Tuppenny Hat Detective

by Brian Sellars

  'You dare go near Miss Burkinshaw's door step again and by God I'll have you. Just who the hell do you think you are, asking questions about me and that spotless lady?'

  'I'm sorry, I didn't know she was spotless – or that she'd get so upset.'

  'No, well you don't know anything do you? You've been asking all sorts of questions about me and now you've started folk talking. You'd better keep your snotty nose out of my business in future, Perks. I shall be speaking to your father the very first chance I get. I shall tell him that if you don't stop it, you'll be in serious bother. I'll go to the police.'

  As quickly as he had arrived, he vanished, leaving a gap in the parade's ranks, which Kick Morley immediately filled.

  'Chuffin eck! What did he want? He looked like he were going to scutch thee reight then.'

  Billy took heart from his friend's arrival. 'He was telling me off for asking old Burkinshaw if she were shagging him,' he quipped, trying to sound cool, though not totally sure what shagging was.

  'Aye well, that'd do it I guess,' observed Kick.

  *

  In his hideout, the tramp listened to the distant drumming bands. His accidental meeting with Billy still worried him, and he tossed and turned on his mattress of newspapers and cardboard. The boy was so young, he thought. Too young to realise the danger he was stirring up.

  *

  Whit walks brought dusty churches out to smell the spring flowers. Congregations streamed towards the city's parks from every direction. Victorian bandstands and gazebos thronged with civic worthies: councillors, magistrates, and officials, their medals and chains of office glittering in the spring sunlight. Even the occasional MP, a rare sight in any community, might be spotted among the municipal fur and feathers. Tented altars and pulpits were raised. Scoutmasters, bandsmen, schoolteachers and clergy, jostled their charges into position, breaking off occasionally to mutter, one-two - one-two - one - into powerful, crackling microphones.

  In the parks, colourful snakes of happy people merged into groups gathered on their standard-bearers. The brash discordance of the Boy Scouts and Boys' Brigade bands gave way to the velvet harmonies of colliery and steelworks' bands. Hymns were sung, and vicars' voices crackled from ex-army loud speakers, whose huge microphones picked up every sound muttered, sung, coughed, sneezed or farted within fifty feet. You could legally stand on the grass on Whit Sunday, even if it said keep off the grass, which of course it always did.

  Beyond the singing and the city dignitaries in their suits and regalia, the church showed itself alive and well. It showed itself at ease with the people, and vital and relevant.

  'Hey, you got me into trouble.'

  Billy turned to find Doctor Hadfield behind him. 'I did? How? Oh you mean Marlene?'

  'I've been told not to encourage you,' he said winking.

  'That's a pity,' said Billy. 'I was going to ask you who visits the sick people in their houses, is it mostly you, or old Doctor Greenhow?'

  'Who do you think?' Hadfield laughed ruefully. 'Me, of course. I'm the hired help. I do all the house calls except for a few of his private patients.'

  'Was Mrs Loveday a private patient?'

  'No, she was a special old friend. The Doctor always treated her, himself.' It sounded odd, thought Billy, to hear him say, "The Doctor", with such hushed deference. 'Why?'

  'Why what?'

  'Why did he look after her instead of giving her to you like the other – not-posh-people?'

  'I don't know. He took care of her during her pregnancy and I guess they just became good friends.'

  They marched on a few steps in silence before Billy spun round to the doctor again. 'He can't have done. He was in the Royal Navy when she was pregnant. He told me he didn't come out until Christmas after the Great War.'

  'No, that can't be right. I'm sure he told me himself. Believe me, he doesn't make mistakes, but I can check his old patient records. He's a real stickler for recording everything – every little detail.' He laughed and nudged Billy's elbow. 'It's one of our knotty issues. He tells me off because I don't record every little detail like he does.'

  'Am I allowed to ask you one more question?

  'Afraid not,' he replied glumly. 'And especially if you want to know if I've seen the autopsy photographs. I couldn't possibly tell you that I had a really good look at them yesterday.'

  Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Billy was unsure whether the doctor was joking or not. 'Marlene said there weren't any,' he said, giving him a sidelong glance. 'The thing is, I've got this thing. It's like a silver thing, like it's come off a silver thing, but not the toasting fork thing. I just thought if …'

  The doctor was grimacing as if in pain. 'Don't worry,' he interrupted. 'I checked it out for you. I did say I would, but I'm afraid I didn't see anything promising. There's nothing about the wound indicative of anything unusual. Look, I will keep doing my bit if you want, old bean. To tell the truth I enjoy a good mystery. Just don't tell Marlene.' He gave Billy's shoulder a friendly punch.

  *

  Whitsunday afternoon was the turn of the Catholics. They began their Whit walks as the Protestants' band music faded. Powerful shire horses, loaned by British Railway's, and tacked out with brasses, flowers and ribbons, drew drays up to the gates of Saint Joseph's church. Men nailed old school benches to the floats. Girls and nuns added more ribbons and flowers to the manes and tails of the horses. Then, with a stony-faced nun on each float, children from the catholic school climbed aboard. The draymen clucked at the big horses and set them off towards the city centre, down over Commonside's cobbles and past the chest hospital where the TB patients waved from the windows.

  More children and parents, and dray loads of cheering kids from Saint Vincent's and other catholic schools and churches joined them along the way. They headed for Norfolk Park. There a great, open air alter awaited them, beneath a tasselled canopy that billowed and flapped in the breeze. Priests, resplendent in golden vestments, celebrated High Mass, struggling with microphones, incense, and wine. In the hot sunshine, beer tent staff made ready for a busy afternoon; the cheerful chink of bottles and glasses, competing for the congregation's attention with the interminable Latin responses of the High Mass. Finally, hopes rose when the priest faced the congregation and recited the words, "Ete Missa est," which Billy's uncle had told him was Latin for, "Go and stuff your face with ale and pork pies."

  *

  Granny Smeggs fell asleep when Billy and Yvonne visited her to review their evidence and acquaint her with their latest notes. Even as they placed them on her table, her silver head was drooping. Billy nudged her and complained. She groaned, claiming she was only resting her eyes. After several attempts to keep her awake, they gave up, repacked their evidence into its brown paper carrier bag and tip toed towards the cottage door.

  'You could be wrong about the time she was killed,' Granny said suddenly, her eyes tightly shut. 'It didn't have to be early in the morning like you said. It could have been anytime after about eight-o-clock.'

  Yvonne gaped in disbelief. 'But she had her nightdress on and her hair down.'

  'Yes but she couldn't afford the coal, lovie. She often went to bed about eight to keep warm and save the fire.' She shivered theatrically. 'Now put some coal on before you go. I'm fair clemmed. It'd freeze soap to a badger in here.'

  Billie placed coals carefully around the brightest part of the fire, his face tingling in the red glow. 'Gran?' he whispered tentatively, his gaze fixed on the glowing fire. 'Did Mrs Loveday have another baby – later - after Tommy?'

  'Billie - shush!' she said, grabbing his upper arms tightly and turning him to face her. 'You're to say no more about that,' she urged him. 'D'you hear me? Don't ever mention that again.'

  Billie nodded, startled by her intense reaction. He had no doubt whatsoever about the answer it indicated.

  *

  Enquiries at a nearby garage established that the car jack handle used to prize the padlock off the back door was si
milar to a type supplied in the tool kit of a Triumph car. Arnold Pearce owned a Triumph Mayflower saloon. Billy said this proved Pearce had broken into the house, but Kick Morley disagreed. He said it was of a commonly used type, made by a firm called Lake and Elliot. Dozens of cars had similar jack handles.

  Billy kicked a pebble despairingly, hurting his foot. 'Well I think we should check his car to see if his jack handle is missing,' he grumbled, hopping on one leg.

  'How do we do that? He always parks it near his shop window so he can keep an eye on it.'

  'Well we could creep into his garage at night and …'

  'No-no, I'm not doing that, but I know what we could do,' Kick interrupted eagerly. 'Create a diversion, like in the films. You know, distract him while we check the car's tool kit.'

  'What sort of diversion?' asked Billy, warming to the idea.

  'Knock some shelves over in his shop, and while he's picking up the pills and stuff we can nip round and check the motor.'

  Billy frowned. 'He'll see us. The shop bell will give us away.'

  Yvonne groaned despairingly. 'You two are barmy.'

  'Oh yeah, and what would you do, oh Miss Mighty Knickers of Knowledge? There's a chuffin bell on the shop door.'

  'You don't need to go in to the shop, you wazzock! You don't need your stupid diversion either,' she cried. 'Anyway it's always full of mothers and babies and old folks. Do you really want to go smashing it up with toddlers and babies around. It's a barmy idea - you'd be locked up in a minute.'

  'So what do we do then?'

  'Just let a tyre down of course,' she told them. 'If we pinch the valve thingy so he can't pump it up again, he'll have to use the spare wheel – so he'll need the jack.'

  For a second or so the boys gazed around trying to pretend this was not a brilliant idea, but found her logic flawless. 'Well I suppose we could try that,' Billy admitted grudgingly. 'I mean, if it'll stop you moaning on about it.'

  Yvonne was furious. 'You're pathetic you two,' she cried, and stormed off. The lads watched the greenhouse door slam behind her and flinched, preparing themselves for a shower of shattered glass. Luckily it did not come.

  'Tha just never knows where tha stands wi' lasses,' Kick observed ruefully.

  …….

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Yvonne made room for Billy to join her on a crowded stone bench seat. They had met after school in one of the city's main Victorian squares, to do research. As time was short, they decided to split up and meet back at the stone seat later. They wanted to find out everything they could about Tommy Loveday's death in nineteen-forty-six. Yvonne would check the city library archive while Billy went to Kemsley House, the offices of The Sheffield Telegraph and The Star, newspapers.

  Kemsley House overlooks Coles Corner, a busy city junction and favourite meeting place. It is a fine, Portland Stone building whose clock had been watched by generations of doodling solicitors' clerks, bankers, and shop workers in the airless city offices around it. Billy pushed in through the glazed doors in its colonnaded entrance with all the confidence of a visiting celebrity. A smart woman receptionist, busily typing some document of little importance, ignored him. After what seemed to him a long time, he coughed. With practiced ease the receptionist continued to ignore him. Undeterred Billy coughed again, this time delivering his "Aaahem" with theatrical emphasis.

  'Boots, the chemist, is across the road, young man,' the receptionist said icily, her typing fingers not pausing for a second. 'If you need cough syrup, I'm sure they'll have it.'

  'I don't want none,' said Billy. 'I want to see the archive, please. I came all the way from Walkley on the tram.'

  Lifting her glassy gaze, she swept it over him like a snake considering its next meal. 'But you're a boy,' she said, with deep distaste. 'Boys are not permitted to see the archive.'

  'I'm sorry Miss, I thought we are. I've heard about it at school,' he lied.

  'Do you have a letter from your headmaster? You must be accompanied by an adult and have a letter from your school explaining the nature of your research.'

  She has won, thought Billy miserably. No matter what he said, he knew she would trump it with another rule. Swinging round to leave empty-handed, he found himself looking up into a pair of sparkling green eyes set deeply in to a man's weather beaten face.

  'Archive eh? What're you after, lad; the most goals in a season, Yorkshire's best knock against Lancashire? I could tell you that now off the top of my head if you like.'

  'No sir, I want to know who killed Tommy Loveday, cos I think the same one killed his mother an' all.'

  The green eyes widened and their owner took a step back. 'Wow, old Annabel! Are you the kid who says ..?' He paused and studied Billy's face for a second or two. 'Yeah, I've heard about you, haven't I? I bet you're the kid who says she was murdered, aren't you? I thought about doing a piece on you, but I got side tracked.'

  Billy gazed back at him, willing him to help. 'It's a real mystery,' he said, 'I've got some clues, but I need to check out some things, cos having proof and just knowing sommat aren't the same thing ...'

  'Huh, tell me about it,' groaned the man. 'If I could write what I know, instead of only what I can prove, things'd be a damn sight different in this city. How old are you?'

  'Eleven,' replied Billy, adding hopefully, 'twelve next.'

  'Really, twelve next you say – fancy that.' The man seemed surprised. 'Come with me, son.' He laid a hand on Billy's shoulder and started him towards a flight of stairs up into the building's clamorous heart. 'I think you and me can help each other. What's your name?'

  *

  The following morning Yvonne came to Billy's house, bringing the results of her research at the City's Central Library, neatly set out in her notebook. At the Perks' dining table they compared their findings, ate toast smeared with pork dripping, and drank tea. By the time they had finished they could show that on that same day in October nineteen-forty-six, when Tommy Loveday had been found drowned under the Old Tilt's water wheel, Arnold Pearce was seen limping along South Road in Walkley, dishevelled and muddy, and with one shoe missing. According to one newspaper, people said "he looked as though he'd been in a fight." The paper also reported that a bobby had questioned him briefly, but left him to find his own way home.

  Back then, Arnold Pearce had lived with his mother in a cramped, back-to-back house. It stood in a soot-blackened terrace, clinging to a steep street in the shadow of Saint Joseph's convent. Billy made a mental note to visit the area and ask around. Pearce, with his pinstripe suit and white-collar job, must have stood out like a pie on a coffin, amongst the poverty-stricken residents of Daniel Hill Street's claustrophobic courtyards. Even though five years had now passed, someone was sure to remember seeing him hobbling along with a shoe missing. It would be a sight to stick in the memory of poor folk, used to sharing the same lavatory and washhouse.

  In Yvonne's notes, Billy found she had entered a reminder to the effect that, because Tommy Loveday was killed on that very same day, the police should have been extra careful to record everything. 'You're right, Wy,' he agreed, thumbing through her notes. 'I bet they even recorded what the beat copper said to Pearce. It'd be in his notebook. I bet they keep all them old notebooks in a room somewhere.'

  Yvonne chewed her lip thoughtfully. 'If you want to go and see Sergeant Burke again, you know that I'll come with you,' she offered loyally.

  Billy sniffed cockily. 'I'm not scared of him,' he crowed. 'I'll go and see him anytime.' It was almost true, Billy thought on reflection. Confronting Sergeant Burke was not a cheering prospect, but it was certainly better than sitting in the old greenhouse waiting to be slaughtered by a mysterious killer.

  Yvonne's notes mentioned a newspaper article about Pearce receiving the DFM, and a photograph of the award ceremony. Billy wished he had seen it. 'It's a pity you can't copy stuff with a camera or something,' he said. 'It'd be great for people who go to see archives and stuff to be able to make copies of it
.'

  'Well you'll have to invent sommat then,' she teased.

  'Maybe I will,' he said, mentally adding inventor to the list of jobs he'd like to do when he left school. 'What else did it say?'

  'It mentioned flight sergeant Jacque Cadell, a volunteer pilot from Canada, missing in action. It said they gave Pearce the medal because he had tried to save him.'

  'My mam'll be back soon, she's only gone to Liptons. Let's scarper before she comes. I don't want her giving me a load of errands.'

  'Aren't you going to wash these first?' Yvonne enquired, pointing to their teacups.

  'Nah, they weren't washed before. I'll just shove 'em back in the sink.'

  'Ergh! Did you gimme a mucky cup, you filthy pig?' she cried, hoping that it had been his mother's cup she'd been made to share and not his dog's, or even worse, Billy's.

  Billy ignored the rebuke, concentrating instead on her notes. 'I'm going to see old Burke. He'll know what was recorded about Pearce and his shoe. You go and check out Doc Hadfield. Is he still sniffing round your Marlene? If he is, ask him to find out what Tommy's injuries were. He can look it up in the Post Mortem records. But don't let your Marlene know, she'll stop his chocolate.'

  'But that was five years ago. He'll never find out anything now.'

  'Yes he will. I know all about ortosk - err- autopsies. They keep records for ever and ever. I found that out yesterday.'

  'What do you mean she'll stop his chocolate? What chocolate?'

  *

  'Sergeant, hold that boy!' Sergeant Burke boomed from his office door as Billy shuffled into the police station. The desk sergeant grabbed Billy and pulled him through the counter hatch into the main office area.

  'What's up?' Billy gasped.

  'Oh little Mr Innocent - butter wouldn't melt in his mouth,' sneered the desk sergeant, as Sergeant Burke stalked towards them.

  'I'm glad you're here,' Sergeant Burke growled, knotting his eyebrows in a dark scowl. 'We've had another complaint about you, my lad. Haven't we Tom?'

  'Yes we have, sarj, and it's a very serious one this time.'

  Billy stared fearfully at his old enemy the desk sergeant, who was clearly enjoying the situation. 'I haven't done nowt,' he protested.

  'Have you seen any medals, Billy?' Sergeant Burke asked him sternly.