Stop Press Murder

by Peter Bartram

“Of course. My round-up column in the paper on the week’s crime stories. I have a photo byline.”

  “But the job advertisement was real.”

  “I found it in Daddy’s copy of the Chronicle.”

  “And what about the job-agency card?” I asked.

  “The kitchen maid has been given notice and is looking for a new job. She’d been round several agencies in Brighton. She gave me the card and I wrote my own appointment on the back of it.”

  “I still don’t understand how you tracked me to Marcello’s.”

  “I got up early and waited in a shop doorway across the street from the Chronicle offices for you to arrive. But you must’ve already been in the building. You keep early hours.”

  “Not always.”

  “Fortunately, you then left again and went to Marcello’s. That made it so much easier – especially as the place was full and I had a ready excuse to share your table.”

  “Where you played your little-girl-lost act to perfection.”

  Fanny shrugged. “And if I get lost again, will you help to find me?”

  “If I can. I owe you a lot – more than you realise. Without your help, we’d have never saved Shirley.”

  “I’m not sure that other people will see it that way. Not when they find out about Grandmama.”

  I took Fanny’s hand.

  I said: “Last night, you showed the kind of courage which lies in the hearts of only one in a million people. Use that in the days ahead. You’ve plenty more of it to draw on. Use it to do the right thing whatever the consequences. Use it to carve out the life you want to live. Use it to stare the future in the face and take it on your terms.”

  Fanny squeezed my hand gently. She leaned towards me. Kissed me lightly on the lips.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She turned and walked into the house. Her back was straight. Her step was confident. She held her head high.

  She didn’t look back.

  Chapter 27

  “Couldn’t you have managed more than a five-line news-in-brief for the stop press?” Frank Figgis asked.

  We were in his office. Figgis was on his third packet of Woodbines for the day. The atmosphere in the place was so thick you could have smoked kippers in it.

  I said: “It was already twenty minutes past the Afternoon Extra deadline when I reached the phone box in Piddinghoe village. Much too late to remake the front page for a story this big. So I dictated a nib for the fudge and raced back to the office to write the full story for the Night Final.”

  It was just after five o’clock in the afternoon. The Night Final – which also carried a thousand-word backgrounder I’d rattled out at turbo-charged speed on the Remington – had hit the streets. Figgis picked up a copy from his desk and studied the splash headline:

  MINISTER’S MOTHER ON MURDER CHARGE

  “This trumps anything the nationals have had on the Profumo affair,” he said.

  “Did you know the Piddinghoe family motto is Cave latet anguis in herba?” I said.

  “Your fancy university education doesn’t impress me, young Crampton.”

  I said nothing. Let silence hang in the air. Figgis took an embarrassed drag on his fag. “Well, what does it mean?” he said.

  “Beware the snake in the grass,” I translated. “Who’d have thought the snake would turn out to be Lady Piddinghoe?”

  Figgis pointed at the front page. “But what I can’t understand is why you’ve included the copy boy in the byline. This was your story.”

  I reached over for the paper. The byline read: by Colin Crampton and Cedric Tubbs.

  I said: “It was Cedric’s chance remark – about Clarence having a screw loose – that provided the clue which led me to discover the hidden copy of the sixteen-millimetre film. Besides, the lad’s been aching to get his name on a story. You should give him a chance.”

  Figgis stroked his chin. “I’ll think about it. Maybe he can give you a hand following up this other story.”

  He pointed at the second screamer headline further down the page:

  BUTLER FACES BLACKMAIL RAP

  “We haven’t had such a good run of headlines since the Trunk Murders back in 1934, the year I joined the paper as a tyro reporter,” Figgis said. “But I want more.”

  “I assume that means I won’t be getting the day off I so richly deserve.”

  “Pleased to see you’re keeping up. Now, I want two pieces tomorrow. The first is the interview with Miss Goldsmith I mentioned to you this morning. Let’s get a graphic account of her ordeal. Something to tug at the heartstrings.”

  “And what if she doesn’t want to talk?”

  “I thought you pair used to walk out together.”

  “Actually, we preferred to lie in together. But that was before she went on her trip to India. Before she suffered the ordeal of being kidnapped at gunpoint. I don’t know whether she’ll even speak to me – let alone give the kind of interview you want.”

  Figgis stubbed out his Woodie and reached for another. “Use those legendary powers of persuasion I keep hearing about. You could finagle a vicar into reading the Kama Sutra to a congregation of nuns.”

  “Actually, that could prove easier than persuading Shirley to spill the beans on her night of terror.”

  “Night of terror.” Figgis made a note on his blotter. “We may use that as a headline.”

  “If she’s prepared to talk.”

  “I’ve installed her in a luxury suite at the Grand. Everything on expenses. And I’ve got a muscle-man from the circulation room guarding the door so no hacks can get near her.”

  “Except me, apparently,” I said.

  “That’s the spirit. Anyway, that brings me to the second story I want from you. And it should be a peach.”

  “More fruity copy, then.”

  “I want a scene-by-scene description of Milady’s Bath Night. Tell it raw, like it really is.”

  “The What the Butler Saw pictures all burnt in the houseboat fire,” I said.

  “But you’ve recovered a copy of the original film.”

  “Yes, but it’s old and flaky. I’d need special viewing equipment to see the frames properly.”

  “Arrange it with Freddie Barkworth,” Figgis said. “There must be something in that photographic department of his which will do the job. We spend enough money on it.”

  “I’ll do what I can, but some of the frames have faded. They’re just a sepia blur.”

  “Well, look at what’s left and imagine the bits that are missing. With your experience of women, you shouldn’t find that too difficult.”

  “So this is going to be a trip down a naughty memory lane,” I said.

  “I’m running this as the story of a woman who pretended to be something she wasn’t. She posed as an aristocrat but performed as a stripper.”

  I said: “Only once – and she wasn’t an aristocrat then. Only hoping to be one. Which is, incidentally, why she did it.”

  Figgis grinned. “I shall headline the story: THE LADY IS A TRAMP.”

  “Then I shan’t write it.”

  “What?” Figgis’s mouth opened so fast, his fag dropped into his lap. He rummaged furiously in his crotch for the errant ciggie.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I don’t suppose there’s anything flammable down there these days.”

  Figgis retrieved the gasper and stuck it back on his lower lip. “Are you refusing to take on an assignment?”

  “Only with that headline. It’s unfair to Lady Piddinghoe – and probably a source of legal trouble to. If we defame her ladyship, her legal counsel will claim we’ve prejudiced a fair trial. If the judge agrees, you’ll be the one standing in the dock on a contempt charge.”

  Figgis stroked his chin. “Okay. I’ll change the headline. But I still want the story.”

  “If you insist.” I stood up and headed for the door. “But just because I’m writing about naughty pictures, I don’t want you calling me a porn broker.”

&n
bsp; Cedric saw me as soon as I stepped into the newsroom.

  He’d obviously been hovering around my desk waiting for me to put in an appearance. He rushed over. He waved the Night Final at me. Pointed at his byline.

  “Can’t thank you enough for this, Mr Crampton. It’s my big break.”

  “Don’t mention it, Cedric.” I decided I’d take Figgis at his word and let the lad work with me on the Pinchbeck blackmail follow-ups. “Tomorrow you can help me on a story that will unravel the background to another mystery.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll tell you more in the morning. Except that, in this case, we already know that the butler did it.”

  Cedric bounded off to spread the news that he was now an ace reporter.

  I made my way towards the morgue. I needed to speak to Henrietta Houndstooth quietly – but most definitely away from the flapping ears of the Clipping Cousins.

  So when I strode into the room, I said to Henrietta: “That Polish musician who gave a concert at the Dome last year – Zakiewicz I think his name was – do we have a file on him?” I added a conspiratorial wink only she could see.

  Henrietta looked puzzled. Then she caught on to my ruse and returned the wink.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll show you the file. It’s right at the far end of the stacks.”

  At the cuttings table, Elsie said: “I don’t remember clipping an item about a Polish musician.”

  Freda said: “I see they’re selling stuff for getting rid of Polish people.”

  Mabel said: “What’s that?”

  Freda said: “Polish remover. You can buy it in Boots.”

  Elsie said: “Don’t be stupid. That’s polish remover. For removing your nail polish.”

  I followed Henrietta swiftly into the filing stacks. We walked down a long corridor towards the back of the cabinets – where the letter Z cuttings were kept.

  I said: “I wanted to get you as far away as possible from those crazy women to tell you this. You deserve some privacy to hear it.”

  Henrietta reached forward and squeezed my shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “As you’ll have seen from tonight’s paper, your suspicions about your mother’s death were correct. She was murdered by Lady Piddinghoe. I wanted to tell you more than I could include in my report.”

  Henrietta broke down and sobbed. I put my arms around her while a quarter century of grief flooded out. It was several minutes before she spoke.

  “Tell me everything,” she said.

  I did. As gently as I could, but I felt she had a right to know every detail. Besides, she would be reading about it in newspapers – not least the Chronicle – for weeks to come. She would be handling clippings about the story.

  She listened intently, with no more tears. Her grief was spent. When I’d finished, she said: “I’ve often thought that if I got the truth about my mother’s death it would be the end of the matter. But it’s not. It’s the beginning of it again.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you would want to hear about it. I’ll need to get a comment from you, but that can wait until tomorrow. But, in the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to any other reporters.”

  A thin smile passed over Henrietta’s lips. “And spoil your exclusive? Don’t worry. I won’t. And that wasn’t a criticism.”

  “If it was a reproof, I’d accept it,” I said. “Sometimes we reporters forget that our stories are about real people. With genuine hopes and fears. Not just fodder to fill up a column or two.”

  Henrietta said: “I know this story has been personal for you, too. That must’ve been hard.”

  “You mean Shirley’s kidnap?”

  “Yes.”

  “There were times when I didn’t know whether I was a reporter or her rescuer or her lover.”

  “But you were all three.”

  I leaned against a filing cabinet. “The first two, certainly. I’m not sure now about the third. I think the shock of it all has made Shirley think I’m too much like Lord Byron.”

  “A poet?”

  I grinned. “No. ‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know.’”

  “I’d forgotten Lady Caroline Lamb’s comment about her lover,” Henrietta said.

  “And now Frank Figgis wants me to interview Shirley – the full inside story. He’s moved her into a luxury suite at the Grand. He thinks it will soften her up. He’d have more luck softening granite with soap flakes.”

  “You think it will be difficult to get the interview?”

  “I don’t even know whether she’ll want to speak to me.”

  “I see.” Henrietta looked thoughtful for a moment. “We better get back to the Cousins. They’ll think we’re having a secret romance.”

  We threaded our way back through the corridors and the filing-cabinet stacks.

  As we stepped into the clippings room Mabel said to Elsie: “I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. If they sell polish remover in boots, doesn’t it leak out of the lace-holes?”

  I looked at Henrietta. Her lips twitched uncertainly into a smile. After a moment, her eyes sparkled with fun. Then she threw back her head. And she hooted with laughter.

  The Grand Hotel sparkled in the sun. It looked like a multi-tiered wedding cake.

  I stood on the prom and stared up at it. I wondered which room Shirley occupied. Whether she was, even now, looking at me from behind a discreet curtain.

  It was a balmy summer’s evening by the beach. Couples ambled by. Some arm-in-arm. Some holding hands. A perfect time to relax. To enjoy life. To find romance.

  Or, in my case, to find a story. And, perhaps, romance. Or maybe neither. But there was no point standing around thinking about it. Action, I’d always found, was the best antidote to worry.

  Not that, until now, I’d had much time for anxiety. After my talk with Henrietta, I’d hurried back to my desk and spent nearly two hours writing the piece about Milady’s Bath Night that Figgis had asked for.

  And now I had to discover what Shirley had in store for me.

  I dodged between a bus and a couple of taxis and ran up the steps into the hotel. Toby Baldwin, one of the Chronicle’s general reporters, was hanging around the lobby. He spotted me as I barged through the door and made his way over.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Keeping an eye on that lot.” He pointed to the bar. “There’s half of Fleet Street in there and a couple of television crews. They’ve been trying to get into Miss Goldsmith’s suite all afternoon.”

  “And you’ve stopped them?”

  “Not alone. Harry Boggs is outside her door on the third floor.”

  Harry was a nineteen-stone monster from the circulation room. Rumour had it that he’d once been an all-in wrestler but had been blacklisted because he was never willing to throw a fight. The man was said to have never lost one – in or out of the ring. And I believed that.

  I said: “I’ll try my luck with Shirley. Let’s hope it’s in. If not, you’ll be standing me a G and T with the other hacks. A very large one.”

  The lift doors on the third floor opened with a hiss.

  I stepped out. Halfway down the corridor, Harry’s bulk blocked out the light from a window.

  My shoes sunk into the carpet with little squidgy sounds as I made my way towards him.

  He nodded a greeting as I approached. “Thought you’d turn up sooner or later.”

  “Is she in?” I asked.

  “Wouldn’t let her out,” he said.

  “In a good mood?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  “Is she expecting me?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Anything sent up to the room?”

  “Coffee and sandwiches.”

  “That’s promising,” I said.

  “For one,” Harry said.

  “Not so good.”

  Harry nodded at the door. “Want to risk it?”

  “I’ve got no choice.”


  I felt my heart quicken a beat as I opened the door and stepped into the room.

  The place was just what I’d expected from a suite in Brighton’s swankiest hotel. The walls were decorated in cream and red regency stripes and hung with landscapes of the Sussex countryside. Devil’s Dyke, the Seven Sisters, Ditchling Beacon. A huge four-poster bed with damask drapes dominated one end of the room. A two-seater sofa and an easy chair were arranged so that guests could sit and look out to sea. A writing desk with an upright chair stood against the far wall.

  Everything was as it should be in the best suite of a luxury hotel.

  Except there was no Shirley.

  Her backpack lay on the bed.

  Beside it, her Australian passport looked creased and travel worn.

  I moved further into the room. I took another look around. Off to the right was a door which led to the bathroom.

  I walked over to it. A sign had been handwritten on a sheet of the hotel’s notepaper. It was stuck to the door with a piece of chewing gum.

  The sign read: Milady’s Bath Night.

  The bathroom door was ajar. From inside came the sound of splashing water.

  I pushed the door open and stepped into the bathroom.

  Shirley was lying in a bath big enough to hold a water-polo tournament. Steam floated up from the water. Soapy bubbles covered the surface – but not enough to spoil the view.

  The bath oil filled the room with a seductive musk – the kind which hints that cleanliness is not always next to godliness.

  Shirley read the question on my face before I spoke.

  “Henrietta came half an hour ago,” she said. “She explained everything.”

  I said: “Everything?”

  “Yes. About her childhood. About her mother’s murder. And what you’ve done to find the truth and bring the killer to justice. She thinks you’re the kangaroo’s cobblers.”

  “And what marsupial body part have you marked me down as?”

  “Wouldn’t you just love to know?”

  Heat radiated off the bath water. Sweat was pricking at my pores. I felt hotter than I thought I should. I was breathing too fast. My heart had raced into overdrive.

  Shirley grinned. It was that grin she does when her lips widen and part ever so slightly, her eyes shine with a tease – and a promise – and you just know that it’s all come from her giant Aussie heart.