Murder and Mascara

by Evelyn James

  “I am Inspector Park-Coombs and this is Miss Fitzgerald,” the inspector began. “You are the young lady who made the unfortunate discovery?”

  “Yes,” the girl said bleakly. She had been crying and looked fit to start again. “It was awful to see Esther like that.”

  “Ah. Your name, miss?”

  “Ivy Longman,” the girl answered.

  “And you knew Esther?”

  “We went on the same training course when we were first taken on by Albion,” Ivy explained. “Then we both were placed in the South-East region as representatives. We travelled a lot, but I always kept in touch with Esther. We would arrange to meet up for tea once a month. This is a hard job, you know, not a lot of time for socialising, and it helps enormously having a friend who understands that.”

  Ivy sniffed miserably.

  “I’m going to miss her so badly,” her voice trembled, but she was not about to cry in front of strangers. She took out her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes discreetly.

  “When did you last see Esther, before finding her in the room?” the inspector asked with his usual blunt approach.

  Ivy winced as his words conjured up the image of Esther in the side room, but she answered clear enough.

  “Perhaps half-an-hour before. We had been walking through the rooms set aside for the fair, taking note of the various trade stands. We wanted to be sure we would be in the perfect place to make our sales when the event opened. We had explored most of the building during the tour. Esther asked whether I had seen any of the samples, especially Albion’s new lipstick. I said I had not. Esther said we ought to try out the product before we sold it. We always did that, it was part of our personal policies, to know precisely how the product worked and how it felt to wear,” Ivy allowed a hint of pride to come into her tone. She was a professional salesperson and took her responsibilities very seriously. “Esther said she would fetch a sample from the storeroom. Some of the Pearl Pink lipsticks had been damaged and they had been put in a separate box. We were told we could take one of these damaged lipsticks to try. Esther went to fetch one while I was examining a corset display. She never came back.”

  Ivy had to take a deep breath before she could carry on.

  “When she hadn’t returned in such a long time, I started to worry. Well, perhaps worry is not the right word. I wondered what had become of her and I was bored with corsets. I thought I would go looking for her. It seemed logical to start in the storeroom where she had gone in search of a Pearl Pink sample and there…” Ivy gulped, “…there she was.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Clara said gently. “You had no reason, I imagine, to think Esther was in any danger.”

  “None,” Ivy agreed. “What danger would there be here? I never thought…”

  “Did Miss Althorpe have any problems with anyone here? A work colleague perhaps?” Park-Coombs asked.

  “Problems?” Ivy was bemused. “No more than anyone. We are all competitive here, naturally. We all want the top sales score. But no one is about to murder anyone over it! Or at least, so I had imagined…”

  “Did Miss Althorpe have any male friends?” the inspector persisted.

  “No. She never had the time. All of us are the same. We made a decision, Inspector, to have a career rather than a family. Some might think that a strange thing for a woman, we do not,” Ivy’s firm tone reminded Clara that she was a tough woman, someone determined to make a mark in a predominantly male world. Just like Abigail, she would not crumble easily.

  “Miss Longman,” Clara interrupted. “Can you think of anyone who might have cause to feel betrayed by the Albion company?”

  Ivy looked puzzled by the question.

  “Betrayed?”

  “A message was scrawled on the floor of the main hall the other day in lipstick. It read ‘betrayal’,” Clara explained, making a note to herself to check the floor and ensure it had been cleaned sufficiently. After the plasterwork fiasco, she had lost all faith in the workmen.

  “I can’t think of anyone,” Ivy shook her head. “No one has complained of such a thing to me.”

  They concluded the interview and Clara and the inspector wandered back into the entrance hall of the Pavilion.

  “Rather puts a damper on events,” Park-Coombs noted.

  “Abigail will not let it deter her,” Clara said loyally. “And the press need not get a whiff of this before the fair opens.”

  The inspector raised an eyebrow at Clara, indicating how naïve he felt that hope was. The press would latch onto anything, given half the chance. It would be difficult, considering the number of people who had witnessed the discovery of Esther Althorpe’s body, to keep this under wraps.

  “I’ll know more after the post-mortem,” Park-Coombs mused. “Do you know how unusual it is for someone to be killed without them knowing their attacker?”

  “Very unusual, I would imagine,” Clara guessed.

  “Someone who attacks a stranger and thus commits a motiveless crime is very difficult to track. If you can’t connect them to the victim, it is near enough impossible. Look at Jack the Ripper.”

  “But no crime is motiveless,” Clara countered. “Jack was never caught, so he could not be questioned about his motive, but he most certainly had one. And that was a Victorian crime when the police force was very new and still learning its art.”

  “Meaning you still have faith in my abilities to solve this?” Park-Coombs smiled mischievously.

  “More important, Inspector,” Clara returned the smile, “I have faith in my abilities.”

  She winked at him. Park-Coombs laughed and said his farewells just as Tommy was appearing from one of the far rooms in the Pavilion. Bramble was trailing behind him, trying to sniff every item scattered on the floor as he went past and failing because Tommy had his lead firmly in his hand.

  “While you were busy, I had the workmen carefully remove that nail from the plasterwork and I took a quick look about to see if there was any further damage,” Tommy said as he approached.

  “Thank you,” Clara said gratefully. “That is one less thing to worry over.”

  “Abigail swept past me while I was sorting things. I remember her now, I am sure she visited us one summer.”

  “She did,” Clara concurred. “She stayed for a week.”

  “Well she swept past with a scowl on her face that looked as though she was fit to bite someone’s head off. Personally, I would not want to anger her. I think her reaction to a threat would be both swift and dangerous.”

  “You aren’t suggesting she killed Esther Althorpe?” Clara asked him as they walked out of the Pavilion and towards the road.

  “Was that the girl in the storeroom? No, I am not suggesting that. Just that this saboteur and murderer ought to be careful about who he offends.”

  They wandered out of the Pavilion gardens and through the gates. It was dark now and the stars glittered overhead. Clara stared skywards and paused.

  “I’ll go visit Captain O’Harris tomorrow,” she said abruptly.

  Tommy wasn’t sure if she was talking to him, or just muttering to herself. He responded to be on the safe side.

  “Good. Because I want to visit too, but I think it would be best if you go first,” Tommy hesitated. “Clara, the man has been through an awful lot. He has been missing a year and who knows the traumas he experienced in that time. Be aware of that when you go to see him. He might not be… like before.”

  Clara smiled sadly.

  “I know. For a while it was that very thought that made me wonder if I should go at all. But I think I should. He needs to know there are still people around who care for him.”

  They turned up the road and walked home in thoughtful silence.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning Clara went back to the Pavilion first thing to see how events were progressing. She also wanted to keep an eye on the workmen and their slapdash attitude to old architecture. The trade stallholders had arrived on an early train an
d were setting up their various displays with alacrity. The rooms no longer looked bare, with just empty tables and plain hoardings. Now there was colour and excitement. Clara was beginning to understand how big an occasion this affair was likely to be. She mingled among the stallholders, largely ignored, until she came across Abigail.

  “Have you time to talk? I know you are busy, but I thought we could try and get to the bottom of this little mystery?” Clara said as she spotted her.

  Abigail looked anxiously at her watch.

  “I think I have a moment or two. I’ve been going over this problem in my mind all night, I barely slept.”

  She directed Clara to one of the side rooms that had been set aside for the use of the Albion ladies. It was littered with handbags and coats, not to mention a vast array of cosmetics.

  “The police want to take possession of Esther’s personal belongings. I said I would arrange it,” Abigail picked up a grey handbag with a pretty black sequin flower sewn around its catch. “This is hers, I am confident of it. Could I ask you to take it to the police station? I can’t think when I will have the time to leave the Pavilion.”

  Clara said she could. Abigail handed over the handbag looking fraught.

  “I keep thinking that it must be someone among us who did this dreadful thing,” she said, finding a stool to lower herself onto.

  “You have had the gates and doors open the entire time you have been here,” Clara pointed out. “Anyone might have walked in.”

  “But this person has a grudge against Albion, and it is not correct that the doors have always been open. The last couple of days that has been the case, but previously in the week we have had the gates shut to prevent the press snooping about. You know I caught a newspaperman in here on Monday! He had slipped in posed as a workman! I sent him packing and since then have kept a better eye on the premises.”

  “Still, if he slipped in, perhaps someone else did too?” Clara gently hinted.

  Abigail once more shook her head.

  “I am certain Clara that I know everyone here. It was the reason I spotted the newspaperman at once. I didn’t recognise his face. I am on top of all this, I really am,” Abigail unconsciously brushed a strand of hair back from her face.

  “What was the name of the newspaperman?” Clara asked, thinking she would find out from him just how impenetrable the Pavilion was.

  “Oh, I don’t know Clara,” Abigail puttered. “I never asked his name. He babbled something about working for the Brighton Gazette.”

  “I’ll check him out, just in case,” Clara reassured her. “Now, if you are certain no one else could have entered the building, why don’t we start putting together a list of potential suspects based on who was around?”

  Abigail nodded wearily.

  “The workmen, of course. Mr Taversham is the foreman. He will know all their names, I’m afraid I don’t. Until yesterday there was no one else about, except for myself.”

  “How many workmen are there?”

  “Ten, not including Mr Taversham. Could one of them really be responsible?” Abigail frowned. “What a ghastly thought. And to think they hurt one of their own in the process.”

  “You don’t know the name of the workmen who was injured when the scaffold collapsed?”

  “No. But Mr Taversham will.”

  “Abigail,” Clara leaned forward. “Is there anyone specifically you can think of who might have a grudge against Albion Industries? The word ‘betrayal’ was a very precise thing to write on the floor, after all.”

  Abigail gnawed on her lip. She was thinking hard, trying to imagine someone who would be willing to go to such lengths over a grudge.

  “It’s no good,” Abigail shrugged her shoulders. “No one springs to mind.”

  “What about you? Have you had cause to argue with anyone recently?”

  Abigail laughed bitterly.

  “Clara that is all I ever do some days! Don’t get me wrong, mostly this job is about selling, but I have to be stern with some of my clients. They will take liberties if I am not, and I sometimes don’t get everything I ask for from distributors. You see how it is with the workmen, every day is like that for me, it comes with the territory.”

  “But, have you had cause to speak to anyone more sharply than normal? About something outside work?”

  “Clara if I even had the slightest hunch I would tell you, but I can’t think of anyone. I speak to dozens of people most days. Perhaps some go away dissatisfied, but that is the nature of business. Nothing to take personally.”

  Clara was still convinced that either the person had a grudge against the company or a personal grudge against Abigail, which was why they were trying to sabotage the fair. But without a concrete lead, she was groping around in the dark for answers.

  “You said you have rivals and one of those might be behind the sabotage?” Clara pressed.

  “Every one of those ladies outside are my rivals,” Abigail said plainly. “Each of them wants to beat me at my own game and become the top selling Albion representative for their region. I operate in the South-East, as do at least fifteen other ladies. All of whom would like to make more sales than me, but so far I am holding my own. Do you know the benefits Albion offers to their top sellers?”

  Clara admitted she did not.

  “Ten pounds, Clara. Ten pounds each month for the person who makes the most sales and I have been that person for the last twelve months. Ten pounds buys an awful lot of hot meals. I am putting it away and saving for a house, so I can move out of my little flat,” Abigail smiled wanly. “I dream of having a little garden. Nothing fancy, but somewhere to sit on a summer’s evening. And I thought I might get a cat to keep me company. If I have a dream and see that extra ten pounds as a means of achieving it, why shouldn’t everyone else be the same?”

  It was a fair point. Abigail’s aspirations put her in a prime position to be despised by her fellow Albion ladies. Jealousy was a terrible emotion and there was nothing as good at creating jealousy as success.

  “You said you operate in the South-East?” Clara asked.

  “Yes, I do now. For the last year, in fact.”

  “Esther Althorpe also operated in the South-East, did you know her?”

  Abigail was unfazed by the question.

  “As I say, I have only been in the region for the last twelve months and I have yet to meet all my fellow representatives. We work alone, after all. It only tends to be at the annual Christmas conference that we come together. I had never met Esther, until this week.”

  “Is it possible that Esther had an enemy all of her own?” Clara continued. “Could it be the sabotage and the murder are unrelated?”

  Abigail frowned again.

  “I couldn’t say. Esther was just another name on the list of sales representatives. She was good at her job, though. Top five most months. If she had an enemy, I was not aware of it.”

  Clara didn’t feel she had gained much, other than a greater impression than before of the challenge now facing her.

  “Are we done? I must get back to what I was doing.”

  “We are done,” Clara nodded.

  Abigail rose to her feet.

  “I’ll see you tonight at the pre-opening banquet. They are installing the table in a room upstairs as we speak. And I have to make sure the caterers have all they need,” Abigail sighed. “I must admit, I’ll be glad when this is over.”

  She departed from the room. Clara started to rise from her stool, then remembered Esther’s handbag. She lifted up its flower catch and looked inside. The bag contained the usual assortment of belongings a woman would carry. There was quite a bit of make-up, all Albion. Clara counted at least three lipstick tubes. There was a crumpled tissue, a purse containing odd coins, and a photograph of another woman who looked much like Esther; Clara suspected it was her sister. There was a hairbrush and a small tin of mints. At the bottom were several crumpled pieces of paper which proved to be forgotten shopping lists and old rece
ipts. Clara worked her way through them, but nothing seemed important. Clara was beginning to think Esther had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. There seemed nothing, as far as she could see, that would make someone want to kill her. The handbag was a dead end for the time being. She replaced its contents and would hand it over to the police as soon as she had the chance. In the meantime, she went in search of Mr Taversham the foreman.

  Mr Taversham was a local man who had been employed by Albion Industries for the duration of the trade fair. Much like Abigail, Mr Taversham was feeling that the trade fair was causing him a lot of anxiety for very little return. He would be glad when it was over.

  When he spotted Clara approaching him, he gave a slight groan. What had his men done now? Mr Taversham wanted to shake his head in despair. He had hired the men locally, as he always did, and had found them reliable to a point, but they clearly did not match up with the exacting standards of this damn Pavilion committee. He felt bad about the damaged plasterwork, that was a silly oversight, but he really could do without being further reprimanded by the prim young woman now heading towards him. He was contemplating disappearing among the various stands when he heard his name called.

  “Mr Taversham, might I have a word?”

  Taversham sighed.

  “What is wrong now?” he asked with the weariness of a man who knows he shall be wrong whatever he does.

  “Nothing, as such. I just wanted a word about this nasty business of sabotage and so forth. Could we talk?”

  Mr Taversham found this a suspicious statement, but he nodded his head and followed Clara to the tea room.

  “What precisely do you want to talk about?” he asked as soon as the door was shut behind them.

  “The problems this event has been having,” Clara said simply. “The misplaced lipsticks, the scaffold collapsing…”

  “That makes me angry,” Mr Taversham interrupted, wagging a thick finger in the air. “I have all these people looking at me with this expression in their eyes. They don’t trust me, they think I am some shabby no-hoper who would neglect their duty and allow a scaffold to collapse. I did not, Miss Fitzgerald. I inspected every bolt on that scaffold and I can confirm that they were all secure and properly tightened. That scaffold was perfectly safe when I last looked at it.”