Dead for a Spell by Raymond Buckland Page A

with gleaming polished brass proclaiming a pride of ownership on the part of the landlord. I secured a room for a couple of nights and decided to wait till the following morning, a Saturday, to pay my respects at the police station.
    Apparently Scotland Yard had originally been called in to investigate the murder of Elizabeth Scott, a local girl who had scraped together a living selling flowers in the market square. Her brutalized body had been discovered on the floor of a hayloft in a barn alongside the parish church. Inspector Bellamy’s predecessor had been in charge of the investigation but, being on the eve of his retirement, had not pursued matters as thoroughly as Bellamy felt he should have done. However, Bellamy himself had visited the site only briefly, due to his recent promotion to inspector and to the inherited workload at Scotland Yard. I had been told that the case was very incomplete. Mr. Stoker was intrigued that the pattern of the murder seemed to follow so closely the ritual slaying of Nell Burton, and had Lyceum business allowed it, I know he would have come to Warrington himself. I felt proud that he had entrusted the investigation to me, but nervous that I might not ask all the necessary questions nor get all pertinent information.
    The Patten Arms
provided a most satisfactory evening meal, and I sat at a table close to the hot, if slightly smoky, log fire that filled the enormous fireplace. My knife and fork rested on my plate in the midst of a steak and kidney pie, with peas and carrots, flanked by a tankard of their best porter. I eased my belt out a notch and smiled about me. There were two taverns in Warrington: the Patten Arms
and the Lion. I had been advised by my host that the Patten Arms
was by far the superior of the two, and from the crush of customers I could well believe it. Three bosomy serving wenches moved rapidly around the big dining room, ensuring that no one waited on food or drink. Mr. Peregrin Atherton, the portly landlord, stood at one end of the bar, puffing on a churchwarden pipe and smiling around at all and sundry. Suddenly I didn’t miss my little theatre office at all.
    *   *   *
    B right and early Saturday morning I presented my credentials at the Warrington police station and found myself facing an Inspector Whittaker, a bald-headed, red-faced gentleman no taller than myself but full of self-importance. He read the introductory letter from Bellamy three times, holding his steel-rimmed spectacles at various distances from his face as he screwed up his eyes to focus. I saw that one of the earpieces had broken off the spectacles, which was why he held them rather than wore them. He finally paused in his perusal, looked up, and sniffed.
    â€œScotland Yard thinks itself to be so much cleverer than the provincial police force, does it not?” he said.
    I opened my mouth to respond, not quite sure what to say. I was saved from comment by his continuance.
    â€œThey come running in here when there is an unusual murder, as if to say that they are the only ones capable of solving it. And what do they do?”
    This time I waited. Sure enough he went right on talking as though I wasn’t there.
    â€œNothing! That’s what. Have they solved the crime? Do they have the murderer safely under lock and key? May Warrington—nay, all of Lancashire—breathe easily again? I think not! And now, after leaving everything sitting for weeks, they send some
civilian
 . . .” He pronounced it as though it were a dirty word. “Some civilian here to pry into what should be
our
case, and ours alone.”
    He sat up in his high-backed wooden chair and pressed his lips tightly together. He was without facial hair and had a receding chin that almost disappeared as he glared at me over the wavering spectacles.
    â€œI—I do apologize, Inspector Whittaker,” I said. “I’m sure you must think . . .”
    â€œI must