Betty Church and the Suffolk Vampire Page 6

  ‘Police, halt!’ I bellowed at the top of my voice and, to my relief, the man did. ‘Put down your weapon,’ I commanded.

  ‘Is that her?’ he gasped breathlessly.

  ‘Who is her and who are you?’ I raised the pump, hoping it looked more threatening than it felt. ‘Put the knife down, sir.’

  Most men respond better if you show them a respect you don’t feel. Maybe it makes them feel they should be the gentlemen they know they aren’t.

  ‘Knife?’ the man puffed, brandishing the machete.

  ‘Put… it… down,’ I instructed. ‘Now.’ Five seconds more and I would launch myself into him. I probably wouldn’t win but at least he wouldn’t be expecting it.

  ‘Oh sorry…’ The man bent and put his weapon on the ground. ‘I was chopping up old packing cases for firewood when she dropped in.’

  ‘Dropped in?’ I repeated doubtfully. ‘Doesn’t look like you had a cup of tea and a chat.’

  ‘No.’ He straightened up. ‘She fell through my cellar doors. I’m landlord at the Leg O’ Lamb.’ He peered over. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Put the gun down,’ the woman directed.

  ‘What gun?’ the man and I chorused. He showed her his empty palms. ‘She took a nasty tumble,’ he told me. ‘Knocked out cold she was.’

  ‘So cold.’ She hugged herself, sobbing to the man, ‘Help me, Officer. This woman shot me.’

  ‘You have not been shot,’ I told her. ‘Can you remember who you are?’

  ‘Can you?’ she challenged. ‘Can you remember who I am?’

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked the man.

  ‘Saint Jaspar Divers,’ he said without a blink then blinked. ‘Don’t blame me. Blame my parents. Most people call me Jasp.’

  ‘How ingenious.’ At least he had got the name right but, just like me, he could have seen it over the pub door. ‘Three pints of bitter, half a mild, two rum and waters, a whisky and soda, a double brandy – oh and make one of those bitters a half and have one yourself, landlord,’ I rattled off. ‘Repeat my order.’

  The man did without hesitation. ‘Thanks very much. I’ll have a half later,’ he added. ‘Eight shillings and thruppence, please.’

  The girl stiffened. ‘Did you notice his accent?’ she demanded loudly. ‘It is German. Did you notice hers?’ She looked from one to the other. ‘It’s German. You are German spies. They are spies!’ she yelled. ‘Help me, they are spies!’

  ‘I am a police officer,’ I tried to explain, again.

  ‘Spies!’ she repeated with a shriek that might not have wakened the dead but certainly wakened the living. Bedroom sash windows were flying up with yells of ‘What’s going on?’ or ‘Call the police!’

  ‘I am a police officer,’ I called, briefly shining a light on my helmet. ‘Everything is under control. Please go back to your beds.’

  A dog started barking nearby.

  ‘They are torturing me!’ the girl yelled. ‘Somebody call the pleesh.’

  Another dog joined in.

  Another sash rose and a long tube shape poked out. ‘Release that woman or I fire,’ a man commanded but I didn’t even need my torch for that one.

  ‘With a broom?’ I sighed as a light went on in the adjacent window.

  ‘Put that light out,’ everybody yelled, entering into the spirit of the trial run with commendable enthusiasm, largely, I think, because a rumour had spread that this wasn’t really just a practice at all and that Hitler was going to strike before we had a chance to start anything.

  ‘I am coming, mein Führer,’ the girl shrieked in a remarkably quick change of sides.

  ‘I need to get her to hospital,’ I told Saint Jaspar, ‘before one of us gets lynched.’

  I leaned my bike against the bush again. ‘This had better be here when I come back,’ I called to the ever-increasing number of heads and looped my arm through the woman’s.

  ‘Come along, miss.’ Jasp picked up his machete, came over and took her other arm. ‘Time to go.’

  ‘Police!’ a woman yelled.

  ‘Oh good grief,’ I muttered and we went slowly on our way.

  16

  BONESHAKERS AND THE TENNIS BALL DIET

  The Royal Albert Sackwater Infirmary was quiet. The man who had dislocated his jaw demonstrating that he could get a tennis ball in his mouth, but failing to demonstrate that he could get it out again, would have to wait, a nurse who looked like she had eaten everything except that tennis ball told me.

  Jasp went back to the Leg O’ Lamb. He had shut the doors and not locked them and was worried somebody would get into his cellar.

  ‘You’ll be seen in a minute,’ she told the girl who greeted the news in a panic.

  ‘We’ll be seen,’ she cried. ‘I told you we should have stayed hidden. Now we’ll be shot as spies, mein Gott in Himmel.’

  ‘Bist du Deutscher?’ the nurse said. ‘Ich war in Koln.’

  ‘If you are trying to pass secret messages, you could wait until I’ve gone,’ I suggested. ‘Even I can guess at what that means.’

  ‘I knew it,’ the girl exclaimed. ‘You are both filth columnists. Nurse and policewoman indeed. Well, I can see through that little sub-something.’

  ‘Terfuge,’ I finished her word for her, not quite sure why except that I hate unfinished words. They are like songs with the last notes missing or carpets frayed around the edges.

  ‘Terfuge?’ the girl repeated, touching her hair thoughtfully. She scrutinised the mess on her fingers. ‘Custard,’ she decided before she crumpled at the knees.

  ‘Delayed shock?’ I suggested after I had helped catch the unconscious figure and dragged her to a trolley.

  ‘Hysteria,’ the nurse corrected me. ‘The female of the species is a feeble and stupid creature. You have probably noticed as much yourself.’

  ‘Not in any species that I am a part of,’ I told her.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the nurse conceded, ‘but then policewomen are not very observant. Nor are they really female.’

  ‘Fuffinellelpme,’ the man with a Slazenger between his jaws interjected, or something to that effect.

  *

  My bike was still where I had left it but a note had been tied to the handlebars.

  IF YOU LEAVE YOUR VELOCIPEDE HERE AGAIN I SHALL INFORM THE POLICE.

  Velocipede? To the best of my knowledge the word had died before Disraeli. Perhaps I was optimistic to tell Brigsy to expect the twentieth century. It would be a long time coming yet.

  17

  NETTLES AND THE PRINCESS

  My father was still at the kitchen table when I returned to Felicity House the next morning. He was pouring a cup of tea for his guest.

  ‘Good morning, Dad, Dodo,’ I said as cheerily as I could for it had not been especially good so far. Jimmy had forgotten to lock the henhouse so I had missed breakfast helping to search for them. Who knew hens were quite so fond of nettle patches? I had found out the hard way.

  ‘Morning.’ He glared at me.

  Dodo was using my mug, the one nobody else was allowed to use, not even Aunt Philly when she came to stay – and I was very fond of her. I helped myself to my third favourite – Dad had my second.

  ‘Good morning, Betty.’ Dodo caught my glance. ‘But what is the matter? Do you have a tummsy ache?’

  ‘When you are an inspector you can use my first name,’ I said. My rank meant something to me, if not to her.

  ‘Oh but…’ Dodo’s voice drifted away. Her lower lip drooped.

  ‘I see you’ve had breakfast,’ I added rather obviously.

  Dodo brightened. ‘Oh yes and we have been having a good old chinwag.’ From my father’s pained expression, I could guess whose chin had been wagging the most. ‘I have told Mr Church all about Daddy’s teeth – all the troubles he has had with them having three sets and his gums being weak. Then we discussed Mummy’s teeth – before she departed of course – and I showed him my teeth without even being asked to.’

  ‘She did
,’ my father confirmed grimly.

  ‘Mr Church said they looked clean though he couldn’t see them properly without his tools.’ Dodo took the last triangle of toast from the rack. ‘I was not sure if I should wear my uniform.’

  She had a summer frock on, red paisley with blue trim on the collar and short sleeves – pretty but the neckline was a little low, I thought.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I put two slices of bread under the grill. ‘Officially you don’t start until next week but I can show you around the town,’ I suggested and Dodo sprang up, her dress quite short even by more relaxed modern standards.

  ‘I shall go to get ready,’ she announced and rushed upstairs.

  ‘Gave me the fright of my life when she came bounding along the corridor this morning,’ my father grumbled. ‘All that hair, I thought I was being attacked by Coco the Clown.’

  *

  It was a dull day with a bit of an easterly wind but Dodo declined my suggestion that she bring a coat or wear a cardigan.

  ‘Oh but I never feel the cold,’ she assured me as she skipped down the drive in her matching red bonnet, reached the gate then hesitated, ‘unless it is actually cold. I think I might change my mind. Do you think I should?’

  ‘I wish you would.’

  ‘I’ll be quick as a Quaker.’

  I paced the pavement and eventually Dodo returned in exactly the same clothes. ‘I changed my mind about changing my mind. I want everyone to see my pretty dress.’ Dodo spun so that it flared, rising high up her slender thighs. ‘Do you like it, B— Inspector?’

  ‘It’s a nice pattern,’ I began.

  ‘Daddy said I looked like a princess when I put it on for him.’ Dodo giggled. ‘But oh what fun we shall have.’

  ‘No we shall not.’

  ‘Where is the sea?’ Dodo scanned 360 degrees under the shade of her hand. ‘I cannot see the sea.’

  ‘About two hundred yards behind the house.’

  She made a telescope with her hands. ‘I carrrn’t see no sea, cap’ain.’

  ‘Behave.’

  We turned left and set off.

  ‘So are we proceeding in a northerly direction?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Norrr-therrr-leee.’ Dodo brought out a notebook and pencil.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Practising.’ She licked the lead.

  ‘You’ll get plenty of that soon enough.’

  ‘How soon? Will it be very?’ Dodo stopped, poised to record my reply.

  A man in a dark suit and carrying a battered briefcase came towards us.

  ‘Put that notepad away,’ I snapped.

  ‘I was just going to write the house names down in block capitals.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Little Miss Grumpy.’ Dodo rammed the book into her handbag.

  ‘Did you say yes Inspector?’ Within two minutes Dodo Chivers had transformed me into the terror of the parade ground.

  ‘No I…’ Dodo paused. ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  The man walked by. ‘Good morning, sir,’ Dodo greeted him merrily.

  He looked askance at her then me. ‘You’re supposed to be getting them off the streets, not pimping them.’ He marched on.

  Dodo stared at me open-mouthed. ‘Are you not going to arrest him?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Insulting a police officer.’ She shuffled her dress about. ‘Insulting two police officers, now I think of it.’

  ‘No.’ I kept walking.

  ‘But oh.’ The notebook reappeared. ‘So it is all right to use offensive language in the North Sea Suffolk resort town of Slackwater.’

  ‘Sackwater.’

  ‘Slackwater sounds nicer. Sackwater does not make sense.’ Two sailors were ambling on the opposite pavement. ‘I only said good morning, sir,’ Dodo grumbled. ‘It is not as if I said,’ her voice rose, taking on a stage cockney barmaid timbre, ‘like a nice time, dear?’

  ‘Not ’arf!’ one of them yelled back.

  ‘I’ll take the one in the cheeky uniform,’ his mate called.

  ‘You’ll take a running jump if you know what’s good for you,’ I threatened, to more hilarity.

  ‘What is this place?’ Dodo howled at me. ‘A den of sex fiends?’

  ‘Will be when we’ve spread the word,’ the first sailor cackled and both doubled up in mirth.

  ‘Right.’ I grabbed hold of Dodo and propelled her away.

  ‘What? Ouchy-wouchy, but you are hurting my arm.’

  ‘Keep walking.’ I quick-frogmarched Dodo Chivers to the end of the road, round the corner and to a bench by the bus stop. ‘Sit there.’ I sat down beside her.

  ‘Are we catching a bus?’ Dodo rubbed her arm.

  ‘No we are damned well not.’

  ‘I cannot help but notice’ – Dodo edged an inch away from me – ‘that you swear rather a lot. Daddy says it is not ladylike.’

  ‘I’m glad you mentioned that.’ I edged two inches towards her. Nobody was going to treat me as if I should be quarantined, least of all a sopping-wet-behind-the-ears constable. ‘Because I have news for you, Dolores Davina Porthia Chivers. Two weeks and two days ago you ceased to be a lady. There is no such job as lady police officer. If there was, I would not be eligible because, as you have observed, I am not a lady. The proudest moment of my life was when I became a woman police officer.’

  ‘Mine too.’ Dodo sniffed.

  ‘Then start behaving like one.’

  Dodo sniffed again. ‘I will try.’

  ‘And stop snivelling. WPCs do not snivel.’

  ‘I shall try, truly I shall.’ Dodo hiccupped. ‘Sorry B— Inspector, I always do that when I am upset.’

  She looked so little and forlorn that I almost relented, but no man would have expected or got a cuddle.

  ‘And stop calling me B—Inspector.’

  ‘Sorry, Inspector.’

  ‘That’s better.’ I got up feeling awful, for I could still remember what an innocent I had been when I started. ‘Right, blow your nose, stand up and start again.’

  Dodo unclipped her handbag and rummaged about.

  ‘Oh dear I do not appear to have a hankychiefy.’

  ‘Handkerchief,’ I corrected, handing her mine.

  ‘Thanker-chief,’ Dodo Chivers quipped and I did not know toast could curdle but mine did deep inside me.

  18

  STARCH AND THE GIRDLE AND HORRIBLE HOUSE

  We waited for the rag and bone man to trot by. He had an upright piano on his cart and a barley-twist chimney pot tied to the wooden rail.

  ‘How tall are you?’ I asked as we crossed the road, for Dodo’s head hardly seemed to reach my chin.

  ‘Why is that house called Straw House?’ She pointed with her left elbow at the tumbledown structure on the corner. ‘When it is made of brick.’

  ‘It was built by a man called Thomas Straw,’ I told her.

  ‘It would have been more fitting if his name was Thomas Horrible,’ she declared with some justification. The roof was sagging badly in the middle and several of the windows were boarded over. ‘Because it would be called Horrible House then,’ she explained but I was not that easily distracted.

  ‘How tall are you?’ I asked, more firmly this time.

  ‘In my shoes?’ Dodo enquired innocently.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh but I would never ever turn up on duty without them.’

  ‘Bare feet,’ I insisted.

  ‘I just made the regulation five feet and four inches.’ Dodo jumped with both feet together onto the kerb.

  ‘Walk sensibly. You don’t look that tall to me.’

  Dodo turned a light pink. ‘Can I tell you the truth?’

  ‘Don’t ever tell me anything else.’

  ‘I am five foot two and a tweensy bit less,’ she admitted. ‘But, before you ask and after you ask, I weigh seven stone and twelve pounds.’

  ‘Two pounds under the minimum requirement,’ I observed as she broke st
ep to keep up with my longer stride. ‘So how did you pass the medical?’

  ‘Promise you will not tell?’

  ‘I’ll make you one promise.’ I stepped over a furry white dog dropping. ‘If you don’t explain yourself, I will have you reassessed and out of the force before you get a chance to put on your uniform.’

  ‘I put starch in my hair under the surface so the measuring stick didn’t touch my head.’

  ‘And?’

  Dodo Chivers blushed. ‘I wore big bloomers and the man doctor was too embarrassed to tell me to take them off and I sewed lots of Daddy’s fishing weights into a girdle underneath – just over two pounds of them and jolly uncomfortable it was too.’ We stopped outside number 6. ‘So now you know and you will snitch on me and I will have to go home in disgrace on a choo-choo train.’ Dodo hiccupped.

  I gazed into the distance, impressed despite myself by her initiative. ‘You must be mistaken, Constable Chivers. You are five feet four and weigh eight stone. I think you’ll find it says so on your records.’

  ‘Oh,’ Dodo cried. ‘Thank you, Inspector. I knew you could not really be so horrid as you seem.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on that,’ I warned.

  ‘Oh but I never gamble,’ my constable assured me piously, ‘except on horse races, greyhound races, card games and, of course, roulette.’

  ‘Of course,’ I agreed faintly. We were outside Moulton’s Bookstore and I supposed this was as good a place to start as any. ‘Come on. I’ll introduce you.’

  ‘To a shop?’ Dodo wondered and I wished I had not already opened the door.

  Moulton’s Bookstore had a bow window painted brown but not within living memory. It was a long thin shop, lined either side by sagging shelves crammed with leather-bound food for grubs and mites. Down the central aisle ran four narrow rectangular tables piled with more heavy volumes than anyone could hope to read in a lifetime. Considering they were largely titles such as The History of Waistcoat Buttons in two hefty volumes, few – other than Sidney Grice with his love of the esoteric – would have wanted to try.