by Evelyn James
Clara and O’Harris had to work around her, sorting through the piles of papers as swiftly as they could, before Ethel Kemp came past with her broom and insisted she needed to sweep where they were standing. Clara felt the need to go through the drawers of the furniture before Mrs Kemp could get to them and potentially remove something. She did not think the woman malicious, as such, but she might spot something she thought Clara should not see and, out of prudence, take up what could be a valuable clue.
Henry Kemp’s chest of drawers revealed nothing more than might be expected; socks and underwear, ties and neatly rolled leather belts. One drawer contained boxes of expensive cufflinks and tie pins.
“He received them every year at Christmas from Mr Noble,” Ethel Kemp said, looking over Clara’s shoulder as she went past with her bucket of soapy water. “I dread to think how much they cost.”
Clara moved on to the bedside table, which O’Harris had managed to unearth from a pile of loose papers, books and discarded pyjamas. His own searches had yet to turn up anything beyond poem after poem, and the odd piece of prose. There were often several versions of the same poem, each typed on its own sheet of paper and numbered at the top in pencil to show which variant they were.
“He had enough material for several volumes,” O’Harris remarked, looking slightly fed-up at sorting through the reams of rhyming couplets.
“I can’t offer any insight into poetry,” Clara shook her head. “It largely all goes beyond me. I don’t mind a little rhyme, but some of the more high-brow stuff leaves me cold.”
“You are too practical for poetry,” O’Harris grinned at her. “This stuff is for people who live in the clouds all day and end up residing in rooms like this.”
O’Harris glanced about the room, his eyes pausing on the cobwebs and dusty surfaces.
“Henry Kemp was hardly impractical,” Clara pointed out.
“No, but he had to work hard at it. This was the real him, the man he wanted to be. Well, sort of.”
“Maybe I’ll stick with being practical then,” Clara observed.
She opened the top drawer of the bedside cabinet and the first thing that came to light was a leather bound book. Clara was excited as she thought it was a diary and she waited for a moment when Ethel Kemp had gone to empty her bucket of water, before removing it. The cover was black and soft, the leather was slightly worn at one edge where the book had been opened regularly. She turned to the first page and her excitement faded. It was not a diary, but an address book. Clara was about to put it back, when she remembered that Henry Kemp’s official address book had been in his office. If that one had been for his business contacts, then who were the people in this book?
The addresses were either local or for people in London, old contacts and friends from Henry’s time there, she guessed. Henry’s obsession with privacy was also apparent; the book contained no names, each addressee was merely indicated by a set of initials. Clara flipped through the pages, trying to see if any of the initials made sense, but she could not fit a name to any of them. Considering that everyone she had so far spoken to implied that Henry had no personal friends and kept himself to himself, the book was a curiosity. Clara decided it was best to keep hold of it and hid it in her handbag.
There was nothing further in the drawer of the cabinet that seemed important. She found a packet of cigarettes and matches, and an incomplete collection of cigarette cards showing famous cricketeers. There was a blue velvet box tucked at the back and when Clara pulled it out and opened it, she found Henry’s war medals.
Ethel had returned to the room with her bucket and she spotted the box in Clara’s hand. She placed down the bucket and walked over.
“I wondered where he had put them,” she said softly. “I hated every day that he was away fighting. I tried to find a way to prevent him going, but that was the one thing he would not back away from. He insisted he had to go.”
“When was he called up?” Clara asked.
“The summer of 1917. I had been able to stop him from volunteering. He was almost elated when he was conscripted. The one time he defied me,” Ethel ran her finger over the face of a medal. “I thought I would lose him in that war. I never thought I would lose him at home.”
“What unit did he serve with?” O’Harris asked.
“The Royal Artillery,” Ethel explained. “He never really talked about what he did, I know he was in charge of a lot of big guns. He was never injured, fortunately. He came through without a scratch. When he returned home everything went right back to exactly as it always was.”
Clara doubted that. No man could fight in a war of the scale of the last conflict and come home perfectly the same as they had left. The scars were not always physical, but she had seen them plain enough in her brother and in O’Harris.
“I’m going to take these to Bill,” Ethel said, a tear forming in her eye as she took the box off Clara. “He was very proud of his boy for earning these.”
She departed the room hastily. Clara let out a little sigh of sadness, her shoulders sagged. O’Harris glanced at her.
“All right?”
“I always feel a little odd when I come across someone who survived that war only to be murdered at home in peace time. It seems almost as if fate was trying to catch up with them.”
“I hope not,” O’Harris frowned. “I’ve cheated death more than once, in war and peace, I’m hoping for a very long and boring life.”
“And I am sure you will get it,” Clara reassured him, touching his arm. “Though not the boring part, at least not while I am around.”
“You are most certainly not boring Clara!”
Clara laughed as she went to Henry’s desk. So far, her search had turned up very little and she was beginning to feel she was on a wild goose chase. Supposing there really was no hard evidence of the motive for Henry’s murder? Supposing it was something only he and Simon Noble knew about? Then there would be simply no hope, none at all. Because, unless Simon Noble confessed, they would never have the reason for the killing and without that how could they hope to make a court convict him?
Her laughter had faded as she began to open the drawers of the desk. She felt deflated. Not yet defeated, but coming close. She could almost feel Simon Noble laughing at her, his nasty smirk on his face as she confronted the possibility of never having the proof to convict him. It was far from a happy thought.
The desk contained more bundles of paper, some were fresh and yet to be used. There were also piles of poems, older ones. Henry Kemp had started off by keeping his work in his desk but, as the poems mounted up, the desk drawers had proved too small and then the paper had to be stacked in piles. Henry had been a prolific writer, perhaps it might almost be said he was obsessive. Clara took out each stack of poems from the drawers and went through them, just in case. Strange phrases caught her eye as she thumbed through.
Blood blossoms blue.
Dirt upon the soul of man.
Skulls crack like robin’s eggs.
There was nothing peaceful or pretty about these poems. Even those written before 1917 had a dark aura to them. The words were bitter, empty and full of misery. Was this an insight into Henry’s soul? A poet wrote from the heart, about things that mattered to them. Henry wrote a great deal about death and suffering, there was also a lot of imagery of ‘trapped things’. Birds in cages, dogs lunging at the ends of chains, prisoners in irons. Remorseless depictions of creatures and people who had lost their freedom and had no hope of regaining it. Impotent beings, brought to the brink of despair by their mental prisons, as much as physical ones. The more Clara read, the more she felt sorry for Henry. He was a man suffering, that was plain enough.
Clara rubbed at her eyes. She was not sure she could take anymore talk of blood and bones. She was beginning to think she ought to give up, that there would be nothing but more unhappy poems in among the papers when she glanced at something that was not a poem. It was a letter, muddled in the middle of a pile, tho
ugh perhaps muddled was not the right word, because a paperclip had been fastened at the top, the one and only piece of paper with a clip. It almost seemed as if Henry had marked this page as subtly as he could and then hidden it among others, just in case his mother gained access to his bedroom. She would have even less reason to go through the papers than Clara and would probably only glance at the first few before deciding they were not something she wanted to read. The letter would be safe among them, but the paperclip meant Henry could lay his hand on it easily when he wanted to.
Clara pulled the letter out. It had been sent to Henry and the address in the top right corner was back in Brighton. The writer had addressed him as H.K. and had signed themselves P.Y. Another aspect of the secrecy Henry Kemp veiled himself in. The letter’s contents were equally cryptic.
Dear H.K.
You sounded unhappy in your last letter and I am sad for you. If you cannot see a way forward, I can only offer council and suggest you go with your heart or perhaps do nothing. After all, must you act? Surely you can ignore what has happened and continue on as normal? I wonder that you feel so strongly on this matter, as it cannot affect you greatly, rather it affects those who are perhaps not worthy of your deep consideration? I say this all as a friend who thinks dearly of you, and who does not wish to see you suffering. Life must go on, and there are things out of your control, which must be accepted. If you come round on Sunday we can discuss this further, but I hope you will put all thought of it out of your mind for the time being. Better for you to forget about it, then perhaps a solution will offer itself spontaneously? I have always found a problem mulled over is a problem worsened, while one that is allowed to fall to the back of the mind, will be suddenly solved.
Your dearest friend, P.Y.
The letter was remarkable for several reasons, not least that here was evidence that Henry Kemp did have a friend, one that no one else appeared to know about. What was this problem that was upsetting him? The letter was undated, which made it difficult to know if this was a new issue or something that had happened years ago. Yet, the ink looked vivid and fresh, not like the ink of letters written years past.
“I have something,” O’Harris called out.
In his hand was a similar letter. There was the paperclip at the top and the names were replaced with initials.
“What does it say?” Clara asked urgently.
Dear H.K.
I would be delighted if you would come over on Sunday for tea. I have missed your company, though I fully understand that you are extremely busy. I have been remiss with my letter writing, as I have been unwell and found composing words difficult. Please bring me some of your latest work, as I feel the need to see fresh words and your poems always excite such discussion. I hope you are well and that you are finding your work satisfying, as you have mentioned to me before.
Your dearest friend P.Y.
O’Harris looked up at Clara.
“Who is P.Y.?” He asked in amazement.
“I don’t know, but they seem to have been someone Henry confided in. Look for more letters from them. He seems to have marked them with a paperclip and hidden them among his poems.”
They started to go through the piles of paper with renewed optimism. O’Harris was the first to find another letter.
“The same writer,” he declared. “Dear H.K., I am worried about you. Your recent complaints seem to have worsened and this burden that sits upon you weighs you down too greatly. I understand, though you suggest I do not. You are a man of great principles and I fear these make you vulnerable to the harshest slings and arrows this world has to offer. Please come over one Sunday so we may discuss things in a logical fashion. I shall support whatever you decide. I never intended to sound dismissive of your worries, only to imply that you must sometimes put these things to bed to preserve your own wellbeing. What, after all, can you really do? But please, call over soon so we might talk. Your dearest friend P.Y.”
O’Harris showed her the letter.
“This one is dated. It was written last August.”
“There was something troubling Henry,” Clara surmised. “Something that was crushing him and he was drinking to try to escape it.”
She rummaged through the pile of papers nearest her.
“Here’s another!”
“And another here!” Called O’Harris.
Within the span of ten minutes they had found ten letters all from the mysterious P.Y. Some were innocuous, but several of the later ones continued to discuss the big burden fallen on Henry’s shoulders.
“We have to find P.Y.” Clara said.
Just at that moment she heard Ethel Kemp returning and hastily shoved the letters into her handbag. As Ethel entered the room, she glanced up at her.
“I think we are done Mrs Kemp.”
“Oh,” Ethel Kemp looked around at the room. “I hope you found something useful.”
“Maybe,” Clara replied. “I shall keep you informed of what happens. Once again, I am so very sorry.”
Ethel escorted Clara and O’Harris to the front door, as she let them out she seemed to pause, as if suddenly she did not want them to leave. She almost put out a hand to catch Clara’s arm, but then she stopped herself.
“Henry did not deserve to die,” she said solemnly, then she shut the door on them.
“Rude to the last,” O’Harris shrugged his shoulders. “Well, Brighton next?”
“Definitely,” Clara agreed. “Time to meet P.Y.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Locating the address of P.Y. involved getting the map out again. Jones located the street name and plotted a route.
“About twenty minutes,” he conjectured, before starting the engine and slipping away from the hedge outside the Kemp cottage.
Clara glanced back at the property and thought of the sadness that had now filled it. Despite the rudeness of Mrs Kemp, she felt sorry for her.
O’Harris had gathered up all the letters from P.Y. – six in total – and was trying to glean something from them.
“It’s all so cryptic, but most certainly Henry has been worried about something for months,” O’Harris thumbed through the letters. “This one talks about P.Y.’s concerns for Henry’s health, and this one refers to him making a difficult decision.”
“That could mean a lot of things,” Clara replied. “He might have been considering moving out from under his mother’s gaze, for a start. Maybe going back to London?”
“Hmm, that would be a tricky decision,” O’Harris rearranged the letters back into chronological order. “Next question, is this P.Y. a male or female acquaintance?”
“The latter could raise all manner of new possibilities,” Clara said slyly.
“Was Henry Kemp contemplating marriage, you mean?”
“If P.Y. is a woman,” Clara answered. “Which means poor Miss Dodd was barking up the wrong tree altogether.”
“Miss Jane Dodd,” O’Harris sighed. “She’s the victim in this case who is always going to get forgotten, isn’t she?”
“Her tragedy is no less great for the fact she jumped herself,” Clara became solemn. “I won’t let her be forgotten.”
Jones glanced in the rear view mirror.
“This is the road,” he spoke.
Clara and O’Harris both looked out of their respective windows. The number of the house given on the letter was ten. Clara quickly saw that the houses on her side of the road were odd numbered. Ten would be on O’Harris’ side.
“We are in the higher numbers, so far,” he said to Clara as she turned to him. “Twenty-four, twenty-two.”
He paused as Jones took them further down the road.
“Ah, fourteen, twelve, ten!”
Jones pulled the car to the side of the pavement and Clara and O’Harris stepped out. The rain had eased and the sun was peeking through the clouds and making the puddles glisten. Number ten stood back from the road. It was a villa-style property with a formal front garden. There was an im
maculate lawn, split by a brick path. In the centre of each section of lawn was an ornamental palm tree, planted in a circular bed lined with smaller, white bricks. The beds had been recently tilled and looked as fresh as the day they were planted. The whole garden was lined by a red and grey brick wall, with hydrangeas sitting in beds before them. The hydrangeas looked glum in their barren winter sleep, but in the summer they would be glorious.
Clara opened a grey-blue gate and walked up the path to the house. The villa was two-storeyed and painted white, with the windows and door a pale green. Two grand picture windows looked onto the front lawn. The door was sandwiched between them. A Christmas wreath of holly and ivy was still hanging on the door itself. Clara was careful not to disturb it as she knocked.
There was a long moment before movement could be heard inside and the door was carefully opened. A woman stood before them. She was in her seventies, with perfectly white hair that had been swept up into a high bun. She had a soft face, barely marked by time, though her eyes had taken on the watery blue hue of old age. She was dressed in a plain grey dress and the reason for her difficulty in opening the door was explained by the fact she was propped up on two walking sticks. She leaned forward because of the sticks and so seemed to be peering at them.
“I do apologise for disturbing you,” Clara said immediately, feeling guilty she had summoned the woman to her door. “We have a rather odd question to ask. Does anyone reside in this house with the initials P.Y.?”
The woman was startled for a moment. Then she smiled.
“That would be me. I am Patricia Youngman.”
Clara felt relieved, she had feared the address would somehow prove a red herring too.
“Why do you ask?” Patricia started to frown.
“I believe you wrote these letters to Mr Henry Kemp?” Clara motioned to the letters O’Harris was holding and he showed them to the woman.
