Death Scene Page 4

  Footsteps on the veranda, footsteps that he did not recognize as Mickey’s, suggested that Constable Prentice had returned.

  ‘In here,’ Henry said, and Prentice stuck his head round the door.

  He watched curiously as Henry packed the jewellery boxes into the leather bag, obviously wondering what he had discovered.

  ‘Had the girls seen anything?’

  ‘A few tourists hanging around, nothing much. But they did see Miss Rowe talking to a man a few days ago. Said they seemed to be arguing.’

  ‘Did they hear what they were saying?’

  The constable shook his head. ‘No, they were down on the strand and Miss Rowe and the man were near the bungalow. The girls said they looked like they were arguing, the man was waving his arms around, and when Miss Rowe tried to walk away from him he grabbed her arm. She shook him away and he stormed off. That’s all they saw.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘They think two or maybe three days ago. They can’t be sure. But they know it was her.’

  ‘And did they say what this man looked like?’

  ‘Tall, they said. They said taller than Miss Rowe, but that don’t mean a lot, she was only a little lady.’

  Henry Johnstone nodded. He doubted she stood more than five feet tall and she was very slightly built. Henry thanked the constable, commended him for his efforts and asked him to stand guard again while he went to find his sergeant.

  Constable Prentice, satisfied with himself now, took his place on the veranda and Henry set off in search of Mickey Hitchens.

  He found his sergeant chatting to an old lady with a very small pug dog. The woman wore a purple hat decorated with many, many white daisies and the pug a purple collar, also decorated with daisies. The pug looked glum.

  Mickey Hitchens spotted his boss and began to take leave of the old woman, backing away still talking, the lady following him with the pug in tow. Henry heard Mickey say ‘I really have to go, Mrs Willberry’ before hurrying over to where the inspector stood. Henry, taking the hints, turned and headed back in the other direction.

  ‘Local gossip?’

  ‘Yes, but unfortunately not a proper local gossip, only a visiting one. Her sister lives in Eveyline, that bungalow back there. She spotted me, decided I needed to be challenged and asked what business I had sniffing round here. When she found out I was a policeman, well, I thought I’d be there till teatime. Speaking of which, I’m sloshing with cups of tea and stuffed with home-made Madeira cake, chocolate cake and anything else that the fine ladies of this area decided to push my way, but when was the last time you ate or drank?’

  ‘I suppose that would be this morning, before we got on the train.’

  Mickey Hitchens shook his head. ‘So,’ he said, ‘are we heading back to London or along the coast?’

  ‘Cynthia is sending the car for us. Or a car anyway, Lord knows she has enough to choose from. We need to check in with the locals, make sure a guard is posted on the bungalow – we can’t leave Constable Prentice there all afternoon and all night – and then we can come back first thing. It will be quicker than heading down from London and more comfortable than finding ourselves a boarding house.’

  Sergeant Hitchens nodded enthusiastically. ‘Better food too,’ he said.

  TWO

  They had walked back across the footbridge into Shoreham old town and gone on to the police station.

  Now that the death was officially a murder inquiry they were able to mobilize the local force and by the time they left a couple of hours later Henry was satisfied that troops had been called in from Hove and Bournemouth to supplement the rather scant resources they had at Shoreham-by-Sea.

  They had phoned in their report to the central office at Scotland Yard and arranged for a courier to take the prints that Mickey had lifted at the scene and the movable objects he had selected back to the fingerprint bureau. Neither Mickey nor Henry Johnstone was hopeful of anything turning up from this; the prints would probably be from friends and neighbours of the dead woman. They doubted that the murderer had been careless enough to leave anything as incriminating behind, but you never knew. Stranger things happened.

  When they finally left it was a little after five p.m. Cynthia’s car was parked outside the police station and attracting quite a bit of attention. She had sent the Bentley, much to Mickey’s satisfaction and Henry’s discomfort. Having a sister who was married to a rich industrialist had its advantages, but there were also moments when Henry wished she could be a little more discreet. Mickey never had those worries; he enjoyed himself when Cynthia decided to spread her largesse around, especially since it frequently came his way. Cynthia had a soft spot for her brother’s sergeant.

  Henry was quiet as they drove along the coast road and said very little until the car had pulled up outside Cynthia’s townhouse in Worthing. The butler welcomed them and the maid attempted to take their bags.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ Mickey said, ‘but I’ll hang on to that one if you don’t mind. It’s official, like.’

  She looked suitably awed. ‘The mistress said to tell you that your usual rooms have been prepared,’ she said, ‘and that you’ll be dining at seven. She will be returning shortly.’

  Henry thanked her and he and Mickey made their way to their designated rooms. Neither were strangers here. Twice now they had used Cynthia’s house as their base when work had brought them to this part of the coast and Henry was a frequent social visitor. Mickey had been known to join him on some of those occasions; a small curiosity for the gentlemen and their ladies to enjoy.

  When Cynthia returned, Henry and Mickey were in the library drinking rather good whiskey and discussing the day’s events. They had checked in again with the central office and also with the local police force, who had assured them that guard would be kept all night, though it was likely just to be a single officer. The Clarks, who owned the bungalow, had agreed to a hasp and staple and padlock being put on the front door for added security and this would be done as speedily as possible.

  House-to-house enquiries had been continuing into the evening but so far there was nothing to report. Miss Cissie Rowe was a familiar figure in the area and seemed to be well liked.

  ‘No one had a bad word for her,’ Henry had been told, but he did not find this surprising. In his experience, people rarely spoke ill of the dead.

  Cynthia and the children piled into the library and Cynthia flopped down in one of the big leather chairs. ‘Lord, but I’m tired. You wouldn’t believe, Henry, how tiring it is prancing up and down on a beach all day. Especially with these three in tow.’

  ‘These three’ were two boys and a little girl, Henry’s nephews and niece. The two boys dived on to the sofa next to Mickey and demanded to be told what he’d been doing. Melissa, the middle child, came over to Henry, kissed him on the cheek and then settled herself in his lap.

  ‘Hello, Uncle Henry. How are you?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you, Melissa. And how are you? And how are you enjoying your holiday?’

  ‘I would be enjoying it more if I didn’t have brothers,’ she said.

  ‘Brothers can be a trial,’ Henry agreed.

  Cynthia watched, amused. ‘Time for the three of you to go upstairs and find Nanny,’ she said. ‘Go and have your supper. We’re late already and Nanny will be hungry and Cook will be cross because the food will be spoilt.’

  They watched the children leave and then Cynthia regarded the two men thoughtfully. ‘I take it we’re not dressing for dinner.’

  ‘Not unless Albert has spare clothing in very tall and very square,’ Henry said.

  His sister laughed. ‘So how are you, darling? And how are you, Mickey? Still doing this ghastly job, then?’

  It was something Cynthia always said despite the fact that Henry knew she was very proud of him and the job he did. Cynthia was his older sister by only two years but to hear her speak you would think it was more like a decade. Older sister was a role she
took very seriously.

  ‘So what brings you both here? I heard there’s a dead actress down Bungalow Town?’

  Henry nodded. ‘A young woman by the name of Cissie Rowe. Have you heard of her?’

  Cynthia gaped at him. ‘Heard of her! My goodness, Henry, she is one of the rising stars. Or was. Poor, poor thing. What happened to her?’

  ‘As yet we’re not sure,’ Mickey said. ‘But definitely foul play and likely someone she knew.’

  ‘Oh no, that makes it worse somehow, doesn’t it? It’s bad enough if it’s some random stranger, but to think that someone she knew could want to kill her! Well, not just want, actually do it.’

  She got up and crossed to the sideboard spread with decanters, poured herself a whiskey and offered Mickey and Henry top-ups.

  ‘Whiskey before supper, Cyn,’ Henry commented. ‘That’s not like you.’

  ‘And it’s not every day I hear about a murder. Sherry is just not up to that kind of news. So, will you be down here for a few days then? You know you can both stay as long as you like. Albert won’t mind, it brings a little excitement into his otherwise very mundane business life.’

  ‘Will he be dining with us?’

  ‘Probably not. I’m not expecting him till after nine, so I’ll get Cook to leave him some sandwiches. But he’s promised to take a few days next week to spend with the children before they have to go back to school. He’s looking forward to that. He’s a bigger child than they are. They all play cricket on the beach, it’s a lovely thing to see.’

  Henry nodded. Their own father would never play cricket or anything else. It was rare for him even to notice they were around, not that they ever tried very hard to attract his attention. That was usually bad news. Albert, Henry thought, was actually a very nice man.

  Conversation was general at the dinner table. Servants drifted silently in and out of the dining room delivering courses and removing plates, and Henry was reluctant to discuss anything of importance where others might hear. It was not until they withdrew to Cynthia’s own little sitting room and coffee had been brought that Henry brought out the snake bangle and asked his sister’s opinion. After a quick examination she left them and went to fetch her own.

  Cynthia laid her own bangle down on the table and picked up the one that had belonged to Cissie Rowe. ‘It’s not a cheap thing,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen some very pretty ones just made in rolled gold. This one has Birmingham hallmarks and I think I recognize the maker – Smith and Pepper. They make some very pretty toys and I’ve a recollection that this is their mark. It’s a very popular design, very fashionable.’ She looked more closely at the marks. ‘This is nine carat gold. Mine is twenty-two, but you’d expect that considering what Albert paid for it. Not the sort of thing a girl like Cissie Rowe would have bought for herself, I wouldn’t think. No, I think you’re right, Henry, some gentleman friend of hers must’ve bought it for her, but I don’t think you’re looking for a particularly upmarket admirer, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘So, not an Albert, then.’ Henry smiled.

  Cynthia grinned back at her brother and stuck out her tongue and for a moment Mickey, watching them, caught a glimpse of the children they had once been.

  ‘She could have stolen it, of course. But she’d need to be clever to do that. It’s not exactly the sort of article that lends itself to casual shoplifting, is it? But perhaps she could have stolen it from someone?’

  ‘Possible, of course,’ Henry agreed.

  ‘And Cynthia is right, of course, not something that a shoplifter would be able to take, but it’s not unusual for an attractive young woman to be used as a decoy for more expert thieves.’

  ‘Male thieves, no doubt.’ Cynthia rolled her eyes. ‘Heaven forefend that a woman should operate at such a high level of thievery. Or a group of women, even.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Mickey said casually. ‘Women rarely make it to the status of master criminal—’

  ‘Sergeant Hitchens! Are you suggesting that women don’t have the brains for it?’

  She looked to her brother for support, only to realize that Mickey was deliberately winding her up. ‘What about that German woman? Bertha … something. She ran a whole gang of housebreakers and fences, didn’t she? And, from what I remember, ran the lot of you ragged for months before you could get sufficient evidence.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Mickey sat back and raised his glass as though in a toast. ‘Bertha Weiner.’

  ‘But my dear girl, you are going right back to something like 1901 to find your example,’ Henry goaded gently.

  ‘I remember reading about her in our father’s newspaper. It made a big impression at the time.’

  ‘It must have done, you can’t have been more than ten or eleven.’

  ‘I have an excellent memory. And I’m willing to bet that if I did turn to a life of crime, brother dear, you’d not catch me as easily as most of the men you chase down.’

  ‘If Mickey and I were to be the ones after you then your crime would most likely be murder. And if you are planning on becoming a widow or disposing of some of Albert’s more unprepossessing relatives, then perhaps it might not be the brightest idea to announce the fact beforehand.’

  ‘Not Albert,’ she said. ‘I’m fond of Albert. His cousin Harvey, though. Now I might be disposed to be rid of him.’

  ‘Then keep it simple,’ Mickey advised. ‘Take him for a walk on the cliffs and give him a good shove.’

  She nodded. ‘We do get some terribly strong winds along the coast. Thank you, Mickey. I’ll bear that in mind. You don’t hear of many murderesses, do you? Perhaps that’s because they are more careful than their male counterparts and don’t get caught as often.’

  ‘It’s true that the female mind is more devious,’ Mickey agreed.

  ‘But those we do know about don’t plan as well as they might,’ Henry argued. ‘What about Mrs Thompson, back in the autumn of Twenty-two? Plotted with her would-be lover to have her husband bumped off as they walked home from the theatre. Oh, the incident itself was well enough planned: an attack in a side street, a woman who acted out her shock and distress with great aplomb. But she had also been stupid enough to write to her lover about earlier attempts that she had made on her husband’s life. Attempted poisoning and on more than one occasion putting broken glass into the poor man’s food.’

  ‘You could also argue that it was the stupidity of the lover … Bywaters, wasn’t it? A sailor, or something of the sort, wasn’t he? Anyway, his stupidity in keeping the letters. Silly man. Why couldn’t he have just thrown them overboard? He must have realized they’d come back to bite him.’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Henry said. ‘Cyn, I’ve no doubt you’d make a better fist of it than they did, but do me a favour and wait until you are elsewhere. Monaco or Argentina or wherever you and Albert are trotting off to next. I’d rather not have to arrest my own sister.’

  ‘I promise you, Henry. Should I ever consider such a deed and should there be no convenient cliffs in the vicinity, I shall cover my tracks so well that even you will not be able to prove my guilt. Another drink, either of you?’

  Henry watched her thoughtfully as she refreshed their drinks. He knew that Cynthia took a keen interest in his work, avidly reading accounts of what the media termed the ‘murder squad’ and their activities and even some of the text books that Henry collected on forensic and psychological practice.

  He acknowledged also that she was one of the most intelligent people – of either sex – that it was his privilege to know.

  Cynthia set their glasses down and turned her attention to the other jewellery that Henry had found at the bungalow. ‘It reminds me of the sort of thing Mother used to wear,’ she said. ‘A little old-fashioned. The brooch is like the mourning jewellery the old Queen made popular, and the coral bracelet …’ She paused for a moment, considering. ‘It’s probably been around since before Cissie was born. Looking at the style, I would have said 1890, before the war anyway.’
>
  Henry nodded; that had been his feeling too. Inherited jewellery, probably. He would ask Muriel Owens if she had ever seen Cissie wearing any of it or if she knew who had given her the snake bangle. Henry would not be surprised if Mrs Owens did not even know of its existence.

  ‘I can tell you a little bit about her, though,’ Cynthia said. ‘Melissa has taken over my old scrapbooks – you remember the ones I used to have with the postcards and pictures in them about all the starlets and the stage shows we would have liked to see but never quite managed to?’

  Henry nodded solemnly. His sister was evidently trying to make light of what had been something of an obsession in her teenage years and even well into her twenties. Life had been somewhat humdrum and Cynthia had escaped by compiling scrapbooks of newspaper clippings and magazine articles and pictures of stage actors at first, and then Hollywood starlets and British film stars.

  ‘Well, Cissie Rowe is one of the … or was one of the up-and-coming names. So far she had only played small parts but the prediction was that she would take over from Joan Morgan. You know that she was the daughter of Sidney Morgan, who was a producer at the Shoreham studio? Well, anyway, Cissie had something of the same look, though she was older, of course. Joan Morgan was starring in her father’s films from when she was about sixteen, I believe. I don’t think Cissie Rowe even started until she was in her twenties.’

  ‘We’ll be looking into her background but anything you can tell us is useful,’ Mickey said.

  ‘Well, she’s not British, you know that, I suppose? She was born Cécile Rolland and she came over here in about 1917 as a refugee.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘I think she came from Amiens, though I may be wrong about that, but you can imagine what the poor girl must have gone through in her early days.’

  She looked cautiously at her brother and at Mickey Hitchens, knowing that they could do more than imagine.