Tuppenny Hat Detective Read online



  TUPPENNY HAT DETECTIVE

  by

  Brian Sellars

  Copyright © text Brian Sellars

  Copyright © cover image Derwent and Wye Fine Art, Rowsley, Derbyshire

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

  Published in Paperback by YouWriteOn.com

  Sponsored by Arts Council England

  Tuppenny Hat Detective is a work of fiction.

  All characters in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidenta

  WELCOME

  Thank you for choosing Tuppenny Hat Detective, written for adults and teenage readers. I hope you will like it. I know that some adults wonder if it really is intended for them when they realise that the main characters are kids. Well let me assure you it most definitely is. I hope that young and old will enjoy it.

  Please let me know what you think of it – good or bad. I value readers’ feedback. Writing is great fun, but being read is the coolest thing of all.

  mailto:[email protected]

  CONTENTS

  Welcome

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Glossary of Sheffield-eeze

  Sheffield ditty

  Other books by Brian Sellars

  About the author

  Sample of The Whispering Bell

  TUPPENNY HAT DETECTIVE

  NOTE:- Glossary of dialect at the back of the book

  CHAPTER ONE

  The old Star Woman would never return a stray ball. Most kids would rather face a mad dog than risk being eeny-meenyed into trembling on her doorstep to plead for one, but in the early nineteen-fifties even an old tennis ball was a valuable toy and not to be given up lightly.

  Eleven-year-old Billy Perks and his pals decided it would be pointless knocking on her door. A daring commando raid was called for. Somebody would have to climb the wall into her back yard and retrieve the lost ball. It would be no simple task, and if Yvonne Sparkes had not been there Billy would not have volunteered. Yvonne believed he could do anything, and would gladly tell the world as much. Such female adulation was in short supply for Billy, and like old tennis balls, was not to be wasted.

  With all the gravitas of one of his cinema heroes embarking on a deadly mission, he issued final instructions to Yvonne and his best pal, Michael "Kick" Morley. 'Keep quiet. Don't yell over the wall. She'll hear thee and grab me if thar does.' The pair nodded solemnly.

  Though towering above him, the sandstone wall enclosing the old woman's back yard offered an easy climb with generous handholds. The return however, would be tougher. Not only because of the fear that she might spring up and turn him into a newt or something, but the far side of the wall was white-washed and slippery, the handholds stuffed with foaming tumbles of flowers.

  Billy scrambled over the wall and dropped silently to the ground. Crouching low, he listened for sounds of enemy activity. He found himself in a small yard paved with old stable tiles. It was scrubbed and spotless. On three sides, blue sky was all he could see above its walls. The crooked, whitewashed house completed the enclosure.

  The old place bulged like a clenched fist, its walls of crumbling brick and wattle held together by ancient ivy. It sagged into the yard, as if exhausted by the effort of having been a house for unknown centuries. Darkly ajar, its back door threatened. Billy scuttled to a far corner and crouched beside a stone slab table crowded with daffodils and crocuses erupting from treacle tins and old buckets. Peering through them, he studied the yard, planning his next move. He knew he must pinpoint the ball, so that he could grab it and dash away safely.

  There was no sign of it.

  A black cat dropped from the wall onto the stone table, giving him a heart stopping fright. With a malevolent glare, it oozed softly to the paving, stalked across the yard, and disappeared into the house. Billy wiped a hand over his sweating forehead, his gaze following the cat into the darkness beyond a donkey-stoned doorstep. He edged cautiously towards the door, his mouth as dry as dust. Sneaking a quick look inside, he spotted the ball. His breath caught in his chest. How was he going to get that? It was at least a yard inside the house, trapped at the dog-eared edge of a coconut fibre mat.

  The cat had vanished, but there sat the ball in plain sight, easy for the old woman to spot and confiscate at any second. Or maybe, Billy speculated, she had deliberately placed it there - bait to draw him to her witch's den.

  Taking a deep breath, he ran into the house and reached for the ball. In his panic, he fumbled it. Stricken, he watched it roll out of reach. It bumped into the old woman's bare foot, but luckily, bounced straight back. He grabbed it, his heart fluttering in his ribcage, and made a mad dash to the wall. Scrambling over it blindly, he dropped into the street in a moil of breathless disarray.

  'Chuffin eck! I saw her,' he gasped. 'I almost touched her foot.'

  'Errrgh! What'd she do?'

  'Nowt.'

  'Didn't she say owt to thee?' Kick was agog, his mousy blonde hair standing like corn stooks above his russet face and wide blue eyes.

  Yvonne reached out and touched fresh blood on Billy's knee. 'You've cut thee sen. Dunt it hurt?' She swept chestnut curls from her brown eyes with the back of her hand.

  Billy saw her concern but said nothing. His mind was on that naked foot. He was beginning to realise that it was not that of a vigilant huntress waiting to pounce on prey drawn to her baited trap, but of someone collapsed and helpless on the floor - maybe unconscious, or worse.

  'I've gorra go back,' he said. 'I think she might be hurt or sommat.'

  'Tha must be crackers,' Kick Morley gasped, his eyebrows skidding up his forehead to disappear beneath his tangled fringe.

  'She were laid out on her floor. She could've fell. Old folk are always toppling over - me mam sez.' Without waiting for their approval, he scaled the wall again. There was no need for stealth this time. He dropped into the yard and marched to the back door. 'Hello! Hello, are you there, Mrs?'

  The black cat's haughty exit between his feet, prompted him to pull up his socks and wipe the blood from his grazed knee. He called out again. 'Are you all right, Mrs?'

  Sunlight slanted through the door, laying his shadow across smooth flagstones. The old woman lay across a frayed coconut fibre mat. Billy's stomach flipped. His knees wobbled, threatening to dump him on top of her. Swallowing hard he composed himself and peered into the gloom. He had never seen a real corpse, though he had seen thousands of phoney ones on the cinema screen at the Walkley Palladium. They usually had arrows or tomahawks sticking out of them. This one did not. Even so, he was certain that he was looking at a de
ad woman – a real one.

  Steeling himself, he stepped into a cool, dark room, whose beamed ceiling was barely at head height. Wearing a white night-shift, the old woman lay stretched out on her side, her long silver hair unbound around her face and shoulders. Her thin arms reached out like someone preparing to dive into a swimming pool. Her eyes were wide open as if she were about to speak. Their liquid stare sent a shudder down his spine.

  'Are you all right, Mrs?' he asked feebly. 'Are you hurt? I just wanted us ball back.' He felt stupid talking to a corpse, but could not stop himself. Summoning courage, he knelt and touched her wrist seeking a pulse. He had no certain idea what to do, but mimicked what he had seen done in the films. She felt cold, and wherever her pulse was supposed to be he was sure she did not have one.

  'Dead as door nails,' he mumbled, and immediately thought of his granny. In her younger days his grandmother had been the street's unofficial midwife and mortician, laying out the dead on a lavatory door stretched over a couple of chair backs. He could never touch a dead person - not like that, he told himself. It was a sickening idea, not to mention the practical disadvantages of using the lavatory with a corpse on the door. Though he realised this was not the time for such deliberations, he nevertheless, added mortician to a growing list in his head, of professions he vowed never to enter when he left school.

  Looking about, he wondered what he should do next. He felt as if the room was watching him, judging him from its centuries of experience. A scrubbed pine table and a few dining chairs, none matching, occupied the middle of the floor. Corralling a collection of threadbare cushions, a Windsor chair stood beside a shiny black-leaded Yorkshire range. On the wall adjoining the back yard, ivy had forced its way in through the wattle and daub and found a warm welcome. Clipped to perfection, it thrived around a slit of window. A huge Victorian sideboard, her prized possession, so his Granny Smeggs had said, dominated almost an entire wall. Beside it hung a sepia photograph of an infantryman, stiffly posed behind a seated young woman, whose dark, beautiful eyes, gazed out fearfully. Billy felt sick. Those same unblinking eyes were staring from the floor, and just as lifeless.

  He needed a drink of water. In the ivy-clad corner water dripped from a brass tap. Finding a clean cup he drew himself a drink and sat at the table, miserably pondering the situation and regretting his weakness in the face of female adulation.

  Gazing around he wondered how she had died. The room appeared undisturbed. Everything seemed neatly in its place. Had she fallen? There was no blood or signs of a struggle. Her arms looked strange, stretched out like that, and no obvious explanation presented itself. He wondered if she had been trying to reach the sideboard. Perhaps it contained something vital to her in her final moments: medicine, an alarm bell, a torch - who could say? Speculation was pointless. Then he recalled how sometimes in films murder victims struggled in their dying moments to reach some tiny clue, something that would point an accusing finger at the killer, even from beyond the grave. 'Stupid,' he scolded himself. This was not a film. He should concentrate on the real world. His stomach swirled sickeningly, draining his strength as he fought his rising panic.

  In the gable wall adjoining the street, a small bay window, glazed with old bullions, distorted the images of everything beyond it, including the faces of his two friends now bobbing and craning to see into the house. They called to him, tapping on the greenish glass. With a final glance around the room, Billy stiffened his shoulders decisively and rose to leave - this time by the front door. There was no longer the need to climb walls. Lifting its heavy iron latch, he pulled open the ancient door. He was relieved to see sunlight and to feel fresh air brush his face. A few yards along the street, his friends were now hanging on the backyard wall, calling for him in loud whispers.

  He crept up behind them. 'What?' he yelled, giving them a start. 'We've gorra ring the cops. T'owd Star Woman's dead.'

  Kick gaped at him. 'Tha didn't touch her, did tha?'

  'Come on, let's ring 'em quick,' Billy urged, keen to limit Kick's questioning. 'Do you know how to do nine-nine-nine?'

  'Nein! Nein! Nein!' Kick quipped, assuming a German accent.

  Yvonne whacked Kick's ear, merging laughter with groaning disdain.

  'We'll go to the cop box. That'll be quickest.' Billy led off at a sprint.

  Faded green and cream, the police box perched on precipitous cobbles in a street barely a hundred yards away. Usually a couple of bobbies could be found there: making tea, having a smoke, or fixing their bicycles, but not this time. Billy glared at the locked door and tugged on its unyielding handle.

  'You can break that glass on the key box,' said Kick, stepping back as if to stress that his role in any such action, however authorised, would be purely advisory.

  Yvonne gaped. 'You can't do that!' she cried, her eyes wide and fearful in her small, heart shaped face.

  'That's worrits for,' hooted Kick. 'If there're no coppers here, you're allowed to bust the glass and use the special 'phone inside. It's for emergencies. It says so - look.'

  All three peered at the lettering on the white enamelled notice fixed to the police box door. A taut silence enveloped them as they read, then read again.

  'Chuff it! I'm not busting no glass on no cop box, no matter what. Coppers'll kill thee. We'll go down to the phone-box instead.'

  On route, they decided that Yvonne should make the call, because, as Kick pointed out, 'She can do the poshest voice. And anyway,' he added, 'coppers never believe what lads say. They always think we're messing about.'

  After placing the call, the walk back to the old Star Woman's house was something of an anticlimax. It was a steep, wearying climb, which they completed in thoughtful silence. Back at the Star Woman's cottage a little crowd was forming, including Billy's Grandmother Smeggs. Kick Morley's mother was there too, hipping his perpetually food-stained infant sister. She and her neighbours were whispering and pointing curiously as they assembled beneath the crooked gable.

  Built in Tudor times the row of cottages had once been a public house. Long before the war, it was converted into three dwellings: bikes, runner beans, and washing lines took over its outdoor skittle alley. It stood, gable end to the road, its ancient stone roof sagging like a wet tent. A single window punctured the whitewashed gable. Behind its thick bullions, the Star Woman had lived for more years than most could remember; a solitary eccentric, named for "The Star" newspaper she had sold on Sheffield's streets between the wars.

  Billy's deadly enemy, Stan Sutcliffe, appeared at the back of the crowd. He barged to the front to join his sour faced bruiser of a father. Billy shuddered as he eyed the pair. Only the Sutcliffe females were scarier. Sutcliffe senior was as big as a church door, and could loom up suddenly on people, much like a bread van in fog. His snarling glare challenged anyone foolish enough to return it. Billy avoided eye contact. The old man had planted himself firmly at the best vantage, shoving others aside like a jack through skittles. No one had objected. Billy confined his rebellion to thinking how the old man lacked only a handle, to make of himself a piratical Toby jug. His swaggering son, a miniature in the set, thrust his knotty body beside his father. Even his apprentice snarl was enough to chill a vet.

  'I thought there might be something wrong,' Granny Smeggs was saying to nobody in particular. 'I've not seen her around this morning - like usual.' Billy slipped his hand in hers and concentrated on not looking at the Sutcliffes.

  Beside him, with a display of alarming facial acrobatics, a wheezing gossip put in, 'I always knew she'd be trouble in the end. You could smell her.'

  Billy took an instant dislike to the woman. He had never thought the old lady smelled, though nobody seemed surprised to hear of it. True, she was far from pristine, and never seen in hues but dun and dingy: a tatty fringed shawl, a black full skirt down to the ground over button boots, and a fitted high-necked bodice behind a grey apron. She was a relic from the past, and of course, looking as she did, most children felt
she might easily be a witch.

  The urgent clanging of a police car's alarm bell interrupted speculations. A shiny black Wolsley saloon approached, followed by a cream coloured Daimler ambulance. Bells down, the vehicles swerved into the street, slowing at the last moment, scattering folk in every direction. The Sutcliffes vanished like steam. Billy looked for them but they were gone. It was no surprise. The police and the Sutcliffes invariably had unfinished business.

  Police Sergeant Burke, a towering man with a ramrod back, and a chin that seldom broke contact with his sternum, unfolded himself from the car and eyed the crowd. He fitted his helmet, pulling it down over his eyes like a guardsman's peak. 'Where's Billy Perks?' he bellowed, his baritone resonating on the air.

  A general buzz arose from the bystanders, suggesting that it was no surprise to find Billy Perks at the centre of this drama. After all, was it not Billy Perks, who on his bike had demolished the herbalist's shop window, wiping out centuries of sun-bleached window dressing and a new electric Vimto sign? And was it not Billy Perks who had borrowed Mrs Seaton's commode for a wheel-chair for his "Penny-For-the-Guy Fawkes dummy"? The poor woman had only placed it outside her door to dry it off after scrubbing it with carbolic.

  Summoning defiance in the face of such a hostile, faithless group, Grandmother Smeggs stuck out her chin and proudly pointed to her grandson, though inwardly dreading the shame she feared might at any moment deluge the proud names of Smeggs and Perks.

  Billy stepped forward, a tousled, copper-headed figure, looking as though he had just wrestled a spaniel in a haystack and lost. A concerned frown had banished the normally cheerful grin from his open, freckled face. Steeling himself for the worst, he approached the towering policeman.

  'Well done, lad,' said the sergeant, placing his huge hand on Billy's narrow shoulder. 'Wait here a minute. I want you to talk to the young constable and make your statement.'

  In the crowd, the pendulum of opinion had swung and Granny Smeggs fielded compliments as though she had never doubted her grandson's virtue for a second.