by Evelyn James
“I can prove my innocence,” Abigail persisted. “I keep copies of these papers at home for my own reference. Many of the girls do so. I could retrieve those copies and demonstrate that my figures tallied exactly with the stock dispatched.”
“That is very good news,” Clara assured her. “But who would doctor your papers?”
“Niamh Owen,” Abigail said through gritted teeth. “She has a friend in the accounts department, I don’t know who they are, unfortunately. Either this friend or Niamh herself changed my papers to make me look like a liar.”
Niamh Owen certainly had plenty of motive to do just that and her personal dislike for Abigail biased any opinion she gave. If she, or her friend, had doctored the paperwork to discredit a rival it was very serious indeed. Before making such accusations, which could ruin someone else’s reputation and cost them their job, Clara would need to be very sure of her facts.
“I suggest you send for those papers, Abigail,” Clara said. “We can ask the inspector to request a police constable from another station to go to your home and retrieve them. I think that would be acceptable considering the circumstances.”
Abigail seemed happy with that suggestion. She nodded her head in agreement.
“Tell me a bit more about Niamh,” Clara took a sip of her tea. “I understand she is not all that popular among some of the girls?”
“Niamh is fiery, I think that is the best way to describe her. She acts like she has a lot to prove, perhaps she does, but it is mainly to herself,” Abigail shrugged her shoulders. “She is underconfident and it shows in the way she jealously attacks others. I don’t think she has any real friends among the Albion representatives, though there are those quite happy to trail in her shadow because they think it will do them some good. Niamh won’t tolerate near her those she perceives as being a potential threat. I have always had to be guarded around her.”
“What about her and Esther Althorpe?”
“The rumour was that Niamh had tried to take over some of Esther’s better sales contracts. Esther was the representative for a lucrative area of the county. A number of larger stores came within her territory. Places where it was relatively easy to make high sales. Esther was perhaps not experienced enough to fully exploit that advantage, but she was learning.”
“Niamh thought she could do a better job?” Clara guessed.
“Niamh wanted that territory very badly. She was not given it because she had had some confrontations with customers in the past. Albion was not prepared to let her erstwhile tongue spoil their relationship with these big stores. Esther was considered to be a potentially good saleswoman, if she could just be encouraged in the right direction,” Abigail smiled sadly. “She had a good heart, did Esther. She was a little naïve to begin with, but she learned rapidly and rewarded the trust Albion had placed in her. Her improvement of their middle-range stocking sales is just one example of how she was developing and proving herself an asset.”
“Which makes the irony of her being strangled to death by one of those stockings seem rather important,” Clara pointed out.
“Do you think someone with a grudge against Esther killed her? But then that would not explain Mr Forthclyde. Why would anyone hate both of them? They were virtually unconnected.”
“I hear Mr Forthclyde had his own scandal story?” Clara avoided trying to answer Abigail’s question. She could not offer a solution even if she wanted to.
“Mr Forthclyde became a little too friendly with his former assistant. It was very common gossip among most of Albion’s employees. Mr Forthclyde was a bachelor and some of the girls thought him rather dapper. His assistant was a stony-faced little thing, at least around us. I suppose she was somewhat different when they were alone. I hear she fell pregnant and her parents were furious, but that might just be talk. She certainly left in a hurry and her replacement was picked out swiftly. Poor Miss Muggins walked into quite a mess,” Abigail tutted. “Though she does seem a good choice in comparison. Very upright and concerned about her reputation. So probably she won’t falter as the previous girl did.”
“Did the scandal cause anyone to bear a grudge against Mr Forthclyde?”
“Not among the Albion folk, as far as I know,” Abigail answered. “Mr Forthclyde was not in Albion’s employment. He seemed to weather the storm well enough and Cushing’s was loathed to be rid of him, so decided to pretend nothing was going on. I suppose his old assistant might bear a grudge, but the story was that she received a sizeable sum of money from Mr Forthclyde and the company to keep her mouth shut. She probably is doing all right for herself.”
Probably was not the same as a certainty, but even if this elusive assistant was responsible for killing Mr Forthclyde, there was still no connection between that death and Miss Althorpe’s as far as Clara could see, and that was the sticking point of all her theories.
“I have not been very helpful, have I?” Abigail looked glum. “I have not offered you any ideas of who might be behind this all.”
“I have ideas, but none add-up,” Clara admitted. “Niamh troubles me. Her spite for you and some of the other girls could almost make me imagine she was behind the attack on Esther, but I can’t think why she would try to sabotage the trade fair or why she would kill Forthclyde. The trade fair is as important to her as you.”
“Maybe that is just it,” Abigail suddenly had an idea. “What if all this was an attempt to discredit me so Niamh could take over running the fair?”
“Murder is a very drastic way of going about such a thing,” Clara countered. “I could imagine the sabotage being an attempt to discredit you, but murder is another thing. It takes a callous person to kill someone just to cause trouble for someone else.”
“Then I really don’t know,” Abigail sighed sadly. “I wish I did, so I could leave this place and get on with my job. If I still have a job.”
“Please don’t give up just yet,” Clara interrupted. “There was one other name Mr Grundisburgh mentioned. A Jeremiah Cook who was sacked from the company about six months ago?”
Abigail mused on this name.
“He was one of the laboratory boys,” she said at last. “I didn’t know him well. Jeremiah was the talk among some of the girls because he was young and attractive. Well, to a degree. I always thought him a little creepy.”
“He was not the best employee, or so I hear?”
“Jeremiah liked science but he was a terrible worker. I heard one tale that he had been tasked with testing a new face powder made by another company to ensure it had nothing hazardous in its composition and also so Albion could copy the recipe. He became side-tracked instead and started working on his own experiments. I hear he was very curious about the toxicity of certain heavy metals. He would waste the company’s time by conducting his own work in their laboratory,” Abigail rolled her eyes at the foolishness of the man. “I imagine if he had been a genius at his work and produced results for Albion, they would have overlooked his extra experiments. But he was not and he upset a few people. Well, more than a few. The crunch came when he failed to conduct the tests on the face powder after nearly four months of having the product. Albion showed him the door.”
“Was he the sort of man who would feel betrayed by such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” Abigail had to admit. “I never really spoke to him. In any case, it was his own fault he was fired, he can hardly complain.”
People did not always see things that way, Clara reflected.
“Tell me about Mr Grundisburgh? He seemed a nice enough sort.”
“Mr Grundisburgh is lovely,” Abigail briefly grew animated. “He is one of the most senior managers at Albion. I think he must have been with the company a good twenty, if not more, years. He used to conduct the training for new representatives, but I think he has probably risen to a position above such menial tasks now. I think nearly everyone likes him.”
“Nearly everyone?” Clara asked.
“Well, no one is liked by the who
le world, are they? Mr Grundisburgh has had to fire a few people too, that never goes down well.”
“You are not surprised he was the one they sent down to investigate the problems here?”
“No, not really,” Abigail agreed readily. “Mr Grundisburgh is the problem solver for Albion. If there was ever trouble with one of the sales regions he would be the one to go and sort it out. I believe it was Mr Grundisburgh they sent when Esther and Niamh had their difficulties.”
“I am going to try and keep in close communication with him,” Clara added. “I hope by doing so we can share information, and I will of course do my hardest to convince him you have been the victim of a campaign of hate.”
“Oh Clara, I am so glad I came to you,” Abigail dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief as tears threatened. “This has been the worst week of my life. I wish I had never been asked to conduct this trade fair.”
“There is no reason to get upset,” Clara reached out and patted her hand. “I am working hard to resolve all this.”
“I thought nothing could stop me once I had set my course,” Abigail continued morosely. “I believed I was unstoppable. I had come so far, clattered through so many obstacles that were against my succeeding. Why should I imagine things would go wrong for me now? I had not become involved in any scandals. I had avoided taking sides. Yes, there was the jealousy I sensed from others, but that was part of my success. I could do nothing about that. I thought I was safe, Clara, I thought I had made sure nothing bad could touch me.”
Abigail coughed as tears caught in her throat.
“I was very wrong.”
“Not wrong,” Clara didn’t like to see her cry. “Maybe a little too optimistic. But don’t imagine for a moment that this is the end. I will find out who is really behind these crimes and you will be safe once again.”
“I don’t think I will ever feel secure in my position again,” Abigail shook her head. “I will always be looking over my shoulder. I fear I have seen a very different side to the feminine character I had once considered so strong and irreproachable. Suddenly we seem far less noble creatures. When I see what my female colleagues have done to promote themselves, I feel quite ashamed to be a woman.”
“We are all human,” Clara replied. “Some of us are good, moral individuals, and some are less so. But no one is perfect and we should never imagine that to be the case.”
“Perhaps my expectations for my fellows are too high,” Abigail sighed. “I shall resign myself to disappointment in future.”
Clara rather got the impression that Abigail was determined to be glum no matter what she said. She finished her tea, reassured Abigail once again that she was trying her hardest to resolve everything and then checked her watch.
“It is nearly visiting time at the hospital,” she said. “I am going to pay a call on the workman who came so close to being another victim of this affair.”
Abigail merely nodded. Clara was about to go, when a thought occurred to her and she paused at the door.
“I don’t suppose you would know what this Jeremiah Cook fellow looked like?”
“I never met him,” Abigail answered simply.
Clara thought that interesting. But whether Jeremiah was angry enough at Albion Industries to go in for murder was another thing altogether. She said goodbye to Abigail, promised she would do her best yet again, and then set her feet in the direction of the hospital. Time to talk to this workman who had come close to being the first victim of their saboteur.
Chapter Sixteen
Mr Timothy Briggs had worked in the building trade for the past fifteen years and, while there had been the odd mishap during that time, there had been nothing which had forced him to go to hospital. Oh yes, there was the nail that Dim Dave managed to hammer through Timothy’s thumb one day, but it was a simple enough thing to remove. Painful, but simple. The foreman had taken it out with a pair of pliers. It had bled plenty, and hurt like hell, but once it was suitably bandaged and Tim had been given sufficient time to recover from the shock, he had got back to the day’s work. And, of course, no one ever stood near Dave again when he was hammering something.
No, Timothy Briggs had been proud to say that he had never had to spend so much as an hour in hospital because of his work. Until, that is, he had climbed up that damn scaffolding. Looking back, Timothy reflected that the poles had not felt as firm as usual when he had clambered up. But he had been so fixated on fixing that nasty hole one of the other lads had carelessly smashed into the ceiling plaster before anyone from the Pavilion Committee saw it, that he had ignored his instincts. More fool him, he mused to himself. He could have saved himself a lot of bother and pain had he just listened to his own mind. But, then again, maybe he had not noticed the poles being loose, maybe that was just his way of berating himself later on. He should have noticed. That he might have failed to niggled him.
Timothy Briggs had broken a leg in the fall that followed. It was not so much that he fell from a great height, but rather that the wood and metal of the scaffold fell down on top of him. One plank in particular had come down across his leg with such force that he had heard a crack and searing pain had torn through him. His other injuries included a sprain to his lower back, a bump on the head which was annoying but not much else, and a smashed little finger on his right hand. Thankfully, Timothy had passed out pretty quickly.
Since being in the hospital Timothy had seen a regular crowd of visitors. Aside from his wife who popped over every evening while her mother tended the children, he had been visited by Mr Taversham, Miss Sommers, a representative of the Pavilion Committee and a newspaperman who seemed fascinated by his story. Timothy was rather revelling in his new-found popularity. But his nicest visitor by far had to be the young woman who came onto the ward that afternoon and introduced herself as Clara Fitzgerald.
Timothy was not much of a one for reading the newspapers, and he had no real notion of who Clara was. He just saw a nicely proportioned woman, with a pretty oval face and dark hair tied back in a loose plait. Clara was not yet smitten with this idea of very short hair for women. Timothy thought she was rather a fine thing to look at, though he doubted his wife would agree.
“Mr Briggs?”
“I am indeed,” Timothy said.
“Could I bother you for a while to ask about what happened at the Pavilion the other day?”
“You can bother me as much as you please,” Timothy grinned. “What precisely do you want to know?”
“Well, what really happened?”
Timothy laughed.
“The scaffolding fell down with me on it! Some bugger forgot to put the nuts on the bolts.”
A nurse hastening by glowered at Timothy for his bad language. He grinned even broader.
“Has that ever happened before?” Clara asked, ignoring the nurse.
“Scaffolding being loose? Never!” Timothy’s eyes became wide as if the mere idea amazed him. “Mr Taversham checks everything twice. I have worked for him on and off these last six years. I’ve never known him not to double-check everything. I dare say he double-checks his tea before he even contemplates drinking it! That’s the sort of man he is.”
“So, there is no doubt in your mind that the scaffold had been tampered with?”
“Should there be?” Timothy looked confused. “On another yard maybe you could say someone had been careless, but with Mr Taversham around there is no excuse. That man sees and knows everything that goes on among the workmen. So, I suppose, it had to have been tampered with.
“By whom?” Clara asked.
Timothy shrugged.
“How would I know? No one has confessed such a thing to me. Nasty thing to do though. I could have been killed.”
“When did you know you were to be going up the scaffold?”
“That morning when Mr Taversham spotted me and told me what to do.”
That ruled out Clara’s tentative theory that someone might have had a grudge against Mr Briggs. No one could have
known he would be the one to go up the scaffold.
“How long after he told you what job to do, did you climb up?”
“A few minutes, at the most,” Timothy shrugged his sore shoulders. “I only went to pick up my toolbox before clambering up.”
“No one would have had time to tamper with the bolts then?”
“No,” Timothy said firmly.
“It is all very curious, don’t you think? People taking nuts off bolts? The Pavilion wasn’t open to everyone just then, either. It was closed off for you to work,” Clara laid out an idea that was forming as she talked. “Someone already there had to have unscrewed the nuts. Strange in itself, as that person must surely have known what would occur.”
“You would imagine so,” Timothy agreed blithely enough.
“I take it you have no suspicions of anyone?”
The question brought another ripple of laughter from Timothy at first, but then he hesitated and his face fell. His grin turned upside down until the corners of his mouth seemed to droop dangerously.
“Have you thought of something?” Clara asked.
“I know most of the work crew,” Timothy started to shake his head, then he paused. “Nearly all of them I have worked with before, but this one lad, well, man really. He was new. He was only recently come down from the north. He didn’t look like much of a builder, no real muscle to him, but you can’t go around accusing people of being scrawny once the bosses have taken them on. But he always seemed a little odd and when you said about someone seeming suspicious, well, he sprang straight to mind.”
“What is his name?” Clara asked.
“Ian Dunwright,” Timothy answered, the thought that one of his co-workers might have deliberately sabotaged the scaffold was only just sinking in. “He was one of those souls who never seems to have his mind quite on the job in hand. I had to teach him how to hold a hammer right. I really thought we had another Dave on our hands.”
