Hilda Hopkins, Murder, She Knit Read online

  He had been staying at Hilda’s house for nearly six months when he was late down for his breakfast one morning. Hilda slid two hard fried eggs onto a cold plate, added a dollop of baked beans, and fished two rashers of streaky bacon from under the grill where they were rapidly turning black round the edges. Hilda laid the plate on the table and went to the kitchen door. There was no sound at all from upstairs. Sighing she ascended the stairs and rapped on the bedroom door.

  “Breakfast is on the table Mr Smith.”

  No answer.

  “It’s going to get cold. Are you up yet?”

  No answer.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  No answer.

  Hilda had taken five months’ rent off Mr Smith during his stay, she hoped he hadn’t done a moonlight flit leaving her short of this month’s rent. Tentatively she opened the door and peeped inside.

  Arthur Smith lay on the narrow single bed. He was deathly pale, deathly still, deathly cold. Hilda moved across to the bed and briefly touched his forehead, it was icy cold. She let out an involuntary squeak and retreated to the landing. What now? She supposed she would have to ring 999. Who would be responsible for his funeral? Did he have enough money of his own to cover the cost? It was a pity she hadn’t opened a life insurance policy on him….the thought popped unbidden into her head.

  Hilda went back into the bedroom and looked down at Mr Smith. In life he had been a short, slight man, in death he appeared even smaller and more shrunken. His wallet lay on the bedside cabinet next to the bed. Hilda picked it up and rummaged through it. She would take the rent he owed her, even if he wasn’t going to be here for the rest of the month. There were several currency notes, and a couple of bank and credit cards. There was also a small piece of paper, neatly folded. Curious, Hilda unfolded it, and discovered three sets of four figure numbers neatly written in Mr Smith’s handwriting. Hilda realised that these must be the pin numbers for the cards.

  She went downstairs and looked at the telephone. She made no move to pick up the receiver but instead went into the kitchen and poured the rapidly congealing breakfast into the waste bin. Calmly she made herself a cup of tea, and sat down to think. Mr Smith had had no visitors during the time he had lived in her house. Any mail that arrived for him was of a business rather than a personal nature. Would he be missed? She thought not. If she could park him somewhere out of sight and out of mind, she could relet the room. His pensions went into his bank account, he had never gone down to the Post Office to collect any benefits so he wasn’t known there, and she had the pin numbers for all his cards. If she wasn’t greedy she could withdraw a little each week, so long as the accounts were active and not in the red, surely no-one would notice.

  Where to put him? He couldn’t stay upstairs, especially if she was going to get another paying guest. She had a small garden to the front of the property, and a larger one behind. There was a gate at the end of the back garden which led out onto the tow path which ran alongside the canal. She considered the geography of the area. It could be done.

  Hilda removed her slippers and put on her outdoor shoes. She went out into the back garden. Her stomach was churning with excitement. She could do this. If she had a steady income from Mr Smith’s account would she even need another paying guest? She decided she had better get another one, just in case the neighbours noticed that Mr Smith wasn’t around. They tended to be a nosey lot around here. She would choose someone similar, elderly and on the short side. People didn’t bother looking too closely, one elderly chap coming-out her house would look much the same as any other at a cursory glance.

  Hilda smiled, she hadn’t had so much fun in years. But this plotting and scheming, it just showed what a clever woman she was. She had been passed over for promotion time and time again when she had been working. She knew why, they were jealous of her, scared for their own jobs because they knew if she got a toehold on the ladder she would be better than all of them and their jobs would be in danger. And then she had got older, so all the young ones got the advancement. What did they know about the work, they didn’t have her experience. She had always obeyed the rules, never deviated, never took any short cuts just stuck to the book at all times, well, this was different. Now she would show them she could use her initiative. Or rather she wouldn’t show them, she would do this under the noses of the neighbours and any one else who might show an interest, and get away with it. She would prove to them who was the best.

  She let herself out of the garden gate, and looked up and down the tow path. About a hundred yards up the towpath there was a lock, the water churning at the foot of its gates. She started to walk downstream away from it. The houses curved away from the canal at this point, and the trees in the adjoining park came down to fringe the tow path. Hilda plunged in amongst the trees. She didn’t want to have to drag the body too far, but it did need to be somewhere where it wouldn’t be found too quickly either. There was a natural hollow amongst the roots of a tree which had been blown down during the winter storms. Hilda reckoned if she brought a spade along, she could deepen the hole slightly and Mr Smith would fit in there perfectly. She stirred the soil with her foot. It was quite loose. She glanced around. The hollow was far enough from the tow path not to be seen. It wasn’t on the route of the dog walkers either, it could work. Hilda hurried back to her home, and took the spade from the garden shed. She wrapped it in a piece of sacking and scuttled back down the tow path to her chosen site. She had been right, the soil was fairly loose, and she was able to make a decent sized cave like hole under the tree. She left the spade there, wrapped in its piece of sacking; she would need it later to do some filling in.

  The danger period would be getting him from the garden to the burial site. It was quiet enough now, but later on there would be joggers and dog walkers and goodness knew who else wandering along here. Hilda decided that she would wait until after dark that evening. She thought she would be able to find her way back to the tree easily enough; she had spotted a couple of landmarks she could use. She needed to get back to the shed. There was a wheel barrow in there she could use to transport the body, but it might need oiling. She didn’t want to go creaking along the path calling attention to herself.

  It had been a lot more difficult than she anticipated, but Hilda managed it. Once she had an idea, she was quite tenacious. She was amazed how heavy Mr Smith was as she struggled to manoeuvre his body down the stairs into the hall where she wrapped him in wheelie bin bags, tying string round and round his body to keep them in place before strapping him onto the wheelbarrow. Rigor had passed by now, and he flopped alarmingly as she balanced him on it. The oiling had worked well though, and she glided through the garden and along the path with the minimum of noise. He fitted quite nicely into the hole she had dug, and she soon had his body well covered in soil, followed by detritus and leaves which camouflaged the grave perfectly.

  Hilda was exhausted, but curiously elated. She had done it. That would teach him to go and die on her. Now she would enjoy herself at his expense, literally. She giggled. She looked down at the ground, carefully flashing a torch around to make sure there was no hint of what was buried here. The smile left her face as she contemplated the grave. There could be no memorial, no headstone, no cross, that bothered her slightly. Her face creased in concern for a few minutes as she stood there in a contemplative silence. Her expression cleared, she knew what she would do. She would make one of her look a like dolls. Over the years Hilda had perfected her technique in making amazingly life like dolls. She made them to represent people at work who had annoyed her, either with a real or an imagined slight. She would take the dolls out and berate them, saying all the things she couldn’t say to her colleagues for fear of losing her job. Some had even been slapped, or had arms and legs twisted as a punishment.

  This one would be different though. She would keep the woolly Mr Smith in her bedroom as a tribute to his memory. He could stand on top of the wardrobe, next to Abigail, a porcelain doll which she
had owned for years. She had his picture on his bus pass…yes, that would make a fitting memorial, combining her interests and skill with his demise. Hilda turned-on her heel and returned to the house, eager to start designing her little gentleman doll.

  Chapter 4

  Hilda woke early the next morning, and stretched luxuriously in the comfortable double bed. She opened her eyes and had a moment of confusion as the unfamiliar room met her gaze. Then she remembered, she was a fugitive from the law. How exciting, Hilda Hopkins, armed and dangerous! Well not armed, but she had nothing to lose now if anyone crossed her. She giggled as she threw back the covers and went into the bathroom. The shower was lovely. It was a power one, and quite fierce. Hilda stood under the jets of water and felt the force of the water on her skin. It was exhilarating. She would dry herself, dress and go down for an early breakfast.

  She finished drying her hair and replaced the hairdryer neatly in the fitment drawer. Today she would wear the skirt and jumper she had bought in the charity shop. They weren’t all that appealing, but the police had a description of what she had been wearing yesterday. She dressed herself and went across to open the curtains. Her window overlooked the entrance to the car park. As she jerked the curtains aside, she looked down to see a police car driving into the forecourt. She leapt back from the window, heart pounding and sat on the edge of the bed. Were they looking for her? The chances were quite high. And when she had booked in she had used the name and address of a neighbour just along the Crescent from her. It had seemed amusing at the time, but perhaps she should have used a purely fictional address. The police would zoom in on that, they weren’t stupid, and they must have some idea what they were dealing with now.

  Hilda picked up the carrier bag which had contained her new underwear. Quickly she stuffed one spare pair of pants and a bra in there, she would just have to wash a change of underwear each day once she was settled somewhere. She added the two blouses she had bought yesterday to the bag. She slipped her money and bus pass into the pocket of the dowdy brown coat along with the woolly hat. She glanced around the room. Yesterday’s skirt, blouse and cardigan lay over the armchair, her nightdress was on the bed. She would leave her toiletries in the bathroom too, so it would look as if she had popped out for breakfast and intended returning. She picked up the carrier bag and let herself out of the room. It had taken minutes. She walked along the corridor to the lift, then paused. She might meet the police officers in the lobby if she went this way. There was a flight of service stairs at the end of the corridor, she went down those and let herself out round the side of the car park. She headed towards the low wall surrounding the building, sat on the parapet, and with a surprising show of grace, swung her legs over the top of the wall and onto the pavement.

  Breakfast. That needed to be the first priority. If she was well fed she could concentrate on the day ahead. Hilda ambled along the road, trying to appear unconcerned and succeeded completely. No-one took any notice of her whatsoever. She came across a small café, a “greasy spoon” and decided this would do. She paid for a full breakfast and was pleasantly surprised when it arrived. The bacon and sausage were nicely cooked, as were the mushrooms and black pudding, the fried egg was runny, the toast a pleasing brown and they hadn’t been stingy with the butter either. The cup of tea was a disappointment. It had been poured out of a large metal teapot, and Hilda reckoned they must make one pot in the morning and fill it up with more hot water and the odd extra spoonful of tea as the morning went on. It tasted stewed and was far too strong. Still, she needed to keep a low profile so she bit back her natural desire to complain and got on with the meal.

  Where to now, she wondered. If the police had come as far as Midchester searching for her, they probably had the bus station and the railway station alerted too. She didn’t drive. She briefly considered buying, or even stealing a bicycle but it was years since she had ridden one. She left the café and wandered through the streets with no particular destination in mind. She came across the canal. It was the same one that ran behind her house. A little further along she could see a small jetty. A barge was moored there next to a sign proclaiming “Canal Trips. Three hours duration.” A blackboard next to the sign announced that the next trip would be at 11am. Hilda checked the time, it was nearly a quarter to ten. With a bit of luck the police would be relying on her returning to her room in the Journey Lodge. After all her possessions were there and she had paid for two nights. She felt that she would be safe pottering around the High Street amongst the other elderly shoppers until she could return here and buy a ticket for the canal trip. Once they arrived at the destination, she would quietly disappear, and they could return without her. She had been on the odd canal trip before years ago, and she knew that sometimes people caught a later barge back if they wanted to sightsee for more than the fifteen minutes stay.

  It all worked out as she had planned. Of course it had, she thought self-righteously as she settled herself in her seat, she was organising it, there was no way it could go wrong. Hadn’t she proved herself to be the best so far? Twice now she had out-witted the police.

  It was a pleasant trip. The barge glided along between the fields and Hilda felt herself relax. She mustn’t get complacent though, she reminded herself. She had to keep her wits about her if she was to stay free. The barge gently bumped into its mooring, and Hilda accepted the hand of the young bargeman to assist her back onto dry land.

  They had arrived at the small village of Neston. The young man had helped several other passengers off the barge, and obligingly pointed to a passage just ahead of them.

  “If you go through there, you’ll be in the High Street, There’s a couple of nice tea rooms, and if you like gardens, you can walk along to Neston House and see the gardens there for free. You can go round the house too, but you have to pay for that. We’re leaving on the half hour, but we’ll be back an hour after that if you want to stay longer.”

  Hilda grinned. They obviously didn’t check who got on or off their barge. If you missed the last one, tough, you’d have to find your own back to Midchester. Well that suited her fine. She didn’t want a hue and cry because they had lost a passenger. She tagged along behind the knot of people heading towards the village. A cup of tea would be nice, and perhaps a toasted tea cake, dripping with butter to accompany it? Hilda was starting to appreciate the finer things of life now that there was a strong chance they would be snatched away from her. She didn’t suppose that toasted tea cakes would appear on a prison menu.

  As she emerged from the passage, Hilda noticed a queue composed mainly of women outside a hall halfway down the road. Curious she strolled towards them. There was a large poster on the side of the wall, “Jumble Sale, Neston Village Hall, Saturday, 11am (this had been crossed out and 12 noon scribbled in its place) tea and refreshments, admission 20p.” Hilda liked jumble sales at the best of times, and serendipitously she had arrived in good time to visit this one. She fumbled in her pocket, fished out 20p and joined the end of the queue just as the doors opened and the crowd surged forward.

  The first stall inside the hall was covered in bags and shoes. To one side Hilda spotted a blue and green tartan shopping trolley on wheels. She snatched it up and waved it at the helper behind the table.

  ` “50p, dear.”

  Armed with her trolley Hilda turned her attention to the rest of the jumble sale. She thoroughly enjoyed herself. She loved being in the scrum, fighting over a garment, diving forward to pick up a book before another hand grasped it. She bought herself another skirt, a jacket, and a pair of trousers, plus a couple of blouses, a head scarf and several books. Everything went into the shopping trolley. It was a nice one, sturdily built with solid rubber tyres on large wheels. It would be very useful.

  Hilda looked over at the refreshments. She read the list, tea, coffee, cold drinks and digestive biscuits. Tea would be fine, but she had a real hankering for a toasted tea cake. She decided to go in search of a proper tea room. As she was manoeuvring
the trolley down the steps of the village hall a police car drove past. Hilda had her head averted as she bumped the trolley down, and the car passed without slowing down and continued on its way out of the village.

  Hilda stood gazing after it. She was so clever. They couldn’t even catch her when she was within feet of them. Complacently she towed her new shopping trolley behind her and strolled down the road. The Willow Tree Tea Room proved to be delightful. Hilda sat by the window, there was tea in a real teapot, a china cup and saucer had been placed in front of her, and milk appeared in its own matching jug. Hilda poured out her first cup, and sat there in seventh heaven savouring the exquisite flavour. How very different from the café where she had breakfasted! The waitress appeared bearing a plate on which not one, but two toasted teacakes nestled. They were delicious, plump, nicely toasted, bursting with fruit and slathered in butter. Real butter, not a cheap spread. This was luxury indeed.

  Mr Bartlett would have liked this, she reflected. She frowned. He had been such a fussy eater. He had dared to criticise her cooking, and she could cook, like everything else she did, she was excellent at it, or so she believed. Mr Bartlett had been Mr Smith’s successor. He too had been elderly, a slight man with no family or friends that Hilda could discover. She had interviewed several people for the room before she had decided on him. He was in his seventies and looked very frail, hopefully he would go the same way as Mr Smith. But he was such a complainer! Mr Smith hadn’t worried about hard fried eggs; Mr Bartlett told her he could only eat eggs if they were runny, and would she please warm the plates because his meals got cold so quickly.