He grabbed her by the throat.
Three days later, he returned to England. The French papers were full of what they described as the Charlemagne killing. The police wished to interview a man, believed to be English, who had been seen with the victim in several Orleans restaurants. He was described as middle-aged, going grey, about 5 ft 8 ins and wearing a blue blazer and white trousers.
In Buttery’s well-informed opinion, that description was worse than useless. He was 5 ft 9 ins in his socks, there was no grey hair that anyone would notice and thirty-four was a long way from being middle-aged. Only the blazer and trousers were correct, and he had dumped them in the Loire after buying jeans and a T-shirt. He felt amused at the problems now faced by all the middle-aged Englishmen in blue blazers staying at the Charlemagne.
He experienced a profound sense of relief at setting foot on British soil again at Dover, but it was short-lived, because the immigration officer asked him to step into an office and answer some questions. A CID officer was waiting there.
‘Just routine, sir. Would you mind telling me where you stayed in France?
‘Various places,’ answered Buttery. ‘I was moving along the Loire Valley. Angers, Tours, Poitiers.’
‘Orléans?’
‘No. I was told it’s a disappointment historically. So much bombing in the war.’
‘You heard about the murder there, I expect?’
‘Vaguely. I can’t read much in French.’
‘An Englishwoman was strangled in her hotel bedroom,’ the CID man explained. ‘She happens to come from the same town as you.’
Buttery made an appropriate show of interest. ‘Really? What was her name?’
‘Mildred D’Abernon. You didn’t meet her at any stage on your travels?’
He shook his head. ‘D’Abernon. I’ve never heard of her.’
‘You’re quite sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘In that case, I won’t detain you any longer, Mr Buttery. Thank you for your co-operation.’
In the train home, he tried to assess the case from the point of view of the police. In France, there was little, if anything, to connect him with the murder. He had travelled separately from Mrs D’Abernon and stayed in different hotels. They had met for lunch, but never more than once in the same restaurant and it was obvious that the descriptions provided by waiters and others could have applied to hundreds, if not thousands, of Englishmen. He had paid every bill in cash, so there was no question of his being traced through the traveller’s cheques. The roses he had bought came from an old woman so short-sighted that she had tried to give the change to another customer. He had been careful to leave no fingerprints in the hotel room. The unremarkable fact that he came from the same Surrey suburb as Mrs D’Abernon and had been in France at the same time was hardly evidence of guilt.
All he had to do was stay cool and give nothing else away.
So he was irritated, but not unduly alarmed, when he was met off the train by a local policeman in plain clothes and escorted to a car.
‘Just checking details, sir,’ the officer explained. ‘We’ll give you a lift back to your place and save you the price of a taxi. You live over your bookshop, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘You answered some questions at Dover about the murder in Orleans. I believe you said you didn’t know Mrs D’Abernon.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Never met the lady?’
Buttery sensed a trap. ‘I certainly didn’t know her by name. Plenty of people come into the shop.’
‘That clears it up then, sir. We found a number of books in her house that her husband understands had been bought from you. Do you keep any record of your customers?’
‘Only if they pay by cheque,’ said Buttery with a silent prayer of thanks that Mrs D’Abernon had always paid in cash.
‘You don’t mind if I come in, then, just to have a glance at the accounts?’
The car drew up outside the shop and the officer helped Buttery with his cases.
It was after closing time, but James was still there. Buttery nodded to him and walked on briskly to the back room, followed by the policeman.
‘Nice holiday, Mr Buttery?’ James called. ‘The mail is on your desk. I opened it, as you instructed.’
Buttery closed the door, and took the account book off its shelf. ‘If I’d had any dealings with the woman, I’m sure I’d remember her name,’ he said, as he held it out.
The officer didn’t take it. He was looking at an open parcel on Buttery’s desk. It was about the size of a shoe-box. ‘Looks as if someone’s sent you a present, sir.’
Buttery glanced into the box and saw the Corder figure lying in a bed of tissue paper. He picked it out, baffled. There was a letter with it from Hudson and Black, dealers in objets d’art. It said that the client they had represented in the recent auction had left instructions on the day of the sale that the figure of William Corder should be returned as a gift to its seller with the enclosed note.
The policeman picked out a small card from the wrappings, frowned at it, stared at Buttery and handed it across.
Buttery went white. The message was handwritten. It read:
You treated me to romance in a spirit of true generosity. Don’t think badly of me for devising this way to show my gratitude. I can well afford it.
It was signed: Mildred D’Abernon.
Below was written: P.S. Here’s your murderer.
Private Gorman’s Luck
As private Gorman saw it, he was dead unlucky.
He had just been picked up by the redcaps for the seventh time. He couldn’t stand the army. The snag was that he was no more of a success at deserting than he was at rifle drill. On four occasions he had got only a couple of miles from the barrack gates. Twice they had collected him from his home in Bermondsey. But the latest attempt was his most ambitious. He had managed three days on the run and all but got away. His assessment of the experience in the quiet of his cell in Hounslow Barracks was that only his stinking luck had let him down.
At first, fortune had favoured him. After two nights sleeping rough, his uniform had got too shabby to wear with confidence, so he had started to look for some civvies. He was passing a bomb site in Hounslow when he spotted a damaged house across the street. It was like looking into a doll’s house; the blast had ripped away the entire front. The wardens had cleared the floor downstairs, but the upper floor was unsafe, so everything was left: two bedrooms with beds, chests of drawers, wardrobes, dressing tables and — of surpassing interest to Gorman — a blue double-breasted suit on a hanger suspended from the top of one of the wardrobe doors.
That evening in the blackout (as he told it later to Private Plumridge, who was on fatigues in the guardroom), Gorman had gone back to the house and waited nearby for an air raid to create a distraction. This was the summer of 1944, when the flying bombs were at their worst, so there was a fair chance of the siren going some time. When it did, and Gorman heard the steady drone of a V1 coming over from London, he made his move. The buzzbombs held no fears for Gorman. He had a firm conviction that he was safe from those things, however close they came. His enemy wasn’t Hitler; it was the redcaps. He hopped over the rubble, through the path cleared by the wardens, into the dining room, out to the hall and up the stairs. As easy as ABC.
For the first time in his army career, he was glad of his metal-studded boots when he got up there and found the bedroom door locked by some security-minded bastard from the rescue service. Two good kicks and he was inside.