Rosemary Aitken Read online

  Effie had found her voice. ‘If it’s about the books . . .’ she managed.

  The poor thing was clearly frightened. Blanche said, with a smile, ‘Never mind the books, dear. That can wait a little while. The constable has something he wants to say to you. Something very serious has been happening.’

  The stricken look on Effie’s face gave her a pang of guilt. Of course, Blanche thought, it was a terrible event – finding a dead man lying in the yard – and she should be ashamed that it had given her a little secret thrill.

  It would have been a different thing, perhaps, if she had been the first person on the scene, but when she went out for water from the tap (they hadn’t really needed to have it piped inside; that sort of thing was a terrible expense) there was the butcher from the shop next door saying that there was someone lying in the corner of the court. He had been cross at first because he thought it was a tramp – you did get itinerants who climbed the wall sometimes and tried to huddle in the corner out of the wind and rain. But of course, when she went over with him, it was clear this man was dead. There was no blood or anything, but the corpse was stiff and cold.

  And she – Blanche Weston – had been the one to go and fetch the police. A pair of them there’d been: an older sergeant, whom she’d seen before, and this young, dark, good-looking constable. They’d listened to her story and come straight back with her.

  Pearl had, predictably, been simply furious. ‘Bringing the police here?’ she had hissed, when Blanche got back. ‘What are you thinking of? All over town by nightfall, it will be. And what will our better class of customers suppose?’

  Blanche had surprised herself by finding sufficient courage to retort, ‘How do you suppose that we could keep it quiet? A dead man in the yard? Did you expect to hide it? Anyway, the butcher saw it too – and he’ll tell everyone who comes, in any case. At least this way we’ve done the proper thing by that poor dead fellow – whoever it might be.’

  ‘Poor fellow, you call him!’ Pearl had snorted. ‘Well, on your head it shall be. When the police start asking questions, I shall tell the truth. Yes, we have seen him before. He came in here yesterday, as we were shutting up the shop, asking for that Pengelly girl you think so much about. What did I warn you! Now look what she’s done. Bringing trouble to our door! Well, I shall tell them straight!’

  And that is exactly what she did, once the body had been moved and the police had taken charge. In fact, she hadn’t even waited to be asked. She collared the sergeant as soon as he came in – he had maddeningly gone and spoken to the butcher first – and told him the whole tale. He hadn’t seemed much moved.

  ‘Well then, missus, we’d better find the girl. Maybe she can tell us who he is. Nothing on the body to tell us anything. Nothing in his pockets but a single ha’penny. No initials, nothing. Just a torn bit of a train ticket, by the looks of it. Might give us a lead if we can work out exactly what that was – though in fact, it looks as if he walked a fair old way. One of his soles is almost worn right through. Seems as if he’s fallen on bad times. No overcoat, for one thing – that’s what did for him. Died of cold and hunger, so the doctor thinks. Not this Effie’s father or brother, I suppose?’

  It was Pearl who’d answered. She shook her head at him. ‘Shouldn’t think so for a minute. Father’s a tinner down a local pit and if there were other children – which there aren’t – stands to reason they’d be Effie’s sort of age, not rising fifty like this man clearly was. Didn’t look a tinner, either, from what I saw of him. Fancy voice he had. Wanted to know when Effie would be in. Well, I told him, not until today. She always comes on Tuesday, and I told him so.’

  She sounded so disapproving that Blanche had butted in. ‘He didn’t even stop to ask us where she lived, just thanked us quite politely, and went off down the street. And that’s the first and last we saw of him – until today of course.’

  The sergeant nodded and put his book away. ‘Well we’d better find the girl. I understand that you know where she is? I’ll leave the constable to take down her address while I go and make some more enquiries. Someone must have seen this fellow in the town. Though I don’t believe he was a local man. I’ve never seen him anywhere about and the butcher swears he’s never set eyes on him before, though between us we know almost everyone. But perhaps this Effie can enlighten us.’

  And here the poor child was, looking so terrified that it would melt your heart. But Pearl seemed almost pleased. She gave one of her rare smiles to the young policeman at her side, who was running a finger round the high collar at his neck and looking uncomfortable in his uniform. ‘You can use the little back office-storeroom if you like, Constable. We also use it as a sitting-room, so you will find a chair and table and there is

  a fire alight in there. You won’t be disturbed if there are customers.’ She led the way towards it and Blanche and the policeman trooped in after her.

  But Effie was lingering for an instant at the door. For a moment Blanche thought that the girl was going to run away, but then she realized that all she’d stopped to do was to pull back the cover from the basket on her arm and stuff a pile of books back on the shelf labelled ‘Returns’. Wasn’t it like Effie to put her duties first, even at a moment like this? Blanche gave her a small approving smile.

  Effie coloured scarlet and stared down at her feet, then turned and followed Pearl and the policeman into the sitting-room.

  Constable Alexander Dawes, Police number 663, looked around the poky little room where the elder of the spinsters was pulling out a chair. There was scarcely room in here for either him or it – the walls were stacked with boxes and the writing-table too – though the other woman was busy clearing off a space.

  ‘There you are, Constable. You make yourself at home. Effie here can have the wooden stool.’

  Alex ran a finger round his collar-edge again. It wasn’t only nervousness: the new serge chafed his neck. Though he was a little anxious, if the truth be known. It was only a few months since he had joined the Borough Police and having completed the required training period of ‘drill’ this was the first time he’d been out on his own – up to now the sergeant had accompanied him throughout – and it wasn’t going to be as simple as he’d thought.

  His task had simply been to find out an address and report back to the station as soon as possible, but here the girl Effie had actually turned up. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d have to talk to her. It was clear the shopkeepers expected it. Perhaps he could question her a bit and take her to the station a little later on and let the sergeant carry on from there. That might be best. He gave her an uncertain smile and was surprised to realize that she was even more nervous than he was himself.

  Perversely, that gave him a sort of confidence. He pulled out his little notebook, took the pencil from the back and licked the tip of it. That helped a bit as well. He looked at the three lines of writing, which was all that the notebook up to now contained, and put on what he hoped was a policemanly sort of voice. ‘Now, let me see. Your name is Effie Pengelly I believe?’

  She nodded, swallowed, and then blurted out, ‘Well actually it’s Ethel, but they call me Effie, sir.’

  Calling him ‘sir’ was oddly flattering. He nodded. ‘And you work for a Mrs–’ he looked down at his notes – ‘a Mrs Thatchell in Morrab Road?’ The girl didn’t answer, so he tried again. ‘Can you confirm that? It’s what the ladies of the shop have told me.’

  The girl Effie had dropped her head and was looking up at him with enormous hazel eyes. She would have been a proper stunner, he thought, if she hadn’t been so thin. She had lovely chestnut hair, though she had pulled it back in an unbecoming twist – from which, he noticed, it was trying to escape. She gave him a brief nod. ‘I suppose you’ll have to tell her about all this,’ she muttered, suddenly. She sounded close to tears.

  ‘All this?’ he echoed. ‘So you already know what this is about?’ If so, perhaps this interview would not be so bad.

  She nodde
d. ‘Yes, sir, I’m sorry . . . I’m afraid I think I do.’

  Relief was spreading up his shoulder blades and he let himself lean back in his uncomfortable chair and press his fingertips together, as he had seen Sergeant Vigo do. ‘So perhaps you can tell us who this fellow is?’

  The downcast gaze had turned into a stare and her shock and amazement could scarcely have been feigned. ‘Fellow? What fellow?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me, I thought you said you knew. There has been a stranger in the town. Came here to this shop yesterday asking where you were.’

  She frowned at him. ‘Well either of the Miss Westons could have told him that. They know better than anyone where Mrs Thatchell lives. But he never came there asking. Cook or someone would have told me if he had. Who is he anyway?’

  Alexander took another gulp of air. ‘Effie, that’s exactly what we would like to know.’

  She had stopped being frightened. She was merely puzzled now. ‘Well, how don’t you ask him?’

  He didn’t answer that. He looked away and underlined the writing in the book. ‘You have no idea at all who this man might have been?’

  She shook her head firmly. ‘I don’t know any men. ’Cepting for Father and Uncle Joe, of course, but they know where I live. They wouldn’t have to ask . . .’ She broke off suddenly. ‘Here, this isn’t anything to do with Father, is it? There hasn’t been an accident or something down the mine . . .?’

  ‘We don’t think it is your father,’ he began, meaning to reassure her.

  But she was already shaking that lovely chestnut head and saying in an altered tone of voice, ‘No, course it couldn’t be. They’d have sent at once to Aunty Madge – and she’d have let me know. So whoever is it, to ask for me by name? And you say he isn’t local.’ She looked at him suddenly. ‘There was a cousin of Mother’s went to America, years and years ago. Couldn’t be him, could it? You’d think he’d write to say. And he’d go to Father, not just ask for me.’ She raised her eyes to his. ‘But I suppose it might be. Sound foreign, does he?’

  He said, very carefully, ‘Seems to be English, from what I understand. But not a local man. No possessions, as far as we can see – except what he stood up in – and nothing about him that would help us to find out who he was.’

  ‘Was?’ The girl was staring at him disbelievingly. ‘You’re telling me he’s dead?’ He hadn’t meant to let that out so soon, but she had been too sharp. Before he could say anything, she spoke again. ‘Never been murdered, has he?’

  ‘Nothing so dramatic. Died of cold and hunger, by the look of it. The butcher found his body lying in the yard. But there’s nothing on the body to tell us who he was – no name, no wallet, nothing of the kind.’

  ‘Someone might have robbed him after he was dead,’ the girl said, surprising him. That was an intelligent idea. Perhaps he would suggest that to the sergeant later on.

  ‘Maybe, though it looked more as if he’d fallen on hard times.’

  ‘You mean he was a tramp.’ Effie was frowning. ‘How didn’t he go to the workhouse, whoever he was? I know it’s bad up there, but surely it’s better’n dying, freezing on the street. And what did he want me for? Who was he anyway?’

  He cleared his throat and put the notebook carefully away. ‘Effie,’ he said gently, ‘you’d better come with me. I’m sorry to ask you, but the sergeant will want to have a word, and maybe you had better have a look – it may be that you’ll know this person when you see his face. You want me to let your employer know where you have gone?’

  She shook her head. ‘Better not – she’ll be spitting tin-tacks as it is, without having a policeman turn up on her step. No doubt the Misses Weston will stand up for me. Won’t take too long, will it, looking at the corpse?’

  ‘It won’t disturb you?’

  She flashed him a wry smile. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ve seen dead folks before. Though never a stranger, come to think of it. And this must be a stranger – I can’t think who else. But why on earth should he be wanting me?’

  She was a resilient little creature and she looked so awfully young. He rather wished he’d not suggested this; it would have saved her anguish – but someone was sure to have fetched her in the end. Though if anyone was going to shepherd Effie through this unpleasant business, he was happy that it should be Alexander Dawes. He got slowly to his feet. ‘Then, if you’ll follow me.’

  Another bashful smile. ‘If you say so, sir. Only I’d better get these books and silks before we go – Mrs Thatchell will be livid with me, as it is.’

  ‘I’m afraid that your errands will have to wait. Dead men are in no hurry – but my sergeant is.’ He found himself adding, with a little smile, ‘If there’s any trouble when you do get home, make sure you let me know, and I will come and explain things to your mistress myself.’

  Two

  It wasn’t so terrible, looking at the corpse. It wasn’t mangled, like the bodies that she’d once seen at the mine, and there was none of the heartbreaking familiarity and sense of loss that had accompanied Mother’s laying-out. This was just an ordinary man, looking quite peaceful although a little blue, and lying stiffly underneath the sheet which they pulled back from the face to let her have a look.

  She did look, quite closely, but then shook her head. ‘I’m quite sure,’ she told the nice young policeman, who was standing at her side. ‘Nobody I’ve ever set eyes on in my life.’

  ‘It couldn’t be that cousin of your mother’s from America?’

  She looked at the dead stranger’s waxy countenance again. There wasn’t the slightest resemblance to the family, as far as she could see. ‘Shouldn’t think so, from the look of him,’ she murmured doubtfully. ‘Only you’d better ask my Pa, just to make quite sure. He would have known that cousin, years ago – when they were young.’ Were you allowed to suggest that sort of thing to police? She glanced at the constable to see if she had overstepped the mark.

  But he didn’t seem to be offended in the least. ‘We’ll do that!’ He signalled that the mortuary man should cover up the corpse’s head again and said quite gently, ‘Thank you. You’ve been very brave.’

  Even the stout sergeant, who was standing by the door, was smiling at her now from behind his thick moustache – which he hadn’t shown the slightest tendency to do when he was asking her all those questions at the police-station earlier. ‘This has been an ordeal for you, miss, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But you’ll appreciate our position. When someone comes to town and asks for you by name, and then turns up dead of cold, naturally we hope that you will help us with his identity. But I accept that you genuinely did not know the man.’

  Effie turned scarlet with embarrassment. She deserved to be in trouble with the police, over that business with the books, and here they were apologizing to her instead! She said, in a guilty attempt to help, ‘He must have heard my name from somewhere else – although I can’t for the life of me think how. Perhaps he knew my second-cousin in America, for all you say he had an English-sounding voice?’

  The sergeant very nearly smiled again. ‘That is a possibility of course. Perhaps, as you say, your father can throw some light on it. However, that is our affair. Thank you for attempting to assist. If we need to speak to you again, be sure we’ll let you know.’

  Effie found she’d turned to jelly at the knees. ‘Come down the police station again, you mean?’ she stammered. Dreadful scenes were flashing through her mind, with Mrs Thatchell being furious. ‘My mistress won’t . . .’

  He seemed to realize that she was upset. ‘Only if we really need you – which I hope we won’t. I’m sorry you’ve been bothered, Miss Pengelly,’ he said, putting her in a little flurry suddenly. Nobody ever normally called her ‘Miss Pengelly’ – although of course, that’s exactly what she was.

  ‘Well, if you want my father, he’ll be down the mine.’ She frowned. ‘Won’t lose a day’s pay, will he, for having to come here?’ If so, it would be her fault, she thought wretchedly. �
��Can’t wait till he’s finished I don’t suppose? Early shift this week so he should be off at four.’ The policemen were exchanging glances, which almost gave her hope, until an idea struck her and she added wretchedly, ‘Without he’s working doublers – in which case he won’t be up to ground till after midnight, I suppose.’

  ‘Doublers?’ The young constable sounded mystified.

  Effie stared at him. Surely everybody knew what doublers were? ‘Two shifts back to back,’ she explained, patiently. ‘Being a tributer and working for his-self, he can do that sometimes if he likes – does his own and then stands in on someone else’s team. Either they pay you extra or you exchange your time in lieu, and that’s what he does sometimes – gets a half-day off and comes to Aunty Madge’s for a meal. Likes to take it Thursday, if he can manage it – that’s my free afternoon, and I generally go over then as well.’

  The sergeant was still smiling as he held the door for her. ‘Thursday? I’m afraid this matter cannot wait till then.’

  She hadn’t meant that and she shook her head. ‘Never thought it would. I was only warning you that Pa might not be up to ground again today. Mind, he doesn’t always do the double shift, even if the chance is there: he’s getting old, and nowadays he finds it very hard . . .’ She trailed off in dismay. She was keeping the policemen waiting, she realized suddenly – chattering on when they expected her to move. She took a hurried step towards the door.

  But the young constable was already at her side. ‘We’ll make enquiries. And we’ll see he doesn’t suffer for assisting us,’ he said, taking her elbow gently and guiding her out of the mortuary and back into the street. ‘I’m sure his masters will agree to let us question him.’

  She turned to look up at him – he towered over her. He had a nice face, though a little pink around the ears, and his grey eyes were looking into hers. She dropped her gaze at once. ‘They might stop his money, that’s the only thing,’ she told him earnestly. ‘Like my mistress will probably stop mine – or worse – if I don’t look lively and get back to work. And even now I haven’t got the books and threads that I was sent to fetch!’