9,59 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Home Front Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
1916. As thousands of Brits are fighting on the Front Line, a new breed of women emerges to hold the Home Front together. Fiercely independent and fiery-spirited, the munitionettes, or 'canaries', are easily recognisable with their chemically-stained yellow faces. Among the raucous group of women is Florrie Duncan, who plans to celebrate her birthday in style at the Golden Goose pub. But the celebrations are cut short when all but one are killed in a brutal explosion.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 491
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
Ähnliche
Five Dead Canaries
EDWARD MARSTON
In memory of the women who worked and died in munitions factories during the Great War
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
1916
Maureen Quinn usually had to drag herself reluctantly out of bed at five o’clock but it was different that morning. Having slept fitfully, she was up earlier than usual and had a decided spring in her step. She dressed, used the outside privy, washed in the kitchen sink, ate a meagre breakfast, brushed her teeth and applied powder with great care to soften the yellow tinge of her face. Before the rest of the family had even stirred, Maureen was walking briskly in the direction of the railway station. Lost in thought, she was at first unaware of the diminutive woman who came out of a side street. Agnes Collier had to call out her friend’s name three times before she finally got a response.
‘It’s me, Maureen!’ she yelled. ‘Have you gone deaf?’
‘Oh, hello,’ said the other, jerked out of her reverie. ‘I’m sorry, Agnes. I was miles away.’
‘I know what you’re thinking about.’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course – it’s Florrie’s birthday. We’re going to have a party.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Well, sound a bit more enthusiastic,’ chided Agnes, falling in beside her. ‘How often do we get the chance to celebrate? After the best part of ten hours at the factory, I can’t think of anything nicer than going to a pub to have some fun. What about you?’
Maureen manufactured a smile. ‘I’ve been looking forward to it all week.’
They were part of a gathering mass of people who converged on the station, jostled each other in the long queue, bought their tickets and moved out onto the platform. Like all female munition workers, they collected a variety of glances and outright stares, some hostile, some sympathetic and some charged with a grudging admiration. It was their faces that gave them away. Even with her make-up on, Maureen could not fully disguise the distinctive yellow hue, and Agnes’s cheeks were positively glowing. Both were canaries, two of the countless thousands of women whose exposure to TNT and sulphur had dramatically altered the colour of their skin. It was the unmistakable mark of the so-called munitionettes.
Maureen was a startlingly pretty young woman of twenty with lustrous dark hair turned almost ginger at the front. Tall, slim and shapely, she moved with a natural grace. The plump Agnes, by contrast, tended to waddle along. Five years older than her friend, she had a podgy, open face and fair hair brushed back severely and held in a bun. While Maureen was single, Agnes was married and had been quick to answer the call for workers at the rapidly expanding Munitions Filling Factory No.7 in Hayes, Middlesex. Her mother looked after the baby for her, allowing Agnes to bring a regular wage into the house.
‘Any word from Terry?’ asked Maureen.
‘No, we haven’t had a letter for over a month now,’ said Agnes, worriedly. ‘Mam keeps saying that no news is good news but I’m not so sure. I keep dreading that a telegram will arrive one day. Be grateful you’re not married, Maureen. Having a husband in the army is murder. I have the most terrible nightmares sometimes.’
‘And me – I’ve got two brothers at the front, remember.’
‘Poor things – let’s hope they all come home safe. However,’ she went on, brightening, ‘I’m not going to let sad thoughts spoil Florrie’s big day. We always have a laugh with her. It’s been one of the few joys of taking a job at the factory. I’ve made some wonderful new friends.’
‘Yes,’ said Maureen, quietly, ‘and so have I.’
‘Florrie Duncan is a scream.’
‘She has so much energy. Nothing seems to tire her.’
Agnes laughed. ‘Whereas I’m exhausted before I even get up.’
‘How’s the baby?’
‘Oh, he’s a Turk but I can’t help loving him. When I come home from work, I get a lovely welcome. Only trouble is that – with this yellow face of mine – he must think his mother is Chinese!’
Her cackle was soon drowned out by the thunder of the train as it surged into the station and juddered to a halt. Doors were snatched open and the passengers clambered aboard. Dozens of other munitionettes were on their way to Hayes along with men who also worked at the factory and who wore a badge in their lapels to indicate that they were engaged in war work, thus making them immune to routine abuse and to the humiliation of being given a white feather. The train was soon packed with half-awake travellers. When Maureen and Agnes sat side by side in a compartment, the well-dressed man opposite shot them a look of frank disgust and hid behind his newspaper. His reaction brought out a combative streak in Agnes Collier.
‘Let him try filling shells and keeping his complexion!’
Maureen didn’t even feel the nudge from her friend. Her mind was elsewhere.
Until the end of the nineteenth century, Hayes had been a predominantly agricultural and brick-making area but, since it boasted a major canal and was on the route of the Great Western Railway, it was ripe for industrial development. By 1914, several factories had opened but the outbreak of war played havoc with their business plans. Under pressure from the government, some had to adapt their facilities to help the war effort and, as the supply of male employees dwindled as a result of enlistment, they began to recruit women in large numbers. Maureen Quinn and Agnes Collier were therefore part of a huge female workforce at the munitions factory. As the hordes walked or cycled through the gates, the chatter was deafening, amplified by the swish of tyres and the clack of heels on tarmac. Another long day had begun.
For some, however, their shift had just ended. Those who’d worked hard throughout the night to keep up the non-stop production of shells were now clocking off, thinking about their breakfasts and their beds. Women clocking on gritted their teeth as they braced themselves for another punishing day. The first thing that Maureen and Agnes did was to change out of their clothes and into the plain and unbecoming work overalls. A cap of the same blue material covered their heads. Because her fringe poked out from under it, Maureen’s hair was only gingery at the front. It was the same with other women. Their faces, hands and exposed hair all changed colour over time. There was the usual banter and the usual ear-splitting litany of complaints, then they were herded into their respective buildings. Maureen, Agnes and their friends worked in the Cartridge Section, a place where well over four hundred thousand items a day were made. Understanding the crucial importance of their work, they were proud of their output.
Florrie Duncan was first to her bench. She was a big, boisterous woman in her late twenties with an infectious grin and a deafening laugh. No matter how long the shift and how tiring the work, Florrie never flagged for an instant. As well as being the natural leader of her group of friends, she was also its inspiration. When she saw Maureen and Agnes, she beamed at them.
‘Ready for the party?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Agnes. ‘Happy birthday, Florrie!’
‘Happy birthday!’ echoed Maureen.
‘My birthday begins the moment we clock off,’ said Florrie, waving to some other newcomers. ‘I’m going to drink until I drop. Then I’m going to find two handsome young men to carry me home and put me to bed. That’s my idea of a perfect birthday present.’
Florrie’s coarse laugh reverberated around the whole building.
Since opening hours had been severely curtailed by war, patrons made sure that they got to their local pubs on time. The Golden Goose was therefore quite full that evening and, apart from the inevitable moans about another unpopular government edict – watered beer – the talk turned to the munitionettes. Leighton Hubbard, the publican, was a short, skinny man in his fifties with a reedy voice and eyes that kept roaming the bar like miniature searchlights. When he announced that six canaries were about to hold a birthday party in his outhouse, he set off a heated argument.
‘Bloody women!’ cried Ezra Greenwell, an embittered old man with a flat cap shadowing a grim face. ‘They got no place in here. They ought to be at home, looking after their kids or washing the shit out of their husbands’ underpants.’
‘Some of them are not married,’ said Hubbard, reasonably, ‘and those that are have got their blokes at the front. They’re entitled to let off a bit of steam.’
‘It’s indecent, if you ask me. Pubs are for the likes of us.’
‘I’m in business, Ezra. I turn nobody away.’
‘Well, you should. Those harpies just don’t belong here.’
‘Fair’s fair, Ezra,’ said Tim Burnham, a stocky young man in army uniform. ‘They do a vital job. I should know. I’ve seen what’s happening over there. When the war first started, the Germans had far more shells than us. It was a right old scandal. We were always short of ammo. Thanks to the ladies, that problem has been solved.’
‘They’re not ladies,’ insisted Greenwell. ‘They’re stupid women trying to behave like men and,’ he added with searing envy, ‘they’re paid far too much money.’
Hubbard shook his head. ‘They get half of what the men get.’
‘That’s still a lot more than me,’ said Burnham. ‘It’s embarrassing. I agree with Ezra on that score. First day on leave, I’m having a pint in the Red Lion and these two canaries walks in. When I offered to buy them a drink, one of them tells me to put my money away because it’s her treat. Then she opens her purse and takes out this wad of notes. Honestly, I thought she’d robbed a bleeding bank.’
‘There you are,’ said Greenwell as if he’d won the debate. ‘It’s unnatural, giving them wages like that. If they’d bought me a drink, I’d have poured it all over them. They get above themselves. You should refuse to serve them, Leighton.’
‘I need all the customers I can get,’ admitted Hubbard. ‘The war has already killed some of my regulars. Besides, these girls will be no trouble. They’ll be tucked away in the outhouse with their booze and their sandwiches. The missus has even baked them a little cake.’
‘What did she use – canary seed?’
They were still laughing at Greenwell’s sour joke when the door opened and the six women marched in. Florrie Duncan was in the lead. Agnes Collier, Enid Jenks, Shirley Beresford and Jean Harte were right behind her, with Maureen Quinn, looking rather apprehensive, at the rear of the group. Florrie had the most vivid yellow complexion of all but the others were also identifiable canaries. They got a mixed reception from the exclusively male customers. Some, like Ezra Greenwell, glowered in disgust, others pointedly ignored them, a few just goggled at them in wonder and Burnham, their sole supporter, clapped his hands and grinned amiably. The publican moved swiftly to avoid any possible friction.
‘This way,’ he said, going to a door at the side of the bar and opening it. ‘I think you’ll find everything ready for you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hubbard,’ said Florrie, slapping some money down on the counter. ‘That’s the price we agreed. Keep the change.’
He scooped up the cash. ‘Oh, thanks – very kind of you.’
She led the way through the door. ‘Come on, girls. The party starts now.’
‘Happy birthday, Florrie!’ Hubbard called out.
‘Yes,’ added Burnham as they hurried past him. ‘Happy birthday!’
When all six women had gone, Hubbard tried to close the door after them.
‘Leave it open, Leighton,’ shouted Greenwell. ‘We need some fresh air in here to get rid of the stink. Those women are six good reasons why this bloody country is going to the dogs. They’re freaks. They should be locked up in a cage.’
Loud murmurs of approval filled the bar. The canaries had enemies.
It was not long before the party was in full swing. Separated from the pub by a cobbled courtyard, the outbuilding had originally been three stables, now converted into a single room. Though it was bare to the point of bleakness, had an undulating floor and aromatic memories of its earlier existence, the women didn’t complain. The trestle table in the middle of the room had a bright red cloth and was covered with plates of sandwiches cut diagonally. Pride of place went to the little birthday cake at the centre of the table, its solitary candle flickering away. What caught the attention of the visitors, however, was the alcohol on display. Having clubbed together for the occasion, they’d spared no expense. Florrie Duncan and two of the others favoured port and lemon. Jean Harte and Shirley Beresford opted for ginger beer while Agnes Collier and Maureen Quinn preferred a nip of gin.
There was a convivial atmosphere. The food was tasty, the drink was plentiful and they were soon having a lively party as they sat around the table. The only person who didn’t seem to be enjoying it to the full was Maureen, who only nibbled at one sandwich and took a brief sip of her drink. Florrie was in her element.
‘We ought to have a party like this every week,’ she said.
‘Why not have one every day?’ suggested Agnes.
‘We could never afford it,’ warned Jean over the laughter.
‘Well, we need something to help us put up with the hell we go through at that factory,’ argued Florrie. ‘It’s not just the work. I’m happy enough to do that. It’s the way we get pushed around by the men. They’re always inventing new rules to make our lives a misery.’
‘I don’t like the way that clerk in the wages office leers at us,’ said Agnes. ‘You know, the one with the long nose and glass eye.’
‘Leering is fine by me, Agnes. Men are men and I like to get noticed. What I draw the line at is them as takes liberties. Mr Whitmarsh is the worst. Don’t ever get caught alone with him or his hands will be everywhere.’
‘I might like that,’ said Jean, giggling.
‘Wait till you smell his bad breath. That will put you off.’
‘It’s Les Harker that I can’t stand,’ volunteered Shirley. ‘He’s always making nasty remarks about us. I mean, we do almost the same job as him yet he gets paid a lot more. It’s just not fair.’
‘Then it’s down to us to do something about it,’ said Florrie, decisively. ‘We should demand higher wages. If we threaten to go on strike, they’d probably cave in. Let’s face it, girls,’ she went on, raising her glass in the air, ‘they can’t do without us.’ She stood on a chair. ‘Who are we?’
The others replied by breaking into song, their voices rich with conviction.
‘We are the Hayes munition girls,
Working night and day,
Wearing the roses off our cheeks
For very little pay.
Some people call us lazy
But we’re next to the boys on the sea,
If it wasn’t for the munition girls,
Where would the Empire be?’
They rounded off with a concerted cheer. While the others had sung with gusto, Maureen had only mouthed the words. Though she tried to keep a smile on her face, she was increasingly uncomfortable.
‘There you are,’ said Florrie, climbing down from the chair, ‘we not only look like flaming canaries, we sing like the little buggers.’
The drink flowed, the excitement quickly rose in pitch and the sense of camaraderie was overwhelming. Within half an hour, they’d forgotten their aching limbs and put the multiple horrors of war out of their mind. All that mattered was the rare chance to enjoy themselves and they took it with relish. When it was time to cut the cake, they chanted the ritual words and Florrie blew out the candle with a monstrous puff before wielding the knife. After cutting slices for each of them, she passed the plates out. Maureen was the last to receive hers.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Florrie, noting her friend’s pained expression. ‘This is a party, Maureen. Join in.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do,’ said the other, ‘but the truth is that I’ve got an upset stomach. In fact, I’ve had it for most of the day.’
‘Another glass of gin will help to settle it.’
‘I’ve had enough already.’
Florrie hooted. ‘Hear that, girls? Someone’s had enough. We can never have enough booze. It’s the one thing that keeps us alive. Come on, Maureen,’ she urged. ‘Get another glass inside you and let your back hair down. Yes, and it’s about time you let your knickers down as well, if you ask me.’
The comment caused an eruption of mirth and made Maureen cringe with embarrassment. Everybody was looking at her and some of the older women began to offer her crude advice. Even Agnes, her best friend, joined in the general teasing. It was excruciating. Trembling all over, Maureen got to her feet, snatched up her handbag and rushed to the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I really do feel ill. I’ve got to go.’
Ignoring the pleas of the others, she left the building, trotted across the courtyard and went into the pub. Curious eyes looked up as she hurried through the bar to the exit and let herself out. It was only when she was well clear of the Golden Goose that her heart stopped pounding and the prickly heat began to fade. Facing her friends at work on the following day would be something of a trial but she couldn’t have stayed to endure any further mockery. Her only consolation was that the other canaries would soon forget her when they’d had more drink and exchanged more stories about work at the factory. They’d bonded in a way that she’d simply been unable to do. As she walked along the pavement, she rehearsed the apology that she’d have to make to Florrie Duncan for storming out of the party. Valuing her friendship, Maureen didn’t want to lose it. But she was right on the verge of doing so.
Thirty yards from the pub, she turned a corner and lengthened her stride. It was then that she heard a violent explosion from somewhere behind her. It made her blood run cold. Maureen dashed back to the corner and looked down the street at a scene of utter devastation. Glass had been shattered, bricks thrown far and wide and roof slates turned into deadly missiles. Flames were visible and thick smoke was curling angrily up into the air. The outhouse from which she’d just fled was now on fire with five dead canaries trapped somewhere beneath the rubble.
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 reckon 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.’
Joe Keedy was in luck. When he got to the hospital, Maureen Quinn was still there. Having been treated for shock, she’d been discharged but had felt too numbed by the experience to do anything more than sit in the waiting room and brood. The full implications of what had happened were terrifying. At a stroke, she’d lost five good friends at the factory. Their lives had been snuffed out like candles in a matter of seconds and, if she’d stayed a little longer at the pub, Maureen would now be lying beside them on a slab in the hospital morgue. It was a sobering thought. She was still wrestling with recriminations when Keedy joined her.
‘Miss Quinn?’ he asked, gently.
She looked up. ‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy from Scotland Yard and I’ve been called in to investigate the explosion at the Golden Goose.’ Maureen shrunk back as if in fear of arrest. ‘There’s no need for alarm. I just want to ask a few questions.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘May I sit down?’
‘Well, yes – if you must.’
‘It’s such a help to us to have a survivor,’ he said, taking the seat beside her. ‘It means that we can identify the victims. The only one we know by name is a Mrs Florence Duncan.’ He smiled softly. ‘I believe you called her “Florrie” at work.’
‘Everyone did, Sergeant.’
He flipped open his notebook. ‘Could I have her address, please?’
Before long, he had the names and addresses of all five women and – because of the way that Maureen’s voice modulated each time – he had some idea of how she related to each one of them. Evidently, Agnes Collier was the biggest loss to her whereas Jean Harte seemed to be no more than an acquaintance. Having taken down Maureen’s own details, Keedy could see from his notes that she and Agnes lived fairly close to each other.
‘Next of kin will have to be informed,’ he said. ‘Who will that be in the case of Mrs Collier?’
‘Her mother – a Mrs Radcliffe – she looks after Agnes’s baby son.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘This will come as a terrible blow to her. Then there’s her husband, Terry, of course. He’s in France somewhere.’
‘What about you?’ he asked solicitously.
She was defensive. ‘What about me?’
‘Do you live alone or is there someone to look after you?’
‘I live with my parents and my younger sister.’
‘So you’ll have plenty of support at home.’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll be fine.’
‘With respect, Miss Quinn, you don’t look fine.’
‘I’ll be all right, Sergeant,’ she said, keen to end the interrogation.
‘I’d be happy to give you a lift home,’ he offered.
‘No, no, you needn’t do that. It’s only a few stops on the train.’
‘Naturally, the factory will have to be informed that they’ve lost five of their employees. Could you tell me who to contact?’
‘Mr Kennett is the works manager. Speak to him – though he won’t come on duty until six tomorrow morning. But,’ she went on, thinking it through, ‘they’ll have his home telephone number at the factory. You could contact him this evening.’
‘That’s a good suggestion – thank you.’
Anxious to leave, she rose to her feet. ‘I must be off now.’
‘Are you sure that you feel well enough?’
‘Yes, I’m much better.’
‘Then let me ask a last question,’ said Keedy. ‘I saved it until the end because it’s the most important one. Why did you leave in the middle of the party? Weren’t you enjoying it?’
‘I was enjoying it very much, Sergeant.’
‘So why did you walk out when you did?’
‘I had this upset stomach,’ she replied, putting a hand to her midriff. ‘It’s been troubling me all day. I hoped that it would wear off but it got steadily worse. There was a point during the party when I felt I was going to be sick. That’s why I had to leave. I simply had to get out of there.’ She pulled her coat around her shoulders. ‘Can I go now, please?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘please do. And thank you for your help. I’ll be in touch.’
Her whole body tensed. ‘Why? I’ve told you all I can.’
‘There may be some small detail that slipped your mind.’
‘But there isn’t, Sergeant. I’ll swear it.’
‘Then I’ll let you go,’ he said, pleasantly, getting to his feet. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
Having stayed at the hospital longer than she needed, Maureen now left it as if she had an urgent appointment elsewhere. Chewing on his pencil, Keedy watched her go. He felt profoundly sorry for her. Having dealt with survivors of explosions before, he knew how consumed with guilt they could become, blaming themselves for escaping from an accident that had claimed the lives of others. Not that the bomb at the Golden Goose was in any way accidental – it was deliberately designed to kill and wreck. Maureen Quinn had been extremely fortunate to leave the building when she did and she appeared to have had a good reason for doing so.
Keedy wondered why he simply didn’t believe her.
CHAPTER THREE
It was just like old times. Ellen Marmion was seated in her kitchen, having a cup of tea with a member of the police force. However, it was not her husband on this occasion but her daughter who was nibbling a ginger biscuit beside her. Having established that Joe Keedy had been sent off to investigate a crime that evening, Alice had sighed resignedly in a way she’d seen her mother do a hundred times. Instead of going back to her flat, she went back home so that she could commiserate with Ellen about their absent partners. Having joined the Women Police Service on impulse, Alice was now having regrets. Her duties were strictly circumscribed and seemed to consist largely of taking orders from her superiors and carrying messages to and fro. Longing to be given some operational role, she was confined to clerical work. It made her look back on her time in the Women’s Emergency Corps with fondness. The work had been onerous but it had a wonderfully unpredictable range to it.
‘Did you find out where they were going?’ asked Ellen.
‘No,’ replied her daughter, ‘but it must have been a major incident or they would have sent someone less senior than Daddy.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let’s just say that Claude Chatfield is not your father’s greatest admirer. He takes pleasure in unloading awkward cases onto him. To give him credit, he does his job well but there’s a nasty streak in the superintendent.’
‘That’s because he knows, in his heart, that Daddy is a much better detective. At least, that’s what Joe believes. They call him “Chat”, by the way.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard your father call him a lot worse than that, Alice.’
They shared a laugh and reached for another home-made biscuit. Ellen was delighted to see her daughter again. Since she’d moved into a flat of her own, Alice’s visits had become less and less frequent. With her son away in France and her husband on call at all hours, Ellen was well acquainted with loneliness. An unexpected evening with Alice was therefore a bonus. She bit into her biscuit.
‘Have you set a date yet?’
‘We’ve set it a number of times, Mummy, but we keep changing our minds.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Things sort of come up.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Alice with a weary smile. ‘One minute I find a reason to change the date; next minute it’s Joe’s turn. It’s a question of finding a time when both our families can be there. My stipulation is clear. I’m not getting married unless Paul is back home from France.’
Ellen pulled a face. ‘Well, that’s in the lap of the gods.’
‘This war can’t go on forever.’
‘How many times have we both said that?’
‘Then, of course, there’s Joe’s family. They have commitments.’
‘You didn’t really take to them, did you?’
‘It wasn’t that,’ said Alice, remembering her visit to the Midlands. ‘I just never got to know them. When Joe told me that his father was an undertaker, I thought that he’d relax when he was off duty but he couldn’t, somehow. It was the same with Mrs Keedy – she chisels the names into the headstones so is very much part of the business. She and her husband are both grim.’
‘Maybe they’ll improve with a drink inside them.’
Alice grinned. ‘No chance of that – they’re both teetotal.’
‘I can see why Joe didn’t stay in the family trade. He was born to enjoy life.’ She put her hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘I’m so glad that this has happened, I really am. Your father may be against it now but he’ll mellow in time. He loves Joe. He just doesn’t like the idea of having him as a son-in-law.’
‘Would he rather that we just lived together?’
‘Heaven forbid!’
‘I was only joking, Mummy.’
‘Well, for goodness’ sake, don’t joke about it in front of your father. He’s very sensitive on that subject at the moment. Working with Joe always used to be a real joy for him. Now there are definite tensions between them.’
When he finally got back to the Golden Goose, Keedy found Marmion deep in conversation with a uniformed inspector who kept nodding in agreement. The crowd had drifted away now and the area was cordoned off with ropes. Two constables were on duty to ensure that nobody tried to loot the pub or poke about in the rubble. One of them chased away a dog that tried to urinate over the inn sign that had been knocked off its iron bar by the force of the blast. The golden goose looked outraged at the sudden change in its fortunes. Marmion excused himself and came over to Keedy.
‘You were gone a long time, Joe,’ he observed.
‘I know,’ replied the other. ‘After I’d talked to Maureen Quinn, I went over to the factory. They gave me the number of Mr Kennett, the works manager, and let me phone him at his home. He was knocked sideways by the news, Harv. He knew who Florrie Duncan was. She must have been a real character to stand out from the thousands of other women employed there.’
‘Was this Maureen Quinn the sixth guest at the party?’
‘Yes, she was still at the hospital when I got there.’
‘How would you describe her?’
‘She’s a very pretty girl but – not surprisingly – stunned by what happened.’
‘What did you learn from her?’
‘Lots,’ said Keedy, taking out his notebook.
After moving into the spill of light from a nearby lamp post, he translated his scrawl into a terse account. Marmion was relieved to hear that all five victims now had names. Since four of them lived in Hayes itself, he delegated the task of informing their next of kin to the local police, who’d locate the addresses far more easily. Thankful to learn the identities of the dead women, the uniformed inspector said that he would pass on the bad news in person to each of the respective families.
‘We’ll go to Agnes Collier’s address,’ said Marmion. ‘She lives some distance away.’
‘Her mother will be there, looking after her grandson. She’s a Mrs Radcliffe. I hope she’s got a husband or some good friends,’ said Keedy. ‘She’ll need someone to help her get through this.’
‘Yes, the birthday party has turned out to be a nightmare.’
‘What have you been doing, Harv?’
‘I spoke to the landlord, Leighton Hubbard. You only have to look at the pub to imagine how he must be feeling. The worst of it is that he thinks he’s somehow responsible for the deaths.’
‘That’s silly. It wasn’t his fault.’
‘He did give us one valuable clue.’
‘Oh?’ Keedy’s interest quickened. ‘What was that?’
‘That outhouse was almost never used. He only rented it out two or three times a year. That narrows down the possibilities at once, Joe.’
‘Does it?’
‘Of course,’ said Marmion. ‘It means that those five women were not just random victims. One or all of them were intended targets. The person who planted that bomb knew the time they’d be here and he could rely on them not being too inquisitive. When you go to a birthday party, the last thing you do is to search every nook and cranny for a bomb. They had no chance. They were sitting targets.’
‘Why should anyone want to kill five harmless women?’
‘The original intent was to kill six of them, remember.’
‘In that case, Maureen Quinn was very lucky to escape.’
‘According to the landlord, it wasn’t luck at all but design. He tried to persuade me that she was the bomber and knew exactly when to get out. It sounds like a fanciful theory to me.’
‘And to me, Harv,’ said Keedy, recalling his conversation with Maureen. ‘I don’t think she’s capable of anything like that. She seemed like a decent, honest, law-abiding young woman. There was no real spark in her. She was shy and unassertive.’ A memory nudged him. ‘On the other hand …’
‘Go on,’ prompted Marmion.
‘It’s always wise to double-check, I suppose.’ Keedy reached a decision. ‘When we’ve been to Agnes Collier’s house, perhaps we should go on to have another word with Maureen Quinn. I’d like to see what you make of her.’
They couldn’t believe it. When Maureen got home and told her family the news, they found it impossible to accept. On the previous Sunday, Agnes Collier had come to the house for tea with her baby son. They’d all had a very enjoyable time. Yet they were now being told that they’d never see the woman alive again and that the child would have to grow up without a mother. Their sympathy went out to him. When Maureen told them about the other four women who’d died in the bomb blast, she had to force each name out and her voice trembled as she did so. Seated beside her on the sofa, Diane Quinn, her mother, kept a comforting arm around her shoulders and offered her a handkerchief whenever she lapsed into tears. Eamonn Quinn, her father, sat opposite in silence, his face blank, his mind in turmoil. Sitting cross-legged on the floor was fourteen-year-old Lily Quinn, not understanding the full import of what she’d been told but realising that something truly terrible had occurred and that her elder sister was at the heart of it.
‘Will they put your name in the papers, Maureen?’ she wondered.
‘Don’t ask such a stupid question,’ said her father, reproachfully.
‘Mrs Fenner’s name was in the Standard when she got knocked down by that car and all she did was to break a few ribs.’
‘Be quiet, Lily.’
‘But our Maureen is going to be famous.’
‘It’s not the kind of fame we want,’ said Diane, tightening her grip on her elder daughter. ‘Whenever she goes out, people will point at Maureen and say that she was the one who escaped from that dreadful explosion. Yes, and the tongues will wag about the rest of us as well. The whole family will suffer.’
‘I’m not worried about being stared at,’ said Maureen, solemnly. ‘I’m used to that. It’s the gossip that will hurt me. I’m bound to be blamed.’
‘No, you won’t, love. You didn’t plant that bomb.’
‘But I was the one who walked away without a scratch on me. Agnes’s mother will be the first to blame me. I know exactly what Mrs Radcliffe will say. “Why was it her and not my Agnes? What’s so special about Maureen Quinn?” And the other parents will be the same. They’ll all hate me.’
‘Well, they’d better not say anything against you when I’m around,’ warned her father, bunching his fists, ‘or they’ll have me to answer to. It’s a miracle you got saved, Maureen, and I’m not having anyone criticising you as a result.’
Quinn was a beefy man with deep-set eyes in a florid face and a rough beard. His wife was also carrying too much weight but she still had vestiges of the good looks inherited by her daughters. Hailing from London, Diane had a light Cockney accent whereas her husband had a whisper of an Irish brogue in his voice. Maureen and Lily had grown up talking more like their mother.
A protracted silence fell on the room. It was eventually broken by Lily.
‘Do I have to go to school tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘No,’ decided her mother. ‘I’m keeping you at home.’
‘But everyone will want to ask me about Maureen.’
‘That’s exactly why you’re staying here. Word will have spread by tomorrow. I’m not having you pestered by questions at school. Apart from anything else, you might say something out of turn.’
Lily flushed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your mother’s right,’ confirmed Quinn. ‘You’ll stay at home – and the same goes for your sister. The pair of you will keep out of the way for a while.’
Maureen sat up. ‘But I think I ought to go to work, Daddy.’
‘Then you think wrong. Your place is here.’
‘I’m not going to hide.’
‘It’s the sensible thing to do,’ advised her mother. ‘You’ve had the most awful shock, Maureen. You can’t expect to shrug it off so soon.’
‘But they need me at the factory – Mr Kennett will want to hear the details.’
‘Then he’ll have to wait. It’s a police matter now. They’ll tell him all he needs to know. In the circumstances, he’d never expect you to turn up.’
‘Florrie Duncan would go, if she was in my position.’
‘That may be so, love, but poor Florrie is dead and won’t be going anywhere.’
‘We keep ourselves to ourselves,’ decreed Quinn.
‘Does that mean you’re staying off work as well?’ asked Lily in surprise.
‘No, it means that anybody who bothers me will get a flea in his ear.’
Quinn had a job delivering coal and there were several specks of it embedded in his beard and under his fingernails. He was a surly man at the best of times. The latest development would do nothing to improve his manner or his temper.
‘And that goes for the coppers,’ he added. ‘We don’t want them poking their noses into our business. Maureen has said her piece to them. That’s all they get.’
Imparting painful news to grieving relatives was something he’d had to do a fair amount in his career and Joe Keedy always found it difficult. He was, therefore, grateful that Marmion took over when they called at Agnes Collier’s house. The inspector was older, more experienced and always seemed to find the right words. Invited in by Sadie Radcliffe, they went into the living room and noticed how scrupulously tidy it was. Sadie had been knitting and a half-finished jumper stood on the arm of a chair. Like her daughter, she was short, tubby and fair-haired. She wore a pinafore over her dress and a turban on her head. Marmion suggested that she might like to sit down but she insisted on standing. There was an indomitable quality about her that suggested she was used to hearing and coping with distressing news. While Marmion cleared his throat, she stood there with her arms folded and peered at him over the top of her wire-framed spectacles.
‘Something’s happened to Agnes, hasn’t it?’ she said, stiffening.
‘I’m afraid that it has, Mrs Radcliffe.’
‘Is it serious?’ He gave a nod. ‘I knew it. I expected her back over an hour ago. My husband will be wondering where I am.’
‘Would you like us to contact him before we go into any detail?’
‘No, Inspector, all he’s interested in is his supper. Tell me the worst. I’ve been bracing myself for this ever since she went to work at that factory. Agnes has had a bad accident, hasn’t she?’
‘This is nothing to do with her job – except indirectly, that is.’
‘So what’s happened to her?’
Speaking quietly, Marmion gave her a brief account of events at the Golden Goose. Keedy, meanwhile, positioned himself so that he could catch the woman if she fainted but his services were not required. Sadie stood her ground and absorbed the bad tidings without flinching. Her first reaction was to look sorrowfully upwards as she thought about the implications for her grandson. He would wake the next day to discover that he no longer had a mother. Sadie pressed for more details and Marmion obliged her, even though he was uncertain how much of the information she was actually hearing because she seemed to go off in a trance.
When she eventually came out of it, she fired a question at Marmion.
