The Saint Valentine’s Day Murders

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘I am making no such implication,’ said Milton. ‘You will surely understand the need to carry out the appropriate police procedures…Without fear or favour,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘Just as long as you understand that I know my rights. I won’t put up with any bullying.’

  ‘Neither the constable nor myself is here to bully you, Mr Illingworth. I am here to put a number of straight questions to you. I would be grateful for straight answers. Detective Constable Pooley is here to make a record of our conversation, a copy of which you will be asked to read and sign.’

  ‘In that case, I hereby make a statement for him to write down.’

  ‘Please do so, Pooley,’ said Milton with due gravity.

  ‘My…wife…and…I…’

  Observing the agonized expression on Pooley’s face, Milton cut in. ‘It’s all right, Mr Illingworth. You may speak at your normal speed. The constable uses shorthand.’

  Graham cleared his throat and spoke at a pace which made Milton realize he had learned this off by heart. ‘My wife and I are a united couple. I have never wished to perpetrate any injury upon her. I repudiate totally any imputation whereby I might have tried to poison her. Such allegations are an insult to her and I. At this moment in time I wish it to go on record that I shall have to seek legal advice if there is any police harassment of my family.’

  Milton adopted a conversational tone. ‘Could you explain to us now why you lied about your daughter being in danger from the chocolates?’

  ‘I dispute the factuality of that statement.’

  It took ten minutes—during which Milton had to read out the relevant parts of statements from the two policemen who had been to the Illingworth household on St Valentine’s Day—before Graham reluctantly admitted that he might have said Gail could have been poisoned by a chocolate. Milton was relieved that at least he was not mug enough to claim she did eat the stuff. Even Graham could grasp that both wife and child were readily available to be interrogated about this.

  ‘Who’s been talking to you about our business?’ he demanded.

  ‘That is none of yours,’ said Milton. ‘I want to know why you sought to deceive police officers into thinking that your daughter was vulnerable.’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Forgot what?’

  ‘Forgot she didn’t eat them.’

  Nothing could shift him from this position. Fifteen minutes later, Milton recognized that he was beaten.

  ‘I will leave it at that for the moment, Mr Illingworth. But I must warn you that I am not satisfied with your answers. I shall need to talk to you again.’

  ‘I hope you will confine yourself to visiting me at the office. I resent having the privacy of my home invaded, particularly on a Sunday.’

  ‘Sometimes I resent having to work on a Sunday. But perhaps my priorities are different from yours. I attach more importance to saving lives than to suiting my own convenience. Perhaps it has not occurred to you, Mr Illingworth, that this murderer may strike again.’

  As they walked down the front path, Pooley said approvingly: ‘That will have rattled him, sir’.

  ‘Only if he’s innocent. I was letting off steam rather than being clever.’

  ‘I don’t know how you kept your temper, sir. Whether he’s innocent or not, he told a lie to try to deflect suspicion from himself. He reminds me of a man I once read about who…’

  ‘Not now, Pooley. I’ve got some ideas I want to dictate to you. Get in.’

  Pooley sat behind the wheel, making copious notes of Milton’s instructions. At the end he looked up in excitement. ‘Shall I get on to the Hertfordshire police force myself, sir?’

  ‘No, Pooley. I don’t think they are ready for such a level of egalitarianism as you propose. The instructions will have to come from me. But you may draft them for my signature.’

  Pooley looked rather crestfallen as he started the car. Milton had a sudden recollection of being snubbed as an over-zealous young policeman. ‘Ellis,’ he said, ‘you may now tell me about this man Illingworth reminded you of.’

  ***

  Making a brief appearance, the sun lit up the highly polished silver on Miss Nash’s sideboard. Sammy Pike looked at it critically, and concluded that at least the poor old soul had been accurate when she said she was used to better circumstances. Shabby-genteel was the only description you could apply to the rest of her room. The chintz was faded and the carpet worn. He felt sorry for her. If even Mr Amiss was here now he’d realize that she wasn’t malicious. Just a bit confused. Her generation and class couldn’t be expected to understand the changes in the world around them. It wasn’t fair of Mrs Short to have told her all that stuff about infertility. No wonder she thought Mr Short was impotent. She didn’t sound like the sort who’d grasp fine distinctions.

  ‘Thank you, madam. I will take another slice of your delicious cake.’

  Pike prided himself on his ability to win the hearts of old ladies. Ten years on the beat had made him an expert. Miss Nash continued to witter on in ever-greater excitement.

  ‘You must be careful, ma’am. It is really very unlikely that Mr Short was responsible for his wife’s death. You could get yourself into trouble saying so.’

  ‘But what else can I be expected to think, officer? Poor girl. All that violence she had to put up with.’

  ‘Did she ever complain to you?’

  Miss Nash twisted one ankle round the other. ‘Well…not often. She was very brave.’

  Pike knew enough to interpret this as never. The violence was clearly a myth. He looked at his hostess with compassion. She must have a boring life. Sitting here all dressed up in her Sunday best waiting for someone to call. You couldn’t blame her for getting a bit carried away with the drama.

  ‘You’ll miss her, then.’

  ‘Oh, yes, officer. So much. I went to her cremation, you know, but I couldn’t bring myself to go into his house afterwards. I was glad I didn’t. Can you believe…’ She lowered her voice. ‘Last night he had some kind of drunken party. The poor girl laid to rest in her coffin, and that very night he’s shouting and fighting in her house.’

  ‘Fighting?’

  ‘Yes. I could hear them breaking things.’

  Pike repressed a grin. The walls looked thin enough, but she must have stayed up late to hear what was going on in the living room in the middle of the night.

  He finished his cake and made a move to go. Miss Nash waved at him in a distracted manner. Her little angular face turned pink. ‘Please, officer. I haven’t told you the worst.’

  Pike’s interest was aroused. ‘Well, tell me now.’

  ‘I couldn’t bring myself to speak of this if you weren’t a policeman.’

  Not half, thought Pike. You seem to have talked pretty freely about your neighbours’ sexual habits.

  ‘You must look upon me like a doctor.’ That always got them, he reflected complacently.

  ‘The thing is…I understand now why he couldn’t give dear Fran a child.’

  Clamping his hands on his thighs, Pike leaned forward in fascination. ‘Do tell me.’

  Miss Nash’s faded eyes gazed frankly at him. She paused briefly for effect. ‘He’s a homosexual, you see. Of course I know they don’t lock them up for that any more, but it’s a motive, isn’t it?’

  Pike was riveted. ‘How do you know this?’

  She lowered her voice this time to such a confidential level that he had to strain to hear. ‘He had a young man staying with him last night. I heard them. They shared the bedroom.’

  ‘Maybe there wasn’t a spare bed made up?’ suggested Pike. He was beginning to savour the joke.

  ‘Oh but officer, I saw them this morning. The young man—I mean you’d know he was one of them. They hugged each other on the doorstep. Imagine. At nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. They didn’t seem to mind who saw them. It was disgusting.’

  She looked up at him expectantly. He got to his feet. Mr Amiss had been right. She was in
deed a nosey bitch. He felt a strong impulse to tell her so. No, he thought. I know what frustration does to people.

  He sat down again and put on his kindest voice. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘for your own sake, I think I’d better tell you something about the laws of slander.’

  As the gentle homily went on, Tiny was lying on his bed next door. He was leafing through a picture book of Kenya, rescued from the attic to which Fran had consigned it.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Monday, 21 February

  It was already a quarter to twelve and Milton’s headache was getting worse. ‘It’ll be better soon,’ said Pike. ‘Just take those aspirins.’

  Milton swallowed the three tablets and drained the glass of water. Sammy is beginning to sound more like a batman than a sergeant, he thought. Am I letting standards of discipline slip? Demonstrating favouritism? Romford seemed upset that I took Pooley with me yesterday. Oh, the hell with it. Things are bad enough without pandering to the kind of prejudices that lose us hundreds of bright young coppers every year. If the only people I can talk freely with about this mess—and get a useful response—happen to be Sammy, Ellis and Robert, then so be it.

  ‘Bad meeting, sir?’

  ‘Pretty grim. There are noises being made about the amount of police time being spent with nothing to show for it.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem a fair criticism, sir.’

  ‘It doesn’t, does it? I don’t think there’s really much conviction behind it. It’s inter-force jealousies mainly, I think. The local chaps feel they have to put in the effort but that we’ll take the credit. The higher echelons of the Yard feel they’ve got to meet the criticisms by making sure I don’t turn into a megalomaniac.’

  ‘I’d have thought that with the noise the papers are making, no one would be thinking much of economy.’

  ‘Don’t mention the papers. That press conference this morning was awful. I can’t tell them anything without pointing the finger directly at our small band of suspects.’

  ‘Coffee, sir?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Pike returned a few minutes later bearing a paper cup. Milton sniffed it incredulously. ‘This hasn’t come from the canteen, has it? It smells too much like the real thing.’

  ‘I popped out and got it round the corner.’

  ‘You’re like a mother to me, Sammy.’ He took out a pocketful of loose change. ‘Here, take it out of that.’

  Pike hesitated for a moment, and then picked up thirty pence. Poor devil, thought Milton. It’s awful to be so fearful of corruption allegations that you can’t stand your superior a cup of coffee. And in Sammy’s case it could be interpreted as bribery, if anyone ever found out the truth about that drug pusher. He grinned at him. ‘You can buy me a pint, Sammy, if either of us gets a promotion out of this.’

  Pike grinned back. ‘Gladly, sir. Anything else I can do, or will I get back to those phone-calls?’

  ‘Try and set up a meeting for half past two with Chief Inspector Trueman and all the inspectors dealing with the case. I want to be brought up-to-date with everything they’ve got.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  The throbbing had somewhat subsided. Milton had another apreciative swig of coffee, then took a handful of small sheets of paper out of his drawer. He wrote a name on each of five of them. Then he put them in his order of choice: Graham Illingworth; Henry Crump; Bill Thomas; Tiny Short; Tony Farson. No. There was no case against Tiny. He shouldn’t be in the pile at all. Nor was there a case against Tony Farson. No father would take the risk of killing his kid. He tore up the sheets that bore their names.

  His outside line rang.

  ‘Hello. Jim Milton.’

  ‘It’s Robert. I’ve heard something that is probably of no significance, but here it is. Gloria Farson is pregnant.’

  ‘Which makes it even less likely that he’d have wanted to murder her.’

  ‘Not necessarily, I’m afraid. I heard her telling Edna at the office dance last December that she would like another baby but Tony was dead against it.’

  ‘You think he might have thought of this as the only way to bring about an abortion?’

  ‘I don’t think anything. I feel like a traitor. I’ve just been congratulating him about this while trying to sympathize about Tommy and now I’m sitting in Shipton’s room passing on gossip.’

  ‘You should try to take a pride in it—like Miss Nash.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be the straight man. I’m the comedian. Incidentally: I’ve been worrying about it ever since you rang last night. What was it about me that she thought was homosexual?’

  ‘Probably your high heels and handbag,’ said Milton and rang off feeling pleased with himself.

  He looked at his pieces of paper. Taking another blank one, he wrote Tony Farson’s name again. Under it he put ‘When did he know?’; ‘How much did he mind?’ Then he wrote ‘Tommy’. He swivelled round in his chair and looked at the scene in the office across the street. Four male heads were bent industriously over their work. Through the other window, he could see a man and a woman laughing. He tried to speculate about what was going on in their heads. Secret discreditable thoughts? Or just common enjoyment of a joke? Was he much better than Romford really? Could Tony Farson…? No. It was as stupid an idea as that Charlie had committed suicide.

  He turned his chair around and tore up Farson’s name for the second time. He shoved the other pieces of paper into his desk and pulled towards him the bulging in-tray he had cleared the night before.

  ***

  ‘Let me summarize the findings once more from the beginning. And interrupt me if I’ve got anything wrong. The wrapping-paper could have been bought in any one of a hundred or so shops in London—let alone the provinces. The sellotape was the standard variety. The string, being coloured, gives a terrific lead. It could have been bought only in about forty London shops, most of which are self-service. The chocolates were carefully selected for their size, sweetness, popularity throughout the British Isles and the fact that the box they came in was small enough to go through the large letter-box outside the post office. The stamps were just stamps. The only lead is the typewriting on each parcel, which the experts are pretty sure was done on a cheap portable that last year sold in excess of ten thousand in England alone. We are told that the typing was either done by an expert who exerted even pressure on each key or by a one-finger typist who achieved the same effect. Where can we go from there?’

  ‘Nowhere, sir,’ said Trueman.

  ‘We have finally rejected any idea of taking the suspects’ photographs around typewriter shops other than those within easy reach of their homes. No dissent from that decision?’

  There was silence.

  ‘We have four people working full-time on trying to trace the sources of the strychnine. Their preliminary conclusion is that it will prove impossible to trace. No thefts have been reported and no link can be made between legitimate sales and any of the people involved in this case. It looks almost certain that it must have been acquired through criminal means. But no one can think off-hand of any criminals who deal in such a relatively cheap and unpopular commodity. It would be a substance easy to acquire abroad also, but here we are stumped for ideas. Apart from the Crumps’ holiday in Majorca last summer, no one admits to having gone abroad during the last two years. Majorca seems unpromising, but we are investigating it anyway. Our conclusion is that once the team checks out Majorca and confirms its preliminary report, we will abandon this hunt also, simply leaving it to officers to keep their ears open to anything promising that comes in from the usual grasses.’

  Silence again.

  ‘There is no shadow of doubt that the list of suspects is down for all practical purposes to five, although we cannot rule out the possibility that someone of whose existence we know nothing got hold of the list of staff, knew Mr Thomas was unmarried, and had the means, motive and opportunity.’

  ‘Five, sir?’ asked Romford. ‘I make it six.�
�

  Milton looked impatient. ‘We’ve ruled out Melissa Taylor’s girlfriend, don’t you remember?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But…’ He consulted his notes. ‘I still make it six: Amiss, Crump, Farson, Illingworth, Short and Thomas.’

  ‘Amiss? But he saved the lives—’

  ‘Yes, sir. I know. But that could have been because he thought it would look fishy if he didn’t.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘The same as Thomas’s, sir.’

  When this is over, Romford, thought Milton, I will have you transferred to Traffic Division. Meanwhile, I must be patient.

  ‘Technically, I cannot fault you on that, Romford. I confess that I excluded him because I know him well and consider him sane. But for the sake of propriety, I shall add him to the list.’

  Milton looked round the table at the seven faces of his subordinates. He caught the flicker of a smile on Trueman’s face. There was a brief pause. Then he collected his wits and said, ‘Sorry, gentlemen. I lost my thread for a moment. We have six suspects, three of whom look distinctly unpromising. We have been through the reasons why Farson and Short cannot be taken very seriously. And if Inspector Romford will forgive me, I cannot put Amiss high up the list either.’

  Romford was too pleased with the flexibility of mind he had just exhibited to press the point. He nodded his agreement.

  ‘We will therefore put tails only on the top three. I realize that it is almost certainly a futile exercise, but I think it is worth the investment in manpower.’

  They proceeded to technicalities. It was almost six when the meeting finally broke up. Pike, who had been taking notes in the corner, looked up at Milton once they were alone.

  ‘Are you going to tell Mr Amiss that he’s on the list, sir?’

  ‘Oh, I am, Sammy. I am. It’s time he realized he isn’t the only comedian around.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ‘That’s a nice thing to ring me with at this time of night.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m so late. But I’ve only just arrived back from a visit to Henry. You aren’t taking it seriously, are you? I thought it was funny.’