Back at the hotel, Clara asked the manager if she would be able to go into her old room to check for fingerprints on the window. The manager was surprised at the request, but reluctantly agreed. Perhaps he was embarrassed that the hotel’s security had been brought into question, thought Clara. And that would make it difficult to deny any attempt to track down the intruder. Whatever the reason, he personally accompanied Clara to the room and brooded darkly in a corner as she got to work.
‘I was not aware that you were a detective, Miss Vale,’ he observed as she used her magnifying glass to hunt for prints on the outside of the window.
‘No, I didn’t mention it when I booked in,’ she commented vaguely, not wanting to get into the nitty-gritty of her personal affairs. However, she was also trying to give off an air of professionalism, as if she searched for fingerprints on hotel windows on a regular basis.
‘Aha!’ she said, as she found three clear prints which, from their orientation and condition, appeared to be from the same hand. Although inside the window there were a number of prints – and she would then have to request to take prints from staff members to eliminate them – there was only one set on the outside. Clara, to the worried accompaniment of ‘Please do be careful, Miss Vale,’ climbed out of the window and onto the fire escape to better access the prints. She set to work, trying to pretend that she was not in the least bit shaken by the height of the wrought-iron platform above the streets of Newcastle below. Ten minutes later she had dusted and photographed the prints and stepped back into the hotel room, to the clear relief of the manager. ‘Will you be liaising with the police about this, Miss Vale?’
‘I shall if I discover there is anything worthy of liaison,’ she said cryptically, rather proud of her Hercule Poirot-style retort. Then she flashed a smile at the manager. ‘Thank you, Mr Jameson, for your assistance. I shall certainly let it be known among my acquaintances that the management of the Royal Central Station Hotel is most concerned about security.’
This seemed to appease the manager, who nodded his agreement. ‘We certainly are that, Miss Vale!’
Clara and the manager left the room with a far more companionable air than when they first entered. ‘Well, thank you again, Mr Jameson. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to dress for dinner. And I look forward to seeing what’s on your fine restaurant’s menu this evening.’
Diplomacy, thought Clara. Just what Jonny Levine suggested. As she headed off to her room, she was approached by the lift bell boy. ‘Oh, Miss Vale! There you are! There’s a gentleman downstairs who would like to see you.’
‘Oh? Did he give his name?’ asked Clara with some trepidation, not wanting to have to deal with Jack Danskin for yet another evening.
‘Here’s his card, miss.’
The lad handed Clara a card and she was surprised – but not displeased – to read ‘Mr Andrew Ridpath, esq., Accountant.’
‘Please, ask Mr Ridpath to wait for me in the cocktail lounge. I shall be down as soon as I’m dressed.’
Clara hurried to her room, hid her borrowed satchel at the back of a wardrobe and covered it with a spare blanket. Then she took her Charles Worth gown off the hanger and did her best in the shortest time possible to make herself presentable.
Andrew Ridpath was lounging in a red velvet chair, his long legs casually crossed, nibbling on what looked like the cherry from a Manhattan. He had changed from his day suit into a tuxedo. The moment he spotted Clara, he plopped the cherry back into his cocktail and jumped to his feet. ‘Miss Vale! Clara! How – well, how breathtaking you look.’ Then he flushed and added, ‘Forgive my presumption for saying so. And forgive me presuming upon your time yet again!’
Clara smiled at him. For some reason a compliment from Andrew Ridpath didn’t have the same innuendo as a compliment from Jack Danskin. ‘Not at all, Mr Ridpath. Thank you. Is there something you would like to speak to me about? Has Antony been in touch?’
Andrew looked nervous. ‘No, no. I’m sorry, there have been no further developments on that front. I, well, the honest truth is I just wanted to see you again. Without the children. I should have waited until tomorrow, I know, but, well … Will you have a drink with me? I’m having a Manhattan.’
Clara was amused at how nervous he appeared. Amused, but pleased. ‘I should love a Manhattan, thank you.’
‘Well, that’s jolly good.’ He grinned as he pulled out a chair, then summoned the waiter to bring a second Manhattan.
When the drinks arrived, he cleared his throat and said, ‘After we’ve had a drink I was wondering if you would like to accompany me to the pictures?’
Clara’s eyes opened in surprise.
He slapped his forehead. ‘Oh Lord, I’m sorry, I didn’t think this through, did I? Now it just seems like awful timing …’ His voice trailed off.
It was awful timing, but Clara did not want their time together to come to an end just yet. ‘Not at all. What did you want to see?’
‘Well, there’s a Hitchcock on at the Majestic here in Newcastle. It’s his first talkie, and I’ve been dying to see it. And I was hoping you would come with me. But of course, I now realise that going to the pictures would probably be the last thing you would want to do. And on top of that, you’re about to have dinner …’
Clara’s ears pricked up at the mention of the Majestic. ‘There’s a Majestic here in Newcastle? Is it owned by the same company as the one in Whitley Bay?’
‘It is,’ replied Andrew, ‘there are a chain of them – all called Majestic. And yes, owned by the same company.’
She looked at her watch. It was after eight. ‘What time does it start?’
‘Nine o’clock. It’s the late show.’
Clara had been hoping to finish her dinner then go back to her uncle’s house to develop the photographs of the fingerprints she’d just taken. However, she could shuffle things around.
She recalibrated her timetable and said: ‘I would very much like to go to the pictures, Andrew. And don’t worry, I have recovered from the ordeal yesterday. I am hungry though, so I could ask the chef to make us a sandwich to tide us over. Then we could go to the pictures and afterwards – it shouldn’t be much after eleven by then, should it? – we can catch a late supper and then pop into my uncle’s laboratory. I have something I need to do there. You could come with me, if you like …’ Her voice tapered off as an endearing smile lit up Andrew’s face.
‘Oh, I would like that very much.’
She smiled in return and raised her glass. ‘Drink up then. Chin-chin!’
‘You do look beautiful tonight,’ whispered Andrew as he helped her out of his car, offered her his arm and escorted her across the road to the spanking new art deco cinema. Clara was delighted by the compliment – and the company – but was a little concerned about how to handle the evening going forward. On the short drive over, Andrew told her that the owner of the Majestic was one of his brother’s clients and he was sometimes given free tickets to the newest shows. Clara was peturbed to hear this and wondered how open she could now be about her suspicions relating to Balshard if Andrew’s brother worked with him. Balshard, it seemed, had his fingers in many pies. She recalled that he was also a client of her uncle’s solicitor, Barnaby Jennings. However, she decided to put it out of her mind for now, and just enjoy the evening.
‘Blackmail was first made as a silent film, you know,’ explained Andrew, as they approached the imposing art deco façade of the Majestic. ‘Hitchcock was asked to convert it to a talkie. He had to reshoot some of the scenes, and apparently …’ he chuckled ‘… Anny Ondra – the foreign actress in the lead role – couldn’t muster a decent London accent, so they got someone else in to voice her lines. They actually shot it with the two women on set, with the voiceover off camera, while Ondra pretended to speak. I’m very interested to see how they manage it,’ said Andrew.
‘So am I,’ said Clara, having already read mixed reviews about the picture.
As they reached the front of the queue a footman in top hat and tails ushered them in, took their coats and escorted them to their seats in the vast, luxurious auditorium. It was a far cry from the Paradise Picture House and the small, drab facilities the Whittakers had attempted to spruce up with paintings of palm trees. The Majestic had real palm trees in giant terracotta pots, and there was not a jam jar in sight. Nor, she hoped, would there be any flames. Clara tensed at the thought and closed her eyes, trying to keep the memories of the terrifying fire at bay.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Andrew, his voice fraught with concern.
Clara opened her eyes and gave him a reassuring smile. ‘I am, don’t worry. Shall we go in?’
She took Andrew’s arm and he led her past row after row of plush velvet seats, filled with the tip-top of Newcastle society casting covetous glances at one another’s jewels. There were no wooden benches. There were no children. And instead of an out-of-tune honky-tonk piano, an accomplished pianist entertained the guests with a sparkling repertoire of classical pieces on an enormous grand piano as they waited for the show to start.
Eventually it did, and after a newsreel focusing on the Great North Coast Exhibition, then a gushing speech by the Chancellor of the Exchequer telling Britons to expect unparalleled economic growth in the decade ahead, the main feature got underway. Clara and Andrew spent the next hour and twenty minutes enjoying a riveting – if clumsily voiced – flick. Clara was delighted to see that the British Museum, just around the corner from her Bloomsbury flat, was the setting for the final chase scene where the baddy was to fall to his death, and happily joined in the wholehearted applause as the final credits rolled.
‘So, what did you think?’ asked Andrew as he escorted her into the foyer.
‘I enjoyed it very much. Quite a dilemma that policeman faced about whether to turn in his fiancée. But I would have liked to have seen a little bit more detection. How did that blackmailer find the glove in the artist’s studio? What was he blackmailing the artist about? A lot was unanswered.’
‘True.’ Andrew nodded. ‘Not one of Hitchcock’s best from a plotting point of view, but very atmospheric. And a technological marvel! Who would have thought only a few years ago that we would hear actors speaking words on-screen?’ He looked like a little boy on his first visit to a circus.
Clara smiled at him and listened as he waxed lyrical about the wonders of audio cinema over a light supper in the on-site restaurant – something else with which the Paradise could never have competed. But again, she put thoughts of Thursday’s tragedy out of her mind as she enjoyed the food and Andrew’s company. She was very tempted to say ‘yes’ to a sticky toffee pudding and custard after her meal, but looked at her watch and decided that they should get to Uncle Bob’s laboratory while there was still something left of the night.