‘Hello, you two. I don’t think you’ll be able to see the inspector right now. There’s been another murder.’
‘Where is it? Can we come with you?’ Eve started to follow him through the door of the police station. ‘Who is it, Pete? Someone we know?’
‘Not so many questions, Miss Duncan,’ Pete teased. ‘I suppose you can tag along if you like. The inspector seems to like you getting involved in these cases, especially dealing with the families, though I don’t think there is one in this case.’
Intrigued, Eve grabbed Charlie’s hand and pulled him through the door behind her. He followed obediently; not that he had much choice. Eve was silent as they followed Pete across the Green to a block of flats standing back from the road, just a few doors along from the three storey Victorian mansion that housed the Polish Refugee Centre, which had been involved in Eve’s previous encounter with murder last September. The apartment block had an air of sober respectability. Solid and imposing, its red brick walls were sandwiched between white stucco and mullioned windows. These sorts of flats were known as ‘mansion flats’ for some reason, and usually occupied by the professional classes.
‘Is this where the victim was found?’ she asked Pete, unable to restrain her curiosity any longer, as they entered under the portico.
‘No,’ he said. ‘She was found on the Green, sitting on one of the benches like she was still alive, relaxing, watching the birds or enjoying the fresh air. It wasn’t till a tramp sat down beside her and she practically slumped into his lap that anyone realised she was dead. Gave the poor chap a hell of a fright I can tell you. He probably thought he’d finally got the Delirium Tremens.’
Eve went straight to the salient points of this speech. ‘Oh, so it was a woman. Was she young?’
‘No, she’s an old biddy, dressed up all respectable for a morning stroll, top coat, sensible shoes and a hat. Her handbag was on the ground beside her, so it wasn’t difficult to find out where she lived. There was no money in it, or ration book, but her ID card was still there, and her keys. We’re going up to her flat now. The inspector’s already there.’
They crossed the wide hallway and stepped into the cage-like lift which took them on a rattly journey to the third floor. The door of one of the flats at this level stood ajar and the three walked in. Inspector Reed was talking to other members of his team, but he came forward to meet the little group as they entered.
‘Ah, Sergeant Heller, good, we could do with another pair of hands. And I see you’ve brought Miss Duncan with you. Well, I’m sure she can do something to help too. Cast a feminine eye over the premises and see if she can spot anything that might help us find out who could have done this to such a harmless, respectable old lady.’
‘Who was she, sir?’ asked Charlie.
‘Emily Broadbent, spinster of this parish; retired school mistress,’ the inspector answered tersely.
Pete came forward, excited with information. ‘I know her, sir. Knew her, I mean. She taught at Ellerslie Road Elementary. I was in her class.’
‘Well done, Heller. Maybe you can tell us something about her.’
‘I don’t know about that, sir. It was a long time ago. I haven’t seen her for a good eighteen years. She seemed really old to us even then. But she taught my class at Ellerslie throughout our time there. You used to keep the same teacher all through in them days.’
Pete was 29 so, as he said, it was a long time since he left elementary school. His memory of the woman was unlikely to be clear, thought Eve. He wasn’t much good with details at the best of times and she didn’t suppose he paid much attention at school.
‘I remember she was a good teacher,’ continued Pete. ‘Strict, but fair and she could be fun, like when we played number games at the end of term and such. She supported the less clever kids and everyone in her class could do sums and read and write by the time they were eight. We were glad we’d been in her class when we moved up to the big school, where it was more difficult.’
‘Who would want to kill a retired schoolmarm?’ asked Eve. ‘Surely she was completely harmless.’
‘I have come to learn over the years that people have the most bizarre reasons for killing others. Often as not there’s money involved, or sex,’ said Inspector Reed, ‘You would have thought that with Jerry trying to kill us on a daily basis that people would stop murdering each other. But there always seems to be someone out there at it. We’ve had two murders in the space of a week. You wouldn’t have thought it possible would you?’
‘Suppose the murders are linked,’ said Charlie. ‘Whoever killed Malcolm may have killed the old dear too.’
‘I hardly think so, Spalding. What could possibly be the connection?’ the inspector said. ‘I think this may simply be a petty theft that went wrong. Someone tried to relieve her of her cash whilst she was out for her walk, held her up with a knife and when she resisted, he stabbed her.’
‘Oh, she was stabbed, like Malcolm?’ asked Eve.
‘Yes, but it was a much shorter knife and there was very little blood. He struck a lucky blow, or rather, unlucky for Miss Broadbent, and it went straight into her heart. She died instantly, the doc says.’
‘Well, that’s a good thing,’ said Eve, a remark that immediately struck her as ridiculously callous. She felt sorry for the old lady whose life had been dedicated to the education of children. What had she done to deserve such a fate?
Whilst talking they wandered around the flat’s spacious rooms. From the drawing room at the front Miss Broadbent had had a splendid view of Shepherd’s Bush Green; the leaves of the nearby plane trees almost caressing the windows. Two bedrooms and a well-appointed kitchen and bathroom completed the apartment. The kitchen even had a refrigerator, something that Eve hankered after to keep her food fresh, but they were too expensive for her. The rooms were linked by a wide carpeted corridor along which Miss Broadbent had hung an array of framed school photographs, in date order and each headed Ellerslie Road Elementary School, just like the one Charlie and Eve had seen at the Miller’s cottage. The pictures stretched from one end of the corridor to the other, ending in 1936, when she must have retired. Light from a window in the opposite wall lit the memorial.
‘Look, Charlie,’ said Eve. ‘Here’s the one for 1931 and there’s Malcolm at the back.’
‘Well, he would be, you dope, it’s the same photo.’
‘I know, but it’s funny isn’t it, that they knew each other. Perhaps this is the link between the murders.’
‘Don’t be daft. She taught him when he was a kid, like lots of other children round here, that’s all. What other connection could there be between a nasty piece of work like Malcolm and a harmless old lady like Miss Broadbent?’
Pete came over and joined them in their scrutiny of the group photos.
‘Are you in any of these, Pete?’ asked Charlie. ‘What did you look like as a kid?’
‘Oh, mine’ll be miles back along the wall somewhere. I left Ellerslie in 1924 to go up to secondary school.’
‘Golly,’ said Eve, ‘that seems a million years ago.’
‘All right, madam, enough of taking the mickey. You two are older than me. You must have left your first school about 1922.’
Eve and Charlie contemplated this depressing truth gloomily. Was it that long ago that they were eleven? How frightening that so many years had passed. They were now standing by the earlier school photograph and Pete pointed out his round cheerful face, with ears sticking out like flags.
‘There I am,’ he said.
‘Well,’ laughed Eve, ‘at least you’ve grown into the ears.’
Pete was punching them playfully when Inspector Reed recalled them to the seriousness of the occasion and why they were in Miss Broadbent’s flat.
‘A little respect, if you young people don’t mind,’ he said without rancour. ‘Look around, would you, see if you can find anything that might indicate if the lady had any problems that have come back to bite her. Debts, perhaps, or a relative after an inheritance. This flat must be worth a few bob. Maybe there’s a will somewhere. See what you can find. I’m going back to the station.’
The inspector left the flat after taking leave of the technical team. Eve wandered into the lounge and found a roll-top desk and started searching its drawers and cubbyholes, hoping she would find papers that would help their enquiry. Charlie was lounging on Miss Broadbent’s deeply cushioned blue velvet settee going through photograph albums he had found on the bookshelves, whilst Pete had started to investigate the cupboards and drawers in the main bedroom.
Miss Broadbent had been an extremely organised woman, Eve was pleased to discover. She supposed that this was only to be expected of someone who had been in a position of responsibility all her working life. Everything had a place. Her bills were filed in date order in one drawer; her important documents, birth certificate and so on, in another. Amongst the papers in this drawer, Eve found Miss Broadbent’s will.
‘I’ve found her will, Charlie,’ she said.
‘Bring it here. Let’s have a butcher’s.’
The document consisted of only one page. The bequests were extremely simple, all her assets were to be disposed of on her death and given to Ellerslie Road School, the place, it said, to which she had devoted her life and to whom she wished to leave this legacy with affection and good wishes for the future. Eve sniffed back a tear. How lovely, she thought, what a generous old thing she was. There were no other bequests.
‘Well, it looks as if she didn’t have any relatives to leave her money to. The will doesn’t give us a clue to who could have killed her.’
‘Unless the present headmaster did her in to get hold of the money,’ suggested Charlie.
‘Give over, Charlie, as if he would. I think she’s been very generous. They’ll be ever so grateful when they hear about this.’
‘Let’s hope someone from the school turns up for the funeral.’
Eve vowed that she would do her utmost to make sure that they did.
Further poking around the flat revealed nothing more than that Emily Broadbent had been a sober, disciplined member of society with no secrets. A fading photograph of a handsome young man in uniform on her bedside table was the only sign that Miss Broadbent had ever had an emotional life.
‘Oh, look Charlie. Do you think this may have been her fiancé who died in the Great War?’
‘Could’ve been her brother,’ replied Charlie.
Eve chose to believe that this had been the man that Emily had loved, lost in the massacre of the First World War like many young men of that generation, leaving behind sweethearts who remained grieving spinsters forever. The sadness of it made Eve’s eyes fill with tears.
When they had finished, having turned over every item of possible interest in the flat, they left together. Pete returned to the police station and Charlie made his way back to the market and an afternoon of entertaining housewives from the vegetable stall.
‘I’ll see you later, Evie. Let me know if you find anything else.’
Eve waved goodbye and, as she was so near, she decided to visit a friend.
Eve strolled past the few doors along the edge of the Green to the tall white stucco building that housed the Polish Refugee Centre. A window at the front had been damaged in a raid and was boarded up and a chunk had been gouged out of one of the white pillars holding up the portico over the front door. Since the murder of the Polish refugee, Zoya, last year, Eve had been a regular visitor to the house. The people living there may have changed, indeed there was a constant turnover of personnel, but the housekeeper, Katya, still ran the kitchen and she and Eve had become friends.
As was customary Eve walked straight in through the front door, which was almost always unlocked, passed the offices, the main staircase and, using the creaking steps that led to the basement, she went into the kitchen.
‘Hello, Katya, it’s me,’ she called out as she arrived.
The figure at the stove turned towards her. ‘My dear Eve, how lovely to see you. You haven’t been around for a while and certainly not in the daytime. Does this mean you have another case?’
How shrewd she was, thought Eve. Katya remembered that she would normally be at work at Mount Pleasant at this time of day. She went up to her friend and gave her a quick hug, avoiding the thick dusting of flour that coated Katya’s apron and hands.
‘Sit. Sit,’ the Polish woman said. ‘I will make tea, or would you prefer cocoa?’
‘You’ve got cocoa? Oh, yes please.’ It was warm in the kitchen so Eve removed her coat, hung it over the back of a chair and sat at the scrubbed pine table that could seat twelve. Spotless as always, the kitchen smelled deliciously of the food that Katya was preparing for the residents. She worked miracles with the rations and managed to feed the inmates several substantial, nourishing meals every day. There were always about a dozen young Polish men and women living in the building, which served as a hostel for refugees needing a place to stay before they went off to work elsewhere or, in the case of servicemen, back to their units after a spell of leave.
Since the arrest of Major Parkes, who previously ran the Centre, a civilian was in charge and ruled the place with benevolent ease. Ruth Archer, the secretary and admin officer, had gone on to other war work in a hush-hush department somewhere in Whitehall and, although Eve did encounter her occasionally, they were both too busy to spend much time together. Another civil servant had taken her place, but Eve had hardly seen her.
Katya came to the table with two steaming mugs of cocoa and thick slices of bread and plum jam and sat opposite Eve, her face eager with curiosity. Her pretty fair hair was drawn back into a loose chignon from which escaped wisps of hair flew around her flushed face, softening its starkly lean contours.
‘Tell me all about it. What are you working on now? Has that police inspector got you involved in another murder?’ Katya’s English was much improved since Eve first met her, but her Polish accent remained pronounced.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I think you may know the victim. It’s Malcolm Miller, you know, the milkman.’
‘Ah, that young man. Certainly I know him. He delivers our milk. I was wondering why there is a different man this week, much older.’ Katya muttered something Polish under her breath.
‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘A rather untrustworthy young man, that Malcolm, I think,’ said Katya. ‘One you need to keep an eye on.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, as you must see, with so many of us here, I have a large milk order every day. Sometimes he tries to cheat me. Gives me less than I have ordered, or, at the end of the week when he comes to be paid, he tries to charge me too much. But he can’t cheat Katya like that, I write everything down. No, I know exactly what I have had, and what I owe. He thinks he can fool me because I am foreigner, but I will not allow it. I do not trust him, but I would not wish him dead.’
Eve could well believe that it would be difficult to get one over on the efficient Katya.
‘Yes, I’ve heard he did things like that. One of the restaurants said they were often overcharged. But most of the householders he delivered to said how charming and helpful he was.’
‘Ah, yes. Certainly, a very charming young man. He often came in here for tea and a, how you say, chat with me, in the morning. He is fancying one of the girls, I think, a pretty blonde.’
‘Oh, is it Anna?’
‘No Anna is moved on long ago now. She’s a Land Girl in somewhere called Dorset. She writes and tells me it is very hard work, horrible in the winter and she misses my cooking. But there are no bombs in Dorset so she feels safe.’
‘Good for her,’ said Eve. ‘So, there’s a new pretty blonde then?’
‘Oh yes, there is always a pretty blonde is there not? This one, she will be in trouble if she is not careful. I keep an eye on her, but there is only so much I can do.’
‘I know you look after them all wonderfully, Katya. Anyway, Malcolm disappeared for a few days and then his body was found on a bombsite. He’d been stabbed. There seem to be a lot of people who didn’t like him, but none enough to kill him, as far as I can see. And now there’s been another murder. The inspector doesn’t think it has anything to do with Malcolm’s death, but I’m not sure. I’ve got a feeling that the two crimes may be connected.’
‘Well, if this is so I know that the clever Miss Duncan will find out what it is. Just please be careful, I would not wish anything bad to happen to you.’
‘I’m always careful,’ Eve smiled. ‘I just wondered, if you hear anything about Malcolm, anything at all, good or bad, you could let me know.’
‘We saw him the other day, Monday or Tuesday. He said he was well ahead with his round, but he couldn’t stop to talk because he had to visit someone. An old friend from school I think he said.’
‘Oh, did he say who it was?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I did not ask. It would have meant nothing to me, after all.’
For a while they sipped their hot cocoa, chatting about Pete and Charlie and the dashing airmen who stayed at the Centre during their leave. Whatever was in the oven was ready to be taken out, so Eve left Katya to it, with a promise to come and visit again soon.
On leaving the PRC she decided to canvass more of the houses on Malcolm’s milk round. She and Charlie had not finished visiting some of the streets on the other side of the Green. She crossed over, passing the barrage balloon lorry and the vegetable patches, and began visiting the few streets remaining.
At one house an extremely belligerent housewife chose to berate her soundly.
‘What’s that dairy playing at? I didn’t get the milk till nearly eight o’clock this morning. That old fellow delivering it is so slow. He shouldn’t be lugging great crates of milk around at his age.’
‘I’m sorry; it’s really nothing to do with me. But as you may have heard, your regular milkman was murdered and the other men have to help out. They all have much further to go now and it takes longer.’
‘I want to complain. I’m not satisfied,’ said the irritated resident without a pause to consider the dead young man or his more elderly colleagues who now had to do his work. ‘Tell them I don’t think it’s good enough.’
Eve thought this remark was a bit much considering that her milk bill couldn’t have amounted to more than a bob or two a week. It’s not as if she’s getting bad service from one of the posh department stores, she thought.
‘I don’t work for the dairy; I’m helping the police. I’m trying to find out if anyone saw anything odd early on Monday morning, before Malcolm disappeared. Did you see him then?’
‘No, ‘course not. I’m not up at that ungodly hour. I would have been in my bed trying to catch up on some sleep as the Jerries were leaving us alone for a change.’
‘But there was milk delivered here on Monday morning? You weren’t left out?’
‘No, it was here as usual when I got up.’
Just the same as everyone else was saying, thought Eve. No-one heard or saw a thing because they were asleep. She moved on to the next house, and the next, where she had more or less the same reaction. Some people kept her chatting on the doorstep for a while, curious about the murder in their midst, but Eve had very little to tell them. When she checked, they all said that they had had their milk delivery as normal on Monday; no-one had been missed out.
At one house further along the same street she turned away after there was no answer to her knock on the door. It was several minutes before a gaunt young man opened up, just as Eve was walking along the pavement to the next place. His face appeared uniformly pale at first, but as he turned towards her Eve became aware that he had a livid scar on the right side of his face, from above his eyebrow to his jaw; a deep red slash in the white skin. The wound must have been inflicted very recently because the signs of stitching were still visible around the scar. She noticed that he moved awkwardly as he descended a couple of steps towards her. She assumed that he must also have an injury on some other part of his body, though it was not obvious where as none of his limbs appeared to be damaged. The clothes he was wearing seemed too big for him, the trousers concertinaed around his ankles and the sweater sleeves hung low at his emaciated wrists. Evidently he was home from the Front on recuperation leave after being wounded.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Eve said and went on to explain what she wanted. The little speech was becoming second nature and she had to remember to deliver it with a smile to put people at their ease.
‘I don’t have milk delivered to the house. I buy it at International Stores, up the road there, where my temporary ration book’s registered,’ the man said.
It was normal practice for people back from the fighting on leave or for recovery purposes, to be given temporary ration cards to sustain them for the duration.
‘You can check if you like,’ the man said. ‘The name’s Daniel Kydd.’ His tone held a hint of nervous aggression.
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Kydd. I’m just trying to get some information that might lead us to find whoever killed the milkman, Malcolm Miller. You haven’t heard anything I suppose?’
‘No. I don’t go out much,’ he stammered as he spoke and kept his head low. It was obvious that the poor chap was embarrassed by the facial disfigurement and had become reclusive, hardly venturing out of his little terraced house.
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Eve. ‘I may still find someone who saw something. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’
The young man glanced nervously up and down the street to check, Eve supposed, that he hadn’t been observed by the neighbours. Then, without another word, he turned back into the house and slammed the door so hard that the stained glass panel rattled.
Eve continued along the milk round, knocking on doors as she progressed, but didn’t find a single person who had encountered Malcolm, missed their normal milk delivery, or seen anything in the least suspicious. One man seemed determined to help in some way even if he had to make up the facts to satisfy Eve’s investigation.
‘There was a big fat bloke, really sinister he looked, in a dark overcoat and a trilby hat, out at about four. I thought he looked suspicious, fifth columnist of something. I was walking me dogs, see, and thought he looked right odd. He disappeared into the alley up by the church there.’ The man pointed across the Green. ‘Didn’t like the look of him one bit; looked as if he were up to no good.’
Eve smiled inwardly at this obvious fabrication. Apart from anything else it would have been too dark to see across the Green at that hour as it was a couple of hundred yards distant at least. It was funny how people kept inventing spies and bogeymen and reporting them to the police. Eve thought it was a way of repressing their anxiety.
‘Thank you for your help, sir. I may be getting back to you.’
At least that would give the chap some hope that his story would be believed and he would have an exciting tale to relate to his mates in the pub later. Eve moved on, wondering where to go next, when Charlie appeared at her side.
‘Want to go to the pub and see if we can unearth one of those black market geezers?’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea, Charlie? I don’t like the sound of them.’
‘They’re not real gangsters, Eve. Not violent or anything, just doing what they can to make a few extra bob.’ Charlie managed to make them sound like normal members of society. ‘There’s no need to be scared of them. Just don’t mention you’re working for the police.’
‘Doesn’t everyone know that by now?’
‘No, ‘course not. These people spend most of their time in the pub or at the dog track. Nah, we’ll see what they have to say – subtle-like.’
This discussion had covered most of their journey to the pub and they were soon standing outside. Charlie, with unusual gallantry, opened the door to the bar and they went in.
The smoky, thick atmosphere, laden with beer fumes and residual tobacco smoke, never failed to make Eve cough before her lungs became accustomed to it. As it was past five o’clock the bar was crowded with people, mostly men, on their way home from their jobs, enjoying a pint or two. A couple of elderly men were playing chess in one corner; Mr Weissmann the pawnbroker and a crony. Another table was occupied by a group of men poring over the racing pages of the Daily Mirror, planning their bets for tomorrow or commiserating over their losses of today.