Hilda Hopkins, Murder, She Knit Read online

  Hilda Hopkins was neatly dressed in a powder blue suit whose colour suited her perfectly. The girdle had made all the difference to the fit, and she looked quite elegant in her smart new shoes and matching handbag.

  Hilda lurked by the front door, listening for the taxi. As soon as she heard it draw up at the front gate, she let herself out, slipped the key back under the flowerpot and met the driver halfway down the path. He took her luggage from her, and opened the door so that she could settle herself in the back seat. Hilda smiled grimly to herself. What a difference the hint of money, and nice clothes made to people’s attitudes.

  She settled back in the seat as the taxi set off. A holiday, a real little holiday, just what she needed after all the stress and excitement she’d experienced lately. She dipped her head and gazed at her lap as two police cars swept past on the other side of the road, heading into Neston.

  “Unusual to see two of them around here,” muttered the driver, glancing into his driving mirror, “wonder where they are off to?”

  “They are like buses,” replied Hilda brightly, “you wait ages for one, then two come along together.”

  The driver laughed appreciatively as he changed gears before tackling the steep hill which took them out of Neston.

  Chapter 10

  Barbara Grey picked up her breakfast tray and looked around the crowded police canteen. Over in the far corner Detective Constable Graham Perkins sat alone at a table. Barbara wended her way across to him.

  “Can I join you? This place is choc a block today.”

  Perkins glanced up and nodded.

  “Feel free Barbara. Clive not with you?”

  “He’ll be along in a few minutes, he’s just sorting something out.”

  Perkins looked at Barbara, with her clear skin and softly waved auburn hair she would make an ideal model for a police recruitment poster he thought.

  Barbara stirred her coffee wondering how she would bring up the subject of Hilda Hopkins and her own thoughts about Neston.

  “So,” Perkins groped for something to say, “how was your weekend? Do anything interesting.”

  It was the perfect opening.

  “I had a potter around Midchester, down by the canal. They have barge trips from there, they cruise up to Neston and back. I thought I’d mention it to Clive.”

  “Oh yes,” grinned Perkins.

  Barbara scowled at him.

  “So that he can take Lillian and the kids for a day out. He is a married man, Graham. Children love boats, and that would be something a bit different. It’s not expensive either.”

  Perkins coloured and mumbled something incoherent.

  Clive Barcroft arrived at the table.

  “Room for a little one? Hi Graham, how’s it going?”

  He sat down and the two men started a conversation about United’s performance the previous Saturday. Barbara ate her bacon sandwich, wondering if the seed she had planted in Perkins’ mind would grow into something definite. Would he pass on the tip about the canal trips to Claire Naylor, or even Detective Inspector Brent?

  Chapter 11

  The taxi had stopped by a long coach drawn up outside The Royal Oak on the outskirts of Midchester, and the driver informed Hilda that they had arrived at the departure point. He carried her luggage across to the coach for her and saw it safely stowed away in the hold. Hilda wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to tip the driver or not. The trip was expensive and he presumably got paid for each trip he did, so she decided she wouldn’t bother. Hilda still had her sense of frugality despite the roll of notes secreted in her new handbag.

  The courier swooped down to greet her.

  “Hello there, my name is Hazel, and I’m here to make your journey as comfortable as possible. Anything you need, you must just ask.”

  She was dressed in a bottle green and gold suit that matched the livery of the coach. Hilda thought it very tasteful, if a little old fashioned looking.

  “I don’t have a ticket,” said Hilda, “I was told to quote 10372?”

  “Oh yes, Mrs Morris, you are our last minute replacement.” Hazel gave a tinkling laugh. “I’ll show you your seat; you’ll be sitting with Miss Leverson.”

  Hilda didn’t much care who she would be sitting with so long as she was on the coach and away from the road. Despite her little joke, she was a little unsettled by the two police cars which she had seen heading into Neston.

  Hazel bustled along the aisle of the coach, prattling away, and Hilda followed her. Her seat she found was about halfway down the coach, and she saw a small mousey woman already ensconced in the window seat, reading through a brochure.

  “Here’s our new passenger,” said Hazel gaily, “I’m sure you two will get on famously.”

  Her smile faltered slightly at the expression on Hilda’s face. Hilda realised she had to keep up the pretence of a well to do, and presumably well mannered lady. She stiffly moved her features into the semblance of a smile, confessed to being tired, not used to such an early start, and agreed that the coming excursion sounded very exciting.

  Hazel retreated towards the front of the coach in search of more new passengers and Hilda settled herself in her seat. Her neighbour was still engrossed in the brochure. Hilda gazed past her into the street.

  Another taxi had arrived. A woman with a blue rinse that was nearly purple disembarked, calling out to someone still in the back seat. The taxi rocked slightly as the occupant moved across the seat and backed out before standing up and looking around him.

  Hilda gave an audible gasp and clutched at her breast. The man was the image of Mr Tompkins. But he was safely buried in the earth behind her shed in Merrydown Crescent…… well probably not now, the police wouldn’t have left him there, he’d be in the mortuary by now. Hilda leaned forward slightly. No, this man was taller than Mr Tompkins, but the similarity was marked. Mr Tompkins had had a small moustache, much like that worn by David Niven, a toothbrush moustache, but this man was clean shaven.

  Hilda strained her ears to catch the name of the couple. Hazel was escorting them down the coach to a seat a few rows behind Hilda.

  “You are by the window, Mrs Toddington-Smythe, Mr Toddington-Smythe you have the aisle seat.”

  Toddington-Smythe, so not Tompkins, but just take the moustache off Mr Tompkins’ effigy, and it would do for this man too! Hilda had had something of a fright, she gave herself a little shake and giggled quietly to herself. Miss Leverson in the next seat looked at her in alarm.

  “Sorry, just thinking about something funny,” murmured Hilda, “private joke.”

  She’d had a bit of trouble with that moustache of Mr Tompkins’. She’d tried embroidering it onto his face at first, but it came out too bushy. She carefully snipped the pieces of thread away and tried again, using smaller stitches. This time she was left with an aging Adolf Hitler. The small square moustache and the lick of hair falling across the forehead had given the man an uncanny resemblance to the late German Dictator. In the end she had used a fine permanent marker just to hint at the facial hair.

  In character Mr Tompkins couldn’t have been farther away from the despot though. He had been a very quietly spoken man, calm and unruffled, no histrionics. Not that Hilda had known him for very long. This one had only lasted five days, he had hardly had chance to get his feet under the table. It had been his own fault of course ruminated Hilda. She had found him in the back garden, poking around the back of the shed. Mr Abbott was already there, about three foot under the ground, and Hilda’s heart had thumped uncomfortably in her chest as Mr Tompkins surveyed the area of dug earth.

  She had made up a tale that she wanted to have a patio out here, perhaps change the shed for a summerhouse, and have barbecues during the long summer evenings. Mr Tompkins had nodded thoughtfully, before stirring the ground with his toe.

  Hilda had shivered slightly, and commented that there was a chill in air this evening; Mr Tompkins should really come indoors, he would catch his death out here. Obedien
tly Mr Tompkins had turned and followed Hilda into the kitchen. And that was where he had caught his death before accompanying Mr Abbott behind the garden shed. Hilda settled back comfortably as the excursion began.

  The coach swept into the car park of King’s Abbott Manor House and the passengers were disgorged. Hazel, the cheerful courier, swiftly divided her charges into two groups, those who were going to do the House, and those who wanted to roam around the gardens. Hilda joined the latter group, alongside her travelling companion, Miss Leverson. Each group moved off, and Hilda quickly left the others to wander off by herself. She came across a bench overlooking the rose garden, with the mellow pile of the Manor House just beyond, and sat down to enjoy the view.

  King’s Abbott. Her Mr Abbott had been quite kingly, she thought, he had had a regal air about him. It was the way he held himself, despite his advanced years he had something of a military bearing, straight backed, brisk in manner. Although a short man, below average height, he appeared taller, there had been a presence about him. He had kept himself beautifully turned out too. Hilda had scented money when she first interviewed him. Once he had moved in, he set up an ironing board in his bedroom, and spent a lot of his time pressing his shirts and trousers so that they were impeccable. Hilda kept a clean and tidy house, but ironing was something she abhorred. She very rarely bothered, choosing clothes that were fairly crease resistant and could simply be washed and dried and worn again.

  Hilda had planned in advanced for the disposal of Mr Abbott. The coal hole was full up now that she had Mr Bartlett and Mr Morris packed in there.

  She didn’t want to risk taking another body along the tow path. She had been lucky with Mr Smith, but the risks were really too great. Behind the shed in the corner of Hilda’s garden there was a depression in the ground. This was left over from the Second World War and had been the site of the old Anderson shelter now long gone, but there was still something of a hole left. Hilda took her spade and began to dig. It was hard going, but she eventually had a small trench dug.

  She didn’t encourage her gentlemen to use the garden, and she was taken by surprise when Mr Abbott appeared around the side of the shed and asked her what she was doing. Hilda started, and leaned on her spade, a little breathless.

  “I want to pave this bit over,” she replied brightly, “make a patio out of it. Perhaps replace the shed with a proper summer house. I thought it would be nice to have a barbecue down here in the summer, away from the houses so that the smoke doesn’t waft over.”

  Hilda had had several acrimonious arguments with her neighbours over the years when smoke from their barbecues had drifted into her sitting room.

  “You should get a man in to do that for you,” commented Mr Abbott gravely, “you’ll do yourself damage Mrs Hopkins, slaving like that at your age.”

  She’d bridled at the reference to her age, but managed a lop sided though gracious smile as Mr Abbott had reached for the spade, offering to dig over the patch a bit more for her. He’d made a good job of it too, she reflected, despite his own advanced years.

  She’d killed him that night. He was already tired from his efforts, and the valerian tablets in his coffee had finished the job, sending him into a deep sleep in his chair. Hilda already had the new garrotte ready and despatched the old man quickly and neatly. It took quite a while to bury him, and she had earth left over when she finished,. She scattered that around the garden rather than leaving it humped over the grave. The ground was still uneven, but it didn’t look like an obvious burial site once she had flattened the soil somewhat.

  “Isn’t it lovely,” twittered a voice, “may I sit with you?”

  Hilda looked up. It was Miss Leverson, her fellow passenger from the coach. Hilda put her handbag onto her lap and moved her ample hips along the bench, leaving room for the younger woman to sit down. Ideally she would have liked to have told her to go away, but Hilda was aware she mustn’t draw any unwonted attention to herself.

  They sat there in silence for several minutes, each drinking in the tranquil scene.

  “Mother would have liked this,” murmured Miss Leverson, “she would have loved poking around in the House.”

  ‘Great’, thought Hilda, ‘I’m saddled with one of the recently bereaved. I do hope she doesn’t start weeping and wailing on the coach.’

  She decided she had better show some sympathy to the blasted woman.

  “I’m so sorry dear, did you lose your mother recently?”

  “Oh Mother’s not dead!” Miss Leverson looked slightly shocked, “she’s eighty-six and determined to get her telegram from the Queen.”

  “Ahh right, sorry,” muttered Hilda, “you didn’t think of bringing her with you when your friend dropped out then?”

  “Mary was rushed into hospital with appendicitis last week,” explained Miss Leverson, “I dare say Mother would have liked to come, but the lady from Social Services said I had to have a break from caring. They’ve arranged for Mother to stay in a nice nursing home while I’m away.”

  For a moment she looked wistful.

  “And then she’ll come back once I’m home. I daresay she’ll be a bit awkward for a while afterwards, she doesn’t like change much, but I intend enjoying this holiday. I just wish Mary’s appendix had held out a bit longer.”

  Hilda’s mind had been working. The police were looking for a lone elderly woman. She could use this woman as camouflage. The police wouldn’t take that much notice of a pair of women pottering about the place. How to reel her in though. Hilda had had very few friends during her life, and wasn’t sure how to attract them. Perhaps the sympathy card?

  “I’m on my own too,” confided Hilda, “I er lost my husband years and years ago, and we weren’t blessed with children.” She paused before adding “maybe we could go round the House together?”

  “That would be lovely,” beamed Miss Leverson, “What shall I call you, my name’s Lettice.”

  “Lettuce? I’ve not heard of that as a name before, is it a nick name?”

  “Lettice with an “I”” replied Miss Leverson ruefully, “the girls at school used to call me Lettuce Leaf. Mary calls me Lettie. I know you are Mrs Morris, what’s your first name?”

  “Hil…..” began Hilda, hastily amending it to “Hilary. I used to be called Hilly when I was younger.”

  She had a sudden vision of her five year old self being swung up in the strong arms of her father. He had been a giant bear of a man.

  “Up, up and away, little Hilly, and over the mountain.” He would dangle her over his shoulders as he said this, her nose pressed against his back, secure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t be dropped.

  She’d gone to school as usual one day, and a strange lady had come in at lunch time to take her to stay at the local children’s home for a few days. When Hilda had returned home, her mother had told her that Daddy had gone to live with the angels, and that had been that. She’d learned years later that he had had a sudden fatal heart attack.

  “I’ll call you Hilly then,” replied Lettie, who was bending down fiddling with the strap on her sandals and missed the expression on Hilda‘s face. “These are new and they are rubbing my foot a bit.”

  “Pour some hot water through them when we get to the hotel tonight, that’ll soften them.”

  Hilda stood up and started to make her way towards the House with Lettie trailing in her wake.

  Chapter 12

  There was a choice of activities the next morning. Either a visit to the mediaeval church, or a chance to spend some time pottering around the shops. Hilda didn’t want to go to the church, shopping held much more appeal for her. Lettie was undecided, and was prattling away trying to balance the pros and cons of a historic walk against the pleasures of shopping.

  Hilda ignored her, she was too busy reading the newspaper. Her little gentlemen had made the nationals. There weren’t any photographs of the dolls, but there was a picture of her house under the caption “Boarding House of Horrors.” Boarding h
ouse, where had they got that from? It was a normal house with paying guests, one gentleman at a time too, it wasn’t a bed and breakfast hotel, just bed and burial, Hilda giggled at her little joke. Lettie looked across the breakfast table and asked Hilly what was she reading?

  “Just bits and pieces in the paper,” replied Hilda. Lettie craned her neck to see the page.

  “Oooh, I saw that on the news, isn’t it dreadful? That woman must be a real monster. I’m so glad we’re not going anywhere near that place, Hilly, Mother wouldn’t like it if she thought I was exposed to that sort of thing.”

  Hilda frowned. “Mother wouldn’t like it” was a frequent remark from Lettie. During the journey Lettie had confided to Hilda that she had never married because Mother hadn’t considered that any of Lettie’s young men were “suitable”. Besides, Mother had said, an only daughter’s place was at her mother’s side, looking after her needs, time enough for dalliances once Mother was gone. Hilda had been amazed that anyone should think like that in this day and age. Hilda had always gone her own way, done what she wanted to do and blow anyone else’s needs. It wasn’t often that Hilda considered the idiosyncrasies of others, other than to work out how to use them for her own purposes, but she suspected that poor mousey Lettie had spent her life trying to please Mama, and the sad thing was, she would never succeed.

  “Well it’s certainly not the sort of thing I would expect to happen in Neston,” replied Hilda, remembering that she was supposed to come from there, “ours is a respectable neighbourhood.”