“Giblets?” Martha said.
“It’s shock,” Max said. “Delayed shock.”
“Yes,” Flora said. “I’ll make a cuppa.”
“Sit down, Flora,” Martha said. “You’ve had a shock too. I’ll make us all one.”
She departed and Eric seemed suddenly to become aware of his surroundings, particularly when Flora sat next to him and nudged him with her elbow. He politely took a cigarette, when offered one by Max, and lit it with a match, which he snapped out and dropped on the carpet. Flora cleared her throat very loudly and Eric immediately collected the match and begged everyone’s pardon.
Max then lit a cigarette for Flora and handed it to her, and passed them both an ashtray. Martha came back with a trolley on which were a pot of tea, cups and saucers, and a plate of biscuits, which greatly perked everyone up.
“What I don’t get,” Eric said, munching a custard cream, “is why they was tryna rob this gaff.”
Flora stuck her elbow in Eric’s ribs.
“Ow, bugger,” he said. “I mean – er – giblets.”
“It’s a flat, Eric,” Flora said. “Not a ‘gaff’.”
But what Eric had said struck a chord with Max. “What do you mean?”
“Well, sir, why bother tryna knock off a… a flat up here, when there’s plenty of easier pickings downstairs?”
“That’s a very good question,” Martha said. “We’re on the third floor, so they would’ve had to pass a dozen other flats, all of which are just as robbable as ours. Unless…”
She looked at Max, and her face was white. “Max.”
But he was already ahead of her. “Oh, God,” he said. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
Eric, unaware of the sudden tension in the air, stuffed another custard cream into his mouth. “I tell you what,” he said pointedly, “you don’t get crime like this in Southend.”
“What do you think they wanted?” Martha said.
“Flora, when did they try to break in?”
“Must’ve been, uh, well, it was only a few minutes after you left, sir.”
“Few minutes after? Hmm.”
“Max?”
“I wonder. Eric, did either man have any weapon, aside from the knife?”
“I dunno, sir. I didn’t see one.”
“Could’ve been concealed, I suppose,” Max said to himself.
He thought about the timing, and about the man with the knife standing guard while his partner was attempting to pick the lock of their front door. They were in daylight, so there must’ve been a greater risk of discovery, which, indeed, was what occurred when Eric came along.
“What are you thinking, Max?” Martha said.
He looked up to see three faces, eagerly watching his. “I was thinking that they were probably not trying to threaten or harm us. If they were, why do so in the day when they had greater chance of being witnessed, and when there was a greater chance that we’d be out, which we were? And it’s too coincidental that they tried to break in so soon after we’d left.”
He paused for effect, plainly enjoying this role of detective.
“Well?”
“Well, I think they waited for us to leave, probably waiting over the road, perhaps in a car.”
“Flora,” Eric said loudly. “They wanted Flora.” His face was red with excitement and anger. He stood and flexed his fist as if the men were there at that moment.
“I don’t think so,” Max said calmly. “Otherwise they’d have simply knocked. No, I think they waited for Martha and I to leave, and then, assuming the flat was empty, they made their attempt to break in.”
“Perhaps they were going to lie in wait for us,” Martha said.
“No. Because they wouldn’t have known how long we’d be, and whether we’d return by ourselves. So, that leaves one thing: they were here to search the place.”
Here he paused again, only now it was because he was trying to think what on earth they might be searching for. “We need to go to The Lion,” he said. “And I’ll phone Sherry.”
Meanwhile, Martha was detecting all by herself. Thinking about things, she said, “What kind of knife was it, Eric, that this man had?”
“Flick knife.”
“That’s a type of dagger, isn’t it? I mean, it has two edges.”
“Yes, ma’am. Two bloody sharp – I mean, yeah, two edges.”
“A twin-bladed weapon,” Martha said, glancing at Max. “Just like the weapon that killed Burton.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
After Eric had been rewarded sufficiently with custard creams and ginger nuts, which, to Flora’s horror, he dunked in his tea, he remembered that he was supposed to be at work and ran all the way back to Stone’s butcher shop.
Max telephoned the Chronicle and got the switchboard to put him through to Sheridan Lyle. “Sherry, it’s Max Dalton.”
“Max? I bumped into Joe Barnes earlier. He said you were trying to find out about some murder. What the hell’s going on? There’s all sorts of rumours over here.”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I thought you might make some enquiries, ask a few questions.”
There was a pause on the phone line, and Max wondered whether Lyle was worried about being overheard by the switchboard. His next words confirmed Max’s suspicion. Lyle said, “Sorry, Max. There’s nothing I can help you with. Don’t know anything. But I’ll be free for a drink later, if you’ll be home. Around six, say? I’d like to see Martha. Haven’t seen her for ages.”
“Sure. Oh, and see if you can pick up a copy of Friday’s Standard, will you? Late edition.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Max rang off. “He’ll do what he can,” he said to Martha. “But it sounds like he’s worried about being involved, and that’s worrying me.”
“When will he be here?”
“Six, or thereabouts.”
“That gives us time to go to The Lion.”
So, with Flora under orders to securely bolt the front door, Max and Martha headed east, to The Lion pub.
A dray was outside the pub as they arrived. The muscular drayman, his sleeves rolled up and his cap pushed back on his head, was rolling barrels off the back of the dray, while another man was lifting them down to someone in the cellar.
Max asked this second man if Jack Connor was around.
“Down there,” the man said.
At that moment, Connor’s brown and sweating face appeared from the cellar and said, “Another couple of mild, Harry.”
“Righto,” the drayman said.
“Jack,” Max called out.
“Hello, Mr Dalton. Not open yet, afraid.”
“Just wanted a word, Jack.”
Connor wiped some sweat from his forehead, then nodded. “Go in. It’s open. I’ll be another ten minutes.”
Max and Martha went into the pub and took seats at the counter. Max lit a cigarette and dragged an ashtray towards him.
There was only one bar in The Lion, but it was a large room filled with black-painted wrought iron tables that were probably fifty years old. There was a dark burgundy carpet, threadbare in places, and flock wallpaper, which once had been red but now was closer to brown.
Framed photographs of warships decorated the room, along with some mementoes from Connor’s time in the Royal Navy.
The Lion was a free house, which made Jack Connor a respected man, boss of his own place. Legend had it that Connor’s great-grandfather was the great Tom Molineaux, who’d been a celebrated black bare-knuckle fighter in the early nineteenth century.
Few people believed it, least of all Jack. “My grandma was bonkers,” he’d say. “She told everyone her old man had been Molineaux but she didn’t know who it was. Likely he was a sailor out of Africa.”
Nevertheless, there was a framed
etching behind the bar depicting the famous Black Ajax in fighting pose, and Max believed that Jack secretly enjoyed the story, which, no doubt, came in handy sometimes.
“What do you think those men wanted?” Martha said. “The ones who broke in.”
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to work it out. They weren’t there to hurt us, otherwise, as I said, they would’ve made sure we were home. And if they were trying to break in, they must’ve assumed the place was empty. So, they were definitely after something they think we have. Or, rather, I have.”
“But why? What could you possibly have? And where would you have got it?”
“I don’t know, Martha. That’s one of the reasons we’re here.”
“But you’d agree that the man with the flick dagger might’ve killed Burton?”
“It’s possible.”
“It’s likely.”
“It could be a coincidence.”
“You don’t believe that.”
Max was quiet for a while, smoking, letting his eyes roam over the bottles of beer on the far side of the counter. “I don’t know what to believe,” he said finally.
A door opened behind the bar and Jack Connor walked in. He used a Worthington’s bar towel to wipe the sweat from his face, then he grabbed a pint glass and filled it from one of the taps. The glass looked small in his hands. He gulped the beer down, set the glass on the counter and said, “Right, what can I do for you two?”
“It’s about Friday night,” Max said. “I was in here till quite late.”
“Yeah. I remember. So?”
“I was with a bloke.”
Connor pulled another pint in the same mug. “You two want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Martha said. “I’m Mrs Dalton, by the way.”
She glared at Max, who raised an eyebrow. “This is Martha,” he said to Connor.
Connor nodded. “I remember you were talking to a couple of blokes,” he said.
“Yes, earlier. But this was later. Say, eight or so.”
Connor downed half his pint and said, “Medium height, dark hair, early forties?”
“That’s him. Do you remember anything about him?”
“I remember he owed me three-and-six,” Connor said.
“He what?”
“He left and never come back. So, he still owes me three-and-six.”
Max was silent for a moment, thinking about Connor’s words. Then he said, “He was an honest man.”
Connor shrugged. “Probably meant to come back,” he said.
“I wonder,” Max said softly.
“He was a bit upset, I recall,” Connor said. “I had to tell that to the Old Bill. They kept asking me, was he upset, did you argue, stuff like that.”
“Upset how? About what?”
“Dunno. But you was talking about the war.”
“What about it? Please, Jack. This is important.”
“Look, Mr Dalton, I don’t make a habit of eavesdropping.”
“I know, I know. But, you see, I can’t remember what it was about.”
“That don’t surprise me. You’d already had a few when he come in. Then you had a few more. A lot more. You fell asleep at one point, propped up over there.”
Connor nodded to a corner of the pub. “You was both at that table, and you was talking, or he was.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he kept saying something like ‘Do you remember, Max. Do you remember?’ Something like that. But I don’t know what it was about. He was getting a bit heated, though. I had to tell him to calm down.”
“Why?” Martha said.
“He slammed his fist on the tabletop. I don’t mind a bit of arguing and stuff, but I don’t like it getting out of hand.”
“So, you were reminiscing?” Martha said to Max.
He wasn’t listening. Something Connor had said rang a bell at the back of his head, and now he was trying to crawl in there to see what it was.
“Max?” Martha said.
“Hmm?”
“You were reminiscing. About the war. Is that right?”
“No. Not exactly. I can’t put my finger on it, but it was something else.”
“You were too drunk,” Connor said. “That’s why he was getting angry. You just kept saying, ‘No, it wasn’t me’. Over and over.’”
“Did you tell the police this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They didn’t ask me. Asked me if I knew what you’d been talking about. I didn’t. And I still don’t. What’s more, I don’t care what you were talking about. I only care that I didn’t get my three-and-bloody-six.”
Max reached into his left trouser pocket and pulled out some coins. He counted out three shillings and sixpence, and added another sixpence, putting the money on the bar counter.
“Ta.”
“He left suddenly,” Martha said. “Otherwise he would’ve paid the bill, wouldn’t he?”
Connor shrugged. “I don’t remember him leaving. I looked over and you were sleeping and he was there, then later you was still sleeping and he was gone.”
“And did you tell the police that Max was asleep when this other man left?”
“Yeah. But they kept asking if it was possible you were going to meet him later. I told them I couldn’t answer that.”
Connor seemed unsure of himself for a moment, as if fearing he’d placed himself in a difficult position. He didn’t like odd things happening in his pub. That bloke on Friday night and then the coppers and now this, these two cross-examining him like he was to blame for things.
He pulled a damp cloth from below the bar and began to wipe the wooden counter down, hoping that these people would get the message and leave him to get on with his work.
“What, though?” Martha said. “Why would he be doing that? What was it he wanted you to remember?”
“I can’t remember.”
Martha made a noise that was part growl of frustration, part scream and part sigh of despair. It was a noise Max knew; he often heard it when Flora had burned something in the oven or when Martha’s mother said something.
Connor was back to wiping the bar. Max stood up to leave. Then he said, “Did he have a paper? The Standard?”
“A paper? We’re twenty yards from Fleet Street. Everybody had a bloody paper.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sheridan Lyle was one of those middle-aged men who retained a youthful charm and energy, even while time was clearly winning the physical battle. He had short and thinning silver hair, oiled to his scalp, a jowly, avuncular face and sharp blue eyes.
He slung his coat over the back of the chair, sat and accepted a Scotch on the rocks from Martha, telling her she looked as beautiful as ever and asking her why she was still married to a washed-up journalist.
“Oh, you know how it is, Sherry,” she said, “you get used to a pair of slippers, no matter how scruffy.”
“You’ve put on weight, Sherry,” Max said, feeling ever so slightly slighted. “And you’re losing your hair at a rate of knots.”
“That’s from worrying about all you dilettante journos.”
“Hmm.”
“We’re sorry to bother you with this, Sherry,” Martha said. “But it’s urgent, and we need help.”
“Of course, dear lady. Now…”
Here Lyle paused a moment, scratched his cheek and said, “Talking of urgent, did your friend find you?”
“Friend?”
“Fellow came by the paper on Friday. He was looking for you. It was urgent, apparently.”
Max and Martha looked at each other. Max’s mouth felt dry. He could feel his heart speeding up. “Go on,” he said.
Lyle could feel the sudden tension.
He became cagey, no longer feeling the ease of chatting with a friend. “Friday evening, about eight, a man came into the office. He asked someone if you were around and was sent to me. He told me you were an old friend and he needed to find you urgently. He’d telephoned your place, he said. I told him you’d been in earlier and suggested he should try The Lion. Did you see him?”
“Yes,” Max said. “I saw him.”
“Are you all right?”
“I think the man you met on Friday was called Burton. He was killed later that evening.”
Lyle didn’t answer for a moment. He swallowed some of his Scotch. “God,” he said, putting the glass down on the side table.
Then, sitting forward, he said, “Before we go any further, you’d better tell me what the hell’s going on. All right?”
“All right.”
Max told Lyle as much as he could, without going into the details of the distant past, which, surely, would only have served to cloud the issue. So he told Lyle about meeting Burton, and how Burton had left The Lion and had been murdered shortly after, while Max had gone home and been questioned by the police the next day.
When he finished, Lyle picked up his drink and swirled it around, letting the ice cubes ding each other.
“So, what did you find out?” Max said.
“Very little, I’m afraid. When Joe told me you’d been asking about a murder on Friday, it never occurred to me you might know the man. Let alone that it was the fellow I saw.”
“Anything, Sherry. Anything at all.”
“I don’t know, Max. I’m only a deputy bloody editor. But something’s going on, and it’s well above me, but I’m out in the cold on this one. Our lord and master has nixed it.”
“What?” Martha said.
“Our proprietor, my dear. He’s killed the story.”
“I don’t understand. Why would the paper, any paper, not print about a murder?”
“Well, I can only think the old boy’s got scared by something. Don’t know what.”
Murder Under A Green Sea Page 12