Текст книги "Five Dead Canaries"

Автор книги: Edward Marston

Соавторы: Edward Marston
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Edward Marston
Five Dead Canaries

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’rethinking 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 himtry 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 myidea 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 hertreat. 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 mea 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 everyweek,’ she said.

‘Why not have one every day?’ suggested Agnes.

‘We could never afford it,’ warned Jean over the laughter.

‘Well, we need somethingto 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 arewe?’

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 singlike 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 neverhave 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 dareto 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. Someonemust 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.’