Tuppenny Hat Detective

by Brian Sellars

  'The young bloke asked me that already,' Billy huffed.

  'You see, Tom. There he goes again,' Sergeant Burke explained to his younger colleague. 'You ask him a straight question and you get an evasive answer. He'll make a damn good politician - Prime Minister even. He never gives you a straight answer.'

  'Well he did,' protested Billy. 'He told my mam I was helping him, and he asked me to look out for them.' He stared back at them defiantly, wondering what was going on.

  'Oh yes, lad. I'm sure that's the absolute truth, but, watch my lips: have - you - seen - any - medals? Now answer that question, Just say yes or no.'

  'When?'

  'When! What do you mean when?' hooted Burke.

  'When do you want to know about?' Billy explained reasonably. 'I saw some medals last week on the Whit walk. I saw some last Poppy Day at the Cenotaph. I've seen my granddad's medals in our sideboard drawer. I just mean - when?'

  Sergeant Burke turned to the desk sergeant and blew a sigh of frustration. Turning back to Billy he leaned slowly down towards him until his nose almost touched Billy's. 'Right, young man. I'm going to spell it out for you so that no matter what you do you can't fail to understand the question.' He fixed Billy with a cold, determined stare. 'Some medals have been stolen from a house at Dore. The owner has suggested …'

  'You mean Poshy Pearce, don't you?' Billy interrupted. 'I knew it'd be him. He lives in a posh house at Dore.'

  'It doesn't matter who it is,' snapped Sergeant Burke. 'I'm asking you the same question that I'll be asking other slippery characters an' all.'

  'I've not nicked his medals, and I'm fed up of him trying to get me into trouble. I'm going to tell my dad. My dad'll bash his brains in.'

  'Well if he does, he'll be in one of my cells before you can say, up-the-Owls.'

  The three stood motionless, staring at each other, fixed by the tension between them. The desk sergeant broke the silence. 'What did you want anyway?'

  'Nowt! I'm going home,' Billy said, testily. 'All you do here is yell at me and say I did sommat what I didn't do. I'm trying to find somebody who killed somebody, but you don't help me. You just yell at me and say I nicked Pearce's rotten medals which he lied about and never should have had in the first place.'

  The two officers patiently folded their arms across their chests and looked at Billy, clearly amused by his outburst.

  'I help the police I do,' Billy went on. 'I might have come to tell you about a man who robbed a bank and all you do is shout at me.'

  'Who was it?'

  'What?'

  'Who robbed the bank?'

  'I don't know who robbed a bank. I was just saying.'

  'Hahaah! so you're making false accusations about a nonexistent bank robbery, wasting police time, and coming past the front desk hatch without handcuffs. That's a crime that is, isn't it, Tom?'

  'Twenty years hard labour at least, sarj.'

  'Have we got any biscuits left, Tom?'

  'I think so, sarj.'

  'OK, let's drop the charges and give him a cup of tea and a garibaldi instead.'

  Billy shrugged and sullenly followed the sergeant to his office as the other went off in search of tea and biscuits.

  'Go on then, the floor is yours,' said Sergeant Burke amiably, settling back in his creaking chair. Billy looked thoughtfully at the fishing pictures on his wall. The subjects' beaming faces and rural settings had a calming effect on him and he began to tell of his visit to Kemsley House. Tea arrived, and the sergeant sipped quietly as Billy told his tale.

  ……'He's a journalist. That means he writes what you read in the paper,' Billy explained. 'He showed me an article about Pearce losing his shoe in the river. It was on the same page as one about 'em finding Tommy dead. Didn't anybody think it was funny him losing his shoe and Tommy being drowned on the same day? I mean, it made me suspicious straight off.' He crammed a garibaldi into his mouth. Sergeant Burke sipped and waited. 'Don't you think it's just too much of a coincidence, Sergeant?' Billy asked, spraying crumbs. 'If you drowned somebody in that mill, you'll get all mucked up and you could lose a shoe. I bet if you looked you could even still find it in them grinding pits. Five years is not all that long, a shoe could still be there. They found Tutankhamen's.'

  'Down Rivelin?'

  Billy sagged despairingly and returned his cup to its saucer. 'Nobody ever believes me,' he groaned. 'I know it was him. He killed Tommy and I think he did Mrs Loveday as well.'

  'OK, lad. I'm sorry – I am listening. And I'll tell you sommat else an' all - I do take notice of what you say, Billy. But we're not stupid, you know. Of course we check things out. We check everything. Mr Pearce was not in the mill, and he can prove it. There were witnesses - very reliable ones.' The sergeant stood up suddenly. 'Come with me.' He sped round his desk and out of the office door almost before Billy could offload his cup. He had to scramble to follow him.

  'You've got to stop all this suspicion, Billy. Let sleeping dogs lie. You're a bright lad, but you're just stirring up trouble for everybody.' The sergeant led him through a doorway at the far side of the open office area.

  Billy followed onto a gloomy, concrete landing with a flight of steps to an upper floor and one going down. The sergeant descended into a basement store. Dimly lit and low ceilinged, it smelled dusty and dry. Wooden shelves filled every available space. They were crammed with box files, and brown paper parcels tied with string. Billy watched him walk slowly along one of the racks, his head tilted to one side, mumbling as he read the labels. Suddenly, he straightened up and pulled out a heavy, leather book. It was as big as a tea tray. 'This is it.'

  Billy shuffled along the narrow aisle to where the sergeant had opened the battered book. 'This is the day book that was being used in nineteen forty-six. And there - see this entry? That's the date Tommy Loveday was found.' Billy peered at the page. Columns showed the date and time for each entry. The neat, pen and ink writing recorded the events at the front desk for each day.

  'Here it says Tommy was found, and here you've got the report. You've also got the constable's notebook reference so we could find that too if we need it. Now, believe it or not, we're not daft in the police force. We get suspicious about coincidences, just like you do. And, when we do we check 'em out.'

  Billy shuffled uncomfortably in the sergeant's stern gaze.

  'Now, I've rechecked all this recently. Do you know why, Billy?'

  Billy shook his head, shamefaced.

  'Because of what you said to me,' he growled, staring hard at him. 'You see we don't just ignore what people tell us. We do sommat about it.'

  'I'm sorry,' mumbled Billy.

  'Aye well, seeing as you're a detective an' all, I'm going to break a rule. In fact I've already broken about ten rules bringing you down here and showing you this book. But I'll tell you what's in these reports.' He moved to the end of the row and pulled out a thin folder containing a few hand written pages. 'I made these notes a couple of weeks ago. I've been saving 'em because – just like you - I had my suspicions about poor Annabel, so I checked them out.'

  Billy peered at the papers as the sergeant read from them. 'Mr Pearce was questioned by the beat officer on South Road. He'd lost his right shoe when he fell in the river near the Walkley Bank Tilt Wheel. He told the constable he'd slipped on the stepping stones because a car's loud backfire gave him a start. He was crossing the river going towards the mill, not, coming away from it. He got wet up to his knees.' Sergeant Burke closed the folder and turned to face Billy. 'Now normally, that would have been that. The incident would have been noted and closed, but because Tommy Loveday was found dead on that same day, the constable, quite rightly, thoroughly checked every detail of Mr Pearce's story.'

  He began leading Billy back up the steps to his office. Billy took his seat at the sergeant's desk and waited calmly for the rest of the story.

  'A good detective checks everything – even the shadow of a shadow. Remember that.'

  Billy returne
d the sergeant's gaze, struggling not to wilt beneath it. 'Yes I will, sergeant,' he croaked. 'And I am checking everything.'

  The sergeant nodded, thoughtfully tapping his large fingers on the file. Opening it, he sorted through the papers to find the one he wanted. He read aloud from it. 'The constable cycled down to Rivelin Valley - questioned potential witnesses - found corroboration for Pearce's story. Yes, it says, he'd been observed from some garden allotments on the river bank. Two gardeners at different allotments had seen him. But better still, there's a statement here from the angling club's water bailiff. In fact the bailiff even spoke to Pearce and tried to find his shoe in the river.' The sergeant straightened up and sighed. 'You see, check the facts and it soon begins to makes sense, no matter how strange it may seem. It was all true – every word.'

  'What about the bang?' Billy asked. 'Did he ask 'em about the bang?'

  Sergeant Burke laughed softly. 'I knew you'd ask about that. When you grow up we'll have you in the force. You'll make a good copper.'

  'Well did he?'

  'Yes of course he did. What did I tell you? "Check even the shadow of a shadow." He asked them all. One of the gardeners said he'd heard a loud report like a gun shot, but he said the farmer across the river was always shooting rabbits and he put it down to that. The other bloke said he thought it was car's back fire. The water bailiff said the same.'

  'But it might not have been,' said Billy.

  'Yeah, but it doesn't matter does it? Nobody was shot! And anyway, the bailiff is an ex-marine commando, if he couldn't tell a gun shot from a backfire – nobody could. He swore it was a car backfire that made Pearce slip on the stepping-stones, just like he'd told the constable. A lot of blokes who've seen action, Billy, like Mr Pearce - they are easily startled by a loud bang. It's quite common among ex-service men.'

  Billy released a sigh. 'Well I suppose that's that then.'

  'Look lad, leave Mr Pearce alone. And keep your eyes open for them medals. I know you didn't burgle his house, but when he makes a complaint, I have to follow it up. We've got enough work here without looking for more. Keep your nose clean and forget poor old Mr Pearce.'

  ………

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  'Early morning's not a valid clue anymore. We should rub it off,' Kick ruled, pacing restlessly in front of the MOM board.

  Yvonne shot him a disapproving glare. 'Why?'

  'Cos his granny said the old girl could've went to bed at eight at night, so it doesn't matter anymore if they were on the street at dawn, unless we also include them who were out there at eight-o-clock at night as well.'

  'We can't – there'd be too many, and any road up, it were dark by eight.'

  'Oh leave it as it is,' Billy groaned, tired of their bickering.

  'It's not getting us anywhere,' said Yvonne testily.

  Sensing her frustration Billy moved to the MOM board and set about trying to rescue the situation. 'OK – so we know that your dad, the milkman, and the old doctor were all near Annabel's at round about five in the morning. As far as we know none of them saw nowt unusual. Any of them could have nipped in and killed her.'

  'Not my dad!' Yvonne cried.

  'I know, I know, but I'm just saying …' Billy shuffled and gathered his thoughts. 'Then somebody wrote Pearce's name on the board, and my gran thinks he was there that day as well.' He scratched his head thoughtfully, his hand poised to write. 'I think we should add Emily Burkinshaw to the Opportunity column.'

  'What for? She didn't do it!' Yvonne cried.

  Billy fixed her with a steady gaze and wagged his finger. 'You don't know that for certain, Wy. And don't forget she would have been wide awake at that time, up and around in her house, which's only a few yards from Annabel's front doorstep. She could've easily nipped across the road and done it.'

  'Yeah, but why would she?'

  'Well, let's see shall we?' he turned to the MOM board. 'Out of this lot who had the best motive?' he asked dramatically, and immediately answered himself. 'We know Pearce did, so that means Miss Burkinshaw did as well.'

  'Why?'

  'Because she's Pearce's bit of fluff. She might have done it thinking she was protecting him. She could have killed Annabel - for the sake of love.'

  'Urgggh! Nah, never,' Kick growled.

  'OK then, but who else might have wanted her dead?' Billy asked him.

  'What about the vicar? He knew his son had lied for Pearce about the medal. And don't forget - he's read the memoirs. He'd know if Annabel was about to burst a story in her memoirs, that would hurt him – you know, for the sake of his dead son's reputation,' Kick suggested.

  'Rubbish,' Billy snapped. 'He's the chuffin vicar. He's more like a chipmunk than a killer beast.'

  'What about Doctor Greenhow? He was there. He could have done it?' said Yvonne.

  'No – never, they were old friends,' Billy argued. 'Doctor Hadfield told me he even kept her on his special list of patients. They were friends from way back. Anyway, he'd have poisoned her. Doctors always poison folk - cos they can get away with it.'

  'Maybe you should question him anyway,' said Yvonne. 'If they were such good friends, he'll know about her from the olden days. It might give us some clues.'

  'He'll not talk to him,' Kick sneered. 'He's an old grump.'

  Billy grinned. 'I bet he does. He likes me. He says I'm courageous and honest.'

  Later that afternoon Billy went looking for the old Doctor. He didn't want to visit his surgery and have to endure him at close quarters in his consulting room, so he hoped to find him out and about on his rounds. He would pretend to have bumped into him accidentally. After combing the streets for an hour, he eventually spotted the doctor's car parked outside the Douro Wine shop. It should be a simple enough matter, he thought, to waylay him whilst he's loaded down with bottles of brandy.

  As he approached the shop, the Doctor burst out through the door, a bottle, wrapped in newspaper, gripped firmly in his fist. He strode to his car, and ignoring Billy flung open its door and bustled inside. Billy panicked, fearing he was about to lose him. 'Hello, Doctor,' he cried, somewhat goofily.

  'Ah Billy, Old Stick,' the doctor boomed warmly. 'Why aren't you studying? You're a bright boy, but you need to hone your God given wits, my lad. You should be studying.'

  'I will, sir. I will. I'm just doing an errand.'

  The doctor eyed him wryly. 'How's the investigation going?'

  'Oh we don't do that anymore,' he lied. 'As I said before, we couldn't find any proof so we stopped. But we know who did it – well probably did it - but there's no way we can prove it.'

  The doctor wound down his car window before pulling the door shut. 'Oh you do, eh? And who would that be then?'

  'Well, I'd better not say, sir, if you'll excuse me. I might get into trouble again.'

  'Again?'

  'Yes. I told the police, but they just gave me a telling off. They said it's a crime to say things about people when you can't prove it. I had to promise to leave – err - this certain person alone and not to say any more, but they know I didn't steal his medals.'

  The doctor chuckled, rumbling like distant thunder. 'Ah haa, so you think it's our venerable chemist? That's who you mean isn't it? I heard he'd had his medals pinched. Poor Mr Pearce. So he's your murderer. Does he know?'

  Billy tried not to reveal his satisfaction. Telling the doctor who they suspected had been Yvonne's idea, but making it appear to be a slip of the tongue was all Billy's own work. 'Yes, that's why he complained to the police.'

  The doctor seemed delighted with the news. 'Well I have to say, my boy, I can't really blame the poor chap. I mean to say, you can't go around saying ...'

  'But he says things about me, sir. He told the police I'd pinched his medals.'

  'Hum, well that was very wrong of him - I'm sure, but I'm quite certain Mr Pearce is far from being a murderer. If you'll take my advice, Billy, you'll look no further than poor Mrs Loveday's hearth for a killer. I'm afraid she fell, and that's
all there is to it. It's a terrible thing, but even a simple fall can be fatal under certain circumstances. And that's what happened to her.' The doctor stretched out a hand and gave Billy's forearm a patronising squeeze. 'Forget it, Old Stick, and go and do some revision. I expect to see you pass for grammar school with flying colours, but I can tell you for sure, you will not do so if you don't study.'

  'Sir, you were her good friend I believe? Did Mrs Loveday have any enemies?'

  'Indeed yes, we were very good friends – of long standing. We'd known each other many years. Her husband was killed you know, a fine man I believe. It broke her heart. They'd only been married a few weeks. I attended her after he died.' The Doctor stared through the windscreen at some remembered scene, his eyes shining with moisture. He blew his nose on a red pocket-handkerchief. 'No, she had no enemies,' he said, 'except perhaps her own stubbornness. In the end, she'd almost no friends either. She could be a difficult woman - very difficult at times.'

  Billy wasn't sure what that meant, but saw clearly how it saddened the old man.

  ……..

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  There have been water mills in Rivelin Valley at least since the sixteenth century. The Walkley Bank Tilt Wheel stands at a bend of the River Rivelin below a steep, crumbling cliff, topped with woodland. The valley squeezes the peaty waters between polished rocks and massive tree roots before splicing with the river Loxley.

  The old Tilt was a rectangular building standing across the base of its triangular millpond. Ivy clung to its sandstone walls. Alder rooted in its decaying floors and reached for daylight through dark windows. Wind and rain have pecked at the ancient stone roof, carving holes here and there for owls and bats to find shelter. Large lime trees and horse chestnuts stoop over its millpond, shading shoeless boys fishing for sticklebacks. Barbed wire has coiled around the Tilt mill since its closure, but a canny millwright with a keg of grease and a crowbar, could probably have the wheel turning again with a few days of hard work.

  Billy approached it from the millpond along a narrow cinder path several feet above the rushing river. His mind was full of images of Tommy Loveday and his little dog. Halfway along the track he spotted the stepping-stones across the river, where Arnold Pearce had fallen, losing his shoe. On the far bank lay the garden allotments Sergeant Burke had mentioned, neatly planted and staked, guarded by the occasional scarecrow. In a few of the gardens, men bent over raked beds of rich black earth, or patiently plaited young runner bean vines up poles.