Five Dead Canaries by Edward Marston Page A

the Golden Goose. When his visitor called, Liddle was feeding two rabbits who were scrabbling about in their hutch. He opened the side door of the yard and called up the entry that ran between the houses.
    ‘Who is it? I’m down here!’
    Marmion peered down the entry. ‘Mr Liddle?’
    ‘That’s me,’ said the other, grinning broadly.
    He was a short man with a compact frame. Though still young, he was totally bald. He had large protruding eyes with the gleam of innocence in them. Beneath his snub nose was a pencil-thin moustache that looked like a supplementary eyebrow. On a chill morning, Liddle wore nothing more than a collarless shirt, a pair of crumpled trousers and some dog-eared slippers.
    ‘I was just feeding Mild and Bitter,’ he said. ‘They’re my rabbits. When people go to the pub, they ask for mild or bitter. I like both, see? So that’s what I named them.’ He gave himself a congratulatory giggle. ‘Clever, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes, Mr Liddle.’
    Marmion introduced himself and explained why he was there. The grin never left Liddle’s face. He invited his visitor into the house and took him to the living room, a small, cluttered space with hideous green wallpaper and an abiding smell of boiled cabbage. Royston Liddle had to move a pile of clothing off the settee so that Marmion could sit down. Perched on an upright chair, he nodded away.
    ‘Mummy isn’t here at the moment,’ he explained. ‘She works in the shop.’
    ‘Actually, it’s about
your
job that I came, Mr Liddle.’
    ‘Everyone calls me Royston.’
    ‘So I gather.’
    ‘Which job do you mean, Inspector? I’ve got five altogether.’
    He chuckled as if it was some sort of record. It transpired that he worked part-time at two pubs other than the Golden Goose. He also helped to deliver milk every morning and did two afternoons at a furniture warehouse. Liddle was anxious to display his full range of abilities.
    ‘Mummy cleans the big house on Wednesdays,’ he said, ‘and I sometimes help her, though of course, I don’t get paid for that.’
    Marmion could see that the landlord had got the man’s measure. Royston Liddle was a willing simpleton. His glaring lack of intelligence was balanced by a burning desire to please, in whatever mundane station in life. Jobs that others might view as beneath them constituted a legitimate career in his view. When Marmion talked about the explosion at the Golden Goose, Liddle expressed shock and outrage but his grin nevertheless remained intact.
    ‘Where were you at the time?’ asked Marmion.
    ‘I was down the cellar of the Black Dog,’ said Liddle. ‘I was moving a barrel when the explosion went off. I heard it clearly even though I was five streets away.’
    ‘Mr Hubbard said that you did some work earlier for him.’
    ‘That’s right. I had to sweep the floor of the outhouse and put up that table. There was a birthday party there.’
    ‘And you did that when the pub was closed, I understand.’
    ‘Yes, Inspector.’
    ‘Did you lock up after you?’
    ‘Oh, yes, I have to or Mr Hubbard gets angry.’
    ‘Did you notice anything unusual when you went to the outhouse?’
    Liddle was baffled. ‘Unusual?’ he echoed.
    ‘Was there anything out of place?’
    ‘No, Inspector, there was just the usual pile of crates. I moved them out of the way so that the girls had some room. Oh, and I used the brush to get rid of the spiders in the roof beams. I know that some people are scared of them.’ He thrust out his chest. ‘I’m not. I like spiders.’
    ‘Tell me about the key to the outhouse.’
    ‘It hangs on a hook in the corridor.’
    ‘I know that. Has it ever gone missing recently?’
    Liddle became furtive. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
    ‘Well,’ said Marmion, ‘from what I hear, it would have been easy for any of the customers to take that key and let themselves into the outhouse. Is that true?’
    ‘I suppose it is.’
    ‘Mr Hubbard confirmed it.’
    ‘Then it could