Edward Marston - Five Dead Canaries

‘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.’