Five Dead Canaries Page 9

  ‘Demand for munitions will cease,’ replied Kennett, ‘so we won’t need to maintain such a high daily output. Men who return from the front will naturally expect jobs and they’ll take priority over women, many of whom will have to be released to search for other employment.’

  ‘The damage will already have been done,’ said Keedy, sadly. ‘Who’ll take on women who look like yellow, jaundice victims?’

  ‘That’s a regrettable side effect of working here.’

  ‘Shouldn’t they be able to claim compensation?’

  ‘No,’ said Kennett, sharply, ‘that’s out of the question. They understood when they first came here what the job entailed. The women accepted the risk. They can’t turn round now and say that they deserve some sort of compensation. Where’s the money to come from to pay them? We’d go bankrupt. If we set a precedent with munition workers, it would be disastrous thing to do.’

  It would also be a civilised gesture, thought Keedy, but he didn’t wish to have a dispute with the works manager. Sympathetic as he’d been to the plight of the five victims, there were clearly limits to Kennett’s compassion. First and foremost, he had to maintain production at whatever cost. Workers were therefore seen as mere cogs in a machine rather than as human beings with needs and rights. One of Keedy’s questions was answered. When Florrie Duncan had come to his office to demand longer lunch breaks, she obviously got very short shrift from Bernard Kennett.

  After thanking his guide once more, Keedy took his leave and walked off the premises. The tour had served its purpose. He’d not just been interested to see how hard and unremittingly the women had worked, he was keen to note how often they came into contact with male employees. The latter were not just confined to management roles. Many worked alongside the women, doing the skilled tasks that were beyond them. Then there were drivers, porters, cleaners, kitchen staff and dozens of other men at the factory. Many of them came into daily contact with the munitionettes. Keedy had observed more than one of them shooting sly glances at the women. Could the bomber they sought be working somewhere on the site? Thwarted passion was a powerful emotion. Keedy had seen it drive people to do incredible things. The shells manufactured at Hayes were lethal but unwelcome sexual desire could be destructive as well. Was that what had cost five women their lives? It was an open question.

  Ellen Marmion did what she could to help the war effort by working as a volunteer with groups that organised food parcels to be sent to the front or knitted gloves and other items for the soldiers. Aware of the privations suffered by those trapped in deep, muddy, rat-infested trenches, she strove to ameliorate their lot in her small way. On her way home after another session with the knitting needles, she passed a newspaper vendor and saw the headline emblazoned on his display board – FIVE DEAD CANARIES. Since the lunchtime edition related to the case on which her husband and future son-in-law were working, she bought a copy and glanced at the front page. Marmion looked up solemnly at her from a stock photograph but it was tiny by comparison with the photo of the doomed outhouse in Hayes. Seeing the extent of the damage made her stomach heave. It was the work of someone cruel and pitiless. Marmion and Keedy were in pursuit of the man. Not for the first time, she was reminded of the perils that came with a job at Scotland Yard. Someone who could kill five young women in cold blood wouldn’t hesitate to murder two detectives. Folding up the newspaper, she thrust it under her arm and scurried home.

  Ellen was not simply worried about their safety. She was alarmed that her daughter was, as she saw it, being bullied at work by a jealous superior. There was nothing that could be done to alleviate the situation. She was also disturbed by her husband’s reluctance to fully accept Alice’s choice of husband. While Ellen had been thrilled at the news, it had been an unpleasant surprise for Marmion and his unspoken objections remained. Most troubling of all, of course, was the eternal anxiety about their son, Paul, stationed in France near the Somme and sending infrequent letters that complained of boredom and bad living quarters. Some of the friends who’d joined up with him at the start of the war had either been killed or sent home with missing limbs. She prayed daily that Paul’s name would not be added to the casualty list.

  Trying to subdue her nagging concerns, she soon had something else to worry about. It started to rain and she had no umbrella. Almost without warning, the skies opened and the downpour began. Ellen had a coat and hat but they were inadequate protection against the driving rain. She was soaked within minutes. The storm put more speed into her legs and she practically sprinted over the last fifty yards. When she reached the shelter of her porch, she paused to get her breath back. Having spent its fury, the storm now abated and patches of blue sky peeped through the clouds. It was too late for Ellen. She’d been well and truly drenched.

  When she let herself into the house, however, she saw something which banished all of her anxieties at once. It was a letter with distinctive handwriting on it. Paul had written to them again at long last. With a whoop of pleasure, she snatched up the letter from the floor. Dripping over the hall carpet, she tore it open.

  ‘When were you told the news, Mr Jenks?’

  ‘It was when I got back from work last night.’

  ‘You have my utmost sympathy.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

  ‘Is that a photo of Enid on the piano?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenks. ‘If she wasn’t practising on her violin, she’d be sitting at the piano. Music was everything to Enid. She could play anything. It was because she was so well taught. My wife was a wonderful pianist as well. She wanted one of the children to learn how to play and the boys weren’t interested. Enid was. She had enough interest for both of them.’ He touched Marmion’s arm and lowered a voice as if about to impart a secret. ‘The vicar approached us, you know. He asked if Enid would be interested in learning the organ.’

  ‘I daresay she’d have been proficient at any keyboard instrument.’

  ‘Are you musical, Inspector?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Marmion. ‘The only piano I could play is one with a handle on the side.’

  Once the joke about the barrel organ had slipped out Marmion regretted it but the other man found it amusing enough. Jonah Jenks was quite unlike Neil Beresford. Where the latter had been knocked senseless by the enormity of what had happened, the former had merely accepted it and sought to carry on. He loved his daughter deeply but her death was not going to become an obsession. Having already lost a wife and a second daughter to diphtheria, he knew all about pangs of grief. Another child had died, leaving him to look after the two surviving boys. That’s what mattered most to Jenks. They were the ones who were really suffering. Though they’d argued constantly with their sister while she was alive, they were dumbstruck at her death, all the more so because it had been as a result of a crime. Jenks had kept them home from school and they were upstairs in the bedroom they shared.

  ‘I just wanted to assure you that the investigation is well under way,’ said Marmion. ‘I have a team of detectives working under me.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  ‘You’ll appreciate that I’m under a slight disadvantage. I don’t know anything about the five victims. I’m trying to find out all I can about each one of them. I’ve spoken to Agnes Collier’s mother and to Maureen Quinn’s family.’

  ‘Agnes came here once or twice. She was a nice girl.’

  ‘What about Maureen?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve never met her.’

  ‘Who was Enid’s best friend?’

  ‘That would be Shirley Beresford. She used to go and watch her play football. Enid was very clever but she was hopeless at sports. Her brothers used to tease her about it. Shirley, on the other hand, was a good all-round athlete.’

  ‘So I’ve been told. I called on her husband earlier.’

  ‘I see.’

  Jenks glanced at the photograph on the piano then sat opposite his visitor. He was a spare man in his fifties with hair neatly slicked b
ack over a domed head. His spectacles gave him an owlish appearance and he had a scholarly air that inclined Marmion to think that he was a teacher. The well-stocked bookshelves indicated a reading man. In fact, however, Jenks was the manager of a large hardware store. Wearing a three-piece suit indoors, he kept his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat.

  ‘What do you want me to tell you, Inspector?’

  ‘Describe your daughter, please, if you will.’

  ‘Enid was a lovely girl. I can’t speak too highly of her.’

  Jenks spoke in a low, measured voice. He talked fondly about his daughter’s achievements and about his ambitions for her. A religious man, he took all three children to church every Sunday, then the family visited the graves of its missing members. A new one would now be added. Instead of being in regular use, the piano would act as a memento to Enid. Marmion was at once interested and saddened by the effect that factory life had had upon her. Putting her music aside, she’d dedicated herself to the production of arms. Jenks was a mild-mannered man who seemed at variance with the image of him that Maureen Quinn had conjured up. She had recalled the help given by Florrie Duncan at a time when Enid was having terrible rows with her father. Yet Jenks was giving his visitor a detailed picture of a household where perfect harmony prevailed. He even boasted that he never had to raise his voice to Enid.

  Jenks became practical. ‘Isn’t there something you’ve forgotten?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Where foul play is involved in a death, I thought that next of kin would be asked to identify the body.’

  ‘Ordinarily, that’s the case, sir,’ said Marmion, ‘but the remains are not really recognisable. When a bomb goes off in a confined space, it causes the most unimaginable injuries. We wish to spare the families such a disturbing sight.’

  ‘That’s very wise of you, Inspector – wise and considerate.’

  ‘Identification will have to be made by items they owned, by watches, bracelets and so on.’

  ‘Enid wore a silver crucifix.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘When will the bodies …’ Jenks gave an apologetic half-smile. ‘When will the remains be released to us?’

  ‘Very soon,’ said Marmion. ‘The post-mortems have not yet been completed. When they have been, the undertakers can take over. They’re used to this sort of thing. Not that they’ll have seen many victims of a bomb blast, of course, but they can take a dispassionate look at … human remains in whatever form.’ He looked across at the photograph of Enid. ‘She was a very pretty young lady.’

  Jenks was nostalgic. ‘She took after her mother.’

  ‘Enid must have had a lot of admirers.’

  ‘Everyone liked her. She was so outgoing.’

  ‘I was thinking of boyfriends, Mr Jenks,’ said Marmion. ‘I have a daughter of my own so I know what happens when they reach a certain age. Was there anyone special in Enid’s life?’

  ‘No, there wasn’t,’ snapped Jenks.

  ‘Are you certain of that?’

  ‘Enid had no room in her life for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Then she’d be most unusual.’

  ‘There was nothing unusual about my daughter. Haven’t you been listening to what I said? Enid was a good girl.’ Hearing the anger in his voice, he tried to control it. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. You’re entitled to ask such a question. But I’ve given you the answer. Enid was just not interested in young men. It probably stems from the fact that she had two brothers. All she wanted was her music.’

  ‘Then we’ll leave it at that, sir.’

  Getting up from his seat, Marmion took a step nearer the piano so that he could have a closer look at Enid Jenks. She was not simply pretty. When the photo was taken, she was beautiful. Marmion simply couldn’t believe that none of the young men at the factory had failed to notice the fact.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They met by prior arrangement at a café not far from the Golden Goose. Having sacrificed lunch in the interests of advancing the investigation, they were having an early tea. Keedy munched a pasty and Marmion sipped his tea while eyeing the cakes on the display stand and wondering if he should have one. It was time to compare notes. Marmion talked about his visits to the respective homes of Shirley Beresford and Enid Jenks and how differently their families had responded to the untimely deaths. As the inspector was talking, Keedy opened the folder given to him by the works manager.

  ‘Everything you say about the two of them accords with what Mr Kennett found out,’ he said. ‘Shirley was the captain of their football team and Enid was good enough as a musician to make a living at it. They were both well liked by the others, Shirley in particular.’

  ‘That’s not surprising, Joe. She was their goalscorer.’

  ‘At least that would have killed off any complaints.’

  ‘Complaints?’

  ‘Yes, Harv. If, as you say, Neil Beresford was their coach, he couldn’t be accused of favouritism by putting his wife in the team. Shirley was obviously their best player. I must say, I don’t envy her husband.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Coaching a football team is a real headache. When I used to play as a kid, we drove our coach to distraction. He reckoned we’d taken ten years off his life. I remember him tearing his hair out on the touchline as we made silly mistakes and gave away ridiculous goals. Neil Beresford must be a tough character to take on a task like running a women’s team.’

  ‘That’s the strange thing, Joe,’ said Marmion as he pictured the man lying on the bed. ‘Physically, he looks wiry and he must be strong-willed to create and nurture a team that wins the league. Yet he’s more or less collapsed in the wake of the disaster. People like his mother and Mrs Radcliffe have coped far better – and so has Jonah Jenks. Why is that?’

  ‘Beresford and his wife must have been very close.’

  ‘He looked really ill when I left him.’

  Keedy smiled. ‘We can’t all be like you, Harv.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’ve been where they are – losing someone you loved, that is. When your father was murdered on duty, you didn’t sit around and mope. You went after his killer and discovered that you had a detective’s instinct.’

  Marmion was rueful. ‘I’d prefer to have found it out a different way. I never thought I’d follow Dad into the police force but his death changed my mind. It made me so angry, Joe. I felt that I simply had to do something.’

  ‘Alice feels the same. She takes after you.’

  ‘Let’s keep her out of this,’ said Marmion, sharply.

  ‘But she has the same attitude as you.’

  ‘That’s as maybe. Tell me about your second visit to the factory.’

  Keedy puffed his cheeks. ‘It really opened my eyes.’

  He went on to describe his visit to the Cartridge Section and how he felt that the women deserved far more than they earned. It was well below what men doing identical jobs took home at the end of the week. Keedy talked about the noise, the smell, the inherent dangers and how he found it difficult to reconcile the idea of a sex that created human life making shells that would destroy it.

  ‘It was weird, Harv – sort of unnatural.’

  ‘Blame the war for that. When so many of our young men are wounded, killed in action or still serving at the front, women have had to step into the breach. I applaud them for that.’

  ‘What about the ones who joined the police force?’ Keedy saw the glint in his companion’s eyes and quickly changed the subject. ‘Where do we go next?’

  ‘I’d like you to go to Jean Harte’s house,’ said Marmion. ‘I called there earlier but drew a blank. Either nobody is at home or, if they are, they’re not answering the door. Once we’ve crossed Jean off the list, there’s only Florrie Duncan left. We’ll visit her family together.’

  ‘What will you be doing before then, Harv?’

  ‘I’m going to the factory. Alan Suggs will be back
soon.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s the phantom lover, isn’t he?’

  ‘He may turn out to be more than that, Joe.’

  ‘His girlfriend must be very keen on him. There aren’t many young women whose idea of a romance is a tryst in some converted stables. Most would expect something more comfortable than that.’

  ‘He works as a driver, Joe. He can’t afford a suite at the Ritz.’

  At that moment, a waitress came to clear the plates from the table. Wearing a black dress and a white apron, she was an attractive young woman in her early twenties, the average age of the murder victims. Keedy couldn’t help noticing the sharp contrast between her and those at the factory. The waitress had pale, spotless skin and there was a bloom on her cheeks. If any of the munitionettes had applied for a job at the café, they’d have been turned down because their appearance was likely to offend customers. It was grossly unfair.

  ‘Right,’ said Keedy as the waitress moved away, ‘I’m ready. Is there anything particular you’d like me to find out about Jean Harte?’

  ‘I want you to see where she fitted into that group of friends.’

  ‘Maureen Quinn told us that Jean was teased a lot because she was always moaning about something. And she often had something wrong with her – not that that surprises me. That factory is an unhealthy place to work.’

  ‘See what you can learn about the other girls. Which one was Jean’s best friend, for example? Who did she see outside of work hours? And why was it that Enid Jenks and Shirley Beresford were so close?’

  ‘Is there any reason why they shouldn’t be?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Marmion. ‘From what I can gather, they had little in common. Enid was a musician who spent all her time practising while Shirley was a real sportswoman. One was single while the other was married. One was still under the thumb of her father while the other lived with her husband. I suppose you could call it an attraction of opposites,’ he went on, getting up, ‘but it seems odd somehow. I would have thought that Enid and Maureen Quinn were more natural friends.’