Murder and Mascara

by Evelyn James

  “Just say you are sorry,” Clara answered her. “What else can you offer but your condolences?”

  “Clara, if I had thought this was the way things were going to go when I came to your office, I would have informed the police at once. It never occurred to me that someone would die,” Abigail dropped her voice, aware that other guests were now walking up the stairs to join them outside the improvised dining room.

  “There is no point blaming yourself,” Clara said calmly. “No one, except the person responsible, expected this to happen.”

  Abigail gave one last frown, before she forced her face into a smiling countenance of jolly non-concern and greeted the other guests now joining them. She opened the dining room doors and invited people to take a seat where they pleased. The room had formerly been one of the less extravagant bedrooms, but it had now been cleared of furniture except for a long dining table and a number of chairs. The walls, however, were still hung with the artwork collected by the first monarch to use this place as his private retreat. The Pavilion was not a huge building, considering its royal origins, and many of the rooms were relatively small. It was therefore quite cosy in the dining room and there was a real risk, Clara noted anxiously, that some of the guests might accidentally crack their chairs back into the ornate walls and damage some of the decoration. Clara hoped she would not have to explain such a mishap to the committee.

  In fact, quite a few of her fellow Pavilion patrons were present, specially invited because they had allowed Albion Industries to hire the place for their trade fair. Other guests were businessmen within the cosmetics industry; important clients and contacts who were being wined and dined at Albion’s expense to make them friendly towards future trade deals. Clara realised with a glimmer of disappointment that, aside from Abigail, she was the only woman present.

  Abigail stood at the head of the table and welcomed them all. She was dressed extremely well in a Moroccan blue dress and turquoise silk wrap about her shoulders. She glittered with pretty jewelled trinkets on her wrists and around her neck and her make-up was immaculate. She blinked expressive kohl eyes at the room. Clara felt quite dowdy in contrast. She had opted for a pale green dress and a cream cotton wrap that sat about her shoulders unnecessarily, for the room was already quite hot. She did not wear make-up and felt as though this was an error considering the company. She was relieved when the first course was served and she could concentrate on eating rather than reflecting on her inadequacies before the other diners.

  Abigail had given her a brief outline of the guests in the room, emphasising over and over that none could possibly have anything to do with the crime against poor Esther. Clara thought it unlikely that any man in the room might have been directly involved in murder, but could someone here have enough of a grudge against Albion to try and sabotage their first trade fair in Brighton?

  “Which company do you work for?” the man on Clara’s left asked her.

  “Fitzgerald and Co,” Clara answered automatically, Abigail had advised she not tell anyone at dinner she was a private detective.

  “Are you quite a new company?” the man persisted.

  “Rather!” Clara smiled. “And we are currently only operating in Brighton, but we do hope to expand.”

  “This is an ideal opportunity for you then,” the man nodded. “Getting to meet some of the top names in the business.”

  “I hope so,” Clara smiled. “Might I ask who you are?”

  “Henry Forthclyde,” Henry introduced himself. “Of Cushing’s Corsetry. We have sold our products through Albion for a number of years now. What do you specialise in?”

  Clara was almost flummoxed for a response, but something reminded her that Albion Industries also dealt in health products that could aid failing beauty.

  “We bottle and sell Brighton water,” she said with a flash of inspiration. “It has a remarkable array of health properties and can restore one’s youthful appearance.”

  “Quite a niche market,” Forthclyde noted.

  “For the moment, but we have other products coming to market soon,” Clara felt that her imaginary business was being called into question and decided to change the subject. “Can you tell me about the others at the table?”

  “Some of them,” Forthclyde said. “Let’s see, over there are two representatives from Holt and Sons, a manufacturer of perfumes. And several of the men at the top of the table are from Albion Industries. To our right we have men from Carters’ fine cosmetics, Diamond Pharmaceuticals, Locke and Co. Cosmetic Dentistry and Anderson’s Chemical Company, who produce a range of base products used in the manufacture of various cosmetics.”

  Clara surveyed the room as the names were mentioned to her. The men mostly looked middle-aged and used to eating well. Some of them looked rather in need of their own services, especially the chap from Locke and Co. who had a severe overbite.

  “They rather sound like they have been involved with Albion Industries a long time,” Clara said thoughtfully.

  “They have. I don’t think any company here, barring yourself, has been involved with Albion less than five years. Cushing’s Corsetry has been providing unique products to Albion these last fifty years, I am delighted to say,” Forthclyde looked pleased with himself.

  “Have you a stall here, Mr Forthclyde?” Clara asked.

  “I do indeed,” Forthclyde preened. “We are introducing our latest range of flatteners, for the ample girl trying to attain the fashionable fit of today’s dresses.”

  Whalebone vests to ditch the curves, Clara concluded. Ironic, considering that for much of its history the corset was designed to create a curved hourglass figure rather than straighten it out.

  “I imagine many companies will be aiming to launch a new product this week?” Clara continued, roving her eyes over the assorted men about her and committing their faces to memory. None of them looked much like a saboteur.

  “Absolutely! I would think, at such a prestigious event as this, it would be preposterous not to! I hear tell that Albion is launching a new lipstick shade itself, a rather controversial piece, or so I am told.”

  Clara glanced up at this little nugget of information. Forthclyde had clearly said it to arouse her curiosity. He was a gossip, pure and simple.

  “What could be controversial about a lipstick shade?” Clara asked.

  “In itself, nothing,” Forthclyde nodded. “But it is how they came about the shade that has led to rumours. The story goes that Albion stole the colour and its unique pearly appearance – which is produced using a secret ingredient – off a rival company. If true, it would be quite the show stopper. It could lead to a court case, of all things. The scandal would be immense.”

  Clara was always interested when the word ‘scandal’ came up in one of her cases. Such talk had the tendency to produce murder suspects, as well as offering motive.

  “Surely Albion Industries would not be so foolish as to take such a risk?” she said to Forthclyde.

  “This is a backstabbing business, beauty products,” Forthclyde told her with a rather sad look in his eye, as if he despaired of her naivety. “If a company thinks it can get away with it, they’ll risk a lot. Albion wants to be the market leader, it doesn’t want a rival company producing a new inventive product and taking sales from them.”

  Clara’s thoughts had revolved back to that scrawled word on the floor – betrayal. Was the person behind the sabotage and murder a disgruntled member of this other company which Albion had stolen from?

  “I still can’t believe it. What company are you referring to?” Clara asked.

  “They are called The House of Jasmine. The owner is of Oriental descent and quite innovative, along with being very cutthroat. He and Albion have been at loggerheads for years.”

  It still seemed implausible that a big company like Albion would risk their reputation by stealing from another company.

  “You don’t believe me,” Forthclyde said in amusement. “I think you ought to, especially
if you wish to survive in this industry. There is no honour among beauty product manufacturers!”

  Clara was starting to feel rather glad her health product company was entirely fictitious. She worked her way through the four-course dinner without extracting anything more from Mr Forthclyde on the subject of Albion’s suspected treachery. Nor were her neighbouring guests much interested in talking about anything but their own business arrangements. She was soon exasperated listening to discussions on stock prices, disgruntled shareholders and profit margins. As the meal wrapped up, Clara was glad to be free of the talk. She did, however, stop Abigail in the main hall of the Pavilion and take her to one side before she left for home. Abigail had survived the evening despite her earlier anxieties, she looked strained however, and her make-up was not completely masking the weary lines across her forehead and about her eyes.

  “What is it Clara?” she asked with a hint of hope in her voice.

  “Just something I wished to ask you about, it may be nothing, but it was curious.”

  Abigail’s weariness suddenly lifted as she was given this news.

  “Anything, Clara, that could solve this awful tragedy, ask anything.”

  “It was something I overheard during dinner. A piece of gossip, possibly no more than a malicious rumour.”

  Abigail’s enthusiasm faded again.

  “Oh? Is that all?”

  “Someone said, and I can’t possibly think it true, that Albion Industries stole the recipe for their new lipstick shade.”

  “Pearl Pink!” Abigail gasped and then her face hardened. “That will be The House of Jasmine spreading gossip once again. So, it has gotten back to some of our supplies? I should not be surprised. In fact, it’s just the sort of thing The House of Jasmine would deliberately tell them.”

  “It is untrue?” Clara asked cautiously.

  “Of course!” Abigail threw up her hands in astonishment that Clara had to ask. “Albion have been working for years on a way to create a sheen to their lipsticks like the shine you get on a real pearl. They have tried all manner of ingredients to perfect the process but only lately have they had success. As it happens, The House of Jasmine caught wind of Albion’s project and began their own work, hoping to create their lipstick first. Mr Mokano who runs the firm is very competitive and can’t bear to think he is being overtaken. We suspected he had placed a spy in Albion’s headquarters.”

  “We?” Clara picked up on the word rather sharply. Abigail was talking more like one of the businessmen they had just dined with than as a sales representative.

  Abigail blushed. Her anger had made her indiscreet.

  “You will think I have taken advantage of my position to further my career,” she said, her face still flushed. “But it is not like that. The people in charge of the representatives’ sales figures have no idea.”

  “What are you saying Abigail?” Clara pressed.

  Once more her friend blushed bright red.

  “I have been seeing a young man who works in product development at the head office,” she admitted in a low voice, quickly glancing over her shoulder to see that the other guests had departed. It was now just her and Clara in the Pavilion. “But it has only been for the last six months and it has nothing to do with me being put in charge of this trade fair. I earned this role by my own merit.”

  Clara was not concerned whether that was true or not, unless it was cause for someone to feel betrayed and even to commit murder.

  “That is how you know about the Pearl Pinks?”

  “Yes, look, Davy, my young man, he works in the laboratory where they devise new lipsticks. He knows all about the development of Pearl Pink and it was never stolen from anyone. Mr Mokano has been pipped to the post, that is all, and now he is angry. So he spreads rumours.”

  “Would he go further than that?” Clara asked.

  It took a moment before Abigail realised what she was implying.

  “No! I mean,” Abigail pressed a hand to her mouth. “No, I can’t think it. It would be so petty to try and sabotage us, and to kill Esther…”

  Abigail stood very still, close to brimming over with tears. Clara reached out a hand and placed it on her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry to have pushed the matter,” she said. “But these questions have to be asked.”

  Abigail nodded, taking a deep breath to still her emotions.

  “I think…”

  A tremendous clatter came from the recently vacated dining room. Both women fell silent and exchanged a glance, then Abigail turned and started to run upstairs. Clara followed behind. They entered the dining room to see a huddle of serving staff standing to one side of the room in shock. Before them all, lying sprawled across the dining table where he had knocked glasses and plates flying, was the unfortunate figure of Mr Forthclyde. Clara felt her breath catch in her throat. Protruding from his chest was a large, thin white object. His head was thrown back as he eyeballed the ornate ceiling helplessly. Abigail gave a slightly hysterical cry.

  “I thought he left with the rest?” she said to Clara.

  Clara could only shake her head. So had she, but here he was lying dead before them. Clara licked her lips and pushed her anxieties to the back of her mind.

  “You better summon the police again, Abigail,” she said.

  Chapter Seven

  Dr Deàth poised himself over Forthclyde. He was not the tallest of men and had required a stool to raise him sufficiently above the corpse on the table and enable him to look directly down on the victim. The police coroner had been staring at the dead man for some time, apparently trying to take in every detail of the scene. He was not alone; Oliver Bankes, police photographer when he was not working in his shop, was going around the room taking pictures from every angle. There was a lot of debris about the body, the service staff had not had a chance to clear the table before Mr Forthclyde met his unfortunate end. Oliver was taking pictures so at a future date the position of every plate, spoon and glass would be known. There was no telling if something like that might be important.

  “Stabbed,” Dr Deàth said steadily.

  Clara glanced at Inspector Park-Coombs, he responded with a roll of his eyes.

  “I think we could all work that one out,” he rumbled.

  Dr Deàth looked up and smiled at them lightly. He was an easy-going soul who rarely took offence at the inspector’s gruff demeanour.

  “Cumbersome weapon for the task,” he said, pointing a finger at the flat white object that had been thrust down into poor Mr Forthclyde. “I do believe this is whalebone. The edges of which can become surprisingly sharp if honed. Not the usual choice for murder, though.”

  “Whalebone!” Clara tutted at herself for not guessing what the material was sooner, it had just looked so odd and out of place. “Mr Forthclyde worked for Cushing’s Corsetry. It would not surprise me if that article has come out of one of the new flatteners he was intending to launch here at the trade fair.”

  “Yes, it could be a whalebone stave,” Dr Deàth agreed. “As I said before, not a convenient murder weapon. Though I suppose you imagine your killer was going for irony over pragmatism?”

  The inspector gave a humph.

  “I don’t like it when murderers start becoming creative.”

  “What is truly alarming is how fast this whole thing occurred,” Clara said. “The guests had only just left, and we assumed Mr Forthclyde had gone with them. I was just having a quiet word with Abigail Sommers when we heard a commotion and ran upstairs to find this.”

  “So, Miss Sommers has an alibi,” Inspector Park-Coombs noted. “But we still have a Pavilion full of suspects. I’ll need a list of the names of the service staff here tonight and also all the guests. If Mr Forthclyde hung back, perhaps someone else did as well.”

  “I just can’t explain why he remained here,” Clara sighed. “Was he perhaps waiting for someone? Or hoping to catch Abigail for a quick word?”

  “Perhaps he just fancied finishing off this win
e,” Oliver pointed out several half-finished bottles of red wine on the sideboard. The party had been over-stocked and, since all the men had work to attend to in the morning, there had been a practical reluctance to avoid over-indulgence. They had mostly been older men with sensible heads on their shoulders, business was their addiction and wine could only run a close second. There had been a great deal of alcohol leftover, but could Mr Forthclyde really have come back up here for a drink?

  “We best start the interviews,” Park-Coombs said solemnly, ignoring Oliver.

  They wandered downstairs to the front hall of the Pavilion where Abigail and the service staff were gathered, watched over by a pair of police constables. A couple of the staff looked eager to disappear the instant they got the chance, hence why the constables were supervising them. Abigail pounced on Inspector Park-Coombs as he appeared down the stairs.

  “I have had the workmen’s break room opened for our use,” she declared. “If that is all right. And may we proceed? I am worried that the service staff might revolt if they have to remain much longer. They are all rather shaken up by events.”

  Park-Coombs agreed to take their statements first and directed the staff one by one into the room set aside by Abigail. The process, which Clara was privy to, was unenlightening. There were eight men on the service staff, ranging from two chefs to several waiters. They had been hired locally to prepare and serve the meal that evening, and the waiters were then expected to clear everything away afterwards. Four waiters had walked into the dining room and discovered the body sprawled on the table. They had heard a crashing noise and gone to investigate it. They had only just arrived when Abigail and Clara had appeared. Each man denied anything to do with the crime and since they had all been walking together to the room from the old servants’ quarters downstairs, they could alibi each other. The remaining staff had been in the kitchen cleaning the various pots, pans, moulds, spoons and other implements the chefs had used to create their feast. As each item was cleaned and dried, so it was packed away, the chefs taking especial consideration over the process as some of the items were quite delicate. No one had been out of sight of someone else for more than a moment. Park-Coombs took the names of the staff and said they could go home. They would have to return in the morning to finish clearing the dining room and retrieve the rest of their culinary equipment.