The Poison Pen

by Evelyn James

  “Organised crime?” Clara was surprised. “Can there be such a thing?”

  “Oh yes, I’m afraid the police have been rather slowly catching up with the notion. We have always known about criminal gangs, of course, but organised crime is something much bigger. It is like a business, but being run outside of the law. There is a structure to it, and there are those within it who never get their hands dirty. In fact, in some cases, the head of the operation is not even in this country. We thought at first it was an Italian specialty, how naïve of us! I’m afraid everyone is involved, the Chinese, the Russians, the Irish, the Jews. Naturally it works best in London, but often these organisations have a far reach, and the police are always one step behind. Like the mythical hydra, we cut off one head and two more appear. It is the scourge of modern policing and, as far as I can see, we are making little impact on it.”

  “That is disturbing,” Clara found the whole idea of crime being run like a business disconcerting. “I hate to think of it happening in Brighton, yet, I can see why it might. Brighton attracts the criminal element with its racing and gambling. There is big money to be made here.”

  “Yes. And the ease with which a criminal from London can travel here by train makes it all the more tempting.”

  Clara didn’t like such ideas, but they fitted in with Inspector Park-Coombs notion that he had a corrupt policeman in his midst, and then there was all that business with Billy ‘Razor’ Brown; he had his dirty fingers in many criminal pies, she was sure of it.

  “Miss Fitzgerald, the key to this is Constable Brompton. As long as he poses no threat, he will probably be left alone, but if he remembers something and his assailant finds out…” Fairbanks left the sentence hanging. He didn’t need to list the possible things that might be done to Brompton to silence him.

  Clara suddenly felt a pang of anxiety. Someone had attacked Brompton at the police station because they believed he had remembered something, but they had been disturbed before they could kill him. Now he was alone in the hospital, would they resist the temptation to finish the job? Could they risk it? Her mind flashed back to stumbling into the corridor straight on top of Alfie Ling. Where could he have appeared from except the far door of the archives room? Clara felt a little sick and suddenly the bacon rolls turned her stomach.

  “Thank you for the brunch, Colonel Fairbanks. You have given me an idea I must act on at once,” Clara rose. She was thinking she must get back to the hospital immediately and check on Brompton.

  “Do call again if I can be of any help,” Fairbanks said, trying to hide the hint of desperation from his voice. He had enjoyed mulling over a criminal matter more than he cared to admit to himself.

  Clara hurried out of the Colonel’s villa and started at a brisk trot for home. Her mind was whirring with possibilities, but one thing was certain – she had to tell Park-Coombs about Alfie Ling as soon as possible and have someone reliable keep a watch over Brompton while he recovered. She suddenly felt a pang of anger with the young constable – why had he walked back into a hornet’s nest alone? Had he confided in her, then at least she wouldn’t be groping in the dark, and he would not be lying unconscious on a hospital bed with a bump on his head. Then again, perhaps he had not trusted her enough? She had not really given much information about herself or her role during their conversation. Oh, but if he had only spoken with the Inspector!

  It was no time to be angry. Clara reached a crossroads and found herself glancing up and down for a red car. Then she hurried across, hoping she was not too late.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was almost midday when Clara reached the hospital. Her feet were killing her, and she had only a short while before she must hasten to her appointment with Mr Johnson, but she could not tame her anxiety enough to resist checking on Brompton. Naturally, it was not visiting time and the woman on the reception desk treated Clara with well-practiced disdain.

  “You will have to come back at two o’clock,” she informed her in a crisp tone.

  “I merely want to know how Constable Brompton is doing,” Clara insisted. “I can’t come back at two.”

  “That is hardly my concern.”

  Clara felt like screaming. Why were people so impossible?

  “Has he woken up at all?”

  “Young lady, I do not know the condition of every patient within this hospital. If you return at visiting time, the ward sister may be able to answer your questions.”

  Clara wanted to say something, but it was impossible. How could you argue with a woman who had bureaucracy on her side? Clara tried to think of a good argument to win her over, then gave in and retreated outside. She stood in the cold wind, thinking. Finally she went back inside and asked to use a telephone. This created more argument, as the only ‘phone was in the office behind the woman and she wasn’t keen to let Clara near it. But Clara was not going to let the idea drop. It was only when people started to look over curiously at the argumentative young woman, that the receptionist gave in and showed Clara to the office. She hovered over her, while Clara made her call.

  “May I speak to Inspector Park-Coombs, please?” Clara said into the receiver, thinking that he might have the authority to give her access to Constable Brompton.

  She was to be disappointed. The Desk Sergeant informed her that the Inspector was out on police business and was not expected back for some time. Clara was just putting down the ‘phone, trying not to look directly in the eye of the irate receptionist, when she caught a glimpse of someone over the woman’s shoulder.

  “That man,” she pointed, “is he allowed to go up to the wards?”

  The receptionist swung around, her stout form seeming to swivel like a gargantuan marble statue on a pedestal.

  “No.” she said in a voice of thwarted authority. “He is not!”

  She was starting to head out of the office, but Clara skipped past her. She had recognised the man at once, despite him being out of uniform. She had Alfie Ling’s face and appearance burned into her memory. The receptionist squawked as Clara ducked around the front desk and dashed to the staircase in hot pursuit of Ling.

  “You can’t go up outside of visiting hours!” the woman wailed.

  “He did!” Clara pointed out, no longer caring about the woman’s outrage. She was worried about Brompton, and what Ling intended to do when he reached him.

  The receptionist was still protesting as Clara hurried up the stairs. No doubt a hospital porter would be summoned soon and sent to catch the ill-mannered visitors who had disobeyed the commands of the receptionist. In the meantime, she wanted to make sure Ling could cause no harm to Brompton. The problem was she had no idea which floor Brompton was on, and there happened to be three. Clara came to the first landing and peered through the double doors that led onto a corridor. There was no sign of Ling. She ran up to the next floor, regretting her footwear choice once again. She would have to invest in a pair of those ghastly walking boots she had seen advertised in a magazine. They would look absurd with a dress, but at least she would be able to continue her detecting without being in agony all the time.

  On the second floor, the double doors were just swinging closed. She pushed them open and entered a corridor. On her left were a series of long open wards filled with men who, where able, glanced up at her as she entered. On her right were several private rooms for seriously ill or contagious patients, and just ahead was the broad back of Alfie Ling, standing at the door of one of the rooms.

  Clara ran forwards, not entirely certain what she was going to do once she reached the man, but certain that she must do something.

  “Constable!” she called.

  As she had suspected, addressing him by his official title caused Alfie to look up faster than had she just called his name. It was the natural, instinctive reaction of a man who spends most of his time patrolling roads and being summoned by concerned passers-by. Clara ran to him and put a hand on his arm.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, in-be
tween catching her breath.

  “I’ve come to see Constable Brompton,” Alfie Ling peered at her for a moment. “Oh, it’s you, Miss Fitzgerald. I didn’t recognise you, with you being all red in the face like that.”

  “Running up two flights of concrete steps in high heels will do that to a woman,” Clara replied. “I have to ask, what is that in your coat pocket?”

  Ling had his hand in his coat pocket, apparently holding something. He looked at it sheepishly.

  “Can’t say.”

  “Constable Ling, if you don’t tell me, I shall be forced to summon Inspector Park-Coombs and tell him that I suspect you of attempting to harm Constable Brompton!”

  Ling’s mouth dropped open with honest surprise. His previously mild expression soured, and the corners of his mouth dropped down. A sudden anger filled Alfie Ling and when he spoke it was through clenched teeth.

  “That is an awful thing to accuse a man of. Especially when you are talking about his closest friend. Here, if you must see it!” Ling drew his hand from his pocket and revealed two packets of cigarettes. “They don’t allow a man his fags in here.”

  Clara stared at the cardboard boxes in his hand. Innocuous things compared to the lump of stone or piece of brick she had feared. The shape they had formed in his pocket had looked like something hard Ling could use to finish off the job he began at the police station. Now she found herself doubting her own observations. Not that a badly injured man needed much help dying. A pillow over the face would be sufficient. Clara pursed her lips, a frown of uncertainty on her face.

  “You were in the basement when Brompton was attacked.”

  “Yes,” Ling nodded his head vigorously. “Who do you think got him down there when he asked to see the archives again? But I didn’t hurt him. I let him into the archives and went to check on the boiler. We had no heat, except from the coal fires, and everyone was complaining. I was just coming back when you burst out of the archives.”

  Ling’s expression changed again, to one of dawning realisation.

  “How do I know you didn’t hit him over the head, and then pretended to run for help?”

  Clara was appalled at the suggestion.

  “I had no motive to do such a thing!”

  “Nor did I!”

  They were glowering at each other when a porter suddenly appeared and yelled at them. Ling looked abashed at having snuck in, admitting to the porter he had chanced his arm, since he was on duty during normal visiting hours. Clara maintained a stance of righteous rule-breaking; she had disobeyed official instructions through fear a man was to be harmed. The porter was not impressed by either explanation and shuffled them both out of the hospital. The receptionist smirked at them as they were chucked out the doors.

  A thin rain was falling as they stood on the steps of the hospital indignantly.

  “How could you think I hurt Brompton?” Alfie Ling was still smarting from the accusation. “Brompton is the only decent friend I have in this world.”

  “The circumstances were suspicious,” Clara found herself apologising. “And it had to be a policeman behind the attack.”

  “Or you.”

  Clara chose to ignore that.

  “James Brompton helped me when no one else would,” Alfie Ling continued, cold rain plastering his hair to his forehead. “He saved me from a life of crime and ruin. I owe him everything and I would never hurt him. I came here today to make sure he was safe, and to see if he could tell me anything about who attacked him. I’m not stupid Miss Fitzgerald, I know this was an inside job, and I now start to believe what Brompton told me about the night he was knocked down by that car.”

  “He told you about that?”

  “Yes. He didn’t trust anyone else. He was certain it was because he had come across some information by accident that he was struck down. Someone wanted him killed before he could expose them, and that someone was a policeman,” Ling suddenly looked incredibly sad. “I joined the Force because I wanted to be removed from the scumbags and the dregs of society I was born among. I wanted to work in a world maintained by order and honesty. Instead, I find there are scumbags in uniforms, just as there are scumbags in rags.”

  Clara found herself watching the man’s face. His emotions danced across his features as openly and unrestrained as a young child’s. If Alfie Ling was acting the part, he was certainly a proficient performer, one the silent movie makers would love to have in their studios. Clara somehow felt Ling didn’t have the subtlety to be that cunning. She found herself believing him, which meant she was now without a suspect for the attack on Brompton.

  “Constable Ling, might I suggest we retreat to a teashop and have a conversation about this matter? I have a feeling that you and I are on the same side, which means we may be able to help each other.”

  Ling considered the offer. The rain was beating down on them both, and he was soaked through already. He wasn’t sure what to make of Clara. He knew her reputation, naturally, but he did not know if she could be trusted. This matter of Brompton had left him feeling wary of everyone. On the other hand, Ling was desperate to talk to someone, and it would be better if that person was as far removed from the police force as possible, without being so removed that they could not understand the seriousness of the matter. He considered a moment longer, then agreed. They walked to the nearest teashop and found a cosy seat near a fireplace so they could dry out a little. Clara ordered sandwiches for them both, and carefully unpinned her sodden hat, propping it by the fire. It would no doubt lose its shape, just like the last one she had been wearing when she was caught in the rain. It was becoming rather a bad habit.

  “Now Constable Ling, where shall we begin?”

  “I want to know why you are interested in Brompton,” Ling said cautiously. “I don’t really trust you.”

  He said the last sentence in an apologetic tone and without meeting her eyes.

  “On that score, we find ourselves in similar positions,” Clara said sadly. “I can’t be certain I trust you either. Circumstances make me hesitant. Perhaps you might elaborate on your relationship with Brompton?”

  Ling gave this some thought, but it was obvious to them both that this was not a compromising matter. Anyone within the police force could tell Clara of the friendship between Ling and Brompton, had Clara only asked.

  “Brompton got me into the police. It wasn’t an easy matter, either. I had a reputation locally, nothing on record, fortunately, but everyone knew…” Alfie Ling sighed. “That maid of yours, Annie, she took one look at me that day I came to your house last year and I saw in her eyes what she thought of me. A criminal in a uniform, that is all a lot of people see, even you.”

  Clara started to deny this, but bit her tongue, she had viewed Ling as a wolf in sheep’s clothing; it had been obvious on her face from the start.

  “Well, I am not a criminal, not anymore. Oh, I was a bad lad, sure enough. I made all sorts of trouble, mostly because I knew no better and because I hated everyone. You see, I loved my mother, but I knew others looked down on her. When you are boy, you don’t understand that, and it grows into resentment. My mother was a tart, probably still is, though I haven’t seen her in years. I have no idea who my father was, probably she doesn’t either. She used to call all her man friends ‘uncle this’ or ‘uncle that’ and a small child gives it no thought. But the older I became, the more I understood. People looked at my mother like she was filth. She didn’t seem to care, or maybe she didn’t notice. She had a drinking problem, which later became a cocaine problem. I don’t suppose half the time she knew much who she was, let alone what other people were thinking.

  “She tried to look after me at first. She would buy food and leave it in a cupboard. If I was hungry I had to find something in there. I had to learn to cook young, mother hardly ever did, and you can’t eat raw potatoes. I tried it once and was so ill mother had to call a doctor, one of her friends I think. He gave her a stern lecture on responsibilities, which was rather r
ich, but she did improve for a bit. She taught me how to boil potatoes and eggs, and to make a thin porridge from oats and breadcrumbs. I lived on that for years.

  “She was a kind woman, but off her head most of the time. I drifted about. No one saw the need to send me to school. Only when a truancy officer appeared at the house one day did it even occur to my mother that a child needed educating. I was seven when I stepped into a classroom, and I hated it. I worried about my mother all the time, I didn’t like her being alone, and I was so far behind the other children. I only stuck at it because mother cried when the truancy officer called again, and begged me to be a good boy and go to school every day, and learn to read and write, so I wouldn’t end up like her.”

  Alfie Ling paused, his lips had tightened into a narrow line. Once again Clara saw how Ling’s emotions played across his face with no attempt to mask them. He would make an awful gambler and an even worse criminal. His was not a face that could lie.

  Ling broke from his reverie slowly.

  “I used to feel angry a lot. I can’t say why, it became such a common emotion for me that I stopped noticing it. It was just part of my normal self. I detested all my mother’s neighbours. I had this strange idea that if they wanted to they could help her. Now I realise she was beyond help. In any case, I don’t think she wanted to change. As I grew older I used to cause trouble, I would lash out, and for a moment I would feel better. Then I would be punished and the anger was ten times worse. Had I carried on like that I would, no doubt, be rotting in some prison somewhere. But mother became sick – I’m not sure what it was. With wiser eyes on me now, I wonder if she was expecting another child. In any case, I was sent to live with some aunt I had never even heard of. I was twelve and I caused the sort of chaos to that poor woman that only a feral, wrathful child can. I imagine it would have ended in the workhouse or something similar, had not I met James Brompton.