Stop Press Murder

by Peter Bartram

  “It was money in that package, wasn’t it? One of you,” – Fanny looked from Venetia to Piddinghoe – “is being blackmailed. And I want to know who it is and why.”

  Fanny had delivered her big speech with enough panache to win an audition at the Old Vic. She crossed the room and sat down on the Chesterfield.

  For a full minute, the only sound in the room was the crackle of logs burning in the grate. Then Venetia stood up and crossed the room to the drinks table. She thought about pouring herself more whisky, but changed her mind.

  “I’m going to have to tell her, Charles,” she said. “I’ve no choice. I must tell her the full story.”

  Venetia put her glass down. Returned to her chair empty-handed.

  “Apart from me, I believed only three people in the world knew what I’m about to tell you,” she said. “And since Marie died, there’s only two.”

  She turned towards Piddinghoe as though expecting him to say something.

  For a moment he looked faintly embarrassed. He drank some brandy, belched softly and said: “Of course, I’ve known.”

  He turned his gaze on me, narrowed his eyes, nodded dismissively as though I were an errant foxhound that’d strayed into the room. “This not something for the scribbler chappie’s ears.”

  “I’m here at your daughter’s invitation,” I said. “I received it because she couldn’t discover the truth about whatever devious plan it is you’ve concocted. I’m assuming her invitation still stands.”

  Fanny nodded.

  “Be it on your own head,” Piddinghoe said. “But if I see a word of this in print I’ll flay you from your head to your arse, like one of my rabbits.”

  “Most people settle for a letter to the editor,” I said.

  “Charles!” Venetia sounded like a mother telling off a two-year-old. He subsided in his chair, puffed angrily at his cigar. She turned back to face Fanny and me.

  “You know that Marie and I were identical twins,” she said. “It was remarkable. As children we’d look in the mirror and revel in it. We could barely tell ourselves apart. Our mother died in childbirth, but our father hired a nursemaid called Agnes – Saggy Aggie – and she loved us like a mother. She’d laugh and say that any baby was perfection and to have two the same made it doubly perfect. She loved dressing us in identical clothes and as our father was a draper, there was no shortage of supply.

  “Our father had come from humble beginnings – in trade. But he aspired to better, to become a member of the upper classes, although I realise that term is despised these days. As we grew older, father hired a governess called Miss Horn. She was as stiff and unbending as her name. We learnt nothing academically useful from her – no literature, no mathematics, certainly no science. But we did learn how enter a room gracefully, how to tell a fish fork from a fruit fork, and how to make small talk to a bishop.

  “Both Marie and I hated Miss Horn but as we grew older, I began to realise that some of these social skills were helpful if one wanted to move in the best society and receive invitations to the finest houses. But Marie didn’t share my outlook on life. Although we continued to look identical, in the way we approached life, we were as different as a princess from a pauper. As I drifted closer to what I like to think was the best of society, Marie gravitated to the worst.”

  “You mean she became a criminal?” Fanny sounded incredulous.

  Venetia scoffed. “I sometimes wish she had. It was worse than that. Worse for me, at any rate. She took to the halls.”

  “I don’t understand,” Fanny said.

  “She means Marie became a music-hall performer,” I said.

  “But I knew that. Then she became an actress and, for a time, a silent-movie star.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” Venetia said. “Flaunting herself for money, singing those common songs – she was no better than a woman of the streets.”

  “Grandmama! You’re talking about your sister. And she’s barely cold in her coffin.” Fanny was fired with anger.

  Venetia waggled her fingers about in what looked like some kind of apology by hand signal.

  “It was so difficult for me trying to make my way in society and meet the right people,” she said. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if we hadn’t been identical twins. But every time a handsome man looked at me, I couldn’t help wondering whether he was comparing me with my twin sister who flashed her frillies for the Friday-night crowd at the Stepney music hall. Of course, Marie and I maintained civil relations on the surface – to please our father. He was generous to a fault to both of us.”

  “Rather too generous,” I said. I’d remembered that Toupée Terry had told me he’d gone bankrupt and hanged himself in disgrace.

  Venetia scowled. “That came later, Mr Crampton. When we were growing up as young girls, our father’s business was prosperous.”

  I nodded.

  “By the time I was into my early twenties, I had been accepted into society,” Venetia said. “I spent most of my life either paying calls on London salons or visiting country estates for weekend house parties. It was at one of these that I met Algernon.”

  “The late Marquess of Piddinghoe,” I said.

  “Yes. Although he was still the Earl of Kingston in those days. He’d not yet inherited his father’s title. I loved him as soon as I saw him. And, I flatter myself, that he loved me, too. That spring should have been the beginning of an idyllic Edwardian romance. But at that same house party – I recall it was the twenty-fourth of April 1908, two days before my twenty-third birthday – something happened which changed my life. It appeared I had attracted the attention of an even more eminent personage.”

  “How eminent?” I asked.

  “As eminent as it is possible to be,” Venetia said.

  “You mean the King?” Fanny asked.

  “Edward the Seventh,” Piddinghoe chipped in. “Rex Imperator.”

  So the stories were true, I thought. The old King had had the bulk of a bison but the libido of a randy old goat.

  “If I may continue without interruption,” Venetia said testily. “The long and the short of it was that I was approached by one of the King’s lords-in-waiting. It was explained to me that the King sought the pleasure of my society and that, if circumstances were propitious, the pleasure could be mutual. The lord-in-waiting’s meaning was quite clear to me.”

  “But you’d fallen in love with Grandpapa,” Fanny said.

  “I think you’ll find that royal rumpy-pumpy takes precedence over true love,” I said.

  “Mr Crampton!” Venetia exclaimed.

  “Vulgar scribbler,” Piddinghoe muttered.

  Fanny nudged me in the ribs. “Just listen.”

  I ignored her and said: “What I meant to say – while avoiding the lord-in-waiting’s circumlocution – was that a royal request is, in fact, a royal command. To a monarch, an affair of the heart is of no greater matter than a page-boy’s curse.”

  Venetia’s lips twisted into a mirthless grin. “Mr Crampton has the essence of the matter. It tore my heart to be unfaithful to my Algy, but I attended upon the royal personage. I hope I won’t be confined to the Tower of London if I say that I did not find it a pleasant experience.”

  “Grandmama, you didn’t allow the King to…?”

  “Spare us the sordid details.” An angry puff rose from Piddinghoe’s cigar like a smoke signal.

  I said nothing. People don’t realise that listening is as important as writing for reporters.

  Venetia swallowed hard. “I returned to my own bed late that night – or, to be more exact, early the next morning – a changed woman. I vowed that I would never visit the royal quarters again.”

  “But a royal invitation is a royal command,” I reminded her.

  “Indeed, Mr Crampton. And, inevitably, another command came a few days later. I was sick to my stomach at the thought. I considered feigning sickness, but knew I couldn’t pull it off. And then I hit upon an idea.”

&nbs
p; “You persuaded your identical twin sister to take your place,” I said.

  Venetia’s mouth dropped open. “You knew?”

  “No, I guessed.”

  “But how?”

  “Let’s just say we share the same kind of devious mind.”

  “I hadn’t been on good terms with Marie, but I had helped to extricate her from one or two difficult situations which her dissolute life on the stage and in the silent films had led her. I knew by asking this, I would be cashing in my favours with her, but I could think of nothing else. I wasn’t even sure she would agree to the deception, although I thought with her complete likeness to me and her acting skills there was a chance she could pull it off.”

  “But she hadn’t lived your lifestyle. How would she know what to talk about?” I asked.

  Venetia blushed. “I’d discovered during my first encounter with the royal personage that not a lot of conversation was required. In any event, Marie jumped at the idea. She borrowed my clothes, my perfume and certain other matters which I need not go into, and stepped into the carriage sent for me as though she were Miss Venetia Clackett, shortly to become the Countess of Kingston.”

  “But Marie did not return in triumph, as far as you were concerned,” I said.

  “Once again, you are ahead of me, Mr Crampton. When Marie came into my boudoir the following morning, she had that supercilious grin on her face which always made a nervous pulse in my neck beat harder. Her deception had lasted as long as it took to remove her…her undergarments. You see, Marie and I had always believed that we were identical twins. But in one tiny respect we were not. Marie had a mole – a small insignificant mole in a place… Well, let’s just say that it was in a place that would not normally be noticed.”

  “But, of course, King Edward was renowned for having an eye for such details,” I said.

  “When Marie told me she’d been discovered, my heart pounded. I could suddenly see my future life collapsing. My position in society, my good name; above all, Algy’s love for me – I saw it all falling away like the leaves in autumn. But then Marie grinned again – and I knew it was worse.”

  “That the King had enjoyed the deception, taken his pleasures and decided that Marie would be worth an encore,” I said.

  “If you must put it that way. I did not acquaint myself with the details – I couldn’t bear to – but I believe Marie’s association with the monarch lasted for several months until even her vitality had waned and a certain ennui had set in – on the King’s part at any rate. But at least I was free of any further encounters.”

  “But you’d made a Devil’s pact with Marie,” I said.

  “I knew I would have to suffer Marie’s taunts and demands for the rest of my life. If the King hadn’t discovered the deception, at least Marie and I would have kept the secret between ourselves. But the fact that the King had enjoyed his dalliance meant that others were bound to find out. I could imagine him dining out amongst his intimate circle on the story. It made me shiver just to think about it.”

  “The secrets of the bedchamber are never so secret,” I said.

  Piddinghoe grunted. “Especially when there’s a News Johnny peering through the keyhole.”

  “Be quiet,” Venetia said. “You’re not helping.”

  “And you believe that someone has now found out about this regal liaison and is blackmailing you?” I asked.

  Venetia nodded. She looked as bleak as an aristo in a tumbril with a wonky wheel.

  Venetia’s story raised a lot of questions. Had the payments she’d been making to Marie been a pay-off for this royal deception? Now that Marie was dead, who was the new blackmailer? And how, after so many years, had Venetia’s secret liaison with Edward the Seventh been discovered?

  But I didn’t ask any of these questions.

  I knew for a fact that the story Venetia had spun about having slid between the sheets with the late King was as transparent as the emperor’s new clothes.

  It was a lie as fat as Edward the Seventh’s belly.

  Chapter 18

  My old form master at school had sometimes accused me of not paying attention in class.

  He was wrong about that – as about many things. I paid attention when something of interest was happening. After all, it’s just a waste of energy to concentrate on boring things.

  And it was because I had paid attention in one history lesson that I knew Venetia had lied about her royal liaison. She’d said that Edward the Seventh had picked her up for a one-night stand at a country house party in England in April 1908. She’d been definite about the date. April the twenty-fourth. Two days before her birthday. But I knew that Edward wasn’t in England in April 1908. He’d spent it in Biarritz, the opulent resort on the Atlantic coast of south-west France.

  I had this arcane fact stored in one of the dustier corners of my mind because it had cropped up unexpectedly in a history lesson. It was just after lunch one lazy summer’s day towards the end of my first year in the sixth form. In April 1908, the Prime Minister, Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, died. It’s an odd tradition that newly appointed Prime Ministers have to kiss the monarch’s hand on accepting office. Odd, but preferable in my opinion to tyrannies where anyone with a government job is expected to kiss the dictator’s arse.

  At the time, people expected the King to cut short his holiday so that H.H. Asquith, the new Prime Minister, could call at Buck House and give Edward the traditional smacker. But Edward caused a scandal by staying in Biarritz and making Asquith travel to see him. Arthur Lee, our history master, was a strong republican and fulminated entertainingly about it for half the lesson. And, thus, the fact was lodged for ever in the filing cabinet of my mind.

  You never know when seemingly useless information is going to come in handy. The trouble was, although I knew Venetia had lied I wasn’t sure what to do about it.

  I could have challenged her over the dates. I could have explained it was impossible to have met the King at a house party in England in April 1908. But she’d have just claimed she’d got the date wrong. It was another month – when the King was in England, she’d say. It was a long time ago. How could she be expected to remember every detail? She was an old woman. Her memory was failing.

  I could just hear the excuses pouring out of her mouth.

  But something had happened between Venetia and Marie. Otherwise, why should she carry on paying the sister she claimed to despise a generous allowance over so many years? Before I tackled Venetia about her big lie, I needed more information. She still didn’t know that I knew about her payments to Marie. I decided that when the time came, I’d used that to prize the truth out of her.

  Before we’d left I’d considered asking Venetia who she thought the blackmailer was. But she’d only lie about that, too. Besides, I would never be able to put a name to the blackmailer until I knew the real reason why Venetia was leaving packets of readies behind phone boxes in the middle of the night.

  These thoughts ran through my mind as I scuffed the gravel on the Piddinghoes’ drive, avoided the potholes and negotiated the MGB through the pillars holding the ornamental gates. I glanced at Fanny in the passenger seat and said: “Are you sure you want to come with me?”

  She gave the kind of resigned shrug which says: if I had a better option I’d take it but, for now, I’m stuck with you.

  She said: “I couldn’t spend tonight in the house. Not after what I’ve just heard. How could Grandmama behave like that. Like a common tart.”

  “Not common,” I said. And not a tart, I could have added. But this wasn’t the time to tell Fanny that her beloved granny was telling porkies. Not until I could work out why Venetia was lying.

  We raced down the lane towards Newhaven. The headlights threw weird shadows among the trees that lined the road. A rabbit sat frozen on the verge, then scampered into the undergrowth. The tyres squealed as I took the tight corner onto the coast road at sixty.

  What puzzled me was that Venetia’s lie reflected ba
dly on herself and those she loved most. Lord Piddinghoe. And Fanny. There was no doubt that she was being blackmailed. But if you had to explain it, why not concoct a lie which put you in an innocent light? And why invent a lie which involved one of the most prominent public figures of his age?

  Which raised another question. Venetia had certainly not tickled the royal winkle. But had Marie? She’d inhabited a corner of the Edwardian demi-monde. It was a world Edward had always been drawn towards. Could Marie have polished the royal sceptre? There was no evidence one way or the other. And it just seemed to pile mystery upon mystery.

  I pushed the MGB up the hill towards Roedean. The lights of Brighton came into view. In the distance I could see Palace Pier, where it had all started.

  A murder, a theft, a blackmailer – and now a lie.

  How were they all connected? If I couldn’t join the dots, I’d have no story. And Figgis would have me writing filler pars on motorists fined for parking on the pavement.

  I slowed as we approached the roundabout at the Old Steine.

  Fanny said: “Drop me off at the Grand Hotel.”

  I said: “What for?”

  “So I can take a room for the night.”

  I glanced at my watch. “At two o’clock in the morning.”

  “The Grand is a five-star hotel. They’ll have a night porter.”

  “Who will be familiar with attractive ladies who turn up in the wee small hours without luggage claiming they want a room for the night.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “That the lady in question is expected by a gentleman upstairs who is – how shall we say? – having difficulty in getting to sleep.”

  “Are you suggesting I could be mistaken for a common prostitute?”

  “At the risk of repeating myself, not common.”

  Fanny put on her poshest voice. “One finds that an unforgiveable thing to say.”

  “How far is it from Piddinghoe Grange to Brighton seafront?” I said.

  “About ten miles.”

  “It’s about fifty years.”

  “I don’t understand.”