The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (20 page)

“Would you tell me what you remember, Mr Dale?”

Adam was only too willing, but it matched his dad’s account almost exactly. “What you so interested for?” he asked curiously. “Writing a book, are you? We get ‘em
here quite often. I talk to everyone.” Toby could well believe it.

“I want to do a new show with the Darling Dan puppets,” he explained. “I need a new angle. An ending. Now everyone is dead—”

“
She
ain’t,” Adam interrupted.

“Fay? You know that for sure?” Toby stuttered.

“Not Mrs Fay. Dan’s missis. Madam bloody Serena Smith. You’ll find her out there somewhere hobnobbing with the gentry. Ned’ll point her out.”

“Ned?”

“She was here that day. Didn’t he tell you? I’d have my money on her. Not the late master.”

“
Ned
!” Toby roared, as he rushed back to the booth which Ned was minding till the next show. “Why didn’t you tell me Dan’s wife was here that day?”

Ned paused to disentangle the crocodile’s strings. “Didn’t think of it, Toby. Anyway, she didn’t have anything to do with it. Too busy drinking at the bar. Couldn’t
be two places at once.”

“But she might have seen something. At least it suggests she was expecting to see Dan.”

Ned shrugged, and returned his concentration to the crocodile.

It was evening before Toby could talk to Serena Smith. It took some time to track her down, and when he did discover her, at the bar, she refused to speak to him, eyeing him up and down and
suggesting he came to the house later.

She couldn’t have been more than in her mid-fifties but her face, coarsened with drink, looked much older. As the drink had obviously flowed, so had her figure, though not unattractively
so. She probably had Romany blood in her, as Dan had, Toby thought, as the rounded curves bulged in the chair she had dropped into with a heavy sigh. He was a little nervous, knowing what some
women could be like, alone in the house with a man, but she didn’t appear to have sex on her mind. Or, if she did, it wasn’t with him, he realised with relief. He could see she
wasn’t a woman to be crossed, though.

“’Course it was him did it,” she snorted. “That Pete Browning. I’d put my money on his doing in both of them, my Dan too.”

“You don’t believe the gossip that Dan is still alive, then?”

“Look, Dan was a rover. Of course he was. He’d Romany blood in him. But they always come back sooner or later. Thirty years is
too
late. Besides, he was mad about me, not her.
He loved me. No, he’s dead, and Pete Browning did it. That’s what the row was about. I could hear her yelling from the bar. ‘What have you done?’ I didn’t realize what
she meant then.”

“Did you know Fay Darling well?” Toby asked cautiously.

“Of course I knew her
well,
” she mimicked. “I wasn’t taken in by that fragile appearance, either. Tough as nails was that lady. She ruled the roost in the Darling
Dan duo. Sure they were a success, but Dan loved me, not her. Miss Fay liked all the attention on her and she went on getting it, even after her death. Her own husband wasn’t enough for our
little angel. She got what was coming to her, in my humble opinion, when Pete strangled her.”

“Where was Dan that day, then, if you were at the fête and he was missing?”

“He’d done it before, I wasn’t too worried. Another tiff with Madam Nose in the Air, I thought. He’d been away for a few days – he did that when he could, to get
away from it all. I never knew where he was going, but I always knew he’d be back sometime. I expected him to turn up for the fête though, since he and Fay were opening it. I
wasn’t too surprised when he didn’t, though, for he could be an awkward cuss at times. I asked Pete where he was, but he said he’d no idea. With your missus in the hay, I reckon,
I told him. That was before the fête opened, and I was already half-seas over with booze. He might as well know the truth, I reckoned. He went bananas. ‘I haven’t seen him,’
he shouted. ‘That clear? And I don’t want to.’ I suppose,” Serena added, as though thinking of it for the first time, “I might have put the idea in his mind to bump
them off. First Dan, then her.” Then she cheered up. “No, I couldn’t have done. Dan was already missing, but I’m still sure Pete did for them both.” She looked at her
empty glass. “When you ain’t got love, money’s the next best thing, and I’ve plenty of that. One of these journalists, are you? How much are you paying me?”

“I’m no journalist.” Relaxed after the drink, Toby explained about his new show, the one that would finally reveal the truth, and now he thought he knew it. He didn’t
tell her what he’d worked out, but she didn’t take it well, all the same.

She listened to him in silence and, when he finished, announced pleasantly: “You do that, dear, and you’ll land up in the river with them.”

“I’m back,
omi.
” Toby burst through the front door next day, full of excitement.

Sam put down his newspaper. “How did it go, son?”

“I know how it was done and why.”

“Tell me,
omi.
”

“I can do better than that. I’ll give you my new show. That’ll tell you who did it.” Toby was highly pleased with his efforts. Not a bad day for his first time with the
swazzle. That was a mere rehearsal for the show he’d decided he’d better confine to the limited audience of his parents for the moment. It was going to knock ’em cold.

“Right, son. There’s nothing decent on telly. Why not?”

Toby didn’t mind being laughed at. He was sure of his ground, if somewhat nervous. He’d decided there was no need for Ned’s services with a small cast and no bottling
required.

He set up the puppets while Dad went to call Mum to watch. She couldn’t miss this one, he heard Sam say to her. Not Toby’s first show, and in she came, apron on, and teacloth in
hand. Toby nipped round to the front of the booth to give a welcoming roll on the drum, then dived into the back again. He was keyed up, but still remembered to use the indoors swazzle Dad had
given him, not yesterday’s outdoors caller for Punch’s voice. He was so het up he nearly choked on it at first, as he screeched, “Hallo folks” and popped Punch up to join
the rest of the cast lined up to greet the audience. Then he came out front again: “Right,
omi
, Mr Punch plays the wicked husband as usual, Judy plays his wife Fay, Scaramouche,
Punch’s neighbour, is Handsome Dan, and the crocodile is his wife Serena. We’ve a few other players: Joey of course, the policeman, the ghost, the buffer, the baby – even the
publican.”

“That’s a surprise, son.” Sam was impressed. “Haven’t heard of a couple of those for years.”

“You’ll have a few more surprises coming, I reckon,” Toby said complacently, and went back inside the booth again.

“Come on then, let’s be having you,” Sam shouted. “Where’s old Judy?”

“Change of routine, Dad,” came Toby’s muffled voice. “Back to the old Piccini script.” In this famous eighteenth-century version, the neighbour had come on first.
Sam nodded, surprised, but he couldn’t fault that. After a burst of song, “Where are my sausages, Scaramouche?” Punch chased after him, then disappeared while Scaramouche and Judy
sang a duet, in Toby’s falsetto voice, one of the old Darling Dan hits, their version of “The Gypsy’s Warning”.

“Do not trust him, gentle maiden . . .” Toby boomed as Judy.

“I’ll truss him like a chicken; I’m not scared of him,” squealed Scaramouche.

“Oh ho. What’s all this? Not content with wanting my sausages, you’re after my wife, too. I’ll show you.” Punch hit Scaramouche with his stick, who promptly lay
down and died, then popped up again to berate Judy who was by now nursing the baby. He took it from her and flung it over the edge. “Ha, ha, no babies for you. That’s the way to do
it.”

“Oh, Punch, how can you be so cruel?” sobbed Judy.

“Easy! I’ll show you how!” squawked Punch in triumph, turning to whack her. But by now not only Joey the Clown was on the scene, but Jack Ketch the hangman, and Punch hastily
changed his mind. “My wife,” he squawked. “Isn’t she lovely?” As soon as their backs were turned, he swiped at Judy again, but this time Joey the Clown appeared and
pulled her away, leaving a string of sausages in her place for Punch to thump. The crocodile swallowed them up, and quickly pretended to be dead when he saw Punch. Jack Ketch appeared to hang
Punch, but the publican saved him by handing him a large bottle of whisky, and Jack Ketch joined the row of bodies lying at Punch’s feet.

“What’s he playing at?” Ada whispered. “I don’t understand. It’s daft. This isn’t a proper Punch and Judy.”

“Give the lad time, mozzy,” Sam said quietly.

“Let me see now, how many have I killed?” Punch began the body-counting routine, confused this time not only by Joey the clown but by the ghost who kept lying down to complicate
matters.

Finally the policeman loomed over him. “Mr Punch, I’ve a warrant to cart you off for killing your wife.”

“But I didn’t,” squealed Punch. “Honest. She warrant
there
.”

“Oh.” The policeman threw the warrant away, and just as Punch was chuckling with relief, popped up again: “Never mind. I’ll have you anyway.”

He called the publican back on – and the curtains closed.

“What did you think of it, Dad?” Toby strolled out.

His father cleared his throat. “Very neat, son. I take it you’re saying Mr Punch was innocent of killing Judy, but he killed Scaramouche, but escaped the law, although he got his
comeuppance in the end. That right?”

“Yes,
omi
,” Toby said. “I think Fay engineered the row beforehand, when she was yelling ‘What have you done?’ so that everyone would think Pete was mad
enough to kill her. By the time he got back in the boathouse, she had already vanished – slipped into the river, round the corner, and landed where she gave out that terrible shriek –
which brought Pete into the boathouse right on cue.”

“And what
had
he done,
omi
?” Sam asked.

“Murdered Dan. Fay knew it, but didn’t know where the body was – so she couldn’t prove it. She wanted revenge, and how better to get it than to have people think Pete had
murdered her?”

“What did she do after she climbed onto the bank then?” Even his mother was getting interested now. “She still had to escape.”

“No Dan to help her, was there?” Sam pointed out. “Scaramouche was dead, and his ghost couldn’t help.”

“No, but Joey the clown could.”

There was a split-second silence, then Toby said quietly to his father: “
That’s the way you did it
, omi.”

A split second silence, broken by Sam’s loud laugh. “How’s that, then?”

“I think you helped her, Dad. Fay was friendly with you, and she came to you for help when you arrived the evening before. She told you that she knew Pete had killed Dan, and that she
would never be free of him if she tried to get away, so she had to disappear for good. You helped her. You lent her the outdoor swazzle for that scream. When you led the chase over the hillock to
look for her body, no one noticed that there was one extra person coming back. Why should they? It was only your bottler. Not Ned, though, he was making himself scarce in the bar. That’s what
put me on to it. He insisted he’d been at the boathouse with you, but there’s no way he could have left you there to go back to the bar, and that’s where he met Serena Smith. I
think Fay wore a hat and blazer over a pair of her own trousers and a shirt. The hat hid her short hair, and no one’s going to look at the face of a bottler; mentally they only see the hat.
She stayed dressed like that till you went home.”

“And what happened to her then, son?”

“I don’t know, but you probably do. Maybe she’s still singing her heart out somewhere in the world. After all, it doesn’t take much in disguise when folks aren’t
expecting to see you any longer. Bit of hair-dye, and different hair-do, change of name and no one would recognize her now.
Do
you know, Dad? Have you ever seen her again?”

“Oh yes, son.”

“So where is she?”

“Right here,
omi.
She’s your ma.”

Val McDermid

Jess turned fourteen today. With every passing year, she looks more like her mother. And it pierces me to the heart. When I stopped by her room this evening, I asked if her
birthday awakened memories of her mother. She shook her head, leaning forward so her long blonde hair curtained her face, cutting us off from each other. “Ruth, you’re the one I think
of when people say ‘mother’ to me,” she mumbled.

She couldn’t have known that her words opened an even deeper wound inside me and I was careful to keep my heart’s response hidden from my face. Even after ten years, I’ve never
stopped being careful. “She was a good woman, your mother,” I managed to say without my voice shaking.

Jess raised her head to meet my eyes then swiftly dropped it again, taking refuge behind the hair. “She killed my father,” she said mutinously. “Where exactly does
‘good’ come into it?”

I want to tell her the truth. There’s part of me thinks she’s old enough now to know. But then the sensible part of me kicks in. There are worse things to be in small town America
than the daughter of a murderess. So I hold my tongue and settle for silence.

Seems like I’ve been settling for silence all my adult life.

It’s easy to point to where things end but it’s a lot harder to be sure where they start. Everybody here in Marriott knows where and when Kenny Sheldon died, and
most of them think they know why. They reckon they know exactly where his journey to the grave started.

They’re wrong, of course. But I’m not going to be the one to set them right. As far as Marriott is concerned, Kenny’s first step on the road to hell started when he began
dating Billy Jean Ferguson. Rich boys mixing with poor girls is pretty much a conventional road to ruin in these parts.

Me and Billy Jean, we were still in high school, but Kenny had a job. Not just any old job, but one that came slathered with a certain glamour. Somehow, he’d persuaded the local radio
station to take him on staff. He was only a gofer, but Kenny being Kenny, he managed to parlay that into being a crucial element in the station’s existence. In his eyes, he was on the fast
track to being a star. But while he was waiting for that big break, Kenny was content to play the small town big shot.