Murder and Mascara

by Evelyn James

  Clara was almost in despair when Dr Cutt opened the parlour door and gave her his gentle smile. Dr Cutt was a spry old man with pure white hair and the kindest face Clara had ever known. From the day they had met Clara had known the doctor could help her brother Tommy to walk again, and she had not been wrong. Dr Cutt had seen that Tommy’s problems were far from physical, but had never made him feel ashamed about that. He had saved Tommy, now Clara desperately needed him to save Captain O’Harris.

  “Good evening Clara, my housekeeper tells me you have a most urgent problem and since she rarely lets people through the door after six o’clock I can only assume it is something quite serious.”

  Dr Cutt settled himself in the chair opposite Clara.

  “Why don’t you tell me what is wrong?”

  Clara started to explain, rushing a little and making herself breathless in the effort. She explained about Captain O’Harris’ dramatic return, his adventures in the Pacific and his subsequent illness. When she came to the part about Dr Holland her voice hardened, she could not keep the dislike from her tone. She had just finished her explanation when Mrs Wall appeared with a tray of tea and sandwiches.

  “You looked likely to need sustenance,” Mrs Wall explained to Clara, handing over a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches. Without asking she took a chair slightly to the side of the doctor. Clearly she wanted in on the action too.

  “It seems you have a first-class pickle on your hands,” Dr Cutt said lightly, taking up his own sandwich plate. “Dr Holland has his merits,” Mrs Wall gave a huff in the background to this statement, “but he is not, and has never been, a very insightful man. He believes that pills cure people, and if a pill cannot cure them, well, then they have a terminal condition and he wants nothing more to do with them. Sad to say, he is not so unusual in the medical world.

  “As for his views on mental health problems, the less said the better. He thinks that such difficulties as depression or phobias are caused by the sufferer’s own self-indulgence. They should snap out of it, in short, and if they cannot then his only solution for them is Ward D, as you have seen. Dr Holland cannot abide patients with psychological difficulties, to the point that he prefers to hide them away rather than deal with them. I once remarked to him that he rather has a phobia about the mentally ill, which went down like a lead balloon.”

  Dr Cutt raised an eyebrow in wry amusement.

  “Of course, that does not mean we must take this problem lightly. I just mean to reassure you that this is normal Dr Holland behaviour and not a direct attack against you.”

  As always Dr Cutt proved himself instinctively insightful and had guessed one element of Clara’s fears. Clara was at once relieved and a little abashed to learn her anxieties were so transparent.

  “Now, as for Dr Patton,” Dr Cutt mused. “He is a man dedicated to the desire for promotion. It is all he lives and works for. Ward D has suited him most admirably. For a start, it is a ward few doctors wish to become head of, thus cutting down his competition for promotion, while also gaining him the respect of other doctors who admire him for willingly taking on such challenging work. And then, of course, he has those patients who are so out of their minds much of the time, either through their illness or the sedatives delivered to them, that if they don’t see their doctor from one week to the next they are unlikely to notice. And even less likely to complain or be taken seriously if they did. Dr Patton can thus ignore his patients without fear of a reprimand, which he would surely experience on any other ward. He is also quite happy to follow the recommendations of the other doctors in the hospital, rather than make his own diagnoses.

  “This matter has concerned me for years and I have been lobbying the hospital board to do something about it. Unfortunately, Dr Patton has made himself very friendly with some of the members. But this should not distress you Clara, for I have other well placed friends who can help me get into the hospital to see Captain O’Harris.”

  Clara felt as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

  “You will see him and offer a diagnosis?” she said.

  “I will, first thing tomorrow,” Dr Cutt agreed. “From what you describe I believe the man is suffering from a delayed form of shock. I have seen a number of similar cases in returning soldiers. The hallucinations are particularly symptomatic. You say he imagined himself back in the ocean?”

  “Yes, and thought the nurse a shark attacking him.”

  “Having met a few nurses in my time in the medical profession I can see the analogy,” Dr Cutt chuckled to himself. “But, in seriousness, this is something I have seen before and which can be worked through. There must be no more talk of asylums, however, and none of this sedative nonsense. That does no more than mask matters.”

  “Thank you Dr Cutt,” Clara said, wanting to rush over and hug the old man, but restraining herself for the sake of decorum. “I was at my wit’s end when I saw what had happened. Captain O’Harris is not mad, no more so than Tommy ever was. He has just been through such great turmoil.”

  “In more ways than one,” Dr Cutt nodded. “The initial trauma of the crash and being lost in the ocean was bad enough, but then he ate himself alive with the guilt over his co-pilot which you mentioned. Now, the man was never dead, but the guilt was still very real. And, for over a year, Captain O’Harris was stranded among strangers. The fact that he fell into a deep depression and stopped talking to those around him tells me a great deal about his mental state during that time. I am not surprised he has suffered this episode, a wiser doctor than Holland might even have expected it.”

  Dr Cutt made everything sound so rational and Clara was reassured. She apologised for disturbing his evening and thanked Mrs Wall for the tea and sandwiches, which had indeed restored her. They rose together and walked back to the front door.

  “Clara, one last thing,” Dr Cutt paused her on the doorstep. “I must be honest with you. This problem Captain O’Harris has will not go away overnight. It could take months, years even. He must be prepared for relapses, and you must be also.”

  “I understand,” Clara said. “But I am resolved to helping him.”

  “I never doubted that for a second,” Dr Cutt smiled. “Now, go home and do not worry. I have this matter in hand.”

  Clara thanked them both again and waved goodbye from the pavement. It was growing very late and Annie would wonder where she had got to, but Clara did not regret making her impromptu stop. It had been necessary for O’Harris’ sake. Now she set off for home, a new peace in her heart.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Clara slept easier that night. When morning came she headed for the Pavilion to see what drama would unfold that day. It was the public opening and she had a suspicion that if the saboteur wanted to disrupt Albion Industries’ event properly, they would pick today to do their worst. Clara had to admit her main concern was the old building this was all happening within. She didn’t want any nasty damage befalling the fabric of the Pavilion. She was starting to regret agreeing to the fair being held there at all.

  Mrs Levington was waiting at the gates of the Pavilion grounds, which had been locked overnight, to be let in. Clara joined her with a smile. It was a warm summer’s day, the birds were singing in the trees and there was a happy atmosphere in the air, as if a promise had been made that all would be well. Mrs Levington nudged Clara.

  “Look what I have,” she opened her bag and produced a tube of Pearl Pink. “It really is a ghastly garish shade, but I couldn’t resist. I am going to delight in wearing it to Committee meetings.”

  Clara was amused. Mrs Levington was an older woman who had never worn lipstick in her life. She had certainly decided to start with a bang.

  “Grab yourself a sample,” Mrs Levington persisted. “From the rumours I was hearing yesterday, it might be your last chance.”

  “What can you mean?” Clara asked.

  “That Japanese fellow, the one in the very smart suit. He is suing Albion Industries, claiming th
ey stole the Pearl Pink from his company. If he succeeds in his case, which from the gossip I was hearing yesterday seems very likely, then Albion will be forced to take the product off sale and pay him compensation. They will not be allowed to sell Pearl Pink lipstick.”

  That was a worrying predicament for Albion, Clara mused. They had put such energy into this product and its launch, to have it banned from sale could cause serious harm. Not to mention the bad press it would give the company.

  She was distracted from this thought by the arrival of Gilbert McMillan.

  “Good morning, Miss Fitzgerald. I finally get to see inside this legendary trade fair,” he grinned. The press had been largely kept from the Pavilion (except for a chosen few) until the public opening. “I have been following the dramas concerning some of the Albion ladies with quite an interest.”

  “I hope you will allow this matter to be resolved before you print gossip,” Clara said sternly, thinking of poor Abigail and the damage an erroneous newspaper article could do to her career.

  “I am a newspaperman who believes in facts, Miss Fitzgerald, as strange as that might sound,” Gilbert placed a hand on his chest in a ‘hand on heart’ gesture of honesty. “I was sorry to hear about Miss Sommers. It seems I may have been a little harsh in my judgement of her before. I have been doing a little digging and discovered she has made substantial donations to various charities over the years, and has assisted more than one girl in starting her career with Albion. I have heard several glowing reports.”

  “That is very good,” Clara said, relieved that at last someone had a good word to say about Abigail.

  “Now that Esther Althorpe who was murdered is quite another kettle of fish.”

  Clara pricked up her ears.

  “How so?”

  “Such secrets these ladies have,” Gilbert tutted. “Why I heard from a reliable source that Miss Althorpe was embroiled in a scandal involving Mokano cosmetics. I hear Mr Mokano is here himself, so I fancy I shall pick his brains and see what is what.”

  “A scandal?” Clara said. “Precisely what did she do?”

  “On that my source could not help. Perhaps it was something dubious enough to warrant her murder?” Gilbert raised his eyebrows in a speculative expression. “Well, all shall be revealed soon.”

  He stepped back as Mr Morris arrived to open the gates for everyone. There was now a crowd of people waiting to get in, including Mr Grundisburgh and the Albion ladies. The Pavilion had been locked up all night and everyone was eager to get inside and prepare for the day ahead. Mr Morris gave Clara a gentle smile as he removed the padlock. He would be glad when all this was over and the Pavilion returned to its usual quiet repose.

  The group marched to the main Pavilion doors, where once again Mr Morris did the honours. Clara glanced about for Niamh Owen. She was usually the first here. She had her own copy of the key for gates and door. Mr Morris was a standby. But Niamh was nowhere in sight. Clara thought that odd.

  Mr Morris took several moments to unlock the doors, he complained that the key seemed to be sticking. It finally turned and he swung back the doors with a grunt of satisfaction. This rapidly turned into a gasp of horror as the interior of the Pavilion came into view. His gasps were soon accompanied by the groans and cries from the other men and women gathered at the entrance. Someone had been very busy in the Pavilion overnight.

  Clara stepped through the doors and looked about her. Mr Morris and Mrs Levington were quickly at her side. Banners had been draped from one side of the hall to the other and upon each was the same word – betrayal – written over and over again. The Albion trade stalls had been dismantled, or perhaps ransacked would be the more appropriate word. Someone had taken pleasure in smashing the displays of goods, turning over the tables and writing all over the advertising boards in Pearl Pink the same familiar message. Pearl Pink lipsticks were also scattered across the tiled floor. The culprit must have found every box of them and tipped them out into a heap. The Pearl Pinks had rolled to all corners of the room, but looked largely undamaged. Clara picked one up from beside her shoe and opened it. The bright pink lipstick seemed unharmed.

  Mr Grundisburgh stomped into the hall, almost tripping over lipstick tubes.

  “What is all this?” he declared, staring around him in anger.

  Mr Morris was twitching, a deep desire to grab up his broom and start tidying the place almost overcoming him.

  “I think we should check over the entire building,” Clara said firmly. “So far nothing irreplaceable appears to have been damaged. Our saboteur at least has a conscience.”

  “Have you not seen the trade stand for the Baby Blonde Hair Dye?” Mr Grundisburgh spluttered. “Someone has drawn a moustache on the model in the advertisement!”

  There was indeed a Pearl Pink moustache drawn on the pretty blonde girl advertising the ‘easiest to use hair dye ever invented.’

  “I said nothing irreplaceable,” Clara reminded Mr Grundisburgh. “I was referring to the Pavilion.”

  “Naturally,” Mr Grundisburgh grumbled. “That is all you care about!”

  “As it should be,” Mrs Levington interrupted firmly. “The Pavilion is our concern, as the trade fair is yours. Just remember Mr Grundisburgh that if this building is damaged in any way because of the fair Albion Industries will be liable. Come on Clara, let’s inspect the rest.”

  The scene of disorder continued through the building. While the independent trade stands had gone untouched by the hand of the saboteur, every one of the Albion stands had been demolished in some fashion. Products had been scattered and smashed, tables thrown about and the advertisements either ripped or defaced. The word betrayal was written everywhere and Clara was beginning to find the repetition tiresome. She rather hoped the saboteur could become a little more specific in his written admonishments. Perhaps he might write next time on what he felt betrayed over?

  Thankfully the Pavilion was unscathed. Clearly the saboteur’s attentions had been entirely focused on Albion and nothing else. Mr Morris was looking deeply unhappy as he prowled about with Mrs Levington and Clara.

  “No damage,” Mrs Levington sighed as they came to the end of their patrol. “Disturbing nonetheless that this could happen. Did you lock up last night Mr Morris?”

  Mr Morris looked appalled by the suggestion.

  “No Mrs Levington, it was that Albion woman who was given a key.”

  “Niamh Owen,” Clara stated. “Who is strangely absent.”

  “Would she do such a thing?” Mrs Levington asked.

  Clara had to admit she could not say for sure, though it was very true that Niamh had been present for all the crimes and had a motive for killing poor Esther Althorpe if nothing else.

  “Personally, if I was behind this display, I would make sure I was about the next morning to unlock the doors and look shocked with everyone else,” Mrs Levington mused. “To prove my innocence.”

  “Very true,” Clara agreed. “And Niamh is smart enough to realise it looks more suspicious by her not being here than if she was.”

  Clara glanced at her watch. It was close to half past nine and the fair was supposed to be opening to the public at ten.

  “I think we ought to find Niamh Owen and discover just what went on when she locked up last night.”

  Clara went in search of Mr Grundisburgh. He was still picking up Pearl Pink tubes and shouting at the Albion girls with him to do something about the ruined displays. Precisely what they were supposed to do was a question he left unanswered. Gilbert McMillan was hovering in the background, gleefully taking down notes on the scene of devastation.

  “Mr Grundisburgh?”

  The Albion manager glanced up at Clara and glowered.

  “I am rather busy right now.”

  “I can see,” Clara assured him. “I was wondering which hotel Miss Owen was residing in last night. She does not appear to be here.”

  For the first time Mr Grundisburgh noticed that Niamh was missing. He stood up
from collecting lipstick tubes and glanced around him.

  “That is very odd. Miss Owen is many things, but she would not neglect her duty, unless…” his eyes fell on the debris all about him and it was obvious he was coming to a similar conclusion to that which Clara had considered mere moments before.

  “We ought to locate her,” Clara hinted. “Just in case something has happened.”

  “Well, if she is still in Brighton she will be in room ten at the Crown Hotel,” Mr Grundisburgh stated. “I shall show you there myself. Miss Owen has some explaining to do. For a start she can tell me why she has absented herself this morning.”

  Mr Grundisburgh handed his collected lipsticks to a nearby Albion girl and headed out of the Pavilion with Clara in tow.

  “Would there be any reason for Niamh to do something like this?” Clara asked as she matched Mr Grundisburgh’s fast stride. He was operating on fury and his pace had quickened as a result.

  “Miss Owen has had her ups and downs with the company. I recently had to reprimand her for being rude to some of her colleagues, but I can’t see how she might feel betrayed,” Mr Grundisburgh marched on. “But I see your thinking, Miss Fitzgerald. Miss Owen has had every opportunity to cause mischief here.”

  “And, in the process, two of her rivals have been effectively eliminated,” Clara pointed out. “Esther Althorpe is dead and Abigail Sommers in a police cell, her reputation in tatters. Quite the success for Niamh, if that was her intention.”

  Mr Grundisburgh could not keep up his furious pace. His weight was catching up with him and he had become out-of-breath. He slowed as they came to a hill.