Tuppenny Hat Detective

by Brian Sellars

  Old Sutcliffe leapt out from the scrub beside the road and grabbed him, clamping his hard hand over his mouth. 'Don't worry. Th'art alreight. I'm not going to hurt thee,' he hissed into Billy's ear, his stubbly chin, grinding against his cheek. 'Listen th' art alreight. I waynt hurt thee. If I let thee go, tha'll not run off nor shout, will tha? I want to talk to thee. I waynt hurt thee.' He gradually released his grip. 'See, th' art alreight. I've done nowt to hurt thee.'

  'Whaddya want?' Billy was not convinced, and readied himself to run at the first sign of danger.

  'Tha didn't go to coppers. I thought tha'd go to coppers after I grabbed thee in the mill. I've been expecting 'em to come for me, but they never did. That shows tha didn't tell 'em nowt. So that makes thee alreight to my mind.'

  'I didn't do it for thee. Why should I? And when I grow up to be a man, I'm going to come for thee and give thee a chuffin good hiding. Tha'll be gerrin older and weaker, and I'll be gerrin bigger and harder, so tha'd better watch thee sen.'

  The old man chuckled admiringly. It was a logic he understood perfectly.' Well tha's got me there reight enough. So I'd better get to be good pals with thee.'

  'Is that it?'

  'No I wanted to tell thee sommat. It's about that fifty quid.'

  'Look, I've told you already, I don't know nowt about it.'

  'I know, and I believe thee now, but you have to see it my way. I only saw it for a second. It was at the police station. They'd pulled me in – after Stan - and they showed me an envelope. I could see there were cash in it. "Had I seen it before?" they asked me. Well, what a question that was. I thought if I tell 'em yes and say it's mine, they might give it to me and I'd be fifty quid better off. On t'other hand they might've found it on some job that they wanted to finger me for, and I could get nicked for sommat I never did.' He sighed glumly, shaking his head. 'I had no choice, did I? I had to say no. It were the truth anyway, but I had to miss out on fifty quid. Anyway, I saw the mucky spatters on the envelope - like that sooty watta in the boiler room where they found my Stan. And I guessed that's where they'd found it. Then I heard that you'd been in there, so I put two and two together.'

  'And made five,' Billy growled sullenly.

  'Well I reckoned you must have seen sommat. You were in there, and so were that envelope too, judging by the muck spattered on it.'

  'But now you reckon you know who it was?'

  'Aye I do. I can't tell thee yet, but it proves tha were telling me the truth. So I just wanted thee to know that I think th' art alreight. Tha needn't be scared of me any more.'

  'Who was it?'

  'I've just said I can't tell thee yet,' he snapped. 'I need a bit of time. I've got to try to make a few bob out of this first. I'll tell thee after that.'

  'Blackmail?'

  'Call it what you like. I don't care. For me it's gerrin even. He paid my lad and caused him to get killed. I want sommat back for that. I'm entitled to dip me bread in that gravy, especially after all I've gone through.'

  'But if he killed Stan, don't you want him punished?'

  'Stan's dead. Hanging somebody won't change that. But getting my hands on some decent cash – that'll make a big difference. My whole family will get sommat out of that. It'll be the best job our Stan ever did for us.'

  'Was it Pearce?'

  The old man walked away. Billy ran after him and asked again, but the old man refused to talk.

  Billy gave up and let him go. He watched Sutcliffe stamping off in his personal haze of revenge, and decided to find Yvonne, instead. There was a lot for her to record and analyse.

  *

  Yvonne Sparkes lived in a stone house next door to the Perks. It was a small pleasant house in a garden with a spring fed pool that had watercress growing at its edges. The spring flowed from the old Walkley well on Camm Street, further up the hill. The same waters fed a well in the cellar beneath Billy's house. In the height of summer, it served as the Perks' refrigerator for milk, eggs, and butter.

  Evening sunlight was slanting into the steep street, as he knocked on the Sparkes' back door. It was standing ajar as usual. Silhouetted against a window, overlooking her front garden, Mrs Sparkes sat at her kitchen table reading a newspaper. She rose as she saw him, and tip toed towards him with strange birdlike steps, a finger pressed to her lips. 'Hush, he's sleeping. He's on nights,' she whispered, ushering him into her narrow kitchen.

  Yvonne arrived from another room as her mother returned to her seat. 'Have you seen this?' she asked Billy, pointing to an article in her mother's newspaper. 'It says … "Police are understood to be reopening the case of Thomas Loveday, who drowned in the River Rivelin, in October nineteen-forty-six. Loveday's body was found trapped beneath the water wheel of the Walkley Bank Tilt Mill, having drowned in less than a foot of water." '

  'Brilliant. That's because they found the bullet I told 'em to look for.' He read the article again his face glowing with satisfaction.

  'Give us me paper back, Sherlock,' Mrs Sparkes complained.

  Billy released the newspaper. 'Now, I want us to talk to that tea lady, Mrs Taylor,' he told Yvonne. 'I think you'll be better at it than me.

  ………

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mrs Taylor's house was one of a stone built row on Camm Street, a quiet, level street running across the breast of the steep Walkley hillside. She was mopping the stone flagged pavement in front of her door when Yvonne and Billy arrived. Yvonne eyed Billy sideways and sighed despairingly. Never pristine, his appearance on that day had suffered a severe set back during a brief interlude on the football field with Kick Morley. Standing on Mrs Taylor's scrubbed pavement, Yvonne supposed he was an affront to everything the tea lady held dear.

  'Mrs Taylor,' she sang hopefully. 'Your garden is lovely. There should be a prize.'

  Billy was impressed with Yvonne's opening gambit and watched as Mrs Taylor visibly grew with pride. She would be as putty in Yvonne's hands after that, he thought.

  'Oh it's nothing,' gushed Mrs Taylor, 'but I do like things to be nice.' Shifting her gaze to Billy her expression hardened into a curiously apprehensive stare. Her detailed inspection took in his scuffed shoes, muddy trouser knees, ink stained tank top, tangled hair, and the large grey oval Kick's soccer ball had printed on his face. 'What's he want?' she asked, unable to move her eyes from him.

  'Err w-what's this one called?' Yvonne asked sweetly, attempting to distract her by brushing her fingers through the nearest flowers.

  Mrs Taylor shuddered, and tore her gaze from Billy. 'It's just Aubrietia, love - trailing. It's still a bit early for it. What's he want?' she repeated, from the corner of her mouth.

  'I wanted to ask you something, please. If you don't mind of course,' said Billy, aware he had a long way to go to reach the dizzy heights of acceptance that Yvonne had attained.

  Mrs Taylor blinked and twitched her head several times, 'Oh, he talks nice though, doesn't he? You wouldn't think it though would you? I hate it when they thee and thou all the time - it's very common.'

  'My mam doesn't like me to thee and thou,' explained Billy.

  'Yes, and quite right too,' Mrs Taylor agreed. 'I know your mother. A very nice lady. She works at the Children's Hospital doesn't she?'

  'I believe you saw Mr Pearce chasing Stan Sutcliffe?' Yvonne interjected quietly, as if it was the last thing on her mind.

  'Oh, I did - yes. I hate to say it, him being dead, but, I didn't like that young man. He had a terrible mouth. And such a nasty way of looking at you.' She dropped her gaze self-consciously. Her head flicked a couple of times, though as usual she did not seem to notice.

  'You'd better come inside,' said Mrs Taylor, 'but you'll have to remove your shoes.'

  They followed her inside, kicking off their shoes at the door. The room smelled of lavender and furniture polish. Miniature ornaments and crystal objet d'art covered every spotless surface. Mrs Taylor fetched a tea towel from an adjoining room and arranged it carefully on her settee. 'Sit there pl
ease, on this,' she invited Billy, a death threat clearly evident in her piercing gaze. 'And, please do not touch anything.'

  'So what did you see?' he asked, not in the slightest offended at being quarantined by a tea-towel.

  'He had him down on the ground just outside my door. I was cleaning my transom – on the inside. I saw everything, a grandstand view you might say.'

  'Did you hear anything?'

  Mrs Taylor shot him a horrified glance. 'I don't eavesdrop, young man,' she hissed.

  Billy sighed and tried again, determined to stay calm. 'Yes but, did they speak? I mean, you must have heard something.'

  'I just told you, didn't I? I don't listen to other people's conversations.'

  Yvonne patted Mrs Taylor's arm. 'Of course you don't, Mrs Taylor. He knows that perfectly well, but sometimes we all hear things, we never wanted to hear, don't we? I hate it when that happens. I'm sure you do too.'

  Yvonne's intervention seemed to calm her. She looked at her fingers for a moment then spoke. 'What were you looking for?'

  'Well, we need evidence,' Billy explained. 'We need to find out as much as we can. We need to know what was said …' His voice trailed off, distracted by Mrs Taylor staring at him, as if he were a lunatic.

  'I just told,' she said, giving him a pitying look. 'What - were - you - looking - for?'

  'Oh – you mean that's what he said?'

  'Yes, he asked him over and over – "What were you looking for?" and then he said "Who's paying you?" or something like that.' She turned to Yvonne and nodded at Billy. 'He's a bit scatty isn't he?'

  'Did Stan say anything?'

  Horrified, Mrs Taylor shook several invisible corn seeds from her ears before responding. 'I la lard,' she said.

  'La Lard?' asked Billy, mystified.

  'Yes I put my hands over my ears and la-la-lard, so I couldn't hear his filthy mouth. All I can say is poor Mr Pearce did not get a civil answer.'

  Billy sighed, fearing Mrs Taylor would be of little further use. 'Before we go,' he said, gloomily. 'Do you know why the Sergeant doesn't like the Doctor?'

  'Well I must say!' she gasped horrified. 'I don't go round gossiping about people. Whatever do you think I am?'

  'He's sorry. He didn't mean anything by it,' said Yvonne, despairing. They thanked her and took their leave abruptly. Mrs Taylor was reaching for the Ewbank carpet sweeper, even before Billy had made it to the front door.

  Once in their shoes again, they took a backyard route, past the chip shop, and over a wall to get to Grandmother Smegg's cottage. They found her sitting on a low rockery wall, sunning herself in the garden.

  'There you see? There really are fairies in this garden,' she cried happily, as she saw them. 'I was just thinking, I wanted a fairy to bring me a cool glass of water and here you are.'

  Billy gave her cheek a peck and went inside her house. He returned with three glasses of water balanced on a library book. 'I couldn't find your tray.'

  'D'yer mind!' cried Mrs Smeggs. 'That's a library book, young man. I don't think Mr Carnegie gave us our library for you to put water stains on all his books. And another thing, what makes you think I've got a tray? I haven't had a tray since before your grandfather was buried and we lived in Linacre Road.'

  It never ceased to amaze Billy how rapidly he could find himself in the deep and smelly stuff when talking to a woman – any woman. He could spend hours with men, discussing everything from football through to cricket without ever insulting a Scottish American philanthropist, or accusing people of having trays they didn't possess.

  He sat cross-legged on the lawn and waited for his granny to calm down before venturing a question, 'I've got to find out about Annabel being pregnant.' He was resigned to the inevitable tirade this would evoke. 'It was in nineteen twenty or twenty-one, five years after her husband was killed. Do you know who was the father?'

  'I told you never to mention that.'

  'Granny, she's been killed. Some things have to be mentioned whether we like it or not. Some things could be evidence.'

  'Who told you it was nineteen-twenty?'

  'It must have been because Doctor Greenhow treated her and he was in the Navy until then. He didn't come to Sheffield until Christmas nineteen-nineteen.'

  'Yes you're right. It was the year before the old doctor passed away. That's how Doctor Greenhow came to get the Practice. He married the old doctor's daughter you see, and of course, when her father died it came to him.' Granny Smeggs took a glass of water from the library book, and stood up slowly. 'But I told you not to talk about it. And I certainly won't'. She stalked stiffly into her house leaving the pair staring after her. The door closed on her and they heard the key turning in the lock.

  *

  It was woodwork on Mondays. The boys in Billy's mixed class of forty five children walked in line up the hill to Western Road School to learn the mysteries of the yard broom holder. Billy wanted to make an acoustic guitar - a futile hope. Ahead lay the pipe rack, the dove tailed box, the sea-grass stool, and the finger-crushing, collapsible ironing board. Only when he had mastered these, would he be let loose on a guitar. In the boys' absence the girls went to domestic science. They were marched off with their rolled up smocks and brown paper carrier bags of mysteries. All were eager to ice buns, make toffee fudge, or cherry cakes. Instead they learned how to wash hair brushes and combs, boil flannels, and bake cheese straws that, impossibly, had be threaded through a pastry loop that always collapsed before Miss had the chance to mark it. Only in their final year would they tackle cakes and pies, most of which could safely be stood upon without leaving an impression in their crusts.

  Billy couldn't wait for school to finish. He'd arranged to meet Kick and Yvonne at the old greenhouse. When the final bell sounded, he rushed out of school, wrested his bike from a heap and pedalled off like crazy, slowing only to toss his yard brush hanger over a wall.

  He played heading tennis with Kick until Yvonne arrived, a merciful release for Billy, who was seriously outclassed by Kick's superior skills.

  'Doctor Hadfield stopped me,' apologised Yvonne, as she climbed into the derelict garden. 'He wants to see you. He said, "tonight", but I told him about your curfew.'

  'What's he want?'

  'Don't know. He wouldn't tell me.'

  'He's probably discovered aypenny ducks,' Billy said wryly.

  Kick curled his lip and stared at him. 'What about aypenny ducks?'

  'He thinks he's funny,' Billy said, disparagingly. 'He makes jokes about tripe and ferrets and being Yorkshire. I think it's sommat they teach 'em at Oxford.'

  'What are we here for?' cried Yvonne impatiently, sensing the onset of a pointless discussion. 'You said you wanted to wrap it all up.' She jabbed a finger in Billy's direction. 'And you said you'd got some important new evidence.'

  'I do an 'all,' he said dramatically. 'It's old Sutcliffe. He says he knows who paid Stan that fifty quid.'

  'Who?'

  'He won't tell me. I asked him over and over, but he says he won't tell me nor the coppers neither because he's gonna blackmail whoever it is.'

  'Wicked old sod,' Kick growled. 'He'd rather fill his pockets than get who killed his own son.'

  'That's Sutcliffes for you. It's in the blood,' said Yvonne. 'Why did he tell you? I thought he was going to bash you up.'

  'Not any more. He likes me now.'

  'But surely he knows we'll tell the police, and once we do they'll be after him to find out who it is.' She stiffened and gave Billy a dubious glare. 'We are telling the police aren't we?'

  'Of course we are - eventually. We'll tell them everything, but not until we're ready. Sutcliffe knows it too, but he doesn't care. I think he's glad about it, because he thinks it'll put extra pressure on his blackmail victim.'

  'He's a crafty old sod,' said Kick, more in admiration than condemning.

  'Any road up, I think it's time we took the cops all our evidence, and your notes,' Billy said. 'That's what I wanted to talk about. We s
hould tell them everything and get them to – you know, reopen the case.'

  'But have we got enough?'

  'We've got as much as three kids are ever going to get. The rest of it is locked up in police files and medical reports, and all that other official stuff. We'll never get to see that because we're only kids. Let's face it, we wouldn't have got nowhere if we'd not had Doctor Hadfield on our side.' He paused, concerned by his friends' lack of conviction. 'Look, we need them to open the file again and to start a proper investigation. Our evidence should be enough to convince 'em. If they won't, we'll have to carry on and try to solve it ourselves, even if it takes us years.'

  'What about Doctor Hadfield?' Yvonne queried. 'He wants to talk to you. Maybe that's about new evidence.'

  'Well maybe, we'll find out tomorrow, but it won't change anything as far as I'm concerned. Are we all agreed?'

  Kick sighed, disappointed. From the start he had wanted to see blood on the carpet. It would not be over for him until somebody was swinging from the end of Albert Pierrepoint's rope. Yvonne was disappointed too. She desperately wanted the killer to pay the price. Unknown to the others, she had recently discovered where Annabel had been buried. She had visited her grave several times to give the old lady progress reports. Each time she promised to keep on until they had the killer. She did not want to break her promise. And also, there was Doctor Hadfield, what might he have to tell Billy? Could that be the final piece in the jigsaw?

  Perhaps the strongest feeling she and Kick shared was that their quest was ending, but not as they had expected. The killer was still out there - and may yet get away with it.

  'No I can't,' said Yvonne. 'I agree we should go to the police. I think that part's a good idea.' She sniffed back tears. 'But not the rest. Don't forget Billy, we promised Annabel when we were in her house that time. We said we'd find out who killed her.'

  Billy studied his shoes. 'But what more can we do?' he asked.

  'I agree with Wy,' Kick put in. 'It's like being five nil down at half time. You don't just pack up and go home. That's not the spirit. You have to finish the job. You have to grit your teeth and go out there and cripple their centre forward.'