Five Dead Canaries

by Edward Marston

  ‘Hello, Mr Beresford,’ said the visitor. ‘I wonder if I might have a word.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course you can. Come on in, Mr Jenks.’

  Jenks followed him into the kitchen and they sat on either side of the table. Since he’d only met the man once before, Beresford wondered why he’d called. Arrangements for the funerals had been finalised so there was no need for further discussion. Jenks seemed unwilling to explain the reason for his visit. Looking down at the notepad, he saw the list of names in a triangular pattern on the page.

  ‘I’ve obviously come at an inconvenient time,’ he said.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Beresford. ‘I was just working out the team for the cup final.’

  Jenks was startled. ‘It’s still going ahead?’

  ‘My mind is set on it.’

  ‘But in the circumstances ….’

  ‘If we pull out now, we hand the cup to Woolwich and I’m damned if we’re going to do that. They’re going to have to fight for it. Mind you,’ he went on, ‘I really ought to give them an apology. When that bomb went off, I was too quick to think that they had something to do with it and it was wrong of me. According to Inspector Marmion, they had no connection with it at all. He sent some of his men to Woolwich to investigate and that was their conclusion.’

  Jenks indicated the notepad. ‘Why are the names separated like that?’

  ‘I can see that you’re not a football fan, Mr Jenks.’

  ‘To be honest, I know very little about sport of any kind.’

  ‘This is the formation,’ explained Beresford, pointing to the names in turn. ‘We have the goalkeeper here at the back. Then we have two fullbacks with three halfbacks in front of them. These five players here are the forwards. As a result of what happened, I’ve been forced to make some changes.’

  ‘But you’ve still got one player left from that bomb blast,’ Jenks reminded him. ‘Maureen Quinn survived the explosion. I remember Enid telling me that she was a very good goalkeeper. At least, you have her in your team.’

  ‘No, I don’t. It would be too much to ask of her.’

  ‘But she might want to play.’

  ‘She won’t have the chance,’ said Beresford. ‘For her own sake, I’m not selecting Maureen. The pressure on her would be immense. Now, then,’ he went on, ‘what did you come to see me about?’

  Jenks cleared his throat. ‘It was that visit from the inspector.’

  ‘I thought he gave us good news. They have a suspect.’

  ‘Yes, but only because of his link with my daughter. Can you imagine how dreadful that makes me feel? I had no idea, Mr Beresford – none at all. What kind of father does that make me?’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ said Beresford, moved by his obvious distress. ‘It was something that Enid didn’t feel able to confide in you, that’s all.’

  ‘But why – what’s wrong with me?’

  ‘The fault may have been with her, Mr Jenks.’

  ‘She deceived me,’ said the other, solemnly. ‘That’s what I can’t accept. Enid was the soul of honesty yet she told me a lie to hide the fact that she was going out with this man.’

  ‘Perhaps she felt that you’d object.’

  ‘I most certainly would have done so.’

  ‘Then she was forced to deceive you.’

  ‘And look what her deception has led to!’ wailed Jenks. ‘If she’d felt able to approach me in the first place, she’d still be alive and so would your wife.’

  Beresford reacted as if from a pinprick. ‘There’s no way of knowing that,’ he said. ‘This man, Wylie, pursued her because she rebuffed him. Telling you about him wouldn’t have stopped him doing that.’

  ‘Yes, it would. I’d have warned him off.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound like a man who’d pay attention to warnings. From what the inspector told us, Wylie was in the grip of an obsession. You couldn’t have frightened him off with a few stern words.’

  As he battled with unpleasant memories, Jenks looked even more anguished.

  ‘Do you have any children?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Mr Jenks.’

  ‘Then you can’t really understand what it feels like.’

  ‘That’s probably true,’ said Beresford with irritation. ‘But, if that’s all you came to tell me, I’m afraid that I have work to get on with.’

  ‘Don’t send me off,’ pleaded Jenks. ‘What I really came for was information. I know it will be very painful but I’d like to hear it all the same. You told me that Enid confided in your wife that this man was hounding her at work and elsewhere. I know that my daughter was friendly with Shirley. What exactly did your wife tell you?’

  Marmion took pity on his chauffeur. Having subjected the man to two marathon drives, he elected to go to Rochester by train instead. In the event, it was a quicker mode of travel. Having returned to London, he and Keedy changed trains and headed down into Kent. The sergeant was optimistic. Since he’d decided that Herbert Wylie was the man who’d caused the explosion, he was delighted that they were finally about to meet him. Marmion, as always, was more cautious.

  ‘It sounds too good to be true, Joe,’ he said.

  ‘The only thing that sounds too good to be true is hearing Chat giving us three cheers for our excellent work,’ said Keedy. ‘Getting praise out of him is like getting blood out of a stone.’

  ‘It’s the confession that worries me.’

  ‘Criminals are not all hard-hearted monsters. Some have a conscience.’

  ‘Then why didn’t it prompt Wylie to hand himself in earlier? If he was sorry for what he’d done, he could have come straight to Scotland Yard.’

  ‘You’ve got to remember the state he must have been in,’ argued Keedy. ‘He planted that bomb in order to kill Enid Jenks. Once the explosion was over, he’d done what he set out to do and fled the scene. That makes sense, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes – up to a point.’

  ‘It was only when he’d had time to reflect on it that he realised there’d been other victims. Beforehand, that wouldn’t have troubled him. They were simply incidental casualties. Afterwards, however,’ said Keedy, ‘he came to see them as real human beings whose lives he’d ended needlessly.’

  ‘You could be right,’ conceded Marmion, ‘but I reserve my judgement.’

  ‘Can’t you enjoy a bit of luck when you see it, Harv?’

  ‘All that I see is a possibility – and it’s no more than that – of an arrest. Even if it is Wylie, there’s no guarantee that he was actually the bomber.’

  ‘Why else should he confess to the crime?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out, Joe.’

  Having been to Rochester before, Marmion made sure that they sat on the right-hand side of the compartment so that they had a good view of the River Medway as it curved in a graceful arc towards the town. On the other side of the river were the ruins of the Norman castle with its tower soaring up into the sky. Beyond it was the cathedral, a structure notable for its solidity rather than for any architectural majesty. Rochester was a quaint little town with a number of half-timbered old houses and with close associations with Charles Dickens. It was Keedy’s first visit but he saw none of its abundant attractions. As soon as they left the train, they went straight to the police station and introduced themselves.

  The detectives were shown the signed statement made by the claiming to be Wylie. It was short and explicit, naming all five of the victims. Marmion and Keedy were conducted along a passageway to an interview room. The door was unlocked for them and they were left alone with the prisoner. He was sitting with his arms resting on the table in front of him and barely lifted his eyes to them. He looked slightly broader than he had been in the photograph of him but there was a definite resemblance to the man on the works outing. There was the same grim expression and the same strange intensity about him.

  They sat in the two vacant chairs and appraised him. He remained motionless. Marmion performed the introductions and warne
d him that everything he said would be taken down. Keedy produced a notebook and pencil. The interrogation began on a relatively calm note.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘Herbert Wylie,’ replied the man.

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘Why should I lie to you?’

  ‘Do you have any form of identification on you?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I threw everything away when I left Hayes,’ said the other. ‘I wanted to start a new life with a different name. That’s why I came here.’

  His northern accent was faint but unmistakable, his voice heavy with remorse.

  ‘Did you plant a bomb in the outhouse of the Golden Goose?’

  ‘Yes, I did, Inspector.’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘I wanted to kill someone.’

  ‘The bomb killed five young women. Was that your intention?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It’s all scrambled in my mind now. When I placed that bomb there, I knew what I wanted. Afterwards, it was different.’

  ‘Where were you born?’

  ‘Sheffield.’

  ‘Where did you work?’

  ‘At the Hayes munition factory – I was in the Cartridge Section.’

  ‘How long had you been there?’

  ‘I got a job there soon after it opened.’

  ‘Where did you live?’

  ‘I rented a room from an old lady.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘It was Mrs Armadale.’

  ‘Right,’ said Marmion, raising his voice. ‘Almost everything you’ve told me so far could have been found in the newspapers. Let’s see how well informed you are about people and events that have not been in the public domain.’

  ‘I’m Herbert Wylie,’ insisted the other. ‘What more do you need to know?’

  ‘Did your landlady wear spectacles?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘How did you get into that outhouse?’

  ‘That would be telling.’

  ‘What’s the name of the works manager?’

  ‘The only thing that matters is my name, isn’t it? I’m Herbert Wylie, the man who planted a bomb. Arrest me for the crime. Put my picture in the papers. Tell everyone what I did.’

  ‘What you did,’ said Marmion with utter disgust, ‘is to waste our time and distract us from the search for the real killer. You’re not Wylie,’ he added, rising to his feet. ‘You’re just a pathetic little creature who wants the perverse thrill of being regarded as a mass murderer.’

  ‘It’s not true!’ exclaimed the man, thumping the table. ‘I’m Herbert Wylie.’

  ‘Then you should know that Mrs Armadale doesn’t wear spectacles. She told us how particular her lodger was about cleaning his shoes.’ He glanced down at the man’s dirty boots. ‘Oh, you’ll be arrested and charged, I promise you, but not as the killer you’re pretending to be.’

  It was too much for the man. Pulsing with fury, he jumped up and swung a fist at Marmion. It was easily parried. Before he could throw a second punch, he was overpowered by Keedy who leapt up and grappled with him before slamming him against a wall. It took all resistance out of the man. The commotion brought two uniformed constables into the room.

  ‘Lock him up,’ said Keedy, handing him over. ‘And find out his real name.’

  The man was still yelling at the top of his voice as they dragged him out.

  ‘I had a horrible feeling that we’d find someone who simply craved attention,’ said Marmion with a resigned smile. ‘His statement gave him away.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He was so eager to convince us that he set off that bomb that he listed all five victims. The real Herbert Wylie wouldn’t have done that. He probably didn’t even know all the names. The one person he was interested in was Enid Jenks. The others didn’t matter.’

  ‘I should have realised that,’ admitted Keedy.

  ‘Yes, Joe, you should have. As a penance, you can be the one to ring the superintendent to break the bad news to him.’ Marmion gave him a friendly pat. ‘Don’t forget to wear ear plugs. He can be vindictive.’

  At the end of a taxing day, Alan Suggs clocked off at the factory and walked home. Having driven his lorry considerable distances at work, he was glad to be back on his feet again. As he was going through the factory gates, another shift was streaming towards him. He spotted a pretty young woman with dimpled cheeks and a full figure. When she saw him grinning at her, she turned away and quickened her step. Their friendship had been brief and, on her side, demeaning. Suggs, however, had stirring memories of their time together and he celebrated them with a guffaw. It was a long walk back to his house but he moved along with alacrity. Behind him was the world of work; ahead of him was a night of pleasure.

  His route took him past the Golden Goose and he saw Royston Liddle lurking nearby. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to taunt him.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at home feeding your rabbits?’ he asked with a smirk.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Liddle, ‘and you know why.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Royston.’

  ‘You killed them.’

  Suggs feigned righteous indignation. ‘That’s a downright lie!’

  ‘I can’t prove it but I know it.’

  ‘You’d better be careful what you’re saying.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘Come out with nonsense like that and everyone will know that you’ve lost what little sense you have. That means only one thing,’ he said, menacingly. ‘They’ll lock you up in the lunatic asylum. Best place for you, if you ask me.’

  Liddle was wounded. ‘I don’t belong in an asylum.’

  ‘Then stop making stupid accusations.’

  ‘Everybody talks to me proper, Alan. Why can’t you?’

  ‘Because I think you’re a streak of shit with as much use as a dead rabbit.’

  ‘That’s cruel!’ whined Liddle, backing away.

  ‘Keep out of my way.’

  Pushing him roughly aside, Suggs strode on, his derisive laughter echoing along the street. In the gathering gloom, he didn’t realise that Liddle waited for a while then followed him at a distance. The driver went through his usual routine. He let himself into his house, washed in the kitchen sink then went upstairs to get changed. When he came back down, he cooked himself a frugal meal then spent minutes in front of the mirror with a comb, slicking his hair down and admiring himself. Slipping on his coat and hat, he left the house and went straight to the pub. Over a pint of beer, he was soon trading coarse jokes with some of the other patrons.

  Offered a fresh drink by a friend, he glanced at the clock on the wall and declined the offer. Suggs drained his glass in one last gulp and left. As before, he checked to see that nobody else was about. His walk became more furtive now and he kept glancing over his shoulder. When he reached his destination, he had one last look up and down. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he was about to knock on the door when he saw that it was slightly ajar. The invitation could not be more obvious. Responding to the show of readiness, he let himself in and shut the door behind him before bolting it. He walked down the passageway and went into the room at the rear of the house. Back turned to him, she was waiting. Suggs was disappointed. She was fully dressed. He clicked his tongue.

  ‘Somebody forgot her promise, didn’t she?’ he said, warningly. ‘You’ll be sorry for that. You know I love to look before I touch.’

  As he walked towards her, she turned slowly around to face him. The sight of her face stopped him in his tracks. Both eyes were blackened and there were dark bruises on her temples. A trickle of blood from her nose had dried in place.

  Hearing a noise behind him, he tried to turn round but he was too slow even to see his attacker. The first blow sent him reeling and the second battered him to the ground. He was kicked, stamped on and belaboured with a pick handle. Long
before the assault had ended, he lost consciousness. When it was all over, he was dragged along the passageway. The front door was opened and Suggs was thrown out bodily onto the hard pavement, collecting fresh wounds on impact. He lay there in a pool of blood that slowly increased in size. It was the last tryst at that particular address.

  There was quiet laughter in the darkness.

  After their futile visit to Rochester, they returned by train to London, then were driven out to Hayes again. Herbert Wylie remained their chief suspect but Marmion wasn’t ready to discount the other two people who came into the reckoning. Niall Quinn still interested him and there was the putative father of Florrie Duncan’s child. Since the pregnancy was not confirmed, the detectives decided to call on a person who might be able to help them. Reuben Harte gave them an ungracious welcome but he did at least let them into the house. However, he took care not to invite them to sit down. The conversation took place in the middle of the living room with the three of them standing in a triangle.

  ‘What do you wish to know, Inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘How close was your daughter to Florrie Duncan?’

  ‘They were very close. I told you that.’

  ‘Did Jean often talk about her?’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Harte. ‘They worked side by side and spent a lot of their spare time together. Jean talked about her all the time. Florrie was always up to something, not least trying to organise the women into a union.’

  ‘Was there much opposition to that at the factory?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘A great deal of opposition, Sergeant. No boss likes to be told that he’s not paying his workers enough or that their working conditions are appalling. It would be bad enough coming from a male employee. Coming from a woman, it would have been even harder to take.’