A Different Kind of Summer Read online

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  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment, and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

  We publish in ebook and print-on-demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

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  Contents

  Jennie Melville

  Foreword

  THE BLACK DAGGER CRIME SERIES

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Jennie Melville

  A Different Kind of Summer

  Jennie Melville, a pseudonym for Gwendoline Butler, was born and brought up in south London, and was one of the most universally praised of English mystery authors. She wrote over fifty novels under both names. Educated at Haberdashers, she read history at Oxford, and later married Dr Lionel Butler, Principal of Royal Holloway College. She had one daughter, who survives her.

  Gwendoline Butler’s crime novels are hugely popular in both Britain and the United States, and her many awards included the Crime Writers’ Association’s Silver Dagger. She was also selected as being one of the top two hundred crime writers in the world by The Times.

  YOU DON’T NEED an empty house at midnight, or a deserted moor to conjure up terror from an unseen source. The Bible refers to the arrow that flieth by night and the pestilence that walketh by noonday, and that great dramatic critic and author, James Agate, recounted his reading The Innocents in a deckchair on a crowded sunny beach and having to run away in sheer terror—and terror can increase like an invisible miasma in a city street or country lane. A Different Kind of Summer possesses that terror as it grips the characters of Deerham Hills, a not unfamiliar district north of London, in the Home Counties.

  Jennie Melville wrote this Charmian Daniels story in 1967, and in these early books Charmian is a sergeant; in later volumes she has risen to Chief Superintendent and moves to the Windsor area, where her creator lives. An American authority has claimed that these books are the first women’s police procedurals to be written, as we watch Charmian working her way through several cases simultaneously, as happens in real life. Miss Melville, one of our most versatile crime writers with more than fifty books to her credit, got the idea for this present series when she was living in a Scottish town and noticed a tawny-haired policewoman on duty. Her heroine’s name was taken from her own grandmother.

  Each summer is different for the police and for Charmian. In the year covered by A Different Kind of Summer, a body is delivered to the Path Lab of Deerham Hills Hospital. Not an unusual occurrence, but this woman is headless and unidentified. Which of the many missing women—or of the increasing number of young girls vanishing to London—will it prove to be? Or is there another missing, of whom nothing is known?

  A hysterical young girl trouble-maker who claims she has lost her sister, a vindictive teenager, a worried station master, an au pair girl, the man visiting an isolated field, the husband vengefully seeking his missing wife, the unhappy industrialist—all these characters are shaken like those glass domes containing snow scenes or shuffled and dealt like a pack of cards, as the fear increases and the terror envelops the country town. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, does Charmian receive menacing telephone calls as she strives to maintain the necessary objective outlook on the case before her.

  In a comment on the cover of the original publication, Miss Melville said that she was interested in people committing crimes ‘and why some people seem destined to be victims’. It is now accepted that some people, often women, form the victim syndrome, in that malefactors sense unerringly that they are afraid, and this is possibly why policewomen acting as decoys frequently fail to lure attackers, as their sense of confidence is too obvious.

  The authoress has a keen sense of rhythm, a good ear for dialogue, and an ability to create strong characters. She can increase the terror by means of her very vivid imagination, and with the aid of missing limbs and blood compose a very Grimm Fairy Story! It is this imagination (which shows no sign of weariness) combined with her strictly credible ideas and plots, which has helped maintain her high output, both in terms of quality and quantity.

  Miss Melville read History at University, taught it, and is an experienced historical researcher, which has proved invaluable in her writing. Unlike some writers of police procedural, which became popular in the 1960s, she also checks her details with the police for accuracy. A lecturer on the craft of the crime writer, she has been heard to comment that writing is a lonely trade, but that crime writers are both entertainers and a kind of physician to the reading public. Certainly the cathartic effect on her literary characters does not leave her many readers unscathed—and rightly, as they perhaps ponder that ‘There but for the Grace of God, go I’.

  JOHN KENNEDY MELLING

  John Kennedy Melling, editor of the Black Dagger series, is a contributor to English and American police journals, has visited many European police forces, and often looks after American police officers visiting London.

  The Black Dagger Crime series is a result of a joint effort between Chivers Press and a sub-committee of the Crime Writers’ Association, consisting of Marian Babson, Peter Chambers and chaired by John Kennedy Melling. It is designed to select outstanding examples of every type of detective story, so that enthusiasts will have the opportunity to read once more classics that have been scarce for years, while at the same time introducing them to a new generation who have not previously had the chance to enjoy them.

  Chapter One

  Every season in Deerham Hills seemed to bring with it its own peculiar problems for the police. Last year it had been a plague of Peeping Toms, the years before fire-raisers. This season it was missing girls. Not little baby missing girls, quite big missing girls, but not too big to be ignored by the police. There was one thing about it: this was going to be a different kind of summer.

  A police conference was in session, headed by Chief Inspector John Pratt and attended by Sergeant Charmian Daniels. It was going to be a different kind of summer for her too. Things were changing Charmian’s life.

  The session was drawing to a close. Pratt was speaking.

  “Five girls since Easter. Ages between fourteen and seventeen and all from the same sort of home and background. Even the same district! Abbot’s End. It would be Abbot’s End, of course.’’ Abbot’s End was the large, sprawling, lower-income area of Deerham Hills. “It’s infectious. To a certain extent they influence each other. But this is out of line.’’ He looked worried. “ There’s a common source for this infection. I wish I could discover what it was.’’

  He sighed “It’s going to be a sweet season, I can tell.’’

  Charmian looked sympathetic.

  “And you know what?’’ Pratt gave the smile which changed his face. “ This won’t be the only thing on our plate. We’ll get something else too.’’

  The coffin travelled from Midport, where a woman was missing from her home, to Starbridge. At Starbridge it rested on the platform for some hours. This gave no offence: it was decently sewn into sacking and labelled Urgent. From its weight it was not empty. It was travelling alone with its destination clearly stat
ed and the words “ Via Farley Junction’’ written in large letters. At Starbridge a worried porter consulted his loading list for the train to Farley Junction and found no mention of the box, but under the influence of the Urgent and the unmistakable shape he loaded it into the next train for Farley Junction. The coffin changed trains again at the Junction, again without any trouble, and finally came into Deerham Hills Section, which was its destination. At Deerham Hills it was placed on the platform to await collection.

  It waited. And waited.

  “Deerham Hills Hospital: Pathology Department,’’ said the station-master, leaning forward to read the label. He tapped his spectacles with his pencil as he often did when in doubt. “Let ’em come and fetch it then.’’

  It was a warm spring evening, and he could think of all sorts of reasons why he would prefer his unconscious visitor to move on (although he found it difficult to think of that box as containing a person). He stood considering it. The station had handled such boxes before, but then they were known to be pathological specimens, carefully prepared and preserved, hardly counting as proper humanity. You knew it was all for a scientific study and it was all right. True, once or twice before they had had a recently dead person, but then it had been accompanied by an attendant. There again, you knew it was all for some medical or scientific purpose and you felt safe. This box was all on its own. He didn’t like it.

  “You know anything about this, John?’’ he said to his friend John Customer, who was sitting quietly reading the evening paper and waiting. The station was deserted except for these two. (There were no more trains that night at Deerham Hills.)

  “Not a thing.’’ John Customer did not even raise his eyes from the paper. Most evenings he visited Willie Burton at the station and then drove him home. He was there often enough during the day, too, attending to his business. John Customer Ltd. was Deerham Hills’ most prosperous transporting and goods delivery service, and claimed it could deliver anything from an elephant to a match box. John had built it up himself, starting out as an errand boy on a bike. He had flourished along with his home town. Deerham Hills was a growing town some miles south of London. A small river circled the hill which was still crested with trees, although the deer had long since gone from what had been a favourite hunting ground of the Angevin Kings of England. Now the main animal inhabitants of the wood were pigeons and a decadent and greedy tribe of red squirrels. Deerham Hills was a town with good new schools, a college for further education, and a fine new hospital. It was prosperous and knew the right things to go for in life. The households which already had two cars were working towards a yacht, those which had only one car were building the garage for the second, and those which had no car were saving for a holiday on the Costa Brava.

  “Not a thing, no,’’ repeated John Customer, at last raising his eyes from the newspaper.

  “You do a lot of work for the hospital.’’

  “Not this, though.’’ He was a much richer man than the station-master, but they had lived next door as boys, been friends at school and always kept up with each other. “ Ring ’em up.’’ There was a sharp edge to their friendship, though, had been all these years. John Customer didn’t want to show off but sometimes he had to and Willie Burton was the one he had to show off to. Willie Burton knew this and just occasionally let it be known that he knew why.

  “I’ll do that.’’ Willie Burton stood by the telephone and tapped his spectacles while he waited for the Deerham Hills exchange (which was not automatic) to take its time about getting his number.

  “Why don’t you get fitted with contact lenses?’’ called out John irritably. He had good sight himself.

  “I’d still tap ’em and it’d cost more when I lost them. Hello? That the hospital?’’ But he knew it was the hospital from the characteristic little giggle the switchboard girl (over forty, and never pretty, but still a girl in that family where the great-grandmother was alive yet and did her own baking) gave as she spoke. “Pathology Department, please.’’

  “Ask for Charlie,’’ said John Customer, going back behind his paper again.

  “Hello? Charlie? This is the station. No, the railway station. Look, I’ve got a body down here for you.’’

  “Not for us,’’ said Charlie promptly.

  “It says so on the label—Deerham Hills Hospital.’’

  “It’s not for us. Had no orders. I always get told,’’ said Charlie. He was the porter and general handyman to the Pathology Department, which had need of rather specialised services.

  “Obstinate old devil,’’ said John Customer.

  “They forgot to tell you.’’ Willie was patient. “ Why don’t you come down and collect it.’’

  “Can’t do that. Not without orders.’’

  “Well, get orders, then,’’ said Willie, losing his patience.

  “It’s not for us,’’ persisted Charlie, who, when he had a point, stuck to it. “I’d have been told.’’

  “I can’t go home and leave it all night.’’ Willie could see the box from his window where it rested quietly on the ground. Suddenly the form inside it was very real to him. “It’s not decent.’’

  But Charlie was already gone. A body more or less meant nothing to him. He was neither happy nor unhappy in his job but bore it all with an unimpaired appetite. An army psychologist had once reported of him that he was ‘exceptionally equable’.

  “Get the police,’’ advised John Customer.

  “No.’’ William Burton had his own way of doing things, and a flustered call to the police was not one of them. He liked to think things over.

  “I’ll take it up to the hospital for you then. I’ve got the van here.’’

  “No. We can’t do that either.’’ He considered. “ Let’s go out and have a look at it.’’

  The two men walked out to the platform and inspected the box. The sacking around it was clean but it bore clear signs of having been used at least once before. The label bearing the address was stuck on to the board topside of the box. The address itself had been written in thick black crayon. There were heavy pressure marks as if the writer had been anxious.

  “It does say urgent,’’ pointed out John Customer.

  “We can’t just shove it into the back of your van and cart it up to the hospital. It wouldn’t be right.’’ William could be obstinate too. “No, I’ll tell you what we’ll do—we’ll carry it carefully’’ (he just avoided using the word ‘ reverently‘) “into my office and leave it there for the night.’’

  “If that’s what you want.’’ Customer looked at his friend doubtfully.

  “It’s not what I want, it’s what I’m going to do,’’ said Willie irritably.

  Together they carried the box into William’s office and placed it on the floor. It was not quite as heavy as William had expected.

  He pointed this out to his friend. “But you carried the head, which would be the heavier.’’

  John Customer thought there was a kind of innocent practicality about Willie sometimes which could be very hard on his friends.

  “Don’t talk like that,’’ he said. “Wrap it up a bit more. I want to sleep tonight.’’

  William solemnly tidied the room, took his coat over his arm and then locked the door behind him.

  “Tomorrow I will check my papers and find out the rights of this business, where the box came from and whose responsibility it is,’’ he said.

  “You could do it now.’’

  “Too late. It’d mean telephoning along the line and ten to one the man I want would have gone home.’’

  As they left, John Customer tried the door.

  “I suppose that’s safe? No one could get in?’’

  “It always has been.’’ William was surprised.

  “You’re lucky. They try to get into my place practically once a week.’’

  Watched by his friend, Willie went back and tried the door again. Perhaps it did seem a little loose. He came away shaking his head.


  “But we don’t keep money here, you know. It’s known we don’t keep any money. It’s always money they’re after.’’

  Before getting into his van, John Customer turned to gaze back at the station.

  “What is it now, John?’’ asked Willie. It was getting late and he wanted to go home.

  “It’s only …’’ he hesitated. “It’s ridiculous, I know, but I thought I saw someone hanging about down there.’’

  In his quiet, cosy, overcrowded bedroom, Willie settled himself against his three pillows and looked across at his wife in the other bed. They had had twin beds for three years now and each bed was arranged individually. Willie had an electric blanket underneath him; his wife still preferred two hot-water bottles. Willie had an antique goose-feather quilt inherited from his mother, and his wife, who had complained that goose-feathers made her sneeze, had a new quilt of nylon printed with daffodils. By her bed she had a cup of hot milk and her tray for morning tea; Willie had Winston Churchill’s Second World War and a paper cup filled with water. In the drawer of his bed-table he had a packet of biscuits and some brandy. They could have sat out a siege.

  “And of course we went back and had a look round,’’ he said, “and of course there was nothing there. No one. Not a sign.’’

  “John’s not usually imaginative.’’

  “He was this time.’’ Willie picked up his volume of reading for tonight. He had got as far as 1941, a year which he himself had not appreciated much at the time, since he had been retreating through Greece, but which he was enjoying very much in retrospect. He was a great reader of memoirs and had just finished reading the disgruntled war diary of a member of the former German General Staff. Who could have imagined them all to be having such a bad time of it in 1941? What a pity he hadn‘t known of it at the time, it would have helped his feet a great deal. Thoughtfully, he rubbed one big toe against the other.