Old Cases New Colours (A Dudley Green Investigation) (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 9)

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘I’ve just finished writing up Doreen Hardy’s case. I’m glad we didn’t have to show her the photographs I took of Maisie at the prison.’ Artie stacked them. Levelling them on the desk like a pack of playing cards, he slipped them into a large brown A4 envelope. ‘All dated – and the places and people in each photo are named.’

  ‘Good. We need to keep everything in order.’ Ena took a key from the drawer of the desk, picked up the envelope containing the Hardy investigation and crossed to the filing cabinet. Opening the top drawer, she pulled out the hanging files and placed the envelope in the section marked ‘H’ along with the rest of the Doreen Hardy paperwork. ‘What next?’

  ‘The poisoning of George’s father.’

  ‘I’ll tell George what we’ve found and then, if she agrees, I’ll turn what we’ve got over to the Surrey Police.’ Ena took out the file and dropped it onto Artie’s desk.

  ‘Accidental Death of Mr Derby-Bloom?’ Artie said, reading the title. ‘The man was poisoned. How is that anything but murder?’

  ‘The poison wasn’t meant for him. His death was either an accident or a mistake, so his death is manslaughter.’

  Artie opened the file and began to read. ‘Looks to me like premeditated murder.’

  ‘It was. Planned well in advance by someone quite clever and very evil. At first I thought it could be someone who knew about George and her father’s activities in the war?’

  ‘What, and they were coincidently in the same nursing home?’

  ‘No. A thought crossed my mind that someone had been after him and found out that he was in the nursing home. He’d have been an easy target. But, you’re right, it was definitely not a coincidence, nor was it someone taking revenge for the work he did during the war. So, it had to have been a mistake. There’s nothing else it could it have been.’

  ‘You don’t need me for this one,’ Artie said, handing back the Derby-Bloom file.

  Ena took the file absentmindedly ‘And then there are the art thefts,’ she said sighing heavily.

  ‘Do you have a suspect?’

  ‘Two, and when I work out how it was done, I shall know which of them did it. Let’s go and grab a sandwich and when we get back, I’ll run through what I’ve got so far with you. You might see something I’ve missed.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Thank you for seeing us again, Nurse McKinlay. I was wondering if we might ask you a couple more questions?’

  Nurse McKinlay smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did Mr Derby-Bloom say anything before he died?’

  She looked at Ena thoughtfully and then her eyes widened and she took a long slow breath. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he did.’ She turned to George, ‘I’m sorry. I was so upset when you were last here, I forgot.’

  Ena looked at George. ‘Do you remember what it was he said?’

  The nurse looked up at the ceiling as if the words were written there. ‘Yes, but I didn’t hear everything he said. He was speaking German.’

  ‘Are you sure it was German?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure.’

  ‘Try to remember what the words sounded like.’

  Nurse McKinlay looked thoughtful. She took a shaky breath and said, ‘I didn’t understand him at first because what he said didn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Could he have been hallucinating?’

  ‘No, I’m sure he wasn’t. He reached out and took my hand. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, so I leaned over him and put my ear near his mouth. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard anyone speak German and I didn’t catch the first couple of words, but it sounded like, sie hat mich getötet. Then, I’m sorry, he’d gone.’

  George took a sharp breath, looked at Ena and then at the nurse. ‘Sie hat mich getötet?’

  ‘Yes. He spoke quietly, but that was definitely what he said.’

  ‘And in English?’ Ena asked.

  ‘She has killed me,’ George said. ‘Who did he think had killed him?’

  Before the three women had time to discuss the meaning of Mr Derby-Bloom’s last words, the nursing home’s manager, Mrs Sharp, opened the door.

  ‘Before you leave, Miss Derby-Bloom, would you pop into the office?’ She left without waiting for George to reply.

  ‘It’ll be the fee for Dad’s stay here,’ George said, ‘I won’t be long.’

  When George had left, Ena gave Nurse McKinlay a card. ‘If you think of anything else, anything at all, however insignificant you think it might be, would you telephone me on this number?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I see from your badge you’re a registered nurse.’

  ‘I was with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry during the war. I began nursing in 1937. I was one of the first recruits to train at the Nurses Preliminary Training School. Not all the hospital matrons approved of the training. Most preferred their nurses to learn on the wards, which I did eventually. It was a good foundation course, though. Two intensive months in the training school and we learned everything from medical and nursing theology to anatomy and physiology. But it isn’t the same practising on life size dummies.’

  ‘No. It must have been very different when you began working with real patients?’

  ‘It was. I spent two years on the wards and when war was declared I joined up and became a FANY.’

  ‘And, do you mind me asking where you learned to speak German?’

  ‘Not at all. My first overseas assignment as a FANY was just after the Russian invasion of Finland in November 1939. I was one of forty FANY drivers in a convoy of ten ambulances that went to Norway. We arrived after the fighting in February 1940 but stayed on to help evacuate the hospitals and the refugees from Karelia.’

  ‘Finland would be cold at that time of year,’ Ena said.

  ‘February is the coldest month of the year. It was between minus five and minus ten most nights, but we were too busy to think about it. It was in Finland that I learned to speak German. I worked with an Austrian doctor who had spent ten years as a surgeon in Germany. He was fluent in German and English – and the languages of the countries that border Finland – Russian, Norwegian and Swedish. When I got back to England, a friend who had returned from Scotland as a driver with the Polish fighting units told me about an organisation that trained people with languages as wireless operators. She went off to work in a grand old manor house in Banbury, and because I understood German I was sent to the east coast to listen to conversations between Luftwaffe pilots and the top brass giving the orders.’

  Ena had been an engineer making small discs and dials for coding and deciphering machines at Bletchley Park, and Henry who was already at Bletchley Park, worked on top-secret codes, so Ena knew how important jobs like the one Nurse McKinlay did were. ‘An interesting job,’ she said.

  ‘We coordinated what the wireless operators sent back with what we heard the pilots say, and the girls in the map room were able to plot their route within a mile, sometimes less.’

  ‘I remember my husband telling me that the RAF was often given information that enabled them to stop the Luftwaffe over the Channel?’

  ‘They were.’

  ‘It must be gratifying to know that the work you did, stopping bombs from being dropped on factories and homes, saved lives.’

  ‘I suppose it was. I didn’t think about it at the time. None of the girls did. We just got on with it. I had learned Morse Code and hoped that with my knowledge of German, I’d be sent overseas to work as a wireless operator, but it didn’t happen.’

  ‘Your contribution to the war effort was of huge importance,’ Ena said. ‘I’m sure many operations were foiled because the RAF had information in advance of German air strikes.’

  Nurse McKinlay smiled.

  Ena liked her. She was easy to talk to. Now, Ena thought, would be a good time to ask her about the staff and the other residents in the nursing home.

  ‘How long have you worked at The Willows?’

  ‘Since 1945. Gosh, fifteen
years at Christmas. My sister worked here until she became pregnant. She had terrible morning sickness that lasted most of every day. Anyway, they needed a qualified nurse to replace her and asked me to take over when she left. I’ve been here ever since.’

  ‘Have most of the staff been here a long time?’

  ‘Some yes, but not as long as me. We’re short-staffed again now. The manageress says she’s advertising for medically trained staff, but she hasn’t found anyone in the last six months.’

  ‘It’s quite a big building. How many patients are there here?’

  ‘Thirty-two. We have beds for forty, but we don’t have the staff for forty people at the moment.’

  ‘What did you say the woman’s name was who befriended Mr Derby-Bloom?’

  ‘Mrs Thornton. She’s very a nice lady. She’s missing Mr Derby-Bloom. They had become quite attached to one another.’

  ‘All paid. Paperwork done and signed,’ George said, retuning and putting a large white envelope in her shoulder bag. ‘I can now arrange for Dad to be taken to Surrey. In our religion the funeral should take place straight away. At the very latest within forty-eight hours, but because of the circumstances in which he died, I couldn’t do that for him. Now it’s urgent that he is laid to rest as quickly as possible.’ She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  ‘That’s good. Hey,’ Ena said, seeing tears in George’s eyes, ‘people will understand why there was a delay. Come on, let’s get back to the theatre.’ She turned to Nurse McKinlay. ‘If you do think of anything?’

  ‘I’ll telephone.’

  Ena shook the nurse’s hand and said how nice it had been chatting with her. She left as George was thanking her for all she’d done for her father.

  There was something edging its way into Ena’s mind. A thought on the periphery of her consciousness that wouldn’t show itself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The restaurant where Ena was meeting Priscilla was a stone’s throw from Mercer Street. Until today it might have been a thousand miles away. It was not a restaurant that Ena and Henry could afford to frequent. The menu was in a glass case on the wall at the side of the entrance. Ena’s eyes widened. She didn’t like anyone paying for her, but at these prices, she was glad to be Priscilla’s guest.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t look,’ Priscilla, standing by her side, remarked. ‘Come on, let’s live a little.’

  Ena followed her into the restaurant’s foyer. ‘Hello, James,’ Pricilla called, as she swept past a middle-aged man in royal blue and gold livery. James bowed his head. His smile told Ena he knew and liked Priscilla.

  ‘Mrs Galbraith?’ The maître d’ beamed Priscilla a welcoming smile.

  ‘I’m lunching with my friend, Ena.’ Priscilla gave Ena a child-like grin. ‘Our husbands are working.’ She half cupped her hand, put it up to her mouth, leaned close to the maître d’ and whispered, ‘Someone has to earn money for us girls to spend.’ Then she burst into laughter.

  On occasions like this, though there hadn’t been many in Ena’s life so far, she would have cringed at the kind of joke her friend had just made, but not today. There was something about Priscilla that Ena found endearing – childlike and fun – and charismatic. It was as if she was hungry to experience everything to the n’th degree.

  ‘Your usual table is ready for you,’ the maître d’ said, leading the way across the plush, maroon and gold restaurant to a table overlooking the gardens of the hotel. He pulled out Priscilla’s chair and when she was seated, moved quickly and effortlessly to Ena. ‘Madam,’ he gestured, pulling out Ena’s chair for her. He then gave both women a maroon leather-bound menu. ‘Bon appetite, ladies,’ he said, bowed and turned into the room. With the slightest flick of his hand, a waiter nodded and brought them the wine list.

  ‘What would you like to drink, Ena?’

  Priscilla was enjoying playing the role of hostess and, as Ena struggled to tell the difference between a Claret and a Bordeaux, she said, ‘You choose.’

  ‘Where do you come from, Ena? I can tell from your accent you’re not a Londoner.’

  ‘The Midlands, a small place called Foxden in Leicestershire. My father was the Head Groom on a country estate. We lived in a tied cottage on the estate surrounded by acres and acres of fields and woodland.’ Ena laughed, ‘And a lake the estate workers’ kids were allowed to skate on in the winter. We didn’t have any money and being the youngest of four sisters, my clothes were hand-me-downs. But looking back, with fields and woods as my playground, it wasn’t so bad. Foxden Hall is now a hotel. My eldest sister and her husband own it with the Foxden family. The Foxdens don’t have anything to do with the day-to-day running of the hotel.

  ‘James Foxden and my sister, Bess, were very much in love during the war. Before his last mission, James gave Bess his signet ring with the Foxden family crest on it and asked her to marry him when he returned. Sadly, he didn’t come back. I don’t know the details, but as titled gentry, James, as Lord and Lady Foxden’s only son would have one day inherited the title and the Foxden Estate. All Bess had left of him was his signet ring, which because it had been handed down through generations of Foxdens, she gave back to James’ parents. Lord and Lady Foxden said if James gave Bess his ring and asked her to marry him, she should keep it. I think it was James parents’ way of saying they accepted Bess as their son’s choice. I also think that fighting a common enemy in the war narrowed the class divide and made people more equal.’

  Priscilla laughed. ‘Did it?’

  ‘Not everyone changed, but the Foxdens did. Lord Foxden always treated his workers well. Lady Foxden was a snob to everyone except my father. She wouldn’t hunt without Tom at her side.’ Ena swallowed the emotion that always rose in her throat when she talked about her father. ‘Losing her only son changed her completely,’ Ena took a deep breath, ‘and it broke Bess’ heart. But our Bess is a strong woman and now has a lovely husband and a beautiful daughter.’

  Ena took a drink of her wine. ‘What about you? Where do you come from, Priscilla?’

  ‘I was born in the slums of Salford. My playground was the back yards of derelict houses and filthy alleys, and puddles were my lakes. Dad worked for the Co-Operative Society and my mum, who came from Manchester, pestered him to ask for a transfer to Moss Side. He eventually plucked up the courage and a year later we moved to Caxton Street, Moss Side in Manchester. It was still a poor area, but Dad had a good job which meant my mother could give up her cleaning job and no longer took in sewing. I was sent to the local C of E school,’ Priscilla laughed. ‘We thought we were it then. After we moved to Manchester, Mum never left the house without a clean scarf round her head and she always kept a clean pinafore hanging on the back door in case anyone called. She used to put it on to hang out the washing.’ Priscilla speared an asparagus head, but didn’t eat it, ‘She died six months after we moved to Moss Side. She died where she wanted to live.’

  Ena could see in Priscilla’s eyes that the death of her mother was as painful to her as the death of her father was to herself.

  When they had finished eating and were drinking coffee, Ena asked Priscilla how she had met her husband.

  Priscilla laughed, put down her cup with a loud clunk and laughed again. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  ‘Try me.’ Priscilla tilted her head to one side and squinted at Ena as if she was deciding whether or not to share that piece of information with her. Ena laughed. ‘Now you’re teasing me.’ Ena knew before she asked Priscilla about her and Charles, that their meeting would not have started as girl meets boy at a local dance.

  ‘Oh, alright!’

  Ena leaned forward, eagerly waiting to hear the Priscilla and Charles’ story.

  ‘Charles saw me before I saw him and when I did see him, I didn’t remember him.’

  Ena shook her head, ‘Why not?’

  Priscilla giggled. ‘When I was fifteen, my best friend and I used to walk into Manche
ster every Saturday morning. We had no money so…’ Priscilla stopped speaking and bit her lip. ‘You must promise not to judge me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t anyway, but I promise.’

  ‘One of us would steal something from Woolworths or C&A and the other one would take it back. We’d say that our mother had sent us because whatever it was that we’d stolen that day didn’t work. We alternated between Woollies and C&A – and always went to a different assistant. If they didn’t want to refund the money we’d start crying and say how we had six brothers and sisters and our mam was poorly. And, I’m ashamed to say, we got away with it every time. Well, as many times as there were shop assistants. Anyway, one Saturday we’d had pop and a sandwich for our lunch, spent what was left on sweets, and we were wandering around when we saw a poster advertising a funfair. It wasn’t far away so we went to it.

  ‘We wanted to go on the rides, but we’d spent our money so I picked the pocket of a posh looking lad.’

  ‘And he caught you?’

  ‘No, but I found out later that he saw me picking someone else’s pocket. Anyway, I spent my few pennies on the shoot the duck stall. I was on my last round when I realised the posh lad who I’d pick-pocketed was standing next to me on my right. He paid for a couple of rounds with a ten-shilling note and put the change in the left pocket of his coat.’ Priscilla giggled. ‘It was too tempting so I took it. I was useless with the rifle and missed every duck. He was a hotshot and won a teddy bear which he gave me.’ Ena saw tears in the corner of Priscilla’s eyes. ‘That was the first and only teddy bear I ever had, and I’ve still got it.’ She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and tutted. ‘I’m getting sentimental in my old age.

  ‘Anyway, in the war I worked in a munition’s factory. The money was okay, but Dad had TB in 1917 and it came back that year. If he hadn’t gone to a sanatorium he’d have died. So, we scraped together every penny we could find and off he went. I was twenty-one and took on the house so he had somewhere to come back to when he was cured. Travelling to the sanatorium and taking him fresh fruit, which cost a fortune – if you could get it – meant I often went without myself. I didn’t care because I could see Dad was improving every time I visited, but I fell behind with the rent. The landlord had let me pay late several times, but the debt built up and he took me to court. I promised the magistrate I’d pay back the rent I owed. I can’t remember how much in arrears I was, or how much I promised to pay back every week on top of the normal rent, but the magistrate agreed and I lived to fight another day.’