The Poison Pen

by Evelyn James

  “This aunt, whoever she really was, lived in a cottage that was part of a farm estate. She made lace for a living, and the estate owner allowed her to live in the cottage free of rent because she was the widow of a stockman who had served the farmer for five decades. Anyway, at the time James’ grandparents lived nearby, and he came to visit them every weekend. One day we simply met. He was standing on a bridge staring at a stream. I was just wandering about as I did, and he asked me if I knew how to catch fish. I said I didn’t and he said he didn’t either, and that was how it began. I lived for the weekends after that. James taught me everything he knew about the countryside. We would collect bird eggs, or hunt for badger setts. He did learn how to fish eventually and he taught me. Whenever I found myself in trouble, James would ask me why I had done such a bad thing, and more often than not I couldn’t answer. Somehow, being unable to explain myself to James made me embarrassed, and it also made me stop and wonder, why had I done bad things? When you can’t explain things to yourself you feel a fool. So I stopped doing bad things. Besides, it was more fun learning all the stuff James knew.

  “It helped that I was in a different place, around people who didn’t know much about my past. I made friends with some of the farm labourers and they even gave me some work tending the animals. For around five years I was happier than I had ever been before. Then the war came. James was eager to sign up, we were both old enough. I wasn’t so sure. The farm was nice and I had never thought about killing anyone. Odd thing to say, I suppose, when most people back home considered me a young thug. But really, the thought of guns and fighting scared me.

  “James went without me. He served a full two years before someone realised he was more valuable out of the trenches working on maps and intelligence. He was involved in the background of quite a few famous campaigns. But he came home without a fanfare or a medal, except the standard ones everyone got, even though he deserved a lot more. His work was rather hush-hush.”

  “It sounds as though James Brompton was a very clever man.” Clara said, somewhat surprised.

  “Oh he still is, don’t doubt that. But, you see, the sort of work he did during the war, well, there isn’t much call for that in the civilian world. James fancied doing something different when he got home. He thought he would make a fine detective, but there was no call for extra detectives in Brighton, so he took a job as a constable, to fit himself in and learn about opportunities. That was around the time of the police strikes and, when the trouble died down, James told me I could earn more with the police now there had been all the commotion, than I did on the farm. Also, it would give me prospects. There weren’t really many prospects in farm labouring, I had seen that. So I didn’t think I could lose, and here I am.”

  “What about your mother?” Clara asked curiously. “What became of her?”

  Ling shrugged.

  “She never wrote to say I could come home. I probably wouldn’t have gone anyway. She probably just forgot about me, or maybe she thought she had written the letter when she really hadn’t. She was like that. Forgetting things all the time.”

  Clara nodded. She felt she was beginning to understand Alfie Ling. She was also beginning to trust him. His story was so complex and detailed that it seemed impossible that it was a complete lie. It also made a lot of sense, how else could Alfie Ling – the troubled little boy – end up in the police?

  “Now it is your turn, Miss Fitzgerald, what is your interest in Brompton?” Ling spoke quietly, but it was plain he expected an answer. After the story he had given her, Clara decided it was only fair she was honest too.

  “I think Constable Brompton is the victim of police corruption, stemming back to his accident last summer. Someone within the Brighton police is crooked. I have suspected as much since last year when Billy ‘Razor’ Brown made his escape from your police cells,” Clara discreetly kept the Inspector’s name out of the conversation. She was still inclined to be wary.

  “I have come to the same conclusion,” Ling replied. “That car accident didn’t feel right. I searched high and low for the vehicle involved, I should have been able to find it, but I couldn’t. And now this? James said he wanted to check some information in the archives, I think he was looking for a clue to who had tried to kill him.”

  “But, when I talked to Brompton, he seemed to remember nothing about the accident?” Clara was remembering the young man with the vague eyes and no short term memory, who had sat before her only a few days ago.

  “I wouldn’t care to contradict you,” Ling said carefully. “But James Brompton is far cleverer than anyone else I know alive. He stumbled on something, something dangerous. I said he was clever, but he doesn’t have much common sense. I intend to keep an eye on him and, if I can, find out who hurt him. And Heaven help ‘em when I do.”

  “You have no idea who did this?”

  “No, but I would sorely like to find out.”

  A darkness came over Ling’s face, and Clara saw a man who would act impulsively and dangerously to protect his friend. She also recognised a man who didn’t trust anybody.

  “Constable Ling, I want exactly the same. If you can see your way to helping me, then maybe we can resolve this conspiracy?”

  Ling studied her face for a long time. His own was a blank mask. He didn’t know what to think or how to act for the best, but he did know that alone he would not be able to solve the mystery.

  “I have a vested interest in this too,” Clara continued. “Someone helped Razor Brown to escape so that he could come after me. He would have hurt me, maybe killed me, had I not been prepared for him. I want to know who was behind his escape and who put my life in jeopardy. I can hardly work with the police in the future knowing that one, or maybe more, among them is a crook. How can I trust the police after what happened?”

  “I see your point,” Ling agreed. “I feel the same. I don’t know who I can talk to among my colleagues. I feel so alone. I don’t even know who James suspected, he has never told me. He said it would only put me in danger too.”

  “What about the archives he was looking at the day he was attacked?”

  “The box was from ‘C’ section. I looked at it after James was taken to hospital. There was nothing missing, as far as I could see.”

  “The policeman behind the attack might be intelligent enough to realise that a missing file would only raise more suspicion. I really need to speak to Brompton.”

  “He is pretty out of it at the moment,” Ling looked grim. “I think they shook his brain up pretty good this time.”

  “Ling, if you can find your way to trusting me, then together I think we can solve this riddle and unmask the man behind this crime.”

  Ling met her eyes, his own filled with deep sadness.

  “I wish I had your confidence.”

  “It is not about confidence, it is about being jolly good detectives.”

  Clara paid for their sandwiches and tea, and they went out into the drizzle again. Ling checked his watch and noted it was nearly time for him to go on duty.

  “Can I call on you if I find anything out?” he asked. “And you will let me know if you discover anything?”

  Clara was glad to hear he was prepared to trust her.

  “That would be fine, Constable Ling. Would you mind if I paid a call on Constable Brompton when it is visiting time at the hospital?”

  “No. Actually I would be glad if you did. I would like to know someone was keeping an eye on him.”

  They said their farewells. Clara headed to her next appointment, pushing thoughts of corrupt policemen and vanishing cars from her mind as she went to investigate her other case. There was still a poison pen letter writer to be found.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mr Johnson’s house was a middle terrace. The blinds were partially closed when Clara arrived. She was five minutes late for her appointment with him and she hoped he would not hold it against her. She rapped the large knocker on the door. No one answered. Clara stompe
d her cold feet on the doorstep and rapped the knocker again.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Fitzgerald.”

  Clara turned and spotted Matthew O’Donaghue leaning on the garden gate. He doffed his cap to her.

  “Mr O’Donaghue,” Clara nodded politely, before turning back to the door and rapping the knocker for a third time.

  “After Mr Johnson, are you? He should be in. I saw him coming home a good hour ago. I am painting the gate at No.31, you see, and it is dead opposite,” O’Donaghue pointed across the road to a house with a partially painted gate. “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes,” Clara was beginning to feel concerned. She stepped off the doorstep and peered through the almost closed blinds. Could something have happened to Mr Johnson? Might he have been taken ill? “Does Mr Johnson often miss arranged appointments?”

  “No, a very punctual man he is. Never known him miss a meeting. He is in business, you see, and very professional about it too.”

  Clara was trying to see into the dim room, but could only catch glimpses. There was the fireplace, unlit, which was odd on such a cold day, and an easy chair set at an angle. She spotted a straggly plant up one corner and the back of a wooden chair. She stepped to the side to get a different angle and found herself catching her breath.

  “Good heavens!” Clara stepped back from the window. “Mr O’Donaghue, we must get in at once!”

  O’Donaghue hastened through the gate, excited by Clara’s exclamation.

  “He keeps a spare key in one of the flower pots,” he told her, and they both set to work lifting up or digging in the many plant pots that dotted the front garden.

  It was Clara who found the key, underneath a bowl of dead carnations. She grabbed it up and slipped it into the lock. It was rather stiff to turn, but as soon as it did she pushed open the door and ran inside. The front room was just to the right of the hall, and she darted into it, with O’Donaghue just behind. He let out a gasp as he saw what Clara had spotted through the window.

  Mr. Johnson was hanging by a piece of washing line from the light fixture in the centre of the room. The weight of the salesman had pulled the fixture partly away from the ceiling, and there was a long crack in the plaster above their heads. Clara reached up for Johnson’s hand and felt for a pulse in the wrist. Mr. Johnson was very dead.

  “Well, I didn’t expect to see that,” O’Donaghue took a step back, feeling sick.

  Next to Mr. Johnson was a wooden chair. On its seat was a slip of paper. Clara picked it up and read;

  I am not an evil man, but I can’t bear my shame any longer. I am sorry.

  L. Johnson

  Clara sighed and replaced the suicide note. She looked up at the bulging face of Mr Johnson and found herself feeling deeply saddened rather than shocked. The poison pen had finally claimed a victim; she had absolutely no doubt that it was the foul contents of the poison pen’s letter to Johnson, which had caused the man to hang himself.

  “Would you fetch a policeman, Mr O’Donaghue?”

  O’Donaghue agreed without hesitation. He was looking extremely pale. When he had disappeared out the door, Clara went around the room having a look for any clues. She had already read the poison pen letter Mr Johnson had received; it was one of the one’s handed over to her at Mrs Hampton’s gathering. In it, the writer had alleged that Mr Johnson was married and that his wife had left him for another man. Since everyone in the road was convinced Mr Johnson was single, Clara had wondered if the poison pen had made a mistake this time. Now, with Johnson’s death, it was clear they had not.

  Clara opened a bureau next to the fireplace and went through the drawers. There were a number of invoices, both blank and used, a tally sheet of sales made, and a list of addresses Mr Johnson was due to visit. He roamed across most of the county in pursuit of sales, and a number of train ticket stubs sat in another drawer, clearly waiting to be written down in his expense account. Mr Johnson worked for a company that made agricultural implements, anything from ploughs to hand scythes. He would tour the farms and larger country estates touting his wares, showing off the latest in mechanical hoes or selling a farmer a new shovel. There was a thick, illustrated catalogue on the desk which listed every single item his employers supplied. Clara flicked through it absently and then went back to the bureau. In another drawer she found pencils and postage stamps. In a sliding compartment there was a notepad and, just beneath it, a slip of thick card. Clara pulled out the card and turned it over. It was a photograph of a woman. In black ink, at the very base of the card where a wide white margin created space for text, was the name ‘Veronica’ and the date 1916. Clara stared at the woman for a while. The picture was fuzzy and the woman smiled awkwardly at the camera, she looked uncomfortable and stiff. Clara wouldn’t be surprised if this was the former Mrs Johnson. In which case, where was she now?

  Clara had just replaced the picture and closed the bureau, when a policeman arrived. He took one look at Johnson and swore.

  “Excuse me, constable,” Clara said to him sternly.

  The policeman noticed her for the first time and grabbed off his helmet hurriedly.

  “Begging your pardon, miss. I think I ought to send for the Inspector and a doctor. Are you all right, would you like to sit down and have a cup of tea?”

  Clara waved him off, she was perfectly all right. She had been shocked to see a pair of feet dangling in mid-air through the window, but by the time she had found the key and entered the house, she had prepared herself for the inevitable. The only thing she really felt was regret. If only she could have talked to Mr Johnson before… well, perhaps he had planned it this way. By hanging himself just before their meeting, he had almost completely ensured his body would be discovered.

  Inspector Park-Coombs took an hour to arrive. He had been in Hove due to a burglary in a house belonging to a local Justice of the Peace. He had been asked to personally oversee the investigation, and this meant he was not in a good mood. He never was when local bigwigs threw their weight around near him. Too much of his morning had been spent being berated for the condition of the county and its rising crime rate. Apparently it was all due to the police being lax in their work; the fact that unemployment was crippling the country and poverty was a mounting concern for the vast majority of the working classes, did not come into it, according to the burgled JP. There were days Park-Coombs hated his job.

  He stood in the doorway of Mr Johnson’s front room and stared at the hanging body. Johnson’s face had taken on a rather unpleasant shade of grey. Dr Deáth, Brighton’s coroner, was just clipping closed his medical bag as Park-Coombs appeared.

  “He is past all help,” Deáth said unnecessarily. “I think it is safe to say he died of asphyxia. I shall obviously conduct a post-mortem, considering the circumstances.”

  “Circumstances?”

  Deáth nodded his head to the armchair in the corner of the room and, for the first time, Park-Coombs noticed Clara.

  “Ah,” was all he said.

  Clara had had plenty of time, while waiting for the Inspector, to contemplate Johnson’s death. She had been alone for most of that time, the police constable having fled to contact Park-Coombs and O’Donaghue having vanished. With the house to herself she had tried to learn more about the unfortunate Mr Johnson. But, aside from the picture in the bureau, the house held only clues to a bachelor existence. A suitcase stood upstairs, packed ready for his next business-related journey. The bedroom wardrobe held suits and shirts, a spare pair of dress shoes and a selection of smart ties. The bathroom revealed a single toothbrush and pot of tooth powder. There was a shaving kit neatly laid out on a shelf and clean towels hanging from a rail on the wall. In the medicine cabinet there was nothing more exciting than an array of headache and indigestion tablets, all over-the-counter items, nothing prescribed.

  Downstairs, in the kitchen, Clara found enough ingredients to prepare simple meals for a couple of days. A loaf in the bread bin looked pretty fresh and Clara began to wonder j
ust how abrupt Johnson’s decision to kill himself had been. The larder was stocked with tins of vegetables and Maconochie’s stew, and a half bottle of milk stood on a dark shelf corner. Clara found no trace of alcohol anywhere in the house or anything suspicious. Had she come into the house ‘cold’, she would have described it as the abode of a capable bachelor. Except… somehow it was too neat, too well-ordered. There was something staged about the whole place, as if someone was putting on a good front but didn’t really like or want to live there. The house was not a home. There was none of the debris that marks a place as been well-used and enjoyed. Rather it was like a hotel room, a stopping point in a journey, but not the place where the heart lay.

  By the time Clara had returned to the front room, and the body of Johnson, she felt she had come to understand the man a little better. He was a soul that existed, but didn’t live. He marked time going from sale to sale, but there was nowhere he actually called home. Clara felt very sad for the man hanging from the light fixture, but that sadness was followed by anger – anger that some cruel soul had chosen to torment a man already in misery by writing him a filthy letter.

  “Inspector,” Clara had waited until Park-Coombs spotted her before speaking. “As you may imagine, this was not the sort of interview I was expecting to have with Mr Johnson this afternoon.”

  The Inspector negotiated himself around the dangling body so he could face Clara.

  “You had an appointment?”

  “At 2pm to be precise, though I was five minutes late.”

  “I don’t think it was your tardiness that caused Mr Johnson to hang himself.”

  “Nor do I, but I have a good hunch at what did.”

  Park-Coombs looked at Clara curiously.

  “Was he a client of yours?”

  “Yes, and I was sworn to the deepest secrecy. But now he is dead and, well, I think that secrecy is forfeit.”