Murder and Mascara

by Evelyn James

  “Dave?” Clara picked up on the name.

  Timothy shook his head.

  “Doesn’t matter. What does, is that I could imagine Ian being fool enough to borrow the nuts off the bolts to use for something else, without realising he was creating a real danger for everyone,” Timothy gave a groan. “If it was him, I hope old Taversham gives him what for and kicks him out of the work crew! I’m going to be laid up for weeks, you know? And who is going to be bringing the money home to feed our Susan and our Daphne then?”

  Clara had to admit she did not know. Timothy had become gloomy.

  “I wouldn’t have minded so much if I could get on with my work. I’ve never had a day off, never. Until now that is.”

  Clara didn’t want to let him dwell in self-pity, that might defeat her purpose, so she asked another question to distract Timothy.

  “What do you know about the sabotage incidents at the Pavilion?”

  Timothy fell quiet. A sheepish look came over him.

  “Are you going to tell anyone what I say?” he asked warily.

  “No,” Clara promised. “This is purely for my own reference.”

  Timothy still seemed uncertain and he looked up and down the ward, as if expecting all the other men in the beds to be eavesdropping on them.

  “You really won’t tell anyone?”

  “Not unless it is forced out of me.”

  This seemed to satisfy Timothy, though he did enquire just what would constitute sufficient force to make Clara spill the beans. Clara was thinking that a cup of tea and a friendly enquiry from Inspector Park-Coombs would probably do it, but she didn’t say as much.

  “We kept quiet about a couple of things. Miss Sommers, she is the lady in charge of this affair, she only knew about the lipsticks and the scaffold.”

  “There were other problems?” Clara was deeply curious now.

  “Yes, I mean, they might have just been accidents,” Timothy was looking sheepish, as if he feared that Mr Taversham would walk in at any moment. “It was odd things that attracted attention. Tool boxes going missing and someone replacing the sugar jar with salt. The moved lipsticks Miss Sommers spotted. Then the scaffold. And all these signs going up everywhere makes you stop and think.”

  “Mr Briggs, missing tool boxes are not the sort of thing you feel the need to hide from someone like Miss Sommers,” Clara said pointedly.

  Timothy Briggs had the decency to blush.

  “Ah, well…” he blew out his cheeks, then came to a decision. “All right, let me start again. It all happened shortly after the boxes of stock arrived. It seemed like someone was going in among them at night. Things were moved and boxes had been opened. Mr Taversham was scratching his head over it all. Who, he said, could be tampering with all the boxes? He locked up each night we left and assured himself we were all out of the building. Then we noticed that some of the stock had been stripped from its packaging, but not removed. As if someone were wanting to look at it, but not take it away. Mr Taversham was worried in case Miss Sommers heard about it and thought we had allowed someone to sneak in.

  “Aside from that there was the dead cat business,” Timothy hesitated again. “That might have been bad luck, of course.”

  “What sort of bad luck?” Clara pushed.

  After huffing and puffing, and blowing out his cheeks once more, Timothy resolved himself to explaining.

  “We used to leave the bigger tools out where we would need them the next day when we left at night. One of these was a saw. Don’t ask me how, but it somehow got turned over and wedged on its back so the serrated blade was uppermost. None of us would have left it like that, but that was how it was. And it rather looked like the cat had fallen on it, perhaps jumping from some of the scaffolding.”

  Clara cringed. She didn’t like to think of an animal hurt.

  “Sorry, miss. That was another reason we thought not to tell Miss Sommers. But here is the thing, old Isiah, who has been working in this trade since before I was born. Well, he grew up on a farm where his father was a labourer. He said to me after we cleaned up the mess and he was making a good cup of tea, he said ‘that cat was dead at least a week before it ended up here.’

  “I asked him how he could know that and old Isiah said there had been places on the cat which looked like the open wounds maggots create, and also the creature had not bled much. Apparently already dead animals don’t bleed a lot when you cut them. Old Isiah had watched a lot of animals butchered during his youth. I didn’t like to tell Mr Taversham, but I certainly felt that someone was playing silly buggers with us.

  “You know what worries me even more?” Timothy bit at his lip. “Mr Taversham came over and told me about the young lady and the man killed at the Pavilion. It struck me that those deaths were just like those first two strange incidents. The girl was killed in the stock room where all those boxes were moved and with a pair of stockings which was one of the things that had been tampered with before. And the man was stabbed and thrown back on a table, like the cat was.”

  “Try not to read too much into these things,” Clara said gently. “It does however seem that someone is trying to make a point. What that point is remains unclear.”

  “If you ask me, that trade fair should be shut down!” Timothy suddenly said. “What do they want to be playing at risking peoples’ lives?”

  “The problem is, shutting the fair is precisely what the person behind all this wants,” Clara knew that was rather a poor reason to risk all those people, but she had a hunch that none of the attacks was particularly random and the majority of the fair goers would be perfectly safe. “You said you knew nearly everyone on the work crew, was Ian Dunwright the only one who was new to you?”

  “No, there was one other,” Timothy was looking deeply worried now. “His name was Arthur Crudd, a young fellow just learning the business. Barely started to shave, he was that fresh faced. He’s a good lad. Bit naïve, but then he is only young. Works hard and was always happy to run errands about the building.”

  Clara took note of these two names, though she had no reason to assume they were in anyway involved in the crimes, but new faces were always interesting in a murder case.

  “Did you see anyone slip into the locked bedroom on the first floor while you were there?” Clara asked to conclude.

  “There was a locked bedroom?” Timothy responded in surprise.

  Clara concluded that she had learned all she probably would. As she was thanking Timothy, the visiting time bell rang and she saw everyone else rising from their chairs.

  “I hope you are back on your feet soon, Mr Briggs,” Clara said as she was going.

  Timothy Briggs merely grimaced. Clara thought that it would be prudent of Albion Industries to compensate Mr Briggs for his mishap, considering that it was because of their presence he had been hurt. But what did she know? She hoped it did not take long for the poor workman to get well and provide for his family again. In the meantime she had a few more leads to work on, they might be further dead ends, but Clara always felt better when she had a plan of action, whether it was the correct one or not.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Clara returned to the Pavilion yet again. She was hoping to find Mr Taversham and ask him about his new workmen, what she found instead was everyone standing outside the building looking confused. A fraught police constable was trying to prevent them from going back inside. Clara pushed through the throng.

  “Constable, what is happening here?” she demanded.

  The police constable recognised Clara as one of the Pavilion Committee members.

  “You best go inside, miss,” he said. “There has been a fire.”

  Clara needed no further encouragement. She near enough raced into the building, envisioning scenes of charred 100-year-old wallpaper and ruined antique woodwork. The front hall, however, seemed quite peaceful. She stopped where she was.

  “Clara!”

  Glancing up she recognised Mrs Levington, one of her fellow
committee members. The woman was waving at her and Clara hurried over.

  “The police constable said there had been a fire!”

  “Do not fret,” Mrs Levington commanded. “It has caused no harm to the Pavilion due to the foresight of that gentleman.”

  Mrs Levington pointed out a man in a very smart (and therefore very expensive) suit.

  “He has been most efficient about this whole affair,” Mrs Levington continued. “Considering that he is an Oriental.”

  The gentleman in question was indeed of Asian descent. He was stood next to Mr Grundisburgh, about a head shorter than the robust Albion manager, and certainly a lot sleeker.

  “I believe he is Chinese,” Mrs Levington remarked.

  Clara was already heading over to Mr Grundisburgh and the new gentleman. She had a hunch who the latter was.

  “Mr Grundisburgh?”

  “Miss Fitzgerald, please do not be concerned. The Pavilion is unharmed. There was a slight fire on one of the Pearl Pink displays.”

  Mr Grundisburgh motioned with his hand to a table upon which sat a charred mass of little tubes and an oozing, unpleasant pool of burned pink goo. Albion Industries had set up displays of their newest lipstick line all about the trade fair. You could not walk ten paces without seeing one. You certainly could not miss this ruined display. The stink of it was enough to attract your attention. To refer to it as a slight fire was rather understating things.

  “What happened?” Clara asked.

  “As yet we are not entirely certain,” Mr Grundisburgh admitted. “We have only just put out the flames. Oh, might I introduce Mr Mokano to you? He has been most helpful in this matter.”

  Mr Grundisburgh held out a hand to the Asian gentleman, who responded by giving a bow to Clara.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said in faultless English. There was the vaguest hint of an accent, but Mr Mokano had been in England a lot of years and it paid to not sound ‘too foreign’ when dealing with British businessmen.

  Mr Mokano was actually Japanese, rather than Chinese. He had come to England in 1896 as a young man hoping to learn more about the Western world and their way of doing business. He had found a job, apprenticed to a London businessman who sensed he had potential. Mr Mokano had proved himself a good salesman with an eye for the market. He worked his way up in the Londoner’s business until he found himself stagnating. That was when Mr Mokano decided it was time to take his future into his own hands. Persuading his employer to invest in him, he started his own business importing and selling on the newest cosmetics from Europe. It wasn’t long before Mr Mokano was dabbling in creating his own lines of make-up and was setting himself up as a dangerous competitor to his English counterparts.

  Now Mr Mokano owed a string of shops, a large factory, a research and development laboratory, not to mention his London head offices where his mail order business operated from. No wonder, therefore, Albion Industries felt rather uneasy when he was in their presence. Especially when there were rumours they had stolen the Pearl Pink formula from him.

  Considering how he had been treated, Clara thought Mr Mokano was acting very decently over the whole affair. Unless he started the fire on the Pearl Pink display stand, of course…

  “Mr Mokano,” Clara held out a hand for him to shake and the businessman did not hesitate to take it, despite her being a woman. “I was very impressed with your conditioning shampoo for dark hair. I was recommended it by a friend and it worked wonders.”

  Mr Mokano smiled.

  “Thank you, it is a very popular line. So many English ladies find their hair unruly. Black hair can be very thick compared to fair hair and requires a special formula.”

  Mr Grundisburgh looked sour-faced. Albion Industries did not yet produce a hair shampoo specifically formulated for dark hair.

  “What happened to the display stand?” Clara returned to her former enquiry. “I would like to know if there is some hazard in the Pavilion liable to cause fires. We have electricity in some of the rooms, of course, I would hate to think we had faulty wiring.”

  As she spoke, she realised Mr Taversham had appeared and was carefully removing the mess of lipstick tubes from the table. When he heard her question he glanced up with his typically sombre expression.

  “I would say this was the cause,” he pointed to the table where he had cleared a space in the Pearl Pink mess.

  It was not easy to see through the oily gloop of the lipstick, but there was a black patch in the cloth of the display and, just emerging from the pink mess, was the end of a cigar. Clara picked it up very carefully.

  “Someone placed this right among the lipsticks with its lit end pressed into the tablecloth,” she noted. “I suppose the cloth caught fire and the flames heated up the tubes before anyone noticed. If I recall correctly the lipsticks had their lids off to display the contents. They would have melted and the oil used in the lipstick would have helped fuel the fire.”

  Mr Grundisburgh grimaced as Clara postulated her theory. Mr Mokano merely stood back and observed silently.

  “This was deliberate,” Mr Taversham said what no one else wanted to. “Someone nestled that cigar right in the middle of the display.”

  “Our saboteur,” Clara agreed.

  Mr Grundisburgh was disheartened, but he was also an experienced businessman and there was a trade fair in progress.

  “Clear the debris, Taversham,” he commanded. “Throw the windows open and air the place, and let’s get everyone back inside. Excuse me, Miss Fitzgerald.”

  Mr Grundisburgh left to organise the return of the visitors to the Pavilion. He was probably already working on a fine lie to explain away what had just occurred. A mishap, no doubt he would say, someone carelessly casting aside a match as they lit their cigarette, or something similar.

  Clara found herself alone with Mr Mokano. The Japanese gentleman had the good grace to hide any pleasure he took in his rival’s misfortune.

  “I had not expected to see you at this trade fair,” Clara said to him.

  Mr Mokano looked up and smiled gently.

  “Why would I not come and see what Albion Industries are introducing as their new lines? I have to know what they are doing, so I might stay ahead of them,” there was a glimmer of satisfaction in his tone, as if Mr Mokano knew very well that he was leaps and bounds ahead of the competition.

  “I have heard stories, that is all,” Clara elaborated. “About the Pearl Pink lipstick.”

  “Ah, you know that Albion Industries stole the recipe from my own laboratories?” Mr Mokano said, seemingly delighted by Clara’s knowledge. “Yes, that is a bad business. But my solicitor is taking good care of it.”

  “It is true then?” Clara said. “They really stole the Pearl Pink from you?”

  “Mr Grundisburgh would say that it depends on your definition of ‘stole’,” Mr Mokano was highly amused by all this. “One of my laboratory researchers came up with the idea of the pearlesque sheen for a lipstick. It was a chance discovery, but it had the potential to revolutionise the way lipstick appears on a woman. We were all excited, but before the process had been fully devised, the researcher was lured away to Albion Industries, taking with them the secret. Albion claims it is perfectly fair that they now have the formula. My solicitor will remind them in court that all my employees sign an agreement that any ideas for new products they come up with during their time under my employ belong to my company.

  “I expect to receive a sizeable sum in compensation from Albion, enough to make them think twice about stealing from a rival again. Fortunately, my other researchers learned enough about the pearl formula before its creator betrayed us to recreate it themselves. We shall be launching our own series of pearl colours very soon and they will be even better than the Pearl Pink.”

  Mr Mokano sounded so confident in all this that Clara found it hard to imagine why Albion Industries ever thought they could get away with such a crime. Perhaps it was sheer arrogance on their part. But the thing that had r
eally caught her attention was the one word that Mr Mokano had used so freely – betrayal.

  “There have been a lot of troubles surrounding this trade fair,” Clara said carefully. “It rather makes me think Albion Industries have upset more than just you, Mr Mokano.”

  Mr Mokano shrugged.

  “These silly tricks,” he motioned a hand to the ruined display of Pearl Pinks, “I don’t see what purpose they serve. A businessman uses the law to his advantage if he is wise. Anything else is pointless games that could land a person in a lot more trouble.”

  Clara had to agree. She didn’t think Mr Mokano was foolish enough to condone the sabotage of a rival’s work, not when it could potentially be ruinous to his own business if he was discovered. He seemed too shrewd to dabble in such dangerous games.

  “Well, my main concern is for the safety of the Pavilion,” Clara said. “Naturally I want no harm to befall this building. The way things are going, I doubt the committee will ever dare allow other trade fairs to use the place.”

  “Let me assure you, Miss Fitzgerald, if my company was to hire your Pavilion, there would be none of these shenanigans. We would have many, many security men on duty.”

  Mr Mokano gave her a broad smile and Clara suspected he was rather enjoying Albion’s downfall. She also suspected that he was genuinely considering hosting his own fair in the venue to put his rivals in their place. Clara excused herself and went back to Mrs Levington.

  “No harm done,” she sighed to the woman.

  “It has certainly been a queer business,” Mrs Levington tutted. She was a middle-aged woman who dabbled in a number of philanthropic causes. She was one of those people who make a hobby out of belonging to committees. But she was also very good at what she did and had been one of the people who had pushed to allow Albion to use the Pavilion in the first place. “Clara, myself and the other committee members are very concerned about the terrible things that have occurred here.”

  Mrs Levington dropped her voice low. The trade fair visitors were returning and passing by them. She didn’t want to be overheard.