Stop Press Murder

by Peter Bartram

  “The distance between your kind of life and the people around here is measured in time, not distance.”

  “You’re telling me I’m living in the past?” Fanny asked.

  “You’re living in a world where beautiful young women who turn up at hotels by themselves are sent on their way with a few choice words. Most of them with four letters.”

  Fanny let out a long sigh. “I can’t go back to the Grange now.”

  I swung the car off the seafront into Regency Square.

  “You don’t have to. You can sleep on my sofa. It’s stuffed with horsehair and the lumps press in all the awkward places, but it’s better than the pebbles under the pier.”

  As it turned out, I slept on the sofa.

  But not before another surprise. When we crept up to my room, I found a note in the Widow’s handwriting pinned to my door. It read: “A Mr Bolstride called to see you. Didn’t say what he wanted.”

  Mr Bolstride was obviously Clarence Bulstrode. I wondered why he’d called. Perhaps he regretted stalking out on me after our pub lunch. But it was pointless to speculate. And we were both tired.

  When Fanny eyed the sofa, she looked so bereft, I offered her my own bed. My trouble, in a nutshell. Just too soft-hearted.

  I’d been right about the sofa. It was going to be a sleepless night. After half an hour of tossing and turning, I stood up to stretch myself. I walked over to the window, pulled the curtain to one side and looked out at Regency Square. A solitary cat stalked silently across the grass.

  For several minutes I stared at nothing in particular and tried to make some kind of logical sense of the evening’s events. But the more I thought about it, the more it became a puzzle.

  On the far side of the square, a door opened and a man hurried out. Turned towards Western Road. Broke into a run as he passed a grey Hillman parked by the kerb. Ten seconds later, the Hillman’s headlights flared, the car pulled out and drove off in the opposite direction.

  I briefly wondered whether the car’s occupant was a private detective hired by a suspicious wife to watch a husband playing away from home. But I’d had too many mysteries for one night.

  Lumpy or not, I had to get some shuteye on the sofa.

  “You know the rules, Mr Crampton.”

  “Yes, Mrs Gribble.”

  “And what is rule number one?”

  “No women in the rooms.”

  It was just after seven the following morning. I’d recognised the Widow’s imperious rap on the door. I’d shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and groaned something which approximated to “go away”. I’d turned over and tried to go back to sleep.

  But when the Widow was roused there was no stopping her. She had a pass key to the room – and wasn’t afraid to use it. So I’d scrambled off the sofa and opened the door. And that’s when she’d fired her accusation.

  “Do you have a woman in your room?” she said.

  “No.”

  “But I believe you have.”

  “Why?”

  “Because after you’d come in last night – at an hour I might add when all good people should be abed – I distinctly heard the toilet flushed twice in quick succession. You only flush it once normally.”

  When it came to sniffing out illicit visitors, the Widow made Sherlock Holmes look like Dopey the Dwarf.

  “I repeat, you have a woman in your rooms.” She edged forward but I moved to block her way.

  “I have a lady,” I said.

  “Same thing.”

  “Not at all. A woman is usually missus or miss. A lady is the daughter of an earl or a duke. In my case, a marquess.”

  “Since when did you know any marquess’s daughters?”

  “Since he met me.” Fanny had stepped out of my bedroom. She was wearing one of my shirts as a makeshift nightshirt – and not much else.

  The Widow’s eyes goggled. “And who might you be, young madam?”

  Fanny stepped forward, smoothed her mussed hair. “One is Lady Frances Mountebank, daughter of the third Marquess of Piddinghoe. And I should like a cup of tea – Assam if you have it – and two slices of lightly buttered wholemeal toast.”

  A puzzled wrinkle appeared on the Widow’s forehead. And then I could swear she dropped the tiniest of curtseys. “I’ll see what I can find in my pantry,” she said.

  She turned for the stairs.

  “Lightly buttered,” I reminded the Widow’s retreating back.

  I shut the door. Turned back to Fanny.

  “Do you always have that effect on people?” I asked.

  Fanny grinned. Fastened an extra button on the shirt. “The Mrs Gribbles of this world are not difficult to tame if you know how.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of Mrs Gribble,” I said. “I was planning on wearing that shirt to the office today. But it looks better on you.”

  Inevitably, I had to wear the last shirt in my drawer – the one with the frayed collar.

  It seemed fitting. After days chasing clues that led nowhere, I was feeling more than a little frayed myself. But I still had to produce some copy for the day’s paper.

  So I breezed into the newsroom with the confidence of a man about to announce the scoop of the century. I’d invited Fanny to tag along. I was anticipating trouble from Figgis and I felt a touch of aristocratic hauteur might help to put the old boy in his place. But the trouble with Figgis was that he had a healthy disrespect for everyone. And, in any event, after stalking out on her father and grandmother last night, Fanny was feeling some morning-after remorse.

  She’d eaten the lightly buttered toast the Widow had provided with dainty nibbles, then announced: “One ought to put in an appearance at the Grange, I suppose. No need to take me. I’ll telephone to Pinchbeck and ask him to send Hardmann with the Bentley.”

  I’d said: “And one has to put in an appearance at the office or one may receive the Grand Order of the Boot.”

  She’d giggled and said she’d call me when she’d had time to talk to her father and grandmother. I’d given her a brotherly peck on the cheek and told her not to worry.

  But I should’ve been the one told not to worry. When I reached the newsroom, I plonked myself down at my desk and wondered just how I was going to take the murder story forward. It was all very well building up to a great scoop at some time in the future, but I needed to write a story every day.

  I picked up the phone and called the duty officer at Brighton police station. He told me that Tom Belcher was still being held for questioning, still denied killing Snout, and that there had been no further developments in the investigation.

  I heaved the Remington towards me, rolled copy paper into the machine and typed: “Police have made no further arrests in their hunt for the killer of pier night-watchman Fred Snout.

  “Tom Belcher, the pier’s amusement-arcade caretaker, has been held for questioning, but he has not yet been charged with any offence.

  “This morning, a Brighton-police spokesman admitted there had been no further developments in the hunt for the killer. He said there was, as yet, no forensic evidence to provide a fresh lead.”

  I rattled on in the same vein for a few more paragraphs. But it was all a non-story. A piece about nothing happening. Like that famous Times headline “Small Earthquake in Chile: Not Many People Hurt”. I knew Figgis would start sounding off as soon as he saw my copy. But I called Cedric over and gave him the folios to take up to the subs.

  “Didn’t see much of you yesterday, Mr Crampton,” he said.

  “I didn’t know you missed me when I wasn’t here,” I said.

  Cedric blushed. “Only wondered whether you were anywhere interesting.”

  “Interesting enough,” I said. “Now better get that copy up to the subs before deadline.”

  Cedric was taking a deep interest in this case. Perhaps it was the lad’s natural enthusiasm for bloody murder, mayhem and mystery. Or, perhaps, there was more to it.

  But I didn’t have time to worry about that. When Mr
s Gribble had brought Fanny her lightly buttered toast, she’d pointedly not offered me any. I’d not even had time for my regular bacon sandwich in Marcello’s. So I headed to the tea room for a sticky bun – if Susan Wheatcroft hadn’t already scoffed the lot.

  I had a bit of luck as I pushed through the door. Henrietta Houndstooth was just coming out with a cup of coffee.

  “Could we have a quick word?” I said.

  Henrietta glanced back. “The tea room’s unoccupied at the moment.”

  We both hurried inside.

  I said: “I’m sorry to have to hark back to your childhood again, but something else has cropped up. It’s a delicate matter. Did your mother or father ever pick up any hint of a scandal about Lady Piddinghoe – the Dowager Marchioness?”

  “Her sister whipped up more than enough scandal for both of them.”

  “Yes, I know that Marie was the wild child, but I was wondering whether Venetia might also have had her naughty side – but perhaps kept it better hidden.”

  “Mama or Father never spoke of anything like that – certainly not in front of me. But, then, you wouldn’t expect to talk about such matters in front of a young girl.”

  “Does that mean they might have known about something but kept quiet about it?”

  Henrietta frowned. “To answer your question, I simply don’t know. When I was a child, Lady Piddinghoe always seemed severe and upright to me. But, then, perhaps she had hidden depths.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “There’s just too much hidden about this story.”

  “Don’t be afraid to ask, if you need to know more,” Henrietta said. She took her coffee and pushed out of the door. I walked over to the tea bar.

  Needless to say, Susan Wheatcroft had pillaged the last of the buns.

  Chapter 19

  I was sitting at a window table in Reg’s Café stirring a cup of coffee as thick as sump oil.

  I had no intention of drinking it. Reg’s wasn’t the kind of place you went to eat or drink – unless you had a stomach lined with reinforced steel. But it was just across the road from the Bat and Ball pub. That was where I’d set up the meeting with a fictitious Snout murder-case contact. I’d scrawled the details on my blotter. A trap for the snitch who’d been feeding my stuff to Jim Houghton.

  I checked my watch. Five to one. I’d fixed the mythical meeting for one. If Jim was going to gate-crash it, he’d probably leave it a few minutes before strolling into the pub. He’d hope I wouldn’t spot him. Then he’d try to take a table in the adjacent alcove so he could earwig the conversation. If he was spotted, he’d pretend he was in the area on another story and had just popped in for a lunchtime pie and a pint.

  He’d sit down uninvited at our table. Then he’d scratch his head and pretend to know my informant from somewhere – usually somewhere not quite respectable, such as Lewes prison. This, Houghton hoped, would panic the informant into denying the suggestion and revealing his true identity. With the identity established, Houghton would slide in a piece of slimy flattery and offer to buy the informant a drink. Probably a pint and a whisky chaser to put the poor sap on the back foot in the gratitude stakes. After that, teasing out the sucker’s story would be simple.

  Game over.

  But it wasn’t going to happen like that. Because there was no meeting. And if Jim turned up, he was going to get a surprise.

  I gave the coffee a couple more stirs to pass the time. Checked my watch. Eight minutes past one. If Houghton was coming he should be here by now. Perhaps he was watching the pub – a recce before committing himself. Wise. I’d have done the same thing.

  A greasy net curtain covered the bottom half of Reg’s window. I pulled it to one side. No sign of Houghton. Perhaps I’d been wrong. But I didn’t think so. He was getting his information from somewhere.

  I stirred on irritably.

  “You drinking that or just making a hole in the bottom of the mug?” I’d been so intent on watching the Bat and Ball I hadn’t noticed Reg sidle up to the table. He wore an apron so stiff with grease it crackled as he walked.

  “Wouldn’t want it leaking away, would we?” I said. “It might be a fire hazard.”

  “Cheeky beggar. Don’t know why you come in here if you don’t appreciate it.”

  I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Across the road, a tall man with thinning hair and a slight limp was pushing his way into the saloon bar of the Bat and Ball.

  I turned back to Reg. “How’s your customer service?” I asked.

  “Best in the town.”

  “Great. Can I use your phone?”

  “Cost you four pence,” he said. “And another coffee.”

  I shrugged. Sometimes you just have to pay the price.

  The phone was on Reg’s counter. Like everything else, it was covered in a thin film of grease. It looked as though an army of slugs had just crawled over it.

  I took out my handkerchief wrapped it round the receiver and picked it up. I dialled a number with the end of my pencil. I heard the ringing tone.

  I pictured the scene.

  In the Bat and Ball, the barman would be puzzling over why someone was calling the pay phone in the bar. He’d wonder whether he should answer it. Figure it was a wrong number. Decide not to bother. Then one of the drunks propping up the bar would state the obvious: “Did you know your phone’s ringing?” And he’d have no choice. He’d heave up the flap which led out of the bar, stomp over to the other side of the room and grab the receiver.

  And then…

  A gruff voice in my ear said: “Bat and Ball.”

  In a Welsh accent straight out of the valleys, I said: “You should have a tall man in the bar, boyo. Thinning hair. Wears a grey suit, worn round the cuffs and elbows. Walks with a limp. Could you get him to the phone?”

  “Who wants him?”

  “A friend.”

  “What kind of friend?”

  “The kind that gets very angry when he can’t speak to the person he needs.”

  “Wait.”

  I heard the receiver clumped down on a table.

  Silence.

  Then some wheezing as the receiver was picked up again.

  “Hello.” It was Jim Houghton.

  I stayed silent. Didn’t move. Hardly breathed.

  “Hello.”

  Silence.

  “Hello. Can you hear me?”

  Silence.

  “Is there anybody there?”

  Silence.

  “Is that you, Sidney?”

  Got you!

  I replaced the receiver. There was only one Sidney at the Chronicle. The fragrant Sidney Pinker. So Sidney, not Cedric, was the snitch. I wondered whether Sidney was doing it for the money or whether Houghton had something on him. Pinker was the kind of man who would have more skeletons than the Bear Road cemetery.

  But for the time being, I needed to get away from Reg’s. Houghton would have suspected the call was a trap. He’d have me fingered as number-one suspect. It would take him about two minutes to work out I was watching the place from somewhere nearby. A further minute to identity Reg’s Café as the most likely vantage point. So I had to be away from the place tout de suite.

  I dashed for the back door which led to an alley that connected with the neighbouring street.

  “You off?” said Reg. “You’re moving like a streak of lightning”

  I shouted over my shoulder. “After being in here, make that greased lightning.”

  I was through the door before Reg could reply.

  I was in a windowless room with a coffin, a couple of vicious-looking duelling swords and a werewolf’s head.

  And Sidney Pinker.

  “The Theatre Royal is doing The Duchess of Malfi next week,” he said. “God, those seventeenth-century dresses with their frills and bows are to die for.”

  We were backstage in the props room at the theatre. A few minutes earlier, I’d bearded Sidney in the stalls bar carousing with a couple of his claque. I’d sugge
sted we’d go backstage where we could be more private. That caused a few arched eyebrows and knowing nudges. But I was beyond that sort of thing by now.

  “I appeared in the play once,” Sidney said. “I was a pilgrim.”

  “Not exactly typecast then.”

  “No, but I could have been a performer.”

  “But instead you decided to become a snitch,” I said.

  Sidney flounced across the room and plopped down on a prop basket. “I find that offensive.”

  “Not nearly as offensive as you copying information off my blotter and passing it to Jim Houghton on the Argus.”

  “Well, really.” Sidney crossed his right leg over his left. Decided that wasn’t comfortable. Crossed his left leg over his right. “I don’t know where you get such ideas. But may I remind you there is a law of slander in this country?”

  “Sidney, I’m a crime reporter. I’ve been threatened with that one more times than you’ve dallied in the wings with the juvenile lead.”

  Pinker pouted. “All I’m saying is that you’ve made a terrible accusation and you don’t have a shred of evidence to back it up.”

  “As it happens, my evidence is the best. Your client squealed on you.”

  “What? The low…”

  “Not deliberately. Jim wouldn’t rat out a contact any more than I would.”

  “So you tricked him. That’s low, mean and despicable.”

  “Get over it, Sidney. When you play with the big boys you must expect to take some knocks.”

  Pinker licked a finger and ran it over an eyebrow. “If only.”

  “The question I want answered is: did you do it for money?”

  “You have a very commercial mind, young Colin. Of course not.”

  “So Houghton has something on you?”

  Pinker studied a spot on the floor. “It was years ago. When I was up north working on the Sheffield Star. It was – how shall I put it – a lapse of taste. In a public lavatory. All a mistake really. Do I have to spell out the details?”

  “No. You’ve told me enough.”

  Pinker’s shoulders slumped. “So what now? Back to the office. Sacked on the spot. Escorted off the premises by that fat commissionaire. My belongings sent on in a cardboard box.”