03 - Murder in Mink (14 page)

The inspector showed Clara into his office at the
station. She had declined going straight back to the Campbells, instead wanting
to know what Jennings had meant by his cryptic comment. Jennings turned on the
gas light, muttering something about electricity not having reached the police
yet and motioned towards a battered trunk under the window.

“Go ahead, I’m sure you want to examine it.”

Clara did want to look at Shirley Cox’s trunk, but
refused to show undignified haste, so removed her gloves and hat first before
kneeling in front of the box. It was not overly large and had been in use for
many years. The corners were bashed in, their paper covering ripped revealing
the cardboard that comprised the trunk. Someone had mended one with parcel tape
and attempted to use boot polish to hide the damage.

Clara lifted the lid gingerly. The box interior did not
smell musty as she had anticipated, but was sweet with the scent of old roses and
the light fragrance of face powder. Tucked under some straps in the lid were
several small theatre programmes.

“Andrew did say she was a dancer.” Jennings mentioned as
Clara looked at the faded booklets.

One was orange and white with illustrations in black,
another was pale green with bold lettering. A third had a drawing of a man and
woman performing acrobatics on the front. Each had the name Shirley Cox printed
on it and the description ‘child dancer’. So this was how life had begun for
Shirley. On the stage in London theatres and music halls, one of the many
children who performed in pantomimes and variety acts for a few pence. It was a
hard life; long hours, difficult work and often having to travel to and from
the theatre alone at all hours. Then, of course, there was the moment the child
grew too big to be deemed ‘sweet’ on stage and their novelty evaporated just as
adulthood and the need for an income beckoned.

“The boys in London never knew her as a dancer.” Jennings
confirmed, watching Clara thumb thoughtfully through the programmes, “They
first picked her up soliciting when she was eighteen or nineteen. A lot of
child actors and dancers struggle to find work when they grow up, there are so
many of them out there, and they no longer have youth in their favour.”

“Remarkable that you can be ‘too old’ before you are even
twenty.” Clara put the programmes down, they were depressing her.

She went through the rest of the trunk, its catalogue of
belongings rather limited. A make-up bag nestled next to a hair brush; two
pairs of spare knickers were rolled up in a blouse and crammed beneath them was
a pair of stockings with a hole in one larger than Clara’s hand – no wonder
Shirley had gone bare-legged; under those was a worn coat and two embroidered
handkerchiefs; at the very base there was a small purse with a few pennies
inside and a thick book tied up with string.

Clara removed the book and looked through its pages, to
her surprise it contained scraps from newspapers, a torn page from Who’s Who
and another from a Surrey Directory, along with notes and jottings all
concerning the Campbell family.

“She has been searching for Andrew a long time.”

“Wouldn’t you if all you had as an alternative was
walking the streets.” Jennings was matter-of-fact, “Look at the last completed
page.”

Clara thumbed through pages thick with cheap glue paste
to almost the last sheet. There she found the final entry, a notice badly
snipped from
The Times
concerning the forthcoming marriage of Andrew
Campbell and Laura Pettibone. Clara put down the book, how sad it all was, how
depressing. She understood Andrew had been angry, wouldn’t anybody having felt
that way after being so duped? But she also saw Shirley’s perspective, a woman
driven by this overruling desperation to survive. It was difficult to blame
someone for clinging to one last hope of salvation.

“There were two more things in the box that I removed to
look at further.” Jennings opened a drawer at his desk, “These are all the
letters, as far as I can tell, that Andrew Campbell sent his wife during the
war, and this is her diary.”

He positioned a bundle of letters and a thin black book
on the desk.

“The letters weren’t particularly helpful. They mainly
concern Andrew’s life at the front and are naturally censored. The diary was
more interesting, especially the last entry.”

Jennings handed the black book to Clara and she flicked
through its contents briefly to get an idea of Shirley’s style. She didn’t
write every day, rather she added entries when something interesting had happened.
They were often brief. The very last one was no different.

“Saturday 15 May 1920.” Clara read aloud, “Blew Andrew’s
wedding as planned. His face was priceless. Persuaded him to come see me. He
came at 2pm. We argued. He threw a bundle of money at me, told me to leave. I
said I couldn’t do that. He was furious and marched out. Not sure what to do
now. He doesn’t seem to love me anymore.”

Clara checked the date of the entry again, then looked
towards Jennings.

“That’s how you knew Andrew was lying when he said he did
not see Shirley after the wedding.”

“Not just that, Mrs Macphinn, the landlady, was naturally
upset when she heard about her guest’s demise and wanted to be helpful. I asked
her if Shirley had ever had any visitors while she was staying with her. Your
name came up of course,” Jennings grinned, “But she also mentioned that a young
man came over on the Saturday afternoon. He was tall, stern-looking and never
smiled. Sounds like our Andrew, doesn’t it. Well he went up to see Shirley in
her room, which Mrs Macphinn didn’t approve of, but he insisted. So being a
landlady with her respectability to think of dear Mrs Macphinn loitered on the
stairs. She heard Shirley and the gentleman argue, then after ten minutes he
stormed down the stairs and left.”

“That does sound like Andrew.” Clara sighed, “And just
when I was beginning to think he might be in the clear. Still, he didn’t murder
her there and then, so he either asked her to meet him sometime later or our
murderer is someone entirely different.”

“I know, none of this makes things any plainer.”

“I don’t suppose you asked when Mrs Macphinn last saw her
guest?”

“That would have been around 4.30pm on Saturday. Mrs
Macphinn visits her sister on a Saturday and leaves dinner for the guests
cooking in the oven. Mr Macphinn serves it up on her behalf. Shirley was still
in the house when Mrs Macphinn left, but she has no idea if she was still
around when she returned. She just assumed she was.”

“And Mr Macphinn?”

“As observant a fellow as an ostrich with its head in the
sand. He couldn’t be sure, but after a great deal of thinking and complaining
about his memory he came to the conclusion that Shirley was not there for
dinner on Saturday.”

“That narrows down when she could have been murdered. It
had to be after 4.30pm, when most of the Campbells were home. Unfortunately
they were so scattered about the house none have a solid alibi.”

“For all we know Shirley came to the house and was bumped
off there, in the gardens perhaps. Then moved.”

“What do you make of the car Francke saw.” Clara asked, “I
recall hearing a car as well that night. It’s not exactly a common sound.”

“We can’t say for certain it was dumping the body, but it
seems likely. That narrows the field further since there aren’t that many
people with cars around these parts, except the Campbells of course.”

“There must be others with cars?”

“The doctor, perhaps, the police naturally.” Jennings
shook his head, “No, that line of thought brings us right back to the Campbells
again.”

“It would be pretty foolish of Andrew to dump the body on
the racetrack.”

“Ah, unless he was trying to throw us off the scent! A
double bluff, banking on his friend Francke to provide an alibi.”

“I think it likely Andrew was at the track all day
after
he saw Shirley.” Clara said firmly.

“That doesn’t rule out him having an accomplice. His
sister for instance? He murders Shirley and heads to the racetrack to provide
himself with an alibi, knowing that so many people are coming and going it
would be hard for anyone to know if he had been there all afternoon or not. In
the meantime the accomplice collects the body and hides it in one of the
Campbell cars. Only to dump it on the racetrack late at night, making it look
like a clumsy attempt to implicate Andrew. Thus causing us to assume he is
actually innocent and had been framed.” Jennings had to pause for breath after
his long speech.

Clara gave him a moment.

“I’m unconvinced.” She said calmly.

“Then name me another suspect.”

“As good as Andrew? No, I can’t think of one, but I’m not
certain it was Andrew. If anything I am verging towards finding him innocent,
despite his obnoxious nature.”

Jennings smiled at her.

“I’m close to having enough circumstantial evidence to
convict him.”

“A court would not accept it.” Scoffed Clara.

“Really? We have a damn good motive. Andrew was last seen
arguing with Shirley at 2pm when he lied and said he was at the racetrack. When
she vanished after half four how can we be certain he was not lying again when
he said he was nowhere near her? Then there is the motor car, I still need to
work on that, but if it did transport the body I only have one suspect with a
car. Finally we have the dumping of the body, which could be a clever double
bluff. There are holes, I admit, but people have been hanged on a lot less.”

“I would not want to hang anyone on what you just told
me.” Clara tossed Shirley’s diary onto the desk, “Could someone take me home
now, I have a lot to think over?”

“Of course, but don’t waste too much time worrying about
Andrew. He has made a fine bed for himself to sleep in.”

“Why is it I always end up feeling sorry for my
suspects?”

Jennings gave Clara a light pat on the shoulder.

“You’ll have to toughen up.”

“I would rather not, I seem to be doing all right as I
am.”

Jennings gave her another smile.

“Don’t expect any gratitude from Andrew if you prove him
innocent.”

“Oh I won’t! I’m not
that
sentimental!”

Clara couldn’t sleep late into the morning, though she
occasionally tried. But the bright light of day and the call of birds berated
her for her dawdling and she felt it impossible to not get up. So she was busy
getting first choice at the breakfast table when she heard the front door
quietly open and close. The next moment a familiar head poked around the door.

“I might have known you would be up already unlike decent
folk.”

“Annie!”

Clara dropped her fork and rushed to embrace her maid and
friend. A lifelong bond had been formed between the two women when they met in
hospital during the war. Clara had been a nurse, Annie her patient. When the
frail girl had wondered what would become of her after she recovered Clara
offered her a job. Even so, Clara found it difficult to think of Annie as a
maid and struggled to keep her behaviour strictly formal.

“Give over Clara! What will the butler think?” Annie
laughed as she pushed away her friend, “So what pickle are we in now?”

Clara grimaced.

“Murder, as usual. I couldn’t put it all in my telegram,
but Andrew was married once before and his first wife showed up at his wedding.
Now she is dead.”

“Clear-cut case to me.” Annie pretended to brush her
hands of the matter, “So why hasn’t he been arrested?”

“Because it’s far more complicated than it seems and I,
for one, think he is innocent.”

Annie rolled her eyes.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“But I’m so glad you are here, this house is driving me
demented and Tommy misses you dreadfully.”

Annie suppressed a smile.

“Does he now?”

“You know we are simply hopeless without you.”

“And?”

Clara hesitated as Annie looked at her enquiringly.

“Come on Clara, I know you. You want another pair of eyes
and ears in his household.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Yes!” Annie chuckled, “Fortunately I was going mad
mooching around that empty house in Brighton, so I was pleased to come out to
the country. Besides that young man, Oliver Bankes, has been calling for you
every day. He is like a little lost puppy.”

“Oh dear.” Clara nibbled at her thumb, wondering what to
make of Oliver Bankes, if anything.

“Well, anyway, I told him…”

Annie was cut off by the scream coming from upstairs.
Clara only had to look at Annie and the maid dropped her suitcase, before both
women went flying to the source of the sound. They had to head down one
corridor and then turn left before they spotted the screamer. It was one of the
house maids, stood outside a bedroom door and almost turning blue with the
noise she was making. Annie swooped on her, making soothing sounds and trying
to calm her, while Clara ventured into the room.

It didn’t take much to recognise the cause of the
commotion.

“Oh Eustace.”

Eustace was lying on his back in bed, his arms flung out
either side, his eyes bulging and staring at the ceiling. Vomit covered the bed
sheets to the right of his face. His skin had turned a strange shade of chalky
grey, as if his blood had been drained from him. There was no doubt he was
dead. Still, to be certain, Clara walked forward and felt for a pulse. When it
was clear there was none she took a step back and stared disbelievingly at the
corpse.

“What’s going on?” Glorianna appeared in the room wrapped
in her dressing gown.

“You need to call a doctor Glorianna, and find Hogarth.”
Clara put a hand out to try and stop Glorianna coming forward but the woman
pushed past.

She gasped when she saw Eustace.

“Go fetch Hogarth and ring the doctor.” Clara turned her
around and half forced her from the room. Clara wasn’t certain what was making
her act so urgently, but some instinct inside her told her she had to act
cautiously. Eustace’s unexpected death was troubling.

“What’s happened Clara?” Annie asked from the doorway,
unable to see in the room.

“Uncle Eustace is dead. It’s all a bit messy. Perhaps you
should take the maid downstairs?”

Annie gave a little nod.

“Be careful Clara.”

“Always.” Clara answered with a reassuring smile.

Annie led the maid away, who was now almost collapsed
with shock. Clara was alone with the body only for a few minutes before Hogarth
appeared. He walked in the room slowly and viewed his brother from the foot of
the bed.

“I told Glorianna to call the doctor.” Clara said.

“Yes, is that necessary?”

“I think so, he died rather violently.” Clara hardly
needed to point out the way Eustace was splayed on the bed as though he had
been writhing and the awful look in his eyes, “You said he felt ill last
night?”

“One of his bilious attacks. He took unwell after dinner,
said he would go lie down and asked for some tonic water to be sent up. Do you
think it was something he ate?”

Clara was carefully looking at the jug of water on the
bedside table, almost completely empty.

“Did he always drink tonic water at night?”

“Only when his indigestion was playing up.” Hogarth
reached out for a chair and sat down hard, “I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t
think him that ill.”

“I never heard of indigestion killing a man.” Clara was
studying the tonic water intently, “Eustace has been rather ill during his stay
here.”

“He always complains our food doesn’t agree with him. I
don’t know why it shouldn’t, I think he just likes to moan about it. There’s
nothing wrong with the food after all, we are all here quite healthy.” Hogarth
rubbed at his eyes, “I know it sounds awful, but my brother always seems to
make things worse, even when he is dead.”

Clara walked over to Hogarth and gently took his hand. He
was trembling, she felt his fingers shaking in her palm.

“He was still my brother.” Hogarth said softly, “Despite
his ill-manners and trouble-making. I thought he would be around another decade
at least.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Clara, this has been one of the worst weeks I can
remember. Worse even then when Andrew was away. That was different, everything
was happening at a distance. This is all so… close. That damn woman! And now
Eustace! I just don’t understand how this can be happening. What have we done
wrong?”

“I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong Hogarth. Life
can be difficult sometimes.”

“Do you think the police will want to know about
Eustace?”

Clara didn’t answer immediately, Hogarth looked
distressed and she didn’t want to add to that, but she couldn’t lie either.
Something felt very wrong with Eustace’s death.

“I’m not sure at the moment.”

“Eustace didn’t deserve to go this way. Not like this. He
was obnoxious, I know, I know. But he had a good heart beating inside him. He
couldn’t help that he was not the son our father wanted.”

“Was it bitter between them?” Clara asked.

“Sometimes.” Hogarth drew a shaky breath, “Who am I
kidding? All the time! Eustace was not cut out for business and father resented
that. He sent him to the best schools and tried his hardest and Eustace tried
hard too, in return. It was just never that simple. Figures and sums never made
sense to Eustace, he struggled with anything more complicated than simple
addition. He would stare at a ledger for hours, under our father’s gaze and
still not have a clue what it all meant. I, on the other hand, picked it up so
easily. I know Eustace resented that, felt I had taken his place. But just as
he couldn’t help being who he was, so I couldn’t help having a head for
arithmetic.”

“I think Eustace knew it was not your fault.”

Hogarth rubbed miserably at his face.

“Really?”

“Eustace didn’t want to be burdened by running a
business, it was best you took it over. His problem was he never really recovered
from being a disappointment to his father.”

Hogarth nodded.

“I can see that.”

“The doctor’s here.” Glorianna peeked around the door,
averting her eyes from the bed where Eustace lay, “I haven’t told the girls
yet, Peg was roused by the noise but I told her a maid caught her hand in a
door.”

Glorianna vanished again as the doctor appeared. Doctor
Hogg was lean and tall with a stoop from years of looking down on patients from
a great height. He was white-haired and wore gold-rimmed glasses perched
precariously on his nose. He shuffled in, looking no less than ninety years old,
and quietly shook the hands of Hogarth and Clara. Then he turned to the bed.

“Oh dear. Did you realise he was already dead?”

Hogarth gave Clara a look of exasperation; she decided to
take over matters.

“We were aware doctor, but we thought it best you take a
look. After all, there has to be a death certificate and so forth.”

Clara followed the doctor to the bedside. She had hoped
to find him a competent man with an eye for the suspicious, she had her own
doubts but she wanted the doctor to confirm them before she acted. Instead he
looked the sort who would glance at the body and sign the certificate without a
thought.

Doctor Hogg went through the usual checks for pulse and
heart function for the sake of them. Then began a detailed examination of
Eustace’s face, from his wide open eyes, to the unpleasant staining around his
mouth.

“Was he ill last night?”

“Just a little bilious.” Clara said.

“He was definitely a very robust individual. In my
experience such people suffer greatly from digestive disorders.”

Clara was desperate to add that sometimes such people had
a little help, but Hogarth was watching and what was she really basing her
suspicions on? A hunch? A gut feeling something wasn’t right?

“My first thought is a heart attack, very common in a man
of this age with so much fat.” Doctor Hogg sank a finger into Eustace’s portly
side. It sunk deep into the flesh, “The vomit is odd though.”

“I thought so too, and he looks so…” Clara struggled for
the right word, “Distressed.”

“That can happen, if the victim becomes aware of the
attack. Mind you, I say heart but he could have choked on his own vomit.” The
doctor opened Eustace’s mouth and stared down his throat, “No, I’m afraid it
will have to be a cut-up job. I’ll inform the coroner. I can have a couple of
men come to collect him later this morning.”

Doctor Hogg took another long, assessing look at his
patient.

“Make that four men.”

“What do you expect to find?” Clara said, feeling a
little more hopeful.

“Probably still the heart.” Doctor Hogg checked his
watch, “I must get on, there is a very live lady down the road suffering from
an attack of the gall bladder. I should say give it an hour for the men to
arrive to collect the body.”

Doctor Hogg was wandering out of the room before he had finished
talking.

“Why did Glory call him?” Hogarth snarled when the doctor
had vanished, “Hopeless idiot.”

Clara was looking at the bed and thinking calmly. She
wasn’t so sure Doctor Hogg was such a fool, but she also wasn’t convinced by
her own doubts concerning Eustace’s demise. She had to act for herself. First
things first she rang the servants’ bell. Then she took the jug of tonic water
off the bedside table and covered it with a cloth. Hogarth watched her
curiously.

“What are you doing Clara?”

“Being thorough.” Clara gave him a smile, “And possibly
being over-suspicious.”

A maid appeared in the doorway with her eyes downcast,
not prepared to witness the scene of a gruesome death.

“Could you bring me a clean glass jar?” Clara asked the
girl, “And a spoon.”

The girl disappeared.

“You are worrying me Clara.” Hogarth rested his arms on
the high foot rest at the base of his brother’s bed, “Are you thinking we have
another murder on our hands?”

“I make no assumptions until I have some evidence.” Clara
answered, “I’m just curious, that’s all. Why does your food disagree so with
Eustace when, as you say, it suits us perfectly well? I do not believe Eustace
had a weak constitution. He spent most of his time at his Club and from the
little I know of cooking in such places it can hardly be termed plain living.
Eustace is clearly a man who loves his food, and rich, fatty food at that. Why
should he have such problems with his digestion when he comes here?”

Hogarth’s worried look creased his forehead into a deep
frown. The maid returned with the jar, unable to bring herself to enter the
room so offering it at the door. Clara took it with a slight pang of pride that
her own sensibilities did not extend to being terrified of a dead body. Then
she set to work scooping vomit into the jar. When she was done she gave the
spoon back to the maid and covered the jar with a similar cloth to the one she
had found for the jug.

“Amuse me Hogarth.” Clara winked at her cousin as she
collected the two samples.

Hogarth just gave a shrug, completely perplexed.

Clara removed the jug and the jar to her own room and
carefully locked them inside, then she found the phone in the hallway and asked
to be put through to the police station. The line rang for a long time before
someone, slightly out-of-breath, answered.

“Could I speak to inspector Jennings?” Clara asked.

The speaker on the other end gasped air as he spoke.

“He’s rather busy.”

“It’s important, tell him Clara called.”

The speaker asked her to hold and then there was silence.
Clara stared at the wall in front of her where a still-life of poppies and
sunflowers in a blue and white vase hung. She was looking at the picture, but
her mind was far off. Had Eustace known something useful? He had been very open
when he spoke to Tommy, had someone heard him? Or was there another reason
someone would care to dispose of him? It was all supposition of course, he may
not have actually been murdered, but Clara was certain she had seen grains of
something sitting at the very bottom of his jug of tonic water. They could just
be particles of dirt from the jug being improperly cleaned. But then there was
the vomit and his clear distress – there had been real anguish in Eustace’s
eyes.