The Poison Pen

by Evelyn James

  Tilney glanced at the number.

  “That means a full accident report was filed separately, but not here, I’m afraid. You’ll have to ask the Inspector if you can have access to our secondary archive at the coroner’s office. We are rather overwhelmed by paperwork,” he indicated the room. “So we had to create a second archive.”

  Clara needed to hear no more. She had just been given a first class excuse to pop up to see the Inspector.

  “Thank you for your help, constable. I shall go see the Inspector at once. This Cotterley business could be quite important,” she handed him back the folder. “Good morning.”

  With some relief she exited the archives and escaped up to the ground floor. The Desk Sergeant gave her his usual unpleasant scowl.

  “Is the Inspector in his office?” Clara asked.

  “Not on a Saturday, unless he has to be.” the Desk Sergeant grumbled, clearly implying that it was all right for some.

  Fortunately, Clara knew the Inspector’s home address. Normally she would not descend on him uninvited on a weekend, but she had a feeling he would want to know about her discovery. She gave the Desk Sergeant her brightest smile and headed outside.

  By the time she reached the Inspector’s terrace house it was lunchtime, and she almost hesitated to knock, in case he was eating. But the urgency of the file she had, theoretically, stolen, forced her hand. She rapped on the door and hoped that Mrs Park-Coombs was forgiving. It was, in fact, the Inspector who opened the door.

  “Clara?”

  “I hope I am not interrupting, but I think I have a lead,” Clara was breathless with the seriousness of the matter.

  The Inspector only gaped at her for a second, then invited her in. He had just been starting on a cold lunch of boiled eggs and dripping on bread, left behind by his wife who had gone to see her sister. He offered a share to Clara, but she was too anxious to eat. As they settled at the small folding table where the Inspector had set his lunch, she took the Chang folder from under her coat and placed it on the table.

  “I know I stole it, but I felt it was urgent. This is the file Brompton was looking for when he was attacked.”

  “How can you be sure?” the Inspector turned the folder to face him.

  “He told me, or rather he mumbled it. I might have been more uncertain about it myself, if it was not for the fact that I saw Brilliant Chang in person just the other night.”

  The Inspector glanced up from the file sharply.

  “Where?”

  “The Grand Hotel. I shall explain quickly. A lady at the hotel was taken ill, I happen to have a friend also staying at the hotel who was convinced this said lady was a drug addict. We were awaiting the arrival of a doctor when I spotted this man in the foyer. More importantly, when he heard me mention the name of the lady taken ill, he enquired after her, saying he had business with her. When he heard we were summoning a doctor he vanished.”

  “Brilliant Chang,” Park-Coombs sighed. “I know the name. Drug dealing has become a big and very lucrative business. If anyone was going to have the funds to pay off one of my constables it would be this Chang fellow.”

  “So you believe me?”

  “I do. But this brings us no closer to finding the cuckoo in our nest.”

  “What of the men on that list you gave me?” Clara drew the list from her notebook. “These three men were all present when Razor Brown escaped. Perhaps we can see some connection between them and Chang?”

  “Perhaps,” Park-Coombs said dubiously. He was feeling rather defeated by the whole matter. One of his men had betrayed the police and he was taking it very personally.

  “Constable Edgar Bunn,” Clara read aloud.

  “Bunn is a relatively new recruit. Rather green, but harmless enough, as far as I can see. He was off-duty the day Brompton was attacked at the station.”

  “Then he is probably not our man. The person who attacked Brompton had to have been at the station on the day he snuck into the archives.”

  “Unless the attacker has an accomplice.”

  “Let’s not make life too complicated just yet, Inspector. What of Constable Robert Jones?”

  “Welshman. Came to Brighton just after the war. He wants to be a detective. Very keen lad. He was very concerned when Billy Brown escaped, I remember that well,” the Inspector nodded. “It was Jones who reported the matter to me. He noticed Brown was missing when he went to check on the cells.”

  “He seems unlikely as the person responsible, then?”

  The Inspector shrugged.

  “A double bluff is always possible.”

  “Well, the last name is, oh,” Clara smiled in recognition. “Constable John Tilney. I just met him in your archives while I was, ahem, stealing this file on Chang.”

  Inspector Park-Coombs’ head shot up.

  “You met Tilney?”

  “Yes. He said he was sorting files.”

  “But, today is his day off,” the Inspector said in surprise.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I approved the work roster for this week myself. The men don’t get much time off, we are rather short-handed. But I try to ensure they have a least one whole day a month,” the Inspector had a thoughtful look on his face. “Tilney is not the sort to come in on his day off, and certainly not to sort files.”

  “Unless you have another constable named Tilney, this was the man who introduced himself to me in the archives,” Clara said. “Tell me more about him.”

  “John Tilney joined the police in 1916, when we were rather desperate for men. I dare say he aimed to avoid the army, but perhaps that is too harsh. He is an adequate constable. Does his duty. I can’t say he stands out, but there are quite a few constables like that. I always felt he was marking time,” Park-Coombs mused. “Likes the good things in life, does Tilney. Always buying new hats and bowties. And chocolate, he is very fond of good chocolate. Not to mention the ladies. I am amazed he is not dallying with one of his female friends today. That is how Tilney usually spends his free time.”

  “Then he is a man who likes money?” Clara queried. “A man who might find a constable’s wages a little restrictive? How did he get on with Brompton?”

  Park-Coombs shook his head.

  “I don’t think they associated much. They were too different. Brompton was a policeman to the core. Tilney does what he has to, and no more.”

  “Yet, there he is on his day off. Helping with the filing,” Clara hardly needed to make her tone sound suggestive to imply what she was thinking.

  “It is curious.”

  “More than curious. I would say suspicious.”

  The Inspector tapped his fingers on the table.

  “Tilney regularly patrols along the seafront. Where was that hotel you said you saw Chang?”

  “The Grand.”

  “Tilney goes past that on a nightly basis,” the fingers tap-tapped. “It was one of the cases Tilney had worked on, where I first noted a discrepancy. A witness statement had gone missing. I knew because I had happened to look at the file previously.”

  “Tilney and Chang,” Clara considered. “He seems our best suspect.”

  “But even if he is the culprit, we have no real evidence against him.”

  “No,” Clara admitted. “We don’t. But that doesn’t mean we can’t catch him.”

  “What is on your mind?” the Inspector asked.

  “If we can’t arrest Tilney, then we must lure him out. We need him to give us the evidence of his association with Chang,” Clara smiled. “We must set a trap. Brompton will be our bait.”

  “And how will this trap work?”

  “Word will circulate at the police station that Brompton has awoken and remembers who attacked him. It shall be emphasised that you are going to take his statement in person. The assailant, be it Tilney or not, will hopefully panic and attempt to silence Brompton once and for all, before you can visit him. We need merely wait for his arrival.”

  “All very good, but
if I start spreading such rumours at the station someone will smell a rat.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of you, Inspector, as our blabber-mouth. I have someone else in mind.”

  Park-Coombs looked at her curiously.

  “Who?”

  Clara winked.

  “Brompton’s very own avenging angel.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Clara arrived home just after two o’clock, having set her plan into action. She would need to be at the hospital shortly, but was hoping to have time to change her clothes and eat a little lunch before leaving. As she stepped in the front door, however, she was greeted by a fraught Oliver Bankes.

  “Clara, we must hurry!” he said urgently. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  He grabbed her arm as Clara began to protest. He had pulled her out the door and onto the pavement before Clara was able to yank her arm away.

  “Oliver Bankes!”

  “My father has lost his mind,” Oliver said quickly. “So have half of his neighbours. After they heard who has been sending the letters, they formed a mob and are headed over, right this instant, to the Cotterley house, to give them a piece of their mind. I tried to talk some sense into my father, but it was no good. I think only you will be able to stop this mess before it gets out of hand.”

  Clara had not anticipated this. She suddenly felt guilty for allowing Mrs Wilton to spread the word of who was behind the letters. She should have called a meeting herself and spoken in person. That would have given her a chance to dispel any plans for retribution.

  “Quickly then!” she told Oliver.

  They ran as fast as they could to the Cotterley house; Clara yet again regretting her shoes. Outside the old ladies’ home was a gang of people. Clara counted six of them, including Mr Summerton and Oliver’s father. Mrs Wilton was standing to one side flapping her hands and asking people to behave in a rational manner. Her words were clearly falling on deaf ears. Clara gave herself a moment to catch her breath and assess the situation. The gaggle of complainants had not achieved much, as yet. They were stood in the front garden of the Cotterley house making a lot of noise and occasionally thrusting someone forward to hammer on the door. But these were not law-breakers or rioters; they were angry people, who still remained polite enough to resist doing any real harm. However, that did not make the situation any less frightening for the Cotterleys.

  Clara asked for Oliver to give her a hand and, with a slight wobble, hoisted herself onto the top of the low brick wall that ran outside the Cotterleys’ garden.

  “Gentlemen! Ladies!” she called out, a couple of heads turned towards her. “May I have your attention?”

  No one answered her, everyone was muttering among themselves.

  “Or must I call the police and ask them to arrest you for disturbing the peace?”

  That quelled them. There were a couple of voices of protest, but mostly everyone was now paying attention to Clara.

  “Good,” she said. “Now, what precisely are you attempting to achieve here?”

  “We are going to give them a piece of our minds!” Mr Summerton declared angrily.

  “And you really think they are going to answer a door to an angry mob? Would you?”

  “We shall make them!” a woman said.

  “How?” Clara asked quite calmly, even if she was having to keep a very careful eye on her footing on the wall. “Will you break down the door?”

  There was a sullen silence.

  “This is a pointless exercise. Now, really, is this any way for decent, polite folk to behave?”

  “We wanted to have our say, to tell them how upsetting their letters were,” Mr Summerton answered.

  “That is understandable,” Clara replied. “And I am certain your presence here has impressed upon the Cotterleys how angry those letters have made you. But we have to remember we are dealing with three elderly ladies. Spiteful ladies, yes, but still old and vulnerable. They are no doubt extremely frightened right now. I think you have made your point.”

  No one knew quite what to say – anger and hurt had carried them this far, now they were beginning to feel a tad self-conscious, even a little awful, at having trampled about in the old ladies’ garden and made a lot of fuss.

  “The matter is concluded,” Clara continued. “There will be no more letters and, if there are, then you have every right to come back to this house and politely inform the Cotterleys their behaviour will not be tolerated. But descending like this, as a mob, is not the way to go about things. You are all good, kind people, and this sort of behaviour is beneath you.”

  People started to glance at each other, embarrassed.

  “Let us all go home and consider the matter finished.”

  “But what about Mr Johnson, what justice does he get?” it was the woman again, Clara tried to catch her face, but she was right at the back of the crowd.

  “What justice would you have?” Clara asked. “Would you drive these ladies to suicide too?”

  There was a burble of answers, mostly ‘no’. The crowd began to disperse, looking a little self-conscious about their behaviour. Mr Summerton gave Clara a nod as he went past, and Oliver grabbed the arm of his father. Clara was just descending from the wall, when she spotted the woman who had raised the question of justice for Mr Johnson. She recognised her at once as the woman from the photograph in Johnson’s bureau. Their eyes met and the woman came up to her.

  “I left him for another man because he was always working,” she said, quite bluntly. “I don’t feel good about it, but that’s my guilt and shame to bear. What gave those harpies the right to harangue him about it?”

  She suddenly burst into tears. Clara reached out a hand and touched her shoulder.

  “You knew about the letter?”

  “He wrote to me, just before…” she handed Clara a crumpled letter.

  It was not very long and it largely described how sorry Mr Johnson was about everything. He also mentioned the letter the Cotterleys had written to him and the unbearable shame he felt. It was a suicide note, quite plainly. He had been saying his goodbyes to his wife and explaining his reasons for ending his life.

  “I’m sorry,” Clara said, knowing the platitude was meaningless.

  “I don’t feel good about what I did. Please believe me. I won’t lie, it was all for selfish reasons and I knew it would hurt him. I am so angry, as much with myself, as those witches,” she pointed at the Cotterleys’ house. “Before I came here I had convinced myself he never would have done it if it wasn’t for those crones prodding him. I know I am as much to blame.”

  She sobbed.

  “I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Clara thought that she would, eventually, and that she would move on and forget her former husband. Some of her tears seemed rather self-indulgent.

  “You ought to go home,” Clara said. “There is nothing you can do here.”

  The former Mrs Johnson patted her eyes with a handkerchief, gave a sniff, then walked away without so much as a goodbye. Clara found herself feeling even more sorry for the late Mr Johnson. She turned to Oliver.

  “I have to get to the hospital. Is your father all right?”

  Mr Bankes senior was sitting on a garden wall looking rather shame-faced.

  “He regrets getting so cross, but he will be fine,” Oliver assured her. “What are you doing at the hospital?”

  “A detective’s work is never done,” Clara winked at him.

  ~~~ * ~~~

  At seven the hospital opened its doors to visitors. One of them was a man in a blue police uniform. He had a bunch of flowers in one hand and a box of cigarettes in the other. He followed the crowd of relatives and friends off to see sick loved ones up the stairs, keeping to one side and trying to appear innocuous. He found himself on the second floor; the crowd was dispersing for the wards or side rooms. He walked along the corridor, gave a smile to a matron who passed, and tried to remain calm. At the door to Brompton’s room he paused and took a dee
p breath.

  The door opened inwards, blocking the view of the bed at first. As he entered, the visitor saw Brompton lying in the bed. He had bandages around his head and was tucked deep beneath the blankets. Brompton’s face was invisible under all the wrappings, only a nose and mouth could be seen. A more curious man might have wondered why Brompton’s whole face was wrapped up in such a fashion, considering the bump had been on the back of his head. But the man in the doorway was too anxious to notice. He crept into the room.

  “Brompton, old chap, you awake?”

  The patient remained stony silent. He seemed unconscious. Very carefully his visitor placed the bunch of flowers down on the bedside cabinet. He stared at the patient for a moment.

  “Sorry, old man, but you couldn’t keep your nose out.”

  The visitor slowly pulled the pillow out from under Brompton’s head. Brompton snuffled a little, but didn’t wake. With the pillow in his hands, the visitor hesitated. He was about to commit murder. Enough to cause any man to pause for thought. But there was a great deal at stake, not least his freedom. If Brompton lived and reported him, then there would be no future other than a prison cell. He couldn’t have that. Reluctantly he placed the pillow over Brompton’s face.

  “Constable Tilney, what a surprise.”

  Tilney jumped back from the bed and turned around. Clara was leaning against the wall, just inside the door. She had been sitting quietly in the corner of the room all the time Tilney had been plotting his actions. He had been too absorbed in his business to look around and notice her. She had only moved when he picked up the pillow, so she could block his exit.

  “I came to pay my respects,” Tilney dropped the pillow in haste. It fell to the floor.

  “Really, Tilney?” ‘Brompton’ sat up in bed and started to remove his bandages. Only then did Tilney realise his error.

  He turned back and saw the imposing figure of Alfie Ling sitting upright in bed, a trail of bandages sitting in his lap.

  “Ling?”

  “Yes, Tilney,” Ling grinned. “I thought you were listening rather keenly when I was telling the boys about Brompton’s miraculous recovery.”