Death Scene

by Jane A. Adams

  The Owenses gazed after him as though watching an old friend depart, one they might not see again.

  Henry glanced around the small room. It was comfortably furnished – a little over-furnished – with a heavy sideboard and a set of bookshelves laden down with what looked like a lifetime of memories. Inside the bungalow it was possible to discern that it had indeed been built from two railway carriages placed on either side of this middle room. The carriage doors were still extant and one, partly open, led into the kitchen; he assumed the other must be the bedroom.

  Mrs Owens was following his observation. ‘The carriages were being sold off cheaply,’ she said, ‘so many people took advantage of that and had them towed down here. The wheels were taken off of course and the carriages were floated across the river and then dragged up on shore by teams of horses. It was a quite marvellous sight. And then we got the local builders and carpenters to build between them and fix the roof.’

  Henry, knowing that compliment was expected, rummaged in his mind for something that Mickey might say in the circumstances. ‘It has made a beautiful home,’ he said, and was rewarded by an attempt at a smile from Mrs Owens.

  ‘We have been very comfortable here,’ she said. ‘And of course it’s perfect for work, so close to the studio.’

  She sat up a little straighter then, and Henry guessed that work was very important to her. He could hear Mickey’s voice in his head telling him that he needed to ask her about her acting career before he dived into the dreadful events of the morning, so dutifully he said, ‘Do you work at the studio?’

  She no longer dabbed at her eyes with the tiny handkerchief; instead she fanned herself coquettishly. ‘I did in my day, yes. Only small roles, you understand, I never rose to the heights that Cissie would have done, but they were happy times, and now I assist the wardrobe mistress and sometime chaperone the younger performers. I enjoy my work, Detective Inspector.’

  Henry nodded. ‘And is Mr Owens also employed by the film industry down here?’

  ‘Cameraman,’ the man said briefly. He was looking intently at Henry Johnstone. It was clear that he was more interested in dealing with this interview and getting rid of this intruder than in discussing his participation in the theatrical profession.

  ‘And so you went to see Cissie Rowe this morning and …’

  Mrs Owens took a deep breath and went back to dabbing her eyes. ‘It was strange, you see. We usually see her out and about even if we don’t speak every day. She likes to walk along the beach and when she passes she always waves. So I thought I’d go and see if everything was all right; she had not quite been herself out at the theatre two nights ago. She seemed distracted, somehow.’

  ‘She seemed lively enough to me,’ her husband objected. ‘Muriel, I think the inspector needs the facts as they were at the time, not the way they might seem in hindsight.’

  Mrs Owens frowned at her husband. ‘She did seem upset, just a little anyway. She was such a sensitive soul.’

  ‘And so, not having seen your friend since your visit to the theatre you thought you ought to check that all was well.’

  She was on firmer ground now. ‘Exactly that,’ she said. ‘I knocked at the door. I wanted to see if she needed anything fetching from the shop. I was going to the Bungalow Stores down on Ferry Road, you see. Not that they have a great deal, but they do stock the everyday essentials and I thought that Cissie might … I thought that Cissie might need something, even want to walk down with me. She often did, you see.’

  ‘But you didn’t get a reply.’

  ‘No, I did not. So I opened the door and went inside and called for her. No one ever locks their doors along here.’

  I imagine they will now, Henry thought.

  ‘So I went inside and I saw that her coat was still lying on the back of the chair. Cissie never did that, she took care of her clothes. She’d take off her coat, brush it down and then hang it up. Same with the rest of her things, she told me that. Neat as a new pin was Cissie. Never a stain or a wrinkle. “Muriel,” she used to say to me. We were close, you see, though she always called me Mrs Owens when we were out in public. She was proper like that. But “Muriel,” she used to say to me, “I’ve worked hard for everything I have. It wouldn’t make sense for me not to take care of it.”

  ‘Such a pretty voice she had. Not like some of them; the studio said she would have no problems in the talking films – that’s if they catch on, of course, though there’s already great excitement within the industry, as you can imagine.’

  Henry nodded. ‘I’m sure there is.’

  ‘Some of them will have to have such a lot of voice coaching. You would not believe. Pretty as a picture they look, but open their mouths …’ She waved her handkerchief dismissively. ‘Of course, it may well turn out to be so much pie in the sky. You’ll have heard all about The Jazz Singer, of course? But one film … I ask you, is the success of one film really enough to warrant such radical change? Enough to cause a whole industry to change?’

  Henry sought to bring the conversation back to the business in hand.

  ‘And so this morning you went into the bungalow and you called out but there was no answer. So what made you go into the bedroom?’

  Mrs Owens’ look shot daggers at him. She looked away briefly, dabbing again at her eyes, and her nose and mouth this time. ‘I knew something was wrong. I saw her coat, and then … and then I heard the buzzing and I smelt the smell and I knew something was wrong. There were never flies or smells in Cissie’s bungalow. Clean. Always clean. Spotless.’

  ‘Was the door open, the door to the bedroom?’

  She thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘Not all the way, but it must have been open, mustn’t it, for me to have heard them? The flies, I mean. I know I didn’t turn the handle, I know I just pushed the door. And there she was lying on the bed.

  ‘At first I couldn’t take it in. I thought she must have fallen asleep but then I saw that she had her shoes on and her stockings were wrinkled and she was still wearing the pink dress. She would never have lain down in her pink dress. She loved that pink dress. So I went closer to the bed and I looked at her and I realized that she was dead.’

  ‘And what did you do then?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Why, then I screamed, of course. What else would you expect me to do?’

  Henry wondered if it was inappropriate to find that funny. He decided it was.

  ‘And then she came running back here.’ It was the first time her husband had intervened in the narrative. ‘I went back with her to Everdene – that’s Cissie’s bungalow, you know the older ones all have names, not numbers?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘I realized that Muriel was right, Cissie was in fact dead, so I knocked on the door of Elizabeth – that’s the next bungalow down – and Mrs Clark sent one of the boys to fetch the policeman and the doctor. Her husband is a doctor, but he only comes down for the weekends, otherwise … anyway, and the rest you know.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about the bungalow, about Everdene? Was anything missing?’

  Mrs Owens’ eyes widened. ‘I didn’t even think to look,’ she said.

  Henry glanced at Mr Owens, who also shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I think the shock of seeing the body drove everything else from our minds. The place was tidy as always. We would have noticed had it been otherwise.’

  Henry nodded and jotted a few more details down in his notebook. ‘Did Miss Rowe own Everdene?’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no, she rented it. I think she was hoping to raise enough money eventually, and the Clarks – those are the people who do own it, they live in Elizabeth, next door to Everdene – they had said that she could have first refusal should they decide to sell. But no, she rented it from them, had been renting it for the last two or three years. We managed to buy this place, of course. We had it built specifically for us and we’ve never regretted it, not for one moment.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Henry nodded. �
��Mrs Owens, in the corner of the living room at Everdene there is a little round table, do you know it?’

  ‘Oh yes, with three little photographs set out on it.’

  ‘One appears to be missing,’ Henry said. ‘Two remain, sitting side by side. One is of Miss Rowe herself, sitting on the veranda, I presume, of her bungalow. A second shows a group of three young women. Could you tell me what was depicted in the third?’

  She closed her eyes as though thinking deeply and trying to recall, though Henry guessed that she knew immediately but just wanted to be seen making an effort. ‘It was a picture of Cissie’s parents,’ she said. ‘Or maybe it was an uncle and aunt, an older couple anyway. The three girls are three of our young performers, our young actresses; they were Cissie’s friends. That photograph and the photograph of Cissie on the veranda were taken on the same day, last summer.’

  ‘But you remember less about the other photograph?’

  Mr Owens spoke. ‘I remember that it was of an older couple, middle aged, I suppose standing outside a rather severe looking house. There’s a boy in the picture too, perhaps eleven or twelve years old. It’s a little faded and tattered, as though before it was put in the frame it had been carried around without protection. Perhaps in someone’s pocket or wallet.’

  His wife looked at him, eyebrows delicately raised. ‘Why would you take so much notice of a tattered old thing like that?’

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose because it stood out against the rest. The other photographs in that room are all of friends she had now, places she liked to visit, the sets and the studio. I suppose I noticed it because it was different.’

  ‘She had other old photographs on her bedroom wall.’ Mrs Owens nodded to herself. ‘Quite a number of them, thinking about it.’

  ‘But I don’t imagine Mr Owens would have been in a position to see those,’ Inspector Johnstone observed. ‘So I can understand why that photograph must’ve stood out for him.’ It would, Henry thought, be the kind of thing he would have noticed too.

  He checked back through the notes he had been taking and decided that there was little else to be asked at present, in fact just three more things, standard questions that would be asked during any investigation.

  ‘Can you think of anyone that would wish to harm Cissie Rowe? Any argument she might have had or professional disagreements or rivalries?’

  The Owenses looked at one another and heads were shaken. ‘No one, nothing,’ Mrs Owens said. ‘She was popular.’

  ‘And did she have a particular young man that she might have been seeing? A gentleman friend?’

  Mrs Owens smiled at his circumspection. ‘Cissie had many admirers,’ she said, ‘but she took none of them very seriously. She was intent on her career.’

  And the last question. ‘Have you noticed any strangers in the area in the past few days? People you didn’t recognize or who were behaving oddly?’

  ‘There are always a few tourists who wander down here but mostly people come to visit the bungalows and are on their way to see someone specific. We are not on the beaten track here, Inspector. You must either take the ferry or cross the bridge so there is little to draw strangers to Bungalow Town, as the locals call this area, and I can’t recall seeing anyone in the past few days who caused any discomfort or drew our attention.’ Mr Owens looked at his wife for confirmation and she nodded, then shook her head.

  Henry took that as agreement with her husband. Having nothing further to say or to ask, he rose and took his leave. ‘There may well be other questions later,’ he said.

  ‘We understand that,’ Mr Owens said. He escorted Inspector Johnstone to the door and Henry was aware that he stood watching him as he walked back along the shingle beach towards Everdene. He suspected that there was something on Mr Owens’ mind but that the man had not yet decided whether it might be important, or whether he wanted to say it in front of his wife. He felt that Mickey might be able to shake whatever it was loose, and made a mental note to send his sergeant to have another conversation with Mr Owens – preferably alone.

  Constable Prentice had brought a chair out on to the veranda and was sitting, staring out to sea. He jumped to his feet as soon as he spotted the inspector.

  ‘Sir, I was just—’

  ‘Being sensible,’ Henry said. ‘There is nothing to be gained by standing in the hot sun when you can sit in the shade. Sergeant Hitchens?’

  ‘Oh.’ Prentice looked flustered. This was evidently not the response he had expected. ‘He’s talked to the Clarks and the two bungalows on from theirs and he said to tell you that he’s finished in here and maybe you could come and find him.’

  Henry thanked him. The shade of the veranda looked very inviting. The shingle reflected the sun back and he could feel the heat even through the soles of his shoes. He glanced out towards the water, squinting against the glare. The girls were still moving up and down the beach putting stones into baskets, and he pointed at them. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Collecting flint, sir. Not many of them do it now but twenty years ago, so I’ve been told, there were girls up and down the beach in all weathers, all day long, filling up their baskets. Miserable work, sir. Some of the locals used to knit gloves for them because their hands would get ripped to shreds from the sharp stones and they’d get chilled to the bone in cold weather.’

  ‘For building work?’

  ‘Used to be. Not so many do it now, there’s no demand, but some people still like the flint for decorative work.’

  ‘And the girls are here most days?’

  ‘Mostly in the summer now. There are very few who carry it on through the winter months.’

  ‘So if there have been strangers around, the girls are likely to have seen them.’

  ‘I know them, sir. Most likely they’d answer questions for me.’

  That made sense, Henry thought, and it meant that he could sit in the shade for a few moments instead of having to walk down closer to the water. ‘Go and talk to them, Constable,’ he said. ‘But remember, you are not there to gossip about the death. An officer needs to learn discretion.’

  Constable Prentice coloured slightly and then nodded his head and strode off down the beach. Henry dropped gratefully into the chair, pushing it right back into the shade. What, he thought, would possess anyone to live this close to the sea?

  For the moment he closed his eyes and almost felt that he could doze. It had been ten days since he’d had anything approaching a good night’s sleep and if this followed its usual pattern there would be a few days more before exhaustion eventually overcame whatever his brain was doing and allowed him to rest. These episodes happened less frequently now, perhaps three or four times in the past year, and he was uncertain what had triggered them.

  He listened to the sound of the water. He could feel the warmth on his skin and reminded himself that this was a bright sunny day, but his mind told him otherwise. In his head this was a cold December day, and he could hear the screams of men and women and horses and remember the panic after the water had closed over his head and he could no longer grasp which way was surface and which led down into the depths.

  Henry opened his eyes and stood up. He went back into the bungalow and, standing just over the threshold, looked around again. He was tempted to pack everything and take it back to London, but to do so would take time and effort that might be wasted. Until he knew a little more about the dead woman it would be difficult to decide what was relevant and what was not.

  He knew that Mickey would already have done a basic search of drawers and cupboards and would have packed anything that he immediately saw as important so he was unsurprised, when he opened the murder bag, to find that Mickey had taken the photographs from the bedroom wall and those in the living room, removed them from their frames and packed them carefully into a large manila envelope. There was also a collection of letters and some other paperwork.

  Henry went from room to room tracking the work that his sergeant had done and looki
ng to see if there was anything he might wish to add to this stash of possible evidentiary material but, as he expected, Mickey Hitchens had already done a thorough job.

  In the bedroom was a small wardrobe and when Henry opened the door he was struck by the neatness of the clothes on their hangers. The wardrobe smelt of lavender and rose petals and Cissie’s winter coat had been draped in an old sheet to protect it from dust. The smell of mothballs led him to the pockets; there were a few in each pocket, carefully wrapped in tissue paper so that they would protect but not stain. She had not owned a lot of clothes but Henry had the feeling that each item had been chosen with care and they seemed to be of good quality. He knew that Mickey would have checked pockets but he checked them again out of habit. Empty.

  A three drawer chest held stockings and underwear and nightclothes and a few small items of jewellery, none of which initially looked valuable. A painted cardboard box held a wristwatch with a small face and slender leather strap, a brooch set with a paste amethyst, a red beaded necklace and a coral bangle.

  In a second box Henry found something which Mickey had missed and which to Henry’s eyes jarred with everything else in the bungalow. This was no cheap piece of costume jewellery, neither was it the sort of thing that a young woman with a modest income might conceivably have saved for – as she had for her clothes.

  Henry looked thoughtfully at the gold bracelet, shaped like a snake biting its own tail, the snake’s jaws forming the clasp. His sister had something similar, though Cynthia’s had been bought in Bond Street and had ruby eyes; he thought that this snake might have eyes of garnet and gold of lower quality. But it was still gold.

  The sort of thing an admirer might have bought for her, Henry wondered? Mrs Owens had been of the opinion that Cissie didn’t take any of her admirers particularly seriously and yet it seemed to Henry that this was a serious piece of jewellery indicating, perhaps, a more serious intent, at least on the part of the giver. He took both boxes out of the drawer and put them with the rest of the evidence in the bag.