The Fairground Affair

Sleepy Temple Regis is rocked by an unlikely murder – but Miss Dimont, ex-Naval Intelligence, is quickly on the case

A Miss Dimont Mystery

Nobody could understand what a gorgeous playboy like Jeremy Slazenger was doing in a place like Temple Regis. The blue eyes, swept-back hair and the cream-painted Sunbeam coupé would be at home on the seafront in Monte Carlo or Rimini, the rugged face handsome enough to be kissed by a Princess Grace or a Brigitte Bardot. So what was he doing down here? Temple Regis, in the 1950s, may have been the prettiest resort in Devon but most would agree it lacked that little extra bit of sophistication. Donkeys on the beach are all very fine, and the fish-andchip van did a roaring trade at the end of the pier, but you’d never hear a champagne cork pop or the crack of an oyster being shelled. The town was reassuringly modest and old-fashioned; its residents had never heard of ladolcevita.

“Like a fish out of water,” puzzled Judy Dimont to her fellow reporter, Betty Featherstone, as they sat over coffee in Lovely Mary’s.

“Never seen a fish look like that,” said Betty, archly. Only last night she’d tried to catch the young devil’s eye as they passed on the promenade.

The pair were having a morning break from their duties on the Riviera Express. Judy was due to go off to the magistrates’ court to hear the sorry tale of the curate caught cycling without lights, while Betty was down to interview the secretary of the annual Horticultural Show about some shocking accusations of cheating.

Needless to say the matter of Jeremy Slazenger provided a much more appealing topic of conversation.

“So athletic,” mused Betty, “so well dressed! I love those slacks he wears.”

“Wonder where his cash comes from,” said Judy, ever practical.

“Well, his brother’s that very important Member of Parliament. I expect his family have oodles of money.”

Judy shook her head so hard her corkscrew curls almost rattled.

“Rich widows, I bet,” she said with conviction – she wasn’t easily impressed by good looks. Though even she had to admit Jeremy Slazenger had enough to sink a battleship.

“There he goes!” squeaked Betty excitedly as the open-topped car grumbled past their window in low gear. “Looks like he’s on the prowl for someone!”

“A rich widow,” repeated Miss Dimont wearily, picking up her raffia bag. “See you back at the office.”

Judy was as good as her word – though it took longer than anticipated to return to her typewriter on account of the dead body discovered in the Tunnel of Love.

Dora Huntingdon-Browne was a lady of ample size, prodigious means and uncertain age – just the type you’d imagine Jeremy Slazenger hunting down in order to put petrol in his Sunbeam and slacks on his shanks.

In the darkness of the Tunnel while others were sneaking a kiss and cuddle, Mrs H-B had been strangled with the silk scarf she’d wrapped around her head against the possibility of bats or cobwebs. Regrettably she’d failed to make provision for anything more deadly.

Her expensive crocodile handbag sat at her feet, apparently untouched. A small notebook lay beside it.

“Strange. A woman of that background finding herself in the Tunnel of Love,” remarked Miss Dimont when she tracked down Detective Inspector Topham.

The old copper picked up his briar pipe and sighed. “You never can tell,” he said.

What’ s that supposed to mean? thought Miss Dimont with irritation. “So, Inspector, do you have any clues?” “I’ll let you know.” No clues, then. It was sad that Mrs Huntingdon-Browne was no longer with us, but in truth Miss Dimont was secretly delighted. Since leaving her wartime job in Naval Intelligence there’d been little to challenge her agile mind until she took up journalism and came to Temple Regis. Here, she’d had a quite surprising run of success, solving crimes and preserving the town’s reputation as a desirable resort.

In no time she was astride Herbert, her trusty moped, whizzing up Tuppenny

“She FELL FOR HIM like a TON OF BRICKS. And him such a WASTREL”

Row where the richest in Temple Regis had their houses. Police cars crowded the drive of Hiawatha, the Gothic monstrosity recently the home of the dear departed. Instead of making inquiries there, Judy knocked at a pink-washed cottage nearby.

“Mrs Gage,” she said with her beautiful smile, “I hope you don’t mind. We’re writing a piece about that business at the Horticultural Show.”

“Come in,” said Mrs Gage cheerily. “I got a lovely seed cake just waiting.”

For twenty minutes the reporter discussed the vicious politics of flower shows with a woman who had won, and occasionally lost, among the flowerpots. Though full of information, Mrs Gage was rather vague on the jiggery-pokery among the incurved chrysanthemums lot. But Judy thanked her for being so helpful and promised to pass it all on to Betty.

Lot of activity going on next door,” she said finally, with a tilt of her head. It never helps, in cases of murder, to rush too swiftly at one’s subject.

“Have another cup!” urged Mrs Gage, and Miss Dimont let out a contented sigh. Her host also found time to “do” for Mrs Huntingdon-Browne and now she could get down to essentials.

“He never should a’ done it,” Mrs Gage was saying. “Bringing that young fellow. Not as if he was a reg’lar visitor, even.”

“Mm?” Miss Dimont polished her spectacles with apparent unconcern.

“Her nephew. Dixon Huntingdon. Came to stay lars’ month and brought his friend, Jeremy something. They lay by the pool and drank all day. Didn’t even tidy the newspapers after theirselves. Shocking! But Mrs H-B – something got into her.” “What sort of something?” “Well, you know what she was like. Prim and proper and snooty too, though I will say she was sometimes nice to me.

“You reported her speech to the Watch Committee in the paper. I read it – how the funfair down the end of the promenade was attracting the wrong sort, encouraging goings-on, unwanted pregnancies, all that palaver. I tell you, Miss Dimont, I never known anybody have it in for the young like she did. Prim! That’s the word – prim!” “But then this young man Jeremy?” “She fell for him like a ton of bricks. And such a wastrel.”

“Oh! Really? Oh!” A lightbulb had snapped on. “I must be going now, Mrs Gage. The magistrates’ court, you know.”

“What an interesting life you must have,” smiled the old lady. “I’ll wrap another slice in a doily – take it with you.”

It did not take long for Miss Dimont to discover the open-top car parked outside Old Jawbones, the fishermen’s pub. Inside, Jeremy Slazenger was lounging against the bar engaged in conversation with Avril, the girl with the most famous chest in Temple Regis.

“Mr Slazenger? Judy Dimont, chief reporter on the Riviera Express.”

The playboy did not shift his gaze.

“How can I help?” he drawled. The way he said it offered only the vaguest promise of assistance.

“Mrs Huntingdon-Browne. The Tunnel of Love. You must have heard.”

“Tragic loss,” he said, flicking his eyelashes at Avril. He was detestable, but she could see why Mrs H-B had thrown herself at his feet – the shirt-collar was undone in just such a way she could see the bronzed and muscular chest. “Were you with her in the Tunnel?” The playboy turned to view his interrogator. What he saw was a woman of middle age, with untamed curls and oddly mismatched outerwear. Her spectacles were slipping down her convex nose and a pencil was daintily stuck behind her ear.

“Dear lady,” he snorted, meaning neither word, “not the sort of place I need ever go. To find love, that is.”

“Are you sure? Apparently Mrs Huntingdon-Browne found love with you, Mr Slazenger. And according to my colleague Betty Featherstone, you were down on the prom with a much older lady last night. She distinctly remembers.”

“Well, I did drive her down there,” conceded the young man. “She was very het-up about the goings-on and planning to take notes for the Watch Committee. I dropped her and went on to pick up Avril.”

The barmaid wiggled slightly at the mention of her name.

“How did she seem, the last time you saw her?”

“She’d been very unhappy. Somebody discovered about her and me – sparing your blushes, Avril, but a chap’s got to eat – and was putting the bite on her.” “The bite?” “Blackmail. She’s highly respected round here, you know. She was terrified it would get out but she believed in doing the right thing. If it didn’t stop, she said, she’d go to the police.” “Who was blackmailing her?” “She mentioned a name,” Slazenger said languidly. “Didn’t mean much to me.” “Can you recall it?” “Haven’t the foggiest.”

Well, thought Miss Dimont. Notonly are you a two-timing cheat, a leech and a penniless narcissist, you don’ t care that your lover’ s been murdered or that you alone hold the clue as to who did it.

“Another half please, Avril, and put it on the slate, there’s a girl.”

“There was a notebook found with her,” Judy prompted.

“She kept notes for the Watch Committee. She was going to write up the Tunnel of Love, all the so-called goings-on in there. That’s why I drove her down.” “Seems an odd sort of thing to do.” “She kept a note of everything, it was just her way. She showed me her notebook once – a load of stuff about flowers that day, must have been to do with the garden I suppose.” Miss Dimont leaned forward. What sort of flowers?”

“I don’t know – petunias I suppose. Or could have been roses, I don’t know!”

“Think hard, Mr Slazenger, if you don’t want to find yourself being interrogated by the police as a material witness in a murder case. They can be quite unpleasant when they want.” “For heaven’s sake! Chrysanthemums!” Miss Dimont held her breath for a moment.

“Did she say anything about cheating at the Horticultural Show? That would have been of interest to the Watch Committee, after all.”

“She may have done. She used to blather on a lot, I didn’t always listen.”

“Does the name Mrs Gage mean anything to you?”

Slazenger finished his drink and put the glass down on the bar with a bang.

“That’s the one,” he said firmly, picking up his car keys. “I’m off. Coming, Avril?”

“Mrs Gage?” said Avril, looking at Miss Dimont for the first time. “That old witch? She used to be a friend of my Nan’s but she started saying things about her – really horrid things. My Nan’s lovely, can’t think why she’d want to do it. Bit nutty, I’d say.” “Do you know her, Avril?” “Oh, yes, she used to come round to Nan’s ’til they fell out. I saw her last night.”

“Where would that be?” Miss Dimont asked very softly.

“I was waiting for Jeremy to pick me up. After he’d dropped his mother,” she added sardonically. “Down at the fairground?” “Yes.” “The Tunnel of Love?” “Cor!” said Avril, her eyes widening.

So you see,” Miss Dimont was saying to Inspector Topham over a ginger beer at the Constitutional Club, “Mrs Gage was blackmailing her employer because of the affair with that playboy. But Mrs Huntingdon-Browne wasn’t having it – somehow she’d found out about the cheating at the Horticultural Show and was ready to expose Mrs Gage.

“Mrs Gage spent hours every day perfecting her chrysanthemums, but she was so successful word got around she was cheating somehow.

“Each woman had something on the other – and both had a lot to lose if it came out. But Mrs H-B, despite her weakness for that young layabout, was a law-abiding citizen. The same, alas, cannot be said of the murderous Mrs Gage.”

Inspector Topham wasn’t keen on having his crimes solved for him so he changed the subject.

“How’s that cat of yours?” he said. “Mulligatawny, I think he’s called?”

Copyright©2017TPFielden

“BLACKMAIL. She’s highly RESPECTED – terrified it would GET OUT”