by Merry Murder
He left the scooter at the curb and tried to rouse Mrs. Fairlands. He did not succeed, so his anxiety grew. All the lights were on in the flat, front and back as far as he could make out. All her lights. The other flats were in total darkness. People away. She must have had a stroke or actually croaked, he thought. He rode on to the nearest telephone box.
The local police station sent a sergeant and another constable to join the man on the beat. Together they managed to open the kitchen window at the back, and when they saw the tray with a meal prepared but untouched, one of them climbed in. He found Mrs. Fairlands as the thieves had left her. There was no doubt at all what had happened.
“Ambulance,” said the sergeant briefly. “Get the super first, though. We’ll be wanting the whole works.”
“The phone’s gone,” the constable said. “Pulled out.”
“Bastard! Leave her like this when she couldn’t phone anyway and wouldn’t be up to leaving the house till he’d had plenty time to make six getaways. Bloody bastard!”
“Wonder how much he got?”
“Damn all, I should think. They don’t keep their savings in the mattress up this way.”
The constable on the scooter rode off to report, and before long, routine investigations were well under way. The doctor discovered no outward injuries and decided that death was probably due to shock, cold, and exhaustion, taking into account the victim’s obviously advanced age. Detective-Inspector Brooks of the divisional CID found plenty of papers in the bureau to give him all the information he needed about Mrs. Fairlands’ financial position, her recent activities, and her nearest relations. Leaving the sergeant in charge at the flat while the experts in the various branches were at work, he went back to the local station to get in touch with Mrs. Fairlands’ daughter, Dorothy Evans.
In Devonshire the news was received with horror, indignation, and remorse. In trying to do the best for her mother by not exposing her to possible infection, Mrs. Evans felt she had brought about her death.
“You can’t think of it like that,” her husband Hugh protested, trying to stem the bitter tears. “If she’d come down, she might have had an accident on the way or got pneumonia or something. Quite apart from shingles.”
“But she was all alone! That’s what’s so frightful!”
“And it wasn’t your fault. She could have had what’s-her-name—Miss Bolton, the old girl who lives at Leatherhead.”
“I thought May Bolton was going to have her. But you couldn’t make Mother do a thing she hadn’t thought of herself.”
“Again, that wasn’t your fault, was it?”
It occurred to him that his wife had inherited to some extent this characteristic of his mother-in-law, but this was no time to remind her of it.
“You’ll go up at once, I suppose?” he said when she was a little calmer.
“How can I?” The tears began to fall again. “Christmas Day and Bobbie’s temperature still up and his spots itching like mad. Could you cope with all that?”
“I’d try,” he said. “You know I’d do anything.”
“Of course you would, darling.” She was genuinely grateful for the happiness of her married life and at this moment of self-reproach prepared to give him most of the credit for it. “Honestly, I don’t think I could face it. There’d be identification, wouldn’t there? And hearing detail—” She shuddered, covering her face.
“Okay. I’ll go up,” Hugh told her. He really preferred this arrangement. “I’ll take the car in to Exeter and get the first through train there is. It’s very early. Apparently her milkman made the discovery.”
So Hugh Evans reached the flat in the early afternoon to find a constable on duty at the door and the house locked up. He was directed to the police station, where Inspector Brooks was waiting for him.
“My wife was too upset to come alone,” he explained, “and we couldn’t leave the family on their own. They’ve all got chicken pox; the youngest’s quite bad with it today.”
He went on to explain all the reasons why Mrs. Fairlands had been alone in the flat.
“Quite,” said Brooks, who had a difficult mother-in-law himself and was inclined to be sympathetic. “Quite. Nothing to stop her going to an hotel here in London over the holiday, was there?”
“Nothing at all. She could easily afford it. She isn’t— wasn’t—what you call rich, but she’d reached the age when she really couldn’t spend much.”
This led to a full description of Mrs. Fairlands’ circumstances, which finished with Hugh pulling out a list, hastily written by Dorothy before he left home, of all the valuables she could remember that were still in Mrs. Fairlands’ possession.
“Jewelry,” said the inspector thoughtfully. “Now where would she keep that?”
“Doesn’t it say? In her bedroom, I believe.”
“Oh, yes. A jewel box, containing—yes. Well, Mr. Evans, there was no jewel box in the flat when we searched it.”
“Obviously the thief took it, then. About the only thing worth taking. She wouldn’t have much cash there. She took it from the bank in weekly amounts. I know that.”
There was very little more help he could give, so Inspector Brooks took him to the mortuary where Mrs. Fairlands now lay. And after the identification, which Hugh found pitiable but not otherwise distressing, they went together to the flat.
“In case you can help us to note any more objects of value you find are missing,” Brooks explained.
The rooms were in the same state in which they had been found. Hugh found this more shocking, more disturbing, than the colorless, peaceful face of the very old woman who had never been close to him, who had never shown a warm affection for any of them, though with her unusual vitality she must in her youth have been capable of passion.
He went from room to room and back again. He stopped beside the bureau. “I was thinking, on the way up,” he said diffidently. “Her solicitor—that sort of thing. Insurances. I ought—can I have a look through this lot?”
“Of course, sir,” Inspector Brooks answered politely. “I’ve had a look myself. You see, we aren’t quite clear about motive.”
“Not—But wasn’t it a burglar? A brutal, thieving thug?”
“There is no sign whatever of breaking and entering. It appears that Mrs. Fairlands let the murderer in herself.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Is it? An old lady, feeling lonely perhaps. The doorbell rings. She thinks a friend has called to visit her. She goes and opens it. It’s always happening.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. It could have happened that way. Or a tramp asking for money—Christmas—”
“Tramps don’t usually leave it as late as Christmas Eve. Generally smash a window and get put inside a day or two earlier.”
“What worries you, then?”
“Just in case she had someone after her. Poor relation. Anyone who had it in for her, if she knew something damaging about him. Faked the burglary.”
“But he seems to have taken her jewel box, and according to my wife, it was worth taking.”
“Quite. We shall want a full description of the pieces, sir.”
“She’ll make it out for you. Or it may have been insured separately.”
“I’m afraid not. Go ahead, though, Mr. Evans. I’ll send my sergeant in, and he’ll bring you back to the station with any essential papers you need for Mrs. Fairlands’ solicitor.
Hugh worked at the papers for half an hour and then decided he had all the information he wanted. No steps of any kind need, or indeed could, be taken until the day after tomorrow, he knew. The solicitor could not begin to wind up Mrs. Fairlands’ affairs for some time. Even the date of the inquest had not been fixed and would probably have to be adjourned.
Before leaving the flat, Hugh looked round the rooms once more, taking the sergeant with him. They paused before the mantelpiece, untouched by the thieves, a poignant reminder of the life so abruptly ended. Hugh looked at the cards and then glanced
at the Christmas tree.
“Poor old thing!” he said. “We never thought she’d go like this. We ought all to have been here today. She always decorated a tree for us—” He broke off, genuinely moved for the first time.
“So I understand,” the sergeant said gruffly, sharing the wave of sentiment.
“My wife—I wonder—D’you think it’d be in order to get rid of it?”
“The tree, sir?”
“Yes. Put it out at the back somewhere. Less upsetting—Mrs. Evans will be coming up the day after tomorrow. By that time the dustmen may have called.”
“I understand. I don’t see any harm—”
“Right.”
Hurrying, in case the sergeant should change his mind, Hugh took up the bowl, and turning his face away to spare it from being pricked by the pine needles, he carried it out to the back of the house where he stood it beside the row of three dustbins. At any rate, he thought, going back to join the sergeant, Dorothy would be spared the feelings that overcame him so unexpectedly.
He was not altogether right in this. Mrs. Evans traveled to London on the day after Boxing Day. The inquest opened on this day, with a jury. Evidence was given of the finding of the body. Medical evidence gave the cause of death as cold and exhaustion and bronchial edema from partial suffocation by a plaster gag. The verdict was murder by a person or persons unknown.
After the inquest, Mrs. Fairlands’ solicitor, who had supported Mrs. Evans during the ordeal in court, went with her to the flat. They arrived just as the municipal dust cart was beginning to move away. One of the older dustmen came up to them.
“You for the old lady they did Christmas Eve?” he asked, with some hesitation.
“I’m her daughter,” Dorothy said, her eyes filling again, as they still did all too readily.
“What d’you want?” asked the solicitor, who was anxious to get back to his office.
“No offense,” said the man, ignoring him and keeping his eyes on Dorothy’s face. “It’s like this ’ere, see. They put a Christmas tree outside, by the bins, see. Decorated. We didn’t like to take it, seeing it’s not exactly rubbish and her gone and that. Nobody about we could ask—”
Dorothy understood. The Christmas tree. Hugh’s doing, obviously. Sweet of him.
“Of course you must have it, if it’s any use to you now, so late. Have you got children?”
“Three, ma’am. Two younguns. I arsked the other chaps. They don’t want it. They said to leave it.”
“No, you take it,” Dorothy told him. “I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to be reminded—”
“Thanks a lot, dear,” the dustman said, gravely sympathetic, walking back round the house.
The solicitor took the door key from Dorothy and let her in, so she did not see the tree as the dustman emerged with it held carefully before him.
In his home that evening the tree was greeted with a mixture of joy and derision.
“As if I ’adn’t enough to clear up yesterday and the day before,” his wife complained, half angry, half laughing. “Where’d you get it, anyway?”
When he had finished telling her, the two children, who had listened, crept away to play with the new glittering toy. And before long Mavis, the youngest, found the brooch pinned to the star. She unfastened it carefully and held it in her hand, turning it this way and that to catch the light.
But not for long. Her brother Ernie, two years older, soon snatched it. Mavis went for him, and he ran, making for the front door to escape into the street where Mavis was forbidden to play. Though she seldom obeyed the rule, on this occasion she used it to make loud protest, setting up a howl that brought her mother to the door of the kitchen.
But Ernie had not escaped with his prize. His elder brother Ron was on the point of entering, and when Ernie flung wide the door, Ron pushed in, shoving his little brother back.
“ ’E’s nicked my star,” Mavis wailed. “Make ’im give me back, Ron. It’s mine. Off the tree.”
Ron took Ernie by the back of his collar and swung him round.
“Give!” he said firmly. Ernie clenched his right fist, betraying himself. Ron took his arm, bent his hand over forwards, and, as the brooch fell to the floor, stooped to pick it up. Ernie was now in tears.
“Where’d ’e get it?” Ron asked over the child’s doubled-up, weeping form.
“The tree,” Mavis repeated. “I found it. On the star— on the tree.”
“Wot the ’ell d’she mean?” Ron asked, exasperated.
“Shut up, the lot of you!” their mother cried fiercely from the kitchen where she had retreated. “Ron, come on in to your tea. Late as usual. Why you never—”
“Okay, Mum,” the boy said, unrepentant. “I never—”
He sat down, looking at the sparkling object in his hand.
“What’d Mavis mean about a tree?”
“Christmas tree. Dad brought it in. I’ve a good mind to put it on the fire. Nothing but argument since ’e fetched it.”
“It’s pretty,” Ron said, meaning the brooch in his hand. “Dress jewelry, they calls it.” He slipped it into his pocket.
“That’s mine,” Mavis insisted. “I found it pinned on that star on the tree. You give it back, Ron.”
“Leave ’im alone,” their mother said, smacking away the reaching hands. “Go and play with your blasted tree. Dad didn’t ought t’ave brought it. Ought t’ave ’ad more sense—”
Ron sat quietly, eating his kipper and drinking his tea. When he had finished, he stacked his crockery in the sink, went upstairs, changed his shirt, put a pair of shiny dancing shoes in the pockets of his mackintosh, and went off to the club where his current girlfriend, Sally, fifteen like himself, attending the same comprehensive school, was waiting for him.
“You’re late,” she said over her shoulder, not leaving the group of her girlfriends.
“I’ve ’eard that before tonight. Mum was creating. Not my fault if Mr. Pope wants to see me about exam papers.”
“You’re never taking G. C. E. ?”
“Why not?”
“Coo! ’Oo started that lark?”
“Mr. Pope. I just told you. D’you want to dance or don’t you?”
She did and she knew Ron was not one to wait indefinitely. So she joined him, and together they went to the main hall where dancing was in progress, with a band formed by club members.
“ ’Alf a mo!” Ron said as they reached the door. “I got something you’ll like.”
He produced the brooch.
Sally was delighted. This was no cheap store piece. It was slap-up dress jewelry, like the things you saw in the West End, in Bond Street, in the Burlington Arcade, even. She told him she’d wear it just below her left shoulder near the neck edge of her dress. When they moved on to the dance floor she was holding her head higher and swinging her hips more than ever before. She and Ron danced well together. That night many couples stood still to watch them.
About an hour later the dancing came to a sudden end with a sound of breaking glass and shouting that grew in volume and ferocity.
“Raid!” yelled the boys on the dance floor, deserting their partners and crowding to the door. “Those bloody Wingers again.”
The sounds of battle led them, running swiftly, to the table-tennis and billiards room, where a shambles confronted them. Overturned tables, ripped cloth, broken glass were everywhere. Tall youths and younger lads were fighting indiscriminately. Above the din the club warden and the three voluntary workers, two of them women, raised their voices in appeal and admonishment, equally ignored. The young barrister who attended once a week to give legal advice free, as a form of social service, to those who asked for it plunged into the battle, only to be flung out again nursing a twisted arm. It was the club caretaker, old and experienced in gang warfare, who summoned the police. They arrived silently, snatched ringleaders with expert knowledge or recognition, hemmed in their captives while the battle melted, and waited while their colleagues, posted
at the doors of the club, turned back all would-be escapers.
Before long complete order was restored. In the dance hall the line of prisoners stood below the platform where the band had played. They included club members as well as strangers. The rest, cowed, bunched together near the door, also included a few strangers. Murmurings against these soon added them to the row of captives.
“Now,” said the sergeant, who had arrived in answer to the call, “Mr. Smith will tell me who belongs here and who doesn’t.”
The goats were quickly separated from the rather black sheep.
“Next, who was playing table tennis when the raid commenced?”
Six hands shot up from the line. Some disheveled girls near the door also held up their hands.
“The rest were in here dancing,” the warden said. “The boys left the girls when they heard the row, I think.”
“That’s right,” Ron said boldly. “We ’eard glass going, and we guessed it was them buggers. They been ’ere before.”
“They don’t learn,” said the sergeant with a baleful glance at the goats, who shuffled their feet and looked sulky.
“You’ll be charged at the station,” the sergeant went on, “and I’ll want statements from some of your lads,” he told the warden. “Also from you and your assistants. These other kids can all go home. Quietly, mind,” he said, raising his voice. “Show us there’s some of you can behave like reasonable adults and not childish savages.”
Sally ran forward to Ron as he left the row under the platform. He took her hand as they walked towards the door. But the sergeant had seen something that surprised him. He made a signal over their heads. At the door they were stopped.
“I think you’re wanted. Stand aside for a minute,” the constable told them.
The sergeant was the one who had been at the flat in the first part of the Fairlands case. He had been there when a second detailed examination of the flat was made in case the missing jewelry had been hidden away and had therefore escaped the thief. He had formed a very clear picture in his mind of what he was looking for from Mrs. Evans’ description. As Sally passed him on her way to the door with Ron, part of the picture presented itself to his astonished eyes.
