Stop Press Murder

by Peter Bartram

  And stormed out of the telephone box into the path of a baker’s van. Final curtain for Marie. But convenient for Venetia.

  Yet not so convenient, because now there was now another blackmailer on the scene.

  I asked: “Do you have any idea who last night’s blackmailer is?”

  “No.”

  I nodded. This time, I sensed Venetia was telling the truth.

  Somewhere in the house a telephone rang three times. It was answered.

  I asked Venetia: “How did the latest blackmail threat come?”

  “In a typewritten envelope, posted in Brighton. The letter was also typewritten.”

  I thought about asking Venetia what the letter said. But she’d only repeat the lie she’d already told me about her dalliance with the King.

  In any event, I didn’t have time to ask anything more because the door flew open. Pinchbeck rushed in. His white-tie was askew. His coat-tails billowed out behind him.

  “The telephone,” he blurted.

  “What about the damned instrument?” Piddinghoe said irritably.

  “It’s about Lady Frances. She’s been kidnapped. She’s being held to ransom.”

  The news brought all of us to our feet.

  “What do you mean, man?” Piddinghoe shouted.

  Pinchbeck swallowed hard, Took a couple of deep breaths. “The call came from Mr Bulstrode.”

  “You mean Clarence Bulstrode, Marie Richmond’s son?” I asked.

  “Yes. He claims he’s taken Lady Frances to what he says is a safe place, my lord. He is going to keep her there until you pay him ten thousand pounds so that he can leave the country.”

  Venetia’s hand flew to her mouth. “But she was out riding.”

  “Did Bulstrode explain why he wanted to leave the country?” I asked.

  “No, sir. Just that his lordship should collect the money and stand ready to receive another phone call with delivery instructions.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Venetia wailed. “Clarence Bulstrode is Frances’s cousin.”

  As though kidnapping a relative simply wasn’t the done thing among the right sort of people.

  “Does he know her well?” I asked.

  “He’s never met her.”

  I said: “Lady Piddinghoe, when Marie mentioned on the telephone that she’d not told anyone including Clarence, did you believe her?”

  “Yes. She’d said that she’d kept her word and expected me to keep mine.”

  “Could anyone else have found out about all this?” I asked.

  “I don’t see how,” Venetia said. “Even Charles didn’t know until a few days ago.”

  “In the dark. As usual,” Piddinghoe complained.

  I turned to Pinchbeck. “Are you sure the phone call was from Clarence?” I asked.

  “He said so.”

  “Have you spoken to him before?”

  “No.”

  “So you wouldn’t recognise his voice?”

  “No. But he told me he was Clarence Bulstrode.”

  “What was his voice like?”

  Pinchbeck pondered for a moment. “Deep, quite cultured, but not the true article. Not like his Lordship’s.”

  That sounded like Bulstrode.

  “I assume he didn’t say where he was phoning from?”

  “No. But it was a call box because I heard the pips before he pressed button A.”

  I was about to ask Pinchbeck for Clarence’s exact words.

  But I never got the chance.

  Because, at that moment, Fanny walked through the door.

  “You all look as though you’ve just been haunted by a spectre.”

  Fanny gave a little laugh and made her way to the drinks table.

  “My God! It’s you!” said Piddinghoe.

  “I’m so relieved,” said Venetia.

  “I…I don’t understand,” said Pinchbeck.

  Frances turned at the drinks table. She was pouring herself a vermouth. “What are you all babbling about?”

  “You’ve not been abducted,” said Piddinghoe.

  “You’re free, my darling,” added Venetia.

  I said: “Pinchbeck had just given us all a telephone message that you’d be kidnapped.”

  Fanny’s eyes darted from side to side. “What on earth do you mean? I’ve been hacking with Herbert – over towards Rodmell.”

  Piddinghoe turned on Pinchbeck. “Is this some kind of practical joke on your part? Because I assure you, it’s in very bad taste.”

  “My lord, it is not…”

  “Still, it’s all right now.” Venetia breathed a sigh of relief.

  “But it’s not,” I said. “Because if Fanny isn’t the kidnap victim, someone else is.”

  For a moment, we all froze. We looked nervously at one another. We tried to read each other’s thoughts.

  Then I turned to Pinchbeck and said: “What did Clarence say? We need to know his exact words.”

  Pinchbeck’s eyes clouded with anxiety. “It’s so difficult to remember,” he said. “I was just taken aback.”

  “Take your time. Think about the voice you heard. The words will come.”

  He stroked his chin nervously with his bony hand. “I’m trying to recall. He was speaking very quickly. I think he was nervous.”

  “That figures,” I said.

  Pinchbeck screwed his eyes shut. Tensed his body. “Clarence said, ‘There’s no fortune on the pier. Mumsie’s let me down. She never did before. I have to go away. Abroad. I need ten thousand pounds. From Lord Piddinghoe. I know he can afford it. But he’s a tight old windbag. So I’ve taken Frances from the house in the square. She will be safe. Get me the money. No tricks and Frances will be safe. I will call again. Remember, ‘When in doubt, win then trick.’ I will win it.”

  Pinchbeck’s body went limp. Forcing the memory had drained him. He opened his eyes. “I think I’ve remembered it correctly, my lord.”

  I thought about that for a moment, then turned to Pinchbeck. “Are you sure Bulstrode said he’d taken Lady Frances from ‘the house in the square’?”

  Pinchbeck scratched his chin. “Yes, I’m sure. But Mr Bulstrode didn’t say which square.”

  I knew which square. And, suddenly, the murder of Fred Snout and the theft of Milady’s Bath Night – even the prospect of scooping the Argus – didn’t seem important after all. I’d been stupid. I’d not listened when I should have listened. I felt my stomach churn. Blood rushed to my head. The room started to revolve before my eyes. I steadied myself by gripping the back of a chair. I focused on the painting above the fireplace. The one by Orpen of Venetia after her engagement. But even that seemed to morph into strange shapes. And I was not looking at Venetia but at Ophelia in Millais’s painting. The one where Ophelia is lying dead in a river, floating on her back, garlanded with flowers.

  Except the face on the painting was not Ophelia – but one I loved. It felt as though there was a fog behind my eyes.

  And then the moment passed. I took a deep breath. The room stopped revolving. The painting above the fireplace was once again Venetia. I let go of the chair.

  I stared at Fanny. She saw the fear in my eyes. She said: “It’s all become worse, hasn’t it?”

  I said: “Yes. I need your help. Will you come with me?”

  She nodded.

  Venetia said: “You can’t leave now. I forbid it.”

  Fanny said: “This is your fault. You and your pathetic secrets.”

  “Sit down and do as your Grandmama commands,” Piddinghoe snapped.

  But Fanny was already on the move.

  “Stop her, Pinchbeck,” Piddinghoe bellowed.

  Lord Snooty made a half-hearted attempt to grab Fanny’s arm as she passed. But she sold him a dummy that would have done a fly-half proud. We shot out of the drawing room and raced down the corridor towards the front door.

  “Now it’s personal,” I said.

  I pushed the MGB up to ninety as we took the coast road from Newhaven to Br
ighton. The engine whined. The tyres hummed on the road. I swerved to overtake a bus.

  “Personal? What do you mean?” Fanny asked.

  “I think Bulstrode has snatched Shirley.”

  “Your girlfriend? I thought you said she’d gone travelling.”

  “She had. But I think she’s returned. Mrs Gribble, my landlady has been getting strange phone calls. I didn’t take them seriously. But now I think they were from Shirley calling from overseas – probably somewhere where the phone service is unreliable. Like Turkey. That’s where her last postcard came from.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “The Widow said there were breathing sounds. But I’ve made calls to the more remote parts of the world and sometimes interference on the line sounds like laboured breathing. And then there was the name which the caller gave the second time. Ivor Colin English.”

  “Heavy breathers don’t give their name,” Fanny said.

  “That’s right. The Widow said the man spoke with an accent. I think he was a telephone operator in some remote town trying unsuccessfully to put Shirley through. I’m certain she’d have been calling to say she was returning to Brighton.”

  “But what about the name?” Fanny asked.

  “I don’t think he was giving his name, Ivor Colin English. I think he was saying, ‘I’ve a call in English.’ The Widow put the phone down on him before he could get any further.”

  Fanny twisted sideways to look at me. “And you think Shirley came back to your flat?”

  “I’m certain of it. We know that Bulstrode had called to see me yesterday before we arrived back. He’s a strange bloke. I’m now wondering whether he was watching the flat and saw us both return.”

  “But that’s terrible,” Fanny said.

  “After you’d gone to bed, I found I couldn’t sleep on the sofa. So I spent some time looking out of the window at the square. There was a little incident – the sort of thing that happens all the time in the middle of Brighton – and then a car drove off. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but looking back, I believe the car may have been a Hillman Minx.”

  “And that’s important?”

  “I think so. When I met Clarence at his flat, I invited him for lunch in a pub. He asked me whether he’d need to take his car and when I said ‘no’, he said ‘So we won’t need the clever little minx.’ The bloke is a walking dictionary of quotations and I thought he was making some obscure quote at the time. Now I think it was his oblique way of telling me he owned a Hillman Minx. Remember, this is a seriously weird guy.”

  As we approached Brighton the traffic became thicker. I kept up the pace. Fanny grabbed the side of her seat as we sashayed through a junction and accelerated up a hill.

  “But surely Clarence would realise that Shirley is not me?” Fanny said.

  “We don’t yet know what’s happened. But there is a superficial resemblance between you and Shirley. I noticed it the night we went to the Hippodrome. Besides, Clarence is clearly a man who’s gone over the edge. He’s not thinking straight. He’s just crazy. And crazy people do crazy things.”

  “But he’s lived peacefully all these years. Why should he suddenly turn into a monster?”

  “Because his mother died. Suddenly, violently and without warning. He never had time to say a proper goodbye. And because now he’s afraid – no, terrified – of a future without her. He relied on her for everything. Not least what little money he has.”

  I slowed the MGB to fifty as we approached the roundabout at the Old Steine.

  “Shouldn’t we go to the police?” Fanny asked.

  “Not yet. We don’t know what we’ll find in Regency Square.”

  Another thought was forming in my mind. If Clarence had kidnapped Shirley, what had he done with the Widow?

  We found her in the kitchen.

  She was tied to a chair with pieces of old electrical flex and had a large sticking plaster over her mouth. I ripped the plaster off while Fanny worried away at the knots binding her wrists and ankles.

  She was into her stride even before the flesh round her mouth had stopped wobbling. She wagged a finger at me: “When Lady Frances has untied my leg, I’m going to kick you.”

  She felt her mouth where I’d just ripped off the plaster, thought about it for a bit and said: “Ouch! That hurt.”

  Fanny put on her Roedean head-girl act. “Mrs Gribble, Shirley Goldsmith’s welfare is more important than your hurt feelings – or chapped lips.” The Widow calmed down a bit.

  I knelt down and faced the Widow as Fanny wrestled the final knots free. “We need to know what happened,” I said. “You can kick me later. Throw me out on the streets later. Now we have to save Shirley.”

  The Widow shrugged. “I suppose so. But don’t for a minute think I’ve finished with you.”

  I said: “Tell us what happened. From the beginning.”

  The Widow turned to Fanny: “Your Ladyship, would you mind getting me a drink? I think you’ll find a bottle of sherry in the right-hand cupboard.”

  “For medicinal purposes.” I nodded at Fanny as she crossed the room. The Widow scowled.

  I ignored that and said: “When did Bulstrode arrive?”

  The Widow said: “He came back this morning after you and Lady Frances had left. I explained I’d given you his message. We got talking. At the time, he seemed a pleasant man. Cultured. He was always quoting things. I mentioned that I’d had aristocracy staying with me overnight.”

  “You didn’t mention my name?” Fanny asked.

  “I’m afraid I may have done.” The Widow stared at a point on the far wall. “I may also have said that you would be welcome here as a long-term resident.”

  Typical! The Widow’s snobbery had made everything worse. Her suggestion would have given Clarence just the incentive he needed to keep a watch on the place in the hope of kidnapping Fanny.

  She took the sherry from the cupboard, poured a glass and handed it to the Widow.

  I said: “When did Clarence return?”

  She said: “It was about an hour ago, shortly after Miss Goldsmith had arrived.”

  “He just walked in?”

  “Of course not. He knocked the door.”

  “And you answered it.”

  “Yes.”

  This was going to take some time.

  I said: “What did he say?”

  “He asked to speak to Lady Frances. I said she wasn’t here. He said he didn’t believe me because he’d seen her arrive earlier with a backpack. He said it looked like she was moving in.”

  “I said that wasn’t Lady Frances and he said I was lying and pushed me into the hall. He closed the front door behind him. He was very rough.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Nothing you could’ve done about it. Or would,” she added.

  “Did you tell Clarence that the young woman who’d arrived was Shirley?”

  “Didn’t get the chance. He clamped his hand over my mouth – yeuk, it was all sweaty – pulled one arm up behind my back and frogmarched me into the kitchen.”

  “And nobody heard this?”

  “The other tenants were out. Besides, as soon as we got into the kitchen, he produced that plaster and put it over my mouth. The beast said he’d hit me with my own rolling pin if I so much as struggled.”

  “And then he tied you up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was Shirley while all this was happening?”

  “On the top floor. In your rooms. Waiting for you. She said it would be a nice surprise.”

  And it would’ve been. Anger simmered inside me. Hot as the molten lava in a volcano. If Clarence harmed Shirley, the long arm of the law wouldn’t be the only hand of retribution reaching out to him.

  “So you didn’t see what happened to Shirley?”

  “Not upstairs. But about three minutes after the beast had gone up the stairs, he came down again pushing Shirley in front of him. He was going to leave by the back door. I assum
e he’d parked his car in the mews.”

  Fanny shivered. She slumped on a chair. “That treatment was meant for me,” she said in a small voice. She clamped her arms round her body and hugged herself.

  “Did Clarence speak?” I asked the Widow.

  “The great bully was babbling. Hardly making any sense. But it seemed I shouldn’t contact the police. As if I could, trussed up like a chicken. He said that Shirley would be safe as long as I didn’t talk.”

  “I take it Shirley couldn’t speak?” I said.

  “Could you with an Elastoplast over your cakehole?”

  “Did Shirley try to communicate with you in any way?”

  The Widow signalled Fanny to pour another sherry. “I was so angry, I was thinking about what I’d do to the monster when I got the chance. He was jabbering away ten to the dozen. Then I realised that Miss Goldsmith was looking frantically around the room. As though she were desperately searching for something.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know but eventually her gaze came back to me and she looked hard as though she wanted me to know she had a message. And then she looked right at the cheese grater there on the kitchen table. Then over to the kitchen utensils hanging on those hooks. And finally at the trussing needle which I’d just been using to sew up a chicken breast I’d stuffed with mushrooms. Then she looked back at me. All defiant. And gave two distinct nods.”

  “Did you take any meaning from that?”

  “I think she was in shock. Probably didn’t know what she was doing.”

  I looked at Fanny. “Shirley doesn’t shock easily,” I said. “She’d be as mad as a wallaby at a dried-up waterhole, but she’d have been scheming to get free.”

  “But why stare at those things – a cheese grater, kitchen utensils and a trussing needle. It makes no sense.”

  “Not immediately. But there must be a hidden message there if only we can work it out.”

  “Let the police do it,” the Widow chimed in.

  “No.” My voice echoed off the kitchen’s tiled walls.

  The Widow stiffened. “Don’t raise your voice in my kitchen.”