The taxi driver dropped Clara outside Minster View Boarding House. She thanked him, paid him and gave him her card in case he remembered anything else about the night he dropped Sybil Langford down by the river. On the drive back she had told him about Sybil’s death but assured him that it was not his fault as the actress had died days later.
‘Did the man she was going to meet kill her?’ asked the driver, his eyes awash with regret.
‘There is no evidence of that.’ Clara did not add that there was also no evidence that he had not. But she didn’t want to alarm the driver. She put on her most reassuring voice and added: ‘So far the police are treating this as a suicide or an accident. However, they might come to talk to you – as I have – to follow through on Miss Langford’s last movements.’
‘I’m surprised they haven’t already,’ said the driver. So was Clara. But she just nodded, noncommittally.
Clara was tired. It had been a long day trudging the streets of York and along the river. After the man in the tent – who she now knew was called Joe – told her about seeing Sybil and a man walk over the bridge, she had considered doing so herself, but didn’t want the taxi driver waiting around forever. And she didn’t want to send him away without telling him about Sybil’s death. So a trip over the bridge would have to wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, she reminded herself. She would visit Andrew at the convalescent home, take a walk over the bridge where Sybil was last seen, then drive home to Newcastle before it got dark. She would come back to York again after the Christmas break – and this time pack an overnight bag. She was grateful that Mrs Morrison had spare toiletries and some emergency smalls for guests caught short, but she wouldn’t want to depend on them again.
Light was already eking away from the short winter’s day as Clara knocked on the door of Minster View. She noticed that icicles were forming on the lintel – it was going to be a bitterly cold night. The door opened a minute later to reveal Mrs Morrison, her eyes wide with alarm. ‘Oh, Miss Vale, thank goodness you’re here. The police are waiting for you in the parlour.’
The puce-faced sergeant from the theatre stood with his backside to the fire, his arms folded in disapproval. With him, seated in a wing-back chair, was a gentleman in a brown suit, with a brown moustache, and a brown bowler hat on the occasional table beside him. He stood to greet her and introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Bradshaw. ‘So, Miss Vale,’ he said as she took a seat opposite him, ‘I believe you have been poking your nose into my investigation.’
‘I have been doing my job.’
‘Your job is to insinuate yourself and interfere in police investigations?’
‘How have I interfered?’
The sergeant snorted. Bradshaw merely raised an eyebrow. ‘I have been informed that you viewed the body of Miss Langford with Dr Malone and Dr Bone.’
‘I was invited to do so.’
‘And that once the viewing was over you didn’t leave York with Dr Malone.’
‘Is there a law that I should have?’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Because I had further enquiries to make.’
‘And you are an enquiry agent?’
‘I am.’
‘But you didn’t tell Dr Bone that. You gave him the impression you were working for Dr Malone as his assistant.’
Clara smiled, her mind working rapidly to figure out what to say next. She didn’t want to drop Charlie in the treacle – he had been doing her a favour – but she also didn’t feel she needed to justify herself going about her work. Eventually she said: ‘Well, I was assisting Dr Malone and he was assisting me. He very kindly allowed me to accompany him to learn how pathologists go about their business. It was an educational excursion for me. We did not pretend it was anything else.’
‘Dr Bone had the impression that you were formally employed by Dr Malone.’
‘I’m sorry he received that impression – we never gave it. I do not work for Dr Malone and he does not work for me. But we have collaborated on a few cases.’
‘So you are working on a case.’
‘I am. I was hired to find Sybil Langford.’
Bradshaw nodded tersely. ‘Well now you have found her. Your job is done.’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t.’
Bradshaw frowned. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because I need to find out why and how she died. So I can give a full report to my client.’
The inspector leaned forward, scolding her with his finger. ‘Aha! So you are insinuating yourself into my investigation.’
Clara bit the inside of her lip, telling herself to ignore the wagging finger and to remain calm. ‘I am not. I am running my own investigation. I have no need to insinuate myself into yours.’
‘How do you explain your behaviour at the theatre then?’
A harrumph came from the sergeant, who was still standing at the fire. His buttocks ought to be well toasted by now, thought Clara.
‘My behaviour? I have no need to explain my behaviour. While I was talking to staff members of the theatre Mr Iceton was informed there had been a break-in in the props department. He invited me to accompany him to see what had happened. I did not trespass, I was there by invitation. I was there before the police came. It was I who suggested the police be called.’
‘Only after you fingerprinted the place.’
Clara pursed her lips. ‘That is incorrect. I “fingerprinted the place” after I suggested the police be called and while we were waiting for you. In fact, I saved your team some work. All they had to do was photograph them. Have you managed to find a match for them, yet? Do you have anything on file?’
‘You should not have dusted for fingerprints.’
‘And why not? A scene of crime had not been declared. I did not obscure any evidence. I did the opposite – I revealed it.’
‘Good God, woman!’ Bradshaw slammed his fist down on the occasional table causing his bowler hat to fall off and roll across the floor. ‘You will stay out of my investigation or I’ll have you thrown in a cell over Christmas!’
Clara whipped through a few scenarios. She knew she was on legally sound ground, but she also knew that Bradshaw could very easily follow through on his threat and it could take days before she would be released, with the Christmas holiday slowing everything down. She didn’t want to risk that. So she lowered her eyes, hoping to appear demure, and said: ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I shall leave York tomorrow morning. It is too late now as I don’t want to drive alone at night. I’m sure you understand the dangers of a lady driving alone in this sort of weather in the dark.’
The lowered eyelashes, bowed head and seeming acknowledgement of feminine weakness appeared to do the trick. Bradshaw cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well, I’m glad we’re in agreement. But make sure you do leave, madam – as soon as it’s light. I don’t want to see you here again. Do you understand me?’
Clara nodded in acquiescence, knowing full well she wouldn’t comply.
With the police gone, and Mrs Morrison assured that her guest was not in trouble with the law, Clara asked to use the telephone while the landlady cooked tea for her theatre guests. Clara said she would eat later. She didn’t want to get caught up in the latest chit-chat, nor be interrogated about the death of Sybil Langford – which was now on the front page of the evening newspaper. She was surprised to see her name was mentioned in the article. It appeared as though Mr Iceton had been talking to reporters and a ‘lady detective from Newcastle’ was said to be on the case. To Clara’s amusement they had called her Miss Vain. She asked Mrs Morrison to turn away any reporters who might come knocking – or who might telephone.
For now, she had custody of the blower, closeted away in Mrs Morrison’s small office. She spent some time writing up her notes of the day’s investigation including her conversations at the theatre, the break-in, the fingerprinting, the talk with the taxi driver and finally her interview with Joe the tramp. Now she needed to find out what Vince Vexler had discovered down in London.
Clara put through her call with the operator and was soon connected to a woman claiming to be Vexler’s secretary – poor woman, thought Clara – and after explaining who she was, was asked to wait to see if Mr Vexler was able to speak to her. Clara heard a muffled conversation, concluding with a ‘get me a cuppa, Gladys’ and then Vexler came to the phone. He sounded as bored as he had been patronising earlier that morning. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Vale?’
‘I asked you to call me as soon as you have some information, Mr Vexler.’
‘Yes, you did. And that’s why I haven’t called. There is nothing further to add.’
‘Nothing? Didn’t you speak to your contacts at Scotland Yard?’
‘I did. There’s nothing to add.’
Clara drummed her fingernails on Mrs Morrison’s desk. The man was insufferable! She couldn’t imagine he would have spoken to her Uncle Bob like this. Or if he had, why Bob hadn’t given him the boot – which was exactly what she would do as soon as it was advantageous to do so. But as it was the day before Christmas Eve and she didn’t have time to find and brief another agent, she would have to suffer with him a bit longer. Would every man she had to deal with in her professional life be like this?
‘Well, Mr Vexler, seeing as I’m paying you, and you have agreed to be paid by me, perhaps you can tell me what your contact actually said that led you to believe there is “nothing to add”.’
A deep sigh greeted her, which she imagined was accompanied by an eye-roll. ‘I asked if they had been contacted by York police about Sybil Langford. Turns out they have been. This afternoon. Asking them to check if anyone had collected Sybil’s trunk from her flat or if the flat had been searched.’
Clara sat bolt upright. ‘Well, that’s not nothing!’
‘It is until they have actually been to the flat. They haven’t. I was going to call you when they did.’
Clara could feel herself turning as puce as the sergeant at the theatre. ‘Listen, Mr Vexler, it is quite clear that you do not want to work with me. So I think we should call our very short-lived association to a close.’
‘All right. But you’ll still have to pay me for work done.’
‘Such as it is.’
‘Such as it is. I’ll put an invoice in with Sybil’s post. I’ll get my secretary to send it all off tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? I asked you to do it today!’
‘I didn’t have time to do it today. But if you don’t want me to hand over the post to the Met …’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Well, because it might be evidence in a murder enquiry. And I don’t want to be charged with withholding evidence.’
‘It would not have been withholding evidence if you had sent it off before the Met were involved in the case, as I asked you to do this morning,’ said Clara, spitting nails.
‘You’re right, it wouldn’t have. But now they are. So do you still want me to send it all to you or do you want me to hand it in to Scotland Yard?’
Clara thought about this a moment, considering the legal ramifications. She was confident that up until now she had managed to stay on the right side of the law – just – but this she felt would be crossing the line. Was it a line she wanted – or needed – to cross? She didn’t know if there was anything in the letters that could help her find out what happened to Sybil, but there might be. And she was concerned that if the letters were handed in to Scotland Yard, they might just be put in a drawer somewhere. At least until after Christmas. As far as she could tell, there was still insufficient urgency in the police investigation, with it not, as far as she knew, yet being declared a murder enquiry.
In fact, she didn’t know if it was that herself, but at least she was considering the possibility. Was Inspector Bradshaw considering that possibility? She doubted that he would tell her even if he was. So, wondering for a moment if she would later regret it, she instructed Vexler to forward the letters to her on the last post, which she knew in London could be as late as nine o’clock.
He muttered again about him getting his secretary to do it tomorrow – if she had time – to which Clara replied that if he wanted his bill paid promptly, and not just ‘when she had time’, he would arrange that it be done tonight. That appeared to do the trick. She put down the telephone, hoping that that was the last time she ever had to speak to the vile Vince Vexler, then put her head in her arms on the desk and let out a shuddering sigh.
A few moments later there was a gentle knock and a worried Mrs Morrison stood there with a cup of tea. ‘Are you all right, Miss Vale?’
Clara gathered herself and gave the landlady a shaky smile. ‘Oh, I will be. I’m just a bit frustrated that not everyone seems to be taking Sybil’s death as seriously as they should be.’
‘Aye,’ said Mrs Morrison, putting the cup and saucer down. ‘Just like they didn’t take her that seriously in life.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Clara.
The landlady pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Well, as you know, I thought Miss Langford was a real lady. But not everyone did. They used to laugh at her behind her back. They said she was a bit daffy. A bimbo, like they say in them American pictures. They said she didn’t have a brain in her blonde head. And that wasn’t fair, not one bit. I don’t think Sybil ever went to school, but she taught herself to read and write and she could recite Shakespeare like she was the Bard himself! But some people thought she’d got above her station. That she was really just common as muck. But she wasn’t, Miss Vale. It’s not right that people aren’t allowed to change from where they were born, is it?’
‘No it isn’t, Mrs Morrison. People can better themselves. And it’s good that you, at least, treated her with respect. You mentioned before that Wally Ransom used to speak ill of her. Anyone else?’
‘Oh lots of them, behind her back. But it was only Wally really who would say it to her face. Which reminds me …’ Her eyes lit up. ‘I’ve remembered something. About the last night Sybil was seen at the theatre.’
‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘It’s about Wally. He came home, briefly, after the show. Then he went out again.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About half past ten. He said he needed to get something from his room. Then he was going back to the after-party.’
Clara’s mind raced over the information she had gathered so far and remembered what Mr Iceton had said about Wally arriving late at the after-party. This confirmed it. So he had left the theatre. What had he done and where had he gone apart from getting something from his room?
‘When you say briefly, how briefly?’
‘About ten minutes.’
‘And he spent it in his room?’
Mrs Morrison looked over her shoulder as if there might be someone eavesdropping, then lowered her voice. ‘Part of the time. But you know what, on reflection, I think he might have been in Sybil’s room too.’
Clara’s heart raced. ‘And why do you think that?’
‘Because I heard him walking about. I heard something on Sybil’s end of the landing, which is the opposite to his, and he had no need to go there. And then, when I packed her trunk, I thought her things were a lot messier than usual. Sybil was always tidy. But her things were in disarray – as if …’ she looked over her shoulder again ‘… as if someone had searched them.’