Edward Marston - A Bespoke Murder

Irene was baffled. Her sister was so odd and nervous over breakfast that she wondered if she was ailing in some way. Dorothy insisted that she felt fine and left the house much earlier than usual. It was almost as if she’d wanted to evade scrutiny. Irene washed up the breakfast things and wondered what had provoked the strange behaviour. She continued to worry about her sister until the mail finally arrived. All of a sudden, Dorothy vanished from her mind to be replaced by someone else. As she read the latest cutting sent by her landlady, Irene felt so dizzy that she had to sit down. To make sure she’d not been mistaken, she read the piece again. There was no error. His name was there in front of her. She needed a nip of brandy to help her recover.

She was in a quandary and needed advice. Yet the only person she could turn to was her sister. Miss James was in the house but she couldn’t possibly be told what Irene had learnt. It would distress the old lady too much. Dorothy was the person to help. Forgetting the strain existing between them at breakfast, Irene put on her coat and hat before venturing out. The cutting from the Liverpool Echo was in her handbag and its contents had lost none of their power to shock and frighten. They haunted her all the way. When the shoe shop finally came in sight, Irene almost ran the last forty yards.

Dorothy was astonished when her sister opened the door and stepped breathlessly in. She could see at once that something was amiss. One of her assistants was serving a customer, so Dorothy took Irene into the storeroom and closed the door behind them.

‘You look terrible, Irene. What on earth has happened?’

‘ This has happened,’ replied Irene, taking the cutting from her bag and handing it over. ‘It’s him , Dot.’

Dorothy read the item with rising horror. She could hardly breathe and prickly heat broke out all over her body. A sense of profound guilt burnt inside her. The article disclosed that the police conducting a murder inquiry in Liverpool were searching for a man named Ernest Gill.

‘What am I to do, Dot?’ asked Irene. ‘He’s my friend.’

‘I know.’

‘It must be a mistake. He’d never do such a thing. He swore to me that he wasn’t involved. Should I believe him?’

Dorothy bit her lip and wrestled with her conscience. This changed everything. Her sister deserved to know the truth.

‘I’ve got something to tell you, Irene,’ she said.

‘Have you?’

‘It’s about Ernie.’

Cyril Burridge sat on a bench in Green Park and ate the sandwiches his wife had prepared for him. His new colleagues preferred to have their lunch in a nearby restaurant but he spurned their company. Whenever possible, he liked to be out in the fresh air, especially on such a warm day. In his immaculate suit and homburg hat, he looked rather incongruous eating out of a lunch box but he ignored the curious glances he attracted. There was no escaping the fact that there was a war on. Soldiers on leave strolled past him in uniform with wives or girlfriends on their arms. Recruiting posters were featured on a hoarding. As he’d passed the vendor at the gate, Burridge had noticed that the newspaper headline told of more bombs being dropped on London by Zeppelins. The Germans were spreading their attack and causing grave concern in the capital. It was not shared by Burridge. He was more interested in tearing off a piece of bread and breaking it up so that he could toss it to the birds dancing around his feet. They pecked thankfully at the crumbs.

When someone sat down beside him, the birds flew away. He turned to berate the newcomer, only to discover that he was next to Inspector Harvey Marmion.

‘Good day to you, sir,’ said the detective. ‘Your employer told me I might find you here.’

‘I like to feed the birds.’

‘That’s a laudable habit, Mr Burridge.’

‘Then why did you frighten them away?’

‘They’ll be back when they realise I’m no threat,’ said Marmion. ‘Those crumbs are far too inviting to leave.’

Burridge glared. ‘What are you after this time, Inspector?’

‘I want the usual thing, sir — more information.’

‘Get it somewhere else. I know nowt.’

‘I think you’d be surprised what you know. You just don’t happen to think it’s relevant. Tell me about Mr Cohen and Mr Fine.’

‘I disliked them both.’

‘How well did they get on together?’

Burridge spluttered. ‘How should I know? I were there to work, not to watch the others.’

‘Do you think Mr Cohen was aware of Mr Fine’s … inclinations?’

‘No,’ said the tailor, ‘he were taken in along with Mr Stein. I’ve got a sharper eye for these things.’

‘Would you describe yourself as a prejudiced man?’

‘Aye — and I’m proud of the fact. I’ve got my standards and no time for them as don’t meet them. Howard Fine fell well short of those standards. I were glad when he went.’

As he fired the next question, Marmion looked him in the eye. ‘Did you dislike him because he was a homosexual or because he was a Jew?’

‘I’ve nothing against Jews,’ said Burridge, angrily. ‘I’ve spent most of my life working with and for them. They’ve always treated me fairly. No, Inspector, I’m not prejudiced in that way. When it comes to sodomites, however, then I’m very prejudiced, as every decent man should be. People like Howard Fine are a disgrace.’

‘I daresay you passed on your low opinion to him.’

‘He knew where I stood.’

‘And did Mr Cohen share your prejudice?’

‘Ask him. He does have a tongue in his head, you know. What I will say is that the manager were troubled when Fine were kicked out. I loathed Mr Stone, as you know, but I agreed with what he did. It’s the only time Herbert Stone and me were of one mind.’

Marmion glanced down at the birds now hopping around only feet away from them. Burridge tossed them some more bread. They pecked away, sometimes fighting over the same crumb. Marmion was amused by their antics.

‘I told you they’d soon come back,’ he commented.

Burridge sniffed. ‘I just wish you hadn’t done so as well.’

‘Do you find my questions so intrusive?’

‘I find them dishonest, Inspector,’ said the other. ‘You ask one thing but you’re thinking another. You’re trying to trick me into saying what you want to hear.’

‘And what’s that, sir?’

‘I haven’t a bloody clue!’

Burridge’s rebuff brought the conversation to an end. He began to wrap up the remaining sandwich before putting it into the box on his lap. When the Yorkshireman got up abruptly, the birds scattered. Marmion rose to his feet and fell in beside him. They walked towards the gate at the Piccadilly end.

‘I’ll come back to the shop with you,’ he said.

‘Well, it’s not by invitation.’

‘Really? I thought you were revelling in my company.’ His sarcasm produced a throaty laugh from Burridge. ‘Did you know that Mr Fine lives in Brighton?’

‘I didn’t know and I don’t care.’

‘What reason could Mr Cohen have for visiting him there?’

‘Ask him.’

‘They were hardly friends when Mr Fine worked in London.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’m going on evidence so far gathered.’

‘Then it’s obviously insufficient,’ said Burridge. ‘People in the same trade congregate together. I’m sure it’s the same with detectives. David Cohen were a tailor and so were Howard Fine. That’s reason enough for them to meet in Brighton or anywhere else. There’s another thing for you to ponder,’ he continued. ‘Mr Cohen holds a position in the Jewish Tailors’ Guild. He’s on the national committee. Even if he hated everything about Mr Fine, he’d do his damnedest to get him to join.’