Death Scene

by Jane A. Adams

  On impulse, Henry drove past the police station and continued out of town on the coast road. He would pay an early visit to the Cliftons, he thought. Take advantage of their post party state and press them both again on Geoffrey’s relationship with Cissie Rowe. He and Mickey had taken a good look at the the private detective’s reports and photographs and Mickey was due to call upon the man later that day.

  It seemed that Geoffrey Clifton was inordinately fond of theatrical ladies.

  In this age of technology, of cameras and telegrams, fast cars and forensic science, privacy, Henry thought, was not so easy to maintain.

  It was ten thirty on Monday morning when Henry arrived at the Clifton residence but it seemed that the birthday party had not completely ended. There were still a half dozen cars in the drive and the maid who opened the door to him – the footman not being in evidence – looked decidedly frazzled. Henry wondered if the servants had managed to get any sleep.

  She left him idling in the hall and disappeared through a side door. Henry caught a glimpse of a dining table and a sideboard set with chafing dishes and coffee pots. A moment later the door opened again and the maid asked Henry to go through.

  Lillian Clifton sat alone at the head of a long, highly polished table. Two of her guests were helping themselves to kidneys and scrambled eggs and Henry could smell bacon and kippers. They eyed Henry suspiciously and then sat down at the furthest end of the table and ignored him conspicuously.

  ‘Would you like some coffee, Inspector? Perhaps some breakfast? Please help yourself.’

  Henry took up the offer of coffee and then sat down, placing his cup on the linen placemat. ‘I’d like to see your husband,’ he said.

  ‘Difficult. He went up to London first thing. I suppose you might go to his office. That’s if it’s urgent.’

  She sipped her coffee and then added more sugar, picking up the small brown cubes with tongs shaped like silver chicken claws. ‘I’m afraid I have something of a headache,’ she said.

  She no longer wore the ivory silk embellished with the heavy beading but was dressed instead in a robe of blue satin embroidered with hibiscus flowers. She wore pale pink pyjamas beneath and her two guests were similarly apparelled. Henry could not recall having interviewed any woman in her nightwear before but she seemed unconcerned.

  ‘What time did your husband leave?’

  She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. He intended to depart around eight, so I assume that’s what he did. I wasn’t up to see him off and we don’t share a room, so I really couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘The package you gave me. The photographs …’

  She waved a careless hand. ‘I’d rather not talk about it. I thought the information might be useful. Geoffrey wouldn’t have laid a hand on that young woman – at least, not in anger. Why should he? And, for the record, neither did I. I know what kind of man he is; I find it useful to have proof of that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Security, Inspector. I find it useful to remind him, from time to time, that he treats me abominably.’ She smiled, her expression at odds with the words.

  ‘Do you care that your husband has … liaisons?’

  ‘As I told you last night, it’s really none of your business. I like it when he makes it up to me.’ Henry frowned and she smiled at him. ‘You think I’m shallow,’ she said. ‘A flibbertigibbet. And you are probably right.’

  ‘What I think about you is unimportant,’ Henry told her. ‘I wished to take your husband’s fingerprints, for the process of elimination. Prints were found at Miss Rowe’s bungalow that we have not yet identified.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt he’d have gone there,’ Lillian told him. ‘That would have been far too public. Too unlike his usual habits.’

  ‘If you’d ask him to call in at the police station in Shoreham, that would be useful.’

  She got up and poured herself more coffee. ‘I’m not sure when he’ll be home,’ she said. ‘But I’ll give him your message. Was there anything else? Would you like my prints? For, what did you call it, elimination purposes?’

  She sat down again, moving her seat a little closer to Henry’s, and smiled mischievously. ‘I’ve never had my fingerprints taken.’

  She might have been dressed in her pyjamas and robe but, Henry noted, she had still found time to apply her makeup. The bright red lipstick was gone; the colour she wore now was softer peach and she had smudged just a little grey around her eyes and added a subtle line of kohl.

  ‘Look, Inspector, I’m sorry about the young woman. I feel no malice towards her. She was just one in a long line of pretty little things; Geoffrey has a pash for them one minute and then can’t even recall their names the next. He is careless of their feelings, perhaps, but he’s never deliberately cruel and most know the score. They have realistic expectations.’

  ‘And, if their expectations become less than realistic?’

  Lillian rolled her very blue, very beautiful eyes. ‘Then my solicitor writes them a letter and they quietly revise them,’ she said. ‘You should try it, Inspector, a solicitor’s letter is a very powerful tool. Cheap, when you think about it, and effective. I have never felt the need to contemplate murder.’

  She drank a little more of her coffee, eyeing him thoughtfully over the rim of her cup. ‘I say!’ It seemed that some connection had just been made. ‘You aren’t Cynthia’s brother, are you? Cynthia Garrett-Smyth?’

  Henry confessed that he was.

  ‘Well, how funny. How awfully droll.’

  ‘My sister is a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not in particular, but it’s inevitable that we meet at the same parties, I suppose. And I do like her, awfully. Most people do. She’s a very likeable sort.’

  ‘I am gratified to hear it. I have another question to ask.’ He glanced at the two guests who were making such a show of ignoring him. He could practically see how they were straining their ears as they tried to listen.

  Lillian followed his gaze. ‘Oh, don’t worry about them,’ she said. ‘What they might think is of no consequence. Whatever they hear will fade along with their hangovers.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Henry said. ‘I wanted to ask you about drug use, Mrs Clifton. Most specifically about cocaine.’

  She looked quizzical. ‘And your question is? Do I use it? Does my husband? Do my friends and guests?’

  Friends and guests, Henry thought. That’s an interesting distinction. ‘All or any of those questions,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, it’s a definite no to the first, an occasional yes to the second and, I would think, a positive yes to the third. Some of them, at least. They seem to find it amusing.’

  ‘And you do not?’

  ‘No, not especially.’ She smiled at him again. ‘Frankly, Inspector, I prefer to be an observer. Audience rather than actor.’

  ‘And where do they obtain their supply?’

  She shrugged. ‘How would I know? I expect they get a prescription, like all good little addicts.’

  ‘And are they? Addicts.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m not the one to be asking,’ she said. ‘I observe what is before me. I admire the mise-en-scène, you might say. I don’t usually engage the participants in conversation.’

  Henry stood. ‘I must go. Please give your husband my message.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ll try to remember.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘Now, don’t even think of scolding me. I won’t forget, I was merely fashing. I’ll be sure to tell him.’

  Henry left, wondering if he’d achieved anything after all.

  Two days before Cissie’s death

  Philippe had agreed to meet her for afternoon tea. They had parted on bad terms and Cissie desperately regretted that. Philippe had been her friend and he was her cousin. They should not be enemies.

  He had arrived ahead of her and already ordered. She took her seat across the little table from him and tried to smile cheerily.

  ‘It’s good to see you. Thank you for coming.
I know it can’t be easy.’

  ‘Easy? No. But I am here. Can I ask why you wished me here?’

  The waitress brought a second cup and more hot water for the teapot. The three-tiered stand with tiny sandwiches and delicate iced cakes, carefully fashioned triangles of bread and butter and the smallest muffins Cissie had ever seen had already been brought out.

  ‘We may as well eat some of this,’ Philippe said, ‘now it is here. I hope I have ordered the right combination for an English tea.’

  He put odd emphasis on the word ‘English’ and Cissie looked at him in puzzlement.

  ‘I meant only that now you are so intent on becoming an English rose—’

  ‘Oh, Philippe, I thought you might have forgiven me.’

  He shook his head. ‘There is nothing to forgive. I hoped that—’

  ‘And I’m sorry. So, so sorry. I told you that.’

  ‘Sorry that you no longer love me or sorry that I returned?’

  Her face was a picture of consternation. ‘Please, Philippe. Don’t.’

  He looked away from her and dumped three small cubes of sugar in his tea, then helped himself to some of the sandwiches. ‘What do the English see in tiny sandwiches made with slivers of cucumber and no crust?’

  ‘I don’t know. They are dainty, I suppose.’

  ‘Dainty and without flavour. Looks without substance. A little like yourself, Cissie.’

  She tried to laugh. ‘I am most certainly nothing like a cucumber sandwich.’

  ‘And you are certainly nothing like the Cécile I used to know.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I was a child then. I am no longer a child and you are no longer the young cousin that I adored. We have both changed, utterly. Life makes you change, Philippe. One cannot simply stand still and wait.’

  ‘Not even for the one who loves you?’

  ‘The one I thought dead and buried? Philippe, it has been so long, it’s a wonder I’m not married with children.’

  ‘And if you had been I’d have left well alone. The fact that you were still unattached, still … Cécile, I thought that meant that you had waited.’

  ‘Waited? For what? For a might be? For a promise made in haste and desperation when I was not yet even seventeen? Philippe, you are unreasonable. And anyway, if you were so keen to find me, why wait? You yourself admitted it had taken little effort. If you wanted me so much, why have you taken so long? It’s been eleven years. Eleven whole years. If I had even dreamt you might still be alive then I’d have come looking for you as soon as the war ended and it was safe to travel.’

  ‘I couldn’t. Things prevented me.’

  ‘What things? Why the secrecy? Did you marry? What prevented you?’

  He looked away from her again and played moodily with the food on his plate.

  Cissie claimed her own sandwiches and began to eat, waiting for him to say something. Anything. This was not the way she had envisaged things.

  ‘After I left you the last time, I made some enquiries about you.’

  ‘Enquiries? I’m not sure I understand.’

  He shook his head. ‘There are rumours about you, Cécile. About your behaviour, your morals, your—’

  ‘My morals! You question my morals?’

  ‘I’m telling you only that there is gossip. But there are other rumours that trouble me more.’

  ‘What rumours?’

  He hesitated, seemingly less sure of himself now. ‘You go to London often.’

  ‘Well, what of it?’

  ‘You take regular trips to a certain broker, in Whitechapel.’

  She frowned but kept her calm. ‘And what if I do?’

  ‘The rumour is that you are not going there on your own account. That you … transport certain items on behalf of others. Others who are—’

  ‘And who told you these lies?’

  ‘Cécile, I told you before, I’ve not always earned my own living in an entirely legal or honest way. Circumstances …’

  ‘And so, how have you made your way? Do I ask or do I not wish to know?’ Cissie sighed. ‘Philippe, I think I should be going.’

  ‘The rumour is that you take jewellery to the city and that you also do a little trade on your own account. Cécile, I have to warn you that there are people who suspect you are doing too much trade on your own account.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You play a dangerous game, Cécile. I could protect you. I could—’

  ‘You could do nothing,’ she said coldly. ‘Philippe, I’m leaving now and I don’t wish to see you again. You understand me?’

  ‘It was you who asked me to meet you here.’

  ‘And it was a truly terrible idea. A ghastly thought. I regret it completely.’

  He watched her leave, she could feel his gaze fixed upon her even after the door had closed behind her. It seemed that his look of accusation could pierce the very walls, follow her down the street.

  What did he know? Cissie wondered. What had he found out and who had told him? Suddenly, she was very much afraid.

  EIGHTEEN

  Mickey Hitchens had joined the police force in 1910, six years after Henry Johnstone. He had nearly resigned within that first year; pay was poor and they were allowed almost no time off. Somehow, he had stuck it out and things had slowly improved, though it was still a tough life for a young constable and Mickey had set his mind on getting to the detective bureau. By 1913, a constable was being paid thirty shillings a week and was even allowed one day off – though actually getting that day off could prove problematic – and Mickey was already getting noticed.

  He had begun his apprenticeship in Whitechapel, at the famous Leman Street police station, and walking the streets today Mickey’s feet recalled the cobbles and the slippery unevenness of the alleys and the feel of the pitch pine blocks that had been laid as a temporary repair on the corner of Leman Street itself, but never replaced.

  The Whitechapel ground took in some of the poorest districts of London, the population a mix of working-class British, Jewish, German and Armenian, among others, all trying to scrape a living alongside richer streets that overspilled from the Square Mile. He had liaised often with the City Police.

  Although he had started out in L division, he had returned, after the war, to J division. He had risen swiftly through the ranks to become a detective sergeant. In his more melancholy moments – rare but still profound – Mickey acknowledged that his rise had been largely uncontested, able officers being in the minority. Few who had been recruited to replace those who’d gone off to war – and the many who had not returned – had been up to snuff. He had heard that something like seventy per cent of those substitutes had been dismissed by the early 1920s, because they had brought their office into disrepute through drunkenness or simple inefficiency. Under the leadership of the so-called Big Four – Albert Hawkins, Arthur Neil, Francis Carlin and, of course, Fred Wensley – the force had been professionalized and the dead wood excised.

  Mickey had risen no further than detective sergeant, though his promotion had been urged on a number of occasions by Mr Wensley himself. But Mickey was not a political animal and neither was he an ambitious one; he was content, by and large, and knew that his experience was valued way beyond his rank. He knew, particularly, how much he was valued by Henry Johnstone.

  A warehouse building on Camperdown Street had been selected for surveillance of the pawnbrokers. A notice on the shop door informed the public that the shop was closed due to a family bereavement. Camperdown was a more respectable street, but was also quite out of the way. A perfect spot, Mickey thought, for a young woman seeking not to be noticed.

  ‘The shop’s been closed for over a week,’ Mickey was told by one of the local constables who’d had the task of interviewing neighbours. ‘And so far today, we’ve seen no one going in or out. A few punters have tried the door but that’s been an end to it.’

  ‘The owner, Ted Grieves, has history for receiving,’ Mickey said.r />
  ‘And the neighbours reckon they did a flit. There’s a rumour that Grieves has been taking too big a cut for himself and upset someone.’

  ‘Do we know who?’

  ‘Names have been named. Josiah Bailey among them.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Interesting, Mickey thought. Josiah Bailey was a man with a finger in a great many pies. Interesting that Ted Grieves had disappeared about the same time that Cissie Rowe had been killed.

  ‘And where are we likely to find our Mr Bailey?’ Mickey asked.

  ‘We bring him in?’

  ‘We get him pegged and keep tabs. No need to move too precipitately.’

  And then, the message came. Philippe Boilieu had been found and it was suggested that Mickey might wish to be present at the arrest. He had been spotted by a local constable and tracked down to his lodgings in Hanbury Street.

  ‘Hanbury,’ Mickey said. ‘Up near the old brewery and Brick Lane market. If he legs it, we’ve got a network of little alleys to cover.’

  ‘So we hope he doesn’t scarper.’

  Philippe had two rooms at the rear of a terraced house. Another resident lived in the front, upstairs. The landlord kept the rooms downstairs and they had use of the kitchen and a scullery out back that also served to house the tin bath. The privy was at the end of a narrow yard.

  Mickey watched the operation, two constables sent round the back of the house and two to knock on the door at the front. The landlord had been intercepted on his way home from work and pulled into an entryway between two houses almost opposite his own. Mickey could hear him protesting that he’d done nothing and knew nothing about his tenant other than that he was a foreigner and that he paid his rent.

  And that he didn’t want the front door knocked down when the police went in.

  ‘He’d best hand over the keys, then,’ Mickey said cheerfully. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. This Philippe fellow intrigued him and he’d been promised a go at cracking him, once they got him back to Scotland Yard – this being part of an ongoing murder investigation, the local constabulary would hand over to the central office once Philippe had been brought in.