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The Secret of Ypres Tower
The sharp, cold winter weather had turned to heavy snow, and the special meeting of Tilling Town Council to discuss the recently-begun re-laying of the drains had run late. Councillor Elizabeth Mapp-Flint was still agitating against the new drains, although the project was now underway and such argument was moot. Through the falling snow, Mayor Emmeline Pillson, known to her friends as “Lucia,” slowly made her way home. The corner of West Street and the High Street was up for the installment of the drains, an improvement privately supported by her financial backing: she had provided one pound for every two pounds invested by Tilling in the project, in order to decrease the burden on the rates. At the moment, she was sorry for her munificent gift, for a cold wind from the northeast was blowing snow in her face, and the short way home was blocked by the streets being up. Had she been of a more spiteful nature, she would have been happy that Elizabeth Mapp-Flint had an even longer walk back to her home Grebe, on the marshes outside of Tilling; at that very moment, Elizabeth, in fact, was maliciously consoling herself with the thought of Lucia walking home in the snow. Lucia simply wished she had arranged for Cadman, her chauffeur, to pick her up in her Rolls Royce. She carefully picked her way past the Ypres Tower, intending to go home via Church Square.
What was that? Lucia paused. There it is again! A light in the topmost window of the Wipers, as locals commonly called the Ypres Tower. Lucia herself made a point of pronouncing the name correctly, but that pronunciation did not appear to be catching on with the local population. Lucia sheltered in a doorway across the street and watched. Then the light came again. Someone with a torch, she deduced; someone who has no business in Ypres Tower at this time of night. The Tower opened only on Saturdays during the winter months: this Lucia knew because she was a member of the Tilling Historical Society. She remained still in the doorway despite the cold wind and blowing snow, but the light did not reappear. After a few minutes, Lucia realized that she needed to get to a telephone and call Inspector Morrison. She almost slipped and fell in Church Square, such was her haste, and hence did a belated prudence slow her pace. Nothing to gain by hurting myself, she thought, but I must telephone my Inspector.
She reached the doorway of Mallards House, her beautiful Queen Anne home at the top of Tilling hill. Her husband Georgie opened the door for her.
“I’ve been watching for you,” he said. “I sent Grosvenor for hot cocoa the minute I saw you. You must be frozen!”
“Thank you, Georgie! But I must call my Inspector first—urgent!” She hurried into her office, a small room facing the street. Georgie lingered in the doorway, waiting to hear what was so urgent.
“Inspector Morrison? This is Lucia Pillson. I was just walking home from the Council Meeting and saw a light in the top window of the Ypres Tower—burglars, do you think?” She again made a point of pronouncing “Ypres” correctly.
She paused and listened. “Very good. I shall have hot cocoa waiting.” Pause. “Very good, Inspector.” She rang off.
“A burglary?” asked Georgie.
“Possibly. My Inspector will check it and stop by here when he has finished, if it’s not too late an hour. He said to tell no-one, and he will explain it when he arrives.”
“Maybe ghosts?” said Georgie. “There have been rumours. Diva said she saw a white lady in the window one night last week, when she was walking home after dinner at the Vicarage. Of course, Elizabeth was quite disparaging about it; said Diva had too much wine at dinner.” Georgie was speaking of Elizabeth Mapp-Flint and their friend Godiva Plaistow, who ran Ye Olde Tea-House from the front rooms of her home in the High Street.
Photo Copyright Oast House Archive and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons Licence
“No!” said Lucia. “With the way Major Benjy drinks, it is a wonder that she had the nerve to say such a thing.”
“That’s what I thought, and that’s what Diva said. Elizabeth pulled a face and went off in a huff,” said Georgie.
Lucia and Georgie moved into the warmth and comfort of the garden-room, where Grosvenor, the maid, had cocoa ready. Lucia told Grosvenor of the anticipated visit of Inspector Morrison. “Ask Cook to have more cocoa ready when he arrives. He will be nearly frozen, as I am now.” Grosvenor left the room.
“Did she really think it was a ghost? You never said anything about it to me before,” asked Lucia.
“It wasn’t important before. She said a ghost, but it did sound more like a light at the window, as you said, than a human form,” replied Georgie.
“Pareidolia,” said Lucia, “a type of misperception involving a vague image being misperceived as something clear and distinct. The man in the moon, for example.”
Lucia was being pompous again, so her husband replied, “Oh, yes? I once had a potato that looked like a statue of the Buddha; a very serene potato. Thank you for explaining it.” He held out his cup of cocoa, and continued, “Also I saw a face in the foam on my cocoa just before I drank it.” He left out the fact that the face in the foam looked like that of his friend Olga Bracely, the opera singer, as his friendship with Olga was rather a sore spot with Lucia.
Lucia was uncertain whether or not Georgie was being facetious, and so dropped the subject.
They drank their cocoa and waited for Inspector Morrison to arrive. Lucia told Georgie the details of the council meeting to pass the time, despite Georgie’s indifference. He sometimes felt that he had heard nothing but municipal matters for years now, ever since Lucia had been co-opted to the Council. It bored him and usually he would have retired to bed or focused his attention on his needlework, having only to interject, “Oh, yes?” or “Then what happened?” to keep his wife’s monologue flowing and give the impression that he was attending to that monologue.
At last there came a knock at the front door, and a few moments later Grosvenor showed Inspector Morrison into the garden-room, followed by Foljambe, Georgie’s valet-cum-parlourmaid, with a tray of cocoa.
“I checked the Wipers,” said Morrison, warming his hands on the welcome mug of cocoa, “and found nothing. This is not the first time I’ve had to check there. Recently there have been four reports of burglars, or of ghosts, at the Tower. Each time a constable responded and found nothing.” He sipped his warm cocoa and nodded appreciatively, noting that there appeared to be a face in the foam on top.
“I trust nothing I say in this room will go further?” he asked. “It’s an open investigation, you see, and a very delicate matter.” He looked around at Lucia, Georgie, Grosvenor and Foljambe. The two maids excused themselves and returned to their duties. Georgie was torn: he was not good at keeping secrets, but he was eager to find out what secrets the Ypres Tower held.
Georgie burst out, “Is it ghosts! Or is it burglars!” He paused, then said, “But why burgle the Wipers—there is nothing of real value there.” Except my smuggler’s lamp, he thought. Georgie Pillson was the newly-elected President of the Tilling Historical Society, and so knew what items the Ypres Tower held.
“I believe it’s smugglers,” said the Inspector abruptly. Georgie and Lucia gasped.
“Smugglers? This is the Twentieth Century. Are there still such things?” asked Lucia.
“Smuggling has long been part and parcel of Tilling, Your Worship,” said Inspector Morrison.
Georgie was also at a loss. “But what do they smuggle?”
“There’s always been a strong tradition in Tilling of liquor smuggled in from France; brandy and such. In the old days, wool was smuggled out, since the Crown had a high tariff on it. Quite violent, some of these smuggling gangs. Lately, I’ve come to believe there is drug smuggling going on.” The Inspector’s pronouncement caused Georgie to pause, his cup almost to his mouth.
“No!” Georgie and Lucia gasped in unison. Georgie sat his cup on the side table.
“Yes, opium smuggling,” said the Inspector. “And worse—” he paused.
“Pray continue, Inspector,” urged Lucia. Georgie was, literally, on the edge of his seat, his cocoa forgotten.
“I believe that one of my constables is involved.” Inspector Morrison shook his head. “A painful truth, but facts are pointing my investigation in that direction,”
“It is always a sad thing when an officer of the law chooses to subvert the very law that he has sworn to uphold,” intoned Lucia in her most magisterial tones.
The Inspector nodded gravely. “That is why this conversation must be kept secret. If the gang of smugglers knows we’re on to them, we would be in danger. Drugs and money is a volatile combination.”
Georgie swallowed. In danger? Georgie Pillson was not a heroic man, but he had once gone downstairs alone in the middle of the night to confront burglars in his home, his only weapon a fireplace poker. He then realized that if he did not mention to anyone the information which the Inspector had just imparted, he would be safe from cut-throat smugglers, which made him feel better.
Inspector Morrison continued, “I won’t tell you who I suspect, since I haven’t gathered enough evidence and I do not want to accuse an honest man by mistake.”
“Of course not. But if you need any help at all, please let me know. I am, as always, ready to help Tilling constabulary,” said Lucia.
“Thank you, Ma’am, your support is much appreciated,” said Inspector Morrison with great sincerity; “I’ll bid you good night,” and with that he left Lucia and Georgie alone in the garden-room.
The Pillsons sat quietly for a few moments.
“Well,” said Georgie, “that is a surprise. Smugglers. Real modern-day smugglers. I wonder how they signal each other these days.” He was thinking again of the smuggler’s lamp, his donation to the Tilling Historical Society.
Lucia nodded toward the wall, where shelves held her library of classical works and music. “You remember that those shelves used to be Elizabeth’s secret cupboard. Possibly a remnant of the days when smuggling was rife in the area.”
“Surely you don’t think Elizabeth—” began Georgie. Elizabeth Mapp-Flint had owned Mallards House and had traded it to Lucia for Grebe and two thousand pounds a few years ago.
Lucia said judicially, “No, of course not. She hasn’t the imagination for criminal enterprise.”
“Perhaps not, although she certainly has the maliciousness of a criminal,” said Georgie. “Remember,” he said sternly, “she burgled Grebe when you lived there, just to obtain your recipe for Lobster à la Riseholme.”
“Mallards House is old, and the secret cupboard probably has been in the garden-room for at least a century; perhaps it was created when the garden-room was built in 1743,” replied Lucia. Her recent acceptance into the Tilling Historical Society had caused her to research the history of Mallards House. She sighed. “It’s been a long night, Georgie, with the council meeting, and now this. I am going up. Buona notte.”
“I’m going to work on my petit point for a little longer. Buona notte, Lucia.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The night was far from over for Inspector Morrison. Despite the sharp wind and the snow, he found some shelter next to one of the cannons below the Ypres Tower and settled in. His wife had prepared a vacuum bottle of hot tea for him. There, as police constables do, he watched and he waited. Hours passed fruitlessly. And as the world began to lighten in the pre-dawn hours, he returned to the warmth of his own home, planning to resume his watch the next night, for the information provided by Lucia had given him exactly what he needed.
~~~~~~~~~~
Shopping hour in Tilling nearly proved too much for Georgie. During shopping hour, all Tilling met in the High Street to exchange news and make their purchases, or to exchange news and make no purchases at all. And Georgie was in possession of such thrilling news!—news which he must not divulge.
In conversation with the Reverend Kenneth Bartlett, known to Tilling society as “Padre,” Georgie was able to maintain his normal behavior with great difficulty. The Padre congratulated him on his election to President of the Historical Society.
“Ach! And you a new member, too! I was told your wee smuggler’s lamp clinched it. Mrs Brace said it was a rarity, would be a gem in tha’ collection.” The Padre always spoke in a combination of Elizabethan English and Scottish, which sometimes made him difficult to understand. But Georgie understood and was thrilled to learn what Mrs Brace had said.
“I knew it was just the right thing for the Historical Society when I saw it!” Georgie beamed. “So glad they like it.” He almost said “So glad they liked my smuggler’s lamp” but that would make him sound too much like Lucia who, as Mayor, referred to everything in Tilling as her own: my Inspector, my Town Surveyor, my unemployed, my drains, my riband developments, my almond trees. It really is becoming a deplorable habit with her, Georgie thought, perhaps I can find a way to stop her saying that.
Next Georgie ran into Diva Plaistow, whose greeting, “Any news?” made Georgie want to blurt out, “Smugglers! Smugglers in Tilling!” With much effort, he controlled himself. Soon, he thought, I’ll be able to tell Diva that her ghost wasn’t a ghost after all.
Diva, too, congratulated him on his Presidency. “Elizabeth was quite sarcastic. Says she’s going to quit in protest. I think it’s wonderful. Your being president, I mean. Told Elizabeth not to be small-minded about it. May join myself.”
“That would be nice! Perhaps we can have another fête with tableaux to raise funds. I’m still familiarizing myself with what the Society has and then I’ll know better what it needs.”
“Another fête would be fun. Loved dressing up! Still have my Mary, Queen of Scots, costume.”
The pleasure of being congratulated on his victory over Elizabeth warred with Georgie’s difficulty in not revealing the secret about the modern smugglers. Cutting short his marketing after ducking into a shop to avoid Evie Bartlett, the Padre’s mouse-like wife, and Mr and Mrs Wyse, Georgie hurried back to Mallards House, where his wife was practising on her piano in the garden-room.
“I’m sorry, Lucia, but I was unable to get the book that you asked me to pick up from Martello Bookshop,” Georgie said.
“But they said it was in. . . were they mistaken?” asked Lucia.
“I never went there. I ran into the Padre and then Diva on the High Street, and I almost couldn’t keep myself from telling them about the smugglers. I decided that returning home was the safest thing to do.”
“A wise choice, caro,” said Lucia.
“They all congratulated me on winning President against Elizabeth,” he said.
“As well they should; I cannot think of a more foiled woman anywhere near Romney Marsh,” Lucia said. “Shall we try another Mozart arrangement? It will take our minds off the smugglers and make us focus on divine musica until luncheon,” she suggested. Georgie agreed and sat down beside his wife on the piano bench, resigned to playing the dull bass, as Lucia preferred to play the diverting treble. Georgie removed his rings and placed them in a crystal dish on the piano. Lucia said, “Now. Uno, due, tre—”
~~~~~~~~~~
It was another cold night for Inspector Morrison, but the storm had cleared, leaving a blanket of snow on the ground, a sky full of stars, and none of the biting wind that he had endured on the previous night. There was no moon, but the snow reflected what light there was and, once his eyes had adjusted, Inspector Morrison had no problem finding his way to the Gun Garden behind the Tower. He went past the cannon and chose a spot sheltered by bushes on the edge of the cliff that dropped down to the aptly named Undercliff Road. Tonight, he sat with his back to the Wipers, looking down the cliff-side. Mayor Pillson had telephoned him at 2238 hours on the previous night. At 2221 hours on this night, Inspector Morrison saw a small light bobbing along the road and up to the cliff face to the left of his perch. He thought, that light does look like marsh gas, anyone could indeed mistake it for a ghost or will-o’-the-wisp. The light suddenly went out, and Inspector Morrison noted the last place he had seen it. His watch was over for the night. He went home for a few hours' rest before he continued his investigation.
In the early hours, with the faint pre-dawn light enhanced by reflection from the snow, Inspector Morrison walked along Undercliff Road. No one was about and Tilling still slumbered under its white blanket. He had thought to reckon the angle from where he had sat watching that night, but reckoning proved unnecessary: the snow had been disturbed by the small footsteps of children playing yesterday. More sinister than child’s play were marks in snow that someone had tried to hide; the marks betrayed that someone had hammered long metal spikes into the cliff face, relying upon the vegetation to hide them, only to have the fallen snow reveal their secret to eyes that knew what to look for.
Inspector Morrison followed the spikes upward, climbing the cliff, going far above where the children could reach. It was not long before he found a tunnel entry concealed by a dirty tarp, on which was affixed a dead bush and a small, leafless almond tree. Whoever had used the tunnel had carelessly knocked much of the snow off the shrubbery. Although the entrance was narrow and muddy, he crawled into the hole, his torch in hand. A few feet in, the tunnel opened up into a passageway that was tall enough for him to stand, its ceiling supported by wooden timbers and lined with boards. New wooden timbers, Morrison noted; not more that a few months old, while the rotting timbers that had been replaced lay along the edges of the tunnel. Clever, he thought. And a few feet further on, the wooden timbers supporting the ceiling gave way to a stairway of brick and stone.
The Inspector shone his light around. The stairway was old, the stones crumbling a little around the edges, but still sturdy. The arches supporting the ceiling were of dressed stone, the keystones obviously laid by a mason or builder. Impressive, he thought, Tilling does indeed have a long history of smuggling, and lucrative smuggling at that; long ago someone put a lot of money into building this secret passage. He climbed the stairway and walked quietly down a long and surprisingly wide tunnel of brick and stone, wide enough for a small handcart loaded with bales of wool or barrels of brandy, the Inspector realized. When he reached the end of the tunnel, he found another stairway, so steep it was more like a ladder than a stair. The stone was different here, and Morrison recognized it as the same stone that had built the Ypres Tower. I must be underneath the Wipers now, he thought.
The steep steps ended in a blank wooden door. Morrison found no handle. He pushed and felt some give, but the door would not open. His torch was dimming as the batteries went flat. He quickly examined the edges of the door and noticed a gap at the bottom. He pulled his notebook from his pocket, tore out one sheet of paper and slipped it under the doorway, pushing it out as far as he could.
Inspector Morrison then retraced his way down the stairway and into the tunnel. The torch went out, but he continued on along the wall carefully and made it safely back down the first stairway he had encountered. He felt the brick and stone give way to timbers and boards. He stumbled at the end of the tunnel, wet and muddy and cold. He dropped to his knees, groped about until he found the hole, and crawled forward. The blackness and the chill and the earth seemed to crush him, but he remained calm and continued crawling through the passage. Soon he burst out of the cliff-face, and he climbed down to the shoulder of the road below. Looking back up the cliff, he realized that he needed to obscure his own trail, and he did so by making as many marks as he could in the snow; he climbed back up, sat down next to the where the climbing spikes were placed, and slid down, so that it appeared as if some daring child had used a make-shift sled.
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Bruised and filthy but jubilant, Inspector Morrison went home to wash. He knew he needed to get into Ypres Tower to find the place where his piece of notepaper lay, and thus find the hidden door. He thought, I wonder how many secret rooms or niches or cupboards the Tower has. Who would have the key? Mrs Pillson was a member of the Tilling Historical Society, which ran the Ypres Tower as a tourist attraction, and her husband was the new President of that Society. He would ask them.
He quickly washed and dressed. It was still early; the milkman was beginning his rounds, and Tilling’s servants were just beginning to stir. He went down to the servant’s entrance to Mallards House and knocked. The cook let him into the kitchen, then went to get Grosvenor, the maid, who in turn went to rouse Mrs Pillson.
~~~~~~~~~~
Lucia heard Grosvenor’s knock, glanced at the clock, and sat bolt upright as she realized something was amiss: Grosvenor would never wake her at such an hour unless it was an emergency. Lucia had been dreaming that Georgie’s hair was made of fire, and everyone seemed nonchalant about it; only she recognized the danger. Perhaps her dream was precognitive? “Yes, Grosvenor,” she called. The maid entered the bedroom and explained that Inspector Morrison was in the kitchen asking to see her.
Relieved that there was no fire involved, Lucia quickly pulled on a morning frock—scrub—and she stepped into her slippers, then she hurried downstairs to find Inspector Morrison enjoying a mug of tea and laughing easily with Cook.
“Good morning, Inspector; how may I help you?”
“Sorry to wake you so early, Your Worship,” he said, “But I have more information on the matter you reported the night before last.”
Lucia realized that her Inspector would want to discuss it without the servants in the room. “Please come into my office, Inspector,” she said, “And bring your tea with you.”
He duly followed Lucia to her office at the front of the house, where she sat down behind her desk. Inspector Morrison told her of his discovery of the secret tunnel and of his immediate need to obtain a key to the Tower without anyone knowing.
Lucia turned to a stack of Japanned boxes on a table beside her desk and, opening the one marked, “Historical Society,” she pulled out several keys. A paper tag was attached by a string to each key, and one tag read “Ypres Tower.” Lucia handed the key to her Inspector.
Although outwardly calm, Lucia was excited inside: a smugglers’ tunnel! How she longed to see the tunnel and to search the Tower for hidden contraband. A plan quickly formed in her mind. “Inspector Morrison, may I join you at the Tower after I’ve dressed? I would like to help you search. I understand your need for complete discretion, and having me along may provide an excuse for your visit: you are following up on my earlier report.”
Inspector Morrison paused. He disliked involving civilians in a police matter, but until he could get to Lewes where he would file his report with Chief Inspector Wells of the East Sussex Constabulary and obtain outside officers as backup, he would be on his own. If he told another local constable, he risked having that constable tip off the constable whom he suspected of being part of the smuggling gang. It took him only a moment to decide, and Lucia’s outward calm and quick thinking, as well as her presence providing a reason for their visit to the Tower, impressed him.
It took Lucia little more than a moment to wash and dress properly, and soon the two were making their way through a picturesquely snow-covered Church Square.
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The sharp, cold air made their breath come out in clouds. Walking carefully along the snow-covered cobbles required their full attention, and the only conversation was when the Inspector offered the Mayor his hand to steady her over on particularly icy patch of ground.
Once inside the Ypres Tower, Lucia and Inspector Morrison made their way to the lowest floor, at the back of the Tower, and he soon spotted the tiny corner of his piece of notepaper sticking out from under a bank of shelves against the wall. “This must be the door,” he said; “let us find the catch.” He noted with grim humor that on the table next to the shelves was an oddly shaped metal object, which a prominent label identified as a “smuggler’s lamp.”
Lucia’s small hands and nimble fingers (strengthened by her work at the piano) located a lever set flush against the inside wall of the shelving, and placed immediately below a shelf at knee-level, where it could not be seen. She tried to pull the lever up but it did not move; she pushed down on it, but she could not get it to budge. Inspector Morrison also tried to move it but without any result.
“It must be a two-part latch,” said Lucia, “Let me pull on the shelves while you work the lever.” This proved to be the correct way to open the secret door. As the two stood looking down the steep, narrow, ladder-like stairway into darkness, Lucia said, “I forgot to bring a torch.”
“I have mine,” said Morrison. “I put new batteries in it before coming to see you.”
Lucia picked up a glass and metal lantern that was placed next to the “smuggler’s lamp.” Lucia assured him that the lantern was just a display and not antique, “unlike my Georgie’s smuggler’s lamp, which is genuine!” she said with pride. Inspector Morrison touched the flame from his lighter to the wick of the tallow candle therein. Lucia closed the lantern’s little door securely to protect the flame from draughts.
Smuggler's Lamp (Photo by Clive Sawyer).
She held Inspector Morrison’s torch and the lantern and shone the light on the steep stairway as he climbed down. Lucia handed him his torch and the lantern. He sat the lantern on the floor and reached up to help Lucia down the stairs. ‘Let us search,” she said, trying to hide her excitement.
“Yes, but if you find anything, do not touch it—remember that it is evidence of a crime and will have to be checked for fingerprints” admonished the Inspector.
Lucia acknowledged that she would refrain from touching anything she found, and they worked their separate ways around the floor and along the wall of the little secret room, meeting again opposite the door.
“Nothing!” they said in unison, and both laughed, which eased some of the tension they both felt.
Inspector Morrison shone his torch around on the low ceiling of the room. “Still nothing,” he opined.
“Perhaps there is a cache beneath the stairway?” asked Lucia.
They searched one side of the narrow stairway; first, Lucia with her small and nimble fingers found nothing, and then Inspector Morrison’s stronger hands pushed and prodded the bricks but he also found nothing. They moved to the other side of the stairs, and this time it was Inspector Morrison who discovered a loose brick. He pushed one end of it in, and it swiveled round, leaving the opposite end sticking out. Forgetting her promise in her eagerness, Lucia moved to reach her small hand into the gap to the right of the displaced brick but Inspector Morrison quickly stopped her. “Let me check it, first,” he said, and shone the light from his torch into the small hole. The light reflected off of metal: razor-blades had been worked into gaps between the bricks and the mortar. Had he not stopped Lucia, she would have been cut badly by those razors.
“These smugglers aren’t playing games,” he intoned, “They’re playing for keeps.” Lucia nodded. She had listened to Inspector Morrison’s admonitions about danger without truly realizing what he meant: now she understood perfectly—these criminals would not hesitate to harm, or even kill, anyone they thought threatened their enterprise. She tucked her hands safely into the pockets of her coat, and she shivered. Such evil in beautiful Tilling! A violent evil that surpassed even the malice of Elizabeth Mapp-Flint.
The Inspector discovered that an adjoining brick also swiveled, making the hole large enough for a man to reach in. “Look,” said the Inspector, and Lucia peered into the hole. “See the packages?” Lucia saw several small packages wrapped in oilcloth.
“Illegal drugs?” she asked.
Inspector Morrison nodded. “We may be able to get some fingerprints off them, if we’re lucky.” He pushed the bricks back into place and stood up.
“What will you do now?”
“We put things back the way they were; then we’ll lock up. I’ll drive into Lewes and make my report to Chief Inspector Wells, and arrange for backup there. I want to catch the constable who’s helping these smugglers, but I’ll need men from outside Rye to do it.”
Lucia nodded.
“Ma’am,” Inspector Morrison looked Lucia straight in the eye. “The next twenty-four hours will make or break this case. It is imperative that you say nothing until this is done with. Imperative!”
“I understand, Inspector. I’ll say nothing, not even to my husband, until you give me permission to do so.”
“Just stick to the story that we were here looking into your complaint of a light in the Tower, for now.”
“I understand, Inspector,” Lucia repeated. “But why were they in the upper storey if the drugs are hidden down here?”
“Probably another cache hidden up there. When I return with men, we will be able to do a complete search. Then we’ll know.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Georgie was fretting. “Any news?” he greeted his wife after Inspector Morrison left her at the door of Mallards House when they returned from Ypres Tower.
“No. Inspector Morrison wanted me to show him from which window shone the light which I saw, and he wanted to have a look around inside. Since I have a key, that’s what we did,” Lucia replied.
“Drat! Keeping this a secret is wearing me down!”
“I’m sure my Inspector will contact us as soon as he knows something. After we breakfast, why don’t you work on your needlework designs, or begin another watercolour—you promised to make one of the garden so I can hang it with your other works,” she indicated the wall in the garden-room, upon which hung several of Georgie’s careful watercolor studies of flowers and landscapes. “A perfect opportunity for you to practice painting snow.”
“I’m sure it won’t distract me, but I’ll try,” said Georgie, who suddenly saw himself with a can of house paint, brushing it onto the snow with a large, wide brush. Painting snow, indeed! It was freezing cold outside!
“Would you rather we played another arrangement for four hands?”
“I can’t play another note. We’ve played so much that my fingers ache. But I will try to finish my petit point design.” After breakfast, Georgie went upstairs to his private oak-paneled sitting room, pulled out his designing tools, and began to draw, while in her office, Lucia began to re-examine the plans for her new drainage system.
~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn’t until the next morning that Inspector Morrison returned to Mallards House, and by then it all was over. Constable Hawkhurst had been caught, along with the son of Tilling’s Town Councillor Harold Twistevant and another ne’er-do-well as they came out of the tunnel with the drugs in their possession. Hawkhurst and the third man were also in possession of firearms, but they were unable to pull them out from under the coats they wore, which were buttoned tightly against the cold; and so they were arrested without much struggle. Young Twistevant agreed to “snitch” on his fellow drug smugglers in return for leniency, but he refused to give the names of others who might be involved.
“He says that we caught the only ‘locals’ who were involved, that the others are from London,” said the Inspector, over a mug of tea and some much-appreciated hot scones. (“Even better than those at Ye Olde Tea-house, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”) “Young Twistevant seems quite terrified of the others, and of Hawkhurst as well. Apparently he got in too deep with betting on horses, and was—persuaded—that the only way to pay off the bookmakers was to help with the smuggling.”
“Shocking!” said Georgie, with more delight than good manners allowed.
Inspector Morrison grinned, but without humour.
“And what was hidden in the top floor of the Tower?” Lucia asked.
The Inspector became diffident. “Are you sure you want to know? It’s quite shocking—indeed,” he nodded at Georgie.
“I am a Magistrate in Tilling’s Borough Court; you will find me difficult to shock,” said Lucia.
“Well, Ma’am, Sir, there was a large cupboard with a false back—” began Inspector Morrison.
“Like the bookcase here was once Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s secret cupboard!” exclaimed Georgie, who then apologized for interrupting.
“In it we found pornography,” continued the Inspector. Knowing that Mr Pillson would have something else to exclaim, Inspector Morrison ate the last bite of his scone.
“Just like Major Benjy’s photo of the Pride of Poona!” Georgie exclaimed, and then began to apologize again.
Inspector Morrison held up a hand to stop the apology. “Not like the Pride of Poona photo at all, much more explicit and vulgar than those Edwardian French Postcards.”
“How awful!” exclaimed Lucia and Georgie in unison.
I wonder, thought Georgie wickedly, how the Inspector knows what Major Benjy’s photo of the Pride of Poona looks like.
Inspector Morrison explained to Lucia that she would have to complete a witness statement about the light she saw, and about how she, as a member of the Historical Society, gave permission and allowed Inspector Morrison to search the Ypres Tower. He stated that it would be safer for “Your Worship” if she was understood to be simply an on-looker, not taking an active part in the search, as there were still members of the gang at large, “At least, they’ll be at large until we can do some persuading of our own and young Twistevant gives us more names.”
The Inspector finished his tea and took his leave, thanking Lucia and Georgie for all their help, and promising to keep them apprised of any further developments in the case.
Ever civic-minded, Lucia returned to her municipal maps. “Look, Georgie! The new drains would pass within a few feet of the smugglers’ tunnel. I wonder if we could use the tunnel for the drains and save the Borough some money. I must ask my Town Surveyor about it.”
“Well, a sewer would certainly deter me if I were a criminal,” said Georgie, suddenly realizing just how enterprising his wife was on behalf of their adopted city. “But what about the publicity?”
Lucia looked up from her maps. “It will be quite serious; but the point is that the criminal gang has been caught—that is what we shall focus upon,” she said in her most political tones, ignoring the fact that part of the gang had not yet been caught
“Perhaps Mr Twistevant will step down as Councillor, so that Quaint Irene can step in,” said Georgie, knowing how much Lucia desired this, since Quaint Irene was the perfect foil to Elizabeth Mapp-Flint. “Anyway it’s time to go shopping,” Georgie had been waiting eagerly to spread the news, and to try out some new, furry Russian boots he had bought for the snow.
“Indeed, caro, it is,” said Lucia with a smile.
THE END
Photo Copyright Oast House Archive and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons Licence
Notes:
First and foremost, I wish to apologize for poaching upon Mr Deryck Solomon's domain by using the character of Inspector Morrison. I did endeavor to keep to my use of the Inspector strictly professional and omitted any details of his personal life that were not absolutely necessary to the strory. Should Mr Solomon ever read this story, I hope he will see it for what it is: hommage from a fan of his work. Please read “Inspector Morrison’s Casebook” by Deryck Solomon http://inspectormorrison.blogspot.com/
I understand that in Rye, the route from Town Hall to Lamb House is shortest through Church Square and that, in the 1930s, when this story takes place, the Police Station was in Church Square. But I am writing about Tilling and have, therefore, taken some liberties with the geography of Rye, and I am writing under the assumption that Lucia would want to contact "her" Inspector, not just any available constable. Also, regarding the variance in geography between Rye and Tilling, I have made the cliff in Tilling much higher and steeper than it is in Rye.
Many of the photos I used in this story are from http://www.geograph.org.uk/ Should you wish to take a photographic tour of Great Britian, this site is a great place to do so.
The Garden Room of Lamb House was built in 1743 by James Lamb.
The real Undercliff Road in Rye, East Sussex
Photo © Copyright Simon Carey and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons Licence
Text copyright 2012 Kathleen Bradford
