Five Dead Canaries

CHAPTER SIX

Alice Marmion schooled herself to be patient. In joining the police, she realised, she’d expected too much too soon. The concept of a female constabulary was still relatively new and the force had an ill-defined role. Again, it was fiercely resented in some quarters, as Alice had swiftly discovered. The war, which had depleted the police force, had given women the opportunity to move into its ranks and show what they could do. At best, they faced a grudging tolerance from male counterparts; at worst, they had to endure stinging criticism of their limitations. Alice had learnt to ignore their acid comments and simply get on with her job. She’d made some good friends among the other women but their support was offset by the hostility of a superior officer.

Meeting her in a corridor, Inspector Thelma Gale pounced on Alice.

‘There you are,’ she said, ‘dawdling as usual.’

‘I’m taking this report to Sergeant Reeves,’ explained Alice, holding up some sheets of paper. ‘She wants it urgently.’

‘“Urgency” is not exactly your watchword, is it?’

‘What do you mean, Inspector?’

‘I mean that you trudge instead of walking briskly. I mean that you’re slow of mind and even slower of body.’

‘That’s unfair,’ said Alice, smarting at the reproof.

‘I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Others have complained as well.’

Alice knew that it was untrue but she was in no position to argue. The more she defended herself against the inspector, the harder she’d be slapped down. Thelma Gale was a stout woman in her forties with short hair and a flat, plain face twisted into an expression of permanent disapproval. Her natural authority was enhanced by the smartness of her uniform. She was a formidable character in every way and few people got the better of her in argument.

She tapped Alice’s shoulder. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘You’ve told me a vast number of things, Inspector.’

‘This concerned your father.’

‘Oh, that — yes, I remember.’

‘I warned you not to trade on the fact that you’re the daughter of Detective Inspector Marmion. Admirable as his achievements have been, they don’t entitle you to any preferential treatment.’

‘I neither expected nor sought it.’

‘And don’t you dare go running to Daddy with complaints about cruel Inspector Gale,’ said the other, wagging a finger, ‘because it will have no effect. I don’t answer to your father. I rule the roost here. Is that clear?’

‘You’ve made it abundantly clear, Inspector.’

‘Try to do your job properly for once and let your father get on with his. He obviously has his hands full at the moment.’

‘Yes, he does.’

‘Five young women blown to pieces — it’s an appalling crime. They were already risking their lives and ruining their looks by working in that munitions factory. I regard them as unsung heroines.’

‘So do I, Inspector.’

Thelma leant in closer to her. ‘What has your father said about the case?’

‘He hasn’t discussed it with me.’

‘Inspector Marmion must have said something.’

‘When he comes through the door at home, he leaves his work outside. My mother appreciates that. Besides,’ Alice went on, ‘I don’t live there any more. I have a flat of my own.’

‘But you’re also engaged to Sergeant Keedy. What has he told you?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Come now — you must have wheedled something out of him.’

‘It’s not my place to do so, Inspector.’

Alice’s face was expressionless under the searching stare of the other woman. To admit that she had taken an interest in the case would have been foolish. It would have unleashed a torrent of denunciation from the inspector, accusing her of trying to get involved in something that was totally outside her remit as a police officer. Behind the censure would be a deep envy. Thelma Gale would be suffused with jealousy at the notion that a junior member of her force was engaged, even tangentially, in such an important investigation. Alice got an even harder tap on the shoulder.

‘Get about your business,’ said Thelma, ‘and be sharp about it.’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ replied Alice. ‘Do excuse me. Please.’

Stepping past the older woman, she strode along the corridor and turned a corner, gasping with relief. The first thing she saw was one of her colleagues coming in through the main door and letting in a blast of cold air as she did so.

‘It’s so windy today,’ said the woman, straightening her hair.

‘Yes,’ agreed Alice. ‘Gale force.’

Marmion had no difficulty in finding Royston Liddle. He lived with his widowed mother only two streets away from the Golden Goose. When his visitor called, Liddle was feeding two rabbits who were scrabbling about in their hutch. He opened the side door of the yard and called up the entry that ran between the houses.

‘Who is it? I’m down here!’

Marmion peered down the entry. ‘Mr Liddle?’

‘That’s me,’ said the other, grinning broadly.

He was a short man with a compact frame. Though still young, he was totally bald. He had large protruding eyes with the gleam of innocence in them. Beneath his snub nose was a pencil-thin moustache that looked like a supplementary eyebrow. On a chill morning, Liddle wore nothing more than a collarless shirt, a pair of crumpled trousers and some dog-eared slippers.

‘I was just feeding Mild and Bitter,’ he said. ‘They’re my rabbits. When people go to the pub, they ask for mild or bitter. I like both, see? So that’s what I named them.’ He gave himself a congratulatory giggle. ‘Clever, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Mr Liddle.’

Marmion introduced himself and explained why he was there. The grin never left Liddle’s face. He invited his visitor into the house and took him to the living room, a small, cluttered space with hideous green wallpaper and an abiding smell of boiled cabbage. Royston Liddle had to move a pile of clothing off the settee so that Marmion could sit down. Perched on an upright chair, he nodded away.

‘Mummy isn’t here at the moment,’ he explained. ‘She works in the shop.’

‘Actually, it’s about your job that I came, Mr Liddle.’

‘Everyone calls me Royston.’

‘So I gather.’

‘Which job do you mean, Inspector? I’ve got five altogether.’

He chuckled as if it was some sort of record. It transpired that he worked part-time at two pubs other than the Golden Goose. He also helped to deliver milk every morning and did two afternoons at a furniture warehouse. Liddle was anxious to display his full range of abilities.

‘Mummy cleans the big house on Wednesdays,’ he said, ‘and I sometimes help her, though of course, I don’t get paid for that.’

Marmion could see that the landlord had got the man’s measure. Royston Liddle was a willing simpleton. His glaring lack of intelligence was balanced by a burning desire to please, in whatever mundane station in life. Jobs that others might view as beneath them constituted a legitimate career in his view. When Marmion talked about the explosion at the Golden Goose, Liddle expressed shock and outrage but his grin nevertheless remained intact.