Five Dead Canaries

CHAPTER SEVEN

During his many years in the Metropolitan Police Force, grief had been a constant feature of his work. It came in many disguises. Marmion had seen the pain of those who’d been assaulted, the horror of women who’d suffered sexual violation, the shock of those who’d been burgled, the indignation of those defrauded, the disbelief of those whose handbags had been snatched and the searing agony of families informed that one of their members had been murdered. Elderly people had suffered heart attacks on hearing bad news and even the most robust of the younger generation had been physically and emotionally shaken. What Marmion had not witnessed before was someone who was, literally, prostrate with grief. When he called at Neil Beresford’s house, he was admitted by the man’s mother, May Beresford, a doughty woman in her fifties with the look of someone who’d endured more than her share of anguish and become inured to it. Her face was granite hard. At first, she’d tried to turn the visitor away, but was eventually persuaded to let Marmion see her son. Her one stipulation was that she should be present at the interview.

Fully clothed, Beresford was lying on his bed and gazing sightlessly up at the ceiling. He was a slim, handsome young man whose features were distorted by a sorrow that had robbed him of thought and movement. Introduced to Marmion, he gave no indication that he even heard the visitor’s name. May prompted him.

‘Inspector Marmion is here to help, Neil,’ she said, sitting on the bed and stroking her son’s arm. ‘He’s determined to catch the evil man who planted that bomb and just needs to ask you a few questions. For Shirley’s sake, I think you should make the effort. You want her killer caught, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ murmured Neil.

‘Then listen to the inspector.’

‘Well,’ said Marmion, ‘the first thing I want to do is to offer my sincere condolences. This must have come as the most appalling blow.’ Beresford gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘I want you to know that we’ll do everything humanly possible to bring the person or persons behind this to court so that the ultimate punishment can be meted out. That won’t, of course, bring your wife back but it may give you a degree of relief.’

‘It will,’ said May. ‘We’ll both be relieved. Do you have any suspects?’

‘It’s my belief that the target was one or all of the young women at that birthday party. What I’m looking for, in the first instance, is a local man with a grudge and with some experience of handling explosives.’

‘Hundreds of men at the factory could make a bomb.’

‘I’d like to hear from your son, Mrs Beresford.’

‘He’ll tell you the same. Neil works at the munitions factory. He and Sheila used to go off early every morning for their shift.’

‘Mr Beresford,’ said Marmion, leaning in closer to him, ‘can you think of anybody who bore a grudge against your wife?’

‘No, Inspector,’ he mumbled. ‘Shirley was wonderful. Everyone loved her.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ added May. ‘She was a saint.’

‘Don’t know how I can live without her.’

‘They were inseparable, Inspector — at work and at play. Neil coached the football team that Shirley was in. She was top scorer.’

‘Then you must have been very proud of her,’ said Marmion, seeing a spark come into Beresford’s eye. ‘Equally, you must have been proud of your own success as a coach. I’m told that your team won the league and is in a cup final.’

‘We could have won,’ asserted Beresford with unexpected force. ‘We’d have beaten Woolwich for certain.’ He sat up. ‘We put five goals past them in a league match. Shirley got a hat-trick. She was amazing.’

‘Tell me about her.’

Marmion had at last uncorked the bottle and words came pouring out of it. As he talked about his wife, Beresford’s pride got the better of his grief. Having been a gifted player himself, it had fallen to him to mould the Hayes team into a winning combination. Marmion was struck by the fact that young women who worked nine-and-a-half-hour shifts could still find the time and energy to hone their skills on the football field. Beresford clearly had talent. None of his team had even seen a football match — let alone played in one — until he picked them out and taught them from scratch. Both for him and his players, the game had been a joyous escape from the humdrum routine at the factory. It had taken over their lives and that of their supporters. May was one of their most devoted fans.

‘I used to wash their kit,’ she boasted. ‘It makes a difference, sending the girls onto the pitch looking smart. Some of the teams we play don’t bother. They’re a load of scruffs. Neil set high standards. That’s why we’re the best.’

‘Is there much rivalry between the various teams?’ asked Marmion.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Beresford.

‘Give me an example.’

‘We’ve had footballs stolen, vile things painted on the shed where the girls change and some of our goalposts were sawn in half.’

‘I hadn’t realised young ladies could be so mercenary.’

‘It’s not the players,’ said May, ‘it’s their supporters. They’re mad. They’ll go to any lengths to win.’

‘So it seems,’ said Marmion. ‘Would they go as far as planting a bomb to kill your best players?’

Mother and son were both stunned by a question that they’d evidently not asked themselves. Inclined to dismiss it out of hand at first, they began to take it more seriously. Marmion watched the two of them having a silent conversation with each other. He wished that he knew what they were thinking.

‘After all,’ he resumed, ‘it wasn’t just your best player who was killed in that explosion. Your goalkeeper was at that party as well. If she hadn’t left early, then you’d have lost two members of the team.’

‘Three,’ corrected May. ‘Jean Harte was only a reserve, as usual, but she might have played in the cup final because Sally Neames was injured.’

‘There you are then, Mr Beresford. Losing three players would have been a crippling blow to your chances. Do you think that someone from Woolwich would deliberately set out to deprive you of the services of your wife, Maureen Quinn and Jean Harte? Is that conceivable?’

But Marmion had got all that he was going to get out of Beresford. He put his head on the pillow and stared upwards again, mind numbed and body motionless. His mother gave a signal to Marmion and the pair of them went back downstairs. In the living room, he spotted something he hadn’t noticed before. On the mantelpiece was a large framed photograph. Expecting it to be of the couple at their wedding, Marmion saw that it was instead a full-length portrait of Shirley Beresford in football kit. She was a lanky girl with a long, narrow face and she was beaming in triumph at the camera.

‘He’s been like that since he found out,’ said May with a glance upwards.

‘Ask him to think over what I put to him.’

‘Oh, I can answer that question, Inspector.’

‘Can you?’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she affirmed. ‘Some devil from Woolwich could have set out to ruin our chances. It’s not just the cup, you see. There’s the money.’

‘But it’s an amateur sport, Mrs Beresford. The players don’t get paid.’

‘They don’t need to, Inspector. The money comes from the bookies. If the team you pick wins, you can make a tidy sum. I support Hayes through thick and thin but, if I had any sense, I’d bet everything I could on Woolwich for the cup final.’

Keedy could only watch in mute admiration. Taken on a tour around the Cartridge Section by Bernard Kennett, he saw what the women actually did when they clocked on for work. They were in part of an industrial complex that extended across all of two hundred acres. The buildings were so numerous and of such differing sizes that it was impossible to count them. The first National Filling Station to start production, Hayes was like a small town in itself, employing, feeding and — now and then — entertaining a workforce that ran into vast numbers. It was divided into five sections. In the West Section, eighteen-pound shells were assembled, whereas the East Section specialised in filling fuses, friction tubes and exploders. Pellets were also manufactured there. The Cap and Detonator Section was such an important part of the whole operation that it had a separate fence and its own guards. Primer caps and detonators were made there. The workshops in the Amatol Section were larger than most and spaced well apart. Warm liquid amatol — an explosive mixture of ammonium nitrate and TNT — was poured into shells of varying sizes. Danger was ever present.

Before he could pay full attention to what was happening in the Cartridge Section, Keedy had to get used to the pounding noise and the pervading stink. Women were working in serried ranks, helping to fill shell cartridges with explosive material. The numerous safety precautions were unable to protect the staff completely. They were continuously exposed to highly toxic materials. As a means of countering their effects, the women were given a daily ration of milk but it failed to halt the steady discolouring of their skin. To Keedy’s eyes, it was like a vision of the seventh circle of hell, unceasing toil in an unhealthy atmosphere with constant targets to meet. Male workers were very much in the minority. The bulk of production came from the women, the youngest of whom was eighteen.

In their matching uniforms, it was difficult to tell them apart. Maureen Quinn had been part of this female army and might, in time, return to it. Florrie Duncan, Agnes Collier, Jean Harte, Shirley Beresford and the musician, Enid Jenks, would never come back to the Section. Keedy thought the work unsuitable for women and bewailed the fact that war had dulled the sensibilities with regard to what was appropriate to the two genders. As he was led around by Kennett, the workers went up in his esteem. In spite of their unflattering clothing, he could see that many of them were young, shapely and very attractive. But they were committed to a job that would round their shoulders, put furrows in their faces and paint them with such a telltale yellow sheen that their social lives would be badly affected. Even the most loving husbands would be repelled by the change in their wives’ appearance and those in search of marriage proposals would be severely handicapped. In serving their country so willingly, they’d made unwitting sacrifices.

Keedy was glad to step out into the fresh air again. He turned to Kennett.

‘Thank you for showing me round,’ he said.

‘Now you know what those five women did when they were here.’

‘I had no idea that conditions were so bad.’

‘They compare favourably with conditions in any of the other factories,’ said Kennett, defensively. ‘We do everything possible to minimise the danger to our workforce and to treat them with consideration.’

‘Granted — but it’s still worrying to see women doing such work.’

‘It’s an unfortunate necessity.’

‘What will happen when the war ends?’

‘Demand for munitions will cease,’ replied Kennett, ‘so we won’t need to maintain such a high daily output. Men who return from the front will naturally expect jobs and they’ll take priority over women, many of whom will have to be released to search for other employment.’

‘The damage will already have been done,’ said Keedy, sadly. ‘Who’ll take on women who look like yellow, jaundice victims?’

‘That’s a regrettable side effect of working here.’

‘Shouldn’t they be able to claim compensation?’

‘No,’ said Kennett, sharply, ‘that’s out of the question. They understood when they first came here what the job entailed. The women accepted the risk. They can’t turn round now and say that they deserve some sort of compensation. Where’s the money to come from to pay them? We’d go bankrupt. If we set a precedent with munition workers, it would be disastrous thing to do.’

It would also be a civilised gesture, thought Keedy, but he didn’t wish to have a dispute with the works manager. Sympathetic as he’d been to the plight of the five victims, there were clearly limits to Kennett’s compassion. First and foremost, he had to maintain production at whatever cost. Workers were therefore seen as mere cogs in a machine rather than as human beings with needs and rights. One of Keedy’s questions was answered. When Florrie Duncan had come to his office to demand longer lunch breaks, she obviously got very short shrift from Bernard Kennett.

After thanking his guide once more, Keedy took his leave and walked off the premises. The tour had served its purpose. He’d not just been interested to see how hard and unremittingly the women had worked, he was keen to note how often they came into contact with male employees. The latter were not just confined to management roles. Many worked alongside the women, doing the skilled tasks that were beyond them. Then there were drivers, porters, cleaners, kitchen staff and dozens of other men at the factory. Many of them came into daily contact with the munitionettes. Keedy had observed more than one of them shooting sly glances at the women. Could the bomber they sought be working somewhere on the site? Thwarted passion was a powerful emotion. Keedy had seen it drive people to do incredible things. The shells manufactured at Hayes were lethal but unwelcome sexual desire could be destructive as well. Was that what had cost five women their lives? It was an open question.

Ellen Marmion did what she could to help the war effort by working as a volunteer with groups that organised food parcels to be sent to the front or knitted gloves and other items for the soldiers. Aware of the privations suffered by those trapped in deep, muddy, rat-infested trenches, she strove to ameliorate their lot in her small way. On her way home after another session with the knitting needles, she passed a newspaper vendor and saw the headline emblazoned on his display board — FIVE DEAD CANARIES. Since the lunchtime edition related to the case on which her husband and future son-in-law were working, she bought a copy and glanced at the front page. Marmion looked up solemnly at her from a stock photograph but it was tiny by comparison with the photo of the doomed outhouse in Hayes. Seeing the extent of the damage made her stomach heave. It was the work of someone cruel and pitiless. Marmion and Keedy were in pursuit of the man. Not for the first time, she was reminded of the perils that came with a job at Scotland Yard. Someone who could kill five young women in cold blood wouldn’t hesitate to murder two detectives. Folding up the newspaper, she thrust it under her arm and scurried home.

Ellen was not simply worried about their safety. She was alarmed that her daughter was, as she saw it, being bullied at work by a jealous superior. There was nothing that could be done to alleviate the situation. She was also disturbed by her husband’s reluctance to fully accept Alice’s choice of husband. While Ellen had been thrilled at the news, it had been an unpleasant surprise for Marmion and his unspoken objections remained. Most troubling of all, of course, was the eternal anxiety about their son, Paul, stationed in France near the Somme and sending infrequent letters that complained of boredom and bad living quarters. Some of the friends who’d joined up with him at the start of the war had either been killed or sent home with missing limbs. She prayed daily that Paul’s name would not be added to the casualty list.

Trying to subdue her nagging concerns, she soon had something else to worry about. It started to rain and she had no umbrella. Almost without warning, the skies opened and the downpour began. Ellen had a coat and hat but they were inadequate protection against the driving rain. She was soaked within minutes. The storm put more speed into her legs and she practically sprinted over the last fifty yards. When she reached the shelter of her porch, she paused to get her breath back. Having spent its fury, the storm now abated and patches of blue sky peeped through the clouds. It was too late for Ellen. She’d been well and truly drenched.

When she let herself into the house, however, she saw something which banished all of her anxieties at once. It was a letter with distinctive handwriting on it. Paul had written to them again at long last. With a whoop of pleasure, she snatched up the letter from the floor. Dripping over the hall carpet, she tore it open.

‘When were you told the news, Mr Jenks?’

‘It was when I got back from work last night.’

‘You have my utmost sympathy.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘Is that a photo of Enid on the piano?’

‘Yes,’ said Jenks. ‘If she wasn’t practising on her violin, she’d be sitting at the piano. Music was everything to Enid. She could play anything. It was because she was so well taught. My wife was a wonderful pianist as well. She wanted one of the children to learn how to play and the boys weren’t interested. Enid was. She had enough interest for both of them.’ He touched Marmion’s arm and lowered a voice as if about to impart a secret. ‘The vicar approached us, you know. He asked if Enid would be interested in learning the organ.’

‘I daresay she’d have been proficient at any keyboard instrument.’

‘Are you musical, Inspector?’

‘No, sir,’ replied Marmion. ‘The only piano I could play is one with a handle on the side.’

Once the joke about the barrel organ had slipped out Marmion regretted it but the other man found it amusing enough. Jonah Jenks was quite unlike Neil Beresford. Where the latter had been knocked senseless by the enormity of what had happened, the former had merely accepted it and sought to carry on. He loved his daughter deeply but her death was not going to become an obsession. Having already lost a wife and a second daughter to diphtheria, he knew all about pangs of grief. Another child had died, leaving him to look after the two surviving boys. That’s what mattered most to Jenks. They were the ones who were really suffering. Though they’d argued constantly with their sister while she was alive, they were dumbstruck at her death, all the more so because it had been as a result of a crime. Jenks had kept them home from school and they were upstairs in the bedroom they shared.

‘I just wanted to assure you that the investigation is well under way,’ said Marmion. ‘I have a team of detectives working under me.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘You’ll appreciate that I’m under a slight disadvantage. I don’t know anything about the five victims. I’m trying to find out all I can about each one of them. I’ve spoken to Agnes Collier’s mother and to Maureen Quinn’s family.’

‘Agnes came here once or twice. She was a nice girl.’

‘What about Maureen?’

‘Oh, I’ve never met her.’

‘Who was Enid’s best friend?’

‘That would be Shirley Beresford. She used to go and watch her play football. Enid was very clever but she was hopeless at sports. Her brothers used to tease her about it. Shirley, on the other hand, was a good all-round athlete.’

‘So I’ve been told. I called on her husband earlier.’

‘I see.’

Jenks glanced at the photograph on the piano then sat opposite his visitor. He was a spare man in his fifties with hair neatly slicked back over a domed head. His spectacles gave him an owlish appearance and he had a scholarly air that inclined Marmion to think that he was a teacher. The well-stocked bookshelves indicated a reading man. In fact, however, Jenks was the manager of a large hardware store. Wearing a three-piece suit indoors, he kept his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat.

‘What do you want me to tell you, Inspector?’

‘Describe your daughter, please, if you will.’

‘Enid was a lovely girl. I can’t speak too highly of her.’

Jenks spoke in a low, measured voice. He talked fondly about his daughter’s achievements and about his ambitions for her. A religious man, he took all three children to church every Sunday, then the family visited the graves of its missing members. A new one would now be added. Instead of being in regular use, the piano would act as a memento to Enid. Marmion was at once interested and saddened by the effect that factory life had had upon her. Putting her music aside, she’d dedicated herself to the production of arms. Jenks was a mild-mannered man who seemed at variance with the image of him that Maureen Quinn had conjured up. She had recalled the help given by Florrie Duncan at a time when Enid was having terrible rows with her father. Yet Jenks was giving his visitor a detailed picture of a household where perfect harmony prevailed. He even boasted that he never had to raise his voice to Enid.

Jenks became practical. ‘Isn’t there something you’ve forgotten?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Where foul play is involved in a death, I thought that next of kin would be asked to identify the body.’

‘Ordinarily, that’s the case, sir,’ said Marmion, ‘but the remains are not really recognisable. When a bomb goes off in a confined space, it causes the most unimaginable injuries. We wish to spare the families such a disturbing sight.’

‘That’s very wise of you, Inspector — wise and considerate.’

‘Identification will have to be made by items they owned, by watches, bracelets and so on.’

‘Enid wore a silver crucifix.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘When will the bodies …’ Jenks gave an apologetic half-smile. ‘When will the remains be released to us?’

‘Very soon,’ said Marmion. ‘The post-mortems have not yet been completed. When they have been, the undertakers can take over. They’re used to this sort of thing. Not that they’ll have seen many victims of a bomb blast, of course, but they can take a dispassionate look at … human remains in whatever form.’ He looked across at the photograph of Enid. ‘She was a very pretty young lady.’

Jenks was nostalgic. ‘She took after her mother.’

‘Enid must have had a lot of admirers.’

‘Everyone liked her. She was so outgoing.’

‘I was thinking of boyfriends, Mr Jenks,’ said Marmion. ‘I have a daughter of my own so I know what happens when they reach a certain age. Was there anyone special in Enid’s life?’

‘No, there wasn’t,’ snapped Jenks.

‘Are you certain of that?’

‘Enid had no room in her life for that sort of thing.’

‘Then she’d be most unusual.’

‘There was nothing unusual about my daughter. Haven’t you been listening to what I said? Enid was a good girl.’ Hearing the anger in his voice, he tried to control it. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. You’re entitled to ask such a question. But I’ve given you the answer. Enid was just not interested in young men. It probably stems from the fact that she had two brothers. All she wanted was her music.’

‘Then we’ll leave it at that, sir.’

Getting up from his seat, Marmion took a step nearer the piano so that he could have a closer look at Enid Jenks. She was not simply pretty. When the photo was taken, she was beautiful. Marmion simply couldn’t believe that none of the young men at the factory had failed to notice the fact.