On The Hook
CRIME SHORT STORY BY MEG STOKES
In this crime short story, set in 1924, The Butcher had been murdered and Alice was being blamed…
The door of the village wool shop flew open, which set the bell ringing madly, and Lady Rosalind Hastings entered, her cloche hat at a slight angle.
“Alice, you’ll never believe the weekend I’ve had. I’m absolutely exhausted.”
She threw herself down on to the chair at the side of the glass counter and took off her hat.
Hearing nothing, she sat up and looked around the tiny shop with its colourful shelves of wool and gleaming wooden display cases for threads and patterns.
“Alice? Where are you?”
Alice Boniface appeared from the back of the shop, a cotton handkerchief in her hand.
“Sorry, Rosalind. I had to see to something at the back.”
She lifted a cardboard box on to the counter.
“This has just been delivered. Look at these colours – aren’t they beautiful?”
She held up a wool skein of red and one of gold.
“I have a pattern for a Coco Chanel jumper that would look marvellous knitted in this.”
Rosalind stood up and looked closely at her friend.
“Your eyes are very red, Alice. Why, you’re upset!”
For a few moments, Alice continued unpacking the skeins of wool. Then she sighed.
“Oh, it’s Walter Johnson next door again. He won’t leave me alone about selling him the shop.
“He keeps arguing that Aunt Emily had agreed to give him first refusal on the shop if she ever decided to sell it.
“Well, then she died and left me the shop, so that never happened.
“He wants to expand his butchery business so that, when his son takes over, the business will be bigger and better – or so he says.
“He’s even threatening to sue me, Rosalind. He can’t do that, can he?”
“Oh, Alice, no wonder you’re upset,” Rosalind replied. “I’m no lawyer, but suing you doesn’t sound right to me. It’s not like breach of promise, is it?
“I think what you need is a nice cup of tea, so sit here and I’ll make you one.”
“No, thank you, Rosalind, that’s really kind, but I need to keep busy. I’ll go and make us both a cup of tea. You can finish unpacking these skeins, if you’d like to.”
Alice went through to the back of the shop.
Much as she loved her, she had tasted Rosalind’s tea before, and tea-making was not one of her friend’s attributes.
Rosalind had been one of her first customers and they had hit it off straight away.
They made an unlikely pair: Rosalind, the frivolous daughter of Lord and Lady Hastings of Dalton Hall, and Alice, the serious mother of a six-year-old – yet they seemed to complement one another in so many ways.
As the kettle boiled, Alice gazed out into the small yard and tried to count her blessings.
Leaving her the shop in her will was the best thing that Aunt Emily could have done for her and it had come at just the right time.
When her fiancé, James, had been killed in the closing days of the Great War, Alice had been heartbroken.
It hadn’t helped when she had lost her teaching position at a London school because she was pregnant and unmarried.
Her own parents being dead, James’s parents had come to the rescue and given her a home at Leyton Grange, doting on their grandson when he was born.
Those first few years of Robert’s life had been pleasant, but things had changed when Eleanor Boniface had talked about sending Robert to prep school when he was seven.
It was at that point that Aunt Emily had died and Alice had discovered she had a means of escape.
Telling no-one, but leaving a note for James’s brother, David, who had always been her champion, she had left with her young son.
She’d established herself in her aunt’s old house in the Norfolk village of Masonby and taken over the wool shop.
She was a keen knitter herself and, growing up, had always considered her aunt’s wool shop to be a wonderland of colour.
She had even inherited her aunt’s enormous ginger cat, Tiger.
Now Robert was settled at the small village school and she was known throughout the village as Mrs Boniface, a war widow.
The only thorn in her side was Walter Johnson next door, who believed himself to be wronged.
And the letter, a little voice reminded her.
Yes, the letter, which had arrived that morning and which burned, as yet unopened, in her pocket.
She carefully carried the tea back into the shop to find Rosalind engrossed in a book of patterns.
“Some of these jumpers are gorgeous,” she said as she closed the book. “Fair Isle is a bit beyond me, though. Perhaps you could teach me?”
She stretched.
“Oh, I’m tired, but it was fun this weekend.”
“What did you get up to?” Alice asked.
“We had a fabulous treasure hunt in London, with about thirty of us racing around in our cars, followed by the paparazzi.
“It was all great fun! Freddie Villiers was rather naughty, though.
“He put some sugar into Charles Cecil’s petrol tank, so his car wouldn’t go! A real wheeze!
“Charles was furious. Freddie said that next time it might be an idea to go further afield.”
She yawned.
“I am tired now, though.”
By the middle of the afternoon, Alice had made the decision to close the shop and head for home.
It was a warm and sunny day at the end of May so she decided to wander down to the village pond and sit in the fresh air.
The mallards were in the middle of the water, the males’ plumage dazzling in the light.
Slowly she took the letter out of her pocket.
The handwriting on the envelope had given her a shock at first, as it was so like James’s.
But this was from David.
He thanked her for the note she had left and wanted to know if she was all right, as he would gladly help.
He concluded by offering to tell his parents where she was, but only if that’s what she wanted.
With a sigh, she crumpled the letter in her hand.
James had always believed in her.
When he knew she was pregnant, he was overjoyed and was looking forward to coming home and arranging their wedding.
After all, the war was drawing to a close, so they had been full of optimism about their future together.
But would he have thought her strong enough to bring up their child alone? Did she think she was strong enough?
She stared at the rippling pond. Had she made a mistake in leaving Leyton Grange?
Church bells were ringing as Alice and Robert walked down the lane the following Sunday morning.
Alice had never been much of a churchgoer, but she had attended with Eleanor and William Boniface when she had lived at Leyton Grange.
To her surprise, she had discovered a feeling of peace and comfort hearing the old words of the service.
When she had moved to Masonby it seemed natural to continue to attend the services there.
As they walked under the lychgate, Robert suddenly tugged at her arm.
“Mummy, when are we going to visit Grandmother and Grandfather?”
Alice caught her breath.
“We’ll have to see.”
But sitting in the cool of the church later, listening to the vicar’s sermon about the importance of family, she again found herself wondering if she had done the right thing in leaving the Grange.
In the churchyard, Walter Johnson was holding court to his family about the vicar’s sermon.
The butcher was a large, red-faced man with thinning grey hair that he had combed across his scalp to hide his baldness.
His grey suit strained a little at the seams and he held his bowler hat in his hand.
His wife, a thin, faded woman with Marcel waves in her hair, was listening to his pronouncements, but his son, a slight, blond-haired young man, was gazing out across the fields.
“Good morning, Mrs Boniface.”
A slimmer version of Walter Johnson, his brother, Herbert, stood at the side of the group and smiled and lifted his hat.
Alice knew little about him, but he was always pleasant and waved to her when he was out and about in his black 1919 Crossley.
“Mrs Boniface.”
Walter Johnson had broken off from his diatribe and acknowledged Alice with a tight smile.
It was only as she and Robert walked back up the lane that Alice wondered if she had misheard an extra emphasis Walter had placed on the word Mrs.
He couldn’t know, could he? Of course not. Was she now totally paranoid?
It was on the following Wednesday morning that Alice heard a commotion on the street outside the wool shop.
She went to investigate and found a small group of agitated people gathered in front of the butcher’s.
“The shop’s closed, Mrs Boniface,” Cynthia Hill, who worked in the village store, said. “It looks as though Mr Johnson’s collapsed.
“He’s lying on the floor, see?”
Then she turned to a small boy who stood on the edge of the group holding a notebook and the stub of a pencil.
“I don’t know why you’re not in school, Tommy Carter, but you can make yourself useful and go and fetch Doctor Taylor. Hurry!”
Alice peered through the window and, sure enough, Walter Johnson was lying face down on the floor.
“I’ll see if I can get in through the back,” she said.
The butcher’s back door wasn’t locked, much to Alice’s surprise, as she knew how security conscious Walter was.
When she reached him, his striped apron twisted around him, it didn’t look as though he was breathing.
A large meat tenderiser lay near his hand, and Alice tidily put it back on to the chopping area before realising that Cynthia was hammering on the door.
Heart pounding, she hurried across to open it and the breathless village doctor pushed past her.
Alice stood on the street for a moment before going back into her own shop and shakily made herself a cup of strong tea.
Sitting alone in the shop, Alice examined her feelings about Walter’s death.
She was sure he was dead, having seen the doctor depart and the undertaker arrive.
She did feel sorry, but at the same time she also felt relief that the cloud that had hung over her life in the village had gone.
She was just getting ready to close when the shop bell rang as the door opened.
In came a tall, dark-haired man leaning heavily on a silver-topped walking stick.
He had a thin, intelligent face and the bluest eyes she had ever seen.
“Mrs Boniface?”
Alice nodded.
“I’m Detective Inspector Fisher. I’d like to ask you some questions about Mr Johnson, if I may?”
With his free hand he took out a notebook from inside his jacket.
“Ah, yes. I believe you and Mr Johnson weren’t on very good terms, is that right?”
He looked again at the notebook.
“I understand you had a violent argument with him just last week.”
A cold hand clutched Alice’s heart.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“May I ask what that was about?” His eyes bored into hers.
“Mr Johnson wanted to buy my shop so he could expand his business. I didn’t want to sell.”
“I see. Can you tell me where you were last night round about six thirty p.m.?”
Alice’s head whirled.
“I was here doing stocktaking. Robert, my little boy, went for tea with a friend.”
“Could somebody corroborate that? A customer, perhaps?”
“No, the shop was shut.” Alice could feel her voice beginning to tremble slightly.
“So you saw nobody.” The DI leaned his stick against the counter and made a note.
“And nobody saw you,” he added. “Did you hear anything from the shop next door – voices, perhaps?”
Alice frowned.
“No. But I was listening to the wireless, you see, so I wouldn’t necessarily have heard anything anyway.” Alice could feel herself beginning to babble.
“But why are the police involved?” she went on. “Didn’t Mr Johnson die from a heart attack or a stroke or something?”
“No, madam. He was murdered, I’m afraid.” DI Fisher replied. “He was killed with a blow to the head from his own meat tenderiser.”
Alice clutched the counter.
The meat tenderiser. The one that she had picked up and put on the chopping board.
The one that now had her fingerprints upon it.
Alice didn’t sleep very well over the next few nights. Could she really be a murder suspect?
If she were actually arrested, what would happen to Robert?
She had told the DI that she had picked up the meat tenderiser, but she wasn’t sure he believed her.
She was aware that fingerprinting was now well established and was accepted as evidence in court cases.
Far from feeling a guilty relief that Walter Johnson would no longer be bothering her, she now saw that his death had left a dangerous legacy.
Was she going to be arrested for his murder?
The following Saturday afternoon, Alice decided to close the shop.
She had promised Robert a picnic and the weather was perfect for it – a beautiful day, warm but with a gentle breeze.
They had just set out to walk to a small area of woodland with a stream that ran through it, when a red Austin 7 pulled up beside them.
DI Fisher hailed them, then got out of the car carefully.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Boniface, and this must be your son.” He smiled down at Robert, who smiled back, awestruck by the car.
Alice nodded and waited for him to speak. Surely he hadn’t come to arrest her?
“I’m sorry to bother you. I can see you’re going out,” he said.
“We’re going on a picnic,” Robert said, his eyes still on the gleaming car.
“That’s nice.” The DI nodded. “Maybe it would be better if I spoke to you on Monday, Mrs Boniface.”
“You could come on the picnic with us,” Robert suggested. “Couldn’t he, Mummy?”
Alice gave a nervous laugh.
“We’re going to Miller’s Wood and there’s lots of food,” Robert continued. “We’ve got sandwiches and a pineapple-upside-down cake my mummy made.”
He looked at his mother for confirmation.
Alice smiled awkwardly.
“Well, I don’t know if it’s appropriate, but you’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”
“Well, as pineapple-upside-down cake is my favourite, thank you, I will.”
His smile completely changed his face.
The lines disappeared and she could see what a handsome man he had been before the war.
“In fact, rather than you walking, how about I take you to Miller’s Wood in my car?” he continued.
“Oh, Mummy, could we?” Robert’s face was full of delight and excitement.
As they drove through the flat country lanes, Robert exclaiming at everything he could see out of the window, Alice felt tension build.
What more was the DI going to ask her?
They had played a game of ball with Robert, the sandwiches had been eaten and now Alice sat drowsily in the dappled sunshine.
A short distance away, Robert lay on his stomach dabbling his hands in the clear water rushing by.
“Where did your husband die?” The DI’s voice was gentle.
Alice pushed the hat back and looked at him.
“Amiens,” she said slowly. “We thought the war was nearly over and he’d be home.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied.
He tapped his leg with his stick.
“This happened at Passchendaele.”
In the stillness, a blackbird called from a nearby tree.
The DI reached into a pocket and took out his notebook.
“Ah, back to work, Inspector Fisher,” Alice said.
“I’m Sam,” he told her.
“Alice,” she responded and waited for his questions.
“Tell me why you and Walter Johnson were at loggerheads, Alice.
I know you said it was about him wanting to buy your shop, but I’ve a feeling there’s more to it.
As the bees hummed and the birds continued calling from the trees, Alice told him about Aunt Emily and how it was Walter Johnson felt so wronged.
“I see,” Sam said eventually.
He sighed.
“Alice, I’m getting a lot of pressure from above to solve this murder quickly. Walter Johnson was quite an important man in business circles.
“Are you sure you didn’t hear or see anybody that night you were stocktaking?”
She struggled to remember.
“I may have heard something – voices, maybe – but the wireless was loud so I can’t be sure.”
“And about what time was that, do you know?”
“About six thirty, I think, because the programme was just finishing.”
“And you didn’t see anybody go past the window?” Sam asked.
“No, I’m sure about that.” She thought back for a moment. “But whoever it was must have gone out through the back yard because the back door was open.
“I’m sure Walter wouldn’t have left it like that.”
Sam spoke slowly.
“So somebody came to see Mr Johnson. It wasn’t a customer, because the shop was shut for the evening, but presumably somebody he knew.
“It looked as though he had made tea for them – there were two cups left in the little sink.
“He let somebody in through the back door and they went out that way after they had killed him.”
Sam wrote quickly in his notebook.
In the quietness that followed, Alice heard the machine-gun-like bursts of a woodpecker in the trees behind them.
Sam glanced over to Robert.
“You’ve got a fine boy there, but it must be hard to bring him up on your own. I suppose it will be easier when you remarry.”
Alice stared at him.
Was he saying that she was on the lookout for a new husband or that she couldn’t cope with bringing Robert up alone?
She began swiftly to gather the things together and put them back into the picnic basket.
“Come on, Robert, it’s time we were getting back,” she called.
“But we haven’t had cake yet,” Robert wailed.
“We’ll have it for tea. Come on now.”
Sam stood up with difficulty.
“I’m sorry, Alice. I didn’t mean anything . . .”
“No, it’s all right. It’s time we went. I have a friend calling this evening. Thank you for the lift.”
“I can take you back . . .”
Sam’s voice faltered as Alice had already lifted the basket and moved away from him.
She left Sam standing awkwardly at the car as she and Robert disappeared down the lane.
“You went on a picnic with him?” Rosalind’s voice was incredulous.
They were sitting in Alice’s small sitting-room that evening. A pot of tea and plate of biscuits were on the small coffee table between them.
“That’s the way it worked out, yes,” Alice said. “He wanted to ask about Walter Johnson. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Rosalind gave a gentle laugh and crossed her legs, showing off her new stockings.
“Are you still a suspect?”
“I suppose so.” Alice shrugged. “I did get the impression that just about everybody they’ve spoken to have alibis – which, of course, I don’t.”
Rosalind sat back in her chair.
“It seems to me,” she mused, “that it might be a good idea to find out who committed this murder ourselves.”
Alice laughed.
“We can’t do that, Rosalind. That’s a job for the police.”
“And the police think you did it!” Rosalind exclaimed triumphantly. “So we’ve got to find out who did so that you’re off the hook.”
Alice shook her head.
“No, I can’t do that,” she insisted. “For one thing, I couldn’t put Robert in danger.”
“And if you’re charged with murder, where does that leave Robert then?”
Rosalind had voiced her deepest fear.
“But how would we even go about it?” she said.
Rosalind sat forward, sensing victory.
“Well, if they’ve apparently all got alibis, then we’ve got to break one of them, haven’t we?
“We’ve got to show that somebody had motive, means and opportunity.” She smiled. “I got that from one of my detective novels.”
Alice frowned. It sounded as though the whole idea had come from a detective novel.
“We’ll show DI Fisher that the two of us can solve the murder,” Rosalind declared. “What a wheeze!”
They sat, thinking for a moment, while an owl hooted outside.
“It’s got to be someone he knew quite well to let them come in through the back door,” Alice pointed out. “He made them tea.
“As far as family goes, there’s only his wife, Florence, his son, George and his brother, Herbert.
“I don’t know that any of them would have a motive for murder,” Rosalind remarked thoughtfully.
She picked up a biscuit.
“Oh, wait a minute.” She raised a delicate finger. “There might be someone else.
“There has been a rumour going around the village that he was having an affair with Cynthia Hill, the woman who works in the village store, but I don’t know how true that is.”
“If it is true, it gives us another suspect and provides a motive for Florence Johnson,” Alice replied, feeling more excited.
“Florence could have killed him in an argument over Cynthia, or Cynthia could have killed him because he wouldn’t leave his wife!” she cried.
“Gosh,” Rosalind said. “I suppose it could be anybody!”
There was another few minutes of silence as they considered the possibilities.
“I could go and see Florence Johnson – as lady of the manor, you know – to offer my condolences,” Rosalind said eventually. “I might be able to find out where she was that night.”
“Good.” Alice nodded. “And I’ll speak to Cynthia Hill and see what I can find out there.”
Rosalind nodded, then sighed.
“Father gave me the ‘talk’ again this morning about the dangers of becoming an old maid if I don’t think seriously about marriage now that I’ve come out.
“But, honestly, Alice, if you could see the eligible bachelors at these parties I go to, you wouldn’t want to marry them, either.”
She popped the last piece of biscuit into her mouth.
“I sometimes think that marriage is for fools.”
Suddenly realising what she was saying, she looked up guiltily.
“Sorry, Alice, I wasn’t thinking. I’m sure your James was somebody you wanted to spend your whole life with.”
Alice smiled.
“Yes, of course I wanted to spend my life with James. If only we had married it might have made life now a lot easier.”
Rosalind stared at her with wide, shocked eyes.
“You weren’t married!”
“No,” Alice admitted. “That was the plan for when he came back from the war. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans . . .”
“Alice, I’m sorry,” Rosalind consoled her. “How awful. I had no idea.”
“This is just between us, Rosalind. It’s such a blessing to have a friend like you.”
Before she got ready for bed, Alice addressed an envelope to David Boniface.
Inside she had slipped a note that read: Tell them.
Robert must be protected, and one thing she was sure about was how much his grandparents loved him.
The village store was small and every shelf was crammed full of produce.
As she entered, Alice breathed in the sweet smell of bread and biscuits, mingled with the clean scent of detergent.
Mrs Roberts, the owner, was sitting behind the counter.
“Will that be all, then, Mrs Pearson?” Mrs Roberts said to the woman who stood before her.
She licked her blue pencil before writing the latest purchase in the open book on the counter.
“No, I’ll need to order a dozen eggs for Friday, please,” Mrs Pearson said, putting her shopping into her wicker basket.
Mrs Roberts gave an imperceptible sigh and reached below the counter for a large ledger.
She licked her pencil again before writing the order, replaced the ledger and looked back at her customer.
“So there’s nothing else at the moment?”
Mrs Pearson shook her head.
Mrs Roberts moved the pencil up and down the column of figures in the book, her lips moving slightly as she added up the purchases.
Alice looked round at the colourful biscuit tins on stands and the metal advertising sign for Lyons tea, positioned near to the cheese slice.
There was no sign, as yet, of Cynthia Hill. Should she try again later on?
Just as she was turning towards the door, Cynthia Hill came out of the store room.
“Yes, Mrs Boniface. What can I get for you?”
“Half a pound of butter, please,” Alice said, and watched as she moved to the left of the shop to cut and weigh the butter.
Alice followed and stood in front of a curved, glass-fronted counter that held various cheeses and dairy products.
“Dreadful about Mr Johnson, wasn’t it?” she said.
Cynthia had raised the wire, but at Alice’s words she paused for a second.
“Yes,” she agreed quietly. “Dreadful.”
She swiftly weighed the butter, wrapped it in greaseproof paper and wrote the price on the side.
“I’ll have half a pound of Cheddar, as well, please,” Alice added, desperately wondering how to bring the conversation around to the night of Walter Johnson’s death.
The large silver till on the counter chimed as Mrs Roberts finished serving Mrs Pearson.
“Good morning, all!” a loud male voice announced.
Alice recognised Herbert Johnson’s reflection through the glass in front of her.
Although he was a slim man, he seemed to take up more space than one would have thought.
“Feeling better, Cynthia?” he boomed.
Cynthia looked up and smiled.
“Yes, thank you, Mr Johnson.”
“That honey and lemon I took round did the trick, then,” Mrs Roberts joined in. “She was proper badly last Tuesday afternoon.
“Then that shock about your brother the next day didn’t do her no good.”
Herbert Johnson looked sombre.
“But you’re feeling better now, Cynthia, so that’s good,” he commented. “I’ll have ten Capstan Navy Cut, please, Mrs Roberts.”
Mrs Roberts reached behind her to the row of cigarettes and tobacco, then placed the cigarettes on the counter.
“That’ll be 4d, Mr Johnson.”
Herbert Johnson picked up the cigarettes and waved a hand.
Just put it on my tab, Mrs Roberts, I’ll be in later in the week.
Mrs Roberts frowned.
“That tab is getting bigger, Mr Johnson. Forgive me for saying so, but you need to start paying some of it off.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs Roberts, I will.”
He left and a few seconds later the roar of his Crossley could be heard driving up the road.
“He runs that fancy car, wears them fancy clothes, yet don’t seem to have two pennies to rub together,” Mrs Roberts grumbled.
“Well, he don’t work; I think he’s still living off his inheritance from his parents,” Cynthia reasoned. “Walter told me he might be better off if he didn’t go to all them illegal gambling places in London.”
Her eyes filled with tears for a moment and she turned away.
Alice, waiting for her cheese, tried to remember everything she had heard.
So Cynthia had been ill on Tuesday evening and Mrs Roberts had gone to her house.
She was puzzled about Herbert Johnson, though. Mrs Roberts was right.
He had the air of being an affluent man about town, yet ran up debts in the village store.
Was it arrogance? Or something more?
“Are you going to get some coshies for your little lad, then, Mrs Boniface?” Mrs Roberts called across the shop.
“Yes, please,” Alice replied, having learned early on the dialect word for sweets. “Robert loves jelly beans, so I’ll take a quarter.”
Alice strolled slowly up the high street enjoying the sunshine.
As she got nearer to her shop, she spotted a familiar Bentley sitting outside and her stomach lurched.
A window had been wound down and cigarette smoke issued from the vehicle.
On her approach, the window was wound up and a tall man wearing a dark grey suit got out of the car.
“Hello, Alice,” her father-in-law said. “How are you?”
“Hello, William. We’re fine. Come inside and we can talk.”
William removed his hat and followed Alice into the shop.
As Alice went into the back to put the kettle on, he stood looking around.
“Very nice, Alice,” he called.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she said when she entered with the tea things.
He sipped his tea and regarded her closely.
“You’re looking tired.”
Alice gave a small smile, but said nothing.
“Thank you for letting David tell us where you were,” William said. “Eleanor was distraught that perhaps she would never see Robert again.”
“I never intended . . .” Alice stopped and swallowed hard.
“I acted impulsively,” she continued, “but I never meant to deprive you or Eleanor of seeing Robert.
“I know that James would never have wanted that.”
She bowed her head so that he wouldn’t see the tears glimmering in her eyes.
“I’m glad.” William nodded. “How is Robert?”
“He’s fine. He’s settled in well at school and has made friends.”
“Good.” William stroked his eyebrow. “James and David both went to prep school and perhaps we took it for granted that Robert would do the same.
“I’m sorry. But you have to know that we would never have tried to go against what you wanted.”
Alice smiled.
“I suppose I did know that deep down, William. And I’m sorry, too.”
Impulsively she reached across and pressed his hand.
He put his other hand on top of hers.
The shop bell rang as the door opened.
“Have you got a button that will match the others on this cardi, Mrs Boniface?”
Mrs Carter was a large, ruddy woman, the mother of five children, with whom she fought constantly to keep in education.
“Let me look,” Alice said, opening various drawers.
They compared the buttons.
“I’ll take these,” Mrs Carter said finally, picking up a card of six buttons, “seeing as there’s nothing else that really matches.
“Don’t bother wrapping it, I’ll put them straight on when I get back home.”
She looked curiously at William still sitting there.
“You’re not another policeman, are you?” she asked.
William gave a laugh.
“A policeman? No, why would you think that?”
“There seems to be a lot about since the murder,” Mrs Carter said, accepting her change.
Alice sighed and proceeded to explain.
Late in the evening, Alice took her tea outside and sat amongst the flowering poppies, roses and geraniums of Aunt Emily’s back garden.
She felt more settled in that moment than she had done for many months.
The main thing was that all was well with Robert’s grandparents, which was a great weight off her mind.
Robert would be so excited to see his grandparents in the coming weeks, as she’d promised.
Also, after explaining everything to William about Walter Johnson, she knew she had his support if the police did decide to charge her with murder.
The fact that she and Rosalind were trying to investigate the murder themselves she had kept to herself.
He definitely wouldn’t have approved of that, she knew.
But the circumstances of the murder had meant that once more she had had to face another difficult situation.
And this time, with Rosalind’s help, she had chosen to stand and fight, not run away.
When Rosalind drove up to Florence Johnson’s house, the first thing she saw was Herbert Johnson’s Crossley already parked in the drive.
The Johnson house was red brick, detached and set back from the main road into the village.
Rosalind’s knock was answered by a maid, who announced her and showed her into the lounge where the family were sitting.
Herbert Johnson and his nephew, George, stood up as Rosalind entered, but Florence, her face white and tired, remained sitting on a chintz sofa in front of a glowing fire and smiled at the visitor.
Herbert was the first to speak.
“Lady Hastings, how good of you to call.”
“I don’t wish to bother you all, but I wanted to offer my condolences on your loss,” Rosalind replied.
“Very good of you, your ladyship,” Herbert said, offering his hand.
“Indeed,” George Johnson murmured, then smiled and sat back down in the armchair.
“Please sit down, your ladyship. Will you take some tea?” Florence Johnson roused herself to ask.
“That would be lovely,” Rosalind replied.
Florence nodded at George, who rang a little bell at his side.
The order for more tea given, Rosalind turned to George.
“So will you be taking over the business, then, George?” she asked.
George opened his mouth to reply, but his mother butted in.
“No, no, he won’t be,” she said with satisfaction. “George is going to join the Royal Air Force.”
Rosalind stared at the young man with surprise.
“Forgive me, but I thought your father told me that you were going to be taking over the shop.”
“He didn’t know,” he mumbled. “I’ve only just heard I’ve been accepted.”
“Goodness, how exciting!” Rosalind exclaimed. “So you applied some time ago, then?”
George nodded.
The maid brought in the tea things and put the tray on the table.
Florence leaned over to begin pouring.
“Yes, the business is going to be sold,” she said. “George doesn’t want it and neither do I, so we’ll sell it.
“Thankfully, we’ll be quite comfortable on what Walter has left us.” She passed a cup of tea to Rosalind.
Rosalind murmured her thanks.
There was a pause where only the crackling of the fire could be heard.
Do you know if the police are any nearer to finding the murderer?
Rosalind asked.
“I think they’ve got ideas, but they haven’t said anything to us yet.” Herbert suddenly came to life. “They’ll be trying to find somebody who hasn’t got an alibi.”
“They even asked us for alibis,” Florence said, her voice rising.
“But we’ve all got alibis,” Herbert said. “I left for London that Tuesday afternoon and, luckily, Gordon Bates, the farrier, saw me drive out of the village.”
He gave a mock shiver.
“Cold it was, for June. It’s about time they put heaters in cars.” He winked at Rosalind. “Went to visit a lady friend, you know.”
“George and I had gone to visit an old aunt of mine in Norwich,” Florence said.
She gave an indignant sniff.
“As if one of us would murder Walter, I ask you.”
“They’ve been talking to people in the village, too, I understand,” Rosalind said.
“Cynthia Hill told me that she’d been spoken to because, apparently, she knew Mr Johnson well.”
It was as if the little tableau had frozen and Rosalind wondered if she’d gone too far.
“Yes, well, ” Florence said eventually into the silence. “I did know about her and Walter, your ladyship.
“In all the years we were married, he always did like a pretty face – and that was just his way,” she finished quietly.
George looked at his mother in concern, but she was staring into the fire.
“Here, have some of this in your tea, Flo. It will buck you up,” Herbert said.
He got up and took a silver hip flask from his back pocket. Rosalind caught a whiff of brandy.
As she drove away from the house later, Rosalind’s mind was churning with the information she had obtained. But there was also something that had felt a little odd.
She played the scene over and over in her mind, but nothing would come to her.
“Do you think we’ve missed something?” Alice asked.
Rosalind frowned and looked at the notebook in front of her.
They were sitting in the wool shop, prior to closing on Thursday afternoon and had both given their reports.
“Well, it looks as though Cynthia Hill’s alibi is solid. I can’t see Mrs Roberts lying about that.”
“No,” Alice agreed.
Rosalind tapped her pencil against the next two names.
Alice nodded and looked at her thoughtfully.
“Anyway, from what you’ve said it doesn’t look as though Florence was too bothered about Walter having an affair!”
“If Walter had found out about George joining the RAF,” Rosalind began, “I’m sure there would have been a furious argument there.”
She paused and looked down at the notebook again.
“But he and his mother were in Norwich.”
She crossed off the names and sighed.
“So that only leaves Herbert, and he’s got an alibi, too.”
Rosalind placed the pencil against her lips.
“You know, Florence said that she and George had been well provided for in Walter’s will, but Herbert didn’t say what he had been left.”
“Well, it is private business,” Alice reasoned, going over to tidy some wool.
“True,” Rosalind agreed.
“He does seem to have a cash problem, though,” Alice said, having told Rosalind about the incident in the village store. “I believe he gambles.
“Maybe his motive could be something to do with money?”
“But he still wasn’t in the village,” Rosalind insisted. “I’m sure the police will have checked with his lady friend.”
When Rosalind left, Alice sat alone for a while in the shop.
The police hadn’t been back to her, but she was sure that she hadn’t been forgotten.
On Friday morning, Alice had more or less resigned herself to being arrested.
Every time the shop door opened and the bell rang she looked up, her heart thumping, expecting it to be DI Sam Fisher.
So she was somewhat surprised when the door burst open to reveal Rosalind, who marched across to the counter.
“We’re not going to let this beat us, Alice! she declared. “We’re going to go through everything again until we find out who the murderer is.”
Alice smiled, but continued sorting knitting needles into their respective sizes.
Rosalind opened the notebook.
“We’ve decided that Florence, George and Cynthia are close enough to Walter to have gone into the shop through the back door.
“They all had possible motives and the means, but if their alibis are solid, none of them had the opportunity. Do you agree?”
Alice nodded, her head down.
Rosalind frowned and pursed her lips.
“Then there’s Herbert.”
There was a pause, the only sound the click of the needles on the glass counter.
“Who has an alibi.”
“Yes, but we said last night that we could pretty much guarantee that Cynthia’s alibi was solid, didn’t we?”
Alice nodded again and began to sweep up the needles and put them into a display drawer.
“But would Herbert’s lady friend lie, do you think?”
“I couldn’t say. I don’t know her,” Alice replied.
“Exactly!” Rosalind gave a shout of triumph. “So she may have lied to give Herbert his alibi.”
“Maybe, but we can’t prove that, can we?” Alice stepped out from behind the counter.
“That’s a pretty dress,” Rosalind said, admiring Alice’s blue, drop-waisted dress with its pleated skirt.
“Are you expecting DI Fisher to call today?”
Alice ignored this and reached into the window display.
“That’s it!” Rosalind shouted suddenly. “That’s what happened at Florence Johnson’s.”
“What are you talking about, Rosalind?”
“When Herbert put the brandy into Florence’s tea, she blushed, Alice. Just like you did when I mentioned the DI.”
“So?”
“So maybe Florence has a soft spot for Herbert and Herbert is thinking of cashing in on his brother’s death.”
Alice stared.
“How on earth could he do that?”
“I don’t know how much money Walter left for Herbert, if any,” Rosalind began, “but if Herbert married his brother’s widow then he’d get the lot anyway.”
They moved back across to the counter, but this time Alice sat down, too.
“Wait a minute,” Alice said suddenly. “You said that Herbert remarked how cold it was that day.”
Rosalind nodded.
“But that Tuesday afternoon was really hot – I remember I had the door open to let in a breath of air. It was cold in the evening, though.”
They looked at one another.
“He left in the afternoon, but came back,” Rosalind said. “It was cold when he went to London, because it was in the evening.”
Through the shop window, Tommy Carter could be seen walking along the high street, still carrying his grubby notebook.
“Does that child never go to school?” Rosalind said with a chuckle.
Suddenly, Alice jumped up and ran out into the street.
Rosalind watched as she and Tommy pored over his notebook, swiftly turning the pages until Alice stopped at one page and smiled.
She came back into the shop.
“Tommy collects car numbers,” she said, putting the notebook in front of Rosalind.
“He keeps a record of all the cars that come through the village on any one day.”
She turned a few pages, and there were the car registration numbers for the cars Tommy had seen on the day Walter Johnson was murdered.
“Here’s Herbert’s car in the afternoon: that must have been when he says he left. But see later, there’s his registration number again.
“Tommy says the car was on one of the back lanes, near where he’d been playing.
“He knows it was about six o’clock because he heard the church clock chime and knew he had to be back for his dinner.
“Here’s the proof that Herbert came back. We’ve broken his alibi!” Rosalind exclaimed.
Rosalind frowned.
What do you think his motive would have been?
“Maybe he owes money. Perhaps he acted in the heat of the moment.”
For a moment they stared at one another.
“We’ll have to tell DI Fisher,” Rosalind said.
Alice hesitated.
“You go, Rosalind. I’ve got to confront Herbert.”
“You can’t do that! He’s a murderer!”
This was a change, Alice thought wryly, Rosalind counselling against doing something dangerous.
“I must,” Alice insisted. “He would have been quite happy for me to be charged with his brother’s murder.
“I need to see him face to face before the police come.”
Herbert’s house, like Walter’s, was red brick and set back, but Alice could see signs of neglect.
The paint was beginning to peel from the window frames and weeds choked the garden either side of the gravel drive.
Herbert’s car was outside.
She stopped for a moment, then knocked on the glass panelled door.
“Mrs Boniface,” Herbert said in surprise when he opened the door. “What can I do for you?”
Alice could see a large suitcase standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“Going away for a bit of a break,” Herbert said. “You’ve just caught me, I’ve to be off in a few minutes.”
He smiled and smoothed his moustache.
“A question, Mr Johnson,” Alice said, her heart pounding. “Why did you kill your brother?”
Herbert’s face flushed.
“How dare you? I understand it’s you the police are looking at for my brother’s murder.”
“Yes – I did you a favour by picking up the meat tenderiser, didn’t I?
“What was it all about? Were you short of money?”
Herbert faced her.
“If you must know, I was in a fix. I owe a lot of money to some very nasty people, Mrs Boniface.
“Walter had helped me out in the past, but that day he refused to give me any more. I’m afraid I lost my temper.”
Alice frowned.
“I can see you might make a jury believe that, but it’s not completely true, is it, Mr Johnson?
“No, you intended to murder Walter and hoped he would leave you a large enough sum in his will to cover your debts.”
Herbert scowled.
“He left me a pittance.”
“So you now hope to marry Florence and get the rest?”
Herbert laughed.
“What a clever little wool shop owner you are.” He heaved the suitcase on to the back seat of the open-topped car.
“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go,” he said with a smile, “just long enough for you to be arrested for my brother’s murder.”
He got into the car and pressed the starter button.
The car spluttered for a moment, then began to roll down the drive.
Alice was still standing in front of the house when Rosalind’s car squealed to a stop in front of her.
Rosalind got out and ran to her side.
“Are you all right, Alice?”
I’m fine, but you’ve missed him – he’s gone.
The passenger door opened and DI Sam Fisher got out, looking rather pale and shaky.
“I can’t believe you confronted Johnson on your own, Alice.”
“Yes, I know, Sam, but I had to see him to make him admit what he’d done.
“And he did admit the murder to me before he left, but of course I don’t have a witness to that and he’s got away.” She shrugged.
“What do you mean?” Rosalind was positively giddy. “Herbert’s on the main road now surrounded by police cars.
“His car broke down about half a mile away.”
“You mean it worked?” Alice cried. “I wasn’t sure if it would.”
Sam raised his eyebrows.
“I put sugar in his petrol tank,” Alice admitted, beginning to smile as Rosalind’s whoop of laughter rang out.
A month later, Alice and Robert were once again at Miller’s Wood enjoying a picnic with Sam Fisher.
Herbert had finally confessed to his brother’s premeditated murder and his trial was upcoming.
Walter’s shop had been taken over by another butcher, who had made this his third shop in the area.
Alice smiled as she watched Sam kneeling beside Robert, both peering into the clear stream trying to see the creatures below.
Although the last few weeks had been anxious ones, in a strange way they had helped her to recognise that she had the strength and confidence to do what needed to be done, whatever that turned out to be.
But, for now, Alice was content to bring up her son and enjoy Sam’s friendship, wherever that may lead.
As if hearing her thoughts, Sam looked across at her and they exchanged smiles.
“Here you are,” she told him. “I’ve saved you some pineapple-upside-down cake.”
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