“What did you feel about your twin sister appearing in a film called Milady’s Bath Night showing in a What the Butler Saw machine on Palace Pier?”
“My sister made her own decisions without reference to me.”
“Did you know that the film had been stolen from the pier in the last few days?”
“I trust there is no suggestion in the question that I had anything to do with that.”
“Certainly not. I just wondered what you thought about the fact.”
“It is beneath my consideration.”
“Before the war, your lady’s maid Susan Houndstooth killed herself. You paid to have her daughter Henrietta educated. Why was that?”
“I do not seek praise for any act of charity I may have given. Nor any publicity for it, Mr Crampton.”
“But does that mean you felt an obligation of some kind to the Houndstooth family.”
“It means, Mr Crampton, that I have no further time to answer your impertinent questions.”
She rose from her chair. I glanced around to see if I could spot anything that would give me a peg to keep the conversation going. A large portrait of an old gent dressed in the full fig of a peer of the realm – red-velvet cloak, ermine collar, coronet – hung by itself at the far end of the room. If the wall lights were any guide, it had once been one of three, but the other two had been removed.
I pointed at the picture and said: “Is that distinguished gentleman a former Marquess of Piddinghoe.”
Venetia turned, relaxed slightly. “It is my late husband’s father – my father-in-law. He was a great politician in Mr Disraeli’s government. You may, if you wish, see a statue of him in Victoria Gardens in Brighton.”
“And those words along the bottom of the picture?” I asked.
“Cave latet anguis in herba. The family’s motto.”
My schoolboy Latin was up to that. “Beware the snake in the grass,” I said. “A curious motto.”
For the first time, Venetia smiled. “But not for a family that has always had to be watchful of the dangers around it.”
“Like intrusive reporters?” I said.
The ghost of a smile crossed Venetia’s face. “And now if you’ll excuse me,” she said.
We crossed to the door. Outside, Lord Snooty hovered – waiting to see me safely off the premises. I glanced back as I walked along the path to my car. He was staring after me. He looked pleased.
No doubt congratulating himself that another snake had been safely repelled.
The light was fading on a perfect June evening when I reversed the MGB into its parking slot in the Mews behind my lodgings.
I’d done some hard thinking on the drive back to Brighton through the Sussex countryside. I hadn’t expected the red carpet treatment at Piddinghoe Grange but Venetia would have made an ice maiden seem cuddly. Families fall out. Often death brings reconciliation. But Venetia didn’t strike me as the forgiving type. There weren’t going to be any tears around Marie’s grave from her.
But there was an even darker thought chasing through my mind. Could Marie, even in death, be a snake in the grass that posed a danger to the Piddinghoe escutcheon? Venetia hadn’t shown any surprise about the existence of Milady’s Bath Night when I mentioned it. But when news of Marie’s death hit the nationals, they’d be hunting for pictures of the dead actress. For the tabloids, the saucier, the better.
Milady’s Bath Night, once an obscure recreation for sad old men and spotty schoolboys, could become a national sensation. It could be featured by Pathé News in the cinemas. Selected clips might even be shown on television news. There were newspapers and magazines that would be eager to print the best nude shots. As Marie’s identical twin, Venetia would be mortified. Wherever she went, she’d be the object of pointing fingers and whispered back-of-the-hand comments.
I sat in the car and imagined what the Marquess would do to protect his mother. He wouldn’t seek to buy the film from the pier’s owners. That would only draw attention to its value. Instead, with aristocratic arrogance, he’d decide to steal it. He’d give the job to Hardmann. The fellow seemed to have no qualms about obeying his lordship’s orders. Hardmann would hide up on the pier after it closed to the public at ten o’clock. Then, when it was dark, he would creep to the amusement arcade and remove the film. And, I reasoned, the plan would have worked just as his lordship said it would.
Except that Hardmann made one mistake.
He stole the film from inside the machine but forgot to take the revealing photo of Marie in the playbill above it. His lordship would order him back for a second attack. After all, what could go wrong? The raid had worked the first time. But on this occasion, something did go wrong. Hardmann must have been discovered in his hiding place in the coconut shy by Fred Snout. There was a struggle and Snout died.
I had watched Hardmann despatch a rabbit with a stone – and not flinch.
Would he have any qualms about killing a night-watchman with a coconut? Especially if his own freedom was at stake. Not to mention the good name of the Piddinghoes.
I was tired. It was a question I’d try to answer tomorrow.
I levered myself out of the car, locked it and walked round to the street. I occupied the top-floor rooms in a five-storey house in Regency Square, an address which didn’t quite live up to its billing. But the place suited me, as long as I could avoid Beatrice Gribble, the landlady – known to her tenants (but always behind her back) as the Widow.
I climbed the steps to the front door, inserted the key silently in the lock and crept into the crepuscular gloom of the Widow’s hallway. My luck had run out. She’d just come out of the kitchen and spotted me at once.
She said: “Mr Crampton, I need to have words with you.”
I said: “Animadvert and persiflage are nice words, Mrs Gribble. Have them with my compliments.”
I headed for the stairs. The Widow hurried up the hall and cornered me by the hat stand.
She said: “Just a moment, if you please. What about these phone calls?”
I frowned. “Which phone calls?”
“The ones I’ve had today. Two of them. Picked up the receiver and nobody speaks. Just some breathing.” She moved closer. “Heavy breathing.”
“Don’t look at me. I’ve been so busy I’ve hardly had time to breathe at all.”
“I know it’s not you. I’d recognise your breathing anywhere. This is new breathing. Dirty breathing. I suppose it’s one of your so-called contacts from the criminal world.”
Ever since the Widow had discovered I was crime correspondent on the Chronicle, she’d convinced herself I spent my days getting chummy with former jailbirds and crooks on the run from the law.
But I was too tired to get into a barney with her now. So to get her off my back, I said: “The calls could’ve been for you.”
“Then why didn’t he speak when I answered?”
“He was too shy”
“Too shy?”
“Secret admirers often are,” I said.
“A secret admirer. Are you seriously saying I have a secret admirer?”
I could see the cogs turn a couple of times in her brain. The idea was just outrageous enough to appeal to the Widow’s economy-sized vanity.
“What about Mr Evans, the butcher?” I said.
I’d remembered he’d included an extra string of sausages in the Widow’s order the previous week. They would have been put in by mistake, but it was a useful piece of supporting evidence to get the Widow thinking.
I said: “Remember the sausages? A love token of his undeclared passion.”
The Widow thought about that and said: “I’d rather have had a nice piece of brisket.”
“But he sent the thing most dear to him.”
She cocked her head to one side and said: “I suppose that makes sense. Do you think I ought to say anything when I next call in at the shop?”
“I wouldn’t at this stage. Unrequited love needs time to declare itself. Best not to rush t
hings.”
The Widow nodded. “You’re right. But next time, I’ll buy extra lamb chops.”
She bustled off to her parlour. I headed for the stairs. If only I’d known this wasn’t going to be the last I’d hear of the Widow’s phone calls, I’d have taken them much more seriously.
Chapter 7
The following morning, I made sure I reached the newsroom well ahead of Figgis.
He’d be angry that I hadn’t provided an update on the Snout murder for the previous evening’s Night Final. I reckoned that if I could make more progress on my own leads before he cornered me, I’d be able to smooth him over with the promise of a really juicy exclusive. But I wasn’t yet sure what it would be.
I checked a stack of routine messages on my desk. There was a note that the daily police press conference would be half an hour earlier than usual at nine o’clock. I checked my watch. Ten past eight. That left time for a quick breakfast at Marcello’s. I headed for the door.
Marcello’s was always crowded early as office workers stoked up on the caffeine they’d need to get them through the morning.
A fug of tobacco smoke and burnt toast hung in the air. On the jukebox Brian Poole and The Tremeloes belted out Do You Love Me?
I walked up to the counter.
Ruby, Marcello’s paid help, was frying bacon on a griddle.
I said: “Coffee and slap a rasher or two of that bacon in a sandwich. Plenty of sauce.”
“I thought you already had enough,” she said.
“Careful, or I’ll put your tip in the Lifeboat box.”
She grinned as she fixed the sandwich and coffee. I took the plate and cup. Made my way to the only free table at the back.
I flipped open my notebook and studied my notes from the previous day’s interviews. Decided they weren’t going to tell me any more than I already knew. Took a bite of my sandwich.
A young woman came in, walked up to the counter and ordered a coffee. She had a slim figure and short blonde hair cut in a bob. She was dressed for the office in a pale-grey jacket and pencil skirt.
Ruby handed her the coffee in a glass cup and saucer. The young woman turned and looked around the café. She was searching for a free table. Saw they were all taken. Her eyes darted from side to side. Nervous. She’d have to share a table. But it was embarrassing having to ask the people already there. Mortifying if they said no.
I watched. She moved a little to her right. Then to her left. Indecision. She looked at one table with two office girls. Thought about it. They’d be having a private conversation. About clothes. Or hair styles. Or men. Better to choose a table with only one person who might actually welcome company.
Her gaze travelled around the room. Landed on me. I smiled. Just enough to say: ‘Please allow me to help you out of your predicament’. Not enough to suggest: ‘Sit here and I’ll have your knickers off within the hour’.
She walked over. “Would you mind if one joined you?”
She had a voice that could have landed her a job reading the news on the BBC Home Service.
“One would be delighted,” I said.
She laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound pompous.”
I smiled: “You didn’t.”
She sat opposite. Put her coffee on the table. Fiddled with her handbag and said in a voice that was more Light Programme: “Is it always as crowded as this?”
“At this time. It’ll empty out later. Your first time, presumably?”
“Yes. I’m new in town. Finding my way around.”
“Not easy in a place like this.”
“Especially when you’re hunting for a job.”
“Anything in mind?”
She rummaged in her handbag. Brought out a cutting from the Chronicle’s Sits Vacs pages.
“I saw this advertisement a couple of days ago.” She handed it across the table.
The Kayser Bondor knicker factory in Portslade wanted to hire a shorthand typist. Hours nine to five-thirty. Pay six pounds fifteen shillings a week.
“I’ve got an interview this morning at the job agency.” She sipped her coffee. Spilt a little as she replaced the cup in the saucer.
She grinned. “Nervous,” she said.
“Only natural,” I said.
We fell silent. I munched on my bacon sandwich. She sipped her coffee. A little ran down the outside of the cup. She rummaged in her handbag again and pulled out a card.
She said: “I don’t suppose you know where this place is?” She handed the card to me.
It was an appointment card from the Buckle Job Agency, Ship Street, Brighton. Miss Fanny Archer was to attend an interview at ten o’clock.
“It’s not far from here,” I said.
“Could you give me directions?”
“I can do better than that.”
The Chronicle published pocket street maps of central Brighton which it gave away as promotional gifts. I usually had a couple on me. I shoved my hand in my jacket pocket and pulled one out.
And the Hippodrome tickets which Sidney Pinker had given me yesterday fluttered to the ground. I’d forgotten I had them.
Fanny bent down and picked them up. Handed them across to me.
“You’re a theatregoer,” she said. “I love a good play, too.”
“This is more variety theatre,” I said.
“Still fun, though.” She put on her posh voice. “One hasn’t been able to get into the social life of the town yet.”
I grinned. “Then, perhaps, one can help. I’m Colin, by the way. Colin Crampton.”
“You can, Colin?”
“Would you like to join me at the Hippodrome this evening?”
“Well, that’s a lovely invitation, but isn’t the other ticket spoken for?”
“It will be if you say ‘yes’.”
Fanny smiled. “In that case, yes.”
I said: “The show starts at seven-forty-five. So let’s meet outside the theatre in Middle Street at seven-fifteen.”
I handed over the map. “You’ll find Middle Street and Ship Street on there.”
I glanced at my watch. “And now, I’ve got to go.”
“Anywhere interesting?”
“Let’s just say I’m hoping the police will be helping me with my enquiries. I’ll tell you more this evening.”
I left Fanny smiling. When I looked back she was drinking the last of her coffee with a steady hand. Her nerves had evidently vanished.
I had a lurking suspicion that I would be in for a difficult time at the police press conference.
My story in last night’s Chronicle which linked the Fred Snout killing to the theft of Milady’s Bath Night wouldn’t have pleased Tomkins. He’d have stormed round to Palace Pier to demand why Reginald Chapman, the pier manager, hadn’t told him about the film’s disappearance. I could just see Tomkins quivering with anger as he threatened Chapman with withholding vital information from the police. I’d not mentioned Tom Belcher, the source of my exclusive, in the piece so both Tomkins and Chapman wouldn’t know how I’d ferreted out the scoop. As long as Tom kept his mouth shut. He’d struck me as the type who would.
Then there was Jim Houghton. He’d be fuming that he’d not discovered the film theft himself. My story which spelt out a clear motive for the murder made a racier read than his own plodding piece which said the police were “baffled”. So what? Brighton police spent most of their life in a state of blissful bafflement.
By the time I reached the briefing room at the cop shop, it was already crowded. This story hadn’t just attracted the locals, but a good turn-out of journos from the nationals. There was a lively buzz of conversation and the sort of carnival atmosphere you get when crime correspondents are on to a good murder.
I noticed that Houghton was sitting in the front row, so I took a seat at the back. But he’d seen me enter, made his way towards me and slumped down on the next chair. He looked more tired than usual and there was a small shaving cut on his chin. He’d done his best to
cover it with a sliver of tissue paper.
He leaned over towards me and said: “Would you like a tip from an old pro?”
I said: “If it’s for the two-thirty at Kempton Park, fire away.”
He ignored that and said: “Don’t fly kites you can’t keep aloft.”
I said: “I gave up flying kites when I was fourteen.”
He frowned: “You know very well what I mean. That story you wrote in last night’s Chronicle about the naughty film – Milady’s Bath Mat…”
“Night.”
“If you insist. There’s no way you’ll stand up that theft as a motive for the killing and you’ll end up looking like a fool. Just a friendly word from a crime reporter who’s been at the game since the Trunk Murders.”
I said: “Thanks, Jim. I’ll swap a word of advice from a young pro. Never try to provoke a journalist into revealing his sources by suggesting that he hasn’t got any. He might think you’re getting desperate.”
“Cocky young bastard.” Houghton levered himself up. “You’ll come a cropper on this story – and sooner than you think.” He limped back to his seat in the front row.
The door at the side of the room opened and Tomkins trooped in flanked by a couple of uniformed plods. Tomkins took a little time to seat himself at the top table and arrange his papers. He looked over his beaky nose at the assembled company with the satisfied smirk of a man who’s always wanted to be the centre of attention. He caught my eye at the back of the room and curled his lip in a sneer.
He picked up his papers, cleared his throat and said: “I am going to read a short statement and will then take questions.”
He put on a pair of spectacles and read: “We have now confirmed that the body of the person found in the coconut shy on Palace Pier yesterday morning is that of Frederick Tinkerman Snout, aged fifty-three, of Ewart Street, Brighton. Mr Snout had been employed as the night-watchman on the pier since 1952.”
One of the national journalists said: “Was there ever any doubt about his identity?”
Tomkins gave him a look that would have melted marble and growled: “I’ve said I will take questions at the end.”
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