The Ebenezer Papers Read online

  THE EBENEZER PAPERS

  by

  DAWN HARRIS

  Dawn Harris was born in Gosport, Hampshire, but now lives in North Yorkshire. She was first published in the Yorkshire Post, writing humorous poems and articles. She went on to win two short story competitions in UK magazines, since when her stories have appeared in many publications in the UK and abroad, including Woman’s Weekly, Woman’s Realm, Best, and People’s Friend.

  She is married, with three grown-up children and two grandchildren. Her daughter, Anne Cameron, is also an author, writing for 8-12 year olds.

  Cover Image

  by

  Anne & Paul Cameron

  Text copyright© 2016 Dawn Harris

  All rights reserved.

  Other books by Dawn Harris

  The Drusilla Davanish Mysteries

  Letter From A Dead Man

  The Fat Badger Society

  Short Story Collections

  Dinosaur Island

  The Case of the Missing Bridegroom

  Reviews for “Letter From A Dead Man.”

  “A delightful murder mystery in an 18th century setting.” Historical Novel Society

  “Letter From A Dead Man has a similar wit to Pride and Prejudice, and Harris holds up a mirror to society in the sort of way that Austen did.” Margot Kinberg, whose Confessions of a Mystery Novelist have brought her many awards in America.

  Reviews for “The Fat Badger Society.”

  “This story has everything: excitement, mystery, humour and romance. Great stuff!” Sheila Norton, popular award winning author.

  “The book sits well within the historical mystery genre, and I have no hesitation in recommending The Fat Badger Society as an enjoyable historical read.” Historical Novel Society.

  Website:- www.dawnharris.co.uk

  For my son, Chris, who designed my website and who said it was about time I dedicated a book to him.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTYONE

  CHAPTER TWENTYTWO

  CHAPTER TWENTYTHREE

  CHAPTER TWENTYFOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTYFIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTYSIX

  CHAPTER TWENTYSEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTYEIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTYNINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTYONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  1936

  'This is the best day of my life,’ Peter murmured, squeezing Monica’s hand. Blissfully unaware, as we all were, that it was also to be his last.

  'So when’s the wedding,’ I asked, smiling indulgently at the newly-engaged pair sitting opposite me in the drawing room of Peter’s fashionable London house.

  Monica, dark-haired and stunningly beautiful, fixed her soulful brown eyes on me. ‘June, we thought.’

  'You do realise that’s only two months away.’

  'Yes, but we don’t want to wait,’ Peter said.

  Laughing, I teased, ‘I can see that.’

  The doorbell rang and Peter got up to answer it. ‘Woods must have forgotten his key again.’ Woods, his manservant, had gone to post some letters.

  As Peter went through the open doorway I asked Monica, 'What did your father say about your engagement?’

  Her eyes flashed and she burst out, 'Honestly Liddy, he’s so Victorian. He refused to give his consent and swore he’d never let me marry Peter.’ Picking up her pretty enamelled cigarette case from the coffee table, she took out a cigarette and lit it with the matching lighter. I’d never cared for cigarettes myself but she leant back against the sofa, drawing in the nicotine deeply with obvious pleasure. ‘I reminded him I was twenty-four and could marry whoever I liked,’ she said, exhaling. 'We ended up having a blazing row.’ She and her widowed father were very close and his attitude to Peter upset her far more than she would admit.

  It was then I heard the familiar creak of the front door being opened, followed by a cultured male voice inquiring, ‘Mr. Crawley?’

  'Yes, that’s me,’ Peter acknowledged gaily. A cheerfulness that quickly turned to alarm. 'Here, I say.....what the devil......’ A sudden loud bang made us both jump out of our skins, and it was quickly followed by an odd sounding thump.

  Monica whispered in a scared voice, 'What was that, Liddy?’ Shaking my head at her I leapt up and ran into the hall. Peter lay on the floor near the front door, his white shirt red with blood. His eyes, which had glowed with such happiness a few minutes ago, now stared lifelessly into space.

  I couldn’t seem to get my breath, yet as I leant against the wall to steady myself, sheer blind rage overwhelmed me with such intensity, I grabbed a golf club from the bag in the hall, and rushed straight out of the house, determined to stop the killer from escaping any way I could.

  I expected to see him running for his life, but the quiet leafy street was empty apart from an elderly neighbour walking his dog. I threw the golf club aside in despair. I was too late; he’d got away.

  Fighting back the tears, I gave way to frustration by thumping my fists against the outside wall, uncaring of what anyone thought. Then, taking a long deep breath, I went back into the hall to find Monica on her knees beside Peter, covering his face with kisses, her tears falling in a torrent.

  Her delicate cream blouse was smeared with blood, and when she looked up at me the devastation in her eyes took my breath away. ‘Liddy --- Peter’s dead,’ she sobbed, clearly unable to believe what she was saying. Their whole joyous future together had gone in a single moment.

  Grabbing the telephone I called the police, and as I replaced the receiver, Peter’s manservant returned. I thought he might have seen someone running up the street, but he hadn’t, and I left him with Peter while I took Monica into the drawing room, where I held her while she sobbed her heart out.

  The police arrived within minutes. Woods let them in and said something I couldn’t quite hear. The man who answered spoke with a slight Welsh lilt, and once he’d detailed someone to stay with the body, Woods showed him into the drawing room. Confronted by a tall, brown-haired, middle-aged man of average build, neatly attired in a dark suit and tie, I was immediately struck by his resemblance to James Stewart, a new young American film actor I rather liked. He was a little older, of course, yet I felt instinctively that this was a man I could trust.

  His sharp intelligent eyes took in the situation at a glance. Addressing me, he said ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Nabber, madam.’ I was too distraught then to notice how fitting his name was for a policeman; later, when I remembered, it made me smile. He indicated his younger colleague, who had followed him in. 'This is Detective Sergeant Lane.’

  Once they were seated, the Inspector offered his condolences, took out a notebook and pencil, wrote down our names and addresses, and then spoke to Monica in a kindly manner. ‘Miss Taverner, if we’re to find this killer quickly I’m afraid I must ask you a few questions.’ She clutched my arm, but didn’t speak, and he went on, 'I understand the victim is Peter Crawley, the fashion designer, and that this is his house.’

  Monica’s fingers dug deeper into my arm and I answered for her, agreeing that was correct; and, when asked, gave
Peter’s age as twenty-six.

  ‘Was he single?’

  Monica burst out, 'He was my fiancé. We only got engaged last night.’ Tears overcame her again and she rushed out of the room. When I jumped up to go after her the Inspector stopped me. ‘I realise how distressing this is Mrs. York, but I need to know what went on here.’

  ‘But I can’t just leave her.’

  ‘Lane will look after her.’ And he instructed his Sergeant to make her a cup of tea. Much as I longed to comfort Monica, I knew the Inspector was right. Picking up her cigarette case and lighter I handed them to the Sergeant, thinking they would help her. He gave a slight nod of understanding and went off to find her.

  The Inspector turned to me and said, ‘Now, Mrs. York, you look like a sensible woman. Tell me exactly what happened. Every tiny detail. No matter how insignificant it appears.’

  It all seemed so unreal, as if it was happening to someone in a play, or a character in one of my favourite Dorothy L. Sayers novels. But I took a long deep breath and forced myself to face the facts. Peter was dead, and nothing would ever change that. What I had to do now was to help the police catch the killer and see that he paid for his crime with his life. I looked up into the Inspector’s warm brown eyes. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘At the beginning. How and when did you get here today?’

  'I drove here and we arrived at about eleven.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I picked up Monica on the way. Peter had arranged a celebration lunch party at the Savoy....’ I stopped, realising their guests would still be waiting. ‘I ought to ring......’

  'Never mind that now. What happened after you got here?’

  'Well, we were a little early, and the three of us were sitting talking when the doorbell rang. Peter went to answer it and......’

  ‘Why didn’t Woods go?’

  'Peter had sent him to post some letters.’

  'How long had he been gone?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘About ten minutes.’ And I told him exactly what had happened, including the fact I’d chased after the killer.

  'That wasn’t very wise.’

  'No, I suppose not. But I was so angry.......’

  He looked up at that, his eyebrows raised a trifle, as if I had surprised him, but all he said was, 'Woods says a valuable figurine is missing from the hall.’

  'Is it? I hadn’t noticed.’ Then I realised the significance of what he’d said. ‘Are you suggesting Peter was murdered for the sake of a figurine?’

  'Woods says it’s worth about two hundred pounds.’ Glancing at my pearl necklace and plainly suspecting I had no idea what such a large sum meant to those with little money, he pointed out, 'That’s more than a labourer earns in a year.’

  'This man wasn’t a labourer.’

  'How do you know? I thought he only said two words.’

  'Yes, but he spoke with confidence, and in a more cultured voice than a labourer. Besides, how many labourers carry a gun?’

  He eyed me intently for a moment, as if re-assessing his opinion. People, men especially, invariably assumed that as I have blonde hair, and had inherited my mother’s good looks and figure, that I couldn’t possibly have a brain. 'Do you have any other theories about the killer?’

  'Well, he hadn’t seen Peter before or he wouldn’t have asked his name. And he can’t have produced the gun until Peter confirmed who he was,’ I said, unthinkingly stating the obvious.

  ‘Indeed,’ Inspector Nabber agreed, a faint smile playing on his lips.

  Aware he was humouring me, I retorted huffily, ‘Tell me Inspector, in your experience, do villains usually knock on the door to check they have the right victim?’

  The corners of his mouth twitched. 'So you think he was a hired killer?’

  ‘I can’t see any other explanation.’ I still felt as if I was living in the middle of a nightmare, but reason was gradually overcoming shock, and I went on, 'A thief may well use a gun to threaten, but this man didn’t do that. The instant Peter confirmed his name, the gunman shot him. I think he....’

  I was interrupted by Sergeant Lane, who re-joined us, explaining that Woods was looking after Monica. The Inspector nodded and turned back to me. ‘You think the killer grabbed the figurine to make it look like a robbery?’ His Welsh accent soaring upwards on the last word.

  'I do.’ I ran a hand across my forehead, unable to believe I’d never see Peter again. 'And he seemed to be in a great hurry. As if the shooting had to be done that instant, and he didn’t have time to check Peter’s identity any other way.........’

  Inspector Nabber pulled at his left ear thoughtfully. 'Somebody wanted him dead today? Well, that’s one theory, I suppose. What do you think, Lane?’

  ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched.’

  ‘Mmmmm. Perhaps.’ And he asked me if I knew where Peter was going tomorrow.

  'To work. They both were. Monica runs the business side of the fashion house. Peter is... was...showing his new collection next month.’ That wouldn’t happen now. The business would close and those who worked for him would have to find other jobs. If they could, I thought, mindful of the depressing dole queues.

  The Inspector grunted, and asked for my husband’s name. ‘I’m a widow, Inspector. I.......’

  Sergeant Lane broke in excitedly, ‘I thought I’d seen your photograph in the newspapers, Mrs. York. Weren’t you married to Archie York, the war hero?’ I inclined my head. We’d met, courted and married in six weeks, just after my twenty-first birthday. Three long years ago, when Archie was thirty-five.

  'You must be very proud of him,’ Sergeant Lane enthused. ‘He was such a brave man.’

  ‘Indeed he was, Sergeant,’ I said, forcing a smile. Archie’s courage as a war air ace had made him a popular hero, and that was how I wanted two year old Tim, our only child, to remember him.

  ‘I was only a boy in the war Mrs. York, but I remember him winning the Victoria Cross. How he managed to destroy three enemy aeroplanes after he’d been hit and when his own aeroplane was falling apart.......’

  'Thank you, Lane,’ the Inspector interrupted. ‘Mrs. York is well aware of her husband’s exploits, and we have a murderer to catch. So if you......’

  The ringing of the telephone cut him short. The Sergeant picked up the receiver, asked who was calling, put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, 'It's a Mrs. Jean Carmichael ringing from the Savoy.’ Jean and I were Monica’s closest friends.

  Before I could say a word the Inspector instructed, ‘Tell her the situation, Lane. And warn her no-one will be allowed into this house today.’

  Once the Inspector finished asking questions I drove Monica back to Berkeley Square, where she lived with her widowed father. He’d refused to join the celebrations at the Savoy and was sitting reading the Sunday papers. But when he saw her swollen red eyes and the blood on her blouse, he dropped the newspaper and leapt to his feet with remarkable speed for a solidly built man over six feet in height. ‘If that son-of-a-bitch has hurt you,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll......’

  Monica’s bottom lip began to quiver uncontrollably again and I broke in quickly, ‘Peter’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ he repeated, as if he’d misheard.

  ‘Murdered.’ I said.

  ‘Wha-a-t?’ And he folded his arms round Monica, rocking her gently, as he had when she’d hurt herself as a child.

  While she sobbed into his shoulder, I told him what had happened. He might not have wanted her to marry Peter, but the shock and horror in his eyes now told me he’d do everything he could to help her.

  Jean Carmichael arrived then, and between us we dealt with the phone calls from the press and Monica’s friends. Meanwhile Mr. Taverner sent for their doctor, who gave Monica a sedative, which soon sent her to sleep. We stayed until her father insisted he could cope alone, and then Jean returned to her beautiful Belgravia home, while I drove the short distance to my house in Mayfair.

  Later, Peter’s murder was announced
on the wireless, and in the morning it was splashed across the front pages of the papers, along with his many achievements, emphasising his rapid rise from rags to riches. In a few short years he’d become one of Britain’s most promising young fashion designers. His patrons included royalty and film stars but Peter had sensibly kept his feet firmly on the ground. There were photographs of the rich and famous wearing gowns Peter had designed, and clients spoke eloquently of their shock at his murder.

  Inevitably Inspector Nabber came back with more questions, mostly about Peter, asking me about his family, friends and background. I hoped the killer would be arrested quickly, but that didn’t happen, and the newspaper report I read at breakfast two days later was far from encouraging. Tim was in his highchair at the time, eagerly shovelling porridge into his mouth, and dropping half of it onto his bib. Smiling in amusement, I glanced back at “The Times,” and saw an appeal from the police, asking for anyone who had seen a man go into, or out of, Peter’s house, between eleven and twelve on the morning of the murder, to come forward. This, in the reporter’s opinion, suggested the police were completely baffled by this case. Frankly, I thought he was right.

  I was buttering a piece of toast when my eye caught a tiny paragraph at the bottom of the page. I read it three times, but there was no mistake. The occurrence described was common enough, and I wouldn’t normally have given it a second glance. Now I stared at it, mesmerised, my thickly buttered knife poised motionless in mid-air, as I grappled with the incredible notion that this report explained how Peter had come to be murdered.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gazing at the small paragraph, so many questions shot into my mind that I didn’t notice Tim had dropped his spoon on the floor and was now eating the porridge with his fingers. Nor did I see his face and hair were covered in the stuff, until he giggled in gleeful satisfaction, ‘I’se all mess--sy, mummy.’