Murder At St Marmaduke’s

To catch up on the first five chapters, see my website: http://www.colin-z-smith.com/masm.html.

Chapter 6

Monday 4th November 1985: 15.30 – 16.15

Section (a)

Detective Constable Amita Chowdhary kept a wary eye on the door as she laid out pens and notebooks on the Incident Room desks.

She’d started in her own corner, noticeably remote from the rest, but doubted she’d be using the stationery. It was for the purpose of investigating the St Marmaduke’s case, in which enquiry, she imagined, she’d take little or no part. So far, in the six months she’d been at Camtown Police Station, the most exciting thing she’d been assigned to investigate was the coffee machine; and that by everyone but the DI, whom she’d once overheard telling – actually telling – a sergeant that he suspected given half the chance she’d lace the coffee with curry powder.

Just her luck to have been landed with a boss who believed that because somebody wasn’t the same shade of ghastly grey as him, he should treat them like something he’d scrape off his shoe.

She’d been on the verge several times of putting in an official complaint. She’d witnessed, however, exactly how that procedure worked at her previous station.

A WPC had complained about a sergeant who was giving her nothing but cell toilet-cleaning duties on the grounds that ‘housework was all women were fit to do’. On receiving the complaint, the superintendent had called the sergeant into his office and given him what must have amounted to the mildest rebuke in the history of telling-offdom. After which, the sergeant had stormed back and proceeded to give the WPC such hell she’d resigned shortly after and become a traffic warden so she could have a less stressful life.

And now the door crashed open, and a stream of profanities thundered in. Even by the DI’s standards it was impressive. Some of the words, she’d never heard before.

Instinctively, she ducked below the desk she was at and began fiddling with some telephone wires she’d begun to carry around with her for the purpose of looking gainfully employed while hiding.

‘Bloody chief inspectors! Gives me a bollocking for not wasting my bloody time…’ another stream of invective followed ‘…bloody obvious what the…’ more swearing ‘…bloody…’ another thirty seconds of expletive-deleteds ‘…take the bastard…’

At the end of the next round of ripe language, he added, ‘Where’s bloody Vindaloo Girl!’

Amita sighed. The default position whenever something upset the DI this much was for her to be given a rocket so huge it was all that would be needed for the town’s Guy Fawkes celebrations the following evening. She ducked even lower, and prayed that none of her colleagues had noticed where she’d disappeared to.

Her prayer, however, fell on deaf ears. ‘Here, boss,’ a sergeant by the name of Stephens called, slinking over to where she was and pointing downward.

Grabbing some of the DI’s choice phrases out of the air and throwing them silently in Stephens’ direction, she hauled herself to her feet. ‘You wanted me, boss?’

‘Yes, I bloody did, and no, I bloody don’t, but I’m stuck with you anyway, and I’d rather waste your bloody time than a proper detective’s, so get yourself round to Jack the Ripper Court, Flat 4, name of Chafford, and ask them where they were when the St Marmite’s party was kicking off.’

For a moment Amita didn’t move, astonished that, apparently, the DI was giving her some real work to do.

‘Still here, Vindaloo Girl?’ he snapped. ‘Sling your bloody hook and do as you’re told!’

With alacrity, she made her way over to her desk and began to gather up her things. As she left, she heard the inspector saying, ‘And now the rest of you get on with finding some evidence against that bloody Makumbo bloke. If necessary, make some up. I want him banged up by the end of the week!’

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Murder At St Marmaduke’s

To catch up on the story so far, see my website: http://www.colin-z-smith.com/masm.html for previous chapters, and the other sections of Chapter 5 below.

Chapter 5

Monday 4th November 1985: 14.00 – 14.45

Section (d)

DCI Charles Meredith swore; loudly, longly and very explicitly. Slamming shut the top drawer of his leftmost filing cabinet, he appended the expletive with, ‘You’d think the bloody A’s would all be in the same place!’

He yanked open the second drawer. An explosion in a paper factory met his eyes. He counted to one, then hurled that drawer closed as well. ‘I will not – will not – will not – lose my bloody temper!’ he told himself.

A knock sounded at his office door. With a sigh of relief at not having to try the next drawer down, he turned back to his desk and called, ‘Come in.’

The door opened, and the comfortable figure of Ernie Bulstrode barrelled in. ‘Ah, Ernie,’ Meredith said. ‘Come and save me from this bloody filing system, for God’s sake.’

Ernie grinned. ‘Another secretary left you in the lurch, Charlie?’

Meredith slumped into his seat and waved a bad-tempered hand in the direction of the cabinets behind him. ‘It took Sheila Granger two years to build a system I could work with. She retires, and six temps reduce it to rubble in three months flat. Only thing these agency girls know how to file are their nails.’

Ernie, uninvited, plonked himself onto the chair opposite. ‘That bad?’

‘That bad. I’ve just discovered the last one filed everything under “R” for “Report”, God help us.’

Ernie let out a bark of laughter.

‘It’s all right for you,’ Meredith said. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about except when your next tea break’s due.’

‘Oh, dunno about that. The stress I’ve got tryin’ to get Dawson to put the right amount of sugar in.’

‘I feel for you. And how is the young constable getting on?’

‘Fine, Charlie, fine. Definite CID material; which is, of course, his ambition in life, the prat.’

‘Really? You think he’s that good?’

‘Yep. Likes to dig into things; and logical with it. You should see the way he’s organised the caramel wafers.

‘He’ll make a good copper one day,’ the sergeant continued. ‘He just doesn’t know it himself at the moment.’

‘And no doubt you’re encouraging him all the way.’

‘Sarcasm, Charlie.’

Ernie leaned back in his chair and gave a beatific smile. ‘The way I see it is, if you give ’em enough bollocks, they develop all the quicker. The lad snapped at me only this mornin’. Good sign.’

‘I’ll tell him you recommended him.’

‘If you do, I’ll deny it to the end of my days.’

Meredith chuckled. ‘All right – I’ll bear him mind when an opportunity arises.’

‘Not before you get me a replacement!’

‘Oh, naturally.’ A thought struck Meredith. ‘Did you say, “organised”?’

‘Uh huh.’ Ernie looked suddenly worried.

‘As in, “could organise a badly mauled filing system”?’

‘Oh, now – hang on, Charlie…’

Meredith smiled triumphantly, and leaned forward. ‘You know you should be calling me “sir”, Sergeant?’

‘What – after all the years we’ve known each other?’

‘Rank counts over friendship.’

‘And I s’pose you’re about to pull it.’

‘I am indeed.’

Meredith sat back again and continued, ‘Right, that’s fixed, then. You tell young Dawson to report to me as soon as you get back to your counter. Shouldn’t take him more than – oh, five days? – to sort out this mess.’

‘Five days! You want me to deal with Joe Public for the rest of the week!’

‘You have it, Ernie. Well deduced.’ His smile widened. ‘Ever thought of applying for CID yourself?’

Ernie’s reply was inaudible and, Meredith assumed, not fit for the ears of a superior officer.

‘Anyway,’ he said, dismissing the subject, ‘I take it it isn’t young Dawson’s future you’ve dropped in to discuss?’

‘Nope.’

Meredith listened as Ernie described the day’s goings-on. ‘I’d lay a pound to my mortgage that the Chaffords are behind the robbery,’ the sergeant said. ‘But not the murder. Though the way Hampshire went into the interview room it’s a dead cert he wanted to pin both on the black lad.’

‘That wouldn’t surprise me, I admit.’

‘There’s another thing…’

Meredith frowned as Ernie told him about the strange wobble he’d felt in the station’s routine. It didn’t occur to him to doubt what the sergeant was saying. He’d have taken Ernie’s word on anything that happened in Camtown nick.

‘You say Jack only spent five minutes interviewing Makumbo?’

‘According to Dawson.’

‘That’s bizarre. I’ve never known Jack take less than an hour, especially where anybody darker than a gloss white’s involved.’

‘That’s a point, Charlie. Why did you put him in charge of this one?’

Meredith sighed. ‘Nobody else available, Ernie. I’ve left him till last pick; it so happens all the other senior officers are tied up on other cases. Besides – I have to use him, otherwise the Chief Constable gets on my back.’

‘Hampshire’s uncle, isn’t he?’

‘Cousin, Ernie. Either way, I can’t get rid of the pain in the arse. When I finally get slung out myself, I would like a pension to go home to.’

‘Appreciate your problem.’

‘Oh, well.’ Meredith shifted himself in his chair. ‘I suppose I’d better have a word with him. See if I can get the idea through that he might need to look elsewhere.

‘Though God knows,’ he added with another sigh, ‘once he gets something fixed in his head it takes a team of navvies with a JCB to dig it out again.

‘Leave it with me, Ernie.’

The sergeant got up to leave.

‘And don’t forget to send young Dawson in,’ Meredith added. ‘If he’s as good as you say he is, I look forward to him finding where the latest bimbo filed my lunch last Friday.’

Section (e)

Kevin Proctor threw aside the Patagonian shepherdess and rubbed his eyes wearily. Oh God, if he ever had to go through that again…!

He gazed at his slush pile. He knew exactly what it contained. HL Danvers’ latest masterpiece. HL Danvers’ masterpiece-before-last. HL Danvers’ masterpiece-before-that-one…

Oh – and the new one. He lifted it off the pile. Refreshingly thin; and refreshingly not HL Danvers.

He drew it out of its envelope. Interesting title, he thought.

Setting it in front of him, he lifted the frontispiece to turn it over.

The phone rang.

‘Bugger!’

He picked it up. ‘Yes, Sal?’

‘My name’s Sally, Kevin. I have a call for you.’

Kevin’s heart plummeted. ‘Oh, not…’

‘I’m afraid so.’

A click sounded. Reaching into his throat and yanking out his most enthusiastic voice, Kevin said, ‘HL! How lovely to hear from you…’

End of Chapter 5

Murder At St Marmaduke’s

To catch up on the story so far, see my website, http://www.colin-z-smith.com/masm.html for previous chapters, and the other sections of Chapter 5 below.

Chapter 5

Monday 4th November 1985: 14.00 – 14.45

Section (c)

Ernie Bulstrode was staring out at the waiting area, his copy of Busty lying disregarded underneath the reception counter.

Something was up. The beat of the station – normally as regular as his trips to the Gents – was out of gear. He didn’t know how he knew. It was just he’d been part of the furniture so long, he could feel it in his tea-induced water.

Everything’d been fine until ten minutes before. Then something had gone ‘clonk’.

Footsteps sounded, and Dawson appeared. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, Sarge.’

He sounded distant, and his normally cheerful face held a frown. ‘What’s up, lad?’ Ernie said, following him into the kitchenette.

Dawson filled the kettle, and set it onto its base. ‘I don’t really know, Sarge. It’s just – DI Hampshire was a bit weird when he came out from the interview.’

Ernie quirked an eyebrow. ‘Weird, lad? What did he do? Let Makumbo go with a pat on the back and a pledge to donate his next month’s wages to the Orphans in Africa appeal? By the way – that’ll boil a lot quicker if you switch it on.’

Dawson looked down, surprise on his face. ‘Oh. Sorry, Sarge.

‘Well, it was more or less that,’ he continued, depressing the switch. ‘Just stomped out and growled, “Get rid of the bastard.” No holding in the cells for as long as we’re allowed. He didn’t even look down his nose at me like he normally does. And he looked worried. I’ve never seen him look worried before.’

‘Now that is odd; I’ll grant you that.’

‘And besides, he’d only been in there five minutes. If he was getting Makumbo to repeat the story he told us, it should’ve taken far longer than that.’

‘Mmm.’

Ernie nodded. This was linked to his own unease. He knew it, as sure as he knew that eggs were little round things that came out of chickens’ bums.

He’d already reached a decision, but this reinforced it. ‘Right, lad,’ he said, heading out, ‘you look after things here; I’m going to see a man about a rottweiller.’

‘Sarge?’ Dawson stared down at Ernie’s empty mug, and at the kettle, which was beginning to steam.

Ernie waved a hand. ‘You can do me one when I get back.’

Some things were even more important than tea break.

And some aspects of tea break were more important than anything else. ‘By the way, Dawson…’

‘Yes, Sarge?’

‘I know the exact number of caramel wafers in that cupboard. And I know how many do a vanishing act when I’m not around. Just remember that.’

 

Murder At St Marmaduke’s

The story so far: A murder – witnessed by Joseph Makumbo – and a robbery have taken place at St Marmaduke’s church. Joseph has been taken to the police station for an interview, to be conducted by racist DI Jack Hampshire…

Chapter 5

Monday 4th November 1985: 14.00 – 14.45

Section (b)

Jack Hampshire thrust open the interview room door, and stood on the threshold.

One, two, three, four, five…

He eyed the bloke sitting at the table; the young, black bloke.

His lip curled. Well – he’d terrify this one in no time.

What was the bloke’s name? He glanced down at the file Constable Dozy, the woodentop plonk, had given him on the way in. Oh, yeah. Makumbo.

Not far removed from the name of the bastard who’d run off with his missus all those years ago.

He gave himself another ten count, then moved forward a pace. Just one.

He reached behind himself, and slowly swung the door closed.

One, two, three, four, five…

These were tricks that Archie Cosgrove, his old DI, had taught him. He’d never seen a suspect fail to be cowed by them. And this suspect was cowed. He could feel it.

‘Good afternoon,’ the suspect said. ‘Have you come to take my statement?’

Huh?

He felt his legs wobble, and his mind went blank. No suspect had ever wished him good anything before.

‘Erm -’

What was next?

His gaze dropped to the file. The file…

That was it! The next stage in the intimidation process. Open the file. Stare at the piece of paper it contained, the one giving a brief summary of the tissue of lies this bastard had probably come up with to explain away the murder. And the robbery.

He gave it a long, hard stare, reading nothing, trying to get his brain back into gear.

Okay. He felt steadier. Back to business. One, two, three, four…

He didn’t get to five. The world ripped apart, and a dizzying, terrifying sensation came over him, as if he’d been crumpled into a ball and hurled a vast distance.

When the world had reformed, he found himself seated at the table, Makumbo leaning forward earnestly and saying, ‘And that, as I told your sergeant and constable, Mr Inspector, is what happened.’

What?

He stared around in confusion. The recorder used for all interviews was working, the tape in it a good way through its length. His pad – that was open, a page filled in as if he’d been taking notes. ‘So one old lady stabbed the other in the eye, and you know nothing about the robbery,’ he heard himself say.

Where the hell had he got that from?

‘That is correct, Mr Inspector.’

His head still spinning, he dropped his gaze to the file again, which was on the table in front of him. He hadn’t even read the report. He didn’t have the first clue what excuses Makumbo was making, about either crime.

Except that it seemed he did.

What the hell was going on?

There was silence; then he realised the suspect was waiting for him to say something else.

‘Well, Mr -’

His voice sounded thin and weak. With an effort, he pulled himself together.

‘Well – Mr Makalumbo, if what you say is true, and St Marmalot’s has been the scene of these fantastical happenings, be sure that they’ll be investigated. Thoroughly.’

That was better. At least it sounded like normal him.

Had he had some kind of blackout? Conducted the interview while under the influence of an epileptic fit or something?

He certainly wasn’t under the influence of anything else. True, he’d had his usual three whiskies and two pints at lunchtime, but they’d never had this effect before.

‘It is true, Mr Inspector; honestly,’ Makumbo was saying. ‘And – I am sorry – but my name is Makumbo, and the church is St Marmaduke’s.’

Maybe he should have had a third pint after all.

He cleared his throat, then put the best sneer he could into saying, ‘I think I’ll be the judge of what names are what in this investigation, sir.

That was better, too. Much more like himself.

He had to get out of there, though. Take the tape, maybe; process just what had been said.

He stood abruptly, and reached over to the recorder’s stop button. ‘Interview ends -’ he checked his watch ‘- 14.15.’

Fourteen fifteen? How the hell could that be the time?

He stared at his watch, aghast. He hadn’t entered the room until ten past. From the length the tape had gone, and the notes he’d scribbled, surely the interview had lasted a good half-hour or so?

There was a clock on the wall behind Makumbo. He checked it. It echoed his watch exactly.

That did it. Something too bloody weird was happening. He needed a drink, and needed it now.

He’d normally have stood staring down at the suspect in an intimidating manner, before saying, ‘I’d advise you to get a lawyer, sir. I think you’re going to need one.’

Instead, he heard himself mumble, ‘I’ll get the constable to show you out.’

And with that, he showed himself out, fast.

Murder At St Marmaduke’s

Because of the fragmentary and top-down nature of this blog, a number of friends, having missed a few sections, have had to give up reading it.

For this reason, I am also posting each chapter, as I finish it, to my website. You can therefore catch up with anything you’ve missed from the first four chapters at http://www.colin-z-smith.com/masm.html

Now, if  you’ve caught up, read on…

 

The story so far: Joseph Makumbo has witnessed an old lady being murdered during a prayer meeting at church. Police Sergeant Ernie Bulstrode and his junior, Constable Terrence Dawson, have been investigating…

Chapter 5

Monday 4th November 1985: 14.00 – 14.45

Section (a)

Ernie Bulstrode and Terrence Dawson had been assigned to watch the interview room door. That was – Dawson had been assigned to watch the door; Ernie had assigned himself to watch Dawson. ‘Lad in there decides to do a runner,’ he’d said, ‘you won’t have a bleedin’ clue what to do.’

The fact was, he wasn’t going back to the front desk without his junior. The hour or so he’d been there while Dawson was at the church had been bad enough. Some woman had come in and asked where her missing cat was, for God’s sake!

He’d pointed her in the direction of the pet shop, telling her it was under observation for suspected pussy-napping. He’d happened to read the phrase in Busty just before she rolled through the door.

Now Dawson said, ‘I really don’t see why Makumbo’s been hauled in, Sarge. He told us everything he knew down at the church.’

Ernie raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s here, lad, because Inspector Clouseau’s decided that because he’s black, he’s got to have committed some crime or other. If he can’t get him for the murder, he’ll get him for the robbery. Or cat-napping,’ he added, thinking of the woman who’d disturbed his peace earlier on.

‘Is DI Hampshire really that prejudiced?’

‘He once had a dalmatian dog arrested for not being totally white. That answer your question?’

‘Oh, right.’ Dawson’s face creased into a frown. ‘But since we’ve been assigned to watch Makumbo doesn’t get away…’

‘Well?’

‘Well – shouldn’t we be on the inside of the interview room?’

Ernie spluttered. ‘What? And maybe learn somethin’ useful, all on our own? Like who really did the old lady in, and whether Makumbo saw the burglars at work? We wouldn’t want to do that in five minutes flat when the Great Plodhopper can take all night, now, would we?’

‘But Makumbo explained the murder…’

‘Oh, yeah. Little old ladies with pointy things.’ He gave Dawson a pitying look. ‘You really think that’s likely, lad?’

Dawson looked taken aback. ‘You saying he’s lying?’

‘Of course he is!’ Ernie tutted. ‘Thought we were beginnin’ to make a copper out of you.’

‘But why would he lie about something like that?’

‘’Aven’t a clue, lad. Probably thinks it sounds better than, “I run away when the burglars arrived, and left a little old woman to tackle them on her own.” Anything’d sound better than that; leastways, if I was tellin’ it, it would.’

‘But what about the vicar bloke? All that business about people being beaten to death with a lecture, or whatever it was? That’s got to be connected, surely? Why hasn’t he been hauled in as well?’

‘Oh, him!’ Ernie gave a snort. ‘Nutty as a monkey’s breakfast, lad. All this persecution complex these religious bods have. Get him in here, he’d be tryin’ to convert us to North Sea Gas, or whatever it is they believe in.’

‘There were loads of bodies down in the basement, though.’

‘Pound to a penny they were somebody’s pet gerbils or something.’

‘Gerbils? Sarge, they were people!’

‘Gerbils are tricky buggers, lad. Had one convince me and Mrs Bulstrode for years he was our son. Ate ’is way through ’ouse and ’ome before we realised he was nothin’ more than a rat with delusions of grandeur.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Dawson sounded annoyed at the joke. Ernie was pleased by that. The lad was beginning to show some spunk occasionally.

It wouldn’t stop him giving the constable all the grief he could, though. That’s what subordinates were for.

There was silence for a while, then Ernie said, ‘Anyway, lad, it’s not our problem now Hampshire’s involved. Though why Charlie Meredith chose him to lead this particular investigation’s beyond me.’

‘Why is the DI so prejudiced, Sarge?’ Dawson seemed to have got over his annoyance for the moment.

‘Ah. Goes back a long time. All to do with his missus.’

‘I didn’t know he was married.’

‘He ain’t, now.’

‘Oh?’

Ernie tapped his nose meaningfully. ‘Not the time, lad.’ He nodded towards the door that led to the CID corridor. ‘I reckon I hear the dull plod of an even duller detective comin’. With luck, he’ll have brought the CID brain-cell with him. Though personally, I reckon that Amita Chowdhary lass has got it on permanent loan.’

‘Vindaloo Girl?’

‘That’s what he calls her. Though -’ and he gave Dawson the hardest stare in his repertoire ‘- if I ever hear you refer to her by that name, I’ll take you out the back and beat seven shades of shit out of you.’

To his satisfaction, Dawson’s face went the colour of beetroot. ‘Sorry, Sarge. I don’t usually…’

‘Good.’ He turned his glare down a few notches; the lad wasn’t really that sort of tosser, and he’d have learnt this particular lesson good and proper. ‘Anyway, I’ve gotta go. When the Great Defective lets you bugger off, don’t forget to come straight back to the desk. Lots of work to be done.’

‘Work, Sarge? We’ve got work to do?’

‘Yes, lad, work. For a start, I’ve missed my elevenses and my lunch. Three sugars, as usual. And four caramel wafers.’

Murder At St Marmaduke’s

The story so far: At St Marmaduke’s church, Mabel Cartwright, an old lady, has been murdered. Shortly after, the church is also robbed. The police are investigating. Two very interested observers, the effigies of two saints attached to the pulpit, watch on…

Chapter 4

Monday 4th November 1985: 13.00 – 13.15

‘All this excitement,’ Andrew said. ‘Don’t think we’ve seen so many people since the Dread Primary School Gathering of 1971. You know – when all those seven-to-ten-year-olds came galloping in and decimated the place in five minutes flat.’

He laughed. ‘Do you remember, one little monster coloured your beard pink? Took the then vicar weeks to get it off. Mind you – that could have been more to do with the amount he was charging people to come and take pictures of you.

‘I thought it looked rather good, myself. Lit up the church at night, as well. Could see in all the corners, even. Did wonders helping the mice avoid the traps.

‘Do you remember, they started worshipping you as “Squeakacoatl, the Bizarrely-shaped Mouse God”? Kept sacrificing bits of cheese to you? Rather sweet, I thought.’

There was no reply from James. Oh, be like that, Andrew thought.

He supposed his fellow effigy was still sulking over his romantic situation. The griffin from the font had now set up home on the pew-end opposite James’s gargoyle girlfriend, and the two other-worldly creatures, Andrew understood, were only one step removed from starting what he guessed would be an extremely ugly stone-wood hybrid family.

It wasn’t that he missed the sound of James’s voice; but it did get a tad quiet when the other saint was having the occasional sulking fit. Always had, even when they’d been people rather than engravings.

‘Loads of folk wandering around in white costumes,’ he carried on, hoping to elicit some response. ‘Powdering things, then brushing them down. Vicar’ll have a fit; they’re leaving more dust than that roof restoration gang did. Remember the mess they made? All those bits of tile mucking up the altar?

‘The vicar accidentally handed them out as communion wafers. Terrible row.’

There was still no response from beside him. Andrew sighed. This was a real mope.

‘Tell you something else,’ he decided to give it one more try. ‘They’re being a bit liberal with this “Police – do not cross” tape. They’ve wrapped it right round my chest and half-way up my chin. Any higher, I wouldn’t be able to say a word. How about you? You got any?’

After a moment’s silence, he heard, ‘Mmm. Mmm mmm mmm mm mm mm mmm mmm mmm mmm.’

‘Oh. Oh, right.’

A thought struck him, and he couldn’t help letting out a chortle. ‘Oh well; at least you can’t say anything else to upset Gargoyly.’

‘Mmmmm mm mm mm mm mm mmm mmm mmm.’

‘No need to be rude.’

He smiled to himself; it was nice to be able to tease James for a change, rather than being on the receiving end.

Then something caught his eye; and, as far as it was possible for a frieze to freeze, he froze.

‘Oh heck,’ he said.

‘Mmm?’

‘Well – you know I told you they’ve been carrying all those stiffs up from the vault?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Well, that’s what they all were; stiff as the proverbial sermon. The old woman on the floor, though; they’re standing around her taking photographs at the moment…’

‘Mmm?’

‘And when they had their backs to her for a second…’

‘Mmm?’

‘I don’t think they’ve noticed; but she turned over so they could capture her good side.’

End of Chapter 4

Murder At St Marmaduke’s

The story so far: A murder and a robbery have taken place at St Marmaduke’s church. The police – in the form of Constable Terrence Dawson – are investigating. Terrence has called on assistance from his superior, Sergeant Ernie Bulstrode; while the vicar, Father Frank Rawlings, has called on his wife, Clarissa – ministering in her own unique way to Joseph Makumbo, who witnessed the murder – to come and help clean up the mess caused by it…

Chapter 3

Monday 4th November 1985: 10.30 – 11.30

Section (f)

Joseph watched in astonished horror as Father Rawlings held Mabel Number Three’s legs aloft and berated the policeman who was patiently trying to get him to drop them.

‘My choir have every right to practise in peace! We have a very important Evensong tonight; it’s the anniversary of the martyrdom of St Eric the Unfortunate, and they have to have the Te Deum in the correct order. On Friday evening, instead of “We praise thee, O God; we acknowledge thee to be the Lord”, they sang “Thee God we, O praise; thee acknowledge Lord to be the we”. That will never do!’

Clarissa Rawlings was standing by Joseph’s side, the mop and bucket he’d carried to the church for her poised ready for action. ‘Perhaps, darling, we should wait for the constable’s superior to arrive,’ she suggested.

Joseph had encountered mixed emotions when, after she’d taken her phone call, she’d announced that her husband wanted them at the church. Hot and bothered as he’d been with her presence so close on the sofa, he’d suddenly found that when it was removed, he began to hope it would return as quickly as possible. Becoming disappointed when he realised it wouldn’t, he’d cheered up with the thought that at least he’d have the compensation of her company on the short walk to the church.

He’d been rather disgruntled, therefore, when they’d arrived and Clarissa had shaken the young policeman’s hand in greeting. He’d felt she held on a fraction longer then necessary. Her smile had been a little too friendly as well.

Oh my! he’d thought a second later. Surely I should not be experiencing such feelings? Should they not be more natural to Father Rawlings?

The thoughts he was beginning to have regarding Clarissa Rawlings were frightening him. Even for thinking of her as ‘Clarissa’ Rawlings rather than ‘Mrs’, his mother would have had him locked in his bedroom and on his knees in prayer for a week.

‘A good idea, Mrs Rawlings,’ the policeman said. He looked thoroughly harassed. Joseph began to feel sorry for him; then he saw the smile he gave the vicar’s wife, and the smile she gave him back, and the feeling was pounced on and pummelled into submission by another, far darker one.

At that moment, a heavy tread sounded in the porch, and a look of relief passed over the policeman’s face.

‘Is there a problem here?’ the tread demanded, entering the church behind them.

Joseph looked round. A shorter, older, more rotund version of the policeman stared back at him; rather rudely, he thought.

‘I’m Sergeant Bulstrode. I said, is there a problem here?’

Father Rawlings broke the ensuing short silence. ‘Ah, Sergeant. I was just telling your constable…’

The sergeant transferred his attention to the action at the front. His eyes popped, and his face turned a colour Joseph could only assume that the word ‘puce’ had been especially invented for.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ The voice that came out of the puce was low and dangerous; like that of a very large dog whose bone had been picked up from in front of its eyes. ‘Would you mind telling me why you’re waving that lady’s legs around like that? Most undignified, I’d say. Not to mention tampering with evidence.’

Joseph looked back towards Father Rawlings’ battle with Mabel Number Three’s prone form. He saw the vicar’s face crease into a frown.

‘Evidence, Sergeant? What do you mean? Miss Cartwright will have had nothing to do with this dreadful robbery, if that’s what you’re thinking. And it might be helpful if you officers were out looking for our valuable candlesticks instead of congregating in here like it was some kind of meeting place. Time is wasting, Sergeant. The tealeaves will be having it away on their toes as we speak.’

There was a splutter from beside Joseph. ‘I’m so sorry, Sergeant,’ Clarissa Rawlings said. ‘We were watching an episode of The Bill last night.’

Joseph turned back to the sergeant. ‘Excuse me, sir. I can help with regard to the murdered lady.’

The stare coming out of the popping eyes transferred itself back to him, only doubled in ferocity. It became the kind of stare you could only quail in front of, and Joseph duly quailed.

Before either he or the sergeant could speak further, however, the vicar cut in: ‘Ah, yes; Joseph. Do you know that when you left earlier this morning you failed to lock up after you? And look – church property has been stolen and damaged. What were you thinking?’

For not the first time that morning, Joseph felt his jaw work up and down with no sound emerging. At the same time, as if he and the senior policeman had suddenly formed themselves into a ventriloquist act, the sergeant supplied the necessary words: ‘Are you saying, vicar, that the death of that poor woman is of secondary importance to the theft of a couple of candles?’

‘Candlesticks, Sergeant, candlesticks! Why is it that you officers seem obsessed by the candles we put in them? They only cost one pound from Woolworths. The candlesticks, on the other hand…’

‘That’s beside the point, sir…’ the sergeant began to interrupt.

‘Of course it isn’t!’ The vicar was not to be deflected, it seemed. ‘We have any number of elderly congregants who are able to take Miss Cartwright’s place. Why, Joseph here is himself replacing Mr Jenkins, whose head was beaten against the lectern a few months ago. Our missing items, however, are invaluable!

Every bone in Joseph’s legs seemed to vanish at the same instant, and he began to collapse. The next moment, Clarissa Rawlings’ hand was under his arm, and then he felt a pillowy softness beneath his head.

It felt nice. Then he realised what the pillows were, and the rest of his bones vanished too.

‘A man was beaten to death against the lectern?’ The sergeant now sounded as if he was forcing out the words through teeth that were glued together. ‘And you didn’t think there was anything untoward about it? Didn’t think to report it to us, for example?’

Father Rawlings was staring at him. ‘Why – why should I? I mean – these elderly people have to go to glory sometime. Better here than anywhere else; at least they’re nearer to God when they go. And it wasn’t as if there was much blood involved. We hardly needed to spend anything on cleaning fluid. No need for a fuss at all, really.’

End of Chapter 3

Murder At St Marmaduke’s

The story so far: A murder – witnessed by Joseph Makumbo – and a robbery have taken place at St Marmaduke’s church. Meanwhile, Sally Evans at Proctorpress Publishing Company – for whom Joseph works – has taken delivery of the first couple of chapters of the manuscript of a new novel.

Her boss, Kevin Proctor, is ploughing through the tale of a love triangle between a Patagonian shepherdess, a prince of the Undongo tribe in East Venezuala and a merman from the planet Oolaxian…

Chapter 3

Monday 4th November 1985: 10.30 – 11.30

Section (e)

Kevin Proctor disengaged himself from the doings of the Patagonian shepherdess and her two male suitors. Or rather – her one male suitor and the merman from Oolaxian, about whom there seemed to be a slight confusion regarding sex. Of which he/she/it seemed to be getting rather a lot, mostly from various nubile females who fell under some alien hypnotic power it wielded; but occasionally from their boyfriends/husbands, when it took the fancy; and once, disturbingly, from a pet budgerigar belonging to one of them.

He sighed, suspecting that the search for a bestseller-list candidate would be going on a while longer.

He stretched, and got up from his desk. He’d go into the outer office and see if Sally had the coffee-maker on the go.

Hmm. Perhaps Sally would be susceptible to a little alien hypnotic influence? The merman’s technique was described in minute detail between pages 46 and 53.

He shook himself mentally. Not a chance.

He opened the door to his office and passed into Sally’s reception area. ‘Hi, Sal,’ he said.

She glanced up from a letter she was typing. ‘Can I help you, Kevin? And it’s Sally, if you don’t mind.’

‘And it’s Kev, if you don’t.’ It was a game they’d been playing every day for the two years Proctorpress had been in existence. Sally insisting on the full version of her given name; and he insisting on the shortened version of his.

At least – he hoped it was a game. If she wasn’t treating it as such, it might result in her finally upping sticks one day, and the thought of her loss gave him unpleasant sensations in areas where he’d rather be feeling pleasurable ones.

He strolled over to the coffee pot, which, as he’d expected, was full.

‘Cup?’

‘I will, please.’

He poured two, and brought one to her desk.

‘Joseph’s phoned in,’ she said. ‘Asked if he can take the day off. He seems to have had some trouble at the church he goes to.’

‘Really? Well, there’s nothing urgent, that’ll be fine.’

‘I said as much.’

Standing over her, he made sure to keep his gaze fixed unwaveringly on her face. He’d learnt early – and at the cost of great personal embarrassment – that letting it slip elsewhere brought wintry frosts into the office that froze the central heating pipes solid.

Not that it was a hardship looking at her face.

Concentrate on business, Kev.

‘Anything interesting in the post?’ He doubted there was, but it might keep his mind on other things. Or off other things.

Concentrate!

She indicated a small pile of correspondence at her elbow. ‘Three letters; all from HL Danvers, all posted Saturday, all asking how you’re getting on with her latest work of, and I quote, outstanding genius…’

He closed his eyes. The merman and the budgerigar were imprinted on the back of his eyelids.

‘An invitation to the Aberystwyth Literary Festival to discuss the influence of 14th century Singapore novelists on fifteen-year-olds in comprehensive education…’

‘?’

She quirked an eyebrow at him. He’d come to recognise it as her equivalent of a smile, and whenever she unbent herself to do it, he had a wild hope she might be softening towards him.

‘Again – not a chance.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Oh, er… Nothing. Nothing. Just thinking that one through. Anything else?’

‘Yes. This.’ She handed him an A4 envelope.

He groaned. ‘Oh no. Another HL Danvers, I take it?’ The Patagonian shepherdess’s creator had been submitting a manuscript a month for the last year. He was running out of polite ways to tell her, ‘Your novel is interesting, but sadly it does not fit our list at the present time.’

‘No, surprisingly not,’ she said. ‘Someone else; someone we’ve not heard from before.’

‘Oh?’ He raised his own eyebrows in surprise. Nobody but HL Danvers had submitted anything for months.

‘Yes,’ she went on. ‘Very odd; it came by airmail.’

‘Sorry?’ He searched her face to check if she was serious. As her face always looked exactly that, it was impossible to tell.

‘The postman seemed in rather a hurry. And he left the letters and invitation scattered over the stairs as he went.’

‘Really?’

He took the envelope and the invitation from her. He’d leave the mystery of the ‘airmail’ remark for another time. Perhaps when he’d learnt to work out how to tell when she was joking.

Did she ever joke? He really didn’t know.

Concentrate.

‘Usual reply to the others?’ he said.

‘Just finishing it.’ She indicated the letter in her typewriter. ‘I’ll sign for you; it’ll be in the post this afternoon.’

‘Cheers, Sal; you’re a love.’ That was another game. He dared just enough…

‘Sally. And one day I’ll be able to take you to court for that remark.’

He carried his coffee back into his office and closed the door. Her reply had only been at about three on the frost scale. Hope flickered again.

And one day, I’ll be able to ask you out on a date.

He wondered if he ever would.

Oh, to hell with it. He slung the new manuscript on top of the Patagonian shepherdess, and began to read the invitation to Aberystwyth.

Murder At St Marmaduke’s

The story so far: An old lady has been murdered at St Marmaduke’s church. The church has also been robbed, and the vicar has reported this – but not the murder – to the police. Constable Terrence Dawson has been despatched to investigate. His sergeant, Ernie Bulstrode, waits for him to return…

Chapter 3

Monday 4th November 1985: 10.30 – 11.30

Section (d)

The phone beside Ernie Bulstrode’s elbow jangled into life. ‘Dawson!’ he yelled in the direction of the kitchenette.

Damn!

He grabbed the receiver. ‘Camtown Police Station,’ he said, turning over another page of Busty. Korporal Karen smouldered up at him, wearing combat knickers and a tommy gun slung over her shoulder. He wondered how much damage her twin howitzers would cause if pointed in the wrong direction.

‘Er, Sarge.’

‘Oh, it’s you, Dawson. Where the blue blazes are you? My bleedin’ mug’s been empty for hours.’

There was a sharp indrawing of breath at the other end of the phone. ‘Listen, Sarge, this is important. There’s been a murder.’

‘You what!’

Ernie wrenched his attention away from Korporal Karen and his lack of refreshment, and onto the phone call. ‘Say that again, Dawson.’

‘There’s been a murder, Sarge.’

Ernie clapped the hand that wasn’t holding the phone onto his head. ‘What the ’ell ’ave you done, Constable? I told you to go and find out what was going on; not to kill anybody.’

‘No, Sarge!’ The agitation in Dawson’s voice increased. ‘There’s an old woman here, lying on the floor. Looks like she’s been dead a while. The vicar doesn’t seem bothered. Keeps wanting me to help move her down to the crypt.’

‘Eh?’

‘Yeah. Reckons he’s got about five others stored down there.’

Ernie gripped the phone tighter. ‘You listen to me, lad. I’m comin’ over there. You tell that vicar fella nothing gets moved until I get there. You got that?’

‘Yes, Sarge. Oh. Hang on.’

Ernie heard a stream of muffled dialogue for a moment, then Dawson said, ‘Erm – he reckons the choir’s coming in at four o’clock to practise. Says he needs to clear up before then.’

‘Dawson!’ Ernie could feel his pulse quicken. He’d been warned about getting too agitated; the doctor reckoned his blood pressure could only go so much higher before his arteries exploded. ‘I couldn’t give a tinker’s goolies about the choir. Tell him they can practise up the bell tower or something!’

There was another stream of muffle. ‘Erm – he reckons they’ve tried that; the acoustics aren’t right, though.’

‘Dawson!’

There was a loud clunk, as if the phone on the other end had just hit something very solid; the floor, for instance. This was replaced by a scrabbling noise.

‘Erm – sorry about that, Sarge.’

Ernie controlled his patience. Just. ‘You tell that vicar that his choir can go -’

No, he decided, I am going to lose my patience after all, and bugger the arteries.

‘They can go ************************************** so far as I’m concerned!’

There was dead silence from the other end. Then Dawson said in a very small voice, ‘Do you really want me to put it in so many words?’

Ernie felt rather better for his outburst; and nothing inside him appeared to have gone bang. ‘Look, lad, from what I’ve heard of church choirs, I doubt they’d know an acoustic if they fell over a bucket of ’em. Nothing moves till I get there – right?’

He slammed the phone down, lifted his overcoat off its stand, and shrugged it on. As he left, he hung the ‘closed’ sign on the reception window. The great unwashed public could go solve their own problems for a while.

Murder At St Marmaduke’s

The story so far: At a Monday morning prayer meeting at St Marmaduke’s church, an old lady is murdered. The vicar, Father Frank Rawlings, discovers that the church has also been robbed, and reports this – but not the murder – to the police. Constable Terrence Dawson is despatched by his sergeant to investigate…

Chapter 3

Monday 4th November 1985: 10.30 – 11.30

Section (c)

Father Rawlings was striding around the front of the church, pointing out the empty places that had once held valuable objects: ‘…and here, there were the candlesticks that the Terrified Trappists of Teddington donated to us in 1580. Before my time, of course, but much admired over the years by all visitors to St Marmaduke’s…’

Terrence Dawson watched, fascinated, as the vicar lifted his leg to make another transition over the body lying on the floor, its head swathed in a pool of blood. A couple of chairs stood beside it, the plastic, school-room type. As he stepped over, Father Rawlings grabbed one in each hand; then, on the other side, he deposited them neatly onto a stack to one side of the choir stalls.

It was as if the dead woman hadn’t registered on his conscious; as if his legs were operating independently in order to keep him from falling over her.

‘Are you taking notes, Constable?’

‘Hmm?’ Terrence tore his gaze away, bent his head and pretended to jot something down in his notebook. ‘Erm – expensive, were they, these candles?’

He lifted his head again, and encountered a stare that would have had Sergeant Bulstrode asking for tips on technique. ‘Candles? What on earth are you on about, Constable? I’m talking about the candlesticks. Absolutely priceless. Been in the church since…’

‘Since 1580; you said.’ He felt himself reddening, and bent his head again quickly.

‘And here – ’ Father Rawlings was moving towards the back, stopping at a counter mid-way that held a small pile of leaflets ‘- the box where money is posted for the History of St Marmaduke’s from its founding in 1473 BC pamphlets has also been broken into. Absolutely disgraceful.’

The vicar gave a grimace. ‘I suppose I shall have to ask those of the congregation who have bought one of the pamphlets to pay again. Printing costs don’t meet themselves, you know. And whilst I’m about it, I really must get the date corrected. The earliest instance of a church here is actually 24 BC.’

Terrence did make a note this time. He supposed the fingerprint experts should be called in. No doubt the thief had worn gloves. But every avenue had to be explored. And the date of the candlesticks might be a help in tracking them down. Though they would probably have been made some years before that…

What the heck are you thinking? This is ridiculous!

‘Father Rawlings,’ he said.

‘Yes, Constable?’ The vicar was fussing around with the box, a cube of metal with a slot in its top and a door in its back. It had been levered out of its mounting in the cabinet, and the door hung open, limp and buckled.

‘Could I ask you not to touch that, sir? And, by the way, do you know there’s a dead body on your floor?’

Father Rawlings looked up and frowned. ‘Oh yes, I’ll need your help there, if you don’t mind.’

‘Help?’

‘Yes.’ The vicar was striding towards the front again. ‘Your help to move her, of course. We can’t have people cluttering up the place. I’ve Evensong at five o’clock – we need to make sure everything’s clean and tidy by then.’

Terrence felt himself goggling.

‘Hopefully, my wife will be here soon,’ Father Rawlings continued. ‘With a mop and bucket. Unhelpful of Miss Cartwright to bleed all over the floor like that. Not to mention that – that -’ He inclined his head towards what looked like the congealed remains of a pre-packed casserole near the body.

‘But Father, there’s a dead woman here! And unless the part of my training course that dealt with how to spot a suspicious death misled me, she’s been murdered!’

‘Oh, yes.’ Father Rawlings treated the statement with the same air of matter-of-factness he might have given an enquiry for directions. ‘That often happens when the ladies get together.

‘We generally store them in the crypt. You can give me a hand down with her if you would, when you’ve finished taking the description of our missing cross.’