Mickey mentally crossed him off the list as the giver of the snake bangle. ‘And the other?’
‘The other was undoubtedly more, shall we say, favoured in his income. He worked in a bank, I believe, and we all thought that he was just after a touch of glamour, you know how it is. Humdrum days and a little excitement on the Sunday. As to whether he gave her gifts, I really wouldn’t know. Jimmy is open about that kind of thing and Cissie was open in her pleasure at receiving them but as to the other, I’m sorry, Sergeant, but I’ve really no idea.’
‘Just one more thing. I know I said I’d finished, but I just thought of this,’ Mickey dissembled. ‘We found some little bits of jewellery among her things; most look like the kind of thing a girl might have inherited from her mother or grandmother. Was she fond of jewellery, was there a piece that she wore more often than others?’
‘You mean there might have been a theft as well as the murder? Oh, dear Lord. You know we did talk about this, but we decided that Cissie didn’t have anything worth stealing. She kept a little bit of money in the house, perhaps five pounds or so, but nothing significant. Poor lamb, she might have been an up-and-coming star, but up-and-coming was where she was at the moment. She certainly hadn’t reached her destination in terms of income or anything else.’
He frowned, thinking about jewellery, and then said, ‘there was a little amethyst paste she was fond of, a brooch. Old-fashioned looking, but she said it belonged to an aunt, I believe. Oh, and there was a coral bangle, but she wore that only rarely, on special occasions. She said it was getting a little fragile and she didn’t want it to be ruined. I think that had a similar provenance.’
‘You never saw her wearing a gold bangle in the shape of a snake? One biting its own tail with an ornate clasp and little red eyes that look like rubies, though I think they must be garnets.’
Fred Owens looked at him as if he’d gone mad. ‘She never owned anything like that. Where would she get the money for anything like that?’ Then understanding dawned. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘The gift you were talking about.’ He shook his head. ‘Jimmy would never have been able to afford anything like that. If it didn’t come from Woolworths she wouldn’t have got it from him. And I don’t see Mr Selwyn Croft being able to afford anything on that scale. He’s a respectable enough young man, with what seems to be a good job, but gold bangles? No, no, never anything like that. That’s the kind of gift a man makes if … if he’s expecting … if he’s expecting a woman to become his wife.’
Or something with as many obligations and fewer of the advantages, Mickey thought. He nodded.
‘Well, thank you, Mr Owens. But what I don’t understand is why you could not have spoken of these two men yesterday. You’ve told me nothing that is scandalous and nothing that would not be known to most of the people who worked with Miss Rowe, I would have thought?’
For the first time Fred Owens looked embarrassed and awkward.
Ah, we are coming to it now, Mickey thought.
‘She was a very beautiful young woman, you understand.’
‘I have seen her pictures and must agree that she was.’ Mickey paused and then he said, ‘Though after death, of course, much of that beauty had fled. The hands of the assassin are not kind.’
He saw the other man shake his head and momentarily close his eyes. Then Mr Owens spoke. ‘Recently, I saw her returning late. There are nights when I cannot sleep and I go for a walk. Once I saw her on the footbridge, late at night. She was with a man I didn’t recognize and seemed to be hurrying and I was anxious for her. So I made my way to this end of the footbridge and she was so shocked to see me. She asked me not to mention it to anyone, that I had seen her or that she’d been in company. There was a moment when I thought the man might offer me out and I didn’t trust myself against his fists, I can tell you. He was tall and quite broad and he was in evening dress and Cissie was wearing a pretty pink thing that she kept for special occasions. She had saved for it, you know, that pink dress. Paid for it a little every week until it was hers.’
‘And did you see this person again?’
‘The first time was about three months ago. I glimpsed him again perhaps two weeks since. He was driving through the town, though I couldn’t tell you what kind of car it was, it was a glimpse only. But I think I would know him again. It was late, but the moon was full and there was light enough to see his face.
‘I warned her, I said, “Cissie, don’t let some racy young fellow with a lot of cash to splash take advantage of you” and she just laughed and said, “I know my way around, Fred. Don’t you worry about me.”’
‘And she told you nothing more than this?’
‘Nothing. I tried to broach the subject on occasion because it was obvious that she had a little more cash than usual and there was also a small change in her, in her attitude. I told you before that she was on the road to stardom but had not yet attained it and I had the feeling that she was becoming impatient with the wait. That the journey was becoming too much of a burden and that she wanted more and she wanted it right away, not at some future time. In this business you see that often and I can’t blame the young women who feel that way. They are often years waiting on the sidelines for their break to come and often it does not. They see others who are younger and fresher and considered more appealing taking the place that they feel should have been theirs, and many of them become embittered.’
And, I’m guessing, you married one such, Mickey thought.
‘I worried for her, but what could I do? She made me promise not to tell Muriel what I had seen because, she said, she didn’t want to be diminished in the eyes of Mrs Owens, a woman she respected. And so I stayed silent – in truth there was very little I could tell, and I had said my piece to Cissie herself, warned her to take care. I never dreamt anything as terrible as this might happen.’
Mickey nodded his understanding. ‘I wonder if I could just ask something else,’ he said. ‘Not strictly to do with the investigation, you understand?’
Mr Owens looked a little puzzled. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure …’
‘Oh, it’s just a little personal question. We … that is, I was wondering, you know, how Miss Rowe was first discovered. Who recognized that she might have talent? I know the stories, but …’
‘Ah.’ Mr Owens almost laughed. ‘Oh, well that I can tell you. It’s the practice, or was, in slack times, to send us cameramen out on to the streets to shoot a little stock footage. Crowd scenes, traffic, even more dramatic moments that might come our way. I remember one time being close to where a traffic accident was occurring so, naturally, I captured what I could of it on film. And while we were out we’d also be looking for any likely face that would look good as a bit player, or could be entered on to the postcard list, if they lived a little further out.’
‘Postcard list?’
‘Oh, let me explain. If a particular actor or even a particular type of actor were required and they were not part of our usual local talent, then they’d be sent a postcard telling them to report for filming, usually with a couple of days’ notice. There was always the need either for attractive background talent or for character parts, you know.’
‘And Cissie was found on one of these random trawls?’
‘I believe so, yes. Not by me, unfortunately. That would have been rather splendid, but, you know, some of the young people trying to break into the industry, they knew if they were hanging around when we were out and about they’d be likely to be called on. Maybe even earn a little bit of money, you know.’
Mickey nodded. ‘And she made a point of hanging around until someone noticed her.’
‘That’s what I’m given to understand.’
Mickey nodded, oddly satisfied by the idea that Cissie Rowe had in fact been picked out from the crowd. Discovered, as it were.
‘A very lovely young woman,’ Mr Owens said sadly. ‘Very lovely indeed.’
Henry Johnstone had been interviewing the stage manager
, Herbert Hood, a man more guaranteed to notice the comings and goings than most. He had already spoken to some of Cissie’s friends and it was clear that they were all extremely upset. She seemed to have been genuinely popular and was described as kind and caring and funny. He had asked about male friends, about young men who might have had a romantic involvement with Cissie Rowe, and a few had been named, including Jimmy Cottee and Selwyn Croft, and others who had come and gone and for a brief time attracted her attention or affection.
‘I don’t want you to think that she was fickle,’ a young woman by the name of Violet Smith told him. ‘Indeed by the standards of many young actresses she was positively – well, cautious, one might say. But she was very beautiful and she did attract a great deal of attention.’
‘And any of the wrong kind of attention?’
‘What woman doesn’t?’ She shrugged. ‘She’d have to be as ugly as sin not to attract some man or another. It’s just the way of the world, isn’t it?’
Henry was left to consider that. Only one piece of information appeared to be particularly relevant and that was an observation from the stage manager himself.
‘We don’t like to encourage outsiders on the set but occasionally a few turn up as guests of whoever happens to be working that day and so long as they keep out of the way we can turn a blind eye. And there was one day when Cissie had someone. The young man, he stood well back, didn’t speak to anyone much. He was in here for about half an hour right at the end of the day, as though he’d come to collect her. He wasn’t local, I do know that much. I think she called him Philip or’ – he paused to think – ‘no, it wasn’t Philip, it was more like Philippe, and when he spoke to her he had a bit of an accent. French, I suppose. She didn’t introduce him to anyone and we thought that was a little strange, but they rushed off and I assume they had an appointment somewhere.’
‘Miss Rowe came from Amiens, I believe?’
‘Well, she certainly lived there for a time. I believe she was born in some little village somewhere. I remember her mentioning an aunt and uncle – in fact I believe there is a photograph of them in her bungalow. There was a group of us down the beach one day talking about family and’ – he paused, thinking again – ‘Cissie said something about not having family now, about losing them in the war. And Mrs Owens commented that Cissie at least had remembrances of them, family photographs and that sort of thing, so that was meant to be compensation.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I suppose people say all sorts of things when they’re trying to fill the silence – and Mrs Owens, I have to say, likes to fill silences.’
‘Do you remember where her family came from?’
‘Sorry, no I don’t. She said something about a country house, a farmhouse maybe, and an orchard but, as I say, there was a group of us and I can’t pretend I was really listening all that closely.’
‘So it’s very possible that this young man, the one on set, was someone from her past before she came here.’
‘I sort of assumed that, but I did think it strange that if someone had come all this way, from France or Belgium or wherever, she didn’t introduce him to us.’ He shrugged. ‘But then I forgot about it until you caused me to call it to mind just now.’
‘Would anyone else have seen him or spoken to him?’
‘In passing, maybe. Given him directions or something, I suppose. But as I say we were all working; there is no room for anyone hanging around chatting. And when we’re filming it’s usually either a closed set or we demand absolute silence. We can’t afford the film stock to be constantly reshooting and we’re still very reliant on natural light down here. We do have electric lamps now, of course, but we try to keep their use to the minimum. Perhaps you know that’s why the studio was based here? The light is so good?’
‘So I’ve been told,’ Henry said.
He thanked the man and then went off to find Mickey, but on the way was waylaid by Mrs Owens, who had spotted him and wanted to know what progress was being made.
As yet very little, Henry told her, and then he asked about the snake bangle and whether she had ever seen her young friend wearing it.
Muriel Owens stared at him. ‘Cissie owned nothing like that,’ she said. ‘Where would a girl like Cissie get something like a gold bangle? I know the kind you mean, very fashionable. I keep saying to my Frederick I would love one of those bangles. So clever.’ She shook her head angrily. ‘I don’t like what you’re assuming, Inspector.’
‘And what am I assuming?’ he asked her.
‘Not assuming, perhaps. Inferring. You are inferring that someone made a gift of this bracelet to our Cissie. That someone … someone may have expected something in return.’
‘What someone might have expected and what someone received are two different things,’ Henry said quietly. ‘And expectations of that kind can lead to violence, you know.’
Muriel Owens was genuinely shocked, he could see that.
‘I never saw her with anything of that kind. And I’m sure she would have shown it to me.’
‘Unless,’ Henry pushed the idea home, ‘she knew you wouldn’t approve of whoever had given it to her or how she had acquired it. If she held your opinion in regard, then she may have been very cautious about what she told you. She might have feared your disapproval or disapprobation and, since I’m sure she valued you as a friend, that might have been something she did not wish to risk.’
Muriel Owens nodded. ‘Quite so,’ she said. ‘You can understand, Inspector, that it hurts me to think that Cissie might have been in trouble and could not confide in me. That upsets me a great deal.’
‘I can understand that,’ Henry assured her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Owens, I’ve no doubt we will be in touch again.’
Henry had spotted Mickey Hitchens walking towards them and he now disengaged himself from Muriel Owens and went to meet his sergeant. He was interrupted by a female voice. ‘Take your picture, Inspector?’
Henry turned, frowning. A young woman stood off to his right, a Kodak camera very like his own clasped in her hands.
‘Sophie Mars,’ she said. ‘Freelance photographer and journalist.’
She spoke brightly and confidently but wilted a little under Henry’s glare.
‘I take pictures of the actors, mainly,’ she added. ‘Write little snippets. Review the occasional film for the local papers.’ She smiled suddenly, as though gathering her confidence again. ‘Take the picture of handsome detectives going about their work?’
She must have realized at once that this was the wrong thing to say. Her cheeks flushed and she looked away.
Henry turned his back on her and strode off towards where Mickey Hitchens, clearly amused, waited for him.
‘Nothing funny,’ Henry said.
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s not every day an attractive woman accuses you of being handsome.’
Henry’s scowl deepened. He glanced back and saw that Sophie Mars was standing where he had left her, camera still between her hands.
‘I spotted her earlier. She hangs around taking pictures. They put up with her because she’s local and knows how to keep out of the way, never takes anything racy or too outrageous. A girl has the right to earn a little extra cash. You’d not turn a hair if young Sophie Mars was called Samuel and wore a Norfolk jacket.’
‘I’m not against women working,’ Henry argued. ‘I just have reservations about certain professions and being a so-called journalist is one of them.’
Mickey grinned at him but knew when to leave the conversation alone.
They walked some distance away from the studio, down towards the Church of the Good Shepherd, and, finding a bench in the churchyard, sat down to exchange the intelligence they had received.
‘So,’ Mickey said, ‘several young men in the frame, then.’
‘All of whom may be completely innocent, but the one she was seeing secretly does interest me, as does this Philippe. Jimmy Cottee is the closest and most easily available, so I suggest we begin with
him. Then we find out which bank this Selwyn Croft works for and we make him our next port of call. And we search the bungalow for any trace of this Philippe. I’m intrigued by the fact that the only missing object would seem to be the photograph of her French or Belgian relatives. Why take that? Why take nothing else?’
Mickey glanced at his watch, tugging it out of his waistcoat pocket and stroking it lovingly before he put it away again. It was of old and battered brass and of no value except that it belonged to Mickey’s father and he loved it.
‘It’s approaching noon,’ he said. ‘I suggest we find a local pub and adjourn for some refreshment and to get directions to where this Jimmy Cottee lives. I don’t know about you but I’m parched. It’s either feast or famine round here. You go from house to house and come out awash with tea; obviously a film studio doesn’t have the same level of hospitality.’
‘For once, I agree. For once I confess to being thirsty and a little hungry.’
‘Miracle of miracles,’ Mickey said wryly. ‘I take it you slept better then, after I met you on the stairs last night.’
‘I slept a little before and a little after, so yes, better.’
‘Good,’ Mickey said, and in that single word managed to convey an entire vocabulary of relief.
They had been told that Jimmy Cottee lived further along the beach in a railway carriage parked on the shingle, supported by the now familiar concrete slab beneath. Three wooden steps led down from the door directly on to the beach and there was no pretence at garden or enclosure around it. A much poorer construction, Henry thought, than the one he had previously seen and set somewhat apart from the more affluent bungalows. He noticed that there were several such structures close by, with water tanks behind fed from guttering on the roof, as Mrs Owens had told them was still commonplace.
They knocked on the carriage door but received no answer. Local enquiries had told them that Jimmy Cottee was twenty-six years old and had lived alone since his mother had died five years before. She had once shared the railway carriage with him and he had supported them both; she had been ill for a long time. ‘A nice boy,’ they had been told. ‘Does odd jobs at the studio and fills in with odd jobs elsewhere.’ Someone else had told them, ‘He was soft on that young actress what got killed, followed her around like a little puppy.’
Death Scene Page 7
