Murder from the Newsdesk

by Peter Bartram

  Murder from the Newsdesk

  Seven Crampton of the Chronicle mystery stories

  By Peter Bartram

  Published by The Bartram Partnership

  Copyright 2016 Peter Bartram

  Amazon Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The following stories are included in this Crampton of the Chronicle collection. Start at the beginning by turning the page, or click the links below to jump to each story…

  The Mystery of the African charity

  The Mystery of the Two Suitcases

  The Mystery of the Single Red Sock

  The Mystery at the Beauregard Hotel

  The Mystery of the Precious Princess

  The Mystery of the Note on the Beach

  The Mystery of the Phantom Santa

  The Mystery of the African charity

  “In thirty years in newspapers, I've met some villains, but Septimus Darke takes the biscuit,” said Frank Figgis.

  Figgis was news editor of the Brighton Evening Chronicle. He was a small man with a wizened face, a thatch of slicked black hair parted down the centre, and a cocky manner.

  “The biscuit? A jammie dodger, presumably,” I said.

  We were in Figgis' office. The date on his wall calendar said Monday 27 March 1961.

  “He's a jammie dodger all right - but one who leaves a nasty taste in the mouth,” Figgis said. “He's into the worst rackets in this town - but the cops don't seem to touch him.”

  I'd been the paper's crime correspondent for only three weeks, but Darke was a name that had already crossed my desk in the newsroom several times. According to what I'd learnt from the locals, he'd fetched up in town a few years earlier. He'd started small buying up run-down tenements and letting them out to young couples desperate to find a home. His rents were high and his morals were low. The whisper was that he'd modelled himself on Peter Rachman, the notorious London slum landlord with a vicious record of intimidating his tenants.

  Word on the inside was that when it came to violence, Darke made Peter Rachman look like Peter Pan. But Darke was as slippery as an eel in butter. And Figgis was right: Brighton's police had never been able to pin any criminal charges on him.

  “It would be great if the paper could nail him to a crime,” I said.

  Figgis reached for his Woodbines. “I'd second that. But watch your step with Darke. I want you sitting at your desk in the newsroom. Not in a bed in the Royal Sussex County hospital looking like the Invisible Man in his bandage gear.”

  I stood up and moved towards the door.

  “Don't worry,” I said. “I'll stay lucky.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later, I was sitting at my desk in the newsroom, browsing through the day's list of cases for the magistrates' court.

  I was searching for any which looked as though they might make good copy.

  But Monday mornings rarely produced any worth covering. Most of those up before the beak would be sad types who'd got themselves arrested on Saturday night for being drunk and disorderly. There were a couple of street tarts who'd been picked up - probably because they hadn't made their pay-offs to the bobby on the beat. There was a bloke charged with riding his bicycle on the pavement. And a woman whose cocker spaniel had bitten a bank manager. That might make a brief paragraph. Especially if it turned out the money man had turned her down for a loan.

  But there was nothing there that was going to grab front-page headlines.

  When you're a crime correspondent, it's the bank heists, the payroll snatches, the celebrity blackmail victims who make the big headlines. And the ultimate front pager is a good murder. (Although we crime reporters are not insensitive enough to think that any murder is good from the victim's point of view.)

  In the few weeks I'd been on the paper, the town seemed to be surprisingly law abiding. Either that, or it was better at hiding its darker side than I'd realised.

  I was musing on this when Freda Cornford ambled up to my desk. Freda was one of a quartet of women who worked in the paper's morgue. I should explain that the Chronicle wasn't running an undertakers on the side. The morgue was the newspaper term for the press cuttings library. Freda and her colleagues cut up each day's copies of the paper and filed the cuttings under the names of people and places mentioned in the articles.

  Freda smiled shyly and said: “I've got your winnings here.”

  I pulled my puzzled look. “Winnings?”

  “The office sweepstake,” Freda said. “For the Grand National. It was run on Saturday.”

  “Of course, I'd forgotten.”

  Freda had wheedled a shilling out of me the previous week. I'd paid over the money and not thought any more about it. Horse racing has never interested me. I agree with the bloke who said the only person who makes money after the races is the one with the broom and shovel.

  “You drew Nicolaus Silver,” Freda said.

  “Is that the name of the horse or the jockey?”

  “Horse.”

  “Strange name. Sounds like a dodgy dealer in tom foolery.”

  “Tom foolery?”

  “Criminal slang for jewellery. You lead sheltered lives in the morgue.”

  Freda chuckled. She was one of those women whose age is difficult to tell. She could have been an old forty or a young sixty. She was wearing a mohair cardigan over a cream blouse and a plain brown skirt. She used a couple of those little tortoise-shell combs to pin back her dark hair.

  She said: “Don't you want to know how much you've won?”

  “Couple of quid, is it?”

  “Eight pounds.”

  Wow! Riches when your pay is twelve pounds ten shillings a week.

  She handed me a fat buff envelope stuffed with paper money. I gave it a squeeze. It felt good.

  I said: “That should keep me in gin and tonics for a while. Thank you. If there's anything I can ever do for you, let me know.”

  I should have learnt long ago that it's never wise to make idle promises. People have a habit of taking you up on them.

  ***

  It was Wednesday of the following week when Freda crept up to my desk again.

  She nodded a greeting and said: “Had any more luck lately?”

  “If you mean, have I won any more money - no. I haven't landed any big crime stories, either.”

  Freda hovered uncertainly by my desk.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “What is what?”

  “What you're wondering whether to ask me.”

  She smiled. The light from the newsroom's fluorescent strips caught a gold filling in one of her teeth.

  “Well, it may be nothing, but I wondered whether there might be a story in it for you.”

  I leaned back on my captain's chair and said: “Try me.”

  Freda pulled up a spare chair and sat down.

  “The husband of one of my older friends, Connie Stapleton, died a couple of weeks ago,” she said. “Lennie was buried yesterday. I had the day off for the funeral. Sad occasion, but at least the weather held off.”

  I nodded to show I was keeping up so far.

  “Lennie and Connie had been married for fifty years - they had their golden wedding last November - so you can imagine there was a good turnout, including all of their friends and relations. I've known Connie for years and she had a quiet word with
me at the wake afterwards. It was a bit embarrassing, actually, as I'd just dropped an egg vol-au-vent down my jacket. New from Debenham's, too.”

  “The vol-au-vent?”

  Freda rolled her eyes. “The jacket. Anyway, it seems Connie has had a terrible time since Lennie passed on. But you'd expect that, especially after fifty years of happy marriage. What you wouldn't expect is relatives piling extra pressures on her. But it seems her nephew Denzil has been round to her house pretty much every day.”

  I'd heard this kind of tale before. The old man dies and the vultures start to gather round the widow looking for pickings from the will. Despicable, certainly. But not usually a crime. And certainly not a story for the Chronicle.

  “What did Denzil want?” I asked.

  “That's the point I'm coming to,” Freda said. “Denzil wanted to know whether he could have Lennie's clothes for a charity project he's working on. Apparently, he's with a group of people collecting clothes to send out to Africa. Well, Lennie had an unusual taste in clothes. Some might say eccentric. Connie couldn't see an African warrior stalking through the jungle in a tweed hacking jacket and the plus fours Lennie wore for golf. In any event, Connie told me, a couple of days after Lennie passed on, she'd met an acquaintance who was running a church jumble sale and let her take the lot.”

  “So that was that,” I said.

  “That's what Connie thought. But a couple of days later, Denzil was back again with another request. It seems the African charity was collecting a lot of clothes and needed somewhere to store and sort them before sending them off. He wanted to use the spare room Connie has at the back of the house - the one Lennie always promised to do up as a morning room, but never got round to it.”

  “What did Connie say to that?”

  “At first, she wasn't keen on the idea. But Denzil made it sound that loaning the room would be like a tribute to Lennie. Denzil was Connie's nephew by marriage - he came from Lennie's side of the family. And, by all accounts, was a bit of a fly boy. She'd never taken to him. So she was surprised that he'd become involved in this charity work. Out of character. Come a flag day in the town, he'd be the one who told the flag sellers where they could stick it.”

  “And I guess he didn't mean their coat lapels,” I said.

  “I'm afraid so. But, despite that, what could Connie do? She was still grieving for Lennie - and here was a lad asking to do charity work in her husband's memory.”

  “So she agreed?” I asked.

  “Yes. Denzil even wheedled round her to give him a key - so he could come and go as needed with the clothes. Well, that would be the Tuesday after Lennie died. And since then Denzil has half filled the room with discarded clothes and comes and goes at all hours. Now poor old Connie doesn't know what's going on. She's asked the police for help but they just laughed at her. Well, I happened to mention your name - as the paper's crime correspondent - and she wondered whether you'd go and see her. I think she just wants someone to talk to about it.”

  I reached for my desk diary, flipped it open and studied the blank pages.

  “I'm very busy at the moment,” I said. “But I could spare Connie half an hour this evening, if that would suit.”

  Freda clapped her hands together. “Excellent. Thank you so much. I'll telephone Connie straight away and tell her.”

  When Freda had left, I leant back in my chair and thought about it. Perhaps Denzil really was collecting the old clothes for an African charity.

  But if he wasn't, what did he plan to do with them? After all, they wouldn't be worth much. Why did he need to store them at Connie's house? And why had this all started just days after Lennie had died?

  I didn't think there'd be a story in all this. But there was certainly a mystery.

  ***

  Connie lived in a handsome Edwardian house, not far from the Royal Alexandra children's hospital in the Seven Dials part of town.

  It had white stucco walls and blue window frames. A chequered path of black and white tiles led up to a handsome front door.

  It was just after six and twilight was turning to dusk when I pressed the bell and heard the chimes echoing in the hall.

  Connie opened the door. I was expecting a sad looking old lady, care worn and grieving for the recent death of her beloved husband. Instead, Connie had a homely face which lit up with pleasure when she saw me.

  “It's Mr Crampton, isn't it?”

  “Only to magistrates and tax inspectors,” I said. “To friends of friends, it's Colin.”

  Connie smiled. There was real warmth in that smile and I briefly wondered how she had the strength to be cheerful after what she'd been through in the last few days. She was wearing a black woollen dress and a chiffon scarf in some muted colours.

  She ushered me into the house and we walked through to a comfortable sitting room which looked over a recreation ground. A sofa and three easy chairs were grouped around a large fireplace. There was a handsome mantelpiece carved out of dark wood, possibly walnut. There were a couple of silver candlesticks each end of the mantelpiece and a picture frame holding a certificate propped in the middle. It was a handsome document with a red seal - the kind of certificate that comes with a university degree or a long-service medal. I could see the letters FAG in bold script at the top of the certificate, but couldn't read the rest of it.

  Knitting needles and wool were resting on the arm of the chair nearest the fire. A small side table by the chair held a sepia photograph in a silver frame. The photo showed a young man and woman on their wedding day. She was wearing a white brocaded dress and wide-brimmed hat elaborately trimmed with bows. She was carrying a bouquet of white roses tied with ribbons. He was wearing a pale grey double-breasted suit with wide lapels and a boater dressed with a dark ribbon. He had a white rose in his button hole and carried a handsome cane.

  Connie had tied a black ribbon to the top of the photo's frame, just above Lennie.

  She sat in the chair by the fire and guided me to the sofa.

  She said: “It's very good of you to have come. I do feel rather guilty about suggesting it to Freda.”

  “Don't mention it. I'm pleased to help. This must be a very difficult time for you.”

  Connie nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. I shall miss Lennie. We did so much together - like our work for FAG.” She indicated the certificate on the mantelpiece.

  “Fag,” I said. “Something to do with cigarettes?”

  Connie smiled. “We're often asked that. FAG actually stands for Fighters Against Gambling. It's a national organisation, but we were both active in the Brighton branch.”

  She shrugged as though admitting a secret truth to herself. “Although I suppose I was more active than Lennie. I've always felt strongly about it. We should earn our livelihoods by hard work rather than chasing easy money through luck.”

  She shot me a steely look: “Gambling is one of the great sins of the modern age, you know.”

  I decided this wasn't the time to mention my good fortune on the Grand National. Instead I said: “Freda has told me about the problem you're having with this clothes for Africa charity.”

  “I know we should help those less fortunate than ourselves and my Lennie would've been the first to agree. But it all seems rather an odd way to go about it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the clothes don't seem like the kind that Africans would want to wear - given the differences in their climate.”

  “I gather your nephew Denzil is behind this.”

  “Yes. And that's another strange thing. The boy has never shown interest in charity work before. I would never have said anything to Lennie - he idolised the boy, especially as we weren't blessed with children of our own - but I've always looked on Denzil as rather a bad lot. I know people can change. But this interest in charity work has come on all of a sudden.”

  “After Lennie passed on?” I asked.

  “I certainly hadn't heard of it before.”

  “I gather Denzil wanted
Lennie's clothes for the charity.”

  “Yes. But he was too late. I told him they'd already been collected for a church jumble sale. I gave away everything in Lennie's wardrobe. That's all. Nothing else. I just felt the quicker it was gone, the better.”

  “What did Denzil think about that?”

  “He wanted to know which jumble sale I'd sent them to. But I couldn't remember and, anyway, as I told Denzil, what did it matter? None of the clothes would have fitted him. And I don't think they'd have been much use in Africa either. Denzil just looked at me like I'd told him to jump off the end of Palace Pier. He grumbled and then sloped off.”

  “But he came back?”

  “Yes. A couple of days later. He apologised for his conduct - he put it down to still being upset about his Uncle Lennie passing on. And that's when he asked me about storing clothes temporarily in the spare room.”

  “Why couldn't he store them at his own place?”

  “He lives in one-room in a house in Pelham Place - I think it's the one on the corner with Trafalgar Street. He's barely got room for his own wardrobe - not that he seems to have many clothes.”

  “Are there any charity clothes here now?” I asked.

  “Yes, Denzil has piled a stack of them over the last few days. I've no idea when he's planning to send them to Africa.”

  “Could I have a look at them?”

  Connie stood up and led me out of the sitting room, down a small passage and into a room at the back of the house.

  I walked in and gaped.

  The place looked like a warehouse.

  Connie hadn't been wrong when she said that Denzil had stacked the room. In places there were piles of clothes which reached halfway to the ceiling. A musty odour of damp fabric filled the room.

  I walked round looking at the different piles. The clothes had been sorted. There was a pile of jackets, one of suits, another of trousers and a few windcheaters.

  Connie said: “What do you make of it?”

  I said: “There's something strange here. All the clothes are for men. Did Denzil mention that it was a men's clothing charity?”

  Connie looked puzzled. “No. I hadn't realised that.”