Chapter 6

Wilf

“Well, that was all very exciting, Stephen, and I have to admit it’s something I never knew about St Helens or even considered possible, but did you find out anything about this murder we’re working on?” Thurstan complained, as they let themselves back into Sutton Box.

“Not exactly, but this Wilf bloke said he thought he had something at home we might find useful; a copy of a book written in the fifties. It wasn’t specifically about the murder, more of a history of local strange happenings and myths, but he said he was almost certain it had something about this particular event in it. He’s going to have a rummage around and see if he can find it.”

Flicking the light switches on as he entered the office, the DCI hung his jacket on the corner stand and then called down the corridor, “Stephen, what’s this box doing on my desk?”

The distant voice from the kitchen was drowned out by the high-pitched whining of the cistern in the men’s urinals. Only when it ceased did Gandalph step into the corridor and call, “What box? Don’t know anything about it, Boss.”

Thurstan picked it up and dropped it at the end of the line of others which were spread along the floor on the far wall.

A returning Gandalph handed the DCI his mug of tea and offered an open packet of biscuits. “Custard cream? Anyway, what did you find out, Boss?”

Thurstan took one and sat down. “I found out the Detective Inspector mentioned in the file was a member of a local Masonic Lodge, the same Lodge his Superintendent was a member of, and it didn’t happen until shortly after this job was closed. I say closed but it feels more like shut down to me. I think a favour was handed out there.”

“Why’s that, Boss?” Gandalph replied, dunking a custard cream in his tea.

“Because I was told this Lodge was only for the high and mighty of the town. I can’t see DI Ridings, with his lowly background, being an obvious or welcomed choice. They’d have directed him to one of the others if they’d had an alternative, so I’m thinking he must have ingratiated himself with someone. Maybe, he had some knowledge they couldn’t ignore.” He dipped his biscuit and stuffed it in his mouth then leant over and took another as he mumbled, “He had to have been recommended for membership, so I think he knew something, and it was the sort of thing they wanted to encourage him to keep to himself.”

The following morning, coat hung on the stand, Thurstan turned to find the large box had mysteriously managed to get back on his desk. Before he could say anything, Gandalph handed him a mug. “Careful, it’s hot, Boss.”

Thurstan rapidly swivelled the cup around to grab the handle and tentatively took a sip. He pointed at the box. “What’s that doing back there? Was it you?”

“Not me, Boss. It was there when I came in. Maybe the cleaner thought it was in the way and moved it.”

The DCI picked it up, this time dropping it on top of the other boxes. “Well, it’s not in the way now.”

Their enquiries having come to a temporary halt, they cracked on with a couple of the other containers and when one o’clock came Gandalph nipped out to Birchalls butchers, renowned for their pork pies, and returned half an hour later with four warm ones.

Thurstan brought in a couple of plates and, when they’d finished, he washed, dried and stowed them away. As he re-entered the office, Gandalph was just putting the phone down. “That was our Historical Society guy, Boss. He says he’s found the book, wants us to go down and take a look. I said we’d be there in thirty minutes. Is that OK?”

****

Wilf was an affable chap – pipe smoker, fan of Fair Isle sleeveless cardigans and wearer of slippers, when at home. He welcomed them in, offered to make a cup of tea and, when the DCI politely refused, made himself one before taking them through to what he called ‘the den’.  

“Right, this is the book I told you about,” he said, pulling a well-used paperback from his extensive bookshelves. “What you’ll be interested in starts on page 83 and whilst you might want to take it with you, I must insist you read it here. It’s well out of print now so if anything were to happen to it...well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. I’ve got a photocopier and scanner so if you’d like copies of something in particular, it’s not a problem.”

Thurstan picked it up and began thumbing through as Wilf continued, “It makes interesting reading and I’d almost forgotten about it until the case was mentioned the other day. It seems rumours were rife back in the day for a while. A local man even had flyers made which he posted around the area claiming a certain local well-to-do family knew more than they were telling about the Blackthorn Street murder. Of course, it didn’t go on for long as the local Police caught him in the act of pasting them to a wall and promptly arrested him.

“Now, the author of this book has done a good job because he managed to find the original newspaper report of the arrest.”

He paused, pulled his pipe from his cardigan pocket, gave it an admiring brief inspection then continued. “I’ve tried to get this sort of thing before and it’s practically impossible in this day and age. Lots of old records were destroyed during the war and occasional post-war fires, so I rely on these early recorders of local history a heck of a lot. It’s why I don’t let these things leave the house, far too valuable in that sense.”

Thurstan had been reading whilst Wilf spoke. “Yes, I fully understand,” he replied absently, before adding, “The report of the arrest is a bit odd. No mention of what was written on the posters, and it names Inspector Ridings as being the arresting officer. In fact, the newspaper cutting claims this sort of poster posting had become such a blight in the town the Police mounted a special campaign and caught several offenders.”

He turned the page and read on. “Good grief, sounds a bit over the top! This bloke they arrested was sentenced to three months hard labour. It says here they let him out early for good behaviour.” He ran a finger through a paragraph. “The author states, after release, the bloke unexpectedly came into some money and he and his young family moved to Southport where they bought a small shop. That doesn’t seem right. It feels to me like he was paid off.”

Wilf began to fill his pipe. “I wouldn’t disagree.” He waved it vaguely around. “Does anyone mind?”

Gandalph smiled and said, “No, you go ahead. It’s your house, fill your boots.”

Once lit, their host blew a satisfying pall of smoke across the room and said, “I can see by your face you’ve got to another interesting bit.”

Thurstan looked up. “The author reckons he could never find any records of anyone else ever being arrested during this special operation.”

Wilf returned a firm nod. “And it doesn’t end there. Are you both sure you don’t want a cuppa? It’s no problem.”

Gandalph volunteered, “Well, I wouldn’t mind one, to be honest.” Thurstan surrendered.

When the tea arrived, seeing the DCI enthralled in what he was reading, Wilf took the DC on a tour of the ground floor returning just in time to have Thurstan’s attention again.

Pipe smoke scampered across the room as Wilf sat down in the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. “I take it you’ve reached the bit about what old Doris Farmer told the author in the mid-fifties?”

Thurstan shook his head. “No, I’ve just been reading about little Edith Henthorn and how she fell in front of a train at St Helens junction.” He passed the book over whilst picking up the remains of his cup of tea. “Read that, Stephen, the picture of the newspaper cutting is a bit small, but he’s reproduced the text on the next page.” Gandalph sat himself down.

Thurstan turned to the host: “Are the Hillingdons still in the town, Wilf?” 

“No, they managed to survive the mauling everyone else suffered during the Great War but in the twenties, both Montague’s parents died, and he got stung badly in the Wall Street crash of twenty-nine, never recovered. When the second war came, he managed to get the family on a ship to Canada. Hillingdon Hall was taken over by the military and, in the fifties, they abandoned it. Of course, it fell into disrepair, so much so, it was demolished a decade later and became part of a new housing estate.”

“Are the family still in Canada, to your knowledge?”

Wilf sucked on the pipe. “They never got there. You see, the ship they took passage on was the SS City of Benares. You may know, it was torpedoed by a U-boat. More than half of those on board perished, the Hillingdons amongst them.” Another suck of the pipe and smoke dashed for the ceiling.

“Absolute tragedy locally, to be honest. The whole family – Montague and his wife Hermione, their son Hugh, his wife Dorothy and the children, Charles and Antonia. They were only ten and eight years old, but they weren’t the youngest. No, that was little Eleanor, almost five when she died with her mother on the Benares.” He thought he caught an enquiring look. “The Hillingdons’ daughter, Lillian.”

Thurstan pondered for a short while then said, “Lillian’s husband survived?”

Wilf brought his eyes down from admiring the progress of his pipe smoke. “Good grief, no. RAF pilot, died July that year at the start of the Battle of Britain. As I said, absolute tragedy.”

Gandalph looked up. “Sorry to interrupt, but look at this, Boss. The author says he traced one of the domestic staff, this Doris Farmer that Wilf just mentioned. Apparently, she told him she’d been at the house one evening when PC Flitcroft knocked on the front door of the mansion with a little girl in tow and asked to speak to the master or mistress. She’d summoned Sir Montague and the officer asked if he knew who the little girl was or where she lived, because he’d found her wandering and she couldn’t speak. Hillingdon said she was unknown to the family and wasn’t well pleased their evening meal had been disturbed but, oddly, when young Mr Montague had stepped out of the dining room to see what was going on, she saw a shocked expression on his face and then he quickly disappeared through the nearest door, which was a cloakroom. But look over the page.”

Thurstan took the book and read on to find the maid, Doris, had quietly told Flitcroft to go around to the servant’s entrance just before she closed the door. She’d wanted to speak to him; she knew the officer as he’d once ‘walked out’ with a friend of hers. When she got there, she found the little girl chatting to the officer, saying she was certain it was the same man, the one she’d seen and the man in the photograph”.

“What do you reckon, Boss?”

A little smile escaped from the DCI. “I should think, the same as you, Stephen. Flitcroft was pulling a stunt. He obviously went there in the hope he’d catch the family all together, the timing tells you that, and it looks like he struck lucky.” He paused, momentarily. “Wilf? Have you got anything here from which we might be able to trace what happened to Constable Flitcroft?”

After a few seconds of consideration, his host replied, “Richard Tadley would be your best bet. I believe you met him at the exhibition. He’s extremely interested in all things Police. Even converted his attic into an office. He’s got a lot of stuff up there and he’s very methodical. I’ve got his number, if you’d like to give him a call?”