Stop Press Murder

by Peter Bartram

  “It helps,” Henrietta said.

  “A little?”

  “Just a little.”

  “But not much?”

  “The pain will never go away until I know how Mummy really died,” she said.

  I took the file back to my desk in the newsroom.

  It was half an hour to the Midday Special deadline and the sound of typewriters hammering out copy was reaching its crescendo. Some people like to study in silence. Not me. Give me a newsroom nearing deadline any time. It sharpens the senses, focuses the mind.

  I opened the file. There was a single cutting. A long one. The paper’s report of Susan’s inquest had run to several columns of small type. I began reading. Evidence had started with Dr Peasemould who’d conducted the post-mortem. He explained that death had been caused by the strangulation of the rope around the deceased’s neck.

  The coroner – a Dr Goodbody – had questioned why the neck had not been broken as was normal with hanging. Peasemould explained that the noose had not been tied the way a hangman would have done, with a knot that would have tightened and broken the neck on the fall. Therefore, the deceased had dangled on the rope and suffocated.

  I could see why Henrietta had been upset by the cutting. I admired her courage for refiling it.

  There had been some evidence of a prescription sedative in Mrs Houndstooth’s bloodstream, but no drug of that kind had been found in the cottage. In any event, the trace in the blood was consistent with Mrs Houndstooth having taken a normal dose. Goodbody asked what the effect of the sedative would have been. Peasemould said it would make the taker sleepy.

  There was some evidence about how the scaffolding and pulley came to be at the back of Susan’s cottage. I already knew that from what Henrietta had told me when I’d visited her flat.

  Next Inspector Roundhay from Lewes police described his investigation. He could find no evidence of foul play. The conclusion he’d reached was that the deceased had tied off the rope to the pulley on the top of the scaffolding in such a way that it could not reach the ground. She had fastened the other end of the rope around her neck and jumped.

  Lady Piddinghoe was then called to give evidence. (There were apparently gasps in the courtroom when she entered wearing a costume in brilliant blue instead of the expected black at such proceedings). Lady Piddinghoe said she had noticed nothing unusual in her maid’s demeanour in the days leading up to the sad event. Susan’s death was, she said, a tragedy as she would now have to hire another lady’s maid for The Season.

  Mr Pinchbeck, an under-footman – so Lord Snooty had risen high since those far-off days – was called. He gave his evidence in a quiet voice and was told to speak up several times by the coroner. He’d complained that he was nervous. He’d admitted that Susan had recently become withdrawn. Cross-examined by Goodbody, he finally admitted that Susan’s change of mood dated to the afternoon when she had helped him serve tea to Lady Piddinghoe and her sister, Marie Richmond. Shortly after, both Susan and Pinchbeck had heard shouting from the drawing room and then two crashes as crockery was broken. Susan had been first into the room, Pinchbeck said. He’d followed a few moments later and seen the confusion, turned to clear the broken tea things and briefly noticed a photograph lying among them.

  He described what Henrietta had told me during my visit to her flat – how Marie had rushed from the house, Susan had helped Lady Piddinghoe to her room, and order was restored. When next he looked, the photograph had been removed. Pinchbeck went on to describe how Susan’s character had changed in the days following the incident. She became withdrawn, hardly spoke and walked around with a permanent frown on her face. He put it down to an after-reaction to the unpleasant incident at the tea.

  Pinchbeck described how, on the day of her death, Susan had complained that a migraine was coming on. Pinchbeck had taken it on his own authority to mention it to Lady Piddinghoe. Her ladyship had called Susan and given her some aspirin to help and sent her back to the cottage to rest.

  Goodbody recalled Lady Piddinghoe to the stand. He pointed out that if Pinchbeck had noticed Susan was not herself, was she sure that she hadn’t noticed anything? “In the best houses, one does not notice one’s servants,” she had told Goodbody.

  “But,” said Goodbody, “you noticed your lady’s maid, even helped her, when she complained of migraine.”

  “One likes to think one has at least a few drops of the milk of human kindness,” Lady Piddinghoe had replied.

  After that, there didn’t seem to be much else to say. Two more servants were called and corroborated Pinchbeck’s evidence that Susan had become withdrawn and worried in the days following the incident. Goodbody summarised the evidence for the jury. It took them less than half an hour to return a verdict of suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbed.

  I closed the file. Leant back in my chair and surveyed the newsroom. Cedric was touring the desks, collecting final copy for the Midday Special which would carry my sensational splash about Clarence’s death. But there was an itch at the back of my mind that wouldn’t go away. There was more to this story.

  Henrietta had told me at her flat that she’d remembered her mother being snappy and bad tempered in the days before her death. She’d pestered her mother, as ten-year-old girls will, to tell her what was wrong. But all Susan would say was that she’d seen a photograph she’d rather not. Presumably the same photo Pinchbeck had noticed. But a photograph of what? Or whom? It couldn’t have been the strange photograph of Marie standing next to the statue of Lord Piddinghoe which was pasted into the scrapbook, because that was taken after Susan’s death.

  And was it linked to the obsession which had finally sent Clarence over the edge?

  “Any more copy for the subs, Mr Crampton?” Cedric broke in on my reverie.

  “Not at the moment, Cedric. I’m just trying to understand the bizarre mind of Clarence Bulstrode, the man who was willing to kill because he thought his fortune lay on the pier.”

  “Yeah, read your copy on that one. A cracker of a story.” He moved off, said over his shoulder: “I reckon that Clarence must have had a screw loose.”

  A screw loose.

  Of course, Clarence had had a screw loose.

  But there was another screw loose, wasn’t there? Not a metaphorical one either. A real screw. I’d seen it with my own eyes. The screw that held the plaque on the statue of Lord Piddinghoe in Victoria Gardens. After years of neglect, it had worked itself free.

  In her dying moments, Clarence had believed Marie – barely conscious – was trying to tell him that his fortune was hidden on the pier.

  But that was wrong.

  There was never anything for Clarence on the pier.

  Not the Palace Pier.

  Not the West Pier.

  Not any pier anywhere.

  What Marie – confused and delirious – was trying to tell her son was that his fortune was hidden on the peer.

  On the statue of Lord Piddinghoe.

  A peer of the realm.

  I sat in my captain’s chair feeling very cold. The raucous noise of the newsroom on deadline faded to a distant hum.

  I put my left hand on the scrapbook, my right hand on the inquest report. I tried to absorb the salient facts from both. To understand what they meant. To make the links between them. Slowly, those facts started to make connections in my mind. And they told a new story. A shocking story. Of a secret kept at any cost. And a cold-hearted murder.

  My mouth was dry and I’m not so sure my hands didn’t tremble.

  For if I was right, Clarence had not been the only killer.

  And the other still walked free.

  Chapter 25

  I was standing next to Bill Compton, chief engineer at the Chronicle, staring up at the statue of the first Marquess of Piddinghoe in Victoria Gardens.

  We were about to commit an outrage on the old gentleman.

  Or at least an offence against Brighton Corporation’s byelaws. They were posted on a la
rge board close by.

  Half an hour earlier, I’d been sitting at my desk horrified by the thought there was another killer on the loose. I’d had a suspicion but no proof. Now I was determined to find it.

  I’d left my desk and descended to the Chronicle’s machine room where huge rotary presses rolled off the paper at thirty thousand copies an hour. The presses were already printing the Midday Special. The cavernous place sounded like there was a permanent thunderstorm rumbling through it.

  I’d found Bill in the cubbyhole he called his office. I’d explained I needed his help on an “outside mission”. I knew Bill was keen on “outside missions” because when the business was completed, the mission would be rounded off with a pint in the Wagon and Horses.

  “Bring a screwdriver,” I’d told him.

  “Phillips?” he’d asked.

  “Peter’s, Paul’s, Percy’s – I don’t care whose as long as it takes out screws.”

  Bill rolled his eyes. “I’ll bring my toolbox.”

  He was standing by me now, holding it as we surveyed the statue.

  “If I had that much pigeon poop on my head, I’d ask for an umbrella,” Bill said.

  “It’s not his head we’re interested in,” I said.

  “So is what we’re going to do illegal?”

  “Only slightly,” I said. “But, don’t worry.”

  When you’re pulling off a scam in public, the trick is to look as though you’re entitled to be doing it. Bill was wearing the green overalls he always sported in the machine room. He’d be taken for a council workman by any casual passer-by.

  I’d equipped myself with a clipboard and a pencil. I looked like the junior official telling the workman what to do. I strutted about a bit in that bantam-cock walk which minor officials put on to make themselves look important.

  I said: “I’d like you to take that plaque off. I’ll have a look at what’s behind it and then you can put the plaque back. Even tighten the loose screw.”

  Bill selected a screwdriver from his toolbox and went to work.

  “I’ve read your stories about the pier murder. So how does this malarkey fit in?” he said as he worked away.

  “There’s a picture in Marie Richmond’s scrapbook of her standing in front of this statue with the engraver – one Archie Cobbold – who made the plaque.”

  “Happy snap, then.”

  “More than that. It looked as though the pair knew one another well. He had is arm around her waist. And he’d a history of lettering those intertitle cards they used in the silent movies.”

  I pulled the title card of Milady’s Bath Night out of my pocket. “I managed to salvage this from the ruin of the Marie last night,” I told Bill. “Look at the whirls on the S – identical to those on the plaque. And there are several similarities among other letters.”

  “So written by the same hand,” said Bill.

  “I believe Marie knew Archie well from her silent-movie days. In her scrapbook, she’d captioned the picture: ‘Job done’. That suggested to me they’d been doing something with the statue. If my hunch is right, I think we’ll find something hidden behind the plaque.”

  Bill took out the last screw and lifted the plaque away. We both stared at a recess in the stonework about six inches by four inches. I peered in. It was about a foot deep. Although the recess had been sealed by the plaque, there was a thick layer of dust. A couple of spiders, alarmed by the light, scurried for safety. I reached in my hand. It closed around a small package. I pulled it out. The package was wrapped in a thick oilskin and tied with string. The oilskin had turned green with age.

  “This is what I came for,” I said. “You can put the plaque back now.”

  Bill had the sense not to ask what was in the package.

  I dropped Bill off at the Wagon and Horses for his post “outside mission” pint, then headed for Prinny’s Pleasure.

  I had a special reason for not opening the package in the office. I wouldn’t be able to do it without attracting an audience of thirty gawping reporters. I needed to study the contents closely. And in private. There would be no one in Prinny’s Pleasure – and even landlord Jeff would probably be asleep behind the bar.

  But as it turned out, he wasn’t. I ordered a G and T – and asked for the loan of a pair of scissors. I seated myself at the corner table at the back of the bar and cut the string around the package. Over the years, the oilskin had become hard and I had to prise it open with care.

  Inside I found a roll of film and a small blue envelope. The envelope had been addressed in a feminine hand with one word: Clarence. It felt damp but the seal had held over the years. Gently, I opened it and extracted a single sheet of paper. I unfolded it and read:

  My dearest, darlingest Clarence,

  By the time you read this, I will have left you. I do not believe it will be for ever, for one day we will be reunited and will live together in a Land of Milk and Honey.

  But until that time, you will need money. I have provided for us as best I can. I am not ashamed of what I have done for I believe that all of us must pay for the consequences of what we do. In this package, you will find a roll of film. It was made many years ago, before you were born. Later, for reasons I will not distress you with, I had it – except for the last seconds – made into pictures for a What the Butler Saw machine on Palace Pier. As long as you have this film, there is one who will pay you well. Look at the pictures in it closely – particularly in the last four seconds – and you will see why.

  Your loving Mumsie.

  I picked up the film carefully. A little eddy of grey dust landed on the table. The film felt as fragile as an autumn leaf.

  I unspooled the first few frames and held them up to the light to get a better view. They showed the title card – Milady’s Bath Night – the one I’d taken from the houseboat. Unrolling the film was delicate work but slowly I spooled through it. It broke every few feet and I ended up with several pieces scattered across the table.

  By the time, I reached the final frames, my fingers were sore. I took a gulp of G and T.

  I held the last couple of feet of the film up to the light. It showed a half-length shot of Marie. I followed the action frame by frame. She turns to the right and begins to raise her left arm.

  I spooled the film further on.

  The arm was fully up now. And she was waving, her hand rotating in a haughty circular motion.

  I gasped. Felt sweat break out on my forehead. I swallowed hard.

  Those last few frames explained everything.

  A secret had travelled across half a century and lay before me in these mouldering pieces of celluloid on a bar-room table. It was the evidence I needed.

  I carefully rewound the pieces of film and replaced them with the letter in the oilskin.

  Then I thought about my next move. I couldn’t make it without involving the police. But not Tomkins. I wondered whether Ted Wilson was still mad at me for quoting his comments about the Snout murder case. I’d sensed Ted hadn’t been pleased Tomkins had frozen him out of the case. But if my deductions were right, what I’d discovered was even bigger. It would make Ted’s name as a top ’tec in every police force in the country – and that would mean he’d owe me a favour or two in the future.

  I walked over to the bar. Jeff was stacking beer bottles on a shelf.

  “Need to use your phone,” I said.

  “Cost you four pence.”

  “I’ll give you a quid.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “I get privacy for my call.”

  Jeff frowned while he thought about that. Decided he wasn’t likely to make nineteen shillings and eight pence profit so easily any other way and said: “I’ll be in the back, stocktaking.”

  I waited for Jeff to close the door to the stockroom before dialling a number at Brighton police station.

  The phone was answered after three rings. “Ted Wilson.”

  I said: “Don’t put the phone down.”

&nb
sp; “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because if you do you’ll kick yourself from here to the Kent border for not making the arrest I’m about to offer you.”

  There was a moment’s silence at the other end of the line while Ted thought about that. “Tell me more,” he said.

  I spoke for three minutes. Ted listened in silence.

  “So what do you want out of this?”

  “An opportunity to interview the suspect before you make the arrest.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “So no jangling bells and uniformed plods breaking down doors,” I said.

  “Very well. But I’ll need to bring my new detective sergeant – Graham Toole-Mackson.”

  “So have we a deal?”

  “We have a deal.”

  “One more point,” I said. “Bring two sets of handcuffs.”

  I replaced the receiver before Ted had time to ask why.

  An hour later at Piddinghoe Grange, Pinchbeck showed us into the blue drawing room.

  I led the way. Ted Wilson followed with his new oppo Graham Toole-Mackson, a tall man with a shock of dark hair and an infectious sense of fun. He was going to need it.

  Venetia was sitting on the divan. She put aside a copy of Country Life and stared at us. Hostility burnt in her eyes. Fanny was at the writing table on the far side of the room. She turned in surprise as we entered.

  Lord Piddinghoe rose from his wing chair. His moustache bristled over pouting lips. He took a couple of steps towards me. Punched his fists on his hips in a petulant gesture. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

  He pointed at Ted and Graham: “And who are these Johnnies?”

  “These ‘Johnnies’, as you so graciously put it, are Detective Inspector Ted Wilson and Detective Sergeant Graham Toole-Mackson from Brighton police station. And their presence here will become clear when you’ve heard what I’ve got to tell you.”

  “There’s nothing you can tell me I want to hear,” Piddinghoe said.

  “Let him speak.” Venetia had risen and crossed the room. She rested a gentle hand on her son’s shoulder. “Why don’t you sit down again?”