Pageant of Murder

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Sunday School Point of View

“The records of nonconformity in Brentford are extremely meagre, and devoid of historic interest. There is, indeed, a long-standing tradition which associates the name of John Bunyan with the religious activities of the town…but there seems to be no reliable evidence to support this tradition.”

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The hall in which the Sunday School was held was considerably larger than the chapel in whose grounds it stood. This (explained Julian, who was escorting Dame Beatrice) was so that it could be let for lectures, bingo sessions, whist drives and dances, to the financial advantage of the trustees, who thus were not obliged to put their hands into their own pockets as often or as deeply as in the years before the hall was erected. (One of the brethren who had been wrong-headed and sinful enough to send up what proved to be a winning Treble Chance had salved what remained of his conscience by donating five thousand pounds of his prize money towards building the hall, so that bingo and so forth could be played there. That bingo is also a game of chance most fortunately occurred to nobody).

The Sunday School was run on sober Edwardian lines. Each child was provided with a stout card ruled out in fifty-two small squares. A table near the door supported a large register and the elbows of two young men. The young men were armed with pencil-sized rubber stamps, one of which bore a star, the other a zero. If a child arrived early or just on time, its card received a star; if late, it was still credited, but only with a zero. In order to be eligible to attend the annual Sunday School treat, it was requisite and necessary that a total of thirty stars or the equivalent in stars and zeros (a zero counted as half a star) should be stamped on the card and entered in the register.

“The mathematics of the thing are elementary, of course,” said young Mr Perse, explaining the system, “but I suppose the general idea is to favour punctuality, and not a bad idea, either, when you come to think of it. More frustration, bad language and ill-temper are caused by people keeping other people waiting than by almost anything else on earth. My own love-life is frequently springing a leak because I will not be kept hanging about for girls with whom I’ve made a firm date. Mind you, Dame Beatrice, I am a reasonable man, and I’m prepared to concede ten minutes. Nevertheless, ten minutes is my limit. If the party of the second part hasn’t turned up by then, she’s had it, and can jolly well buy her own fish and chips.”

“Excellent,” said Dame Beatrice. “I think the proceedings are about to begin. Are we to be favoured with sunbeams, do you suppose?”

It turned out that they were not to be so indulged. A hymn, a too-lengthy extempore prayer, a reminder that the Missionary Society was (as usual) short of funds, a scraping of chairs as each Sunday School class grouped itself round its teacher, an outbreak of Bedlam as the lessons commenced, and the Sunday School settled down to what appeared to be normal routine.

The secretary, who was still acting also as superintendent, came to the bench at the end of the hall where Julian and Dame Beatrice were seated. Julian performed the introductions and added that Dame Beatrice would like to ask a few questions about “poor Luton’s work for the Sunday School.”

“Yes, well—would it be too chilly for you if we went out into the porch? It’s difficult to talk in here with so much noise.” In the porch the secretary added, “What aspect of Luton’s work were you thinking of? He was very active in all branches, and, of course, a worker in our wider field.”

“You mean he worked for the chapel as well as for the Sunday School?”

“Oh, yes, and for the Youth Club, too. He was a very active worker, very active indeed. He used to do a good deal of social work, in addition.”

“Ah, yes, social work,” said Dame Beatrice. “What did that entail?”

“Well, mostly it was fallen women. He was extremely earnest and very sympathetic. On one occasion we had trouble in persuading him that it wasn’t in her best interests for him to marry one of them. One of our Girls’ Friendly girls, unfortunately. When Luton found out about it, he went to the man and put it to him, but the man refused to have anything more to do with the girl. He said there was no proof that he was the father and that he denied he was. Luton got very upset, especially when the man told him to marry the girl himself if he felt so strongly about it.”

“And Mr Luton was prepared to do so? How long ago was this?”

“Oh, when he was a very much younger man. At one of the Wednesday meetings for men, he asked for guidance, and, of course, it is our custom to ask aloud for guidance, so that matters can be discussed, if necessary, by everyone present.”

“And the meeting persuaded Mr Luton that…”

“Well, it was throwing himself to the dogs, as it were. I took it on myself to point out that people not knowing him as well as some of us did, might regard it as a sign of his own guilt if he married the girl. Moreover, as the husband of a fallen woman, we could hardly allow him to continue as Sunday School superintendent. It wouldn’t have been seemly.”

“Oh, would it not?” asked Dame Beatrice.

“Oh, no. You see, there’s the saying about no smoke without fire. They gossip, you know—even the best and most upright—and where there’s gossip, well, I hardly need to tell you that scandal is never far behind.”

“Only too true, I am afraid, but could gossip in the town really harm the chapel or the Sunday School?”

“If it was to be confined to the town, as such, perhaps not, but, you see, there was a little coterie—if that’s the word—who attended our Mothers’ Pleasant Afternoon, who would have been likely to, well, draw their skirts aside, if you know what I mean, and that certainly wouldn’t have helped matters.”

“So some of you talked Mr Luton out of his self-sacrificing dream?”

“Yes, in the end, we did. It’s all very well to see yourself as a Good Samaritan, but, in this case, what seemed at first to him to be the right thing to do was going to be so damaging to the good name of our chapel and Sunday School that—well, we just couldn’t let him do it, and, anyway, the girl was dead against it, too, as you can understand. Mr Hughes, our pastor, had the last word. He told him, straight out, that he would no longer be permitted to be Sunday School superintendent if he persisted in carrying out his idea.”

“What you tell me is extremely interesting,” said Dame Beatrice.

“Yes. The latest trouble has been one of our Sunday School teachers. A very sad business that is.”

“But Mr Luton did not renew his attempt to…”

“Well, of course, he’s older and wiser now—he was, I mean. We only knew about it shortly before his death. Of course, he went along to see her—being, as I said, a very keen social worker—and our pastor, Mr Hughes, has been to see her too, but she said she only wanted to be left alone, and her mother was standing by her, so we didn’t see what else we could do.”

“And you feel sure that, this time, Mr Luton did not propose marriage to her?”

“Oh, I’m certain he didn’t. This time he didn’t even ask for guidance, you see. He would ask for guidance before taking any such action, of course.”

“And the guidance he obtained on the former occasion convinced him that his well-intentioned plan, if he had carried it out, would have been against the interests of the chapel and the Sunday School. Yes, I see that he would not have attempted to carry out a similar plan the second time. By the way, did Mr Luton know the name of the baby’s father on this second occasion?”

“I don’t know for certain, but I think he must have done, because what he said to me this last time was to the effect that it wasn’t as though the fellow couldn’t afford to support a wife, and so I think he must have known or guessed who the father was. Still, he named no names, and, in these days, there’s many a young man employed in this town at a rate of pay quite sufficient to marry on if they have honourable intentions.”

“Would you mind giving me the girl’s address?”

“Well, it can’t do any harm, I suppose. Are you from the Unmarried Mothers’ Society?”

“No. I am investigating, with the approval of the police, the death of Mr Luton and the others.”

“I thought the police were satisfied Luton’s death was an accident.”

“The Coroner’s jury thought so; the police are still looking into the matter. They want to find the man or woman who caused the death, whether or not it was accidental.”

“Oh, I see. And you’re helping them?”

“In my capacity as psychiatric adviser to the Home Office, yes, I am.”

“Well, I wish you luck, I’m sure. Of course, Luton was a rare one for a practical joke in a mild way, but this went rather beyond a joke, didn’t it? Come inside, and I’ll look up that address and write it down for you.”

The home of the unmarried mother was in a cul-de-sac off the high street known as Paddock Place. It had been agreed, in accordance with his own suggestion, that Perse should escort Dame Beatrice to the house and then leave her to conduct the negotiations as she thought most fitting.

The front door opened directly on to the alleyway, for there was no front garden, and it was opened by a respectable-looking woman in a flowered overall. From the rear of the premises came the smell of cooking.

“Yes?” said the woman.

“Mrs Darbey?” asked Dame Beatrice. She handed the woman a visiting card. “I have just come from the Sunday School, where I was given your address. May I have a word with your daughter?”

“Mabel’s out. What did you want? We’re not interested in the Welfare, or nothing of that.”

“I am not connected with the Welfare, but with the police.”

“You better come in, then. That Mrs Coggins next door got her ears on elastic.” She stood aside and Dame Beatrice entered the parlour. It was clean, and the floor and furniture had been polished. The wallpaper-pattern was somewhat unrestrained, but the armchairs and settee looked comfortable and Mrs Darbey immediately lighted the gas fire. “Now,” she said, “I don’t see what the police have got to do with it. There’s no law against a girl making Mabel’s mistake, is there?”

“I am not aware of such a law. What I have come to find out is only obliquely concerned with your daughter, Mrs Darbey. Do you know the name of the baby’s father?”

“No, Mabel wouldn’t say. Said she wouldn’t marry him, even if he asked her, which he wasn’t likely to do. So it’s no good you or the police thinking it’s any use buggering along them lines. She’ll get over it, and, although I’ve spoke my mind, I reckon she’s only in the same boat as half-a-dozen others I could name. She means to have the baby adopted, and then she’s going to live with her auntie and uncle at Wolverhampton for a bit. Time she gets back it will all have blown over, I daresay. It ain’t the disgrace it used to be, you know. Nobody don’t think all that much of it nowadays. After all, it’s natural-like. The baby’s the unlucky one, not the mother.”

“I asked whether you knew the name of the baby’s father for a reason which does not really affect your daughter at all.”

“Oh? How’s that, then?”

“He may be wanted on a charge of murder.”

“Oh, my goodness! Murdering who?”

“I am not prepared to tell you that at present.”

“Well, what’s it got to do with Mabel, then?”

“I assure you, very little. If the father is not the man I think he is, then, probably, nothing at all. Come, Mrs Darbey, you know who the father is, don’t you?”

“Mabel’s never said.”

“That isn’t an answer. You suspect someone. I’d like to know who it is. After all, as I have told you, murder is suspected and…”

“Suspected? I thought it was proved.”

“You are thinking of the schoolmaster, Mr Spey, but I am referring to the death of the Sunday School superintendent, Mr Luton.”

“But the paper said…”

“Yes, I know what the paper said. What the papers say is not necessarily the whole truth, is it?”

“If I was to tell you what I think and believe, I might find myself in trouble. It don’t do to say all you think. I don’t want to find myself in a police court, so I ain’t naming no names. I’ve got no proof, and Mabel won’t say. I expect she’s frightened, like I am, of being had up for putting the blame where I reckon it will never be proved. Them that’s in high society can do as they like with the law, same as they always could. So now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to see to the dinner. Mabel’s dad is up the allotment, as usual of a Sunday, and he’ll be hungry when he comes in.”

“Very well, Mrs Darbey,” said Dame Beatrice, getting up. “It has been very good of you to let me talk to you. If I give you the name of the man, will you tell me whether you agree with my opinion?”

“No,” said Mrs Darbey, flatly. “I’ve had quite enough trouble, as it is, over all this business. Mabel’s acted real silly, and I’m not the one to deny it, but perhaps she couldn’t help herself, being in service and all that. Anyway, soon as the baby comes it’ll all be over, and with any luck we’ll have a quiet life once more. Thank you for calling, and I’m sorry I can’t oblige, but the less said the better, and I haven’t got no proof.”

“Giles Faudrey will run into trouble one of these days,” said Dame Beatrice, in an off-hand tone, “but you are probably wise to say nothing, even to me.”

“Who told you I meant Giles Faudrey? You don’t mean…here, you’re putting words in my mouth! I never said a word about Giles Faudrey!”

“One of us had to,” said Dame Beatrice, “and now that we’ve gone as far as this, we must go a little bit further. How did Mr Luton find out that Faudrey was the man?”

“I’ve no idea, I tell you, and I don’t want to say any more.”

“Not even although I assure you that I believe the father of your daughter’s baby to be a triple murderer?”

“Please go, please do! I don’t want to get mixed up in anything, I tell you…and I don’t know nothing for sure.”

“It seems that Mr Luton must have done. How would he have found out?”

“I don’t know! I suppose he got it out of Mabel! I must see to the dinner! Please go.”

Dame Beatrice returned to the Sunday School hall and reached it to the sound of the bells from the parish church. Julian was waiting at the gate. The Sunday School children were leaving the hall to go home and, at a further gate, the congregation was drifting in for the eleven o’clock service in the chapel. It seemed, thought Dame Beatrice, that the Darbey family must sit down to their Sunday dinner at an unusually early hour.

She went into the Sunday School hall and was able to buttonhole the secretary once more.

“Just one thing,” she said, “before you go into chapel. Would you have called Mr Luton a reckless man?”

“I don’t know that I’d use that word. He had a lot of courage. If he ever thought someone was doing wrong, he said so, not mincing his words.”

“Always a risky proceeding, don’t you think? At any rate, he seems to have found it so.”

“Why, how do you mean, Dame Beatrice?”

“You never suspected that Mr Luton might have resorted to blackmail, I suppose?”

“Blackmail? You must be joking!”

“No, I am not joking.”

“But…Luton? Sunday School superintendent and sang in the choir?”

“Blackmail is sometimes resorted to by persons whose only object is to do what they conceive to be their duty. The road to hell, we are told, is paved with good intentions. I think that, in Mr Luton’s case, he was murdered because of his good intentions, and his murder resulted in the deaths of two other persons.”

She rejoined Julian Perse, who was still waiting at the gate.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Well, my theories have not been disproved. Neither have they led to any real proof, but I do not despair about that. The next moves will have to be made by the police, and I have small hope at present that they will be willing to set my particular ball rolling. However, we shall see.”