by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
Death of a Postman
First published in 1956
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1956-2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755135490 9780755135493 Print
0755138821 9780755138821 Kindle
0755137159 9780755137152 Epub
0755152174 9780755152179 Epdf
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller – was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.
Chapter One
The Party
The police car turned the corner of the ill-lit suburban street. Lamps, standing at regular intervals, were misty yellow. Few windows showed lights, but here and there a number glowed yellow against a pale glass fanlight, and Sergeant Kilby, sitting next to Chief Inspector Roger West, called out these numbers in a monotonous voice.
“Twenty-eight,” he said.
West made no comment, but switched on the headlights. The beams showed up a couple in a doorway, arms round each other, the youth turning a ghostlike face towards the car. His right hand was on the girl’s head, pressing it against his shoulder, as if he was making quite sure that no one could see who she was.
Kilby grinned.
“That’ll teach ’em! Forty two.”
West was still silent. The couple passed behind them and a man holding a small white dog on a leash appeared from a doorway and turned in the other direction. They soon passed him. West put the car into neutral and then switched off the engine and they glided with hardly a sound, gloom all about them except where the headlights shone.
“Sixty,” said Kilby. “Nearly there.” He gave West a quick, rather surprised glance, as if at last he began to wonder why West was silent to a point of surliness. “Nasty job for you, sir.”
“Yes,” said West.
“Sixty eight—next door but one,” said Kilby. “It’s the one with the lights on in the front room. Got their decorations up early, haven’t they?”
“Looks like it,” said West, and the car stopped immediately outside the front door of Number 72 Clapp Street, Fulham – the London suburb adjoining Chelsea, where he lived. “No, sit here for a minute.” He took out a cigarette case and proffered it, to Kilby’s surprise. Kilby hadn’t worked with Roger West before, and knew him only by his reputation; he was beginning to believe that part of it was unjustified, for West was supposed to be a good man to work with.
West flicked a lighter. Kilby pushed the end of his cigarette into it.
“Thank you, sir.”
The sound of piano music came from the window of Number 72 Clapp Street, a gaiety which contrasted sharply with West’s manner, just then. The lilting song ‘Do ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay.’ … Children seemed to be singing as much as grown ups. More. It wasn’t possible to be sure, because net curtains were drawn half way across the window, and in the middle of the window was a Christmas tree. The tree was tall and wide and decked with coloured lights and tinsel, with hanging frost and crackers, topped with a fairy and her wand, all showing as clearly as it could from outside. The light inside the room looked bright, and shadowy figures kept moving.
The singing and the music stopped.
“Not exactly Christmassy news,” Kilby said. He felt awkward, partly because of West’s manner, partly because West had made him feel a heel. He remembered, now, that West also had a reputation for being ‘soft’; he could be as tough as they came, but sometimes took other people’s troubles too hard. That wasn’t good in a copper, and it wasn’t one of Kilby’s faults, but here was the sergeant smoking West’s cigarette and watching the party and feeling sheepish. He felt that he had to say something to defend himself.
“There’s one thing,” he said, “half the married couples I know wouldn’t really care if the other one died. Some would be cut up, I know, but most of them put up an act for a few weeks, and then start looking round for Number Two. Comes hard sometimes, though.”
West took his cigarette from his lips.
“Yes,” he said. “Bryant had five children.”
“Five kids?”
“That’s right,” said West. “All in there. The second eldest boy is nearly nineteen, and home for his seven days before going overseas. That’s why they’re having the Christmas party early. They’ll be expecting their father any time now.”
Kilby said, “How’d you know all this?”
“Bryant was going to have a couple of hours off, but several of his mates went down with flu, and with the Christmas rush beginning to build up, he worked on. I had a word with a friend of his at the Sorting Office. Not much the matter with his married life, I gather.”
Silence fell.
Then the piano started up again, and a child began to sing. The sound came clearly because the window was open a little at the top. A clear, sweet treble. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, da-da-di-da-di-da-di-da. Now and again the singer faltered on the word. West sat still, the cigarette half finished, until the singing and the piano music stopped; there was a quick burst of applause, mostly hand clapping.
A figure appeared at the window.
The net curtain was pushed aside and a woman’s face showed for a moment, a woman with fair, curly hair. She was holding the curtain on one side. The glow of one of the red lamps of the Christmas tree decoration made one cheek a pale red, and gave her a kind of vitality. Her eyes shone. She was obviously staring at the car and wondering why it was there; as obviously, she hadn’t come to
the window to look for it.
West said: “I’ll get it over. You wait outside until I call for you, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Kilby said.
The curtain fell into place, and the woman disappeared. West got out of the car and rounded it, as Kilby stepped out on the other side. The street lamp showed West’s face, set and almost sombre.
‘Damned good looker,’ Kilby thought, as West passed him. ‘Hates this like poison, but he didn’t have to do it himself.’ Uneasily, Kilby watched as West went up to the front door and knocked. The sharp sound echoed up and down the street, crisp on the misty, frosty night. Singing started again; a chorus. The coloured lights sparkled on the tinsel and the hanging frost. West stood back a pace, as if prepared to wait for some time, but he didn’t have to; the door opened at once, and the woman stood there.
The light of the narrow hall was behind her, and the light of the street lamp was on her face. What gave some people starry eyes? Kilby watched with the admiration he would feel for any pretty woman, until West moved again and his head hid her from Kilby’s sight.
“Why the hell did it have to happen on party night?” Kilby muttered to himself.
He heard West speak, the woman answer; he saw her stand aside and West, carrying his hat, step into the small hall. The door closed. The singing seemed louder than ever and the piano was being thumped by someone with a much heavier hand than the first pianist, which was a pity. While shepherds watched their flocks by night all seated on the ground, the angel of the Lord came down and glory shone around … Glad tidings of great joy I bring …
“Oh, Gawd,” breathed Kilby.
Roger West looked into Mrs Bryant’s blue eyes, into a puzzled, rather eager face; a piquant face. He knew that she was in her forties; she looked younger, although she didn’t really look young. He had seen enough at the window to know that she had quite a figure for the mother of five, but he didn’t see her figure now, just those shiny blue eyes – happy in spite of her surprise at having a visitor. She had a good, clear complexion, with very little makeup and a dark dress caught high at the neck; he noticed the sleeves.
“Good evening,” he said. “Are you Mrs Bryant?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes,” West said, and that puzzled her still more.
He smiled.
It wasn’t easy to summon up that smile. He could imagine the kind of blow that he was going to give this woman, and in one way he hated himself for it. He could have arranged for a dozen people to come and tell her that her husband was dead, but no, here he was. He’d known in advance about the party and that hadn’t made it any easier. Bitterly he found himself wondering why someone had leaped out of the darkness and struck this woman’s husband a murderous blow on the back of the head.
“Yes, of course,” Mrs Bryant said, “come in.”
He stepped past her, and she closed the front door, shutting Kilby off. West paused. Mrs Bryant hurried past the door of the front room, which was ajar. A small boy, about seven or eight, put a head round the door as if anxious to find out what was detaining his mother. “Stay there,” Mrs Bryant ordered, and there was a slightly different note in her voice, as if something of the truth had dawned on her; or fear of some kind had touched her.
“You won’t mind coming into the kitchen, will you?” she asked. “It’s all ready for the party tea. We’re waiting until my husband comes homes.”
West didn’t speak.
She opened the kitchen door. It was a long room, with a narrow table in the middle – two long boards on trestles placed together and covered with white tablecloths. Out here, the colourfulness of the Christmas tree was put in the shade. Here was a party table spread to delight every eye; at each place a jelly, red, green, orange or yellow; at each place, two crackers; and, everywhere, jam tarts and mince tarts, bowls of fruit, iced cakes and plain cakes. In the middle of all this, as if lording it over the rest, was a huge Christmas cake, beautifully decorated with Santa Claus and his reindeer sleigh heading for a house set in the snow. Paper chains festooned the ceiling and the wall, and over this doorway and the doorway leading to a scullery beyond was a sprig or two of mistletoe.
“What is it you want?” asked Mrs Bryant.
There was no way of breaking news of this kind gently; hardly any way in which West could prepare her.
He wondered how she would react.
He also wondered who else was in the front room; sister or brother or someone other than the children to whom Mrs Bryant could turn for help.
If she hadn’t looked so fresh, so eager and vivacious, it would have been easier.
She raised her hand. “Please—”
“Mrs Bryant,” West said, “I only wish I hadn’t to bring you such bad news, but I have.”
She caught her breath, and the brightness faded out of her eyes. The silence, which West had almost dreaded, lasted for a long time; it was made worse by another burst of singing from the front room.
Good King Wenceslas looked out …
“Tom,” Mrs Bryant breathed, and her eyes cried: “No!”
“I’m desperately sorry,” West said. “Yes. I’m a police officer, Mrs Bryant, and it’s my job to try to find out just why it happened and who did it.” He paused, to let her understand just what he meant and when he saw her put both hands in front of her breast, and saw the colour draining from her cheeks, leaving them so pale, her lips so red and her eyes so brilliant a blue, he moved a little closer; because she might faint, and he didn’t want her to fall.
He said quietly: “If I do or say anything that is in any way hurtful, it is simply because I’m trying to do my job. And if there’s anything at all I can do to help, please tell me.”
Now, she stood quite still, until he believed that the risk of her fainting had passed.
“What happened?”
“All we know is that he was attacked near the Post Office, on his way home,” West said. “He died very quickly.”
Bryant’s wife didn’t cry out. She didn’t move her arms. The colour was still draining from her cheeks, and it seemed to Roger West that life itself was draining out of her; that a kind of death was replacing it. In those few seconds, she grew visibly older.
The first Noel, the angels did say …
Mrs Bryant stared into West’s face, without looking away, as if she derived some kind of strength from him. He didn’t know how, but at times he seemed to be able to help others simply by being at hand; as if the sufferer, now Bryant’s widow, sensed that in some odd way he felt almost the same horror as she.
Then she spoke in a low pitched, empty voice.
“Will you—will you please go to the front room and—and ask my—my son’s fiancée to come here for a minute? Her name is—is May. And make sure that none of the children follow her. Will you—will you be so good?”
“I’ll fetch her,” Roger West promised, and turned to go along the narrow passage. The carol was being sung as heartily as a carol could be. He took three long strides, and then Mrs Bryant called sharply: “Please!”
He turned round quickly.
“We mustn’t spoil anything for the children,” she breathed, “we mustn’t—”
And then she began to cry.
Chapter Two
The Fiancée
A girl in a red party frock and pigtails, aged ten or eleven, came to the door first, eyes bright with curiosity. Roger asked for May. “May!” cried this girl, without moving. “May!” In a moment a young woman of about twenty appeared. She had dark hair, attractive freshness and pleasant features. As she reached the door, she was smiling. Then she sensed seriousness, and spoke to the younger girl. “You go and join the others,” she said, and stepped into the passage and pulled the door to.
“I’m May,” she declared. “Did you want to speak to me?”
“I had to bring Mrs Bryant some bad news,” Roger said, “and she asked me to fetch you.”
“Bad ne
ws! Not about—” May began. She caught her breath, but soon went on with a rush: “Dad’s all right, isn’t he?” So she was really one of the family.
“No,” said Roger, and added deliberately: “Mr Bryant was murdered this afternoon.”
It probably sounded brutal, but he believed that it was the right way to tell this girl. Quality had a way of showing itself, and here was quality.
Silence …
She said, in a funny little voice: “Oh, poor Mother,” and turned swiftly and went hurrying along to the kitchen. Roger followed more slowly. Mrs Bryant was sitting on a chair near the table, with her head buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking. Her movements made the jellies on the table shake; a riot of dancing colour mocking at tragedy. Spoons, knives and forks jingled. A silly song came into Roger’s mind and he couldn’t force it out. Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the day. Day or way? May went to Bryant’s wife, put her hands on her shoulders and stood with her back to Roger. She wore a pale blue dress, fitting close to her waist, and the curve of her hips was lovely. Her legs were beautiful. She didn’t speak or move, but gradually the older woman’s crying quieted. Roger stood in the hall, listening to the singing and then to talking; children’s voices predominated. He wondered whether the party would go on, whether either of these women would have the moral strength to see it through; then he found himself wondering whether they should.
Mrs Bryant moved.
“All right—May,” she said. It was a croak of a voice, and made Roger turn quickly. “May,” she went on, “tell Micky and the others that—that I’ve had to go out. Don’t tell them why, just say—say Mrs Emery’s ill again or something like that. See they get their tea. Don’t—don’t spoil it for them, May, please.”
“I’ll see to it,” May promised, in a low voice. “But—what will you do?” When Mrs Bryant didn’t answer at once, she burst out: “What a wicked thing to happen! What a swine of a man!”
