by Evelyn James
“And that someone may have been a policeman?”
The Inspector nodded solemnly.
“There have been other signs. Odd things. Reports missing vital information. Evidence going missing. Don’t get me wrong, policemen don’t make the best clerks, and a few of my lads definitely struggle with a typewriter, not to mention filing. But this is something more than just careless mistakes.”
Clara merely nodded. She understood that feeling of a nagging doubt in the pit of the stomach. Some called it intuition, or even paranoia, she felt it was the thing that divided a good detective from a mediocre one.
“Do you have a suspect in mind?”
“That’s just the thing, Clara. I have become so suspicious of everyone. But, the real problem is, the more I poke around the more the traitor goes to ground to cover their tracks. An Inspector can only dabble so much before his constables start to wonder what he is about, and the villain among them grows nervous and starts to take precautions.”
“I see,” Clara said, sensing where this was leading.
“I need an outsider with a bit of sense to investigate for me. I thought of you because your presence is already familiar at the police station and would not seem out of place. You can pretend to be working on other cases, when actually you will be poking around on my behalf.”
“This is a very serious matter, Inspector.”
“I know. I suspect one of my officers has become mixed up with London gangsters. It is the only way to explain Billy Brown’s miraculous escape. I dislike the thought of policemen being bribed by thugs and rogues, but that is what it looks like.”
Clara hesitated a moment. Was she up to this challenge? When she last was involved with organised crime her life had come into serious peril, but at least then she had felt she had the back-up of the police. Now who would she turn to if she needed help?
“I know I am asking a lot,” Inspector Park-Coombs filled the silence. “But I am not sure who else to turn to. Discretion is vital. I could report this to my superiors, but the scandal of an official investigation would be devastating for the police. You are probably aware that the British constabulary is not held in as high a regard by the public as it used to be?”
Clara was aware. The police strikes of 1918 and 1919 had undermined the Force, and left the government surly towards any boy in blue causing trouble. Even a whiff of corruption among Brighton’s policemen would do a great deal of harm, not least to those who were innocent of the crime.
“Have you any suggestions about where I might begin?” she said at last.
“Two, actually. I have written down the names of the three men on duty in the station at the time Billy Brown escaped, they might be worth investigating closely. But, I suggest your best way into this mess, is to investigate Constable Brompton’s unfortunate accident.”
“Constable Brompton?” Clara racked her brain for the name. “Oh, there was something in the papers. Wasn’t he hit by a drunk driver while patrolling one night?”
“That is the story we told the press. To be honest, up until recently, it was the story I believed as well. But I started to have my doubts about it when I realised Brompton’s mishap coincided with the first signs I can find of something being wrong at my station. It happened around the time evidence started to go missing and reports were being written in a misleading fashion. I started to think perhaps Brompton had stumbled onto something.”
“Brompton survived the accident, didn’t he?”
“Barely. His skull was fractured and both legs were broken. He recovered, but he could never be a bobby again. I managed to see that he got a job at the hospital in their clerical department. He spends his days filing patient reports. He can manage that, fortunately, but ask him to do anything more taxing and, well… you’ll see.”
“When would be the best time to pay him a call?”
“He works a regular twelve hour shift at the hospital on weekdays. Begins at eight in the morning. He lives at home with his parents the rest of the time.”
“And you are really certain there is a crooked policeman in your midst?”
Inspector Park-Coombs raised his hands in a motion of defeat.
“If you could prove otherwise, I would be most grateful,” he smiled sadly. “Somehow, I think you won’t.”
“I shall look into it Inspector, you can count on me.”
“Thank you Clara.”
“Now, won’t you stay for tea?”
“No, the wife is expecting me,” Park-Coombs rose with a groan. “She knows something is up, so I dare not be late and worry her. I haven’t told her anything, naturally.”
“Naturally, Inspector,” Clara escorted him to the door. “I’ll do my best for you.”
“Thank you,” the Inspector took his coat off a peg and rummaged in a pocket. “Here is that list of names I mentioned.”
“Take care, Inspector,” Clara said as he went down the garden path. She closed the door behind him, a strange sensation of the world tilting off-kilter coming over her. If you couldn’t trust the police, where were you?
Chapter Three
Around seven o’clock, Clara made her way to the address Mrs Wilton had given her. She found herself in front of a red brick terrace house with a very neat garden and a gravel path. A discreetly placed porcelain gnome smiled at her from a patch of crocuses just coming into bloom, as she walked to the door. She rang the bell and was soon greeted by a thin woman in a navy blue smock dress. She had very long hands with narrow fingers, in which she took both of Clara’s hands and welcomed her warmly, before ushering her to the back parlour.
The room was already crowded with quite a selection of people. Mrs Wilton had said that at least fifteen people had received letters (herself and Mrs Hampton included), and it seemed nearly every recipient had come that night to find out what Brighton’s very own Miss Fitzgerald was going to do about the matter. That meant the small back room was crammed with people. Mrs Hampton had done a valiant job of finding them all seats, though she had had to beg chairs off neighbours and a couple of the participants were ‘making do’ with squatting on foot stools. Clara surveyed the assortment of worried faces and felt a pang of nerves. Fifteen faces looking keenly at you as the solution to all their problems was a tad overwhelming.
“Do sit, Miss Fitzgerald,” Mrs Hampton had saved one of her best dining room chairs for Clara – the one with real green velvet on the seat (not this velveteen so many were choosing to buy instead!)
Clara sat and spotted Mrs Wilton at the back of the room. The woman gave her a little wave.
“Before I begin tonight,” Mrs Hampton said to her guests, “I would like to introduce Miss Clara Fitzgerald, who I have especially invited to assist us with our problem. Miss Fitzgerald has assured myself and Mrs Wilton that she will be the finest example of discretion while working on our behalf. I hope we can all agree that something must be done?”
There was a chorus of ‘hear, hear’ from the guests, and Clara almost smiled at how formal they were all being.
“Miss Fitzgerald has asked to see any letters that you may have kept, to help her determine who is behind this. I know some of you were good enough to bring those letters tonight and I would now like to collect them in this brown envelope. I believe it would be helpful to Miss Fitzgerald if you were to note your name on the back of the letters, however, each one will be placed in this envelope privately and no one but Miss Fitzgerald will ever see their contents. Is that agreeable?”
There was another chorus of assent and the envelope was handed round. Clara was surprised to see that the majority of the audience produced a letter and inserted it in the envelope. She had fully expected that most had already been burned or destroyed in some way. Mrs Hampton collected the envelope and placed it on a small occasional table beside her.
“Now, perhaps I can hand over to Miss Fitzgerald, who would no doubt like to ask a few questions,” Mrs Hampton took a step back and Clara was now centre-stage. Her stomach droppe
d.
Self-consciously Clara rose from her chair and faced the assembled poison pen victims.
“Well…” she stared at all their desperate faces. “I think I would like to begin by asking when the letters started to arrive? Does anyone know who received the first one?”
There was a huddled conversation among the audience, as they conferred on the subject. Finally, a pale small hand rose from the crowd, and a woman stood up. She was dressed in black and looked like a widow from a century ago. She was frail and shrank from the stares of her neighbours. In a faint voice the woman declared.
“I think I was the first.”
“That is Mrs Uxbridge,” Mrs Hampton informed Clara in a clear, crisp voice. Mrs Hampton was clearly used to public speaking.
“Mrs Uxbridge, when did you receive this letter?” Clara asked.
“It was the beginning of November. I think it was around Bonfire Night. I remember because I considered throwing it onto the bonfire when they burned the Guy, but then I thought it might flutter off and someone would see it,” Mrs Uxbridge looked small among the assembled guests. “It was a very ghastly thing.”
“Did you have any indication of who might have sent it, or why?”
“No. It came completely out of the blue.”
“Thank you, Mrs Uxbridge,” Clara said. “I would very much like to speak to all of you individually, to privately discuss the letters, as it may offer a clue to the culprits. Has anyone any suspicion as to who might have sent the letters?”
There was silence from the assembled guests, though Clara wasn’t convinced that meant that no one suspected anything. Rather, she imagined people preferred not to voice their thoughts in public, less someone should ask them how they had reached their conclusions. Clara felt that here were a lot of people who didn’t really trust one another, and who had an awful lot of secrets.
“Has no one noticed a pattern to the letters? Perhaps they tend to arrive on a certain day, or time of the month?” she tried to nudge them a little.
“Mine arrived on a Thursday,” Mrs Uxbridge said quietly.
“Mine came on a Wednesday,” someone else said.
“Mine popped through the door on a Saturday. I was most relieved it came then, because Frank was at the football match and didn’t see it,” another voice added.
“I had one on a Saturday too…”
“All right, so they come on different days,” Clara interrupted before everyone started to talk at once. “Are they hand delivered or do they come by post?”
“The post,” Mrs Wilton said quickly.
“And has anyone kept the envelope for their letter?”
There was a general shaking of heads.
“Did anyone happen to notice the post mark on the envelope?” Clara asked.
“Oh yes!” a woman raised her hand from the back. “I was expecting a letter from my sister and I made a point of looking at the post mark to see if the letter was from her. It wasn’t, unfortunately. The post mark was for Brighton.”
“Thank you,” Clara made a note in the little book she kept for such purposes. “So we must assume the culprit is local and not concerned about trying to hide their tracks.”
“Is all this going to help?” there was a man sitting by the fireplace, he looked belligerent. “I want this person found and dealt with! The shock that letter gave my wife could have done her great harm!”
“And you are?”
“Mr Joshua Summerton,” the man announced proudly. “General grocer. The letter my wife received was just filth, pure filth!”
“I intend to do everything in my power to find the culprit, Mr Summerton,” Clara told him, wondering what secrets had been hinted at in the letter to his wife.
“Might I suggest,” Mrs Hampton interjected, “that we all arrange a time for Miss Fitzgerald to speak with us individually and privately?”
“I think that might be the way forward,” Clara agreed, though she was a tad annoyed at the interruption.
The next half-hour was occupied with taking the names and addresses of each person, and arranging a time when Clara could call on them. She soon had her diary brimming with appointments, and she began to wonder how she would ever find time to investigate Inspector Park-Coombs’ concerns.
After arranging interviews, the guests retired to their homes. Mrs Prinner was among the last to leave and seemed reluctant, on the whole, to speak to Clara.
“Mrs Prinner, when might I call on you?” Clara pressed her.
“Well… well, it’s my washing day tomorrow, and that means I will be so busy, and then on a Wednesday I do my baking, and the house gets in such a state.”
“What about Thursday?”
“Oh dear, no, little Simon goes to visit his grandmother while I do my shopping in town.”
“Friday?”
“That’s a fish day. My husband owns a number of ships and on Fridays he brings home the best of the catch to gut and smoke at home. I couldn’t possibly have someone round then.”
“Saturday, perhaps?” Clara said in exasperation, she knew the woman was being deliberately evasive.
“Saturday the other children aren’t at school.”
“I don’t mind children,” Clara said calmly.
“That’s not what I meant. I’ll have so much to do. Clothes to mend, the boys’ trouser knees are always being ripped, and I will have socks to darn and all sorts to get ready for the week ahead.”
“I will take up as little of your time as possible.”
“But… but my husband will be home.”
“Mrs Prinner, do you not wish to talk to me about your letter?” Clara spoke louder than she meant to because she was growing cross, but it did the trick, because the remaining people in the room suddenly turned and looked at Mrs Prinner.
The woman blushed. No one else had refused an interview, in fact, they had all been only too glad to arrange a time and date. Mr Summerton’s unpleasantly hard gaze fell on the unfortunate woman.
“What’s this?” he demanded.
“I’m… I’m just so busy at the moment…” Mrs Prinner didn’t meet his eye.
“We are all very busy Mrs Prinner. For my part, I will be closing the shop early one afternoon so I can speak with Miss Fitzgerald. I am sure you must be able to spare an hour somewhere in your busy week.”
Mrs Prinner blushed even harder.
“I really don’t think I can be much help,” she mumbled.
“That is for Miss Fitzgerald to decide,” Mr Summerton said pompously, like some High Court Judge passing sentence.
“Whatever you confide in me, I shall not repeat,” Clara assured the woman, trying to remove Mr Summerton from the conversation. “I will not even say anything to your husband, should you wish.”
“He has seen the letter,” Mrs Prinner said without a qualm. “I have no secrets from him. That’s why he knew it was all nonsense.”
“Then why be afraid to speak with me?” Clara asked pointedly.
Mrs Prinner merely shook her head.
“Come on Thursday, about four o’clock. I should be home by then,” she said hastily, before turning abruptly and leaving.
“Odd one that,” Mr Summerton said, loud enough that the exiting Mrs Prinner was bound to hear him. “Lot of family problems.”
Clara wondered what he meant, but it was the wrong time to ask. She arranged the last few interviews with the remaining guests, then she found herself alone with just Mrs Wilton and Mrs Hampton.
“Now that is settled, might I offer you some tea and cake?” Mrs Hampton said with the grace of a duchess, she looked like a woman too refined for her surroundings.
Clara acquiesced and helped Mrs Wilton clear some of the extra chairs from the room before they settled on a couch by the fire.
“A very mixed lot,” Mrs Wilton said with her usual candidness. “Can’t see any logic as to why they have all received letters.”
“Except that they all live within a small distance of each other.
I would suggest our writer is targeting a group of people he or she knows very well.”
“Ah!” Mrs Wilton tapped her nose knowingly. “Good thinking, Clara, good thinking.”
Mrs Hampton returned with a very pretty green glass cake stand in one hand and a tray of tea things in the other. She set both items down with casual ease; neither spilling a drop of tea or disturbing a crumb of cake. She started unstacking a pile of small cake plates and offered Clara a hearty slice of Victoria sponge. Clara felt her seams bulging at the mere sight of it.
“Now, let’s get to business,” Mrs Hampton sat down in a chair opposite Clara and Mrs Wilton, and folded her long legs elegantly over one another. “I kept my letter out to save time. Here it is.”
Mrs Hampton felt in a pocket and took out a very neatly folded slip of paper. Clara recognised the same handwriting she had seen on Mrs Wilton’s letter at once. She read the contents carefully;
Dear Mrs Hampton,
We know about your husband’s drinking problem. We have seen him quite drunk and dishevelled coming home late at night. It is a disgrace. A woman such as yourself should be able to take charge of a recalcitrant husband, or are you too busy engaged in other matters? Your late night card games, for instance? Gambling is a sign of a wanton woman. We expected better of you, but you have proved yourself little more than a provincial slut raised up above herself. We hope you are suitably ashamed of your behaviour and will desist at once.
“It is all ridiculous of course,” Mrs Hampton said as soon as Clara looked up from the letter. “I play Bridge with three friends on a Thursday evening. There is no gambling involved. I like the company as that is the night my husband George goes to the Conservative Club. He does not come home drunk, I might add. He has an inner ear problem that makes him giddy, it’s worse at night and he tends to walk in an off-balance manner. But really, it is a genuine medical condition!”
Clara felt Mrs Hampton perhaps protested a little too heartily. Maybe Mr Hampton did have an ear problem that affected his balance, but she was also well aware that one of the draws of any club was the copious drinks they served in civilised surroundings. She wondered if Mr Hampton’s ear issues were being exacerbated by a fondness for the demon drink?
