Murder and Mascara

by Evelyn James

  Murder and Mascara

  A Clara Fitzgerald Mystery

  Book 9

  by

  Evelyn James

  Red Raven Publications

  2017

  © Evelyn James 2017

  First published 2017

  Red Raven Publications

  The right of Evelyn James to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the permission in writing from the author

  Murder and Mascara is the ninth book in the Clara Fitzgerald series

  Other titles in the Series:

  Memories of the Dead

  Flight of Fancy

  Murder in Mink

  Carnival of Criminals

  Mistletoe and Murder

  The Poisoned Pen

  Grave Suspicions of Murder

  The Woman Died Thrice

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter One

  Clara had not seen Abigail Sommers for at least two or three years. Not since her old school chum had gone to Liverpool to pursue a career. This was very much a novelty among the women of Clara’s generation. Most of her school friends had fully believed that their education was merely a way of passing the time before they found a husband, produced children, and swiftly forgot every unimportant fact about algebra and capital cities they had ever learnt. A few, such as Clara and Abigail, had aspired for greater things. Clara had rather fallen into her own career choice by chance, but she had always intended to do something with her life.

  Abigail’s story was somewhat similar. Abigail was a dreamer with pragmatic leanings. She knew her academic talents would not lead to university. She was not stupid, but her head did not retain facts like other girls’ heads did. And she was not much good at mathematics. That ruled out quite a few feminine career choices, including becoming a pharmacist or doctor. Not that she had wanted to tend the sick, anyway. Abigail wanted a practical career that would suit her and would make her independent. Rather like Clara, she had a horror of being utterly dependent on a man for her entire life.

  Abigail’s own parents had demonstrated the flaws in this arrangement. Her parents had separated when she was thirteen and she rarely saw her father. Rumour had it, at least among the teaching staff at her school, that he had found another woman. Abigail’s mother was constantly agitating about money, and always writing letters to her absent husband or spending hours with a solicitor to ensure the bills were paid that month. Abigail had come to the conclusion from this unhappy experience, that being reliant on another person was a recipe for disaster.

  But what career was there for a girl with brilliant common sense, but limited academic ability? Nursing or teaching neither appealed, nor did becoming some sort of secretary (Abigail was a hopeless typist anyway, on that she and Clara were united). In the end, it was during a visit to London in her final year of school that Abigail found her inspiration and saw an opportunity. The school had arranged a trip to a London showcase event, a careers fair for those girls who wanted to do something with those brains their school had so carefully nurtured. Most of the stands were what one would expect; secretarial schools, the Shopgirls’ Association, midwifery courses. Clara recalled that occasion as being one of disappointment, for she had seen nothing that appealed to her abilities. Naturally there was no stand for female private detectives. There were not even female police constables until the end of the war.

  While Clara had walked away feeling disheartened, Abigail had come away with a sense of purpose. For she had found a company that employed women in a fashion that was not heavily reliant on mathematics or grammar, but was very focused on practicality. The company was Albion Industries. They made cosmetics and beauty aids, hundreds and hundreds of lines of make-up, stockings and girdles. Not to mention tools for curling the hair or plucking disfiguring eyebrows. Their customer-base was primarily composed of women and they employed female representatives to distribute and sell their products across the country. Abigail recognised this as something she could do. Not only that, but it would give her the opportunity to travel about the country and become a free woman. She was sold that very morning and, when she turned seventeen the next month, she submitted an application to the company. Within six months she was a trained Albion Industries’ representative, with a handsome wage and the exciting prospect of travel and adventure ahead.

  Nearly ten years later, Abigail Sommers was one of the top representatives in the country, known for her skill in sales and unrelenting drive for improvement. Her region regularly topped Albion’s yearly sales charts. She was the woman all others aimed to beat. Natural then, that when Albion Industries decided to host its first ever conference and trade fair in Brighton, Abigail was put in charge of running it. Three hundred ladies and industry professionals had been invited down. All the regional representatives were in attendance, along with members from their various suppliers and offices. And that was just for the conference. Albion expected thousands of visitors to their trade fair which was to be hosted over an entire week. Invitations had been sent out to every cosmetics company, corset maker, hair stylist and health pill supplier Albion Industries knew of, and the fair was to be open to the public on Tuesday and Thursday. It was set to be the biggest challenge Abigail had yet to face in terms of organising the arrangements and ensuring everything went off without a hitch. She was well aware that this event would be telling on her future career with Albion. She could not afford to fail in making this a success. Which was why a recent problem had her worried and had driven her to seek out Clara.

  This she had all explained over a cup of tea in Clara’s cosy office; a couple of rooms above a haberdasher’s shop that Clara rented at a very reasonable rate. Abigail drank great quantities of tea and the teapot had already been refilled once.

  “You see why I am worried about our little problem,” Abigail said as she began on her fourth cup.

  In appearance she was not much changed from the girl Clara had remembered. She had grown up, naturally, but her face was still a delicate heart shape that could make Abigail look quite pensive and her hair was still a natural golden brown, though she now kept it neatly arranged in a bun. Perhaps the main difference Clara noticed was her heavy make-up. Abigail wore kohl about her eyes and had carefully curled her eyelashes and blackened them with mascara. Her eyelids were dusted lightly with a dark brown eye shadow which gave them a slightly bruised look. Her cheeks were faintly reddened with blusher and her lips had been carefully adorned with waxy lipstick. She looked like one of the girls Clara had
seen on various cosmetics advertisements, right down to the delicate and extremely fashionable short dress, black coat with fur collar and shiny black kitten heel shoes. She carried it all off perfectly, being as skinny as a rake and not suffering from the feminine curves that made Clara’s figure so out-of-fashion.

  “I can understand your reasons for being concerned,” Clara said to her. “But you have yet to explain what the problem actually is.”

  Abigail Sommers sighed and stared at the garish lipstick mark she had left on her teacup.

  “I think someone is trying to sabotage the trade fair,” she said at last. “Such an attempt could ruin my career with Albion. I have rivals Clara, rivals who would like to see me fail at this.”

  “What has happened so far?” Clara asked patiently.

  “There have been a handful of incidents. At first I wrote them off to natural accidents and the carelessness of workmen but now, with the fair so close to opening, I don’t feel I can be so complacent,” Abigail pulled a face. “The first thing could have been a misunderstanding. We have ordered large quantities of samples for this event. Albion has supplied boxes and boxes of its own products. One of these boxes contained two thousand lipsticks in Albion’s latest shade, Pearl Pink. As samples go, these are some of our most important as we are promoting the product heavily. All the boxes are supposed to be stored in one of the side rooms. We have hired out the entire Brighton Pavilion for this occasion, plenty of space for storage when we need it. The samples arrived last Tuesday night and I personally saw them put into the room we had set aside for storage. However, the following evening I found an entire box of Pearl Pinks sitting in one of the side rooms being used by the workmen for their breaks. It was being used as a table, which was annoying but not harmful. The unfortunate thing was the box had been set next to the portable oil stove the workmen have been using to make themselves cups of tea.

  “The heat from the stove had radiated out across one side of the box. Clara, do you know what happens to lipstick when exposed to high heat over a period of time?”

  Clara was not a great user of lipstick, but it did not take much of a stretch of the imagination to perceive how the sticks of oily colour would gladly melt when exposed to heat.

  “I assume many of the samples melted?”

  Abigail nodded sadly.

  “When I realised what had occurred I pulled out some of the tubes. The lipstick inside had melted and then, when it cooled again, pooled into a misshapen oblong. Those samples were worthless to me. Thankfully the heat had only penetrated one side of the box and I was able to salvage nearly two thirds of the contents. But I still lost several hundred tubes of lipstick. I complained to the foreman in charge of the workmen. He claims none of his men moved the box and that it just appeared in their room one day.”

  “That is an unfortunate mishap,” Clara sympathised. “And, as you say, it could have been done in error.”

  “Indeed. That was how I first took it,” Abigail pressed together her lips. Clara couldn’t help wondering if the colour she was wearing was this famous Pearl Pink. “The next incident was more serious in nature. The workmen have been renovating the parts of the pavilion we will be using for the fair and also putting together the trade stands and advertisement displays. Some of this involves being up on scaffolding as we have banners hanging from the ceilings. On Thursday afternoon one of the men was up a scaffold fixing a banner when the entire thing collapsed. He was badly hurt as metal poles and wooden planks crashed down on him. We had to dig him from the debris.”

  “Another accident?” Clara asked.

  “The foreman was certain it could not be. He had supervised the building of the scaffolds himself. But, when a closer look was taken, it appeared some of the bolts were missing their nuts.”

  “Possible sabotage?”

  “I put it down at first to sheer negligence. But the foreman was so insistent,” Abigail paused. “And now we have this morning’s incident. Today the Albion ladies have been arriving. They will be promoting our own products during the fair. I was taking the girls around the pavilion and showing them the different rooms we would be using when I heard an awful commotion. We all headed to the main hall and found the big Albion banner, the one our workman had so unfortunately been putting up when he fell, lying across the floor, ripped to shreds, and…” Abigail gave a small gulp as the memory came back to her, “…written across the floor in Pearl Pink lipstick was the word ‘betrayal’. I can’t ignore this now, can I? Someone is trying to sabotage our event, who or why I just don’t know.”

  “Fortunately, that is something I am good at,” Clara said in the hope it sounded reassuring. “I will need to come to the Pavilion and talk with everyone and be allowed the freedom of the building to investigate.”

  “Of course,” Abigail nodded. “I was told you are very good at this sort of thing. You are on the committee for the Brighton Pavilion as well, so I hear? It was how your name was first told to me.”

  Clara nodded.

  “I am indeed. In fact, I was at the meeting where it was decided to allow your trade fair to be held at the Pavilion. I think it sounds a good way to bring people to the town and I certainly don’t want to see it end in disaster. You have my word I will put all my energy into tracking down who is behind this series of misfortunes.”

  “Thank you,” Abigail released a sigh of relief. “I have been so worried. That is not like me, at all.”

  “Can you supply me with a list of everyone who has been working at the Pavilion during the preparations for the fair?” Clara asked.

  “Naturally,” Abigail said. “And, I insist you come to our pre-opening banquet to be held tomorrow night in the Pavilion.”

  Abigail rummaged in her tiny handbag and produced an invitation. She pushed it across the desk towards Clara.

  “You must save the trade fair Clara. Please.”

  After Abigail had left to go back to her arrangements for the fair, Clara shut up her office and headed for home. It was close to the time Annie served dinner. Annie was Clara’s friend and also her housekeeper. Annie did not like people being late for dinner, even when they had a very good reason, such as solving a crime.

  Clara studied her invitation as she walked. If she was going to be around all those pretty and presentable ladies, she might have to consider donning a little make-up herself. Else she would stand out like a sore thumb. Oh dear, thought Clara, who had always banked on her natural prettiness to get her by without the need for cosmetics. Oh dear.

  She opened her front door and strode into the parlour where she expected to find her brother Tommy. He lived with her in the home that had once belonged to their now deceased parents. Tommy was not present.

  “Clara?”

  She heard Annie calling her from the kitchen and headed down the corridor. She was surprised to enter the room and to see Inspector Park-Coombs sat at the kitchen table with Tommy and Annie. They were all looking pensive.

  “Is something the matter?” Clara asked, feeling a pang of worry creeping over her.

  “I wanted to let you know in person,” Inspector Park-Coombs said very formally. A man in his late forties, he had plenty of grey hairs in his black crop to mark the worry he had felt over many a case. “I didn’t want you to read about it in the papers.”

  “You are worrying me,” Clara said, glancing at all their faces. “What should I not read about in the paper?”

  “It’s all very hush-hush at the moment,” Park-Coombs explained. “But this morning I and some of the constables went to the hospital to oversee the discreet transfer of an important patient. We were there to ensure the man’s privacy.”

  “What man?” Clara asked, her mouth dry as dust from the tension.

  “Captain O’Harris,” Park-Coombs said solemnly. “The man’s alive, Clara.”

  Chapter Two

  Clara didn’t know how to feel as the news slowly sunk in. Captain O’Harris. The reckless, but oh so charming airman, who had attemp
ted to fly from England to America in his biplane The White Buzzard. Clara had watched him go, her heart breaking all the time, and when she heard that the plane had vanished and no one knew what had become of it, she felt as though someone had punched her in the chest.

  She had only known O’Harris for a brief spell. But in that short time she had come to both admire him and fear for him. He was everything you would expect from a man who had survived a war, both heroically brave and terribly tormented. He was also a fool. Clara had called him that not long before he had vanished. A fool because he could not be satisfied with a peaceful life on land and had to keep pushing to be in the skies. She had felt a dread in her stomach at the prospect of him making that challenging flight. None of his reassurances could numb the awful sensation of anxiety that flooded Clara, and when his plane crashed in the ocean, so Clara felt that her gut instincts had been horribly correct. She also felt guilt that she had not tried harder to deter him.

  “Sit down, Clara,” Annie insisted, propelling her friend from the doorway of the kitchen to a chair.

  Clara had gone very pale and silent. It was hardly surprising considering the news. It was why they had all been anxious about telling her.

  “Perhaps…” Clara started to speak and her voice sounded hoarse, so she paused and licked her lips. “Perhaps someone might explain how this is all possible? It is nearly a year since…”

  The sentence hung in the air unfinished. No one felt the need to add to it.

  “I can explain as much as I know,” Inspector Park-Coombs declared. “I was sent an official letter on the subject, but I dare say I only got the bare bones of the matter. As we know, after the crash of Captain O’Harris’ aeroplane a search was conducted of the area of ocean he was most likely to have landed in and his co-pilot was found. This gave hope that O’Harris would be nearby, but the ocean is vast and currents can take a man or object caught in them miles from where they should be. O’Harris was not found during these searches and it was eventually agreed that he must be declared lost.”