by Evelyn James
Clara raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if he had been listening into her conversation.
“Isn’t that what Annie always wants?” O’Harris added, as they walked to the front door.
“True,” Clara said. Annie’s one rule in life, that Clara was horrific for breaking, was that everyone should be home in time for dinner. “We best not let her down.”
“We’ll never hear the end of it if we do!”
Clara hid the smile of delight that nearly crept onto her face. O’Harris was beginning to think of himself as part of the Fitzgerald household and therefore under the stern auspices of Annie. That made Clara not just happy, it gave her a strange little thrill inside. She was not yet prepared to admit to herself that her feelings for O’Harris went beyond friendship. She was still feeling stung by the terrible grief that had engulfed her when he disappeared. It was not his fault, but it still left her a touch wary.
Captain O’Harris’ driver was waiting by the car. The rain had eased a little, but the grey clouds overhead threatened a great deal more before the day was done. He opened the rear door for Clara and O’Harris.
“Where to now, Sir?” he asked as he climbed in the front.
“It’s a place called Primrose Cottage at the bottom of Trumpery Lane. I think I’ll need to find a map,” O’Harris mused.
“Not to worry, Sir,” Jones opened the glove compartment and produced a recently purchased map of Brighton and Hove. “I came prepared.”
Jones glanced back at them with a sheepish grin.
“Good man,” O’Harris laughed.
“I’m learning,” Jones answered. “Thought the map was a good idea, however.”
He unfolded the paper map and pinpointed their location. Then he started scanning the names of the roads around it for Trumpery Lane.
“I don’t imagine it will be terribly far from here,” Clara sat forward and leaned on the back of the front passenger seat. “Henry Kemp bought the place when he moved down here. He would not have picked somewhere miles away.”
Jones was running a finger over the map. A horse and cart rattled past outside, the horse sploshing through the puddles forming on the road.
“Here’s Trumpery Lane,” Jones indicated the spot. “There aren’t any cottages listed.”
“Private homes do not always appear,” O’Harris said. “At least we have a place to start.”
They drove to the location on the map. The rain began again as they headed from the urban areas of Hove into the surrounding countryside. Clara judged that it would take perhaps half-an-hour on a bicycle for Henry Kemp to reach Noble and Sons. Longer if he was walking, of course. There might be a bus he could catch, but the services outside of the main roads of town were usually infrequent and not always conveniently timed.
Trumpery Lane contained no more than five old cottages spread out along the twisting road. They appeared to all have names rather than numbers. Jones drove slowly so they could see each clearly. Primrose Cottage proved to be on the right-hand side, situated between a place that called itself Half-Acre Farm and a house called The Hawthorns. Each property had large tracts of land around it. Primrose Cottage also stood on a sizeable plot; though not a big cottage, it was surrounded by a large garden, the front of which was currently looking bedded down for the winter, but in the summer was probably a riot of colour. Clara could only guess at the names of half of the plants and shrubs planted there, but she could see enough to know that when they were blooming it would look like a true cottage garden, the sort magazines like to reprint photographs of.
The cottage itself looked to be sixteenth century or thereabouts. It was whitewashed, but the old timbers were visible and had been painted black. The contrast was stark on the dull, grey day, especially with the grey thatch roof cresting the entire building. A pea green door was set in the middle of the house with a deep window on the right and a slightly smaller one on the left. A brick chimney popped up from the thatch and blossomed with coal smoke. There was a peacefulness about the entire place. As Clara stepped through the garden gate she felt awful that she was about to disturb that peace with some truly terrible news.
With Captain O’Harris just a step behind her she approached the pea green door and stood on the small step before it. She knocked on the wood and held her breath a little as she waited.
“I don’t like being the bearer of bad news,” Clara whispered to O’Harris as he stood just behind her.
“This is not your fault,” he pointed out.
“That is not how people always see things,” Clara said. “Blame tends to fall on the nearest person handy, even when they don’t deserve it.”
She was silenced by the handle of the door turning and a woman appearing before them. She was tall and very thin, perhaps unhealthily so. She wore a green dress a few shades darker than the front door and extremely thick stockings. The ensemble ended in a pair of red tartan slippers lined with lamb’s wool. She had a narrow, pinched face. The mouth seemingly screwed up in a perpetual expression of rebuke and her eyes small behind a pair or wire-frame glasses. Even when wearing the glasses she appeared to be constantly squinting at Clara. Her hair was in the process of going completely white, though it retained a hint of golden brown in places. She did not look welcoming.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I apologise for the interruption,” Clara began as politely as she could. “I am Miss Clara Fitzgerald, this is Captain O’Harris. We have some unfortunate news concerning your son, Mr Henry Kemp. You are Mrs Kemp?”
“I am,” Mrs Kemp answered. “What has happened to Henry?”
She looked a little confused and the colour was draining from her face.
“Is it very bad news?”
“It is, I am afraid,” Clara saw no reason to beat about the bush, drawing things out was only more torturous for the person involved. Better to have it out in the open and face the consequences then to hum and ha over the matter. “Henry was stabbed last night while aboard the liner Mary Jane.”
“Stabbed?” The woman started to shake. “He was with his firm, on a night out. They always celebrate New Year’s together.”
“Yes. That is true. There was a moment when Henry found himself alone and someone attacked him. I am so very sorry.”
Mrs Kemp pressed a hand to the middle of her chest and seemed to sway backwards.
“I think you ought to sit down,” Clara said hastily, reaching out an arm to steady the woman.
“What’s going on out there, Ethel?” A man’s voice called from the room on their right.
Ethel Kemp blinked fast.
“You need to come through and explain this to Henry’s father,” she said to Clara.
Then she turned and marched into the front room. Clara hesitated for a second, then she shrugged her shoulders at Captain O’Harris and followed.
The front room was furnished in further shades of green. The large sofa and two armchairs were upholstered in green leather, the shade reminding Clara of pond weed. The floor was wooden, but a large rug covered most of it. Lamps were dotted about the room, there was no electricity in the cottage, no overhead lights, so the lamps contained oil, though there were also candles in brackets on the walls. The space in-between them was taken up with pale, insipid watercolour landscapes. A coal fire burned in a large brick fireplace at the far side of the room. It was billowing smoke into the room as well and Clara guessed the chimney needed a sweep.
Lying on the sofa, his legs covered by a blanket, was an old man who Clara guessed was Henry’s father. There was a similarity between the man and his late son. Mr Kemp looked his age, which had to be somewhere in his sixties. He was incredibly thin, like his wife, and with the same pinched, almost anxious expression. They looked like people who always expected the worst. Mr Kemp examined Clara and O’Harris with wary eyes. He rumpled the blanket in his hands, clutching onto its edge like it would save him from impending disaster.
“What is it Ethel? Who are these people
? What has happened?”
Ethel Kemp took a long, deep breath, then, in a tone of doom – like a judge pronouncing a death sentence – she spoke to her husband;
“Henry is dead, Bill. Our son has been murdered.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Murdered?” Bill Kemp’s eyes stared at Clara, the shock of what he had just heard making his gaze glassy and fixed. “I don’t understand.”
Ethel Kemp collapsed suddenly into the armchair near him and dropped her head into her hands.
“Who would want to harm my boy?” She wept to herself, the tears hard to fall, but her emotion plain.
Clara hated these moments. There was no easy way of explaining to someone that their loved one was dead. She dreaded being the bearer of bad news and yet, in the line of work she had chosen, it had become a necessary evil. She wished Simon Noble was here to see the distress he had caused Henry Kemp’s parents. Then again, it was just as likely he would not have cared.
“I am so very sorry,” Clara said, knowing her empathy sounded hollow under the circumstances.
“What happened to him?” Bill Kemp asked her, his gaze still fixed and odd, as if he was looking without actually seeing.
“Last night someone stabbed your son,” Clara explained. There was no point peppering the statement with polite euphemisms. Nothing could change the facts and bluntness could be easier at times. “The police and I are still trying to work out precisely what occurred.”
“Who are you?” Ethel Kemp abruptly demanded, raising her head and glaring at Clara.
Clara knew the hostility was more due to the news she had just heard than any real anger towards herself.
“I am a private detective,” Clara explained patiently. “When your son was found, the ship we were all on was out at sea and the police could not be easily summoned. I happened to be aboard as a guest and was asked to investigate the matter discreetly, to determine what had led to Henry’s unfortunate predicament.”
“But the police are involved now?” Bill Kemp asked.
“Yes,” Clara replied. “I have offered my assistance to them and they have accepted it. I am working with them to bring Henry’s killer to justice.”
“We cannot pay you,” Ethel Kemp said sharply and Clara now saw a hint of why she was so aggressive towards her. She thought Clara was there to ask for money to pursue the case.
“Ethel…” Bill Kemp glanced at his wife reproachfully.
“I am not here to seek money from you,” Clara explained, keeping her voice level and polite. “That is not how I work. I am here because of one thing, I want to bring a killer to justice.”
“You know who did this thing?” Bill Kemp turned back to her, the light was returning to his eyes and he seemed to be growing more alert.
“I am fairly certain who did this,” Clara admitted.
“Then arrest him!” Ethel Kemp nearly screamed at her. Her husband reached out his hand and patted her arm comfortingly.
“There is not enough evidence to do so,” Clara continued steadily. “The person suspected has denied everything. That is why I am here. If I can find a motive for the crime, then I shall be a step closer to proving the person I suspect committed this murder.”
Bill Kemp nodded, his face solemn. He, at least, understood.
“What motive could anyone have to kill Henry?” Ethel was growing more and more hysterical in her grief. In such a state, Clara doubted she would be much help.
“Mrs Kemp, I wonder if you would benefit from a strong cup of tea?” Captain O’Harris interjected, as if reading Clara’s mind. “I would make you one, if you cared to direct me to the kitchen?”
The thought of a strange man rummaging about in her kitchen had the desired affect on Ethel Kemp. She rose from her seat and insisted that she would make the cup of tea herself. The distraction had calmed her a little.
“I’ll help carry it through,” O’Harris said, following her out of the room and leaving Clara with an opportunity to speak to Bill Kemp alone.
Bill had watched his wife leave, now he let out a long sigh and turned to Clara.
“Please sit down. I apologise for my wife. Henry is… was our only child and she was always very protective of him.”
Clara sat in an armchair angled towards Bill Kemp.
“I wish I was not the bearer of this bad news,” Clara said to him. “As far as I have been able to establish, Henry Kemp was not a man to attract enemies and the least likely person to imagine someone wishing harm to.”
“Henry was innocuous,” Bill Kemp said with a self-deprecating smile. “I say that openly. He was good at his job, but he would not say boo to a goose. Never had a strong opinion in his life, that boy. He drifted along, excelling at what he turned his hand to, without ever attracting attention to himself.”
“Not the sort of person you expect to come to harm,” Clara noted.
“Never that,” Bill Kemp agreed. “His mother rather overshadowed him, unfortunately. I should have been firmer with Ethel, but we had lost two children already and she was exceptionally fretful over Henry. I couldn’t find the courage to speak out. He thrived, anyway, he got a good job and bought us this lovely cottage.”
Bill Kemp motioned to the room around him, which was indeed cosy and pleasant.
“I lost both legs in an accident before the war,” Bill Kemp carried on, the words stated without emotion. “I still feel them, though. The doctors tell me it is all in my head, well, perhaps it is. But some days the pain I feel in those missing limbs is excruciating. I will admit that I am not a nice person to be around then. Ethel was struggling to look after me. We lived in a house in Brighton back then. I couldn’t get upstairs, naturally, and there were several steps leading out the front and back doors too. So, I was stuck in the house, trapped mainly in the front parlour and I became very unhappy.
“Henry was working in London at the time. He was very successful. His mother wrote him often about my condition and our problems, he saw them for himself when he came down at the weekend. Then, one day, out of the blue, he said he had found a job in Hove and was going to buy a cottage where we could all live. I was stunned. I took him aside and asked him if he knew what he was doing and that he should not destroy his career for my sake. But Henry insisted the job in Hove was just as good as that in London.
“Well, as you can see he was good to his word. He found this lovely cottage for us. No stairs for me to worry about and a beautiful garden I can sit in during the summer. Ethel can even manage to get my wheelchair in and out the front door, over the little step. We go for walks when the weather is good. It really has made such a difference.”
Bill Kemp became very silent. His eyes had fallen on his hands resting on the blanket. His mouth fell slightly open and his lower lip trembled. Emotion now began to get the better of him.
“If I had known moving here would lead to Henry’s death, I would rather have killed myself than allowed it,” his voice shook as he spoke.
“Who could know?” Clara said to him gently.
“Who do you suspect of this crime?” Bill Kemp asked her swiftly, his head tilting towards her.
“I would rather not say until I can prove my case,” Clara replied, not wanting to reveal it was Henry’s employer who had stabbed him.
“And you can’t prove it without a motive?”
“It will be difficult,” Clara agreed.
Bill Kemp considered this for a moment.
“Henry did not make enemies, not like some people. I cannot think why anyone would wish him harm.”
They were going around in circles and soon Ethel would be back. Clara was not sure they would get another chance to talk so freely. Ethel Kemp struck her as the sort of person who would not allow a bad word to be said against her son, even if that meant failing to catch his killer.
“Did Henry ever mention the people he worked with?” Clara asked Bill. “Miss Jane Dodd, for instance? Or Mr Charles Walsh.”
“I have heard him men
tion both those names,” Bill Kemp answered at once, looking hopeful that he could provide useful information at last. “Mr Walsh came to the cottage once or twice when they needed to work out a tricky contract or something. Henry hated going all the way into Hove on the weekends. Mr Walsh seemed very pleasant. He did not…?”
“Mr Walsh is accounted for at the time of your son’s death. I do not think he was involved. He is very upset as well.”
“I don’t know this Jane Dodd,” Bill Kemp frowned.
“She was the secretary at Noble and Sons.”
“Was?” Bill had been alert to Clara’s use of the past tense.
Clara hesitated, she wasn’t sure how much of the full extent of the tragedy of last night she should reveal. In the end, she could not see how it would hurt for Bill Kemp to know that someone else cared extremely deeply for his son.
“Miss Dodd lost her life last night too,” Clara said.
At that moment Ethel Kemp reappeared in the room.
“What is this? Someone else died last night?” She had composed herself and looked like the woman who had greeted them on the doorstep. Her face was slightly hard and her pinched expression had returned. Clara was beginning to think that Ethel Kemp was an extremely highly-strung person who thrust down all her inner emotions deep inside. The pinched expression was caused by her constant repression of her feelings. What would happen if she unleashed them? Perhaps Ethel Kemp did not want to know.
“Among the Noble and Sons party last night was a lady called Miss Jane Dodd,” Clara explained to Ethel. “She was the secretary for Arthur Noble, but was frequently in and out of your son’s office as part of her duties. She had known Henry since he began with Noble and Sons and she thought a lot of him. She took his death very hard and threw herself overboard.”
Bill Kemp gasped at this news. His wife glowered.
“What would she do a silly thing like that for?” She demanded.
“I believe she cared very deeply for Henry,” Clara explained.
