01 - Memories of the Dead (12 page)

“A map?”

Annie was sure she wasn’t just
imagining the anxiety that suddenly came over Alice.

“You could hardly miss her.”
She continued, “She was making such a fuss. Whatever can she want a map of
Brighton for? I ask myself. Do you know?”

“She can be quite cagey about
things.” Alice fiddled with her teaspoon. Annie decided to push her luck.

“I don’t entirely trust her
you know. You mind she doesn’t get you into any trouble.”

The teaspoon clattered to the floor.
Several customers glanced up, but Alice had her head in her hands and couldn’t
see them. Annie retrieved the spoon and slid it in front of her.

“Whatever is the matter
Alice?”

“You are so nice Annie. So, so
nice. If you knew what I had done you would never speak to me again.”

The cheese sandwich arrived at
that moment. Annie took one half and slipped it onto Alice’s saucer.

“Here, eat that. I didn’t mean
to upset you. I think you are a nice person too.”

Slowly Alice put down her
hands. After a moment she took the sandwich half and nibbled the corner.

“Thank you.” She said quietly.

They ate and drank for a while
in silence and then Alice poured herself a second cup of tea and gave a sigh of
resignation.

“I think I will tell you what
I have done.”

“Please don’t feel it
necessary.” Annie replied, trying to mask her curiosity.

“No, I must tell someone
because the guilt is eating me up and I keep thinking what would mother say? I did
something awful Annie.” Tears sparkled in the girl’s eyes.

Annie felt sorry for her, she
looked so vulnerable and silly.

“Did Jeannette put you up to
whatever it was?”

“Yes.” Alice found her hanky
and dabbed at her eyes, “She knew I worked at the Greengage’s house once a week
and she reckoned she had heard that there were these riddles to a hidden
treasure in the house. She asked me to look when I cleaned. Honestly, Annie, I
didn’t like the idea of prying, but Jeannette said it wasn’t that at all, it
was just me keeping my eyes open.” Alice groaned, “Yet in the end I did have to
pry. Jeannette kept pushing me and telling me I was daft because I couldn’t
find them and I started to realise I was a little afraid of her.”

Alice was pulling her hanky
through her hands over and over.

“I didn’t mean to open the
bureau.” Alice almost let out a sob with the confession, “I was only dusting
really, and the catch was loose.”

“Lying now won’t make it
better Alice.” Annie said carefully.

“You are right. So right. I
opened the bureau on purpose.” Alice’s voice trembled a little, “And there they
were, this little packet of riddles in an envelope.”

“Did you take them?”

“No!” Alice was indignant, “I
may have looked but I am no thief!”

Annie resisted smiling at the
girl’s strangely mixed standards.

“What did you do then?”

“Nothing. Didn’t even read them.
I did tell Jeannette though and she was really cross that I hadn’t brought them
to her. She thought I should have stole them for her.”

“I hope you put her right,
Alice. They aren’t hers and she can’t bully you into taking them for her.”
Annie found she was actually quite cross with Jeannette. She would have words
with her next time she saw her.

“That’s just the thing though,
she did keep pushing me and then that awful day came and I didn’t know what to
do so I ran for Jeannette.”

“You mean the day of the murder?”

“Yes. I was cleaning the
Greengages’ house that day. Mrs Greengage was a nice old bird, ever so strapped
for money though. Often there was not even soap powder in the cupboard and she
would tell me to just do the kitchen floor with a mop and water. It were ever
so sad, but she refused to turn me away as she knew how I needed the money just
as bad.” Alice shook her head miserably, “Sometimes I snuck soap from Mr
Macpherson’s house, that weren’t wrong, were it? I felt so sorry for her.”

Annie touched her hand
comfortingly.

“It must have been awful when
she was found dead.”

“It was. I found her! I came
in at around eight, the back door was unlocked, which was usual. Mrs Greengage
always used to be up and would unlock the door so I didn’t have to knock and
disturb Mr Greengage.” Alice grew silent as the memory flooded back to her, “I
always start on the front room, it usually only needs a good dust and the
carpets beating, seeing as how little it is used. The door was a little ajar,
which was odd as Mrs Greengage was thorough at closing things up before she
goes to bed of a night. She couldn’t stand a door left half open, it quite
annoyed her. But there you are, I thought, we all have our bad days and forget
ourselves.

“In I went and at first
nothing seemed wrong. Someone had left the sherry glasses out but I was used to
that and I went to pick them up to take to the kitchen. It was as I moved
around the room that I saw her just lying there. I thought at first she had had
a funny turn, the curtains were still drawn, you see, and they don’t hold with
turning the gas lights on during the day because of the cost. I opened the
curtains and then I saw the blood.

“I was all at sixes and sevens
over it. I weren’t thinking straight else I would have run for the police, but
all I kept thinking was how we found Uncle Billy like that during the war.
Suicide, of course, because he couldn’t face going back to the trenches, and I
remember thinking what possible reason could Mrs Greengage have for killing
herself? You see, it never occurred to me that it was murder, so I suppose
that’s why I never thought of running to the police.

“Anyway, Mr Greengage was
sleeping off his nightly tonic and he is always as bleary as a badger in
daylight until mid-morning. So I hurried off to find Jeannette.”

“Why her?” Annie asked.

“Well, she is the only other
girl like me who I knew well and I couldn’t rightly wake one of the neighbours.
I suppose I could have fetched Dr Macpherson, but he would have expected
payment for the call out and I doubt Mrs Greengage would have liked the
expense, had she been able to know and anyway, Jeannette was nearer.”

“What happened next?”

“Not a lot really. Jeannette
said I should fetch the police so I did. Oh, and we woke Mr Greengage when I
returned.”

“Wait a moment.” Annie held up
her hand to halt the girl, “You left Jeannette alone in the house?”

“Yes.”

Annie felt close to trying to
shake some sense into the silly girl.

“Now why didn’t you send her?”

“She… oh… Jeannette just, I
suppose, sent me and I… I went.”

Yes, thought Annie, little
obedient, trusting Alice would not even pause to think when Jeannette told her
to go. She would run off without hesitating, leaving Jeannette all alone
downstairs and free to do as she pleased.

“Did you know those riddles in
the bureau are missing?”

Alice looked stunned, clearly
she didn’t.

“You mean, Jeannette took them
while I was gone?”

“It would seem so.”

“Why?” Alice was tearful, “I
mean, I know she wanted them, but to take them behind my back like that… I
could have got in awful trouble with the police or Mr Greengage. I thought she
was my friend.”

Alice looked grief-stricken at
the notion of being betrayed and Annie felt a pang of sympathy for her again.
She poured her a third cup of tea from her own pot.

“I suggest you stay away from
Jeannette.”

“Yes.” Alice said miserably,
“I really thought she was my friend.”

Annie patted her hand. It was
getting late and the snow was laying thickly outside.

They parted company at the
door and Annie watched Alice’s slight figure vanishing into the darkness,
before she set off for home concentrating on all the things she had to tell
Clara.

Clara’s trawl of local chemists for sales of strychnine
to a man fitting Mr Greengage’s description had proved a dead end. She stood in
Harwoods and Sons, the last pharmacy she could reach by walking, and browsed
forlornly through their ‘sales of poison’ book. It was useful that Mr Harwood
was so amenable; he shouldn’t have let her look at the book at all.

“Any good?” Mr Harwood, a man
with outsized, old-fashioned sideburns, asked.

Clara shook her head.

“Try this one.” Mr Harwood
drew out another black bound book with ‘poison’ inscribed on its cover in gold,
“It’s my weekend book, I keep them separate on account of having different lads
on at the weekend. It saves confusion when a matter like this arises.”

Clara took the proffered book
half-heartedly. She did not anticipate more success with weekend poisoners then
the regular weekday ones.

“Was there any particular name
you were looking for?” It was a quiet morning for Mr Harwood and his full
attention was on his sole customer.

“Greengage.” Clara said with a
frown.

“Aha!” Harwood became excited,
“11.21am, Saturday, 12
^th
January.”

He grabbed the book and
flipped through rapidly.

“There we are, ‘purchase of 5
grains strychnine.’ I don’t usually sell such small amounts and to be honest it
was an estimate, I don’t have a scale precise enough for such small doses. The
lady only wanted a pinch – her words exactly.”

Clara looked at the black ink
entry in astonishment.

“Wanted it to deal with mice,
she said, I told her she wanted more than a pinch to sort out a mouse
infestation, the blighters can survive a good dose in my experience and there
are always more of them than what you see.” Harwood seemed aggrieved by the
ignorance of some of his customers, “I said, ‘you want a good packet of arsenic
for mice’ and, as God is my witness, she looked me square in the eyes and said
she had been told strychnine was more humane! I said humane is not my business,
effective is, and if she wanted rid of mice she was a fool not to take the
arsenic. She wouldn’t be swayed. I reckon she was one of those animal society
people, the ones who call you a brute if you trip over the cat.”

Clara stared at the entry while
he spoke, trying to get the details into her head. Mr Greengage had not bought
the poison, it had been his wife! That only raised new questions about the
cause of Augustus’ death.

“Would she have had some
strychnine left over?” She asked.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?
It was barely a dose, it would have taken some doing to save some.”

“Was it enough to kill a
person?”

Harwood looked stunned.

“You don’t think…” He shook
his head, “A grain can be sufficient to kill an adult, but in most, ahem,
murders a far larger amount is required due to the necessity of mixing the
poison with something – food or drink. Strychnine is very bitter and getting a
person to eat enough can be tricky. I’m afraid as a chemist you do hear about
these things. That’s why we have the poisons book.”

“You’ve been very helpful.”
Clara smiled at him and, as he had been so attentive, she added, “A box of
aspirin please.”

She would add it to the six
other boxes in her bag that she had purchased during her inquiries, having felt
rather mean to ask lots of questions of the various chemists in Brighton and
then buy nothing. Well, at least she was well prepared should she have another
headache.

Back out on the street Clara
tried to see how this new puzzle piece fitted into the whole. Could it be Mrs
Greengage had placed the poison in the sherry herself to make everyone think
her life was in danger and then committed suicide? The inspector had ruled out
suicide so quickly, but could he have been wrong? She retraced her steps, she
had a call to pay on Mrs Wilton.

Mrs Wilton’s worn down
villa-style bungalow overlooked the sea and could have fetched a profit for the
lady had she been inclined to sell. Clara wondered why she didn’t, but then sentimentality
was rarely logical. Mrs Wilton opened the door herself and gave a slight start
at seeing Clara.

“Miss Fitzgerald! Elaine’s up
to her ears in laundry so I told her to stay put while I answered the door.”
Mrs Wilton seemed flustered and the excuse lacked a ring of truth. Clara
suspected Elaine rarely made it to the door to answer it.

“Come in.” Mrs Wilton opened
the door a fraction wider, “Do you have news?”

“Some.” Clara admitted,
stepping inside and easing off her gloves. She couldn’t help but notice the
hall was unswept and an ambitious spider had cast a large web across one corner
of the ceiling.

“The parlour.” Mrs Wilton
conducted her guest out of the hall and into a room with a large sofa as
quickly as she could.

The parlour was fresh and
clean, recently swept and tidied. Clara might have attributed Elaine’s neglect
of the hall to over-work had she not spotted Mrs Wilton nudging an old rag
duster under the sofa. She guessed who really did the cleaning.

“Elaine must have her hands
full keeping this place running, especially with the sea breeze blowing sand
and salt straight at you. I hear it can be quite a problem with seaside
properties.”

“She is very good.” Mrs Wilton
said, offering a seat on a decaying sofa, “Very understanding when money is a
touch tight.”

More likely irritated when her
wages have been spent on séances and private investigators, Clara thought to
herself as she sat on the sofa.

“I am sure you will be glad to
know the police no longer consider you a suspect.”

Mrs Wilton sighed and flopped
back into a chair.

“That is a relief! I mean, I
knew they could never really consider me… but one does worry so.” She flapped a
strand of hair from her face, “Do they have another suspect then?”

“Not yet, they’ve come to
rather a dead end.”

“Oh dear! And what about you?”

Clara took a moment to consider
her response.

“I have some ideas in mind,
which is part of the reason I came to visit you. You see, there is a little
problem with your riddles.”

“I was hoping you would
mention them, oh, but a problem? Does Mr Greengage want more money? He struck
me as the grasping sort.”

Mrs Wilton had a finger in her
mouth and was chewing on it unconsciously.

“They have been stolen.” Clara
decided blunt was best, “However, I know who probably took them, I just need a
bit more information before I accuse anyone.”

“Gosh, you really are a real
detective! Accusing someone! But who would steal my riddles?”

“Exactly, few people would
understand their importance or know they could lead, possibly, to your late
husband’s hidden wealth.”

“Not ‘possibly’, my dear, I
trusted Mrs Greengage.” Mrs Wilton pressed a finger to her lips, “So who knew
except myself? That is a good question.”

“Who have you told about the
riddles?”

“Nobody!” Mrs Wilton was
affronted, then she relented, “I mentioned them to Mrs Cole when we met in the
lending library. She was very coarse about them and I did not care for her
tone. I didn’t say much to anyone after that, I mentioned I was seeing Mrs
Greengage to some of my Spiritualist friends, but no specifics.”

“What about Elaine?”

“Elaine?” Mrs Wilton was now
plucking at the edge of her lip, “I told her I was at the séances, yes, and I
think I may have said in passing about the riddles.”

“Could I talk to her?” Clara
asked.

Mrs Wilton looked ruffled at
the suggestion.

“Is it really necessary?”

Clara had the impression Mrs
Wilton did not want another woman meeting her maid. It made her even more
curious about the elusive Elaine and her relationship with her mistress.

“If you want the riddles back,
I will need to speak to her.”

Mrs Wilton sighed.

“You really put me in such a
position. You won’t be accusing her?”

“Don’t be alarmed. I shall not
be relieving you of your servant.” Clara promised.

“She isn’t much, but I really
couldn’t do without her.” Mrs Wilton stood and pulled a cord near the fireplace
that attached to an old ring pull. Somewhere in the depths of the house a bell
could be heard tinkling. Clara noted that a modern buzzer bell was fixed to the
wall beside the cord, but was clearly not working. It probably ran on
electricity, which would be one luxury too far for Mrs Wilton these days.

It was several moments before
Elaine appeared in the doorway. She didn’t bother to curtsey, though it seemed
from her rolled up sleeves and red hands that, at least, she had been genuinely
doing the laundry.

“Miss.” She said rather curtly
and improperly.

“My visitor has some questions
for you regarding the riddles Mrs Greengage gave me and which are now missing.”
Mrs Wilton explained crisply.

“I didn’t steal ‘em!” Elaine
snapped, sending a vicious glare in Clara’s direction.

Clara decided she didn’t like
this little harpy who seemed so quick to fill with spite and malice.

“I was not under the
impression you had taken them.” Clara said smartly.

“Oh? Well what do you want
then?” Elaine folded her arms defensively over her chest and Clara concluded
that no servant at all would be better than employing this vixen.

“Do you remember the riddles?”

“I think I only briefly
mentioned them.” Mrs Wilton interrupted.

“Honestly miss, forget your
own head you will.” Elaine bawled out and her mistress looked abashed, “She
showed ‘em to me. They fell out of her bag, not surprising the times I’ve fixed
the catch on it. It came open in the hall and these scraps of paper flew out. I
thought they were nonsense rhymes, I like those, my Chad can do some good ‘uns
you know.”

“Her young man.” Mrs Wilton
whispered in Clara’s ear.

“I admit I read ‘em and said
to her,” She pointed at Mrs Wilton, “are these yours miss? Because they ain’t
much good and I should know as my Chad won a contest for best limerick at last
summer’s fair.” Elaine puffed up her chest with pride as she spoke of beloved
Chad. Clara was already sick of him, “Miss said they weren’t rhymes but riddles
and I said that didn’t sound a barrel of laughs and she said, ‘oh, but you
don’t know Elaine, they lead to a treasure’ and I said what a load of
codswallop.”

“Elaine does speak her mind.”
Mrs Wilton fluttered nervously.

“I’m honest, that’s all, more
than can be said for most girls in service, fawning to their ladies. Like your
girl.”

Clara realised the last
statement was directed at her.

“Annie?” She said
dumb-founded.

“Yes, she’s a right one.
Hearing her talk you would think you were the Queen of Sheba! She pinched me on
the arm once for my saying it ain’t fit a woman setting herself up in business
as a detective. And you shouldn’t be encouraging my mistress.” Elaine pointed
that finger again at Mrs Wilton.

Clara resolved to give Annie a
hug as soon as she got home, whether it was proper or not, and thanked her
lucky stars she had her and not Elaine!

“It ain’t fit.” Elaine
concluded.

“You must remember your
manners Elaine.” Mrs Wilton clucked, utterly embarrassed by the indignant
serving girl.

“Whatever you may think of
me,” Clara said sternly, “I hope you would have the decency not to shame your
good mistress.”

“Whatever can you mean, miss?”
Elaine looked disconcerted and Clara was pleased to see there was at least one
way to take the wind out of her sails.

“Mrs Wilton’s riddles have
been stolen, and before you swear at me you ‘ain’t touched them,’ I do not mean
the ones in her handbag, but the ones that remained at Mrs Greengage’s. Now, I
think I know who took them, but I need some information from you to confirm
it.” Clara felt back in control of the situation and Elaine had gone stonily quiet,
“All I need to know is who you told about the riddles.”

“No one!” Elaine burst out
automatically.

Clara said nothing, waiting in
silence until it was clear she expected a better answer.

“I mentioned ‘em to Chad.” She
finally admitted, “He don’t believe in any treasure neither.”

“But someone else did.”
Persisted Clara.

Elaine’s eyes went wide, taken
aback that Clara should know all her business. She glanced at Mrs Wilton
suspiciously, but she was fussing with her handkerchief.

“You don’t know what it’s like
being a maid here on half the wages of the other girls and having to work for
her.”
Elaine on the defensive was nastier than when she had merely been irritated.

“Don’t say that. I’m good to
you.” Mrs Wilton flapped.

“They laugh at me, they do,
for working for such a poor mistress, who talks all this nonsense about spirits
and spends my wages on pathetic séances!”

“That only happened the once.”
Mrs Wilton sounded pitiful.

“It’s all I can do to hold my
head up when they are cackling at me.”

“Who mocks you Elaine?” Clara
finally felt they were getting somewhere.

“Are you going to tell ‘em?”
Elaine suddenly appeared anxious.

“I have no reason to.” Clara
replied, “But I think you told them about the riddles, didn’t you? When they
were teasing, it just came out, yes?”

“They said I didn’t have no
prospects because I was as common as a fishwife and worked for Mrs Wilton only
because she was too poor to hire anyone else. And I said, that’s all you know,
I have prospects, my mistress is coming into money and they said how? And I
said she been talking to this clairvoyant who says Mr Wilton left a load of
money hidden away, only he was afraid of burglars or robbers, you see, so he
put the instructions to find the treasure in riddles. They still laughed, but
later they thought better of it and were real chummy in case I did come into
money. ‘cos, I’ve been good to my mistress and put up with a lot, so she was
bound to reward me!”