Bright Young Things

by Jane A. Adams

  He set the paper aside, not wanting to read any further stale or dispiriting news. The day had tired him out and Henry must have drifted into sleep. He woke with a start to realize that it was now fully dark outside, and his watch told him that it was past ten. Wearily, he dragged himself off to bed aware that the sheets felt damp. Then he got up again, going through to the kitchen to switch off the gas rings and then the living room fire. The rooms at least felt warmer now and he was too exhausted to worry too much about damp sheets.

  That night he dreamt about the cellar. It was the first time in weeks that it had invaded his mind in sleep. That dank, cold, dark place where Melissa had been imprisoned and where he had nearly lost his life when he had gone to rescue her. The cold seeped into his bones. He tossed restlessly and finally woke with a start and the dreadful sense that someone else was in the room with him.

  Henry held his breath and sat up slowly, looking around, but there was nowhere to hide in the small bedroom. He padded through to the living room and kitchen, examined the bathroom, but there was no sign of anybody or of anyone having been there and the bolts were still fast on the front door. He had been dreaming, Henry realized. The damp of the sheets had reminded him of the damp cellar. The memory of being attacked from behind had no doubt infiltrated his over-exhausted mind. That was all there was to it. But he still felt shaken.

  Looking at his watch, he saw it was four a.m. He made himself some tea, remembering belatedly that there was no milk and he would have to drink it black. He switched on the electric fire and settled himself in his chair, wrapping a blanket from his bed around his shoulders and his counterpane across his knees. He fell asleep again without drinking his tea and woke only to the sound of Mickey Hitchens knocking on his door just after eight.

  Henry was acutely aware of his sergeant’s scrutiny when he let him in.

  ‘You should have come back with me,’ Mickey told him acerbically. ‘We have a spare room and you know Belle would love to have seen you.’

  ‘I have to be on my own at some point, Mickey,’ Henry replied. ‘I cannot stay forever at Cynthia’s, or even with you, not if I am back at work.’

  Mickey frowned and settled himself in Henry’s chair while his boss got dressed and ready to leave. Today they would be travelling up to Derbyshire, to speak with the Belmonts tomorrow, but before that he had an appointment at New Scotland Yard to discuss the car accident that everyone had believed had killed Faun Moran with DI Harold Shelton, who had come to London for the purpose.

  DI Shelton was as weaselly as Henry remembered. And his jacket was as loud. Today he was sporting a windowpane check, blue against a yellowish background, that caused Henry to feel slightly nauseous. The man was clearly nervous, grinning too often and fiddling with paperwork that had been placed on Henry’s desk.

  It was, Henry thought, strange to be back at his desk.

  He had been welcomed enthusiastically by his colleagues, most of whom had kept in touch while he had been away, but Henry had realized that he had actually been quite nervous when he walked back into the Central Office. He had almost expected to find his desk invisible under a pile of someone else’s investigation, or even been given to someone else. He expected life to have gone on, of course, but had almost assumed that he himself would have been written out of it. He was relieved to find that this was not the case.

  He now regarded DI Shelton with barely hidden distaste. So far, the man had gabbled a lot but relayed little of any use.

  ‘We expected there to be crime scene photographs,’ Henry said.

  ‘And indeed there were, there were, indeed. But where they are, I have no idea. You must understand I left very shortly thereafter. I know nothing about this. A road accident, tragic certainly, but that was all.’

  ‘But surely photographs would have been taken to see how the car came off the road, where it ended up? Pictures of the body, and of where the young man had landed when he was thrown clear.’

  ‘And as I said, Chief Inspector, photographs were taken, but where they are I have no idea. I no doubt filed everything in the appropriate places. If the photographs are now gone, that is not my responsibility.’

  His tone verged on insolent, Henry thought. Across the desk he could see that Mickey was frowning and looking as impatient as his boss felt. Henry took a deep breath. ‘And so, tell me what your observations were. Your accident report is scant on detail.’

  Inspector Shelton stared at the report that Henry pushed across the desk to him. ‘An accident,’ he said. ‘It was only because of the personages involved that the Yard was called upon at all. An accident is something the local constabulary could and should have dealt with. But someone realized that the gentleman involved was of some importance, and then it was reported that the young lady involved was also a lady of some substance and so we were called in case there had been foul play. There was none, of course. The young gentleman was drunk. He should not have been driving. He took the bend too fast and the result was a crash and conflagration and the poor unfortunate young woman lost her life. The coroner found that it was accidental, of course, so what more was to be done?’

  He had a point, Henry conceded, but he did not feel terribly charitable. Shelton’s report was brief, terse and lacking in detail, and the photographs were missing, which was a deep annoyance. ‘So, your impressions and observations?’

  Shelton sat back in his chair and sighed. He laced fingers across his mustard waistcoat and frowned. ‘The young gentleman was unconscious and the young woman was burnt beyond recognition. The car was remarkably intact considering. And now I believe there is a deeper mystery – that the young lady is not the young lady everyone thought had died.’

  Henry was staring at him. ‘What do you mean the car was remarkably intact?’

  ‘Exactly that. From the state of the young woman’s body I would have expected it to have been burned to a crisp, and true, it was badly fire-damaged, but the rear of the car, the rear of the car was surprisingly intact. The luggage compartment had burst open on impact and baggage had been scattered in all directions, but the boot of the car itself was merely scorched by the flames. The local constable thought that the car had burst into flames, but then the rolling put it out.’

  ‘And does that seemed likely?’ Henry asked coldly.

  ‘But what is the other explanation?’ Shelton asked. ‘The facts are as stated in my report. The car came off the road, tumbled down the hill, and from the amount of damage done to the undergrowth it probably rolled several times. The farmer who gave evidence certainly considered that to be the case, judging from the sounds he had heard.’

  Could you actually judge the number of times something rolled purely on hearing it happen? Henry wondered, but he said nothing.

  ‘And when did the farmer arrive?’ Mickey interposed.

  ‘Why, very quickly, I imagine, perhaps five minutes, perhaps ten. I did not walk the distance. Why should I? On hearing the crash the farmer sent his boy to fetch the doctor and the local constable, and the youth set off by bicycle, I believe, and the farmer himself came to the scene, expecting the worst, of course, and finding it. He brought one of his farmhands with him, as you’ll see from my report. They found the young man’s body halfway down the slope, and at first thought him dead. Then they saw the car, the body in the front passenger seat, as I say, burnt beyond recognition, and evidence of burning, of course, in the car itself.’

  ‘But the fire had gone out. Your report is a little vague.’

  Shelton hesitated. He was beginning to see what they were getting at and not liking the direction things were going in. ‘I believe out or as near as made no matter. They were very fortunate the petrol tank had not exploded. There is a stream at the bottom of the hill,’ he added as though suddenly relieved to have remembered this. ‘I believe the car had landed on its roof – of course it did not have a roof, the car, it was an open-topped vehicle, but anyways it landed on its top in the stream. Yes, that was it.’ He poked at his
notes, dabbing a finger at a passage. ‘I mentioned the stream. I’m sure I mentioned the stream.’

  Ostentatiously Henry took up the paper and examined it thoroughly before laying it back on the table. ‘No stream is mentioned,’ he said.

  ‘Well, if we had photographs, I could point out the location to you; I could indicate where the car landed. We would have evidence of it landing in the stream. Clearly that’s what put the fire out.’

  ‘And yet we do not have the photographs,’ Henry said.

  ‘No, well, quite, that is my problem. That is your problem, should I say. If we had the photographs it would be clear.’

  Henry sighed; he doubted that. ‘A fire hot enough to have reduced a young woman’s body to an unrecognizable mass would have been fierce and not easily extinguished,’ he said. ‘And the young woman was still in the car.’

  ‘As I have just told you, in the front passenger seat. And there was evidence of burning in the front of the car. No doubt fierce burning, as you say.’

  ‘And yet you say the rear of the car was not completely burned out.’

  Frowning now, his hands no longer laced across his belly, Shelton nodded. ‘That is the case,’ he agreed. ‘I am no expert in cases of automobile accidents or of automotive fires. How can I say what might be expected and what might not?’

  ‘And this luggage you mentioned. Where was that?’

  ‘Why, it was scattered around the place. Thrown out no doubt when the car rolled down the slope.’

  ‘And is there a list?’

  Shelton shuffled through the notes on the desk. There was not. ‘I made a list,’ he insisted. ‘A list of items found to be still in the car and a list of items scattered along the line of its descent.’

  ‘And where is that list?’

  ‘How the …’ He bit back on his annoyance. ‘I don’t know. Separated from the report at some time, no doubt, as were the photographs. I can’t possibly know what became of either.’

  ‘But can you at least recall what might have been on it?’

  Shelton hesitated, then closed his eyes and thought hard. The effort was obviously causing him pain, Henry thought. At last, Shelton said, ‘A picnic basket, a leather Gladstone bag … I think that belonged to the young man, as male clothing was spread about the place. And a small blue suitcase, I believe. That must have belonged to the girl. Women’s clothing had been strewn along the way, too.’

  He opened his eyes and looked satisfied as though expecting congratulations.

  Henry moved restlessly, impatient now, and was relieved when Mickey took over.

  ‘At least we have the farmer’s name, and that of his farmhands, and the attending physician,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they can be more forthcoming.’

  Shelton bristled, realizing that he was being insulted. ‘Sergeant Hitchens, I am your superior officer, and your tone is verging on the insolent. I have come all this way to be of assistance to you – the least I can expect is politeness.’ He looked pointedly at Henry as though expecting him to reprimand his sergeant. Henry would do no such thing.

  He glanced at his watch. Unlike Mickey, Henry wore a wristwatch, another present from Cynthia and much treasured. ‘I will arrange for a driver to take you back to the station,’ Henry said. ‘I’m sure you’re eager to return to your present constabulary.’ Then, because he knew he ought to be polite, he thanked Shelton for coming and handed him his overcoat.

  ‘What a bloody mess,’ Mickey remarked when Shelton had gone. ‘I don’t like the sound of this, Henry. None of this is right. For a young woman to be burned to death in the car fire, the fire would burn fiercely and long enough to consume the body. We have both witnessed death by burning, and it is a terrible thing. And we have both witnessed vehicles that have burnt. It is a fate I only just escaped myself in the war. This does not ring true.’

  Henry nodded. The incident that Mickey referred to was one that was all too fixed in Henry’s memory. If he had not been there that day Mickey might well have not survived.

  ‘I had asked for the post-mortem reports on the young woman that died in the automobile accident, but it seems none was carried out. Apparently Mr Moran came and took the body away, declaring that he would not have his daughter carved up to no purpose. I believe there were some arguments, but by the time the inquest had determined that this was indeed an accident she had already been interred. It is highly irregular, but then I believe so is Caius Moran and some people, as we know, are wealthy enough to buy themselves out of any situation they do not like. However, now that we know this girl is not Faun Moran it’s to be hoped that we can have the body examined and learn something more. But you are right. The more we dig the more mysteries we uncover. There is nothing straightforward in this business.’ Henry glanced at his watch again. In less than an hour they too would be taking the train to Derby. ‘I’m hoping the farmer will have more sense than DI Shelton,’ he said. ‘And that he will have been more observant.’

  Mickey laughed. ‘He can hardly have been less so.’

  ‘True, though to be fair I cannot believe that even Shelton would have been as careless as the loss of photographs and other material implies. He is an arrogant man. He was often wrong in his initial assumptions and we know he was always unwilling to change direction, even when the evidence was against him. But his paperwork, though lacking in detail, was usually well kept. He took pride in that fact, if you recall.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Mickey acknowledged. ‘I must admit that my prejudice colours my recollections of the man, but no, it does seem odd. For a packet of photographs to be misplaced, that I could understand, but for other documents to also be missing does seem strange. You think they were removed deliberately?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘I think it’s possible. Though even those details Shelton did recall are strange, and not just regarding the woman’s body. That both young Malcolm Everson and the woman who was not Faun Moran had baggage in the car implies that this was more than a simple drive. They were headed somewhere, perhaps to spend the night there. They intended to stop on the way if we judge by the addition of a picnic basket. We had been led to believe, from these very scant witness reports,’ he handed the relevant documents to his sergeant, ‘that this was a moment of impulse. That Faun Moran wished to go for a drive and so Malcolm Everson leapt into his car, even though it seems he’d been drinking heavily and their friends urged them otherwise. One woman gets into the car, alive and well. Another is found, dead and burnt in such a way that she was identified purely on the evidence of those who saw the couple set off.’

  ‘It was a reasonable enough assumption,’ Mickey commented. ‘If one young woman sets off on a drive you expect the same young woman to be present when the car stops. For whatever reason it stops.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps we should be speaking to Mr Maskelyn at St George’s Hall. This is worthy of that magician’s misdirection.’

  ‘I have a preference for David Devant,’ Henry told him, ‘but I agree all of this seems terribly theatrical. The staging of the body on the beach simply adds to that sensibility. But if we are to catch that train then we should be moving. Tomorrow we will be able to interview the Belmonts who hosted the party, and also hopefully view the crime scene.’

  ‘Scene of the accident, you mean,’ Mickey said, but he was smiling, knowing that Henry was probably right.

  ‘No, I mean the crime scene. The young woman who died … the more I look at this the more I am certain her death was not caused by an accident. This is murder, or I am no detective.’

  SIX

  Faun, October 1929

  The first time I went to his house was just after new year. That was when this whole horrid business really began. When this vile plan began to form in his head.

  I went unannounced and in my own car, and I knew he might not approve and might not even welcome me, but I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Pat was away and I felt so lonely and so very desperate and he’d always been so kind. His welcome was everything I had
hoped for. He sat me down and gave me brandy and Vic wrapped a blanket round my shoulders and suddenly I knew that I could stop crying and be warm and … and even loved.

  You can stay tonight, he said, and I felt so happy. I didn’t know what my father would say but I guessed he’d probably think I’d gone back to London and I knew he wouldn’t try and contact me anyway because he never did when we’d had a fight. He said he was only trying to do what was best for me but that was totally bogus. All he wanted to do was to control my life and to make me behave the way he thought I should.

  I wished my mother was still alive. She would have understood. She would have made it all better. She could even talk him round. Father loved her more than anything else in the world. I know that now, and when she died he saw Pat and I as being so like her that he could barely stand the sight of us.

  So I went to his house and I told him that I loved him and I poured out my heart and he told me I could stay that evening and that he’d find a way so I could be with him always.