The Stratford Murder by Mike Hollow (love books to read txt) 📕

off or obscure it with their blackout curtain. That was if there was anyone at home, of course. If there wasn’t, she’d have to find a policeman or a fireman to break in – as an ARP warden, for reasons best known to the people who made the regulations, she wasn’t permitted to do so.

She strode up to the house and was about to reach for the door knocker when she saw a pair of bell-pushes to her left. So the house must be two flats. She jammed her forefinger onto the lower one and held it there for two or three seconds. Nobody came. She pressed again, for longer this time, then bent down and shouted through the letterbox. Still no answer. She tried the upper bell, but this too went unanswered. She stepped back and looked up to the first floor of the house. All the curtains were open and the rooms behind them in darkness: the whole house had a bleak and lonely air. With a sigh of exasperation she set off briskly up the road towards the blaze. No policemen in sight: she’d have to ask a fireman.

Fire hoses snaked in all directions across the factory site, each one terminating in a cluster of firemen wrestling to direct what must have been tons of water into the burning buildings, too focused on their task even to notice Sylvia approaching. She looked around for help and spotted one man sitting alone on a doorstep away from the inferno. He was wearing a fireman’s tunic, and as she approached she could see the Auxiliary Fire Service badge on its breast, and the letters AFS on the front of his steel helmet. He looked exhausted, and when she drew close enough to see his eyes by the light of the fire they were vacant, as if in his mind he was somewhere else, far away.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for some help. Are you injured?’

Her question made him snap to attention, like a man caught dozing on duty.

‘Me?’ he replied, with a sudden brightness and a hint of Welsh in his voice. ‘No, not injured, love, but bless you for asking. I had a bit of a slip off the ladder over there, and it knocked the wind out of me. I’m just sitting here for a moment to recover. How can I help you?’

‘I’m Sylvia Parks. I’m an ARP warden.’

‘I can see that,’ he replied, glancing at her helmet. ‘Hosea Evans – Auxiliary Fire Service, as you can also no doubt see. So what’s up?’

‘I’ve got a house over the road with a light on, and there’s no answer when I ring the bell, so I need you to break in so we can turn it off.’

‘Break in? Why me?’

‘Because firemen are allowed to, and wardens aren’t. I don’t make the regulations, but I don’t want some bobby nicking me for breaking and entering.’

‘They wouldn’t do that, love.’

‘Wouldn’t they? We’ve put their noses out of joint enough already when it comes to who does what. They kicked up a right stink when someone said the ARP should be in charge of everything in an air raid, not them.’

‘Except fire-fighting.’

‘Yes, all right, except fire-fighting. Anyway, the fact remains that I need you to break into that house for me. There may be someone in there who’s hurt or can’t get to the door for some reason. If so, they’re in danger.’

‘All right,’ said Evans, hauling himself to his feet. ‘Lead, kindly Light, amid th’ encircling gloom, lead Thou me on.’

Sylvia recognised the hymn, but wasn’t sure whether his intention was poetic or patronising.

‘This way,’ she said. ‘Welsh, are you?’

‘Oh, yes. I expect you could tell.’

‘It wasn’t difficult. Now come along – as quickly as you can.’

She set off towards the house, with Evans limping along beside her.

‘You really could, you know,’ he said.

‘Could what?’

‘Break in for yourself. They’ve changed the regulations. You’re fully entitled to smash your way into some poor soul’s house now, especially if you think they need rescuing. No need to bring a boy like me along.’

‘Well, they haven’t told me. Not that anyone tells us much – we spend so much time enforcing the blackout, they must think we like being kept in the dark.’

‘Oh, yes, very good,’ said Evans with a laugh, although Sylvia wasn’t sure whether it was genuine.

‘Here we are,’ she said as they arrived. She rang the bell again, but there was no answer. She turned to Evans and jerked her thumb towards an alleyway that ran along the side of the property. ‘Down there,’ she said. ‘Back gate. Off you go.’

Evans hobbled down the alleyway, followed by the warden. They turned left at the end, into another narrow lane bounded on one side by a brick wall that enclosed the small yards behind the houses. He reached the first gate and rattled it.

‘It’s locked,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to break it down?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘We don’t want to create more damage than we have to. That wall looks manageable – over you go.’

Evans seemed suddenly to regain his agility, and Sylvia was surprised to see him clambering over the wall without difficulty. She followed him, thankful for the protection of her sturdy tweed overcoat and leather gloves, and for the fact that like many of her fellow female wardens she’d taken to wearing slacks since the air raids started.

At the end of the back yard was an Anderson shelter, sunk into the ground to the requisite depth and covered with soil. She shone her flashlight in at the entrance: it was empty. Crossing to the back door of the house she tried the handle. It was locked.

‘Open it, please,’ she said to Evans.

‘Righto,’ he replied, and took his fire axe from its pouch on his belt. He pushed the spike end of its head into the gap between the door and the frame, and with a couple of twists the door was open. He swung it wider