by David Field
‘Yes, it could,’ Frances replied after a slight pause, ‘but then you’d only get the head and shoulders. The rest of the body would be cut off, as it were, giving the impression that the upper half of the body was suspended in mid air.’
‘Even more effective,’ Percy murmured.
‘For what exactly?’ Hilda demanded. ‘Do I detect that you have some need of our theatrical services in some police investigation?’
‘If I did, would you be amenable?’ Percy enquired eagerly, ‘always assuming that a suitable donation was made to your theatre funds?’
‘Now you speak my language again,’ Hilda replied with a smile. ‘When would you require us?’
‘I don’t know that I do, yet,’ Percy replied cautiously, still deep in thought. ‘Tell me, who does your actors’ make-up?’
‘The actors themselves, in the main,’ Hilda replied. ‘The more experienced of them learn make-up as part of their training.’
‘Including my niece Lucy?’
‘One of the best,’ Hilda assured him and Percy reached into his jacket pocket for the photograph of Edgar and Marianne Ormonde.
‘How easily do you think she could make herself resemble this lady in ghostly form?’
‘The work of mere minutes,’ was the encouraging reply from Hilda.
‘If you wanted to blur the features a little,’ Frances added helpfully, ‘we could drape a fine muslin cloth over the first mirror, or Lucy could don a light veil. If you want cobwebs from the grave, we have a piece of very worn lace that does the job admirably.’
‘Remember that we open with Othello in just over three weeks,’ Hilda reminded him. ‘Whatever you have in mind would need to be completed by then.’
‘Believe me, it will,’ Percy assured her. ‘If we need to resort to that, of course,’ he added.
Chapter Thirteen
‘It’s very good of you to keep feeding us like this, Uncle Percy,’ Esther said as she smiled across the kitchen table, ‘but we normally have to sing for our supper. I know you well enough to suspect that once again this isn’t a social call. We saw you only two days ago at Sarah’s christening, so what are you up to now?’
‘Very astute,’ Percy muttered as he reached into his pocket and produced a crumpled scarf of some sort.
Jack’s eyes widened in apprehension. ‘Uncle Percy...’ he began in a warning voice, until silenced by a wave of Percy’s hand.
‘Esther’s a big girl now and doesn’t need to be shielded from the truth. In fact she’s going to get even bigger in the weeks that lie ahead of us, so the sooner we use her to maximum effect in her role as Ormonde’s book-keeper the better.’
‘“Financial Controller”, if you don’t mind,’ Esther reminded him with a smirk. ‘But what’s that on the table?’
‘At the risk of putting you off these fine lamb chops,’ he replied, ‘it’s the scarf that was used to gag Marianne Ormonde before she was pushed off the train. She was probably screaming at the time.’
‘Charming!’ Esther shuddered. ‘But let me guess — you want this to appear miraculously on the dressing table in the sister’s former bedroom?’
‘So quick on the uptake,’ Percy grinned back appreciatively. ‘But perhaps with a heavy dose of the dear departed’s perfume? You did say that there were large quantities of it in the room?’
‘Yes, on the same dressing table, as it happens. But the other tricks we pulled on him didn’t produce any confession, so what makes you think this will?’
‘Because Jack and I will have visited the establishment earlier in the day, to ask some more penetrating questions and to crank up the pressure on the man.’
‘We will?’ Jack asked, just as Esther raised her hand in protest.
‘So I’m required to keep a straight face when my husband appears at my place of employment, pretend that I don’t know him from a bar of soap, and smile indulgently while he oozes charm all over Abigail Prendergast, is that it?’
‘Precisely,’ Percy confirmed.
‘And then, for an encore, I place this horrible gag thing on the dressing table, having soaked it in the deceased’s perfume, then sit back and listen carefully to his confession?’
‘You’re a quick learner,’ Percy complimented her.
‘I’m also not a fool, Uncle Percy. You don’t know the man. He’s very wobbly in the head already and when we hit him with this, he’s likely to run out of the place screaming, and perhaps get run over by a carriage in the street.’
‘That would make the need for a confession somewhat unnecessary,’ Percy replied and it was Jack’s turn to object.
‘Quite apart from putting Esther under more needless stress when she’s in a very delicate physical condition, if he does himself in without any confession we’re going to have a lot of explaining to do to Chief Inspector Wallace. Is there no other way?’
‘Can you think of one?’
‘No, not right at this moment, but give me time.’
‘Time is something we don’t have,’ Percy advised him. ‘Esther’s going to start looking pregnant before much longer and Lucy opens in her latest play in a few weeks’ time.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re planning on dragging Lucy into this as well?’ Jack demanded disbelievingly. ‘Mother would never forgive you.’
‘Your mother needn’t necessarily know,’ Percy said, smiling. ‘And she may not be required anyway. All we have to do at this stage is pick the day when we visit Ormonde in his lair — the day that Esther plants the scarf on the dressing table.’
Esther’s old apprehensions returned with a vengeance as she approached the front door of the gallery on Wednesday morning, the tell-tale scarf almost calling to her from where it was hidden inside her shopping basket when she bid a cheery ‘good morning’ to Ormonde and Abigail as they stood together studying the latest catalogue on the glass counter. She went straight upstairs to her prison-like office in the bedroom and tried to occupy her attention with the almost laughingly small number of entries that she needed to make as she waited apprehensively for the sound of the front door bell, and the arrival of the two men from Scotland Yard.
Fortunately they delayed until morning tea was almost out of the way, then the doorbell chimed and Abigail looked out through the dividing doors and gave a giggle of delight.
‘It’s that nice young detective back again, but he’s got an older man with him this time,’ she whispered back at them.
Esther excused herself and hurried back upstairs, while Ormonde put on his best straight face and walked into the salon area to greet them.
‘We’ve met before, have we not?’ he enquired of Jack, who nodded.
‘Indeed we have. I’m Detective Constable Jackson Enright of Scotland Yard and this gentleman with me is Detective Sergeant Enright.’
‘Has Scotland Yard turned into a family business?’ Enright replied sarcastically and Percy simply stared back at him before speaking in his most authoritative tone.
‘Talking of family matters, we have a few more questions for you regarding the night of your sister’s tragic death.’
‘I believe I’ve told you all I can, Inspector.’
‘Sergeant. And no you haven’t.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that we have witnesses who can confirm that you were on the same train as your sister. The train from which she fell to her death.’
‘Then your witnesses must be either lying or mistaken.’
‘Including your own coachman?’ Percy demanded sternly and Ormonde’s face paled slightly. Percy pressed home his advantage. ‘You originally told my constable here that the last thing you saw of your sister was when she retired to her room on the Friday evening — the evening of her death. But according to your coachman and handyman — a Mr Gregson — you followed her shortly after she left the house that evening, and were back at the house much later that night — the night, let me remind you, that Miss Ormonde finished up in the railway tunnel. So where did you go th
at evening, Mr Ormonde?’
For the first time their suspect looked flustered and remained silent until Percy threw another squib into the interrogation. ‘If it assists your memory, Mr Ormonde, there’s another coachman we’ve already had the advantage of speaking to. The one who brought you back from Swindon on the Friday evening, after you presumably alighted in a hurry from the same train that your sister fell from. Can you explain that?’
Ormonde began to resemble a cornered rat as he looked across at Abigail Prendergast, listening spellbound from behind the counter, and mentally vowing never to do anything so bad that it justified being questioned by this horrible ferrety-faced bully.
‘Miss Prendergast,’ Ormonde instructed her, ‘this might be a good time to see if the printer’s finished our new catalogue.’
‘Yes, Mr Ormonde,’ Abigail replied meekly as she collected her gloves and shopping bag from under the counter and slipped out through the front door, taking a few deep breaths of relief. Whatever her employer had been up to, she still needed her job.
Once she had left, Ormonde adopted a more co-operative tone, although he still didn’t invite either of them to take a seat.
‘Now that she’s gone, I can be more frank with you, officer. I was in Swindon that evening, but visiting a lady friend of mine. I travelled up there on an earlier evening train in order to keep the assignation and was somewhat delayed in getting back. There were no local trains available back to Kemble by then, so I hired a coach.’
‘And the name of the lady in question?’ Jack enquired as he spoke for the first time, notebook open and pencil poised.
‘I’m afraid I don’t remember,’ was all Ormonde could manage by way of reply.
‘Let me assist you,’ Percy replied coldly. ‘Her name was Martha Longhurst and I’ve already spoken to her. You paid her, but not for her “personal” services, shall we say? You bribed her to say that you’d been with her for two hours.’
‘That was to cover up who I’d really been with,’ Ormonde explained hastily. ‘She’s a lady whose husband is a man of some importance in Swindon and were our association to be known...’
‘A lady so well known that you can’t remember her name?’ Percy fired back.
‘And despite the fact,’ Jack threw in for good measure, ‘that your coachman saw you leaving after supper that evening, shortly after Miss Ormonde, and at a time that the only remaining train would have been the same one as hers?’
‘Let’s dispense with the lies shall we, Mr Ormonde?’ Percy demanded in an icy tone, with a facial expression resembling a stone-mason’s chisel. ‘You were on the train with your sister, in the same carriage, and the same compartment, when she fell to her death. Your only reason for denying that must be that you were the cause of that fall. Do you have any response to that allegation?’
‘Get out of my salon!’ Ormonde demanded as he seemed to regain his composure and bluster. ‘Get out and stay out! Don’t come back unless it’s to arrest me, and when and if you do I’ll have the finest solicitor in London here with me. Now go!’
As they stood back out on the pavement, Jack turned to Percy. ‘Still no confession. The man’s obviously determined to bluff it out.’
‘Let’s see if he can survive Esther’s little surprise,’ Percy chuckled as they walked back up the street.
Esther couldn’t help but hear the final heated exchange downstairs and she took this God-given opportunity to slip the crumpled scarf from her shopping bag. She hurried over to the dressing table, selected a large bottle from the ‘Tuberose’ collection and tipped a generous quantity over the scarf before retreating behind her desk and leaning down over her accounts book as she tried to block out the almost overpowering smell of the perfume.
Less than a minute later she heard Ormonde mounting the stairs and he appeared in the doorway.
‘In case you were wondering...’ he began, then his face set in wide-eyed horror as he breathed in the all too familiar smell. He looked across towards the dressing table, gave a strangled cry and raced over to it. He grabbed the crumpled scarf that had once been Marianne’s gag, then turned furiously to confront Esther. ‘You did this, didn’t you?’
‘Did what, sir?’
‘Put this on the dressing table. It wasn’t here earlier, so you must have put it there. And where’s that perfume stink coming from?’
‘What perfume?’ Esther replied in the most rational tone she could manage, just as Ormonde leapt at her with a shriek.
‘It’s all been happening since you arrived here! You won’t shake me, understand? I’ll kill you first!’ He had his hands around her throat and Esther was having increasing difficulty breathing. Just as the room began to swim before her eyes, she was aware of Abigail standing in the bedroom doorway.
‘Mr Ormonde — what are you doing?’ she demanded. Esther slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter Fourteen
Esther came round on the bed in the room she had been working in for the past few weeks, to find a strange middle-aged man examining her chest through her unfastened bodice and blouse, the straps of her chemise pulled to one side. She began to struggle until the man murmured reassuring words, and from behind him appeared the concerned face of Abigail Prendergast.
‘It’s alright, Esther — he’s a doctor. I called him in for you, and Mr Ormonde can pay.’
The doctor lifted his head from where he had been examining Esther’s chest.
‘There doesn’t appear to be anything to cause concern,’ he assured them both. ‘A day or so’s rest should see you back to normal health. Your pulse is strong and your breathing’s regular. What happened, exactly? And how did you get those red marks around your neck?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Esther lied as the memory of being attacked by Ormonde came flooding back and she looked wildly around the room, which appeared to be empty apart from Abigail and the doctor, who was closing his medical bag and appeared to be preparing to leave.
‘At least twenty-four hours’ bed rest,’ he instructed them. Then he looked back down at Esther. ‘None of my business, of course, but perhaps you’d be best to report this to the police. Those marks did not come naturally.’
‘There’s a police officer downstairs already,’ Abigail assured him as she led him down the stairs and out through the front door. ‘If you send your account to Mr Ormonde here at the gallery, I’ll ensure that it’s paid. Just give her a moment to get dressed,’ she instructed the police officer as she walked through the salon and back up the stairs, where Esther lay staring at the ceiling. She was trying to gather her thoughts, wondering how best to react to the attack on her by Ormonde and how it might affect her undercover operation.
‘What on earth provoked that?’ Abigail asked Esther as she sat on the edge of the bed, watching her refastening her clothing. ‘Did he catch you trying to steal some of that perfume? The room reeks of it.’
‘No,’ Esther replied with a feigned expression of incomprehension. ‘He was over at the dressing table, then he turned round, accused me of placing something on there, then attacked me for no obvious reason. His eyes were really weird, like some sort of maniac, and if you hadn’t come along when you did, I’d probably be dead now.’
‘I’d just got back in after visiting the printers and those police officers were on their way down the street — or at least, one of them was. The younger one seemed to be hanging around across the road. Anyway, I heard the terrible shouting and what sounded like Mr Ormonde threatening to kill you, and I rushed upstairs. When he saw me, he let you go, pushed past me and ran all the way out of the salon. He hasn’t been back since, but I dragged you onto the bed, then went back outside and got that young Scotland Yard man to call the doctor and then come back here. He’s waiting downstairs to take your statement, but I imagine that we’ll both be out of a job after this.’
‘I’m not sure I could tackle those stairs at the moment,’ Esther lied as she made a big display of running her hand over her brow. ‘Coul
d you ask the police officer to come up here, please?’ She saw the hesitation on Abigail’s face and hastened to reassure her. ‘As long as you’re down in the tea room at the foot of the stairs, I’m sure my reputation won’t be compromised, even though he is good looking, as you say.’
Abigail descended the stairs and Esther heard her instructing someone that ‘the young lady upstairs’ was very weak and would need to be transported home, so it would be necessary for the officer to keep his questions brief. Then Esther lay back on the bed and tried to keep the smile off her face, just in case, as Jack came clomping up the staircase, looked behind him, rushed to her side and grabbed her hand.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked, loving concern written all over his face.
‘Perfectly,’ Esther assured him in a whisper, ‘if a little sore around the neck. Ormonde tried to strangle me when I put the gag on the dressing table. I notice that it’s gone now, so he must have taken it with him.’
‘Is the baby alright?’ Jack asked nervously.
‘As far as I can tell,’ Esther assured him, ‘but I need to get home. There’s no way I can stay here after this, whatever you and Uncle Percy may say. Ormonde seems to have run away.’
‘Never mind about him,’ Jack insisted. ‘It’s you I care about. I just want to get you home and Uncle Percy can piss in his hat if he thinks you’re going to be involved in this for one day longer.’
Esther chuckled at Jack’s crude language, only to be reminded that her neck hurt. ‘You’d better get your notebook out and pretend that I’m making a formal complaint, in case Abigail decides to play the chaperone,’ she advised Jack, who duly obliged.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it might suit us very nicely if you do make a formal complaint. It’ll give us an excuse for arresting him, then we can light a blowtorch under him regarding what he did to his sister.’
‘How come you were still outside?’ Esther asked as she stroked his arm. ‘I’m glad you were, in case there’s any doubt on that score.’
