by Evelyn James
“When did you last see Niamh?” Clara asked.
It was several moments before Mr Grundisburgh had enough puff to respond.
“Last night as she locked up. We were the last two to leave the Pavilion. Miss Owen had had a difficult day and was feeling a little unwell. When she was locking up she became a little faint and I had to put an arm around her to stop her from falling. I accompanied her back to the hotel to see that she was all right,” Mr Grundisburgh caught his breath. “Perhaps, after all, she has just been taken ill?”
“Possibly,” Clara agreed. “Coincidences do happen.”
They were finally at the Crown Hotel. Mr Grundisburgh explained their purpose at the front desk and asked if Miss Owen had checked out of her room. The woman on the reception went through the hotel registers.
“She has not checked out,” she assured them. “Nor did she come down for breakfast this morning, though it has been paid for in advance.”
“May we go up to her room?” Mr Grundisburgh asked. “We are very concerned that she has not turned up for work today.”
The receptionist agreed that they could, but with the caveat that she join them. She took up the spare key for room ten and showed them both upstairs. Clara had that strange butterfly feeling in her stomach she sometimes got when she was sure something was wrong. If Niamh had not sabotaged the Pavilion, then why fail to show up the next morning? And if she had been behind the sabotage, why remain in the hotel where it was easy to find her?
They came to room ten and the receptionist knocked politely on the door and called out Niamh’s name. There was no response.
“Should I open the door?” she asked Mr Grundisburgh.
“Indeed,” he answered gruffly, despairing at her hesitation.
The receptionist unlocked the door and pushed it open. She was the first to look into the room and came to a dead stop on the threshold. Clara’s stomach heaved over as she saw the colour draining from the receptionist’s face. She quickly joined her in the doorway.
Niamh Owen was lying on her bed, still dressed in her Albion uniform. She was even still wearing her shoes. But the way her eyes were staring fixedly at the ceiling and the way she sprawled with her arms outwards gave away that all was not well. Clara stepped into the room and noticed the knocked over side lamp and the spilled contents of Niamh’s handbag now lying on the floor. She reached over and felt for Niamh’s pulse in her neck. There was none. Fallen by the side of the bed was a fluffy white pillow, there were slight marks on the fabric as if someone had dragged their nails across it. A picture began to form in Clara’s mind. She sighed as she looked at the unfortunate woman lying on the bed.
“Mr Grundisburgh,” she said sadly. “I think we ought to summon the police.”
Upon hearing that statement the reality of what had occurred reached the receptionist and she gave a sharp cry, before falling in a dead faint on the floor.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Clara puttered.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Inspector Park-Coombs stared at the dead Niamh Owen lying on the bed, very neatly dressed in her clothes from the day before.
“Well, at least your friend Abigail is excluded from this crime,” he remarked solemnly.
Clara felt bad that for a moment this thought cheered her. She had to remember that Abigail’s innocence came at the cost of another’s life.
Dr Deàth wandered into the room with his leather medical bag in one hand.
“I haven’t been inside the Crown in years,” he remarked thoughtfully. “We used to have the mortuary staff’s Christmas party here, until our budget was cut for such events. Now we hold it in the pub. There is a rather grand ballroom downstairs if I remember rightly.”
“I don’t think our young lady here will be doing much dancing,” Park-Coombs said morbidly. “Looks likely by the same killer as before.”
Dr Deàth tsked as he came about the bed and saw Niamh lying prone.
“Another Albion girl? Yes, that would seem rather a coincidence. Though I tend to keep an open mind,” Dr Deàth had to rest one knee on the bed to lean over and examine Niamh. “Blood vessels have burst in the eyes, that suggests suffocation. The nails are rather damaged, looks as though she was clawing at something or someone. I rather think she would not allow such ragged edges to her nails normally.”
Dr Deàth picked up Niamh’s left hand and showed how the nails had been snagged and ripped.
“I do believe there is blood under this one,” he peered closer, then plucked his penknife from his pocket and worked it under the nail. “Yes, looks like dried blood. Your killer will probably have scratches on them. She fought hard for her life.”
Clara found this insight somehow more depressing. She could imagine the tough, fierce Niamh giving her all when faced by the possibility of death, but it had not been enough. The killer had overcome her.
“Is that a pillow I see on the floor?” Dr Deàth pointed to their feet. “She is quite blue about the mouth, I would suggest something such as that pillow was held over her face. She was not strangled, no marks about the neck. Hmm, what do you say Inspector, attacked while she slept?”
“She is still fully dressed,” Park-Coombs countered.
“Perhaps she was taking a nap before dinner,” Clara suggested. “It would seem odd otherwise that she was lying on the bed for her killer.”
“The door was locked, but the key is missing,” Park-Coombs nodded. “Suggesting the killer took it. Perhaps Miss Owen neglected to lock her door when she came in, fell asleep and was attacked?”
“All possible,” Clara agreed.
“How long has she been dead, roughly?” Park-Coombs asked Dr Deàth.
The coroner was still propped on the bed examining the dead girl carefully.
“It will only be an estimate,” Dr Deàth answered. “But she died several hours ago. Your surmise about her dying before dinner might not be so far off.”
“What does all this mean?” Park-Coombs scratched his chin. “I have three corpses with no obvious connection between them, and someone sabotaging the trade fair. Mr Grundisburgh was keen to tell me about that as soon as I arrived.”
“It would be interesting to see if Niamh’s key for the Pavilion is missing,” Clara added. “Perhaps our killer was after that and Niamh was unfortunate enough to wake up and see them?”
They searched the room as Clara had suggested. The key did not appear. It seemed there might be weight in Clara’s theory that Niamh had been killed for it. Had the saboteur been so desperate to get into the Pavilion that they had been prepared to murder someone for a key? Well, the two other deaths might suggest just that. Perhaps Esther Althorpe and Mr Forthclyde had just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time too? Though it did not account for the very specific means by which they were murdered.
“I think I have seen enough here,” Inspector Park-Coombs announced. “I suggest we go back to the station and inform Miss Sommers that she is off the hook for the murders, and with her accuser dead it is unlikely we will take the matter of her assault on Miss Owen any further.”
Clara didn’t think there had been an assault, but she remained silent. There was still the matter of the doctored accounts sheets to contemplate.
Mr Grundisburgh watched them leave, unable to resist extracting a promise that the inspector would come to the Pavilion as soon as it was possible. He seemed rather untouched by the death of Niamh Owen, he was more concerned by the destruction at the trade fair. Assuring himself that he was no longer needed, he headed to the Pavilion as fast as he could.
“There goes a man for whom business is all that matters,” Park-Coombs huffed as they watched Mr Grundisburgh trundle off. “He doesn’t seem much affected by these deaths.”
“As you said Inspector, for Mr Grundisburgh life is about business and nothing else much troubles him. I rather think the same could have been said for Niamh Owen before this terrible turn of events.”
They walked to the st
ation slowly.
“So, this saboteur kills Miss Owen, steals her key and then spends all night wrecking the Albion displays because they feel betrayed?” the inspector clarified. “And no one can suggest who has been betrayed?”
“I rather imagine there are too many candidates,” Clara joked without humour. “And the saboteur is being very vague with his or her messages. I suppose they do not wish to identify themselves, just disrupt the trade fair.”
“It is all tied up with those damn lipsticks though,” Park-Coombs scratched at his moustache. “What is all this fuss about a new shade anyway? Why does it matter?”
“In the wider scheme of things it does not,” Clara agreed. “But in the narrow world of fashion it could mean everything. This new lipstick glistens in a way never seen before. The pearl effect, or so Albion Industries is advertising it as. It could be called revolutionary. It is certainly very new and very exciting for certain people. Revolutionary and exciting products can mean big sales and a high revenue return. Albion Industries is a business in a challenging market, they have a lot of rivals. To make money and to keep ahead they have to produce innovative cosmetics that no one has seen before.”
“And do you believe the rumours that they stole the idea?” Park-Coombs asked.
“I don’t need to believe them. I just need to know that Mr Mokano does. He wouldn’t be here for any other reason and he wouldn’t be suing Albion if he did not think he had a case. This business could be very costly for the company and this saboteur is not making things easier.”
“Is Mr Mokano the sort to try a little sabotage to satisfy his ego?” the inspector proposed.
Clara shook her head.
“Mr Mokano strikes me as a sensible businessman, who is not about to indulge in such silly games. I think we can rule him out.”
“So who does that leave?”
“I don’t know,” Clara admitted.
They had arrived at the police station and now headed down to the holding cells in the basement. It was a dreary place with more than a touch of damp lingering in the air. Abigail was all alone, sitting on the wooden bench along the wall that also served as a bed. She glanced up when they came down, but did not move. She looked scared.
“Abigail, I have good and bad news,” Clara came to the bars of the cell and looked at her, as Inspector Park-Coombs took down a key and started to unlock the cell door. “The good is that we now believe you unlikely to be a murderer, not that I ever doubted your innocence. The bad news is that Niamh is dead.”
“Niamh?” Abigail blinked rapidly. “When?”
“Probably last night. Look, if you are up to it, I will take you back to the trade fair and explain everything. You could speak to Mr Grundisburgh too, he will need some help to restore order there.”
Abigail rose from the bench. Her fear had evaporated, she straightened her jacket and set her jaw in a determined line. She was back to being the confident businesswoman ready for anything.
“I shall head there at once. Why does order need to be restored?”
“I’ll explain that too,” Clara shrugged.
Abigail stepped out of the police station and smiled up at the warm sun on her face.
“Oh Clara! This does feel good! I thought I was condemned.”
“You could have had a little more faith in me,” Clara pointed out with amusement.
“Sorry, I know I should have, but I am not much used to relying on others,” Abigail smiled and took a deep breath of air. “But now you must explain what has happened to Niamh?”
They started to walk down the hill.
“Niamh appears to have been murdered last night in her hotel room, though the motive is not entirely clear. It might be because the saboteur needed to get into the Pavilion and Niamh had a key.”
“Killed for a key?” Abigail grimaced. “And just think, if she had not made that fuss and had me arrested, I would have been the one holding the key.”
Abigail trembled as the thought came over her.
“The trouble is, we are no nearer knowing who is behind all this,” Clara continued as they followed the pavement. “What can you tell me about Jeremiah Cook? He is someone who struck me as a possibility.”
Abigail laughed.
“Oh dear, laughing sounds so callous under the circumstances,” she gasped a little at her faux-pas. “Jeremiah Cook worked in the research laboratories of Albion Industries. He was the man behind Pearl Pink. We had a meeting at the head office about the new lipstick and Cook gave a talk about the science behind the pearl effect. In truth I only understood a little. The reason I laughed was that mentioning his name reminded me that Niamh had convinced herself that Cook was besotted with her and when she realised she was mistaken it was utterly hilarious. I’m sorry, but Niamh rubbed a lot of girls up the wrong way and it was amusing to see her ego get a little dented.”
“What about Jeremiah Cook as a saboteur?” Clara suggested.
“I find that funny to imagine too. Let me paint a picture of him for you. He was tall and reasonably good looking, if a little prone to hunching up and not meeting your eye when he talked. He was rather quiet and forever drifting off when you were having a conversation with him. You would see his eyes glaze over as you spoke, he would suddenly be looking out of a window and studying the leaves on the trees rather than listening. He was really rather rude, though I suspected he couldn’t help it,” Abigail smiled to herself. “When he first arrived at Albion there was talk that he would become very important. He was some sort of genius, or so it was said, and could be worth a fortune to the company. I think that was why Niamh set her cap at him. She saw an opportunity she could not afford to miss.
“Niamh was as mercenary in her love life as she was with her friendships. You were only Niamh’s friend if you could be useful to her, and not a rival. I suppose that was why we never saw eye-to-eye. Anyway, she thought Jeremiah Cook might be her ticket to promotion or at least to a lot of influence and money within Albion. But Cook would not give her the time of day, and it was just as well in the end because Albion only kept him on for as long as it took to develop the Pearl Pink and then they sacked him. Actually, it was pretty callous.”
Abigail shrugged her shoulders as they walked along.
“But Jeremiah Cook could never be a saboteur,” she laughed again. “That would mean becoming organised!”
Clara thought that anything was possible when revenge was fuelling your passions. Had Albion Industries made a dangerous and unpredictable enemy when they used and then abandoned Cook?
“I hear Cook and his idea for Pearl Pink were poached from Mr Mokano?” Clara said.
Abigail had the decency to pull a face that implied she had heard the same thing and thought it reproachable.
“Albion Industries is very worried about the success the Mokano Cosmetics firm is currently having. They heard a rumour that a researcher in the Mokano lab had come up with a revolutionary idea and they decided they would steal both the man and the lipstick. I don’t know the full details, but the gossip among the girls was that Esther Althorpe was recruited by Mr Grundisburgh to be the bait,” Abigail grimaced. “Esther was always very willing for Mr Grundisburgh, some people thought she behaved a little inappropriately around him.”
“And she was to, what, lure Jeremiah Cook to Albion?”
“Pretty much,” Abigail nodded. “She would flirt with him and snare him, then convince him to walk away from Mokano. It was all rather underhand and I think Esther felt guilty about it as Cook became rather besotted with her. It all ended rather badly and then months later Cook was sacked from Albion and Esther felt even worse.”
Clara could imagine how that had upset Esther. She must have felt used too.
“Mr Grundisburgh was behind it all. Actually, if Esther was not already dead I could imagine her feeling very betrayed by him.”
“I think a lot of people feel betrayed by Mr Grundisburgh,” Clara asserted.
They were nearing the Pavilio
n. The trade fair was now open and people were wandering in and out.
“I have been desperate to get back to this place,” Abigail said, abruptly pausing just outside the gates, “and yet now I am here I feel rather scared. There is a murderer among us, Clara.”
“And I am working to find them,” Clara reassured her. “The more help you can give me the more chance I shall have of succeeding in catching them before any further harm can be caused.”
Abigail nodded.
“Well, I have a job to do and I need to prove to Mr Grundisburgh why I am the best representative in my region. Wish me luck Clara.”
Clara squeezed her arm with her hand.
“Good luck, everything will be all right. I am on the case.”
Abigail gave her a brave smile, then marched into the Pavilion. Clara just hoped she could keep her promise. She didn’t want anything happening to her friend.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Clara hoped the presence of the general public at the Pavilion would cow any would-be saboteur, (or worse, murderer) into forestalling any further dangerous activities. She was clinging to that notion as it made her feel better. She was on the hunt for Mr Taversham and his two new workmen. Recent events meant the work crew had had to return and begin repairs. Mr Grundisburgh refused to have a trade fair without Albion Industries’ products being present. He had already sent out emergency telegrams and made several telephone calls demanding a new delivery of stock. Fortunately, much had been salvaged, the saboteur had simply not had enough time to destroy the vast number of goods Albion had brought with them. But they did need all new advertisements and certain product lines had been almost completely ruined.
Clara was coming around the corner of the Pavilion, following the sound of sawing and hammering that suggested Mr Taversham’s work force were operating somewhere nearby, when she stumbled into Gilbert McMillan.
“Ah, Miss Fitzgerald, I have heard the ghastly news!”
