by Evelyn James
Tommy glanced around the room. In-between the tall book shelves there were a series of long tables, where people could sit and browse through books or documents they had ordered from the archives. He rolled himself to the head librarian’s desk and asked if he could order copies of the local newspaper from the summer of 1920. The librarian, Mr Dean, knew Tommy well and soon had the request forms filled out for him. Tommy made his way to the card catalogue to pass the time while he waited.
He was thumbing through the psychology section when someone bumped into his wheelchair.
“Dreadfully sorry!”
Tommy glanced up into the round face of a young woman. She was a bit older than him and dressed very well in tweed. Her arms were full of books, which had caused her to fail to notice his wheelchair.
“No need to worry,” Tommy smiled. “Do you need a hand there?”
“I do seem to have been rather ambitious over the number of books I could carry at once.”
“Dump them on me,” Tommy grinned. “And then we can scuttle over to the reading table.”
“Honestly? You are very kind.”
The woman placed several books in Tommy’s lap. He was intrigued by the titles. Several were on Brighton, but one was on poisons, and another was by a famous criminal psychologist in America. In fact, it was one of the books Tommy was looking for.
“Interesting volumes,” he said as the woman rolled his chair up to one of the tables.
“Yes, I am doing a bit of research.”
Tommy took a good look at this well-dressed woman with a Roman nose and bright, intelligent eyes.
“On Brighton?” he asked.
“In part. I am a writer, you see, and I had half a mind to set my next novel in Brighton. But I can’t really decide. I am so much more familiar with Torquay as a coastal resort. I don’t want to get anything wrong.”
“No, naturally. What sort of writing?” Tommy was eyeing up the poisons book.
“Crime fiction,” the woman gave him an abashed smile. “Some people find it rather vulgar.”
“I don’t,” Tommy said quickly. “In fact, my sister is a private detective. I am here on her behalf. She has asked me to research an accident from last summer. It may have been less than accidental, if you see what I mean. As we speak, she is interviewing the victim.”
“How exciting,” the woman beamed with genuine interest. “Does she get much work?”
“Yes, a fair bit. It was slow at first, until people realised she was just as good as any man.”
“Do you know, my first book was about a private detective,” The woman smiled proudly. “I would love to meet your sister.”
“I am sure that can be arranged.”
“Call me Agatha,” Agatha held out her hand to shake.
“Tommy,” Tommy answered as he took it. “I would love to read your book.”
“I shall arrange a signed copy for you. I say, there is a person approaching with a lot of newspapers.”
“That would be for me,” Tommy motioned at a library assistant burdened down with several issues of the Brighton Gazette from the previous summer. The assistant dropped the newspapers on the reading table with relief.
“All the issues from between June and August 1920,” The assistant said, a slightly peeved look on his face. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”
“Looks like you will be busy,” Agatha nodded at the pile of papers.
“Well, I know what I am looking for, at least,” Tommy took the top newspaper off the pile and was greeted by a large photograph of last summer’s carnival. The by-line under the picture read Oliver Bankes. Tommy smiled to see the Fitzgeralds’ friend’s name in print. Above the picture ran the headline – “Ancient Mummy in Carnival actually Dead Crook!”
Flicking through the first few pages, Tommy found nothing but reports and opinion columns on the drama that had occurred at the carnival last August. Clara had, naturally, been involved. In fact, she had solved the case. Any other news that had happened at the time of the incident had been squeezed into the last few pages of the paper, tucked among ‘Mother’s Corner’, assorted adverts and the sports pages. There was no mention of a policeman being knocked down by a car.
Tommy picked up the next issue, working backwards through time. Again there was a fair amount on the carnival, including a special offer run by the Gazette to get entry tickets for half price. Tommy skimmed over adverts for yearling sheep, Greaves’ Digestion Pills and Pear’s soap. Under a column headed ‘Home News’ he spotted a small notice that gave him a clue, it read – “News has reached the Gazette that the police constable injured in a hit and run accident in July has recovered sufficiently to be discharged from hospital and is now steadily recovering at home.”
July! Tommy rapidly removed the June issues from his pile of papers and started on the first July paper. He took care to check each article, even those printed under the small ‘News in Brief’ section, but there was nothing about a policeman, so he took up the next issue. He had hardly turned two pages when a headline grabbed his eye – “Drunk Driver blamed for Accident, Constable in Serious Condition.” Tommy read on;
“Last evening, around 11pm, Police Constable James Brompton was walking his usual route past White’s farm when he was struck down by a car. The first person to the scene of the accident, Mr White, of the aforementioned farm, stated that he had heard a car engine roaring along the lane behind his farm and then a thud, followed by the car driving off. Mr White went to investigate as he has had sheep hit by speeding drivers before. He found Constable Brompton lying in the lane, his head very battered and bloody. Having no telephone, Mr White called for his son, and sent him the two miles to the Ship Inn, where the innkeeper was able to ring for assistance. An ambulance and a police car arrived within the hour, and Constable Brompton was taken to hospital. No sign of the driver who caused the collision was found, though the police advise the public to be alert to any vehicle with signs of damage to its bonnet or front end. Constable Brompton remains in a dangerous condition in hospital and there is much fear for his life.”
Tommy copied the article from the paper into a notebook. He went through the next two issues of the paper, but there was no mention of anything more concerning Brompton’s accident until he came to the first issue of August. It was then he spotted a letter on the correspondence page;
“Dear Sir – the matter of the police constable knocked down a few weeks ago outside White’s farm remains unresolved. The car that hit him seems to have mysteriously vanished. It is my contention that there is some criminal matter involved in this, other than the obvious crime of hitting a person in a vehicle and then fleeing. How many cars are there in Brighton? Surely, if it was a local vehicle, some bright eyed neighbour would have noticed damage to it? There can only be a handful of car owners within the area, and the police might find it useful to visit them all and assess their vehicles, if they have not already done so. Equally, I know of only one garage in Brighton and Hove capable of repairing bodywork; have they been interviewed about vehicles they have recently attended to? There seems to be a greater mystery to this matter than merely who the driver behind the wheel was. I believe we are dealing with something far more alarming. I hope some reader may be able to assuage my concerns.
Yours Sincerely, Colonel A. J. Fairbanks (formerly Chief Inspector, Scotland Yard)”
Tommy copied the letter out diligently, and then looked at the correspondence pages from later issues to see if anyone had responded to Colonel Fairbanks. No one had. Who was this man from Scotland Yard? Clearly a retired Londoner, come to seek the peace of a seaside town, yet unable to quite leave police-work behind him. Was it just suspicion on his part that made him suggest there was something more to Brompton’s accident than sheer bad luck? Or did he know something? Tommy realised Clara would be ecstatic with this find, this could be a whole new lead into Brompton’s case.
“You see to be having more luck than me,” Agatha glanced up from her
own books. “I think setting a crime at the Brighton Pavilion might be a little gauche, don’t you?”
Tommy grinned at her.
“Unless it happens to be about someone killing the architect who designed the thing.”
“True. True,” Agatha closed her books. “I really don’t know. I feel I have this idea for a great plot burrowing about at the back of my mind, but for the life of me I can’t bring it into focus. I took this rather abrupt holiday to try and rankle it out. I thought some peace and quiet away from the family might help.”
“It will come,” Tommy said though, in truth, he knew very little about the art of writing, or the woes of writer’s block. “Try not to force it.”
As he spoke he spotted Annie returning with her basket of shopping.
“Ah, I shall have to be going.”
Agatha looked over in the direction of Annie.
“Perhaps we shall meet again? I would really like to meet your sister. I am staying at the Grand Hotel. Call in for tea any time. They start serving at 4pm, and I make a point of being back for their delightful crumpets.”
She quickly scribbled her name and room number on a slip of paper and passed it to him.
“Thank you, I shall endeavour,” Tommy assured her.
Annie came around the reading table, looking at the heap of newspapers with a strange expression, as if she was itching to tidy them away into the dustbin. Annie hated untidiness, especially when it involved papers.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“I think so. We better get this back to Clara,” he turned to Agatha. “Goodbye, I shall try and have Clara call on you.”
“Do, do. I really could use the distraction.”
Agatha gave him a little wave as he was pushed away by Annie. She picked up the volume on poisons and went back to refreshing her memory on the quantities needed to poison a full-grown man with Strychnine.
Chapter Six
Mrs Zelda Mann was like a nervous little bird. She fluttered and flittered. Her hands danced in her lap, and her eyes darted all about the room as she talked. She was around forty and politely termed herself an amateur artist, specialising in flower studies in oils. There was one of her paintings on the wall above the fire; a brash canvas of reds, yellows and greens portraying a much larger than life, and slightly abstract, primrose. She liked to call her paintings ‘modern’, but admitted to herself that many professional artists would consider them rather twee, or worse, that she was trying too hard. Zelda had no confidence in herself.
She had married at eighteen, her husband was seven years her senior, and even at the time of their marriage he was regarded as a remarkable chemist. He now worked in London during the week, at a large pharmaceutical company, creating all manner of new and exciting products.
“He is largely involved in experiments concerning synthetic materials,” she told Clara over a cup of tea. “He believes it may be possible to invent a completely new material that will replace for good such things as cotton or silk. Imagine the possibilities!”
Zelda was proud of her husband and it showed as she talked. She had read his papers diligently and, despite her own self-deprecations, she was really a very intelligent woman who understood many of the chemical equations involved in her husband’s work.
“He brings samples home sometimes. Very tiny amounts at the moment. But he shows me them. If they can only discover the right formula it will be really revolutionary. My husband believes synthetics would be so cheap to manufacture that, in the future, no one need be without clothes or shoes. Imagine a world where even the poorest was well-dressed and free from the torments of cold weather and sickness!”
Clara nodded, the vision was certainly nice. Clara was more of a cynic, however. She didn’t believe anything in life was ever free. Someone would attempt to make money from this world-saving product somewhere along the line. Clara nudged the subject back onto Zelda’s paintings. She had read the hate letter sent to the woman and knew it was her art that had aroused the writer’s ire.
“I try to capture the spirit of the flower,” Zelda said softly, her hands miming the action of a flower opening in her lap. “Anyone can paint a begonia, but what of the essence of that plant? What of the way it makes you feel as you stare at the petals, or its scent, or how it can sum up a whole glorious summer in one glance? That is what I try to capture, though, I confess, I fail more often than I succeed.”
“How long have you been painting?”
“Since the children were old enough to hardly need me,” Zelda gave a sad half laugh. “They drift away as they grow up. Especially sons. I have been luckier than most mothers. Both my boys came through the war unscathed. Now Michael is at university studying biology, and Peter is spending a year in Argentina, on a scientific expedition investigating the way air currents affect mechanical flight. They are very bright lads and very ambitious. Peter is very good at gliding. It is not as popular over here as in Europe and, to my horror, he actually chose to go to Germany for a year to learn. But he wants to work in aviation and says gliding is the way to understand how planes cut through the air. He is just nineteen, but he has been more places than I have ever been in my life.”
“I imagine you miss your sons a lot.”
“Yes. The house is very quiet. I have a cat, but cats are rather difficult company. Mainly I paint.”
“Has your work ever been exhibited?”
“Last year,” Zelda suddenly beamed with a rare moment of pride. “I booked the Methodist hall for a whole week. They were very accommodating, seeing as my pictures were nothing racy or offensive. Flowers rarely inflame the passions, do you not find?”
“Indeed.”
“It was rather a success. I sold three pictures, and Mr Spranks at the stationers asked if he could use one of my designs on a greetings card. I was elated and spent a number of hours in his office working out the details, before having the picture miniaturised and turned into a print. They have a special way of printing colour greetings cards, it was quite fascinating. Mr Spranks was delighted with the result and has sold over a dozen already. He has talked about printing more as postcards for the summer tourist season.”
“That sounds very exciting,” Clara said. “But I assume it was this time spent with Mr Spranks that sparked the letter you received?”
“Yes,” Zelda suddenly lost all her animation, her hands went flat in her lap. “It was just after I received the first sample cards. I was so delighted with them, and took them at once to show my sister who lives two streets away. When I came back, I noticed the envelope on the doormat. It was addressed to me, but I didn’t recognise the writing. Oh, I still wish I had never opened the horrid thing.”
Zelda put her head in her hands for a moment. Then she composed herself.
“You have read it. You know it implied that I had been having an illicit affair with Mr Spranks and that he only turned my painting into a card because we were… intimate.”
“It’s a nasty thing to say.”
“Yes. Bad enough how it impinged on my honour and reputation, but it made me feel as if no one believed my work good enough to merit such attention on its own. I felt quite sick about it.”
“You mustn’t imagine the feelings or opinions of the letter writer are representative of the thoughts of everyone else,” Clara reassured her. “People gossip, no doubt, but anyone can see your work merits attention for its creative force alone.”
Both women glanced up at the over-sized primrose on the wall. Clara had quoted a line out of a recent magazine article on modern artists she had read to comfort Zelda, but she hadn’t been entirely lying. Zelda’s work was a little naïve, but it was bright, cheerful and full of character. Just the sort of thing that would sell well on a postcard, to tourists full of holiday spirit. A satisfied smile slowly crept over Zelda’s face.
“A vicar bought one of my paintings, you know,” Her hands jittered in her lap, telling their own story independent of her words. “He said it would brigh
ten up the rectory and make a change from hunting scenes. He picked one which portrayed a Lily of the Valley, for the spiritual metaphor.”
“I truly believe these letters are sparked by jealousy, Mrs Mann. The person who wrote this, saw your success and was envious.”
Zelda cocked her head on one side like a little bird as she contemplated this suggestion.
“Then I shall not let it worry me further.”
“Don’t. Now, have you had any thoughts about who might have sent the letter?”
“I didn’t recognise the handwriting,” Zelda said apologetically. “Which at least means it is not one of my regular correspondents.”
“Have any of your neighbours or acquaintances appeared disregarding of your success?”
“No, not that I can think of. I don’t boast about it, you see. I did deliver a lot of invitations to the exhibition. That seemed prudent.”
“How many?”
Zelda did a quick calculation in her head.
“Yes, I had 200 printed up. It was extravagant, I know, but I was dreading no one would come. I gave one to all my friends and sent some to the notables of Brighton, like the Mayor – he came by the way, quite a surprise! – And then the rest I posted through the doors of the houses in this road and the next three. I suppose anybody who received an invitation could have been the letter writer.”
“Two hundred suspects already, not to mention those who saw the exhibition notice in the paper, or heard about it from friends.”
Zelda looked disheartened.
“However,” Clara corrected herself, “what I would say, is that the person behind the writing had to know about your talks with Mr Spranks. That must narrow the field.”
“Yes,” Zelda nodded enthusiastically.
Clara wondered if there was any way of determining exactly who knew of Zelda’s talks with the stationer. Probably not. Brighton was a relatively small town and people talked. There would be the staff at Mr Spranks’ shop for a start. They would know of Zelda’s visits, not to mention Zelda’s friends and anyone they had mentioned it to. And who knew how many people Mr Spranks had told? After all, he would want to publicise his new venture. And then, when the cards came out, the arrangement would be extremely public. No, once more the suspect list was expanding rather than contracting.
