Death of a Beauty Queen (8 page)

‘Never heard before of a murder for a three-guinea handbag,' Mitchell remarked. ‘It can't be that she came into the room unexpectedly and found an intruder there, and then he just hit out wildly with a knife and ran for it, because the evidence is she was in the room all the time continuously from when Beattie saw her there – and saw the bag, he says. If any stranger came in afterwards, why didn't she shout for help? Or is it that she tried to, and he stopped her? Or can the bag have been taken by way of a blind? If whoever did it is really some lover who thought she had been fooling him, and who was a bit off his head, as they are occasionally, for girls will still play with fire, and when passions get loose anything may happen, he might have taken it with the idea of suggesting theft as a motive. But that's not likely; crimes of passion aren't calculated.'

He paused again, worried and puzzled by this apparent intrusion of the vulgar motive of theft into what had seemed a tale of passion and despair and love. Bobby said:

‘Perhaps there was something valuable in the bag or something the murderer wanted – love-letters, or something like that? It might be letters he had asked her to bring with her.'

‘It might be that; worth remembering anyhow,' agreed Mitchell. ‘Well, carry on, Penfold.'

‘There's just one other thing, sir,' Penfold said, as he rose to obey. ‘I don't know what it means, But it may be important. There are a lot of finger-prints in the room here and there, but there are none on the handle of the knife. It has a rough surface.'

‘I noticed that,' Mitchell said.

‘But there's one on the blade of the knife. It looked like a woman's, and, as there was talk about a quarrel to-night between Miss Mears and a Miss Ellis, a chance was taken to compare the print on the knife blade with Miss Ellis's fingerprints. The knife-blade print seems identical with that of the little finger of Miss Ellis's right hand. They'll have to get a clearer imprint and compare them more carefully before being quite sure, but they say there's no real doubt.'

‘There was a quarrel between them about stopping on the stage too long, or not long enough, wasn't there?' Mitchell asked. ‘That's why Miss Mears was sulking all alone in her own room, I think. First it looked like a love tragedy – youngsters carried away by their own passion and killing as a mere relief to feelings they haven't sense enough to get the better of. Then with this bag business it looked like turning into a motive of common robbery, and now it seems as if it may be just jealousy and a fit of temper. I think we must have a talk with Miss Ellis. Find her, Owen, will you? I suppose she's still here. Ask her if I can have a word with her. Don't frighten her, you know. There may be a dozen explanations of that finger-print.'

But that hardly seemed very probable to Bobby as he left the room upon his errand, for in fact less than a fingerprint has before now brought a criminal to execution.

The corridors, rooms, stairs, passages, that only a little before had been thronged by such eager, excited, animated crowds were indeed crowded still, for few had had any desire to leave the scene of so sensational and mysterious a tragedy, but presented now a very different spectacle. There was no more running to and fro of laughing, chattering girls, eager to compare experience: no more merry speculation on the outcome of the competition; no more friendly teasing of each other; no more grave debates as to whether this flower would not have been better here rather than there, or that ribbon or lace more effective there rather than here; no more proud boasting by confident mothers and aunts; no more swaggering up and down by fathers and uncles convinced no girl was like their girl, let the judges say what they liked. Pale and frightened, little groups gathered together, exchanging whispered speculation, watching with terrified eyes the grave-faced officers of police going about their business. Incongruous and strange indeed was the background to the grim business in hand that was furnished by that company of girlish competitors in their youth and loveliness and fashionable finery, and, as Bobby threaded his way among them, all whispering ceased, all eyes were turned to watch with dread his progress. It seemed as if they more than half expected to see him make a sudden pounce, and cry:

‘Here's the murderer.'

Cold and draughty as were these corridors and stairs, it seemed nearly everyone was collected in them. Few apparently had cared to wait in the comparatively sheltered dressing-rooms. It was as though they feared that death that had struck once that night with such suddenness and effect might soon strike again, and that only in company were they safe.

Bobby had no difficulty in finding Lily Ellis. She made one of a small group, including several of her friends and relatives, and Bobby's invitation to her to come and talk to Superintendent Mitchell evidently frightened her badly.

‘It is merely that you may be able to give some useful information,' Bobby explained, more reassuringly than his feelings quite justified. ‘Perhaps you would like someone to come with you?' he added.

An aunt, a Mrs Francis, volunteered at once to be her companion. The offer plainly cheered her niece, who began to look a little less like a convicted criminal ordered to instant execution. Nevertheless all eyes followed her as she moved away in the company of Bobby and the aunt, nor was it difficult to see that what was now merely an excitement of interest and curiosity might easily turn into hostility. The whisperings and the nods and the stares could well be imagined changing to clamorous condemnation, and Bobby heard quite plainly murmured references – there was perhaps no very strenuous effort to keep inaudible – to the quarrel there had been between her and the dead girl; of how Lily Ellis had a temper of her own; of how she had been heard to cry out passionately that she could kill Carrie for playing her such a mean trick; of how she had then rushed off to tell Carrie exactly what she thought about it.

He stole a look at her as they all three went along the corridors to the little room where Mitchell waited. There was a certain lightness, almost a fragility, about the girl that did not suggest the murderess, and yet the lines of that close-shut mouth, and a certain air of resolution that marked her grave, dark beauty, suggested one who could take strong determined action if need arose. And murder's a thing so soon done; death a finality so easily achieved. A weapon ready to hand, a gust of passion such as it was said this girl's calm demeanour hid, a blow aimed with small intention, and there's tragedy ready made.

So Bobby mused to himself as he opened the door of the room where Mitchell waited, and all three of them went in together.

However, before he began to ask them any questions, Mitchell succeeded in putting both Lily and her aunt much more at their ease. It was the elder lady in whom at first he seemed most interested, fussing about a cushion for her back, about her chair being out of a draught, and so on, till Lily began to feel that after all no such importance and significance attached to this summons to her as she had at first feared.

Only when Mrs Francis, a stout little elderly lady, wearing a very badly applied make-up of powder and lipstick and rouge she was not in the least used to, and a hat in the new pancake style that could not possibly have suited her worse, was at last comfortably settled, did Mitchell turn to Lily, as if suddenly remembering her presence.

‘Now then, Miss Ellis,' he said cheerfully. ‘Now that's all right, I'm sure you won't mind telling us what you know about this affair.'

‘But I don't know anything – anything at all,' protested Lily, quickly nervous again.

‘That's just what no one can be sure of,' Mitchell assured her. ‘It's extraordinary how much people who think they don't know anything can tell us at times. Often small details they hardly even know they know turn out the most important. We'll begin about yourself, shall we?'

A few leading questions soon elicited details of the girl's birth, education, present circumstances, her hope of obtaining the post of leading mannequin at the Brush Hill Bon Marché, the difference such an appointment would make in a home where there was an ailing mother and two small brothers.

‘If you had won the competition to-night, it would have meant a good deal to you then,' Mitchell observed, with a certain reluctance in his voice as though the point were not one he much wished to make.

Oh, yes, ' Lily agreed eagerly. ‘Or even being second or third. I didn't expect to be first exactly, but I knew if I came out near the top it would most likely be all right and I should be taken on.'

‘If we hadn't been sure she would be the winner – that is, if the judges had eyes in their heads,' Mrs Francis interposed firmly, ‘never would any of us have agreed to her entering. In my young days no self-respecting girl would ever have dreamed of such a thing, but Lily has her mother to think of and the boys, and there's so little we can do to help with business what it is.'

‘Everyone must understand that,' Mitchell agreed, checking a flow of explanation that seemed likely to continue for some time.

He was looking grim and uneasy at the same time. There was one point established. Winning the competition had meant more to Lily Ellis than a mere gratification of feminine vanity – more even that vague hopes of future success. It had meant being able to provide better for those dependent on her. His fingers beat their accustomed tattoo that always meant he was deeply worried. He said, a little abruptly now:

‘You knew Miss Mears?'

‘Only a very little. I met her at a dance once, and once or twice besides. Mr Beattie introduced us.'

In reply to some more questions Lily explained that it was at the same dance she had first met Roy Beattie. A friend had introduced her to him, and then he had introduced her to Carrie Mears. Mr Beattie had asked her to call at his studio and let him take her photograph, but she had never done so yet, though she had promised that perhaps some day she might. Mitchell rather gathered that at this dance the young photographer had shown Lily rather more attention than Carrie had quite approved. She had regarded his scalp as dangling permanently at her waist, and had not relished seeing it transferred elsewhere. That meant then, it seemed, that there had been a note of rivalry, possibly of some ill feeling, between the two girls even before this evening, and Mitchell scowled again as this new fact forced itself upon his recognition. Claude Maddox had also been at the dance, but not Leslie Irwin, for, while dramatic societies were bad enough, dances, in the eyes of old Mr Irwin, were worse – very much worse, in fact. To have attended a dance would have been sheer defiance – it would probably have meant for the young man the risk of an open breach with his father. Besides – perhaps an even more conclusive reason – Leslie was no dancer, having no natural skill in the art, and never having had any lessons, while both Claude Maddox and Roy Beattie were expert performers.

‘Did you know Mr Maddox and Miss Mears were engaged?' Mitchell asked, and Lily shook her head, and said she had heard a lot of guesses about the direction Carrie's favour was likely to take, but nothing definite.

‘To come to to-night,' Mitchell continued. ‘I believe there was some kind of misunderstanding between you and Miss Mears?'

Lily flushed again, and looked piteously at her aunt for assistance. Mrs Francis tried to give her version of the affair, but Mitchell checked her.

‘It is Miss Ellis's own account I would like to hear,' he explained. ‘That is, if she has no objection.' He added to Lily: ‘Of course I am only asking if you feel disposed to help us. If you would prefer not to, you need only say so. But in that case, you will understand, I shall have to depend on other people's versions, and I would rather have yours. Still, if you would prefer to wait till you've had a chance to talk to your solicitor and have his advice'

‘Oh, no, no,' Lily interposed. ‘I do want to help all I can, only it's all so dreadful, and as if it couldn't be – well, real. Only it is. What happened was that Carrie told me she had been disqualified for stopping on the stage too long, and I must be careful or I might be too – disqualified, I mean. So I ran off as quickly as I could after I went on, and they all laughed at me, and they said it was a trick of Carrie's so the judges wouldn't have time to mark my card.'

‘Too bad,' said Mitchell. ‘That meant you thought you had lost your chance. Were you upset at all?'

‘I was most awfully angry – furious,' Lily exclaimed, with sudden energy, as for the moment she forgot everything else but the indignation that had burned in her when she discovered the trick played her. Her eyes blazed, she straightened herself with a tense and formidable energy one felt could easily translate itself into action; the tempest of her anger seemed, indeed, entirely to transform her. Then, as quickly as it had come, it passed: ‘Oh, I forgot... oh, poor Carrie,' she said.

But Mitchell's face was dark and heavy, and he seemed to droop a little as he sat there, silent now, a little as if he dared ask no more questions. For the first time in his life he had a feeling of being old and rather tired, of not wanting to go on. With almost every word the girl spoke she seemed to be drawing the net closer about her. He glanced at his young assistant, Bobby Owen, taking all this down in his notebook. It relieved him a little to see that the young man was not affected in quite the same way. His air was still eager and intent – he was taking down what was said with interest, even with excitement, but hardly seemed to grasp the direction in which it was all tending.

Mitchell braced himself to continue. Truth was his mistress, to be followed at all costs, whithersoever she led, no matter what was revealed when her veil at last was drawn aside. Truth, that is the first, the fundamental, the foundation of all value, without which there can nothing be that is worth man's while – or God's. There was a new note of hardness and sternness in his voice – Bobby noticed it, and wondered; Lily recognized it, and was again afraid – as he went on: