The Magpie (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 3)

by K. J. Frost

  “We’re off to Surbiton, I gather,” I say to Thompson, pulling on my hat.

  He looks up, surprised. “How did you know? I was just coming to tell you about it.”

  “You’d be amazed at the things that I know and you don’t,” I reply, and Tooley sniggers.

  Thompson gets to his feet, rolling his eyes. “You can tell me all about your powers of genius in the car,” he says, picking up his coat and hat, and following me to the door.

  It’s a quick drive from Kingston into Surbiton and Thompson pulls the car up outside the Tierney house, which Tooley informed us is called Brackenridge, a very large, red brick property, with a tall hedge that shields it from the road.

  “Before we go in there,” I say, halting Thompson’s exit from the vehicle, “I should probably inform you that Mrs Tierney is the Chief Superintendent’s sister.”

  He lets out a low whistle. “So that’s why he came to see you this morning…”

  “Yes.”

  He pauses for a moment. “Is he going to cause us problems?”

  “No. He’s said he won’t interfere.”

  “And you believed him?” He turns and looks at me.

  “Yes, I did. I’ve told him I’ll keep him informed, and I will, but that’s as far as it goes.”

  He shakes his head as we both climb out of the car. “Oh… I can see this is going to be fun.”

  There are three other police cars already present, parked a little further along the street, and as we walk up the pathway, a constable who’s on duty at the door stands to one side, nodding his head at us. He looks bitterly cold, his cheeks and nose tinged red.

  “Sir,” he murmurs.

  “Constable.”

  Thompson knocks on the door and, after just a few moments, it’s answered by a young red-headed girl in a black maid’s uniform, with a white lace collar.

  “Is Mrs Tierney at home?” I ask.

  “May I ask who’s calling?” she says, respectfully.

  I pull out my warrant card and show it to her, saying, “Detective Inspector Stone,” at the same time, while Thompson repeats the process with his own identification.

  She performs a brisk bob-curtsy and then stands back, muttering, “Do come in,” and looking a little flustered.

  We step inside and she closes the door behind us, then leads us through to a room near the back of the property, announcing me and ignoring Thompson, presumably having decided for herself that his rank doesn’t justify such an honour, which annoys me.

  Inside the room, we’re greeted by a woman in her mid-forties, with blonde hair, swept back from her attractive, well made-up face. She stands as we enter, revealing a trim figure, encased in a fitted olive green dress and a beige-coloured cardigan, with a single string of pearls hanging around her neck. She may have been burgled in the early hours, but she’s a picture of cultured elegance.

  “Inspector.” She holds out a delicate hand, which I shake, before she raises herself in my estimation, turning enquiringly to look at Thompson, who’s standing just behind me.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Thompson.” I complete the introduction that had been neglected by her maid, and she nods her head towards him and then indicates that we should sit down, which we do, on a sofa opposite the one she’s just vacated.

  Once we’re seated, she resumes her place, clasping her hands on her lap, and looks across at me expectantly.

  “I’ve spoken to your brother.” I decide it’s best to get the family connection out of the way first, so that she can’t bring it up later. “He’s given me the basic facts of what happened, but perhaps I could ask you to tell me in your own words?”

  She takes a deep breath, glancing at Thompson, who’s got his notebook out, poised to jot down any salient details, before she begins, “I—I went to bed at just after ten-thirty.” Her voice is clear and precise, even though she falters slightly, I imagine because she’s remembering the events of last night.

  “Your husband wasn’t at home, I believe?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Leo is a doctor. On Sundays, he normally plays a round of golf with a colleague of his, but yesterday he and this other doctor were telephoned at the end of their match to say there was an emergency and they had to go straight into the hospital. My husband phoned me from there, once he’d established how bad the case actually was, and told me not to expect him home.”

  “Does that happen often?” I ask and I can’t fail to notice the shadow that crosses her eyes.

  “Since the war started, yes, I’m afraid it does,” she replies, with a hint of regret in her voice. “He works terribly hard at the moment. He used to have much more regular hours, but I suppose some of the younger doctors have been called up, or have gone into the medical corps, haven’t they?” She looks up, although I don’t think she expects an answer. “For the last few weeks,” she continues, “he’s had to stay on at work until ten or eleven o’clock several evenings a week.”

  “But this is the first time he’s been away all night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he here now?” I ask. I’d like to speak with him. It strikes me as interesting that the burglars should strike on the first night her husband has stayed away from home, and I’m wondering who else was aware of his movements.

  “No. He’s still at the hospital.”

  “Does he know what’s happened?” I ask.

  “Oh yes. I telephoned him earlier. He was quite upset about it, and told me to get plenty of rest. He said he’d try to get home early tonight, if he could.” She smiles. “He’s really very considerate.”

  I nod my head. “So, you went to bed at ten-thirty,” I prompt.

  “Just after,” she clarifies. “I listened to Songs from Merrie England on the wireless, and then switched off the lights before I went up.”

  “And you were woken in the night?”

  “Yes.” She nods her head. “I felt a cold draught to start with, which startled me awake and seemed odd, because I knew all the doors and windows were locked. And then…” She hesitates. “And then I felt the man’s hand on my mouth, clamped across it.” She demonstrates with her own hand, placing it horizontally over her lips. “I panicked,” she continues, removing her hand and lowering it to her lap again, “but he had a firm grip on me and shone a torchlight in my face.”

  “Did he speak?” I ask.

  “Yes. He said not to scream and that, if I did as I was told, they wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “Did he have an accent of any description?”

  “No, nothing distinctive.”

  “Did he sound young, or old?” I ask.

  “Young,” she replies, without hesitation. “And I noticed there was a rather unpleasant smell to his glove…” She becomes thoughtful.

  “He wore gloves?” My disappointment is almost palpable.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you say what the smell was?”

  “Something unsavoury,” she says, her nose wrinkling up, “like mouldy food.” That’s not quite as helpful as it would have been if she’d said ‘petrol fumes’, but I know better than to be ungrateful for small details. They can sometimes prove very useful.

  “What happened next?”

  She takes another breath. “The other man knelt on the bed and tied my hands together…”

  “Did they bring a rope with them?” I ask her.

  “No, they used my own stockings to bind and gag me, and then they set about ransacking the bedroom. They emptied the drawers all over the floor and went through my jewellery box.”

  “Did they go anywhere else in the house?”

  “No. They just took what was to hand in the bedroom, and left, warning me to keep quiet.” She frowns. “I gave them a few minutes to leave the house, and then I started making as much noise as I could,” she says. “Eventually cook heard me and she untied me and woke Ellen.”

  “Your maid?” I query and she nods her head. “Do you know what time this was?”

  “I
don’t know what time the men came into the room, but I know it was ten to four when cook found me, because she told me. I knew I should have telephoned the police, but I was so upset, I telephoned Bernard instead.” She smiles a little half-heartedly. “But then, I suppose he is a policeman, after all.”

  I’m assuming that ‘Bernard’ is the chief superintendent, in which case he most certainly is a policeman.

  “These men… they didn’t hurt you?” I ask.

  “No. I’m more upset about the jewels than anything,” she says, tears welling in her eyes, which she blinks away. “All of my really valuable jewellery is locked up in the safe, but there was a bracelet my husband gave me on our wedding day, and my mother’s wedding and engagement rings were in the box as well, along with a necklace which my father gave to her on their tenth wedding anniversary. They’re probably worth quite a bit of money, I suppose, but that’s not the point. I’d rather have the jewellery back.” Her voice cracks as she speaks and she looks away, trying to compose herself.

  To give her some time and privacy, I glance around the room, taking in the silverware on the sideboard, the expensive paintings hanging from the walls, and the rather fine clock on the mantlepiece. Whoever did this had no idea what they were looking for.

  A slight cough from Mrs Tierney brings me back to my senses and I look across at her.

  “They got in through the scullery door,” she says, helpfully. “The lock was forced. There was a man here earlier, who looked at it… a very tall man…”

  “Prentice?” I suggest, thinking of our fingerprint expert. He used to work with me at Scotland Yard, but decided to move out into the ‘sticks’, as he put it, in the hope of a quieter life. I’m not entirely sure how that’s going for him, but then I’ve barely had time to see him since his move. “Did he dust for fingerprints?” I ask, although I doubt we’ll get much, not if they wore gloves. Still, we might get lucky. They might have been stupid enough to take them off, especially if they were trying to pick up fine pieces of jewellery.

  “Yes,” she replies, smiling. “He took mine, and Ellen’s, and cook’s as well, for elimination purposes, he said.”

  I nod my head. “He’ll probably need to get your husband’s too.”

  “He did mention that and I suggested he contact Leo at the hospital.”

  I get to my feet and Thompson does likewise, closing his notebook. “We’re just going to take a look around the house, and in your bedroom, if that’s alright?”

  “Yes,” she says, standing up too. “The policeman who arrived first told us not to touch anything, so it’s all still a frightful mess, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s fine, Mrs Tierney. We’ll let you know when we’re finished and you can get back in there.”

  She shudders slightly. “Oh, I don’t think I can sleep in there tonight,” she whispers, almost to herself. “I think I’ll get Ellen to make up a bed in one of the guest rooms.”

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there were two other burglaries in your street last night,” I point out and she nods her head.

  “Yes, so I was informed. I don’t think I know the people concerned though.”

  “Well, we’ll leave a constable patrolling outside for the time being, just to put your minds at rest.” I’m not sure if we have the manpower for that, but in the circumstances, I think the chief superintendent will find it from somewhere.

  “That’s very kind,” she replies, smiling slightly. I give her one of my calling cards, in case she should remember anything else, and we say our goodbyes before she sits back down in her seat. Then, I make my way towards the door, followed by Thompson.

  Once we’re out in the hallway, I turn to him. “It seems like kids, or amateurs to me,” he says, pocketing his notebook. “They might have had the sense to wear gloves, but they took the jewels, and then left behind all that silverware in there?” He nods his head backwards towards the room we’ve just left.

  “Not to mention the paintings and that clock.”

  We move towards the stairs and start climbing, finding the master bedroom with ease, being as it’s the only one with an open door, on the right of the landing.

  Inside, there are twin beds, one of which is pristine and undisturbed. The other has the sheets thrown back in disarray, and a pair of stockings lie across the pillow, presumably where they were left after the cook had freed her mistress. There are clothes – specifically underwear – scattered all over the floor, and the footstool, which I’m assuming once sat in front of the dressing table, is upended and is now over by the window. Essentially, it’s a mess, exactly as Mrs Tierney described. Thompson and I take a look around, but there’s nothing for us to see, really. We know Prentice has already done his job here, and after we’ve finished, we go back downstairs and take a quick look at the scullery door. As predicted, the lock is broken and the maid informs us that a locksmith has already been called.

  As a result of our other enquiries, we’ve discovered that Mr and Mrs Horton, a couple in their mid-fifties, who live at Lilac Cottage, were the first to be burgled, at approximately one-thirty in the morning. The burglars used belts from the couple’s dressing gowns to tie them up, but didn’t gag them, presumably because they’d worked out that the Hortons don’t have any domestic staff, and therefore alerting anyone to their predicament was going to be significantly harder for them. It took them until just before four-thirty to unfasten their bindings, by which time the chief superintendent had already raised the alarm, and thus, when Mr Horton went out to use the phone box, he found a police car already there, in the street, and was able to inform the attending officers of what had occurred. On this occasion, it appears that the burglars stole from the bedroom, but had a look around the rest of the house as well, leaving the living and dining rooms in disarray. Mr Horton was keen to point out that, not having much worth stealing, they probably decided to move on elsewhere. He was able to inform us that, while the men were searching the bedroom, flashing their torchlight around, he was able to catch a glimpse of them. They were both of medium height and slender build, and both wore balaclavas.

  As for the third victim, Mrs Stokes, she probably came off the worst. A widow of approximately sixty-five years of age, living alone in a large property, she was only discovered, tied up in her bedroom, when her ‘daily’ let herself into the house this morning at eight o’clock. Several uniformed officers were already present in the vicinity, dealing with the other two burglaries, and it was a simple matter to inform them of what had happened. By that stage, however, poor Mrs Stokes had been lying, her arms behind her back, her hands bound together, for over five hours. As with Mrs Tierney, a stocking had been used instead of a rope, but no gag had been required – again, I presume because of the absence of anyone else in the property. Despite her ordeal, Mrs Stokes refused to be taken to hospital and we interviewed her in her guest bedroom – her own room still being in a state of upheaval – propped up on several pillows, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, with her daily, a Mrs Mooney, fussing around like a mother hen. Mrs Stokes estimated the time of the break-in to be between two-thirty and three o’clock, apologising for not being able to be more accurate than that, and informing us that she’d been unable to see anything of the two men, because they’d made her lie face-down on the bed. She was a dear lady, uncomplaining and resolutely cheerful, more concerned that Thompson and I should be comfortable and that Mrs Mooney should fetch us a cup of tea while we conducted our interview. She maintained a strong and steady voice all the while we were there; that is, until she told us that several items of jewellery had been taken, none of which mattered, she said, except for a ring which her late husband had given her on the birth of their only child – Peter – who was killed right at the end of the Great War.

  Thompson and I make the short journey back to the London Road station in silence, both caught up with our own thoughts. I suppose we should be grateful that there wasn’t more violence involved. It could have been worse, and w
e both know it, but I think we’re both going to be haunted by Mrs Stokes for some time.

  “You start typing up the notes,” I tell Thompson as we get to the top of the stairs. “I’m just going to see Webster.”

  He nods his head and I continue up to the second floor, going into the outer office, where the chief superintendent’s secretary, Miss Parsons, is sitting at her desk.

  “Can I see him?” I ask, nodding towards his door.

  “I think so,” she replies, smiling as she gets up from her desk and goes into his room, closing the door behind her. Since Webster’s arrival, I’ve noticed that she wears lipstick, and she’s changed the way in which she styles her hair, and there’s also a vase of flowers on her desk, which brightens up the office considerably. I’m not for one minute suggesting that she’s doing any of this to impress her boss – he’s a happily married man, and she knows it. But I think she’s more cheerful in herself, and I don’t blame her. If I’d had to work for his predecessor, Chief Superintendent Meredith, every day, I’d have been pretty miserable too.

  The door opens and she comes back out. “The chief superintendent will see you now,” she says quietly, stepping to one side as I pass her.

  Inside the room she’s just vacated, Webster is sitting behind his desk, and looks up at me the moment I enter.

  “I thought I’d come and fill you in on our enquiries,” I announce, before he has a chance to ask how things are going.

  “Thank you.” He smiles and indicates the seats in front of his desk. I sit in the one on the right, and tell him about our interview with his sister, the details we learned and what’s been done to date, in terms of fingerprinting and photographing the scenes, before moving on to tell him of the other two victims and their stories. He’s visibly moved when I tell him of the statement Mrs Stokes made, and leans back in his chair.