Five Dead Canaries Read Online Free Page A

served a good pint in there.’

    Leighton and Yvonne Hubbard lived above the pub but neither of them felt that it was safe to stay there until the building had been properly inspected. Accordingly, they moved around the corner to the house of some friends. Hubbard had gradually adjusted to the crisis but his wife – a nervous woman by nature – was close to hysterics. At the suggestion of their hosts, she’d retired to bed. When Marmion got to the house, the front door was opened by Dennis Cryall, a swarthy man of medium height and middle years. Marmion identified himself and explained that Todd had directed him to the house. Cryall was amazed.
    ‘You’ve come all the way from Scotland Yard, Inspector?’
    ‘We felt that it was a necessary precaution.’
    ‘I’m glad that you’re taking it so seriously. Hayes always used to be such a sleepy little place until the war broke out. Nothing ever happened here.’
    ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Hubbard, please.’
    ‘Yes, yes, of course – do come in.’
    Cryall moved back so that Marmion could step into the passageway. He was then shown into the cluttered front room where Hubbard was seated with a glass of whisky in his hand. Like his friend, he was impressed that the incident had aroused the interest of Scotland Yard. Cryall waved their visitor to a chair then withdrew. Seated opposite the landlord, Marmion appraised the other man. Hubbard looked pale and drawn. The bomb had not only destroyed part of his property, it had injured some of his regular patrons and shaken up everyone else in the bar. He was justifiably worried about how much money he would get by way of insurance. It was his wife’s condition that really troubled him. The explosion had turned her into a sobbing wreck. There was no compensation for frayed nerves in the insurance policy.
    ‘How do you feel?’ asked Marmion.
    Hubbard lifted his glass. ‘Much better after a drop of this,’ he said.
    ‘What state is the pub in?’
    ‘Don’t ask, Inspector. We’ll be closed for weeks.’
    ‘Tell me about the outhouse.’
    ‘It’s three old stables knocked into one. As a rule, we use it to store crates of empty bottles in. Then we had this request for a private room. To be honest, I was glad the ladies wanted to be on their own,’ admitted Hubbard. ‘Some of my regulars hate the sight of those munitionettes. It’s very unfair, really. It’s not their fault that they look as if they’ve got a nasty attack of yellow jaundice. Anyway,’ he added, ‘Florrie made the booking and I was happy to accept it.’
    ‘Do you happen to have an address for her?’
    ‘I don’t, I’m afraid, but she lives locally somewhere. I remember her coming into the Goose with her husband when he was alive. That’s why she chose our pub for her party. It held good memories for her.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Not any more.’
    ‘Did you know any of the friends who came with her?’
    ‘No – never set eyes on them before.’
    ‘So you can’t give me any more names?’
    ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I wish I could.’
    ‘Go through it very slowly,’ invited Marmion. ‘Tell me exactly what happened from the time they arrived until the moment the bomb went off. There’s no rush. Set your own pace.’
    Hubbard took a long sip of his whisky. Having gathered his thoughts, he gave a somewhat laboured account of events, even including details of the row involving Ezra Greenwell. When he heard that the old man had needed treatment for the wound in his mouth, Marmion could muster no sympathy for him. He found Greenwell’s antipathy to the women quite disgraceful. As far as he was concerned, they were doing adangerous job at a time of national emergency and should be applauded for their efforts, not jeered at by some resentful bigot. Marmion was all too aware of the deficiencies in the army at the outbreak of hostilities. His own son, Paul, was among an early eager batch of volunteers to join the army. On his first leave,