The screams were coming from the projection box. Clara dropped everything apart from the sturdy metal torch – which she kept as a potential weapon – and ran into the foyer and up the stairs. By the time she pushed open the door the screaming had subsided to painful sobs and anxious breathing. Alice turned towards Clara, her face ashen. She pointed a shaking hand at a man’s body hanging from a rope tied to the ceiling light fixture. Clara gasped but willed herself not to overreact.
‘Who is it?’ she asked. ‘Do you know him?’
‘It’s Horace Fender,’ said Alice, her voice barely audible. ‘I – I need some air.’ She pushed past Clara and ran down the stairs, leaving Clara alone with the corpse. Clara, although horrified, was also strangely curious. She had never seen a dead person up close. And certainly not one who appeared only recently deceased. He is dead, isn’t he? she thought, then quickly grabbed a toppled metal trunk to stand on. She thought about trying to cut him down, but she didn’t have a knife. Can I still save him? She felt for a pulse in his neck. She couldn’t feel anything, but she might have just missed it – she’d never felt for a pulse before, only having read about it in novels. So, to make doubly sure she put her ear to the man’s chest to listen for a heartbeat. Silence. No, there would be no saving him. Horace Fender was dead.
He was certainly a gruesome sight. His eyes were bulging and bloodshot. His tongue swollen and lolling. Then there was a smell as his bowels had emptied at death. Post-mortem, or just the terror of dying? she wondered. She’d have to see if Professor Gross had anything to say about that in his handbook. If not, she would find a book on human thanatology – the study of death – at Uncle Bob’s or the nearby university library. There was another smell, too, something sweet and chemical. There was something familiar about it, but Clara couldn’t quite place it.
How recently had he died? It would take a professional to say, but by the warmth in his skin and the unpleasant fact that his trousers were still wet with urine she hazarded a guess that it might have been in the last hour. She remembered something she’d briefly skimmed in Gross’s handbook: preserving the scene of the crime. The police would need to be called, yes, but before they were, she would gather some evidence herself.
She jumped off the trunk and ran back down the stairs. Sitting at the bottom, hunched over with her arms wrapped around her waist, was Alice. Clara stopped for a moment to speak to her. ‘I know it’s a huge shock, Alice, but I’m going to take some photographs and perhaps see if I can gather some other evidence.’
Alice looked up, her face harrowed. ‘Won’t the police do that?’
‘No doubt they will, but then I’ll likely be locked out of the investigation. I think Bob would have got his own evidence first, don’t you?’
Alice nodded. ‘Yes, he probably would.’
‘All right then, I’ll be back in a tick.’ Clara ran back into the main auditorium and gathered her satchel of equipment.
By the time she returned Alice was standing, looking slightly more composed. ‘Can I help?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, but come along anyway, if you’ve the stomach for it.’
Alice nodded. The two women walked back up the stairs. ‘Do you think he killed himself?’ Alice asked.
‘Well, it certainly looks that way. Bit of a coincidence, though, on the day we are looking for him. Do you think he might have heard we were after him?’
‘He might have. But why kill himself? If he didn’t want us to find him he could have just kept out of our way.’
‘Perhaps he couldn’t live with himself any longer. Perhaps this is an admission of guilt,’ said Clara, remembering in detective novels there would often be a suicide note found in the vicinity. ‘Tell you what, Alice, while I’m taking a photograph of him, can you look around to see if there’s a suicide note anywhere? But don’t touch anything or move anything; we need to preserve the scene of the crime in the same way we found it.’
‘All right,’ said Alice and took a deep breath as they entered the room.
As Clara entered she noted the metal trunk and chastised herself for not taking her own advice. She had moved it. She should probably move it back. She put on some gloves from her satchel and repositioned the trunk into the middle of the room. Then she realised that she hadn’t worn gloves when she’d first moved it. Her fingerprints would be on it. Fingerprints … if hers were on it, then she expected Fender’s would be too. It was logical to assume that he had stood on the trunk himself then kicked it out of the way, accounting for it being on its side when she entered the room.
She attached a new flash bulb to the Kodak Brownie and photographed the scene. Then she took out her fingerprint kit and her magnifying glass. On examination she could see there were a number of clear prints, possibly from different people. She remembered what she’d read, about fingerprints lasting for up to a few years on certain surfaces. So, very likely, some of these would be Jimmy Whittaker’s and Will’s. One set would definitely be hers. One of the others would probably be Fender’s. Anyone else? Alfie’s? Alice’s? She’d have to get prints from them both to eliminate them. Jimmy’s might prove more difficult, but perhaps Alice could provide her with something that only he would have touched. She’d ask her later. And get something of Will’s from Alfie.
She dusted the prints and when the flash bulb was cool replaced it and photographed the metal chest. Now she needed to get prints from Fender. This was a more difficult task than she anticipated and she had to ask Alice to help her position his hands to ink them and press them against the waxed paper. It was only when she did so that she realised the ink on his fingers would show she had interfered with the body. And if she were now to try and wash it off, that would be further interference. Oh dear … what am I to do? Well, it was no use crying over spilt milk – or in this case ink – she would just have to tell the police what she had done.
‘Have you found a suicide note?’ asked Clara.
‘No. Nothing. Have you checked his pockets?’
‘I haven’t. Do you think we should?’
‘What would your uncle do?’
Clara wasn’t really sure. Now that she’d got it into her head that the police might accuse her of interfering with the body, she was no longer as certain that Bob would have rushed in gung-ho like this. She felt her confidence begin to ebb.
Alice noted it and said: ‘Perhaps it’s time to call the police.’
Clara nodded her agreement.
‘So, tell me again, Miss Vale, for the record, why you felt the need to fingerprint the corpse.’
Clara and Alice were sitting in an interview room at Whitley Bay police station on the opposite side of a desk to Detective Inspector Davidson. Davidson was a man approaching retirement whose generous girth suggested he enjoyed his roast beef and Yorkshire pudding Sunday dinners a little too much.
‘Because, Inspector Davidson, as I told your sergeant at the scene, I am investigating a case on behalf of my client here: Mrs Whittaker. I have recently taken over Wallace Enquiry Agency in Newcastle, and one of the open cases was to do with the fire at the Carousel Picture House in May – relating to an insurance claim. I was working on that case when I visited Mrs Whittaker on Saturday and was unfortunate enough to be caught up in the tragic events at the Paradise. As this fire seemed so similar to the previous one, it seemed natural that investigating this fire would be an extension of my existing case.’
Davidson gave her an incredulous look – as though he did not believe for a moment that she was a real detective – but then nodded for her to continue. Clara did.
‘Well, today, Mrs Whittaker was showing me around the picture house when – as she has already told you – she came across the body of Mr Fender hanging from the light fitting in the projection box. As Mr Fender was one of the witnesses I had been hoping to speak to in relation to the fire, I thought it prudent to collect his fingerprints before I would no longer have access to them. And as I said to your sergeant, I did not disturb the crime scene in any way, but I do apologise about the ink. However, if the medical examiner knows it was applied post-mortem they can take that into consideration in their findings. On reflection, I should not have done it, but I realised too late. I shouldn’t think, though, it would make much difference to your investigation, but best you know in advance.’
Davidson swallowed a belch, disguising it with a grunt. ‘I think it’s for me to decide whether or not it will make much difference to my investigation, Miss Vale, don’t you?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but leaned forward over the desk and continued. ‘So have you taken fingerprints before in your line of work?’
Clara wondered how to phrase her answer. The honest reply was: yes, she had, she’d taken some yesterday and the day before. But what Davidson was really asking, she felt, was how experienced she was in this detection malarkey. And the honest reply was: not very. But that would not garner much respect from him. So instead she replied: ‘I have indeed taken fingerprints. I am a trained scientist. I hold an MSc from Oxford University. You can check with them to verify my credentials if you like.’ She refrained from mentioning that her studies at the university at no point involved fingerprinting, but that was a detail he could find out for himself if he chose to dig that deep. Clara sincerely doubted he would bother.
Davidson looked summarily unimpressed. ‘So they have lady scientists now, do they?’
Clara gave him a taut smile. ‘They do. And lady private detectives. But I’m sure you knew that already, Inspector.’
Davidson grunted again and turned his attention to Alice. ‘Why did you tell Miss Vale that she should speak to Horace Fender, Mrs Whittaker?’
Alice, Clara noted, looked bone-weary. But she raised her head and answered coldly. ‘You know why. It’s because Fender was the one who pointed the finger at Will. Both me and Miss Vale thought it would be good to speak to him about it.’
Clara dug her fingernails into her palms. She hoped that Alice would remember what they’d agreed to tell the police and what not to tell them. She still wanted a chance to analyse the samples she’d taken from the picture house for kerosene, so she’d asked Alice not to mention that, or what Mr Gill at the ironmonger’s had told them about Fender buying some. In fact, unless they were directly asked, they’d agreed not to mention Mr Gill at all. Or the Salvation Army. They had a head start on locating Fender’s wife and, if possible, Clara would like to speak to her before the police got to her. That of course might not be possible if the police already had her address on file, but then again, they might not.
Clara unclenched her fingers when it became clear Alice was not going to say anything else about Fender. But Davidson wasn’t yet satisfied.
‘So, Mrs Whittaker, you and Miss Vale were hoping to speak to Horace Fender. Had you managed to find him?’
‘Before I found him hanging, you mean?’
‘Aye, before that.’
‘We hadn’t, no. I was just showing Miss Vale around the building and we were going to try to find Fender after that.’
That’s all true. Well done, Alice.
Davidson leaned in again, focusing all his attention on Alice. Clara had the feeling he thought she might be the weak link. ‘Don’t you think it’s a coincidence that Horace Fender hanged himself at the same time you and Miss Vale were looking for him? And, miraculously, in the same building – the same locked building – that the two of you were in? The doctor’s had a quick look and tells me Horace had been dead less than an hour before you found him. Which means, he could have been alive when you and Miss Vale entered the Paradise.’
‘What are you saying, Inspector?’ asked Clara sharply.
Davidson whipped his head towards her like a cobra spotting a mongoose. ‘I’m saying, Miss Vale, that in my line of work, coincidences like this are suspicious. I’m saying that I find it highly improbable that you and Mrs Whittaker did not know Fender was there. I’m saying that perhaps you agreed to meet him there and then he was killed.’
‘Killed?’ asked Clara. ‘You mean killed himself?’
‘We don’t know that yet. The investigation has just begun. I have not yet ruled out that someone else put the noose around his neck and hanged him.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Clara. ‘Are you saying he was murdered?’
Davidson slammed his palm down on the desk. ‘Don’t play coy with me, missy. We found the gun in your satchel.’
Alice flashed a stunned look at Clara. ‘A gun?’
Clara willed herself to stay calm. ‘Yes, I have a gun. It was my uncle’s. I have had a couple of unpleasant incidents since arriving in Newcastle, and I have taken to carrying it with me.’
‘Have you applied for a certificate?’
‘As I have inherited my uncle’s entire estate I would assume the certificate to transfer to me.’
Davidson smirked. ‘Then you would assume incorrectly, Miss Vale. You will need to reapply for a certificate in your own name. So, for all intents and purposes, you are in possession of an illegal weapon.’
‘But that’s ridiculous!’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Davidson.
‘W-what do you think Clara did with the gun?’ asked Alice, her hands visibly shaking.
‘At the moment, I think nothing. I’m just gathering evidence. But it is possible that a third party was involved in Fender’s death. That the third party might have forced Fender to stand on that box – at gunpoint – and hang himself.’
‘Good God! This is ludicrous!’ Clara stood up. ‘Are you arresting me? Do I need to call a lawyer?’
Davidson smirked again, seemingly enjoying having wrong-footed the hoity-toity lady scientist from Oxford. Then his face settled into a more professional demeanour.
‘Sit down, Miss Vale.’
Clara was too agitated to sit. She glared at him.
He softened his tone. ‘Please, Miss Vale, sit.’
Clara looked from him to Alice. Alice looked terrified. She sat.
‘Thank you. Now, let’s get some things straight. I am not accusing you, or anyone, of murder. There is – as yet – no evidence that Horace Fender died at anyone else’s hand than his own. Assuming what you ladies are telling me is the truth—’
‘Of course it’s the truth!’ snapped Clara.
Davidson raised his hand. ‘Please, Miss Vale, let me finish. Assuming you are telling me the truth, neither of you ladies saw anyone else at the Paradise Picture House in the time you were there. Nor did you hear anything. If Fender was forced into killing himself, I expect it wasn’t done quietly. So, for now, the evidence appears to point to him committing suicide. However, we are still left with the glaring coincidence that he did it while the two of you were looking for him.’
‘What if he followed us there?’ asked Alice. ‘What if he wanted to speak to us and followed us inside? But then couldn’t bring himself to face me? What if he killed himself out of guilt for lying about Will?’
Davidson’s face softened as he turned to the grieving woman. ‘That’s certainly possible, Mrs Whittaker. Or perhaps he didn’t lie at all. Perhaps he just felt bad about the consequences of his testimony. We will never know now. So for now, ladies, we are treating this as a suicide. However …’ he flashed a hard stare at Clara ‘… I do not want you interfering any further with my investigation, Miss Vale. This is not a silly ladies’ parlour game. So no more fingerprinting. No more guns in satchels. And I shall keep your weapon until such a time as you apply for a certificate. If you agree to these terms, I shall let you both go without further action. Do you agree?’
Clara’s nails were digging into her palms. ‘All right. I agree to no longer fingerprint corpses. And I agree to apply for a certificate for my gun. Now if that’s all, Inspector Davidson, we would like to leave.’