Tuppenny Hat Detective

  The inspector looked relieved. 'Excellent! That wraps it all up nicely then.'

  'No it doesn't.' This from Billy, who had moved close beside the young doctor.

  'What do you mean, Billy?' the Inspector asked.

  'Doctor Greenhow didn't kill Annabel. He couldn't have.'

  Hadfield bent close to Billy's face. 'Look, old chap. It's all over now. You were right all the time. The killer has already paid the price. You can let it go now, Billy.'

  'But he didn't do it. He could not have killed Annabel.'

  'Well who did then, Billy?' he asked.

  Billy turned to face Sergeant Burke. 'A good detective always examines even the shadow of a shadow.' He looked at the old policeman, and around at the others in the room. The doctor patted his shoulder warmly.

  'In our gang den, we have something called the MOM board,' he told them. 'We write on it who was there and could have killed her. Then we check up to see what those people did and where they went. We know that in the very early morning after Annabel was killed, Doctor Greenhow was seen in the street near her house. At first, we thought that made him a suspect, so we investigated him. We found out that the barmaid who lodges at the Rose House pub had a baby that night. Doctor Greenhow was with her all night because the midwife was on another birth and Doctor Hadfield was out on other calls. Old Dr Greenhow couldn't have done it. He was at the Rose House all night, delivering a baby.'

  The inspector looked perplexed. 'But he shot …'

  'Oh yes, he killed Pearce and Stan and he probably shot the Vicar too. But, that was because he feared the incriminating evidence Annabel might let out about him. But the thing is, he was not the only person who wanted that evidence killed off.'

  'Who else wanted it?'

  'The person who killed her.'

  The inspector bobbed impatiently. 'For goodness sake, boy, who is that? Tell us who killed her?'

  'Someone was blackmailing Doctor Greenhow. That same person, also killed Tommy Loveday, and messed up the police investigation into his death so that it wouldn't look like murder.'

  'Who?'

  'I think Tommy Loveday found out that his mother had almost been poisoned to death by the old Doctor.' Billy looked around at the room full of police officers. Every face was turned to his. 'She might have told him herself, or more than likely, he found the evidence accidentally, when he was getting ready to go to the RAF about Pearce's DFM. Tommy had letters from his RAF comrades. He needed to show them to the RAF. Knowing his mother kept all the really important papers in that old folder. He could easily have looked in it, or maybe he did what we just did, and opened that tin box of letters. So, he found out what had happened, and instead of being violent and wanting revenge, or blackmail, he did the right thing – the proper thing. He went to the police for help.'

  First Wooffitt's eyes, then the inspector's swung towards Sergeant Burke, as Billy continued. 'You killed Mrs Loveday, Sergeant. I suppose she refused to keep quiet about the old Doctor, and you knew that once it came out, everything else would have come with it, like the fact that you have been blackmailing him for years, ever since you found out from Tommy and scared him into falling down that shaft in the old Tilt mill.'

  'Billy, this is rubbish! Have you gone mad?' the sergeant cried. 'Why would I do such a thing?'

  'It wasn't for the money,' said Billy. 'Not at first, any-road. But you hated the Doctor. Anybody could see that when the two of you had to work together. You hated him, cos you thought his drinking had stopped him saving your little girl when she was ill. You blackmailed him to punish him for her death. It was later on that it was for the money, because your friends got promoted, but you were still a sergeant.'

  'It would certainly explain how you can afford all the salmon fishing and golf trips,' Hadfield put in, drawing Billy to his side.

  Stunned, the inspector gaped at his sergeant. DS Wooffitt stepped in between them. 'You're under arrest, sarj. You'd better come with me.'

  ………

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The graveyard overlooked Rivelin Valley. It sloped steeply and had fine views over pastures and woodland, out to the Man's Head Rock and beyond to the wild moors of the Peak District. Yvonne led Kick and Billy through the rows of gravestones, past the newer graves, some still without headstones, some with simple wooden crosses. Annabel Loveday had been laid to rest under an existing headstone of white marble. Her name had been recently added, carved below that of her son, Tommy.

  Annabel Lillian, mother of Thomas, beloved wife of Noah Cyril.

  'We're all here, Mrs Loveday: Billy, Michael and me. We know all about it now,' Yvonne said, resting her hand on the polished stone. 'They found out that the little bit of silver fitted into a hole in the sergeant's regimental ring. He just confessed then. It's strange, because I really liked him. I never thought …'

  'I'm sorry about the baby,' said Kick, and ignoring what their respective ages would have been, added, 'I would have let him play football with us - if he'd lived.'

  'There'll be a trial and everything.'

  Suddenly Kick turned and grabbed Billy's arm. He pointed towards the chapel up at the top of the sloping burial ground. 'Look, there're two blokes watching us.'

  'Oh Gimbals! It's my dad. I'm for it now,' said Billy.

  'Who's that with him?'

  Frank Perks strode down towards the little group, his face wearing its usual stern expression. The three stood in silence waiting, wondering what he would say to them.

  'I thought this's where I'd find you,' he told Billy.

  'We're burying this old tin box,' Billy mumbled, hardly looking at his father. 'It's got her letters in it – from her husband.'

  'You're not going to stop us are you?' Yvonne asked, looking worried.

  'No, I think it's a nice idea. The police have told me all about it – everything you did. They said the letters aren't evidence - so why not?'

  Billy was looking back up to the brow of the hill with its little funeral chapel. The tall stranger was still standing there, looking down at them, his lanky figure silhouetted against a silver sky. He raised an arm and waved. Billy waved back.

  Frank Perks turned and followed his son's gaze. 'Do you know who that is?'

  'Yes. It's Jacque Cadell, skipper of the Wellington,' Billy answered. 'It's him who should've got that medal, not Pearce.'

  Frank Perks nodded thoughtfully. 'He wanted to come here with me. I went and persuaded the police to release him. I thought it's what you would want.'

  'Oh brilliant, Dad.'

  'That young doctor helped me to do it. We went to the police station together. Anyway they released him without charges.'

  'What'll happen to him now?' Yvonne asked.

  'I don't know. He's a free man,' said Mr Perks. 'The doctor says he can get him a place in a special RAF hospital where they treat burn scars.' He turned, looking back to the figure on the hilltop and released a quiet sigh. 'I don't think he'll want that, somehow. I think he just wants to be free and on the road.'

  Silence fell over the group. Mr Perks shuffled awkwardly. 'Sometimes we never really know what we want, and more often than not we get it completely wrong. Like this – I mean this is all a proper turn out for the book, isn't it?'

  'What d'yer mean?' asked Billy.

  'My son, the detective. You really showed 'em all, didn't you? I'm so proud of you, Billy. I'm proud of all of you.'

  Billy thought his heart might burst. He fought back joyful tears, as his dad looked away, hiding his own.

  After a moment, Mr Perks sniffed loudly and turned back to his son. He gazed down at him and winked. 'Do you want to come home now, son? Your mam's worried. You've been gone a long time. And d'you know what – I'd like you and me to spend a bit more time together. What do you say?' He offered Billy his hand.

  Billy grabbed it and leaned into his father's body, hugging him tightly.

  'Oh, and I brought you this,' his dad said, handing him a large paper bag. 'It's
out on bail – Detective.'

  Billy ripped open the bag, and beamed a great smile. 'It's my tuppenny hat.'

  END

  Glossary of Sheffield – eeze

  Alreight - - (pron. as in eight) All right. agreed

  An'all - - As well, and all

  Aypenny - - duck Halfpenny savoury meat ball

  Ayup mi owd - - Hello my old friend

  Bob - - A shilling (twentieth of an old pound sterling)

  Bobbies - - Police officers

  Chabby - - Toddler (sometimes pron. chavvy)

  Clemmed - - Feeling cold

  Dee-ad - - Dead

  Dee-in - - Dying

  Dint - - - - Did not

  Donkey - - stonedWhitened edge to steps, used in the wartime blackout to aid safe walking

  Dunt - - Does not

  Gen - - Given

  Laikin - - Playing

  Mardy - - Grouch, sulking, whining

  Mester - - (little mester) Self employed cutler or metal smith

  Moant - - Must not

  Mun - - Must

  Nay - - No

  Neet - - Night

  Nithered - - Feeling cold

  Nowt - - Nothing

  Nowty - - Poor quality, small, shabby

  Owt - - Anything

  One-n-tuppence - - A shilling and two pennies

  Racked - - Plodding of packhorse. (Racker Way, now called Rivelin Street, is a 4000 year old road.)

  Rantied - - Rocked, wobbled, unsteady

  Ranty - - Children's' see-saw

  Reigh - - tRight, intensely, very

  Reight - - badly Very sick

  Scroamin - - Climbing, scrambling

  Scutch - - Smack, slap

  Sen - - Self

  Shurrup - - Be quiet

  Sin' - - Since

  Sithee - - Pay attention, observe, see you

  Skoyl - - School

  Snek - - Latch

  Tanner - - Silver six pence coin

  Th'art - - You are

  Thee sen - - Alone, your self

  Threpenz - - Three pence

  Tup - - A ram

  Tuppenz - - wo pence

  T'owd - - Old, the old, an old

  Watta - - (pron. as hatter) Water

  Waynt - - Will not

  Weshin - - Laundry

  Wunt - - Would not

  A Sheffield-eeze Ditty (Speech exercise)

  Oh weer reight dahn in coyl oyl,

  Weer muck splarts on t'winders.

  We've used all us coyl up,

  An' weer reight dahn to cinders.

  When bum-bailiff cooms eel never fint us,

  Cos weer reight dahn in coyl oyl,

  Weer muck splarts on t'winders.

  (Note: Bum-bailiff, so called because he always came round the back)

  Translation

  Oh, we are right down in the basement,

  Where dirt accumulates on the casement.

  We have used up all our anthracite,

  And are right down to the residue.

  When the landlord's representative calls,

  He will not discover us,

  Because we are right down in the basement,

  Where dirt accumulates on the casement.

  Anon.

  Websites for more about Sheffield

  Sheffield tourism www.sheffield.gov.uk/out--andabout

  Rivelin Valley conservation group www.rivelinvalley.org.uk

  Art Galleries and Museums www.museums-sheffield.org.uk

  Hollybush Inn, Rivelin www.ealukmusic.co.uk

  The Rose House pub, South Rd www.sheffieldpub.co.uk/pubs/walkley/

  Tramway Museum at Crich www.tramway.co.uk

  Pictures of old Sheffield trams www.cyberpicture.net/sheffield

  Peak District National Park www.peakdistrict.org.uk

  Walkley Cottage Inn, Bolehill Rd www.walkleycottage.co.uk

  Origins of Walkley

  The name comes from the Anglo-Saxon for Walca's forest (Walcas leah). At the time of the Norman Conquest 1066, Walkley belonged to Waltheof the Earl of Northumbria. After the battle of Hastings, Waltheof submitted to William the Conqueror who allowed him to keep his lands. He later married Judith of Lens, a niece of William the Conqueror. Though this might seem a really smart move, it must be said that Waltheof must have been a real dope, for he joined a revolt against William, but on the losing side. Extraordinarily, William pardoned him yet again. A few years later Waltheof revolted again, and lost again. Not unnaturally, old William was a bit fed up by this, and executed him.

  Nevertheless, I propose Waltheof as the model for that well known Sheffielder, Robin Hood, or Robin of Loxley, for like Robin Hood Waltheof's titles included Earl of Huntingdon, and Lord of Loxley – does that sound familiar?

  Waltheof's great hall overlooked Rivelin Valley, probably near the Sandygate Golf Course. Understandable as it’s very nice up there and there's a good bus route right into town.

  OTHER BOOKS BY BRIAN SELLARS

  The Whispering Bell:

  Historical fiction for adult readers. An adventure story about an Anglo Saxon warrior’s wife, cheated out of her children, her home and her inheritance, when her husband is lost in battle.

  Time Rocks:

  Time travel sci-fi for both teenage and adult readers.

  Look out for Dance Floor Drowning. It’s the sequel to Tuppenny Hat Detective and will be published in 2014.

  Please visit my website to hear my audios, view my blogs and sample my other books; www.briansellars.com

  About the Author

  Brian Sellars was born in Sheffield in 1941 where he attended St Joseph’s primary and St Vincent’s secondary schools. Aged fifteen he started work in the steelworks as an apprentice electrician, but switched to become a sales rep, and later sales manager. He travelled extensively, mainly in the Far East, USA and Australasia, selling engineering services and capital equipment to oil companies and governments engaged in large civil engineering projects.

  Brian has been married over fifty years. He and his wife live in a village near Bath, England. Now retired, he spends his time writing, doing woodwork, exploring old British towns and villages, and doing what his wife calls, “Looking at bumps in fields.”

  SAMPLE

  Read a sample of The Whispering Bell. This historical fiction for ADULT readers is set in the Peak District around 650 A.D.

  Chapter One

  Mercian England circa 620 AD

  After the great sickness famine gripped the land, garnishing it for riot and murder. Abandoned farms fell into ruin. Weeds shrouded rotting ploughs in neglected fields and yards. Bands of vengeful wealhs picked over their lost lands, preying on the few English incomers who had managed to save a little food. In smouldering settlements corpses lay unburied, their flesh a gruesome harvest for the dying. Beyond limp stockades and deserted city walls secretive groups of fearful refugees scoured the great shire-wood for berries and roots.

  Twice Ettith had defied famine and plague. Despite the aches of her old bones she had outlived her entire family, strapping sons and daughters with their rowdy broods. She was a loner deeply suspicious of others. That was how she had survived so long and though weak from hunger and as frail as a rush-light flame her old eyes still burned defiantly in their waxy sockets.

  She came upon a hamlet deep in the forest on a soft summer's morning piped with glistening dew and birdsong. As usual she hid and settled to study the place assessing its situation. Did the inhabitants have food? Might they be dangerous or hospitable? If she saw they too were starving she'd pass them by. It would not be wise to linger.

  All was silent: no dogs, no smoke, no hens scratching in the road, no children playing near the pond, no men in the fields, or women hunched over the washing stones beside the well. Like so many farms and settlements she had seen it stood abandon
ed, stripped and ravaged by plague and famine. Already the greening haze of disuse covered its single street as the forest reclaimed the rutted earth.

  "A mouse would be lucky to fill its belly in this place," she said, as if to craning onlookers.

  She was about to leave when she spotted a cat cleaning itself beside the door of one of the small, windowless houses. It stopped its grooming and eyed her as she stepped from cover. "Cat is meat," she whispered, stalking it like a wolf on a lamb. "Cat is meat, good meat." Such a cat could feed her for a week or more. "Here kitty kitty."

  A sound burst upon her, scaring away the cat. Her old joints froze as stiff as sticks. She tilted her head and flicked her gaze around trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. It was several moments before she recognised the sounds of the snapping crash and rip of someone forcing their way through the forest, with no care for who might hear them. She freed her joints and hobbled back to her hiding place. Moments later a man burst from the tangled undergrowth at the far side of the village. He was short and muscular with greying hair and a thick, wild beard. He wore leather armour and had a sword slung across his back. A stocky saddle pony bearing his shield, spears and a large pack trailed behind him. On the end of a long leash attached to the horse an amiable milk cow followed.

  Though weary and bedraggled by his journey, the stranger's fearless bearing showed the arrogance of the warrior kind. He barged into the village, sweeping aside the vegetation, clearly expecting a deferential welcome. Though far from arrogant, the milk cow followed, equally self-assured.

  Ettith had not seen a cow for months, let alone a fine, meaty horse. She imagined eating the succulent red meat they could provide. Her mouth watered, though she knew it was a foolish daydream. Without the magic of salt or a smoke house, fresh juicy meat would soon rot into a stinking flyblown mess. She had seen plenty of those.

  The warrior was striding through the village searching the houses. After poking his head into several of the meaner dwellings he entered the largest where he remained for some time.