The Midnight Hour, page 8
‘He said that Alma Saunders had been in the house that day. Sunday the nineteenth.’
‘Really? I thought she didn’t work on a Sunday.’
‘She doesn’t but Ted said she popped in with some shopping for Verity.’
‘When was this?’
‘Ted wasn’t sure, but he thought it was about midday.’
‘And the woman in the brown coat arrived at eleven-thirty?’
‘That’s right. It’s possible that she was still in the house.’
‘Good point,’ said Emma. ‘Are you still interviewing David Billington tomorrow?’
‘Yes. I’ll get the nine-thirty to Victoria.’
‘I’ll have Johnny with me, but I’ll try to call on Alma Saunders. I can ask her about the mystery caller.’
‘What mystery caller?’ Edgar stood in the doorway.
‘Just a lead we’re following up,’ said Emma. ‘Want a cup of coffee?’
‘Thanks,’ said Edgar. ‘I think I’m hungover.’
‘Me too,’ said Emma.
‘How the other half lives,’ said Sam.
But Emma thought that she didn’t sound envious.
Eleven
Max was not in the sunniest of moods as he waited for his train on Monday morning. He hated public transport at the best of times—the queuing, the grubbiness, the risk of sharing a seat with a garrulous stranger—but his beloved S-Type Jaguar, a new purchase that had almost supplanted his beloved pre-war Bentley in his affections, had developed some kind of engine trouble and was languishing in a Whitby garage. He couldn’t delay their weekend because it was the only break in the schedule so he and Lydia had been forced to undertake the long train journey via York to St Pancras and then on to the south coast. Seth, Lydia informed Max, was driving to Brighton in his Aston Martin but they could hardly ask him for a lift. Besides, it was a two-seater.
Lydia had quite enjoyed the journey down. She’d remarked on the cuteness of the trains and the dinkiness of the buffet car, where they’d been served brown Windsor soup in thick china bowls. But, last night, Lydia had informed Max that she wanted to stay in Brighton for a few days. ‘The sea air will do me good,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather lately.’ Max knew that Lydia’s health was her hobby, she took the curation of Lydia Lamont very seriously indeed, so he didn’t query this. He thought that Lydia enjoyed staying in the Grand and liked the bohemian chic of the town. Lydia said she’d stay in Brighton for two days and then motor to Somerset to see the children. Max found himself promising to hire a car for her.
So now, Max was left to take a long, tedious journey on his own. At least the train was the Brighton Belle, the legendary all-electric luxury Pullman, and he had The Times and Punch to keep him company. He thought of Edgar, who loved to do The Times cryptic crossword, racing through it with flourishes of his pen and, it seemed to Max, barely time to think. Edgar had once told him that it was a crossword that had led to his recruitment to the Magic Men. Edgar had been filling in the clues when he’d been spotted by Colonel Cartwright, on the lookout for a bright officer to lead the group. Well, Cartwright was dead now and Edgar was the superintendent of Brighton Police. He seemed happy enough in his job, and in his marriage, but then Edgar had always hankered after domestic bliss. Unlike Max.
He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the woman approaching him until she said ‘Hi’ very loudly by his ear. Max jumped (‘Never show surprise on stage,’ the Great Diablo used to say) and saw that it was Sam Collins, intrepid journalist and private investigator.
‘Hallo, Max. Did I give you a shock?’
‘Not at all.’ Max felt at a slight disadvantage. ‘I was just thinking.’
‘My mum used to say, “Don’t think, it makes your head stink.” I think that was mainly aimed at me though. Thinking is bad for women.’
She grinned up at him in a rather challenging way. As usual she was dressed in an eclectic mix of unflattering clothes: duffel coat, check trousers, tennis shoes. Max could imagine Lydia’s look of horror but he rather liked Sam’s style, or lack of it. He also liked the way she dived straight into a conversation without the usual niceties. He asked if she was going to London.
‘Yes. So lucky to get the Belle. I always think of that film, London to Brighton in Four Minutes.’
The speeded-up film was made in the 1950s. Max remembered it well. The train was no longer the last word in modernity but it was still a symbol of pre-war luxury. He said as much.
‘Yes,’ said Sam. ‘Even second class is a treat.’
Max proffered his tickets. ‘I’ve got a spare first class seat if you’d care to join me.’
* * *
Emma took the girls to school in the car (a great treat) and then drove to Rottingdean to interview Alma Saunders. Jonathan was in the back seat, occupied by two Dinky cars, a rag doll and a disintegrating bread roll. Alma lived in a fisherman’s cottage just off the High Street. Emma parked by the village hall, heaved Jonathan out of the car and walked the few hundred yards to the house, hampered by Jonathan dropping his cars and wanting to stop every few minutes to pat seagulls.
‘Sorry about bringing my little boy,’ said Emma. Jonathan was looking speculatively around the small sitting room. Emma held his hand tightly; there was an alarming number of ornaments around.
‘That’s OK, dear,’ said Alma. ‘I know what it’s like when you have to work. I used to bring my boys with me when I cleaned. Barry used to stand on the hoover.’
‘How old are your children?’ asked Emma.
‘Freddie’s forty now, Barry’s thirty-six. Both married with kids of their own.’
How old was Alma? wondered Emma. She’d looked remarkably youthful when she opened the door, with bright red hair and a slim, almost girlish, figure. Now, under the electric light, she’d aged a bit and Emma could see where the lipstick had bled into the fine lines around her mouth. If Freddie was forty, she thought, Alma must be at least sixty. And Barry was exactly the same age as Seth. Had the two boys played together as well as riding the hoover? Alma fetched Barry’s old train set for Jonathan and he sat down happily to orchestrate terrible railway disasters. Alma also provided tea and biscuits. Emma was tempted to stay all day.
‘You know that Verity has asked me to investigate Bert’s death,’ she said. ‘I run a detective agency.’ It sounded very grand put like that, and very far removed from the rooms above Midas and Sons.
‘She told me,’ said Alma. ‘I’m glad. Verity needs all the support she can get.’
‘You must know the Billington family very well,’ said Emma.
‘I know Verity very well,’ said Alma. ‘ I’ve worked for her on and off for nearly fifty years. I started out as her dresser.’
This was interesting. Whilst Verity had described Alma as her ‘daily’ and ‘a treasure’, she hadn’t hinted at such a long and intimate relationship. Interesting, too, that Alma said she knew Verity well, not the wider family.
‘Verity was twenty-six when I first met her,’ said Alma. ‘I thought that she was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. She was just becoming famous but she was really simple and unspoilt. She’d had a rather religious upbringing and was still quite naive about some things.’
That explained the children’s names, thought Emma. Alma told her about life on the road with Verity (‘I could tell you a few stories’) and about working for the Billington family in Lytham.
‘We were surprised when they came to Rottingdean but it meant I could work for Verity again, be part of the family. My Dave had gone by then.’
Emma noted that Alma still considered herself to be working exclusively for Verity. Also that she considered herself part of the family. She asked how Alma had got on with Bert.
Alma was silent for a minute, watching a horrific train crash unfolding on her carpet. Then she said, ‘I got on well with Bert. He wasn’t such a bad person really.’
It was hardly a ringing endorsement, thought Emma. She waited.
‘He’d fought in the Boer War,’ said Alma. ‘I think it affected him, like the First War affected all the chaps of my generation. Dave never forgot the trenches. He had awful nightmares sometimes, couldn’t bear anywhere dark or enclosed. Bert seemed so tough, but I think that was because he saw such terrible atrocities, most of them done by the British. “I’m finished with patriotism,” he used to say. “I’m going to make my money in this war.” That was the Second World War but he’d made enough in the First. Verity met him in 1920 and he was rich by then.’
‘I imagine you have to be quite ruthless in his line of work,’ said Emma. She knew that this was the excuse offered by every successful businessman, including her father, to absolve any kind of sharp practice.
‘Yes,’ said Alma. ‘And Bert was ruthless. But he always provided for his family. And he did love Verity, in his way.’
‘Verity told me that Bert had extra-marital affairs,’ said Emma. ‘She’s offered to make me a list.’
Alma laughed. ‘That sounds like Verity. She’s very practical. In lots of ways, she and Bert were a good match. Bert did have affairs—we all knew that—but I don’t think he ever thought of leaving Verity. Like I say, he loved her.’
‘What about Glenda Gillespie?’ asked Emma. ‘Did Bert love her?’
‘Glenda was a lovely girl,’ said Alma, rather sharply. ‘I think you should let her rest in peace.’
Once again, Emma waited. She saw, with misgiving, that Jonathan was getting bored with the train and looking speculatively at the china ornaments.
‘Verity was very upset about Glenda,’ said Alma at last. ‘It was a terrible tragedy.’
‘Tell me about Verity and Bert,’ said Emma. ‘How did they get on in later life? After they’d moved to Rottingdean?’
‘They got on fairly well,’ said Alma. ‘But it was hard for Verity. Bert had looked after her all her life and suddenly she had to look after him.’
‘What about their sons? Did they help?’
‘Aaron visited quite a bit. He only lives in Hove so he’d ride over most weekends on one of his motorbikes. But Aaron’s not one to make you feel better about a situation. Seth, he brings the sunshine. David’s comforting too, in his way. I think Aaron just caused more problems.’
‘In what way?’
Alma sighed. ‘Aaron was always a bit of a lost boy. David was clever. After the army he went into the family business and was running it in a few years. Seth was always destined to be a star. Aaron was never good at school and didn’t seem to know what to do with himself when he left. I think Bert and Verity spent a fair bit of money on his various schemes.’
‘Aaron runs a garage now, doesn’t he? My partner Sam visited him there at the weekend.’
‘He runs it,’ said Alma, with slight asperity. ‘But he never seems to do anything but tinker with his own bikes. Bert paid for it all, of course.’
‘What about the day Bert died,’ said Emma, trying for a casual note. ‘Were you around that day at all?’
Was it her imagination or did Alma pause slightly too long before replying? Jonathan was trying to pull two mangled trains apart.
‘I don’t usually work on a Sunday,’ said Alma, ‘but I popped in with some groceries at about eleven fifty.’
‘Did you see anyone there?’
‘Ted, the gardener. He was mowing the lawn.’
‘Anyone else?’
Alma bent down to help Jonathan with the trains. When she straightened up, she said, ‘I saw Verity. She was in the kitchen listening to the wireless. She helped me put things away. Not that she ever knew where anything was.’
‘You didn’t see a woman in a dark brown coat?’
‘No,’ said Alma. ‘A woman in a brown coat? Who could that have been? Verity would never wear brown. It’s all bright colours with her. That or fur.’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me. Ted said that he saw a woman entering the house at about eleven-thirty that day.’
‘I didn’t see anyone,’ said Alma. ‘And Verity didn’t really have any local friends, not anyone who would just drop in.’
She folded her arms as if to put an end to the matter. Emma thought it was probably time to go. Jonathan was looking wistfully at a herd of china horses grazing on the mantelpiece.
As Emma stood up, Alma said, ‘Thank you for helping Verity. I do worry about her, you know.’
‘Horse!’ said Jonathan, pointing.
‘Yes, lovie,’ said Alma. ‘Do you want one? Have a present from me.’ And she put the delicate, china animal in Jonathan’s outstretched hand.
* * *
There was an illicit feeling about the journey to London, thought Sam. This was almost entirely due to the Brighton Belle and the presence of Max Mephisto. There was something about the gold and green upholstery, the draped curtains and the fringed lamps on the tables. It gave their meeting an intimacy that it wouldn’t otherwise have had.
Max said that he was on his way back to Whitby.
‘Is it exciting?’ asked Sam. ‘Making a film?’ The waiter had brought coffee and, at Sam’s request, toast and jam. Max said that he never ate breakfast.
‘It’s very boring,’ said Max. ‘Hours of hanging about before you say your one line of the day. And it’s not filmed in sequence, so it’s hard to remember where you are and what you’re meant to be feeling. Not that my character feels very much. They’re an unemotional lot, vampires.’
‘What’s Seth Billington like to work with?’
‘I’m disappointed in you, Sam,’ said Max, pouring more coffee. ‘That’s what everyone asks.’
‘I met Seth on Saturday night,’ said Sam. ‘I thought he seemed rather sad.’
‘Sad?’
‘Not about his dad dying. Just a bit melancholy generally. His face looked sad when he wasn’t smiling.’
‘Actors are generally a melancholy bunch. Especially comedians.’
‘I’ve heard that,’ said Sam, buttering toast. ‘What about magicians?’
‘I’m not a magician any more.’
‘Well, that certainly sounded melancholy,’ said Sam. ‘But it’s not such a bad thing to be a movie star. I’m sure it beats being a jobbing reporter.’
‘I thought you were a private detective now?’
‘I am,’ said Sam. ‘And I’m on my way to interview a suspect.’
She knew that she probably shouldn’t say anything about the case to Max but the train worked its magic and soon she was telling him that she was on her way to see David Billington.
‘I’ve only come across him once or twice,’ said Max, ‘and he seemed pleasant enough. I got the impression that he had to do all the dirty work at the agency.’
‘The dirty work?’
‘Dealing with disgruntled actors and melancholy comedians. That sort of thing.’
‘Seth said that David was always having to pay off women who claimed to have had Bert’s children.’
‘Well, that too.’
‘Did you know Bert? What was he like?’
‘An utter bastard,’ said Max. ‘More toast?’
* * *
Sam felt quite disappointed when the Brighton Belle pulled into Victoria Station. Max was on his way to St Pancras and offered to share a taxi with her.
‘I’ll get the tube,’ said Sam. ‘It’s only a few stops to Leicester Square, change at Green Park.’
‘You know your way around London.’
‘I was at university here,’ said Sam. ‘UCL. It’s my happy hunting ground. It’s an easy journey to St Pancras too.’
‘All the same,’ said Max, ‘I’d rather get a taxi.’
‘Bye then,’ said Sam. She had a sudden feeling that he was going to kiss her goodbye. She could almost feel his lips on her cheek, smell his lemon-scented aftershave. But Max simply lifted his hat.
‘Goodbye, Sam. Hope we meet again soon.’
Instead of joining the queue, he raised his hand and a taxi stopped in front of him. Sam watched the black cab join the traffic and then she descended into the Underground.
Sam enjoyed the journey, tube train and all. Growing up in Southend, the capital had been her Mecca. Studying English at UCL had been a dream come true, living in shabby digs off Holborn, spending hours in Lyons’ Corner Houses discussing animal metaphors in Wuthering Heights. After university she got a job on a Croydon newspaper and then made the move to Brighton, travelling further and further south. Now she enjoyed making her way through the streets of Soho, watching the errand boys delivering parcels and, at the corner of Sherwood Street, an actual dray piled high with beer barrels and pulled by magnificent bay horses. She liked the seediness of the signs saying ‘Private Club’ and the occasional blast of jazz music from upstairs rooms. Were there stripteases going on at eleven in the morning? She’d always thought that the sex industry, like newspapers, was primarily a nighttime business.
The headquarters of Bert Billington Productions was in Golden Square, where tall classical buildings looked down on a dusty square of green. This was definitely the respectable face of Soho. Sam rang the bell and was buzzed up to the third-floor offices. The receptionist was extremely polite, offering coffee with a welcoming smile. When she got up to make the drink, Sam saw that she was wearing an orange minidress held together by large gold hoops. It made Sam feel suddenly dowdy and provincial.
David Billington, though, was not an intimidating figure. He was tall and dark like his brothers but had a slight stoop and his hair was receding fast. He looked older than his forty-three years but then David had served in the war and that aged people. Sam often noticed the difference between men in their forties and those in their thirties. The men who had been old enough to fight had a haunted look—even Edgar had it—while their younger brothers often looked callow and slightly guilty. By Sam’s reckoning, Seth had just missed the call-up though he would still have had to do National Service.
‘I fought in North Africa and Italy,’ said David, in answer to her question. ‘I was only twenty-three when it was over but I felt like an old man. I could have gone to university—there was a scheme to encourage officers to apply—but I decided to go straight into the family business. And, well, I’ve been here ever since.’ He gestured at the well-proportioned room with its view over the tops of the plane trees. It wasn’t exactly a prison cell, thought Sam, but there was something of that in David’s tone.
