagpipes drooped over a chair.
Suddenly, a cat yowled and ran out from the kitchen. “Shite,” Hughes gasped. “Bloody hell, Blackie. You gave me a fright there.”
The cat darted up the stairs and Hughes followed it to a small landing. There was a night light here, barely penetrating the gloom but sufficient for him to make out two partly open doors.
He sniffed. There was a sour smell in the air.
Cautiously, he peeked inside the first bedroom.
“Jock? Jock, you in here?”
The blackout curtains were closed here as well and it was pitch-dark. He snapped on the light.
Even though the orderly was used to the frailty of the human body, what he saw made bile rush up into his mouth. Sprawled on the floor between the door and the bed was the elder of Jock’s young sons, Ben. He was lying on his back, his arms flung out to the sides. He was dressed in his pyjamas, the top stained with blood, which had also streaked his face in dark rivulets.
Jock McHattie was in the bed, still under the covers. He had a halo of blood around his head, and there was a large, ragged tear in his pillow. Bits of white substance had spread everywhere. Brains or feathers, it was hard to tell.
Although Hughes knew there was nothing he could do for either of them, he had to make sure. He stepped closer to the boy, crouched down, and touched Ben’s hand. It was cool. There was a large, black-rimmed hole in the middle of the boy’s forehead. He had been shot at close range.
Slowly, Hughes straightened up and went over to the bed. Like his son, Jock appeared to have been shot. There was an identical wound in his temple. His skin was also cold. Death for both of them must have occurred some hours earlier.
The cat was meowing loudly and rubbing itself against Ben’s body.
Hughes backed away onto the landing, but just as he did so, he heard a sound, so soft he almost missed it, coming from the second bedroom. His knees were shaking, but he made himself go and look. Again he had to turn on the light. There was another whimper. It seemed to be coming from underneath the nearer of the two beds. He bent down. The terrified face of a young boy stared out at him. It was Charlie, the younger McHattie boy.
“Mr. Hughes,” he whispered. “Please help me, Mr. Hughes.”
4.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR TOM TYLER WAS SITTING IN the kitchen, half listening to the wireless and swishing the last drop of tea around in his cup. He wished he could read tea leaves the way his gran had. She was good – uncannily accurate, although he suspected most of her predictions relied on her shrewd judgment of character and the fact that she was privy to a lot of talk from her friends and neighbours.
“Ask your question in good faith and you’ll get good guidance,” his gran would say.
On an impulse, Tyler turned the cup three times and upended it in the saucer. He righted the cup and stared at the clump of tea leaves. It didn’t mean anything to him. Just looked like a black, shapeless mess, which was, come to think of it, how he was feeling about his life at the moment. “Fat lot of help you are,” he said to the blameless china.
He gave the cup a bit of a shake, hoping that some of the tea leaves would settle into more of a pattern. Give him some sign. Maybe “What does the future hold?” was too broad a question. But what did it hold? The move to Ludlow was intended to be a new beginning. New town, new position. When the local inspector resigned for health reasons, Tyler had jumped at the chance to apply for his job.
“Don’t be deceived by the quaint rural setting, Tyler,” said Chief Constable Anderson during his interview. “It’s true we’ve led a quiet, peaceful life up till now, but since the war, we’ve got no end of action. There’s the RAF chaps from the base pulling drunk and disorderlies every weekend; constant complaints about evacuees with ringworm and light fingers; and to add to the mix, the ever-present problem of the black market. I’d say there’s never a dull moment.”
Tyler assured the chief that this suited him just fine and he was offered the position.
When he’d told the chief he’d been separated from his wife for more than a year, Anderson had suggested Tyler bunk with Sergeant Oliver Rowell. The sergeant, a widower, was occupying the house the local council provided for the senior officers of the constabulary. “He’s got extra room, so it’s simpler all round,” were the chief constable’s words, and Tyler had agreed willingly, happy at the thought of company.
So three days earlier he’d arrived with some basic possessions, ready to take up this new phase, which was how he described it to himself.
He’d put away his clothes and the books he’d brought with him but so far hadn’t determined the best place for his two precious paintings. He hadn’t even unwrapped the canvases yet. They were portraits of Clare Somerville, the woman he always thought of as his one true love. Beautiful Clare, unfortunately vanished into the maw of “war business” somewhere in Switzerland.
Tyler peered into the cup. Was there anything there to indicate he would see Clare soon? Ever see her again?
He heard Sergeant Rowell’s heavy tread on the stairs and checked the clock. It was almost time to get over to the station. Rowell was well over six feet tall and automatically ducked his head as he came through the kitchen doorway. Old house, low ceilings.
“Good Lord, sir. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were reading your tea leaves.”
Tyler pushed the cup and saucer away. “I’m just trying to judge if I have enough for another cup.”
“I’m not a big tea drinker. If you run out, you can have some of my ration.”
“Thank you, Oli
ver.” Tyler felt a twinge of guilt at having been caught in his little fib.
He took out his cigarette case and tapped out a cigarette, his second of the morning. He was counting them these days. An allowance of ten maximum.
“Anything new on the African front?” Rowell asked.
“Nope. Rommel hasn’t retaken El Alamein, which is a good thing. On the other hand, the U-boats are having a field day. Two more ships sunk in the Atlantic.”
They heard the shrill ringing of the telephone coming from the hall.
“I’ll get it,” said Rowell.
Tyler leaned over and switched off the wireless, then he went to the sink to rinse out his cup. So much for fortune-telling. He could hear the sergeant’s voice.
“Oh my Lord. I’ll get the inspector. Just a minute.”
Tyler could tell this was no ordinary call and his heart thudded. He was always half fearful something might happen to his daughter. Or to Clare.
Rowell came to the door. “It’s the almoner from the convalescent hospital, sir. She says it’s urgent. Seems there’s been some sort of a fatality on the grounds.”
Tyler was already heading for the hall. He picked up the receiver.
“Detective Inspector Tyler here.”
The voice on the other end sounded far away. “Inspector, this is Sister Rebecca Meade. I am at St. Anne’s hospital. Can you come right away? There has been an, er, an incident.” Suddenly her voice got louder. She’d moved the mouthpiece closer. “There are two victims. One was a member of the staff, Sergeant Jock McHattie. The other is his son, Ben. They have been shot. Both of them fatally.”
“Do you know the circumstances, Sister?”
“The bodies were discovered by one of our orderlies. They were in one of the bedrooms of their own cottage. There is a younger boy, Charlie, who was hiding in the other bedroom. He is unharmed.” The almoner’s voice was surprisingly steady. “I am a nurse and I myself have checked the bodies. I would say that death occurred at least three or four hours ago. This could not have been an accident. The shootings were deliberate.”
“Is everybody else at the hospital accounted for?”
“Yes. I have had all the staff and the patients brought together. We’re not that large a hospital and we have been able to gather in the common room.”
“I presume there is no sign of the assailant?”
“None.”
“Is there anybody else in the family?”
“Mrs. McHattie and her daughter. They are not here at the moment. They are known to be visiting relatives overnight in Wem.”
“Can we reach them?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t know either the name of the relative or the address. But this is a regular visit and they are due back sometime this morning. They took the bus.”
“I’ll have somebody meet them at the depot.”
There was another pause. Tyler thought for a moment that the almoner might be drawing on a cigarette, but perhaps she was just trying to get her breath.
“Has the surviving boy said anything?” he asked.
“No, he has not. He is in a state of shock. Mr. Evan Hughes, our orderly, is with him.”
“I must ask you to make sure nobody leaves the premises.”
“I have already given orders to that effect.”
“Well done.”
The almoner’s voice faded out again. “There is one more thing, Inspector. In the event Mrs. McHattie arrives sooner than expected, what shall I tell her?”
Tyler winced. He knew what that meant. “Please don’t say anything for now. You’ll have to stall.”
Another intake of breath. She was smoking.
“I can only pray she and her daughter are unharmed.”
There was nothing Tyler could say to that.
“I’ll leave at once.”
They rang off.
Tyler snatched his hat and jacket from the peg in the hall and called out to Rowell, “Let’s go.”
The police station was tucked into the end of a laneway directly across the street from the house. Tyler gave the sergeant a quick précis of the telephone call as they went.
“St. Anne’s used to be the home of an old county family,” said Rowell. “It’s been turned into a convalescent hospital where they’ve got the shell-shocked types. I’ve heard they’ve got some really bad nerve cases, who’re disfigured as well as everything else. I’ve seen them myself in town and to tell the truth they are a bit of a shock until you get used to them.”
“Poor sods,” said Tyler.
“Maybe one of them went berserk,” added Rowell.
They turned into the car park next to the station.
“Has the Austin been repaired yet?” Tyler asked.
“Bailey is supposed to deliver it later this morning,” replied Rowell. “Can’t get the parts, apparently.”
“Bloody marvellous. We’d be better off keeping a horse and carriage.”
“There’s the motorcycle and sidecar in the shed, sir. That’s in good working order.”
“Damn it, I haven’t been on a motorcycle since I was a lad. I don’t think this is the time for a refresher course.”
“The new WAPC is a qualified driver as I understand it. She’s reporting for duty this morning. She could take you.”
Tyler stared at him. “What the hell – I’m supposed to show up at a crime scene on a motorcycle? And with a woman rider.”
“I’m sure the young lady will be highly competent.” Rowell gave him an anxious smile. “These days, nobody is surprised at unorthodox travel arrangements.”
“Maybe I can hire a tractor.”
The sergeant grimaced. “Not sure you’d even get one these days.”
5.
TYLER CROSSED TO THE SHED WHERE THE MOTORCYCLE was kept while Rowell hurried to unlock the station, which was shut down at night. Tyler eyed the motorcycle, which looked like it dated from the last war. There was indeed a sidecar, also vintage. He sighed. Perhaps after this war, the constabulary would get up-to-date equipment.
Rowell returned, accompanied by a young woman in police uniform. She was almost as tall as the sergeant, and rail thin, her height and slenderness accentuated by the tight-fitting navy blue uniform.
“This is our new officer, sir. Constable Agnes Mortimer. I’ve apprised her of the situation. What little we know anyway.”
Tyler nodded at her. “Looks like the only conveyance is this motorcycle. Are you able to handle the wretched thing, Constable?”
“I am, sir.”
“Let’s wheel it out then. I suppose I’ll have to sit in the sidecar.”
“I do think it is a bit more dignified than the pillion, sir.”
She had a distinct county accent, clipped and, to his ears, supercilious.
“I’ll ring the hospital and tell them you are on your way, shall I, Inspector?” said Rowell.
“Do that, Sergeant. How many constables have we got on the day roster?”
“Including Constable Mortimer, we have six. Two others are on their rest day.”
“Not today they’re not. Get them in. Have all constables get over to St. Anne’s right away. They’ll need the camera and fingerprinting kit. And I want you to send one of them to the square to meet the morning bus from Wem. Emphasize he mustn’t say a word about what has happened. Just bring Mrs. McHattie and her daughter immediately to the hospital.”
Constable Mortimer had heard this exchange and she frowned at Tyler.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but the women will wonder what is going on. I recommend you tell the constable exactly what he should impart.”
“You do, do you?”
She was quite right, but he was irritated nonetheless. If she hadn’t been handling the motorcycle, Tyler would have sent her to meet the bus. Women were better at that sort of thing. He turned back to Rowell.
“All he needs to say is that there has been an accident and he isn’t at liberty to talk about it.”
“Y
es, sir. I’ll send Chase. He’s a steady man.”
“Good. Then please get hold of Dr. Murnaghan. He lives in Whitchurch. He’s retired, but he’s one of the best coroners there is. I’d like him at the scene. Tell him it’s urgent. You stay at the helm here with one of the off-duty men. Send the other one to St. Anne’s.”
“I believe he is spending his rest day in Shrewsbury, sir.”
“Damn. I know we’re going to need all the help we can get. Round up all the reservists in the area. Get them kitted out as best you can and have them come over as soon as possible.”
Tyler clambered awkwardly into the sidecar, and the constable swung her leg over the bike. Her skirt didn’t seem to encumber her in the least. She stuffed her cap into her pocket and started the engine.
The motorbike sprang to life with a roar and they shot off down the laneway.
“I presume you know where to go,” Tyler shouted.
“Yes, sir. I grew up in Ludlow. I used to visit my aunt, Lady Cooper, at St. Anne’s before she turned the house over to the War Office. It’s situated on the opposite side of the river from Ludlow castle. Just past the bridge.”
Tyler wondered why on earth a young woman from a good family had signed on as an auxiliary police constable. Not only were a lot of the older members of the constabulary opposed to having women officers, but as far as he could tell, the work was hardly challenging and certainly not well paid.
They turned onto Broad Street. The pavement was crowded with women on their way to catch the special coaches waiting in the square that would take them to the outlying munitions factories. Many of them turned anxiously to watch the motorcycle pass. They could tell bad news was in the offing.
At the bottom of the hill, just as they were about to shoot through the tunnel under the old city gate and into certain collision with a knot of cyclists entering from the other side, they made a sharp right turn onto Old Silk Lane. High stone walls bounded the lane on either side. There was no room for any oncoming vehicle to pass them.
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