A New Kind of Killer, and Old Kind of Death

by Jennie Melville

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?’’ said the dark one gravely. “ The way the crime figures seem to be going. It makes me feel anti-democratic.’’

  “You think that’s the trouble?’’ asked Charmian.

  “No. That would be an easy answer, wouldn’t it? An easy answer but the wrong one. But, of course, you weren’t trying to offer us answers, just trying to get us to see the problem. To see the sort of society we were going to move into.’’

  “That’s about it,’’ said Charmian. “ I didn’t mean to put it too hard, though. I think I discouraged the others.’’

  “You didn’t, really,’’ said the curly girl, speaking for the first time. “Because they only feel a limited responsibility.’’

  “They make only good nursemaids for the public,’’ said the dark girl scornfully. Unknowingly she was echoing Alda. Her name was Ann Hooks.

  “That’s not such a bad thing to be,’’ observed Charmian mildly. “I’ve been a nursemaid myself on occasions. It’s part of the job.’’

  “I didn’t come from Trinidad to make myself no nursemaid,’’ said the dark girl. “And sometimes I think it’s all they want women in the police for, Miss Daniels.’’

  “You have to fight for a chance. But if you fight for it, it’s there.’’

  “You cheer me up, Miss Daniels. In fact, you’re the first person who has in a long time. You and Miss Fearon.’’

  “You can’t give up when you’ve just started,’’ said the other girl; she had a low, slightly hoarse voice.

  “I’ve felt like it.’’

  “I’d forgotten Alda Fearon had been talking to you,’’ said Charmian.

  “Oh yes. It was bad about her.’’ The two girls looked at each other uneasily.

  “She died naturally,’’ said Charmian. “In her sleep. I don’t think she knew anything about it.’’

  “The thing is we’re just spokeswomen. The girls have collected a little money and we’d like to send flowers.’’

  “To the funeral? It’s the day after tomorrow. At the church by the University Hospital.’’

  “Is that where?’’ The girl hesitated and then answered her own question. “Yes, I suppose it is. They took her there.’’

  “They had to do a post-mortem to find out why she died,’’ said Charmian, hating the subject.

  “You know what I think? I think Alda Fearon would rather we took the flowers to the hospital,’’ said curly hair.

  “I don’t like that hospital so much,’’ said the dark girl with a grimace. “I had to take a man in there the day before Miss Fearon died. I found him slumped across a bench in the park. I went in the ambulance and went with him into the hospital. He was breathing when we got there—just about. But they acted as if he was dead from the minute we got there. He didn’t exist any more.’’

  “Professionalism always has its less pleasant side,’’ said Charmian. “It’s true of us, too. It’s one of the things I’ve been trying to say to you.’’ She had their attention now.

  “It’s not all nursemaiding,’’ said Charmian. “It can get nastier. It can get dirtier, and it can get a whole lot more dangerous.’’

  “Have you ever been in danger?’’

  “I’ve been in things that were dirty enough.’’

  “But dangerous?’’

  “Once,’’ said Charmian. “ Once I knew about. And knew in advance I was going to be. I think there were one or two other occasions when I ran a bit of a risk. Only one bad time.’’

  “What was it?’’

  “When I went out on to a roof to join a girl who wanted to jump off. I haven’t any head for heights, but she’d asked for me.’’

  “Were you frightened?’’

  “Of course.’’

  “I don’t think I could have done it,’’ said Ann.

  “I didn’t have to. I was only a detective constable then, but the sergeant in charge of the operation to get her down was very decent. He told me she was asking for me: he didn’t put on any pressure.’’

  “Who was she?’’

  “A girl I’d come across when I first started out in the uniformed branch. She was a nurse, then.’’

  “What happened to her?’’

  There was a pause. “ She did jump,’’ said Charmian. “And just before she went, she tried to take me with her. That was what they warned me might happen. It was why she wanted me there: she didn’t want to go alone.’’

  “They shouldn’t have asked you,’’ said Ann.

  “It was the job.’’

  “Some job. I wouldn’t do it,’’ said Ann defiantly.

  “You would. I think you would.’’

  “Well, I hope I’m never faced with that sort of request, because it’s not in my nature, and left to my nature, I’d say no.’’

  “If I was there I’d ask you to do it.’’

  “You’d take that responsibility?’’

  “I’d have to.’’

  “I guess that, left to myself, I naturally wouldn’t do it,’’ said Ann, half to herself.

  The other girl spoke:

  “Still I think the flowers should go to the church and we’ll take them ourselves. Will you be there, Miss Daniels?’’

  “Yes. But I’ve got something to do for Alda before that,’’ said Charmian sadly.

  The next day she went round to Alda Fearon’s flat. Mechanically and deliberately emptying her mind of emotion, she started to pack Alda’s clothes.

  She dragged two suitcases from under the big bed and began to fold dresses into them. She got on fast, because she didn’t want to linger.

  She came across a pile of letters in a drawer. For a moment she debated burning them. She had a pretty shrewd idea that Alda wouldn’t wish the sister in Canada to see these letters, but after all she had no authority to destroy them, so she put them aside in a cardboard box she found and left them. Someone else could decide.

  There was a large square box on the dressing table. When she opened it she found inside the secret of Alda’s black curls. She had bought herself a glossy black wig.

  She took it up and twirled it on one finger. At once she saw the rent in the structure of the wig. She held it up and examined the hole which was on the left side of the wig.

  “Something must have hit the side of her head,’’ she said aloud.

  After a while she put the wig back into the box and sat down to think things out.

  The fact that Alda might have received a blow on her head several days before she died seemed to her highly relevant.

  She was sitting at Alda’s writing table and suddenly she saw that she was staring at a piece of paper with her name on it.

  Alda had written a letter to her and died before she could post it.

  “Dear Charmian,’’ it began, “Eddie’s back. Can you believe it? And to tell you the truth, I don’t really know what to do.’’

  The large sprawling letters staggered across the page.

  Charmian stared at them.

  “Eddie?’’ she said aloud. “Who’s Eddie?’’

  Charmian left Alda’s flat and went straight round to see the doctor who had done the post-mortem on Alda. This was Dr. Margaret Phillips, whom she already knew.

  To her, she put several questions.

  “Isn’t it true that severe head injuries sometimes produce no immediate effect? That there may be, in fact, a time lag during which the victim carries on as normal?’’

  She nodded, playing with a pencil on her desk.

  “Is it not also true that if there has been protection for the head (like, say, the padding provided by a curl wig) there might be no bruise, although there has been an injury?’’

  She didn’t answer at once.

  “I know it’s so,’’ said Charmian impatiently. “ I’ve looked it up in Smith and Fiddes.’’

  “It is so,’’ Dr. Phillips agreed.

  “And the signs of what you thought were a brain haemorrhage … Could they not in fact h
ave been the result of a blow?’’

  “In the absence of external bruising, it is difficult to be sure,’’ she said cautiously.

  “But I’ve already explained that by the wig. And I discovered a hole, a ragged tear, in the wig.’’

  “Which side?’’

  “The left.’’

  “The bloodclot was on the right.’’

  They studied each other’s face. Then Charmian said: “And isn’t it true that a contrapuntal injury in which the brain is thrown against the skull does create a lesion on the opposite side from the blow? And isn’t that sort of injury the one most likely to escape detection?’’

  “Yes, you’re quite right. I can see you’ve been doing your homework.’’

  “I never thought Alda Fearon died naturally,’’ said Charmian. “I believe she was killed.’’

  “Murder?’’ Dr. Phillips considered. “ Could be.’’

  “I think someone struck her. I can only guess at the circumstances. I want to know. But I think someone called Eddie comes into it somewhere. I want to find Eddie.’’

  Chapter Three

  On her way up the stairs to her room in Marchbanks Hall, Charmian stopped. Don was standing by the big window looking down on to the courtyard.

  She joined him.

  A group of students gathered round a bonfire. Flames were leaping and their voices were high.

  “What are they burning?’’

  “A papier-mâché American soldier,’’ he said, without taking his eyes from the fire.

  “Yes, that’s what I thought it looked like.’’

  “Don’t hold it against them, they’re children,’’ he said. “ They don’t know what they’re doing.’’

  “You think so?’’ said Charmian doubtfully.

  “This is kid stuff,’’ he said, turning away. “Forget it.’’

  “It’s a pretty good dummy figure,’’ said Charmian, who was still looking. “Who made it?’’

  “Oh, they made it down at the Art School,’’ said Don over his shoulder. “They’re very anti-Vietnam war down there. Anti-war, anti-government, anti-God. Anti-every-thing. Real bolshie.’’

  “You seem to know all about them,’’ said Charmian.

  “Anyone can know. It’s not difficult. The word is around. Want to meet them?’’ He swung round to face her.

  “Yes.’’

  “Come down then. Let’s join the burning party.’’

  The crowd had grown bigger round the fire by the time Charmian and Don got there. Assessing the situation, Charmian decided that most were mere onlookers and that the organisers were the five or six standing bunched together. Their faces had a special expression, both watchful and defiant, which seemed to mark them out. Also they threw fuel on to the fire in a possessive kind of way, which no one else did.

  “Yes, they’re the fire makers,’’ said Charmian aloud.

  The University Beadle, who was also the head porter, hurried forward.

  “You must douse the fire, you must douse the fire. The Vice-Chancellor won’t be pleased at all.’’

  Someone raised a cheer. It was only feebly taken up, but it worried the Beadle.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re up to,’’ he said.

  “We’re celebrating.’’

  “Why are you celebrating?’’ He was the perfect feed man.

  “We’re celebrating being dead.’’ A ragged cheer was raised again.

  A burning fragment flew out and touched Charmian. She rubbed her arm. Not much of a burn, but she hardly needed the symbolism.

  “Hello,’’ said Don to the students.

  They returned Don’s greeting warily. Charmian thought they neither trusted nor distrusted him. She herself got an assessing look. No names passed on either side, but at least she could see how the group was made up of two young women and four men. Rapidly in her mind she labelled them A, B, C, D, E and F. She thought she’d know them again.

  “Going a bit slowly, isn’t it?’’ said Don cheerfully.

  “We’re not racing,’’ said the girl, whom Charmian had mentally labelled A. Girl B was fatter and had red hair. “We want people to see and think. You don’t think we’re doing much good, do you?’’

  Don shrugged. “You children must play your games,’’ he said.

  “Now she’s angry,’’ said Charmian as the girl stalked away.

  “They have to learn.’’ His mouth gave a contemptuous little twist. “ You’re looking pretty sick. Can’t stand violence, eh? This is only pretend stuff. Or have you got worries?’’

  “I’ve got worries.’’

  “Don’t let them be one. They don’t amount to much.’’

  “They don’t like you much, do they?’’

  “Oh, I don’t know. Let’s say they’re watching me.’’ He sounded amused. “As a matter of fact, we’re all watching each other.’’

  “Are you?’’

  “Yes. We’ve heard there is a police spy among us.’’

  “And is there?’’

  “I expect so, don’t you?’’ He sounded amused.

  The fire was dying down a little, but the crowd was still growing.

  The crowd waited. Charmian realised they were expecting something more. A little group towards the back of the crowd—she never saw their faces to identify—began throwing handfuls of crackers into the fire. Immediately they leapt into life, jumping out of the fire into the crowd, fizzing and exploding. A girl screamed. So did another. Those near the fire started to shove and push.

  Charmian felt someone jostle her aside, and four or five students clustered about a long, white object they were carrying shoved their way to the fire. On her left she was vaguely aware of a similar group making its way to the front.

  There was a shrill laugh and the long white object was tilted through the air to land upright in the heart of the fire. It was wrapped in white cloth with bandages at its head and foot. Large capital letters daubed on the front of it said “VICE-CHANCELLOR BURN’’. With horror Charmian realised that it was a head and feet she was seeing.

  She stepped back. “ Good God, what’s that?’’

  Don gripped her arm.

  The wrappings, which must have been splashed with petrol, had now burst into flames.

  “They’re from the Medical School,’’ Don said.

  A thin bony finger appeared through the flaming linen and seemed to point despairingly at them before blackening and shrivelling.

  “It wasn’t a real skeleton,’’ said Don hastily. “Plastic. I’m sure of that.’’

  Charmian turned to stare at him silently. Then she felt her attention drawn to her left again.

  To her horror she saw a tiny shrivelled head disappearing into the flames.

  “It’s a medical specimen,’’ said Don hastily. “Not real at all.’’

  “It’s a baby,’’ said Charmian. “And it’s got a label on it …’’

  “No, no. It’s a monkey,’’ said Don.

  “A baby,’’ persisted Charmian. She felt sick.

  “Don’t look,’’ said Don, turning her towards him.

  For a moment she leaned against him, the obscenity of what was going on around her daunting even her hardy spirit. Then she drew away, pushing Don back.

  From above came the spluttering hum which Charmian recognised as the little Chipmunk plane belonging to the Student Aero Club.

  “We got air power,’’ called an exultant voice.

  The plane came low and circled round. Behind it floated a banner inscribed with the word “HATE’’.

  As she stood there leaflets came fluttering down from above. She grabbed at one. It was a square sheet of white paper. On it, professionally printed, probably by the press used by the students for their newspaper, it said:

  “You think this is something? This is only the beginning. Wait and see.’’

  Charmian folded the paper and put it in her pocket.

  A short dark girl wandered up and grin
ned at Charmian and Don. “That’s the best use for the fire.’’ She was using a burning twig to light her cigarette. “They’ll calm down now the plane has gone. It’s what they were waiting for.’’ And it was true. As the Chipmunk soared away, the crowd began to disperse.

  “What are you doing away from your computer, Sheila? I thought you never left it,’’ said Don.

  “I crawl out sometimes. It’s more difficult to get in than out, but I know where they keep the keys.’’

  She smiled at Charmian again and Don introduced them. “This is Sheila Waters. We went to school together.’’

  “Nursery school,’’ said Sheila. “I showed him how to tie his first bow. On his shoes.’’ She threw her cigarette into the fire. “I must push off.’’

  “Let me introduce you to someone else.’’ Don took Charmian gently by the arm and led her to the other side of the fire. “ There she is, over there in that dark corner. The girl in brown. She’s the representative of the Evening March. They pay her to tell them what’s going on here. Any good stories that can help sell some newspapers. That’s good for her, isn’t it?’’

  “She’s a pretty girl,’’ said Charmian. “A little older than the others, isn’t she?’’

  “She’s in her last year as a student.’’

  “And what happens then? Will someone replace her?’’

  “Oh yes. There’s always one. Many a good press career has been founded on it.’’ He sounded bitter.

  “She’s not the only member of the press here,’’ said Charmian. “I suppose you know that?’’ Not far away she had spotted the journalist, Shirley Jackson.

  “Oh yes, I expect they invited her,’’ said Don. “She’s got a photographer with her too.’’

  “I see you cover all university functions,’’ said Charmian as Shirley came up. “Aren’t we getting bad publicity?’’

  “I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t put in for the job of press agent to the University. They could certainly do with one.’’