A Different Kind of Summer

by Jennie Melville

  “D’you know,’’ he said suddenly, “I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me for marrying you.’’

  “He’s got Leonora,’’ said his wife with a laugh.

  “Leonora’s not my idea of a wife.’’

  “Don’t forget to turn out your lamp when you’ve finished reading.’’

  “Do I ever?’’ asked Willie, opening his book at once at the right page.

  Wellfield Road in Deerham Hills, where they lived, was quiet and peaceful that night. The Burtons had lived for thirteen years in their bungalow, which was small and pretty. For the Burtons the flowers always bloomed and the window cleaner always called regularly.

  They had a new neighbour, a tall, tawny-haired young woman with clear blue eyes that observed everything. She had moved into one of the nicest houses in Wellfield Road three weeks ago. She was a mystery woman, so far, to Ella Burton. But Ella had discovered one thing about her new neighbour from the road-sweeper who knew everybody in Deerham Hills.

  Her name was Charmian Daniels.

  But Deerham Hills was in many ways a less straightforward place than it seemed and nothing made this clearer than Wellfield Road’s approach to Charmian Daniels. So they didn’t know her? No one there knew who she was? But was this true or was it one of their little pretences? Charmian had been some years in Deerham Hills by now, she was no newcomer, and she had moved about the town, admired by some and resented by others. The road-sweeper, who had no pretences, knew all about Charmian, and made no bones about it.

  “Nice good looking gal,’’ he called her. He liked her clear colouring and bright blue eyes, and as he had no sense of colour himself he didn’t notice that she didn’t always get her lipstick shade quite right. What he did notice was that she always smiled and said good-morning. When she didn’t smile he knew that she was worried and that there was trouble in Deerham Hills.

  Wellfield Road perhaps felt it ought not to admit to knowing Charmian. She was a policewoman and had played her part in the seamy side of Deerham Hills life. Or perhaps there was some quality in Charmian herself that made people shy. Deerham Hills valued the material things of the world and with Charmian you sometimes felt a disconcerting appeal to harsher values. For all her passion she was a little of a puritan. Or, then again, they might have heard stories about her. Not so long ago there had been stories.

  So the road-sweeper, although he believed Mrs. Burton when she said she didn’t recognise her new neighbour (Mrs. Burton was the soul of truth, and anyway he knew she didn’t get about much), did not believe everyone else.

  “Pie-faced lot round here,’’ he meditated as he swept the cherry blossom off the pavement and into the gutter where it would quietly rot until he happened to get round again. “ Let ’em get into trouble and they shout for the police as loud as anyone. Otherwise? They prefer not to know ’em.’’ He nodded his head wisely. He and Charmian were outsiders together. About her husband he wasn’t so sure. A boss figure there all right, he suspected. “ Still what can a copper do except marry another copper?’’ he said aloud. No one heard him, although he was near where Charmian lived with her husband. But she was out, and her husband, Robert Ascham, was in America.

  When William Burton arrived next morning at the railway station at seven-thirty, he saw his head porter and a policeman talking together on the platform. He quickened his pace.

  “ ’Fraid there’s been a bit of trouble here, Mr. Burton.’’

  “What is it?’’ He was panting a little.

  “A break-in. Your office.’’

  “What?’’ Willie hurried forward and the others followed him.

  “Quite a little fire, too,’’ said the policeman with interest. “ Didn’t do much damage, it didn’t. Burnt itself out.’’

  “How do you know what damage it did? What about the coffin?’’

  “The box? That’s still there, untouched.’’

  The door to his office stood open.

  “Door was wrenched open,’’ said the policeman, apparently with satisfaction. “He didn’t have a key. Just broke the lock.’’

  “Oh, what a shame,’’ said Willie as he looked round his room. “And I had it all so tidy.’’ All the drawers were open, and papers and books had been scattered everywhere. Some of the papers had been torn into pieces, and in the centre of the room a wastepaper basket had been crammed full and then set alight. But the coffin stood unharmed.

  “What did he take?’’ asked the policeman.

  “I can’t possibly tell.’’ Willie was fussed and irritable. “I don’t know why the whole place didn’t burn down.’’ He knelt down, picking up one document then another. “I can’t possibly tell what has been destroyed and what hasn’t. Anyway, there‘s one thing I can tell you! I had three pounds ten of my own money in that drawer and that must have gone.’’

  “Disappointed to find so little and that’s why he treated the place like this.’’

  “I don’t call it so little,’’ cried Willie. “It’s not negligible. I don’t usually keep money here. I don’t know how anyone knew.’’ He glared at the porter, who stared stolidly back.

  “Just trying it on, sir. They’ll try anything.’’

  “That’s no answer,’’ said Willie, still irritable. “ You know that. No answer at all.’’ He knew so much about it, but not enough, so that he could not see all there was to see in that room. He could not see it all as it really was. Nevertheless, he saw enough to be troubled.

  “You’ll go away and you’ll come back, but it won’t do me any good nor clear this up,’’ said Willie, speaking out of his knowledge of the world. He knew the police came, came again and came again, might or might not provide a culprit.

  They were all walking round and round the big box on the floor without mentioning it, as if they could not see it.

  William sat there, in the middle of his mess, which the police constable had instructed him to leave until someone from the C.I.D. came round, and telephoned to his wife. He had to wait for his answer; she was usually slow, you had to allow for it.

  “Don’t bother about lunch for me,’’ he said straight away.

  “Oh dear, and I had it all ready so nice.’’

  “Never mind. I couldn’t fancy it now. Someone broke into my office. I have to wait till the police come back.’’

  “I’ll make up a flask of coffee and some sandwiches.’’ She sounded anxious.

  “Leave it for an hour or two, Ella,’’ he said cautiously. “I can always pop into Spinola’s for a bite.’’ She had been very good in not asking too many questions, but Ella always was good in that way, although it didn’t mean she hadn’t thought of the questions. Yes, and most of the answers too, although as to whether or not they were the right answers there was sometimes a difference of opinion between them.

  He went round the room trying to tidy up as much as he could without touching anything the police wanted. At one point he found himself, with shame, about to sit down on the long box. He straightened up at once.

  The telephone rang and he grabbed it eagerly.

  “Deerham Hills Hospital here. Dr. Massingham speaking. I believe you’ve got something for us down there.’’

  “It’s addressed to you.’’

  “Yes. Well, we weren’t expecting anything, but we’d better have it.’’

  “I’ll send it up,’’ said Willie promptly.

  “No. I’ll get it collected. By the way, it’s not what you think it is, you know. No. Probably just some specimens I was expecting from Malaya.’’

  “This never came from Malaya,’’ said Willie, as he finished the call. He had seen something that interested him in the drawer of his desk, a wedge of something green. He drew it out.

  Three pound notes and a ten shilling note neatly folded up together. It was his money.

  So the coffin continued its journey. It arrived at Deerham Hills Hospital and was taken in through a discreet side entrance. There was a small anonymous room on the left of t
he door which was arranged for the convenience of the laboratories above. On the right hand side of the door was a lift which went directly to the Pathology Department on the top floor of the building.

  Dr. Massingham came down in the lift and went into the reception room to see what had arrived for him. He was a plump, cheerful man. He had Charlie with him. They went inside the room, Charlie phlegmatic and Dr. Massingham cheerful.

  Within five minutes Dr. Massingham came out and closed the door behind him. He leaned against the wall for a moment looking rather white. Then, after a few minutes’ thought, and although Charlie was still inside, he locked the door.

  “Momentary shock,’’ he diagnosed, feeling the slight dampness of his skin. He was not prepared for a haggard girl to rush at him from the corner by the lift and beat him in the face with her hands.

  “You’ve got her in there. I know you’ve got her in there.’’

  Chapter Two

  Charmian Daniels lay face down in bed, dreaming: she was half awake, half asleep, but she could still dream. She was happy, and yet anxious enough these days to dream a good deal. The telephone rang on the table by her bed. She sat up at once and seized it.

  “I have a call from New York for you here.’’

  “Yes.’’ Charmian held the receiver very tight. Her pressure on it increased as the minutes passed. Noises crackled and sang in her ear but no voice spoke. “Hello?’’ she said hopefully. It’s the middle of the night, man, she thought. He’s woken up in the middle of the night just to call me. But she didn’t feel flattered. It would be hard to say what emotion she did feel.

  “I’m sorry,’’ said the operator, half brightly and half regretfully. “I’m afraid New York has cleared. Please put the receiver down.’’

  “Will they call again?’’ It was a silly, pointless question but she couldn’t stop herself asking it.

  “I expect so.’’

  Frustrated but still hopeful and definitely out of reach of sleep by now, Charmian Daniels of the Deerham Hills police force was off duty this morning and prepared to be a relaxed, domesticated character and eat a leisurely breakfast. Usually she drank some coffee and ate burnt toast, and departed rapidly. She was still a little embarrassed by the newness and efficiency of her new kitchen. It seemed to stand for so much that was novel and unpredictable and yet interesting too about her life at the moment. In the end, no doubt she would get used to it all, but as yet she was still inclined to be a little clumsy about it. She splashed water on herself as she filled the kettle and broke a nail on the refrigerator door. Her slight physical clumsiness was in fact one of her more endearing traits; without it her character would have been too strong, too overpowering. But this maladroitness showed that behind the woman who meant so much to succeed was a nervous girl with her way to make in the world.

  As she stood by the cooker watching her coffee bubble, the traces of the years in which she had struggled to realise her ambitions since leaving college could be read in Charmian. She was still a young woman but she was a little thinner than she should have been and there was a tighter line from nose to mouth than perhaps there would have been if she hadn’t put so much effort into making her way upward in a man’s world. She had no illusions about the toughness of her chosen career. At times it seemed to her as if the scales were inevitably loaded against her, and that in gaining success as a policewoman she would also lose all the qualities which made her worthwhile as a woman and a person. There had been a short danger period about a year ago when this had seemed about to come true.

  Charmian smiled as she put out her hand to lift the coffee pot. Whatever happened to her now (and life after all could hardly be expected to be rosy for ever) this special danger was passed.

  She had got a cup of coffee to her lips when the telephone rang in the hall. She dashed towards it.

  “Hello, hello?’’ she said breathlessly.

  There was dead silence. Not even a crackle crossed the Atlantic this time.

  “I’m sorry. I’m still having difficulty connecting with New York,’’ said the operator, now definitely regretful. “ I’ll try again later.’’

  “Thanks,’’ said Charmian, breathing heavily.

  She went back to her coffee, which was still hot.

  “I need food,’’ she said, and put some bacon under the grill. It had no sooner begun to sizzle than the telephone rang again. And this time she heard an unmistakable male cough.

  “Hello,’’ she said joyfully.

  “Pratt speaking,’’ said a familiar voice. Inspector Pratt gave another slight cough. Not for a moment could he be confused with that other voice that should have spoken from America. “I need you down at the hospital.’’

  “Oh but …’’ began Charmian. Her bacon was burning under the grill and probably that bubbling noise was the coffee boiling over. Also she was supposed to be enjoying a morning off duty.

  “Straight away,’’ said Pratt, ignoring her.

  “What is it?’’

  “We’ve got an unidentifiable body in a coffin down here.’’

  “Unidentifiable?’’ She hoped not.

  “Headless,’’ said Pratt brutally. “Head severed at the trunk. A woman. And in place of the head are some of the woman’s possessions. I want you down here to look at them and see what you make of them. You might recognise them. Or you might be able to tell us what should be there that isn’t.’’

  “I’m coming then.’’

  “In addition we’ve got a screaming hysterical female who claims the lady is her sister.’’

  “Don’t tell me that you’ve got Grace Chancey down there,’’ said Charmian.

  “She’s about four feet tall, red hair, haggard, none too clean and looks about ten.’’

  “She’s older than she looks,’’ said Charmian, her heart sinking; it was Grace Chancey.

  “And she says she knows you.’’

  “Oh, she does,’’ said Charmian. Grace Chancey had been removed by Charmian from a local hotel, a doctor’s surgery and the police station itself. At each of these places some unlucky man had been accused of hiding her sister from Grace.

  “Did she make much of a scene?’’

  “She did.’’

  “She always does.’’

  “So will you come and get her?’’

  There was a noise breaking through the conversation which could have been Grace Chancey. If so, she was well on form.

  “Her sister left their house about three months ago, got a lift to London and never came back,’’ explained Charmian, to whom the episode was familiar, only Grace’s reaction was eccentric. “Grace has been looking for her ever since. I don’t think she’s going to find her … Unless you have got her down there?’’

  “I doubt it.’’

  Charmian threw her bacon into the sink and mopped up the boiling coffee. Then she went to dress. Somehow, coping with Grace Chancey and helping identify a headless woman did not seem to be what she wanted to be doing this morning. A little bit of her was escaping all the time and joining in a secret conversation with someone else. “Yes, I do miss you,’’ this bit of her was saying, “ I miss you much more than I expected. I wish I felt sure that you missed me. Do you miss me?’’ She kept asking this question inside her and kept getting different answers. Could you expect a successful, ambitious, dominating man to miss anyone on the same terms as a young woman who was in love for the first time? (Possibly not the first time, Charmian honestly reminded herself, but the first successful time.) After all, hadn’t he had such a lot of practice in not missing anybody? It was annoying to want to be missed. Even more annoying to be missing him yourself. And yet this too was part of the triumph.

  “What a woman I turned out to be,’’ murmured Charmian to herself as she dressed. Then frowned, as if she had reminded herself of something that she was carefully not remembering. There were still large areas in Charmian’s mind that were labelled ‘Walk with care’.

  Not so long ago she
had come very close to a disaster. She had fallen in love, always a difficult experience, first time, for a clever, ambitious woman. Charmian had not been lucky in her love. He was a neurotic and a killer. She had been savagely treated in return for offering affection. This was a story that one day she would recount soberly and wisely to herself, now she could only bury it. “I want to do well.’’ Her husband was older than she was, successful and talented. She both loved and feared him. “ I mean, I don’t care what they say’’ (and she knew they’d said plenty) “I wasn’t looking for a Father Figure.’’ So you have to prove it, said that sceptical inner voice that was never quite silent with Charmian.

  The day looked like being warm so she put on a dark linen dress that carried with it a faint suggestion of uniform. It was an old dress and had suited Charmian better when she had bought it than it did now. This was another indication of the way Charmian was changing and the way her character and even her looks were being modified. She wasn’t aware of this herself yet.

  And so, wearing her new looks somewhat awkwardly, Charmian got out her car and drove down the hill towards the hospital. Behind her in the empty house the telephone began to ring again.

  As she drove the familiar pull of her job asserted itself and she began to think of questions. Whose body was it at Deerham Hills Hospital and why was it headless? Where had it come from and why? How long had it been dead and how had it died? Was it the body of a local woman and if so who knew she was dead and why were they keeping quiet? Certainly someone somewhere knew she was dead, but you didn’t have to ask yourself why that one person was keeping quiet. The killer had every reason for discretion. Even these days, with no death penalty, a charge of murder is no joke. You had all the bother of a trial, thought Charmian sardonically, and if you were unlucky you might be as long as several years in prison. They had a police joke now that to press a murder charge home was hardly worth the police’s trouble, the really economical thing was to find out who did it and wait till they did it again. That was two for the price of one.