05 - Mistletoe and Murder (2 page)

Clara glanced up.

“Oh good! It will show up any
footprints our ghost leaves behind!”

London was still dusting itself
off from four years of war and the subsequent financial downturn. All those
soldiers coming home to a changed world, one where there was little work and
even less money. One where women were demanding an equal place, along with the
poor, the disabled and just about everyone else who felt penalised for being
different. The Capital groaned at protests and riots, but then it had always
done that. Ministers in parliament yelled at each other and made promises
impossible to keep. The factories closed or expanded, depending as much on
circumstances as on the wit of their owners. The rich got richer, the poor got
poorer and, on the whole, the city rolled on as it had always done. Adapting,
adjusting and surviving.

Brighton and London had
developed a symbiotic relationship over the years; Brighton being the ideal
holiday spot for the worn-out Londoner. The great and the good had gone to
Brighton for the alleged health giving waters, following in the shadow of the
Prince Regent who, most famously, built the fabulously eccentric Royal Pavilion
– a mishmash of domes, gilt decoration and radiant tiles. During the years of
the great steam revolution Brighton’s popularity soared among the middle and
working classes who now found it possible to make day-trips to the town.
Brighton residents might argue that this, while boosting certain forms of
economy, had rather lowered the ‘tone’. Londoners of all ranks and kinds
descended on the resort whenever they were able, including those of a criminal
inclination. But whatever the downsides of being connected to the Capital via
road and rail, it had plenty of upsides as well. Not least the ease with which
Brightoners could visit the city.

Clara felt London was one of
those places it was nice to visit, but not somewhere she would want to live.
The number of vehicles on the road was a shock for a start and the terrible
roar of the traffic, coupled with the yells of irate drivers, made her shudder.
Within her first hour in the city she saw a motorcar skid and nearly collide
with a horse-drawn milk cart. The driver of the motorcar emerged from his
mechanical beast and began berating the fellow driving the cart for getting in
his way. A heated argument began and embroiled several passers-by, in general on
the side of the milkman. Clara watched it all from the relative safety of an
omnibus, wondering how anyone could live all their days in such a madhouse of a
place.

She had hoped that Berkeley
Square, one of the more prestigious parts of London, would at least afford some
peace from the craziness of the city – but she was completely wrong. While
Berkeley Square had begun life as a classic collection of Georgian townhouses
to accommodate the extremely wealthy (and the odd MP), the intervening years
had seen many of its properties transformed into businesses and the Square
thronged with shoppers, businessmen and traffic. The only peace from the drama
seemed to be found in the grand garden at its centre, around which the Square
was built.

“Which house is it?” Tommy
asked as their little party trooped along the pavement.

Annie was pushing his
wheelchair, Tommy having lost the use of his legs during the war, while Oliver
Bankes came behind them dragging a trunk that had accompanied him all the way
from Brighton. He had explained that it contained various pieces of
photographic equipment including his camera. Clara marched ahead of the group
looking out for door numbers, which seemed rather remiss in this neighbourhood.

“No. 50.” She replied to
Tommy’s question over her shoulder, “But I can’t see it.”

Finally she had to nip into a
high-end florist shop to make enquiries and was directed to a townhouse in the
middle of the row. Clara knocked loudly on the door and waited for a response.
The door was opened by a man in a suit who Clara took to be the butler. He
stared down his nose at her.

“Yes?”

“Clara Fitzgerald and party. I
am expected.” Clara handed over her card.

The butler gave it a cursory
look, then handed it back.

“Miss Sampford wants me to
direct you to the drawing room. Would you come this way?”

Offering no assistance for
either Tommy in his wheelchair (who had to negotiate several steps to reach the
door) or Oliver and his trunk, the butler vanished into the house. Clara was
not precisely astonished, more disappointed. She helped Annie with the chair
and then returned to assist Oliver, who was complaining his glass plates would
be all smashed at this rate. Once stationed in the hall she looked around for
the butler, only to find him gone. Annie was giving a thoughtful look to the
ornate staircase that dog-legged up to the next floor, wondering how on earth
they would get Tommy up it.

“That gentleman is most
inconsiderate.” Clara snapped.

At that moment the butler
emerged from an open doorway at the back of the hall.

“I have just enquired of Miss
Sampford of the possibility of arranging for the young gentleman to have a room
on the ground floor.” He said, making no sign he had heard Clara, “She suggests
the garden room would be most conveniently placed for such an arrangement. If
you would follow me?”

Tommy gave Clara a laughing
look. She ignored him, how was she to know the butler had gone off to adjust
arrangements? Especially after he left them standing on the doorstep.

The garden room was set at the
back of the house, off the main hall and down a second corridor. As its name
implied it overlooked the back of the house, onto a neat garden. It was
furnished in the fashions of the late Victorian period, with a great deal of
lace edgings and knickknacks.

“I shall arrange for a bed to
be brought down.” The butler continued, “I shall also inform the maid to make
up a fire. The water closet is just opposite, set behind the curve in the
stairs. If the arrangements are suitable might I suggest you accompany me to
the downstairs drawing room where I can fix you some drink?”

Oliver let go of the handle of
his trunk with a loud thud.

“Sounds good to me.”

“I’m sure it sounds good to
all of us.” Clara observed, “Please lead the way.”

The butler ushered them to
another room, this one overlooking the Square, which was equally decorated in
the style of the previous century. A lively fire was burning in the hearth and
gave the room a cosy air, while a large marmalade cat stretched out on a
red-striped sofa and eyed them suspiciously.

“Miss Sampford will be with
you shortly, might I serve you some drinks?”

The butler took their various
requirements and opened a well-stocked drinks cabinet at the back of the room.
Tommy, leaning precariously out of his wheelchair to catch a glimpse, reported
to them all in a whisper that he could make out at least five types of whisky,
several varieties of port and at least three types of sherry. Clara, who had
merely asked for tonic water, wondered if the tee-totallers in the party were
as well catered for as the alcoholics. Drinks served, the butler gave a stiff
bow and excused himself from the room.

Oliver collapsed inelegantly
into an armchair.

“That trunk was blooming
heavy.”

“I said to hire a porter at
the station.” Clara wandered to the fireplace and took a good look at the
ornaments on display. She had a suspicion that each and every one was of a
desirable and expensive nature.

“That butler gives me the
creeps.” Annie said.

“Everything gives you the
creeps.” Tommy responded teasingly, “He’s pretty typical of your average
Victorian butler. Probably been with the family centuries.”

“Yes, but you haven’t got to
go down to the servants’ quarters later and try and get along with him.” Annie reminded
him.

“Once you show the servants
the cake you made you will have no problems.” Tommy said with confidence.

Clara was studying some old
photographs on a side table. She assumed they were of Miss Sampford’s family,
but only one showed a male sitter; a robust, middle-aged gentleman with a bald pate
and grandiose side-whiskers. He looked out of the picture rather sternly, but
Clara decided this meant very little as everyone stared out of Victorian
photographs sternly, that was the problem with the long exposure times of the
early cameras. Other pictures showed the same woman at different times of her
life, presumably Miss Sampford. There was one of her as a girl, her hair long
and her dress distinctly Victorian. Another showed her slightly older in a
rowing boat with other girls, a third portrayed her in her forties astride a
camel in some foreign country. A final picture showed her as an old woman,
arm-in-arm with a much younger lady, grinning out at the photographer and
proudly pointing out her ‘Votes for Women’ sash. Oh yes, thought Clara, I
definitely like this woman.

The drawing room door opened
and in stepped the lady in question. Clara turned sharply from the photos and
saw herself face-to-face with the subject of the images. She was a small woman,
perhaps no more than five foot, but not wizened or hunched as some small old
women become. She stood tall and proud, her hair swept up on top of her head in
soft white folds. Her features were light, almost youthful, though her eyes
were enlarged slightly by a small pair of round gold glasses. Miss Sampford
stepped into the room with the soundless movement of a ballerina. There was no
hint of her eighty years; her stride was as graceful as a young girl moving
onto a dance floor. She took in her guests and smiled.

“Miss Fitzgerald.”

“Miss Sampford.”

They shook hands and Clara
took the opportunity to introduce her party. Miss Sampford gave them all a nod.

“I wish you had said over the
phone about Mr Fitzgerald’s requirements. I would have had it all arranged.”
Miss Sampford said.

“It slipped my mind.” Clara
admitted, a tad embarrassed. Tommy gave a mock ashamed look.

“I see you all have drinks. I
shall just pour myself one and join you. Please be seated, that goes for you
too Annie.” Miss Sampford moved off to the drinks cabinet and prepared herself
a sizeable tumbler of whisky and water.

She had flummoxed Annie with
her invitation to sit, the poor girl was glancing around trying to pick a spot
to sit that was both out of the way, but not so far as to possibly offend Miss
Sampford’s hospitality. Clara gently motioned for her to sit next to Tommy,
then positioned herself on the sofa next to the marmalade cat. The creature
gave her a very unwelcoming hiss.

“Ignore Bartley.” Miss
Sampford returned with her drink and shooed the cat off the chair, “He is
pedigree and exceedingly arrogant. He rarely bites, however.”

Clara found that only
partially comforting as the disagreeable cat stalked from the room.

“Now, I wish to say once again
how pleased I am you could come. I appreciate it must have interrupted your
Christmas plans.”

“Once I read your letter I
felt it was urgent I come down.” Clara said, “Some of the things you wrote
troubled me.”

“I can assure you they also trouble
me!” Miss Sampford sighed, “I really don’t know what to make of this matter. I
bought this house in 1909 and have never had any bother until now. I might have
been able to persuade myself it was all nonsense had not my servants started
leaving.”

“And all have gone because of
the ghost? You don’t think they are using that as an excuse to leave?” Tommy
interjected.

“I admit that is always a
possibility. But I pay decent wages and this is a quiet little household. No,
to lose so many and all for the same reason, it has to be more than just an
excuse.”

“What of long-standing
servants? Have they said anything?” Clara asked.

“Mr Humphry, the butler who
showed you in, dismisses the idea entirely. He is not the sort to believe in
ghosts. It is Mrs James, my cook, who troubles me most. She worked under my
mother and has been with me these last twenty or so years. She has never shown
the slightest inclination towards trouble in all that time, but now to hear her
talk of leaving for good because of a ghost… well, it astounds me.”

“And the other servants?”

“I have two maids, Flora and
Jane. They have been here just on a month and have made no mention of this
ghost business to me, though, that does not mean they have not seen anything. I
employ a gardener, but he only comes three times a week and lives out. The
others have rooms on the attic floor. As far as I know the gardener has seen
nothing, but then he is largely concerned with the outside of my home rather
than the inside.”

“You mentioned a nephew lives
with you?”

“Yes, Elijah. He is supposed
to be studying mathematics and stays with me when he has classes, but I’m not sure
the boy is cut out for the rigours of number-work.”

“How long has he been here on
this visit?”

“Since October.” Miss Sampford
tilted her head towards Clara, “I see what you are suggesting, perhaps he is
the cause? But the disturbances began in the summer when he was not here. I
will introduce you to him at dinner and you can make of him what you will,
after all, that is why I asked you here.”

“Is there anyone else who
regularly visits your household?”

“I do have a few friends who
drop in from time-to-time. I’m afraid quite a number of others have passed
away, when one gets to my age you spend a lot of time at funerals. I don’t get
out much these days. I suffer from a heart condition that makes it difficult.
So making new acquaintances has proved problematic. I would say I get around
one to two visits a week from friends, the most regular being Mrs Brown who
usually pops in on a Sunday afternoon.”

Clara made a note of this, not
entirely sure it was relevant.

“Now, about the ghost?”

“Ah, I shall stop you there.”
Miss Sampford held up a finger to emphasize her point, “My nephew, upon
learning of my invitation to you, has arranged that this ghost hunter of his
shall come to dinner and, no doubt, he will also want to know about the ghost.
I don’t feel inclined to repeat the matter twice in one day, so I suggest you
save your questions on that matter for tonight when we dine. I shall answer all
then. For the moment I shall show you to your rooms, I have arranged that your
maid will sleep in the dressing room off your bedroom Miss Fitzgerald.”