by Jenny Holmes
A grey blanket was unfolded and placed over Sidney’s body. His face was covered. Under orders from Stanhope, Douglas came towards Clare with an extended hand. ‘You must come with us,’ he said, gently raising her until she stood upright.
She didn’t react. Her stare was blank, her face white.
‘And we’ll need a statement from you too, Miss,’ the sergeant told Millicent.
They took Clare from the room, steering her around the body then walking her along the landing.
Millicent watched the ambulance men pack away their equipment. She caught the gleam of a stethoscope inside their bag and breathed in the scent of lily-of-the-valley perfume from a broken bottle at her feet. Her shoes crunched over shattered glass as she moved forward then her toe caught against something metallic and pointed. It was a knife with a long, curved blade – a butcher’s knife.
‘Don’t touch that,’ one of the ambulance men warned when he saw her stoop to pick it up. ‘That’s evidence, that is.’
She gasped and looked out of the window down on to the gaslit pavement where Douglas was guiding Clare into the back of the police car.
‘And you’re a witness,’ the other man told her, snapping his bag shut. ‘You’ll have to stand up in court and tell the jury exactly what you saw.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
That night, after the police had taken Clare away and another young constable had arrived on the scene to guard Sidney’s body, Millicent went back to the exchange. She didn’t take her place at the switchboard, however.
‘I won’t hear of it,’ Ruth insisted as soon as she saw the state the other woman was in – her eyes dark and dazed, the skirt of her green flowered dress stained with blood. ‘We’re fetching a taxi to take you straight home.’
Shocked into stupefied silence by what she’d seen, Millicent didn’t resist. She stared down at her red hands and shook her head in disbelief.
‘Your dress is ruined,’ Brenda whispered as she led her into the cloakroom to collect her coat. ‘Come along – sit down here until the taxi arrives.’
‘I’ll go and keep a lookout.’ Molly offered to stand and wait at the front entrance.
‘No – you get back to your switchboard,’ Brenda insisted, well aware that they couldn’t both neglect their duties. ‘Now, Millicent – is there anyone at home to help you when you get back?’
‘Cynthia will be there,’ she replied. The word ‘home’ appeared as a bright beacon on the dark horizon, signalling safe refuge from the events that she’d witnessed.
So when Alf Middlemiss arrived, she allowed Brenda to lead her out through the revolving door and help her into his taxi.
‘Where to?’ Alf asked, glancing at Millicent in his rear-view mirror and seeing at once that he would get no sense out of her.
Brenda tapped on the driver’s window to attract his attention. ‘Heaton Yard. She’s had a bad shock,’ she explained. ‘Make sure she gets home safely.’
Alf nodded and drove off along the empty street. He said nothing about the police car parked outside Sylvia’s, minding his own business all the way to Ada Street where he stopped by the ginnel leading into Heaton Yard. ‘Do you need a hand?’ He turned to check how Millicent was.
‘No, ta – I’ll manage. How much do I owe you?’
‘Never mind that. You can pay me next time you see me. You get yourself off home.’ Alf got out to open Millicent’s door then watched her make her way down the alleyway without pestering her with questions. Whatever had taken place back there at the hairdresser’s salon, he felt certain that it would be splashed across the newspapers soon enough.
Millicent took a deep breath and entered the silent yard. She needed to get inside her house and then collapse and cry, wail and shake and give way to despair – to somehow get the horror of what she’d witnessed out of her head and into the open. But first she must cross the yard one step at a time, turn her key in the lock and disappear inside.
Upstairs in her attic room, Cynthia slept soundly.
Millicent stumbled through the door. She took two or three steps across the kitchen then her legs gave way and she sank to the floor, knocking against a chair as she went down.
Cynthia heard the crash and woke. She sat bolt upright. Her first, terrifying thought was that a burglar had broken in but then she heard a loud, desperate crying so she flung on her dressing gown and ran downstairs.
Millicent was on her knees, head forward, hands covering her face, sobbing as if the world was about to end.
Cynthia ran to her and tried to raise her up. The sight of dried blood on Millicent’s hands and clothes told her to expect the worst.
As suddenly as Millicent had allowed her tears to flow, she stopped. She must stand up and pull herself together, not cry like a baby. ‘I’m all right,’ she protested, pushing Cynthia away. ‘Honestly – I’m all right.’
‘Here – sit down.’ Cynthia righted the chair. ‘Sit, Millicent. Are you hurt? Tell me what’s happened.’
Millicent swayed then sat down. She heaved air into her lungs, looking up at Cynthia without being able to speak.
‘It’s all right. Take your time.’ There was a small bottle of brandy on a high shelf in the pantry – Cynthia fetched it, poured a little into a glass and gave it to Millicent. ‘Drink this.’
Millicent drank obediently, feeling the trickle of liquid burn her tongue and throat and waiting for it to revive her, which it did after a minute or two.
‘Sidney Hall is dead,’ she told Cynthia. Speaking the words made her tremble violently again so she swallowed more brandy. ‘He was stabbed in the chest and bled to death.’
For a second Cynthia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It didn’t make sense – things like this didn’t happen so close to home. They belonged in newspaper headlines and on the cinema screen. But Millicent was covered in blood so what she said must be true.
‘The police think that Clare stabbed him.’ Millicent forced herself to go on. ‘They took her to the station. Ruth sent me home.’
‘Were you there when it happened?’ Cynthia brought her mac from the coat hook by the door and placed it around Millicent’s shoulders to stop her shivering. ‘Don’t answer if you don’t want to – the important thing is that you’re all right.’
‘There was a knife on the floor. I wasn’t allowed to touch it. There was blood everywhere.’
‘Don’t talk,’ Cynthia pleaded. Explanations could wait.
But Millicent had to get it out – she must tell Cynthia what she’d seen and relive every detail – the phone call, the sudden silence, the rush to help. The broken telephone. ‘Blood everywhere,’ she said again. Clare crouching amidst broken perfume bottles and spilt face powder. Sidney still alive, with the fear of death in his eyes. ‘He knew it was all up with him,’ she whispered to herself.
Throughout it all, Cynthia held Millicent’s hand. She made her drink all of the brandy in the glass and let her talk it out – once, twice, three times – all through the night until gentle daylight washed its way into the bleak nightmare that Millicent had lived through. Then she felt calm enough to rinse her face and hands at the kitchen sink where the cold water ran red and she scrubbed with a nailbrush until every trace of blood had vanished.
In the dawn light Cynthia went up to Millicent’s room and fetched a clean nightdress and a dressing gown. ‘Here – you should get out of those clothes.’
Millicent stood on the rug and took off her stained dress and stockings. Cynthia hid the discarded clothes in the cupboard under the sink until Millicent had decided what to do with them. ‘That’s good,’ she told her once she had changed into her night things. ‘Now, how do you feel?’
‘Better,’ Millicent insisted. A glance at her wristwatch told her that it was time for Cynthia to get ready for work. Normal service should be resumed. ‘Get a move on or you’ll be late,’ she urged with an attempt to sound like her usual jaunty self.
Cynthia held back. ‘I don’t like to leave you.’
‘I can manage.’ Suddenly Millicent felt weary to the bone. ‘My bed is calling me. I could sleep for a week.’
So Cynthia left Millicent in the kitchen and went upstairs again to get changed. When she came back down there was a knock at the door and there stood Douglas in his police uniform, asking to speak to Millicent.
‘Come in.’ Cynthia stood to one side and spoke to Millicent. ‘Shall I hang on for a bit?’
‘No, ta. You get off.’ Somehow she overcame her exhaustion. ‘I knew you’d want to talk to me, but I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon,’ she told Douglas as Cynthia shut the door behind her.
He stood uncomfortably in the middle of the rug, hands behind his back and rocking to and fro on the balls of his feet. ‘I’m coming to the end of my shift but Sergeant Stanhope said it was best to get this bit over and done with.’
‘Where’s Clare?’
He cleared his throat and avoided looking Millicent in the eye. ‘She’s clammed up, not saying a word. We’re waiting for the doctor to take a look at her.’
‘I didn’t say “how” – I said “where”.’
‘She’s still down at the station.’
‘The poor thing! How long are you going to keep her?’
‘I can’t go into that.’ Douglas shook his head. It felt peculiar to be interviewing Norma’s best pal in his work capacity and Millicent’s reputation for being too forthright on occasions made him uneasy. ‘Look – it’s my job to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to answering them?’
‘Of course I do,’ she retorted. Her own distress paled in comparison with what Clare must be going through. ‘Sit down, Douglas. The sooner we set things straight, the better.’
He took off his helmet and placed it on the table then sat down opposite her. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes. Fire away.’ Though Douglas seemed absurdly formal in the way he took his notebook from his top pocket and sat with his pencil poised, she recognized that she must toe the line.
‘First off, how long had you been on the premises before we got there?’
‘At Sylvia’s? Five minutes at the most.’
He wrote down her answer. ‘And for what reason?’
‘I was working the night shift at the exchange. I was the one who took Clare’s call. And before you ask – that would be at five minutes past twelve on the dot. I checked the clock.’
‘What did Clare say to you?’
‘She asked for help.’
‘What sort of help did she need?’
‘She sounded very upset. She asked for an ambulance. And then the police.’
‘In that order?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did she say why?’
‘She told me that Sidney Hall had been hurt.’
Douglas glanced up from his notebook. ‘Did she say how Mr Hall had been hurt or who hurt him?’
‘No, not a dicky bird. She said he was bleeding and she couldn’t stop it. I said not to try to move him but to wait for the ambulance.’
‘And then what?’
‘I asked Clare if Sidney was still breathing. She said she didn’t know. Then all of a sudden the line went dead. That’s when I asked my supe for permission to leave my switchboard and go and find out what was going on.’ Millicent watched as, with painstaking accuracy, Douglas wrote down every word in a forward-sloping, cramped hand.
‘And what time was it when you reached number fifty-two?’
‘I reckon I was there by a quarter past twelve. I went upstairs and found Clare in her bedroom with Sidney Hall.’
‘What was she doing?’
‘Nothing. She was crouching in a corner, too frightened to do anything. He was lying on the floor, bleeding.’ Millicent’s voice faltered as she re-imagined the scene.
‘Did Clare say anything?’
Millicent shook her head.
‘Did Mr Hall?’
‘No.’
‘All right, Millicent – we’re nearly finished. A carving knife has been recovered from the scene of the crime. Did you see it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where was it?’
‘On the floor, near the washstand – along with Clare’s perfume bottles and make-up. Everywhere was a mess.’
‘Did you see Clare drop the knife or touch it at any time?’
‘No. It was just lying there.’ A cold sensation crept up Millicent’s spine, making her shiver. The truth was the truth, but so far it didn’t seem to be helping Clare as much as she’d hoped.
Douglas concentrated on writing down her answer then, without looking up, he asked his final question. ‘Do you know any reason why Clare might want to harm Sidney Hall?’
‘No!’ Millicent’s answer exploded from her lips. Even to her own ears, it lacked conviction. Of course there are reasons – any fool can see that. You of all people know what Sidney Hall got up to. But she lied to Douglas and said no, and the look in his eyes made it plain that he didn’t believe her.
‘Thank you, Millicent.’ He sighed and closed his notebook then put it back in his pocket. ‘That’s all I need to know – for now, at any rate.’
‘It’s not how it looks,’ she tried to tell him. ‘Why would Clare ask for the police to come if she was the one who …?’ Her voice trailed off and ended in a sharp intake of breath.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t talk about that.’ He’d been sent to interview Millicent and the job was done. Obviously she was being honest for the most part and the other girls in the exchange would be able to verify times and so on. With luck, Millicent herself would be in the clear. ‘I’ll let myself out,’ he told her as he picked up his helmet.
She followed him to the door. ‘What will happen now?’
‘There’ll be a report – a post-mortem. The fingerprint men will get to work.’
‘I don’t mean that, Douglas. I mean – what will happen to Clare? When will you let her go?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On fingerprints, and so on. And on what Clare tells us when the doctor says that she’s well enough to be interviewed.’
Millicent put a hand on his arm. ‘Surely …’ she began.
He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t say any more.’
Standing in the doorway in full view of curious neighbours, she imagined how it might play out as a cut-and-dried case of a mistress who had stabbed her lover to death in a fit of jealous rage. It would appear in all the papers and the woman’s beauty would be made much of. There would be a photograph of Clare on the front page, above a smaller one of the victim – Sidney Hall, a member of the Kenworth and Hall’s Steel Manufacturing family. A cause célèbre, a crime of passion to be pored over, with only one possible outcome at the end of it all.
That evening Norma came with Cynthia to Heaton Yard bearing a message from Ruth. ‘She says you’re to take the rest of the week off work.’
‘What for? That’s the last thing I want to do,’ Millicent protested. Since Douglas’s departure at breakfast time, she’d tried to sleep without success. By midday she’d been up and dressed, pacing the floor and thinking about Clare. ‘I’d much rather keep busy.’
‘No arguments,’ Norma told her. ‘You know how Ruth is – what she says goes.’
‘She has a point,’ Cynthia said. ‘It’ll take a day or two for you to get over the shock of what you saw.’
‘You do look peaky.’ Norma sat Millicent down at the table then quizzed her about Douglas’s visit. ‘How did he act? Was he wearing his stiff upper lip?’
‘His on-duty, policeman’s face? Yes, as a matter of fact he was.’
Trust Douglas, Norma thought. He might have been a bit more sympathetic, considering. ‘Have they started to follow up any leads?’
‘He wouldn’t say, but no – I don’t think they have,’ Millicent admitted. ‘Steel yourselves – the plain fact is, like it or not, Clare is being treated as their main suspect.’
Cynthia gave a cry of dismay. �
�Surely not!’
‘That was my first thought – that she’s not capable of doing it.’ Privately, though, Millicent acknowledged that people sometimes acted out of character when faced with desperate situations. Saying so would sound disloyal, so she kept the notion to herself. ‘But think how it must look from the outside. As far as we know, Clare was the only one in the building at the time it happened.’
‘And it won’t be long before Douglas and Sergeant Stanhope find the motive for Clare to have killed Sidney,’ Norma realized. ‘In fact, they have one already – I gave it to Douglas myself when I passed on my suspicions about Sidney and Mrs Parr.’ Her comments hung in the air while Millicent and Cynthia thought them through.
‘It’s true – they know Sidney did terrible things to her,’ Cynthia murmured.
‘Me and my big mouth,’ Norma muttered.
‘I should have made more of the phone being broken.’ Millicent sounded irritated with herself. ‘Someone pulled the wire out of the socket and smashed it on the floor, but I didn’t draw enough attention to it.’
Cynthia saw what she was getting at. ‘Yes – why would Clare break the phone when she’d called the exchange to ask for help? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Unless someone else was there who we don’t know about – someone who didn’t want Clare to call an ambulance.’
‘Or the police,’ Norma added.
‘And where would Clare have come across a knife like that? It belongs in a butcher’s shop, not in a salon.’ This was another detail that had begun to bother Millicent. Say, for instance, Sidney had gone for Clare and she had tried to defend herself – the nearest thing to hand would have been a pair of hairdresser’s scissors, not a butcher’s knife. ‘Let’s suppose that the person who pulled the phone cord out of its socket was the one who carried the knife.’
‘It couldn’t have been Sidney himself, could it?’ Norma was perplexed and wanted to cover all possibilities.
Millicent was adamant. ‘No. Sidney was already bleeding to death in the upstairs room when she made the call. Clare wasn’t even sure that he was still alive.’
‘And where were Barbara and Margaret when it happened?’ Cynthia wondered.
