by Evelyn James
“I remember that well enough,” Clara said almost breathlessly. “The newspapers were very vivid on the matter.”
“Newspapermen like sensation,” Park-Coombs grumbled. “One of the reasons I was asked to ensure there was a police presence at the hospital when Captain O’Harris arrived. This official letter arrived on my desk last week. It was from my superiors. The letter explained that Captain O’Harris had been found alive and initially transferred to an American hospital where his identity remained a mystery for some time as he would not speak. When it was discovered he was our lost airman it attracted a lot of unwelcome attention, and the Americans were very keen to have O’Harris shipped back to England as soon as possible. He arrived at Cardiff a few nights ago and was just transferred by private ambulance to Brighton General Hospital.”
“And that is all you know about what happened to him?” Clara pressed.
“I’m afraid so, Clara,” Park-Coombs shook his head apologetically. “I knew you would want to know all this as soon as possible. I have prepared a list of authorised visitors for the captain which I have supplied to the hospital staff. I ensured your name was on it, so if you wish to visit…”
“Wait, wait,” Clara stopped him. “Visit? I… I just learned he was alive, I…”
Clara had spent the best part of a year putting O’Harris firmly out of her mind. Did she want to bring him back into her life? To potentially allow him to destroy her happiness again? O’Harris was the sort of reckless soul that has a tendency to cause disharmony in both their own and other peoples’ lives. But Clara could also not deny that many nights she had lain in bed and wished to have one more chance to speak with him, to laugh with him, to share his vivacity for life. Clara was completely uncertain of what to think after all this.
“Well, when you are ready, you have the freedom to visit him,” Park-Coombs finished. “I’m afraid I must be going now. The wife likes me home for dinner.”
The inspector rose and nodded to them all as he collected his hat. He squeezed Clara’s shoulder as he went past and let himself out of her house.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Annie told Clara firmly.
Annie had always been of the opinion that Captain O’Harris was a dangerous influence on her friend. He was far too flighty and impulsive for her liking. She just wished Clara could see things as clearly as she did. Someone like Oliver Bankes would make a much more sound and stable husband. Not this reckless lunatic and his flying machines.
“I have dinner ready. I think we should eat and let this information sink in,” she commanded bluntly. She was looking at Tommy too, for he was almost as put out by the news as Clara. Tommy had been firm friends with O’Harris and had been grieved by his loss. “I made a beef and kidney pudding. Don’t tell me it must go to waste? Surely a man resurrected from the dead is something to celebrate, not mope over?”
“He isn’t Lazarus, Annie,” Tommy said wearily. “He was never dead, clearly. He must have washed up somewhere and no one knew who he was.”
“But am I wrong to say that is something to be glad about not sad?” Annie persisted.
“You are not wrong,” Clara agreed. “I think we are both just in shock.”
Clara looked up at her friend’s petulant face. She knew Annie was concerned this news would cause all her hard work in the kitchen to go to waste, a crime of epic proportions in the woman’s mind. Clara was also astute enough to know Annie was unhappy about the possibility of Clara becoming embroiled again with the captain. Well, for the moment that was not a worry as Clara could not say for certain whether she intended to become embroiled or not. She was just trying to get her head around everything.
“Serve dinner Annie. I am still hungry.”
They sat at the dining table and ate beef and kidney pudding, served with boiled potatoes and peas. Clara could not deny that it was a very good pudding, crafted with Annie’s knack for good suet pastry and perfectly tender meat. But her mind was elsewhere as she ate, as were the minds of her companions. Even little Bramble, their scruffy small black poodle, was oddly sombre. Clara decided after a while that this would not do.
“Have you heard of Albion Industries, Annie?” she asked to enliven things.
“I believe I have a pot of hand cream made by them,” Annie nodded. “Oh, wait, aren’t they something to do with that thing you are hosting at the Pavilion?”
“The trade fair, yes. Turns out one of my old school friends is organising the event and she is in a pickle because someone appears to be trying to sabotage things.”
“Oh dear!” Annie declared with an appropriate degree of shocked horror in her tone.
“Wait,” Tommy interrupted, “didn’t you say Albion make cosmetics and beauty aids? Why would anyone want to sabotage that?”
“Precisely the question I have been asked to answer,” Clara nodded. “After dinner, I propose a walk to the Pavilion to take a look around. I have full access and the workmen should still be there getting things ready for the grand opening on Sunday. With any luck we shall find someone who is happy to talk with us.”
With that idea in mind Clara and Tommy set out after dinner to walk to the Pavilion. Bramble accompanied them on a lead, gambolling about like a lamb in his excitement. Annie opted to stay at home. She wanted to get the dishes washed.
Tommy had only recently learned to walk again after losing the use of his legs during the war. Many doctors had tried to get him on his feet after the incident, but most had focused on his physical capabilities. It was only when octogenarian Dr Cutt had started to look at the problem from a psychological angle, indicating that Tommy showed clear signs of shell-shock, that any progress was made. And even then it had been tentative, because Tommy did not like the idea that his problems were in his head and had taken some convincing to agree to Dr Cutt’s plans. The result had been remarkable. After three years of disability, Tommy had stepped out of his wheelchair and, though still suffering the constraints of a slight limp, was walking about like his old self. He might be a way off from feeling up to re-joining the cricket team, (Tommy had been their star bowler) but just to be upright at all was a miracle.
Summer was slowly coming to Brighton. As they walked there was a warmth to the evening. Clara felt her soul start to lift, after all, there was hope in the air, was there not? The birds were singing, the sun was gradually setting and casting its long fingers over the houses. There was a promise of good things to come and surely she had already had a great gift today with the news about Captain O’Harris? Yes, now she came to think of it, there was a lot of promise ahead.
They arrived at the Pavilion, the building that divided the people of Brighton. Some loved its whimsical middle-eastern charms, others loathed it. Not so many years ago it had come within a hair’s breadth of being demolished, which was when the committee was formed as part of a campaign to save it for the public. Since then it had been an ongoing ordeal to find events to encourage people into the building, and to keep the funds coming in for its maintenance. But it was iconic, no one could deny that, whether they thought it a hideous monstrosity or a work of architectural delight. It put Brighton on the map, for better or worse. The cosmetics trade fair was the biggest event to be held at the Pavilion in recent years. It was set to bring thousands of visitors to the town and the rental fee the committee had charged Albion Industries would go a long way to sorting out the leaky roof and a slight bit of subsidence in one of the corner walls. By all accounts it was going to be a productive affair.
For the moment, however, the Pavilion looked at sixes and sevens. The workmen were still installing the display stands and preparing all the large boards for posters and advertisement displays. The place looked nowhere near ready to be opened to the public. But, as Abigail had not mentioned this as one of her concerns, Clara had to assume everything was running to schedule. Once inside, having walked through the open gates and Pavilion front doors without being challenged by anyone, Clara glanced about for her friend. There
was no sign of her.
On the other hand, there were plenty of other people about. Aside from the workmen who were all engaged in some piece of handicraft, there were a number of women dressed very smartly, who were chattering away and assessing the main rooms of the Pavilion with very business-like glances. Clara could only assume these were the Albion representatives, checking out their new venue. Over the next seven days these women would be selling Albion products as hard as they possibly could. They would be handing out samples, pigeon-holing traders, and courting potential customers. They were all ready for the challenge.
Clara and Tommy wandered among them. Clara was casting her eye over the workmen’s various pieces of wooden construction. She was alarmed to see that one banner had been nailed into an ornamental piece of plasterwork that was over one hundred years old. Flustered at the sight, and feeling righteously indignant as a member of the committee tasked with protecting the Pavilion from such vandalism, she went in search of the foreman to give him a piece of her mind. She found him on the landing of the stairs, supervising the installation of a set of display shelves that would house expensive perfumes once the glass fronts were attached.
“Are you the foreman?” Clara demanded.
He turned and looked at her, annoyed by her sudden interruption.
“Who are you?” he demanded in return.
“Clara Fitzgerald, Brighton Pavilion Preservation Committee member,” Clara said stoutly, putting plenty of weight behind the title. “We must talk at once!”
“I’m busy,” the foreman grumbled.
“At once! Or I shall summon my fellow committee members and call a halt to this whole thing!”
Muttering and puttering about interfering women, the foreman halted his men and reluctantly followed Clara to the offending piece of woodwork. When she explained the cause for her anger he was nonchalant.
“We’ll fill the hole back in,” he shrugged.
“That is not the point! This building is over one hundred and thirty years old and is not to have nails knocked into it! Part of the agreement for this event was that no harm would be done to the structure of the Pavilion! As it is, the committee will demand compensation for the damage and that bill will go first to Albion Industries, who will then turn to you and demand…”
Clara was interrupted in her rant by a loud, long scream. The foreman, who had been ready to respond to her complaint with some choice words of his own, also came to a halt. For a moment no one moved, then the scream was repeated and Clara started to move in the direction of the sound. It seemed to be coming from one of the side rooms. Several of the Albion girls were clustered about a doorway looking shocked. Another was standing just in the room and screaming repeatedly. Clara dragged her out of the room and then looked to see what had caused the commotion. It was not difficult to see why she was so distressed, for lying on the floor of the room, half covered by a pile of Pearl Pink lipstick tubes, was a woman. She was just lying staring at the ceiling, her hands splayed out either side of her.
“Good heavens!” the foreman had followed Clara and now he stood staring at the awful sight. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Oh yes,” said Clara, noting a pair of Albion shimmer brown stockings tied tightly about the woman’s throat. “She is very dead.”
Chapter Three
Dr Deàth, Brighton’s appropriately named coroner, crouched by the body of the unfortunate woman and lifted her limp wrist.
“Can’t have been dead long. She’s still warm,” he said, mostly to himself.
Inspector Park-Coombs stood a little way behind him, twitching his thick moustache. Clara was stood right next to him with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Who is she?” Park-Coombs asked her.
“One of the Albion girls. Someone has gone to find Abigail Sommers, the woman who is in charge of this event. She should know who she is.”
“And you say there had been some trouble before?”
“Yes, but nothing to suggest anyone was contemplating murder, unless you want to count the scaffold incident. But, in truth, the scaffold was not high and it was unlikely anyone could be killed in the fall. This is much more deliberate, to put it bluntly,” Clara stared sadly at the girl on the floor.
She was in her twenties, a natural blond with the severely streamline figure all the Albion girls sported. She was dressed smartly in a short, pale green dress and a rose pink cardigan.
“No one heard anything?” Park-Coombs was frowning as he flipped open his notebook.
“There is a lot of commotion going on in the building,” Clara explained.
“Taken by surprise, I would imagine,” Park-Coombs wrote down this assumption. “Wouldn’t have been able to cry out much. Anything you can add, Dr Deàth?
Dr Deàth looked up thoughtfully from his work.
“I would say the stocking came from that box,” he pointed to his right helpfully.
The room was full of cardboard boxes containing supplies and samples for the fair. One had been opened and plainly contained hundreds of pairs of stockings in paper bags that bore the Albion name. The remains of one packet was sitting on the floor behind the dead girl’s head. It had been carelessly ripped open, a nasty tear running across the front of the paper and cutting through the company logo.
“Hmm,” Park-Coombs mulled. “Doesn’t strike me as something anyone planned, more an opportunistic killing. Wonder why this girl though? Was she known to the killer, or was it just extremely bad luck she came into this room by herself?”
There was a clatter of heels by the door and Abigail Sommers appeared. She gave a gasp at the sight of the body on the floor.
“Miss Sommers?” Park-Coombs asked her.
“Y…yes,” Abigail regained her composure rapidly, though she could not take her eyes off the girl on the floor. “What has happened here?”
“I think that is rather plain to see,” Inspector Park-Coombs said. “Can you tell me the name of the girl?”
“Um, yes, I think so,” Abigail was trembling, but the initial shock had been softened because she had been forewarned by the girl who had located her and told her of the emergency. She had been ready to see something a lot worse than what was actually presented to her. In fact, the girl did not really look dead at all. “Esther Althorpe, that’s her name. She has been with the company a couple of years, I believe.”
“Had there been any trouble with her?” Park-Coombs asked.
“What? No! Esther was reliable and very consistent with her sales figures,” Abigail had become slightly defensive.
“Did she arrive today?” Clara interjected.
“Yes, all the girls did,” Abigail pressed a hand to her lips, the shock of the whole thing starting to catch up with her. “This is awful. I never thought when I came to you Clara that something like this would happen.”
“Clara has been explaining to me that there have been some odd incidents previously,” Inspector Park-Coombs said. “But you have no idea who might be behind such a thing?”
“No, else I would not have spoken with Clara, would I?” Abigail was affronted. “Look, I have to get this situation under control. The girls are in shock, but I can’t let everyone fall behind schedule.”
“You are going to continue with the fair?” the inspector asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.
“I must. A lot of money and time has been invested into this. Besides, I refuse to be intimidated by this… this… person!” Abigail turned on her heel and marched away, looking about ready to conquer the world if needs be.
“She is determined,” Park-Coombs said wryly.
“Women don’t get far in this life if they are not,” Clara replied. “They’ll want to use this room, you know.”
“I’ll have photographs taken and the room searched from top to bottom for clues. Then we will let them remove the boxes, or rather I’ll get my constables to remove them, and lock up the room just in case we have missed something,” Inspecto
r Park-Coombs scratched at his moustache. “What precisely is Albion Industries?”
“A cosmetics company, mainly,” it was Dr Deàth who answered him. “However, they act as a distributor for a number of smaller companies as well. If you pick up one of their catalogues you will find it contains everything a person might require in terms of personal hygiene and beauty products.”
Park-Coombs gave him a curious look.
“And you know this, how?”
The coroner smiled, very little ruffled him.
“They produce a most excellent hand cream. It moisturises and protects the skin. In my line of work I spend a lot of time washing my hands and the skin between my fingers tends to crack something awful. My wife suggested Albion’s hand cream and handed me their catalogue.”
“Annie uses it too,” Clara chipped in. “It is, apparently, very popular.”
Park-Coombs scratched at his moustache again, thoughtfully.
“They sell moustache trimmers too, Inspector,” Dr Deàth said jovially.
Park-Coombs scowled at him.
“I think I have seen enough here. Let’s find the girl who discovered the body. I want a word with her.”
“May I join you Inspector?” Clara asked.
Inspector Park-Coombs shrugged.
“I had already assumed you would. Just in case we are dealing with two separate incidents, the sabotage and now a murder, I imagine you will want to continue investigating.”
“Absolutely!” Clara grinned.
“Yes, I thought as much.”
The girl who had discovered the body had been upset badly by the experience, and her friends had settled her in the workmen’s tea room. She was perched on an old wooden chair, sipping from a chipped mug containing very sweet tea. A friend was sitting with her, but when the inspector and Clara entered she rose and politely left. The three were left alone. Inspector Park-Coombs sat on a rickety chair that wobbled ominously, one of its legs being considerably shorter than the others. Clara perched on a stool near the oil stove that had caused such problems for the Pearl Pink lipsticks.
