Murder and Mascara

by Evelyn James

  That just left Abigail. She came into the break room looking extremely pale. Clara wished she could offer her a cup of tea, but the stove was out and the workmen had taken their mugs and tea home with them. She offered her instead her cotton wrap, to throw about her shoulders and warm her a little. Abigail thanked her.

  “I take it you were speaking with Miss Fitzgerald when you heard a noise from upstairs?” Inspector Park-Coombs began.

  “Yes,” Abigail answered.

  “And you both went upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “You saw no sign of anyone else about?”

  “Other than the service staff, no,” Abigail clutched her hands together, they were threatening to tremble. “I was not prepared for what I saw, not at all. Poor Mr Forthclyde. I thought perhaps something had collapsed, a table maybe. That’s what it sounded like, a lot of plates and things crashing down. Instead…”

  Abigail fell silent.

  “Did you see Mr Forthclyde leave with the other guests?” Clara asked.

  Abigail paused, before she shook her head.

  “I was going to say I had, but really I only had an impression of who was leaving. They went as a group and I did not say goodbye to each individually. It was negligent of me, but I had so much else on my mind. The Pavilion is still not quite ready for the opening and I was thinking of all the things still to do,” Abigail looked ashamed by her hospitality failings. “I really didn’t want to have to deal with this banquet. It interrupted my other work. But what does it matter now? With poor Mr Forthclyde…”

  “Where was Cushing’s Corsetry’s stock kept?” Clara continued before Abigail could dwell too much on what had occurred.

  “I’ll show you,” Abigail rose and led them out of the room and down a short corridor to one of the smaller rooms in the Pavilion. She opened the door and motioned to a series of towering piles of boxes. “We have had to put several rooms aside for stock.”

  Clara walked into the room and looked about her. Most of the boxes were carefully labelled, and she easily found those belonging to Cushing’s Corsetry. As she moved among the stacks, she saw one box that was sitting on its own behind the others. The seal on its lid had been cut through and the two flaps that formed the top of the box gaped slightly open. Clara pulled the box forward and opened it.

  “Here is where our murderer found their weapon,” she said, standing back so Abigail and the inspector could see.

  A corset was lying heaped on top of a layer of tissue paper. It had been ripped open roughly and one of the whalebone staves removed. The irony, as far as Clara could see, was that someone had used a knife to remove the stave. Why make a second, inferior weapon to stab a man with when you already had one to hand? The only reason would be to make a point.

  “Who has access to these rooms, Miss Sommers?” Inspector Park-Coombs asked Abigail.

  “Everyone,” Abigail shrugged her shoulders. “The room is not locked. It would be a nightmare to have keys made up for everyone who needed to come in here. We intended to place a security guard at the entrance to the corridor during the trade fair to prevent anyone wandering in and stealing goods. But that hardly seemed necessary at the moment.”

  Abigail looked bleak, clearly thinking that a security guard on site might have prevented a lot of tragedy occurring.

  “Someone is determined to ruin this event,” she said tearfully. “Must I cancel the fair, Inspector?”

  Park-Coombs shook his head.

  “We can cordon off the rooms where the incidents occurred. In any case, it is this fair that is keeping our killer around. If we cancel it then he or she will have succeeded and will have no further reason to remain. I would rather they did not escape so easily.”

  Abigail nodded, but Clara suspected she was half-inclined to cancel the event herself. The strain of everything was simply too much to bear.

  “Could there have been any reason why someone would wish Mr Forthclyde harm?” Clara asked her.

  Abigail shook her head.

  “I did not know him well. I can no more say why someone would hurt him as I can explain why he did not leave with the rest of the guests,” Abigail rubbed at her tired eyes. “I suppose I must send a telegram to Cushing’s and let them know their trade stall will no longer have a representative. Someone is out to ruin me, Clara, I am certain of it!”

  Clara put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

  “Go home, go to bed,” she told her. “Rest and put this out of your mind. This is not your fault. Some lunatic has taken a grudge against Albion Industries, that is awful, but out of your control.”

  Abigail smiled wanly, but she didn’t seem to entirely believe Clara. It was all too easy to imagine that her employers would gladly blame this misfortune upon her and use her as a scapegoat. She agreed to go home anyway, there was nothing more she could do until morning.

  They had only just said goodbye to Abigail when a voice called out for the inspector and they hastened back upstairs. Dr Deàth’s assistants had just lifted up the late Mr Forthclyde and removed his body to a waiting stretcher. Beneath the body, amid the debris of dinner, the coroner had spotted some smeared writing. As Park-Coombs arrived he pointed it out.

  “I think someone was writing a message when Mr Forthclyde stumbled upon them,” he said. “I can make out B, E, T, R, A.”

  “Betrayal,” Clara finished the word. “The same message was written on the floor downstairs.”

  She stepped a little closer to the table.

  “Written in Pearl Pink lipstick again. The killer’s favourite.”

  “Are we now suggesting that Mr Forthclyde had the misfortune to stumble upon something he should not have seen?” Park-Coombs peered at the smeared letters.

  “Perhaps, but the whalebone stave had been prepared as a weapon for a reason,” Clara said. “Maybe it was not meant for him or maybe it was. We still don’t know why he came back upstairs.”

  “Mr Bankes take a picture of this,” the inspector commanded. “I’ll get my men to check the room for fingerprints if you are done, doctor?”

  “Done,” Dr Deàth smiled at them. “I shall take our friend here back to his new residence and settle him in.”

  Inspector Park-Coombs grumbled at the coroner’s strange sense of humour. He sent his men to work scouring the place for any other potential clues and also dusting for fingerprints. Though he complained mournfully that there must be hundreds to be found, and most would be irrelevant to his enquiries. Clara wandered downstairs with Oliver Bankes. The inspector wanted his photographs developed as soon as possible and Oliver was anticipating a long night of work ahead. As he walked next to Clara he glanced at her.

  “Have you heard the news?”

  Clara looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She had been friends with Oliver over a year now. He had been a shoulder to cry on when Captain O’Harris had vanished, though Clara had never taken liberties. She knew Oliver had always hoped they might become something more than friends.

  “Do you mean about O’Harris returning to Brighton?” she asked him.

  Oliver nodded.

  “It’s very good news, isn’t it?” Oliver smiled at her. “You must be relieved.”

  “Relieved, surprised,” Clara shrugged her shoulders. “It sometimes seems implausible. Yet, I have seen him alive and well. Somehow he survived.”

  “I’m glad,” Oliver reassured her. “You haven’t been the same since he was lost.”

  “I barely knew him,” Clara countered, flushing with embarrassment that she had been so obvious in her grief.

  “Still, you liked him,” Oliver said gently. “And now he is back. The newspapers are desperate for an interview with him, you know.”

  “I know! They attempted to nab me as I left the hospital earlier today,” Clara complained. “You would think they could find other stories to interest them.”

  As she said this, she realised that the very story that would distract their attention was the one they w
ere trying to keep hidden from them. At least until the trade fair had concluded.

  “How long before they learn about this?” Oliver read her thoughts.

  “Not long,” Clara sighed. “It’s becoming too blatant now. I just hope we can find the culprit before things get out of hand, well, at least anymore out of hand than they already are.”

  Clara paused.

  “Might I get a copy of your photographs too? They might prove useful.”

  “I’ll have to get permission from the inspector, but I don’t see why not. You are clearly involved in this case,” Oliver agreed. “Would you mind if I walked you home? It’s on my way back to the shop and with this maniac on the loose I would feel happier if I saw you home safely.”

  Clara almost laughed. After all the adventures she had been through, it was about time people started to realise she could take care of herself. But she supposed that would never happen, not when she was a woman and her friends were men. It was too engrained for them to be protective.

  “I tell you what,” she smiled at Oliver. “I’ll walk you home as far as my house, so I know no madman is coming after you.”

  Oliver laughed.

  “Deal!”

  They wandered out of the Pavilion and into the night.

  Chapter Eight

  Clara made her way to the Brighton Gazette’s head office the following morning. She wanted to locate this rogue newspaperman and find out just what he knew about the events at the Pavilion. So far, she had a lot of questions and very few answers. No one had suggested a suspect or a likely motive for the crimes. Without those connections it was hard to know what to make of this whole affair.

  The Brighton Gazette operated out of a strange building that had once been a chapel. It rose up between the usual Victorian terraces with a domed roof and a tower at the front that suggested it should have once housed a bell. The offices were spread over two rather cramped floors and the editor of the paper, who was also the owner, had a room at the front of the building where a circular stained glass window overlooked the street. Clara found herself sitting in this room, listening to the noise of traffic outside and admiring the precisely cut pieces of coloured glass. Whoever had designed the window had gone for an abstract pattern that was more about creating a rainbow of colour than illustrating a Bible story. Mr Pontefract sat right before the window in his big leather chair, and rays of different colours danced across his white shirt.

  “Now, Miss Fitzgerald, what can I do for you?”

  Mr Pontefract had started the newspaper at the turn of the century, having dabbled in the world of writing for several years beforehand. The money for the business venture had come from an inheritance left to him by a distant great aunt. Mr Pontefract had relished the idea of being a free man, able to run his paper as he wished, employ the people he wanted and write the things he wanted to write. Of course, none of that had actually happened, for he had to run the newspaper within the strictures of the business world, working with printers and advertisers and distributors who had their own ideas of what a newspaper should be like. And he had to employ people he did not always agree with because they were good at what they did and would make his paper a success, and some of the more radical souls he had thought to employ proved hopelessly inadequate when it came to producing regular articles. As for writing the things he wanted to write, well, there were times he could, but mostly he was constrained by what his readers wanted to read, and what his advertisers were happy sharing column space with. The wrong article could offend a lot of people.

  Mr Pontefract, fortunately, was a pragmatic soul who rather liked his office and his role as editor, and could live with the limitations imposed on his work by an inconsiderate world. Now, settling nicely into his forties, with a pleasant paunch that spoke of comfortable living, he was quite content and looking forward to many similar years of easy living. After all, there were advantages to knowing exactly what people wanted, it saved a lot of time that would otherwise be wasted being creative, for a start.

  “I assume you are still happy with your advertisement in the Gazette?” Mr Pontefract asked, a hint of concern on his face. “I would hate to think that one of our customers was dissatisfied.”

  “I am perfectly satisfied with my advertisement,” Clara assured him. “I actually came to ask you about one of your newspapermen. He was hanging around the Pavilion recently and was unceremoniously kicked out.”

  “Ah, that would be Gilbert,” Mr Pontefract nodded with instant recognition. “He had a whiff of a potential story over there. Something about an industrial accident? Gilbert is very concerned about the conditions endured by the working man. You may have seen his recent series of articles on the lack of safety regulations put in place at factories and building sites? He interviewed a number of fellows who were severely injured just doing their job.”

  Clara, who had very little spare time to read anything, apologetically admitted she had not seen these articles.

  “Might I speak with Gilbert?” she asked. “I am hopeful he may be able to offer me help in a case I am working on.”

  “He should be at his desk,” Mr Pontefract explained. “He is supposed to be typing up the obituaries. That is one of Gilbert’s more mundane tasks at the newspaper. He complains about it a lot.”

  Mr Pontefract led Clara out of his office and down to the ground floor of the Gazette’s headquarters. This was an open space filled with desks and the clatter of typewriters. Cigarette smoke hung in a haze around head level and discarded or lost papers covered the floor. This was where the real work of the Gazette took place, where she was composed and created each week in a fug of mild pandemonium and nicotine.

  “Here he is, Gilbert McMillan,” Mr Pontefract pointed out a man sat behind a desk. He was glaring at a sheet of paper lodged in his typewriter, as if he imagined this would cause the machine to operate itself. “Gilbert, this is Clara Fitzgerald and she wants to talk to you about your work at the Pavilion.”

  Gilbert jumped up from his chair so fast at the sight of Clara before his desk, that his chair was thrown back and fell over. He looked a touch stunned to see a woman in his workspace.

  “How are you coming on with this week’s obituaries?” Pontefract asked, ignoring the man’s clearly disconcerted demeanour. “Hope you have done a suitably nice piece about the old major who just popped his clogs. I expect lots of stuff about his military record. Anyway, take a few moments off to speak with Miss Fitzgerald.”

  With a wave of his hand, dismissing both Clara and Gilbert and their problems, Pontefract sauntered off back to his office. Not missing the chance, as he went along the row of desks, to harangued various members of his staff over the slow pace of their work.

  Clara lost interest in him and turned instead to Gilbert McMillan. Gilbert was a man in his late twenties who suffered from a bad case of short-sightedness and had to wear thick glasses all the time. He was a good journalist, very adept at rooting out information from people, but he was also very used to working with men. In fact, he had built his reputation writing articles on the working man, not woman. Gilbert would be the first to admit that he suffered a case of extreme anxiety when confronted by a member of the opposite sex. He put this down to having a rather overpowering mother and several dominating aunts. As an only male child among this female swarm, he had been both doted on and controlled in equally alarming measures.

  “Mr McMillan,” Clara held her hand out to shake. “Do not be concerned, I am merely hoping you might be able to help me with a case I am working on. You might have information I have not been able to get hold of.”

  Gilbert blinked at her from behind his thick glasses, clearly perplexed.

  “Information?”

  “Precisely,” Clara helped herself to a chair that was placed before Gilbert’s desk. From the pile of papers on it, it was clearly not often used for visitors. “I heard that you went to the Brighton Pavilion the other day because of an accident that happened there.”


  Gilbert relaxed a little. Talking about his work always relaxed him. He sat down too.

  “I did indeed go to the Pavilion. I am assuming you know the details of the accident that occurred there?”

  “I do,” Clara agreed. “But how did you come to know about it in the first place?”

  “Luck,” Gilbert shrugged. “That magic ingredient that can make or break a journalist. Mr Pontefract had posted me at the hospital because he had heard talk that Captain O’Harris, the daredevil pilot, was shortly due to be arriving there. I was to interview him as soon as I could. But instead of O’Harris turning up, there was this man carried in by his friends. From his overalls he was clearly a workman, which caught my attention. Here, have you seen my latest piece?”

  Gilbert rifled through some papers and produced a draft copy of one of his articles. He handed it over to Clara and she saw that it was entitled ‘The Great Working Scandal: How Modern Industry Costs Lives’.

  “I have been working on a series exposing the appalling conditions many men have to work in,” Gilbert explained. “There are very few safety precautions taken in these places, not even the basic ones, and men often fall foul of the most horrendous accidents. Then what? Well, if they are lucky they recover and go back to work, hopefully without losing too much time and money. But if they are unlucky and their injury is something crippling, they are simply abandoned to the mercy of their nearest and dearest. Whole families can be ruined by one moment of misfortune.

  “Not that their employers much care. There is always another man to fill their spot. They go about deliberately oblivious to the problem. It is about time someone opened their eyes and the eyes of the wider world to this problem. They need to be made accountable for the accidents that occur in their places of work, only then will they take an active interest in preventing them!”