Dead Suited

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Mr Tern ignored her, turning instead to his employees.

  ‘Mr Barrington. Have you and your colleague have nothing else to do but stand and gawp.’

  Cecil Barrington was a vision of humility, positively choking on humble pie.

  ‘I do apologise Mr Tern, but this gentleman here expressed a wish to interview everyone who works in the shop or might have gone to the party.’

  ‘I do,’ said Doherty.

  ‘I take it you didn’t go to the party,’ said Arnold Tern, his slack mouth curving into a lopsided sneer.

  Mr Barrington blushed almost as much as Grace Pauling. ‘No, Mr Tern. I did not.’

  The senior assistant at Tern and Pauling appeared to know his place, subservient in the presence of his employer. Impressions could of course be deceiving; was it possible that he his resentment beneath his humility? It was hard to tell.

  Arnold Tern’s sneer widened. ‘No. Of course you did not, Barrington. Tucked up in bed with your wife like a good little boy. And you, Papendriou?’

  ‘With all due respect, Mr Tern, I’m the one asking the questions here. Mr Papendriou, did you attend the party?’

  ‘Well, excuse me...’

  For a moment the old man tried to rise from his chair. A restraining hand from the woman who appeared to be his nurse stayed him.

  Papandriou gave no sign of being as subservient as Mr Barrington, the latter obviously the firm’s man.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, sir,’ said the shop’s second in command. ‘Mr Tern asked me if I would stay on and serve drinks here before everyone went elsewhere to the organised event.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes sir. I stayed on and served drinks here, then I washed up. By the time I’d finished, everyone had moved on to the Cricketers. It’s not my favourite place in Bath, so I was disinclined to attend. I decided to go home.’

  ‘Do you live alone, Mr Papendriou?’

  ‘No. I live with my partner.’

  ‘And your partner will vouch that you were there for the rest of the night?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a light sleeper, so I assure you he would know if I sneaked out of bed in the middle of the night.’

  He spoke very precisely. He held his hands in front of him, one crossed over the other round about waist level.

  Honey became aware of a slight growling sound from the aged Mr Tern. She didn’t need to ask whether he approved of his employee’s homosexual tendencies. She guessed this was the first time he’d heard of it and wondered what his response might be. It didn’t look as though Mr Papendriou cared about his opinion. Was he considering moving on? It was very likely.

  Doherty was looking restless. The last thing he wanted was conflict in the middle of a questioning.

  One look and Honey knew what she had to do. Divide and rule – in her own way of course.

  ‘Is there somewhere here we can make a cup of tea?’ she asked, her face a picture of bright eyed innocence.

  Mr Barrington indicated the door he’d recently entered through. ‘Mr Papendriou will show you where everything is.’

  ‘You too, Mr Barrington,’ said Doherty.

  The tall, sallow complexioned man bent from the waist, not in an abrupt way but like a willow, slowly. ‘Tea for everyone, sir?’

  ‘No sugar for me,’ said Doherty.

  Arnold Tern was not a stupid man. He glared at Doherty. ‘No matter. I’ll deal with him again.’

  Doherty’s face was grimly set. ‘Mr Tern, I am more concerned with cracking this case. Your son has been murdered. That is my priority at this moment in time. You can deal with your domestic arrangements when I’ve finished. Can we agree on that?’

  ‘Agree?’ The old man’s eyes glared like a snake about to strike its prey. ‘Do you think I did it then? Is that why your assistant’s going off to make tea whilst you ask me some in depth questions?’

  ‘Did you do it,’ Honey heard Doherty say.

  ‘In a wheel chair? My son was twice my weight. I’d have had my work cut out. Besides, as Edwina here can verify I was in bed on the day of the competition and fast asleep that night.’

  ‘Edwina. And your other name is...?’

  ‘Cayford.’

  Honey followed the two shop assistants through the door and into a small kitchen where Mr Papendriou took charge boiling the kettle and setting out cups, saucers, sugar and milk on a very pretty silver tray.

  ‘Very upmarket,’ she remarked, nodding at the tray.

  ‘It’s Georgian,’ said the tall dark man. ‘The cups and saucers are later of course, but they are porcelain.’

  ‘Not a mug in sight,’ laughed Honey.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Barrington looking positively appalled. ‘We offer refreshments to our clients. We couldn’t possibly serve it in mugs! Whatever next?’

  Honey restrained herself from smiling.

  ‘So. How long have you worked here, Mr Barrington?’ she asked pleasantly.

  ‘Thirty-five years. I joined Tern and Pauling after I came out of the army.’

  ‘You were in the army?’ Given his height, the fact surprised her.

  ‘I was invalided out. Flat feet.’

  Not his height then.

  ‘It’s a long time to work in one place,’ commented Honey. She herself had only owned and run the Green River for a few years. How many more years she didn’t really know. Variety was the spice of life and that applied to career as much as to anything else.

  Mr Barrington adopted a lemon sucking expression. ‘I am not the kind of man to flit from one position to another, young lady! Excuse me.’

  He left through another door in the corner of the room marked washrooms.

  ‘Don’t worry about Mr Barrington,’ said the man making the tea in his slow slippery manner. ‘He’s grumpier than usual of late, but then he’s got reason to be.’

  Honey watched as he poured the boiling water into a teapot, stirred it, put the lid on and covered it with a multicoloured tea cosy. It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen a tea cosy for years. Nobody let their tea ‘mash’ any more, did they? Then it came to her. Not tea bags. Proper leaf tea. Earl Grey. English Breakfast. Darjeeling.

  She focused on Mr Papendriou’s comment. ‘Is his grumpiness anything to do with work or does he have problems at home?’

  Mr Papendriou glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘Very perceptive, miss. It is indeed work. Mr Nigel wanted everything in the shop updated and that includes the staff. The young lad, Rossini and myself he deemed likely to adjust. Mr Barrington would not fit in. Mr Nigel had decided to terminate his employment.’

  ‘I can see that would make him very grumpy.’

  ‘Indeed. Mr Barrington lives to work for Tern and Pauling.’

  ‘And you do not?’

  His deadpan expression was unaltered.

  ‘It is a means to an end. I have managed to save a little cash, plus I’ve put my parents’ house in Pontypridd on the market. They died some months ago and probate was granted. They didn’t believe in making a will. Still, I’m the only son so it was quite straightforward really. As soon as the house is sold then I will give in my notice. The fact is that I intend becoming self employed. I want my own business where I can make outfits not just sell them.’

  ‘Good for you! Tailor made suits? Jackets like the ones Tern and Pauling make?’

  Mr Papendriou smiled that slippery smile of his. ‘Not at all. I intend to make speciality products – well made speciality products for the leather goods market.’

  ‘It’ll be quite a wrench for you, leaving here to go self employed.’

  ‘Actually I’m quite looking forward to it. I’ve had enough of working for other people.’

  ‘So how long have you worked here?’

  ‘Three years. Long enough.’

  ‘And your younger colleague, Mr Rossini?’

  ‘Only a year, though I can’t see him hanging around much longer. He might have done if Mr Nigel had lived, but I can’t see him
fitting in with the old guard – Mr Tern Senior.’

  From a bespoke tailor to leather goods; Honey considered what he’d said. ‘Well a handbag needs to be as well stitched as a made to measure suit I suppose.’

  He turned to face her, both hands holding the tray on which were enough cups and saucers for everyone, plus a large white china tea pot, sugar basin and milk jug. The teaspoons looked to be made of silver and of good quality – a bit like their clients.

  ‘I will not be making handbags, miss,’ he said, his face still deadpan, his voice monotone. ‘My intention is to make leather goods for the bondage market. The internet has opened up many opportunities in that sphere.’

  Honey stood in the centre of the room with her mouth open. From jackets suitable for field sports to items suitable for sports of a more intimate and sexual nature.

  Mr Papendriou stopped at the door.

  ‘Do you think you could oblige,’ he asked.

  Honey blinked. ‘Oblige?’

  She nearly choked. Would she oblige him by modelling a few leather straps, a spiked dog collar and carrying a whip?

  ‘The door,’ he said, jerking his head at it. ‘Can you please open the door?

  ‘Oh yes! Of course.’

  Whilst the others had gone off making tea, Doherty had asked the old man some pretty blistering questions.

  ‘Mr Tern. I need some clarification here.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of your questions. I want some time alone in my shop. I need to brief my employees. There’s a lot to be done.’

  ‘We can do it here or down at the station. We have full disabled facilities; ramps, low level toilets, the lot.’

  ‘Only in my presence,’ snapped the woman in the wheelchair before the old man had time to answer. ‘I’m his solicitor,’ she said in as lofty an air as she could manage, the veins in her neck starkly prominent.

  Doherty had felt her beady eyes on him the whole time. He’d wondered whether she was dumb. Now he knew she’d been assessing his actions and waiting for her moment.

  ‘There’s no need for you to be,’ he said to her. ‘Mr Tern is not being arrested; on the contrary, I just want some background information which in turn might highlight the murderer’s motives. It might help me in solving the crime.’

  ‘I demand that you only question Mr Tern when I am...’

  ‘Shut up, Grace. You are here, or do you wish to inconvenience me and get me dragged into the station. Now Inspector Doherty, what is it you want to ask me?’

  By the time the others came back in with the tea, the junior assistant Angelo Rossini had returned with the newspapers. After glancing around like a frightened rabbit, he was told to put the newspapers where they were always placed on a table between two comfortable chairs. He asked about ironing them as he usually did, but was told to do that later.

  Mr Tern fixed him with a watery, malevolent gaze.

  ‘In the meantime you will make yourself available. I expect Detective Inspector Doherty will want you to answer a few questions. I have no doubt you did attend the party young man. I would have at your age.’

  His tone was sour, almost jealous. Rossini, a pleasant looking young man with wavy brown hair and very blue eyes, nodded and said that he had.

  ‘Did you stay very long?’ asked Doherty.

  ‘I left at about eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Did you go to the party alone?’

  ‘With my girlfriend. Mr Tern said she could come. He said she’d brighten the place up a bit.’

  He looked a bit unsettled admitting that.

  After only one meeting with Nigel Tern, Honey had it worked out as to why he’d want Angelo to bring his girlfriend. The man had been a class one lecher. Judging by his fixation with her breasts, the old man might have been of the same ilk in his youth. Like father, like son.

  ‘Were you there when the fight broke out?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rossini looked uncomfortable. ‘It wasn’t really a fight. More a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Did you know the men fighting?’

  ‘Roper I think his name is, the owner of the chocolate shop. And Lee Curtis. I think he runs a gift shop with his mother just around the corner from the Pavillion.’

  Honey almost choked on her tea. Lee Curtis owned more than one shop, one selling chocolate éclairs, the other selling chocolate flavoured nipple cream – etc., She didn’t want to think of what other items were available in the shop and also made of chocolate.

  ‘Do you know what it was about?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said a grinning Angelo Rossini. ‘Roper accused Lee of fixing things. Said it was him that should have won.’ He shrugged. ‘It was just a skirmish.’

  ‘Skirmish or no,’ said Doherty. ‘We’ll be having a word.’

  ‘Funny,’ said Rossini who was still grinning. ‘It was supposed to be a celebration and all around people were arguing and fighting.’

  Honey held back. She was gagging to ask a question, but she had to leave it to Doherty.

  Doherty was frowning. ‘Why do you say that? Who else was arguing?’

  Rossini flushed.

  ‘Well go on, boy,’ snarled Arnold Tern. ‘I want to know too.’

  Angelo licked his lips. His face was still flushed and his eyes were flickering nervously.

  ‘Mr Tern was arguing.’

  ‘Who with?’

  Again Angelo’s eyes slid sideways settling on Grace Pauling.

  ‘Mr Nigel was having a few hot words with Mr Frobisher...’

  ‘Ronald Frobisher of Frobisher and Blackwood, estate agents?’

  Angelo nodded. ‘Yes. And then...’ This time he held his head stiffly, unwilling to let his gaze wander.

  ‘Miss Pauling,’ he said softly.

  Doherty nodded. He was nowhere near having found the murderer, but a little ground was being broken, a few things found out.

  Like bits of a puzzle, they would take some time to fit together – if at all. Not everything would fit, but the fact was that some would. It was all a matter of time.

  Firstly he’d learned that the old man had not been consulted about the revamping of the shop and neither had he been aware of the window display being entered for the competition. It was unlikely the old man was strong enough to kill his son, but he did have a motive. Then there was Mr Roper and Mr Curtis. Both were now flagged up on his ‘to interview’ list.

  The old man perceived what he was thinking.

  ‘Yes. I did have a motive, Detective Inspector. Tern and Pauling have been the purveyors of fine tailoring to the gentry for many years. We do not need to cater for the high street element! My son was a fool. A stupid, irresponsible fool!’

  Doherty said that he understood.

  Honey was mixing and matching the possibilities. Mr Roper who owned The Chocolate Soldier; Mr Curtis who owned and ran two shops, number one the sex shop where he sold everything from sexy maids outfits to leather. Then there was Mr Papendriou. He had plans to become self employed making items for people who liked being tied up. On reflection there were connections all over the place.

  Mr Tern’s head suddenly dropped forward. He placed his hand over his eyes.

  ‘I’m not feeling too good. Can we make this brief?’

  His nurse, Edwina Cayford, poured him tea, added lots of sugar and insisted he drink it.

  ‘Your sugar level’s dropped. You need every drop.’

  To Doherty she said, ‘Mr Tern has been very ill for some weeks. I think he’s had enough of this for one day. Despite appearances, it has all been a bit of a shock.’

  Doherty chewed the inside of his cheek. He wanted to get this sorted, but not at the expense of the old man taking a turn for the worst.

  He sighed. ‘I can’t wait forever.’

  ‘No need to,’ said Edwina. ‘Can I suggest you come to the house if you wish to question him further?’

  He jerked his chin in agreement. ‘I suppose so. I’m not sure on how much more I need to ask, but I will call in if I think of any
thing pertinent to the case.’

  Edwina attempted to force another cup of tea on the old man, insisting that he could do with more sugar.

  Arnold Tern waived the proffered tea away, bending around Edwina so he could better shout at his senior assistant.

  ‘Mr Barrington! As soon as this policeman leaves, I want the door locked and a staff meeting convened.’

  Doherty exchanged a look of surprise and exasperation with Honey. The old man was a wily old bugger.

  Tense looks sallied from one employee to another. Honey decided she wouldn’t want to be in their shoes.

  However, she was loath to leave just yet. There was one question bugging her.

  ‘Can I ask one more thing?’

  Doherty eyed her sidelong. The old man sighed and looked at her somewhat condescendingly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The window display was very impressive. Whose idea was it?’

  Arnold Tern slapped the arm of his wheelchair with his bony hand. ‘My stupid son of course. Who else?’

  Honey persisted. ‘But who actually designed it?’

  Everyone looked at everyone else. It was Mr Papendriou who provided the answer.

  ‘Vasey Casey. He’s from London.’

  Honey searched in her bag for her notebook but couldn’t find it. She did find a pen and a creased envelope. It would do.

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  ‘No, but I expect it’s somewhere in Mr Tern’s office. He kept a diary.’

  ‘I think we have the diary,’ Doherty said to Honey. ‘We’ll get it from there.’

  To the rest of them he said, ‘I think I’m finished now. I’ll be back if there are any further questions. Thank you for your help. We’ll see ourselves out.’

  ‘Edwina will lock the door behind you. If you could oblige, Edwina?’ Mr Tern looked mightily pleased. Honey wondered on who the axe would fall first; Mr Papendriou or Mr Barrington. She didn’t hold out much hope for either of them.

  His nurse responded instantly. The door was shut firmly behind them.

  Honey shoved her hands in her pockets and like Doherty stood with her head back sniffing the city air.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  Stony faced, Doherty nodded. ‘I think I’ll stick to the tried and trusted.’