Murder and Mascara

by Evelyn James

  Niamh hesitated, looking about ready to snatch the papers back.

  “You have two months’ worth of evidence,” Clara pointed out. “You retain one set and I can borrow the other. I don’t intend to destroy them. You have my word on that.”

  Niamh didn’t seem to think Clara’s word worth much, considering she was friends with Abigail Sommers, but she conceded anyway.

  “So be it,” she said grumpily.

  “Whatever this does or does not prove,” Clara said steadily, “I do not think Abigail a murderer or a saboteur. These papers in fact prove that Abigail is determined to keep her place at Albion by whatever means necessary. Sabotage and murder are completely counterproductive to that goal. They could destroy her career.”

  Niamh shrugged.

  “I don’t claim to understand her motives. I just say that she is dangerous,” she took back her set of papers, leaving Clara with the other set, folded them into her bag and stalked off.

  Clara was left alone to mull over what she had discovered. She was disheartened, but she had told the truth to Niamh, these papers did not make Abigail a murderer. Not yet, at least.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clara didn’t sleep easy that night, and when morning came there was a great deal on her mind, not least Abigail’s apparent misdeeds with her sales figures. One of the problems she was struggling with was whether the two unfortunate murder victims were chance attacks or whether someone had always intended to kill them. There seemed hints that this was the case because of the choice of murder weapon, but how did that fit in with this betrayal business? Surely Clara was not looking for a saboteur and a murderer, two different people both out to cause havoc for Albion Industries or possibly Abigail herself? Clara decided that to try and answer that question she needed to know more about the victims.

  She went first to the Pavilion to see how the morning was shaping up. Everyone seemed busy and uninclined to speak to her. She skirted the rooms, but everything seemed in order. She caught a glimpse of Miss Muggins near her trade stand, the woman looked pale and distracted. Having already spoken with her without achieving much success, Clara decided to leave her be. Clara turned around sharply and nearly bumped straight into a rotund gentleman in a grey suit. He laughed and apologised.

  “My fault, I was in too much haste,” Clara responded.

  “Are you one of the stall holders?” the gentleman inquired.

  “No, actually I am member of the Pavilion committee,” Clara explained. “Miss Fitzgerald.”

  “Percival Grundisburgh,” the gentleman introduced himself. “Of Albion Industries. I am one of their executives. I came directly down this morning from London.”

  Clara took another look at the man. Now she could see his suit was of a very good cut and the tailor had done what he could to mask his client’s girth with the design. Mr Grundisburgh clearly enjoyed many working lunches, his paunch gave him away. But he looked robustly healthful despite his size and smiled broadly at the room about him. As far as executives went, Mr Grundisburgh was not terribly intimidating, rather he seemed the friendly sort with his round chubby face, bald pate and frizzy white hair about his ears. He was also considerably younger than a first glance might suggest.

  “I was not expecting an executive from Albion Industries,” Clara said. “Had I known I would have made suitable arrangements to welcome you.”

  Mr Grundisburgh brushed these remarks aside.

  “It was a last minute trip, decided upon after we received some worrying news that there had been trouble at the trade fair. It was thought best if a senior figure came down to investigate and that job nearly always falls on me. My fellows seem to think I am rather good at sorting out this type of thing,” Mr Grundisburgh was amused by this. “Now, do you happen to know where Miss Sommers is?”

  News had clearly not reached Albion headquarters of all the trouble that had occurred at the fair.

  “Mr Grundisburgh, might we converse somewhere private?”

  The executive looked curious, but he had no reason to deny the request. He followed Clara to a side room where they could speak quietly admit assorted boxes of Albion Industries products. Clara perched herself on a box, Mr Grundisburgh eyed the room for a box that might be able to support his weight. Deciding there was not one available he contented himself with standing.

  “What has happened that I do not know about?” he asked.

  Clara took a deep breath before she began.

  “Abigail Sommers has been arrested due to a complaint from one of the other Albion representatives. It is very circumstantial and I don’t think any charges will stick. Sadly, the woman who has made the complaint has a very real hatred for her rival.”

  Mr Grundisburgh looked solemn.

  “That is unhappy news. Albion does not like discord among its employees. Such a thing can be very bad for business.”

  From his tone, Clara guessed Mr Grundisburgh did not know the full extent of the recent problems the fair had suffered.

  “What precisely was mentioned in the message you received?” she asked.

  “The note was simplistic, but said there had been some attempts to sabotage the fair.”

  “No mention of murder?” Clara asked.

  Mr Grundisburgh’s eyes grew wide and round.

  “Murder?” he hissed.

  Clara gave a little sigh, then began to outline to Mr Grundisburgh the events of the last few days. Everything from the first attempts at sabotage to the recent death of Mr Forthclyde. She avoided saying too much about Abigail and the evidence found in her room. She didn’t feel Mr Grundisburgh needed ideas put into his head. Clara was convinced that evidence had been planted by someone else and saw no reason to perpetuate the lies against Abigail. When she had finished outlining all that had gone on Mr Grundisburgh looked most morose.

  “This is far more serious than I was expecting,” he said.

  “Have Albion received any threats lately? Any disgruntled employees wanting to cause havoc?” Clara queried.

  Mr Grundisburgh scratched at his head.

  “Albion is not immune to hate mail,” he admitted. “We are a big company, very popular, and some people are jealous of that success. Others just see us as a big target to attack.”

  “Has anybody made threats that stood out from the rest?” Clara rephrased herself.

  Mr Grundisburgh considered this for a while, then slowly nodded.

  “There was a very nasty letter the other week, full of expletives and threatening harm to anyone who worked for the company. The letter was typed and whoever wrote it had not been inclined to sign it. It was unpleasant, but no one took it to heart.”

  “What about someone who might feel betrayed by the company?”

  Mr Grundisburgh paused. Then he glanced up.

  “There was this one young fellow who caused us some bother. He was in the developmental section of the business, creating and refining products. Us executives laughingly refer to them as the kitchen boys because they are always cooking up new ideas,” Mr Grundisburgh grinned. “This one fellow was a strange character. Came up with some good ideas, but struggled to work with others. Also, he was a little too prone to using the laboratories for his own experiments. He had to be reprimanded for it. He was dabbling in everything but cosmetics sometimes. Eventually the management grew tired of him despite his genius and fired him. He did not leave without a great deal of protest. But that was six months ago.”

  “What was his name?” Clara asked to be on the safe side.

  “Jeremiah Cook, but I can’t think he would harm anyone,” Mr Grundisburgh shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose he could have written that nasty letter.”

  “Is there anyone else you can think of?” Clara pressed. “Someone who would know the ins and outs of Albion’s work, right down to how successful one girl was at selling an unpopular stocking.

  Mr Grundisburgh opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He shook his head again.

  “Who made the com
plaint against Miss Sommers?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Niamh Owen,” Clara answered. “She claims Abigail pushed her, while Abigail states Niamh fell over her own heels when they were wrestling over some papers.”

  “Niamh Owen is temperamental,” Grundisburgh said cautiously. “Only because she has been such an asset to Albion have we overlooked some of her more unpleasant aspects. She has despised Abigail Sommers for as long as I can remember.”

  “Has she ever caused problems?” Clara asked.

  “A few,” Mr Grundisburgh confessed sorrowfully. “She could be prone to upsetting customers when she first started, but she has moderated herself since we had stern words. She mainly upsets the other girls now. Abigail Sommers is one of her particular vendettas and we have been aware of it for a while. She would do anything to see that woman suffer, and we have informally agreed among ourselves that if matters become out of hand we will have to think about reassigning one or the other of them.”

  “Has she had problems with other girls too?” Clara was curious now, wondering just how far Niamh Owen might be prepared to go to discredit her rival. Might she go as far as murder in a fit of temper?

  “We have had the odd complaint,” Mr Grundisburgh admitted. “Nothing that required a great deal of our time.”

  “Might I ask if any of those girls are here at the trade fair?”

  Mr Grundisburgh thought about the question.

  “Now you mention it, yes indeed, Miss Esther Althorpe had cause to complain about her. Miss Owen was encroaching on her sales territory.”

  Clara’s face fell. She had told Mr Grundisburgh about the murders but had omitted the identities of the individuals for the time being. Now her expression said everything.

  “Has something happened to Miss Althorpe?” Grundisburgh asked cautiously.

  “Miss Althorpe is sadly deceased,” Clara answered.

  Mr Grundisburgh became very quiet.

  “That I had not expected. When you said two people had been killed I assumed they were workmen, like the gentleman on the scaffold who was injured.”

  “Would the complaint have given Miss Owen reason to hate Miss Althorpe?”

  “My heavens!” Mr Grundisburgh tried to laugh, but the sound came out very brittle. “It was only a minor thing. Miss Owen was reminded that she was to stick to the area assigned to her. There was no nastiness, not really.”

  Mr Grundisburgh looked unconvinced with his own explanation, but Clara was inclined to think that it was a long way to go from encroaching on a person’s sales territory to murder.

  “Who… who was the other person killed?” Mr Grundisburgh asked anxiously.

  “Mr Forthclyde of Cushing’s Corsetry,” Clara answered.

  “Forthclyde!” Mr Grundisburgh gasped. “Why, the company has traded with Cushing’s for years and he has always been their spokesman! I only conversed with him last week. We were finalising some stock figures for Cushing’s new corset range. They want to sell them through Albion Industries’ stores and we were most agreeable to it. Oh, this is just terrible!”

  “I don’t suppose Mr Forthclyde had any dealings with Miss Owen?” Clara asked, though she rather fancied that she was clutching at straws.

  “Not that I am aware. Cushing’s have their own representatives, so our girls only promote a few of their lines. No, I am sure there was nothing between them. I can’t say if they even knew the other existed.”

  “Is there anyone you can think of who might have held a grudge against Mr Forthclyde or the Cushing’s company?”

  Mr Grundisburgh was clearly struggling to take all this information in. He became flushed and had to pull out a handkerchief and pat the sweat off his forehead.

  “All this talk has made me feel queasy,” he sighed.

  “I shall fetch you some water,” Clara offered.

  “Please, no. I shall be fine. I must get this over with. Were there any problems with Mr Forthclyde? Let me see,” Mr Grundisburgh thought for a long while, then he declared in a deep tone. “Mr Forthclyde was briefly at the heart of a scandal involving his former assistant.”

  “A scandal?” Clara was intrigued. “I have met his new assistant, Miss Muggins.”

  “Yes, she had to be taken on in some haste. The previous girl and Mr Forthclyde had had a fling which resulted in some unfortunate talk. The girl’s parents were angry and wanted Mr Forthclyde to resign. He protested his innocence and, in truth, the girl’s word was all we had for it. Nothing really happened except she left and we took on Miss Muggins instead.”

  It was scanty basis for murder, Clara reflected. So far neither of the victims seemed to have any real enemies.

  “What of Miss Sommers relationship with either Esther Althorpe or Mr Forthclyde?”

  “As far as I was aware it was purely professional,” Mr Grundisburgh answered. “Esther Althorpe worked an area removed from the one Abigail Sommers was assigned. They would meet at certain functions, I dare say, but aside from that I don’t suppose they saw a lot of each other. And Mr Forthclyde coordinated directly with Albion Industries, he had no reason to go through our sales representatives. Its highly likely neither had even been introduced until this very week.”

  So that was that, at least Clara could say there was no reason for Abigail to want the two dead.

  “I come back to my original theory then,” Clara said. “That someone has a grudge against Albion Industries. The word ‘betrayal’ has been used a number of times. It was written on the floor and underneath poor Mr Forthclyde. If it is not directed at the victims themselves, or Abigail Sommers, it seems likely it is aimed at the company. Who has Albion betrayed Mr Grundisburgh?”

  The executive shook his head. He pulled anxiously at his tie, his colour had risen alarmingly.

  “Miss Fitzgerald, we are a business. Businesses make tough decisions and sometimes people feel they have been treated badly.”

  That was close to an admission that the company had mishandled some past trouble.

  “Can you think of anyone in particular?” she pushed.

  Again Mr Grundisburgh wrenched his tie.

  “Betrayal is such a peculiar word,” he muttered. “We stopped trading with a face cream company whose products contained an unhealthy amount of Arsenic, but surely we could claim they betrayed us as they had mislabelled their products?”

  “I think we are looking at an individual, rather than a company,” Clara persisted. “Have you had to sack any employees lately?”

  “Miss Fitzgerald, as at any large company, our turnover of staff is frequent and we do have to fire some from time to time,” Mr Grundisburgh seemed to find it ludicrous to imagine a sacked employee could be the culprit. “Over the last three months I believe we have had to let go five individuals for various reasons.”

  “Might any of them have felt betrayed?”

  “Angry, perhaps, but not betrayed,” Mr Grundisburgh found the idea absurd. “No, Miss Fitzgerald, I just cannot help you.”

  Clara doubted that. She was convinced Mr Grundisburgh was holding back on her, but she didn’t think he was going to reveal anything else for the time being. And he was looking very flustered and liable for a heart attack. She decided to leave her questions for the moment. Perhaps with time to think, Mr Grundisburgh would come up with new answers.

  “I must send a telegram back to head office,” Mr Grundisburgh muttered. “This is much more serious than I first imagined.”

  He moved to the door and Clara followed him. Back in the main hall it was cooler and Mr Grundisburgh’s high colour started to diminish. He bustled off before Clara could say anything else to him. Clara watched the hall for a moment, looking at all the commotion as people bought and sold items and talked about the latest fashions. She decided it was time to go somewhere quieter. Time to seek out Abigail again and see if she was ready to tell the truth about all this.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Abigail clutched her head in her hands.

  �
�Mr Grundisburgh,” she groaned softly to herself. “I’m finished.”

  “Don’t despair just yet,” Clara reassured her. They were sitting in the quiet interview room at the police station, two strong cups of tea on the table. “This is far from over. Abigail, these attacks are not your fault, but we must talk earnestly and honestly. For your sake. Do you understand?”

  Abigail put down her hands and looked up at Clara.

  “Go ahead, what have I to lose now? I am facing the end of my career and I can’t see how I can begin again. How many companies want to employ a woman in a significant position, let alone a woman who has been released from her previous employment in disgrace?”

  Abigail looked abjectly miserable. Clara feared she would feel even worse by the time they finished their conversation.

  “Let us begin with those papers Niamh referred to,” Clara said. “She has shown them to me and I have borrowed one set.”

  Clara rummaged in her handbag and withdrew the papers, she placed them on the table before Abigail.

  “Perhaps you might explain them to me?”

  Abigail glanced at the papers and frowned.

  “These appear to be my sales returns, the paperwork I send in to state how many products I have sold to a company,” Abigail’s frown deepened. “The second sheet is the record of what was actually dispatched to the shops and individuals in question. And it is plain to see they do not tally.”

  Abigail fixed her eyes on Clara.

  “I did not write the first sheet like this. It bears my signature, I know, but I have never forged my papers. I swear on my soul to that!” Abigail became despairing. “Someone is trying to ruin me, that is plain to see. Here, look how this five has become a six in this column, turning 150 boxes of Glimmer Face Cream into 160. Please believe me Clara!”

  Abigail desperately pushed the sheets back to Clara and indicated the changes. Clara had to admit that the numbers that differed from the dispatch sheet were indeed ones that could be easily changed. A zero became an eight with a stroke of the pen. The insertion of an extra one into a column turned a 2 into 12. The sheets certainly might have been doctored after they were sent in to Albion’s accounts department.