02 - Flight of Fancy (10 page)

“If you like.” Annie said
instead, not looking from her work.

Clara filled the kettle at the
big kitchen pump, a left over from the Victorian days of the house and glanced
over at the maid at the sink. Something was wrong, she could sense it. She put
the kettle on the stove to boil and wandered over to the window where the sink
stood and surreptitiously observed her maid and friend.

“I have been chatting with
Colonel Brandt, poor man seems very lonely.” She remarked as a distraction.

“I don’t think I know him.”
Annie answered blithely, then she gave a slight sniff.

“He was to do with the O’Harris
family. Now they were a curious bunch, I really don’t know what to make of
them.”

“I can’t say myself.” Annie
said, seeming uninterested in the entire conversation.

“Tommy was supposed to be doing
some research for me, did you take him out?”

Annie scraped even harder at
the spotlessly clean pan.

“I did.”

“Annie, is something the
matter?”

The scrubbing brush paused.

“Why would you say that, miss?”

“Because of this frenzied
cleaning and your unusual lack of conversation and also the fact you have
clearly been crying.”

Annie turned to face her
mistress, and now it was obvious to see her eyes were puffy and red.

“I don’t care to talk about
it.”

“Yet I do, I don’t like seeing
you so upset. So what is it?”

Annie dumped the pan in the
sink and grabbed up a tea towel to dry her wet hands.

“It ain’t nothing.”

“Then it must be something.”
Clara said calmly, “Unless you want to rephrase that double negative.”

Annie glared at her, a look
that took Clara quite by surprise and made her hesitate.

“Is it something I have done?”

“No, don’t be silly.” Annie bustled
away as the kettle began to sing.

“Well we can’t have this Annie,
I am your friend first and foremost and I can’t bear seeing you so miserable.
So what has happened?”

Annie fussed with a china
teapot, measuring out carefully procured tea leaves.

“So you won’t tell me? Then I
must guess.” Clara took a seat at the kitchen table, “Let me see, have you
argued with someone?”

Annie gave a strange huff and
turned aside.

“So an argument. With whom?
Well, you say not me and I don’t recall arguing with you anyway. Was it that
boy in the butchers who you can’t abide?”

“Just because a lad don’t know
how to cut a joint of meat right, don’t mean I will be shedding tears over it!”
Annie snapped.

“So it is something more
personal?” Clara let the question hang in the air for a moment, “There is only
one thing I can think of that would mean that much to you Annie. So what is the
problem between you and Tommy?”

Annie stormed over to the table
and thudded down the teapot, then she sank into a chair and wiped furiously at
her teary eyes.

“It ain’t right to talk of it
to you, you being his sister and all.”

“Nonsense, I am the best person
to talk to. I am less likely than anyone else to take his side.” Clara smiled
lightly.

“I’m not saying anything.”
Annie insisted, she poured out a cup of tea that splashed over the rim of the
cup.

“So you two really have fallen
out?” Clara shook her head, “I was only gone a short while!”

Annie said nothing, but drank
shakily from her cup. Clara decided it was time to deal with the other side of
this argument.

Tommy was in his usual spot at
the parlour table going through the diaries of Florence O’Harris once again. He
didn’t look up as Clara entered.

“What nonsense have you two
been arguing about?” Clara asked immediately.

She sat down in the nearest
armchair and scowled at him. Tommy refused to meet her eye.

“Annie surely told you.” He
said casually.

“Annie is in a fine temper.
I’ve never known her spill a cup of tea before. I can only imagine what you
have done to upset her so.”

“That’s it, blame me
instantly.” Tommy responded gruffly.

“Then Annie has caused this?”

Tommy hunkered down over the
diaries a little more.

“You are pinning me into a
corner. It’s a silly thing anyway, Annie has thrown it all out of proportion.”

“Thrown what out of
proportion?”

Tommy grumbled something under
his breath, then he looked at his sister.

“While you were out Captain
O’Harris visited.”

“Did you apologise for my
absence?”

“Yes, though he wasn’t entirely
looking for you. I mean he was, because he really rather likes you old girl.
Had you noticed?”

“Don’t change the subject.”
Clara interjected sternly.

“Fine. He came, though it may
surprise you, to see me in fact.”

Clara was now truly curious.

“What did you talk about?”

“Aeroplanes. The captain wanted
to talk about aviation and knew I was interested, besides I am about the only
person in Brighton with any knowledge on the subject. Aside from you, of
course, but then you aren’t exactly the usual lady about town.”

“As you are my brother I shall
accept that as a compliment, and stop trying to distract me.”

Tommy rolled his eyes.

“O’Harris has his mind sent on
breaking the Atlantic crossing record, he is pretty confident on the matter and
having sat in the Buzzard I can see why. She is a fine plane, you should try
her one day.”

“Or not.” Clara said, “This
hardly seems cause for an argument with Annie.”

“No, that’s because I am
beating about the bush.” Tommy frowned, “The captain’s co-pilot has dropped out
of the venture. Broke his arm falling off his horse last week and won’t be fit
any time soon. Without a co-pilot the matter is really at an end.”

Clara felt a pang of relief.
Had it really bothered her that much that Captain O’Harris would be flying
across the Atlantic? She tried to shake the thought, but she couldn’t help but
feel it was better for him to remain grounded.

“He needs a new co-pilot.”
Tommy continued, “Not necessarily an experienced person, he could train him up.
Just someone a bit mechanically-minded and eager. He has sent telegrams to old
friends, but no one is about and then it occurred to him that there was someone
to hand he could ask.”

Clara felt her relief turn to
dread.

“He asked me to be his
co-pilot.” Tommy finished dully.

Clara instantly wanted to snap
at him, to tell him it was so idiotic a suggestion he shouldn’t even
contemplate it, but clearly that was what Annie had done and Clara knew how
stubborn her brother was. So she kept her temper.

“Doesn’t a plane have foot
pedals?” She asked cautiously.

“I thought that, apparently it
is mostly hand controls but with a long pedal under the feet for rudder
adjustments. I told him an old crock like me couldn’t do it, but he reckons I
could if I just set my mind to it. I don’t think he is the sort of fellow who
believes anything is impossible. And he said, should it prove tricky, he was
certain he could have some sort of special arrangement set up so the rudder was
operated by hand.”

“You’ve consider this then?”

Tommy met and held his sister’s
gaze.

“It’s a once in a lifetime
opportunity Clara.” His tone was suddenly serious, “Let’s be straight with each
other. What options have I for much of a life now? I can’t even ride a bicycle
for crying out loud. If the man thinks I can fly, well, perhaps I should at
least try. I sat in that plane Clara and I was alive again, my blood pumping in
my head, my body tingling. It didn’t matter about my legs then. I was free.”

Clara kept as calm as she could
to reply.

“I understand, I really do. You
want to prove to yourself you are still the person you once were.”

“No, you
don’t
understand
Clara.” Tommy looked miserable, “I’ll never be the person I was before the war
again, too much has happened. But… look, for once I would like the world to see
me not as poor Tommy Fitzgerald who came home a cripple, but Tommy Fitzgerald
who braved the Atlantic. For once I want their admiration not their pity. For
once I want to be the object of envy to my friends, rather than the other way
around.”

“And you will sacrifice all you
have got for that moment of admiration and glory?”

“Yes! What have I here anyway?”

Clara was silent a moment, she
let his own words sink into him, perhaps he really didn’t know what he had,
what was right under his nose.

“Don’t be so dense Tommy.”

Tommy closed his eyes. For a
moment he seemed to sink into his thoughts, then he looked up.

“This could be my last chance.”

“For what? A flash in the pan
adventure? Next year O’Harris’ flight will be old news, someone will have done
something different or have broken his record. Then your moment of glory will
be another annotation in some sporting history book. You need to be pretty damn
sure you are prepared to sacrifice a lifetime with Annie for that.”

Tommy had clearly not expected
her to be so blunt. He looked a little stunned at her words.

“Annie will be here when I get
back.”

“If you get back Tommy, nothing
is guaranteed once you get in that plane. And I am not as confident as you are
that she will be waiting.”

“You are trying to put me off!
It is my life to do with as I please!”

“Yes, I know,” Clara bit her
tongue, “But all our lives touch others and we have to make our decisions based
on more than our own desires. Annie thinks the world of you, but she has
suffered too much loss in her short life to be able to deal with this adventure
of yours easily.”

“Really, you are both making
such a fuss.”

“Take a moment to look at
things from her perspective. Annie lost her entire family in the war, she had
no one until I stumbled on her. Now her life revolves around me and you, but
mainly you. If you get in that plane you may die, in fact the odds are probably
stacked against you somewhat…”

“You are talking nonsense.”

“Did captain O’Harris tell you
of his friend who just died while flying over the Arctic?”

Tommy didn’t answer, O’Harris
had not.

“Annie is hurt inside in a way
both of us barely understand. If you fly with O’Harris it will scare the life
out of her in case you are lost. I am not sure she could stand losing you and I
know she will find it hard to forgive you for risking your life for an
adventure.”

“Speak bluntly why don’t you?”
Tommy snapped.

“No one will stop you getting
in that plane Tommy if you feel you must.” Clara said calmly, “But you need to
be aware of what you may be giving up for your flight of fancy.”

“Annie will be here when I come
back.” Tommy said stubbornly.

“Perhaps she will.” Clara
shrugged, “Just as long as you are prepared to take the chance she might not be.”

Tommy clenched his fists. He
was churning inside with so many emotions it pained him. He wanted to fly, to
do something that an ordinary man could, but he hardly dare admit that fear
followed that desire and also guilt. He knew how worried Annie and Clara would
be if he flew with O’Harris. The captain had been blunt about the risks, had
said it was only fair to be as honest as possible on the matter. There were
dangers, engine failure, damage to the plane, bad weather, fatigue, illness. A
lot of things could ruin a flight but deaths were not as frequent as people
feared, or so O’Harris swore.

But this was his life and Tommy
ultimately had the freedom to do as he wished. What man would wish to stay on
the ground when the opportunity presented itself to soar high?

“I understand now why Annie is
so upset.” Clara mused, “I shan’t say anymore on the matter. It is your
decision.”

“You would rather I didn’t
fly.” Tommy stated.

“In the end it is not my
choice. I shall be worried about you if you do, of course.”

“This could be my last chance…”

“At what?”

Tommy couldn’t explain, but at
the back of his mind was this strange knot of anxiety that if he refused now he
would regret it all his life.

The nameplate on the wall read
Dr Cutt, Clara paused a moment to smile then rang the bell. A prim woman in a
long apron answered and stared at the woman on her step.

“You’re not a regular.”

“I am afraid not, but I do have
an appointment to see Dr Cutt.”

“It’s Wednesday afternoon, Dr
Cutt doesn’t see patients on a Wednesday afternoon unless it’s an emergency.”

“Ah, but I am not a patient.
Clara fumbled in her bag and found a business card, she handed it to the woman
who almost crossed her eyes trying to read it.

“I haven’t my glasses on.” She
said after trying to focus on the card at various distances, “What does it
say.”

“Miss Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara answered,
“I am a visitor and I rang earlier to arrange an appointment with the good
doctor.”

“So you’re not sick?”

“Hardly.” Clara considered
herself robust enough to avoid visiting doctors normally. She had little time
for the medicines and tinctures they dispensed randomly.

“I’ll go see if Dr Cutt is
ready for you. Step into the hall.” The woman backed away, still trying to read
the card, and left Clara in a small hallway while she went to check with Dr
Cutt.

Clara noted the door to her
left marked ‘waiting room’ and the faint odour of iodine and bleach. Each smell
conjured up visions of the hospital she had helped in during the war and
brought back unpleasant visions of the terrible injuries people had sustained
in bombardments by the Germans. She had seen far too many die during her time
there, and the smell of chemicals now brought a sick feeling to her stomach.

She was relieved when the woman
returned and escorted her to a room at the back of the house, distant enough
from the surgery to not be penetrated by the medical aromas. Dr Cutt was sat in
a pleasant garden room enjoying the afternoon sunshine while he clipped a
newspaper article from the day’s paper. He stood as Clara entered and offered
his hand.

“Dr Josiah Cutt.”

Dr Cutt was not a day younger than
eighty, but sprightly and keen, with a brightness to his eyes, semi-masked by a
pair of old spectacles. He was dressed in a tweed suit and a crisp white shirt,
his collar ornamented with a bow-tie. He offered Clara a seat and smiled as he
slipped back into his own.

“On Wednesday afternoons I
catch up with the news.” He motioned to the paper on the table and several
others on the floor with pink, clean hands, “I cut out anything of a medical
nature that interests me and keep it in my scrapbooks. Surprising how often it
comes in handy.”

“I can imagine.” Clara noted
several other scrapbooks arranged on a bookcase near the fire.

“I think it important to keep a
close note on my dealings with patients. One can’t rely entirely on the memory
and one never knows when a rare case may crop up and a little scrap of
knowledge from the past might prove useful.”

He carefully moved his papers
to one side.

“I told my housekeeper to bring
in the tea things, I know it is a tad early, but I hope it shall not matter.”

“Not at all.” Clara smiled,
suddenly recalling she had missed lunch yet again, “I do apologise for
interrupting your afternoon off.”

“Oh nonsense.” Dr Cutt smiled
broadly, “A visitor is hardly an interruption, unless it is Mr Henry
complaining about his gout again. I keep explaining to him it cannot be so bad
if he can walk a mile to me to moan about it.”

“I am sure he pays full heed.”
Clara laughed.

“Yes, well, one finds being an
old doctor, one’s patients tend to be on the old side too. I have men under my
care I first saw as boys who now look more old and doddery than I do. Sometimes
I wonder when my turn will come to feel my age.”

“As long as you keep working,
probably never.”

“Too true, now Miss Fitzgerald,
if I recall rightly you wanted to ask me about a patient who died some years
ago. By the way, are you the same Miss Fitzgerald who solved the murder of Mrs
Greengage?”

Clara was flattered he had
heard of her.

“Indeed, I am.”

“I once paid a house call on
her husband you know.” Dr Cutt rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, “Worst case of
shell-shock I had seen in a while. He couldn’t leave the house at all, it was
very hard on them both.”

“Shell-shock?”

“Are you not aware of the
condition?”

“I have never heard the term.”

“Well, I suppose that would be
right enough, the authorities have kept it most quiet from the public.
Shell-shock is a term for a nervous disorder resulting from being in the War.”
Dr Cutt tapped his fingers on the table unconsciously, “It comes in many forms,
but most usual is that a man just breaks. One moment he seems quite fine, the
next he is a gibbering wreck. It’s said to be caused by the constant shelling
that took place during the war, it drives a man slowly insane by the noise
alone. I read all I could on it and I have seen a fair few cases in Brighton.”

“My brother was taken badly
during the war.” Clara admitted, “He was shot in the legs and was a long time
recovering, but he was kept in the military hospital even longer because he
could become quite irrational. He would lose his temper over nothing and some
days he was so morose and withdrawn I hardly felt he knew I was there.”

“Shell-shock to be certain.”

Clara was toying with the edge
of the table-cloth, remembering something Tommy’s doctors had once said.

“Could shell-shock cause a
person to forget how to do something, such as walk?”

Dr Cutt took a moment to
answer.

“I suppose, I’ve seen all
manner of odd behaviour caused by it.”

“You see my brother, Thomas
Fitzgerald, he hasn’t walked since he was injured, but the doctors tell us he
should be able to. There is no damage they can see that could cause him to
remain crippled. Sometimes, when he is half-asleep say, you can get him to
stand and walk a little. It is almost as though when his brain is not
concentrating he can move his legs, but as soon as he thinks about it he
can’t.”

“That is very interesting.” Dr
Cutt meant what he said, he was developing a theory on shell-shock and the best
means of helping sufferers, “Has he seen anyone recently?”

“Not since he left the
hospital.”

“And no one ever mentioned a
diagnosis of shell-shock to you?”

Clara shook her head.

“I would be happy to meet your
brother and see for myself his problem, I have been working on a paper about
the condition in collaboration with a psychiatric specialist in Edinburgh. We
regularly discuss cases, but we have not come across one where a man
thinks
he can’t walk when he
can
. Do you think he would meet me for a chat?”

“I make no promises.” Clara
knew her brother had an aversion to doctors, “But I shall ask him.”

“Thank you Miss Fitzgerald, ah,
I do hear the tea things coming.”

As he spoke there was a
rattling noise in the hallway and Dr Cutt’s housekeeper entered with a tray
laden with teapot, sandwiches, cake and cups. She deposited it on the table and
started pouring out tea while the doctor continued.

“Now, what was it you wished to
see me about? An old patient of mine I believe?”

“Yes, I am looking into the
death of Goddard O’Harris.”

“Ah, yes, the man who just up
and vanished.”

“Precisely.” Clara took the cup
she was handed and thanked the housekeeper, “I have been given some conflicting
information as to his state of health before his death.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it has been suggested to
me he was gravely ill. A wasting disease. I asked around and discovered you became
his doctor after the death of Dr Brandt.”

“That is true.” Dr Cutt took a
deep sip of his tea as his housekeeper withdrew, then stood up and went to a
brown cabinet, “I keep my old patient files in here.”

He spent several moments
sorting through several bundles of papers that filled the large cabinet. Clara
sipped patiently at her hot tea and wondered what stories were hidden away in
those files. She told herself off for being so nosy.

“This is the one.” Dr Cutt
brought over a pale brown cardboard folder and laid it on the table, “Goddard
O’Harris was my patient for twenty years before his death. Dr Brandt retired in
1888, I believe, and handed his patients on to me. Sadly he was not a well man
and died shortly after. I have his notes as well, which means I have a medical
record for Goddard O’Harris’ entire life just about.”

Dr Cutt opened the folder which
contained several pages covered with a thin, spidery handwriting, that quite
baffled Clara’s abilities to decipher it.

“He was relatively healthy.
Suffered an injury to the hip while in the army and it caused him lasting
problems. His notes say it was probably caused by poor treatment of the wound
at the time, it never quite healed and he had arthritis in his hips and legs
from the time I knew him.”

“But nothing life-threatening?”

“From his hip? No, no.” Dr Cutt
flicked through his papers, “He did have a weak heart, I remember that now. I
warned him to be wary of sudden excitement but he was not the sort of man to
work himself into a temper so I was hardly worried.”

“Was his heart condition
because of his time in the army?”

“No, I would say it was
hereditary. I did once enquire whether his family had been known for heart
problems and he recalled his mother having palpitations and his grandfather had
chest pains quite often after walking or riding. It says it all here in my
notes, I try to be thorough. Mind you, it never stopped any of them from living
a full life.”

“Nothing about a wasting
disease?”

Dr Cutt examined his notes a
little more thoroughly.

“No, not a mention. I saw
Goddard two weeks before his death and aside from his usual complaints he was as
fit as a fiddle. He wanted to know if I thought it would be all right for him
to ride in the hunt that winter, he always asked. I suspect his wife insisted.
She felt better if I had given him the all clear.”

Clara reflected on yet another
instance of Florence’s concern for her husband.

“It was rather odd how he
died.” Dr Cutt, closed the file and considered carefully, “I mean, from a
professional point of view I would say his heart gave out. It was due, anyway.”

“That would be quick?”

“It can be. But I suppose your
interest is why, if the death was natural, did someone move the body?”

Clara smiled at the observant
doctor.

“It is troubling, would you not
say.”

“Yes, and I have been through
it in my mind for, shall we say a less sinister motive than hiding up a murder.
For instance, I wondered whether there was perhaps some money involved, say an
insurance policy that would not pay out if it could be proved his death was
caused by a pre-existing condition such as his heart. But I never heard of
anything of the sort and really what would the O’Harrises need with life
insurance?”

“Again and again I can find no
logical reason for removing the body other than murder or, at least, presumed
murder.” Clara agreed.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.”
Sighed the doctor, he picked up a plate of sandwiches and offered her one.

“I was really only trying to
tie up loose ends.” Clara answered, “I seem to be going around and around in
circles.”

“No one ever solved the case at
the time, I doubt you will now, but it is good to see someone making the
effort.”

“Thank you, but I have a little
more confidence in myself.” Clara assured him, “There is a logical solution to
everything.”

“Indeed, well do your best and
please feel free to send your brother to me.”

“Thank you Dr Cutt, I shall do
just that.”

Clara found herself uncertain
what to do when she left the doctor’s house. It was far from usual for her to
be caught in indecision, but she found she was struggling to know what should
be her next move.

In the end she wandered into
the High Street and stared idly into a window or two before her eye fell on
Bankes’ Photographic Studio. She couldn’t explain what made her pause or what
caused the feeling of guilt inside her. All she knew was the next instance she
had an impulse to buy two jam tarts from the bakery and take them over in a
neat white paper bag to the business premises of Oliver Bankes.

Oliver was tucked away in his
laboratory mixing up a new developing solution he was experimenting with when
Clara appeared. He had just discovered that his latest concoction ate paper and
was coughing in a cloud of chemical smoke.

For a moment Clara was stunned
as Oliver stood blithely wafting smoke from his face, while he made gagging
sounds, apparently oblivious to how dangerous the chemicals might be. She reacted
quickly, reaching out and grabbing his arm and dragging him into the hallway.
She escorted him to his office, thrust him into a chair and found a glass full
of water among the debris on his desk. She gave it to him and made him drink
some. Slowly Oliver stopped choking and he grinned at her.

“Clara, dear girl.”

“You just about killed
yourself.” Clara said crossly, wondering why she was suddenly so angry.

“Neither of the chemicals are
all that harmful, I think.” Oliver frowned.

“But in combination?”

Oliver gave a shrug and his
smile returned.

“It did make a good puff of
smoke.”

Clara shook her head.

“Why is it every man I
encounter seems determined to do away with himself at the slightest
opportunity?”

“I say! I was only mixing up a
new formula for my developing fluid. I have in mind a means for getting a
darker image if I can just get the solution right.”

“And in the meantime you will
choke to death?”

Oliver gave a hoarse cough.