01 - Memories of the Dead (5 page)

Mrs Wilton fixed her eyes on
the floor.

“But, you see, it made me
terribly upset and… and that was when I thought, ‘how dare they, when I was the
one who believed in Mrs Greengage completely.’ Then I thought how you had so
clearly disliked her and I was angry because I thought you had already decided
to turn my case down when I so badly needed help and… well… I just blurted out
how they should be speaking with you rather than me after the things that Mrs
Greengage said which obviously upset you.” Mrs Wilton was breathless she had
talked so fast, but she wasn’t done yet, “I fear I sent them to your door and
it was spiteful and unchristian and as soon as the inspector had gone I felt
bad and came rushing here to warn you, but I was too late.”

“Never mind Mrs Wilton.” Clara
said, finding herself feeling surprisingly generous in the situation, “As you
said, Mr Greengage had already mentioned my name, so they were bound to come
here eventually.”

“You forgive me then?”

“Absolutely.”

Mrs Wilton visibly sagged with
relief, then she looked up at Clara with a new expression of determination on
her face.

“What are we going to do
then?”

“Is there anything to do?”
Clara asked puzzled.

“Of course! We are prime
suspects to the police, if we don’t do something to clear our names that
inspector will trawl through our lives, raking out all our secrets, however
mundane, until he can make a case against us.”

“He has no evidence. He really
can’t do anything.” Clara felt sorry for the frightened woman, knowing that at
least she had Tommy and Annie as witnesses to her being home all night, but Mrs
Wilton had no one.

“Even if he can’t prove
anything criminal the local scandal he will create will be bad enough. Do you
think anyone will ask you to work for them after your name has been connected
with a murder?”

Clara hesitated.

“That hadn’t occurred to me.”

“Yet it’s true. Three years
ago Mr Parson the banker was suspected of embezzlement, he was cleared but the
missing money and the real culprit were never found and no one would use his
bank anymore. He had to move away.”

“That was during the war
though, many crimes went unsolved.” Clara remembered Mr Parson uncomfortably,
she too had avoided his bank after the scandal, never thinking of the effect it
might have.

“Mud sticks.” Mrs Wilton said
firmly, “And that inspector has his eyes set on us. You’re a private detective
Miss Fitzgerald, go ahead and detect who did this.”

“I’m not a policeman.” Clara
argued.

“All the better. Male private
detectives do this sort of work all the time.”

Clara noted the barbed
implication.

“I can’t interfere in police
matters.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Mrs Wilton
stared at Clara fiercely, “This is serious Miss Fitzgerald and I don’t think
you realise that. Someone will be accused of this crime, the police have a lot
on their hands, as you say many crimes went unsolved during the war and now the
police are trying to crack down and prove themselves. I think that inspector
has a bee in his bonnet about us.”

“That I can’t deny.” Clara
grumbled, “He did seem rather eager to make suppositions about the case. I
suppose it would be sensible to explore the situation myself.”

“Good. Good!” Mrs Wilton
relaxed a little, “I am sure you will have this worked out in no time, I don’t
care what others say, women have a first rate mind for detection and I would
not want to entrust my problems to a male detective, oh no!”

Clara decided not to remind
her of their first meeting when Mrs Wilton had been convinced she was going to
speak with
Mr
Fitzgerald.

“I will do my best for both
our sakes.” She promised instead.

“That is excellent!”

Clara waited politely but Mrs
Wilton seemed in no hurry to leave. There was an awkward silence which in the
end Clara felt she had to break.

“Was there something else?”

“Now you mention it… there was
one matter.”

Clara inwardly groaned.

“And that was?”

“My riddles. Mrs Greengage
never gave me the last ones but I thought she might have noted them down or
told her husband. The spirits can communicate at any time and I am certain my
Arthur would have had the foresight to ensure his messages were passed on
before Mrs Greengage was sho… so cruelly taken from us.”

Clara had to let this sink in
for a moment.

“Mrs Wilton…”

“I know you think it is a load
of tosh, just like those policemen.” Mrs Wilton snapped, “But I believe Mrs
Greengage could speak to the dead and I
am
your client.”

Clara held her tongue in case
she blurted out that, as yet, Mrs Wilton was far from a client.

“It may be awkward.” She said
instead.

“All I am saying is ask the
husband. I have no reason to go see him, but while you are investigating the
murder you do. If I can’t find my husband’s money what will I do?” There was a
sudden fragile tremor in Mrs Wilton’s voice and Clara kicked herself for not
remembering how desperate the woman was.

“I shall see what I can do.”
She agreed at last, “But you have to allow me my scepticism, it is what makes
me a good detective.”

She gave a mischievous smile.

“Of course!” Mrs Wilton smiled
too, “I knew you were the right person for solving this problem the day I found
your advert in the paper.”

“I’ll get on to the problem
and update you when I can.”

“Thank goodness, no rush
though, but do hurry. I best head home now.” Mrs Wilton stood and offered her
hand to shake, “I am so glad I met you.”

Clara escorted her to the door
and watched her march off into the snow. It was only after she had gone Clara
realised they had not discussed fees.

“Oh bother!”

There was a surprising lack of activity outside Mrs
Greengage’s house as Clara approached. The majority of the police had apparently
already left, leaving behind one lone constable to guard the house. However it
was a cold day and the housewife two doors down had taken pity on him blowing into
his frozen fingers and asked him in for a cup of tea. So there was no one
outside the property as Clara hastened down the path and let herself in the
front door.

Mrs Greengage’s home was as
she remembered, though in the stark light of day the wallpaper looked old and
faded, the rug was filthy and the brass door furniture had not been polished in
years. It seemed the clairvoyant was not the house-proud type.

Clara paused in the hallway. Her
stomach was churning with a mixture of nerves and dread. She had no idea how
she would react to the sight of blood or being in a room where a cold-blooded
murder had been committed. During the war she had done a little nursing, but
had found herself sent home more than once for fainting at the sight of blood.
It didn’t happen all the time, she could dress the most horrid wounds without
flinching, then a person would appear with a sliced finger and she would take
one look and pass out. It was very embarrassing and she tried her hardest to
overcome the problem. Some of her fellow nurses had laughed at her, a few had
scornfully called her feeble and weak. Clara knew she was neither, in an
emergency she could hold herself together perfectly well, it was just that
sometimes the sight of a person’s blood made her go peculiar.

Now she stood in Mrs
Greengage’s hallway and wondered if she had the nerve to go on.

“Hello.”

Clara jumped out of her skin
at the friendly, unexpected, voice. Ahead of her, having just come from the
kitchen, stood a young man in shirt-sleeves, drying a round circle of glass
with a cloth.

“Did the constable let you
in?” He asked.

“Yes.” Clara lied quickly, “I
am here on behalf of my client.”

“Client?”

“Yes, I am a private
detective.”

“Oh, I didn’t know women did
that.” The young man had an irritating smile on his face and Clara gritted her
teeth.

“Women do many things these
days, we are living in a new century, you know.”

“I didn’t mean to offend.”
Grinned the young man, striding forwards to offer his hand to her, “Oliver
Bankes, at your service. Or, am I not allowed to say that these days?”

Clara took Oliver’s hand for politeness
sake, wanting rather to slap him. He was around Tommy’s age, with dark,
slicked-back, hair and hazel-brown eyes. He held her hand a little longer than
she liked.

“Clara Fitzgerald.” She said,
“You’re not a policeman.”

“Quite right.” Oliver held up
the glass disc, “I’m the photographer.”

“Hardly the day for Mrs
Greengage to be having her portrait taken.”

“Police photographer.” Oliver
corrected, “I take pictures of crime scenes.”

“Why?” Clara was utterly
aghast.

“Nothing ghoulish.” Oliver
laughed, “For evidence, see sometimes a thing that doesn’t seem important at first
becomes really important later, but by then the crime scene may have been
cleaned up or altered so the police use photographs. Besides it helps them
remember where the body was. I thought you would know that being a detective?”

Clara bristled.

“I do not normally investigate
murders.” She said rather haughtily.

“Ah, more an errant husband
and cheating at the Bridge club type business then?”

“No!” Clara said appalled, “I
investigate real cases, proper crimes, just normally without dead bodies
present.”

“So why are you here?” Oliver
asked simply.

“My client is a suspect in
this case.” Clara said uncomfortably, “She didn’t do it of course.”

“Of course!” Oliver agreed
with only mild sarcasm.

“Anyway I am here to find
evidence of the real killer.”

“Can’t the police do that?”

“They have been blinded by
assumptions.” Clara snapped, her patience running out with the infuriating
photographer who was still grinning at her like a Cheshire Cat.

“You best see the crime scene
then.” Oliver held out his arm in a polite gesture to usher her through to the
parlour, “My lens was a bit smeared from this morning, so I was giving it a
wash. It always seems to go like that when I have been photographing babies.”

“Someone killed a baby?” Clara
gasped, her mind conjuring up a series of horrible images of tiny bodies.

“No, no!” Oliver said hastily,
“Real babies, I mean living ones. I run the photography shop in the high
street. Here.”

He gave her a thin piece of cream
card with his name and business address stamped on it.

“The police photography is
only a sideline. There really aren’t that many murders in Brighton.”

“Glad to hear it.” Clara
shoved the card into her handbag, determined to file it as evidence, or something,
once she reached home.

“I don’t want you to think I
am morbid or anything.” Oliver looked slightly abashed, “It can sound odd when
you say you photograph dead people.”

“Really?” It was Clara’s turn
to sound sarcastic.

“Look, go on in, I left my
lens clip in the kitchen. I will only be a moment.” Oliver vanished leaving
Clara by the parlour door.

With a long deep breath, her
stomach doing tiny somersaults, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The room had not changed since
the night before. The sherry was still on the side, one glass still full. There
was a faint scent of roses in the air and the table was laid with cards
arranged in a half played game of patience. A single white feather lay amongst
them.

What had Clara expected? Her
eyes roved around the room and a guilty pang hit her. What was a clue and what
wasn’t? She could be looking at the vital piece of evidence to catch the killer
and not know it. It was incredibly frustrating and she felt completely out of
her depth.

Gingerly she edged around the
table, looking at the cards as though they would shriek out some meaning to
her. Was Mrs Greengage playing alone or with someone? Clara liked the question
even if she had no answer, it sounded like something a real detective would
think.

She edged a little further
around the table trying to keep her eyes off the floor until she had fully
screwed herself up for the sight of blood. She would not faint! She told
herself sternly, especially not in front of Oliver. Mind over matter, she
insisted inside her head, just think of it as spilt red ink. She shoved down
all her fears, slammed them behind some mental door where they couldn’t disturb
her and told herself she was stronger than her hysteria.

And then her foot caught on
something and she looked down.

Oliver came back in the room
as Clara was biting down on the scream welling in her throat. She stood rigid
and could almost feel the warmth draining from her face.

“I say, are you all right?”
Oliver took her arm gently, “You’ve gone ever so pale. I should have warned you
we hadn’t moved the body yet.”

Somehow he manoeuvred her into
a chair even though she had gone stiff with shock.

“Would you like a drink of
water?” He asked.

Clara shook her head, she
didn’t think she could swallow without gagging. The body of Mrs Greengage lay
sprawled out at her feet. The clairvoyant’s face was a horrid grey colour, her
eyes were wide-open and starring at the ceiling. There was a fiery red hole in
her chest.

She was wearing slippers.
Clara found herself fixating on that one detail, perhaps because it was easier
than trying to consider the whole dead body, or perhaps because they were what
she had caught her foot on.

“I should have warned you.”
Oliver repeated apologetically.

“It is perfectly all right.”
Clara managed to find her voice, “I should have expected it.”

“Your first body?” Oliver
asked.

“I saw the odd one in the
war.” Clara admitted, “But not like this. Someone lying dead in a hospital bed
is very different to this.”

“Well you are doing grand. My
first body, I couldn’t stop shaking for an hour after seeing it and quite a few
of the young PCs have been quite ill when they see their first.”

“I don’t intend being ill.”
Clara said firmly.

“Jolly good. So what do you
want to do now? I could ask the constable to escort you home?”

“No!” Clara said hastily, “No,
I have a job to do and a little fright won’t stop me.”

“Good for you.” Oliver patted
her awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Could you stop saying that,
you sound like my old P.E. teacher.”

“Oh.” Oliver looked uncertain,
“Shall I just get on with what I was doing then?”

“Please do.”

Clara drew in a deep breath as
Oliver set about arranging his camera tripod and re-installing the cleaned
lens. She found she was irresistibly, and inexplicably, drawn to studying Mrs
Greengage’s corpse. The clairvoyant had removed her jewellery and her black
shawl and seemed to have been in the process of preparing herself for bed.

“She wasn’t expecting another
visitor.” Clara said suddenly.

“You think so?” Oliver asked
as he rearranged his flash powder.

“You don’t wait up for a guest
half ready for bed.” Clara cast her eye around the room, “There is a dressing
gown on the armchair.”

“So she didn’t expect her
killer.” Oliver shrugged, “Is that important?”

“I don’t know. But it does
mean whoever did it came some time after the séance. Time enough for Mrs
Greengage to start to get ready to go to bed.”

“Mind your eyes.” Oliver
announced as he let off the flash and the room lit up brilliantly for a second.

“What do the police think?”
Clara asked as she rubbed her eyes and the room came back into focus.

“You think they tell me
anything?” Oliver laughed, “I just do the photographs, most of the detectives
think I am no better than the boys who clean out the police stables!”

“Really?” Clara was genuinely
surprised.

“Most of them don’t understand
the concept.” Oliver sighed, “Don’t get me wrong, some do. Inspector
Park-Coombs is a sharp spark, though he likes to pretend he is as dense as the
rest of them.”

Clara tried to hide her
discomfort as he mentioned that dreaded name.         

“Perhaps I have learned all I
can here.” She could think of nothing else but getting out of the room.

“Have you seen anything, a
clue maybe, that will help your client?” Oliver asked.

“No, not really.” Clara
admitted, looking once more hopefully around the room, “Odd…”

“What is?”

“How after the shock has worn
off you stop thinking about there being a dead body in the room. It is just,
well,
there
.”

“I know.” Oliver was staring
hard at her, “It is like being wrapped up in your own work so much you forget
to notice that there is a pretty girl in the room.”

Clara returned his stare
evenly.

“I doubt you ever forget, Mr
Bankes.” She said sharply.

Oliver grinned.

“If you want to see the
pictures when they are done – to help your client, of course – come by my shop
in a couple of days’ time.” He held out a card.

“You gave me one of those
already.”

“Oh yes, so I did.” Oliver
withdrew his hand hurriedly, flushing a little, “But do come by. I keep copies
of every photo in case the police lose the originals, which happens more often
than not.”

“I shall bear it in mind.”
Clara replied, “Oh, I don’t suppose you know where I can find Mr Greengage?”

“Across the road, at number
84.” Oliver followed her into the hallway, “He needed somewhere to collect his
thoughts.”

“I don’t blame him.” Clara
edged open the front door and tried to nonchalantly look outside and see if the
constable was there.

“The constable didn’t really
give you permission to come in, did he?” Oliver said behind her.

She could tell from the manner
of his voice he was grinning again.

“Good day Mr Bankes.” She said
without looking back and then made a dash for the front gate.

She was just stepping through
it as the constable emerged from two doors down. She let the gate swing to on
its latch and crossed the road as though she had not just been sneaking around
a dead woman’s house. The constable was too concerned with his freezing fingers
to give her much thought.

At number 84 Clara rang the
bell and tried to think of a good reason to speak with Mr Greengage. A maid
answered.

“Good afternoon, I was told Mr
Greengage was here?”

The maid looked uncertain and,
after indicating Clara should wait, hurried indoors. A few moments later a
stern-looking woman appeared.

“Can I ask what is your
business?” She said in a tone that matched her fierce appearance.

Clara braced herself.

“I’m from the Spiritualist
church, I take it you know Mrs Greengage was a member?”

The woman raised an eyebrow
which Clara took as an acknowledgement that she did.

“I have come on behalf of Mrs
Greengage’s many friends as quickly as I could after hearing the news to see if
her husband requires anything, specifically a temporary place to stay, but I
see he has found himself a place here, so I shall just leave my condolences and
go.”

Clara turned away hoping she
had judged the woman correctly.

“Wait.”

Clara faced her again.

“As you may appreciate space
and provisions are limited for a widow woman such as myself.” The woman’s stern
appearance was sinking to one of consideration, “I am happy to offer Mr
Greengage accommodation for a short stay – a very short stay – but as you say a
burden shared is a burden lightened, and I see no reason why others shouldn’t
help out. After all, I hardly knew the Greengages. Not that he’s a burden.” She
added quickly.