05 - Mistletoe and Murder (14 page)

“Let’s start at the beginning.”
Hawkins flicked over a page in his notebook, “Tell me about William Henry.”

It was half past seven in the
evening and Hawkins had arrived late for his appointment. Clara was sitting in
a chair by the fire feeling a little chilled and wondering if she was getting
Tommy’s cold. Miss Sampford was on the sofa opposite the journalist giving her
rendition of the incidents of the night before. Everyone else was in the dining
room eating dinner.

“Do you believe in ghosts,
Miss Sampford?” Hawkins asked, his pencil flicking across the notepad in fast
shorthand.

Clara rubbed her forehead with
her fingers as Miss Sampford once more recounted her experiences in the house.
Hawkins would want to interview Elijah next, then the troublesome Andrews.
Before long he would have enough information for a series, let alone one
article. And in a few hours it would be Christmas day. That seemed slightly
unreal to Clara; how was anyone supposed to think about Christmas with all this
going on? Amelia Sampford had somehow been persuaded to stay on at the house,
but her misery was palpable and cast a shadow over proceedings. Everyone else was
obviously shaken and no one wanted to talk about William Henry, which made
conversation with Amelia tricky. Even Clara found herself hedging around safe
topics and speaking the most inane rubbish to avoid upsetting her further.

“I cannot agree that my
nephew’s death was caused by this ghost.” Miss Sampford was saying hotly.

Clara glanced up.

“The evidence is compelling,
however.” Hawkins was flicking back through his notebook, “There have been two
other suicides and at least one suspicious death in this house over the last
200 years.”

“Such things occur without any
need for paranormal influence.” Miss Sampford replied stoutly.

“Might I ask,” Clara spoke up,
“What the other cases were? I don’t imply they were caused by the ghost, but
they may provide a reason for the haunting.”

She did not add that she still
anticipated the person behind the haunting to be very much a living, breathing
human being.

“Let’s see,” Hawkins went
through his notes, “Right, 1893, the house was in the possession of a man
called Mr Brooks, a bachelor who kept himself to himself according to the
neighbours. One night he came over strange and threw himself from a window in
the attic. He impaled himself on some railings in the fall and died soon after.
Not a pleasant spectacle.”

“Did he leave a note?”

“No, but his housekeeper said
he had been morose for some time.”

“What about the second
suicide?” Clara persisted.

“1835, Mr and Mrs Penn were
then living in the house for the season. Mr Penn was a plantation owner who had
not made himself very popular with the abolition of slavery movement. He was
outspoken and rather intolerant, from what I have read. Well, in the year I
mentioned he had a cousin to stay and there was some sort of argument between
the two. Mrs Penn could not state precisely what. But the cousin slit his
throat with a razor the next morning and Mr Penn is said to have gone mad with
remorse and ended up in an asylum.”

“And the murder?”

“1788. House belonged to a
minister called Benfold. Benfold had a wife and a mistress, the latter not
being very secret. No one can say quite what happened, but one day there was a
dreadful commotion in the house and the neighbours rushed in to find the
mistress and Mrs Benfold both lying in a pool of blood in one of the rooms on
the second floor. Benfold was apprehended trying to run through the garden with
a bloody bayonet in his hand. He refused to say what had occurred but he was
tried for murder and executed. Miraculously the wife survived, but the mistress
was done for. Quite a few people place the blame for the haunting at the
mistresses’ feet, so to speak.”

Clara nodded, that was similar
to the story Flo had told Annie.

“This bears no relation to the
matter of my nephew.” Miss Sampford shook her head, “Now, you have your story,
might I go eat my dinner?”

“Certainly.” Hawkins grinned,
“Sorry to have disturbed you.”

Miss Sampford gave a small
huff and left the room. Clara waited until she was gone.

“Your turn, Mr Hawkins.”

Hawkins gave her that same
cheesy smile.

“You want to know what I found
out about William Henry?”

“Precisely.”

“Seems the old boy wasn’t
quite what you would expect. He was a West End lad, if you know what that
means.”

Clara narrowed her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“The sort who prefers the back
row of theatres? Clearly this is new to the world of Brighton. Let’s just say
he had a lot in common with the unmentionable Oscar Wilde.”

“Ah.” Clara understood, “We
are not so naïve in Brighton Mr Hawkins, but your terminology eluded me. William
Henry was not a man who chased women behind his wife’s back then?”

“Hardly. But he certainly
chased men.”

Clara nodded, things started
to make sense.

“Anyone in particular?”

“Haven’t come across a
specific name as such, but his regular trips to London put him in all the right
places for meeting the right fellows. I suspect he was after a casual fling,
nothing serious.”

“A dangerous game for any man,
but especially one who so values his reputation.” Clara said, “He would have
been a ripe candidate for blackmail.”

“Do you think that is what
caused his suicide?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Don’t get cagey now Miss
Fitzgerald.” Hawkins winked at her, “Not as if my editor will let me print any
such speculations in the paper anyway. Know how much trouble I could get in for
such talk, no matter how true it is?”

“Quite. I don’t suppose you have
any names of folks I might call upon to tell me more?”

“They don’t exactly give their
names.” Hawkins winked again.

“Hawkins, I need more. There
is something very wrong in this household, I fear for Miss Sampford’s life.”

Hawkins was genuinely surprised.

“That dear old lady?”

“Yes. The problem is, out of
the two suspects I had in mind for being behind this, one has a reasonable
alibi and the other is dead. Yet we still have a ghost that seems a little too ‘flesh
and blood’ for my liking.”

Hawkins mused on this a
moment.

“What do you want to know?”

“Two things, first I want to
know for certain that William Henry’s only reason for coming to London was to
find companionship and nothing else. Second, see what you can root out about
Miss Sampford’s past. As awful as that sounds, I feel the clue to this mystery
lies in our hostess and none other. She was a suffragette and quite political
in her day, perhaps she made enemies?”

“Not much then.” Hawkins
snorted in amusement.

“If I was on my home turf I
would be doing this myself, as it is I must rely on someone who knows this city
inside and out.”

“I appreciate your confidence,
Miss Fitzgerald.”

“Well, we shall see if it is
well-placed. I think it is time I got to my dinner Mr Hawkins, and no doubt you
have an exclusive to pen.”

“I do indeed, and I need to
get back to the wife, promised to take her to Midnight Mass.”

“That sounds very pleasant.”
Clara escorted him to the front door, feeling no need to summon Humphry from
his duties in the dining room.

Hawkins doffed his hat at her
and strolled down the front steps whistling. Clara paused long enough at the
front door to note that the man under the tree was still there and looking
mighty cold. She closed the door and headed down to the kitchen.

“Mrs James, might I beg a few
slices of that lovely beef you served for lunch in a sandwich and a hot cup of
tea?”

Mrs James glanced up from a
mulberry jelly she was carefully decorating with mint sprigs.

“Certainly madam.” She
disappeared into the pantry and returned after a few moments with a plate of
cold beef and a large loaf of bread. As she cut and buttered the bread Clara
kept talking.

“Where are all the house keys
kept Mrs James?”

“Well the room keys are
usually in the doors of the rooms, the front and back door keys are on hooks in
Humphry’s room and he also keeps a master key on him at all times.”

Clara took note of this, it
would have been easy for William Henry to remove the key from the unused
bedroom door and lock himself inside with no one knowing.

“Please remind Jane not to
come down the back stairs tonight. Mr Andrews has set up some ghastly water
experiment. I fear we shall all be drowned by morning.”

Mrs James smiled at the joke
as she handed over a thick sandwich the size of a doorstep and a cup and saucer
of hot tea.

“Will that be all Madam?”

“For the moment, now might I
use the back door?”

Mrs James nodded and watched
curiously as Clara carried out her refreshment into the snowy garden.

Clara had discovered the
narrow alley leading from the back of No.50 to the main Square when she was on
a hunt for footprints in the freshly laid snow earlier that day. Needless to
say she had found none that could not be accounted for, which was deeply
frustrating. But then the ghost had not appeared last night, so perhaps no one
had been in the garden to make unaccountable footprints? Clara wondered how the
ghost had caught wind of the drama at the Square. Yes news spread fast, but the
perpetrator would likely have already been on their way to begin the haunting
when the story broke. Unless they saw the police, of course.

She stepped carefully up a few
steps and into the dim light of a streetlamp. Clara’s breath formed foggy
clouds in the cold night air. She strode across the road and straight towards
the figure beneath the tree. The watcher was so wrapped in his coat, hat and
scarf and so focused on the house, that he failed to notice Clara until she was
right on top of him, and then he jumped in surprise.

“You looked cold.” Clara held
out the beef sandwich and tea, “Clara Fitzgerald, by the way, staying with Miss
Sampford.”

The man eyed the food
suspiciously.

“It isn’t poisoned.” Clara said.

Cautiously, as if it might be
booby-trapped, he took up the hefty sandwich and pulled down his scarf to bite
into it. Clara glimpsed a fluffy moustache and a broken tooth as he devoured
the offering.

“Thanks miss.” He mumbled
through breadcrumbs.

“Don’t tell me you have stood
here all day without food?” Clara held out the cup of tea, “That is really
foolish in this weather.”

The lurker looked abashed.

“I was told to stand here and
watch. I didn’t like to leave and get something to eat.”

“Drink your tea.” Clara pushed
the cup into his hands, “Who told you to stand here anyway?”

“Can’t say miss.” The man’s
head seemed to sink into his scarf.

“Well, if you are newspaperman
your editor is going to be very disappointed, because the gentleman who just
left has been given an exclusive on the story.”

“I don’t work for the
newspapers, miss.” He took the tea and slurped at it.

“Then who has had you standing
here all day? Really, it is quite ridiculous. We have been watching you from
the window, so it is hardly a secret you are here.”

“Really?” The man looked
forlorn, “I’m no good at this lark. It isn’t what I do normally.”

“So what is your usual job?”

“I fit and repair floors. Got
a loose floorboard, I’m your man, want some carpet laid, not a problem.”

“But you aren’t working
today?”

“Nah, got today off. You see
these last few weeks I’ve been working in No.49 sorting out the floors. Lot of
dry rot in that building, I had to replace a whole chunk of the second floor.
It was in a dreadful state, especially where some fool had placed a bathtub and
let it overflow on a regular basis. Must have been every night for years. Floor
contained more water than the sea!”

“Dreadful.” Clara nodded
sympathetically, “So you work for Mr Mollinson?”

The man’s face fell.

“You won’t tell him you saw
me, will you?”

“Does he know you are here?”
Clara asked, already guessing the answer.

The man gave a long sigh,
realising the game was up.

“Mr Mollinson asked me to keep
a watch on the house and Miss Sampford. Said he thought there was trouble
brewing.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“He said he thought Miss
Sampford was making up all this ghost business to ruin his hotel venture, out
of spite because of the pressure he had been putting on her. Said no one wants
to stay in a hotel next to a haunted house, ‘specially where someone has died.”

“He heard about that then?”

“Yes, saw it in the early
edition of
The Times
. He said I needed to watch what was going on and he
would pay me double my normal rate if I did so.”

“Well now, a fine spot of
bother your Mr Mollinson has put you to.” Clara patted him on the shoulder, “Go
back to your employer and tell him that on my word of honour there is nothing
going on here deliberately designed to harm him. There is trouble at No. 50 and
I am here to attempt to stop things getting worse. Any assistance would be
appreciated, but otherwise I wish him a very merry Christmas.”

The watcher shuffled his feet
and started to move away.

“Thanks for the food and
drink, miss, and for being so understanding.”

Clara shrugged.

“Tell Mr Mollinson if he wants
to know anything more all he has to do is ask.”

The carpet-fitter gave a
little nod then scampered off, no doubt looking forward to warming himself
before a good fire and airing the chill out of his bones. Clara headed back
inside, satisfied that at least one small mystery was solved.