by Joyce Porter
The Hon. Con’s agonized yelp could have been heard a mile away. ‘ Warm it up?’ she bellowed. ‘What are you trying to do, Bones? Scald me to death?’
Totally unmoved by the sight of a pair of lobster-pink feet being waved reproachfully in the air, Miss Jones poured out the tea and handed the Hon. Con a cup. ‘Drink this, dear. It’ll make you feel better.’ She settled herself down on the other stool. ‘Now, just tell me calmly and quietly what this is all about.’
‘Only because I’ve got to pass the information on to somebody,’ said the Hon. Con petulantly. ‘In case they find out that I’m on to them and silence me for ever.’
‘Now, now, dear,’ Miss Jones chided her, ‘don’t exaggerate!’
‘I’m not exaggerating! Damn it, they’ve killed once and they’ll kill again, won’t they?’
‘Do you mean Rodney Burberry, dear?’
‘Of course I mean Rodney Burberry, Bones! How many other murder victims do I know, for heaven’s sake?’
‘And you think these – er – conspirators killed that poor boy?’
‘There’s no ‘‘think’’ about it. I know they did. And that’s not all. They tried to kill me last night in the Kama Sutra. Oh, they’ll stop at nothing, this lot!’
For the first time Miss Jones began to take her friend seriously. ‘Constance,’ she gasped, ‘you don’t mean …’
‘I damned well do!’ snapped the Hon. Con. ‘They tried to poison me.’
‘But …’
‘Oh, I know you thought I was drunk, Bones, but I jolly well wasn’t. The breathalyser test thing showed that. If I’d been drunk those crystals would have turned the proper colour, wouldn’t they? Well, they didn’t and I wasn’t. I’d been poisoned, that’s all.’
‘Not arsenic, dear?’ wailed Miss Jones.
‘Doubt it,’ said the Hon. Con nonchalantly. ‘ Don’t suppose they’d be daft enough to try and pull the same trick twice. Probably tried something else on me. One of those rare, exotic venoms from South America or somewhere that slays without leaving a trace. However’ – she let fly with a laugh that shivered the water in the washing up bowl – ‘they met their match in me, by golly!’ She thumped herself heartily in the chest. ‘Iron constitution!’ she boasted. ‘Comes of keeping yourself in the pink! Anybody else’d have gone down like a pole-axed rabbit – but not me! I just’ – she waved a careless hand – ‘threw it off.’
‘Oh, Constance!’ Miss Jones went quite white. ‘ How dreadful!’
‘They kept plying me with that Coca-Cola stuff,’ the Hon Con explained solemnly. ‘My suspicions were aroused at the time, of course, but in the circumstances there wasn’t much I could do about it.’ Gallantly – ‘Just had to grin and bear it. Stiff upper lip, you know.’
‘But, Constance, why should they want to murder you? You’ve never done any harm to anybody. You’re the kindest, sweetest, gentlest …’
The Hon. Con cut ruthlessly through the eulogy. ‘ Because I’m on to something, that’s why!’ she growled ‘Everybody else accepted poor Rodney’s death as suicide, except me. So, when I start snooping around and asking awkward questions, they aren’t left with much choice, are they? They’ve got to get rid of me.’
‘Do you think they’ll try again?’
‘Eh?’ It was the Hon. Con’s turn to go pale. She’d been so intent on impressing Miss Jones that the brutal logic of what she was saying hadn’t quite sunk in. ‘Well, they might,’ she admitted in a shaky voice.
‘You must go straight to the police, dear.’
‘How can I?’ whined the Hon. Con, toning down the braggadocio with remarkable speed. ‘I don’t know anything properly yet. They’ll be like you.’ she added nastily, ‘and just laugh at me. I can’t go to the police until I’ve got proper evidence and everything.’
‘In that case, you are quite right, Constance, dear.’ Miss Jones put her tea cup down on the draining board. ‘You must tell me all your suspicions, in detail. Then, if they do succeed in killing you the next time they try, your knowledge won’t die with you. I’ll be able to go to the police and tell them all about it.’
‘Oh, cripes!’ said the Hon. Con.
‘Now’ – Miss Jones got all brisk and businesslike – ‘let’s start right at the beginning, dear. Who exactly are these conspirators?’
‘The teenagers. They’re planning to take over the whole town without anybody realizing what’s happening – and they could do it, too. You just want to keep your eyes open, Bones! Totterbridge is alive with teenagers! They’re in the offices, on the buses, in the shops and all over the blooming place. You can’t get away from them.’
‘Yes, dear’ agreed Miss Jones mildly, ‘but there are teenagers everywhere. It’s all those week-end leaves they used to give the soldiers during the war. My dear father always said no good would come of it.’
‘Ah – but Totterbridge’s teenagers are organized. That’s the difference, you see.’
‘Organized, dear?’
‘I met the ringleader in the Kama Sutra last night. He told me the whole thing. A dreadful young man, he is. Calls himself Jack the John. He was bragging about how he’d got the town under his control. I didn’t take much notice at the time but – by golly – I saw it with my own eyes today. We’re surrounded, Bones old fruit, completely surrounded. Every step you take you’re watched by one or the other of these youngsters from the Kama Sutra. Take me, for instance. I’ll bet this Jack the John’s had a full report by now of every move I made. I was tripping over his blooming minions at every turn.’
Miss Jones looked at her friend doubtfully. ‘You say this gang leader told you all about his scheme last night, dear? That was rather foolish of him, wasn’t it? Spilling the – er – beans like that? I don’t understand why he should be so … Oh, silly me!’ Miss Jones tittered. ‘ Of course – he didn’t think you’d live to tell the tale, did he? He was already poisoning you then!’
The Hon. Con scowled. Being murdered wasn’t anything to snigger about. ‘ Quite,’ she said curtly. ‘Well, there it is. The overall plan is obviously to run the town for their benefit and financial profit – blackmail, protection rackets, intimidation and all that sort of thing. Today, though, they were fully occupied in keeping tabs on me. There was that coloured boy on the bus, a lad called Eric in the off-licence, a girl in the chemist’s and Jack the John’s popsie in the milk bar. Heaven only knows how many others there were that I didn’t even notice.’
‘And all because you’ve uncovered the fact that Rodney Burberry was murdered!’ breathed Miss Jones, wide-eyed with excitement and admiration. ‘Oh, Constance, aren’t you marvellous, dear!’
‘Just routine,’ rumbled the Hon. Con with becoming modesty. ‘Anybody could have done the same – with my gifts, of course.’
‘And how did they actually kill this poor Rodney boy, dear?’
‘Poisoned him, of course. What else?’
‘But how did they do it, dear?’
‘Well, I don’t know exactly. Got to work that out – but Jack the John and his mob are mixed up in it somewhere, you can bet your boots on that. Eric – that’s the boy in the off-licence – he could have put the poison in the whisky before Rodney even bought it. The girl at the chemist’s could have provided the rat poison or …’
‘But I thought Rodney bought the Kil’mkwik stuff himself, dear?’
‘That’s what they say,’ said the Hon. Con darkly. ‘Fact, when you come right down to it, practically all the evidence has come from what these Kama Sutra kids say. I reckon it’s not worth the breath it was spoken with. They’re probably lying their heads off, the whole pack of ’em.’
‘I suppose so, dear.’ Miss Jones got up and poured the Hon. Con out another cup of tea. ‘There’s still one thing I’m not absolutely clear about, though. Why did they kill Rodney in the first place?’
The Hon. Con wriggled uneasily on her stool. ‘ Oh, there could be thousands of reasons. He and Jack the John could have been engaged in some
sort of power struggle to control the Kama Sutra set-up or, maybe, Rodney was going to blow the gaff to the cops. I’ve only just started my investigations, you know. I’ve got a lot more digging to do before I can come up with all the answers.’
‘Oh, isn’t it exciting!’ cooed Miss Jones. ‘I do envy you, Constance, dear! I wish I could go off and detect things like you do but I’m just not clever enough, I’m afraid. What’s your next step going to be?’
‘Dunno, yet. Probably have to go poking around into Rodney’s background a bit more. If I can unearth the motive for the crime, it’d be a big help. I really don’t know an awful lot about him at the moment.’
‘It’s no good asking his teenage friends anything,’ Miss Jones pointed out shrewdly. ‘You wouldn’t be able to rely on anything they told you.’
‘Course not,’ agreed the Hon. Con, trying to imply that any fool could have worked that out.
‘What about his parents?’ asked Miss Jones.
The Hon. Con glowered. There was such a thing as being too bloody helpful. ‘ Doubt if they’d know much,’ she said.
‘Or his employers? Or’ – Miss Jones clapped her hands in girlish delight. ‘Oh, Constance, I’ve had a wonderful idea! Why don’t you go and see Rodney’s probation officer? You know, the one who was supposed to be keeping an eye on Rodney after he came out of Borstal. I’m sure he’d be able to help you with background material. After all, it is his job, isn’t it? He’s a Mr Stark-Denoon, dear, and you’ll find …’
‘Bones’ thundered the Hon. Con, for whom the last straw was rapidly approaching, ‘ how do you know what the probation officer’s name is?’
Miss Jones began to look flustered. ‘Well, you must have told me, mustn’t you, dear? I mean, how else would I know?’
‘Because you’ve been nosing in my police files, that’s how!’ roared the Hon. Con. ‘I told you to keep your inquisitive paws off ’em, didn’t I?’
‘I was just dusting round your desk, dear, and …’
‘Dusting, hell! Snooping, that’s what you were doing! If I catch you at it again, I’ll have your guts for garters! Comprenez, Bones?’
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ murmured Miss Jones abjectly. ‘ I just couldn’t resist the temptation. But it’s still a good idea, isn’t it? To go and see Rodney’s probation officer?’
‘It’s a damned stupid idea!’ snapped the Hon. Con. ‘And only an unimaginative half-wit like you would have thought of it. In future, Bones, when I want your advice, I’ll ask for it!’
Which dogmatic statement made things a trifle awkward for the Hon. Con when, on the following morning, she set out to call on the late Rodney Burberry’s probation officer. She’d lain awake half the night searching for some alternative but Miss Jones’s silly suggestion seemed to have hypnotized her. She just couldn’t think of anything else to do. It was dashed annoying and the Hon. Con duly paid Miss Jones out for her presumption by sulking all through breakfast.
Her decision to take the car was only partly prompted by spite. She didn’t want to cross swords with that dark-skinned bus conductor again and walking was right out of the question.
But, even in her own car, she soon found that she wasn’t safe. She stopped for petrol at her usual garage. In the past she’d never paid much attention to the attendant on the pumps but now she watched him approach with considerable trepidation. That ambling walk, the long hair, the drooping moustache, the grubby jeans – dear heavens, they were practically a uniform!
He leaned companionably on the roof of the mini. ‘Well, hello, Butch!’ he grinned. ‘ How’ve you been keeping, eh?’
Grimly the Hon. Con ignored the query. ‘ Two gallons, please.’
‘Two gallons it shall be, Butch! Pull over to the end pump, my friend!’
‘I don’t want the top grade,’ objected the Hon. Con. ‘This one’ll do me fine.’
‘Of course it will, Butch, pricewise. Me, I’m going to give you and the faithful old jalopy here a treat. Top octanes for bottom money, eh? And not a word to the boss!’
The Hon. Con was constitutionally incapable of turning down a bargain offer. The saving of tenpence could salve the pangs of a guilty conscience any old day of the week. She meekly accepted an equally immoral double ration of gift coupons and drove off wondering whether the five guineas it had cost her to join the Kama Sutra was going to be as big a waste of money as she had feared.
Totterbridge’s quota of probation officers was quartered in a crumbling old house round at the back of the Town Hall. It was far from being ideal accommodation but, as the Mayor had said amidst cheers from his fellow councillors, Totterbridge was not a rich town and new robes for the aldermen were absolutely essential for the maintenance of the borough’s civic dignity. The roof of the probation offices was, moreover, still structurally sound and would certainly not actually fall down before the beginning of the next financial year when the whole question of modernization and decoration would be reconsidered by the appropriate committee.
The Hon. Con found a nice parking space right outside the front door. It was labelled ‘Reserved for the Chairman of the Youth Employment Committee’ but the Hon. Con held that all privileges not based on birth were undemocratic. Feeling much happier she locked up the Mini and marched across the road. The front door was ajar. The Hon. Con pushed it open, went inside and began perusing the various signs and notices stuck up in the hallway. The largest one said ‘Enquiries’ and had an arrow on it pointing back towards the depths of the old kitchen quarters. The Hon. Con, not unversed in the ways of bureaucracy, treated this with the contempt it deserved and went on reading until she found what she was looking for: IST Floor, Room 9 – Mr A. G. Stark-Denoon, MC, DCM, BEM. She noted that somebody had added the letters SOD in shaky pencil at the end of Mr Stark-Denoon’s decorations but she was not surprised. The building would obviously be frequented by a very common type of person.
She ascended the uncarpeted stairs and found Room 9 right opposite her at the top. She had just time to read yet another notice: Knock at your Peril ! ! ! – when the door was flung open and a ginger-haired boy came through at some speed. He was rubbing a large lump on the top of his head and appeared to be crying. The Hon. Con watched him scamper down the stairs and out of the front door.
‘H’unspeakable little ponce!’ proclaimed a deep voice from behind her.
She turned to find a tall, stoutly-built man standing in the open doorway. His red face with its large, waxed moustaches was expressionless but he was slowly slapping a leather covered swagger stick into the palm of his left hand. The deliberate, rhythmic thudding was heavy and impressive.
The Hon. Con waited for him to acknowledge her presence but his eyes remained, bulging slightly, fixed on the front door. After a few moments he sucked in a mouthful of air through his moustache. ‘I’ll gut ’im the next time I gets my ’ands on ’im,’ he said softly.
The Hon. Con gave a little cough. ‘Er – can you tell me where I can find Mr Stark-Denoon, please?’
The waxed points on the moustache swung round towards her like guns on a battleship and the protruding eyes raked her up and down. ‘H’outraged parent?’
The Hon. Con shook her head.
‘Pity. I’m just in the mood for an h’outraged parent.’ He clasped his hands round both ends of his swagger stick, raised it level with his nose and bent it with an audible grunt. ‘ Snooper from the Town ’All, p’raps?’
‘Certainly not!’ said the Hon. Con.
‘No.’ The big man nodded his head slowly. ‘I didn’t think they’d send h’any more round, not h’after the last one.’ His left eye gave a disconcerting twitch. ‘Not a do-gooder, are you? Can’t h’abide do-gooders. H’only one language my young bastards h’understand and I speak it.’ He lifted one meaty fist and clenched it. ‘ Law of the jungle,’ he muttered.
‘Oh, quite,’ said the Hon. Con and moved back a pace or two just in case. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I’ve come about one of the boys who …’
‘Ho?’ A barely perceptible change took place in the big man’s features and he looked almost happy. ‘H’I’ve got you! A complainant! That’s more like it! Well, just give us the little swine’s name and h’I’ll rip ’is lousy lug-holes off for you.’
‘Are you Mr Stark-Denoon?’ asked the Hon. Con suspiciously.
The big man nodded his head.
‘The probation officer?’
‘That’s right. Who h’are you?’
The Hon. Con told him and was delighted to see that he was impressed.
‘A honourable, eh? I served under h’a honourable once. ’ Ee was a right pig, ’ee was. Best h’officer we ever ’ad.’ Mr Stark-Denoon’s eyes glazed over and he chuckled quietly to himself. ‘A beaut of a bastard!’
‘Do you think I could have a few words with you, Mr Stark-Denoon, in private?’
Mr Stark-Denoon came back to the present with a jerk. ‘H’of course, ma’am! My h’office is just through ’ere.’ He stood smartly aside to let the Hon. Con precede him through the doorway. Judging it to a nicety, he waited until her right foot was poised over the threshold and then let out so powerful a roar that the veins stood out on his forehead. ‘H’atten … shun!’
The Hon. Con shot forward into what appeared to be a waiting room. Three boys who had been sitting on the chairs lining the wall sprang to their feet as one man.
It was not, however, good enough for Mr Stark-Denoon. Breathing heavily he reached past the Hon. Con and caught the nearest lad a resounding thwack across the head with his swagger stick. ‘Look lively, you mongrel!’ he admonished him.
Involuntarily the boy half raised an arm. With a growl of fury Mr Stark-Denoon lashed out again and scored a crunching bull’s eye just above the elbow.
‘H’anybody h’else want to join the mutiny?’ asked Mr Stark-Denoon.
Nobody did and for a few moments a perfect stillness reigned while the probation officer stared at his victims and mentally dared them to breathe.
The Hon. Con was beginning to see spots in front of her eyes (a well known by-product of oxygen starvation) when Mr Stark-Denoon decided that the nascent rebellion against his authority had been quelled. Giving the Hon. Con a respectful nudge in the small of the back with his swagger stick, he indicated that she should proceed across the waiting room into his private office.
