Betty Church and the Suffolk Vampire

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  In the middle of this stood the King’s Oak, an ancient tree hollowed by an inverted V that, as a child, I loved to slip through and climb up the inside of the trunk, emerging at the top to sit on one of the few remaining branches. I was ten the last time I had hidden inside it, having been too terrified to go in any more after the mysterious fate met by my friend Etterly, from Bath Road. Some said she had been eaten by the tree but that was silly. Others said that she still haunted the King’s Oak and they had heard her calling out at night, which I didn’t believe either but, when you hear stories from usually reliable people, you can never quite dismiss them.

  ‘Why does that tree have a door?’ Dodo broke my reverie. ‘Does somebody live in it?’

  At least she hadn’t asked if they were goblins.

  ‘No. It’s to stop any children getting in,’ I explained. ‘A friend of mine, a little girl called Etterly Utter, hid in there when we were playing once and nobody saw her coming out. She disappeared.’

  ‘Goblins,’ Dodo declared firmly but, after a pause, conceded, ‘probably.’

  There were moves to chop the tree down after Etterly’s disappearance but residents of the Soundings objected. It was an ancient tree of great historical significance – though no one was quite sure what that significance was – and so it was reprieved. As a compromise a pine-plank door was fitted to seal the entrance, but vandals had smashed the locks off and nobody had bothered to replace them.

  ‘Don’t suggest that to the men,’ I advised as we left the square.

  ‘I shall not,’ Dodo assured me. ‘Oh, I forgot my footstep count. Shall we go back and start again?’

  ‘No.’

  We walked down Slaughterhouse Lane.

  ‘The men are very silly about that sort of thing. Do you not agree?’ Dodo piped up but I had no idea what sort of thing she meant until she declared, ‘They do not believe in goblins, elves, imps or fairies. I know they do not because I have asked them all.’

  ‘Oh good grief.’

  We went past the police box on Derby Street and into Tiny Rupert Square.

  ‘But you believe in fairies, do you not, boss?’ Dodo looked at me anxiously with her pale face and puppy eyes.

  ‘That lane’ – I pointed – ‘is called Divine Alley. It’s a good shortcut to the seafront but there’s no official right of way so Bressinghall’s the butcher’s often block the far end with their van. You can’t see it until you get round the bend so it’s usually quicker to go the longer way round.’

  ‘Are you avoiding the question?’ Dodo asked.

  ‘They have a dog called Gripper,’ I battled on.

  ‘Oh.’ Dodo jumped with a crooked arm raised as if the hound was leaping up at her. ‘Is it very fierce?’

  ‘It tries to be but it has no teeth,’ I told her.

  ‘I suppose they could change its name,’ Dodo pondered, ‘to Gumbo like Gumbo Marx in the Marx Brothers.’

  ‘Gummo Marx,’ I corrected her.

  ‘I know it does.’ Dodo brayed at the hilarity of her pun that very nearly made sense. I cringed, but at least we had got off the subject of fairies.

  ‘You do believe in elves, do you not, boss?’ Dodo entreated.

  *

  A workman was painting the top of a pillar box yellow on the corner of High Road West and Hamilton Road.

  ‘How very pretty,’ Dodo cried, ‘it would be if it were a different colour.’

  ‘Gas detector paint,’ he informed us, though it obviously didn’t detect the fumes from his foul clay pipe, for the mix was still jaundiced.

  ‘What colour does it go if we have an attack?’ I asked.

  ‘Red.’

  I thought about that. ‘But pillar boxes are red already so how will we know if the top has gone red with gas or never been painted yellow in the first place?’

  The workman sucked on his pipe musingly. ‘Dunno,’ he decided at last and, clearly satisfied with his answer, set back to work, humming ‘The Lambeth Walk’. I think Constable Chivers would have danced a few steps to it if she hadn’t caught my warning look and, unusually, realised what it meant.

  *

  Sergeant Briggs was gainfully employed when we got back to the station. He was showing Constable Walker how to make a paper boat from an unused charge sheet and screwed it up far too late for me to miss.

  ‘Is Inspector Sharkey back yet?’ I asked and his expression changed to that of a suffering saint.

  ‘He do be in his office, madam.’

  ‘And he can stay in there,’ Nippy Walker contributed with feeling.

  ‘It is not for you to decide if Inspector Sharkey can or cannot stay in his office,’ I scolded and he straightened up. This was a little worrying. I was getting to enjoy the feeling of power. Was this what happened to Hitler when he soared to the rank of corporal?

  ‘Flew at me like a mad dog, though, he did, jest ’cause I ask if he do catch his spy,’ Walker protested.

  ‘Near bit his head off and chewed it into cud,’ Brigsy confirmed.

  ‘Do you want to leave it until the morning?’ I asked Dodo, who was hopping from foot to foot like a child needing to be excused.

  ‘Oh but this is perfect,’ she cried. ‘Oh please let me tell him about the licence now, Inspector, and please let me tell him alone.’

  I had intended to offer to go in as referee but, if my constable was determined to throw herself to the shark, she might be better learning the hard way.

  Dodo hesitated. ‘But will you stand nearby in case he attacks me, Inspector?’

  ‘He won’t but yes, I will.’ We went down the corridor, Dodo creeping noisily on tiptoes to the door. She knocked, three good raps.

  ‘Come in,’ we heard.

  She rapped four times.

  ‘Come in.’

  She rapped another five. ‘It is I, Inspector Sharkey, Constable Chivers.’

  ‘I said come in.’

  ‘Can I come in?’ She rattled the handle as she had when we first met.

  ‘Come in, dammit.’ They probably heard that at the desk.

  Was Constable Chivers anxious to die? She counted softly to six.

  ‘I think he’s suitably cross,’ she whispered and went inside, leaving the door wide open. I stood just out of direct sight and risked intermittent peeks round the frame.

  ‘Are you busy, Inspector Paul Sharkey?’

  ‘Yes I am and don’t use my Christian name.’

  ‘Are you very-wery busy-wizzy?’

  ‘Yes I bloody am.’

  ‘Is your energy sapped to the point of exhaustion after spending half the day chasing after imaginary spies, sir?’

  I was a bit less confident that he wouldn’t attack her now. Sharkey drew a breath. ‘What do you want, Chivers?’

  ‘I thought you might like a chat, Inspector Sharkey.’

  ‘No I bloody wouldn’t.’

  ‘You do curse rather a lot,’ Dodo observed.

  ‘I haven’t begun yet,’ he warned.

  ‘So what would you like to chat about?’ she prattled merrily.

  ‘Are you stupid or what?’

  I sneaked another look.

  ‘You have often said I am,’ Dodo reminded him. ‘Stupid, I mean, not the or what bit.’ She threw out her arms like a circus performer working up applause. ‘You will never guess what I found today.’

  ‘No I won’t because I’m not going to try. What—’

  ‘Do you not want to know what I foundy-woundy, Inspector Sharkey?’

  ‘No I bloody don’t.’ He brought the side of his fist down on the desk. ‘Clear off.’

  ‘Or with whom I had a chat with about it after you had finished running around after imaginary spies?’

  ‘Get… out.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector Sharkey, sir.’ Dodo scurried away, closing the door firmly behind her.

  ‘He cannot say I did not try,’ she whispered to me and seemed to have fairy dust in both her eyes. She never did learn to wink with one.

  48
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  THE PRISONERS

  Sammy Sterne opened the door of his home, a nice little bungalow though the sea view had been obstructed by a block of Art Deco apartments on Promontory Road.

  Abbie Sterne sat in a rocking chair with a blanket over her knees, long white hair pinned into plaits rolled onto the top of her head, granny glasses perched low on her nose.

  ‘I am sorry about this,’ I told them both. ‘But I shall petition the authorities on your behalf.’

  ‘A police inspector, Abbie,’ Sammy beamed, ‘they will listen to her.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ I continued, hardly able to look at either of them, ‘there are various emergency restrictions, I’m afraid. You must hand over any binoculars, telescopes, cameras or radio transmitters that you have. Do you own a car?’

  ‘A Morris Minor,’ Sammy told me. ‘A good British car.’

  ‘Then you will have to give me the keys. Somebody will come to collect it.’

  ‘You are stealing our car?’ Abbie asked in disbelief.

  ‘It will be put into a pound for the duration,’ I told her.

  Sammy shrugged. ‘We can’t get petrol anyway.’

  ‘There is a curfew,’ I continued. ‘You must not leave your home between seven at night and eight in the morning.’

  ‘We are prisoners in our own home.’ Abbie clutched the blanket in both fists.

  I took a breath. ‘And you must give up your pigeons,’ I told Sammy. The government was worried they could be used to communicate with the enemy.

  Sammy blinked. ‘Shall they be put in a pound for the duration?’

  I swallowed. ‘I think the army will use them for messages.’

  Sammy closed his eyes and nodded three times and there was a new hurt when he opened them again. ‘I see.’

  ‘There are some forms we have to fill out,’ I struggled on. ‘It shouldn’t take long.’

  And afterwards, when Sammy Sterne showed me to the door, he asked, ‘If you are told to arrest us – Abbie and me – will you do it?’

  ‘I hope it would be me,’ I said and he nodded again but very slowly.

  I had thought about resigning. After all, I hadn’t joined the police force to behave like the Gestapo. But I knew it would not save them and I also knew how Sharkey might treat them if he was given the job.

  Sammy held out his hands, palms open upwards, as if he was going to embrace me.

  ‘Shalom,’ he said as I stepped outside but I was afraid it would be a long time before any of us saw the peace he was wishing for.

  49

  THE CLEVER DOG PRIZE

  The Compasses was a long thin pub with a door at either end, a bar along one wall and a row of stools against it. There was little room for anything else. For this reason it was popular with drinkers, who would sit in solemn lines up at the bar, but less popular with those who wanted to play darts or cribbage or even socialise, since it was difficult to chat to anyone other than your immediate neighbours. So I was slightly surprised when Gregson suggested it.

  ‘Is this your local?’ I asked.

  He was standing in the doorway, smoking the stump of a cigarette.

  ‘Not for much longer.’ He was wearing the same blazer and slacks as before, but I had changed into a dress, not to impress him but because I didn’t think it proper to be seen boozing in uniform. ‘They’ve just told me no women allowed inside and I don’t think you’d pass as a bloke somehow.’ He surveyed me. ‘First time I’ve seen you out of uniform.’

  ‘Only the third time you’ve seen me.’

  ‘Do you want to go to the Ship?’

  ‘In a word, no.’ The Ship used to be an old-fashioned spit and sawdust place but they didn’t have the sawdust any more. ‘Have they still got the summer house here?’ I hadn’t been back since my disgrace. ‘We could sit in there.’

  Gregson’s face uncrumpled briefly. ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘A pint of bitter, if you let me buy the next one.’

  I went round into the back garden. The summer house was really just a three-sided shelter designed for people watching the bowls, but the green had been so neglected you would have had trouble finding the jack if you tried to play now. I sat on the bench behind a long board table watching a pigeon stealing thatch from the roof for its nest until Gregson came out with two tankards, stumbling over a molehill, slopping beer down his sleeves and cursing under his breath. I didn’t have to be a lip-reader to work out what he was saying.

  He put his load on the table and we clinked glasses in a toast.

  ‘Cigarette?’ I offered.

  ‘I have to ask you.’ Gregson watched, fascinated, while I rolled it one-handed. ‘What happened to the arm?’

  ‘Am I being interviewed?’

  Gregson made that innocent face that men always make when they aren’t.

  He changed tack. ‘What’s your first name?’

  ‘Betty.’

  ‘Short for?’

  ‘Betty. What’s yours?’

  ‘Toby, short for Tobias.’

  ‘Wasn’t Tobias Gregson a detective in Sherlock Holmes?’

  Toby rubbed the back of his neck. ‘My father was a fan of Arthur Conan Doyle.’

  ‘My godmother’s godfather had a feud with him. He claimed Doyle plagiarised his life.’

  ‘Sidney Grice.’ Toby clicked his fingers. ‘I meant to ask if you actually knew him.’

  ‘Quite well.’ I took a sip of my bitter. There wasn’t much head on it but it tasted all right.

  ‘Was he as horrible as everybody says?’

  ‘More so.’ I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘But he was brave, honest and extraordinarily intelligent and he was always very kind to me, even when I broke his Grice Patent Self-Buttoning Waistcoat… No, really.’

  Toby laughed. ‘So March Middleton is your godmother? I’d love to interview her before she dies.’

  ‘You may have trouble afterwards,’ I pointed out, wondering – not for the first time – if a little bit of Uncle G had rubbed off on me. ‘But she doesn’t trust the press, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is it true that she secretly had a child?’

  ‘Anything Miss Middleton wants you to know about her is in her books.’ I took another drink. ‘How long have you been a reporter?’

  Toby Gregson dabbed his lips with a white handkerchief. He obviously had better manners than me. ‘Since I was four.’ He ran his finger round an old ring stain. ‘My father, who was proprietor and editor, sent me to crawl under the trestle tables at Tringford Summer Fête and find out who the judges were going to award prizes to so we could all go home and he could get it in the next edition before people lost interest. I couldn’t hear everything they said, so there was a bit of a fuss when the Gazette announced that the best sponge cake had been baked by Mrs Pooey.’

  I coughed on my beer. ‘And your father didn’t doubt you?’

  ‘He was more sceptical about the clever dog prize going to a collie owned by Jillian Thick and that one was true.’ He paused for another drink. ‘Then my father had a stroke so I reluctantly promised to look after the Gazette until he got better. I’d have thought twice if I’d known he’d take so long about it – five years so far.’

  That, I thought, would explain his lack of killer instinct.

  ‘So you are acting editor, reporter and photographer,’ I observed. ‘You seem to be a one-man band.’

  ‘Not in the least.’ Toby tossed his head in mock indignation. ‘There’s a lady who covers births and marriages, if they’re in the right order, and we have a vicar who writes nature notes, book reviews, recipes and horoscopes under four different names.’

  ‘What about Ethel Proudfoot?’ I asked. Ethel had been the agony aunt when I was in my teens and I had written to her about a boy who never noticed me. She had advised taking up ballroom dancing but I didn’t and, anyway, another, less spotty boy had noticed me by then.

  ‘That used to be Dad,’ Gregson admitted. ‘Now it’s me, though Mum c
hips in with practical household tips.’ He drained his pint.

  ‘So what did you do before all this?’

  ‘I’m a violinist.’

  I drew back involuntarily. I used to go out with a musician – a pianist – until it became obvious I wasn’t the only piece in his repertoire.

  ‘In an orchestra?’

  ‘In the Cool Club. Perhaps you’ve heard of us.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘We were on at the Pier Pavilion.’

  ‘Before or after it burned down?’ I stopped, taken aback at my own rudeness, but Toby chuckled. ‘You can’t pin that on me.’

  I noticed now that he had linear calluses on his right fingertips – something my auspicious god-relatives would have spotted instantly – so he was left-handed.

  ‘So you play band music?’

  ‘We based ourselves on the Quintette du Hot Club de France.’

  ‘The French play jazz?’

  ‘You haven’t heard of Stéphane Grappelli and Django Reinhardt?’ Toby was shocked. ‘Sister, you’ve got a lot to learn.’

  ‘I like jazz,’ I protested. ‘It’s just I’ve never heard any French bands.’ I drained my pint. ‘Did you manage to make a living out of your music?’

  ‘No.’ Toby finished his. ‘But I made a life out of it.’

  I put my glass over a knot hole and then, remembering what we were there for, said ‘Did the photo come out all right?’

  ‘I’ll show you when I’ve got another drink in.’

  ‘You’ll have to get it,’ I slapped two shillings on the top, ‘but it’s my round.’

  ‘Never been bought a drink by a woman before,’ Toby Gregson commented.

  ‘I think you’ll find there’s a lot of things women will be doing differently before this war is over.’