Five Dead Canaries

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Having started work early that morning, Alice Marmion came off her shift in the middle of the afternoon. Instead of returning to her flat, she decided to call on her mother. Knowing that Ellen would not be at home, she went to the centre where a group of women were contributing to the war effort by knitting and sewing. They were absorbed in their work when Alice entered in police uniform. Her sudden appearance led to a flurry of concern. It was soon stilled. Delighted to see her daughter, Ellen was glad to be rescued from the tedium of her voluntary work. Over a snack in a nearby café, they were able to chat at leisure.

‘Thank you for coming to my aid,’ said Ellen.

‘I thought that you liked your Sewing Circle.’

‘Actually, we do more knitting than sewing and, yes, I do enjoy it as a rule. I’ve made some good friends there. Some of them are in the same boat as me with sons at the front. Mrs Fletcher, who runs the group, has all three of hers in France.’

‘She must be worried to death,’ said Alice.

‘She manages to hide her anxiety. What she can’t hide,’ confided Ellen, ‘is that she’s hopeless with a pair of knitting needles in her hands. You should see the socks that she produces. The wool is too coarse and the feet are always too small. But she’s a good-hearted woman so we daren’t criticise her.’

‘You won’t need to send any socks to Paul. You can give them to him.’

‘I know, Alice. I can’t wait for him to come home.’

‘Neither can I,’ said her daughter. ‘I just wish that I knew how he felt about me and Joe. I wanted him to be happy for us.’

‘And I’m sure that he is. All he can think about at the moment, however, is surviving the war. Casualties are mounting every day. That’s why I want him safe and sound at home.’

‘It’s only a short leave, Mummy,’ Alice reminded her.

‘Then we’ll have to make the most of it.’

They drank their tea and nibbled at their cakes. Ellen chuckled.

‘When you came through that door, I didn’t recognise you at first. I thought I was about to be arrested for knitting gloves that don’t fit.’ She squeezed Alice’s hand affectionately. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve been consorting with prostitutes.’

When she was told about the new assignment, Ellen was nonplussed.

‘I thought they were called “ladies of the night”. Are you telling me that they come out in the daytime as well?’

‘Don’t look so shocked,’ said Alice, laughing. ‘Apparently, it’s a twenty-four-hour profession. There’s a demand throughout the day.’

‘I’m sorry that you have to deal with such people.’

‘They’re not the sort of women you imagine, Mummy. Very few of them do it by choice. They’re driven into it by poverty or by some cruel person who has a hold over them. Some are still only girls, really,’ Alice went on. ‘One of them told us that she turned to prostitution when her husband was killed at the front. It was the only way she could support herself and the baby. We tried to point out the dangers to her.’

Ellen pursed her lips. ‘It’s such an unsavoury side of life.’

‘That’s why the inspector gave me the job. She wanted to open my eyes.’

‘It sounds as if she wanted to punish you, Alice.’

‘Gale Force does that in various ways every day.’

‘You don’t have to put up with it, you know.’

‘If I’m not in the building,’ said Alice, cheerfully, ‘then I’m out of her range. Also, I’m getting an education, of sorts.’

‘Your father had that kind of education when he was on the night shift. He was a bobby on the beat in those days, of course. To spare my blushes, he didn’t tell me about some of the encounters he must have had. But if you really want to know about prostitutes,’ said Ellen, ‘you should talk to your Uncle Raymond.’

Alice laughed. ‘Why? I didn’t think he’d have any dealings with them.’

‘He doesn’t, in the sense that you mean. But work in the Salvation Army makes him look in the darkest corners of London. He offers help to anyone in need, regardless of how they earn a living.’

‘I’d forgotten that. Maybe I will have a chat with Uncle Raymond.’

‘I know that he shielded a prostitute on one occasion,’ said Ellen. ‘She was terrified of being beaten up by the man who tricked her into selling her body. Your uncle let her stay there for the best part of a week.’

It was a sobering reminder of the routine work that the Salvation Army did in the capital. Raymond Marmion was a tireless man with a huge fund of compassion. He gave advice, sympathy and practical assistance to a wide circle of people. A talk with him might well prepare Alice for some of the sights she was bound to come across in the course of her patrol.

‘When are you going to see Joe again?’ asked Ellen.

‘I wish I knew, Mummy.’

‘It doesn’t get any better with the passage of time.’

‘Are you trying to warn me off marrying a policeman?’

‘I’d never do that, Alice. You’ve made the right choice. Stick by it.’

Alice was sad. ‘If only I could hear Daddy say that!’

‘You will one day,’ said Ellen. ‘He’s already starting to mellow.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say so, you fool?’ yelled Marmion, angrily. ‘The car must be available at all times. It’s your job to make sure that it is.’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector.’

‘If you knew there was a problem, you should have reported it.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the driver, cowering under the onslaught.

‘That’s why we have mechanics. They keep our vehicles on the road.’

‘I didn’t think that the problem was serious.’

‘Get it fixed.’

‘I don’t have any tools.’

‘Then find someone who has,’ said Marmion, pointing a finger down the road. ‘We passed a garage on our way here. When you heard that noise in the engine, why didn’t you stop and ask for help?’

He made an effort to rein in his temper. Ordinarily, the driver was extremely dependable, working at all hours without complaint. But he had slipped up on this occasion. As a result, the car had broken down and both of them were now standing on the pavement beside it. To get to the police station would only take Marmion a ten-minute walk but that wasn’t the point. Reliability of transport was vital. Had they been speeding to an emergency, the breakdown could have had critical results. The driver clearly didn’t need to be told that. He was writhing with embarrassment.

‘It’s never happened before, sir,’ he argued in his defence.

‘I know,’ said Marmion, anger subsiding, ‘and it’s my fault as much as yours. I heard that strange noise when you did. I should have insisted you pulled into that garage. Sorry I lost my temper.’

‘I deserved it, Inspector.’

‘I’ll go on foot now. Bring the car when it’s been repaired. And if it turns out to be beyond repair,’ he added, ‘we’ll have to borrow one from the police station. We can’t solve a murder case by riding around on bicycles.’

The driver’s laugh was more out of relief than amusement. He was grateful that his reprimand was over. Marmion rarely lost his temper but, when he did, he could be very scathing. The driver was still feeling the force of the blast.

Marmion set off with long strides. His brisk walk got him to the police station where he found Joe Keedy awaiting him. He got no sympathy from the sergeant.

‘Now you know how I have to manage,’ said Keedy. ‘While you’ve had a chauffeur, I’ve had to walk everywhere or use public transport.’

‘We can’t all have a car at our disposal, Joe.’

‘Neither of us does at the moment.’

Marmion sat opposite him and heard about the visit to Sadie Radcliffe. He was intrigued to learn new intelligence about Florrie Duncan. It transpired that she was not the dutiful daughter that her parents had spoken about. According to Sadie — working on information supplied by Agnes Collier — there’d been a serious rift in the family before Florrie’s marriage. Because of her parents’ strong objections to her choice of husband, Florrie had moved out of her home and into a flat. Neither her mother’s pleas nor her father’s hectoring had been able to bring her back. In the wake of their son-in-law’s death, the parents had expected their daughter to turn to them for comfort but Florrie made a point of avoiding them.

‘I talked to the men who’ve been knocking on doors in the area,’ said Keedy, ‘and they told a similar story. It’s not a happy family and Mr Ingles is disliked by his neighbours.’

‘That’s because he’s so objectionable,’ said Marmion. ‘But you haven’t told me what it was that was likely to wipe the smile off his face and that of his wife.’

‘I’m not sure if this is true or just idle tittle-tattle.’

‘What did Mrs Radcliffe tell you?’

‘Her daughter had the feeling that Florrie was pregnant.’

‘That could be good news if it was her husband’s child.’

‘It can’t possibly be, Harv. The dates don’t fit.’

‘Well,’ said Marmion, sitting back to absorb the news, ‘that could mean that there were six victims of that explosion. From her parents’ point of view, it might be just as well that the post-mortem didn’t reveal signs of pregnancy. How certain was Mrs Radcliffe that her daughter was telling the truth?’

‘Agnes Collier had a child of her own. She knew the signals.’

‘Did she have any idea who the father was?’

‘No, Harv, but it does show Florrie in a different light. She was obviously a young woman who enjoyed life,’ said Keedy. ‘We’ll never know if the baby was an accident or a deliberate means of scandalising her parents.’

‘I’d go for the first explanation, Joe. Florrie may have fallen out with them but she’d know the terrible stigma that a child born outside wedlock would bear. It would make life very uncomfortable for mother and child. No woman would want that.’

‘I wonder if the father knew about what had happened. They could always have got married, I suppose.’

‘Not if he was already married,’ Marmion pointed out. ‘Or he could have been some careless chap who simply wanted a bit of fun and wasn’t prepared to face the consequences. Either way, he’d have left Florrie to cope on her own.’

‘Unless …’

They were both thinking the same thing. Someone who was confronted with the information that he’d fathered a child might have taken extreme measures to get rid of it. If he and Florrie had been close, he’d know the date of her birthday and be aware that the party was taking place in the outhouse at the pub. Again, the likelihood was that the man worked at the factory and therefore had access to materials that could be used to fashion a bomb. Marmion slipped a hand into an inside pocket and took out the lists that Leighton Hubbard had drawn up for him. One of the names could well belong to Florrie Duncan’s lover. They might have a second suspect. Herbert Wylie had apparently acted because he’d been rejected by a woman. It was the opposite case here. A man’s advances had been welcomed and he’d taken his pleasure with Florrie. What could have moved him to contemplate murder was the pressing need to remove her and her child from his life.

‘What will Chat make of it all?’ asked Keedy.

‘The superintendent has a mind that none can fathom, Joe.’

‘Are you going to tell him?’

‘I’ll wait until he rings me.’

‘I still think that Wylie might be our man.’

‘We can’t dismiss this new suspect,’ said Marmion, ‘whoever he might be. Thank goodness you called on Mrs Radcliffe. What sounded like idle tittle-tattle may turn out to be the solution to the crime.’

‘What about you, Harv?’

‘Oh, I uncovered no interesting new evidence. I did have some luck, though. When I got to Mr Harte’s house, he not only let me in, he had Brian Ingles there. It saved me a second visit.’

‘What did they have to say for themselves?’

Marmion gave him an abbreviated account of his time at Reuben Harte’s house. In view of what he now knew about Florrie Duncan, he could see that most of her father’s grandiose claims about her had been so much hot air. Ingles was blissfully unaware that his daughter had a new man in her life and that he’d impregnated Florrie. It would have been shattering news to her parents. Keedy was so enthralled by what he heard that he forgot to mention that Harte had earlier thought that Marmion looked shifty.

‘Ingles has a lovely house,’ he said, enviously. ‘Why sell it?’

‘That’s what I wondered.’

‘He surely can’t want anything bigger.’

‘Not when there are only the two of them there, Joe. I can tell you this, though. When my father was killed, the last thing my mother was thinking about was selling the house. It’s such a peculiar thing to do.’

‘Perhaps it’s his way of taking his mind off the funeral.’

‘We may never know,’ said Marmion. He looked at the telephone. ‘I suppose that I ought to contact Chat. No,’ he decided. ‘I’m not ready for him yet. He can wait. Let him stew in his own juice for a while.’

Claude Chatfield had learnt very early in his police career that overwhelming evidence could be deceptive and might dissolve under close examination. When he heard about Herbert Wylie’s abrupt disappearance, he was quite certain that they’d found the man who’d planted the bomb. When releasing the name to the press, however, he was careful to describe Wylie as a person of interest to the police rather than as a definite culprit. And while he nursed the hope that they were in pursuit of the right man, he was experienced enough to brace himself for disappointment. A request from Marmion had helped him to unearth the fact that Eamonn Quinn had had convictions in the past and that drove Chatfield on to make further enquiries about him. Because the detective assigned to do the research had not come back to him, the superintendent assumed that he’d found nothing worth reporting.

He was wrong. When he returned to his office after a long session with the commissioner, Chatfield found a file on his desk. Flipping it open, he read the information with gathering concern. As soon as he’d finished, he moved across to the bookshelf and reached for a map of the British Isles.

Maureen Quinn was still totally confused. Conflicting emotions filled her mind and reduced her to a state of near paralysis. Father Cleary’s visit had been simultaneously reassuring and disturbing. While he made her feel that he cared for her plight, he unwittingly deepened it. After he left, she was more guilty, isolated and depressed than ever. When there was a tap on the door of her bedroom, Maureen felt as if someone was knocking on the top of her skull. She leapt up.

‘Is that you, Lily?’ she asked.

‘No,’ replied her mother, ‘it’s me. Can I come in?’

‘Yes — if you want to.’

Diane opened the door and entered. Seeing the distraught look on her daughter’s face, she reached out to embrace her. Maureen stifled her tears and took strength from her mother’s love. At last, Diane pulled back.

‘I have to go out.’

‘What about Lily?’

‘I’m taking her with me. She’s been cooped up in here too long.’

‘Will I be left on my own?’ asked Maureen, worriedly.

‘It will only be for a short time.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘There’s shopping to do. I’d ask you to come with us but I don’t suppose you’d want to do that.’ Maureen shook her head vigorously. ‘No, I thought not. It’s best if you stay here. Is that all right?’

‘Don’t be long, Mummy.’

‘We won’t be, I promise. Is there anything you want?’

‘No.’

‘I could go to the library for you.’

‘Please don’t bother. I just want to stay in here on my own.’

‘Then we’ll get out of your way. Your father will be home before too long. He said that he’d try to finish early today.’ She hugged Maureen again. ‘You get some rest. We’ll be off now.’

Diane went out and closed the door behind her. Maureen could hear her descending the stairs and calling for Lily to join her. When the two of them left the house, Maureen went to the window in the front bedroom to watch them walk off down the street. She was in a quandary. Needing to be alone, she nevertheless wanted someone else in the house with her. She felt that she’d been cast adrift now and it was alarming. Her first impulse was to leave and find sanctuary once more in church but that would be unfair on her mother and sister. Returning to find her absent, they’d be very hurt even if she left a note for them. In any case, Maureen was not ready for another conversation with Father Cleary. His instinct was too sharp and his questions too probing. All that Maureen could do was to remain in her bedroom and go through the tragic events yet again, mourning each of the victims in turn.

As she sat on the bed and stared ahead of her, a loud noise broke into her reverie. It was the sound of the letter box opening and shutting. Since it was far too late for the postman to call, she wondered what had been delivered. Opening the door, she crept downstairs with tentative steps. On the mat was a white envelope. When she picked it up, her heart constricted as she saw her name written on it. At first, she was quite unable to open it and stood rooted to the spot. Then she rushed into the living room, tore open the envelope and read the letter. Her face and body burned with embarrassment. After reading the words again, she took instant action. Scrunching up the letter and the envelope, she tossed them into the empty fireplace. Maureen then grabbed the box of matches from the mantelpiece and set the paper alight. Down on her knees in front of the little blaze, she didn’t move a muscle until the letter had been burnt out of existence.

Harvey Marmion was on the point of making contact with Scotland Yard when the telephone rang. He pulled his hand back as if the receiver were red hot. Joe Keedy laughed. After shooting him a look of reproof, Marmion picked up the telephone.

‘Inspector Marmion here,’ he said.

‘Why haven’t you been in touch?’ demanded Chatfield.

‘I was just about to do so, sir.’

‘Don’t lie to me. I expected a call an hour ago.’

‘Sergeant Keedy and I have been very busy.’

‘I haven’t exactly been twiddling my thumbs here, Inspector. What have you discovered?’

‘We learnt a number of things.’

‘Well, come on then — spit them out!’

Marmion told him about the visit to Reuben Harte and how surprised he’d been at Brian Ingles’s decision to sell his house. It led on to the information that Keedy had gleaned from Sadie Radcliffe. Normally, every time he rang the superintendent, Marmion’s sentences would be routinely interrupted by Chatfield as he sought greater clarification. Chatfield remained unusually silent now, listening intently. Marmion could hear his heavy breathing down the line. When he came to the end of his report, Marmion added a rider.

‘We must remember that all this is pure speculation, sir,’ he said. ‘We have unsubstantiated evidence of a pregnancy but no concrete proof. On the other hand, I think you’ll agree, a significant new factor may have entered the investigation.’ The silence continued at the other end of the line and he could no longer hear the sound of heavy breathing. ‘Are you still there, Superintendent?’

‘Where, in God’s name, do you think I am!’ said Chatfield’s rasping voice.

‘I’d value your opinion.’

‘My opinion is that you should have rung me the moment this information came into your possession. Is Sergeant Keedy with you?’

‘He’s sitting beside me,’ replied Marmion.

‘Then you can let him take a share of the blame. The sergeant should have insisted that you communicated with me at the earliest possible juncture. Pass that message on to him.’

The order was unnecessary because Keedy could hear his voice clearly.

‘He deserves something other than your strictures, Superintendent. It was during his visit to Mrs Radcliffe that this new evidence was collected. I would have thought it merited praise rather than condemnation.’

‘You’ll get all the praise you want when the killer is caught and convicted.’

‘Who will it be?’ mused Marmion. ‘Is it Herbert Wylie or the nameless father of Florrie Duncan’s child?’

‘It may be neither,’ said Chatfield.

He spoke rapidly to impart some news and Keedy was unable to catch what he was saying, but he judged from the expression on Marmion’s face that something of importance was being divulged. Making notes as he listened, Marmion nodded away and was only allowed to speak when he bade the superintendent farewell. As he put down the receiver, his expression was one of sheer wonderment.

‘What a day!’ he said. ‘This case is moving too fast for me, Joe. There’s only one thing worse than uncovering a completely new suspect to muddy the waters of an investigation. Do you know what it is?’

‘Tell me.’

‘It seems that we now have two new suspects. The superintendent has been burrowing into the Quinn family’s history and he’s turned up a fascinating coincidence — if that’s what it really is. Do you recall a man by the name of Niall Quinn?’ Keedy looked mystified. ‘Think hard, Joe. His picture was on the front pages of the papers a year ago.’

Keedy smacked the table. ‘He was that Irish lad caught planting a bomb.’

‘And where was he arrested?’

‘Remind me.’

‘It was somewhere perilously close to where we’re now sitting.’

‘Is that why Chat is getting so excited?’

‘He discovered an interesting fact,’ said Marmion. ‘It seems that the Irish nationalist has a definite connection with this area. He’s Eamonn Quinn’s nephew.’

‘So what? He was arrested and sent to prison. Niall Quinn is behind bars.’

‘Not any more, I’m afraid. He escaped last week. Chat has been putting two and two together. A known bomber is at liberty and Maureen Quinn, a relation of his, is the only person to escape from an explosion that he might, or might not, have engineered. Was it chance or design?’

‘I haven’t a clue. What are we supposed to do?’

‘We have to look into it immediately so just pray that the car’s been repaired.’

‘Where are we going, Harv?’

Marmion grinned. ‘We’re off to a whisky distillery in Wales.’