05 - Mistletoe and Murder (13 page)

“Yes, I suspect you are
right.”

After finishing her toast (of
which she had consumed far too much and felt quite stuffed) Clara went to see
her brother. Tommy was sitting in his wheelchair pulling a pair of gloves onto
his hands.

“Ah, there you are old girl.
Don’t suppose I can bother you with a slight diversion?”

“What is it? I could do with
escaping this drama for an hour or two.”

“I wondered about going to see
the Cenotaph in Whitehall?” Tommy pulled a newspaper cutting from his pocket,
“It’s not far from the tomb of the unknown warrior in Westminster Abbey. I
would like to go pay my respects.”

“That sounds like a jolly good
idea to me. I don’t expect much to take place here until tonight anyway, when
those ghost hunters get going once more.”

Clara went for her hat and
coat, and before long they were weaving their way through London, having to
walk most of the way as the omnibuses were quite a struggle with a wheelchair.
It took them half an hour and the brisk pace soon had Clara rosy-cheeked and
quite hot in her thick wool coat. The Christmas Eve rush was in full swing; the
last minute shoppers were running madly from place to place trying to find the
right gift. Clara saw more than one come close to a collision with a car as
they dashed across the street. The shops were gaily lit up, with trees in their
windows and quite a few boasting large ornate Father Christmases in their
displays. The jolly fat man beamed out at the world, like some heathen god of
Christmas.

In Whitehall a Salvation Army
band was playing in their smart black coats, brass trumpets and tubas gleaming
in the wintry air. Clara threw a coin in their collection box as she went past.

“Supposing William Henry was
murdered.” Tommy suddenly declared as they veered down another path.

“How?”

“I don’t know. But the man was
in a houseful of suspects. Plenty of people wished him ill.”

The Cenotaph rose before them
in crisp white stone, gently dusted with snow. A carved wreath hung on the side
and beneath in large letters the words ‘The Glorious Dead’ declared the
monument’s purpose. Clara came to a complete stop; the structure, which she had
anticipated being much smaller, simply took her aback.

“The Glorious Dead.” Tommy
mouthed, “Sleep well my friends.”

He reached into his pocket and
drew out a slightly crushed sprig of holly.

“It was all I could find in
the garden. Would you mind?” He held it up to Clara.

She took the sprig and went to
the Cenotaph. She almost hesitated on the steps remembering that this stone
monument was supposed to represent an empty tomb. So many had not come back,
dead or alive. She rested the sprig of holly on the top step then retreated.
Tommy stared at it a long time, tears glistening in his eyes. Clara reached out
for his hand.

“Private Fitzgerald?” A
tentative voice called out, “Do you remember me? Private Hawkins.”

Private Hawkins was an older
man, well-built but slightly stooped. He held out a thick hand for Tommy to
shake.

“I remember you Hawkins.”
Tommy smiled up at the man, “How are you?”

“Not so bad, not so bad.”
Hawkins looked at Tommy’s legs and bit his lip, “I didn’t realise you were a
Londoner.”

“I’m not. Myself and my sister
are down on a visit. Staying with some folks in Berkeley Square.”

“Really?” Hawkins’s face took
on a curious twist, as though he was connecting two thoughts slowly, “Don’t
suppose you heard about that incident last night? That gentleman snuffing out
his own life.”

“News spreads so fast in a
city.” Tommy frowned, “That happened to occur in the house we are staying in.”

“You don’t say?” Hawkins was
beginning to get excited, “Look, Fitzgerald, these days I earn my keep as a
newspaper reporter and I have been wanting a scoop on that haunted house for
months.”

“I don’t think Miss Sampford
would appreciate the publicity.” Tommy said coolly.

“Well, no, that’s been the
problem. But she can’t keep a lid on this chap shooting his head off, can she?
I’ve just been at the police station taking down the particulars. Coppers
aren’t going to follow it up, just a suicide to them. But I think there could
be a story here, what with it happening in
that
house.” Hawkins was
almost gleeful as he thought of the possibilities, “Before you know it every
journalist in Fleet Street is going to be camping on the doorstep, unless Miss
Sampford protects herself.”

At this point Clara
intervened.

“What are you suggesting Mr
Hawkins?”

“Every journalist wants a
piece of that story. Haunted houses sell papers, especially haunted houses
where someone dies in an unnatural manner. When I left the police station there
were already a dozen other reporters heading in, all after the same
information. I won’t deny that your average journalist is a bit like a vulture,
swooping in and tearing his own piece of meat from the carcass of a good story.
That’s how we operate. How we survive. Now the drama at No.50 is a prime story,
something outside the realms of politics and the monarchy, perfect for the
quiet spell newspapers have over Christmas. Every journalist wants to talk to
Miss Sampford, their pens are all a twitch as we speak. The only way she can
guard herself from all those story hungry vultures is to give an exclusive to
one of them and give the others the boot.”

“I imagine that exclusive
would be to your paper?” Clara asked.

“Well, as it happens...”
Hawkins shrugged his shoulders, “Look, I’ll do a sensitive piece, even change
names if she wants. Put her side across. But someone has to do something.”

“Look here Hawkins, we are not
here for your benefit.” Tommy said hotly, before Clara put a restraining hand
on his arm.

“Mr Hawkins, we cannot answer
on Miss Sampford’s behalf,” She said calmly, “However, I do see your point.
This story is too widespread for us to imagine the papers will simply ignore
it. I am prepared to speak with Miss Sampford on your behalf, to suggest it
might be in her best interest to tell her story to someone. But I want
something in return.”

Hawkins cocked his head,
curious.

“What would you want?”

“Nothing that would set you
out of your way, in fact, it will coincide with your interests. I want to know
more about William Henry Sampford, for a start why he was paying frequent
visits to London when he could ill afford them.”

Hawkins’ eyes lit up at this
new nugget of information.

“That makes it even more
interesting!”

“Do we have an agreement
then?” Clara held out her hand to shake.

Hawkins took it.

“I’ll see what I can dig up
and I shall pop by around seven this evening to hear Miss Sampford’s answer.”

“That will be just fine.”
Clara said.

Hawkins doffed his hat to them
and headed on his way. Clara and Tommy started back to Berkeley Square, Tommy
rather moody.

“Why did you agree to that?”
He grumbled.

“Because he is right. This
story is going to have everyone camped on Miss Sampford’s doorstep. At least an
exclusive will bring her some peace and he can investigate places I can’t. I
need to know more about William Henry.”

“Well, I don’t trust him.”

“I didn’t say I did, but this
is a situation where I need all the help I can get. Who better than a
journalist to rake up every scrap of scandal about William Henry?”

“I hope you are right.”

“There may be another
advantage to this development. With all this publicity our ghost may think it
desirable to stay away for a time.”

“You still thing the ghost is
a living person?”

“More so than ever.” Clara
wove them in and out of the crowds, “And I am starting to have a nasty feeling
Miss Sampford is in a lot more danger than I first imagined.”

The ghost hunters were at work
when Clara and Tommy returned. Andrews was ignoring the suicide of William
Henry as an inconvenience that need not interrupt his investigations. Bridget
Harper was drifting around the third floor trying to pick up the vibes left
behind by the deceased man. But aside from that, all attention was fixed on the
second floor. Andrews was convinced he would obtain proof of a ghost that
coming night and he had Oliver fixing up a remotely triggered camera. Clara
simply tutted at them and headed for the drawing room.

There a glum Miss Sampford sat
with Edward, Hilda and Elijah. Amelia was noticeable by her absence.

“Hello Clara, I wondered where
you had gone.” Miss Sampford looked up and gave a sad smile.

“I took Tommy to see the
Cenotaph.” Clara said.

“Ah, the place where that
woman is supposed to have taken a photograph of all those ghostly soldiers on
Remembrance Day.”

Clara had not heard Andrews
come in behind her. Now she turned and saw him.

“I am surprised you are
carrying on with your investigations, Mr Andrews.” She said coldly.

“Why would you be surprised?”
Andrews asked innocently.

“It’s in rather poor taste.”

Andrews snorted.

“I am not investigating the
man who died, so I hardly see your point.”

“Please, do not fight.” Miss
Sampford had her hands clenched into fists and looked a picture of misery, “I
can’t take it today. My poor nephew is dead in my own house. I have given
permission for Mr Andrews to carry on and so be it.”

Andrews smirked at Clara.

“I am setting up a water
experiment, would you care to see?”

“Not really.” Clara said, “I
have other things to do.”

“As you wish.” Andrews grinned
at her again as he picked up an odd brass instrument from a side table and left
the room.

“I know he annoys you Clara.”
Miss Sampford said as soon as the man was gone, “But having him and his strange
experiments in the house keeps me from thinking about what happened last
night.”

“I understand.” Clara placed a
sympathetic hand on Miss Sampford’s shoulder, “And I will continue my
investigations as best I can.”

~~*~~

Oliver had been tailing the
ghost hunters all morning, in part to see if he could find any information
useful to Clara, but also because he was extremely curious about the whole
affair. Oliver was fascinated by the thought of ghosts, though he could not say
for certain that he believed in their existence. The photograph he had taken
that first night and developed from a badly cracked plate was extremely
intriguing and he now wanted to know more. Just the thought of encountering the
ghost of Berkeley Square sent a shiver of excitement down his spine. Oliver was
sure Clara would scold him for such foolishness, but he couldn’t help it. He
was hooked.

Not that he understood what
Andrews was on about with his buckets and shallow trays of water. Andrews had
muttered something about ghosts being attracted to water and appeared to be
creating a pathway of liquid obstacles for a spectre to follow – or rather for
someone to fall over in the middle of the night and get completely drenched.
Once again Andrews had sealed the staircase door, though nothing had broken his
precautions the previous night. Possibly the ghost had been as disturbed as
everyone else by the horrors of William Henry’s demise. Oliver had to admit the
thought of the man’s obliterated face haunted him whenever he closed his eyes.
He had seen some things during his time as a police photographer, but the scene
upstairs would take some beating. No one, he concluded, should go to their
maker looking like corned beef hash.

Bridget Harper was prowling
about on the edge of Andrews’ experiment with a volume of poetry in her hands.
She appeared to have been reading the same page for some time. Oliver tried to
observe her as Clara would; he saw a tall woman who liked to give the
impression of being aloof and somewhat above everyone else. She was not
precisely pretty, though her aura of mystery could be said to give her a
certain charm to the right type of man. To be honest, she scared rather than
enticed Oliver, she reminded him of a cat his aunt once owned. As a little boy
he recalled how it used to perch on a table and glare at him, as if he was no
more than some unspeakable worm it had just stumbled across. His aunt doted on
that cat. Bridget Harper made him feel the same way; she even seemed to have
the eyes of a cat. It didn’t help that Bridget was apparently completely
disinclined to speak to anyone today, particularly Oliver.

Facetious – that was a good
word to describe her. Oliver felt quite satisfied with this description,
perhaps he would make a detective after all. Simon Jones wandered over to him
with a small bowl of water.

“Reminds me of the finger
bowls the Chinese like to use.” He said, showing the porcelain bowl to Oliver,
“Andrews’ says you are going to try and photograph this ghost?”

“If I can.” Oliver answered, “So
far the ghost has been rather elusive.”

“You find that quite often at
the start of an investigation. It’s the arrival of new people that does it.
That’s the reason Andrews likes to use the water experiment early on.”

“Might I ask what it is
intended to do?” Oliver tapped a copper jelly mould that had been upturned on a
side table and half-filled with water. He wondered if Mrs James knew.

“Well, the theory is that
ghosts can draw energy from moisture. It’s why many hauntings occur near rivers
or underground streams. Mr Lethbridge at Cambridge first proposed the idea.
Andrews feels that by creating a corridor of water for the spirit to tap into,
excuse the pun, he might lure it out. The plan is to make this place seem
irresistible and also to increase the strength of any phenomena by giving the
ghost plenty of energy to feed on.”

“Sounds a little
preposterous?” Oliver suggested, “I mean, it is just water.”

“Ah, but is it? Turn water
into steam and it can power an engine.”

“That’s a different
principle.”

“Really? Maybe ghosts are like
steam engines and can somehow siphon off the water to power themselves? Look, I
am man enough to admit there is a lot about this stuff I don’t understand, but
Andrews gets results.” Jones beamed brightly, “We were at this old abbey back
in the summer, lots of rumours of ghosts but nothing concrete. Andrews set up
his experiments and within three nights we had stunning evidence that the place
was positively heaving with foxes.”

Jones laughed.

“Andrews is as happy to
disprove ghosts as he is to prove them, that’s my point and it is why I believe
in his work.”

“But how will he even know if
the ghost is using the water?” Oliver asked.

“You’ll get activity. Wait and
see.” Jones wandered off with his little bowl, looking for a place to put it
down.

Oliver was about to disappear
himself, and find out when lunch was being served, when he sensed someone
behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and there was the haughty Bridget
Harper glaring down on him.

“Your friend, the detective?”

Oliver blinked.

“Clara?”

“Her, tell her she needs to
start believing in the unbelievable if she wants to solve this case.”

“Clara doesn’t really do the
unbelievable.”

“Just tell her she better
start.” Bridget Harper snapped shut her book of poetry with a thunk, “And tell
her, William Henry did not choose to die.”

Bridget moved away, much to
Oliver’s relief. He mused over her words. Clara was not going to like them one
bit. Clara liked her facts hard and her ghosts purely fictitious.

~~*~~

With Miss Sampford in such a
state of misery, it had been extremely difficult for Clara to broach the
subject of giving an exclusive to Hawkins with her. Surprisingly the old lady
was more amenable than Clara had expected.

“We suffragettes always
recognised the power of the press.” Miss Sampford explained with a tentative
smile, “Yes, this Mr Hawkins is quite right that I won’t be able to keep the
press at bay now William Henry is dead. I believe I have already seen one
loitering about, he has been standing under the trees in the Square and I quite
think he is watching the house.”

“I can’t say it is ideal
having the press involved, but this Hawkins fellow seems a necessary evil.”

“I am under no illusions
concerning the press.” Miss Sampford shrugged, “They will print what pleases them.
I suppose I ought to warn Amelia. She is talking about returning home this
afternoon.”

“I would prefer she stay
here.”

“So would I, but I expect our respective
reasons for that preference are very different.”

Clara left Miss Sampford in
the drawing room and went to the dining room window to peep out into the
Square. As Miss Sampford had said, there was a man lingering under a tree. He
was reading a newspaper, but on a cold Christmas Eve it seemed a very
preposterous activity. Clara couldn’t see his face below the brim of his pulled
down hat, but she suspected he was a member of the press come to get a scoop on
the house. Well, he was to be disappointed.

Clara left the window and
returned to the library. She turned her attention to the bookshelves, wondering
if there might be any insightful volume to be found there. Perhaps one on the
history of the house?

The library door handle turned
lightly and Clara looked up. The library door swung open a little. Clara waited
for someone to appear, but nothing more happened. She took a pace back and
tried to see around the door.

“Hello?”

There was no answer. Clara
went to the door and pulled it open. The corridor outside was empty; Andrews
and his team had gone for lunch leaving the water experiment to its own devices.
Clara glanced left then right. No sign of anyone. She took a step into the
hallway and her foot squelched on something. Looking down she saw a small
puddle of water on the floor.

“Damn Andrews!”

She went back into the library
and shut the door. That was when she heard the footsteps scuttling towards the
staircase.