by Evelyn James
“A very noble cause,” Clara said, handing back the paper. “And this was why you went to the Pavilion?”
“A man had fallen from some scaffolding. He wasn’t badly injured, considering the circumstances, but he was hurt nonetheless and, from the way he talked, he suspected someone had deliberately sabotaged the scaffolding,” Gilbert tapped his finger on the table. “His friends agreed, said the nuts and bolts holding the scaffold together had been loosened. According to them, some of the nuts were completely missing. Now, either this was a case of extreme carelessness on the part of whoever put up the scaffold or someone had tampered with it. I thought I would go take a look for myself.”
“And what did you find?”
“At the Pavilion, not a lot,” Gilbert said apologetically. “The foreman would not talk to me, other than to deny he would allow such negligence. He insisted he had double-checked the scaffolding himself, which naturally led me to conclude that someone had sabotaged it.”
Gilbert paused and looked sharply at Clara.
“Why are you so interested?”
“For the same reasons, Mr McMillan,” Clara said carefully. “I have been employed to investigate the possibility of sabotage at the Pavilion and who might be behind it.”
“Nothing to do with the murder that was supposed to have taken place there, then?”
Clara looked at him perfectly blankly.
“What murder?”
Gilbert, who was rapidly overcoming his shyness around Clara, merely grinned knowingly.
“I guess that is just a rumour then,” he shrugged. “I didn’t get much at the Pavilion, but I am certain someone is running amok there.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“After I was kicked out from the Pavilion by this lady who did not like me snooping around,” Gilbert pulled a face to imply what he thought of the woman, “I went back to the hospital and spoke to the workman who was injured. He was most forthcoming. Seems that since the workmen arrived at the Pavilion odd things have been occurring. Initially it was just things going missing, but then matters became nasty. Someone deliberately turned over the oil stove and nearly set the whole place alight, for one.”
Clara’s heart started to beat faster. The thought of the historic Pavilion going up in smoke was enough to frighten half the committee to death, it certainly troubled her, especially as Abigail had not mentioned anything about such a thing.
“The foreman tried to keep a lot of this hushed up,” Gilbert continued. “He was worried no one would believe him and everything would be blamed on careless workers. Then the scaffold collapsed.”
“That was harder to hush up,” Clara confirmed.
“Exactly my thoughts, but what I cannot say is why anyone would want to sabotage the trade fair, assuming that is their intention and not that they want to wreck the Pavilion. You are on the Pavilion Committee, are you not? Has anyone made threats against the property?”
That was an angle Clara had not considered, but she dismissed the idea rapidly. Now, with the two murders, it was plainly apparent that someone was after those involved in the trade fair.
“No one has designs on the Pavilion,” Clara said firmly. “The question is, who is angry enough with those involved in the trade fair to wish them so ill.”
“I have been digging into that angle too,” Gilbert nodded. “Of course, Albion Industries is behind the trade fair and they have a number of rivals in the business world. The House of Jasmine springs to mind.”
“I have heard of them before,” Clara admitted.
“They are not to be sniffed at,” Gilbert commented. “Mr Mokano is a ruthless businessman and he is very angry that Albion Industries appear to have stolen his idea for a new style of lipstick. There is a court case pending. That is more Mr Mokano’s style than sabotage.”
“Other than Mr Mokano, has anyone any reason to feel they have been betrayed by Albion Industries?” Clara asked.
“I haven’t found anything specific just yet,” Gilbert answered, a sly look in his eye. “Personally, I would be turning my attention to the lady in charge, Abigail Sommers. That lady has been ruthless on her way to the top of her industry, she has hurt people along the way. Perhaps someone wants revenge.”
Clara had to admit that was a possibility she had been considering from the start. It was the very reason Abigail had come to her in the first place.
“I haven’t had a chance to pursue one particular avenue that recently came to my attention,” Gilbert continued. “Perhaps it will interest you? I am told the lady in question could have a real grudge against Miss Sommers.”
Gilbert handed over a piece of paper upon which was written a name and address. Clara recognised the name at once. Yet another of her old school friends. She slipped it into her pocket.
“Thank you, Mr McMillan.”
“How about an arrangement? If I learn something else I’ll let you know, in return I get the scoop on this story?”
Clara had risen to leave, now she paused. It was true Mr McMillan had contacts she did not, and it would be handy to have someone else working on the case.
“All right,” she said, holding her hand out to shake once more.
“Goodbye Miss Fitzgerald, and good luck.”
Gilbert’s words rang in her ears as Clara left the building. It was time to pay a call on an old friend.
Chapter Nine
Clara had attended an all girls school from the age of eleven until she was sixteen. It had been an experience she would never forget, though not always for the best of reasons. Abigail Sommers had been one of her class mates, another had been Rowena Yardley – it was Rowena whose name Gilbert McMillan had handed to her. Rowena and Abigail had been best friends in the classroom. They had been the pretty girls, the ones who knew the latest dances, how to curl their hair to perfection and always managed to give their plain uniforms a fashionable twist. Neither were devoted academics, but they were bright enough in their own way. Clara had always considered them inseparable. Wherever one was, the other was bound to soon appear.
Clara had no idea the pair had fallen out so irreconcilably. But then, until the other day she had not seen Abigail in years and, although Rowena lived just outside Brighton at Hove, Clara had not kept in touch. She wondered what had gone on between the two of them.
Rowena lived with her parents in a modest manor house set in several acres. Her father bred horses and was a very well-known name in equine circles. A number of his best animals had been sent to France during the war; only a couple returned and his stud farm had suffered from their loss as a result. In the last few years he had been working to restore his stables to their former glory and, in the meantime, finances had been tight. The old manor looked in need of some repair work as Clara walked up the long drive. It was a dark grey building, rather uninspiring, something the Bronte sisters would have lived in while dreaming up their despair-riddled tales of bleak unhappiness.
Attempts had been made to alleviate this depression. Someone had put pots of pretty flowers by the front step and under the windows, they created a rather desperate riot of colour against the backdrop of continual grey. Clara stood on the doorstep and rang the bell. After a moment it was answered by an older woman who Clara vaguely recalled was Rowena’s mother.
“Is Rowena in? I am Clara Fitzgerald, we used to go to school together.”
Rowena’s mother was a small woman prone to dowdiness in her manner and appearance. She almost mimicked the house in her dull, grey skirt and cream blouse. She had clearly been in the process of baking, as an apron tied about her waist was covered in flour where she had hastily wiped her hands.
“Yes, Rowena is in. Do come inside,” Rowena’s mother led Clara through to a small parlour. It was north facing and cold despite the sunshine outside. Clara gave an unconscious shiver as she entered the room. Someone had attempted to enliven this space too with fresh cut flowers. A blue vase was sitting on the mantelpiece full of purple and pink sweet pea
s.
“I’ll fetch her,” Rowena’s mother said, giving Clara a quick sweep with her alert eyes. “She has been out with the horses this morning and only just got back. Take a seat while I find her.”
Clara plumped herself down on a pale sofa that coughed a cloud of dust up around her. Apparently, this room was used rather infrequently these days. Well, so were many peoples’ parlours. They were the room kept aside for guests and holidays and tended to develop an air of unloved elegance. Clara could imagine this room being very underused, considering its aspect made it rather a cold and dark place. She endeavoured to remove some of the dust from the sofa with her hands, patting the arms and cushions to make herself feel better about sitting there. The only real result was that she made herself sneeze.
Rowena Yardley appeared in the doorway.
“I despair that mother put you in this room Clara,” she said with a grimace.
Rowena was dressed in women’s riding trousers and a blouse. She still had her tall riding boots on and a whip in her left hand. She surveyed the scene before her with mild embarrassment. Rowena had always been pretty with her fair hair and big hazel eyes. Just having come in from riding, her cheeks were still flushed from the exercise and this heightened her natural charms.
“Come into the sitting room. Mother thinks it shabby, but it is much nicer than this room.”
Rowena escorted Clara to the sitting room, which was indeed a much nicer room, if rather worn about the edges. For a start the sun fell fully through the windows and gave the tired furniture a warm aura. Clara was offered a seat on a sofa that was starting to develop tears in the arms. Rowena flopped herself down opposite with a sigh.
“Shabby it may be, but it is far more comfortable,” she smiled at Clara. “Gosh it has been years since I last saw you! What brings you to our house?”
“I met a mutual friend of ours and it reminded me of our school days,” Clara explained, hedging about the truth. “It’s been too long since I last saw everyone.”
“School seems a long time ago,” Rowena shrugged. “So much has happened since and I have been working so hard with daddy to keep this place afloat.”
“The war was hard on the stud, or so I heard.”
“Hard is the word for it!” Rowena laughed. “Daddy volunteered his horses, so he might do his duty. Not having any sons to send off to fight for king and country, he considered the horses a suitable substitute. We lost some of our best blood overseas. And, of course, daddy has never pressed for compensation from the government. Probably they would not give us any, but it might be worth asking. Well, that suggestion always falls on deaf ears. We are having to rebuild from scratch and it has taken time. Without fine stud horses to encourage people to bring their mares here, we have been existing on savings. Fortunately, we have had several promising foals since 1919 and soon will be able to offer stud services again. One stallion in particular has already attracted acclaim from those in the know.”
Rowena looked very proud of this information and smiled. Clara was glad to hear things were improving for them.
“Which old school friend of ours have you met?” Rowena asked, suddenly remembering the start of their conversation.
“Abigail Sommers,” Clara answered, feigning innocence of the knowledge that the pair were no longer friendly.
“Humph,” Rowena puttered, pursing her lips firmly together.
“Oh,” Clara put on a good pretence of looking surprised. “I though you and Abigail were firm friends?”
“At school, maybe,” Rowena nearly spat out the words. “But that was a long time ago, and now we are adults and…”
Rowena hesitated.
“I thought Abigail was working away from Brighton?” she said sharply.
“She was,” Clara admitted. “But she has come to Brighton to host a trade fair. That was how I bumped into her, the fair is being held at the Brighton Pavilion and I am on the committee for the place.”
“A trade fair?” Rowena raised an eyebrow in sarcastic curiosity. “What is Abigail doing involved in something like that? Last I heard she sold make-up to people.”
Rowena clearly perceived this as a very down-market occupation and unbefitting a girl who had gone to the same school as her and had once been deemed a friend.
“The trade fair is for Albion Industries, who Abigail works for,” Clara explained. “And, yes, they do sell make-up among other goods.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Rowena said firmly. “I never bothered with powder and paint. But then I have enough natural charms to not warrant it. Make-up is for plain girls trying to improve themselves. I was always astonished Abigail became involved with such a thing. She had no real need for it either, at least not the last time I saw her.”
“I hadn’t realised you two had fallen out,” Clara lied. “Seeing Abigail made me think of the past and I wanted to catch up with those I could. Perhaps share memories of those old days. I don’t know, sometimes you get this hankering for looking back to the days before the war, before the world changed. You happened to be the only other friend I knew to be nearby.”
“Have you mentioned me to Abigail?” Rowena narrowed her eyes, looking warily at Clara.
“No,” Clara reassured her. “Abigail and I have not had a chance to discuss the past. She is very busy with the fair’s arrangements.”
“That was always Abigail’s problem, being too busy for her friends,” Rowena turned her head, but not before Clara noted her hurt look.
“What, if you don’t mind me asking, happened between you two? I thought you would be friends for all time. The last occasion I saw you both was when we left school for the final time and you and Abigail were walking down the gravel drive together.”
Rowena’s own memory was sparked by this image and she briefly smiled to herself, before her face became sombre again.
“Abigail was supposed to be my friend, but when I really needed her she turned her back on me,” Rowena scowled. “It was a couple of years after we finished school, right when the war was hotting up and daddy was sending off all his horses. Things looked bleak, without the stud farm daddy had no income. I persuaded him to let me find a job so I could help the family. Mummy isn’t a lot of use at such things, no good asking her to go off to a munitions factory!” Rowena found humour in the notion of her mother working, but she shook it from her head at once as she returned to her thoughts on Abigail. “I knew at the time, from letters she had written to me, that Abigail had found herself a nice little job and I hoped she might be able to find something for me to do. I had this idea that we could work together and it would be just like school again. But Abigail kept making excuses for not being able to find me work with her. Some of them were ludicrous and I knew what she really meant was that she couldn’t be bothered to help me.
“Perhaps she thought I would be so much better than her at the job that she would be replaced by me! Abigail always was a little jealous of me. Out of the two of us, I usually was the better at school work and received higher marks.”
Rowena gave Clara a satisfied smile, as if this ability to out-best her friend was at least some compensation for their falling out. Clara was having a hard time, however, imagining Rowena working as a sales representative for Albion Industries. Perhaps Abigail had guessed this herself and had deliberately made excuses.
“In the end, I was the one who had to go to the damn munitions factory for work,” Rowena’s scowl had returned. “It was horrible work, truly. One of the girls was blown to pieces when the shell she was working on exploded. And, on another night, one of the sheds we worked in caught fire. It was awful. I still have nightmares where I hear the girls trapped inside screaming.”
Rowena’s voice fell away, she stared blankly at her hands, her energy and her stoicism had suddenly abandoned her.
“I don’t think anyone realises the hell we girls worked in,” she said softly. “All to make more bloody shells to kill the Germans with, while the German girls were doing exactly
the same. In a way, we were killing our own menfolk in the process. It’s a thought that keeps me awake some nights.”
Clara could see the pain this experience had etched into Rowena. Her face had lost some of its vivacity, now she looked quite pale and sad. Clara saw how all this horror had left Rowena angry and wanting to lash out at someone. That someone had been Abigail, the friend who had failed to get her a job and thus spare her from the nightmare of the munitions factory. Rowena had clearly felt betrayed, just as the saboteur at the Pavilion had felt.
“I’m sorry,” Clara said. “I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories.”
“Trouble is, the bad memories are too tied up with the good ones.” Rowena shrugged.
“But things are improving now, and you are happy?”
A little colour came back to Rowena’s face.
“Oh yes, Clara, I am very happy. I am doing what I love each and every day. The horses make up for a lot. Let me show you around.”
Rowena took Clara on a tour of the stud and introduced her to the various horses. Clara politely nodded and smiled as she was given names and details of each equine in question’s lineage. She didn’t recognise the names of the famous sires and dams which Rowena babbled out at a pace, proudly indicating the great parentage of the mares and the foals. As the tour concluded, Clara had to admit to herself that Rowena did not seem a person interested in revenge. She was too busy for a start. Taking regular trips into Brighton to derail Abigail’s work would simply be too impractical. In any case, Rowena seemed happy and happy people rarely feel the need to revenge past slights. Clara found herself reaching the conclusion that Gilbert McMillan had been wrong and that, despite their falling out, there was no real bad blood between Rowena and Abigail. That left her back at square one.
They walked to the front of the house and Clara made her farewells. Rowena insisted she stop by again and Clara promised she would. It had, in fact, been refreshing to catch up with an old school friend. But as distracting as the conversation had been, it had not shed any new light on Clara’s case. As she headed back in the direction of Brighton, hoping to catch a lift off a passing horse and cart along the way, Clara reflected that she was yet to learn of anyone who had a serious grudge against Abigail or Albion Industries. Perhaps it was time to spread her net further afield?
