01 - Memories of the Dead (13 page)

Clara glanced at Mrs Wilton
who had almost her entire fist wedged in her mouth, trying to bear the
humiliation of hearing her maid talk like this.

“Who teased you Elaine?” Clara
asked.

“That girl of Mrs Pembroke’s.
Jeannette. She is a real snob, though she is only a maid too, but she gets
cast-offs from Mrs Pembroke, real nice stuff. And then there is that Alice
Roberts who was always hanging around trying to befriend her. She would laugh
along to please Jeannette though she had to bear many a joke at her expense
too.” Elaine paused, “Now I think about it, Jeannette started being real nice
to Alice the same time she tried to pal up to me.”

“So you told her all about the
riddles.”

“She kept asking and it was
nice not being laughed at.” Elaine scowled, “I didn’t expect it to last or
anything, but you don’t know how it is and they were only stupid riddles.”

“Thank you Elaine, you’ve told
me all I needed to know.”

“You can get back to the
laundry now.” Mrs Wilton told her maid sharply.

Elaine shot a dark look at her
and then retreated from the room.

“It is not true, you realise.”
Mrs Wilton said hastily to Clara, “She
is
well paid and provided for.”

“I’m sure.” Clara said
soothingly, “Do not worry, I shall not take what she said about you seriously.
Now, I should be on my way.”

“Of course.” Mrs Wilton jumped
to her feet, “It was an error in my budget, you know, when I spent her wages on
the séance.”

Clara reached out and squeezed
her hand.

“I understand.”

They were at the door.

“I’m not good with money or
servants.” Mrs Wilton appeared close to tears, “When you get the riddles back,
solve them for me, would you?”

Clara nodded and said her
farewells. On the path she took a deep breath of sea air. It was bitterly cold
and stung her face. She doubted she would make it home before dark.

Turning to head up the path
she spotted
him
watching. She was still fired up from the interview with
Elaine and she was tired of this stalking nonsense. Clara strode out
purposefully towards him. Immediately he turned around and bolted. She
quickened her pace, but when she reached the point in the road where he had
stood he was gone, just like a ghost.

“I need to talk to you about something Tommy.” Clara was
home. It was early evening and a small fire was burning in the grate of the old
hearth. Tommy was busy at the table drawing out various tables of suspects,
evidence and clues. He had been at it for hours and the result was quite
impressive, even if the reams of paper made Clara feel all the more confused
about the case.

“What about?” Tommy asked,
“Here, do you suppose your information from the chemist counts as evidence or a
clue?”

“It’s evidence if she killed
herself. Could she have killed herself Tommy?”

“Don’t know, old bean. You saw
the body.”

Clara shuddered at the
thought.

“I don’t know enough about
guns to say, but that isn’t what I wanted to talk about.”

“What then?”

“I’ve had a spot of bother, I
didn’t want to say before and worry you, but now I think I should.”

Tommy abruptly gave her his
full attention, dropping the papers.

“You’re worrying me old girl.”

“It’s not that serious. A
strange man has been following me, that is all.”

“That is all!” Tommy said in
horror, “Who is he?”

“I don’t know, I told you he
was a stranger. He turned up after I started to pursue this case. I first saw
him at the Greengage’s house, hovering in the street and then he appeared at
Eastbourne. Yesterday he was on a footpath when I left Mrs Wilton’s house.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?
He could be the murderer!”

“Inspector Park-Coombs doesn’t
think so, says a murderer is smarter than that. Besides he is a bit like a
startled rabbit, when I approached him yesterday he just bolted.”

“You approached him?” It was
hard to picture Tommy looking any more horrified than he did right then.

“I was cross and as I say, he
seems harmless.”

Tommy slapped his forehead
with his hand.

“Listen to yourself! From now
on you mustn’t go out alone, either myself or Annie will come with you.”

“I knew you would say that.”
Clara moaned.

“It is the only logical thing
to do! Normal people don’t follow other people about.”

Clara shook her head.

“I appreciate that, but it
isn’t really convenient.”

“Keeping you safe isn’t
convenient?”

“You know what I mean.” Clara
was regretting bringing up the topic at all, “Besides, if Mrs Greengage killed
herself there is no killer.”

“That only makes your stalker
more worrying.”

Clara studiously ignored the
comment.

“I am quite certain now that
Mrs Greengage poisoned Augustus deliberately. The poison was such a small
amount it could only have been for a very specific purpose. So was it a
diversion to make us think she was murdered rather than that she had actually
committed suicide?”

“It is possible.”

“But why Tommy?” Clara felt
the confusion returning.

“People have all sorts of
reasons. To implicate someone else, maybe this Mr Bundle, or to cover up her
own crime. She was religious and might have wanted to avoid the scandal in her
church. Maybe she had life insurance.”

“Mr Greengage hasn’t mentioned
it and he is now facing destitution, so he would want to get any insurance
sorted if there was any. Whichever way you look at it I am back to my Lucrezia
Borgia theory.”

“Except the Borgias used their
‘skills’ to get rid of people who were in the way.”

“Augustus was a money-maker,
it makes no sense to kill him.” Clara idly picked up one of the papers Tommy
had been working on and gazed at it blankly until the words blurred before her
eyes.

“I think I will visit the
inspector tomorrow and have a word about Mrs Pembroke’s maid.”

“I’ll come with you.” Tommy
said a tad too quickly and Clara’s eyes flicked up at him, “I need to go to the
library,” he added with a shrug, “And I would like to see those crime scene
photos if you wouldn’t mind.”

“You are welcome to.” Clara
smiled, “And if we see my stalker I’ll set you on him.”

Tommy grinned.

“I could do with a bit of
action in my life, how fast do you think Annie can push me?”

“I will ensure you only
encounter him when he is suitably downhill.” Clara leaned over and kissed her
brother on the cheek, “If only we could…”

“Don’t say it old bean, I have
to get used to it. I pray for a miracle, but I don’t expect one.”

Clara hugged him.

“You are far braver than me.”

“Nonsense! You chase madmen
who are stalking you!”

Clara laughed.

“That’s different and don’t
ask me how, it just is.”

Inspector Park-Coombs leaned
forward on his desk.

“So Mrs Greengage bought the
poison?”

“It seems so.”

“And this Jeannette stole the
riddles?”

“Will you arrest her?”

“We’ve had no report of a
theft, as it stands she just took some bits of paper no one seemed bothered
about. She could argue she thought they were rubbish.”

“Most likely they are.” Clara
frowned, “I will deal with Jeannette then, if that is all right?”

“You are welcome to and I do
appreciate you keeping us informed.” The inspector paused then knotted his
fingers together and stared at the fist he had made, “I confess when we first
met I thought you were a bored busy-body.”

Clara raised her eyebrows.

“Who says I am not?”

The inspector smiled.

“You have a knack for this
business, a talent for sniffing out information. If you were a man I would want
you on my force and be pushing you for detective.”

“With due respect, I think I
have more freedom in my inquiries than the average policeman and I would have
to turn down the offer.”

“It is a moot point anyway,
what with you being a woman.”

Clara’s expression suggested
she had already noted this.

“Still, I think the force is
missing out, the woman’s touch and all that. You are non-threatening and your
casual methods seem to gain the confidence of certain witnesses.”

“Meaning they deem a bored
busy-body as no threat to them?” Clara asked defiantly.

“You take my words too
seriously, but I have to say I have enjoyed our little chats on this case
despite myself.”

“Your tone seems to imply
there won’t be anymore?”

“The Greengage case is being
put to one side.” The inspector looked downcast, “Orders from above. There are
no suspects and no real leads. It is a dead end and my superiors have other
more promising cases which they want me to look into.”

“I will apologise on Mrs
Greengage’s behalf that she could not be more promising.” Clara snorted.

“It is a matter of logistics
and resources. We have a royal visit proposed and my officers have to be
drilled and a bank robbery in Hove is taking up a lot of my time. I don’t like
dropping a case but when we are at a dead end like this and other matters call
our attention we have to respond.” The inspector rested his chin on his fisted
hands, “Then again, I was rather hoping you would be inclined to pursue the
matter as you have made such interesting progress already.”

The inspector’s eyes glittered
mischievously.

“You want me to do your work
for you?”

“Weren’t you already?”

Clara feigned a scowl.

“Does this mean I am working
for the police?”

“Not officially. It just means
you are responding to a problem.”

“And being a busy-body.”

“If you like.” The inspector
became more serious, “And when you know who the murderer is come to me and I
will arrest the blighter.”

“You’ll need evidence.”

“I don’t expect you to let me
down on that front.”

Clara sat back in her chair
feeling she was being taken advantage of. It crossed her mind that when she
pin-pointed the culprit it would be the inspector who would gain all the
credit.

“Well, I am sure we both have
a lot to do.” The inspector politely dismissed her.

Clara took the hint and rose
from her chair.

“By the way, almost forgot.”
The inspector paused her, “I made a few extra enquiries about Bundle, I thought
it might be his son who was stalking you.”

“Yes?”

“Master Bundle is in the Navy
and serving abroad currently, so not our fellow, but it just sprang to mind,
the daughter who found Mrs Bundle dead, her name was Jean.”

Clara’s mouth fell open in
surprise and then she grinned.

“In my experience criminals
are rarely imaginative.” The inspector added.

“My, my, the world is small
and the Bundle connection was perhaps not so far-fetched.” Clara reached for
the door, “Goodbye inspector, I have a maid to see about some riddles.”

The inspector waved her a
goodbye and then returned to his new cases with the hint of a smile still
playing on his lips.

“Oliver Bankes?” Tommy held
out his hand to the photographer. Annie had dropped him at the shop before
heading for the butchers. They had not been able to persuade Clara that she
needed accompanying all the way to the police station, but had compromised at
following her halfway. It just so happened halfway brought Tommy to Oliver
Bankes’ doorstep.

“How can I help you?” Oliver
asked.

“I believe you know my sister,
Clara?”

Oliver looked worried.

“Yes?”

“I’m helping her with the
Greengage case and she is trying to rule out death by suicide and I thought I
might take a look at the crime scene photos?”

A lady in a hat laden with
false flowers and feathers looked up with a startled expression from the
‘Bankes Photography Catalogue’ she was browsing.

“I’m not really supposed to
show them to anyone.” Oliver mumbled, “I allowed Clara to see them as a
favour.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes at
him, understanding the implication and wondering the best way to turn it to his
advantage.

“Have you heard about the
stalker?” He said loud enough so that the lady customer now had her attention
riveted on him.

“She did tell me, I thought
the police were dealing with it.” Oliver shifted his feet uncomfortably.

“Nothing much they can do, he
turned up again yesterday.”

“Is Clara all right?” Oliver
bit his tongue at the quite obvious note of concern in his voice.

“She is fine. But if we could
wrap up the Greengage case, then maybe we would have something to use against
the stalker. I think it obvious he is connected.”

Oliver glanced at his lady customer
who was pretending to be absorbed by the Bankes’ catalogue.

“You better come out the
back.” He sighed.

In Oliver’s office the clutter
Clara had first noted was still present and blissfully growing. Oliver scraped
papers from a spare chair before clumsily realising Tommy didn’t need it.

“Sorry.” He said ashamed.

“No bother, you would be
amazed how many people fail to notice. To be honest I would rather that than
you fussing about me like a nursemaid.”

“Good job my receptionist
isn’t here then, she fusses everyone like an invalid.”

Tommy laughed and it broke the
tension.

“I could probably make tea.”
Oliver dragged some cups from under a pile of papers and stared inside them as
if that might achieve the result without having to fetch water and a kettle.

“I think I can survive
without.” Tommy assured him, “I just want to see the photos.”

“Oh yes.” Oliver dropped the
cups back on the desk and went to a set of wooden filing cabinets that at least
seemed well-maintained, “From what I hear the police have given up hope on the
matter.” Oliver pulled out a cream coloured file, “It happens more often than
you would think when they can’t find an instant suspect. So many crimes involve
spouses or lovers and the guilty party is caught red-handed. But there are some
that just boggle the mind.”

Oliver handed the file to
Tommy and he withdrew several black and white photographs. The first happened
to be a close-up of the dead Mrs Greengage and he hesitated.

“Did you know her?” Oliver
asked.

“Only met her once.” Tommy croaked,
he had seen one too many dead bodies in his time, but they still shocked him
with their cold, stillness, “How do you do it? Take their picture?”

Oliver shrugged.

“It doesn’t bother me like
that. I feel sad sometimes, I never get over seeing a person who has had their
life snuffed from them. But I don’t feel the shock some do.” Oliver scrubbed at
his nose, “My uncle was an undertaker. I saw a fair few bodies before I was
even ten, I think it makes you more immune. It’s not that it isn’t still
horrible, but you know that no more harm can come to them and you have a job to
get on with. I think it helps not having much of an imagination too.”

Tommy knew what he meant. Some
of the men he had served with found nothing chilling about the death all around
them. They could step over a corpse and not think about who it was or when they
last spoke to them or whether it would be them next. Others, like himself, had
to screw themselves up tight just to face the next moment, to bite down on the
scream that wanted to obliterate them.

He purposefully put the
close-up of Mrs Greengage face-down on the desk. The next shot was further away
and at an angle that made it hard to see the features of the woman’s face.
Somehow that made it easier to look at.

“Did you say Clara has a
theory of suicide?” Oliver asked. He was sitting in a wooden desk chair that
swivelled and was twisting himself left and right with the toe of one foot.

“Sort of. Mrs Greengage bought
the poison herself.”

“Ah.” Oliver let this sink in
as he gazed at the ceiling, “And there was none in the sherry glasses?”

“No, but Clara’s theory is all
wrong. Mrs Greengage did not kill herself.”