Five Dead Canaries hf-3 Read online

  Sickened by what she saw and seized by a clawing despair, Maureen lost all control of her body and collapsed to the ground in a heap. She never even heard the anxious cries of neighbours and the clanging approach of the fire engine.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Harvey Marmion was just leaving Scotland Yard when he heard hurried footsteps behind him. He turned to see a uniformed constable coming at speed towards him. Marmion’s heart sank. He sensed an emergency and that meant his wife would not see him home as early as promised. Marmion would be on extended duty.

  ‘Excuse me, Inspector,’ said the constable, ‘but there’s an urgent message from Superintendent Chatfield. He’d like to see you immediately.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you could tell him that I’ve already gone, could you? No,’ said Marmion, seeing the baleful look in the other man’s eye, ‘that would be unfair on you because you’d get the blame.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘All right, I’ll go. Thanks for the message and goodbye to a restful evening in my armchair.’

  Minutes later, he was tapping on the door of his superior’s office. Marmion had an uneasy relationship with Claude Chatfield, not least because they’d both applied for the same promotion to the rank of superintendent. In the event, Marmion had decided that he didn’t really want a job that would keep him chained to a desk for most of the time so he deliberately fluffed the interview. Unfortunately, that left Chatfield with the feeling that he’d been the better candidate and it fed his already inflated sense of self-importance.

  ‘Come in!’ he snapped in answer to the knock.

  ‘You sent for me, sir?’ asked Marmion, entering the room.

  ‘Yes, I did, Inspector. I want you to go to Hayes immediately.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘There’s been an explosion at a pub called the Golden Goose.’

  ‘Has a Zeppelin tried to bomb that munitions factory again?’

  ‘This has nothing to do with an air raid,’ said Chatfield. ‘Early reports say that a bomb went off in an outhouse, killing five people and wounding others inside the pub. And before you ask me,’ he continued, seeing the question form on Marmion’s lips, ‘this is nothing to do with a burst gas main. It was definitely a bomb. The fire brigade found fragments.’

  ‘Isn’t this something the local police can handle?’

  ‘I think it might involve Special Branch. If the bomb turns out to have been planted by enemy aliens, then it’s out of our hands. In the short term, however, we need to establish the facts of the case.’ Chatfield’s face darkened. ‘That’s why the commissioner recommended you.’

  ‘That was very good of him,’ said Marmion, gratified.

  Glad that Sir Edward Henry had shown such faith in him, he was sorry to disappoint his wife yet again. But the incident in Hayes sounded serious and had to take precedence. He had the strong feeling that Chatfield would have preferred to assign someone else to the case but had been overruled. That fact did nothing to remove the latent hostility between inspector and superintendent. It only made Chatfield more resentful. He was a tall, stick-thin man with bulging eyes and thinning hair. Fond of dramatic gestures, he rose to his feet and pointed to the door.

  ‘Well — what are you waiting for?’

  ‘Do you have no more details to give me, sir?’

  ‘You know as much as I do, Inspector.’

  ‘Then I’ll round up Joe Keedy and be on my way.’

  Chatfield smirked. ‘A little bird tells me that you and the sergeant have had a tiff. I hear there’s been some domestic upset.’

  ‘Then you heard wrong,’ retorted Marmion.

  ‘I could always move Keedy to another position, if you wish.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. He’s an outstanding detective and I enjoy working with him.’ He turned on his heel. ‘I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Keep me informed of all developments,’ ordered Chatfield.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare to keep anything from you, Superintendent.’

  After giving him a cold smile, Marmion left the office and walked down the corridor. He was still smarting at the comment about his private life and wished that Chatfield had not heard the rumours. Marmion had been caught on the raw. There was unresolved tension both in his family and work life. Joe Keedy, a man with whom he’d built up an impressive record of success, had been unfailingly loyal, reliable and enterprising. His loyalty had now been called into question because he and Alice Marmion had formed an attachment that alarmed her father. It was not merely the age gap between his daughter and the sergeant that worried him, nor was it the fact that Keedy had a reputation as a ladies’ man with a string of conquests in his past. What irked Marmion was the knowledge that the man who worked closely beside him had kept the relationship secret for so long. Adding to her father’s disquiet, Alice had joined the Women’s Police Service. It had made him very unhappy.

  ‘Damn you, Joe Keedy!’ he snarled to himself. ‘London is full of pretty girls. Why the hell did you have to choose my daughter?’

  Much as he loved her, Alice Marmion was very far from Keedy’s mind. All that concerned him at that moment in time was potting the red and making sure that the cue ball didn’t snooker itself behind the cluster of remaining reds. Studying the table, he worked out the angles with care before he bent his tall, wiry body into his familiar crouch. At the precise second that he played his shot, a voice rang out.

  ‘Hey, Joe — you’re wanted! The inspector’s waiting outside for you.’

  ‘Shit!’ exclaimed Keedy as the cue ball followed the red into the pocket. He turned to confront the man who’d called out to him. ‘Look what you made me do, you idiot! I ought to have that shot again.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said his opponent. ‘It was a lousy shot and it’s left the table at my mercy. So, if you’re about to go charging off, I want my money right now.’

  ‘But we haven’t finished the game.’

  ‘You’re forty points behind and you just committed suicide. Pay up, Joe.’

  Keedy conceded defeat with a grimace. He reached for his coat and slipped it back on before taking his wallet out of the inside pocket. After handing over the money, he apologised for having to break off in the middle of the game. Grabbing his hat off the peg, he put it on at a rakish angle and went quickly out to the waiting car. As he climbed in beside the chunky figure of Marmion, he was in a frosty mood.

  ‘You just cost me ten bob, Harv,’ he complained as the car set off.

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Thanks to you, I had to abandon a snooker game that I could’ve won.’

  ‘Sorry, Joe, but police work comes first. By rights, I ought to be at home with my slippers on. Instead of that, we’re on our way to Hayes.’

  ‘Bit outside our territory, isn’t it?’

  ‘The commissioner wants us to investigate.’

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘It could be, Joe. For a start, we have five murder victims.’

  ‘Crikey!’

  ‘We’re going to a pub called the Golden Goose.’

  He gave the sergeant the outline details of the case and aroused both his interest and sympathy. Five deaths and a number of associated injuries added up to a serious crime. Then there was the extensive damage to property. Keedy dismissed the snooker game from his mind. What he was hearing about was a major incident. His frown deepened.

  ‘Who’d want to blow up a pub?’ he wondered. ‘Was it a temperance fanatic?’

  ‘No, Joe. It was the outhouse that was destroyed in the blast and not the pub itself. The place went up in flames.’

  ‘Did Chat have any theories?’

  ‘The superintendent thinks it might possibly be the work of a German agent, in which case we let Special Branch take over.’

  ‘What’s your feeling, Harv?’

  ‘I’m keeping an open mind,’ said Marmion, ‘though, if I was in the pay of the enemy, I’d try to blow up the munitions factory in Hayes, not part of a pub. I rec
kon that this might have nothing whatsoever to do with the war.’

  ‘In other words, we’re in for a long night.’

  ‘It’s on the cards, Joe.’

  ‘What a pity!’ said the other. ‘I promised to see Alice later on. She’s going to be very disappointed.’

  ‘Then she shouldn’t have got engaged to a policeman,’ said Marmion with a tinge of bitterness. ‘My daughter should have known better.’

  When the bomb had exploded, pandemonium had ensued. Everyone within earshot felt that it was an air raid. Windows in the neighbouring houses had been blown out and people felt tremors worthy of an earthquake. Crowds had soon poured into the street. While the outhouse had taken the worst of the blast, the pub itself had not escaped unscathed. One wall had been badly damaged and half the roof had been ripped off, leaving the chimney standing at a perilous angle. Inside the bar, everything had been shaken up hard. Bottles had fallen off shelves, glasses had smashed on the floor and drink was spilt everywhere. Customers had been injured by falling bricks and plaster, and by horseshoes dislodged from overhead beams. Ezra Greenwell had been in the act of supping his beer when he felt what seemed like a giant hand slapping his back. It caused him to bite involuntarily through his glass and cut his mouth open. The noise of the roaring fire nearby made them all evacuate the premises as fast as they could.

  By the time the fire brigade arrived, the two uniformed policemen first on the scene were trying in vain to hold back the crowd and still the tumult. When word spread that some canaries had been holding a party in the outhouse, there were shrieks of horror and vows of revenge. Speculation as to the cause of the blast was loud and contradictory. Everyone from foreign agents to landlords of rival pubs were blamed. It was only when police reinforcements arrived that the fire engine was able to get through to the Golden Goose. Intense heat kept onlookers from getting too close but curiosity made them surge forward in waves. For the first half an hour, the chaos was almost uncontrollable.

  The journey from central London was much faster than the permitted speed limit but Marmion ignored that fact. It was imperative to get to Hayes as swiftly as possible, even if it meant upsetting other drivers and frightening pedestrians. When their car finally found its way to the correct address, scores of people were still clogging up the street. The fire was more or less under control and an ambulance was just leaving the site. Jumping out of the car, the detectives identified the senior officer and found themselves speaking to the burly Sergeant Edwin Todd, a man whose broad shoulders seemed to be about to burst out of his uniform. Sweat was dribbling down his face and his eyes were blazing. When the newcomers had introduced themselves, Todd waved a brawny arm at the crowd.

  ‘If only this bloody lot would get out of our way,’ he said with vehemence. ‘They seem to think it’s a sideshow laid on for their benefit.’

  ‘Tell me about the fatalities,’ said Marmion.

  ‘They were five canaries from the munitions factory, sir. According to the landlord, they were celebrating someone’s birthday. He put them in the outhouse because some of his customers don’t take too kindly to women with yellow faces.’

  ‘Five dead, you say — do we know any names?’

  Todd referred to his notebook. ‘The only one the landlord could remember was Florence Duncan,’ he replied. ‘It was her birthday and she handled all the arrangements with the landlord. He’s Leighton Hubbard, by the way.’

  ‘What sort of state is he in?’

  ‘Still filling his pants, I expect.’

  ‘Have all the bodies been taken away?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘Yes, sir — and the other woman’s been taken to hospital as well.’

  ‘What other woman? I thought there were only five.’

  ‘Six of them went into that outhouse, Sergeant. What you might call a real flock of canaries.’ He gave an incongruous chuckle. ‘But Leighton told me that one of them came flying out minutes before the bomb went off. Apparently, she was found lying on the pavement. They took her off to hospital, suffering from shock.’

  ‘Do we know her name?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘No, we don’t, but she’s a very lucky woman.’

  ‘We need to speak to her. Joe,’ he went on, turning to Keedy, ‘take the car and get across to the hospital. See if she’s still there. If she’s not, go on to the factory and make enquiries there. Someone must have an idea who these six women were. Ask about friends of Florence Duncan.’ He looked at Todd. ‘Miss or Mrs?’

  The policeman sniffed. ‘A bit of both, according to the landlord,’ he recalled. ‘She was Mrs Duncan till her hubby was killed at the battle of Loos. Hubbard described her as a real live wire who preferred to be called “Florrie”. She sounds like something of a merry widow, though she had little enough to get merry about.’

  ‘That’s enough to go on,’ said Marmion. ‘Off you go, Joe.’

  Keedy nodded. ‘What about you, Inspector?’

  ‘I’ll have a chat with the landlord. Meet me back here.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  When Keedy went off in the car, Marmion looked at the smoking ruin that had once been the outhouse. It was no more than a pile of stones and charred timbers now.

  ‘Nobody could have survived that blast,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ agreed Todd. ‘And the Golden Goose will need some repairs before it can reopen. A real pity — they served a good pint in there.’

  Leighton and Yvonne Hubbard lived above the pub but neither of them felt that it was safe to stay there until the building had been properly inspected. Accordingly, they moved around the corner to the house of some friends. Hubbard had gradually adjusted to the crisis but his wife — a nervous woman by nature — was close to hysterics. At the suggestion of their hosts, she’d retired to bed. When Marmion got to the house, the front door was opened by Dennis Cryall, a swarthy man of medium height and middle years. Marmion identified himself and explained that Todd had directed him to the house. Cryall was amazed.

  ‘You’ve come all the way from Scotland Yard, Inspector?’

  ‘We felt that it was a necessary precaution.’

  ‘I’m glad that you’re taking it so seriously. Hayes always used to be such a sleepy little place until the war broke out. Nothing ever happened here.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Hubbard, please.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course — do come in.’

  Cryall moved back so that Marmion could step into the passageway. He was then shown into the cluttered front room where Hubbard was seated with a glass of whisky in his hand. Like his friend, he was impressed that the incident had aroused the interest of Scotland Yard. Cryall waved their visitor to a chair then withdrew. Seated opposite the landlord, Marmion appraised the other man. Hubbard looked pale and drawn. The bomb had not only destroyed part of his property, it had injured some of his regular patrons and shaken up everyone else in the bar. He was justifiably worried about how much money he would get by way of insurance. It was his wife’s condition that really troubled him. The explosion had turned her into a sobbing wreck. There was no compensation for frayed nerves in the insurance policy.

  ‘How do you feel?’ asked Marmion.

  Hubbard lifted his glass. ‘Much better after a drop of this,’ he said.

  ‘What state is the pub in?’

  ‘Don’t ask, Inspector. We’ll be closed for weeks.’

  ‘Tell me about the outhouse.’

  ‘It’s three old stables knocked into one. As a rule, we use it to store crates of empty bottles in. Then we had this request for a private room. To be honest, I was glad the ladies wanted to be on their own,’ admitted Hubbard. ‘Some of my regulars hate the sight of those munitionettes. It’s very unfair, really. It’s not their fault that they look as if they’ve got a nasty attack of yellow jaundice. Anyway,’ he added, ‘Florrie made the booking and I was happy to accept it.’

  ‘Do you happen to have an address for her?’

  ‘I don’t, I’m afraid, but she
lives locally somewhere. I remember her coming into the Goose with her husband when he was alive. That’s why she chose our pub for her party. It held good memories for her.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Did you know any of the friends who came with her?’

  ‘No — never set eyes on them before.’

  ‘So you can’t give me any more names?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I wish I could.’

  ‘Go through it very slowly,’ invited Marmion. ‘Tell me exactly what happened from the time they arrived until the moment the bomb went off. There’s no rush. Set your own pace.’

  Hubbard took a long sip of his whisky. Having gathered his thoughts, he gave a somewhat laboured account of events, even including details of the row involving Ezra Greenwell. When he heard that the old man had needed treatment for the wound in his mouth, Marmion could muster no sympathy for him. He found Greenwell’s antipathy to the women quite disgraceful. As far as he was concerned, they were doing a dangerous job at a time of national emergency and should be applauded for their efforts, not jeered at by some resentful bigot. Marmion was all too aware of the deficiencies in the army at the outbreak of hostilities. His own son, Paul, was among an early eager batch of volunteers to join the army. On his first leave, he’d been very critical of the shortage of ammunition.

  Having made some notes during the account, Marmion closed his pad.

  ‘Six of them went into that room,’ he said, reflectively, ‘but only five remained there. Have you any idea why the sixth young lady left early?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hubbard, ruefully. ‘There’s only one explanation.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘You’re the detective — you should have worked it out by now. That girl ran out as if she was fleeing a ghost. It’s obvious, isn’t it? She knew there was going to be an explosion there,’ he claimed with a surge of anger. ‘There was a plot to bomb my outhouse and that bitch was part of it.’