A Bespoke Murder

She sat down and took them off so that Dorothy could pop them back into the box. Irene put on her own shoes, picked up her handbag and crossed to the counter. Her sister had moved to the till. Dorothy felt slightly cheated that she’d been told so little about the lunch Irene had shared with her friend. Expecting a full account, she’d got no more than a couple of sentences out of Irene. She probed again.

‘So you will be seeing him again in due course?’

Irene pursed her lips. ‘I suppose so.’

‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’

‘We’ve got so little in common.’

‘How can you say that, Irene? You worked together for years and the pair of you survived the sinking of the Lusitania. I’d have thought that would give you a bond for life.’

‘Well, it hasn’t.’

‘Listen,’ said Dorothy, ‘why don’t you invite Ernest for tea one Sunday? I’d so like to meet him.’

‘No,’ said Irene, decisively. ‘I’m not having him in the house. Let’s be clear about that. If he calls when I’m not there, he must not be allowed in. Do you understand?’

Dorothy was taken aback by the sharpness in her voice.

‘I’m sorry, Irene,’ she said, ‘but, frankly, I don’t understand.’

Cyril Burridge was an unlikely tailor. He was a big burly man in his fifties with the broad shoulders of a manual worker and an ugly face decorated by a walrus moustache. His expensive suit had been cleverly cut to hide his paunch. Marmion sensed a dormant anger in his visitor. When he’d offered Burridge a seat, he got him to talk about his time at the shop in Jermyn Street. Burridge was laconic. Into less than two minutes, he condensed the story of well over twenty years.

‘Why did you leave?’ asked Marmion.

‘It were time to go.’

‘Mr Cohen said you had a disagreement with Mr Stein.’

‘So?’

‘What was the disagreement about?’

‘It’s a private matter.’

‘Not if it’s relevant to this investigation, Mr Burridge. I need hardly remind you of the seriousness of the crimes committed. Someone murdered your former employer. To find out who the killer was, I need every detail I can gather about what went on inside the business. In other words,’ Marmion stressed, ‘privacy does not exist.’

Burridge glowered at him for a few moments then he sniffed.

‘It were about money,’ he confessed.

‘You wanted an increase in your pay?’

‘We all want that, Inspector.’

‘Why are you being so evasive?’

‘Ask Mr Cohen about that.’

Marmion sat back to appraise him. Burridge was well defended. He was ready to cooperate with the investigation but only on his terms. He was like a batsman at the wicket, confident of being able to hit any ball that was bowled at him. Those he could not smash to the boundary, he would deflect with a flick of the wrist. The inspector changed his grip on the metaphorical ball and tossed it at him again.

‘Why were you so difficult to find, Mr Burridge?’

‘You didn’t look hard enough.’

‘Nobody seemed to know where you’d gone to.’

‘I don’t advertise my whereabouts.’

‘It seemed odd that you should vanish around the time that Mr Stein’s shop was attacked and when he himself was murdered.’

‘You’re a policeman. You have a suspicious mind.’

‘You don’t find it odd, then?’

‘No,’ said Burridge. ‘I had leave owing to me. I took it.’

‘Why did you choose that particular week?’

‘Ask my wife — it were her idea.’

Marmion’s latest ball was met with a straight bat. It was frustrating. Having come ostensibly to help the inquiry, Burridge was doing the opposite. All he was interested in was establishing his innocence. He showed no sadness over the death of his former employer and no regret over the fact that the premises where he had worked for so many years had been burnt down. Burridge seemed to have cut himself off comprehensively from the past.

‘I gather that you and Mr Cohen did not get on,’ said Marmion.

‘Is that what he told you?’

‘Not in so many words, sir. It was something I sensed.’

‘David Cohen were a good manager.’

‘But you’d never describe him as a bosom pal, would you?’

‘We had different opinions sometimes.’

‘Did that lead to arguments?’

Burridge smiled. ‘What do you think?’

‘Did you ever argue about money?’

‘No.’

‘Did you complain about the way that the business was run?’

‘I did the job I were paid for, Inspector.’

‘How did you get on with the rest of the staff?’

‘Ask them.’

‘I’m asking you, Mr Burridge.’

The Yorkshireman shrugged. ‘We got on well enough.’

Marmion doubted that. Burridge was the sort of man who would enjoy throwing his weight around when dealing with junior colleagues. In certain circumstances, his physical presence and gruff manner could be rather menacing. Marmion could see why the suave and reserved David Cohen had hinted at difficulties with Burridge. In both character and attitude, the two men would never be natural bedfellows. Marmion stepped up his attack.

‘Did you like Jacob Stein?’ he asked.

‘He were my employer.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

‘I respected him.’

‘But you didn’t actually like him.’

‘Do you like your boss, Inspector?’

‘That’s beside the point.’

‘Mr Stein gave me work. I were grateful for that.’

‘But not grateful enough, I suspect,’ said Marmion. ‘How much did you see of his brother, Herbert Stone?’

Burridge scowled. ‘Too much.’

‘Did he come to the shop often?’

‘Too often.’

‘Why was that? He had his own business to run.’

‘Mr Stone liked to keep his finger in every pie.’

‘Are you saying that he had a financial interest in the business?’

‘Mr Cohen is the man to ask that.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Marmion, ‘he isn’t. He was surprisingly reticent on the subject. He wouldn’t even tell me how harmonious or otherwise the relationship between Mr Stein and his brother had been.’ Burridge stifled a grin. ‘I was hoping that your famed honesty would allow you to enlighten me on the subject.’

‘Happen.’

‘My guess is that Mr Stone used to browbeat his brother and interfere in the running of the business.’