Henrietta was standing by the cuttings table talking to the Clipping Cousins. She looked more cheerful than when I’d left her yesterday.
Elsie saw me first and said: “This morning we clipped that story you wrote in yesterday’s paper about the murder.”
“And we’ve been wondering about something ever since,” said Mabel.
“Why are those machines called What the Butler Saw?” Freda asked.
Henrietta said: “I expect Mr Crampton has more important things to do than answer your questions.”
I said: “I do need to speak to you, Henrietta, but the ladies have posed an interesting question. And there’s a scandalous answer.”
“Do tell,” said Elsie.
“Out with it,” said Mabel.
“Spill the beans,” said Freda.
“It all dates back to a sensational court case in 1886. Lord Colin Campbell, a son of the Duke of Argyll, and his wife Gertrude wanted to divorce each other. It had all turned very nasty. They were at each other’s throats. Each accused the other of having several affairs.
“According to Campbell, the beautiful Gertrude had been carrying on with Captain Eyre Shaw, the head of London’s fire brigade. Gertrude denied she and Shaw had been doing anything naughty when he’d called at her home. But the butler had been watching them through the keyhole and the court case all hinged on how much he could see of what they were doing. Newspapers used the phrase ‘what the butler saw’ and it entered everyday speech.”
“But what we want to know is what did the butler see?” said Elsie.
“Did it involve his fireman’s helmet?” said Mabel.
“Or his chopper?” said Freda.
“Really!” exclaimed Elsie and Mabel together.
Freda blushed.
I said to Henrietta: “I knew I shouldn’t have started that.”
“So what did you actually want to see me about?”
“I’m afraid it’s about Marie Richmond again.”
Henrietta crossed to her chair and sat. I perched on the edge of her desk.
“I’ve been thinking about people I haven’t yet interviewed for this story and I remembered that somebody mentioned Marie had a son.”
Henrietta nodded. “That’s right. He was born in the Edwardian years – I think towards the end of the King’s reign.”
“And do you have a file on him?”
“I’m afraid not. But I can tell you his name was Clarence and there were rumours he was a strange boy.”
“In what way?”
“Well, from what I heard, Marie kept him very much cloistered – away from other children. I don’t know why. Perhaps she was just possessive. Sometimes promiscuous people can be like that. Nothing matters to them and then when something – or someone – does, they have to keep them all to themselves. By all accounts, her marriage was one of convenience on both sides. So without a husband to love, perhaps Clarence was all she had.”
I thought about that for a moment.
“So did Clarence turn into a classic mummy’s boy?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Henrietta said. “From what I’ve heard, he’s always lived with his mother – so her sudden death must’ve been a terrible blow to him.”
“From what you say, it sounds as though Clarence may have been the victim of his mother’s possessiveness.”
Henrietta cocked her head to one side while she considered that. “It’s possible,” she said. “But I don’t know. After all, I’ve never met either of them.”
I thanked Henrietta for her help and headed back to the newsroom.
Phil Bailey was at his desk laughing at something. Phil had a great sense of humour, which was just as well. He wrote most of the obituaries for the paper. Which meant that he collected each day from local hospitals the names and addresses of people who died.
I walked over and said: “Anything you can share, Phil?”
He chuckled. “Just trying to write an obit about a bloke who’s going to be cremated.”
“Why is that funny?”
“Because his name is Graves. So they’ll be cremating Graves!”
I smiled indulgently. Obit writers develop a quirky sense of black humour.
I said: “Do you have the hospital death list from a week ago. I need to find the address of a Sybil Clackett.”
“It’s on my spike. Help yourself. Anything I should know about?”
I wagged a friendly finger at him. “This is my story, Phil. Keep out.”
He grinned. I rummaged through the papers on his spike. Found the page. Made a note of the address.
“Let me know if you get another funny obit,” I said. “I could do with a laugh.”
From what Henrietta had told me, I didn’t think I was going to get many from Clarence.
Chapter 9
I decided to make a short detour on my way to see Clarence.
I wanted to view the statue of the first Marquess of Piddinghoe in Victoria Gardens. During our frosty interview, Venetia had urged me to take a look-see the next time I was in the area. It was about the only piece of information she’d volunteered. I wondered why. Perhaps it was just a way of putting me in my place. If so, she hadn’t succeeded.
I vaguely recalled the story of the first Marquess from grammar-school history lessons.
When Disraeli decided to buy shares in the Suez Canal in 1875, Piddinghoe – then a belted earl and Under-secretary of State for African Affairs – had been the minister despatched to meet the Khedive of Egypt and negotiate the price. Piddinghoe was a lame-brain who’d impressed Disraeli less by his forensic intellect – he didn’t have one – and more by the flamboyance of the cravats he wore. The Khedive, on the other hand, had the diplomatic skills of a man used to juggling the conflicting demands of a wife and considerable train of mistresses.
When the Khedive said he wanted two million pounds for his shares, the dim-witted Piddinghoe cheerily exclaimed: “A bargain at twice the price.” The wily old Egyptian grabbed his hand and said: “I agree. Let’s shake on it.” So the price became four million pounds. Piddinghoe later claimed that at the crucial hand-grabbing moment, he’d been distracted by an asp doing a theatening sideways shimmy across the floor towards his feet. But Disraeli couldn’t pretend the purchase was anything less than a diplomatic triumph. So he talked up the deal and raised Piddinghoe to the rank of marquess.
Politics!
I ask you!
Victoria Gardens was a tranquil haven of trees and grass sandwiched between two main roads choked with traffic roaring into Brighton. Sun dappled through the trees. Birds twittered. A nanny pushed a pram and made coochie-coo faces to the infant inside. A tramp wearing a patched overcoat tied together with string shuffled along hunting for dog-ends. An old girl, head slumped on her chest, dozed on a park bench.
I’d passed the statue many times without ever giving it a second glance. Now I stared up at it more closely. The Marquess had been carved out of the kind of grey stone often used for the more sombre kind of tombstone. He was wearing a Victorian frock coat and trousers with creases sharp enough to slice bread. The sculptor had posed him looking straight ahead, mouth slightly open as though addressing a public meeting. His right arm was crooked so his hand rested on his hip. It made the old aristocrat look as camp as a row of tents. But, I was forgetting, he’d been mates with Disraeli.
The statue was mounted on a plinth, about five-feet high and crafted out of the same grey stone. A brass plaque was fixed onto the front of the plinth. The plaque was engraved in the kind of flowing script you often see on wedding invitations. Except the engraver had added an extra fancy whirl on each S. I guess his aim was to make it seem important. The inscription read:
Montmorency Philibert Hugo Mountebank
First Marquess of Piddinghoe, 1838-1912
Under-secretary of State for African Affairs 1874-1875
Unveiled by Edward Deane, Mayor of Brighton
24 April 1936
Cave latet anguis in herba
Beware the snake in the grass. I wondered whether the asp had given Montmorency the idea for the family motto. Or perhaps it was the way the cunning Khedive had tricked him. Whatever the truth, the passing years had not treated him well. His head had become a favoured perch for pigeons. His hair was encrusted with their guano. Dead leaves lodged in the folds of his frock coat. Someone had stuck lumps of chewing gum on his shoes so they looked like pom-poms. On the plinth, a lovelorn swain had scrawled romantic graffiti: “Reg loves Carol: True.” The brass plaque had turned green with age. The inscription had weathered with mould. One of the screws fixing it to the plinth had come loose.
So this was the father-in-law that Venetia had been so keen I should see. I strolled round the statue a couple of times while I sorted out the family tree in my mind. Venetia’s husband Algernon had been Montmorency’s son. Charles was Montmorency’s grandson. Marie had been Venetia’s sister which made Clarence Charles’s cousin. Twins Venetia and Marie had started life as equal as any two human beings could ever be. Yet now Venetia’s son Charles lived on a country estate and was a respected member of the government while Marie’s Clarence eked out a pointless existence in a flat off the Lewes Road.
Family rifts had been fashioned from far less.
I gave the statue a last look. Another pigeon landed on Montmorency’s head. I hurried on my way before he suffered a fresh indignity.
Clarence’s flat turned out to be on the ground floor of a large Victorian house converted into apartments.
The house would have been a grand residence in its day, with a dozen servants who would have scurried around in the rooms below stairs. There was a small porch and a front door with an Arts and Crafts-style window of red and green glass in a floral pattern. Eight doorbells had name-plates neatly attached to them. Number two read: Sybil Clackett.
I pressed it.
A dog barked.
Nobody came.
I wondered whether Clarence was still at home. There was no reason why he should be. After all, his mother had died only five days earlier. Perhaps he was at the funeral director’s arranging the burial. Or with the vicar choosing the hymns for the service. Or the solicitor reading through Marie’s last will and testament in the hope that she’d left him enough to pay his bills.
I pressed the bell again.
The dog yapped furiously.
Footsteps hurried up the hall. The front door opened.
A heavyset man with a round face of fleshy cheeks, small mouth and prominent ears stared at me. What little was left of his fair hair straggled over his collar. The buttons of a deep-red waistcoat strained over a paunchy belly.
I said: “Clarence Bulstrode?”
He said: “And you are?”
“Colin Crampton, Evening Chronicle.” I rummaged in my jacket pocket, pulled out a card and handed it to him.
He glanced at it, pulled his lips back in a grimace which revealed yellowing teeth and handed it back to me.
He said: “What business have you here?”
Not a promising start. But grief often comes out as truculence. So I inclined my head in what I hoped he would take as a respectful pose and said: “On the paper we were all so sorry to hear about the sudden death of your mother.”
He frowned.
The dog let out a fortissimo howl that would’ve done the Hound of the Baskervilles proud.
Clarence glanced nervously over his shoulder.
I ploughed on. “Many of our readers will recall your mother as the movie star Marie Richmond. We’d like to give them a last opportunity to remember her life by writing an obituary.”
The dog snarled. Angry now.
Clarence jumped. “Damn that animal. ‘I loathe people who keep dogs. They are cowards who haven’t got the guts to bite people themselves.’ I agree with Strindberg.”
“The Swedish playwright?” I asked.
Clarence nodded.
“Not your dog then?” I said.
“Belongs to the old witch in flat one. Wretched beast barks all day. Vicious brute, too. You better come in before she lets it out.”
I hurried through the door into a narrow hallway. The place had cheap lino on the floor and fading paint in institutional green on the walls.
I reached behind me to close the front door. As I did so, a door to my left opened and a black-and-tan Alsatian raced out. It bounded towards Clarence, jumped up and pinned him against the wall with its paws on his chest.
Clarence waved his arms furiously. “Get it away from me. Get off,” he screamed.
A middle-aged woman followed the dog through the door. Her auburn hair was tied back in a bun. She carried a leash.
“Rufus, here, boy,” she shouted. “You know Mr Bulstrode doesn’t want to play.”
“Keep your animal away from me, Mrs McConachie,” Clarence yelled.
His forehead shone with sweat.
“He only wants to be friendly,” she said.
“Well, I don’t.”
The dog jumped down and circled the small hallway. Clarence edged away from the wall and hurried towards his own door.
I winked at Mrs McConachie. “Love me, love my dog? Don’t bet on it.” I followed Clarence.
His hands were shaking. He fumbled for a moment with two keys, a Yale and a mortise.
We went inside and Clarence relocked the doors and shot two bolts. He saw me watching the performance.
“We liked to be secure,” he explained.
“Can’t be too careful,” I said.
“That’s what my Mumsie always said. She had these locks put on the doors years ago, before the war. Bars on the window to the back kitchen, too. We’ve never been burgled.”
Clarence led the way into a large sitting room with a bay window which looked over the street. There was a Victorian fireplace with embossed green tiles round the hearth. An old chaise longue stood on a small Wilton rug. A pair of armchairs had been arranged in the bay so whoever was sitting in them could look out into the street.
Clarence gestured towards the chairs and we sat.
He frowned. “Do you have trouble with dogs?”
“Only when they limp in last at Hove greyhound stadium,” I said.
The frown wrinkled into what might have been a smile. Came out more as a snarl.
“Seriously, this must be a difficult time for you,” I said. “But I know our readers would love to hear more about your mother’s fascinating life.”
“You surprise me. They’ve shown no interest for the past quarter century or more. As Mr Wilde put it: ‘There is only one thing in the world that is worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.’ And for as many years as I can remember, my late mother fell into the latter category.”
Clarence was clearly a dab hand with the dictionary of quotations so I said: “It’s not only old men who forget. The young ones never knew – but they ought to hear what it was like in the great days of the silent cinema.”
Clarence leaned back in his chair. His face relaxed a bit.
“I suppose you’re right. Even though Mumsie had long retired, I suppose I owe it to her memory to help her take one last bow.”
I took out my notebook.
“Did she talk about her career much in later life?”
“Not often, but sometimes she’d reminisce, usually when a picture of her appeared in the paper. They still did from time to time. Until a few years ago. Occasionally, a clip of one her old films would be shown on television, perhaps as part of a documentary on the silent cinema. It would prompt a memory or two. And sometimes it would bring a small-but-welcome royalty cheque.”
“I suppose money must have been tight after she retired.”
“Mumsie once told me that a society belle she’d known in her heyday had told her that thrift and adventure never went hand-in-hand. It was advice she took to heart. She’d had as many adventures as she could, until the money ran out.”
“And that was after your father died.”
“Some years after, when we moved to Brighton. To this flat.”
“But did she have no income?”
“A white envelope arrived every month – with a cheque. She’d become worried if it was late. I believe it was an annuity from one of the studios she’d made films for. But Mumsie never bothered me with details.”
Outside in the street, the dog barked. I glanced out of the window. Rufus was pulling on a lead, taking Mrs McConachie for a walk.
Good news for Clarence.
But there was bad news for me.
Further down the road, a familiar figure in a crusty suit limped towards the house. So Jim Houghton was on Clarence’s trail, too.
The crafty old devil had told me there was nothing in my story about the theft of Milady’s Bath Night. But he was leaving nothing to chance. I wasn’t going to let Houghton near Clarence.
So I switched my attention back to him, turned on a smile and said: “In this difficult time, I expect you find it a struggle to make a meal. There’s a good pub I know near here – shall we continue our talk over lunch? My treat.”
Clarence looked confused. “I don’t know…”
“They do an excellent steak-and-kidney pie.”
“Very well. I suppose so.”
I folded up my notebook, put it my pocket and stood up. “But we’ll need to hurry as the place is very popular at lunchtime.”
“I’ll get my jacket.”
Clarence returned struggling into a worn blazer that had seen better days.
“Let’s go out of the back door,” I said. “That way we can avoid the dog.”
I was sure Clarence hadn’t seen Mrs McConachie take Rufus for his walkies.
“Will we need my car?” Clarence asked.
“No, it’s just a short walk. Your car can take the day off.”
“So we won’t need the clever little minx.” He grinned showing some yellow teeth. I think he was trying to signal that he’d told a joke.
We went into the kitchen. The place had been turned into a fortress with bars on the windows – the legacy of Marie’s security paranoia. Clarence fumbled about drawing back two heavy bolts on the back door. Then he rummaged around with his keys looking for the one he needed. I hustled him along, expecting Houghton to arrive at the front door at any moment. Finally, Clarence turned the key. He opened the door and stepped outside. I swiftly followed.
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