Tuppenny Hat Detective

by Brian Sellars

  'Of course, there's no need for me to tell Marlene,' said Billy, with cold deliberation.

  The doctor turned and stared at him. 'Wow, that's a bit Machiavellian,' he gasped. 'You are my father, aren't you? That's the sort of blackmailing mind game he plays.'

  Billy held his gaze while working a can opener around the doctor's tin of beans. Hadfield eyed him thoughtfully then shrugged with amused resignation 'Well for your information – father dear - I might not be seeing her anymore. So, veiled threats, or even stark naked ones for that matter, won't work.'

  'But you are still seeing her,' Billy contradicted firmly, 'and it wasn't a threat. I just meant to say that I won't tell her.'

  'Who says I'm still seeing her?'

  'Well you aren't getting all dolled up to do evening surgery. You pong like Boots' scent counter and that pink tie – well ...'

  'What's wrong with the tie?'

  'It's like them my Mam buys for my dad and he tries to lose behind the wardrobe.'

  'Toast's burning.'

  *

  The dairy at the end of South Road made its own ice cream. You could have white or pink. The pink had a different, but equally unidentifiable flavour to the white one. Both colours contained tiny flakes of ice that you could crunch and were delicious.

  Billy bought a tuppenny cornet, bit the bottom off it and started sucking out the ice cream from underneath. It's a very good way to eat ice cream, so long as you don't need to see where you're going. With his head back, gazing at the sky, the several people he collided with were luckily quite nice about it, but not Sergeant Burke. He threatened to arrest him for endangering life, property and senior policemen.

  Billy apologised, but then quickly got down to business while he had the sergeant's attention. 'Look, I know you asked me to stop blaming Mr Pearce, but you've got to listen to me, sergeant – please. I've some new evidence.'

  The Sergeant crossed the road heading for the police box and tried to ignore Billy following close at his heels. He tugged at a silver chain dangling from his uniform pocket, and flipped a brass key into his hand, ready to open the police box door.

  Billy drained the soggy ice cream cornet and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. 'It won't take a minute,' he spluttered, wiping his fingers on his tank top.

  The sergeant unlocked the police box door and retreated inside. Billy stuck his foot in the doorway and waited sullenly as the sergeant lowered himself on to a stool and produced a newspaper from under his tunic. 'Go away, Billy, or I'll nick you for loitering.'

  Billy danced nervously from foot to foot unwilling to give up. He watched the sergeant fire up a little spirit stove and place a kettle on it. With great ceremony, and glaring at Billy all the while, the sergeant unfolded his newspaper. 'Can't I get any peace from you?' he groaned. 'Have you any idea how much extra work you've caused me lately? If you're not stirring up paperwork at the station, you're bothering me up here. What the devil is it now?'

  The little kettle began to steam and splutter. The sergeant struggled to turn the stove off, scalding his fingers and mumbling incoherently.

  'I think Tommy Loveday was shot at. I think the constable was wrong when he reported a car backfire. It wasn't - it was a gunshot, and I've got a witness.'

  'Billy, he fell down a hole in the tilt mill floor. There was no wound, no blood, no gunshot, and guess what - no bullet in him. You're talking nonsense lad.'

  Billy pulled a toy gun from his belt and aimed it at the sergeant. 'If this was a real gun, Sergeant, what would you do now?'

  'Don't be stupid. Put it away.'

  'Please sergeant, tell me what you'd do?'

  'I'd grab it off you and clip you round the ear-hole.'

  'No, you're not being serious. You wouldn't grab it because you'd be scared it might go off,' Billy argued. 'If this was a real 'en, you'd be backing away and trying to talk me out of shooting you – all calming and quiet like.'

  The sergeant poured hot water into a mug and stirred it. 'What's your point?'

  'You'd back away. You'd put your hands up - and you'd back away.'

  'Where's this going, Billy?'

  'And you'd fall down the hole in the floor because you were walking backwards, because somebody was pointing a gun at you.' Billy raised the toy gun's barrel to his lips and blew across the muzzle. The sergeant stared back apparently transfixed by the vivid image Billy had painted.

  'The killer fired a shot, maybe accidentally because he was startled to see Tommy move suddenly when he lost his balance and fell down the hole, or maybe - because he wanted to kill him. Whatever the reason, there was definitely a shot fired. Several people heard it. Even in the notes, it says one man thought it was a farmer shooting rabbits. That's the same as saying, it sounded like a gun shot. And I met a man who will swear it definitely was a gun shot.'

  'My God, Billy,' breathed the sergeant. 'You get some weird ideas, lad.' He uncorked a small medicine bottle and poured milk from it into his mug. 'So you want me to believe that Tommy fell down the hole because he was scared by somebody pointing a gun at him? And I suppose you're going to say that it was poor old Mr Pearce, eh?'

  'Yes. He was there, wasn't he? He lost his shoe in the river. It's in the policeman's notes.'

  'Yes, and you've read them yourself, though I obviously wasted my time showing them to you. They clearly state he was on the stepping-stones and fell because he was surprised by the loud bang from a car exhaust backfire. You read it yourself. It's all in the notes,' argued the sergeant.

  'Yes, but sergeant, if you wanted people to think you weren't in the mill when that gunshot was heard, don't you agree that it helps if you can make a big fuss about being somewhere else? Like falling in the river and losing your shoe?'

  'No I don't. Pearce is just like lots of men who've seen action. They're as jumpy as kittens about loud bangs. That's why he fell in. Not because of some evil scheme.'

  'So you don't believe me?'

  'Of course I don't, lad. It's a smashing bit of deduction, and I admire you for that, but you are completely up the wrong tree.' He thumped him playfully on the shoulder. 'A copper is supposed to be suspicious about everything. He's supposed to question everything – even the shadow of a shadow, and by eck Billy, you certainly do that. But the evidence is against you. There's no way that Mr Pearce did it. He was never in the Old Tilt and he can prove it. Obviously, we had him down as a prime suspect. He was in the area, he was wet and muddy, and he knew the victim. But his alibi is solid, Billy. Plus, it was a copper who confirmed it for him. We did everything by the book, and the coroner agreed with us.'

  'But there was something that was not checked,' Billy said solemnly. 'And you just said a policeman has to suspect everything, and check everything. Well I know something that wasn't checked - something right important.'

  'Everything was checked – everything was covered – you mark my words.'

  'Excuse me, sergeant, but no. You missed something. And if ever it came out in some sort of enquiry, or legal type of thing with big-wigs and lots of paperwork and stuff, they'd blame you for it. They'd say it was you that missed it. They'd say you made a mistake.'

  The sergeant stared at the boy. 'What the devil are you talking about?'

  'We have one witness who says he heard the gunshot. He thought it was a farmer shooting rabbits. It's in the copper's notes. But you never checked to see if a farmer really had been shooting rabbits – and yer dint look for a bullet. I bet I could show thee where that bullet went into inside that old mill. And sommat else, I found out that lead doesn't go rusty, so I bet it's still in there in that wall.'

  'By eck, Billy Perks!' the sergeant gasped. 'You're challenging me, aren't you?'

  'No, Sir. But I was once told that a good detective will check everything, even the shadow of a shadow.'

  *

  After school the following day, Billy went to the surgery hoping to see Doctor Hadfield. If his little Austin Ruby was parked in the coach house yard, he w
ould know he was still taking afternoon surgery. He planned to climb in to the car and wait for him. But, as he arrived the Ruby was nosing out through the gates. Luckily, it's not a vehicle noted for rapid acceleration, and Billy was able to catch up with it.

  'Hey Billy! Are you after me again? Get in, we can chat as we go.' The little Austin whined and chirred, emitting a blue mist as it pulled away up the steep street. 'You were right, Billy. Just as you said, my esteemed employer and principle tormentor in life, did not join this practice until the early spring of nineteen-twenty. Apparently, like me, he too came as locum. However, unlike me, six months later he married the boss's daughter and before the year was out was a full partner. Praise be the Lord. If it weren't for nepotism Billy where would we all be?'

  Not having the faintest what he meant, Billy ignored the question and waited for him to calm down and speak English.

  'Working for much brighter employers my lad - that's where.'

  'I can go now,' said Billy flatly. 'You can let me off here. That's all I wanted to know.'

  'Oh charming. Remind me one day, Billy, and we'll discuss social skills.'

  *

  This was going to be a big day – a really big day. And after all that had happened in the last few weeks, Billy sat on the tram between his parents as quiet as a mouse, keen to avoid setting events in train that might spoil it.

  The tramcar bucked and tried its best to unseat everybody as it crested a cobbled hill and plunged down towards the city. The conductor showed off, mystically balancing, hands free, as if gyroscopically maintained in position, as he collected fares. The lower saloon was about half full, enjoying the lull between the rush of steelworkers off to their early shifts and the later, white collar crush of scholars and clerks.

  The Perks were off to London, to the Festival of Britain. Since his curfew and grounding, Billy had given up all hope of this day. Then, quite unexpectedly, he'd been told to clean his shoes before bed, as he was off to London in the morning.

  London, capital city, centre of empire, home of the King. He'd seen it on the Pathe News, burning, and bombed with defiant pearly kings and queens doing the knees up outside blitzed pubs. And though he had never set foot there, Tower Bridge, the Mall and Big Ben were as familiar sights to him as Sheffield's Snig Hill, or the Wicker Arches.

  The steelworks where Billy's dad worked had organised the outing. First a luxury Pullman train to London, then a taxi to the South Bank and the festival's gates.

  Still as invisible as he could make himself, Billy disembarked in the city and followed his parents to the Railway Station. Beneath its Victorian portico, three wheeled Scammels whizzed around between taxis and buses and horse drawn carts, loaded with parcels. Great heaps of newspapers, like grey haystacks, leaned against iron pillars, waiting to be harvested by small red vans.

  Inside the station, Billy's father recognised some of his workmates with their families and followed them to the London platform. There was lots of teasing and flipping of neckties as men who usually only ever see each other in muck and sweat faced up in their trilby hats and Sunday best, as slick as Jimmy Cagney. The steelworkers' wives looked like so many Doris Days in short jackets and big floral skirts of stiff, waffle cotton. Mothers wiped children's noses, and kept cleaning their faces with spit and handkerchiefs. Youngsters of all ages who had never met before, stared sullenly at each other, the younger ones swinging on their parents' hands, their older siblings trying to look bored and disinterested. A couple of proto-teddy boys with greased back hair and drainpipe trousers moved in on a pair of scowling Jane Russells and smoked violently, desperately pretending not to be children, forced into spending a day with their parents.

  The train thundered in under the station's glass roof, gouting steam across the platform. The ground shook and the air swirled hot and cold. The chattering chorus rose to a high-pitched babble and Billy found himself borne along to the train in a cheerful crush of excitement. Harassed officials checked tickets. Billy and his parents were directed to the dining car and a table sparkling with cutlery and white linen. A minute or two later the rhythmic slamming of the train's doors thumped along its length, signalling that they would soon be off to the old imperial capital to see the wonders of modern science.

  As the train pulled away a smiling waiter appeared, seeming so pleased to see him that Billy felt certain he must know the man. With a flourish, a menu appeared before him. He'd never seen anything like it. Every wondrous food known to mankind appeared to be listed there, even orange juice and smoked haddock. When the waiter returned Billy ordered the fish, and received a kick on the shins under the table from his mother. 'You can't have that,' she whispered hotly, as though he'd ordered the coddled testicles of the Dalai Lama.

  'Of course he can,' said his dad. 'I paid extra for the full breakfast. We can have any damn thing we want – even him.'

  'But fish for breakfast?' She seemed horrified.

  'You 'ave kippers – them's fish,' he argued softly.

  'But not like haddock though.'

  'It's smoked like kippers are.'

  That appeared to do it for Mrs Perks. She lifted her face to the waiter, smiled sweetly and said, 'My son will have the 'addock with a poached hhegg.'

  Except for the dining car, the train had a separate side corridor along each coach. Billy set out to explore as soon as he had finished his breakfast. Steelworkers and their families filled two coaches and most of the dining car. The rest of the train, had its usual mix of travellers, and was much quieter. In the corridor of the first class coach Billy came face to face with Reverend Hinchcliffe.

  'My word! Billy isn't it?'

  'Hello, Sir. Are you going to the festival an' all?'

  'Festival? Oh, oh no, I'm afraid not Billy, though I would certainly like to. I'm only going as far as Nottingham.' He seemed agitated, and peered about as though uncertain what to do next. 'I say, Billy, since you're here, have you a moment? I'm really very glad we met like this. You see, I have something I need to get off my chest - so to speak. Let's find an empty compartment.' He led Billy away, peering into compartments as they passed them until he found an empty one. 'In here, old chap. Sit down - sit down.' He slid the door shut and chose the seat opposite Billy. 'This's been on my mind ever since we had our chat, so I'm really very glad to have this opportunity to make a clean breast of it.'

  The Reverend took a moment, chewing on his chubby cheeks as Billy sank slowly into the deeply cushioned seat. Lines furrowed the Reverend's forehead and he gazed nervously at the floor, as he began. 'You see, sorry - I say sorry, but I lied.' His voice was sibilant and tremulous. 'I'm really very sorry, my boy. No excuses. I simply lied to you.'

  Billy gaped, wondering what terrible lie he had told. 'What do you mean, Sir?'

  'I err - stole – yes stole, that's the word for it, some papers from Mrs Loveday's house.' He paused shifting his gaze briefly to meet Billy's, then dropping it to his fingers, which were squirming around each other. 'I was concerned about my son – his reputation. I know it was wrong, but I was so afraid she might've had letters that could harm him. He can't fight back you see - my poor son. He was killed in forty-five, you know. Right at the very end. Terrible. Tragic. He was shot down over Wolfsburg. One of his friends brought me his footlocker. It was quite untouched. He shouldn't have, at least not without his CO's permission. Anyway, I couldn't bring myself to open it for years. I put it in his room, at the end of his bed. I like to see it there as I pass by his open door on the landing. It's as if he's just gone out – could be back any minute for something locked away in there: camera, book, photographs.' He paused, unfolded a neatly pressed handkerchief from his pocket, and blew his nose. 'Then when Annabel Loveday died, I recalled how Robert had been good friends with her son, Thomas. They flew together for a while you know. They were split up after they were shot down over France, but remained good friends. Well, finally I opened it up - the footlocker. Sure enough, there was a letter from Thomas Loveday. It was abo
ut something that had happened, something, about which they were both very upset. They wanted to change it – to put it right.'

  'It's Arnold Pearce and that medal,' Billy said. 'It is isn't it?'

  The reverend lifted red-rimmed eyes to meet Billy's. 'Thomas Loveday had written that he wanted the two of them to meet with Arnold Pearce, to persuade him to go to the RAF and own up to what had happened. I was scared that if my son had replied to the letter it might be amongst Annabel's papers. You see, I naturally thought she would have received all Thomas's papers and things upon his death. I was afraid that my son might have replied to Thomas's letter. I had to find out what he had said. You know, even an innocent remark can sound bad, if taken out of context. Of course, I fully expected he would have said the right thing, but sometimes people can attach quite the wrong interpretations. You - you can never be sure how things will appear, you know - out of context. You do see what I mean, don't you? You do understand why I did it?'

  Billy nodded, trying to understand. 'So you stole them?'

  'Yes. I know there's no excuse for it, no matter what. However, I know that God knows my heart.'

  'Is that where you got the exercise book?'

  'Oh no, no no, she really did give those to me. I edited them one at a time. I never saw all four together. I returned them each time. That was how she wanted it.'

  'So, how did you steal her stuff? It was all locked up and padlocked.'

  'I'm ashamed to say, I broke in like a common thief, which of course is precisely what I am. It was the day after you had found her body. I climbed over the back wall, and found the door padlocked. I couldn't get in. There was nothing useful in the yard, so I had to climb out and fetch a bar. I took my …'

  '….jack handle from your car,' Billy interrupted, 'which just happens to be the same as the one in a Triumph Razoredge, like Pearce's car.'

  'Ah, you found it? Yes, I'm afraid I'm not a very good burglar. I tend to leave clues scattered around everywhere.'

  'Don't worry the cops don't have it yet - I do.'

  'Well anyway, I searched. She had a secret drawer, you know. I was worried I might not find it, but I didn't need it. I found a folder in the very first drawer I opened. It had all her special – err - important papers in it. It was just lying there for anyone to find. Just as I suspected there was a letter from my son to Thomas. It wasn't incriminating at all, but I suppose some people might have raised an eyebrow, but nothing more. It discussed doing the honourable thing. Perhaps I'm oversensitive, but I felt it would be best if I got rid of it.