There was a queue of people outside the Salvation Army shelter waiting for their dinner. These folk, in their threadbare coats and raggedy shawls, mustn’t have got the message that Clara heard last night on the newsreel: that Britons had never had it so good. Alice and Clara caught the attention of a uniformed officer – a woman who introduced herself as Major Lovelace – and asked if they could have a few minutes of her time. The major made sure the volunteers were ready for their guests and took the two ladies into a small office off the kitchen. There were only two chairs for the three of them and Clara opted to stand.
Major Lovelace recognised Alice – or at least her name – and offered her condolences about the fire and the loss of Will Spencer, and Mr Whittaker’s tragic demise not long before. The formalities over, Clara took charge. ‘We’ve been informed, Major, that a man called Horace Fender has been staying in your night shelter. Might we be able to speak with him?’
The major shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, ladies, but Horace Fender is no longer here.’
‘Might you be able to tell us where he is? We have a few questions for him.’
The major linked her fingers, rested them across her belly and sat back in her chair. Clara did not need Professor Gross’s chapter on the ‘body language of interviewees’ to tell her that this was a defensive gesture. The major either had something to hide or was reluctant to give out information. As the woman was a Christian do-gooder, Clara suspected the latter.
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. Mr Fender did not give us a forwarding address.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked Clara.
‘Just over a week ago. He told me he had found alternative accommodation and that we could give his bed to someone else.’
‘Is there alternative charitable accommodation in Whitley Bay?’ asked Clara.
‘There are no other charities providing accommodation, no, but that doesn’t stop individuals from being charitable.’
‘So he’s living with someone?’
‘I couldn’t say, Miss Vale.’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, woman!’ Alice suddenly burst out. ‘Can you just answer the question? Me husband is dead. Me children have lost their father. I’ve lost me business and now a young lad has just been killed. We’re trying to find out why that happened. It’s doubtful the insurance company is going to pay out, and it might just be a matter of time until me and me family end up joining that queue of people out yonder. You of all people should understand that. So, can you help us?’
Both the major and Clara were taken aback by Alice’s outburst. But Clara was pleased. All of this pussyfooting around didn’t sit well with her nature, and now Alice had cut to the chase.
‘Well, Major?’ said Clara pointedly. ‘If you know where Horace Fender is, please tell us. It’s the least you can do since it was your defence of him that caused the police to believe his version of events at the Paradise.’
The major unlaced her fingers and leaned forward across the small desk. ‘And I stand by what I said. I told the police that he had been sober for weeks. And he had been. I told them that he’d been trying to get his life back on track, and he had been. He’d been in touch with his wife, who said she would take him back if he got a steady job. He was trying to do that. Listen, Miss Vale, not everyone has the benefit of inheriting money and not having to work for a living. Horace was doing his best. And that’s what I told the police.’ The Salvationist fixed Clara with a steely gaze, then she turned her eyes towards Alice and softened.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Whittaker, for your loss. I cannot imagine the pain you are going through. But to be honest, I have absolutely no idea if young Will Spencer is guilty of what he has been accused. All I told the police was that Horace had been sober in the weeks before the fire, so suggestions that he might have been drunk and hence his testimony unreliable were unfounded.’
‘Do you believe his testimony?’ asked Alice.
‘I have no reason not to.’
‘Well, I have every reason not to.’ Alice leaned forward, and Clara noticed a vein in her neck pulsing. ‘Will would not have locked that door. I know him. He absolutely would not have done so. And if he had, why on God’s good earth would he try to get out that way with the children if he knew it was locked? So someone’s lying, and I can assure you that if Will Spencer was alive now and standing here with us, it would not be him.’
Alice’s words hung in the air between them, sanctified by grief.
Eventually Clara interjected: ‘Do you accept, Major, the possibility that Horace Fender was lying? You told the police that he was sober so it’s not likely he had been mistaken in what he saw, but he simply, and soberly, might just not have told the truth. Would you agree?’
The major looked from woman to woman; the grief-filled stare of Alice, to the interrogative gaze of Clara. Then she let out a long sigh. ‘Yes, it’s possible he simply lied. But that’s not what the police asked. They asked me if I thought he might have been impaired on the day of the fire. I told them that to the best of my knowledge, no, as he had been sober every night for the previous three weeks. I’m sorry, Mrs Whittaker, I did not intend to be vexatious.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Alice, her body still taut with offence. ‘So, you can tell us where to find him then.’
‘I honestly can’t.’ The major held up her hands as Alice bristled. ‘I really can’t. Because I don’t know where he is. And that’s the truth. But I can tell you that Horace said he was getting a job and had received an advance payment that he was using to put down as a deposit on a place. And that he was hoping his wife would come back to him.’
‘Did he say where the job was? Maybe we can visit him at work,’ said Clara.
The major shook her head. ‘He didn’t. But … maybe … all right. I’ll help you. I really shouldn’t be doing this. We’re supposed to keep these things confidential. But I do have Horace’s wife’s new address. She wrote to me, after she’d left him. She gave me a few shillings for the charity. She’d had enough of living with him, but she said she still loved him.’
‘Thank you, that would be helpful,’ said Clara, flashing a look at Alice who had not softened her demeanour. They waited for the Major to leaf through a file and find the address she was looking for. She wrote it down: Ellie Fender, 37 Roker Street, Lemington.
‘Do you know where that is?’ Clara asked Alice.
‘I do. It’s the west end of Newcastle. I can take you there tomorrow.’
Clara and Alice walked from the Salvation Army to the site of the burned-out Paradise Picture House.
‘Did you hear what she said about Horace getting a down payment from a job?’ asked Alice.
‘I did,’ said Clara, ‘but no indication of what that job might be. And Alfie’s uncle said that for once Horace had some money when he went into the shop a few days before the fire. And what did he buy? Kerosene.’ Clara went on to tell Alice what she had found in her uncle’s laboratory and that in his notes Bob had been querying why the fire inspection report had not mentioned kerosene at the Carousel fire in Tynemouth, when he had found evidence of kerosene at the scene. ‘Bob clearly thought this was a clue that needed following up. I do too. I would really like to speak to the fire inspector who wrote that report. And to see the report on this latest fire. I’m curious to see if kerosene will be noted – or omitted – in that too. I wonder how I could get in to see him. Any idea?’
‘Not really,’ said Alice, ‘but at least we’ve got the address of Horace Fender’s wife. She might be able to tell us where he is. And if we can get him to tell the truth about what he really saw on Saturday, perhaps we can take it to the police.’
‘Do you have the name of the policeman in charge of the case?’
‘Aye, I do. It’s Detective Inspector Davidson.’
Then Alice brought them to a stop. In front of them was the blackened façade of the Paradise Picture House. Apart from the smoke residue – the stench of which still hung in the air – the front of the building appeared to have very little damage, and the hand-painted sign, with a drooping palm tree shading the cinema’s name, was still intact – a sad memory of shattered dreams. Alice’s chin sunk to her chest, her shoulders quivering. Clara stood quietly beside her, waiting for the emotion to pass. After a few moments, Alice raised her head and in a quiet voice said: ‘Let’s go in. They gave me a key.’
Alice unlocked the padlock on the heavy chain barring the front door across which was painted: Danger! No entry.
‘Are we allowed in?’ asked Clara.
Alice shrugged. ‘The bank will soon start repossessing it when I can’t keep up payments. But they haven’t started the legal process yet. So as far as I’m concerned, it’s still mine. I have every right to go in.’
As they entered the surprisingly undamaged foyer, the carpet still sodden underfoot, Clara closed her eyes to steady herself. The memory of the screams, the flames, the horror, threatened to overwhelm her, but she brought herself under control. She cast a glance at Alice, who was frozen to the spot, caught up with her own memories – not just of one fire, but two, and the tragic death of her husband in between. Clara gave her some time then said: ‘Are you all right to continue?’
Alice nodded. Clara had rarely seen such bravery.
First, Alice showed her the small office where she had counted the money and stored the jam jars before the show. There was still a crate of them stacked forlornly in the corner. She then showed her the keyboard where the key to the back door was hung when it wasn’t in use. Thereafter, she pointed to the stairs up to the projection room. ‘I’ll take you there on the way out. There are too many memories of Will – and Jimmy – there. I’ll need to work me way up to it.’
Clara nodded in understanding and followed Alice as she pointed out the fire buckets – now lying on the floor – and towards the doors to the main auditorium. ‘This is the way you an’ Alfie led ’em out. I haven’t had a chance to thank you, Clara, for what you did that day. But you went above and beyond. Thank you.’
Clara nodded in acknowledgement. Then she pushed open the door, the wood blackened by fire and warped by water damage, and into the hall that had once been the seating area. The back of the auditorium was still relatively intact, with personal items, such as shoes and coats, strewn between broken and toppled chairs. But the front section was all but gutted, with the benches the children had crammed onto unrecognisable in the debris.
Clara reached into her satchel and took out Uncle Bob’s Kodak Brownie camera. She attached a flash bulb and took a shot of the proscenium arch. She had spare bulbs in her bag, so she’d be able to take shots behind the screen area too where the fire supposedly started, and also of the back door where Will died.
An area behind where the screen would have been had clearly been the hottest part of the fire. ‘Is that the storage area behind the screen where the fire started?’
‘It is.’
Clara, followed by Alice, picked her way through the debris. There was very little left, but she could just about make out the remains of what might have been paint tins. ‘Do you know where the lamp was and where it is now?’
‘It was over there,’ said Alice, pointing to the far left-hand corner. ‘Plugged into the wall. But the fire inspector took it away with him. He said he’d found the remains of it lying on its side.’
‘Was it still plugged into the wall?’
‘There was nothing left of the cable and wiring. Just some of the metal frame that held the bulb. But you can see there where the plug socket was.’ She pointed to a charred area, which Clara could not make head or tail of. If there had been a plug socket there, Clara couldn’t tell. She would just have to trust Alice that it was. She then took some photographs to add to the ones Bob already had on file from the Tynemouth fire.
‘I’ll also need to take samples of the curtains and the screen. Or what’s left of them,’ said Clara, putting down the camera while the flash bulb cooled. She then reached into her satchel and took out gloves, tweezers and a pair of scissors.
Alice pointed to some charred shreds of fabric, which still had some gold fringe attached, and then up to the top of the proscenium arch where there were some scraps of screen left. ‘I’ll get you a ladder,’ she said, and headed back to the foyer, returning soon after.
With Alice holding the ladder below, Clara climbed up with her tweezers and scissors and snipped some samples then climbed down, moved the ladder along, and repeated the process until she had a selection of samples from different parts of the curtain and screen. She had not thought to bring sample jars from the laboratory last night, but she had bought some paper bags from a fruit and vegetable stand near the train station this morning. With the samples from above bagged and labelled, she then got down on her knees to search for any remnants nearer to the floor. She surmised that if kerosene had been splashed on the screen or curtains, it was more likely to be nearer the floor than the ceiling, but there was more damage at floor level. Eventually, with Alice’s help, and the use of a torch, she found some scraps among the charred remains and bagged those too.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘I’ll examine these when I get back to the laboratory. My uncle extracted kerosene from what looked like the seat of a stool at the Carousel. I can compare this to that. Now,’ she said, ‘let’s have a look at the back door. I’m assuming it’s down there.’ She pointed to a narrow hallway to the right of the screen with a blackened door at the end.
‘Aye, that’s it,’ said Alice quietly. ‘That’s the door they couldn’t get out of. If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here. I can’t go down there. When you’re finished, let me know and I’ll show you the rest of the place. Here, you might need this.’ Clara took the torch she offered her and headed into the darkened hall.
Clara had been mulling a theory ever since she heard that Horace Fender had bought kerosene at Gill’s Ironmongers in the days before the fire. What if Fender had come in through this unlocked door, splashed kerosene on the curtains and screen, then whipped behind the screen, switched on the lamp, and placed some fabric over the hot bulb? Or laid the lamp on its side on the floor with the hot bulb on top of the hessian splash sheets? That would account for the position in which the fire inspector had found the lamp. Or it could have fallen over in the inferno. Either way, it would have taken a while for the splash sheets to catch alight. How long? Ten minutes? Twenty? She’d need to do an experiment to determine the time frame. But however long it took, the flames would then have spread to the curtains and the screen.
The key though, if a slow-burn electric bulb had been used rather than a naked flame, was to ascertain whether there would have been time during the newsreel, and before the main feature started rolling, to set the fire trap. She’d need to check with Alice on the timings, but what she knew of newsreels is that they were around fifteen minutes. If the lamp had been laid on its side with a sheet over it, that would also account for why the light was not seen through the screen. Yes, thought Clara, her heart beating faster as the hypothesis began to form, this is a perfectly plausible explanation of the ‘how’. So, Fender, or whoever it was if it wasn’t him, could have slipped in, then slipped out, during the newsreel. Then he could have taken the key that was left in the lock – Alice had admitted that Will sometimes left it in there – and locked the door behind him.
Yes! thought Clara, that makes sense.
From what Alfie had already told her, a curtain covered the entrance to the hallway, blocking out the light if the door opened. And there was access from behind the curtain to the area behind the proscenium arch. So, Fender needn’t have come into the main auditorium at all, but could have slipped through the door, down the hall and into the behind-the-screen area without anyone seeing him. Clara examined the layout with this theory in mind and, although there was little left of the screen and curtain, she could still see where the bounds of each would have been. She took out her notebook and drew a map, making measurements with a tape measure and noting them down.
Would it have been possible for Fender to splash kerosene on the screen and curtain from the rear? If he couldn’t, her theory would be implausible. Because how could he splash the kerosene in full view of the audience? She would need Alice to confirm that her drawing of the pre-fire layout was correct.
She checked to see where Alice was, but she was nowhere in sight. Clara shrugged and then headed down the short hallway to the door. There was very little left of the original door and the entrance had now been boarded up from the outside. However, Clara could still see what she assumed were hack marks from the firemen’s axes on the door frame, as they desperately tried to open the door from the outside. Clara closed her eyes, imagining the horrifying last moments as Will tried, in vain, to open the door, with the two youngsters clinging to him.
She shuddered. Then she reiterated the question Alice had raised at the Salvation Army: if Will had deliberately locked the door, and knew it was locked, why on earth had he attempted to escape this way? Unless he had tried to unlock the door with a key that was in his pocket. But why then had the key not been found on his body? The whereabouts of the key, it seemed, was the real key to this case. But without that, she was left with shards of wood and strips of fabric. For now, that’s what she would work with.
She took a final photograph of the hallway with the door at the end. And as the bulb flashed, she heard an unearthly scream.