Chapter One

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Basham

by

Robert F. Clifton

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Basham by Robert F. Clifton

Copyright 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book

may be reproduced in any form or by any

means without written permission from

the author.

 

 

 

 

The reader is advised that this is a work of

fiction. Any similarity to persons, places and/or events is

purely coincidental. R. F. Clifton

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At four pm on Saturday, September 7, 1940the first of three hundred and forty six Luftwaffe HE 1700 bombers appeared in the sky over London, England. This

attack lasted until six pm. The second attack came at eight pm

and lasted until four thirty the next morning. That night a

one thousand pound bomb intended to hit the docks in north, London missed the target and instead struck Haven Manor, a mental hospital.

Several patients and staff members will killed.

Many of the missing were thought to have been vaporized in the explosion. In the red-orange and yellow glow given off by the burning flames one person walked out of the piles of destroyed

brick and lumber. After it did it moved across the road and

entered the woods.

A month later the Metropolitan Police were forced to investigate the murders of elderly women. Later, with

no success the police reluctantly call upon a renown criminologist, Alistair Basham.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Table Of Contents

 

Chapter One.....The Blitz

Chapter Two.....Birkbeck

Chapter Three..Volunteers

Chapter Four....Criminology One Zero One

Chapter Five....The Librarian

Chapter Six......Profile

Chapter Seven...The Flat

Chapter Eight..A Real Looker

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Credits: Sociology.................Wikipedia

The Historical Development of Criminology-Journal Of Criminal Law & Criminology- Clarence Jeffrey summer 1959

Female Face....Vector Art

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

The Blitz

 

Alistair Basham sat at his desk in his study. Using a magnifying glass he examined the fine print of a potential insurance policy he was considering purchasing from Lloyds Of London. “Bloody bastards hide all the things in their favor in the fine print, should anyone need to make a claim”, he thought to himself. His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of the air raid sirens blaring over and over attempting to reach and warn the residents of Harrow, a borough of London. “What now?”, he said aloud annoyed by being interrupted by the continuing cacophony of the alarm.

“Is it an air raid or just a drill?”, asked Marjorie Helms the housekeeper as she entered the study nervously wringing the hem of her apron.

“Who in bloody hell knows? Look at the time. Ten past four. The damn Huns are coming now at tea time. Barbaric bastards! I suggest that we make our way to the cellar just in case this is not a drill. I assume that tea is ready?”, he asked.

“Yes professor.”

“Good, now get along. I'll bring the tray with the pot, cups and biscuits. I'll not let the Luftwaffe do away with my tea time.

“Do you think that the Germans will actually bomb

London?”, asked Mrs. Helms as she descended the steps that led to the cellar.

“I'm afraid so Mrs. Helms. It happened in the last war. The government has been expecting it to happen sooner or later. Well, now it's happening”, he said as they walked down the steps.”Take a seat in that upholstered chair and just relax. We'll be safe here.”

“Oh. I couldn't sir. That use to be one of your favorite chairs. I remember when you purchased it.'

“Woman, will you do what I ask? Sit in the damn chair. I intend to sit here on this high back wooden chair. That way I can balance the tray and drink my tea in comfort. Now, after you sit, hold out your cup and I'll pour.”

“Oh, thank you professor. I don't mean to upset you sir.”

“No matter. You are just stressed by those confounded, blaring sirens. However, the truth is it's much better than the sounds of exploding bombs.”

Marjorie Helm, a graying, slightly portly woman in her mid fifties and a widow had to set her cup of tea on the floor due to her shaking hands. From her seat in the cellar she heard what sounded like thunder as the anti-aircraft guns began firing at the German bombers. “Sounds like our lads are answering back and it's about time, I say”, said Alistair.

Marjorie attempted to smile but the fear she was experiencing kept her from doing so. Basham watched her. Marjorie Helm had been his live in house keeper for the last five years and during that time they had come to know each other very well. She knew what meals he liked and what clothes he preferred to wear on certain days. At the same time Alistair knew that her daily duties ended after she did the dishes following the evening meal. She was also off from Saturday afternoons and all day Sunday. She was a dedicated Episcopalian. When not attending to him or the house she enjoyed listening to the BBC on the radio in her room. Other times she liked to go to the picture shows or to read.

The only thing he objected to was that she constantly referred to him as,”Professor”. True, he was a member of the faculty at London University but lacked the doctorate degree required for a full professorship. Instead, with a masters degree in sociology he lectured from time to time on the subject of criminology and its purpose in society. From a meager salary from the university, combined with lecture fees from other colleges and universities he was able to keep a modest home even to the point of having a full time house keeper. In addition he received royalties from two books of his that had been published.

Basham was born in Nottingham shire on July 15, 1882.

Now, at age fifty eight he was set in his ways, a bachelor, but content. As an only child born to a physician father and a doting mother his need for a proper education was constantly emphasized. His father wanted Alistair to follow in his footsteps and study medicine. His mother hoped that her son would join the clergy. However when it came time to attend university, Alistair Basham in the year 1900 chose Birkbeck University in London. He chose psychology as his field of study. At the same time it also created a chance to be away from his family. Alistair wanted to be on his own. At the age of twenty four he was called up for service at the outbreak of World War One. He was rejected due to poor eye sight. Nonetheless, in the year 1916 the British needing manpower on the Western front called for re-examinations of those previously rejected. This time the army decided that Alistair and those like him could load or unload lorries or be stretcher bearers. It was while performing that duty at the battle of the Somme that a piece of German shrapnel pierced the right hip of Private Alistair Basham, leaving him with a constant, noticeable limp. Basham was sent back to a hospital just outside of London to recuperate. While there the German Zeppelin Raids had begun. He lay in his hospital bed and listened to the anti-aircraft guns firing in the distance and the different sound of exploding aerial bombs that fell from the night sky. Now, years later he and the people of England were going through air raids again. This time however, strategic bombers with bomb sights had replaced the Zeppelins and

replaced hap hazard ways of dropping explosives.

When deep in thought Alistair had a habit of stroking the hairs of his goatee, added facial hair to compensate for his increasing balding head. He stroked his chin as the sounds of explosions continued, some even seemed to be closer. “Blast it all to hell. In the haste to get down here in the cellar I managed to forget my walking stick,” he said.

“I'll go and fetch it professor”, said Marjorie Helm.

“You'll do no such thing. You stay here. I'll get it myself,”

Basham replied as he got up off of the wooden chair and made his way to the cellar steps. He had to take his time. Years of living a sedentary life style had cause him to create a pot belly. At the same time the muscles in his legs had weaken adding to the discomfort of his hip wound. Still, at five feet nine inches tall and weighing twelve stone in his opinion he was fit. True, there was gray at his temples and he walked with a cane, but he had been doing that ever since the Battle of the Somme. Besides, one doesn't study or do research standing up all of the time. He recalled those days of study.

Returning to university in 1919 Alistair changed his course of study from physiology to sociology. Knowing that sociology was the study of the behavior of society and seeing the aftermath of war he had a strong desire at the time to study and learn the origins, development, organizations and institutions of society. Basically he wanted to understand why men fought and killed each other on the battle fields of Belgium and France. As a result he learned that the dynamics of war, conflict, resolution, peace movements were in actuality what is referred to as Military Sociology.

As he delved deeper into the subject of sociology his studies then included criminology. At first he considered the subject a required topic of study. However, the more he read he made and developed his own ideas and opinions. He finally admitted that criminology would be his field of endeavor.

Finally, he received his masters degree. Hopefully, in time, he would receive his doctorate degree and a position on the faculty of a university. For that doctorate degree he wrote two books for his thesis, “Crime and Punishment In The British Empire” and later “Crime And Punishment During The American Revolution”.Although published, neither book was accepted for his desired degree. Instead he was offered a position as adjunct professor at London University. The post provided two things, a living wage and the ability to continue in his chosen field.

Entering the parlor he suddenly became aware of the quiet. The sirens had stopped as did the explosions of bombs and the firing anti aircraft guns. He stood, not moving, wanting to be sure. Then, he heard one of the air raid wardens in the street yelling, “All clear! All clear!”.

Alistair walked back to the cellar door and speaking loudly said, “Marjorie, you can come up now. The raid is over”.

When Marjorie Helm reached to parlor floor she said,

“Supper will be a little late professor. I still have to prepare the potatoes. I was doing that when the Germans came.”

“No problem Marjorie. May I ask what you are making?

He asked.

“Shepherds pie”.

“Quite nice,” he replied.

“Well you better enjoy it while you can. No one knows what we'll be able to purchase now with rationing. The butcher shops will only give eight ounces of bacon with the ration card.”

“I have complete faith and trust in your judgment Marjorie.”

At five minutes to eight that evening Marjorie Helm and Alistair Basham sat down at the table ready to eat the evening meal. At exactly eight pm the air raid sirens in Harrow began to wail again. Alistair saw Marjorie began to tremble. “Get hold of yourself woman”, he said as he got up from the table and walked to the front windows of his home. He stood for a moment. Then, the lights went out as the power company shut down because of the bombing attack. As he stood he looked out through the window pane and turned his head paying attention to the search lights illuminating the sky over London. Then he heard the sound of exploding bombs. He slowly closed the black drapes that covered the windows. He turned to see Marjorie lighting candles. “Come sit down and eat Professor, before your supper gets cold”, she said.

After dinner they made there way to the cellar again. Alistair led the way holding and using a torch (flashlight). Once in the basement they took their seats and for the rest of the night and until four thirty the next morning sat listening to the engine sounds of German bombers as they passed overhead, exploding ordinance and the second raid of what would historically become to be called, “The Blitz.”

At seven forty five that same evening as the air raid

alarms blared in the streets of London people began leaving their homes and headed for the underground (subway). There,

they found the entrances to the tube closed. Many without the protection of shelters became victims. Four hundred and thirty people were killed. Sixteen hundred people were injured. It took three weeks of constant bombing by the Germans before the British government allowed the subways to be used as underground air raid shelters.

On the night of Wednesday, October 16, 1940 The German

bombers came again. This time they dropped newer, heavier explosives along with incendiary bombs. With the warning sirens

blasting, the residents of London made their way to the subway. There, thousands of Londoners crowded together. Infants and young children cried, some out of fear, some bored with being

kept from moving about freely. The elderly, some escorted by family members moved slowly down the subway entrance steps, taking one step at a time. Henrietta Camp was alone. At age eighty and with vision problems caused by cataracts in both eyes she grasped the stair step railing with one hand and slowly lowered one foot at a time searching for the next step that would take her to the bottom of the stairwell. As she did those in a hurry to seek a safe place in the tunnel moved past her, some bumping into her. Finally, in fear she stopped where she was and fought the tears that were forming in her eyes as the frustration of old age and infirmity was making it impossible to get to safety.

She turned her head when some one took her arm and in a soft feminine voice said, “Now, now mother let me help you. We'll just take our time and together we'll get down to the platform.”

Henrietta smiled, “Thank you my dear and may the Lord bless you for helping an old woman.”

“There's no need to thank me mother. I'll stay with you until it's safe to leave.”

The woman guided the elderly female to a place with room for both of them to sit and slowly lowered the woman in order for her to sit comfortably on the concrete floor. “There now. You can sit and even lean back against the wall if you desire”, said the helpful woman.

“Thank you my dear. You are so helpful for me at this time of need. What is your name, may I ask.”

“Certainly mother. I'm Mildred Perkins.”

“I am Henrietta Camp. Do you live close by?”

“No, I'm in the area just to be of help. You see I'm a social

worker. Now, I want you to relax. Later, I will want to check your pulse and blood pressure, just to make sure that you are alright.”

“Oh, you are a nurse.”

“No, but I preform nursing duties.”

“I see. Bless you.”

Bombs hitting the homes, buildings and streets of the city

above the underground at times shook the concrete and tile subway tube causing dust and dirt to fall from the ceiling.

Air raid wardens went about the crowd of people assuring them that they were safe and the tube could withstand the bombardment. Little did they know that German explosive ordinance had already penetrated the subway at Balham and Bounds killing many seeking safety there.

About an hour later an electric grid was hit and the lights in the underground went out. In the darkness children now afraid of the dark began to cry as mothers attempted t ease their fears. Cigarette lighters and matches were struck. Those with hand torches turned them on. In the darkness Mildred Perkins

wrapped her fingers around Henrietta Camp's throat and began to squeeze. Fifteen minutes later Mildred got up and made her way in the dark to another location far from where Henrietta now sat lifeless.

At day break came the all clear and the air raid wardens

escorted the people out of the underground. Then they checked

The platforms and tracks where hours before the people of London had sat with family members or huddled together with strangers. They looked for the lost, the injured and the dying.

One warden found the body of Henrietta Camp. Her back was against the subway wall. Her head was titled, her mouth and eyes open. Her body was cold. There was no pulse and she was not breathing. An hour later her body was removed and sent to a makeshift morgue and added to those who had died in the attack.

Walking through and around the rubble that had fallen into the street from the explosions of apartment buildings, stores and private homes Mildred turned her head from side to side. She saw men pulling brick and lumber from piles of material that once belonged to a dwelling as they searched for survivors. Woman and children stood silently watching, hoping, praying that a relative or friend might be found. Others stood crying as they looked at piles of debris that once was their home or at dead bodies that had been a loved one.

She had to cross over to another street as the fire brigade continued to to pump water on a building set on fire by the German incendiary bombs. Wardens and uniformed police directed pedestrians away from danger areas were fires were still burning or buildings were about to collapse.

At the sight of the police she became wary. She didn't like coppers. Coppers had stopped her from doing her duty, that of helping the elderly. Coppers had arrested her. Coppers had lied about her in court telling the Judge and jury that she was a killer. The Coppers and the judge listened to lying doctors who said that she was mentally ill. All of them together saw that she was sent to Haven Manor. The truth was she was actually a benefactor. It was she that searched for and found the old, sick, and infirm. It was she that comforted them when they were alone and scared and it was she that eased their pain and suffering. She held them close to her showing them compassion. As they tried to breath with her hands around their throats squeezing she prayed for them. When she knew that they were dead she made sure that they lay on their back, their eyes open so they could see their way to heaven.

Now, she was beginning to get tired. She needed sleep, a bath, a change of cloths and something to eat. She saw a bench at a bus stop and sat down. Opening the pocketbook that she had taken at the hospital she saw the stethoscope. She moved it aside and searched for money. She found three one pound notes, one five pound note and several shillings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

Birkbeck

 

On a Monday morning Alistair Basham used the public

transportation which took him from Harrow to Bloomsbury.

He had turned on the radio before leaving the house in order to get the latest news about the London raids and at the same time the weather report. The temperature was reported to be eleven Celsius and as usual there was a threat of rain. Like most people living in London or its suburbs he slipped the government issued gas mask contained in the canvas sack over one shoulder when he left the house. He carried the nearly ever present umbrella in one hand and as he walked to the entrance of Birkbeck University he looked up at the gray sky as rain clouds were already gathering.

First, he went to the small office that had been assigned to him. There he placed the umbrella in the stand, removed his overcoat and hat and took a seat at the desk. Checking for notices or messages and finding none he checked the time with his pocket watch, got up and made his way to the University Presidents Office. When he got there he waited patiently while the presidents secretary announced his arrival. “You may go in sir,” she said.

Entering the office of Frederick Simmons Alistair received a warm welcome. “Ah, Alistair old chap. How good to see you this fine morning. Did you have any problems commuting this morning?”, asked the president.

“No sir, the Hun has failed to realize the backbone of the English people. In spite of these air raids life in Britain goes on as usual.”

“Jolly good. Now, have a seat. I have something I wish to discuss with you,” said Simmons.

“Not bad news I hope”, Basham replied.

“That depends on how you take it old chap. The truth is the University of London is moving out of this area and into the country side. The governing board has decided that in order to continue its obligation to the students it must do it in a safe manner. As a result we will be closing down the London University campus here in the London area.”

“I see. Then I suppose by doing so my services are no longer needed.”

“No, no no. What I wanted to ask you is do you want to move with the rest of the faculty or stay here in Bloomsbury?”

“Stay doing what?”

“Teaching of course, but for the duration of the war it will be at Birkbeck.”

“And, just how many students do you anticipate attending my class while the war continues?”

“I have it from a reliable source that the army is considering sending some of its rank and file here to Birkbeck

for the purpose of taking a course in Criminology.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely my friend, but please, you didn't hear it from me.”

“ Is Ben Wilcox going with you?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Then, with no Sociology Department head, to whom do I submit my lesson plan?”

“The word is ten or fifteen Royal Military Police Officers will attend your first class. It shall be them that in their final analysis critiques both you and your subject matter.”

“I see, so what you are saying Freddy, is I have two choices, go with the flow and hide in the country side or place my arse on the chopping block with His Majesty's Army.”

“One could say that old boy, but again. The decision is up to you.”

“ I'll think it over. How much time do I have?”

“ For the transfer to the country side? Forty eight hours.

For the creation of your lesson plan for the army? Maybe fifty or sixty days. The word is the Military Police want to begin the course right after January one of 1941.”

“Well, the science of criminology is the same for all, whether it is for the sociology student, criminal justice student, police and now, the military. You say that the first class will be made up of officers. You may want to alert them to the fact that in the classroom and out of it, I am the commanding figure they will deal with.”

“I'm mighty sure that your reputation has already been made known to them.”

“Good, then I see no problems. Have a wonderful life in the country side Freddy.”

“Thank you. I wish you well with your new class.”

********************

At ten o'clock that morning Mildred Perkins walked slowly behind a crowd of people, most homeless now after the previously air raid. She carried a small piece of luggage containing one pair of silk stockings, underwear and a house dress. She had rummaged through a bombed out Apartment building on Tooley Street and found the valise and articles of clothing in the rumble. She needed the clothing, something to eat, a place to stop and rest and to sleep. Most of all she needed a bath. Up near the front of the moving line of air raid victims Mildred saw an elderly woman desperately trying to keep up with the flow of homeless all of whom seemed to be walking aimlessly for some place, any place were they could receive help.

When she got to where the old woman stood Mildred smiled and asked, “Are you all right mother?”

“Yes, but I'm tired, so tired,” answered the woman.

“Then rest dear. I'll stay with you although I can't say that we'll find shelter any time soon,” Perkins replied.

“Shelter? I don't need shelter. I have my own flat if it hasn't been bombed like the others.”

“If that's so, why are you here among the homeless?”

“I went to see my sister last evening. The Germans came. You know the rest.”

“I see. Where is your sister?”

“Gone, dead, buried under brick and concrete block. All I could see of her was one hand that stuck out from the debris. I stayed with her until they took her away.”

“Do you live here on Tooley?”

“Yes, several blocks ahead, if the building is still standing.”

“If you would like I'll help you get there.”

“Really? You are a dear, but what about you love, what are your circumstances?”

“Well, to start, like those of us here I'm at the moment homeless as well. At the same time it is my duty to country and King to help those less fortunate.”

“Duty?”

“Yes, duty. You see mother I am a social worker.

“And they sent you out here into the streets?”

“Yes, to help of course.”

“Yet, you are without a gas mask.”

“I seemed to have lost it during one of the raids while I was in the tubes.”

“Well, make sure you get another issue. Now, dear if you still wish to help me home I think I've rested enough and we can be on our way. What s your name dear?”

“Mildred, Mildred Perkins.”

“Well Mildred, I'm Ann Peters”.

As they neared six hundred and seven Tooley Street Ann Peters said excitedly, “Its still there. The building is still there.

Come my dear. The first thing we'll do is have a cup of tea, providing the cooking gas is available. The gas works have been shutting off the service during the raids. Seems it cuts down on fires when a building is hit by the bombs.”

“That sounds wonderful mother”, Mildred replied.

“Then we'll get things back to right. I'm sure things might have been moved or knocked over due to the shaking of the earth when the explosions occurred. Afterward, we'll see what's in the cupboard and I'll fix supper. You'll spend the day of course. We both need to rest. You may sleep on the couch. The Germans will probably come again tonight which means another night in the shelters. Nonetheless, we both can live like human beings during the day.”

“Thank you so much mother.”

Together they climbed the wooden stairway to the second floor. Outside of apartment three B Ann Peters removed the door key from her pocketbook, unlocked the door and slowly walked into the dwelling. “Not to shabby”, she said looking over the parlor. “A few of my bric-a-brac has been knocked about, but nothing serious. Come dear. Sit, make your self comfortable.

I'll go and see if the gas is on.

Mildred walked over to the couch, placed the overnight bag on the floor, but kept her pocketbook in her hand. Leaning back on the sofa she fought the urge to close her eyes and sleep.

“We're in luck love. The gas is on. Soon we'll have a hot cup of tea. Later, we'll have lunch. I'm afraid all I can offer at the moment is beans on toast. Is that alright?,” asked Ann.

“That's fine mother. I was wondering that after a cup of tea that I might be able to take a bath?”

“Certainly, but in all probability there won't be enough hot water. However, I can heat water on top of the stove.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“Good. Now I hear the kettle. Time for tea. Let's sit at the kitchen table. It's warmer there.”

After having tea Mildred carried pots of boiling hot water to the bathroom and emptied them into the tub. Adding cold water from the tubs faucet she tested the waters temperature with her hand and satisfied with it disrobed and stepped into the bathtub. She quickly wet her body, then lathered with a small bar of soap. The hot water felt good on her body. Yet, Mildred was use to much more water. At the hospital they covered her

entire body completely with warm, running water as she lay comfortably on the canvas sling in what they called the sedative tub. However, what she had now had to do.

“Ducky? While you're bathing why don't I collect your clothing and give them a wash? Is it alright for me to come in?,” asked Ann Peters.

“No! I'll wash them myself, but thank you”, Mildred replied. She didn't want anyone to see the stenciled words, “Haven Manor Hospital” on the waste-band of her knickers.

“Very well. I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Thank you mother. Would you be a dear and set my bag next to the bathroom door?”

“Certainly. Did you find the clean towels?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Alright, when you are ready the beans are prepared. I'll make the toast when you come to the table.”

I'll be there soon.”

Later, after lunch, Mildred helped by drying the dishes.

After placing the last dried, tea cup in the cupboard she turned to Ann Peters and said, “When we retire to the parlor I should like to check your blood pressure mother.”

“My blood pressure? Why?”

“As a social worker one of my duties is to check the health conditions of the elderly. It seems that the Home Office wants to keep records. That way they can do a study on just how the

aged British citizen is coping with the German attacks.”

“I see. The thing they should be concerned about is feeding us and providing shelter. Where are we supposed to go if and when our homes are destroyed? After all I'm seventy eight years old.”

“I don't know, but I'm sure that they are working to solve that problem.”

“Very well. I see that we are finished here. Let's go into the living room. Take my blood pressure and after that I suggest we both get some rest, you on the sofa, me in my bed.”

When both women entered the room Ann asked, “Where do you want me to sit dear?”

“Why don't you sit next to me on the couch. First, I want to check your pressure in the traditional manner.”

Ann Peters took a seat and holding out her right arm watched as Mildred wrapped the sphygmomanometer around the upper arm. The cuff was inflated and then the air was slowly released. Mildred Perkins listened carefully using the stethoscope. Satisfied, she unwrapped the instrument and with a smile said, “Excellent mother. Now, I want to listen to your carotid artery. It will just take a minute.”

“Why my neck area?, asked Ann.

“It seems that once again the Home Office is concerned about hardening of the arteries in the elderly population, particularly with the diet now forced upon the citizens because of rationing. “

“ Oh, very well”.

Mildred placed the diaphragm of the stethoscope on Ann's neck. She smiled as she pretended to listen to the blood flow and pulse of the artery. Then, as the urge to kill came over her the smile disappeared. In a quick movement she removed the ear pieces then wrapped the rubber tubing around Ann Peter's throat. “Now, just relax mother. Soon all of your problems will be over. I am sending you to the other side. If you could speak you would want to thank me. Now, stop struggling and kicking your feet and go quietly. Oh, you're welcome mother. That's it. It's over. See how easy it was.”

After removing the stethoscope Mildred folded it and placed it in her pocketbook. She looked at the ticking clock on the wall and noticed that it was well past noon. She took another look at the dead woman on the couch. “Now, aren't you the lucky one. No more problems no more ills. Well, I need to rest. The bombers will be coming soon. More noise. More destruction. More old women who will need my help. Sleep. I need sleep. But first I have to wash my knickers,”she said aloud.

******************

At his home at 1600 Hitman Road Alistair Basham sat at his desk leafing through sociology text books. It wasn't certain, but it had been said to him that the Royal Military Police might be sending army personnel to Birkbeck University after the first of the year. The question in his mind wasn't how to prepare a curriculum, but rather which direction to go when teaching. Sociologist's study the social behavior of society. They are also taught the Sociology of Law. That entails seeing the law as the “visible symbol” of social solidarity.” “How does one mention social solidarity to men who's chosen profession is to disrupt and/or remove social solidarity from one's enemy?,” he thought to himself.

Marjorie Helms walked into the room. “Excuse me professor, but what would you like for supper tonight. Keep in mind that I have to shop with the rationing cards', she said.

“Why not fish and chips? It's not rationed and it saves you the trouble of having to spend time in the kitchen cooking.”

“If that's what you want I'll go and fetch it at the chip shop, just before supper time.”

“Good, that takes care of that problem. Is there anything else?”

“No sir.

When Marjorie left the room, Alistair tuned back to the problem in hand, the curriculum. “Where was I? Oh yes, social solidarity. Let's see now. The problem of detecting those that break the law normally is the role of the police, the detective, and in some circumstances the medical specialist. The question at this time is will the Royal Military Police function under English Criminal Law, English Common Law or both? Certainly when the offender is an English citizen such as a member of the military both laws could be utilized. However, what if the offender is an enemy prisoner? I see a few problems in relation to the Royal Military Police enforcing law and order not only with captured prisoners of war, but also civilians in occupied countries at least until social solidarity is re-established in those occupied areas.

Hmm mm. Let's concentrate on the problem of prisoners of war. As I see it, the Geneva Convention is the guiding factor here.

Sociology deals with the guilty law offender and assigning those found guilty to the penologists. The prisoner of war's offense is being the enemy. Therefore, the aspects of sociology in my opinion do not apply in these cases. Nonetheless, what of the citizen criminal in occupied areas? Right now t seems to me that these then become the problem of the Provost Marshall.

As I see it, the problem appears at this time to be explaining crime and criminal behavior, which is the question of scientifically

accounting for the presence of crime and criminals in a society.

However, the society in question is the military, often stringent and more demanding then a civilian society. All these factors must be considered when preparing for the classroom,” Alistair thought to himself.

At four forty pm the air raid sirens began to blare.

“Bloody bastards!” Mildred shouted as she looked towards the windows. Turning to the body on the couch she said, “Now aren't you glad you don't have to go to the tubes. See how I've taken care of you mother. You'll be alright here, but now I must go”, she said as she picked up her pocketbook, overnight bag and Ann Peters canvas bag containing a gas mask.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

Volunteers

 

On the morning of Thursday, December 12, 1940 Alistair Basham walked from the underground station to Bloomsbury Street in the rain. A cold winter wind blew making it difficult to manage his umbrella as he walked leaning into the occasional gusts. He held on to the umbrella with one hand and his brief case with the other, all the time hoping that his fedora would stay on his head. Finally reaching the entrance to Birkbeck University he stood in the doorway, shook the water off of his Bumbershoot, closed it then entered the building.

When he got to his office he noticed a man seated on a bench in the hallway. “Good morning Doctor Basham”, said the man. “Good morning, but you've made a mistake, I'm not a phd.

And you are?,” asked Alistair.

“At the moment, Detective Chief Inspector Albert Kilmister of the Metropolitan Police. However, soon to be Major Kilmister of the Royal Military Police,” said the man introducing himself.

“Ah, then you must be here about the future class for the RMP.”

“Yes sir. As it turns out I will be the commanding officer of those in the class. I thought that we might meet first in case there were any problems.”

“Problems? Do you know of or foresee any problems Major?”

“Not at the moment. I do believe however, that you should be made aware of the fact that the class of nineteen are all members of the Metropolitan Police. At the same time all of the chaps are volunteers.”

“Admirable, but that doesn’t' appear to be a problem Major.”

“I just thought that you would want to know that you will be dealing with experienced, seasoned police officers. They know the text book, but at the same time they also know the short cuts. They know what works and what doesn't.”

“Thank you, I appreciate you being candid. Rest assure I in no way intend to instruct police tactics or for that matter investigative techniques. What I do hope to accomplish is an understanding of criminology and the difference between the Classical School and the Positive School”.

“I see, then there shouldn't be any problems.”

“I'm glad you concur. Nonetheless, since we are on the subject of problems with the course we might as well deal and do away with any problems in the classroom.”

“Such as?”

“Such of the fact that in the classroom it will be me that runs the room. When you enter you leave your King's Commission outside the door. Do we agree?”

Kilmister smiled and offered his hand. “Agreed Doctor

Basham.”

“Excellent, now I'm about to put the pot on for a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?”

“No thank you sir. However, I would like to talk to you about your book?”

“Which one?”

“Crime And Punishment During The American Revolution”.

“What would you like to know about it?”

“Why did you pick that topic?”

“Very simple. The American Revolution became a full fledged, war. In war parts of society breaks down. When that happens crime increases. For instance let's look at non violent crime. Rationing occurs. That creates hording and the black market. As for violent crime, men are away fighting. Infidelity, domestic violence, rape and abortions are some of the results, not to mention homicides. Larceny and robberies increase because people in those villages, towns and cities left with no protection become prime victims to the criminal. At the same time crimes against humanity are perpetrated by both armies, maltreatment of prisoners and civilians alike. The Tories of Colonial America suffered during that time. Now, before I end up standing on a soap box let me just say this. There is no doubt in my mind that England will win this war. All of the things that I have just mentioned in reference to the American Revolution you will see first hand during your time in uniform in this war.”

*************

Mildred Perkins sat alone at a table in the rear of the Tom Thumb a small, restaurant. The canvas bag containing the gas mask hung off of the back of the chair in which she was sitting. In the chair next to her she had placed her pocketbook and small piece of luggage. As she sat sipping a cup of weak, black coffee that the cooks made using the ground coffee beans twice because of rationing. Milk and sugar was also only given with the government card and stamps so there was none in the shop. As she watched the front door, carefully examining everyone who entered she broke off small pieces from a scone placing the morsel in her mouth. She slowly chewed, her eyes constantly viewing the entrance.

From where she sat she could see by looking out, through the large plate window the activity in the street. The Fire Brigade rushed down the street heading for some fire still burning from last nights attack. Ambulances raced towards hospitals with the injured and dying. Lorries moved slowly from one demolished building to another then stopping as the dead were placed inside the canvas, covered rear of the vehicle. Air raid wardens still were on the street, directing people to aid stations or relief agencies. Mildred didn't mind the Wardens. It was the police she was afraid of. She watched every move a Bobby made when they came near her. She knew that it would be them that sent her back, back to a hospital, back to the torture. Once again they would lay her on a gurney, place a pillow under her knees, put a strip of hard leather between her teeth and then attach the electrodes to her head and turn on the current. “Why? Why do they do those things to me? What have I done to deserve to be treated like that?,” she asked herself. She carefully looked around the restaurant dining room. Seeing that no one was paying any attention to her she slowly slid the pointed steak knife on the table into her pocketbook. Then removing a shilling from the change purse she placed it on the table for the waitress.

Leaving the eatery Mildred walked slowly down the sidewalk, stepping over and around pieces of wood, brick and concrete that once made up dwellings now scattered in the street and walkways. She wasn't hungry or tired, but had no idea what she would do this day. The voices weren't there. Nor, was the urge, the feeling to help those poor unfortunate elderly women who were afraid and alone.

As she walked she suddenly became aware of someone behind her. She stopped and turned, seeing a short, unkempt man with a days growth of whiskers on his face. The man stopped and said, “Hello, hello, my ain't you a pretty bird to be out here in this mess all alone. What's your name ducky?”

Ignoring the stranger Mildred began walking again.

“Now don't be that way Yummy Mummy. I ain't some bloke or Jack the lad. I'm a gentleman. That's what I am. A gentleman who is rightfully concerned about someone like you pretty and out and about with no man to protect you.”

Mildred stopped, turned and said, “And you believe that you're the man to protect me?”

“ Right as rain me lady. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alford Bennett and may I ask your name?”

“Mildred.”

“Ah, Mildred. And where are you headed in this bombed out area of the city?”

“Right now I'm looking for a place to rest, perhaps a place to stay permanently.”

“Good luck with that. Take a look around. There ain't hardly a building standing in these parts. Wish I could help you, but I doubt if someone as corking as you are would consider staying with me.”

“Of course not. I don't even know you.”

“Well, seems to me that can be rectified as we chat over a pint maybe even split a pork pie. What do you say?”

“How far are we from a pub?”

“Just up the street if it's still standing.”

“Well, I do need a place to sit down and get out of the cold.”

“Of course you do. You just put yourself in the hands of old Alford Bennett and you'll be fine. I promise you. Here. Let me carry your suitcase.”

“No! I'll carry it myself.”

“Whatever you say. Are you from this part of London?,” he asked.

“Actually I'm from Harrow.”

“Really? What brings you into the city.”

“I'm needed here. I'm a social worker. My job is to help and aid the elderly.”

“Ah, it's a wonderful thing you do Miss. The old people are the one's suffering the most, them and the children of course.”

“Why aren't you in the army, Mr. Bennett? You appear to be fit enough.”

“Seems they found out that I have a blood condition. Something I caught in India when I was a seaman, Malaria or Dengue fever. I can't remember which , so I am what they call, deferred. So, I work on the docks as a stevedore.”

“Don't the Germans bomb the docks?.”

“That they do.”

“How much further to the pub?”

“There it is Miss. “The Fife and Drum.” Appears the sign that hanged over the walk has come down.”

Bennett held the door to the pub open allowing Mildred to enter first. When she did she found herself in a semi-dark barroom. There were five men seated at the bar. One, chubby woman wearing too much eye shadow sat alone at a table.

The men at the bar upon seeing Bennett raised their glasses and said, “Alford you bloody bastard. You're looking chipper. Are you going to introduce your bird to us?”

“First of all you arseholes, this is a lady and she ain't my bird. All you got to know is that her name is Mildred and she's a social worker in the city looking after the old. Now, I'll leave it up to her just whether she wants to meet the likes of all of you”.

“Hello, gentlemen. Nice to meet you. Now, if you don't mind

I'd like to sit down, Mildred said. She then walked towards the tables in the rear of the pub.

Bennett called after her. “Do you prefer ale or beer?”

“I prefer tea, in a pot and hot,” she answered.

As she walked past the woman seated at a table the woman looked at her and said, “ I can see just by looking at you that you're no slapper(prostitute), but take my advice. All that bloke is after is some rumby pumby with you.”

“Well, he's in for a big disappointment if that's what he has in mind. Where's the loo?” asked Mildred.

There's only one deary. After you go in lock the door behind you. Keep in mind that you ain't pissing at the Dorchester Hotel.”

When Mildred entered the lavatory she was met with the foul, acrid, odor coming from a puddle of urine in a trough hanging on the wall. The smell made her gag as she walked across the dirty floor to the bespattered mirror hung over a likewise, filthy sink. There she turned a spigot and washed her hands. Taking a handkerchief from her pocketbook she quickly wiped her hands, picked up the suitcase from the floor, then her pocketbook, unlocked the door and went back inside the main room of the pub. When she did she saw Alford Bennett seated at the table. A pint of ale was in front of him. There was also a tea pot and a chipped cup. “Bout time I say. Took you long enough.

Must have been a long slash(urinate).

Mildred looked for a napkin on the table, finding none she took the moist handkerchief from her pocketbook and wiped the cup paying particular attention to the rim. Finally she looked at Bennett and said, “ What I did and what I'll do is strictly none of your business.”

“Now, now, don't be getting argy- pargy. I was worried about you that's what I was. Thought maybe you was suddenly taken ill or something.”

“I'm fine.”

“Good, now what say I order us a pork pie and we get to know each other a little better while we eat?”

“If the kitchen is anything like the loo, then I don't want it, thank you.”

“Suit yourself. In that case I'll have me another pint.”

Looking through the blue haze caused by burnt tobacco that hung in the air like a non-moving cloud Mildred saw the clock on the wall. It was three forty five pm.

The tea was cold. Bennett had consumed three pints of ale and although not drunk was well on his way to becoming so. Mildred began gathering the pocketbook and suitcase from the empty chair next to her. “Just what are you doing?”, asked Bennett.

“It's getting late. I must go. I still have to find shelter for the night”, Mildred answered.

“Now you know that's no problem deary. You can stay with me since you're knackered (tired).

“I don't think so Mister Bennett. Do you really expect me to sleep with you just because you bought me a pot of tea?”

“Don't get your arse in an uproar. You got me all wrong sweety. Like I already told you I'm no lout. I'm just someone who's concerned about your safety in these parts of the city. And, call me Alford not mister Bennett.”

“Fine, then let me say thank you Alford. Thank you for the tea and now I'm leaving.”

Just when she stopped speaking the sounds of the air raid sirens began to blare. “The bloody Jerry's are back again. Come with me. We have to get down into the tubes. The nearest one is a block away,” said Bennett.

Mildred followed Alford and the other patrons from the pub and out into the street. Mildred looked at the sky expecting to see the Luftwaffe bombers overhead. There were none. The sirens were an early warning however, that the enemy was on his way. Bennett took the suitcase from Mildred and with his other hand took hers in his and quickened the pace. “We got to get there before the shelter becomes crowded and we're turned away”, he said.

“Don't lose my bag. Everything I own is inside”, she replied.

“Come on. We're almost there.”

Mildred saw the large red circle, a sign that hung over the black, cast iron railing that surrounded the underground entrance to the subway. She also saw the many people who were descending down into the tubes used as air raid shelters. She and Alford quickly walked down the steps and on to the concrete platform. Bennett selected a place near the bend in the tunnel. He placed the suitcase on the floor and Mildred quickly took hold of it.

“The way you protect that bag you must have a lot of brass (money)in it,” he said.

Mildred didn't answer instead she slowly lowered herself and sat down leaning back against the white, tiled wall. As she sat silently she watched the platform quickly fill with men, women, children, the young, the old, the robust, the weak and sickly. Instantly she began searching with her eyes looking for the elderly woman who would need her help this evening. As her eyes darted from one old woman to another the sounds of explosions although muffled by the concrete walls and ceiling of the subway came to those seeking safety.

Somewhere, a young woman with a beautiful voice began to sing. The song was, “A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square.” Mildred listened carefully to the words. “That certain night, the night we met. There was magic abroad in the air, There were angels dining at the Ritz and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.” as the woman sang Mildred noticed that the song had a soothing effect on the people crowded together in the shelter.

Suddenly the lights went out leaving everyone in the dark.

Still, the young woman sang and after an instant moan from the crowd they all settled down and listened to the singer.

Like those gathered in the tube Mildred felt a longing for the days before the war. She had a desire for the days before she was arrested, taken to court and then to the hospital.

In the pitch, black, darkness Alford Bennett placed his arm around the shoulders of Mildred and said, “Now, now love. Don't be afraid. Old Alford's here to protect you”. As he spoke he moved a hand off of her shoulder and on to her breast.

“Don't!”, she said.

“Come on Missy, be a little appreciative. How's about a kiss?.' he said leaning his head towards hers. When he did she detected the foul, stale odor of ale on his breath. “I said don't!”, she answered with anger.

“Oh I gets it. You're one of those that likes to tease before nookie. I've seen the likes of you before in my time I have. I also know that you and those like you also like it rough. You probably want me to debag you right here in the dark. If that's the way you wants it then old Alford will provide”, he said as he moved a hand under the hem of her skirt and on to her thigh. His hand stopped moving as his body shook and trembled. The sharp point of the steak knife she had held in her hand sitting in the dark easily penetrated the side of his throat. The serrated blade severed the larynx and the carotid artery. Mildred pushed the dying body away from her. She heard the steady stream of hemorrhaging blood splashing on the concrete floor.

Mildred got to her feet, picked up her suitcase and pocketbook and looked down at the dead body of Alford Bennett. “I said don't. You wouldn't listen would you?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four

Criminology One Zero One

 

At exactly nine am, Monday, January 6, 1941, Alistair

Basham stood behind a lectern and looked at the nineteen,

Royal Military Police that made up the class. He knew that all of the students were former professional police officers. Most were from the Metropolitan Police and all were volunteers. With the exception of Major Kilmister who Basham judged to be forty years old the rest of the class was made up of men in their twenties and thirties. Now, they all sat in front of him attired in the khaki uniform of the day, watching him, waiting for him to speak.

“Good morning gentlemen. We all know why we're here together today. As a result I will not bore you with uninteresting details about this course. Frankly, I have no idea what so ever what the British Army intends to do with you at the end of this course of instruction. I assume that information is on a need to know basis. None the less, hopefully, I will teach to the best of my ability and you will learn to the best of your ability. I suggest that you take copious notes as from time to time I will test, exam and more than likely require a paper from each of you. Are there any questions?”

“Yes sir”, asked Major Kilmister.

“Major?”

“May I ask the time duration of the class sir?”

Basham removed his pocket watch, open it, noted the time and placed it on top of the lectern. “Each class will be forty minutes long. There will be two classes a day. It is my understanding that this unit has other daily duties to perform. As a result I have no intentions of disrupting the Armies training schedule. Now, if all of you are ready I suggest you open your notebooks and we will begin. For the record, this course is known as, Criminology One Zero One.

Criminology, a part of the science of sociology involves three different types of problems. The first is detecting the law breaker. Second is the custody and treatment of the offender once he or she is apprehended. Third, and what I consider of great importance is the explanation of crime and criminal behavior. I'll wait while all of you take notes.

Continuing, allow me at this time to bring to your attention that the subject of criminal behavior is generally of interest to the sociologist, the psychologist, the anthropologist and the biologist. I now submit to you that it is of the utmost importance of law enforcement to seek criminal behavior in the course of a criminal investigation. I prefer to call it profiling. Profiling defined is, The act or process of learning information about someone based on what is already known and the act or practice of regarding particular people as more likely to commit crimes because of their appearance, race, traits or tendencies. One might also add the targeting of a person on observed characteristics or behavior.”

*****************

About the same time that Alistair Basham conducted his class at Birkbeck University, Mildred Perkins walked aimlessly on the littered sidewalks of East London. On the other side of the street she saw a young mother pushing a perambulator. On top of the infant inside was a pile of clothing. Behind the young mother two little girls followed, each carrying a bundle of whatever they could salvage from their bombed out home. Like Mildred they didn't know where they were going.

Tired, due to lack of sleep in the underground shelter Mildred saw a concrete stairway still standing although the apartment house that it was once attached to was demolished. She head for it and upon reaching it sat down and rested. As she sat there with heavy, drooping, eyes people walked by. Some not seeing her were absorbed in their own plight. Some stopped and looked at her making sure that she wasn't ill or injured. Assured that she was alright they continued their own journey hoping that at the end of it the government would provide relief, namely housing, a place to get out of the wet and cold. A place to sleep.

Mildred dozed off.

A light rain falling at dusk woke her. She blinked and saw that the moving line of people was shorter now. She stood up, gathered her belongings and after stepping off of the concrete staircase that now led to no where she joined those heading west, out of East London. Fine rain drops fell on her wetting her hat-less head. She was cold and needed a heavy winter coat. In the January weather she wore a short, spring jacket, one she found at Haven Manor the night she left. She staggered then stopped and leaned against a telephone pole as a bout of dizziness came over her. She hadn't had anything to eat in almost two days. Her last cup of tea was the one she had at the Fife and Drum.

As she stood fighting the feeling of being lightheaded she felt a hand on her shoulder and a voice saying, “Are you alright girl?”

Mildred turned and saw a woman about her own age. “I'm sorry, I've been having dizzy spells just recently.” she said.

“When was the last time you had something to eat?, asked the stranger.

“Two days ago as I recall.”

“There you go. We have to get some nourishment in you. Come with me. The Salvation Army has set up a tent in the park up ahead. We'll get you out of the cold and a bowl of hot soup in your tummy. Soon you'll be as fit as a fiddle.”

Mildred allowed the woman to take and carry her suitcase as together thy walked towards the small, city park when the Salvation Army had established an aid station.

***************

Back at the classroom at Birkbeck University Alistair Basham stopped speaking. He took a sip of water from the full glass he kept on a shelf located on the backside of the lectern. After swallowing and taking care of the dry throat condition he began to lecture again. “Now, there are two schools of thought when one deals with criminology. The first is the Classical School. The Classical School maintains the theory that punishment has the ability to be a deterrent. The second is the Positive School which takes the view that punishment should be replaced by a scientific treatment of criminals that figures to protect society. At this time may I say that the Positive School has controlled American criminological thinking. This school finds supporters in most of the sciences, some being, biology, psychiatry, psychology, and quite naturally, sociology. Each of these sciences applies its concepts to the study of the criminal.

Nonetheless the criminologist looks for the etiology or cause if you will in crime and in behavior systems rather than in legal systems. The question gentlemen, one that I will eventually present to you is, which school is correct?

Before any of you form an opinion let me first give you a history lesson. It deals with the Classical School used here in England. I take you now to Eighteen Century Britain and in particular, death or hanging offenses. At that time anyone found guilty of stealing as much as a handkerchief, a sheep or the sum of one shilling could be executed. Here, quite naturally is the evidence that although unknown to them at the time, the courts of England were utilizing the Classical School. The elimination of crime by using punishment as a deterrent. Did it work? History shows us that when the convicted were executed at a public hanging, pickpockets worked the crowd. It was the same when the punishment was a public whipping. And guess what? None of these punishments deterred crime. As mentioned in some cases it increased crime.

At this time I will submit to you the question, what is a crime?” The Classical School defines crime as within the strict limitations of the law, not on the criminal. At one time there was opposition to the barbaric and arbitrary practices associated with the British court system. Quite naturally, the Positive School attacked the legal definition of crime and in its place substituted a concept of natural crime. This theory is seen as an act that offends the morals and sentiments in the community.

So, gentlemen, it appears that there is a conflict. Again, what is a crime? The most common definition of crime by the Sociological School is the definition of a crime as anti-social behavior. This then takes us to the objectives of criminology. They are and I strongly suggest that you take notes. They are, to study criminal behavior and the physical, psychological and social-economic factors behind the crime itself, how and why people commit crime.”

******************

Although still cold, Mildred sat at a rough hewed makeshift table out of the wind and rain inside the Salvation Army tent. She looked up as the woman who had brought her here approached carrying two bowls of hot soup. After placing one bowl in front of Mildred the woman sat down. “Here's a spoon. Eat it slow. One reason is it's hot. Second reason is if you gulps it down cause you're hungry, you'll get the collywobbles and chuck it up. Anyways, its vegetable soup, made up of canned vegetables mind you, but its hot, nutritious and free. After you eat, we'll take a look see at the pile of coats they have. There's certain to be one that fits you or at least one that comes close. You'll freeze your arse in that bum-freezer you're wearing. Better that it be a might big than a mite small. Now, what's your name?”

Mildred swallowed a spoonful of soup and answered, “Mildred.”

“You got a last name Mildred?”

“Perkins. My name is Mildred Perkins”.

“Well, I'm Helen Mathis”.

“Thank you for bringing me here Helen.”

“Think nothing of it. Seems we're all in the same boat.

What do you do Mildred?”

“I'm a social worker.”

“Really, I myself am, a beautician. At least I was until a German bomb hit the shop where I worked. Where do you work?”

“Here in London. I look after the elderly.”

“That's nice and I'm betting that like me you've got no place to live or for that matter a place to sleep tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Well, as they say, misery loves company. How's about you team up with me? Together we'll look for a place and at the same time be safe from some Joe Blogg's trying to get into our knickers. First things first, let's get you a proper coat from the pile. I don't know if it's true, but the way I hear it clothing is the next thing to be rationed.”

Out on the street again the two women began walking. Mildred was now warm, protected by the black wool coat Helen had chose for her. The rain had stopped. Still there was a threat of more bad weather to come. As far as she could see Mildred saw broken, shattered glass in the street and on the sidewalk.

The city block they were in contained many highrise buildings, structures that now if not completely destroyed lacked glass windows that has been shattered by the exploding bombs.

In the next block the two women were stopped by an air raid warden. “Excuse me ladies, but if you're looking for lodging I just got word that His Majesty's government had requisitioned all the hotel's in these parts. There's two of em up the street. I'd get a move on if I was you.”

“Thank you ducky,” said Helen as she began walking faster. Mildred found it difficult to keep up due the now, run down, heel on her left shoe. Then minutes later Helen stood at the registration desk of the Mandrake Hotel asking a man behind the counter for a room for two women. “I'm sorry Miss. All the rooms were assigned on a first come first serve basis. There are no rooms left”, said the man.

“So what you're saying is you and the government is all piss and wind. The blokes in the street tell us to go to the hotels. We go and what happens? The likes of you tell the likes of us that there ain't no rooms. Personally, I believe that you are holding rooms for the Hoity-Toity probably for a bong(bribe) fiver. That's what I think.”

“I assure you that's not the case. Every transaction is closely watched by an agent from the Home Office.”

“That right? Then show me the gaffer. I'd want to talk to him.”

“I don't see him at the moment.”

“Of course not. Tell you what. Me and her ain't leaving until we either gets a room or talks to the gent that is supposed to be making sure citizens like us are taken care of during these times. Meanwhile where's the ladies loo?”, asked Helen.

“To the left of the elevators.”

“Thanks you. We'll be right back.”

Mildred followed Helen through the main lobby to the

woman’s rest room. Once inside Helen entered a stall and closed the door. Mildred took the opportunity to use the washbasin to wash her face and hands, drying both with a paper towel. She heard the toilet flush and as Helen came out of the stall she said,” Put this bogrool (toilet paper) in your pocket book. We might need it sometime should we have to squat in an alley or the weeds.”

Back at the desk Helen looked at the desk clerk and said, “Well, what's it going to be?”

“The best I can do for you is place a mattress, pillows and blankets in the service lift. You can sleep there for the night.”

“We'll take it. Now, what about meals?”

“You're on your own. The hotel kitchen is closed. All of those staying here put up by the government will be fed when the portable kitchens get here. Whenever that will be.”

“I see. When can we go to the service lift?”

“In about an hour. By the way, you should know that in case of an air raid you are to take shelter in the hotel basement.”

“Thank you. We'll just sit here in the lobby and wait until the lift is ready. Is that alright with you, or does the chap from the Home Office have to approve that also?”

Forty five minutes later the two women stood looking at the double mattress that had been placed on the elevator floor.

“Well, it ain't much, but it's home. I don't know about you, but I'm knackered, and hungry.”

“The man at the desk said there was no telling when the kitchens will arrive. Suppose I go down the street and see what's available?”, asked Mildred.

“Sorry, I'm down to my last pound and shilling”, Helen answered.

“I have money. I'll be right back”, said Mildred picking up her suitcase.”

“How many things do you have in that bag?,” Helen asked.

“Just a few things.”

“Then instead of lugging that thing around unpack it and put your duds in your gas mask bag”.

“I'd rather not. I prefer keeping my things in the suitcase.”

“Suit yourself. I must say there are times when you act like an odd ball.”

Mildred turned and left. Outside on the street again she walked in the dark stepping over litter gathered on the sidewalk.

After walking two blocks she found a small grocery shop still open. When she walked in the bell situated above the door rang.

A little old woman came out of the back of the store and said, “Good evening. May I help you?”

“I'm looking for something to eat for me and my friend. I have my ration book,” Mildred replied.

“I'm afraid that anything that is rationed is no longer on the shelves. The best I can offer is canned, Spanish sardines. A loaf of brown bread and apples. Actually, I'm only staying open for business selling cigarettes hoping that soon my suppliers will get to me.”

“I see. I'll take two cans of sardines. Do they come with the key attached?”

“Yes, they do.”

“Good, Two cans of sardines, two apples and I'll take the loaf of bread.”

After the items were bagged Mildred paid and left the store. When she did the air raid sirens began to blare. The Wardens appeared directing those on the street and those entering the street to the nearest bomb shelter. Mildred was caught up in the wave of fast moving people all rushing to the nearest underground. She kept looking back over her shoulder for a way to go back, back to the hotel. Back to Helen.

As she descended the subway steps the familiar sounds of the anti-aircraft guns began. Then the sounds of exploding, German bombs came. Those sounds were drowned out by the tone of multiple voices, crying children and Wardens giving orders.

The attack lasted three hours, but the wardens said that there was an unexploded bomb in the street and all in the shelter was to remain until the device was rendered safe. At eight o'clock the next morning Mildred followed the long stream of weary people out of the shelter. Still carrying the groceries in one hand and her suitcase in the other she hurried to meet Helen.

She noticed the fire brigade pumping water on a large smoldering pile of concrete and lumber. She looked around not seeing anything familiar to her. A Bobby walked up to her and said, “Do you need help Miss?”

“I seem to be lost. I'm looking for the Mandrake Hotel”, she answered.

“You're looking at what's left of it. The Jerry's made a direct hit on the place, killing nearly all inside.”

“I had a friend staying there. She would have been near the service lift.”

“ Like I said, There was a direct hit. Far as I know those on the gorund floor were crushed when the rest of the building fell on them. You might be able to find out how or where they are.

They should be posting the list of dead and survivors in a few days.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

The Librarian

 

Alistair Basham sat at the kitchen table reading the morning newspaper. From time to time he lifted the cup of coffee from the saucer and took a sip. He was interrupted when Marjorie Helm turned from the kitchen sink and said, “Excuse me professor, but I need a moment if you please.”

Basham looked over the top of a page and replied, “What is it?”

“Well, as you know with the rationing I must shop with the butcher and green grocer assigned to me. With the war there ain't too much of either meat or vegetables. I was wondering if you could have someone prepare a garden spot in the backyard?That way we could grow what we need in times like this.”

“Hm-mm, sounds like splendid idea. Are you sure we can get the seeds?”

“Oh yes and the Ministry of Food is actually asking everyone to pitch in and grow as much as possible.”

“Then, we'll do it. Hire yourself a bloke and have him do the job. What do you plan to grow?”

“The usual things, root vegetables, beets, carrots and of course greens. Is there anything in particular you would like in the garden?”

“Anything, but broccoli. However, if you want broccoli feel free to produce it.”

“While we're on the subject the Ministry of Agriculture

suggest that the people also raise pigs, rabbits or chickens.”

“Do they also supply the food for the animals?”

“No sir.”

“That figures. I'll go for rabbits and chickens, no hogs.

Have you ever smelled pig shit? Disgusting.”

“Oh, I agree sir. I'll tell you what's disgusting, the Ministry of Food allowing restaurants to remain open and serve a complete three course meal on their menu, The only thing regulated is the price of the meal,” said Marjorie.

“I believe it has something to do with keeping up the morale of the people. Stiff upper lip and all that.”

“What about the morale of us making the sacrifices?”

asked Marjorie.

“Save your money and eat out, I suppose.”

 

*****************

 

Mildred Perkins sat alone at a table for two in the crowded, Lyon's Tea Shop. Her breakfast consisted of tea, corned-beef hash, and black sunflower seed bread. She opened her pocketbook and counted her money. She had enough for the meal. What she needed was enough funds to pay a cobbler to repair her shoes which needed new heels. The left shoe was so run down that it was causing her to walk with a limp.

She looked up when and elderly woman walked up and asked, “Pardon me dear, but I was wondering if I might sit here? This place is so crowded and you seem to be alone.”

“Of course. Please have a seat.”

“Thank you. Now, if I can get the attention of a Nippie (waitress) hopefully I'll have breakfast. By the way, my name is Catherine Briscoe.”

“I'm Mildred Perkins.”

“Nice meeting you Mildred. Are you from East London?”

“No, actually I'm from Harrow. I came to London to work.”

“Oh, and what is it you do?”

“I'm a volunteer social worker. I look after the elderly.”

“How nice. May I ask, is the hash meaty or all potato?”

“I find it actually very good.”

“Excellent. Here comes a girl. Perfect timing.”

“So you have a job.”

“Yes, actually like many others I need a place to live.”

“Too bad. You see I need someone to help me put things back to rights. I'm a librarian and the concussions from the bombs shattered some windows and spilled the books from the shelves. Putting them back on the shelves is more than I can do alone.”

“What will you pay?”

“The minimum of course. It's not like the job requires skilled labor.”

“If possible I'd like to be consider for the position.”

“Really? What about your social work?”

“My social work depends on at least two meals a day, a spot out of the winter cold and a place to sleep, other than a bomb shelter.”.

“Well, you seem healthy enough. Do you happen to know the Dewey Decimal System?”

“I know that the number is on the spine of the book.”

“Well, that's something. Tell you what dear. After I have my breakfast you'll come with me. We'll go to the library and you can start. I can't promise anything, but I'll give you a try.

And, if things work out you can sleep on one of the leather sofa's.

Once the windows are repaired sometime today. There will be heat in the building. You also have the loo and running water. No tub mind you, but the ability to take a sponge bath and wash your knickers.”

“Sounds nice and much more than I have right now.”

“Excellent, now here comes my hash.

*************

Balsham placed his handwritten notes on the top of the lectern. Peering over the rim of his eyeglasses he looked at those seated in the classroom. “Good morning gentlemen. I trust that all of you had a good night sleep in spite of the Luftwaffe. Those of you who didn't are urged not to doze off while I lecture. Now,

As I recall we left off discussing crime. As a result I shall continue on that subject. “It seems that there has always been confusion between crime and criminals in criminology. The criminologist seeks the answer to crime in the behavior of the offender rather than the criminal law. I'll stop here for a moment while those of you that didn't add what I just said to your notes do so now..... To continue, the why and how people commit crimes is an important one, however, the theory of behavior is not a theory of crime, Behavior is criminal only when judged by some standard of conduct. The term, “crime” then refers to the judging or labeling the behavior rather than to the behavior its self.

By the blank expression on your faces I will attempt to give you an example. During the last war Turkey rounded up Armenians living in Turkish territory. First, there was the wholesale killing of the Armenian man. Some shot, others worked to death. Next, was the forced death march of Armenian woman and children into the Syrian desert. The women were robbed, many raped. No one was allowed food or water. Those that survived the march were put in concentration camps where many starved to death. My question gentleman were these criminal acts? Let me answer for you. The majority of us would certainly say that if nothing else, these acts were crimes against humanity. The crimes could be identified as murder or if you prefer, homicide, rape, assault, mayhem, torture, slavery and abuse. Nonetheless, even today Turkey denies that genocide ever took place. Those responsible were never arrested or brought to justice. Why? The answer is because of the judging and behavior of those responsible. They saw no crime because they saw the actions justifiable.

Now, some of you, no, most of you, see a miscarriage of justice here. Surely the international community should have taken action and brought those responsible to be at least adjudicated. Why not? Why didn't this happen.? One reason and let me say right here and now, that one reason is that the international community failed to act is that prior to the Great War of 1914-18 another war took place. The Boar war. In that war Boar women and children were rounded up, many from their farms. They were then transported to what we British termed, “concentration camps”, which incidentally was invented by the Brits. Boar men were shot on sight. Boar farms and crops were destroyed by fire.

A total of twenty six thousand Boar women and children died in the concentration camps. Many died as a result of typhoid and dysentery. There was no medical treatment. England did this you may ask? Barbaric treatment by the English? Who was responsible for such horrific treatment? The answer is Lord Herbert Kitchener, one of our most famous generals. He's right up there with Wellington. The question, why wasn't or hasn't Kitchener been charged at the time or later in history? The answer, once again is because the War Office, Parliament and probably the Royal Family saw these acts as not criminal, but judged necessary in a time of war. Do I make myself clear.?”

**************

On the way to the library Mildred and Catherine stopped at a cobbler shop. There the shoemaker put new heels on her shoes and then with the ability to walk naturally instead of with a limp the two women continued to their destination.

At the library repair men were already installing glass panes in the shattered windows when the librarian and Mildred arrived. Once inside Catherine Briscoe said, “Well, as you can see the place is a mess. Every aisle is littered with books that were spilled from the shelves because of the explosions. I will suggest dear that first you sweep up the broken glass and toss it in the dustbin. Once that's done you can start on replacing the books. Now, I don't expect you to know how to shelve a book since you're not a librarian. Simply pick up the books and place them neatly on a shelf. Later, I'll arrange them the way I want. Are there any questions?”

“Yes, where do I find the broom and dustpan?”

“In the closet next to the ladies loo. And make sure you do a decent job of it.”

On the way to the broom closet Mildred stopped and removed the black, heavy, wool coat. Seeing no place to hang it she carefully draped it over one of the chairs situated at one of the reading tables. At the closet she removed the broom and dustpan and walked to the wall where shattered windows had already been replaced. There she began sweeping the shards into a pile. From across the room Catherine said, “And, be careful. I don't need you cutting yourself and going to hospital.”

“I'm being careful,” Mildred replied.

“And pick up your coat. There is a coat rack right by the front door. Hang it there and be quick about it. You haven't even picked one book up off of the floor. I'm beginning to think that I made a mistake hiring you.”

Mildred felt the anger and resentment beginning to build. She fought the temptation to speak out. Not saying anything she carried her coat to the rack near the front entrance of the library then returned to where she had left the broom and dustpan. Returning to the pile of broken glass she bent over and carefully swept them into the dustpan. She then carried the pan with the glass across the room and deposited the shards in the waste container. “No, not in the waste paper basket. In the dustbin outside. I must say that you're making a mess of things. I think I've had enough of you my girl. I've changed my mind. Time for you to bog off. Get your coat and things and leave. I'll find myself someone who knows what they're doing and can think for themselves,” said Catherine Briscoe.

Mildred stood silently. As the anger grew so did the urge to strike back, to injure to kill. Memories of her dominating mother came back to her. Her mother always found fault with her. She recalled being called a liar when she complained. “You are an awful liar and a terrible daughter,” her mother had once said. As Mildred recalled those times, those many times growing up when her mother either refused to listen to her or accused her of lying she looked at Catherine Briscoe standing in front of her.

Mildred moved quickly catching the librarian off guard.

Taking the older woman by the throat she began to squeeze. The woman tried to fight back in an attempt to get away, to save her own life. The younger woman was too strong for her and as she tried in vain to breath she felt her knees bend and give way. She looked at Mildred pleading with imploring look on her face and in her eyes. Both were ignored as the hatred in Mildred Perkins dominated her thoughts inflaming the desire to kill this woman. This woman she now held by the throat. This woman who reminded her of her mother. Finally, realizing that Catherine Briscoe was dead, Mildred released the grip she had on the woman's throat and she let the body drop slowly to the floor.

Turning around slowly Mildred looked to see if anyone had seen or heard anything. Satisfied that what she had done went un-noticed she went to where she had placed her pocketbook and suitcase. Then, near the front door she put on her coat and left the building. When she did one of the repairman whistled at her. She ignored him.

Back on the sidewalks of East London Mildred joined the homeless, some carrying what few belongings they were able to salvage out of their bombed out homes. Others walked with nothing. She passed city workmen cleaning the streets of debris enabling fire trucks, ambulances and police cars to get through to where they were needed. Once again she was tired, hungry and homeless, but she kept walking.

********************

Alistair and Marjorie Helm sat looking at each other as they took shelter once again in the cellar during another air raid. Marjorie decided to break the silence and asked, “Have you given any more thought to the garden?”

“Actually, no. I'm thinking about those poor buggers living near the docks tonight. However, to answer your question, it's January if we make it until spring I'll give it some thought.”

“I see. What about the animals?,” she asked.

“What animals?”

“The chickens and rabbits.”

“If we go that route it will be chickens.”

“They say that chickens are messy.”

“Whoever they are failed to mention that rabbits don't lay eggs.”

“Of course you're right professor, but I'm wondering just where one goes to purchase them?”

“In the countryside I presume?”

“That may be right of course, but with the rationing allowing only one egg a week or one packet of egg powder poultry farmers would be reluctant to sell their chickens.”

“Then why would the Food Ministry tell the people to raise chickens?”

“I don't know sir.”

“Of course it wouldn't surprise me a bit if His Majesty's government didn't issue fertilized eggs and asked us to sit on then until they hatch. Bloody fools.”

“I'm sorry if I upset you professor. I'm just making small talk.”

“Don't be sorry. I will assure you that you will have your vegetable garden and if there's a way, we'll raise chickens. I must admit however I don't know how we will feed them.”

“I read somewhere that you can feed them kitchen scraps,” said Marjorie.

“What kitchen scraps? We eat everything you put on the table. The days of kitchen scraps are long gone.”

“Well, I don't know just how true it is, but the word I hear is that if one raises chickens, one then forfeits the one egg a week ration. In return you can get grain to feed the birds.”

“Really? Very interesting. However, at the same time a coop must be constructed to house them.”

“Who will build them?”

“Probably the same bloke that will dig the vegetable garden.”

“Meaning, not you.”

“Correct.”

“Alright, then is it permissible for me to hire Archie Blackman to do the jobs?”

“Providing I agree with his price. Now, assuming the Germans allow us to take a dinner break tonight and speaking of food, just what are you feeding me this evening?”

“Using both our ration books I was able to get a niece piece of cheddar. Fortunately, we had some beer in the house so I'm making Welsh Rabbit.”

“On dark bread toast I suppose.”

“Try and get white bread these days.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Six

Profile

 

Alistair Basham sat alone at his desk inside the college classroom. He had handed out nineteen certificates to the members of the Royal Military Police. Now the course he had taught, “Criminology” was over. After handshakes and good by's

all he had to look forward to was the possibility that the army would be satisfied with the results. Hopefully they would send another detachment to him for instruction. So far, nothing had been mentioned. He got up slowly from the desk chair, gathered a few papers and placed them in his briefcase, closed it and walked slowly out of the room.

At about the same time Mildred Perkins stood silently looking at the anti-aircraft gun emplacements now in place in Victoria Park. She had hoped to be able to enter the park and at least sit on a bench and rest. Now, forbidden to enter and with her suitcase in hand she turned and walked away.

Later, she walked down a subway entrance and once below the street she found an empty bench. She sat down and opened the over night bag. Removing one of the cans of sardines she had purchased for Helen and herself she broke off the key, inserted it on the tab and began twisting it, opening the tin. Using her fingers she removed each carefully packed fish and placed them in her mouth. When she was finished with the sardines she wiped the olive oil they were packed in from her mouth and fingers using her handkerchief. She looked at it finding it, soiled now from the many times she used it and decided to discard it with the empty container. Mildred thought about eating one of the apples, but decided to save it for later when she was really hungry.

Mildred stood and picked up her suitcase. She closed it and slowly turned her head looking for the rest rooms. When she saw what she thought was the woman’s room she headed for it. For some reason the subway cars were not running and she appeared to be alone. As she approached a cleaning man working on the platform she stopped and asked” Excuse me. Do you know why the trains are not running?”

“The Jerry's destroyed the tracks last night. You'd be better off using a bus. That is if the streets are clear. Besides your not supposed to be down here until four pm,” the man answered.

“I see. Thank you.”

Entering the rest room Mildred went to where the trash bin stood, There she deposited the empty sardine can then turned to walk to where the wash basins were. She noticed that the floor was wet, so she stepped carefully so not to slip and fall.

After taking two steps an elderly woman came out of one of the stalls and looking at Mildred said, “Here, here! You're not to be walking on my clean floor. I just mopped it.

“Oh, I'm sorry. There was no sign that I could see warning me,” Mildred replied.

“Sign? I've got no time to be posting signs. Any half wit would know that the tube is not running this day. What are you doing here anyway?”

“Well first of all I wanted to use the loo and tidy up a bit. At the same time I had some rubbish I wanted to discard.”

“Is that right? Well, if anyone was to ask me I'd say you're some tart looking to make a pound. Either that or you thought you'd steal the toilet paper and sell it on the street. What say I take a look see inside your pocketbook,” said the cleaning woman as she snatched the handbag from Mildred.

When she opened the purse the woman saw the roll of

toilet paper that Helen had taken from the bathroom stall in the Mandrake Hotel. “Just as I thought. You've been half-inching (stealing) bog rolls. I ought to call the coppers on you. Hello, hello? What's this I see. A doctors listening device. Now, I suppose you're going to tell me you're a physician.”

“No, I'm a social worker. I use my stethoscope in my work. Please give me back my pocketbook.”

“A social worker you say. And tell me why I should believe you.”

Mildred looked at the aging woman standing defiant in front of her. She was short, fat, and the cheap, read hair dye she had colored her hair with was a shade of iodine, orange. Gray hairs were becoming noticeable. “If you'd like I can show you?,” said Mildred.

“And just how would you go about doing that?”

“I'll take your blood pressure.”

“Really? Alright, but if you're lying I'll give you right for.”

“I need my pocketbook. The pressure cuff is also inside of it.”

“Here you are. What's your name deary?”

“Mildred Perkins.”

“They calls me Minerva Thompson.”

“Please extend your arm.”

Mildred wrapped the pressure cuff around the upper arm of the attendant then after placing the ear pieces of the stethoscope in her ears began squeezing the bulb, inflating the wrapped cuff. Then, slowly releasing the air she carefully listened for the pulsating sounds that indicated systolic and diastolic readings. Removing the ear pieces Mildred said, “Your pressure is a bit high. That's probably because of the anger you displayed awhile ago. However, it's nothing to worry about.”

“I'm so sorry dear. At times a woman like me who has to clean toilets and empty dustbins is treated rather shabby by the public. I hope you understand why I got upset when you walked on my floor.”

“Oh I do. Now, I have to check your carotid artery. I'll just place my stethoscope on your throat. Sit still. This won't hurt,” Mildred explained.

**********

At ten o'clock in the morning, April 7, 1941 there was a loud knock on the front door of 1600 Hitman Road. Marjorie Helm wiped her hands on her apron and while walking towards the door said, “Alright, alright, I'm coming as quick as I can.”

When she opened the door she saw a middle aged man, tall, thin, gray at the temples and displaying a pencil mustache. The stranger was wearing a noticeable, worn, dark blue suit and a black derby on his head.

“Yes?”, asked Marjorie.

“Good morning. I'd like to speak to Doctor Basham if I may”, said the man.

“And just who will I say is calling?”

“Inspector James Richardson of the Metropolitan Police.”

“I see. Well I'm sure that the professor would want to see you. Come in, have a seat and I'll let him know that you are here. He's out back watering the vegetable patch.”

“Thank you”, said the Inspector as he entered, removing his hat.

A few minutes later, Alistair Basham entered the kitchen through the back door. As he stepped up to the kitchen sink in order to wash his hands, he said ,” Be with you in a minute. I first have to wash the garden hose soil off my hands.” After drying his hands on a towel he walked into the living room. When he did the police detective stood and said, “Sorry to bother you doctor, but the Metropolitan Police want me to ask you a few questions. I'm Inspector James Richardson.”

Shaking hands with the man Basham said, nice meeting you Inspector. However, if our conversation is to be contained in a written report for the record, I'm not a doctor of sociology.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. I'm sorry enough for both of us. Now, what is it that you want to talk with me about?”

“I'll get right to the point sir. We, meaning the Metropolitan Police have become responsible for the arrest of someone we've dubbed, “The Subway Killer.”

“Why have you come to me?”

“It is our hope sir that because of your background in criminology you might be able to give us an idea of who or what is responsible for these crimes.'

“When you say what? I assume you mean gender.”

“Yes sir.”

“I get the impression that this conversation might be lengthy. May I suggest that we retire to the kitchen. That way I can use the table as I take notes. I'll have Mrs. Helm put the kettle on for tea. I'll be with you in a second. I have to get pencil and pad.

“Thank you sir. Please take your time.”

After getting a yellow lined tablet and pencil from his desk

Alistair led the way into the kitchen.” Have a seat and after you get comfortable you may begin,” said Basham.

“Very well sir. I'll start with a fact that you probably aren't aware of. It's called, “Blast Lungs”, said Richardson.

“Blast lungs you say. You're correct sir.That term is new to me.”

“The term is a result of the air raids. Pathologist in examining those caught in the open and killed in the bombings have found that the severe concussions caused by the explosions

suck the air out of the victims lungs. The lungs then empty, rise in the rib cage and will not function normally. The person suffocates.”

“I see. Proceed.”

“As you can imagine, the medical staff's in London were at first overwhelmed, in particular, pathologist's. As a result it wasn't until five days after the discovery of the dead body of one, Henrietta Camp in the London Bridge underground that a determination of cause of death was manual, strangulation.”

“Not Lung Blast?”, asked Basham.

“No sir. There was evidence that an instrument was used as a garrote.”

“What sort of instrument?”

“We don't know. We do know that the bruising on the victims throat was not caused by digital pressure. Here is a photograph of Henrietta Camp taken during the autopsy.”

Basham took the black and white photograph in his hands and studied it. I notice that the victim is elderly. Do you have her age?,” he asked.

“She was eighty years old.”

Alistair wrote down that information. “Please continue,” he said.

“Several days later a niece of Ann Peters, age seventy eight, of six hundred seven Tooley Street, apartment, three B went to check on her aunt. She found Mrs. Peters Dead, sitting on her couch. Her death was reported to us as a homicide. Cause of death, strangulation, by use of a type of garrote.”

“Interesting.'

“What's interesting sir is the fact that the London Bridge Underground Station is three minutes away from Tooley Street.”

“Go on, I'm sure that there's more to tell.”

“Well sir, a few days later the body of a man was found near the bend in the Bermondsey Tube Station.”

“Was he strangled?”, asked Basham.

“No sir. Oddly enough the bloke was stabbed in the throat, with a steak knife mind you.”

“By that I assume you retrieved the murder weapon.”

“Oh yes sir, As a matter of fact we went one better. We traced the knife to the manufacturer Borrows and Williams in Liverpool. The knife had a lot number, sixteen thirty seven. One hundred of the knives with that number were sold to the Tom Thumb Restaurant on Jamaica Road.”

“I see, what can you tell me about the chap they found?”

“ He was identified as one Alford Bennett, Caucasian thought to be about forty years old or there about. He was a former merchant mariner but at the time of his death was working as a stevedore on the East London docks.”

“Let me ask you this. Did you do a complete background check on this chap?”

“Complete? No sir. We do know he liked to visit the pubs and considered himself a ladies man.”

“And how close is Bermondsey station from Tooley Street?,” asked Alistair.

“Approximately thirteen minutes walking, I'd say.”

Mrs Helms interrupted the two men. “Excuse me gentlemen, but the tea is ready. I'm sorry sir, but due to the rationing I have no sugar, I do have some honey if you'd like,” she said.

“Thank you. That would be splendid”, Richardson replied.

As Basham stirred his tea he said, “Did you happen to notice that the three locations you have reported when connected form a triangle. If you draw a line from London Bridge Station to Tooley Street and from Tooley Street to Jamaica Road and then to Bermondsey Station a triangle forms. It appears that the killer or killers might have been apprehensive in leaving that area. Why?”

“I can't say sir. I do know that the next victim, one Catherine Briscoe, age seventy five a librarian was found strangled in the library on Chestnut Way near London Bridge.

This time it was determined that the victim was strangled by the murderer using his or her hands.”

“And, once again all the killings occurred in the same area.”

“Yes sir.”

“Is that it?”

“No sir. The latest victim was one Minerva Thompson, Caucasian, age sixty, a charwoman at the Victoria Street Underground Station. Cause of death strangulation caused by the use of a garrote.”

“So, the killer left the place in which he or she felt safe. Why? It's is possible that our suspect is on the move like the many bombed out homeless of London. Whoever it is is looking first and foremost for a place to live and food to eat. I'd say that the murders are not planned or premeditated. Rather they are the acts of impulsive behavior. That could be a sudden urge or perhaps sudden anger.”

“What you are suggesting sir is that the killer is mentally ill.”

“Possibly, mentally ill, but not stupid. I would say from what you have told me so far is that the killer is a schizophrenic, possible a paranoid schizophrenic. Keep in mind Inspector that I'm not a physiologist and have only studied the fringes of that particular science. I'm afraid that at this time there is nothing more I can add. I hope that I have been of some help to you.”

“You have sir. I hope that we can stay in touch on this matter.”

“It would be a privilege Inspector. Give me your card and I'll give you my telephone number. You'll find me at home most times now days, either tending my garden or raising chickens.”

*************

Mildred Perkins stopped in front of “Darby's Ale House”, a small cafe. She was tired and hungry, hungry to the point that she was becoming lightheaded as she walked the sidewalks. She entered and took a seat as usual in the rear of the restaurant facing the front door. As she waited to be served she sat with her head in her hands. “Are you alright deary?,” she heard someone say.

She looked up and saw the waitress standing at her table.

“Oh, I'm sorry. Just a bit tired mind you.”

“By the looks of you I'd say it's more than being knackered. When was the last time you ate a good meal?”

“It's been awhile. Perhaps you could bring me a cup of tea and two biscuits.”

“You need more than that my lady. Tell the truth. How much dosh (money) do you have and don't be lying to me.”

“I'm down to two pounds and three shillings.”

“Tell you what. How about I bring you a plate of bangers, bubble and squeak?” (sausage, cabbage and vegetables)

“I can't afford it.”

“Ain't no one going to charge you. You eat what I bring you along with a cup of tea and some bread. If and when you get your strength back you'll be good to go.”

“Isn't there some way I can repay you for your kindness?”

“Well, if you're so inclined you can stash your things in the kitchen and wash a few dishes, pots and pans, how's that?”

“Thank you Miss?”

“Names Betty. Betty Darby. The real names Elizabeth, but I prefer Betty. I own and run this ramshackle joint. It ain't much, but it pays the bills and keeps a roof over my head.”

“Thank you again Betty. My name in Mildred. Mildred Perkins.”

“Nice meeting you honey. Now let me get your meal. Take off your heavy coat and relax. I'll be right back.”

About an hour later Mildred felt well enough to stand. When she stood up from the table Betty came to her and asked, “Are you sure you're alright?”

“Yes, it must have been because I hadn't had anything to eat for a spell, Mildred replied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

The Flat

 

Mildred dried the last pot that she had washed. She placed the dish towel on the rack. She turned when Betty walked into the kitchen. “How did you make out deary, us not being able to

have enough soap it being rationed like everything else? Even the bangers I'm able to purchase is made mostly of bread filler,”

said Betty.”

“I had to stretch what little I used, but I managed,” Mildred answered.

“Good, now let me ask you this. Where do you intend to spend the night?, asked Betty.

“In the tubes more than likely.”

“Tell you what. I got a bloke coming by in a little while. Got some business to discuss with him about him supplying me with some pigeons. If he supplies me with what I want I'll have Clyde, the cook who you met make pigeon pie for the menu. Seems the chap knows where the birds roost at night. After I'm done with him if you want you can stay the night with me.”

“You're willing to do that for me?”

“Why not, the ways I see it I'll give you room and board and I get a dishwasher. What do you say?”

“All I can say is, thank you very much.”

“Don't mention it and don't take this the wrong way, but I believe you could use a bath as well as a bed.”

“Yes, I must look and smell awful.”

“You don't. Upstairs is where my flat is. I find it convenient as well as economical. You'll find a tub with a shower, take your pick.”

*************

Marjorie Helm answered the ringing telephone and after determining who it was on the line and what they wanted she called for Alistair. “Professor, it's that detective chap. Says he wants to talk to you.”

Basham got up from his desk and picked up the telephone.

“Alistair Basham”, he said.

Professor, this is Detective Richardson. I thought that you might like to know that we've made some progress in those so called, subway murders.”

“Really? How so?”

“I'll start with the murder of the librarian, Catherine Briscoe. On the day she was killed there were three workmen repairing windows at the library. One of the men gave us a statement that he saw a young woman, Caucasian, brunet approximately one hundred seventy five cm (five foot nine inches) weighing between nine or ten stone ( 130-140 lbs).

The bloke says that the bird (woman) was a real looker and that he whistled at her but, she ignored him. He also said she was carrying a small case of some sort and a large pocketbook. Further more she didn't appear to be in a hurry, walking normally away from the building.

“I see anything else?”

“Yes sir. In the murder of Minerva Thompson in the ladies restroom at Victoria Street Station we were also able to get a description from a janitor working the platform the day of the killing. He described a woman who asked him why the trains were not running that day. His depiction of the woman is identical of that of the workman at the library.”

“Did you get an age?”

“Excuse me while I check my notes. Here it is, a young woman late twenties, early thirties.”

“Anything else?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Very well. I'll add this information to the file I set up and go from there. Should I come up with anything of interest I'll let you know.”

“Thank you Professor.”

Alistair placed the receiver on the cradle then stood thinking. “ There is almost certain with the possibility already mentioned that the killer is mentally ill. Now, with the description given to the police one must consider the fact that the subject is female. That being so, many questions are added to the problem. Mania of course, impulsive behavior, possibly caused by infanticide or even the lost of a child in a traumatic fashion, such as the air raids. Many insane killers have lost their sanity from much less circumstances. Just a thought. At this time I still believe that the killings are done either on impulse or anger, perhaps both. I'll add it to my notes.” Alistair walked back to his desk and sat down.

******************

Clyde Dixon the cook sat at the table in the kitchen of Darby's Ale House. Seated across from him sat Mildred who looked squeamish as she watched him gut a fat pigeon. Looking at her he said, “What's the problem girl. You look green around the gills I'd say.”

“ I don't like watching what you're doing.”

“What? Gutting the bird? Tell you what. You pulls the feathers off of em and puts them on the tray. I'll take em from there, gut em and prepares them for the pot. Bet that even if you can't stands looking at em being butchered you'll still want to taste my pigeon pie.”

“No, I don't think I will.”

“Better get them now. Soon there won't be a squab left to be feeding on bread crumbs in the city parks. They'll all be et before this war ends.”

“I'll pass. I'd rather have a meat pie.”

“Suit yourself, but there's no knowing what kind of meat is in the pie these days. At least you can see that I'm using a lot of pigeon.”

********************

Alistair Basham walked to the living room windows and pulled the heavy, black drapes together. Satisfied that no light would be emitted from the lamps in his house he walked to his desk and sat down. He then open a book to the pages containing information on “Strangulation and Domestic Violence”. As he read he took notes, writing on a yellow, blue lined, pad. “There are two types of strangulation’s: Manual and ligature. (note- apparently the killer has used both methods-interesting!) However, manual strangulation is the most common. Naturally, a ligature could be anything such as a rope, electric wire, scarf, silk stocking, etc. It is no secret that death is caused by asphyxiation caused by the lack of oxygen to the brain. The carotid arteries, one on each side of the neck carry oxygenated blood to the brain. Once that supply is interrupted the victim falls unconscious and death occurs within four to five minutes. It most be noted that at this time that all information ascertained indicates that the killer had ample time to kill, both in the tubes, libray and flat.

Alistair was interrupted by the air raid sirens warning the citizens of Harrow to head for the shelters. “Blasted bastards! How can anyone get any work done with these damn, bloody, air raids”, he said as he gathered up his books, and writing materials as he headed for the cellar.

Accustomed now, to working under the adverse conditions caused by the air raids, Basham sat behind a make shift desk consisting of a wide pine board held up by wooden crates, one on each side. To his left on the board was a kerosene lantern that gave him just enough light to see and to write. As he worked, Marjorie Helm sat quietly knitting.

“Now, if Adolf Hitler doesn't mind, I'll try to get back to work. Where was I? Oh yes, the subject of strangulation”, he said aloud.

He began to take notes again. Only eleven pounds of pressure to the carotid arteries for unconsciousness

to occur. This can happen within ten seconds. To completely close off the trachea thirty thee pounds of pressure is required.

Alistair removed his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes.

“Here now. I've been telling you that working down here and using lantern light was bad for your eyes. Will you listen?

No. Tomorrow morning you'll be complaining about how your eyes hurt and how your head aches. Well I'm telling you right now professor, you'll get no pity from me,” said Marjorie.

He replaced the eyeglasses and leaned back in the chair in deep thought. “With the description given of the woman suspect, her being one hundred and seventy five cm. And weighing nine or ten stone she would be capable of producing thirty three pounds of pressure when she kills. At the same time with knowledge of the location of the carotid arteries, she knew exactly where to place the knife in the throat of the chap they found in Bermundsey Station.

If the man was killed by the same suspect, a woman. All the evidence at this time is that the murder of the stevedore happened in the same area and in the underground. Yet, the Modos operandi is different. Why? Could it be some latent occurrence that triggers her impulse to kill? Let's examine impulse.”

Basham opened a dictionary and after a minute or two found the word “Impulse”. He wrote the definition on his pad.

“Impulse, the influence of a particular feeling. Mental state. Sudden involuntary inclination prompting to action. A psychic drive or instinctual urge. An impelling action of force.”

After closing the dictionary Alistair sat in deep thought,

“ At present all indications are that the suspected female is mentally ill and kills as a result of urges or impulses, both being nearly the same. Something triggers these urges. What could it be?

Most of the victims are elderly women, except for the stevedore.

Why was his murder different? Why did she change from strangulation to stabbing and then, back to strangulation? From female to male back to female?”

***************

On Sundays the Darby Ale House was closed. It was also the day that Betty Darby's boyfriend, Algernon Palmer visited the flat where Betty lived over the restaurant. Palmer was born with a club foot and as a result was deferred when conscripted.

He worked as a carpenter and was kept busy repairing structures damaged in the bombings. At the same time Mildred had become wary of Clyde, the cook. She noticed that when he looked at her it was with a lecherous grin. He took any and every opportunity to rub up against her, apologizing after each incident as if his actions were an accident. When he did those things she fought the urges that began to rise in her.

With Palmer, Mildred's dislike for him was a result from the fact that when Betty wasn't in the room he would flirt with her. Most of the time he would tell her what she was missing by not being with him. When he and Betty danced in the living room to a waltz, “One Day When We Were Young”, recorded in 1939 by Geraldo and his orchestra, sung by Al Bowly and played on the phonograph, Palmer would ask Mildred if she wanted to dance. She always refused. What worried her was the fact that Algernon was persistent in his advances towards her. That and the fact that she was hesitant in wanting to tell Betty of his actions. Betty might not believe her.

Betty might call her a liar, just like her mother had a few years ago. At the same time she was afraid that the voices would come back. She hadn't heard them in sometime, but still, she worried that they would come. She knew that whoever the voices were coming from they were there, somewhere, watching, waiting. There were two of them, two voices both feminine. One voice would come when she was in danger. When she heard that voice she became defensive, then combative, striking out at those who intended To hurt her, like those who reminded her of her father and mother. The other voice came to her, softly, giving words of instruction, how to be kind and merciful to the aged women that needed care and had to be put in a place where they would be safe forever.

**************

The next day, Alistair telephoned the Metropolitan Police.

When connected he asked to speak to Inspector Richardson. A few minutes later Basham heard, “This is Inspector Richardson”.

“Inspector, Alistair Basham here, might I have a word?'

“Certainly professor.”

“Jolly good. The reason I'm calling is I believe that I might have come up with a solid opinion. If you have time I would like to run it past you.”

“By all means sir please do so.”

“It is my opinion that the female we are looking for is mentally ill. She kills on impulses. Something triggers those impulses. At this time and this is only my opinion I believe she is suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. In her mind at times she is in an environment that initiates the urge to kill. At the same time it could also be caused by anyone who reminds her as a tormenter. I'm suggesting that you check local and near by mental hospitals and see if such a female patient suffering from delusions and impulses had been released recently. The other thing I would offer is to have your witnesses at the library and the Victoria Station Underground brought in and a composite drawing be made.”

“I see. However professor I must remind you that English law has the doctor-patient confidentiality clause. No doctor or for that matter any hospital administrator would risk giving that type of information to the police. Nonetheless, your suggestion about a composite drawing is spot on. I'll get right on that. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, Have you done anymore investigation into the background of the Bennett fellow? And at the moment. I hope I haven't bothered you.”

“No sir, you haven't. As a matter of fact thank you for calling. I have someone assigned to the matter of Alford Bennett and I'll let you know what we find.”

“Alright then, cheery oh.”

“Good day professor.”

After he completed his call Alistair walked into the kitchen. Marjorie Helm looked up from the piece of mutton she was preparing for dinner. “Have you fed the chickens?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“And did you water the vegetable garden?”

“ Not yet, and I'll tell you why. It just so happens that the arseholes running the rationing program should be drawn and quartered. First, they say that you are only allowed one egg a week. Then they say if you give up your one egg allotment in return for raising chickens they'll give you the feed so they can be fed. Next, they ask you to be patriotic and grow your own vegetables. They even give you the damn seeds. You plant them and guess what? They ration water. A British citizen is allowed only five inches of water in the bath tub once a week. Well, let me tell you something Marjorie. The Germans will never invade England. They'll be able to smell us from the shores of France.”

“Maybe their thinking is that it frequently rains professor.”

Then the idiots ought to know that a drought occurs in England every five to ten years, particularly in south east England. Guess where we live?”

“I know that you've heard it before, over and over, but there is a war.”

I do know this. I'll eat brown bread instead of white.

I'll eat bangers made up of pig fat and bread crumbs. I'll do without cream and sugar in my tea, if I can get tea. I'll even wipe my arse with yesterdays newspaper or brown butcher's wrap, but I'll be damned if I'm going to walk around anywhere smelling like an unwashed Neanderthal.”

“Then you'll not water the garden or give some to the birds?”

“Certainly I'll water. The King's government not only asks me to do it, but recommends that I do it. So, I will do it Marjorie old gal. Not because it's my patriotic duty, but because the law as it stands means I should feed myself, and dress myself.

However, the law also says, I can't wash myself. If I do I'm considered a fascist, one that brings England to its knees. I should be arrested, tried in the Crown's Court and found guilty.

There should even be a public hanging. Just imagine it Marjorie. As you stand in the crowd watching, they bring me out, walk me up the steps of the gallows, I stand waiting for the black, silk hood to be placed over my head. Before they do, they place a sign on my chest. It reads, “Alistair Basham, a saboteur who bathed more than once per week.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

A Real Looker

 

Inspector James Richardson stood outside of the doorway that led into one of the dockside warehouses still standing at the East London Docks. He waited until three stevedores entered, then he followed and closed the door. Once inside he looked at the men and said, “I've already introduced myself to you so just sit where you can find something to sit on. I'll be asking question in reference to one Alford Bennett. I've been told that he worked along side of the three of you. As you know Mr. Bennett was a victim of a homicide in the Bermundsey underground. What we, and when I say we, I'm referring to the Metropolitan Police.

What we would like to know gentlemen is anything you can tell me about Mr. Bennett. For instance, was he married? If so did he have any children? Was he a hard worker or the lazy type? I want to know his likes and dislikes, his drinking habits. Who would like to go first?”

“I'll take a shot at it inspector.”

“Good your name sir?”

“Phillips, Nolan Phillips.”

“Alright, go ahead.

“Well me and him were always assigned to work together.

Most of the time when the ships came in our job was to move the cargo from the ship, to the dock and then into lorries.” He was a hard worker he was. Never seen him as a slacker.”

“Anything else?”

“You want to know his drinking habits. I can tell you that he liked his beer and ale. Never seen or heard of him drinking the hard stuff. Oh, yeah he was a cheap bastard. I can't ever remember him buying a round for the boys at the pub. Far as I know he wasn't married.”

“Thank you. Your name please,” asked Richardson.

“Francis Bellamy, but everyone calls me Frank.”

“Thank you Frank.”

“Anything else?” asked the detective.

“Yeah, I got something. Old Alford considered himself a willy-nilly ( big shot-macho) particular with the women. Most of the time he would end up with a scrubber (working class) , but he liked to try his luck with the society types. I also heard, but I can't say that it's gospel. I heard that sometimes when he had been drinking he'd get rough with the birds (girls).

“Let me ask all of you this. Did you ever see him with an attractive woman, standing about one hundred and seventy five cm. Weighing between nine or ten stone, brunet and attractive.

“Each of the stevedores looked each other and finally all said no.”

“Thank you men, you've been very helpful”, said Richardson.

**************

Mildred Stood in front of the restaurant kitchen sink.

She allowed the hot water to flow from the spigot, filling the left side basin. Standing on her tip toes she reached for the dish washing detergent on the wall shelf mounted on the wall and just out of her reach. As she strained to reach the box she felt and arm wrap around her waist. “Careful ducky. I don't want you to hurt yourself,” said Clyde.

“What the bloody hell! You keep your filthy hands off of me or you'll know what for!”, said Mildred in a loud voice at the same time picking up a butcher knife from the sink and pointing it at the cook.”

Betty Darby hearing the commotion came hurrying back to the kitchen. “What's going on here? I heard you out front in the dining room?”

“Ain't nothing going on Betty. She was reaching for the soap powder and I was afraid she might hurt herself, so I put my arm around her just in case. When I did she went and did one's nut,”(became enraged) said the cook.

“This bloody bastard is always trying to rub himself on me and I'm sick of it,” Mildred responded.

“Now, just calm down. You've got to remember love that Clyde, although an old man, is still a man. What do you expect, you being young and attractive. Could be that he thinks you're teasing him. Now, I know you're not, but that's the way he see's it. So would most men,” offered Betty.

“Well the way I see it is that he thinks I'm some oik ( low standing) he can get his jolly's with. I'm telling you for the last time Clyde. Touch me again and I'll kill you.”

“Now, Mildred, you don't mean that,” said Betty.

“Oh, but I do,” Mildred replied.

********************

Inspector Richardson sat on the sofa in Alistair Basham's living room. “How have you been professor?, he asked.

“Like everyone else in this war, deprived and depressed. Still I'm sure that we'll get through it.”

“Yes I'm sure. The reason I've stopped by is although I could give you this information on the telephone I think you would rather see what we have first hand.”

“And just would that be?”

“Well you suggested getting a composite done of the suspect.

We brought in the three chaps that saw her, sat them down and our artist produced the likeness. So, I thought that you might like to see it and here it is."

 

 

Basham sat silently looking, studying the sketch for several minutes. Finally he said, “By Jove, you have to admit that she is a corker ( outstanding) Who would think that someone that beautiful is going around killing people,” he said.

“I agree. At the same time professor, I took this drawing to the Tom Thumb Restaurant and showed it to the workers there. No one in the dining area remembered seeing her. But, it seems that one of the line cooks stepped out through the back door that leads into an alley. While he was standing there smoking a fag (cigarette) he looked out towards the street. He remembered seeing the suspect talking to some bloke on the sidewalk.”

 

“And, that someone is the woman we want and the one that was with Alford Bennett,” Basham replied.

“I think so.”

“So now I expect that you will have this composite displayed in the newspapers asking for anyone that knows her to contact you,” said Basham.

“Normally, that would be the procedure. However, as you know, she's operating in East London. Right now my opinion is that the drawing displayed in the press would make her bolt and run. I want to keep looking for her in the east end.”

“I see. Not the way I would do it, but it's your case.

If it is at all possible I would like a copy of this drawing. One never knows where it might take us. I myself have been working on the theory of the suspects mental state. I must admit however, that there are times when I feel that I should dwell on something else."

"No problem professor. Like you said, the composite should be in the newspapers and I'm sure it will. That will occur when the Superintendent orders it to be done. I'll object of course and our suspect will run. So, if the entire city of London will eventually have a newsprint copy of the drawing then I see no reason why you shouldn't have one first."

**************

On Sunday, May 4, 1941, Clyde Dixon sat at his kitchen table smoking a cigar and once in awhile taking sips of tea from a cracked cup. As he did he read the “Daily Mail”, one of London's newspapers. First, he read about the desert campaign and how the English army was winning battles against the Germans in Libya. When he turned the page a picture caught his eye and the caption, “Bltiz Bitch Killer Of the Underground. He looked at the drawing, read the article again and went back to studying the printed depiction and said aloud , “Oh my, oh, my, what have we here? Could it be that Little Miss Prim and Proper is actually not what she pretends to be? Well, we'll just see how cooperative she'll be now when I show her this.” Dixon got up out of his chair and went to the cupboard drawer when he picked up a pair of scissors.

Darby's Ale House served meals from ten o'clock in the morning until six in the evening. Each operating day Betty Darby would take a list of what was needed for the days menu from Clyde the cook and go shopping. While she was away the cook and Mildred would prepare vegetables. Mildred sat peeling potatoes.

Clyde walked up beside her and asked, Tell me, did you read yesterday's newspapers?”

She looked up at him and said, “No, I don't bother myself with the news.”

“Ah, that's too bad. You see, if you had you would have seen this”, he said showing her the newspaper's print of the police composite drawing.

Mildred broke out in a cold sweat. “They're on to me now. If the catch me they'll send me back to the hospital. There will be more pills, needles, time strapped into a bath tub and then the electric shocks,” she thought to herself.

“Scared ain't you? I can see the fear written on your pretty face. It's you here in this picture. You know it and I know it. Now, here's what I'm offering ducky. There's just you and me here. Suppose we meander into the pantry back there and you show a little appreciation for me not calling the coppers on you.”

Mildred got up slowly from the chair.

“That's it Missy. I thought you'd reconsider being with old Clyde when we got down to brass tacks. Now, just follow me. I made it nice and comfy for us in the pantry'

Dixon turned and began walking. Then he stopped. He turned slowly looking at her. He wanted to speak, but he couldn't. A butcher knife with a ten inch blade was in his back.

“That's right you Blighter (asshole). I told you not to come after me, not to touch me. Now, you're dying and I killed you, you son of a bitch,” she said as Dixon fell to the floor.

She looked at his dead body. Then, the reality that the police knew what she looked like came to her. She had to get away, away from this place. She had to run and after taking off her apron, she left out of the back door of the restaurant.

*************

Inspector Richardson stood in Basham's backyard watching the criminologist feed his chickens. So, you arriving here unannounced to me means you must have some information”, said Basham.

“Oh rather. Our killer has struck again.”

“No.”

“Yes. She killed a cook at a restaurant where she was working. It also appears that she was living in a flat owned by the proprietor of the place called “The Darby Ale House”, in East London.”

“So, she stayed in the same area.”

“Yes, however, this time we found a pot of gold in a valise she had. In a hurry to run she left it with Betty Darby, a woman who took her in and gave her a place to live and food to eat.

According to Miss Darby the victim, one Clyde Dixon, Caucasian male,, age fifty six had been accused by the killer of making inappropriate advances. The woman thought to be responsible for Dixon's death called herself, Mildred Perkins”.

“That gives you a motive at last.”

“In this particular case, yes. However, Miss Darby turned over to us a valise, carried by this Perkins woman. When we opened it we found, one can of sardines, a pair of silk stockings, two rotting apples, a house dress and most interesting, a pair of woman's knickers. We also found her pocketbook, that contained her ration book and get this, a stethoscope.”

“What is so interesting about a pair of knickers?”

“We found, stenciled on the waistband the words, “Haven Manor Hospital”.

“Haven Manor Hospital is an institution for the mentally ill”.

“Yes, we know. At the same time may I say that your hypothesis on the mental condition of the suspect was spot on and has been all along. At the same time it is my understanding that you are familiar with the superintendent of the facility.”

“If you are referring to Reginald Barker then you are correct. We went to school together here in Harrow.”

“Yes, we know. That's why I want you to accompany me when I interview Doctor Barker.”

“For what purpose? We both know that he will evoke the doctor/patient confidentiality clause in the law.”

“Of course, but at the same time you might be able to ascertain some bit of information that will be beneficial.”

When Richardson drove up to the entrance of Haven Manor the first thing Alistair noticed was the visible damage caused by the Luftwaffe bombing. Even the gate house had been hit and what remained was a pile of concrete block. Richardson parked the automobile and both men got out and walked to the entrance of the hospital. Once inside they stopped at the registration desk and after both men had signed the visitors log were asked to take a seat in the lobby and wait to be called.

Fifteen minutes later, Alistair was shaking hands with Doctor Barker. “Well Berty, how have you been?, asked Basham

“How shall I answer, I'm underfunded, understaffed and I have fifty mentally ill patients who have anxiety attacks every night when the German's come. Other than that, just wonderful.”

“Excellent. Allow me to introduce you to Inspector James Richardson of the Metropolitan Police”, said Alistair.

“A pleasure sir. I believe we spoke on the telephone,” said Barker as the two men shook hands.

“Yes sir, we did,” Richardson replied.

“Fine, now what can I do for you?”

“Are you familiar with the murders that have occurred in the underground and other areas of East London, doctor.”

“Some what. I'm afraid that I'm much to busy trying to administer this hospital during this blasted war to pay attention to other things such as that.”

“I see, then I'll come right to the point sir. I want to show you a piece of evidence that we have and it relates to this hospital, said the Inspector.

“That so?”

“Yes sir. For the record can you identify this piece of feminine underwear?”

Barker took the knickers in his hands glanced at it and handed it back to Richardson. “That garment is the type issued to our female patients. May I ask where you got it?”

“As far as we know it belonged to a young woman named Mildred Perkins.”

“Mildred Perkins you say?”

“Yes sir.”

“Can you describe this woman?”

“As far as we know she stands five feet seven inches tall and weighs between one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty pounds. She's a brunet and very attractive. If you'd like, here is a composite drawing our police artist put together.”

Doctor Barker, studied the drawing and handed it back to the detective. “ I will admit sir that the woman in question is quite attractive. However, let me tell you that this is not Mildred Perkins. Mildred Perkins was a nurse here. She was making her rounds when a German bomb hit the hospital. She, some other members of the staff and a few patients were killed that night. Some were blown to bits. I will tell you this. If you want my opinion the woman in the drawing appears to be one, Emily

Watson, a patient we thought was vaporized in the attack. Apparently we were wrong. I looks like she escaped, but believe me, she is not Mildred Perkins, unless she's come back from the dead.”

“Fine Doctor, then what can you tell me about this patient of yours, Emily Watson?”

“Other than the fact that I know she's missing from this hospital, nothing. I'm sure both of you know that my hands are tied with the doctor/patient confidentiality.”

“Berty, I wouldn't insult you by attempting to have you do away with your professional ethics. I know you can't supply us with important information in this case. However, I'm certain that you know someone, someone not tied down by ethics who can talk with us,” said Basham.

“Well since you put it that way, I suggest you talk to a woman known as Edwina Fillmore. I'll give you her address.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

Emily Watson

 

Alistair Basham stood behind Inspector Richardson as the detective knocked on the front door of the house located at 300 Cyprus Street, Bethnal Green, London. Both man waited patiently for someone to open the door. When someone did, Richardson removed his Derby and said, “Good day. I'm Inspector Richardson of the Metropolitan Police and this is Mr. Basham. I hope that you are Eleanor Fillmore.”

“I am and why are you here?” answered the tall thin woman who was seventy five years old with completely, white hair.

“This is a matter of great importance and may I say a case where hopefully you can provide me with some information,”said the detective.

“About what?”

“Emily Watson”.

“Oh her. What's she been up to now?, asked Eleanor.

“Excuse me, but I don't think having our conversation on your front porch is the place to talk.”

“Alright, come in and wipe your feet, both of you.”

Once inside the parlor of the home both men stood, waiting to be told to be seated. When the elderly woman took a seat in a rocking chair she said, “Alright, sit down and tell me what this is all about.”

“ I'd like to start with how you are familiar with Emily Watson”, said Richardson.

“She's my niece, my brothers daughter.”

“I see and can you tell me why she was in Haven Manor?”

“ Certainly, because she's cracker's (insane).

“Could you tell me if she was always that way or was there something that caused her condition?”

“I'll start right at the beginning. When she was ten years old, she accused her father, my brother, of incestuous acts. Naturally, he denied it. My sister in law, Emily's mother refused to believe it and accused Emily of lying. Well, Emily complained constantly that my brother was abusing her. The more she complained the more her mother refused to believe her. Finally, at age sixteen, Emily told her father that if he continued to do what he was doing she would go to the police. Now, I don't know what happened after that, but one day my brother went into his tool shed and hanged himself. Thereafter, Emily's mother blamed her daughter's imagined stories about her father as the cause of his death. During an argument between mother and daughter, Emily became enraged and strangled her mother to death.

Emily was arrested. While in custody she was evaluated and found to be mentally ill. The court ordered her confined to a mental hospital and she was sent to Haven Manor. Now, since the police are interested in her, what has she done?”

“We believe that she is responsible for several murders in East London,” said the Inspector.

“How could that be? She was confined”, said Eleanor.

“During an air raid the hospital was struck by a bomb. We think that in the damage and confusion Emily walked away,” Richardson explained.

“I see. Well, that's about all I can tell you about my niece, poor, pathetic thing. Do you know where she may be?”

“No, we were hoping you might be able to tell us.”

“Sorry, I haven't a clue.”

“Well thank you very much,” said Richardson.

On the drive back to Harrow, Basham asked, “Well. What do you make of what the woman told us?”

“ Right now, I don't know what to think. What's your opinion?, asked the Inspector.

“I must admit that it is intriguing. I'm no psychiatrist, but I see her motive for killing Bennett and Dixon due to recall of the abuse to her by her father. Assuming that both men acted inappropriately of course.'

“And her motive for killing the women?”

“Again and this is purely speculative, I believe that when she comes in contact with certain elderly women, they remind her of her mother. This triggers memories resulting in the urge to kill. I'd even go so far as to say it may be a desire to kill her mother again and again, over and over.”

“Well, you are the authority on the subject of her criminality. I'm responsible now for her capture,” said Richardson.

“How are you going about it now that you know who she is?”

“My theory is that now alone, without funds, ration book, and the false identity of Mildred Perkins, Emily Watson is wandering the streets of East London. That being the case every foot patrolman holding a copy of the composite drawing is on the lookout for her. At the same time I intend to post plainclothes officers at the top and bottom of every tube entrance in the area. Since people are not allowed into the tubes for shelter until four pm, two officers are assigned on the subway platforms in case she wants a ride out.”

“Seems like you got everything covered.”

“I hope so professor. Let me ask you this, why take the identity of Mildred Perkins?”

Probably because there was a friendly connection between the two. Mildred Perkins was the nurse assigned to that particular ward where Emily lived. The night of the bombing by chance Emily went to the nurse's office and found her dead. She took Mildreds coat, pocketbook and shoes, then left through the hole in the wall. Keep in mind that this is only my theory”.

“Well it's as good as any. I wonder where she got clothing to wear?”

“Any bombed out boutique or possible from someone's clothesline.”

***************

Emily Watson took her time walking on the sidewalk. From time to time she would stop and turn around, looking to see if anyone was following her. If and when she saw a uniformed bobby she would cross to the other side of the street. She was becoming tired, thirsty and hungry, but she had no money. Remembering Helen she began looking for charity tents, a place where she could get something to eat, to drink, a place to sit down and rest. If she was lucky she might be offered a bed for the night. Still, there was the problem of the drawing in the newspapers. Someone, anyone, might recognize her as the young woman wanted by the police.

In the middle of the city block Emily saw a woman's Voluntary Service Mobil Canteen. She headed for it. When she got there two women workers looked out of the opening in the side of the vehicle and said, “Are you alright girl? You look a might done in.”

“Actually, I'm quite hungry,” she answered.

“Here now, we mustn't have that. What we have here is for the blokes fighting the fires and pulling people out of the damage, but also anyone down and out because of the blitz. by the looks of you I think we can spare a cup of cocoa to go with your meal. It's Roundtree mind you”.

“That would be wonderful”, said Emily.

“It will be just a minute. Mable dishing it up for you right now.”

After being handed the hot meal of sausage, potatoes and a salad Emily sat on the curb eating it. When she was finished she heard a voice behind her say, “ Now, Miss, we want you to come along with us. We'll make sure you get your medicine, a nice warm bed each night and three meals a day. I might say that it's much more than most get now days.”

Emily turned and saw a uniformed police officer standing with two plainclothes detectives. One of them in a brown suit said, “Now Emily or Mildred if you prefer come along like a nice girl. We won't want any trouble out here on the street and in public.”

“No! You want to send me back, back to that place where they torture me. You don't know what it's like being stuck with needles or being electrocuted while people stand around watching. I've done nothing wrong here. I'm no street walking tart.”

***********

 

Inspector James Richardson stood looking through a small, thick, plate glass window mounted in the door of the holding cell at the Fleet Street Station. He watched Emily Watson seated on the black, leather covered mattress on top of the small bed in the room. As he watched he noticed that she was talking, but couldn't hear what she was saying. Turning to the uniformed turnkey he said, “Alright open it up.”

When the cell door opened Emily turned her head at the sound, then stood up as Richardson entered the room. “Who are you?”, she asked.

Richardson told her who he was and told her that he wanted to talk to her.

“What about?”, she asked.

“Well, I'd like to start with asking you if you know an elderly woman, named Henrietta Camp?”

“No, never heard of her,” said Emily.

“Alright, do you know a man named Alford Bennett?”

“I know that he's a bad bloke, an abuser he is.”

“Do you remember hurting him?”

Emily didn't answer. Instead she looked up at the ceiling.

“Do you remember working in a library recently? A library located near Victoria Station?,” asked Richardson.

“Why would I be in a library? I'm much to busy to take time out of my schedule to be in a library.”

“Busy doing what?”

“I'm a social worker. I attend to the elderly in times like this. I make sure that they are safe and healthy.”

“Oh, that's nice. Can you tell me just how many people you have helped?”

Oh, I don't know. Three or four. I'd have help a lot more if the police hadn't picked me up and brought me here.”

“I'm sure you would have. Now, what can you tell me about Clyde Dixon?”

“He's an evil, evil, man.”

“Then I take it you don't like him.”

“I'll tell you this, I'd like to see him dead.”

“Do you remember hurting Mr. Dixon?”

“Did I?”

“Yes, mighty bad, I'd say.”

“Good.”

“Let's return to your work as a social worker. You said that you made sure that the elderly that you worked with were safe and healthy. How did you go about it?”

“I'd take their blood pressure and once I was done I made sure that they would go to another place, a place where they would be away from the bombs and destruction.”

“I see. Well, thank you Miss Watson.”

“For what?”

“For talking with me.”

“Can I go now? I must go now. I've lost my pocketbook and my stethoscope.”

“Just sit and rest. We'll see that you go where you can see many stethoscopes.”

“Good. Thank you.”

*************

Alistair and Inspector Richardson sat in the kitchen of Basham's home. Speaking to Marjorie Helm, the Inspector said, “I managed to find a jar of honey. One of the officers at the station house has a cousin out in the country side. Evidently the chap raises bees. I thought that you might like to have it”.

“Oh, indeed sir, thank you”, Marjorie replied.

Turning his attention back to Alistair, Richardson said, “So, that winds up the case involving Mildred Perkins, also known as Emily Watson and the Subway Murders”.

“And what happens to her now?”, asked Basham.

“She'll probably spend the rest of her life in hospital.”

“That's a pity. In all probability it means electric shock treatments from time to time. I'm sure that can't be a pleasant experience. Where is she now?”

“A place called Denbigh Mental Hospital or asylum if you prefer. The government, when possible are evacuating the mentally ill confined in hospitals out of reach of the air raids. Emily Watson is now in Wales.”

“I see. And what will you do now, Inspector?”

“I've read your books professor. In one of them you mention how crime increases during war. I'm sure someone will find something for me to do. What will you be doing?”

“I'll wait and see if the Army sends me another detachment of Royal Military Police for training. If not, I'll start another book in an attempt to gain my PhD. As a matter of fact I'll probably use this case of yours as an example of criminality and the mental state. Now that I think of it, that would probably be the title.”

“Sounds perfect. I'll be sure to read it.”

“I'll send you a copy if and when it's published.”

“Well, time to say cheerio and all that rot. Thanks again for what you did to help me in my investigation.”

“Actually, in my way of thinking, I did very little.”

“We've been over this before. I'm sure you'll be receiving a letter from the Superintendent of the Metropolitan Police, “ said Richardson as he stood shaking hands with Basham.

After the Inspector left, Alistair tok a seat at his desk and jotted down, Criminality And The Mental State. “That takes care of the title page, not much, but it's a start”, he thought to himself.

He was just about to rise up out of the desk chair when Marjorie entered the room. “When you're not busy I'd like you to kill one of the chickens, unless you'd like American Spam again for dinner,” she said.

“Are you sure? I shan't kill a rooster and the hens are all laying eggs. I will agree however, that the idea of Spam again is very unappetizing. You brought home a wedge of cheddar from the market this morning. May I suggest, a cheese omelet?”

“I purchased the cheese for another dish later in the week but if an omelet is what you want, and omelet is what you'll get.”

“Thank you.”

“Let's just hope that we can dine in peace this evening and the Luftwaffe stays home,” Marjorie replied.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Ten

1947

 

On a Wednesday afternoon May 7, 1947 Alistair Basham entered the bar and lounge of the Hotel Royale, located in Hyde Park, London. He ordered a sherry and while waiting for the attendant to bring it to him took a seat in one of the comfortable, large leather chairs. As he sat waiting he looked about the room taking in the rich decor, the white ceiling and bright, shiny brass fixtures and chandeliers. Then, unexpectedly he heard someone call his name. “Basham? Is that you old boy?” Turning his head he recognized Reginald Barker.

“Berty? Good heavens man it's been a long while. How have you been?”, asked Alistair.”

“Busy my friend. I understand you go by Doctor Basham now days,” Barker replied as he took a seat in the chair next to Basham.

“Yes, they finally approved my last thesis.”

“Ah yes, “Criminality And The Mental State”, I believe. I read it.”

“What did you think of it may I ask?”

“Let's just say I'm not a criminologist and you're not a doctor of psychiatry?”

Basham laughed. Good enough, but for you information I wrote that book based on the Emily Watson case.”

“Is that right? I will say that Miss Watson was a somewhat different and most of the time a difficult patient”, Barker replied.

“I can imagine. However, being abused by her father constantly probably had much to do with her actions in later life.”

“Where did you get the idea that she was abused by her father?”

“From her aunt, a Miss or Mrs. Fillmore. You gave me her name and address if you recall.”

 

 

“Ah yes, so I did. Nonetheless, let me assure you that when Emily Watson was first admitted as a patient at Haven Manor a physical and examination was performed on her just like any patient. I can assure you that at the time of admission, Emil was examined and there was no sign of sexula abuse.”

“But the Fillmore woman stated positively that her brother, Emily's father committed suicide because Emily was going to report him to the police.”

“Let me stop you right here old boy. The only reason I'm telling you these things is because the Watson woman is still in Wales and is no longer my patient. That and the fact that the woman is a mad as the hatter and will never be convicted of homicide”.

“Then there was no incestuous acts committed?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Then if not the father, who?”

“Who else remains?”

“No. Not the mother?”

“I'm afraid so my friend.”

“Actually what happened is when Emily was ten years old her mother began abusing her. The little girl was scared and most likely confused. About a year later as the acts continued she spoke to her father and asked for his help. He refused to believe her. Finally, at about the time Emily was sixteen the father came home early one day and caught his wife in the act. The shock of what he observed that day shattered him. As a result, unable to deal with what he considered a tragedy in his life and the fact that he refused to beleive hs daughter in her time of need,he committed suicide.”

“But didn't Emily kill her mother?”

“Yes, she did. Even after the death of her husband the abuse was attempted. Finally, Emily snapped. One day she took her mother by the throat and strangled her to death.”

“I see, but why did she kill all the others, both men and women?”

“Once again if you believe in Sigman Freud's theory, that psychosis is caused by latent sexual issues in a person Psyche, then I would say in the instances where she killed male individuals it was because they were attempting to seduce her. That brought on mental recall of the abuse she suffered at home. With the women, who knows? Did they remind her of her own mother, someone she wanted to kill. Possibly, and we'll never know, possibly their appearance or actions towards her brought on the urge to kill them.”

“Anything else?”

“Isn't that enough? No, I have nothing else to tell you other than the fact that the entire Watson family had mental issues. Oh there is one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“Emily Watson is a pathological liar. Well, old chap, I must be going. It was good seeing you again. Take care and although somewhat late allow me to congratulate you on obtaining your PhD.”

“Good seeing you again Berty. Take care.”

Alistair took a seat n the chair again and a few minutes later the waiter arrived. “Your sherry sir,” said the attendant.

“Ah excellent. Thank you my good man. You have no idea of how much I need this.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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