Headline Murder

by Peter Bartram

  I stomped back to my desk, collected the box of éclairs and headed for the morgue.

  There was only one way I could crack this story in eight hours – and even the odds on that were longer than His Holiness being canonised.

  I didn’t have enough evidence to write a story about the corrupt link between Cross and Darke. I didn’t have the evidence to establish a link between Darke and Trumper’s disappearance. So I needed to approach the story from the other end. I had to find Trumper and get him to tell me what had been happening. I thought the only way I had a chance of doing that was to track his sister Dorothy, the sister Harriet Sturgess had told me about. Dorothy should know Trumper better than anyone. Surely, she would have a good idea about which bolt-hole he’d scurried to.

  Harriet had told me that Dorothy had married but she didn’t know her husband’s name. I couldn’t wander around aimlessly looking for a Dorothy. There’d be thousands of them. I needed to know her married name. And, now, I’d had an idea about how I might be able to find it. But to do that, I needed more help from Henrietta and the Clipping Cousins.

  I marched into the morgue carrying the éclairs. Henrietta and the Cousins were sitting round the main table.

  Elsie said: “I bet we know what’s in the box.”

  Mabel said: “Something delicious with chocolate.”

  Freda said: “And lashings of whipped cream.”

  I put the box on the table and said: “Actually, it’s real artificial cream.”

  Elsie opened the box. Mabel took out the éclairs. Freda put them on a plate.

  As always, working as a perfect team.

  Henrietta said: “You have the look of a man who’s about to ask an enormous favour.”

  I said: “How do you know that?”

  “Because most of the people who come in here do. So how can we help?”

  I said: “I need to trace a Dorothy whose maiden name was Trumper. I don’t know her married name, but I was wondering whether her wedding might have been advertised in the classified columns.”

  Around the paper, the births, marriages and deaths columns were known as batches, matches and despatches. I was hoping that Dorothy Trumper’s wedding would have been announced in the matches.

  I said: “If Dorothy’s marriage announcement had appeared in the paper, I’d be able to find her husband’s name from it. So I’d then know her married name.”

  Henrietta frowned. “It’s a good idea, but we don’t file announcements from the births, marriages and deaths columns in the clippings files.”

  I said: “I thought that would be the case. But you do have bound copies of all the back issues of the paper in here. We could look through them.”

  Henrietta looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “I notice you used the first-person plural there.”

  I joined her by raising an eyebrow. “Harriet Sturgess, my contact who knew Dorothy, thinks she was married in the closing months of the war or in the years immediately after, but she can’t remember exactly when. I’m working on the assumption it was between nineteen forty-five and nineteen forty-nine.”

  “So you want to look through the marriages columns of every paper for five years.”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “Do you know how many papers there were over those five years?”

  “Well, the paper publishes six days a week for fifty-two weeks a year. That makes three hundred and twelve. But we don’t publish on bank holidays, so knock off six from that number which gives us three hundred and six papers a year. Multiply by five for five years. I make the grand total one thousand five hundred and thirty papers.”

  “Do you realise how long it will take to look through that number of newspapers?” Henrietta asked.

  “If we do it quickly, I reckon that it’ll take about thirty seconds for every paper. The marriages column is in the same part of the paper every day and there are rarely more than two or three entries. If we all do it, it shouldn’t take more than about two and half hours. Less if we strike lucky early on.”

  “And longer if we don’t find anything in the years you’ve mentioned and you want to extend the search,” Henrietta said. “I really don’t think we can spare that time. We’re already behind with the clippings after helping yesterday. It would mean us giving up our lunch hour. But you can ask.”

  I looked at the Cousins. They were my last chance to crack the biggest story I’d had since joining the Chronicle. Since I’d started my career in journalism.

  Elsie was licking the chocolate off her éclair. Mabel was sucking the real artificial cream out of it from one end. Freda was cutting her éclair into neat bite-sized pieces.

  To gain their assistance, I needed to appeal to their finest qualities. To alert them to the big issues of justice and free speech which hung in the balance. To appeal to their sense of sacrifice for a noble cause. I needed to find the words that would motivate them to help me. I thought of Mark Antony and his friends, Romans and countrymen. I thought of Henry the Fifth and his band of brothers. I thought of Churchill and his blood, sweat, toil and tears.

  I spoke: “Ladies, if you help me, I’ll buy you cakes for a week.”

  As a call to action, I thought the speech, although short, went down rather well.

  Elsie replaced her éclair on the plate. She said: “Down cakes, ladies, this is an emergency.”

  Mabel said: “I’m putting mine to one side.”

  Freda said: “As my éclair is in bite-sized pieces, I can eat it while we work.”

  Henrietta shrugged. “I’ll show you where we keep the bound copies,” she said.

  There were four volumes of bound copies for each year, one for each quarter. Each volume was bound in thick covers with leather spines that smelt like old suitcases. I had to brush a thick layer of dust off each one before I took it off the shelf.

  Elsie took the volumes for nineteen forty-six. Mabel took nineteen forty-seven. Freda took nineteen forty-eight. Henrietta took nineteen forty-nine. I took nineteen forty-five. I had a hunch it would turn out to be the year Dorothy married. When we all had our piles of volumes, I said: “We’re looking at each copy’s marriages column and we want to find a Dorothy Trumper and the name of the man she married.”

  Five bodies bent over old newspapers. Yellowed pages of newsprint rustled as they turned. Completed volumes thumped on to the floor. Nobody spoke.

  Then Elsie said: “I’m in August nineteen forty-six and Mary Pyle is marrying Stephen Driver. If they chose a double-barrelled married name they’d be Pyle-Drivers.”

  Mabel said: “Back in May nineteen forty-seven, I had an Arabella Sweet marrying a Richard Hart. They’d be Sweet-Harts.”

  Freda said: “In January nineteen forty-eight, I had a Susan Fancy marrying a Leonard Pante. If they have children, they’ll have lots of little Fancy-Pantes.”

  Henrietta said: “Ladies, concentrate please.”

  Silence descended again. Time passed. Pages rustled.

  I reached the last volume of nineteen forty-five. Henrietta turned to the last volume of nineteen forty-nine. In turn Elsie, Mabel and Freda reached for their last volumes. More pages rustled.

  I turned to the thirty-first of December nineteen forty-five. There were three weddings listed. None involved Dorothy Trumper.

  Henrietta closed her volume. “Nothing,” she said.

  Elsie shut nineteen forty-six with a sigh. Nothing.

  Mabel slammed the heavy board cover on nineteen forty-seven. Nothing.

  Freda picked up her last bite-sized piece of chocolate éclair and popped in her mouth. She ate it noisily. It sounded like laundry rotating in a washing machine.

  She turned a page. “I think I must have had more entries than you. But I’m up to December the eighteenth.”

  She turned a page. Nothing. She turned another page. We watched her. She stopped chewing. Silence.

  “There’s an ink blotch on this page,” she said. “I can’t read it very well.”

  She peered
closer at the page. “I thought so.” She read: “The marriage is announced between Dorothy Gertrude Trumper, daughter of…”

  I shifted forward to the edge of my seat.

  “No need to read it all,” I said. “Just give me the name of her husband.”

  Freda looked up. “It’s not one of the funny ones,” she said.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “John Smith,” she said.

  Chapter 11

  John Smith.

  The most common name in England, and Dorothy Trumper had married one. She could have married a Clackworthy, a Featherstonehaugh or a Pine-Coffin. Any of them would have been easier to trace than John Smith. Thousands of them in Britain. Dozens in the Brighton area.

  I thanked Henrietta and the Cousins and hurried back to my desk in the newsroom. The clock on the wall was showing twelve forty-three. Five hours seventeen minutes to the six o’clock deadline Figgis had set me.

  I sat down at my desk and thought about what to do next. The newsroom was noisy with clacking typewriters, shouted conversations. Smoke spiralled up from cigarettes abandoned in ashtrays while their owners bent over typewriters and batted out deadline copy. From the bowels of the building I could feel the vibrations as the presses rolled off the last of the midday edition.

  I pulled down the Brighton area telephone directory from the shelf beside my desk and turned to Smith. Ran my finger down the column looking for the start of the initial “J”.

  In the limited time I had, it was my best bet for tracing Dorothy Smith. If, that is, John and Dorothy Smith were still alive. If they were still living in the Brighton area. If they owned a telephone. If they hadn’t gone away on holiday. Or out shopping. If they weren’t ex-directory. And only if the telephone was registered under John rather than Dorothy’s name. It was a worrying list of “ifs” but I had no alternative.

  I found the Js and started counting. One, two, three… There were fifty-seven. I made a quick calculation. At two minutes a call, it would take me nearly two hours to ring the lot. That would take me until nearly three o’clock. But I wouldn’t reach them all because at least a quarter would be out the first time around. So call-backs could take longer.

  I picked up the phone and dialled the first number. I let it ring ten times. No answer.

  I dialled the second number. A woman’s voice answered: “Ruby Smith speaking.”

  I said: “Do you have a Dorothy Smith, whose maiden name was Trumper living there?”

  She said: “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Colin. I’m trying to trace an old friend.”

  “No, I don’t think I know a Dorothy Smith,” she said. “You don’t mean Doris, do you?”

  “No, it’s definitely Dorothy, unless she’s using Doris as a shortened version of the name.”

  “She wouldn’t do that. Dorothy and Doris are completely different names. Everyone knows that.”

  “Silly of me,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

  I put the phone down.

  Picked it up again. Dialled the next number.

  A man with a deep voice answered.

  I said: “I’m trying to contact a Dorothy Smith. Have I got the right number?”

  He said: “You’re not that bald-headed bloke from the bus depot who’s been bothering my missus.”

  “Is her name Dorothy?”

  “No, it’s Sadie.”

  “Sorry to have troubled you.”

  “Dirty little pervert,” he said.

  I put the phone down.

  I picked it up again.

  Made another call.

  The minutes ticked by.

  I made more calls.

  Two o’clock came and went.

  Some Smiths were out.

  Some Smiths were in.

  Some wanted to talk.

  Some slammed the phone down.

  Time passed.

  My thirty-eighth call. A woman’s voice. Well-modulated, almost musical and refined.

  I said: “I’m sorry to trouble you. I’m trying to contact a Dorothy Smith, maiden name Trumper. Do I have the right number?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m Joan Smith. What name did you say?”

  “Dorothy Smith.”

  “I mean her maiden name.”

  “Trumper. Dorothy Trumper,” I said.

  I sensed hesitation. “Did you ever know a Dorothy Trumper?”

  “Would that be Arnold Trumper’s sister?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The Arnold Trumper who owns the Krazy Kat miniature golf course on Brighton seafront.”

  She paused. “I did know her slightly. But perhaps I could ask what your interest is.”

  “I’m Colin Crampton, from the Evening Chronicle. Mr Trumper appears to have disappeared and we’re trying to build up a picture of his background.”

  “Oh, he has more than enough background,” Joan said.

  I shifted uncomfortably on my chair. Joan had surprised me. It sounded as though she might know more about Trumper than I’d managed to discover.

  “Do you know where Dorothy lives now?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said. “We lost touch many years ago, after that horrid business with Mr Trumper’s wife.”

  “You know about that?”

  “I know all about that. At the time, I was the best friend of Abigail Farnsworth. That’s how I got to know Dorothy. Abigail and Dorothy knew one another.”

  “And Abigail Farnsworth was?” I knew the answer but had to ask the question.

  “The wife of Reginald Farnsworth, the man who was alleged to have killed Mildred Trumper.”

  I scribbled a shorthand note. Underlined “alleged”. This was the first time I’d heard anyone suggest that Farnsworth may not have been Mildred’s killer.

  “You used the word ‘alleged’.”

  “Not everyone thinks Reggie killed Mildred,” she said.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “His daughter Mary.”

  “She lives in Brighton?”

  “Hove, actually.”

  “Could you put me in touch with her?”

  “I could but I’m reluctant to give you her address over the telephone.”

  “Could I come and see you?” I asked.

  “If you wish.”

  I looked at the list of numbers still to call. Made a quick calculation.

  “I’ve got some calls still to make but I could be with you at about four o’clock. Your address in the telephone book is listed as New Church Road, Hove. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. At four o’clock then.” She replaced her telephone.

  I sat there for a minute thinking about what Joan had said. It would be natural for a daughter to believe her father was innocent of a murder. But if Joan believed that, too, perhaps there was more to it. Then I picked up the phone and made the thirty-ninth call.

  I arrived at Joan Smith’s house at quarter past four.

  I had an hour and three-quarters to stand up my story and I seriously wondered whether this meeting was going to help. But I was running out of options.

  Joan lived in a large mock-Tudor house in a part of Hove that regarded itself as several steps up the social scale from the mean terraces of central Brighton. The house itself looked as though it could do with a fresh paint job. But the front garden was neatly kept. The beds were planted up like an English country garden with foxgloves and nasturtiums and pansies. There was a covered porch which had been a later addition to the house. Honeysuckle had been carefully trained over the top of it. It was flowering and gave off a heady perfume. The front door opened as I approached.

  Joan Smith was a tall and severe-looking woman who reminded me of an old-fashioned schoolmarm.

  She said: “I saw your car draw up. You’re late.”

  I said: “I’m sorry about that. I was held up at the office.”

  She said: “You better enter.”

  I entered.

  The hall was a long gloomy passageway with a low c
eiling and dark brown wood panelling. It was the sort of place you’d expect to lead to some dungeons.

  Instead, Joan led me into a small sitting room at the back of the house, which was surprisingly bright. It had cream-coloured walls and French windows that opened out onto a small patio. There was a wooden table and chairs on the patio already laid with a jug of what looked like homemade lemonade. Joan poured us glasses.

  I said: “Thank you for agreeing to see me at short notice.”

  “Not at all. You wanted to know Mary Farnsworth’s address. May I know why?”

  I drank some lemonade. It was not too sharp but cool and refreshing.

  I said: “You mentioned that she believes her father to be innocent of Mildred Trumper’s murder.”

  “She has never wavered in that belief.”

  “May I ask whether you share her view?”

  Joan sipped at her lemonade while she thought about her answer. “The honest answer is that I don’t know. I think there is reasonable doubt.”

  “Enough to have acquitted him of Mildred’s killing if the case had come to trial?”

  “Possibly.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Reginald Farnsworth was no saint. He had an eye for the ladies. Rather too much of an eye in my opinion. But I don’t believe he was a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Did his wife, Abigail, know about his wandering eye?” I asked.

  “I think it’s unlikely she wouldn’t have known the kind of man he was. She’d have known that before she married him. So likely she was willing to take him with all his faults.”

  “But would she have known about his affair with Mildred?”

  “I don’t know. She certainly knew that he had casual flings with other women but I don’t think she knew who the women were. Perhaps she preferred not to know.”

  I glanced at my watch. It had just gone half past four.

  I said: “I have a very tight deadline. And I’d like to speak to Mary Farnsworth before it expires. Could you give me her address?”

  Joan rose and walked back into her sitting room. I drained the last of my lemonade and followed. Joan went to a small bureau, unlocked the lid and took out a leather-bound address book. She sat down and copied out the address onto a small card.