Thursday 22nd August 1929
The next morning, after a largely sleepless night, Clara met with a police constable – the same one who had attended the office break-in. She was in the company of the hotel manager and together they went over the events of the previous evening. But once again, as nothing had been taken and no one had been injured, the policeman was reluctant to take further action.
‘Isn’t it enough that he could have attacked me? Yes, I got off lightly this time, but it might happen again. Isn’t it worth investigating further?!’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Vale, but he had every opportunity to attack you when you entered the room alone last night. But he didn’t. It looks like you walked in on an attempted burglary.’
‘Yes! The second one in twelve hours! Why aren’t you taking this more seriously?’
The constable bristled. ‘We are taking it seriously, Miss Vale, as seriously as the incident merits. There is as yet no indication that the two events are linked. Granted, I can see why you think they are – and between you and I, I think they might be – but until there is more evidence, we can’t put any more men on this. The manager here said he will up security and call us if any further incidents occur. The locks have been changed at your uncle’s office. I’m not sure what more you would like us to do, Miss Vale.’
‘I would like you to investigate! I would like you to find out who is targeting me like this.’
‘You would like us to do detective work.’
‘Yes, I would!’
The constable nodded, sympathetically. ‘I’m afraid, Miss Vale, that unless these incidents escalate to a more serious crime, our detection branch will not get involved.’
‘You mean until I’m actually hurt!’
‘I didn’t say that, miss.’
‘But that’s what you meant.’
Despite her frustration that the police would not take action without further evidence, Clara had decided not to mention the Whittaker file or Danskin. Her suspicion of Danskin was simply that – a suspicion. It was not evidence. And she did not want to give over the only potential evidence she had – the file – to a police force that seemed less than enthusiastic to investigate.
So the conversation went round in circles for another ten minutes before the constable finally withdrew.
Now, with the Whittaker file wrapped in newspaper and in a shopping bag – so it did not appear to be anything important – Clara sat on the train on the way to Whitley Bay. To while away the time, she read a copy of the Fenwick News she’d picked up at the tea room yesterday. An editorial by the editor, Arthur Fenwick, entitled ‘Let us have more talkies!’ caught her eye:
I do not know why we waste time discussing whether the talkies have come to stay. Going back to the ordinary routine of silent pictures would be like taking a step back into pre-war days, they would seem so slow. Even if silent films were being made now, they would have to be high above the old standard to lure us into the cinemas. We could trust Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton to rise to that level – but whom beside?
I like the talkies mainly because they are exactly the kind of recreation the average business person wants at the end of a stuffy day. They are, in fact, exactly the opposite of the fare the B.B.C. think we ought to want.
The talkies I like best have the most wildly impossible stories and situations. They are filled with America’s most valuable export – the spirit of youthfulness. There is a happy holiday air right through the show. The newer talkies, too, are depending more on the stars – they will appeal on personality, as the old silent pictures did, with excellent results …
Like the old silent pictures did … Here was Arthur Fenwick speaking as though silent films were past history. And yet that’s what Alice Whittaker was still showing at her picture house. How long until the public would not tolerate the ‘old silent pictures’ anymore? No wonder Alice and Jimmy felt they must make the transition to talkies – with the attraction of the big new all-talkie cinema, the Majestic, a small business like theirs would not survive without it.
Clara considered the Majestic for a moment and its owner – Humphrey Balshard. Was it just a coincidence that his insurance company turned down a claim that would keep his cinema’s smaller rival afloat long enough for them to convert to talkies? And give them a fighting chance to stay in business? Surely there were grounds there for an appeal. But to whom could Alice appeal? Clara had no idea how the insurance business worked or how appeals could be made if a decision went against you. But she did have an idea about science. And if she could help Alice – using science – then she would.
She laid the magazine aside and took out the Whittaker file. She could find no reference that Bob had forensically examined the window that had been left open, other than to photograph it. Yes, any signs of jimmying would have been obscured by charring, but not necessarily obliterated. She would ask Alice to take her to the Tynemouth picture house so she could examine the window more closely – and perhaps, if she were able, take it back to Uncle Bob’s laboratory for further examination. And then of course there was the reference to kerosene. If Bob had found traces of that, could that prove arson? Kerosene could be used for heating or lighting, so there could be a perfectly ordinary explanation for why it was there. But if not … well … she would need to check with Alice.
Clara made some notes about these lines of enquiry and then gathered her things as the train pulled into Whitley Bay Station in a puff of smoke.
Consulting a map she had been given by the hotel concierge, and accompanied by the squall of seagulls, she walked down South Parade, a sloping street lined with bed and breakfast hotels, until she reached the seafront. There were ‘no vacancy’ signs in most of the windows as it was the height of the summer holidays. The cheek-by-jowl boarding houses of South Parade morphed into genteel Victorian residences and new art deco-inspired hotels, separated from the beach by a road and then a wide expanse of pavement promenade scattered with benches. Locals and visitors sat eating ice cream cones or parcels of fish ’n’ chips wrapped in newspaper, while hungry dogs impatiently waited for treats, and seagulls circled, squabbling over any scraps the dogs missed.
Beyond black wrought-iron railings were cliffs overlooking an expansive beach, with St Mary’s Lighthouse in the distance. Clara recognised the scene from the poster on the train. There were the red-and-white-striped beach tents, the children building sandcastles and waiting eagerly in line for donkey rides, while young men showed off their physiques as they ran into the sea. Clara looked longingly at the water. She would have loved to have had a swim wearing her new bathing suit, but she didn’t feel she could mix business with pleasure and that it would not be polite to expect the grieving widow to sit around waiting while she had a quick dip.
Clara joined the pedestrian flow and walked towards a sprawling white building that looked like something out of the Arabian Nights. The white pleasure palace with its giant dome and twin turrets, topped by bronze statues of young women dancing to the clash of cymbals and tambourine, would be seen from miles out to sea. That must be the Spanish City, thought Clara, considering that behind its white walls would be the famed pleasure gardens, funfair and the big new Majestic Cinema.
Clara stood for a moment and considered going into the Majestic and asking to speak to the mysterious Humphrey Balshard – if he was there – but then decided against it. First things first, she needed to speak to Alice at the Paradise Picture House and tell her that she had decided to do her best to investigate her case. She checked the map again, then turned up Marine Avenue.
About halfway up the hill she came to the modest, newly decorated front of the Paradise with palm trees and grapevines painted on the pillars, and posters of Charlie Chaplin in The Circus pasted on the walls. A queue of people, mainly excited children carrying jam jars, waited in line to pay for their tickets at a little booth. Alice had told her that matinees were mainly filled with children who were allowed to pay for their tickets with jam jars as they came from families too poor to afford a normal ticket. ‘We cash in the jars once a week with a man who sells them on to the jam and pickle factory.’ She had smiled, sadly, then added: ‘Jimmy always insisted we keep ticket prices as low as we could for the children. He never forgot where he came from, did our Jimmy. Unlike Balshard – he won’t let any bairns in with jam jars. We don’t earn much for that show, but we make up for it the rest of the week.’
Clara joined the queue of children and the smattering of adults and was soon at the front. She smiled at Alice whose face lit up as she recognised her. ‘Oh, Miss Vale, you came!’
‘I said I would. And I’ve got some ideas on how to proceed with Uncle Bob’s investigation. Will you be able to take me to Tynemouth afterwards?’
Alice nodded. ‘Of course. I’ll meet you in the foyer. Enjoy the show!’ She passed Clara a ticket.
‘How much do I owe you?’
Alice looked shocked. ‘Absolutely nothing! I’ll see you afterwards.’
Clara, aware of the queue growing behind her, thanked Alice and went through the front doors between the two garishly painted pillars. She entered a small foyer. To the left was a flight of steps upward – she presumed to the projection room – and to her right, a small office and outside it a refreshment stall under a green-and-white-striped awning. On the walls she noticed fire buckets filled with sand and a fire axe. Good, she thought, complying with fire regulations.
Clara could hear the honky-tonk of an out-of-tune piano and she followed the other audience members through the double doors into the main auditorium. Alice had told her she and Jimmy had been slowly investing in new equipment. The projectors were still on their way, but the new sound system was already in place, and the audience would be able to hear the accompanying sound reel to The Circus with Chaplin singing songs even though there was no dialogue in the film. Their regular pianist was not happy with the new invention as it meant she only played while the audience were getting settled – and got half the pay for it! But for the children who could only pay with jam jars it would still be a magical experience. Clara could hear their giggles and shrieks as the usher attempted to get them all seated. He bellowed at them all to pipe down or the show wouldn’t start. This was met with boos and hisses by some of the older children.
The lights were dimmed and there was a distinct smell of fresh paint mingling with the smoke of nicotine addicts. The back half of the cinema was filled with stiff wooden chairs with attached cushions; the front half was lined with wooden benches. These were filled with the chattering children, their bare knees touching side by side. The long-suffering usher took her ticket and showed her to one of the cushioned seats. They were a far cry from the plush chairs she had sat in only last week at Covent Garden when she saw The Canary Murder Case. But she settled down anyway, listening to the jolly piano above the hubbub of children, and waited for the show to start.
Clara watched the opening scenes of the Chaplin film with almost as much excitement as the children on the benches in front of her. She had seen the film before but it still tickled her pink. She laughed along with the children as the little tramp was mistaken for a pickpocket and chased into the big top of a circus where he unwittingly became the star performer, getting caught up in a magic act, and then later walking on a tightrope – with monkeys clinging to his head! – to escape the police. Clara wondered to herself what might be lost if this were a talkie. Chaplin’s particular gift was communicating with his body and his face. Could the little tramp survive the transition to sound? Chaplin of course had a beautiful singing voice, and Clara and the audience were swooned by his sad, haunting rendition of ‘Swing High Little Girl’, as the hapless tramp laid eyes on the woman of his dreams. But this was a voiceover, disembodied from the actor, and better for it, in Clara’s mind. But then, suddenly, the fantasy was shattered: flames started licking the circus ring floor – real flames, in full colour.
Someone shouted, ‘Fire! Fire!’ and then all hell broke loose. Clara, doing her best to stay calm, didn’t rush straight to the door but held back to make sure the children were shepherded safely towards the exit. One little boy fell to the ground and was in danger of being trampled. Clara scooped him up and carried him out, then she returned along with the usher to help direct the rest of the evacuation. Another young man ran past them both carrying a fire bucket.
‘Mrs Whittaker’s calling the brigade! Get this lot out!’
‘You be careful, Will!’ shouted the usher as he picked up another child and passed it to one of the adult men.
‘Don’t worry, Alfie, I’ll see if I can do owt, otherwise I’ll see you outside,’ said the young man. Then he ran towards the now-raging fire, hurdling overturned benches, and threw his bucket of sand onto the blaze. Clara could see that his efforts would make very little difference. She could feel the heat from the blaze searing her cheeks. And the smoke! She slapped a handkerchief over her nose and mouth and squeezed her eyes shut to ease the sting. She would not be able to stay there much longer. But she fought her fear long enough to help the terrified children to safety.
The usher – Alfie – looked at Clara over the heads of the last of them and said: ‘Thanks for your help, miss, but it’s time to get out.’ He guided her out as over his shoulder he called to his colleague, ‘Get out, Will! Leave it to the brigade!’
As she and the usher herded the last of the children out onto the street, Clara was relieved to hear the clanging of the fire brigade bell as a cheer went up from the huddled crowd. Then she saw Alice run down a side alley and decided to follow her.
Clara hurried to catch up with Alice as the woman ran towards the back of the burning building. Clara assumed they were heading towards the back door which was used as a fire escape. Alice had told her this was always left unlocked during shows, in case of emergencies like this, and if the fire had been in the projection room and spreading down the stairs into the foyer, the patrons would have been led out that way. However, as the fire was behind the screen, the safest exit was out the front door. Clara caught up with Alice as the cinema owner reached for the metal doorknob, with smoke seeping under the door.
‘Don’t touch it!’ screamed Clara. But it was too late. Alice yelled as the heat from the metal seared into her flesh. But she held on, twisting the knob left and right.
‘It’s locked!’ she shouted, desperately looking over her shoulder towards Clara. ‘It’s never locked! Could it be melted shut?’
Before Clara could answer, someone pushed past her. A fireman gripped Alice’s shoulder and pulled her back. Then a second fireman steadied himself and swung an axe at the door again and again. The fireman was joined by another and another as the two women were pushed further back down the alley with shouted instructions of ‘leave this to us, missus’. With the efforts of three firemen, the door finally splintered and gave in. And although their view was partially blocked, Clara and Alice were able to see the hunched body of a young man clutching two small children in his arms.
‘Are they all right?’ shouted Alice.
A fireman emerged from the scrum around the emergency exit. ‘The bairns are all right – that brave fella saved ’em – but I’m afraid it’s too late for him.’
‘He’s dead?’ asked Alice, her voice barely above a whisper.
‘Aye, missus, I’m sorry, but he is.’