by Heron Carvic
The first police car, from the Brettenden Road, raced into the Street, blue light flashing, its siren burping like an operatic diva in distress, and pulled up in time to see a small elderly lady, hat askew, handbag and umbrella hanging on her arm, a parcel in one hand, a pistol at the ready in the other, walk into the post office.
* * *
From the Daily Negative—March 23
THE PEACE OF THE ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE
by Amelita Forby
*
Piece 2. Hard Cheese
Sensational developments occurred here today when the slumberous lunchtime peace was rudely shattered by armed gunmen in a raid on Plummergen Post Office. Shots were exchanged for ashtrays. Women fainted . . .
. . . but Postmaster Mr. Stillman, aged 55, gray-haired, height 5’ 9”, matched force with guile. Disturbed when serving grated cheese, he . . .
. . . the takings on the floor and handed them the sealed carton filled with cheese plus one postal order. Even this they lost, for outside the shop the Battling Brolly was ready to immediately and without thought for personal safety go into action. A left hook, a short jab, and booty and gun discarded, the gunmen were routed.
Police were on the scene within seconds, but so far no trace of the raiders has been discovered.
The gun captured and the cheese returned, the only casualties were one ashtray, one tin of condensed tomato and—MY HAT (two holes in it).
* * *
chapter
~5~
“. . . FOREVER AND EVER. Amen.”
The vicar ended the Lord’s Prayer and took his seat. In the village hall the rest of the Parochial Church Council settled themselves with the whispered overwrapping of coats and mufflers for two hours of drafts and discomfort. The minutes were read and signed. Matters arising, such as main drainage, cracks in the bells, and the impassioned choice between a new mower and sheep in the churchyard, were summarily dealt with. Excuses for nonattendance were read or reported. Now at last the council was ready for the agenda, correspondence, and new matters for discussion. In short, the field was cleared, the lists were open, and jousting could begin.
Mr. and Mrs. Hosigg, the very young couple from the Dunnihoe cottage, were put up like dummies in a tiltyard. This gave everyone a chance to limber up and try a few practice runs without opposition, since the Hosiggs had no champion. He had some odd job. Driving a lorry or something. Or so it was said. If she looked frightened, there must be a good reason. He was sometimes away for days at a time. Nights, too. In fact he was very seldom there at night, it was believed. Actually nobody could say where he was at any particular time. If he drove a lorry by night, there was surely nothing to stop him riding a motorcycle by day. And if the girl looked frightened, there must be some very good reason indeed. You had to admit it was too peculiar.
“Should say he’d got a prison record, myself.”
This thrust by Miss Nuttel brought protests, being judged a low hit and the weapon not properly blunted. Miss Nuttel retracted so far as to agree that appearances could be deceptive.
“Like tomato puree for blood?” asked Lady Colveden with interest, a lunge which unseated her opponent.
Norah Blaine jumped to her friend’s assistance. “What Eric means is that from the look of him it’s only too likely that he might have, which means that he’d know the sort of people who do that sort of thing. I mean he’d have friends.”
This irrefutable logic concluded the trial by innuendo, Mr. Hosigg being found guilty of the post-office raid with a companion unspecified. The young Hosiggs were making the mistake of trying to live their lives independent of others. To assert independence is to defy convention, an insult which convention will repay.
Sir George Colveden said nothing, but decided that a job which took a boy away from his girl-wife for several nights a week was not quite the drill. He’d look into it.
Cheered by her success, Mrs. Blaine galloped back into the lists on a new hobbyhorse, a mare named Doris. Doris, the female of the species who had rented the bungalow Saturday Stop, had more supporters than detractors, six of the ladies whom she obliged being on the council. Such a brave girl. Always cheerful and willing. Doris had even suggested that she should clean the silver on Friday, most people wouldn’t. So interested in everything, too, asking what was valuable so that she could take special care. Too nosy perhaps? Miss Nuttel was indignant and brusque.
“Certainly not. Nice gel. Works hard.”
“She’s too good to be true,” agreed Mrs. Blaine. “Looking after that poor, handicapped little brother like that.”
But couldn’t the Welfare people . . .? No. Doris wouldn’t hear of state aid. She preferred to be independent and manage for herself. Surely the husband . . .? Too sad. A breakdown and ordered complete rest by the doctors.
Sounded more like lead-swinging to Sir George. And the youngster ought to be at a school. Nothing known about them that he could see. And the girl in and out of half a dozen houses or more. No business of his, he supposed. Too good to be true . . . Probably the only sensible thing that Blaine woman’d ever said.
“Was it true,” someone asked, “that there was some sort of trouble between Miss Seeton and the little deaf-and-dumb boy?”
There was a rustle round the table. Spectators leaned forward in order to miss nothing. Combatants looked to their weapons and prepared to take up positions behind their leaders. The main event of the evening had been heralded: The Post Office Raid and Miss Seeton.
“Yes, there was,” charged Mrs. Blaine. “I know some people,” she looked defiantly at Lady Colveden and Miss Treeves, “would say it’s all coincidence. But you can’t get away from her shooting our front window out—I might have been killed just as I was laying the table for lunch. And I suppose that would’ve been called coincidence too.”
“Divive Providence,” muttered Sir George.
“And then there she was,” continued Mrs. Blaine, “standing in the Street, hitting that poor little boy with her umbrella.”
“Considering,” countercharged Lady Colveden, “that it was one of the raiders’ guns which went off by accident when he fell, and hit your window, and nothing to do with Miss Seeton, don’t you think you may be being just as silly about anything else you thought you saw?”
This exchange set the tone for the general engagement.
“If there’s any trouble, she’s sure to be at the bottom of it,” was countered by, “Rubbish. If it hadn’t been for her . . .” “I tell you there was money in it. I saw it. I was there,” was denied by, “It was cheese.” “There was no money in it when she brought it back, so where’d it gone?” was contradicted by, “It was never there.” “Someone must have it.” “Don’t you read the papers?” “Making fun of the whole village.” “Well, you can’t blame . . .” “I can. If it wasn’t for her . . .” “She was arrested going into the shop with a gun.” “She saved everybody’s lives.” “But she fought the raiders single-handed.” “She helped them escape.” “If she wasn’t one of them.” “I knew . . .” “You couldn’t . . .” “She did . . .” “We believed . . .” “You denied . . .”
“You can’t deny,” a Mrs. Farmint’s shrill voice cut across the tumult, “there’s no trouble except when she’s here. Which proves she starts it.”
“Poppycock,” said Sir George. “Always trouble of some sort. When there isn’t, you make it.” Mrs. Farmint retired from the fray in tears.
An old echo of steel on steel; of horses’ hoofs; of banners rippling in the wind, pennants fluttering on lances; of thrust, of parry, and of counterthrust. The chairman, the Rev. Arthur Treeves, listened in pained bewilderment. He had been saddened to hear that the newcomers to the Dunnihoe cottage were unsatisfactory, although he had failed to understand why. Had he seen them? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps Molly . . . He’d ask her. He had been cheered to learn that the new people at Saturday Stop were so popular. And for such good reasons. Maybe they would elect to settle down in the village. They s
ounded so right. Arthur Treeves was an unworldly man; or at all events he lived in a world of his own, peopled by kindly folk who, since they did no evil, suffered no temptation to hear, nor see, nor speak it. As a priest, his weakness in doctrine was balanced by his strength in humanity. He saw his parishioners, when he saw them at all, and particularly if he remembered their names, as shining examples of the glory of Man. Had he given the matter consideration he would have been shocked to discover that he viewed the majority of the Ten Commandments as trifling peccadilloes which were strictly the affair of the people involved and no concern of his. When forced by circumstance, or by his sister, to acknowledge imperfection he could be roused. A case of unkindness, the only sin he recognized, would make him militant. Such a case was the post-office raid. It had taken Miss Treeves time and patience to explain to him that it was more than some slight difference of opinion over the price of cheese; that it was an actual robbery by force of arms and that shots had been fired. Robbery was unkind; force yet more unkind; but to shoot a gun, thereby endangering human life, was potentially the unkindest cut of all. Arthur Treeves was angry and determined to play his part in wiping such a stain from his parish. He had expected the raid to be the talking point of tonight’s meeting and had been prepared to be stern. He had expected a chorus of praise for the courage of Miss Seeton, whom he admired, and had been ready to add his voice, but somehow the chorus, though loud, jangled sharp and out of key. He could not understand it. Nervously he fingered the pile of correspondence in front of him on the table; this too he could not fathom. They were mostly about Miss Seeton. In the letters she was variously described as Joan of Arc, as Mata Hari—some film star, he imagined, of whom he hadn’t heard—as Florence Nightingale and as Jezebel—this last surely, whatever the writer’s intentions, a serious misreading of the Old Testament. Finally, there was a cryptic communication from that old ex-colonel who lived next to the George and Dragon and spent most of his time there:
To the Parochial Church Council
Sirs,
Colonel Windup begs to inform you the woman’s a damn nuisance.
“The woman’s a damn nuisance.” Chief Detective Inspector Brinton of the Ashford Criminal Investigation Department looked up from studying Miss Seeton’s sketch of Effie Goffer which lay upon his desk. “Listen, Oracle, take her back to London, we’re not geared to cope with her capers down here. She ran the whole force ragged last summer, hibernated through the winter and now that spring is upon us, the sap is rising and she’s hell-bent for another spree. The local chummies and we understand each other. They commit their little crimes and we commit the chummies in return. Fair enough and all quite matey. But one wave of that brolly of hers and it’s CRIME in capitals. What’s the matter with her? She’s like a magnet. Crimes head for her like homing pigeons. Though I’ve never met the lady, it’s my belief she starts it all herself out of sheer devilment.”
Delphick laughed. “There you agree with the villagers. The general idea seems to be that what she doesn’t do herself she’s in cahoots with.”
“Don’t blame ’em.” Brinton picked up a file marked Plummergen P.O., and began to leaf through it. “All right, you tell us there’s going to be a post-office raid. Why? Because of this drawing.” He prodded the sketch. “Though why you should think that proves anything, except that she can’t draw, beats me. All right, we find the raid’s already on. So all right, we send cars. They arrive and what do they find? Your girl friend marching into the post office with the oodle in one hand and a gun in the other. Caught red-handed and they arrest her. But no. Just because it’s her, it has to be different. She’s a heroine. She’s just flipped two chummies over her left shoulder, taken their gun and the oodle away from them, and is bringing it back. And then because it’s her it has to be different again and the oodle turns out to be cheese.” The chief inspector laid the open file on the desk in front of him. “Oh, no, Oracle, we don’t play in her league. Get her transferred.”
“It’s good for you, Chris,” retorted Delphick. “She stretches the imagination—pretty far, I admit—and provides an outlet for your natural talents. And don’t forget the A.C. takes that drawing you’re so rude about pretty seriously too.”
“Don’t we all? I’ve got two men in plain clothes—God save me, have you seen ’em? In my day plain clothes were just a uniform in a different color. But these. Purple thises, pink thats and striped the others and they call ’em plain—trailing round after that little brat in shifts, and from the men’s reports she’s one of the nastiest little tykes spawned. If she does get herself done in, I’ll arrest one or both of ’em and get a conviction on their reports alone. How serious do you want it? An armed battalion forming fours all round her?”
Delphick grinned. “Poor Chris. We’ll take the men off as soon as I can get things organized. I want to lay a trap. It’s the only way we’ll get him. The only way in the long run we can make it safe for the girl herself.”
“You really think, Oracle,” Brinton glanced at the sketch again, “just on the strength of this, it’s got to be this child?”
Delphick nodded. “Yes. In my own mind it’s got to be her. Just on the strength of that.”
The chief inspector shook his head. “So, you may be right—not saying you’re not—but we’ve got some local talent here and the P.O. raid could’ve been just up their street and no connection with any murders, child or otherwise. They’re a bunch that run together. They’ve all got motorbikes and call themselves the Ashford Choppers. Give ’em this, they live up to their names; bust up cinemas, and their favorite—we had one last week—wait till one of the villages or nearby towns have a Saturday hop, and the Choppers turn up, pick a fight with somebody, and tear the place apart.”
“But it wasn’t a bunch at the post office,” objected Delphick. “There were only two.”
“All right,” conceded Brinton, “but they’ve got to graduate sometime—take up a career—and when they do they pair off, hit old women on the head for handbags, knock up small shops and pinch the till and cigarettes. This P.O. job would be just about their mark. Couple of beginners pinching cheese, then falling flat on their fannies and dropping it.”
Delphick shook his head doubtfully. Brinton took a pen and made a note. “Well, me, I’ll keep the Choppers in mind. But it’s your case and I’m not beefing. Just tell us what you want.”
The superintendent grew thoughtful. “You know, Chris, in my experience, when a small community like the village gets weaving on facts and fancies they start by taking the worst possible view of everybody and go on down from there. But, although they mostly get everything wrong, they often hit on a basic truth without knowing it. The thing that interests me in this case is that the raiders arrived on motorcycles; left on motorcycles. The obvious deduction being that they came from a distance. But everyone, even the sensible ones as far as I can make out, accept the view that it’s an entirely local affair. And if it’s the boys I’m after, and I’m pretty sure it is, that means it’s got to be somebody who’s only just arrived—someone new. And the only people who qualify are young Hosigg with . . .” His voice trailed away.
Brinton watched the other’s face for a moment before asking: “With what? You look as if you’d bitten on a lemon.”
“I was thinking,” said Delphick slowly, “of something Miss Seeton said at the Yard. Someone small and weak trying to prove themselves. Chris, could the smaller of the raiders, and all witnesses have always agreed that one was much smaller than the other, could that one be a girl?”
The chief inspector thought. “Yes. In that rig men and women look alike except for height. Could be.”
“Because then,” concluded Delphick, “it’s equally probable that our killer is the girl.”
“Oh. I see. Very nasty.”
“So we’re left with young Hosigg and his wife and another couple who’ve rented a bungalow somewhere there. I haven’t got their names yet except that the girl’s called Doris and she’s got a l
ittle brother who’s deaf and dumb.”
“Quint’s the name,” Brinton told him. He turned a page in the file and ran his finger down it. “Yes, here we are. The second car to reach the P.O. came in from the south on the New Romney-Folkestone road. They report no motorbikes passed them. I don’t know Plummergen well but there’s a narrow bit of road at the end of the village . . .”
“Next to Miss Seeton’s,” Delphick informed him.
“It would be. Anyway, the driver stationed himself there and questioned all cars coming into Plummergen from the south. Among them these Quints. They’ve got a small van and were out joy-riding with sandwiches during the girl’s lunch hour.”
Delphick looked up. “But I thought the little brother was near the post office.”
Brinton turned the page. “Yes. A statement from Miss Seeton: At twelve-thirty-two approx. I was proceeding in a northerly direction along the Street . . . Well, to translate it back into English: I saw this little blighter hanging about having a dekko at the bikes. When the oodle got dropped, he picked it up and tried to scarper with it and I collared him and snatched it back and Bob’s your uncle. Probably not exactly her own words either, but that’s what it boils down to. They tried to question him later through his sister who’s the only one who seems to understand him but got nowhere. His version, according to her, is that he weren’t doing nothing, just standing about, and Miss Seeton upped and bashed him one with her mush.”
“What were these Quints doing having a picnic on a cold day in March?”
“Dunno. Maybe with baby brother underfoot she and hubby don’t get much time together. Anyway, she says she gave the boy some sandwiches and left him to it while they set out to munch their bread and pickles off the Rye-Hastings Road. And neither they nor anyone else saw any bikes. Which leaves only,” he flipped over some more pages, “the canal road to Rye, which isn’t much used. And no wonder—it’s potholed, wriggles like an eel, and is just about wide enough for one car. The only driver we’ve found along there at about the right time is a local van and he could easily’ve missed the bikes when he was delivering at one of the houses. Incidentally,” he turned back a page, found his place, “yes, I thought so, your Hosiggs live down by the canal. They were questioned along with everyone else down that way in case they noticed anything. But no dice. The boy was asleep—he drives a lorry, mostly by night—and the girl says she was busy getting his lunch ready. The lads did a quick look-see while they were there and the couple own an old car, but no sign of any bikes.”
