Stop Press Murder

by Peter Bartram

“No, you realised that stealing the film would not work. But you had angered Marie by dismissing her request for financial help out of hand. And your hope that the problem would go away was shattered when Marie visited the Grange the second time.”

  “Yes.”

  “She brought a photograph from the film – one of the frames that showed you with your engagement ring. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. That photo must have been like a thousand threats to your hopes of a happy future.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were furious. There was a row. Crockery was smashed.”

  “Yes. I was at the end of my tether. Paying what Marie wanted would reduce me close to penury – but not paying would bring disgrace to me and my husband. In my anger, I attacked Marie.”

  “But afterwards, in cold reflection, you realised you had no choice but to pay her,” I said.

  “Reluctantly, yes. I faced a lifetime of penny pinching.”

  “But the alternative was worse,” I said.

  “I exchanged a number of letters with Marie as we haggled over how the arrangement would work. By this time, I no longer trusted my sister to keep any promise she made. Eventually, we agreed she would hand over the original sixteen-millimetre film from which Milady’s Bath Night had been made – including the vital final four seconds. In return, I would write a letter instructing my bank to make monthly payments to Marie until her death and provide her with a copy of the letter.”

  “So if you stopped paying the money, Marie would at least have evidence to back up any allegations she made,” I said. “You would’ve had to explain why you were making monthly payments to her.”

  “You are correct, Mr Crampton. Marie sent me the sixteen-millimetre film which I burnt in the fireplace in my boudoir. I sent her the letter. No doubt if you search hard enough, you will find it among her private papers.”

  “And, of course, Marie could also claim that the Milady’s Bath Night on Palace Pier was also you. The payments would have supported her story.”

  Venetia sighed. “It was too late to do anything about that. Trying to remove it from the pier would just have raised suspicions. In any event, it did not contain the final four seconds which positively identified me. If it came to the matter, I would deny it. I was confident that the word of a marchioness would trump that of a faded film star.”

  “But why stop the payments now – after all these years?” I asked.

  “Because the cupboard is bare, Mr Crampton. More than bare – mortgaged to the hilt and in hock to money lenders. Only Charles’s ministerial salary is keeping us afloat. And even he has to shoot and sell rabbits to pay for his brandy.”

  Piddinghoe piped up: “Good God, she knows, blast it.”

  For a moment, the sharp lines on Venetia’s face softened as she looked at her son. “I’ve always known, Charles.”

  “But all of those payments were for nothing, Lady Piddinghoe,” I said. “Because, beside the prints of Milady’s Bath Night used in the What the Butler Saw machine, Marie also had a second copy of the sixteen-millimetre film made. The one I discovered today.”

  “Duplicitous bitch.”

  “And because she didn’t trust you, she wanted to hide it somewhere completely safe. Then she had a piece of luck. The engraver your family hired to make and fix the plaque on the statue of the first Marquess of Piddinghoe was an old friend from her silent-film days. He’d originally lettered the intertitle cards. With his help, she hid the film in the very last place any member of your family would think of looking – in a recess behind the plaque on the statue. I imagine it gave her an extra thrill to know that every time you looked at the statue you were close to the film that could destroy you.”

  “Odious weasel woman.”

  “It’s a little late for name calling now, Lady Piddinghoe. In any event, Marie wasn’t the only person who realised it was you who appeared in the film.”

  Venetia glared at me. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  I said: “When the crockery was smashed at that second tea party, your lady’s maid Susan Houndstooth rushed into the room to see what had happened. She found you unconscious on the floor and Marie screaming at you. But she also saw something else. She saw the photograph Marie had brought to threaten you with. It was, according to evidence given at Susan’s inquest, lying on the table among the ruin of the tea cups. Susan immediately recognised the ring on your finger. How could she not? She saw it every day as she manicured your nails. She realised the enormity of this to your position. So while you were being carried to your room, she quietly took the photo and placed it in a private place in your boudoir. You would’ve known that only Susan could have done that.”

  “This is pure invention,” Venetia snapped.

  I ignored her and said: “In the days after the tea party, Susan recognised the full implications of what she had seen. Of course, there would be a scandal that could destroy your family. But worse, if that happened, all the other families, like hers, that relied on the Piddinghoe estate, would suffer, too. They could lose their livelihoods and their homes. Her daughter has told me how Susan withdrew into herself. If a child noticed that, you would certainly have done so. You’d reluctantly decided to pay Marie – but if the secret were to leak from another source, those payments would have been like throwing money into the River Ouse. Worse, from your point of view, it was a servant who knew – and you had no respect for the ability of servants to keep secrets.”

  “That is rubbish. I trusted Susan implicitly.”

  “At Susan’s inquest, you said that servants weren’t noticed in the best houses.”

  Venetia waved away the remark. “I was under pressure at the time.”

  “Maybe. But you could see that Susan was under greater pressure – and you were afraid that eventually the pressure would explode and she would tell someone what she’d seen. And your life, as you imagined it, would be ruined.”

  “I was confident Susan would never breathe a word of it.”

  “But that isn’t the case. In fact, Susan’s daughter believes her mother would have carried the secret to her grave. Except, Lady Piddinghoe, you’d decided the secret would not be safe until she was in her grave.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Venetia snapped.

  “I admit that I now move from fact to speculation. However, my theory ties in with all the evidence I’ve collected. I imagine that the knowledge that Susan knew your secret must’ve preyed on your mind. You wanted to kill her, but could think of no way to do it without risking your own freedom.

  “And then fate played into your hands. Repairs were needed to Susan’s cottage. Builders erected scaffolding and installed a rope and pulley to hoist building materials onto the roof. What if you could stage Susan’s death to look like suicide – that she had hung herself from the scaffolding? You knew that it was becoming common talk among other servants that she had become depressed – what better backstory to give your plan credibility?

  “But you still faced the problem of how to overpower Susan and hang her from the scaffolding. I’ve been told by a witness – Susan’s daughter – that you spent an unusual amount of time watching the building work. No doubt you were observing how the rope-and-pulley system operated. Then, a day or two later – it was Good Friday, 1936 – you heard that Susan had been complaining to the other servants about suffering from a migraine. And you saw your opportunity. You gave her two tablets to take. You told her they contained aspirin. In fact, as the post-mortem revealed, they were powerful sedatives. You told Susan to return to her cottage and rest. You knew there would be no workmen at the cottage because it was a bank holiday. And Susan’s daughter had been taken to the Stations of the Cross service at the local church by another family.

  “You went to the cottage where Susan was drowsy, perhaps even asleep, from the effects of the sedative. You strangled her – and here, I accept, I’m guessing – using rope similar to that on the pulley so that the marks on her neck would be consist
ent. Then you hauled her body outside, tied a noose from the pulley’s rope around her neck, hauled her up and tied off the rope to make it look as though Susan had jumped.”

  Venetia leant back on the divan. Her lips curled into an indulgent smile. “I had low expectations of you, Mr Crampton. And you have not met even those. If you publish a word of that fiction in the scandal sheet you call a newspaper, I will sue you through every court in the land. You have not a shred of proof.”

  I turned towards Lord Snooty. “Oh, but we do, don’t we, Mr Pinchbeck.”

  Lord Snooty had edged towards the door. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. His eyes darted from side to side like a cornered fox.

  He turned to Lord Piddinghoe. “I don’t know what this gentleman is suggesting, my lord.”

  “Damned if I do myself,” Piddinghoe said. “This whole business has left my mind spinning.”

  “Then let me explain,” I said. “A few days ago, Lady Piddinghoe wrote to Marie to say that she could no longer make the monthly payments. Marie telephoned Lady Piddinghoe from a call box – it was the last thing she did in her life. I believe that during the conversation she begged Lady Piddinghoe to continue making the payments. When Lady Piddinghoe tried to explain that there was no money left, I suspect Marie, herself desperate, turned to threats. I imagine the conversation became heated, as it did during the crockery-smashing tea party. And, you, Pinchbeck overheard some of that conversation. Perhaps an incriminating comment or two. In any event, it was enough to make you realise the truth of something you’d long wondered about. Whether Susan Houndstooth really had killed herself – or whether she had been helped on her way.”

  “I do not listen at keyholes,” Pinchbeck said with forced dignity.

  “You wouldn’t be the first butler to do so. I was telling some colleagues only the other day about the late Lord Colin Campbell’s butler, who was another keyhole spy. But you already had other reasons for wondering whether Susan’s death had been suicide, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Earlier today, I read a report of the coroner’s inquest into Susan’s death. I hadn’t realised that you were an under-footman in those days. You gave evidence that you entered the drawing room after Susan when the crockery went flying. In your evidence you said you’d seen a photograph on the tea-table.”

  Pinchbeck fidgeted with buttons on his jacket. “Doesn’t mean I saw what was in the photograph.”

  “It was the photograph of a naked woman, wasn’t it?”

  “It might have been.”

  “I’m not suggesting the significance of the photograph immediately hit you as it did with Susan. You didn’t have the woman’s eye for detail. When a man sees a picture of a naked woman, his eyes are not naturally drawn to the fingers. But as the tragedy developed, I suspect you pondered on it and developed your suspicions. You have harboured those suspicions for many years. I believe they started at the inquest when you learnt that Susan had traces of a sedative in her blood, rather than the aspirin Lady Piddinghoe claimed to have given her. And they turned to fact when you overheard Lady Piddinghoe’s row on the telephone a few days ago.”

  Pinchbeck stood stiffly to attention. “I can assure you, my lady, that I have never entertained the thoughts which this…this person has ascribed to me.”

  “In that case, you will be able to explain why you sent a blackmail threat to Lady Piddinghoe and arranged for the money to be collected from behind a telephone box in Ashdown Forest two nights ago.”

  Piddinghoe exploded. “Is this true, Pinchbeck?”

  “I have never collected money from behind a telephone box in Ashdown Forest,” Pinchbeck wailed.

  “That I am prepared to accept. Instead, you arranged for a trained dog to do your dirty work for you. I watched it snaffle the loot in its jaws.”

  “Where would I get a dog?” Pinchbeck said.

  “Earlier today, I read a press cutting about the village fête in Piddinghoe in 1935. A Miss Enid Pinchbeck won the prize for the best-trained dog. Pinchbeck is an unusual name and it would be a reasonable assumption that she was your sister – or at least a close relative. The cutting included the detail that Enid was a kennel maid and lived at Jumpers Town. The place is in Ashdown Forest and less than a mile from where Lady Piddinghoe left the pay-off money behind the telephone box. Too much of a coincidence. I suspect Enid still lives in Jumpers Town and still trains dogs. Besides, you would have needed an accomplice to make the phone call which Lady Piddinghoe took in the phone box – a voice she wouldn’t recognise.”

  Pinchbeck stood stiffly erect. “I wish to state this is all conjecture,” he said.

  I said: “I took a picture of the dog. It was a cocker spaniel. It had distinctive markings which will be easy to identify. I think Detective Inspector Wilson’s colleagues will find it at your sister’s kennels when they call shortly. I doubt whether Enid will be able to provide an adequate explanation for what the dog was doing in Ashdown Forest in the middle of the night. The officers may also find the package when they search your sister’s house. I’m betting you haven’t had time to retrieve it from her yet.”

  I looked at Pinchbeck. Pink blotches had appeared on his cheeks. Snot ran down his nose. His hands shook. A wet stain appeared in his trouser crotch. Lord Snooty would confess everything he knew to save his own skin.

  The butler was a broken man.

  Venetia’s eyes stared ahead at some unseen point in the distance. A vein throbbed in the side of her neck. A nervous tongue flicked over her dry lips.

  I turned to Wilson. He nodded at Toole-Mackson who pulled handcuffs from his pocket and moved towards Pinchbeck.

  Wilson crossed the room to Lady Piddinghoe. As he passed me he whispered from the side of his mouth: “Forget what I said the other day. Normal service is resumed.”

  Wilson placed a hand gently on Venetia’s shoulder. He said: “Lady Piddinghoe, I am arresting you for the murder of Susan Houndstooth. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and given in evidence.”

  Venetia turned her head slowly towards him. A single tear welled in her eye. It hovered for a moment on her lower lid. And then she blinked. The tear dropped free. It glided, like a lonely raindrop, down her cheek.

  She didn’t brush it away.

  I left Toole-Mackson arresting Pinchbeck, stepped through the door into the hall – and came face-to-face with Fanny.

  Her eyes were swollen from crying. But there were no tears now.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” she said.

  “The worst,” I said. “Your grandmother has been arrested for murdering Susan Houndstooth, her former lady’s maid. Pinchbeck is being charged with blackmail. He’d suspected for years that Susan’s death wasn’t suicide. Then he heard Venetia incriminate herself during a phone call with Marie a few days ago. I expect he will turn Queen’s evidence in Venetia’s trial to gain a lower sentence for himself.”

  We walked toward the door and stepped out onto the terrace which ran along the front of the house.

  “This is my fault. I should never have agreed to spy on you,” Fanny said.

  “You were sent on a false mission,” I said. “Venetia wasn’t honest with you about what was at stake.”

  “If only I’d said no to Grandmama, but I’ve never been able to refuse her.”

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your idea to lift the lid on this snake pit.”

  “But I helped to. And now I expect Daddy will have to resign.”

  “Yes. After the Profumo affair, Prime Minister Macmillan won’t want another member of the government tainted by a scandal.”

  “Daddy doesn’t say much, but I think it’s only his government salary which keeps the Grange afloat. He might have to sell up.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Perhaps he could open the place to the public at half-a-crown a head – like the Duke of Bedford at Woburn Abbey.”

  “Dad
dy would never agree to that. He hates ordinary people.”

  “Especially reporter Johnnies,” I said.

  Outside we looked over the countryside towards the River Ouse. The sun had come out and the woods and fields sparkled with that brilliant green the way they do in June when the leaves are freshly out of bud.

  “Perhaps I’ll get a job,” Fanny said.

  “At the knicker factory?”

  “Starting at the bottom – like you said.” She tried a laugh, but it didn’t work. “What will happen to Grandmama?”

  “I don’t know. There will be a trial, certainly. It depends what further information comes to light.”

  “Everyone will know,” she said.

  “The truth should never be hidden,” I said. “And whatever happens, never forget this started years ago when Venetia decided to appear in a risqué film because she desperately needed some money. She created her own nightmare because she was never able to live with the consequences of what she’d done.”

  Fanny gazed wistfully over the countryside. The shadow of a lone cloud chased across the landscape.

  “I just can’t understand why two sisters – identical twins – should hate each other so much,” she said.

  “I think it started with envy – and then just got out of control. Marie envied the fact that Venetia had found true love while she only had affairs – and a sad marriage of convenience. Venetia envied Marie because she evoked warmth and happiness in everyone who knew her – and because she attracted the admiration of the King. Envy is just one of the seven deadly sins, but it encourages the other six.”

  “And their envy eventually destroyed one another,” Fanny said sadly.

  “But all his happened long before you picked me up in Marcello’s,” I said.

  Fanny pulled her shoulders back and stared defiantly at me. “Let’s be clear. You picked me up.”

  “Yes, I’ve wondered about that. You didn’t even know what I looked like.”

  Fanny gave a sly smile. “That wasn’t difficult. You leave eighty thousand copies of your picture lying around every Saturday.”