Five Dead Canaries hf-3

by Edward Marston

  Putting on a coat and hat, he went off to discuss the matter.

  Things had changed at the Golden Goose. Now that detectives had finished searching through the rubble for bomb fragments, the lumps of stone and charred timbers were being loaded onto the back of a lorry. The pub might be losing its outhouse but it had gained some scaffolding. It now surrounded the building, holding it in like a metal corset. Men were already on the roof, mending the chimney and replacing the dislodged slates. Houses nearby had also improved in appearance. Windows had been installed and the shards of glass on the pavement swept up. There had even been some repairs to damaged brickwork and to front doors from which large splinters of wood had been gouged out. The area was getting back to normal.

  What could not be removed so easily were the ugly memories of the blast. People were still complaining angrily about it and comparing the damage it had done to their properties. There was sympathy for the victims but it was relegated to a secondary position. Leighton Hubbard could not leave his pub alone. Drawn back to the Golden Goose that morning, he stared up dolefully at it, trying to work out if it was doomed to distinction or a phoenix about to rise from the ashes. One thing was certain. He and his wife would never feel safe inside it again.

  The police car drew up and Harvey Marmion stepped out. After an exchange of greetings with Hubbard, he looked at the work going on.

  ‘The mess will soon be cleared away, sir,’ he said.

  ‘But what am I left with?’ asked Hubbard. ‘I’ll have a pub with a jinx on it. Customers are already starting to say they won’t come back. Others have deserted me for my rivals. I’ve been put out of business for good.’

  ‘I doubt that, Mr Hubbard. I’ve talked to a lot of people around here and they speak well of you and your pub. Rely on their loyalty. They’ll be back.’

  ‘The big question is this, Inspector — will I be back?’

  ‘Is there any reason why you shouldn’t be?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the landlord. ‘That bomb has given my missus the shakes. She won’t even hear about moving back in yet. She’s lost her nerve completely.’

  ‘I’m sure it will return in time,’ said Marmion, facing him. ‘Did you do what I asked you to do?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hubbard, thrusting a hand into his pocket, ‘but I can’t see that it will be of any use.’ He handed over two crumpled pieces of paper. ‘Those are all the names that I could remember. Frankly, I was amazed how many there were. Some just pop in now and then, of course, so they may not count. Regulars like Ezra Greenwell were in the Goose almost every night.’

  Marmion ran his eye down the list on the first page, then studied the second one. He noticed that Royston Liddle had a mention and so did Alan Suggs. It was as well that the landlord didn’t know what the two of them had got up to at the pub.

  ‘Did you see much of Alan Suggs in here?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘He wasn’t one of my regulars,’ said Hubbard. ‘Alan’s more interested in chasing women than playing darts in my bar. When he did come in, he had that smile on his face as if he’d been having fun somewhere else. He even tried to flirt with my missus once.’ His expression hardened. ‘I wasn’t having that and neither was she. After we’d both had a go at him, we didn’t see him in here for months.’

  ‘What are these ticks against certain names?’

  ‘Those are men who’ve been coming here for years, real dependables.’

  ‘What about the crosses? Do they indicate men employed at the munitions factory?’

  ‘Yes — it’s what you asked for, Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Marmion, pocketing the two pieces of paper. ‘It could turn out to have been a profitable piece of homework. One of the patrons on your list might have been the bomber.’

  Hubbard was incensed. ‘I deny that,’ he said, hotly. ‘I know everyone who comes into the Goose. Not one of them would dare to do such a thing to me.’

  ‘But they didn’t do it to you — they did it to five young women.’

  ‘It amounts to the same thing. It was on my premises.’

  ‘Which would have been worse?’ asked Marmion, looking him in the eye. ‘A bomb planted in the outhouse or one hidden in your cellar?’

  ‘One in the cellar, of course — we’d all have been killed then.’

  ‘Please bear that in mind, sir. Instead of moaning about being a victim, you should be grateful that you’re a survivor.’

  But the landlord could only see the explosion in terms of what it had cost him. He drifted away to talk to one of the workmen. His place was taken by Royston Liddle, grinning and nodding simultaneously.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Mr Liddle. Perhaps you can help me.’ Marmion took out the lists given him by Leighton Hubbard. ‘Have a look at those, please.’ The grin vanished and Liddle took a step backwards. ‘Ah, I see. You can’t read. In that case, I’ll go through the names of people in whom I’m interested. Tell me what you know about them.’

  ‘I can read a bit,’ said Liddle, ‘but I’m very slow.’

  ‘Let’s start off with Les Harker.’

  ‘Oh, he comes in here a lot. He works at the factory.’

  ‘All the people that I want to hear about work there.’

  There were over a dozen names on the list. Marmion went through them one by one. Liddle knew them all by sight and was able to supply a lot of detail about some of them. The last name required no comment from him.

  ‘You’ve already told me enough about Alan Suggs,’ said Marmion.

  ‘He said that you talked to him.’

  ‘Oh, I did. We had a long and fruitful conversation. Mr Suggs has a very complicated private life, but I daresay you know that.’

  ‘Alan came after me.’

  ‘Did he threaten you in any way?’

  ‘He did more than that, Inspector,’ said Liddle, rubbing his shoulder gingerly. ‘He pushed me so hard against a fence that I’ve got bruises. I saw them in the mirror. He chased me down the alleyway. If I hadn’t run so fast, he’d have really hurt me.’

  ‘I warned him against reprisals.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Marmion. ‘I’ll speak to him again.’

  ‘Tell him that I didn’t mean to get him into trouble. I’m his friend.’

  ‘He might take some convincing on that score.’ Folding the pieces of paper again, he slipped them into his pocket. ‘But thank you for your help with those names. You’ve saved me bothering with most of them.’ The praise made the other man beam. ‘Keep your eyes open. If any of the people we talked about show up here at night just to gloat, let me know.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to be a policeman,’ said Liddle, excitedly.

  ‘Don’t wish too hard,’ cautioned Marmion. ‘The hours are terrible, the work is never-ending and a lot of people think it’s their mission in life to tell you dreadful lies. You’re better off doing odd jobs, Mr Liddle. It’s a lot safer in every way.’

  When he was shown into the room, Keedy was astonished to see how barely furnished it was. Apart from the desk and the chair behind it, there were only two upright chairs and a bookcase. The floor was uncarpeted and the only wall decoration was the large crucifix above the fireplace. Father Cleary was amused by his reaction.

  ‘What did you expect, Sergeant?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s so Spartan.’

  ‘The Catholic priesthood is not a road to luxury, you know. This study is ideal for me. It has no clutter and nothing to distract the eye. That’s my idea of an ideal environment.’

  ‘It wouldn’t suit me, Father Cleary. I like a bit of comfort.’

  ‘Then we’re clearly not soul mates.’

  Keedy had arrived to receive a cordial greeting. The priest seemed to expect him and waved him to a chair. On the desk in front of him were neat piles of paper and a Bible. There was a chill in the air.

  ‘Once February is out, I manage without a fire,’ ex
plained Cleary.

  ‘You’re a model of self-denial, Father.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t flatter myself that I occupy that status. Models are for people to copy. You won’t find any of my parishioners taking up their carpets and throwing out half the furniture.’ He smiled benignly. ‘You’ve come about Maureen Quinn, haven’t you? I had a feeling you would, sooner or later.’

  ‘To be frank,’ said Keedy, ‘I’ve come about the whole Quinn family. I was hoping that you could tell us more about them. Maureen seems very nice but her father couldn’t wait to get us out of the house.’

  ‘Eamonn was never very hospitable.’

  ‘He stopped the children coming to church, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, and it was a crying shame because they learnt so much while they were here, Maureen especially. Her brothers were a bit of a handful, mind you, and I don’t think their father liked it when I told him about their little tricks.’

  ‘Tricks?’

  ‘When they came to Sunday school, each of the children was given a penny for the collection. Maureen and Lily always put theirs dutifully on the plate but the lads kept the money and tried to palm us off with blazer buttons and the odd foreign coin. I soon put a stop to that. But all credit to them,’ Cleary went on, ‘they might have been little devils as children but, when war broke out, Liam and Anthony were among the first to volunteer for the army.’

  Hands clasped and shoulders hunched, he went on to give Keedy a brief history of the family and of its fluctuating interest in the church. Diane and her daughters had last attended a service at Christmas. It was years since Eamonn had been near the place. In Cleary’s judgement, he was essentially a man’s man and missed his sons badly. He’d spent most of his free time with them and taught them the rudiments of carpentry in the garden shed. Liam had gone on to be apprenticed to a cabinetmaker. Anthony had worked in a foundry. Keedy was given the image of a relatively happy and close family whose lives had been fractured by the war. Maureen had been a major casualty. In spite of a good education and other assets, she’d ended up toiling in the munitions factory to contribute to the family budget.

  ‘What was your view of her father?’ asked Cleary.

  ‘He likes to let his family know that he’s in charge,’ said Keedy, ‘which is a polite way of saying that he’s an uncouth bully.’

  ‘He has his better qualities.’

  ‘We weren’t allowed to see them.’

  ‘I’m sure you know that he fell foul of the law.’

  ‘Yes, he was fined twice for causing an affray.’

  ‘Oh, he caused trouble more than twice,’ said Cleary with a laugh. ‘Eamonn is quick to anger and slow to cool down. He’s been banned from a couple of pubs for threatening behaviour. Even with watered beer, he can get horribly drunk.’

  ‘I feel sorry for his wife and children.’

  ‘They’ve learnt to live with him.’

  ‘Do they have any choice?’ Keedy took out his notebook and consulted a page. ‘This is my record of our interview with Maureen. She was deeply shocked, of course, as anybody would be when friends have died in such horrible circumstances. But there was something more than shock in her face.’

  ‘It was guilt, Sergeant. They died while she lived. That fact will haunt her.’

  ‘I’d taken account of that, Father Cleary. There was something else as well.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘That’s the trouble — I don’t know. And we were unable to draw it out of her because her father was sitting beside her. Inspector Marmion had the same reaction as I did. We didn’t get the full truth out of Maureen, somehow.’

  ‘You must allow for her confusion,’ warned the priest. ‘After a ghastly experience like that, the poor girl must be totally bewildered. Give her time.’

  ‘We don’t have unlimited time to give her,’ said Keedy. ‘In cases of murder, we find that the first forty-eight hours after the event are crucial. That’s when memories are fresh and we’re likely to get a clearer idea of what actually happened. The longer an investigation goes on, the more difficult it sometimes becomes. Witnesses are less reliable, evidence disappears and the killer is given valuable time to get far away from the scene.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s far away at the moment, Sergeant. He’s right here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It has to be a local man, hasn’t it? You’re looking for someone familiar with the Golden Goose and with the fact that a birthday party was being held there.’

  Keedy blinked. ‘Well done, Father. That’s exactly who we’re after.’

  ‘And you think Maureen can help you find him?’

  ‘I just feel that she may be hiding something.’

  Cleary’s smile was enigmatic. ‘I’ll be interested to hear what it is.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Reuben Harte was reading his way carefully through a pile of cards from friends and neighbours but he drew no comfort from them. The messages were sincere and the condolences well meant but they washed over him without leaving any trace. His grief was too deep to be relieved by kind words and pretty cards. When there was a knock on the door, he sat up. Not wishing to see anyone, he was prepared to make an exception for the detectives from Scotland Yard. When he twitched the net curtain aside to peer out, however, it was not Marmion and Keedy who’d come calling. It was Jonah Jenks. Though not close friends, the men knew each other well. Harte relented. The visitor deserved to be admitted. He was a fellow sufferer.

  Harte opened the front door and stood aside to let him in. Jenks was subdued.

  ‘Good morning, Reuben,’ he said, shaking his hand.

  Harte shut the door. ‘Go into the living room.’

  They traded a few pleasantries then sat down. Jenks took out an envelope.

  ‘Have you had one of these from the factory?’

  ‘It came first thing by courier.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘To be honest, Jonah, I haven’t given it a great deal of thought. Jean’s death has blocked everything out. It’s the same for my wife,’ said Harte. ‘She can’t stop talking about it. She’s had to go to her sister to be looked after.’

  ‘So you’ve not discussed the letter with her?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I will.’ He appraised Jenks. ‘How are you coping?’

  ‘I try to keep busy,’ replied Jenks. ‘I must have cleaned every room at least twice. And I’ve turned the piano into a kind of shrine to Enid. I polished it until I could see my face in it and put every photo I could find of her on top of it. Oh, yes,’ he continued, ‘and I put the sheet music of her favourite Chopin nocturne on the stand as if she was just about to play it.’ He smiled wanly. ‘I was humming it on my way here. Do you like Chopin?’

  ‘I’m not much of a one for music, Jonah, but my wife loves a good tune.’

  There was a long pause. Conjoined by their grief they let it have its way for a few minutes before they attempted to shrug it off. Harte stretched an arm to take an envelope from the mantelpiece. It matched the one brought by his visitor.

  ‘All I did was to glance at it,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a good offer and I’m ready to accept.’

  ‘All five of them are to be buried together? I have reservations about that.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘It just doesn’t seem right somehow.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, we want to make the decisions about Jean’s funeral, not leave it to this Mr Kennett. I’ve never even met the man.’

  ‘Enid used to speak well of him.’

  ‘I still feel he’s intruding.’

  ‘I didn’t feel that at all. It’s high time the factory did something for the women they employ there. This is a first example. Enid would approve.’

  ‘I can’t say that Jean would.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She wouldn’t mind sharing her funeral with Florrie Duncan. They were good friends. There’d be some meaning i
n that. As for the others …’

  ‘It will be interesting to see how their families respond.’

  ‘That’s anybody’s guess, Jonah. I don’t know Agnes Collier’s family. They live over towards Uxbridge.’

  ‘What about Shirley Beresford?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve met her husband lots of times. Neil coaches the football team and Jean was one of the reserves. Whenever she played, I used to stand on the touchline and cheer her on. Neil Beresford must be beside himself,’ said Harte. ‘He’s not only lost a lovely wife, he’s had to see his hopes of winning that cup match crumble into dust. He gave everything to that team.’

  ‘Then he’ll probably agree with me about this offer. From what I can gather, two of the victims played in the football team — Shirley Beresford and your daughter, Jean. It seems fitting that they should be laid to rest together.’

  Harte was not convinced. He let Jenks advance his arguments in favour of a collective burial but they made no impact on him. He resisted what he saw as a breach of his daughter’s private rights. The factory had controlled her life from the moment she started to work there. It felt wrong to let them dictate the terms of her funeral as well. There was another factor that influenced him.

  ‘We’re not churchgoers, Jonah,’ he admitted.

  ‘You were married in a church, weren’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes — we were.’

  ‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about. Everyone in the parish is entitled to a Christian funeral. You’ll be given the same consideration as any of us. We were all there every Sunday, of course,’ said Jenks, ‘because Enid loved going. There was even talk of letting her become the assistant organist. I’d have been so proud of her if that had happened.’ He smiled at Harte. ‘Where does that leave us, Reuben?’

  ‘You want to accept the offer and I don’t.’

  ‘Make sure you think it over properly.’