Murder and Mascara

by Evelyn James

  “I am not,” she stated. “But until Arthur Crudd is in custody I can hardly prove it.”

  “Let’s not start an argument,” Park-Coombs grumbled. “I have this man to find you seem convinced is our real killer. For the time being, might I remind everyone to be careful?”

  Clara thought that was a very sensible suggestion. Mr Grundisburgh merely grunted crossly.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The unfortunate Jeremiah Cook was discreetly led away by Inspector Park-Coombs. Clara could not help but feel sorry for him. He was a simple soul who had been easily misled and then used by Albion Industries. He had been blinded by love for Esther Althorpe, who had then broken his heart. In many ways it would seem natural for him to be extremely angry and set on revenge. If you took things at face value, it would seem perfectly logical that Cook was both saboteur and killer, but Clara never took things at face value. In her experience life was far too complex to do that.

  Discreet as the inspector had been, the removal of Jeremiah Cook had not gone unnoticed, particularly by Mr Mokano who was keeping a very close watch on affairs at the trade fair. He was intrigued and wandered over to Clara.

  “Why is Mr Cook being escorted away by that policeman?” he asked politely.

  “It seems Mr Cook was behind the sabotage at the trade fair,” Clara explained.

  “Ah,” Mr Mokano watched the departing figure of his former employee. “What of the murders?”

  “He denies them, and I am prone to believing his protests. Mr Mokano, Cook has been very ill-used by Albion Industries. They played on his feelings to convince him to betray you and then, as soon as they had the secret for Pearl Pink, they let him go. Cook feels very bad about what has occurred. I think, if you are looking for a star witness at your civil case against Albion, you will find Cook most willing.”

  Mr Mokano was amused.

  “Fools come in many forms,” he said. “Mr Cook, by most definitions, is extremely clever. He understands chemistry better than most of the men in my laboratories. But some fluke of his mind makes him utterly lacking in common sense. I should have perhaps been more careful of him. I should have guessed he would be easily deceived.”

  Mr Mokano gave Clara a polite nod then wandered back into the crowd. Clara glanced at her watch. The day was drifting away. Should she remain here or try to find more information on the mysterious Arthur Crudd? She had kept the secrets of his suitcase to himself for the time being. Supposing Arthur Crudd was simply inclined to be a female impersonator? Such men existed, and he would certainly be attracted to a large trade fair by the country’s leading cosmetics manufacturer. Perhaps Arthur’s appearance here was purely innocent? He might have come to look at the stands under the guise of being a workman, thus it would not appear odd for him to be wandering around. That did not explain his disappearance, however. Clara was beginning to think something had happened to him.

  Clara decided to remain at the trade fair; she really had no idea where to begin looking for Arthur Crudd, so it seemed to make better sense to keep an eye on things here. There was still a killer on the loose. She was milling through the crowd when she spotted someone waving at her. Clara wandered in their direction and realised it was Gilbert McMillan. He was looking out of breath and had clearly been running.

  “Miss Fitzgerald!” he declared. “I have news!”

  Clara ushered him to a quiet corner, where they might not be overheard.

  “Have you learned more about Mr Grundisburgh?” she whispered urgently.

  “I have indeed!” Gilbert was almost falling over himself with excitement. “I contacted my colleagues in London, where Mr Grundisburgh lives. It seems his wife has gone missing!”

  Clara was struck by this unexpected information.

  “How long has she been gone?” she asked.

  “She informed the neighbours that she was going to her sister’s house the week before last. Her story was that her sister was unwell and needed to be nursed back to health. No one thought this odd and when Mrs Grundisburgh left with her suitcase, saying goodbye to her husband on the doorstep, it all seemed perfectly ordinary,” Gilbert was in such haste to impart his information he was stumbling over his words. “Then Mr Grundisburgh was summoned here urgently. Not long after he had gone, his sister-in-law turned up on his doorstep for a surprise visit. She had come into London on a sudden whim to do a bit of shopping and decided to pay an unannounced call on her sister. Needless to say, she was surprised when the neighbours informed her that Mrs Grundisburgh was supposed to be tending her on her sickbed! The woman had never been ill and now everyone was wondering where Mrs Grundisburgh had really gone!”

  Clara hefted the suitcase that she still clutched in her hand. A feminine suitcase. Expensive, well looked after. The sort of thing the wife of a professional might own, unlike Arthur Crudd who was supposed to be an impoverished orphan.

  “Describe Mrs Grundisburgh to me?” Clara asked Gilbert.

  “Short, not much more than four foot tall. Quite slender, with almost a boyish figure, according to my sources. She is younger than Mr Grundisburgh and takes very good care of herself. I hear tell she was a model for Albion Industries before she was married. She has dark hair and eyes, and she cuts her hair short in the latest fashion. You seem quite excited, Miss Fitzgerald?”

  Clara was indeed excited, because it had dawned on her just where Mrs Grundisburgh might be and why no one had seen her lately.

  “We must find Mr Grundisburgh quickly. I fear he is in danger,” Clara glanced about the room she was stood in, but there was no sign of Mr Grundisburgh. “We must split up and look.”

  Clara started to move away, then paused and turned back.

  “Is Mrs Grundisburgh a smoker?” she asked.

  “Funny you should say that, she has quite a peculiar habit for a woman. She likes to smoke cigars. Apparently, it was a source of irritation to her husband and he insisted she always smoke them outdoors, which is why the neighbours knew about it,” Gilbert answered. “She is a heavy smoker and the police have been visiting the local tobacconists to see if she has been in to buy her usual cigars. I should add that Mr Grundisburgh has yet to be informed of all this. No one was sure how to reach him.”

  Clara was certain Mr Grundisburgh would know very shortly that his wife was not visiting her sister. If her hunch was right, then Mrs Grundisburgh was very near at hand and, with Jeremiah Cook in custody, would be wanting to conclude her plans as soon as possible. Clara darted through the rooms casting her eyes around for Mr Grundisburgh, but he was nowhere to be seen. In one of the corner rooms she came upon Abigail.

  “Where is Mr Grundisburgh?” she asked her.

  “Oh Clara, it is good news!” Abigail smiled at her. “You know how you suggested I ask someone to fetch my copies of the sales figures from my home? Well I did. I contacted our family solicitor and he was very good and sent someone to my house with the police. They found the papers and they exonerate me completely! I just gave them to Mr Grundisburgh to compare to the forged ones Niamh had. He took them into the kitchen so he could look over them in peace.”

  “Thank you Abigail,” Clara said to her, starting to dash off. “And that is superb news!”

  She hurried down a corridor towards the kitchens. The Pavilion still retained the old facilities which had once been used to cook royal meals. Now they were only used when a function was happening at the venue. Since no food was being served at the trade fair they were empty of staff, though the Albion girls and stall holders were allowed to visit them and make themselves a cup of tea if they wished. As it was a busy part of the afternoon no one had the time to leave their stalls, so the old corridors were empty. Mr Grundisburgh had picked a good location for some privacy. It also happened to be an excellent place for a killer to find him alone.

  Clara was coming down the corridor, glancing in side doors as she went in case Mr Grundisburgh had diverted into one of them, when she heard voices.

  “What are you do
ing here?” Mr Grundisburgh’s deep tones rang out clearly.

  Clara increased her pace. Now a woman’s voice answered Mr Grundisburgh.

  “Did you think you would get away with it?”

  “April, what is this all about?”

  “I have had enough Albert! Enough of your lies and games! You won’t make a fool of me anymore!”

  There was the sound of a scuffle. A chair clattered onto the floor.

  “Put the knife down April!” Mr Grundisburgh cried out.

  Clara slammed through the kitchen door. Mr Grundisburgh had retreated across the kitchen and was trapped helplessly against a welsh dresser. His wife was poised over him with a long carving knife. She held it high over her head and was in the process of stabbing it down into her husband when Clara flew at her and knocked her from her feet.

  The blade sliced through Mr Grundisburgh’s sleeve and cut into his arm. He squealed in horror and stumbled sideways. Mrs Grundisburgh had fallen on her side as Clara toppled her, but she had not dropped the knife. Now she elbowed Clara in the stomach and twisted on the floor, bringing the knife up and around to stab down into her opponent. Clara was in time to see the knife dropping through the air and scrambled away, the blade striking harmlessly on the tiled floor instead.

  “Mrs Grundisburgh, calm down!” Clara insisted, trying to grab the woman’s arm before she could raise the knife again.

  Mrs Grundisburgh, her face distorted with blind rage, lunged at Clara and the knife narrowly missed her as Clara dived to the side. It tore at the edge of her dress instead. Clara was tired of these games. She threw herself once more at Mrs Grundisburgh, trying to jolt the knife from the woman’s hand, but April Grundisburgh would not give up her weapon so easily. She rolled her body and the knife came perilously close to striking down on Clara once again. This time Clara darted away and got back to her feet, moving a few feet from Mrs Grundisburgh and putting herself between murderous wife and injured husband.

  Mr Grundisburgh was in a near faint behind her. He was collapsed against a cupboard, clutching his bleeding arm and looking deathly pale. He seemed too shocked to process what was occurring and was certainly in no position to help Clara. His wife, on the other hand, was alive with fury. Her eyes were wide and she had lost all hold of her senses. She was now wearing a dress and had discarded her ruse of being Arthur Crudd. She looked like some avenging wraith from a bad novel. She rose up from the floor like a demon and, knife raised over her head, ran at Clara.

  Clara had mere moments to think what to do. When she had raced into the kitchen she had dropped the suitcase she had been lugging about like a handbag since that morning by the door. It had skidded across the floor when she cast it aside, and now it sat tantalisingly close to her shoe. Clara had only a second or two to make a decision. Mrs Grundisburgh was running at her fast and if she ducked this time the odds were the blade would find its original target in Mr Grundisburgh who was collapsed just behind her. It seemed counterintuitive to bend down and pick up the suitcase, but in that instant it was the only chance Clara had.

  As Mrs Grundisburgh thrust down her arm, intent on driving home the blade through Clara’s heart, so Clara brought up the suitcase like a shield and the knife plunged harmlessly through its leather surface and wedged itself inside. Mrs Grundisburgh tried to drag out the knife, but the force of her deadly thrust had taken it right through the case and the blade was now entangled with the contents within and refused to be extracted. Clara released the case from her grip, letting the woman struggle while she went on the attack.

  When Clara was younger she had played hockey. She knew how to take care of herself. As Mrs Grundisburgh wrestled with the suitcase, so Clara called her name. April Grundisburgh glanced up automatically, just in time to receive Clara’s fist to her face. It was a blow fuelled by outrage and terror; Clara had come within inches of being fatally stabbed. She did not pull her punch and Mrs Grundisburgh rocketed back as she was struck. The knife was finally released as the woman flapped her arms, trying to save herself from a pitiful tumble backwards. It was to no available. She fell, clonking her head on the butler’s sink as she went down. She was unconscious by the time she met the floor.

  Clara shook out her hand, biting pain running through every finger and joint. She went to Mrs Grundisburgh and felt her pulse. Satisfied she was still alive she turned to Mr Grundisburgh. He had sunk to the floor, clutching at his wounded arm with a look of astonishment on his face.

  “My wife…” he mumbled. “Tried to kill me…”

  Clara looked at his arm and was relieved to see that though the cut was long, it was not deep. She took out her handkerchief and wrapped it around the wound, before returning to Mrs Grundisburgh. After a moment of consideration, Clara searched all the drawers in the kitchen and came upon some sturdy twine. This she used to tie up Mrs Grundisburgh’s hands and feet tightly.

  “I am going to fetch help,” Clara told Mr Grundisburgh who was still sat on the floor in a daze. “I won’t be long. Keep an eye on your wife.”

  “Tried to kill me…” Mr Grundisburgh mumbled, apparently unable to process what had just happened.

  “Everything will be all right,” Clara assured him. “I shall send someone to get help.”

  Clara departed the kitchen and ran as fast as she could back to the main hall. Spotting someone she could rely on to fetch help both swiftly and discreetly proved somewhat harder. It took her longer than she would have liked to find Abigail.

  “Abigail,” she quickly pulled her friend to one side. “You must fetch Inspector Park-Coombs and a doctor at once!”

  Abigail stared at her in astonishment.”

  “Whatever for, Clara?”

  “I can’t explain just now, but you must hurry. When you find them, bring them to the kitchen.”

  Abigail was puzzled, but she didn’t argue. She headed out to find help as she had been instructed. No sooner was she gone then Clara was running back to the kitchen. She had a killer to keep her eye on, and a man in deep shock. What a turn of events, she thought as she clutched her aching hand to her chest. She hoped she hadn’t broken that too.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mrs April Grundisburgh came around not long after Clara returned to the kitchen. She struggled with the twine about her wrists and then glowered at Clara who was sitting next to Mr Grundisburgh and keeping an eye on him. He had been close to a dead faint when Clara had returned, and his pulse had dropped alarmingly. Despite the wound being non-lethal, it looked ominously like Mr Grundisburgh might die of shock. Clara had roused him, made him get up and sit on a chair and had even found a stash of sugar cubes in one of the cupboards and was making him suck on one.

  “Untie me!” Mrs Grundisburgh demanded.

  “No,” Clara replied. “You will remain like that until I hand you over to the police.”

  Mrs Grundisburgh gave a panged cry of anguish and wrestled with her bonds.

  “Why April, why?” her husband asked with a look of abject misery on his face. “What made you want me dead?”

  “You don’t need me to spell it out!” April Grundisburgh yelled. “Oh, I know what you are like Albert! Every bit of skirt catches your eye!”

  “April! What have I done?”

  “I think it might be more prudent to ask your wife what she has done,” Clara remarked. “Three murders, Mrs Grundisburgh? And an attempted fourth just now?”

  “Who is this woman?” April Grundisburgh crowed. “Another of your fancy women Albert? She’s not your usual standard. Bit on the plump side and isn’t even trying with her hair!”

  Clara was offended, but was not about to show it. She stepped away from Mr Grundisburgh and faced his wife, hands on hips, standing up straight.

  “I, madam, am a member of the Brighton Pavilion Preservation Committee and your antics have placed this building, which I and my fellow committee members are responsible for, at risk of grave damage. It has therefore been in my great interest to track you down before any mo
re harm could occur!”

  “This stuffy old building deserves to be burned down!” Mrs Grundisburgh gabbled. “Pity Mr Mokano spotted the little fire I started. I could have taken out this whole place! At the least I could have made a mockery of the Pearl Pinks. Those damn lipsticks Albert, those are all you have drivelled on about for months!”

  “I apologise for my wife Miss Fitzgerald,” Albert Grundisburgh was regaining some of his colour, though he still looked fit to faint at the slightest provocation. “She is an emotional woman. She works herself up into such a passion over things.”

  “Don’t speak as if I am not here!” April Grundisburgh screamed. “You always do that! Always!”

  She started to wrestle with her bonds again. Clara had placed the knife in a safe place just in case the woman did escape. She still seemed intent on killing her husband.

  “Esther Althorpe,” Clara said the name sharply and Mrs Grundisburgh stopped wriggling. “Let’s begin with her. You strangled her with one of the stockings she had made a bestseller. I don’t think that was a chance thing. You knew of her, yes?”

  “Little whore,” April Grundisburgh puttered. “Always her and Albert sneaking into a corner and talking in whispers. I saw them. I used to wait outside the head offices and watch for him. I needed to know what Albert was doing, he was always late coming home…”

  “I was working April!” Mr Grundisburgh interrupted.

  “Liar! I saw you take that harlot to a canteen after work and buy her a meal. I saw you!”

  Mr Grundisburgh shook his head.

  “We were working out a strategy to lure Jeremiah Cook to Albion. It was a secret plan and we talked about it in a place where no one would overhear us.”

  “Liar!” April Grundisburgh screamed. “You even invited her for Sunday dinner once! The nerve, the utter nerve of it all! Your mistress in my own house, eating off my best china! I don’t know how I suffered it, but I did, because I was plotting my revenge.”