by Evelyn James
“Are you suggesting Henry Kemp did the same? That he needed some control over his life and this room was where he could exert it?” Clara asked.
“I don’t know,” O’Harris admitted, slightly embarrassed that he had said so much now. “It just reminded me. Feels the same.”
Clara looked around the room. There was a starkness to it. No pictures on the walls, no personal belongings, not even a vase of flowers. There was nothing except what needed to be there for practical reasons. You could look upon that in a number of ways; Henry Kemp did not like clutter; Henry Kemp preferred his work space to have no distractions; Henry Kemp had never really settled here and made the space his own.
Captain O’Harris was opening the drawers of the desk.
“As I suspected, neat and precise also.”
Clara looked over his shoulder. The drawers’ contents were arranged by size, shape and function. This drawer contained a diary, fresh paper, a notebook and an unopened box of pencils. The next held an address book and a few invoices that needed attention. The bottom drawer held recent correspondence from various people Kemp dealt with in the course of his work. There were further drawers on the left side of the desk, these contained blank invoice sheets ready for use, reports on the prices of wine and information on competitors, along with a drawer of promotional material that Kemp could dip into whenever he needed, probably during a meeting with a client. Clara picked out a thick piece of paper from one drawer and saw that it was a composite draft for a new advertisement for Noble and Sons. Kemp had been in the process of making adjustments to it, marking it with a red pencil. She replaced it.
“Nothing to say why the man died,” she reflected to O’Harris.
“He seems to have been very organised,” O’Harris agreed. He took out an invoice from a drawer. “Will you look at this? Dated 1920. I hadn’t realised I never paid my last bill.”
O’Harris handed the invoice to Clara and she saw that it bore his address and name. A client number for the use of Noble and Sons was prominently displayed in a corner. Henry Kemp had made a note on the top – ‘who is handling the estate?’ The invoice had been drawn up just before O’Harris’ fateful final plane flight, when he crashed into the ocean and was missing for over a year. No one knew what had happened to him and, legally, he could not be declared dead in his absence until had he been missing for seven years. Noble and Sons were stuck, the invoice unpaid because O’Harris’ estate was in limbo until such a time as he was declared dead by a court.
Which had not happened, because O’Harris had returned.
“I ought to pay that,” O’Harris nodded to the invoice.
“Not right now,” Clara laughed at him.
“Well, no,” O’Harris laughed back. “But at some point.”
The office was not proving to be the treasure trove of information Clara had hoped for. If Simon Noble had a motive for killing Kemp, it seemed most likely it was related to the business; they had no real personal relationship after all. Yet there was no evidence, as far as Clara could see, of any problems with Kemp’s work. He seemed efficient and organised, though it would take a thorough examine of every file and invoice to truly rule out financial mismanagement or neglect. Henry Kemp would have been smart enough to mask any such behaviour from a casual observer.
There was a knock on the door of the office. Clara had left it open when they entered. An older man now poked his head around and looked in.
“Hello,” Clara said politely.
The man stepped through the doorway. He was short with a nearly bald head, just wisps of white, cotton-like hair above his ears. He wore round spectacles with gold frames and a grey suit. He approached Clara and held out a hand.
“Mr Manfold,” he said.
Clara shook his hand and then O’Harris came around the desk and shook it too.
“I am assistant manager here,” Mr Manfold explained. “I have just been informed of the dreadful incidents of last night. I can barely believe it.”
Mr Manfold clutched his hands together in an effort to mask that they were trembling.
“How long have you worked at the firm?” Clara asked him.
“Nearly thirty years,” Manfold said. “I started in the warehouses and worked my way up. I became first a clerk in the office and then an assistant manager just as the war began.”
“You’ve known Henry Kemp a long time, then?”
“All the time he has been here,” Manfold agreed. “Assistant manager is really the limit of my progress. I can’t go higher. The Nobles like people with a good foundation in maths. They have to have been to university for that.”
Mr Manfold said all this with complete honesty and not even a hint of hurt or sarcasm. He was one of life’s unassuming souls, who was grateful for every advantage attained, but not expecting of anything more. Clara was not sure whether to feel sorry for him or to admire his calm acceptance of a situation he could not change. Perhaps she might feel both?
“Have you noticed any problems with Henry Kemp recently?” Clara asked Manfold.
He ducked his head and a slight flush came to his cheeks as he lied.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Henry Kemp drank too much, and while he was working,” Clara pointed out. A thought then struck her and she looked around the room again. “Actually, I am surprised I have not come across any bottles of alcohol in his office.”
“Mr Kemp never drank in the office,” Manfold replied, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth continuing to lie. “He had his principals, even in his dissolution.”
“Why did he drink?” O’Harris asked. “Most alcoholics have some sort of reason for regularly reducing themselves to oblivion. Was he depressed?”
“Mr Kemp was difficult to read,” Manfold admitted. “I found him very private and wary of letting anyone know his thoughts. I worked with him nearly every day, yet I really can’t say I knew him. I know more about Mr Brown who mans the front desk than I ever did about Mr Kemp.”
“What about his relationship with the Nobles?” Clara asked.
Manfold looked worried, rather as if he had been asked to steal something from Arthur Noble’s pocket. Clara guessed he was a man whose loyalty to his employer was largely based on his fear of losing his position.
“I shall not let them know you spoke to me,” she promised him.
Manfold’s face still bore the expression of a man who has just been told he has been condemned to hang in the morning.
“Arthur Noble has always been very supportive of me,” he said, the words somewhat forced.
Clara doubted that statement.
“Did Arthur Noble come to this office often?”
“No. Maybe twice a week,” Manfold admitted. “I rarely met with him. He always came to see Mr Kemp or to take part in a board meeting.”
“What about Simon Noble?”
“He comes with his father,” Manfold nodded.
“Have you ever noticed him arguing with Henry Kemp?”
Manfold’s mouth dropped open. Clara might as well have asked him if the king liked to pop in for tea. He seemed more astonished by the question than anything.
“I have never heard a raised voice between Mr Kemp and the Nobles,” he insisted.
Clara was disappointed. No one seemed to know of any reason that Simon Noble should wish Henry Kemp harm. It was proving very frustrating.
“When did you last see Mr Kemp?”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Mr Manfold replied. “I was supposed to have the day off, but he asked me in as he had some issues with a couple of invoices.”
“What sort of issues?” Clara asked.
“Oh, it was just a misunderstanding, really,” Mr Manfold said quickly.
Clara felt his excuse was too hastily declared.
“Tell me about this misunderstanding,” Clara persisted.
Mr Manfold hesitated and he clutched his hands together harder. He glanced briefly at the open door, acting as if he was regretti
ng coming into the office. Finally, with Clara staring at him hard, he found he had to speak.
“A couple of clients had been accidentally invoiced twice,” Mr Manfold explained. “One complained, the other unwittingly paid the surplus invoice before they realised. Clients can get very angry about such mishaps.”
Clara could well imagine. The sort of people who used Noble and Sons were cut very much in the cloth of the company’s owners. They had money and they had power, they liked to hold onto the former and exert the latter.
“Mr Kemp had received a very unpleasant phone call from the gentleman who had paid twice for the same order. I do not know the details, but I believe it was rather upsetting and rude,” Mr Manfold blushed even deeper as he confessed this about one of the company’s customers. “Mr Kemp was upset and wanted to know how the error had happened. He summoned me and was almost in a fury when I arrived.”
Mr Manfold seemed to tremble again at the memory.
“Mr Kemp very rarely loses his temper, but when he does…” Manfold licked his lips nervously. “We resolved it all, of course. It was just a mistake. Mr Kemp had asked me to complete the invoices and send them out during our busy season over Christmas. Normally he tracks all the invoices and checks each one before it is sent, but during the festivities time gets very tight. I did the invoices as asked, but Mr Kemp forgot he had told me to send them off immediately and wrote out his own. It was just a clerical error.”
Clara felt that Mr Manfold was holding a lot back. A clerical error, maybe, but had it been made while Kemp was deep in drink? If that was the case, was it the first sign that Kemp’s drinking was starting to interfere with his work?
“Mr Kemp was rather concerned that one of the clients might be at the same New Year’s party yesterday as him,” Manfold continued. “I noticed he had a glass of whisky on his desk, which was most unusual.”
“Henry Kemp did not handle customer complaints well?” Clara surmised.
Manfold looked wary of the question, like it might be a trick. Slowly he responded.
“Mr Kemp hated people criticising him or feeling that he had done something wrong. He was upset yesterday. When he realised the situation was his own fault, I think it made him feel worse. He apologised to me and then said I could go,” Manfold’s gaze moved to the desk in the middle of the room. “An accidental extra invoice is no reason to kill a man, is it?”
“No,” Clara agreed.
“I am so sorry for Mr Kemp,” Manfold was rubbing his hands together now in his distress. “I thought a lot of him. He was a very good manager.”
“Except for the drinking,” O’Harris prodded him. “People keep telling us how wonderful Kemp was, which is all very well, but it does not tell us why anyone would want to kill him. I rather feel people are being altogether too nice.”
Mr Manfold took a shaky breath.
“Mr Kemp was very good at this job,” Manfold insisted. “He had his demons. What they were I cannot say, he never discussed them, but they were there nonetheless. They were what made him drink. They were destroying him slowly.”
Manfold deliberately took a pace back from Clara.
“I have to returned to my work,” he said. “I am sorry I could be of no real help.”
He scuttled away. Captain O’Harris gave a snort after he was gone.
“No one has a bad word to say about Kemp!”
“There has to be something,” Clara replied. “Only, it is not in this office. I think we need to pay a call on his parents. The man downstairs should be able to tell us where to find them. They deserve to know what happened to their son.”
O’Harris had no quarrel with that. They left Kemp’s immaculate office, feeling no further forward. Kemp kept his secrets close. Even so, something had happened between him and Simon Noble. Something that had resulted in a very deadly series of events.
Chapter Twenty-One
Henry Kemp’s parents lived in Hove. It therefore made logical sense to visit them first, before Clara headed for home and the opportunity to deposit her luggage and change her clothes. She did, however, ask the young man at the desk downstairs if she might use the company telephone first. There was a telephone exchange in a small room behind his desk. Clara had noticed the door as they came downstairs. Many of the lines were internal and, during a normal working day, a girl would be stationed in the room to connect calls. Currently she was not around, the offices operating with so few people that day that it was unlikely anyone would need to use the telephone.
There was an outside line for the telephones as well as an internal one. Customers and suppliers could all communicate with Noble and Sons via the telephone wires and from the comfort of their own offices. A number of Clara’s neighbours would have found this astonishing, even though the telephone was not precisely new. But to have one in your own home was still a novelty for many. Clara was one of the few exceptions; her work meant a phone line directly to her house was essential.
“It will only be a quick call, to let my housekeeper know why I have not returned home yet,” Clara patiently explained to the man, who was looking deeply reluctant to comply.
She didn’t add that Annie, her friend and housekeeper, would become very anxious about her wellbeing if she did not arrive home when expected. Especially if she learned police had been called to the Mary Jane. Gossip like that spread swiftly through a town and Annie always seemed to be well-connected to the gossip grapevine.
“It is not for the use of the public,” the young man said at last, his face illustrating his uncertainty.
“Then, perhaps you can make the call? All I need you to do is pass on a message about why I have been delayed,” Clara then began to dictate to him an unnecessarily long and complicated message that he should relay word perfect to Annie.
As she had hoped, panic came over the young man’s face as he was confronted with this epic dialogue which he could not possibly hope to pass on correctly. He hastily interrupted Clara.
“Maybe you best relay it yourself,” he conceded. “No one will know.”
Clara, triumphant but masking her satisfaction, smiled politely.
“How kind.”
She was allowed into the telephone room and the young man made sure the wires were connected to enable outside calls. Then he left her in peace. The phone barely rang before a breathless Annie picked it up.
“Hello!”
“Hello Annie,” Clara said pleasantly.
“Clara! Where are you? Maud Mumford came by and said there were policemen swarming all over the Mary Jane! She saw them when she went to the docks to see if she could get any haddock for supper. No one is being allowed off the ship!”
“Inspector Park-Coombs made an exception for me,” Clara replied. “I am currently in Hove pursuing a matter for him.”
“Oh Clara! Can’t you even go for a night out without stumbling onto a crime?”
“Apparently not,” Clara replied, a little hurt by the suggestion, as if she could not enjoy herself unless someone was being murdered. “Anyway, I thought I best let you know where I am.”
“How did you get to Hove?” Annie asked in amazement.
“Captain O’Harris called for a car,” Clara explained. “His driver brought it over.”
There was a short pause on the line and Clara could almost feel Annie’s grin. She realised suddenly that the knowledge was making her blush. She was relieved Captain O’Harris could not see.
“The captain is still with you?” Annie asked.
“He is assisting me,” Clara agreed, trying to make it sound very bland and practical.
“Assisting?” Annie said with a chuckle. “He really is smitten, isn’t he?”
“Oh Annie!”
“Well? Is he not? A dinner of dancing and celebrating was interrupted by a crime you have somehow got yourself involved in solving, and he is still sticking with you,” Annie sighed happily. “I was wrong about him before. I thought he was reckless and irresponsible. I’ve had time
to change my mind. When you are all done, make sure you bring him home for dinner.”
“I will,” Clara smiled. “And Happy New Year to you and Tommy. Did you have a good evening?”
“Tommy insisted we stay up until midnight,” Annie gave a small huff. She deemed eleven o’clock a little late for bed, midnight was unthinkable. Her parents had been farmers and she was raised to early nights and early mornings. “Then he fell asleep in the armchair at ten. I had to wake him before the clock chimed.”
Clara laughed.
“As long as you got to wish in the New Year together!”
The embarrassed silence that followed told Clara that it was now Annie’s turn to blush.
“We saw it in just like any other day really,” Annie said, somewhat brusquely. “I’m going to cook a steak and kidney pie for dinner. I’ll make extra for the captain.”
Annie always made far too much, even when they did not have guests, but Clara said nothing.
“That will be lovely,” she responded. “I shall see you later.”
“Yes, and get this thing solved before you do. I always prefer my dinner when you are not mulling over a case. You and Tommy will insist on discussing the details. Nothing worse than having a murder debated over the salt and pepper pots.”
“Sorry Annie,” Clara apologised. “I promise we won’t discuss it, even if I haven’t solved it before tea.”
“Hmph,” Annie huffed down the line. “I’ll believe that when I see it!”
Clara returned to O’Harris in the front hall of Noble and Sons.
“You are invited to dinner,” she told him. “I am informed it will be steak and kidney pie.”
“Lovely,” O’Harris grinned. “And, let me guess, Annie wants this case solved before then so we aren’t late for dinner?”
