Hattie still felt guilty for having once passed a blind man in the street without putting anything in his mug. She had been worried about her cousin Florie, who was then struggling with a problem relating to a suspicious death in the house where she was housekeeper, but that was no excuse for Hattie not digging into her purse for a half-crown. That murderer, if there had been one – and Florie had seemed less sure of that recently – had not been discovered. She had never, of course, breathed a word of this to Toffee Jones, but had seen no harm in telling her about Lord Stodmarsh’s subsequent remarriage to a woman named Regina Stapleton, who had brought an ornamental hermit with her to Mullings. She hadn’t needed to explain to Toffee the nature of this oddity. She’d instantly said she’d read about them in an old book in the shop where she worked.
‘How interesting that your cousin’s mother had worked for the new Lady Stodmarsh’s family, the Tamershams, you said, years before; but life is full of coincidences, isn’t it?’ Toffee had sat looking thoughtful. ‘Makes you wonder if there’s some unseen force moving us around like pieces on a chessboard, doesn’t it?’
Hattie had agreed she’d sometimes felt that way. She now turned off the wireless before pottering into the front room to open its curtains and do a quick dusting. The vase on the windowsill contained a bunch of flowers Toffee had brought in on Monday evening. Decidedly she was a kind, thoughtful girl, always happy to handle some errand such as putting letters Hattie had written into the pillar box. Mr Page had left his copy of the Evening News on the brass tray-topped Indian table in front of the couch; she picked it up as she always did and took it back to the kitchen to read later before putting it in the dustbin. She was tempted to look through it at once to see what was written about the murder – there was nothing on the front page – but Mr Page would be down at seven for his breakfast and it was now twenty minutes to that hour. Hattie cut the rind off the streaky bacon, which he preferred to gammon, and put it into the frying pan. When he entered the kitchen precisely on time, she set before him an oven-warmed plate with the bacon, fried tomatoes and fried bread.
‘Very nice, Miss Fly,’ he said with, as ever, an inclusive look at the filled toast rack, butter dish, jar of marmalade and brown glazed teapot. At twenty-five past seven he bade her good day, collected his hat and coat from the hall tree and left the house. There was something very soothing in Mr Page’s unfaltering routine and yet Hattie had sometimes wondered if he didn’t occasionally feel the urge to do something that would surprise her along with others – such as parting his hair to the side rather than in the middle, or having a lie-in at weekends once in a while.
Toffee Jones did not live life to a pattern; she was either in a rush to get to work on time or had so much extra she would take old Mr Turner’s dog for a walk. She was the sort of girl who was unbothered by being caught in the rain without an umbrella, laddering her last pair of stockings, or a cat jumping in through an open window on to her lap. The pity was, she’d once told Hattie, that nothing in the way of grand adventure had yet presented itself to her since setting out on her own, but she lived in hope of it doing so one day. There was never any telling whether she would eat breakfast. When she did it was tea and toast.
Having cleared the table and washed up after Mr Page, Hattie sliced bread and put the kettle on a low flame; she then settled down with last night’s newspaper. The murder was prominently featured on page two. The photo of Arthur James Leighton was, she thought, too grainy to be of much use in identifying him to the public. So engrossed did she become that she did not hear Toffee come down the stairs, the sound of which usually alerted her to turn on the grill for the toast if wanted and turn up the gas under the kettle, but it soon became clear that didn’t matter. She entered the kitchen wearing a beige spring coat and a brown beret, tipped down over her forehead.
‘Nothing to eat or drink this morning,’ she announced. ‘I’m going away, probably for only a few days, but I’ve left the rent money paid up till the end of the month on the dressing table, just in case I’m delayed returning, Hattie.’ Toffee had stopped addressing her as ‘Miss Fly’ shortly after moving in.
‘Off on a little adventure?’ Hattie asked, following her recent train of thought as she stood up. Being a romantic, she hoped it would be something as exciting as having received an invitation to visit a distant relation thinking of changing his or her will in Toffee’s favour after quarreling with every other family member.
‘Nothing in the fun line. I have to go and see someone who’s going through a rough patch. I’m not sure if I can help or not, but I have to try, or I’ll hate myself afterwards.’
‘Yes, of course you would.’ Hattie was not one to pry beyond what was offered, but even had she felt so inclined she could see Toffee was not going to tell her more. There had to be a good reason for this, because she wasn’t usually secretive, or so Hattie had always thought.
Toffee didn’t look or sound worried or distressed. ‘I didn’t make up my mind until I got into bed last night, so I’ll have to stop by the shop and tell them before setting off. I don’t suppose they’ll be annoyed at the short notice, but if they give me the sack it’ll be all right. I’ll find another job.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but there are other bookshops, or maybe you could try for a job at the library.’ Despite Toffee’s poise, Hattie was gripped by the thought that something was wrong, very wrong. She hadn’t seen Toffee last night because Hattie had gone to the pictures with her friend Vera from two doors down. The meal she’d left prepared hadn’t been eaten; unusual, but not worrisome, until viewed at this moment. She laid a gentle hand on Toffee’s arm.
‘Don’t worry about the rent. Take with you what you left on the dressing table.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certainly.’
‘You are dear, Hattie.’ Toffee glanced towards the newspaper on the table. ‘Anything new on that murder?’
‘No. And it’s the same on the wireless – the police are still searching for the suspect.’
‘I hope they get him soon, before he kills again.’
‘That’s the worry, if he’s guilty of this one.’
Toffee looked at Hattie sharply. ‘But he was caught by the friend of the old lady standing over the body with the knife in his hand and then took to his heels – surely not the act of an innocent man.’
‘I’m not so sure I’d have stayed put with all that evidence stacked against me, and all I could say was I walked in and pulled the knife out of the deceased. Now I’m not saying I think that’s likely, but it is possible, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, Hattie, you’re such a softie.’ Toffee leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Now I really must go; I’ll get something to eat before catching my train. I’ll be in touch within the week.’
‘I’ll miss you, my dear.’
After Toffee left, suitcase in hand, Hattie found herself unable to get on with her usual routine. Why did she believe it wrong to assume the young painter’s guilt when she had been convinced on far less evidence that murder had been committed at Mullings? The answer followed instantly. We put our faith in those we know and trust – not blindly, but certainly with a bias towards their viewpoint. Other thoughts followed as if they had been waiting to have their say for the last couple of hours, as snippets from Florie’s letters came back to her. These left her feeling shaken and in a quandary as to whether or not to write to her cousin. This uncertainty was capped by a disturbing question – how well did she really know Toffee Jones?
The young lady in question was at that moment standing at a bus stop outside the bookshop where she worked. The owners, a husband and wife, had been very understanding about her request for time off and even offered her an advance on a fortnight’s wages, telling her that, if she liked, it could count for her Christmas bonus. Toffee had accepted with expressions of gratitude. She was even more grateful that neither had been in the shop yesterday afternoon, and that she’d had the place to hers
elf when the man in the beige raincoat had entered, removed his trilby, and questioned her as to when she had last seen, or heard from, Arthur James Leighton. There had been no gauging from his impassive face if he’d believed what she told him. What she didn’t doubt was that he, or one of his kind, would show up elsewhere, if they had not done so already.
The bus she caught took her to Victoria. On alighting she walked for ten minutes before entering a hairdresser’s, which she had telephoned the previous afternoon. The young lady assigned to her showed Toffee where to hang her coat and beret before taking her to a chair. Their eyes met in the mirror facing them.
‘Are you sure about going platinum blonde?’ the young lady, who’d identified herself as Ivy, asked doubtfully.
‘Absolutely. Why not?’
‘Well, if you won’t be offended, you don’t have the complexion for it. It could make you look a little hard.’
‘Really?’ Toffee smiled.
‘The streak you have in front now is nice – eye-catching.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Till you’re sick of hearing it?’
‘Not to be rude – yes.’
‘How about a honey blonde?’
‘Platinum.’
‘Let’s get going then.’ Ivy’s reflection added ‘your funeral’.
‘Afterwards I’d like it set in waves.’
‘Righty-ho!’
It had been chilly under a colourless sky when Toffee had set off from Hurst Row. On leaving the hairdresser’s, wearing a headscarf instead of the brown beret, she noted it was now grayer overhead than the pavement, and she felt the immediate effect of a nippy breeze poking and prodding, flapping her clothing and burrowing down her neck. Usually she didn’t mind the cold, but now, foolishly, she wished she could be hugging a hot water bottle. The person she had seen in the mirror when Ivy had finished with her was a stranger, whom she had no desire to befriend. Reminding herself sternly that this had been the aim, and that improvements still had to be made, she entered a chemist’s, where she bought a bright red lipstick, a black eyebrow pencil and a pair of tweezers. From there it was a matter of walking on until she came to the right sort of clothes shop – one offering cheap, flashy merchandize for the working girl with delusions of looking like a Hollywood film star. She found exactly the place halfway down a side street. A couple more stops completed her purchasing.
It was now past noon and a joy to be practically blown through the door of a café, find a table and set down the suitcase and packages and check in her handbag to see what money she had left. Enough for the train fare and some to spare. While eating egg and chips and drinking a cup of tea strong enough to supply a steel backbone, she considered her next move. Changing into her new clothes could be quickly done in a public lavatory and provided the advantage of her being virtually unnoticeable going in or coming out, but plucking her eyebrows would take time, and the last thing she needed was the attendant banging on the door to see if there was a problem. That might be remembered – unlikely, but any risk was one too many. She’d have to find a park bench and use her compact mirror. Given the weather, there shouldn’t be too many people basking outdoors.
Was it ridiculous – this concern that the police might have posted a series of plain-clothes detectives to keep watch on 29 Hurst Street from the time she arrived back there last evening till this morning, with instructions to follow her when she stepped outside? There hadn’t been anyone in the street except for old Mrs Wardle sweeping off her step, or any cars parked at the curb, which would have been significant seeing as nobody in Hurst Row owned a car, but this had not brought reassurance. Eyes could be on the alert from around corners or from behind shop windows. No, thought Toffee, her anxiety was not ridiculous. Thinking that the law wouldn’t clutch at every available straw that might lead them to their quarry would be the mug’s game. She preferred to arrive at her destination in the evening, and making this choice allowed her time to lead any pursuer on a wild bus chase. The trick would be to get on a bus at a stop where she was the only person waiting.
One of these took her to a secluded square off the King’s Road where she sat shivering on a bench doing the beastly eyebrow tweezing. Never again, she thought, even if they grew back like caterpillars; this was followed, between ‘ouches’, by the reminder to herself that what she was enduring could be worse – other people had gone to the stake for their beliefs. The result revealed by the compact mirror was a thin line with some unevenness that could be smoothed out by the dark pencil. She still had the feeling that she was wearing someone else’s face, but the discomfort she had felt on leaving the hairdresser’s was replaced by a flood of reassurance. If she had trouble recognizing herself at this stage, then even the trained eye might fail to do so once her disguise was complete. Added to which, she would arrive at her destination with her cover story in place. The only issue was her surname, but that could be handled.
Despite her lifted spirits, Toffee bore in mind that overconfidence could be her undoing. She changed trains needlessly before alighting at the railway station closest to her destination at half-past six in the evening; she then took a bus the rest of the way. A young man seated opposite stared at her with slack-faced admiration. The stare from the middle-aged woman beside him was fiercely disapproving. Toffee, unused to either reaction in her former existence, was satisfied with both. They informed her she’d converted herself into the sort of female who would be either ogled or deplored. When she got off the train, it was raining – not hard, but in a fretful drizzle. The pavement was as slick and black as her new patent leather court shoes. Their heels were higher than she was used to, causing her to tread cautiously whilst looking out for the sign above the premises she would enter. Ah, there it was! She drew a deep breath before opening the door with the hand not holding the suitcase.
The Dog and Whistle wasn’t packed that evening, but there were enough regulars present to keep George Bird sufficiently busy to hold anguish and dread at bay for several minutes at a time. The buzz of conversation flowed around him like lapping waves. At the moment the talk was about old Craddock’s decision to sell his bookshop and retire to the West Country – would a new owner keep on the present staff, including Cyril Fritch, fiancé of Miss Madge Bradley? Or would he be offered the option of working full-instead of part-time on the bookkeeping at Mullings? This led to a mention that Fritch’s mother, the gallivanting widow, had taken off on another of her holidays, on the grounds that she was in desperate need of restoring her nerves because the new owners of the house next door had dogs that barked day and night and Constable Trout refused to do anything about it.
George hoped he was doing an adequate job of appearing to be back to his old self since passing out on the green and that none beyond Alf Thatcher and probably his wife Doris had guessed what ailed him. Not that Alf had said peep; it was the sympathy in his eyes that had done the talking. No unbearable questions asked, no useless attempts at consolation, no irritating advice offered. The best of sorts, was Alf. If Alf had realized from the start what was up, he wouldn’t have told Florence that he, George, had required physical support from the green back to the Dog and Whistle. The truth having dawned, Alf had apologized for telling her – saying he should have minded his own business. George had replied he’d have done the same in his place, and anyway someone or other was bound to tell her he’d been taken poorly.
If there was anyone in the world he wished he could confide in it was Florence, but he wouldn’t burden someone he held so dear with a secret that must be guarded against discovery, especially if doing so burdened the conscience. It had been painful to tell Ned Stodmarsh when he’d asked if George would be willing to see Florence that he’d just as soon not; that there was no picking up where they had left off. The real reason, of course, was that he couldn’t risk a meeting. To deceive her with assurances that all was well with him was as undoable as saddling her with the truth. It was some small comfort to believe she would fully co
mprehend his state of turmoil – that if it were Ned in dire straits, she would have held to her faith in him. Not blindly, but out of what she knew of his character.
George turned from replacing a bottle of brandy on its appointed shelf to see a young woman with bleached blonde hair standing at the bar. Not the usual sort for the Dog and Whistle, as made evident by the eyes of all present being riveted on her. It wasn’t just the hair; it was the pencilled eyebrows, flame-red lipstick, long jet earrings and cheaply smart get-up of feather toque and black coat pretending to be astrakhan. But George wasn’t one for automatic negative judgments. Got nice eyes, was his thought.
‘What’ll it be, love?’
‘Gin and orange.’
‘Used to be my late wife’s chosen. Nasty night – passing through in your car?’
‘I’d be lucky! Train and bus.’
‘Staying hereabouts overnight?’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘Fixed up somewhere?’ The Dog and Whistle did not offer overnight accommodation. George placed the gin and orange in front of her.
Toffee thought, He’s got nice eyes. ‘I’m not expected,’ she shrugged, ‘but I don’t think I’ll be marched out the door.’ She dug into her handbag for her purse and handed him a folded ten-bob note, inside which was another sort of note. On it she had written: ‘I’m Toffee. Have you seen or heard from him? Have the police tracked you down?’ She watched him ring up the till and waited for him to make the discovery. Would he say anything? Or would he give her her change and leave it at that?
He looked down at her from his vast height, handed over the coins and shook his head. Toffee deflated like a pricked balloon. ‘More looks than sense, some of you young people.’
‘That’s what the older generation always say,’ another shrug.
Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery Page 20
