by K. J. Frost
“What time was that?” I ask her.
“I’m not sure. No later than seven-thirty, I wouldn’t have thought.”
I nod. “And you left Beth in the bar, did you?”
“Yes.” She stops talking abruptly and, without any warning, bursts into tears. I’ve got no idea what’s wrong, but watching her like this and doing nothing about it is harder than pretty much anything I’ve done before. It would be unprofessional of me to comfort her, so I sit and wait, while she dabs her face with her handkerchief, and then squares her shoulders, looking up at me, her eyes still filled with tears. “I’m sorry… I—”
I hold my hand up. “Don’t apologise.”
It’s as though she hasn’t heard me. “It’s just that we had words, you see,” she continues. “Beth and I.”
“You argued? What about?”
“Well, I don’t know that I’d call it an argument,” she clarifies. “Beth wanted to stay and celebrate, but I couldn’t. I was feeling really quite unwell by that stage. I couldn’t have stayed another minute.”
“That’s understandable. You had a headache.”
“The room was spinning, the smoke was making me feel sick, and the noise was making my head throb. I think she thought I was being selfish, but I wasn’t,” she adds. “I really wasn’t.”
“I know.” I don’t know how I know, but I do.
“I left her there,” she says, a tear falling onto her cheek. “If I’d stayed…”
“You can’t think like that, Miss Cooper,” I try to reassure her.
“Call me Amelie, please,” she mumbles, wiping her cheek with the handkerchief. “I’m sorry. I’m sure this isn’t helping you.”
“It’s fine.” It isn’t fine at all, but not for the reasons she thinks. “And please, don’t apologise.” I give her a moment, then go back to my questions. “Was there anyone else with Beth when you left the pub? Anyone from your office, perhaps? Or someone that you recognised?”
“No,” she says bluntly. “There was no-one. She was sitting by herself. I mean, there were lots of other people in the pub, but no-one was with her.”
I nod my head. Now for the really difficult part… “Do you think you could tell me what happened this morning?”
She reaches for her coffee, and takes another sip. “I—I was supposed to go in early today, so I set my alarm for six-thirty. I normally don’t get up until about seven-fifteen, but Mr Pickford had asked me and one of the other girls to help finish off a particular project… Anyway, normally I’d go in with Beth, but we’d arranged that I wouldn’t wake her that early and we’d meet up for lunch together, as usual. I got dressed as quietly as I could, being as my room is next door to Beth’s and I assumed she’d be in there, still trying to sleep. Then Sarah brought me some tea and toast and once I’d had that… I––I went outside to fetch my bicycle…” Her voice fades and she starts to cry again. My arms are aching to hold her, and I want to comfort her and tell her that the pain of those memories will diminish with time, but I can’t. It’s not my place.
Eventually, she calms and looks up at me.
“Don’t even think of apologising.” I pre-empt her expression of regret, and she gives me a weak smile.
“I am sorry,” she says, regardless.
“It’s fine… Well, it isn’t – obviously – but you mustn’t apologise for being upset. It’s perfectly okay. Well, it isn’t, but…” For some reason, I’m suddenly unable to string a sentence together.
“I know what you’re trying to say,” she says, softly.
“I’m glad you do,” I reply and she laughs, just gently. “Let’s try and get to the end of these questions, and then I can leave you in peace.”
She goes to open her mouth, and then closes it again, and for a moment, I wonder what she was going to say.
“Can you tell me who else lives in the house?” I ask her.
“There’s just Aunt Millicent, Sarah the maid and Mary the cook,” she replies. “Uncle Gordon is only here at weekends, because during the week, he stays in London. He has a small flat near Westminster, which is much more convenient.” She stops speaking. “Oh, I forgot, there’s also Mr Jenkins.”
“Who’s Mr Jenkins?”
“He’s the gardener. Well, I suppose he’s a handyman, really.”
“He lives here?” I ask. It would be a fairly unusual arrangement if he did.
“No. He comes in on Mondays and Fridays. So he was here yesterday. Beth left a note asking him to fix her bicycle.”
“Can you give me his address?”
She hesitates. “I don’t know it. I don’t deal with him. I imagine cook might know. Uncle Gordon normally gives her the money to pay him.”
“Very well. I’ll speak to the cook later.” Hopefully she will have already thought to mention the man to Ellis, but if not, we can follow it up. “Where is Mrs Templeton now?” I ask.
“She’s in bed,” Amelie replies. I suppose that’s not altogether surprising. Her daughter has just been murdered, after all. “Aunt Millicent…” Amelie pauses. “She’s of a nervous disposition,” she says.
“I see.” In other words, she enjoys ill health. “I assume she knows about her daughter?”
“Oh, yes. I’m afraid the whole house and probably half the neighbours must have heard me screaming. Mary and Sarah came running out and brought me back in here, and Sarah telephoned the police. It was Mary who went up and told Aunt Millicent. I couldn’t face doing it.”
I finish my coffee and replace the cup on the tray. “I know that Mr Templeton has been informed of what’s happened, but do you know if he’s coming home?”
“Yes, he is. I telephoned him at work.”
“You did?” I’m surprised and it probably shows.
“Yes. Your sergeant told me I should call him. Aunt Millicent was hysterical, although Mary managed to calm her down eventually, and obviously Uncle Gordon had to be told…”
I try very hard to hide my fury that Ellis – I’m assuming it was him, anyway – left her to carry out the task. Even if he didn’t feel capable of undertaking it himself, or was unsure of the protocols, he must have understood the insensitivity of leaving a young, grieving woman to pass on such a message.
“And he’s coming back?” I verify.
“Yes. He was in a meeting when I called, but he phoned me back, and I told him what had happened. He said he’d be home as soon as possible, but definitely before lunchtime.”
I check the time on the ornate clock in the centre of the mantlepiece. It’s twelve-thirty now, so I should think we can expect the arrival of our puppeteer in chief at any moment. I can hardly wait…
“Can I ask you something?” Her question takes me by surprise.
“Yes, of course.”
She looks worried. “What should I do about work? I was meant to be there hours ago, and I imagine my boss is fairly angry with me by now.”
“Would you like me to call him?” I offer.
Her face softens. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Not in the slightest.” I glance around the room and notice there’s a telephone on the drinks cabinet. “Do you know the number?”
“Yes. It’s Kingston 946. And you need to speak with Mr Pickford. He’s the factory manager and I work as one of the secretaries in his office.”
I get up and go over to the telephone, picking up the receiver and asking the operator to connect the call. It takes but a moment before I hear a well-spoken female voice on the other end of the line, and I ask to speak with Mr Pickford.
“Pickford here.” The man’s voice is gruff, bordering on rude, and I decide to have some amusement at his expense.
“Good morning,” I say, being overly polite. “My name is Stone. I’m calling on behalf of Miss Cooper.”
“Miss Cooper?” He raises his voice. “Miss Cooper, you say? If you’re a friend of hers, you can tell her from me that I’m not best pleased and she’d better have an extremely good reason for letting me
down. I needed her to come in early this morning, but what does she care? Young girls today… have no idea of responsibility––”
“She does,” I interrupt, before he gets too embroiled in his rant against the youth of the day.
“She does what?” he asks, clearly bewildered by my interruption.
“Have a good reason.”
“Is she there with you?” He sounds suspicious now.
“Yes, she is, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh. And I suppose you’re the reason she’s late,” he says, digging the hole in which he’s burying himself just a little deeper.
“Not entirely, no. I believe you also know her friend, Beth Templeton?” I ask.
“Yes. She’s just been promoted to work for Mr Johnson… starting next week,” he replies. “Although what that’s got to do with Miss Cooper being over four hours late for work, I don’t know. I mean…”
I stand up straight, because for some reason, it makes me feel better. “Mr Pickford,” I say firmly. “I need you to stop talking. Now.”
“How dare you…” he roars.
“Not good with instructions, are you, sir?” I interject. “Let’s try that again… Stop talking and listen. My name is Detective Inspector Stone. I’m from Scotland Yard and I’m investigating the murder of Miss Beth Templeton. Her body was discovered this morning at approximately seven-fifteen by Miss Amelie Cooper, who as a result of said discovery, is in no fit state to come into work.” I pause for breath and listen to the stunned silence on the other end of the line. “Are you still there, Mr Pickford?”
“Y—Yes.”
“Good. I’m just telephoning as a courtesy, to tell you that Miss Cooper won’t be coming into work today, and probably not tomorrow either.”
“Um… yes. O––Of course,” he stammers.
“And while we’re about it,” I add, “I’ll need to speak to you, and this Mr Johnson you mentioned, so I’d like you both to stay at your office until I get there. At the moment, I can’t tell you exactly when that will be – sometime later this afternoon I would imagine – but I’m sure you won’t mind waiting for me.”
“N—No… not in the least. Absolutely…” His voice disappears to a whisper. “I’m terribly sorry,” he murmurs.
“You’re apologising to the wrong person. But you can put that right when you next see Miss Cooper. Goodbye, Mr Pickford.”
I don’t wait to hear what he says, but replace the receiver and turn to see Amelie staring at me.
“Do I still have a job?” she asks.
“Yes. Of course you do.”
“I doubt anyone has ever spoken to Mr Pickford quite like that before,” she says, smiling.
“Well, maybe they should.” I smile back. “Now,” I say, trying to keep my voice soft, because I doubt she’s going to appreciate my next request, “would it be possible for me to take a look at Beth’s bedroom?”
“Her bedroom?”
“Yes. She may have known her killer. It may have been a man she was seeing. She might have made a note in a diary, or written something down about him. I have to check, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to intrude.”
“She didn’t have a young man,” Amelie says, getting up and going over to the door, where I join her. “You’re welcome to look at her room, but I’m sure if she’d been seeing anyone, she’d have told me.”
I open the door and hold it while she passes through, and then we go up the wide staircase.
“Had she ever had a boyfriend?” I ask.
“Yes. Earlier in the year, she went out with one of the men from the factory,” Amelie replies, then pauses and leads me around the galleried landing and down a corridor to the left, opening the second door and passing through. I follow and she closes it behind us. “I’m sorry,” she says, unexpectedly. “I just realised that Aunt Millicent’s room is right at the top of the stairs, and she’d probably be able to hear us. I was about to tell you that Uncle Gordon was the one who put a stop to Beth and Daniel seeing each other.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Beth and Uncle Gordon argued about it, but he wasn’t going to budge.”
“So she broke it off with the young man?”
She nods her head. “Yes. She was very upset at the time.”
“She was keen on him?”
“She liked him a lot, yes.”
“Do you know his surname?” I ask.
“Yes. Milton. Daniel Milton.”
“Thank you.”
She glances around. “Do you want me to leave you alone… to snoop?”
“No. On the contrary. I’d like you to stay. I may have more questions.” And besides, I like being with you.
She smiles and sits on the edge of the bed, while I methodically go through the bedroom, looking at the books on the shelves – most of which are classics, organised in order of height – delving into her drawers, where her clothes are neatly folded, and wardrobe, which contains carefully pressed skirts and jackets, and a few dresses. So far, so boring. Finally, in the drawer of her bedside cabinet, I find a small black diary. I stand and leaf through it. She’s written down people’s birthdays, and I notice that Amelie’s is the twenty-third of January, just a week before mine. How strange… There’s the odd reminder for a party or outing, and it’s easy to see how much time she spent with Daniel Milton from the number of occasions when his initials appear between the beginning of March and the middle of June. In addition, every so often, there’s a simple ‘X’ marked against a date. I hold the book open and turn it to show Amelie.
“Do you know what that signifies?” I ask her, pointing to the mark.
“Yes.” She blushes, but doesn’t elucidate.
“Can you explain?”
She hesitates. “It’s her… um…” She stops talking, then says, “Look at the frequency,” with an air of desperation. “Surely you can work it out.”
I look back at the book and notice that the marks are roughly four weeks apart. Of course. I’m being an idiot.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have thought.”
She glances up at me, her blush fading. “Did she write anything down?” she asks. “Apart from that?”
“No. Just birthdays and appointments really. Nothing significant.” I put the book back in the drawer of her bedside table and close it. As a final gesture, I bend and run my hands beneath the pillows, coming up empty.
“What are you looking for under there?” Amelie asks, clearly intrigued by my actions.
I straighten and look down at her. “Nothing in particular, but it’s a favourite place for people to hide important things,” I explain.
She smiles. “I’ll have to remember that,” she says.
I follow her out of the room and back down the stairs. As far as I’m concerned, that was the worst possible result. I’ve discovered nothing, other than the fact that Beth Templeton was an almost pathologically organised person, with a fairly regular menstrual cycle, and neither of those facts helps with the case. It doesn’t look as though her attacker was anyone she knew, and that means we’re looking for a stranger – or a needle in haystack, which would probably be easier to find.
I’ve just stepped off of the bottom stair when the front door opens and a man walks through, slamming it closed loudly behind him. He’s slim, at least forty-five, very good looking, probably around six feet tall, with dirty-blond hair, a slightly darker moustache and an expensive light grey suit.
“Uncle Gordon,” Amelie cries and runs to him. He pulls her into his arms and holds her close, stroking her hair.
“Amelie, my darling girl,” he says, leaning back eventually and looking down at her. “Are you alright?”
“Not really.”
“Of course you’re not. That was a stupid question, wasn’t it?” He seems to notice me for the first time. “Who are you?” he asks.
“Detective Inspector Stone. From the Yard.”
“I see.” He nods. “You’d better come into the drawing room and ex
plain what’s going on.” And, keeping his arm around Amelie, he steers us back into the sitting room once more.
I close the door, but don’t sit down this time. “Would it be possible to speak to you alone, sir?” I ask him.
“No,” he replies, quite simply, sitting beside Amelie on the couch she recently vacated. “Amelie’s upset. I don’t like the idea of her being by herself.”
I’m sure he doesn’t, and neither do I, if I’m being truthful, but I also don’t want to have to explain the circumstances of his daughter’s death with Amelie in the room. I know she made the discovery, but I’m still hopeful that she either didn’t notice, or didn’t realise the significance of the condition of her friend’s body.
“Very well.” I observe that he’s holding her hands in his lap, sitting very close to her – perhaps a little closer than feels appropriate. I try very hard not to read too much into that, but when I close my eyes for a moment, I find I’ve made a mental note of the image. “I’m not sure how much you know already?” I ask, directing my question to Gordon Templeton.
“Only that Amelie discovered my daughter’s body this morning, the poor thing. That’s all she told me on the telephone.” It strikes me as odd that he seems more concerned for Amelie than he does about Beth’s death. It’s something else to file away in my obviously sullied brain.
“Yes, sir. Well, I can inform you that your daughter was murdered sometime last night, probably between the hours of eight and ten pm, although that has yet to be confirmed.”
“How was she killed?” he asks, his eyes focused on mine.
“She was strangled,” I reply.
In the first show of grief I’ve seen, he swallows very hard and blinks rapidly three or four times.
“We don’t know whether the man who killed her was waiting here, or whether he came home with her—”
“Home with her from where?” he interrupts. “And how do you know for certain that it was a man?”
I sigh. This is why I wanted to speak to him alone. Still, he’s put us in this position, so there’s not a lot I can do about it now.
“Your daughter stopped off at The Plough yesterday evening, sir,” I explain. “It’s possible that she may have met someone there, and that he may have brought her home.”
