Thursday May 4th
Dorothy had been too busy to call on Cleo on
Wednesday evening, though her curiosity nearly got the better of her. But she
had been promising to go to the vicarage for supper for simply ages and thought
Edith would be offended if she refused again. So on Thursday morning Cleo and
Dorothy had plenty to tell one another.
***
“It’s called the Huddle Inn, but most people just
call it the pub.”
“I can’t imagine an Egyptian cook there. What was
his name?”
“Robert called out the name Ali and I’m sure Gary
knows who that is.”
“Ali what? That sounds very Arabian.”
“I’ve no idea what his second name is. I’ll phone
Gary now.”
Cleo put the phone on loud so that Dorothy could
listen in.
“Good morning, Miss Hartley. What can I do for
you?”
“I’ve been pub-crawling, Mr Hurley.”
“Never. Where?”
“There’s a pub in Huddlecourt Manor village called
the Huddle Inn and an Egyptian guy named Ali works there. Can you find out his
full identity?”
“That should be easy. He’ll be registered
somewhere. Hang on!”
Minutes went by, during which Gary seemed to be
getting more and more irate, judging from the expletives he was muttering to
himself. Eventually he got back to them.
“There was no chef called Ali in the mugshot
gallery, but a guy called Lewis is registered at the Job Centre.”
“That’s not an Asian name.”
“If it’s the same guy, his first name is
Nebuchadnezzar. Ali’s his middle name. He might have been adopted and his new
parents kept the middle name out of respect or because they had trouble
spelling the first one.”
Dorothy could not help laughing at that.
“Straight out of the Old Testament.” She said.
“Hi Dorothy. How are you?”
“OK, thanks. How are you?”
Cleo wondered if Molly knew Ali’s full name.
“That’s not necessarily so if he’s calling himself
Ali. Are you talking about a barmaid named Molly?”
“Yes.”
“Quite a girl, Molly. Ali probably has a permit to
work there. I think Molly is quite business-like.”
“Dorothy was not with me yesterday, but Molly was
very chatty.”
“I’ve found the guy, Cleo. His middle name is Ali,
so he probably did come from somewhere else and was adopted. He’s British.
Doesn’t need a work permit.”
“But fancy giving a child that complicated first
name,” Dorothy commented. “No wonder he calls himself Ali.”
“His birth parents might have given him that name,
Dorothy,” said Gary.
“Of course, or they are all naturalized as a family
and took a British surname,” said Dorothy.
“Anything else known about him, Gary?” Cleo asked.
“Not that I can see. Why?”
“Just curiosity. Any news about Mrs Oldfield?”
“Not yet. I’ll get back to you when there is. Have
a nice breakfast!”
***
Dorothy fetched fresh coffee from the utility room
that was part of Cleo’s office premises.
“Stalemate, it seems,” said Dorothy. “What do we do
next?”
“I’m not sure that knowing more about Ali will be
of any use, Dorothy,” said Cleo. “Why should he be mixed up in Mrs Oldfield’s
death?”
“I don’t suppose he is,” said Dorothy.
“You can explain our curiosity to Gary, then,” said
Cleo. “He’ll say we have been wasting his time.”
“And I’ll ask him what he would have done with the
time he saved. I think he’s carrying on, Cleo.”
“Let’s get of that subject, shall we?”
“Doesn’t it bother you, Cleo?”
“I won’t let it bother me, Dorothy. Can you strike
up a friendship with Mrs Baines?”
“I think there was a time when we were on first
name terms. I only know her through giving piano lessons at the school, so she’ll
think I have an ulterior motive if I start being really pally with her.”
“Well, you do have a reason and it’s not an
ulterior motive! Tell her the truth, that you are nervous as long as killer is
on the loose. If she’s innocent, she’ll want to help solve the mystery. If
she’s in any way connected with it, she’ll prevaricate and you’ll notice that,
too.”
“I could offer to help out, couldn’t I?”
“Sure. That’s an even better idea. I’ll take you
there, but drop you off where I won’t be seen, and then I’ll drive to the pub
and chat with Molly again. I’d like to talk to Ali!”
“I’ll get home under my own steam, Cleo. It’s a
downhill trot.”
There was a pause while the sleuths ate something.
***
“Remember a chat we once had before you did regular
detective work, Dorothy?”
“We’ve had lots of chats. Which one?”
“The one when you said some crimes were waiting to
happen.”
“Did I say that? I thought they were your words,
but I believe it really is the case.”
“And that’s the feeling I have now, Dorothy. I
can’t put my finger on it, but something else is going to happen before long.”
“That sends shivers down my spine, Cleo. Think
positive!”
“Or take measures to avoid the inevitable.”
“You can’t avoid the inevitable,” said Dorothy.
***
Mrs Baines was surprised to see Dorothy. Three days
had passed since the murder and apart from the routine work done by the
forensic team at the time, nothing had happened.
“I thought they’d want to interview me, but the
police have not been here again.”
Dorothy decided that Gary was procrastinating. A
tedious little murder at a private school was not exactly enthralling stuff
compared with other unsavoury but more dramatic events and characters. In
contrast to Gary, Dorothy was sure that Mrs Oldfield’s death was not going to
be a walkover.
“They are probably waiting for the forensic
report,” she said.
“What do you think, Miss Price?”
“You used to call me Dorothy. I’ve come to help if
you need me, and first names are much nicer.”
“So I did,” said Mrs Baines, embarrassed that she
had forgotten.
“Well, Olive, tell me first if you need help here.”
“To be truthful, it would be a blessing. Jessie
Coppins is putting on the most dreadful airs and graces. She’s behaving like
the head chef at the Dorchester.”
“I thought that would happen. Is she going to get
Mrs Oldfield’s job?”
“Over my dead body... Oh dear, that was very
tactless of me.”
“It’s what I would have said faced with that
decision.”
“You’ll have to put her in her place, Dorothy. She
doesn’t listen to me.”
“I’ll try, but I’m making no promises.”
“You could intimate that we are waiting for a new
head cook,” suggested Mrs Baines. “Surely she can't deny that she’s not
qualified for the job.”
“Are we?”
“Are we what?”
“Waiting for a new head cook?”
“I’ll be honest. It’s hard to find one, but I’ve got
a temporary solution.”
“And that is?”
“The chef from the pub, an Egyptian man named Ali,
is going to come in and make the lunches.“
“When is he starting?”
“On Saturday.”
“So there’s today and tomorrow to think about.”
Dorothy wondered what Molly thought about Ali
making lunches elsewhere, especially for girls ravenous for sex. Talk about
throwing him to the lions.
“Mrs Cagney fried 50 pork chops on Tuesday because
we had to bring Wednesday’s lunch forward, so Delilah Browne came to the rescue
and provided tons of pasta from the bistro yesterday. She’s done that before
when Mrs Oldfield was in bed with her leg, and it’s always a big success.
Jessie has ordered fish and chips from the chip-shop for tomorrow. But today is
difficult. She’s in the kitchen trying to make hamburgers. I’ve no idea what
they’ll taste like. Mrs Oldfield always used to tell her exactly what to do.
She won't listen to Mrs Cagney's advice. You try, Dorothy.”
“I'll do that, Olive.”
“Thank you. Fewer lunches today. Fifteen of the
girls have gone home. The parents were alarmed.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least, Olive.”
“The school will have to close unless we get all
the fees.”
“Surely that isn’t your problem.”
“It is, Dorothy. Where would I get another job at
my age?”
***
Sure enough, in the kitchen there was a state of
emergency. Jessie Coppins was sitting at the worktable crying her heart out.
“Pull yourself together, girl!” Dorothy shouted.
“There’s work to do here. You haven’t got time to cry.”
“I bloody don’t care if they all starve.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’ll lose your job if you
don’t do the work required of you.”
“I’m not Mrs Baines’s slave.”
“Maybe not, but she pays you your wages, doesn’t
she?”
“She thinks I killed Mrs Oldfield.”
“Well, did you?”
Dorothy’s question provoked another round of
howling by Jessie. Dorothy tore a sheet off the kitchen towel and told the girl
to dry her eyes and wash her hands. Then she looked at what Jessie had done.
Nothing much, actually, except to defrost the emergency mincemeat for the hamburgers
and slice a couple of cucumbers.
“Is the minced beef seasoned.”
“I don’t know.”
Dorothy would see to that.
“What time is lunch served,” she asked.
“One o’clock,” sniffed Jessie.
“For everyone?”
“No. Some come at half past one.”
“So we can do the hamburgers in two lots If we know
how many will be at each serving. Do you know, Jessie?”
“It used to be 30 and 30 miss, but some of the
girls have gone home.”
“Well, we can work on 30 and 30 and those who want
a second helping can have one. Get the potatoes peeled and on the stove to
boil, Jessie.”
“Can we have frozen chips, Miss?”
“I suppose we can if there are some.”
“There are. I always order some from that
supermarket in Upper Grumpsfield. Mrs Oldfield never notices.”
“Noticed, Jessie. She’s dead.”
“Yes, Miss,” said Jessie through wails that made
her sound like a paid mourner.
***
Jessie tried hard to be helpful as even she
realised that Dorothy had come to the rescue.. She did not question Dorothy’s authority
and seemed relieved not to have to think for herself.
Did the girl really think she could step into Mrs
Oldfield’s job? Dorothy had seen enough. Jessie was immature and inept.
***
“Now get the hamburger rolls and slice them
through," Dorothy instructed. “They’ll need to go in the oven to warm.”
“The chips are in there, Miss!”
“Well we’ll just have use cold hamburger buns,”
said Dorothy, wondering how Mrs Oldfield had managed with one oven.
There was something zombie-like about Jessie that
provoked Dorothy into asking if something was bothering her.
“You’ll feel better when you’ve told me,” said
Dorothy.
“It’s my mum,” said Jessie, now chopping onions the
way Dorothy was demonstrating, so that both were near to tears.
“What about your mum, Jessie?”
“She’s bloody pinched my boyfriend, that’s what.”
Dorothy was nonplussed. She had been hoping for
some kind of clue to Mrs Oldfield’s death.
“She wouldn’t do that, Jessie.”
“But she ‘as. I caught ‘er in bed with ‘im.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. I had to go home to get something and
they were at it.”
“At it?”
“You know.”
Jessie yowled.
“Stop making that noise and tell me who your
boyfriend is,” said Dorothy. The caterwauling can’t be genuine, she decided. “What’s
his name?”
“Tom Crowe,” said Jessie, stifling sobs that could
be genuine in after all.
“Crowe? Is he a local lad?”
“What’s local, Miss?” sniffed Jessie.
Getting Jessie to say anything useful was like
squeezing blood out of a stone.
“Where does
he live?”
“Up the road.”
“That’s local. Where does he work?”
“He’s a gardener, Miss.”
“Here at the school?”
“Yes, Miss. He’s a bit older than me, but ‘e’s too
young for my mother.”
“What
happened when you caught them ‘at it’, Jessie?”
“He got dressed and scarpered, didn’t he? And my
mum said she'd been giving him a massage for his bad back. And him naked as the
day ‘e was born, Miss.”
“I see.”
“And he was lying on his back, Miss. And my Mum
was…”
Dorothy interrupted. She had no desire to hear
further details about Tom Crowe and Mrs Coppins’ antics.
“I never want to see him again. I’ll kill him if he
crosses my path.”
Jessie’s voice was full of venom.
“Don’t do that, Jessie. It will only make things
worse.”
“I don’t bloody care, do I?”
“Well, let’s get the lunch done first, shall we?”
“And then I’m going to find Tom Crowe and give him
a piece of my mind, like I did my mother this morning. She said it was only
business and not serious. But in the bushes he’d told me ‘e loved me,” said
Jessie, breaking into a new round of yowling.
“Don’t burn the hamburgers, Jessie. I’m just going
to make a quick phone call.”
Dorothy was disturbed by the violence in Jessie’s
voice. Was she capable of murder? Cleo would have to know about the dialogue
she had just had with the girl.
“You’d better find out about Tom Crowe, Cleo. He
sounds like a bit of a bastard.” Dorothy told Cleo in a few words what Jessie
had told her.
“Take it easy, Dorothy! I’ll phone Gary and find
out if the guy has a criminal record. Just think of a way to keep Jessie from
going home for a bit. I’ll drive up to Mrs Coppins and have a talk with her.”
Cleo wondered if the voice she had heard at Mrs
Coppins’ house had been Tom Crowe’s.
***
“When did you last see Tom Crowe, Mrs Coppins,”
Cleo asked as soon as she had been led into the living-room.
Cleo was not welcome, though Mrs Coppins did not
happen to be ‘treating’ anyone. Her clients came during school hours, Cleo
decided, except that she must have got carried away if Jessie had caught her
‘at it’ in the afternoon.
A little boy sat at the table eating biscuits and
looking disgruntled.
“That’s Joe. He came home early with a belly-ache
and now he’s scoffing biscuits,” said Mrs Coppins in explanation.
“Lucky you were alone, Mrs Coppins. Maybe Joe was
just hungry,” said Cleo, giving Joe a wink.
“Are you suggesting that I don’t feed my kids, Miss
Hartley?” said Mrs Coppins, immediately on the defensive.
“Of course not, but growing boys sometimes get
hungry between meals.”
Mrs Coppins relaxed. She knew the kids were
suspicious of her extramural activities and she suspected Joe of coming home to
catch her out. But he hadn’t. Tom Crowe hadn’t turned up that morning. Had Miss
Hartley heard rumours?
“About Tom Crowe...”
“Oh, you mean Jessie’s boyfriend,” said Mrs Coppins.
“Do I?”
“Yes, you do. And no, I haven’t seen him today. Why
should I?”
Joe was all ears, but his mother was sly enough not
to give anything away.
“I just wondered, Mrs Coppins. I’ll be on my way
then.”
“Why did you come, Miss Hartley?”
“I was at the pub and thought I’d pop in,” said
Cleo
“Well, don’t pop in again without warning me,” said
Mrs Coppins.
***
Cleo got into her car. She knew she couldn’t talk
to the woman when one of the kids was at home and she had a feeling that Joe
wanted to talk to her. She was right. A minute or so later Joe emerged from the
house and knocked on the car window.
“My mum wants me to get fish and chips,” he
explained.
Cleo told him through the widow that it was a good
idea and they could drive to the bistro and get some.
“I’d like to buy some, too, and the bistro does
big, fat ones.”
The ice was broken.
Joe got into the car and made himself comfortable
on the passenger seat.
“You’re a cop, aren’t you, Miss?” he said as Cleo
negotiated the narrow lane between the two villages.
“Not a cop. A private detective.”
“How much do you cost?”
“That depends. I don’t charge children.”
Joe’s face lit up.
“Can you work for me, Miss?”
“How old are you?”
“Eleven, Miss.”
“Then I can work for you free of charge. What do
you want me to find out, Joe?”
“I want you to find my father,” Joe said. “Bring
him home so that my mother doesn’t have to have so many boyfriends.”
“I’ll try,” said Cleo, feeling desperately sorry
for the little boy. Had he really come home early to catch his mother in bed
with some guy or other? Was it Jessie’s idea to use Joe as a spy?
“But I’ll need to know more about him first, Joe; his
full name, for instance.”
“I’ll write it down,” Joe offered.
Cleo pulled up in the courtyard of the bistro and
went in with Joe, who was overawed by the honour being bestowed on him.
Mitch was cooking in the open kitchen.
“What do you want, Sir,” he said to Joe, winking at
Cleo as he did so.
“Fish and chips for me and the lady,” said Joe.
“To eat here or wrapped?” Mitch said.
“Salt and vinegar and wrapped, please.” said the
boy, reaching up and dropping a fistful of small coins into the ashtray on the
counter.
“It’s my treat,” said Cleo, picking up the coins
and handing them back to Joe.
Delilah appeared, hugged Cleo and shook hands with
Joe.
“Can you provide me with some paper and a biro,
Delila?” said Cleo. “Joe needs to write down some information. Joe is employing
me as a private eye,” she added.
“You are a clever boy, Joe. Cleo is good at
detecting,” said Delilah.
“Fish and chips is ready!” shouted Mitch.
The boy scribbled his father’s full name.
“I’ll drive you home now and you can call in my
office after school tomorrow, Joe. You know where my office is, don’t you?”
“Yes, Miss. It’s on the way home from school.”
Cleo had bought an extra portion of chips that they
could share in the care on the way back to Huddlecourt Minor. She had seen the
boy hovering outside her office and wondered what he wanted.
“We’ll contact a policeman tomorrow, Joe. He helps
me to find people sometimes. You can tell him more about your father, and we’ll
keep it a secret from your mother.”
“Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”
They shook hands solemnly. The deal was struck.
Cleo pondered on the saying that all roads lead to Rome. Who knows, something
relevant to the Oldfield case might also come of Joe’s plea for help.
***
When she got home, Cleo read the scant information
about his father that Joe had written. Joe obviously thought he was named after
Coppins. Between the lines she understood that his dad had lived with them
until fairly recently, but Joe could not say exactly when he had gone away,
though Cleo knew that he had absconded with Molly’s underage barmaid.
Mrs Coppins would know. Since she didn’t have a
good word to say about the guy, she would no doubt talk, if only to complain
about him.
***
“What do you want to know for?” was Mrs Coppins’
first reaction. Joe might want his father back, but Mrs Coppins didn’t.
“I expect he owes you money, doesn’t he?” Cleo
hazarded.
“The bastard doesn’t even give me anything for the
kids,” she replied.
“We can get some from him when we find him,” Cleo
said.
“So if I tell you a bit about him, you will look
for him?”
“Yes.”
“And will I have to pay you, Miss Hartley?”
“No. You are not hiring me, Mrs Coppins. I just
need to know where he is in case he’s a suspect.”
That explanation was not particularly plausible,
but it put Mrs Coppins’ mind at rest. Cleo had not wanted to drag Joe into the
conversation.
“He’s been gone over two years and I reported him
as missing, but the police didn’t find him.”
That was a useful piece of information. The police
would have him in their list of missing persons somewhere.
“The problem is that Britain isn’t a prison, Mrs
Coppins. As long as you don’t break the law, you can go anywhere you want to
and you don’t have to tell anyone.”
“But he did break the law, didn’t he?”
“Tell me how,” said Cleo.
“I thought he’d gone off with Molly, but she is
still there and she told me he’d gone off with that girl who jobbed at
weekends.”
“Do you know the name of the girl?”
“Polly something or other. And she was only 15 in
those days. Still a schoolgirl.”
“And that, Mrs Coppins, is where we’ll get him. What
he did was definitely illegal. You can’t just run off with an underage person.”
“I’m not going to,” replied Mrs Coppins, who had
plainly misunderstood. “I don’t touch juniors.”
“I didn’t mean you, Mrs Coppins,” said Cleo, relieved
that the woman was sticking to consenting adults. “I meant your husband.”
***
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