Death Scene

by Jane A. Adams

‘But what if—’

  ‘I’d shoot you first.’ She’d said it with a smile, but he knew the truth of it.

  ‘I think you would.’

  Thinking of the place where Cissie Rowe died it occurs to me that despite all of the personal items, the photographs and the clothes she kept so carefully, it would be difficult, just examining those things, to get any sense of the woman who owned them.

  There were no books, few letters, no notebooks or personal documents apart from receipts and bills. No sense that she had settled there and made it home. It was a place to live, to alight and rest, to entertain friends, even, but not home.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Simon Monkton was a dapper little man in a bright waistcoat and rather loud dog-toothed check suit.

  He had turned up at the police station in Shoreham looking for Inspector Johnstone and, on being informed that he was expected shortly, had declared that he would wait.

  When Henry and Sergeant Hitchens arrived, he was perched on a bench in the reception area and swinging his legs like a schoolchild.

  ‘You are the private detective?’ Mickey sounded doubtful. ‘You’d hardly blend into the background, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Which is why I employ less conspicuous personnel,’ Simon Monkton told him. ‘You’ll be wondering what brings me here? Well, I heard you missed me at my London office and Mrs Clifton suggested that as I was coming to see her, it might be wise for me to call in to speak to both of you.’

  They took him through into an interview room and Simon Monkton settled neatly on a wooden chair.

  ‘My business with Mrs Clifton is, as I’m sure you are aware, of a personal nature. She likes to be aware of her husband’s various liaisons. She is aware that they burn out quickly enough, shall we say, but she still prefers to know with what she might be contending.’

  ‘And your associates followed Mr Clifton when he was seeing Miss Rowe?’ Mickey said.

  ‘Among others, yes. Miss Rowe lasted longer than most, I have to say, which caused Mrs Clifton some little concern, as you can imagine. They did part for a little time and then the association seems to have been rekindled about eleven months ago, after something like a three-month space.’

  ‘And have you any idea what brought about this renewal of interest?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Well, sir, I think I might well do. In view of this turning out to be such a very serious business – I’m not used to murder creeping into my concerns, you understand. So I called upon my associates and with them I reviewed all of the documentation we had on this particular liaison. You see, as we were keeping a watch on Mr Clifton, it also happened that we kept quite a watch on Miss Rowe.’

  Mr Monkton had an attaché case and he lifted it on to the table and opened it. Inside was a number of manila envelopes.

  ‘This one, I think – ah, yes. You see here that my associate photographed Mr Clifton on a number of occasions. To be truthful, he was an easy mark. A creature of habit, one might say. My associate need only watch out for him at one of the clubs that he frequents or at his office or one of three or four restaurants he likes. But when he was with Miss Rowe there were a few little changes of habit. This being one of them.’

  ‘The pawnbroker’s,’ Henry said.

  ‘But my associates also found another anomaly. The young lady seems to have had regular appointments at a certain doctor’s surgery and Mr Clifton has been known to take her to these appointments and wait for her in his car.’

  With the air of a magician revealing his prestige, Simon Monkton handed a slip of paper to Henry. ‘The address,’ he said. ‘You may recognize it. The good doctor has quite a reputation, I believe.’

  They hadn’t needed Simon Monkton’s revelation; enquiries by their colleagues had revealed that Cissie Rowe, using her birth name of Cécile Rolland, had indeed been registered with an authorized medical man. But what had now fallen into place was that Geoffrey Clifton may have been aware of this and had on occasion accompanied her – even if he’d not gone into the surgery himself.

  ‘We apply for the warrant now?’ Mickey asked.

  ‘No, I think we start to round up our suspects and bring them in. I think that might be the swiftest route.’

  ‘Suspects?’

  ‘We have Philippe. We need Fred and Muriel Owens and I think we should make our Mr Clifton as uncomfortable as we can. He’s still up in London so a visit to his office by a couple of constables might be in order, don’t you think? Just an invitation to help with our enquiries.’

  Mickey grinned. ‘I like the sound of that,’ he said. ‘Get that jemmy out and open up the cracks.’

  It was a strange procession back to London. Mickey and Henry drove in Cynthia’s car followed by two police vehicles, one containing Fred Owens and the other Muriel. They had been collected from the studio, fetched away from their work and escorted to the waiting cars in front of their fellow employees. Mrs Owens had been in tears and Henry felt a pang of sympathy for her. He was still doubtful that she had been involved in any way in Cissie Rowe’s death or the criminality that led to it.

  Geoffrey Clifton had been collected from his office. He was not a happy man.

  Once they were back at Scotland Yard, Mickey had Philippe brought up from his cell.

  ‘Now tell me,’ Mickey said. ‘Would you know this man, this neighbour, if you saw him again?’

  Philippe nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I think I would.’

  ‘And tell me,’ Henry asked, ‘was it you who lured my constable away and vandalized my crime scene?’

  Philippe shrugged. ‘I had heard of Cécile’s death. I was distraught. I wanted some remembrance of her and I recalled the photograph that she had on the little table. I saw the police constable and I thought that reaching it would be impossible.’

  ‘You wanted just the photograph. You’d no thought of making off with the narcotics, I suppose?’ Mickey asked.

  ‘Of course you did,’ Henry said. ‘You’d not see an opportunity like that go to waste. You discovered a way of getting my constable away from the scene and you got into the bungalow, looking for the narcotics Cissie had brought from London. Did you know that when she died, cocaine was forced down her throat? She could not fight back. Her assailant knelt on her hands, poured the cocaine into her mouth and poured water after it. She was conscious enough to choke, to understand what was happening to her. And then her killer smothered the life from her. Did you know that, Philippe? Was that you?’

  ‘No. It was not me. I could never do such a thing. I loved Cécile. I loved her.’

  ‘And yet you returned to the bungalow intent on stealing the very thing you quarrelled over. What kind of a man are you, Philippe Boilieu?’

  ‘A poor excuse for one, perhaps. But I never did her harm.’

  Henry regarded the young man steadily and was inclined to believe him. ‘And you can identify the neighbour?’

  ‘I think so.’

  It proves nothing, Henry thought. It would prove only that Mr Owens had been present, but it might serve to shake things up.

  ‘I’m curious,’ Mickey said. ‘The boy that took the constable away from his duties, he said a woman had given him money to do so. What woman was that?’

  Philippe smiled slightly. ‘I think he fooled you, Sergeant. I gave him money to tell the constable. There was no woman.’

  ‘Did you threaten him if he told? Even though he can’t have known you.’

  ‘I paid him money, that is all.’

  ‘And why did you smash up her place?’ Mickey wanted to know. ‘Or maybe I can answer that. The stuff was nowhere to be found, was it? You knew you didn’t have long and you couldn’t find what you’d hoped to, so you smashed the place up. Sheer temper, was it?’

  ‘I no longer know.’

  Henry left the room briefly and when he came back he beckoned Philippe to follow him. He led the young man down the hall and into a reception area. As Philippe arrived, Fred Owens was being brought along the corridor.


  ‘That’s the man,’ Philippe told Henry. ‘That is indeed the man who came into Cécile’s room the day we argued. I saw him there.’

  Fred Owens’ face was a picture of contempt. ‘And that means nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all.’

  A female officer had searched Muriel Owens and then waited with her in the interview room. Mrs Owens had not ceased crying or talking ever since she’d been brought from Shoreham and she continued now in clear distress. The female officer had been instructed not to reply. Henry knew how frustrating and upsetting it could be if no one paid you any mind, no matter how much you tried to attract their notice.

  When he entered the room he continued the tactic, shuffling through a stack of photographs he had with him.

  ‘Why am I here, Inspector? What are you accusing me of?’

  Henry laid the photographs out on the table. ‘Your friend is dead,’ he said quietly. ‘And I suspect that your husband, and perhaps you too, had something to do with it.’

  ‘I?’ She stared at him in horror and then looked down at the photographs of Cissie that he had laid out in front of her. She gave a little cry and covered her mouth with her hands. Shook her head.

  ‘Your friend is dead,’ Henry repeated. ‘She was young and perhaps very foolish, but she did nothing to deserve this.’

  ‘And I did nothing to bring it about. I didn’t kill her. I found her. I—’

  ‘The night I was attacked, Mrs Owens – where was your husband?’

  ‘He was at home, with me.’

  ‘And he never left home? Never went out to smoke or to walk?’

  ‘Well, he may have done. He may have said that he needed a breath of air. He may—’

  ‘And the night you and Cissie Rowe went to the theatre together. Did he go out after you’d returned? Did he want a breath of air on that occasion?’

  She stared at him. ‘What are you saying? What are you implying, Inspector? That my husband killed my friend? Our friend?’

  Henry waited until she looked down again, her eyes drawn to the photographs.

  ‘Someone hit her over the head and then dragged her into her bungalow. They put her on the bed and waited until she had almost regained consciousness and then, when she was aware of what was happening to her but too weak to fight, cocaine was forced down her throat and she was asphyxiated. Smothered with her own pillow. It would not have taken very long. She wasn’t very big or very strong and her death would have taken little effort on the part of her attacker. It would have taken minutes, Mrs Owens. Minutes to take a life. But can you imagine what an eternity that would have seemed for poor Cissie Rowe? Can you imagine how long it must have seemed for Jimmy Cottee? Poor, simple Jimmy Cottee who loved her so much. Beaten and then hanged, strangled to death because he would not – or more likely could not – give his attackers what they wanted.’

  Mrs Owens had begun to weep, to wail, to protest again. The WPC glared at Henry, regarding him as utterly inhuman.

  ‘A fingerprint was found in Jimmy Cottee’s railway carriage. A fingerprint belonging to a man by the name of Billy Crane.’

  He saw her flinch.

  ‘I see you recognize the name. He’s an associate, or should I say an employee, of Josiah Bailey. A man you are very familiar with.’

  ‘I was a child when I knew those people. I left all that behind me.’

  ‘But perhaps it didn’t entirely relinquish you. Perhaps that world drew your husband in. How often does he go to London to visit your relatives, Mrs Owens? A lot more often than you?’

  ‘I don’t understand. What could Billy Crane have been doing with Jimmy?’

  ‘What indeed? I’d hazard that Billy Crane was employed in Jimmy Cottee’s murder.’

  ‘And Cissie’s?’ He sensed she was almost afraid to ask.

  ‘No, I think your husband took care of Cissie’s murder.’

  ‘My husband … why?’

  ‘So was he at home with you on that night? Did he take a walk? Did he leave you on the night I was attacked on the beach?’

  ‘I don’t know. I went to sleep. I wouldn’t have known if he’d gone out.’

  ‘Really, Mrs Owens? Would you really not have known?’

  Henry left her then and joined Mickey Hitchens, who was about to go in and speak to Fred Owens.

  ‘Any joy with Josiah Bailey?’

  ‘Not a murmur. But I’ve told him and his lawyer that fingerprints were found at a murder scene and that’s why he’s been brought in. I’ve not told them which murder scene or whose fingerprints. Best to keep them guessing, I feel. You’re joining me with Fred Owens?’

  ‘Briefly. I want to give him some food for thought too. Then I’ll see what I can get out of Geoffrey Clifton.’

  Unlike his wife, Fred Owens had been silent on his journey and maintained that silence for almost all the time he had spent in custody. He sat staring at the narrow window set high up in the wall as though watching something of major interest, though Henry knew that there was no view to be had from this window – not even if Fred Owens had climbed upon his chair.

  ‘Mr Owens,’ Henry said, ‘I’ve just been speaking to your wife.’

  Fred Owens didn’t move.

  ‘She tells me that you went out for a walk on the night that Miss Rowe was killed. And that you also went out for a breath of air on the night that I was attacked. She reminded me too that Cissie seemed upset on the night at the theatre. That she seemed, in particular, to be ill at ease with you.’

  Henry paused. ‘It’s my belief that you killed Cissie Rowe and that her death had something to do with the cocaine forced down her throat. Were you making a point, Mr Owens? Had she offended you in some way? Did her habit offend you?’

  A slight flick of an eye, the smallest change in attention, told Henry that he was on to something – but that it wasn’t that. Not offence, not contempt.

  ‘Or were you angry with her, Mr Owens? Had she lied to you?’

  That was it, Henry thought. She had deceived him in some way.

  ‘I know you killed her,’ Henry said. ‘And I know you were involved in Jimmy Cottee’s death.’

  ‘No, Inspector, I did not kill her.’

  ‘A fingerprint was found, as I’ve just been telling your wife. A fingerprint belonging to Billy Crane. You’re familiar with Billy Crane? You’re familiar, of course, with his employer. Josiah Bailey.’

  ‘Only inasmuch as he’s related to my brother-in-law.’

  ‘A brother-in-law you visit often.’ Henry let that thought hang and then nodded to Mickey. ‘I’ll leave you to speak with my sergeant now,’ he said.

  So, Henry thought as he walked back down the narrow corridor to where Geoffrey Clifton waited. It was about the drugs. Or, at least, Cissie’s death was. Jimmy Cottee had been a casualty, a misunderstanding, he thought. Someone believed that Cissie had confided in the young man.

  He paused suddenly and turned back to where he had left Muriel Owens as a sudden thought struck him.

  He retrieved a photograph that had been taken of the list Cissie had kept and took it with him.

  Mrs Owens was still crying. Someone had provided her with a decent handkerchief and a cup of tea.

  She looked up anxiously as Henry appeared and he could read the dread in her eyes that he would punish her again.

  This time he lay the list down on the table, but with only the initials showing. The rest he covered with another print.

  ‘Tell me what this means.’

  ‘Means? It’s just initials. Just a list of initials.’

  ‘And whose initials might they be?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘It looks like a sign-out list.’

  ‘A sign-out list?’

  ‘When the girls at the studio take a costume or a property, they have to sign for it. Initial the list against the article.’ She looked at him expectantly.

  ‘And whose initials might these be?’

  She looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Well, the C.R. would have bee
n Cissie, and it looks as though this is in her hand. The V.A., that’s Violet, I suppose, and then there’s E. and M. for Ellen May, another of the young actresses we have.’

  ‘Why would actresses sign for costumes and props?’

  She was on easy ground now. ‘If the film is historical then we hire our costumes from Drury’s in Brighton. For contemporary films our junior performers often wear their own clothing but with little things added. Gloves, hats, perhaps a scarf or something, taken from the properties or costume department. They have to sign for them.’

  Henry uncovered the rest of the page. ‘And are these items taken from your costume department?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so. No.’

  Henry picked up his print and left. He was angry with himself not to have thought that C. and R. were simply Cissie’s initials. He had been fixed on the idea that they had something to do with the robberies, not the next step in the journey of the stolen jewellery. What the list now suggested to him was that Cissie Rowe might not have been the only young woman carrying such items.

  It was another potential piece of the puzzle.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Geoffrey Clifton paced and smoked. He was clearly angry and about to tell the inspector so.

  Henry lit a cigarette of his own and sat down. His head was throbbing again and he was feeling the effects of a long day. He was not inclined towards patience.

  Geoffrey Clifton began to speak; Henry interrupted him.

  ‘Was Miss Rowe providing you with narcotics, Mr Clifton?’

  Clifton scowled. ‘And why would she do that?’

  ‘Because you asked her to. Because you offered her good money for it. Because you liked to offer your guests something in addition to your no doubt excellent cellar but without having to go to the trouble of registering for yourself. I imagine if that came out it would not enhance your reputation.’

  ‘My reputation needs no … enhancement, as you put it.’

  ‘Mr Clifton, I’m tired, and I’m not inclined to indulge you. I don’t believe you had anything to do with Miss Rowe’s murder, but I do believe that you made use of her. You drove her to London. You are implicated in her handling of stolen goods and you also went with her to her appointments with a doctor who was authorized to supply her with drugs. She registered her addiction. But she did not in fact have an addiction. She sold her supply to you. Mr Clifton, can we just get this out of the way? Tell me what you know and you can go on home.’