Ruby shook her head. “I really can’t feel anything. Is there a mirror here?”
I looked around. On the dressing table, next to where Mr Franklin had dropped the room key, there was a small hand mirror of the sort that gentlemen use when travelling. “Here,” I said, passing it to Ruby.
She held the mirror in front of Mr Franklin’s nose and mouth. I counted silently in my head. One...two...three... “Is it misting up?”
“No,” said Ruby. “There’s nothing.”
“We should call for a doctor.”
“I think it’s a bit late for that.”
“But what are we going to do?” I was really starting to panic now, my voice sounding high-pitched and unnatural. “We can’t just leave him here.”
“Well we can’t carry him down to the hotel lobby,” said Ruby, getting to her feet.
“What about the police? We should tell the hotel manager to call for a policeman.”
Ruby came and stood in front of me. “Lilian, stop! You’re not thinking this through.” She placed her hands gently on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. “You can’t tell the police you killed him, even if it was an accident. You’ll be put on trial and if you’re found guilty of murder you’ll be hanged.”
Her words were like a cold knife in my breast. I stared at her, horrified. “But I didn’t mean to do it.”
“I know that, but you would have to convince the jury. They might think you foolish for going to his room in the first place. Lilian, you can’t take that risk.”
I tried to take in what she was saying.
“Besides,” she added, “if you go on trial, I’ll go on trial too as an accessory. For both our sakes, you mustn’t ever breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?”
I nodded at her dumbly. I seemed to have lost the power of coherent thought and was only too willing to submit to whatever Ruby suggested.
“Good.” She sounded relieved. “Now, listen, we have to get out of here. Tidy yourself up. Then we’re leaving.”
I looked at myself in the dressing-table mirror. My hair was sticking out at all angles and my lipstick had smudged in an ugly red stripe across my cheek.
I didn’t move.
“Sit down,” said Ruby, putting her hands on my shoulders and gently pushing me down onto the stool in front of the dressing table. She opened her purse and produced a comb. She ran it through my hair, doing her best to re-style it. She wiped the smudged lipstick with the corner of her handkerchief. Then she took her powder compact and dabbed powder liberally over my face, doing her best to obliterate the redness around my eyes. Finally she reapplied a fresh coat of lipstick to my trembling lips. The effect wasn’t perfect, but I looked much better than I had a few minutes ago.
“Is this the room key?” Ruby pointed at the key on the dressing table.
I nodded.
She picked it up. “We don’t want anyone finding him just yet.” She opened the door a fraction and peered out into the corridor. A man and a woman walked past, talking and laughing. They sounded drunk. Ruby waited until they had gone then said, “Come on, the coast is clear.”
We stepped out into the corridor. Ruby closed the door, then locked it, dropping the key into her purse. Then she linked arms with me and we walked back down the stairs, towards the ballroom. The band was playing a slow number, melancholy and tragic.
“I’m not going back in there,” I whispered to her, indicating the ballroom.
“Just for a minute,” said Ruby. “You need a drink. Act normal.” We entered the room and Ruby flagged down a passing waiter. She grabbed two glasses and passed one to me. I tossed the drink down my throat, thinking that no amount of alcohol was ever going to erase the horror of the last half hour. Ruby turned her back on the ballroom, took the key to Mr Franklin’s room from her purse and pushed it into one of the Egyptian plant pots with the palm fronds so that it disappeared into the soil.
“Now we’re going home,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lilian had killed a man! Rose could hardly believe what she had just read, but it was all there, in Lilian’s own handwriting, so it had to be true.
It was ten o’clock on Sunday morning and Rose had stayed in bed, not wanting to face her mother downstairs and the usual torrent of questions about whether she’d had a nice evening. Rose wouldn’t mind her mother’s questions so much if they were genuine, but Andrea always had a hidden agenda. Enquiries about whether she’d had a nice evening really meant: Did you get into any trouble last night? Did you meet any armed men? Have you been held prisoner?
Rose re-read the part of Lilian’s memoir where she described the frenzied attack in the hotel bedroom and shuddered. What would she, Rose, have done in Lilian’s place? She couldn’t imagine having to deal with anything so horrendous. For the first time she understood a saying that her grandmother had occasionally used: There, but for the grace of God, go I.
The death was an accident, of course, and surely a jury would have understood that? But attitudes had been different back then. Maybe Ruby had been right in not wanting to risk going to court. It was easy to imagine their fear, especially at a time when a murder conviction still carried the death penalty. Come to that, when had the death penalty been abolished? Rose did a quick search on her mobile phone and discovered that the last hangings in England had been in 1964. That was, like, the same time as the Beatles. Hardly ancient history.
Rose understood now why Lilian had written the memoir and why her own grandmother, Lilian’s daughter, had hidden it away, not knowing what to do with it. It wasn’t the sort of family anecdote you wheeled out over the Christmas turkey. It also put Rose’s own troubles into perspective and made her wince at her self-pitying behaviour of the previous night. So she’d been stood up. Big deal. It happened all the time. Zoe and Lucky had made her feel better and she was grateful to them both.
Her phone rang, making her jump. She picked it up and saw Dan’s name on the caller ID. For a brief moment she considered ignoring him. It would serve him right. But she was feeling more conciliatory after reading Lilian’s revelation. She pressed the button to accept the call.
“Hi.” She tried to keep her voice neutral and not let on that she had been upset. He deserved a chance to explain himself.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” said Dan. “I tried to get hold of you but your phone was switched off and...”
“What happened?” She could hear the remorse in his voice and her anger of last night melted away like an ice lolly on a hot day. He hadn’t stood her up; she’d been wrong to think that he would do that, and now she was the one feeling guilty.
“It’s a long story. Do you want to come over?”
Forty minutes later Rose was sitting on Dan’s bed listening to the story of how he’d come back from the prison and found his mum’s room ransacked.
“That’s awful,” said Rose, taking his hand in hers. “If the burglar had still been here, you could have been seriously hurt.”
“That’s what Mum said.” He looked sheepish.
“Does she need any help tidying her stuff up?”
Dan shook his head. “She’s all right. The shock has sobered her up, at least for the time being. She says it was time she sorted through her clothes and took some to the charity shop. Which reminds me, did you have a good shopping trip yesterday?”
“Yup,” said Rose, grinning at the thought of the slinky, purple dress. “Just wait till you see what I bought.”
“Am I going to like it then?” He put an arm around her, brushing his lips against hers. “When can I see you in it?”
“You’ll have to wait until the party. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“I don’t care what you wear. You’ll still be the most beautiful girl there.”
Rose giggled. She knew she ought to tell him about seeing the motorcyclist with Scarlett but she didn’t want to interrupt the present moment.
But Dan must have sensed ther
e was something on her mind because he pulled away from her and said, “What’s the matter?”
“Just a bit of gossip,” said Rose, keeping her voice light. “Scarlett’s got a new boyfriend. Sophie and I saw them outside in the street when we were in the café.”
“So?” Dan looked like he couldn’t have cared less.
Rose swallowed. “He rides a Harley-Davidson motorbike.” She watched him closely to gauge his reaction. In a matter of seconds his expression changed from indifference to shock and finally to anger.
“What did he look like?” asked Dan, narrowing his eyes.
“Tall. Black leathers. Designer stubble.” She avoided saying he was hot.
Dan punched his left hand with his right fist. “It’s him! It’s the guy who’s been following me around. And I bet he was the burglar. What the hell is Scarlett doing with him?”
Rose had no satisfactory answer.
~~~
Scarlett lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to music on her headphones and trying to decide what she thought about Chris. The fact that he rode a Harley-Davidson was cool and the guy had film-star good looks, that was for sure, but he was rather serious and Scarlett didn’t envisage the relationship lasting more than a few weeks, a couple of months at the most. But Chris was just what she needed right now to give her battered ego a boost. She’d dreaded going to her own birthday party single. How totally sad would that be? And all the better if she could turn up with a guy who would make the other girls’ eyes pop out of their heads.
She’d stayed in her godfather’s room at the Grand Hotel, eating the Mexican wraps delivered by the chef, and listening to the conversation between Max and Chris. They’d been planning a simple burglary on Dan’s house. Chris was going to do it when the house was empty because it wasn’t his intention to hurt anyone, just recover a piece of jewellery. Max and Chris had made it sound as if it was all above board, just a case of retrieving something that didn’t rightly belong to Dan’s family in the first place.
Scarlett wasn’t sure how she felt about the whole burglary thing, but she had pushed her qualms to one side and occupied her mind with thoughts of how to get Chris to notice her. In the end it hadn’t been hard. She was good at appearing older than she really was and by the time they were ready to leave the hotel it was dark and Chris had offered her a ride home on his motorbike. Scarlett had jumped at the chance. When he dropped her off she’d asked him if he’d like to come to her birthday party and he’d said he’d love to but he’d like to see her sooner than that. So they’d met up at the weekend and were now officially an item.
There was only one problem: Chris wasn’t Dan.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
New Year’s Day 1924. I had used to look forward to the start of a new year, full of hope for the future, making plans and resolutions. By rights I should have been anticipating marrying Billy, planning my wedding dress and choosing flowers. Instead I lay huddled under the bed clothes, listening to the rain lashing against the window pane, the glass rattling in its frame. I tried to blot out the accusatory sound of the wind that seemed to be pointing its finger at me and howling, “You! You! You!”
After burying Mr Franklin’s room key in the Egyptian plant pot, Ruby had led me out of the hotel, hailed a taxi and bundled me into the back seat. She asked the driver to drop me off first, then take her to Queen’s Terrace. Thankfully Mother and Aunt Ellie had already retired for the night when I arrived home. I had crept upstairs, ripped off the velvet dress and crawled into bed in my slip. I’d had a dreadful night, barely sleeping a wink. Whenever I’d closed my eyes, images of Mr Franklin had flashed before my mind: leaning over me, pushing me onto the bed, his breath on my face, and then his body lying unmoving on the floor. And the blood. I couldn’t get the thick, oozing, red blood out of my thoughts.
The Futurist was closed on New Year’s Day, so there was no reason for me to get up. I couldn’t bear the thought of going downstairs and seeing Mother and Aunt Ellie. They would be brimming with questions, wanting to know if I’d had a good time. They had been so excited at the thought of me going to a ball at the Grand Hotel. Absurdly, I felt I had let them down and a wave of shame engulfed me. I resolved to spend the day in bed and tell Mother and Aunt Ellie that I had a headache from last night, which was true. I’d drunk more than I ever had before and suspected that I had a hangover on top of everything else. In my confused state I imagined that if I made myself scarce, maybe the whole nightmare would start to fade and eventually go away. I screwed my eyes tight shut and tried to block out the visions that were spinning around inside my head.
From downstairs came the familiar sounds of Mother lighting the stove, putting the water on to boil. It didn’t seem possible to me that everyone should be going about their ordinary lives when my own life had changed forever. I had killed a man. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t meant to. I had done it and I would never be the same, happy person, ever again. I thought of my brother Frank going off to fight in the war when he was so young. Had he killed enemy soldiers? How had that made him feel? Did he hate himself lying in the dugout at night, surrounded by the mud and the rats?
There was a tap on my bedroom door. I jumped out of my skin, imagining the police. They must have found Mr Franklin’s body already. Then Mother’s voice called, “I’ve brought you a cup of tea.”
“Thank you,” I called back, my voice dry and cracked.
The door opened and Mother bustled in. “Well you must have had a nice time last night. It was gone midnight when you came home.”
“Was it?” I tried to sit up and the room started to spin. I shut my eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass.
“Do you want something to eat?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want food. Mother set the cup and saucer down on the bedside table. The cup clattered in the saucer, making my head throb. “You look a bit peaky,” she said, scrutinising me with her hands on her hips.
“Do I?” The last thing I wanted was Mother fussing over me with the Epsom Salts.
“Well drink that cup of tea and then you’ll feel better.” If only it were that simple, I thought.
I wished Mother would leave. I dreaded her asking questions about the ball. She went to open the curtains, but I groaned. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can stand the light.”
“It’s grey and miserable outside,” she said, “but if you say so, I’ll leave the curtains closed.” She gave me another searching look and then left the room. I sighed with relief at having survived my first normal interaction with another human being since “the event.” I reached for the cup of tea but my hands were shaking and some of it spilt into the saucer.
The rest of the day passed as if in a dream. I kept expecting there to be a knock at the door, but no one came. Eventually I joined Mother and Aunt Ellie downstairs and we passed a quiet day doing simple domestic chores like darning stockings. It was too wet to go out. By the evening I was so tired that I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
The next day, the second of January, the Futurist reopened and I had to go back to work. I woke to a grey day, but at least the rain had stopped. Already the events of New Year’s Eve were starting to take on the unreality of a film. My memories were acquiring that black and white graininess that I associated with the movies: the hapless heroine who hits the villain over the head in an attempt to protect her honour; the panic and confusion when she realises that her actions have had unintended consequences; the amateurish attempts to hide the evidence. On the screen it might have been funny. In real life it was too awful for words.
I buttoned up my coat, pulled my hat down low over my head and set off for the cinema, dismissing Mother’s protest that I still looked pale and might be sickening for something. I turned the corner onto Foreshore Road and came to an abrupt halt. Reality crashed in upon me as surely as if a storm wave had blasted across the promenade and drenched me to the bone. Up ahead a boy was selling newspapers from a stand. Even at a d
istance of twenty feet I could read the bold headline on the board beside him.
BODY FOUND IN HOTEL
My blood ran cold. Part of me wanted to turn and run, but my feet drew me to the newspaper stand, like iron filings to a magnet. I couldn’t take my eyes off the headline. Mr Franklin had been found and his death was already being reported in the paper. I had to know what was being reported. I fumbled in my purse for some loose change and bought a folded copy of the paper. “Good day, Miss,” said the boy. I felt his eyes on me, as if he knew what I had done. I mumbled a reply and hurried to the cinema.
I let myself into the ticket booth, sat down and unfolded the paper with trembling hands. Under the headline was a photograph of Theodore Franklin wearing a suit and tie and smiling smugly at the camera. I tried to read the story, but the words kept jumping around in front of my eyes. It took me three or four attempts before I got the gist of what the paper was saying. The body of Mr Theodore Franklin had been discovered on New Year’s Day by one of the chambermaids. She had used a master key to enter the room, thinking that it was empty because there was no reply when she knocked on the door. The poor girl had screamed and run from the room in shock, shouting for the hotel manager to come at once. I felt terrible for her.
The newspaper explained that Mr Franklin was a renowned movie director who had not been in Scarborough for very long but who had already established himself as quite the man about town and was becoming a familiar sight in his motor car. He was lauded as the generous host of the New Year’s Eve Ball at the Grand Hotel. The article then went on to describe the scene in the bedroom in some detail. I found myself looking for discrepancies, anything they might have got wrong, but it was an entirely accurate description of the bronze figurine lamp (referred to, chillingly, as the murder weapon) and the body with the blood pooling around the head. Detective Inspector Dixon was leading the investigation and was said to be putting together a list of all the people who were at the ball. My stomach turned over when I read that last bit and I thought I might be sick. The report finished with a quote from the Inspector saying that the fact that the body was found in a locked room proves that he was murdered and his death was not accidental.
Scarborough Ball (Scarborough Fair Book 2) Page 17