Murder from the Newsdesk

by Peter Bartram

  The idea that there’d been a double murder at the Beauregard was some crazy fantasy that Mrs Gribble and her close friend Mrs Blagg, who ran the place, had cooked up between them during one of their late-night gossips. They’d sit in Mrs Gribble's parlour with a plate of ham sandwiches and a bottle of Harvey's cream sherry late into the night. They'd had a session the previous evening. This latest nonsense was the result.

  But it was raining and I was hungover from a session the previous night in Prinny’s Pleasure, so I said: “You better tell me how this double killing happened.”

  Mrs Gribble pulled up a chair and said: “Apparently, it all started yesterday afternoon when two couples checked into the hotel. First, there was Mr and Mrs Brown. I ask you! If you’re an unmarried couple checking into a hotel for a dirty weekend, you might as well choose an original name.”

  “How did Mrs Blagg know they were unmarried?”

  “The wedding ring gives them away. Mrs Brown was wearing a cheap one from Woolworth’s. She'd obviously bought it especially for the weekend. Anyway, half an hour later Mrs and Mrs Green arrived. She was already married - expensive ring - but not to him.”

  “He had the Woolworth’s ring?”

  “No ring at all. But he had that kind of insufferable smirk on his face men get when they’re up to no good.”

  I tried some of the porridge. It tasted like plaster of Paris. “What were the couples like?” I asked.

  “Both about thirty. Old enough to know better. Anyway, both couples decided to take afternoon tea in the lounge. Separate tables, of course.”

  “Of course,” I croaked. The porridge had lodged in my throat.

  “Anyway, Mrs Green started making eyes at Mr Brown over the crumpets. They were openly winking at one another by the time they got to the scones and jam. And, at one point, Maudie - Mrs Blagg to you - swore she spotted Mrs Green making an obscene suggestion to Mr Brown with a chocolate éclair.”

  I said: “What were their respective partners doing during this farrago?” I gave up on the porridge and put down my spoon.

  “Apparently, just eating their tea. Quite unconcerned.”

  “That must mean something,” I said.

  “Probably too embarrassed to make a scene. Anyway, it was the same at dinner. Mr Brown and Mrs Green continued with their outrageous flirting even though Maudie seated them at opposite ends of the dining room. But it all came to a head this morning. Mr Brown and Mrs Green sat down to breakfast together. Bold as you like. And there was no sign of their original partners.

  “And when Maudie checked the rooms, Mr Green’s hadn’t been slept in - and there was blood on the carpet. This kind of behaviour really sticks in the gullet, Mr Crampton.”

  “It certainly sticks in the gullet, Mrs Gribble.”

  I was, of course, talking about the porridge.

  ***

  Mrs Blagg, proprietor of the Beauregard Hotel, turned out to be a blowsy woman with a big bust and a busy manner. She was wearing a blue Crimplene suit and black court shoes. She seemed remarkably cheerful for a woman who thought a double murder had just been committed in her hotel.

  “Good of you to take an interest in this, Mr Crampton. When I called the police they just laughed and said I’d been playing too much Cluedo.”

  It was still raining. Nothing much was happening in Brighton, certainly not the serious crime I wrote about for the Evening Chronicle. I’d have staked my byline that there’d been no violence at the Beauregard. I’d normally leave dirty weekend stories to the grubby journos from the News of the World. Their investigative reporting peeks at peering through keyholes. But I had no story for Monday’s paper. So to get Mrs Gribble off my back I’d agreed to call at the Beauregard.

  “You say Mrs Brown and Mr Green didn’t seem bothered by their partners’ blatant canoodling?” I asked.

  “Didn’t turn a hair.”

  “But didn’t turn up for breakfast either?”

  “No.”

  “And aren’t in the hotel?”

  “No.”

  “Did they tell you they planned to leave early?”

  “No.”

  “You say they were murdered. But faced with their partners’ behaviour, couldn’t they just have chosen to walk out on them?”

  Mrs Blagg slapped her thigh. “So how do you account for the blood on the carpet?”

  “How do you account for the absence of dead bodies?” I said.

  “Smuggled out of the hotel and thrown off the end of the pier.”

  I could see why the police thought the woman was living in the make-believe world of Colonel Mustard and Miss Scarlet. But something strange had happened here.

  “Show me the room with the blood,” I said.

  We trooped upstairs and along a corridor lit by a dim bulb. There was a pervading smell of boiled cabbage.

  Mrs Blagg unlocked a door. “This is one of our executive rooms,” she said.

  There was a double bed which sagged in the middle, a wash basin with a dripping tap, and a square of worn carpet which barely covered the floorboards. Mrs Blagg pointed a fleshy finger at it.

  A red blotch which could have been anything had spread across the centre of the carpet. I crouched down and leant until my nose was almost rubbing against it. I sniffed. Twice. And once more to make sure. I stood up.

  “Red wine,” I said. “Probably non-vintage. Which is why they were careless enough to spill some on the carpet.”

  “And I told them no food or drink in the room.”

  “Who’s room is this?”

  “Mr and Mrs Green’s.”

  “The bed’s not been slept in.”

  “Well, we all know where Mrs Green was sleeping.”

  If Mr Brown and Mrs Green had been tucked up together, I wondered where Mrs Brown and Mr Green had spent the evening. Perhaps in this room together drinking red wine. Maybe waiting to leave the hotel in the early hours when nobody was about.

  “Who paid for the rooms?” I asked.

  “I always ask for full payment at the time of booking. I remember Mr Brown sent a personal cheque. I think Mr Green’s cheque was drawn on a company. I can’t remember what it was called, but I’ve got it in my office ready to pay into the bank tomorrow.”

  An idea occurred to me. “Could I see the cheque?” I asked.

  “Mr Brown’s?”

  “No. Mr Green’s.”

  ***

  “You romantic old thing. Who’d have known a passionate heart beat beneath that cynical exterior.”

  Sally Martin, who edited the Chronicle’s woman’s page, had nudged me in the ribs. Quite painfully, actually. We were in the newsroom the day after my visit to the Beauregard Hotel. The midday edition of the paper had just hit the streets with my story.

  “Don’t let on,” I said. “You could ruin my image for ever. Besides, although there was no crime, there was certainly a mystery.”

  “How did you work it out?” Sally asked.

  “It was clear from the way Mr Brown and Mrs Green were behaving that their partners must have been aware of what was going on. Yet they were prepared to put up with it and not create a scene.”

  “You’re saying they knew in advance what would happen?”

  “I’d considered the possibility that Mrs Brown and Mr Green had had an affair and their partners had discovered it. So Mr Brown’s and Mrs Green’s outrageous conduct would have been a way of paying them back.”

  “But it didn’t work out like that?”

  “No. The Green’s bed hadn’t been slept in and there was wine on the carpet. That got me wondering whether both the Browns and the Greens were at the hotel for some other reason - indeed, whether they were who they claimed to be. When I discovered that Mr Green had paid for the booking with a cheque draw on a theatrical management company, I thought I knew what had been going on.

  “Then it was just a question of tracking down the true lovers - Mr Brown and Mrs Green - to get them to fill in the details. I found them sh
eltering from the rain in the Aquarium. They cheerfully confessed everything. They are really Mr and Mrs Simkins.

  “They’d originally met in the Beauregard ten years ago to the day. They’d both been with other partners in failing relationships at the time. During the weekend they’d been attracted to one another. They married a few months later. They wanted to mark the anniversary by recreating the full illicit excitement of that first meeting.

  “So they hired actors - the ones we know as Mrs Brown and Mr Green - to play the parts of the partners they were with when they first met. That was why Mr Green’s cheque was paid by a theatrical management company. And why, after playing their parts as the cuckolded spouses at the tea and the dinner, Mrs Brown and Mr Green stayed chastely in their room drinking wine until they could leave without attracting attention.”

  Sally grinned. “The story can’t have done much for the Beauregard’s reputation.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” I said. “With this story in the papers it’ll be booked up for weeks.”

  ***

  Author's note

  This story first appeared in Over My Dead Body, the Mystery Magazine Online. You'll find it at overmydeadbody.com.

  The Mystery of the Precious Princess

  Don’t you hate it when you get a call just as you’re about to sneak out of the office?

  I’d stepped away from my desk in the newsroom at the Evening Chronicle and was heading for the door when the phone rang. I cursed quietly, sloped back and lifted the receiver. I said: “Colin Crampton cannot take your call now. Please leave a message after the tone. Beep.”

  A throaty voice said: “Thank heavens I’ve caught you in, Mr Crampton. I’m desperate - I think the Princess’s life may be in danger. It’s terrible - she’s so precious to me. If anything happens to her, I don't know what I shall do.”

  I promised myself I’d work on my answering machine impression. I said: “So what’s the latest threat to the House of Windsor?”

  The voice said: “Never mind them. This is a threat to the House of Dubbins. I’m Fred Dubbins and the Princess is my greyhound. I’m scared stiff that someone’s going to nobble her.”

  I sat down and reached for my notebook. “Tell me more.”

  There was a shuffling sound at Fred’s end of the line. I pictured him whispering in some corner so no-one could overhear.

  He said: “I race Princess up at Hove Greyhound Stadium. At the last three meetings, not one favourite has crossed the line first. The odds against that - I couldn’t even begin to calculate. Even Einstein couldn't do it.”

  “Win a greyhound race?”

  “No. Calculate the odds. I reckon someone’s nobbling the top runners so that one of the longer odds dogs wins.”

  “And someone pockets a packet.” I said.

  “Thing is, I’m running Princess tomorrow night - and she’s favourite in her race. If someone tries to nobble her, I’ll swing for them. As sure as my name's Fred Dubbins I will.”

  ***

  I met Fred the following night at Hove Greyhound Stadium. The place occupied a site in a residential part of the town, not far from the Goldstone football ground.

  Fred and I sheltered from a keen north wind in the corner of the stand while Fred gave me a crash course in dog racing. Most of the greyhounds were run by owner-trainers such as himself, he explained. But three serious owners entered a dog in every race. Fred pointed them out to me.

  Algernon Sidebottom, a tall man wearing a rat-catcher’s cap, stood outside the bar supping a pint of stout. Cedric Turnbull, a dumpy man in a hacking jacket, was buying a hot dog at the refreshment stall. Percy Goldbourne, younger than the other two, and dressed casually in sweater and jeans, lounged on the rails studying his programme.

  “What makes you think one of these is behind the nobbling?” I asked Fred.

  “They have more to gain than the small-time owners. For them, it's professional. So the number of wins counts as important when they're pitching to train other owners' dogs. But I can’t see how they're nobbling the favourites. The classic way to slow a fast dog is to stuff it with food before the race. But that’s easily noticed. And there’s no chance when the dogs are being led round the track and put into the boxes before a race. Security is tighter than a tenor’s trousers.”

  Princess was running in the third race so I said to Fred: “Let’s split up. I want to take a look round. We’ll meet again later.”

  In the first two races favourites were beaten by outsiders both times. So events seemed to be taking the course Fred had predicted.

  I kept an eye on three suspects. They seemed as much creatures of habit as their dogs. They led their greyhounds round the track, loaded them into the starting boxes and then retired - Sidebottom to the bar, Turnbull to the hot dog stand, Goldbourne to the track’s rails.

  I watched them closely as they prepared to lead their dogs round the course for the third race.

  The big one for Fred.

  Sidebottom downed his pint.

  Turnbull tossed the remains of his third hot dog into a bin.

  Goldbourne stuffed his programme into his pocket.

  And as the three made their way to the track to lead their dogs into the starting boxes, a distant memory triggered in my mind. I hurried over to the chief steward and whispered urgently into his ear.

  ***

  “Great story to lead the Midday Special,” said my news editor Frank Figgis. He took a long drag on his Woodbine. It was the following morning and I was sitting in Figgis’ office.

  I glanced again at the front-page headline:

  TOP DOG OWNER ARRESTED IN NOBBLING SCANDAL

  I said: “Because none of the favourites were winning, Fred Dubbins had assumed they were being nobbled. But his Princess was never in danger. The favourites weren’t being nobbled to run slower - it was one of the outsiders to run faster.”

  “How did you work that one out?” Figgis asked.

  “It didn’t seem likely that a dog could be nobbled before it was taken onto the track. There were just too many checks by vets and stewards. So it had to happen between the time the dog was led round the track and loaded into the starting box.”

  “But that would mean a couple of thousand people watching.”

  “So it had to be done so discreetly no-one would see - or suspect. It was while I was watching Turnbull toss away the remains of his third hot dog that I remembered something an old bookie had told me a few years back.

  “There was one way to make a greyhound run like cheetah chasing the last antelope from the herd - just before the traps go up, take some mustard and shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

  Figgis winced. “Brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it.”

  “I wondered why Turnbull was stuffing a hot dog down his fat face after every race. The stand owner confirmed my suspicions later. Turnbull’s order was the same every time: hold the onions, heavy on the mustard. He’d scrape a little mustard into the palm of his hand, just before he took the dog round the track. Security never spotted it.”

  “And, no doubt, he’s been betting off-track on the doctored dogs to avoid suspicion.”

  I nodded. “But no longer. He’s facing a lengthy spell in jail and a lifetime ban on racing greyhounds.”

  “And the Princess won her race,” Figgis said. “Good news all round.”

  “Not entirely,” I said. “I’ll never be able to face a hot dog again.”

  The Mystery of the Note on the Beach

  I was lying on a sandy beach watching the Italian film star Virna Lisi walk towards me.

  Her blonde hair swayed in the breeze. She was smiling. The white surf had washed the sand smooth. But as she approached, her bare feet made a perfect line of footprints. They stretched into the distance. When she was a few feet away, she loosened a chiffon scarf tied around her neck and let it fall on the sand. Then she unfastened her skirt, and it floated to the ground.

  She walked towards me leaving a trai
l of clothes behind her. She came up to me, caressed my shoulder and said: “Wake up.”

  The scene froze. It was like that moment in the flicks when the film jams, then burns out in a magnesium flash and everyone laughs and throws popcorn at the screen.

  I smelt Craven A on stale breath as Beatrice Gribble hissed in my ear: “Wake up.”

  My eyes opened. I glanced at my alarm clock. 4.30am.

  I said: “What’s up? Is the place on fire?”

  “It’s worse,” she said. “My brother’s downstairs. Something bad has happened.”

  ***

  I was dressed and in her parlour within five minutes.

  The room was stuffed with ancient furniture. There were fussy antimacassars on the chairs and lace doilies on the tables. A heap of ashes lay in the grate where last night's fire had long burnt out. The place smelt of mothballs.

  Mrs Gribble - the Widow to her tenants (but always behind her back) - was my landlady. I rented rooms on the top floor of her five-storey house in Regency Square, an address which never quite lived up to its regal promise.

  The Widow's brother Derek was a layabout who spent half his time fishing and the other half complaining he never caught anything. He lounged on the sofa wearing a stained anorak and a worried expression. He smelt like a herring that had been left in the sun.

  He said: “I’ve been on the beach fishing.”

  I said: “At this hour?”

  “Tide’s up. Thought I might try for those mackerel which’ve been coming up the Channel. Found something else instead: a pile of clothes down by the breakwater.”

  “Probably washed in by the tide,” I said.

  “No. These were placed there deliberate like. There was a note, too. Thought you might want to see it, you being the crime correspondent on the Brighton Evening Chronicle and everything.”

  “Just crime, not everything,” I said.

  He handed me the note. It read:

  “Everyone’s got it wrong about me. It wasn’t my fault my company went down the pan owing big time. The papers say I’ve stashed half a mill in my Swiss account. They say I bilked thousands out of their hard-earned savings. All lies. I’m skint too. I’m walking into the sea now. And I can’t even swim.”