by Evelyn James
“I am even more worried with tomorrow being the open day for the public,” Mrs Levington continued.
“I understand,” Clara nodded. “I intend to be here all day to keep an eye on things. It might not be a bad idea for other committee members to do the same.”
Her statement was pointed. Several of the committee were well-known for making a fuss about things without being prepared to actually go and resolve matters for themselves. Clara might be trying to solve this crime, but she did not see that she had to guard the Pavilion alone.
“I shall have a word,” Mrs Levington promised. “The press is invited tomorrow too. Heaven help us if something was to occur while they were here!”
Clara wished Mrs Levington hadn’t said that. It suddenly made her feel deeply worried. It was all rather ominous.
The chatter of the returning visitors around her distracted Clara. The noise level had risen considerably, and to hear another person required their voice to be raised in a shout. Clara excused herself from Mrs Levington and went to get some fresh air. The stench of the melted Pearl Pinks was stuck in her nose and was making her feel slightly nauseous. She went to the front door and stood on the step in the sunlight, taking long deep breaths.
Mr Grundisburgh was smoking a cigarette on the grass outside, pacing about and looking unhappy. He glanced up when he saw Clara.
“It would happen when he was here,” he snapped.
Clara smiled.
“You mean Mr Mokano?”
“I do, and don’t think I have failed to notice the significance,” Mr Grundisburgh went back to pacing. “Someone is attacking our new brand, I see that now. And they did it right in front of Mr Mokano. Oh, I might even think he was behind it all if I wasn’t so certain he was not such a fool. To have him be the one to raise the alarm and throw a bucket of sand over the fire, well, it boils my blood. I imagine he is laughing at us all!”
“Mr Mokano seems convinced Albion stole the Pearl Pink idea from his company,” Clara pointed out, thinking that perhaps the man had reason to be amused.
“No one stole anything,” Mr Grundisburgh snorted. “An employee moved from his company to ours, bringing with him a very prototype idea. Pearl Pink would never have gotten off the ground without our researchers working on it in our labs. The fellow he is talking about, he would never have taken the notion any further without our help. As it was, it was about the only good thing about him. Probably a fluke he even had the idea.”
“Who are we talking about?” Clara asked, curious now. Who was the person who had betrayed Mr Mokano?
“Didn’t I mention that?” Mr Grundisburgh paced. “I suppose I forgot in the confusion. The fellow who had the idea for Pearl Pink was Jeremiah Cook.”
Clara stared at him agog.
“The man you fired six months ago?”
“He was a hopeless case,” Mr Grundisburgh shrugged. “Dead weight. You can’t keep on a man like that.”
“But he gave you his idea,” Clara persisted. “You poached him from Mokano for it and then fired him!”
Mr Grundisburgh shrugged again.
“Business is business,” he said. “Anyway, what does that matter?”
Clara thought it mattered a very great deal, but she wasn’t going to say that out-loud to Mr Grundisburgh.
Chapter Eighteen
Mr Taversham was disposing of the rubbish from the minor Pearl Pink fire in a dustbin at the side of the Pavilion when Clara caught up with him again. He was looking to be in his usual morose mood, a cigarette nearly falling out of the corner of his mouth as he threw away the ruined lipsticks. Mr Taversham, Clara recalled, was a local builder that specialised in such temporary work as events like the trade fair afforded. He was the sort of man you employed if you wanted a stage rigged up for the midsummer gala, or needed a building spruced up before a wedding or party. He turned his hand to all sorts, usually for commercial venues, but occasionally for individuals too. Work was intermittent, and Mr Taversham could be quite depressive between contracts.
Clara had a vivid memory of the meeting the committee had had over who should do the work within the Pavilion. Albion Industries needed temporary display stands and other things built and had asked the committee to recommend someone. After a great deal of debate, the committee had concluded that Mr Taversham would be the name put forward. It was not a decision made without complications. Mr Taversham’s last job had not been entirely to the satisfaction of everyone. He had been hired by the Town Council to construct a new procession float for them to be used in the Easter Parade. The Council had very specific requirements, and not all of these had been met. The final float was both fantastic and well turned out, but it lacked a certain sparkle and some of the council members had complained that Mr Taversham had failed them. These same council members happened to be on the Brighton Pavilion Preservation Committee and had tried to veto the motion that Mr Taversham take over the work for the trade fair.
Clara had decided to stay aloof from these proceedings. She had no reason to criticise Mr Taversham. She had thought the council float a fine piece of construction. What it lacked in imagination it certainly made up for in practicality. It rolled along beautifully. Clara rather felt that people expected an awful lot from a builder like Mr Taversham. Recent events, however, looked set to tarnish Mr Taversham’s reputation further. Despite his protests of innocence, there would be those who saw the misfortunes at the pavilion as being in part his fault. He was not responsible for murder, of course, but the scaffold accident was likely to linger over him a long time.
“Mr Taversham, was there any damage caused by the fire?” Clara approached him, hoping she could catch the man in a reasonable moment, rather than when his temper was up.
“There is nothing damaged in the Pavilion,” Mr Taversham grumbled. Clara suspected he was very tired of all the problems this job had caused him and the constant interferences of the committee members.
“That is good to hear. It would be awful if the Pavilion was damaged when we are trying to use this event to raise funds to preserve it,” Clara kept her tone light-hearted, hoping Mr Taversham would not become defensive. “I wondered if I could ask you about some of your workmen?”
“What for?” Taversham scowled and it was obvious Clara’s plan had not worked. Mr Taversham was too cynical for that.
“Necessary curiosity,” Clara explained. “I am trying to discover who is behind these acts of sabotage at the Pavilion.”
Clara did not mention the murders. She thought it best to leave Mr Taversham imagining those to be in the charge of the police, which of course they were. She hoped by avoiding talk of murder she would not put Mr Taversham’s back up too quickly. He might become surly if he thought she was accusing one of his workmen of being a killer. He would see that as a reflection on himself.
“I do not blame you, Mr Taversham, for the mishaps that have occurred here. But the rest of the committee may prove less accommodating. As such, I hope to find the culprit swiftly and place blame where it rightly belongs and not upon your shoulders,” Clara hoped she was making it plain enough that she was on Mr Taversham’s side and that talking to her would be as much to his benefit as to hers. “I know you are not behind these curious happenings. Rather, I fear someone has misused you, so that they might gain access to the Pavilion and cause mischief. They have misused us all, naturally, but their deceit of you is the most cruel, for your reputation as a fine workman might suffer. I shall not let that occur Mr Taversham, if I can help it.”
“It is a fine thing when a man just does his job and is left the worse off for it,” Mr Taversham grumbled, feeling mollified by Clara’s sympathy. “I have always endeavoured to do my best. I might not be the cheeriest of men, I might not smile and laugh like some, but I do a good job. I work hard and my work is done with care. Sometimes I think people would prefer if I smiled and joked and did a less good job. I don’t seem to get any benefit from being conscientious.”
“People are st
range, but I, for one, appreciate your work ethic Mr Taversham. So, will you help me to help you? If we can resolve things, find the true culprit, then there should be no reason for this drama to stick to you.”
Mr Taversham gave a long sigh. He clearly thought that whatever Clara tried to do to help him would not be enough. He was the sort of person who expects the worst and is rarely disappointed.
“I suppose I ought to,” he complained. “I do need more work after this. A man can’t live on his pride alone. What is it you want to know?”
“Tell me about your two new men,” Clara said. “All the others in your team have worked for you for years, and are well-known in Brighton. But these two new men are of interest to me.”
Mr Taversham scratched under his flat cap.
“You mean Ian Dunwright and Arthur Crudd? I took them on as last minute extras when I realised the scale of the job. Ian Dunwright said he had worked in the trade before, but he has proved a shoddy workman and I won’t hire him again. Arthur Crudd is young and just learning. I only paid him half wages because he had to been shown what to do by someone else. I felt I was doing him a favour. He said he was orphaned during the war and was trying to make his way in the world,” Mr Taversham frowned. “I like to give a fellow a start in life. I remember how it was when I was just a lad trying to find my way through this world.”
“Do you suspect Ian Dunwright of lying to you about his previous experience?” Clara asked.
Mr Taversham surprised her by giving a hoarse laugh. His throat seemed unaccustomed to the sound.
“Suspect? I am certain of it! That man has never held a hammer in his life!” Mr Taversham snorted, amused despite himself. “Even Dim Dave is a better worker than him, and Dim Dave has to pull out half the nails he puts in and redo them. Ian Dunwright was a clown. I shouldn’t have taken him on, but I was feeling desperate and he persuaded me. Said he was just out of the army and down on his luck. This job could mean the difference between having a meal in his belly or going hungry. I felt sorry for him.”
Clara was amazed that beneath Mr Taversham’s hard exterior was a sympathetic soul.
“Ian came to me one afternoon when I was working on some wooden planters for a customer. I do little jobs like that between the bigger ones to tide me over. Ian came to my cottage and he peered over my fence and asked for me by name. I asked what he wanted, because he did not look the sort to be hiring me,” Mr Taversham shook his head, amused as much as annoyed with himself. “I should have known he was a right one. He sold me a good story. Just out of the army, desperate for work. ‘I can hold a hammer and saw, Mr Taversham’ he said in this little plaintive voice, ‘I’m a reliable worker, I really am.’ What tosh!”
Mr Taversham flicked off his cap and flapped it at a bumblebee that was getting perilously close to him.
“I never saw a man so useless. Spent most of his time daydreaming. I asked him to paint some planks of wood, I left him out here with the workbench all set up for him, and the paint and paintbrush at his side. When I came back an hour later that wood was as bare as when I left it. ‘I was side-tracked,’ Ian said, ‘I saw this cloud that reminded me of a great bear and I started to ponder why clouds were clouds.’ That was exactly the sort of nonsense he spouted to me! An hour sat wondering about clouds!”
Mr Taversham threw up his hands, demonstrating his exasperation for Ian Dunwright.
“Time and time again that was what happened. I started putting him to work with someone else. Old Isiah was good to pair him with because he took no nonsense, but even Isiah reached his limit and complained to me that the man was utterly hopeless. He was having to remind him to work every ten minutes. Reached a stage where Isiah refused to work with him anymore, he just didn’t have the patience,” Mr Taversham puffed out his lips, expelling the frustration that had built up in him over Ian Dunwright. “As awful as it sounds, I rather wish Ian had been up that scaffold when it came crashing down. Him in the hospital would be no loss. Instead I am stuck with him, especially now I am a man short.”
“Ian Dunwright is still working for you then?” Clara asked.
“When the mood suits him,” Mr Taversham shrugged. “I’ll be glad when this week comes to an end and I can be rid of him for good.”
“What about Arthur Crudd?”
Mr Taversham brightened, or at least Clara thought he did. He was still frowning.
“Arthur is a good lad. Complete opposite of Ian. He asked me for a job when he saw my cart outside the Pavilion. That was about a week ago, when we first started to get to work here. Arthur strode up to my cart – barely tall enough to look in the back, he is – he asked me if there was any work going for an eager lad willing to work hard and learn,” Mr Taversham clearly felt pleased about helping Arthur, he almost beamed with a certain pride over it. “I asked the lad who he was and that was when he told me about being orphaned. He had been living with an aunt in Hove, but had to find some work now he was out of school. I suppose he reminded me a bit of myself at that age. I took him on without hesitation, on half pay, that is.”
“He has given you no cause for concern?”
“None at all!” Mr Taversham seemed offended Clara had asked. “He works like a little trooper. I can rely on Arthur to get a task done. He is so reliable that once or twice I have even left him in charge of locking up the place. Though, naturally, not after all the problems. I wouldn’t want you to think I put him at any risk.”
Clara was more concerned about the risks to the trade fair and the Pavilion; if Arthur Crudd was the saboteur he had been placed in a perfect position to strike.
“Could either of these men have been behind the vandalism in the Pavilion?” Clara asked carefully, expecting a quick response and getting it.
“Arthur? Never!” Mr Taversham would hear no wrong of his favourite apprentice, on the other hand Ian Dunwright was owed no favours. “I could imagine Ian causing problems by carelessness. Yes, in fact, I could imagine him being stupid enough to remove the nuts from the bolts of the scaffold. Probably because some idea came into his useless noggin about how he could use them to channel sunbeams or something. That’s the sort of thing he comes up with! I caught him the other day with a glass of water and a slip of white paper, trying to create rainbows, or so he said. I wanted to despair!”
“I don’t suppose you ever did discover what had happened to the scaffolding bolts?” Clara changed the subject slightly, she had wondered herself if the nuts were ever discovered.
Mr Taversham snorted.
“That’s just it. I found the whole set in an old jam jar, perched on the mantelpiece in our break room,” he replied. “I still can’t fathom how they got there. I checked that scaffold myself the night it was put up. I made sure every bolt had a nut and that they were tight. I would swear to it. And yet the next day, after the accident, I found them all in that jam jar.”
For a moment Mr Taversham looked worried.
“I was really concerned about Timothy. He could have been killed. I’ll see him right while he is out of work.”
“I would hope Albion Industries would do the same,” Clara reassured him. “After all, it is someone out to get them who has caused this fiasco.”
“That what you think?” Taversham mused. “The dead girl and man, were they part of it too? I think of them at night when I lay in my bed. Why them? I ask myself. What did they do?”
“They may have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Clara answered, though she was inclined to think there was a message somewhere among all this mess and that the deaths of Esther Althorpe and Mr Forthclyde had been planned. But she could be wrong.
“Now this fire,” Mr Taversham looked at the debris in the dustbin. “Where will it all end?”
“It will end with someone being caught for these crimes,” Clara said stoutly. “And your reputation will be untarnished.”
Mr Taversham did not look inclined to believe her. He grimaced again, what little amusement he had found in th
eir conversation had evaporated. Clara left him to his work. He had not given her any further reason to doubt either Ian Dunwright or Arthur Crudd, but she was curious nonetheless. Two strangers getting themselves involved in the Pavilion just before the trade fair rang alarm bells. Was either of them a killer? She would soon find out.
Chapter Nineteen
Clara took a break from investigating that evening and travelled over to the hospital to see Captain O’Harris. She had spent a considerable spell of time debating over what sort of gift to take him, until Annie had resolved the matter by handing her two freshly baked jam tarts. Annie considered food the finest gift and good, homecooked food the cure for all that ailed you. The jam tarts were in a neat little box, with a ribbon. Clara thanked her profusely.
It felt an age since Clara had last visited Captain O’Harris, though, in truth, it had only been a day. She headed up the stairs and came to the door of his hospital room. She was surprised to see it open, but even more surprised when she found the room empty. Clara stood gaping at the empty bed. Could O’Harris have been discharged? Clara turned around and went to find the matron.
The matron was a short woman who bristled with efficiency. She did not even have to pause to think when Clara approached her and asked if Captain O’Harris had been sent home.
“Certainly not!” she barked, as if Clara’s question was an affront to her professionalism. “Mr O’Harris has been removed to a more secure room.”
Clara was perplexed.
“Have the press been harassing him?” she asked, thinking that the only reason O’Harris would need somewhere more secure.
The matron gave her a pitying look, clearly thinking Clara was being incredibly dense. Then she relented and explained.
“Captain O’Harris took a bad turn this afternoon. For his own safety, and the safety of the staff, he has been moved to Ward D, where patients of questionable temperament are kept.”
