Of Scotland Yardxx-xx-xx xxx Fiction Is Stranger Than Truthaka R

This is Clive Brooke. I've called today's program in this series. Fiction is stranger than truth. Perhaps you may not agree with that statement, and on occasions I may have doubted it. Buckfield? Buckfield's literary exploits for stranger, though perhaps not so gory, as his experience only an amateur, the lady called Mrs. Science, a married woman in the middle 30s,

living with her husband in Brumpton Farm Road, Strewd. Her husband was engaged on night work at one of the busy, munition factories in the neighborhood. The period was the autumn of 1942. On Friday evening, October the 9th, she set out on a visit to her parents' house some distance away.

She left her about half past nine, taking with her her little son, age four, in a push cart. A person never saw her. Here's Mr. Wood.

That's the name of the house. I found a woman lying outside on the road back and wounded. The doctors here, he says, she's dead. Police naturally set themselves a task Confessioning all persons who were or who might have been near Valhalla on the night of the crime after the murder a policeman on duty in the country road near Strewd

Stopped a soldier in uniform. Please officer. I've just come from Oak Street camp. Oh you station there? That's right. Chum. I'm in the canoes. What's your name? Buckfield can a buckfield? Hey, call me Smiler. Yeah, let's have a look at your paybook. I uh I have not got it on me Oh, how long have you been stationed at Oak Street about six months?

What are you doing out here at this time of day? Are you leaving? Uh, no. You're an absentee? Well, I was going back today. Here, I think you better come along with me. Back at the police station, Buckfield told his story, which seemed to be true.