by Mike Ashley
Giles spread his hands. “A hiccup.”
Norbert tried to keep his face from showing what he was thinking, which was, essentially, “How can I resolve this in such a way as to keep Susan Chaplin from harm – because no-one deserves to hang for what she did – and keep me from harm, and land bloody Giles in it?”
He went off for a walk around the fishpond to sharpen his appetite. As he left the room, Giles called after him: “There are many ways of slitting one’s own throat, Sergeant, but I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”
“Don’t worry,” said Norbert. “I will.” Halfway through his walk, having abandoned his search for the answer, the correct question occurred to him: what did Giles want him to do? Keep the killing quiet. Write it up as a mundane accident, or better still a heart attack in the bath. And, since that would broadly serve Norbert’s immediate interests as well, that was what Giles expected him to do.
Which made the whole thing much simpler.
Giles was asleep when his aeroplane was stolen. Comrade Boggy wasn’t, he very much suspected, but he couldn’t prove it. He didn’t hear it take off, because it was first towed to a field at the other end of the estate by a team of horses.
As luck would have it – luck, or information received – it was officers from the Special Branch who discovered Sir Reginald Lloyd’s corpse in the pilot’s seat of the aircraft, upon their arrival at Croydon Aerodrome the following day. They didn’t openly disbelieve Giles’s account of Sir Reginald’s death, but when the rest of Lord Bognor’s guests were unable to recall the industrialist’s presence at the house, there seemed little point in pursuing the matter.
His reputation and career stained to a degree which was downright embarrassing, Giles Macready would very much have liked to discuss the affair, robustly and frankly, with Detective Sergeant Norbert Whistler. This desire was something on which, uniquely, Giles and the Special Branch reached early accord; but by then, Comrade Norbert was thousands of miles away. In a hot country, as it happened, on a roof, taking the sun and looking to the future.
Bullets
PETER LOVESEY
Peter Lovesey has produced an interesting range of historical mystery novels. His first and perhaps still best known are those featuring the Victorian police detective Sergeant Cribb, starting with Wobble to Death (1970). Equally popular are his novels featuring Bertie, Prince of Wales (and future King Edward VII) as a sleuth, starting with Bertie and the Tin Man (1987). His others include a 1920s mystery, The False Inspector Dew (1982), set on a translatlantic liner and which won him the Crime Writers Association’s Gold Dagger Award as that year’s best novel. For the following story Peter turns to the craze for magazine competitions and mottos, which reached new heights in the twenties – the first crossword puzzle to appear in Britain was in Pearson’s Magazine in February 1922.
“You can remove the body.”
“Was it definitely . . . ?”
“Suicide, I’d stake my life on it,” said Inspector Carew, a forceful man. “Single bullet to the head. Gun beside him. Ex-army fellow who didn’t return his weapon when the war ended. This must be the third or fourth case I’ve seen. The world has changed too much for them – the wireless, a Labour Government, the bright young things. All these poor fellows have got is their memories of the war, and who wants to think about that?”
“He didn’t leave a note.”
“Are you questioning my conclusion?”
“Absolutely not, Inspector.”
“I suggest you get on with your job, then. I’m going to speak to the family.”
The family consisted of the dead man’s widow, Emily Flanagan, a pretty, dark-haired woman not much over thirty; and her father, whose name was Russell. They were sitting at the kitchen table in 7, Albert Street, their small suburban house in Teddington. They had a bottle of brandy between them.
The inspector accepted a drink and knocked it back in one swig. When talking to the recently bereaved he needed all the lubrication he could get. He gave them his findings and explained that there would need to be a post mortem to confirm the cause, obvious as it was. “You didn’t find a note, I suppose?” he said.
Emily Flanagan shook her head.
“Did anything occur that could have induced him to take his own life? Bad news? An argument?”
Mrs Flanagan looked across at her father.
“No argument,” the old man said. “And that’s beyond dispute.”
Mrs Flanagan clapped her hands twice and said, “Good one, Daddy.”
Inspector Carew didn’t follow what was going on, except that these two seemed more cheerful than they should.
“As a matter of fact,” Mrs Flanagan said, “Patrick was in a better mood than I’ve seen him for some time.” The ends of her mouth turned up in what wasn’t quite a smile, more a comment on the vagary of fate.
“This was last night?”
“And for some days. He was singing Horsey, Keep Your Tail Up in the bathroom.”
“Bracing himself?” said the inspector. His theory of depression was looking shaky.
“What do you mean, ‘bracing himself’?”
“For the, em . . .”
“Felo de se,” said old Mr Russell. “Felo de se – fellow’s sad day.”
“Daddy, please,” said Mrs Flanagan.
The inspector decided that the old man had drunk too much brandy. This wasn’t a comfortable place to be. As soon as he’d got the essential details he was leaving. “I understand you were both woken by the shot.”
“About midnight, yes,” the widow said, glancing at her fingernails. She was holding up remarkably.
“You came downstairs and found him in his office?”
She nodded. “He called it his den. And Father came in soon after.”
“He’d given no indication of taking his own life?”
“He liked his own life, Inspector.”
“What was his work?”
“He was an actor. He was currently playing in Bulldog Drummond at the Richmond Theatre. It was only a small role as a gangster, but he did it to perfection. They’ll miss him dreadfully.”
The inspector was tempted to ask, “And will you?” But he kept his lips buttoned. “Bulldog Drummond. I can’t say I’ve read it.”
“It has a sub-title,” said Mrs Flanagan. “Daddy, can you remember the sub-title?”
“The Adventures of a Demobilized Officer Who Found Peace Dull.”
“I knew he’d know it,” she said. “Being housebound, Daddy has more time for reading than the rest of us. ‘A Demobilized Officer Who Found Peace Dull.’”
This was closer to Inspector Carew’s diagnosis. “Poignant, in the circumstances.”
“Oh, I don’t agree. Patrick’s life was anything but dull.”
“So last night he would have returned late from the theatre?”
“About half-past eleven, usually.”
“Perhaps he was overtired.”
“Patrick?” she said with an inappropriate laugh. “He was inexhaustible.”
“Did he have a difficult war?”
“Didn’t every soldier? I thought he’d put all that behind him.”
“Apparently not, unless there was something else.” The inspector was beginning to revise his theory. “Forgive me for asking this, Mrs Flanagan. Was your marriage entirely successful?”
The lips twitched again. “I dare say he had lapses.”
“Lapses,” said old Mr Russell. “Like lasses on laps.”
This piece of wit earned no more than a frown from his daughter. She said to the inspector, “Patrick was an actor. Enough said?”
“Didn’t it anger you?”
“We had tiffs if I caught him out, as I sometimes did.”
“You seem to treat it lightly, if I may say so.”
“Because they were minor indiscretions, kissing and canoodling.”
The inspector wasn’t certain of the meaning of “canoodling,” but he guessed it didn’t amount to
adultery. “Not a cause for suicide, then?”
“Good Lord, no.”
“And how was the balance of his mind, would you say?”
“Are you asking me if he was mad?”
“When he shot himself, yes.”
“I wasn’t there when he shot himself, but I think it highly unlikely. He never lost control.”
“Well, then,” the inspector said, preparing to leave, “it will be for the coroner to decide. He may wish to visit the scene himself, so I’m leaving the, ahem, den as it is, apart from the, ahem . . .”
“Mortal remains?” old Mr Russell suggested.
“So please don’t tidy anything up. Leave it exactly as it is.” He picked up his hat and left.
Mrs Flanagan had barely started her next brandy when the doorbell rang again. “Damn. Who’s that?” she said.
Her father wobbled to the door and admitted a fat, bald man in a cassock. He smelt of tobacco. “Father Montgomery,” he said.
“Should we know you?” she asked.
“I was Padre to your husband in France. I’m the incumbent of St Saviour’s in Richmond. I heard from one of my congregation that he’d been gathered, so I came at once to see what I could do.”
“Very little,” said Mrs Flanagan. “ ‘Gathered’ isn’t the word I would use. He killed himself. That’s a lost soul in your religion, isn’t it?”
The priest sighed heavily. “That is distressing. I know he wasn’t a regular worshipper, but he was brought up in the Church of Rome. He professed himself a Catholic when pressed.”
Old Mr Russell said in a parade-ground chant, “Fall out the Jews and Catholics.”
“Exactly, sir. So I do have a concern over the destiny of poor Patrick’s soul. Is it certain?”
“If you call putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger certain, I would say it is,” said Mrs Flanagan, wanting to be rid of this visitor. “We’ve had the police here and they confirm it.”
“His service revolver, I suppose? How I wish the army had been more responsible in collecting all the weapons they issued. May I see the room?”
“Is that necessary?”
“I would like to remove all doubt from my mind that this was suicide.”
“You have a doubt?”
His eyes flicked upwards. “I have a duty, my dear.”
She showed him into Patrick’s den, a small room with a desk surrounded by bookshelves. Her father shuffled in after them.
The body had been removed, but otherwise the room was just as the police had seen it, with the revolver lying on the desk.
“Please don’t touch anything,” Mrs Flanagan said.
The priest made a performance of linking his thumbs behind his back. He leaned over and peered at the gun. “Service issue, as I expected,” he said. “Did the police examine the chambers for bullets?”
“Empty. He only needed the one.”
“Where did he keep the gun?”
“In the bottom drawer – but don’t open it.”
Father Montgomery had little option but to look about him at the bookshelves. There were plays by Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw. “Did he act in any of these?”
“No. He collected them for personal reading. He was a well-read man.”
“Well-read,” said old Mr Russell. “Oh, essay, essay, essay.”
“Father adores his word-play,” Mrs Flanagan. “Not one of your very best, Daddy.”
The books continued to interest the priest. There was a shelf of detective stories above the drama section featuring works by Conan Doyle, E.W.Hornung and G.K. Chesterton. Three by the author who called himself “Sapper” were lying horizontally above the others. One was Bulldog Drummond, the novel of the play the dead man had appeared in. On another high shelf were some volumes the priest wished he hadn’t noticed, among them Married Love, by Marie Stopes. But his eyes were drawn inexorably to Family Limitation, by Margaret Sanger – not for its provocative title but for the round hole he noticed in the binding.
“Might I ask for a dispensation to handle one of the books?”
“Why?” asked Mrs Flanagan.
“Because I think I see a bullet hole through the spine.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” said Mrs Flanagan, forgetting herself. “Where?”
The priest unclasped his hands and pointed. “Do you mind?” He reached for the book and removed it. Sure enough, there was a scorched round hole penetrating this book and its neighbour, The Psychology of Sex, by Havelock Ellis. “Didn’t the police remark on this?”
“They didn’t notice it. What can it mean?”
“Presumably, that two shots were fired and this one missed. If you look, the bullet penetrated the wood behind the books. Do you recall hearing two shots?”
“I couldn’t say for sure. I was asleep. I thought it was one shot that disturbed me, but I suppose there could have been two.”
“And this was when?”
“About midnight, according to the clock in my room. Daddy, can you recall two shots?”
“Aldershot and Bagshot,” said the waggish Mr Russell.
“It’s a puzzle,” said the priest, rotating his head, his eyes taking in all of the books. He replaced the damaged volume and turned his attention to the floor. “There should be two spent cartridges unless someone removed them.”
“Do you think you’re a better detective than the police?” Mrs Flanagan said, becoming irritated.
“No, but I work for a Higher Authority.” He pushed his foot under the edge of the carpet and rolled the corner back towards the chair. He couldn’t be accused of touching anything; his feet had to go somewhere. “Hey ho, what’s this?”
Under the carpet was a magazine.
“Leave it,” said Mrs Flanagan.
“We’re allowed to look,” said Father Montgomery, bending low. The magazine was the current issue of John Bull, that patriotic weekly edited by Horatio Bottomley. The number seven was scribbled on the cover in pencil.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” said old Mr Russell.
“Is that your magazine, Daddy?” Mrs Flanagan asked him. “You said it was missing.”
“No, mine’s upstairs.”
“We have it delivered every Thursday. Father does the competition,” Mrs Flanagan explained. “What’s the competition called, Daddy?”
“Bullets.”
“Right.” She gave her half-smile. “Ironic. He sometimes wins a prize. They give a list of phrases and the readers are invited to add an original comment in no more than four words. Give us an example, Daddy.”
“‘Boarding House Philosophy: Let Bygones Be Rissoles’”
“Nice one. What about one for the church? What’s that famous one?”
“‘Wedding March: Aisle Altar Hymn’.”
“That won five hundred pounds for someone before the war. Daddy’s best effort won him twenty-five, but he keeps trying. You’re sure this isn’t your copy, Daddy?”
“Mine’s upstairs, I said.”
“All right, don’t get touchy. We’d best keep this under the carpet in case it’s important, but I can’t think why.” Mrs Flanagan nudged the carpet back in place with a pointed patent leather toecap, wanting to hasten the priest’s departure. “Is there anything else we can do for you, Father Montgomery?”
“Not for the present, except . . .”
“Except what?”
“If I may, I’d like to borrow your father’s John Bull.”
“I’ll fetch it now,” said the old man.
And he did.
Father Montgomery returned to Richmond and went backstage at the theatre. It was still early in the afternoon and there was no matinee, but some of the actors were on stage rehearsing next week’s production.
He spotted the person who had first informed him of Patrick Flanagan’s sudden death. Brendan was painting scenery, a fine, realistic bay window with a sea view behind.
“My dear boy,” the priest said, “I’m so pleased to catch you h
ere.”
“What can I do for you, Father?”
“I’ve come from the house of poor Patrick Flanagan, rest his soul.”
“We’re heartbroken, Father. He was a lovely man.”
“Indeed. Would you happen to know if he had a lady friend at all?”
“You mean Daisy Truelove, Father?”
“I suppose I do, if you say so. Where would I find her?”
“She’s in the ladies’ dressing room.”
“And how would I coax her out of there?”
“You could try knocking on the door and saying ‘A gentleman for Miss Daisy’.”
He tried, and it worked. She flung open the door, a flurry of fair, curly hair and cheap scent, her eyes shining in anticipation. “Hello, darling – oh, my hat.” She’d spotted the clerical collar.
“Miss Truelove?”
She nodded.
“The friend of Patrick Flanagan?”
The pretty face creased at the name. “Poor Patrick, yes.”
“Would you mind telling me if you saw him yesterday evening?”
“Why, yes, Father. He was in the play, and so am I. I’m Lola, the gangster’s moll.”
“After it was over?”
“I saw him then, too. Some of us went for a drink at the Star and Garter. Patrick ordered oysters and champagne. He said he’d recently come into some money.”
“Oysters and champagne until when?”
“About half-past eleven.”
“And then?”
She hesitated. “Do you really need to know?”
“Think of me as a vessel.”
“A ship, Father?”
He blinked. “Not exactly. More like a receptacle for anything you can tell me in confidence.”
“You want to hear my confession?”
“Not unless you have something to confess.”
She bit her lip. “We went on a river steamer.”
“At night?”
“It was moored by the bridge. It had fairylights and music and there was dancing. So romantic. He ordered more bubbly and it must have gone to my head. We finally got home about four in the morning. I’d better say that again. I got home about four in the morning. We said goodnight at the door of my lodgings. There was nothing improper, Father. Well, nothing totally improper, if you know what I mean.”
