Resort to Murder: A must-read vintage crime mystery. TP Fielden

      The gloomy cathedral-like room which dispensed what passed for justice in Temple Regis looked even drearier this morning. It was probably the joyous June light piercing through the unwashed stained-glass windows that did it.

      The Magistrates’ Clerk, Mr Thurlestone, was his usual distant self. He resented the sparkling fabric Miss Dimont wove from the mundane and plodding proceedings over which he presided – almost as if it were another world she was describing!

      Furthermore, the things she chose to write about! A complicated two-day fraud case, through which the Clerk had to guide his somnolent magistrates before telling them what their opinion was of the accused, what should be said to him in summing up, and what his sentence should be – uphill work indeed for Mr Thurlestone – was dismissed in a paragraph or two.

      On the other hand, the matter of the curate cycling without lights! Miss Dimont had made banner headlines out of that, yet all it had been was a minor transgression rewarded with a five-shilling fine. But oh, the fuss she made about it! It made a mockery of the justice handed down by his court.

      Miss Dimont indicated to her junior reporter where he should sit, and wandered over to the Clerk’s bench to collect the charge sheet. It was handed over with Thurlestone’s customary disdain.

      ‘The point about being here,’ Miss Dimont said, returning to the reporters’ bench, ‘is not to be overawed by the weight of the law – that’s what Mr Thurlestone and the magistrates expect from you. And that is precisely what you are not going to give them. ‘They’re just as full of foible and weakness as the people they sit in judgement on. They may never have done a wrong thing in their life, but that doesn’t make them right.’

      Valentine nervously fished out his notebook. It was clear he had mislaid his pencil.

      ‘The only thing that’s right is the law,’ Judy went on, lowering her voice to a whisper as proceedings commenced. ‘And that’s why we’re here, to watch out on behalf of the public. Make sure it’s administered correctly. And report back.’ She handed the young man a spare pencil she’d fished from her corkscrew curls.

      The young reporter had yet to discover there was what might be termed ‘previous’ between his senior and the Clerk. Thurlestone quite often allowed the hangers and floggers who sat behind him on the bench to overprescribe the medication. Some of them had a taste for sweeping all miscreants into jail, especially the knicker snatchers and sheep molesters, and sometimes he felt powerless to resist their lust for retribution. Miss Dimont often had to remind the town, in the Comment page, of their frailty.

      Not this morning, though.

      ‘Oh, look!’ she exclaimed with delight, ‘what have we here?’ She had been reading the charge sheet.

      ‘Call Mrs Phyllis Bickington.’

      A small woman of startling beauty stepped into the dock to confirm her name and to swear that, by God, she would indeed tell the truth.

      ‘Phyllis Ada Bickington, you are charged with assault on your uncle, also described as your husband, Adam Porrit Bickington. How do you plead?’

      ‘Not guilty.’

      ‘Sit down.’

      The events in the Bickingtons’ turbulent domestic life were slowly laid bare. Miss Dimont lay down her pen and watched as Valentine struggled to keep up with what was turning into a ripsnorter of a case. Reuben Bickington had fallen in love with his brother’s daughter, and secretly married her though there was an age gap of nearly thirty years between them. All three lived on a farm hidden in a valley some five miles from Temple Regis, a place where no tourist ever went, and precious few locals dared either.

      As the story slowly unravelled, Valentine’s eyebrows crept up his forehead. The court was told that in the Bickington valley, such marriages were not uncommon – ‘though they do stop short at allowing brother and sister,’ whispered Judy. ‘Mostly.’

      That there was a culture gap between uncle and niece – she had been to school, he had not – became evident early in the proceedings. Certainly there had been disagreements over his unusual treatment of farm animals. But the case ground to a halt when it emerged that Phyllis was covering up for her father, her husband’s brother, who had come round to their cottage and delivered a fraternal thrashing over an aspect of the couple’s personal life which was not allowed to be mentioned verbally but had to be written down.

      This did not please Colonel de Saumarez, the Chairman of the Bench, who was itching to deliver a homily on arcane vices in rural communities before sending the woman away for a well-deserved spell in the cooler. Instead, after consulting Mr Thurlestone, he was obliged to let Mrs Bickington walk free without, he added through gritted teeth, a stain on her character.

      ‘Poor thing,’ said Miss Dimont as she was led away, ‘she can only be seventeen.’

      ‘Doesn’t seem possible,’ said Valentine who, despite his National Service, had evidently led a sheltered life.

      ‘You can write it up,’ said Miss Dimont, picking up her raffia bag. ‘I’m off to Bedlington.’

      ‘Erm …’ said Valentine, hesitantly, ‘can I give you a lift?’

      It took two minutes for Judy Dimont to regret her decision to say yes, for there in the car park was Valentine’s pride and joy, a Heinkel bubble car. It was red. And very prominent.

      ‘I’m afraid there’s no elegant way to step into this,’ said Valentine, energetically throwing open the door which comprised the whole of the front of the vehicle. ‘You basically have to wish for good fortune and throw yourself in.’

      Miss Dimont did as she was told but vowed it was an experiment she would not repeat. As they drove through the town and down Tuppenny Row into adjacent Bedlington-on-Sea, she gave the reporter what he wanted – his intro for the Bickington case.

      ‘We have a place at the end of the newsroom called Curse Corner,’ she then added. ‘Why d’you think it’s called that?’

      ‘No idea. I suppose …’

      ‘People sit there cursing and swearing because they can’t get started. They know how the story should go, but they can never find the first sentence. You had the same problem last night, but you thought it was stage fright.

      ‘Let me tell you, Valentine, it’s a curse which will stay with you the rest of your journalistic career. You can always tell someone else what the intro to their story should be, but you’ll almost never be able to think of one for yourself.’

      The young man swung the wheel. ‘D’you know, I was really looking forward to starting on the Express,’ he replied slowly. ‘I never realised how difficult it would be.’

      ‘Fun though,’ said Judy, ‘sometimes! You can drop me here.’

      While Waterford’s fashionable but feeble conveyance struggled its way back up the hill Miss Dimont turned and made for the Seagull Café where her dearest friend Auriol Hedley held sway, dispensing delicious home-made lemonade and oven-warm rock cakes.

      ‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ was Auriol’s cheery welcome. ‘How was your mother’s visit?’

      ‘Managed to put it off,’ said Judy, who only liked her mother in small doses.

      ‘She sent that letter saying she was coming down on the Pullman.’

      ‘I sent back a telegram.’

      ‘Very naughty. She treasures you.’

      Miss Dimont took off her glasses and polished them. ‘She’s not your mother,’ she replied, wearily. ‘I get a letter a week and I always feel guilty after I’ve read them.’

      ‘You might feel less guilty if you bothered to reply,’