"And with all the money?" I asked.
"Yeah. So the story goes. Trouble is none of these women believed it. They all thought the money had passed on to me. They tried to adopt me from the orphanage where I lived. But I was having none of it. The only way I could keep them at bay was to strike a totally confidential deal with each in turn. I'd secretly agree to be their son if they'd keep it to themselves."
I drained my drink. "And they agreed to that?"
"They all thought I was hiding the money and that eventually they'd get their mitts on it. They still do. That's what blind greed does to you. So here I am. Facing up to Mother’s Day - and seven mothers to keep happy. Does anyone deserve that? It would be free drinks for a month if anyone could tell me how to shake them off."
I said: "And you're sure none of them knows about the others?"
Jeff nodded.
"Then the answer's simple. Invite them all here on Mother’s Day for lunch."
Jeff's eyes popped. "Together? They'd kill one another."
He paused. I could see his mind working, like rusty old clockwork. His eyes lit up with the answer. He grinned. "I see what you mean."
I didn't think they'd kill one another. If they took one look at the place, they'd know Jeff didn't have a prayer to bless himself with let alone a secret fortune. And when gold-diggers find there's no cash, they can't get out of the door fast enough.
I said: "I'll take another gin and tonic for solving your problem."
Jeff was about to say something when the pub door banged open.
Ted Wilson stood backlit by the street lamps outside. His hair was blown over his forehead by a stiff breeze. His beard looked shaggier than usual. He was wearing a grey worsted suit. The trousers bagged at the knee and the jacket was missing a button. There were two Bic pens in his breast pocket.
I said: "Better add a scotch to my order. But I'll pay you for that."
"Big of you," Jeff grumbled.
***
Ted and I sat at the corner table at the back of the bar.
The pub was empty, but we could see anyone who came in. We were next to the back door, so we could leave fast if anyone appeared we didn't want to see.
All very furtive but it added a frisson of excitement to our meetings. Besides, where would journalists and police be without a furtive side to their characters? They'd be stolid upright members of the community. The kind who clean the backs of their shoes even when they're not dirty and go to church every Sunday. The kind outwitted by every villain with his eye on the main chance.
Anyway, that's the way I see it. Furtive is up there with honesty, good manners and generosity in the pantheon of human qualities.
Ted slurped his Scotch and said: "There was a lot of talk in the station today about that killing up on the Steyning Bostal." He hoisted his glass and drained it. Thumped it back on the table. "I've assumed that's what you wanted to see me about."
I signalled to Jeff to bring Ted a refill. Did a little shaky motion with my hand to show I didn't want another. With what I'd planned for later, I needed a clear head.
I said: "With that kind of insight, Ted, you ought to be a detective."
Ted stroked his beard vigorously. He couldn't decide whether to laugh or frown. Worst of all, he couldn't think of a come-back.
He said: "You won't be so clever when you hear what I've got to tell you."
"Tell away. But I should mention, I've already interviewed Detective Inspector Holdsworth about the Bostal killing."
"You want to watch Holdsworth," Ted said. "He's the type who thinks a warrant card doubles up as a paying-in book at the bank. Seen too many of that sort in the Brighton force."
"You mean he's bent?"
"As a fiddler's elbow."
"And he gets away with it?"
"Too many higher up are happy to look the other way. They made their bundles on the way up. I guess Holdsworth doesn't see why he shouldn't join them."
I said: "Holdsworth has Spencer Hooke's death down as a hit-and-run, but I think there's enough evidence to start a murder enquiry."
I told Ted my theory. About the note in his pocket. About how his body had been dragged from the roadside.
I said: "Even if Holdsworth is crooked, I can't see why he doesn't treat the case as murder."
"That's because he's as ambitious as he is bent," Ted said.
"A big-time murder conviction would make his name."
"You're right. But he'd needs to make the conviction stick. I reckon Holdsworth thinks he has no chance of nailing the killer. That's why he wants to label the case a hit-and-run. Lower profile. No-one cares if he doesn't solve it."
"Except the family of the dead Hooke."
"Holdsworth has already worked out that Hooke had no close family. No-one around to raise a stink about his lax handling of the case. I reckon Holdsworth has his eye on a big promotion in this new Sussex Police Force the home secretary Sir Frank Soskice is setting up."
"That's the one they're creating by amalgamating the East and West Sussex forces with the borough forces in Brighton, Eastbourne and Hastings?"
Ted nodded. He was about to say something when Jeff arrived with his drink and thumped it on the table.
Jeff shot us a sly look and said: "I don't know what you're plotting, but if I'm questioned I'll plead ignorance."
"Like you were born to it," I said.
"And I thought you were on my side," Jeff said. He scowled and sloped off to the bar.
Ted said: "What was that all about?"
"Something we were talking about earlier. Nothing that will trouble the police."
"Why is it that when you say that, I just know I need to cover my back?" Ted said.
He picked up his new whisky and drained it with one gulp.
***
An hour later, a comely young woman in a dirndl skirt, with a bodice embroidered in multi-coloured silks, yodelled up to my table.
She plonked a steaming metal dish on top of a small oil burner and said: "Yodellay-ee-ay. Fondue mit Emmenthaler Kase."
I looked at Shirley sitting opposite me on the other side of the table. Her eyebrows rose like a couple of high Cs. We were in the Swiss Restaurant, a new place which had just opened in Brighton's Queens Road.
I said: "Fondue with Emmental cheese. As you can see the cheese is melted and bubbling in the pot."
"Jeez," Shirley said. "That looks like something out of that Steve McQueen horror movie The Blob we saw a few weeks back."
"Except this blob won't eat you. Other way round. Dip some bread into the cheese using this long-handled fork - but be careful. The cheese is scalding hot."
"I'll need a longneck beer to wash this down," Shirley said as she tore some bread off a roll. She dipped the bread in the cheese, touched it to her lips to test the heat, put it in her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully.
Shirley put down her fork. "I think I'd rather eat the Blob," she said. "But I'm not really hungry."
"Something on your mind?" I asked.
"It's my mother," she said.
"Barbara? What's the problem?"
"I haven't heard from her like I usually do."
"I thought she wrote to you with the news from Adelaide regularly."
"Yeah. I'd get an aerogram every week. But I haven't had a letter for four weeks now. I tried calling her yesterday - took me forty minutes to get a line to Oz. But all I heard was a phone ringing."
"No answer? Perhaps your mother was out."
"Not at the time I called. She'd always be getting her supper. I'm worried, Colin. I think something's happened to her."
"What kind of something?"
"An accident."
"I don't think so. If Barbara were in hospital, she'd be able to tell someone where you were. They'd get in touch. Perhaps she's visiting someone."
"Then why doesn't she write?"
"I don't know," I said. "Perhaps the Blob has got her."
"That's not funny, Colin."
"Sorry."
I pushed the fondue away. I'd lost my appetite.
"I'll make some calls tomorrow and see if I can discover anything."
Shirley gave me a thin smile.
I'd no idea why Barbara had gone silent. And I didn't like to think about what I might find when I made those calls.
***
We left the Swiss Restaurant a few minutes later with the cheese still bubbling in its pot.
With the prospect of my clandestine visit to Steyning Grammar School ahead of me, I was too keyed up to eat. And Shirley was clearly worried about Barbara.
We climbed into my MGB in silence.
But once inside, Shirley rummaged in her handbag and produced a letter.
She said: "I forgot to give you this. It’s addressed to you but it came to my flat."
I took it and looked at the printing on the envelope. “It’s our tickets for the Press Ball,” I said. “I had the tickets sent to your flat because our local postie has been ill lately and his stand-in too often delivers my mail to the wrong house.”
I ripped open the envelope, took out the tickets, and put them in my pocket. I tossed the envelope into the back of the car.
Shirley glanced behind her. The jump seat was covered with a litter of old envelopes, discarded press releases and crumpled newspapers. My private trash pile.
She raised an eyebrow. "And you should clear out that garbage."
“I’ll throw it all away tomorrow,” I said. “Without fail.”
"Yeah! I've heard that before," Shirley said.
I drove Shirl home and we parted at the steps to her basement flat. I promised I'd call her as soon as I had any news.
I hoped it was a promise I'd be able to keep. If the scam at the school went wrong, I could end up in jail bumming coins for the phone from an old lag in exchange for snout. Perhaps Figgis would provide me with some Woodbines to trade.
Which set me thinking.
I needed an alibi. Someone who would swear blind I was safely home in bed instead of sneaking among the shadows at a school. And I knew just the person to provide it.
***
My landlady Beatrice "the Widow" Gribble has her parlour on the ground floor for a very good reason.
It ensures she can monitor the movements of her tenants. It's nigh on impossible to enter or leave the building without her logging the event. And I should know. I've tried often enough.
So when I arrived back at my lodgings, I made no effort to tip-toe through the hall avoiding the table with the glass ornaments which tinkled when you knocked against them. Instead, I threw open the door and galumphed into the place like a marauding elephant.
I needn't have bothered. The Widow shot out of her parlour and cornered me by the hat stand before I could get my foot on the first tread of the stairs.
She'd put her hair in multi-coloured curlers. There was a net arrangement fixed over the curlers - like she'd captured a collection of small songbirds on her head. She was wearing an ankle-length pink dressing gown and pointy-toe slippers, each with a pompom on top.
I said in a loud voice in words clear enough for her to repeat in a witness box: "I'm very tired, Mrs Gribble, and I'm going upstairs for a long sleep."
Her hand fixed around my arm like a raven's claw.
"Before you do, Mr Crampton, I've had some terrible news."
"Always deal with bad news in the morning. Never late at night," I said.
"This won't wait," she said.
I sighed. It would be quicker in the long run to hear the Widow out.
"What is it?" I said.
"I've been expelled from the West Brighton branch of the Mothers' Union," she said. "It's a disaster. They were the heart of my social life."
I said: "As you don’t have any children, why did they let you join in the first place?"
The Widow looked at the floor, and not just to study the stains on the faded Wilton. She was avoiding my steely gaze.
She said: "It was all a misunderstanding that went too far. It was about three years ago. That Mrs Mangan on the other side of the square asked me if I'd take her little nipper Wendy for a walk in her pram. All this was on account of she'd broken a bone in her foot when she'd dropped a glass ashtray on it. It happened when she rushed to get a final bottle of stout before closing time in the Flag and Trumpet. Mrs Mangan that is, not Wendy. Anyway, as you know I've got a charitable nature - I'm a fool to myself - and I agreed to push the pram as far as the Palace Pier and back."
"And you met someone who thought young Wendy was your own daughter." It wasn't hard to see the way this story was going.
"It was Mrs Thorpe-Henry, the chairwoman of the Mothers' Union. She'd made a few coochy-coo noises at Wendy. And then she invited me to join the Mothers' Union on the spot."
"And you accepted. Why on earth did you do that?"
"Well, Mrs Thorpe-Henry's husband is a company director and they've got a house in Palmeira Square. They've got a refrigerator with an ice box and a television set with a nineteen-inch screen. And they hold all those smart parties where people drink cocktails with olives on sticks. And they eat little bits of toast with dead things on them. My Hector never gave me any of that. I didn’t see why I shouldn't have some of it now the old grouch has gone."
I'd seen the photo of her late hubby on her mantelpiece. He had the defeated expression of a bloke who wished he was somewhere else. But preferably not at a party with little dead things on toast.
The raven's claw tightened around my arm.
"But now they've discovered Wendy isn’t my daughter," the Widow wailed.
"How?"
"They invited Mrs Mangan to join - and I couldn't hide the truth any longer. Mr Crampton, you're a man with a devious mind. I want you to think of a way to get them to let me back in."
I brushed her hand away.
"You could always claim you had a real daughter," I said. "A secret one you've never spoken of."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because she was illegitimate."
"What? You mean I would have to confess to having a child born out of wedlock."
"Exactly. A love child. A nipper born on the wrong side of the blanket. Nullia filia, as the Romans put it."
The Widow's face flushed with anger. A bead of spittle appeared at the side of her mouth.
She stamped her foot. "That is an outrageous suggestion, Mr Crampton. I won't do it. And, furthermore, you will think up a sensible idea or your future here in my commodious apartments will be in question. That is all I've got to say to you. Now go to your bed for that long sleep you so clearly need."
She stormed back into her parlour.
Well, that's the alibi in the bag, I thought. I'd work out how to invent an unknown daughter for the Widow later.
Chapter 8
It was two o'clock when I parked my MGB in a narrow lane on the outskirts of Steyning.
It was a lonely spot - a rough track flanked by tall trees on either side. The wind crooned through their branches in a low moan, like a ghost in pain.
In the distance, the clock on St Andrew's church struck the hour.
Bong.
Bong.
I shivered and pulled my jacket more tightly around me. I jumped as bushes at the side of the road rustled. Something moved. I stared hard. A pair of green eyes stared contemptuously back, blinked and disappeared. A cat on the prowl.
I'd decided to park well away from the school and approach on foot. Now I wondered whether I should. But the last thing I needed was a late-night dog walker to spot the car near the school and put two and two together.
There was a real danger they'd make four.
I'd had no difficulty sneaking out of the Widow's place. I'd stayed awake and listened to her close her parlour door. Her feet clumped down the corridor to her bedroom. The hinges of the bedroom door squeaked as she opened and shut it. I heard her shoot the bolt behind the door. By the time I'd crept down the stairs and let myself silently out, her snores sounded like a s
et of steam bellows.
I'd dressed in dark grey trousers and a black polo-neck sweater. Shirley had given it to me during one her drives to smarten up my image. It made me look like a society cat burglar. But women never listen when they've decided what you ought to wear. I'd slid my hands into a pair of leather gloves that fitted like a second skin. I'd taken them from a dancehall gigolo who'd crossed my path a few months earlier. I'd put on a pair of soft shoes. All the better to creep quietly into places I shouldn't be.
In this rig-out, I felt I could crack the Bank of England.
I locked the car and listened to the night. Deep in the woods an owl hooted. Another, away in the distance, replied. Further down the lane, the lid of a metal dustbin rattled each time a gust caught it. But there was no sound of a car engine. No squeak of the pedals on an ancient pushbike. No crunch as boots scuffed gravel at the side of the lane.
I was alone.
I'd brought a torch with me - we wouldn't be able to switch on lights inside the school. But I decided not to use it as I made my way down the lane. There's nothing alerts people more at night than a light swinging from side to side.
I'd arranged to meet Snitcher Sneath at the foot of Burdock Slope, a side entrance to the school. He'd told me that's where there was a door into the school with a loose latch. A firm shove from the outside would usually open it, he'd said. I hoped he was right.
He'd assured me he'd be able to sneak out of his dorm without anyone giving him away. I had no difficulty believing that. No doubt Snitcher had enough goods on his fellow dorm mates to ensure their silence.
But after this escapade, Snitcher might get clever. He might decide he also had the goods on me. He might feel he'd outgrown a weekly Turkish delight. He might hanker for some serious money from a real grown-up, like his late mentor Spencer Hooke. He might decide he was ready to step into Hooke's shoes.
So at the end of our adventure I would make clear to him the peril of dead men's shoes.
The Mother's Day Mystery Page 6
