Resort to Murder

by TP Fielden

  Gavin wished he’d got the glue-pot handy – a nice dollop across Tommy’s gob would do him a power of good.

  ‘Not now, Tom. Listen, we’re going to endorse a new product called the Youthenator. My old pal Gus Wetherby has invented this machine which makes you feel sexy and at the same time gives you a bit of a jolt, like taking pep pills.’

  He went on to explain the deal he’d struck – free advertising for the band and a useful cash payment, as long as they agreed to having their photograph taken with the Youthenator and endorsing it onstage during the act.

  ‘Does it work?’ asked Danny.

  ‘No idea,’ came the breezy reply. ‘Somehow I doubt it. Gus was notorious at school for getting away with it – he always used to come in the first half-dozen when we went out cross-country running. Knew all the corners to cut.’

  ‘If it doesn’t work the idea could rebound,’ said Danny. ‘People complaining. Think of our reputation.’

  ‘What reputation?’ snapped Gavin, who’d already signed the contract with Gus on the band’s behalf. ‘The thing’s just a gimmick. It’ll work because of auto-suggestion.’

  ‘Auto …?’

  ‘The same phenomenon which put you at the top of the charts,’ said Gavin cynically. ‘People think you chaps can sing. Well, maybe you can, but not as well as they think you do. Just remember what you sound like when the tapes get played back in the studio before the recording engineer sprinkles his magic dust all over them.

  ‘No,’ he went on, ‘when you play, you make those girls feel wild and you give ’em an electric shock. You make them want to go on all night, and that’s what the Youthenator does. Put the two together – we could make a million!’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Boots, who had been sitting quietly in the corner with his paper. ‘This sounds like something else, something called a Rejuvenator. It killed my mother.’

  There was a terrible silence.

  ‘Erm,’ said Gavin, ‘I’m sure it’s not the same thing at all.’

  ‘Box with wires, a couple of tubes connected to them? Uses electricity? Elaborate instructions for use?’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’

  ‘This chap, your friend, he’s not connected to a man called Ben Larsson, by any chance?’

  Gavin was beginning to feel decidedly queasy about having signed the contract. ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘He’s his stepson.’

  ‘How come you got this deal?’

  ‘Gus came to see me, he heard we’re in town. He lives in a fabulous house on the top of the cliffs. Honestly,’ he urged, ‘if we go with this deal, we could ALL end up with a fabulous house on the top of a cliff. Come on, now …’

  McGuigan’s face was like granite. ‘Give me the address,’ he said commandingly.

  His voice sounded ugly.

  The serene calm of the Chinese Singing Teacher was rarely disrupted – it was almost like being in church, only with a cup of tea, when you sat in its faded rooms. Everyone who dropped in understood how precious this place was in the noisy modern world, and did nothing to disrupt its tranquillity.

  That is, apart from the party of six or seven late on Thursday afternoon who occupied a far corner rattling their cups, scraping their chairs, occupying more space than was strictly necessary and acting generally as if they owned the place. Even in the furthermost corner where the ever-solicitous Mr So stood ready to attend to their needs, there could be sensed a jagged disharmony.

  ‘Now to the Big One,’ grated a tall and muscular woman who sat, trousered legs spread, at the head of the table. She pointed her chin at a delicate blonde, her eyebrows instructing the poor thing to speak up.

  ‘May I ask, Commandant, whether you feel we’re quite ready for this? After all, in Paignton things did not quite go according to plan. There was a certain loss of face, would you not say?’

  Ursula Guedella made an angry gesture. ‘People who can’t keep their heads have no place in the Sisterhood,’ she snapped. ‘Valerie tripped over and started crying. Then Ann Constable forgot what she was supposed to do. As for Heather, words fail me – heaven knows, we’d rehearsed it often enough beforehand!’

  ‘To be fair, Commandant, Valerie works in the library. She is unused to stress, let alone outright aggression.’

  ‘Then she should not have joined us.’ The Commandant planted her elbows on the table and those nearest to her moved slightly aside. She was very intimidating.

  ‘The Sisters of Reason ask much of each and every member,’ she said. ‘You know that. Everyone is expected to excel, exceed their own expectations, take pride in their achievements. When I joined the Hospital Corps and went to Serbia, I contracted malaria and had to be stretchered off the battlefield. But I came back, I was not to be beaten.’ She pushed back a lock of hair with an angular movement.

  ‘I think we are all proud of your Croix de Charité,’ said Ann Constable, sweetly, from the far end of the table. She was small and pretty and in love with Ursula.

  The Commandant absently fingered the thin red ribbon which passed through the buttonhole of her lapel. ‘That is why I founded this Sisterhood,’ she said solidly. ‘I learnt in the Girl Guides the need for order. I learned from the Hospital Corps the need for discipline. In Serbia I learned the need for exceptional courage. All these things I bring to this movement, and I expect as much from each and every one of you.’

  The women around the table studied their teacups. They’d heard it before. Ursula was inspirational, but left unchecked was rather inclined to bang on. On the other hand, who else was there in this country prepared to kick over the table and demand the rights for women which once had been theirs but had been swept away?

  ‘It was a bit of a mess, Commandant,’ said Angela de Mauny.

  ‘It got the right result.’

  ‘The Mothers’ Union are calling us a fascist organisation.’

  ‘They don’t know the meaning of the word,’ barked Ursula. ‘And who are they, anyway? What have they done since the war to bring about change?’

  Mr So looked unhappily from his perch at the far end of the room and wondered how much longer they would stay. And, he wondered, would they come again? This was the second time. He could not understand the attraction of his establishment for this clandestine group, but then he did not comprehend the thrill of making and keeping secrets.

  ‘Look,’ said Ursula. ‘We must prepare ourselves for the day, for the Big One, and constantly remind ourselves why we are doing this. We must risk our liberty and our reputations! We must be bold and brave and big-hearted – and you all know why!

  ‘Equal pay, we don’t have it. Women in the clergy, we don’t have them. Cabinet ministers? Don’t make me laugh! Even when you go to the cinema for every woman in a film there are ten or twenty men.’

  Her followers nodded earnestly.

  ‘We fought the war shoulder-to-shoulder with those … men … and they told us we were equal. Are we? Will we ever be, unless the Sisters take direct action?’

  These Devon colleagues, she felt, lacked the sense of urgency of their metropolitan cousins. They were slower to show anger and whatever direct action they took was likely to be less effective … perhaps, down here, they were all just too nice.

  Nonetheless she’d found, and drilled, this small but reasonably effective unit to add to the burgeoning groups around the country, each set the task of pushing forward the march of equality. Here in Temple Regis, a huge protest against beauty pageants. In Canterbury, an embarrassment for the Archbishop at his Easter sermon. In the House of Commons, the showering of confetti from the public gallery onto the heads of Cabinet ministers. At Elstree and Shepperton, broken glass under the tyres of the male stars’ limousines.

  So far, the national press remained united in its opposition to the actions of the Sisters of Reason. Newspapers sought either to ridicule them, suggesting their number was made up of groups of women who had been unlucky in love, or else exaggerate a sense of alarm at the
ir actions. Not a single newspaper, from The Times to the Daily Sketch, bothered to examine their arguments or discuss the very issues the Sisters were trying to introduce into public debate. So far their operations had been largely ignored – but not after the Day of Action!

  ‘Shall I order some more tea, Commandant?’ asked Ann Constable. She didn’t really want it, but hoped to bring the conversation round to more harmonious topics. Politics did not much concern her, but the idea of sisters together did.

  ‘Go ahead,’ snapped Ursula without turning her head. Ann blushed and went in search of Mr So.

  Angela de Mauny, though still in the shadow of the Commandant, was less in awe. ‘Can I just say I had a most sympathetic article from that woman Miss Dimont on my lecture on the Six Point Group. Don’t you think we should make more use of the local press?’

  ‘Disliked her intensely,’ said Ursula shortly. ‘Far too sure of herself. You swept her out of the house and she just turned round and came back and demanded a cup of tea – the cheek of it! These press people – they just push their noses into everything that’s going on.’

  Angela shook her head. ‘They’re not always the enemy. Yes, they can be irritating – even when I finally told her to leave the cottage she was in no particular hurry, such bad manners! – but we have to have friends on our side, and she looks like she could be one.’

  The Commandant roughly pulled her tweed jacket around her. ‘Just another reporter on the snoop.’

  ‘But Ursula, we have to get the message out for the Day of Action. And you know she was in the Royal Navy.’

  ‘Aha! Do I detect a dollop of hero worship?’

  ‘No more, Ursula, than you would expect for yourself,’ said Miss de Mauny, nettled.

  The discussion wandered back to the matter of equal pay and the shoddy way in which the trades unions – run by men, for men – continued to sidestep this fundamental labour issue. ‘They’re the worst, of course,’ said one of the group, whose husband was a shop steward in the fish-canning factory in Exbridge. ‘Always eager to take on the management and have a bit of a scrap, but “Where’s my tea?” when he comes home.’

  It was a familiar complaint and the conversation appeared to be winding down without the main topic having been fully addressed. That hardly mattered because, when it came to important policy matters, Ursula Guedella took all the decisions and brooked no argument. Some of her followers thought she was a bit touched, what with her military bearing, highly polished brogues and penchant for small cigars. Also, in the evenings, she would drink her whisky neat and boast to her insignificant little dog of her activist friends Dorothy Evans, Monica Whately and Helen Archdale. ‘Militant suffragists’ were the words which bubbled to her lips most often.

  The Day of Action, which they had gathered to debate, would have to wait until next time. It was not only the shop steward’s wife who had to go home and make tea for the loved one.

  FOURTEEN

  Press day was never as much fun as it looked in the movies. It was the only time in the week when the doors between the Express office and the cavernous print room next door were opened; and through them came all the sounds of hell – clanking, groaning, and shouting accompanied by a gentle low roar as the presses turned and the newspapers spewed up a fan belt and into the hall where they were tied and hurled into waiting vans ready for their headlong journey through the night to the newsagents.

  The heat from the heavy machinery billowed into the newsroom, a welcome bonus in winter but oppressive and almost suffocating at this time of the year. Men came and went, importantly bearing damp proof-sheets, to the editor’s office. Later, when Rudyard Rhys had scrutinised every single page, it would be the turn of others to double-check there were no mistakes.

  ‘You don’t know the trouble you can cause,’ Judy Dimont warned Valentine, ‘with a misspelt name or an incorrect address or age. The people in this town are like elephants – they never forget.’

  ‘You mean like the Conservative Ball last winter?’ It had been one of Miss Dimont’s less glorious moments – in fact what happened that night was still talked about, in the office and in the town.

  ‘No need for cheek,’ snapped Miss Dimont, who, despite her many triumphs since, was never allowed to forget that night. ‘Anybody can make a mistake.’

  ‘Sounds like a rip-roaring evening. Wish I’d been there.’ There was a naughty grin on Valentine’s face.

  ‘Oh, do shut up!’

  ‘’Ere y’are,’ said an ungracious printer, who hated journalists and their lazy life of all-consuming luxury. He plonked an inky sheet on the desk between Judy and Valentine and stalked back to his hellhole.

  ‘Your turn first,’ ordered Judy. ‘Read every word – the headlines, the dateline at the top of the page, the picture captions, and the stories. Even check the page number. Don’t let your concentration waver for a moment, or you’ll find yourself down on the front desk tomorrow morning fielding the complaints.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised – I thought there was someone who did all this for you. That our job was to find the news and write it up.’

  ‘Wake up, Valentine, that’s the easy bit. This is what you get paid for – making sure we don’t get complaints.’

  The young reporter pulled the sheet of paper towards him and started at the top.

  BABY’S FOOT IS FREED FROM BENCH

  ran the first headline.

  ‘Hmm, interesting,’ said Valentine in a funny voice, hoping for a laugh.

  ‘Just read it,’ ordered his superior, in a very superior tone.

  He did, aloud.

  Firemen came to the rescue of an eight-month old baby after the child’s fot became trpped in a public bench. Mother and child were sitting on the bench on the South Promenade at around 1pm on Wednesday when the child’s foot slipped between the slats in the bench.

  When the mother was unable to free her child, she called the town’s fire brigade who raced to the rescue the few hundred yards from their nearby fire station.

  The firemen were able to take out a screw from the bench and move one of the slats so the child could be fred.

  ‘That’s a news story?’ said Valentine, scratching his head and shaking it at the same time.

  ‘Correct the mistakes and move on to the next,’ said Miss Dimont primly. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Well, the mistakes, it seems to me, are that we don’t name the mother. We don’t have a photograph of her hapless child with its stupid foot. No questioning of this anonymous idiot to ask why she was unable to release a very small child, the work of a moment I should have thought, or a picture of the triumphant fireman, doughty protector of the town’s safety, kissing the baby while standing beside the now-famous bench.’

  Miss Dimont had to admit her young colleague was getting the hang of this news business very fast, but he had yet to learn its nuances. Though his criticism of this vapid tale was spot-on, the way it was written suited Temple Regents very well. Quite clearly the mother had panicked – no need to call the fire brigade! Nor was there any necessity for the red fire engine and its jangling bell to be ostentatiously launched when a man could run down the street just as quick. As for the production of a screwdriver and the victorious conclusion, this was what was expected of the town’s firemen. Everyone would know who the mother was – word would certainly spread over the coming week – and the way the story was written was sufficient exposure of her maternal ineptitude. No need, by the addition of her name, age and address, to tar and feather her as well.

  Miss Dimont tried to explain all this, but the young man had gone back correcting his proof, marking up the spelling mistakes.

  WALL BEING REBUILT

  went the next headline.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ wailed Valentine. ‘This is news?’

  ‘To those it affects,’ said Miss Dimont, crossly. She had written that particular spellbinder.

  ‘Here’s a corker,’ laughed Valentine, reading on down the proof. Temp
le Regis Short Mat Bowls Club held the finals of the doubles competition recently, with Pip Membley and Gill Wainwright versus Arthur Stratton and …

  ‘You have a lot to learn,’ came the unforgiving response. ‘These stories allow us to print a list of names – and all those people will buy the paper just to revel in their fame.’

  ‘Oh ho!’ said Valentine. ‘I see! But, Judy, this is parish magazine stuff! What we need to liven things up is an armed robbery, arson – or what about a nice juicy murder!’

  ‘We have those sometimes,’ said Miss Dimont slowly, for though she might secretly agree the paper had to be filled somehow. And anyway it was what the readers wanted and expected. The boy had a lot to learn.

  PUPILS’ DELIGHT AT NEW CURTAINS

  Valentine was now howling with laughter.

  ‘You don’t yet understand,’ was the stern response. ‘People revel in normality – it makes them feel safe. The Express holds up a mirror to Temple Regents and offers them the picture of their lives they’d like to see – at least, that’s what the editor thinks,’ added Miss Dimont, with just the merest sniff. ‘And so we do it.’

  ‘And all the bad stuff?’

  ‘That gets in as well – just read the court cases, it’s all there – Mr Rhys just doesn’t like to rub the town’s nose in the fact that not everybody’s perfect. And of course, when the holidaymakers come, you don’t want them going away with the wrong impression of this lovely place, now do you?’

  ‘Is it time for the pub? Will you come and have a sandwich with me?’

  ‘Dear boy, the most we can snatch is twenty minutes. The canteen is closer. On the other hand, the editor seems to have popped out, so maybe …’

  ‘Come on then.’

  ‘If we go to the Jawbones we can get something quick,’ she conceded, picking up her raffia bag. ‘Have you finished that proof?’ She glanced through Rhys’s door as they left the office but, sure enough, he’d disappeared. How odd you are, Mr Editor, thought Miss Dimont, to go missing on press day when your baby is about to be delivered.