Five Dead Canaries

by Edward Marston

  ‘Why is that, Harv?’

  ‘They’re both religious.’

  ‘How are you feeling now, Maureen?’

  ‘My mind is a blank most of the time.’

  ‘That’s understandable. You’re still in shock.’

  ‘It’s just so painful to remember what happened,’ said Maureen, ‘so I’ve tried to block it out. But I can’t do that for ever, Father.’

  ‘Indeed, you can’t.’

  ‘Sooner or later, I’ll have to face their families. They’ll detest me.’

  ‘That’s not true at all,’ said Father Cleary, gently squeezing her hands. ‘They’ll be glad that – by the grace of God – someone managed to escape the horror of that explosion. It’s only natural that they’ll wish that it had been their daughter, of course, but there should be no antagonism towards you.’

  ‘Yes, there will,’ said Maureen, thinking of Mrs Radcliffe.

  ‘What brought you to church this morning?’

  ‘I needed to be alone.’

  ‘You’re never alone in God’s house.’

  ‘I know that but I wanted …’

  ‘A place of sanctuary?’ he asked as her voice tailed off. Maureen nodded. ‘Well, you came to the right place. We haven’t seen as much of you or of your family as we’d like recently and I’m sorry that it’s taken a tragedy like this to bring you back here. But you’re very welcome, Maureen. You were much brighter than everyone else at Sunday school – especially your brothers. How are they, by the way?’

  ‘We don’t know. They’re still at the front somewhere.’

  ‘We’ll remember them in our prayers.’

  In obedience to her husband, Diane Quinn had already turned many callers away, both inquisitive neighbours and persistent reporters. The one person in whose face she couldn’t shut the front door was Father Cleary, a stringy, old man with a biretta that he never seemed to remove perched on a mop of silver hair. When word reached him that Maureen had spent hours in St Alban’s church, he paid her a visit. Seated opposite her, he held her hands and offered sympathy and understanding.

  Maureen was bewildered. ‘Why was I spared, Father?’

  ‘God moves in mysterious ways.’

  ‘It’s what I keep asking myself. In one way or another, they were all better than me. Florrie was our leader, Enid was a brilliant musician, Agnes had a gorgeous baby son and so on. Unlike me, they all had full lives.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate your importance in the scheme of things, Maureen,’ said Cleary, peering over his spectacles. ‘You were spared for a reason. These things are never random. The Almighty chose you for a purpose. It’s only a matter of time before that purpose is revealed to you.’ He sat back. ‘Will I see you in church on Sunday?’ Maureen hesitated. ‘Yes, I know that your father keeps you away but I’ll talk to him about it. If I do that, will you attend Mass?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ she said with passion. ‘I will, I promise.’

  Joe Keedy knew that someone was inside the house. He could not only hear them moving about, he caught a glimpse of someone through the net curtains on the bay window. Since he failed to get a response from several knocks on the front door, he took out his notebook, wrote his name and rank on it, then tore out the page and posted it through the letter box. After a long wait, the letter box opened and a reedy voice came through it.

  ‘How do we know that you’re a detective?’ asked the man.

  ‘I’ll show you my warrant card.’

  ‘We had someone earlier who claimed that he was from Scotland Yard.’

  ‘That would have been Inspector Marmion, who’s in charge of the investigation. He told me that he called here.’

  ‘I didn’t like the look of him. He was shifty. I thought it was another one of those reporters trying to trick his way in here so we ignored him.’

  Keedy was amused at the idea that Marmion had been repelled on the grounds of his appearance and he vowed to taunt him about it later. Showing his warrant card to the pair of suspicious eyes in the open letter box, he finally pierced the defences at the Harte household. The door swung back just wide enough to admit him and he went in. Reuben Harte quickly shut and bolted the door. He was a slight man in his fifties with thick, dark hair and a bushy moustache. He wore shirt, trousers and a waistcoat that was unbuttoned. His eyes were pools of sorrow.

  ‘What do you want, Sergeant?’

  ‘Do we have to talk in the passageway?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the other, firmly.

  ‘As you wish,’ decided Keedy, removing his hat. ‘As for reporters, they’ve been warned to leave you alone. Next time one of them bothers you, make sure that you get his name and we’ll make a point of reprimanding him. At a time like this, the last thing you need is the press baying at your heels.’

  ‘Thank you – I’ll remember that.’

  ‘However, since we wish to catch the person who set off that explosion, we need to learn as much as we can about the victims. Do you understand that?’

  ‘No, I don’t, but go on.’

  Keedy glanced towards the living room. ‘Is there a Mrs Harte?’

  ‘My wife is staying with her sister, who used to be a nurse. She’s not at all well, Sergeant, and this has only made her condition worse.’

  ‘Tell me about your daughter. I believe that she was plagued with minor ailments. Is that true?’

  ‘They weren’t minor,’ said Harte. ‘Jean had some serious problems.’

  Mother and daughter clearly didn’t enjoy the rude health that Harte seemed to show. He was slim, straight-backed and looked younger than his years. There was no trace of grey in his hair. Keedy learnt that he was a bank clerk. When his daughter had wanted to work at the munitions factory, he opposed the idea at first but was eventually talked around. Paradoxically, her health seemed to improve slightly in the harmful environment of the Cartridge Section. Harte ascribed it to the reassurance of having such good friends. In previous spells of employment, Jean had always been the odd one out. Her father talked selfishly rather than fondly about her, recalling what he’d done for her throughout life instead of what she’d achieved on her own. It was almost as if he were trying to justify his role as a parent.

  The verbal photograph he was given was recognisably that of the woman described in Kennett’s notes. Jean was an integral part of a tight group, liked for her cynical streak and mocked for her endless whining. Her closest friend, it emerged, was Florrie Duncan. On the strength of what he knew about them, they seemed an unlikely pair to Keedy. While Florrie was an irrepressible optimist, Jean always feared the worst in any given situation.

  ‘They got on famously,’ said Harte. ‘We liked Florrie.’

  ‘Did they have much in common?’

  ‘They had the most important thing, Sergeant.’

  ‘Oh – what was that?’

  ‘They both lost the person they loved most. Florrie’s husband died at the front and so did Jean’s young man. They got engaged during his last leave, then he went off and got himself killed. Florrie managed to get over it,’ said Harte, enviously, ‘but it cast a shadow over Jean’s life. Maurice – that was his name – worked at the bank with me. I taught him all he knew.’

  Harte came close to smiling without actually managing it. There was a possessiveness about him that made Keedy feel sorry for his daughter. It was as if he’d only allowed Jean to embark on a romance because he’d chosen and groomed the young man in question. Harte was not unintelligent but had obvious limitations and Keedy could see why he’d never risen above the level of a bank clerk. At a time in life when his contemporaries had become managers, he stayed in the shadows.

  ‘How well did you know the other girls?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘Oh, I met all of Jean’s gang,’ said Harte, ‘and encouraged her to invite them here. My wife and I are creatures of habit, Sergeant. We always go out on a Saturday night to visit my sister-in-law and her husband. Bert is disabled so walking all the way here is out of the question. A
nyway, Jean often had one or more of her friends around. Florrie Duncan was always here and so was Enid Jenks, She used to play our piano and they’d have a sing-song. We’d join in when we got back.’

  ‘What about Agnes Collier and Maureen Quinn?’

  ‘They came now and again but neither were regulars. They don’t live in Hayes, you see, and Agnes has a baby to look after. She brought him here once. He’s got a good pair of lungs on him, I know that.’

  Keedy sensed that he was claiming to know the women rather better than he actually did. He spoke about them with an affection that – Keedy suspected – was not entirely reciprocated. Harte was too dry and humourless to mix easily with characters like Florrie Duncan and Agnes Collier, both reportedly given to constant laughter. What he did do was to describe aspects of the five victims’ characters that didn’t appear in the notes provided by Kennett. Jean Harte had had ambitions of being a dress designer. Florrie Duncan lived alone in a two-room flat because – in spite of her gregariousness – she preferred her own company. Shirley Beresford had been a suffragette before the war. Agnes Collier was an expert cook and had won a number of local competitions. Enid Jenks had twice tried to move out of the family home but had been baulked by her father on both occasions.

  Keedy soaked it all in, then remembered the question that Marmion put to him.

  ‘Why were Enid and Shirley such close friends?’

  ‘I used to wonder about that,’ admitted Harte.

  ‘Did you reach a conclusion?’

  ‘No, Sergeant. It’s something I just can’t explain.’

  Alan Suggs was a thickset man in his late twenties with curly, black hair and a beard that gave him a faintly piratical air. When he pulled the lorry into the parking bay, he switched off, took out a cigarette, lit it then jumped out of the vehicle. He was just locking the door when Marmion strolled across to him.

  ‘Mr Suggs?’ he enquired, politely.

  ‘That’s me. Who wants to know?’

  Marmion introduced himself and noted the man’s reaction. Suggs stiffened, drew nervously on his cigarette then exhaled a cloud of smoke. He decided that the best means of defence was stout denial.

  ‘If someone’s told you I’ve been giving unauthorised lifts to people,’ he said, ‘then he’s lying through his teeth. I’d never do that. I know the rules and I’ve signed to say I’d never break them. Anyway,’ he went on after another puff of his cigarette, ‘why is Scotland Yard worrying about drivers misusing their lorries? It’s small beer to you lot. Haven’t you got anything better to do than that?’

  ‘I’ve been talking to Royston Liddle,’ said Marmion, meaningfully.

  ‘Don’t listen to anything that poor bugger tells you. Royston is soft in the head. My dog has got more brains than him.’

  ‘He claims to be a friend of yours.’

  Suggs laughed harshly. ‘Royston is no friend of mine.’

  ‘Then why did you ask him to look the other way when you borrowed the key to the outhouse at the Golden Goose?’

  ‘That what he told you, Inspector? It’s rubbish.’

  ‘He didn’t strike me as a practised liar.’

  ‘Royston doesn’t know what day it is.’

  ‘He knows that he’d lose his job if the landlord discovered that he’d helped you to make use of that outhouse with someone. And before you deny it, Mr Suggs,’ he continued, locking his gaze on the driver, ‘let me warn you that I’m investigating the explosion at the Golden Goose. You had access to the place where they died.’

  ‘It was nothing to do with me!’ roared Suggs.

  ‘Then why were you in the outhouse on the eve of the blast?’

  ‘That’s private.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as privacy in a murder investigation.’

  Suggs was scarlet. ‘I didn’t murder anyone. What the hell d’you take me for?’

  ‘I take you for someone I’d never care to employ,’ said Marmion, levelly. ‘I think you’re vain, shifty, dishonest and untrustworthy. If, as you claim, you had no connection with that bomb, all you have to do is to give me the name of the person with whom you spent half an hour in that outhouse. A lot can happen in thirty minutes, Mr Suggs. You’d have plenty of time to hide a bomb with a timing device.’

  Having been quick to protest, Suggs now fell back into a sullen silence. Marmion could almost see the man’s brain whirring as he sought for a plausible tale to explain his presence at the Golden Goose. He stared at Marmion with an amalgam of dislike and apprehension. Suggs had a glib manner that had suddenly let him down. After a last pull on the cigarette, he dropped it to the ground and stamped on it.

  ‘You obviously have a problem with your eyes,’ said Marmion, pointing to the sign on the wall. ‘That says No Smoking. You also seem to have trouble with your memory. The best way to revive it is for us to have this discussion in the presence of Royston Liddle. Mr Hubbard would also be an interested observer.’

  ‘Keep him out of this,’ begged Suggs. ‘Leighton would strangle me.’

  ‘You look as if you’d like to inflict the same fate on Liddle, so let me say now that if any harm befalls him, I’ll come looking for you with an arrest warrant. Now then,’ Marmion went on, folding his arms, ‘why don’t you dredge up something resembling the truth?’

  Suggs swallowed hard. ‘I didn’t plant that bomb. I swear it.’

  ‘Did you advise the people who did?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Did you tell them where the key could be found?’

  ‘Of course, I didn’t.’

  ‘Where were you when the bomb went off?’

  ‘I was fast asleep at home, Inspector. I work long hours. I need my rest.’

  ‘You didn’t need any rest on the previous evening. My guess is that you were feeling quite vigorous.’ He took out his notebook. ‘What was her name?’

  ‘There was no “her”. I was in there on my own.’

  ‘Royston Liddle saw a young woman being hustled in there.’

  ‘Are you going to rely on the word of a halfwit?’

  ‘It’s far more dependable than anything you’ve told me so far.’ Marmion put the book away. ‘Let’s go and find Mr Hubbard. He has a right to hear the truth.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Suggs, both palms raised, ‘anything but that.’ He pursed his lips for a few moments. ‘Okay,’ he said at length, ‘maybe there was someone in there with me on the night before that explosion.’

  ‘Ah – we’re making progress at last.’

  ‘But I’m not in a position to tell you her name.’

  ‘It’s very gallant of you to protect her anonymity, Mr Suggs, but I’m afraid that I can’t let you do that. Unless you tell me who she is, I can’t get corroboration.’

  Suggs blinked. ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘It means that I need someone to confirm what you tell me.’

  ‘Can’t you take my word for it?’

  ‘No, sir – I fancy that you’re a congenital liar. Indeed, that may be the reason you won’t divulge the name of the young lady. Perhaps you’ve been telling her fibs as well.’ He put his head to one side as he fired his question. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No!’ retorted Suggs.

  ‘Are you sure you haven’t led her to believe that you’re single?’

  ‘I’d never do anything like that.’

  ‘Then let me have a name.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘Or are you holding it back because the young lady is the one who’s married?’

  Suggs licked his lips then examined the ground for a full minute. When he raised his head, he scratched at his beard then smoothed the ruffled hairs down. Marmion could see that he might now get an approximation to the truth.

  ‘Lettie and me are both single,’ Suggs began. ‘I’m hoping that one day we can get engaged but her parents don’t like me. I don’t know why. They refuse to let me anywhere near the house. That won’t stop Lettie and me. We arranged a few secret meetings and the only place I could think of
was that outhouse.’

  ‘Why not invite her to your home?’

  ‘I live with my parents.’

  ‘Surely, they’d like to have met your girlfriend?’

  ‘We wanted privacy.’ He nudged Marmion. ‘You were young once, Inspector, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I drew the line at courting in some disused stables.’

  ‘It suited us.’

  ‘What’s Lettie’s surname?’

  ‘You don’t need to know. I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘Then let’s start with the facts, Mr Suggs.’

  ‘I’m giving them to you,’ claimed the other.

  ‘If you live with your parents,’ observed Marmion, dryly, ‘there must be a very nasty smell in the house because, according to your neighbours, they both died years ago. You live alone and that raises the question of why you didn’t invite Lettie – or whatever her real name is – to your home.’ He narrowed his eyelids. ‘What are you trying to hide, Mr Suggs? And what were you really doing in that outhouse?’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Having finished her shift, Alice Marmion was still in uniform as she made her way back to her flat. On a previous bus journey there she’d once been stalked, but her new status protected her from unwanted attention. It was an important bonus. The uniform had another advantage. It reassured her landlady, a watchful old woman who believed that the virtue of all four young female tenants under her roof was in constant danger and who’d devised a system of rules to keep men at bay. They were only allowed onto the premises between limited hours and confined to the drawing room, a place in which all the chairs were deliberately set apart from each other to discourage any form of intimacy. Alice had entertained Joe Keedy there once and their conversation had been interrupted at regular intervals by the landlady, checking to see that her rules were being obeyed.

  Notwithstanding the strict regime, Alice liked living there. The rooms had generous proportions and she got on well with the other tenants. While she’d lost all the comforts of her own home, she’d gained a precious independence. That made the move there very worthwhile. She could spread her wings. When she got to the house and let herself in, she intended to climb the stairs to her room but she was intercepted by her visitor. Ellen came bounding out of the drawing room, waving a letter.