Stop Press Murder

by Peter Bartram

  “But Mr Bulstrode died shortly after the general strike in 1926. Didn’t leave her much, either. The strike had ruined him, I suppose. Marie needed to earn money to sustain the lifestyle she’d become accustomed to and tried a comeback. But, by then, her youthful charms were fading and other silent-movie stars had eclipsed her. And the talkies weren’t far away. She never took to them. Finally, she quit acting and retired to Brighton. That would be in 1935. I remember it because I was in the West End in a revival of London Assurance at the time. We saw each other once or twice after she moved to Brighton, but I formed the impression she wasn’t interested in staying in touch with her old friends from the theatrical world. Something had changed inside her. She even reverted to her birth name – although I believe Clarence retained his father’s moniker. All very confusing for a simple thespian such as myself.”

  “So she died as Sybil Clackett?”

  “Yes. La commedia è finita.”

  He picked up his glass, stared at the bottom, realised it was empty. He put it back on the table.

  I said: “What happened to Venetia, the sister who wanted to be an aristocrat?”

  “Ah, there we enter a different world. No smell of the greasepaint, roar of the crowd for Venetia. She married into a titled family. I was touring as Hastings in She Stoops to Conquer, so that would make it 1910. She is now the Marchioness of Piddinghoe. Dowager Marchioness, I should say, because her husband died during the war.”

  “And so the present Marquess must be her son?” I said.

  “Yes. I believe he’s something in the government.”

  “He’s the Under-secretary of State for Farming Affairs,” I said.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Terry said.

  “I think it means he’s more interested in pigs than people. But getting back to Marie, how did she react to having a sister in the aristocracy?”

  “The two sisters had been as thick as thieves but after Venetia’s wedding they drifted apart,” Terry said.

  “Noblesse not obliged, then.”

  “More than that. After Marie moved to Brighton, the two were estranged. I don’t know why. I expect you know the Piddinghoe’s stately home is just outside Lewes. Perhaps Venetia thought that, by moving to Brighton, Marie was getting too close for comfort. After all, by then the stardust had faded. But there was still the shadow of notoriety.”

  Terry stood up, crossed the room, straightened a photo frame that was slightly crooked. He turned back to me: “If you’re not writing Marie’s obituary, why the interest?”

  I told him about the theft of Milady’s Bath Night.

  “Why should anyone want to steal it?” he asked.

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Perhaps a memento hunter, now that she’s dead?”

  It was possible, I suppose. Collectors of memorabilia often have an irrational passion for their subject. But they don’t usually commit murder.

  I said: “You’ve been most helpful, Terry.”

  He puffed himself up as though preparing to take a bow. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?”

  I glanced at the red wig. Thought about it. Shook my head.

  Even as an investigative reporter, there are some questions you don’t ask.

  Chapter 5

  I left Toupée Terry’s at quarter to four puzzling over a new problem.

  I’d mentioned Marie Richmond in my story for the Chronicle’s Afternoon Extra. I had fifteen minutes before deadline for the Night Final. I could phone in an update. The news that Marie had died only six days ago would give the story a new and compelling angle. But if the Chronicle ran the story, Jim Houghton and every other hack in town would have the same lead. This was my chance to leap ahead of Houghton and I was damned if I was going to throw it away too soon.

  I decided I’d keep the information to myself until I knew more. When you’re trying to beat the competition, it’s much better to leave them standing at the starting gate.

  My meeting with Terry had also convinced me I had unfinished business with Henrietta Houndstooth. I wondered whether Henrietta’s grief in the morgue was connected to Marie Richmond’s death. If Henrietta had known about Marie’s death why hadn’t she mentioned it to me? Or if the first she’d heard of it was when I’d asked for Marie’s file, why had the tears flowed?

  I needed some answers and, after what Terry had told me, I was determined that Henrietta was going to provide them. Tears or not.

  But when I arrived back at the morgue, I discovered that Henrietta had gone home early.

  “She had a splitting migraine,” Elsie said.

  “We said she should lie down,” Mabel said.

  “In a darkened room,” Freda added.

  “It’s the best way,” I said.

  I gave them a re-assuring smile and said: “I’ll just check on something in the morgue.”

  I wanted to see whether I could find the file that had caused Henrietta such distress. I stepped into the filing stacks and took a moment to orientate myself. I moved down the corridor which housed the bound copies of the newspaper and passed the shelves with the foreign-language dictionaries. I was sure Henrietta had been in the corridor which held the files from P to R. That made sense if she was looking for Richmond, Marie.

  I found the place towards the back of the stacks. I tried to remember where Henrietta stood when she was looking at the file. Had I seen any filing-cabinet drawer open? No. But the chances were she’d taken the file from the drawer holding Richmond. I moved down the corridor looking at the labels on the front of the drawers. If I was right, the file would be in the one labelled Ricardo-Roberts.

  I opened the drawer and rifled through the buff files. There were two Richmonds – Richmond, Walter, a major from Peacehaven who’d won the Military Cross and Richmond icehockey team which had played Brighton Tigers. No Richmond, Marie. I closed the drawer.

  Of course, I couldn’t be certain that Henrietta had been looking at Marie Richmond’s file. But if she had, there seemed only two explanations as to why it was no longer there. Perhaps she had put it back in the wrong drawer. Henrietta had been deeply upset but I didn’t think even that would cause her to make a mistake. Or she’d taken the file home with her. And the migraine was a ruse to get it out of the office as soon as possible.

  There was only one way to find out whether I was right.

  Henrietta lived in a large first-floor flat overlooking the playing fields of Brighton College.

  A small flight of steps led up to an old oak door. I plodded up the steps holding a large bunch of carnations and a bottle of gin. I wasn’t yet sure whether they’d turn out to be peace offerings or bribes. I pressed the bell firmly three times and waited.

  I was about to press again when the door opened. Henrietta was wearing a quilted dressing gown over grey corduroy trousers.

  She said: “I was expecting you. Elsie telephoned and said you’d been poking around in the morgue.”

  I said: “Reporters research – they don’t poke. At least, this one doesn’t.”

  I handed Henrietta the flowers.

  “The Victorians believed that carnations brought you good luck,” I said. “They were wrong about so many things, but they had to be right about something. Let’s hope it’s this.”

  Henrietta tried a smile. “Thank you.”

  I stepped into the hallway and followed Henrietta up the stairs. There was one of those mosaic pattern carpets which look as though they’ve been made to use up oddments of left-over wool. The place smelt of furniture polish.

  Henrietta led the way into a spacious sitting room. It was comfortably furnished with four sagging armchairs worn down over the years by ample posteriors. The sun streamed in through open windows and made the regency stripe wallpaper shine. I could hear the clunk of leather on willow coming from a cricket match on the college’s playing field.

  Henrietta gestured me towards one of the chairs. She was composed but her eyes were stil
l puffy from crying.

  She said: “I can offer you tea or coffee.”

  I held up the gin. “I think our discussion calls for something stronger.”

  “I thought it might.”

  Henrietta took the bottle and disappeared into the kitchen. She returned with two glasses well-iced, fizzing with tonic and garnished with a slice of lemon.

  She handed one to me. “I’m not sure what we should drink to.”

  “How about confusion to our enemies?” I said.

  “But who are our enemies?”

  “Let’s concentrate on the confusion first.”

  I took a good pull at the gin. Henrietta sat in the chair opposite and sipped her drink.

  I said: “I’m confused why a file from the morgue should have upset you so much.”

  “You saw me crying?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hoped you wouldn’t.”

  “I didn’t want to intrude on private grief.”

  “I thought that’s what you journalists did best.”

  I held my tongue. Took another pull at my gin. Henrietta took a guilty sip of hers.

  She said: “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

  I said: “I’m chasing a story. It could be a big one. I don’t want to make you part of it. But I need to know what was in that file.”

  Henrietta rose and headed for the kitchen. “We’re going to need more gin.”

  She returned with the bottle, topped up our glasses and sat down.

  “It was a shock coming across a file with such a personal memory in it. For all those years I’ve worked in the morgue, I never realised it was there.”

  I said: “I think you better start at the beginning.”

  She said: “You thought I was looking in the Marie Richmond file. I wasn’t. There isn’t a Marie Richmond file.”

  “Then which file upset you?”

  “It was the Piddinghoe file. The Marquess and Marchioness of Piddinghoe.”

  Me and my assumptions. Not the Richmond file after all. But I hadn’t known about the Piddinghoe connection until I’d visited Toupée Terry.

  I said: “There was something in the file that set off your tears.”

  Henrietta took a sip of gin. “Yes.”

  “Something about the Piddinghoes?”

  “Something about my mother.”

  Now I took a sip of gin.

  “Your mother knew the Marchioness of Piddinghoe?”

  “Yes. She was her lady’s maid.”

  “A servant? … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put that so bluntly.”

  Henrietta’s lips twitched into a thin smile. “Yes, a servant. Few people know that these days, but those that find out usually react the same way. Surprise. I know I don’t speak or act like the daughter of a mere servant.”

  “‘Mere’ was not a word I used.”

  “Thank you at least for that.”

  “But something happened while your mother was the Marchioness’s lady’s maid. Something that still distresses you.”

  “I’ve not talked about it for years. But I know only too well it’s no use trying to keep secrets from you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Your choice.”

  “What happened?” I said. “Why did a file make you cry?”

  “Because it brought back the full horror of my childhood.”

  I paused a moment to absorb that information.

  Through the open window came a raucous cry of “How’s that?”

  I said: “I realise that it’s painful, but could you tell me what happened?”

  Henrietta shrugged. “It’ll feel like walking on my parents’ graves, but very well. Both my father, Robert, and mother, Susan, worked for the Piddinghoes. Owned by them, it often felt like. They say the Middle Ages ended in the fifteenth century. In Piddinghoe, it was still going strong in the nineteen-thirties and I doubt that even the war has laid it to rest.”

  “You had to tug your forelock?”

  “As a girl of eleven I had a fringe, but not a forelock. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have tugged it for anyone. Certainly not the Piddinghoes.”

  “It all sounds a bit feudal.”

  “It felt like it. My father was a land worker on the estate. We lived in a tied cottage. Ate food from the Piddinghoe’s farm. Relied on money, paid as a pittance by the Marquess. We might as well have been serfs.”

  “But that wasn’t what made you cry?”

  “No. It was the summer of 1935 when the first blow fell. My father was driving a tractor, harrowing a field. He’d been told by the farm manager to harrow as close to the field’s edge as possible. Apparently, the estate manager had mentioned that the Marquess was complaining about the low yield from some of the fields. He wanted every square foot growing crops. But that greed caused a tragedy. My father, desperate to satisfy his bosses, drove the tractor too close to the ditch at the east edge of Yeoman’s Field. It toppled over. He fell under it and was killed instantly.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Henrietta flapped her hand. “Many said they were. Even the Marchioness. Although her sympathy didn’t extend to attending the funeral. My mother and I were naturally devastated. For weeks, Mama looked like a ghost. I don’t know how she carried on. She must have felt bitterness and resentment, but she never showed it. Perhaps so many years in service had trained her to mask her own emotions when she was serving others. But somehow she continued to mend the Marchioness’s clothes and brush her hair.”

  “It must’ve been a difficult time for you also. You were old enough to understand what had happened.”

  “At first, it felt as though my heart had been emptied out and that it would never fill with love again. But, somehow – I don’t know how – Mama found the strength to ease my despair. And as summer turned to winter, I felt that, despite the loss of my father, there might be better days ahead. I remember the death of the old King in January 1936 lifted me up in a strange kind of way.”

  “That would be George the Fifth,” I said.

  “Yes. It wasn’t so much his death as the accession of Edward the Eighth. He was younger, seemed more modern, talked like ordinary people. I felt he might be the emblem of a better future. But that was before the second blow fell – the one that ruined my life and made the tears flow in the morgue today.”

  I reached for the bottle and topped up Henrietta’s glass. She took a generous pull and slumped back in her chair.

  “Do you want to go on?” I said.

  “I need to tell you everything now,” she said.

  “Take your time.”

  “A couple of weeks after the old king died – it would have been early February – something very unusual happened. Mama rarely talked in detail about what went on up at the big house, but she came in one evening truly a-buzz. Marie Richmond and the Marchioness had been estranged for years. Well, one Monday morning, while she was dressing, the Marchioness turned to Mama and said, ‘My sister is coming to tea this afternoon. See that it’s served in the blue drawing room promptly at three.’ I remember that Mama was so excited about this news, she seemed more like her old self while she was telling me. Mama knew about Marie Richmond’s scandalous career in silent films.”

  “So were Venetia and Marie making up – an outbreak of sisterly love?” I said.

  “Nothing like that. Apparently, the two were alone in the drawing room for twenty minutes. Mama said she just happened to be in the hall when Marie left. Venetia hadn’t bothered to wave her off. According to Mama, Marie stomped off with a face like a thunderstorm. The meeting hadn’t cheered Venetia either. When Mama went to help her dress for dinner, she was more sharp-tempered than usual. But Mama said she thought Lady Piddinghoe was worrying about something.”

  “But she never said what?”

  “No. And shortly after we had our own things to worry about. A winter storm must have dislodged some of the slates on our cottage. The roof started to leak. Just a little thing
at first – but it ended in the worst tragedy of my life.”

  Henrietta took a pull at her gin.

  “It led to the death of my mother.”

  I put down my glass.

  I’d drunk two large gins, but I felt sober.

  “Henrietta, if I’d have known…”

  “You would have still asked me. I’m not a colleague now. I’m a subject in a story. That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I work for a newspaper, Colin. It would be hypocritical of me to take my salary and not approve of the things newspaper people do to make their crust – even when it cuts so close to the quick. So ask your questions.”

  I opened my notebook and pulled a pen from the inside pocket of my jacket.

  “How did your mother die?” I asked.

  “You need to know the background,” Henrietta said. “Mama was a bag of nerves when she went to tell the Marchioness about the leaky roof. The Piddinghoes never liked spending money – at least, not on their servants. But, it turned out, Lady Piddinghoe was remarkably unfussed by it. In fact, she insisted that the estate manager engage builders to repair the roof. Said it was the least the family could do for a trusted retainer who’d given so much service. I remember Mama coming back from the meeting puzzled by the sudden change of attitude. ‘Has she found God?’ she said.

  “That’s as maybe, but she – or rather the estate manager – certainly had trouble finding builders to undertake the work. It was April and nearly Easter before they started. It was a firm from Lewes and, like most builders, they found more things wrong and it all turned into a bigger job than we expected. They ended up erecting scaffolding in the back yard and rigged up a pulley-and-rope arrangement to haul the new slates up on to the roof.”

  “And you watched all this happening?”

  “I found it fascinating,” Henrietta said. “So did Lady Piddinghoe, apparently. She prowled around the cottage inspecting the new slates, testing the scaffolding and generally behaving like a site foreman. It was completely out of character. And for a time, I wondered whether she’d taken a shine to one of the labourers. There was one, a handsome young lad, who may have fancied his chances. And I’ve heard that aristocratic ladies can develop a passion for such men.”