Five Dead Canaries by Edward Marston

meted out. That won’t, of course, bring your wife back but it may give you a degree of relief.’
    ‘It will,’ said May. ‘We’ll both be relieved. Do you have any suspects?’
    ‘It’s my belief that the target was one or all of the young women at that birthday party. What I’m looking for, in the first instance, is a local man with a grudge and with some experience of handling explosives.’
    ‘Hundreds of men at the factory could make a bomb.’
    ‘I’d like to hear from your son, Mrs Beresford.’
    ‘He’ll tell you the same. Neil works at the munitions factory. He and Sheila used to go off early every morning for their shift.’
    ‘Mr Beresford,’ said Marmion, leaning in closer to him, ‘can you think of anybody who bore a grudge against your wife?’
    ‘No, Inspector,’ he mumbled. ‘Shirley was wonderful. Everyone loved her.’
    ‘I can vouch for that,’ added May. ‘She was a saint.’
    ‘Don’t know how I can live without her.’
    ‘They were inseparable, Inspector – at work and at play. Neil coached the football team that Shirley was in. She was top scorer.’
    ‘Then you must have been very proud of her,’ said Marmion, seeing a spark come into Beresford’s eye. ‘Equally, you must have been proud of your own success as a coach. I’m told that your team won the league and is in a cup final.’
    ‘We could have won,’ asserted Beresford with unexpected force. ‘We’d have beaten Woolwich for certain.’ He sat up. ‘We put five goals past them in a league match. Shirley got a hat-trick. She was amazing.’
    ‘Tell me about her.’
    Marmion had at last uncorked the bottle and words came pouring out of it. As he talked about his wife, Beresford’s pride got the better of his grief. Having been a gifted player himself, it had fallen to him to mould the Hayes team into a winning combination. Marmion was struck by the fact that young women who worked nine-and-a-half-hour shifts could still find the time and energy to hone their skills on the football field. Beresford clearly had talent. None of his team had even seen a football match – let alone played in one – until he picked them out and taught them from scratch. Both for him and his players, the game had been a joyous escape from the humdrum routine at the factory. It had taken over their lives and that of their supporters. May was one of their most devoted fans.
    ‘I used to wash their kit,’ she boasted. ‘It makes a difference, sending the girls onto the pitch looking smart. Some of the teams we play don’t bother. They’re a load of scruffs. Neil set high standards. That’s why we’re the best.’
    ‘Is there much rivalry between the various teams?’ asked Marmion.
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said Beresford.
    ‘Give me an example.’
    ‘We’ve had footballs stolen, vile things painted on the shed where the girls change and some of our goalposts were sawn in half.’
    ‘I hadn’t realised young ladies could be so mercenary.’
    ‘It’s not the players,’ said May, ‘it’s their supporters. They’re mad. They’ll go to any lengths to win.’
    ‘So it seems,’ said Marmion. ‘Would they go as far as planting a bomb to kill your best players?’
    Mother and son were both stunned by a question that they’d evidently not asked themselves. Inclined to dismiss it out of hand at first, they began to take it more seriously. Marmion watched the two of them having a silent conversation with each other. He wished that he knew what they were thinking.
    ‘After all,’ he resumed, ‘it wasn’t just your best player who was killed in that explosion. Your goalkeeper was at that party as well. If she hadn’t left early, then you’d have lost two members of the team.’
    ‘Three,’ corrected May. ‘Jean Harte was only a reserve, as usual, but she might have played in the cup final because Sally Neames was injured.’
    ‘There you are then, Mr Beresford. Losing three players would have been a crippling blow to your