05 - Mistletoe and Murder (20 page)

“Is this the blue stuff?” She
asked.

Amelia looked physically
exhausted now, she was trembling all over and sobbing, her hands still worked
sporadically to try and scare off the birds or whatever other hallucinations
she was experiencing. She managed to nod.

Clara made up a draught of the
medicine in a glass using water from a jug sitting on the bedside table. She
offered it with some reluctance to Amelia, but the woman grabbed for it and
drank with relish. It took very little time before her body relaxed and she
seemed to be enveloped in a sort of peace. Clara helped her to her bed – Amelia
was in a stupor – then carefully hid the bottle back away in William Henry’s shaving
kit. She went to inform Miss Sampford of developments and to summon a doctor.
It was only half past ten in the morning and already the house was in chaos yet
again.

Dr Harrison arrived within half
an hour – that was the advantage of living at a good London address and being
known as a patient who paid her bills promptly, Miss Sampford explained
candidly. Dr Harrison had been attending Miss Sampford for nearly twenty years
and was on good enough terms with his oldest patient to feel comfortable
addressing her by her Christian name as he entered the door.

“Dear Edith, whatever is the
matter? Not like you to summon me to a house call?”

“It is not for me Dr
Harrison,” Miss Sampford hastily assured him, “But for my poor niece-in-law who
has taken quite a funny turn. May I introduce Miss Clara Fitzgerald who is a
friend staying with me this Christmas? She was present when Amelia became unwell.”

“Miss Fitzgerald.” Dr Harrison
offered a hand to shake, “Might you explain what has occurred while we head to
the patient?”

Clara outlined the strange
behaviour of Amelia as they mounted the stairs, remarking that Elijah had said
she had been talking to herself at night.

“We might at first assume this
was a nervous breakdown caused by the suicide of her husband.” Clara
elaborated, “But the fact she had a bottle containing some sort of medicine,
which she had clearly been taking for some time, indicates this is a long
standing problem.”

“It sounds like a case of
acute hysteria.” Dr Harrison nodded, “Has she ever been seen by a psychiatrist?”

“I doubt William Henry would
ever allow such a thing.” Miss Sampford answered as she followed the doctor and
Clara upstairs.

“Shame. Some of them are
really rather good.”

Dr Harrison was directed into
the patient’s bedroom where she still lay prone on the bed, a dreamy, contented
look on her face.

“Where is this medicine?” He
asked.

Clara retrieved the bottle
from its hiding place and handed it to the doctor.

“I realise its atrocious
stuff, but the state she was in I didn’t think it sensible to keep it from
her.”

Dr Harrison placed a pair of
small glasses on his nose and peered at the label on the bottle.

“Hmm.” He said to himself, “It
is not for me to judge my fellow physicians, but this would knock out a horse.
How long do you suppose she has been taking it?”

Clara had no answer for that.
Dr Harrison went to the bed, took Amelia’s pulse and listened to her heart. He
snapped his fingers over her face to see if she responded, there was no
movement.

“Aside from her late husband,
does she have anyone to care for her?” He asked, looking sadly at Amelia.

“I’m afraid there is no one.”
Miss Sampford admitted, “Servants, of course.”

“At the least she needs a
nurse.” Dr Harrison responded, “Someone who could monitor her emotional state
and administer medicine. I would not be happy allowing a woman in such a state
to self-medicate. But before that I would highly recommend she attend a private
hospital where they can assess her mental and physical state. I dare say they
will also want her off this stuff,” He indicated the blue medicine bottle, “and
onto a more fitting medicine, but that is not going to be an easy process and
should not be attempted at home.”

“I shall have to discuss that
with my brother.” Miss Sampford sighed, “Thank you for coming Dr Harrison.”

“Not a problem, Miss
Sampford.”

Clara offered to see the
doctor out, which afforded her an opportunity to speak with him in private.

“Doctor, may I ask, could
Amelia be potentially dangerous?”

“In what way?” Dr Harrison
looked at her curiously.

Clara decided to hedge around
the truth.

“Matters have been strained
since the death of William Henry and Amelia has been increasingly hostile to
others in the house, mainly in her manner of speaking. I wondered if there was
any risk to other members of the household, particularly should she learn she
is to be sent to a hospital. Might she react violently?”

Dr Harrison paused at the door.

“With cases like this anything
is possible, I’m afraid. Though, in the main, I find the person they are
usually most dangerous to is themselves.”

Clara thanked him and watched
him leave, his highly polished shoes skidding a little on the icy path. She closed
the door and considered what he had said. Supposing, just supposing, the woman
who had attempted to kill Miss Sampford last night had nothing to do with the
actual ghost, but was Amelia pretending to be her? It was possible, by all
means. Clara could not imagine any sane or rational person acting in such a
manner. There had been a certain frenzied madness about the figure who leaned
over her with a knife last night. And who better than a guest in the house to
let herself in and out? But was that too complicated? Two people masquerading
as ghosts in the same house (because the first ghostly appearance had occurred
before Amelia’s arrival)? Clara felt the idea a little preposterous, but she
could not shake from her mind the idea that Amelia might be insane enough to
murder her husband’s aunt.

Clara made her way into the
drawing room to compose her thoughts. Hilda and Edward Sampford were sitting
reading as if nothing had occurred over the last few days. Clara was beginning
to find them annoying.

“What was all that commotion
about, dear?” Hilda glanced up from a book about the horticultural needs of
Dahlias.

“Amelia took a funny turn.”
Clara answered.

Hilda gave her husband a
knowing look.

“I said as much, did I not
Edward? I said that girl was not right.”

“That you did.” Edward said,
not looking up from a volume on the Napoleonic wars.

“She has been unwell a while?”
Clara asked.

“Since the day William Henry
married her.” Hilda had a way of looking over her glasses that put Clara in
mind of a rather pompous teacher she had once had, “Of course, her family is of
good breeding which is presumably why he picked her.”

“That and the money.” Edward
interjected solemnly.

“Well yes, and that.” Hilda
conceded, “Still, they managed all right I suppose. Though it’s no wonder they
had no children.”

“At least we won’t have any
madness running through the family line.” Edward added, with a rather satisfied
tone.

Clara was rather relieved that
Miss Sampford appeared at that moment.

“What an awful nightmare.” She
tutted, “The doctor wants Amelia sent to a hospital.”

“Sounds wise to me, Edith,
what else can you do with her? Can’t have you nursing her here.” Edward finally
looked up from his book.

“I know, but I feel so awful
about it. Like I am sending her to a madhouse. I keep thinking about what
William Henry would say.”

“William Henry clearly
couldn’t cope with the woman anymore.” Hilda declared, “And instead of facing
up to his problems he abandoned them to us. Sit down won’t you Edith? You look
done in.”

“I feel that way too.” Miss
Sampford sank onto a sofa, “I have half a mind to be done with New Year’s and
ask you all to go home and let me recuperate in peace.”

Clara caught the glance Miss
Sampford threw at her as she spoke and realised she had finally demurred to
Clara’s suggestion. Neither Hilda nor Edward noticed the look.

“Really, you mustn’t fret
Edith.” Hilda patted her hand affectionately.

“Old girl, you’ve got to keep
strong. Can’t have you going downhill too.” Edward put an arm, rather stiffly,
about his older sister’s shoulders.

Clara decided she was now an
interloper in a family moment and left the room. She had other business to
attend to anyway. She pulled the note Elijah had handed her from her pocket and
read the names. Elijah had provided both home addresses and places of
employment for the individuals listed. Clara decided it was worth seeing if any
of them worked on Boxing Day. She fetched her coat and hat and set off into the
snow.

~
~ * ~ ~

Sebastian Grey had trained as
a lawyer, but his heart was never in it. Each term at university was a slog
that wore him down a little bit more, until his father abruptly died in his
final year and Sebastian came into his inheritance far sooner than he had
expected. Suddenly the endless days of courtrooms and panelled offices that
Grey had once dreaded disappeared as if into a bad dream and he was free to
live his life as he chose. With no siblings to worry him, and only an elderly
uncle to answer to, he left the countryside of Hertfordshire and took a flat in
London, from there he pursued a career in show business.

Sebastian Grey was not much of
a performer, but he had an eye for talent and within a year of setting himself
up as a theatrical agent he quickly had a respectable client list. A little
judicious investment in London theatres and playhouses earned him the favour of
managers and actors alike. In short, at the stately age of 23, Grey was doing
well for himself and he knew it.

Clara found him – after an abortive
trip to his office – in the second row of red velvet seats at Pickerson’s
Variety Theatre. The manager was holding auditions and a number of young ladies
were huddled around the stage door and inside the lobby, smoking like chimneys
and trying to keep warm in their flimsy stage clothes. Grey was representing some
of his clients who were hoping to get a spot in Pickerson’s latest theatrical
undertaking. Clara slipped in unnoticed, because theatres are never very
well-guarded unless a performance is going on, and she walked through the stage
door brazenly under the nose of the doorman, who took one look and assumed she
was there to audition. Clara didn’t disabuse him of the idea and found her way,
after a few wrong turns, into the auditorium.

She didn’t know what Grey
looked like, but there were only two men in the seats and one was shouting
directions at a group of five girls on stage. The second was lounging back in
his chair, smoking a black cigarillo. Clara, deciding that an agent was
unlikely to be directing girls on stage, plucked for the smoking man as the likely
Sebastian Grey. She slipped into the row and shuffled towards him.

“Sebastian Grey?”

“Who’s asking, sweetheart?”
Grey gave her a leer that was so lascivious Clara found herself thinking Elijah
had been hopelessly wrong about the man’s inclinations.

“Clara Fitzgerald. Sorry to
bother you. Might I have a word?”

“Are you a singer or a
dancer?” Grey cast his eyes over her, “Or a comedienne? I’m not looking to
represent one of those.”

“I’m not a performer Mr Grey.
I am a private detective, working on behalf of the Sampford family.”

Grey showed no concern, just
puffed on his cigarillo.

“What has that got to do with
me?”

“Perhaps nothing. You see, I
am trying to learn more about William Henry Sampford. I believe you were a
friend of his?”

“Nope.” Grey said, his grin
never leaving his face, “Hey, Derek, you going to get those girls dancing or
what?”

The man, who had been trying
to show the girls the way he wanted them to stand on the stage, turned to Grey
and gave a hefty shrug. Then he motioned to someone in the wings and music
began to play.

“You watch this, sweetheart,
these girls are corkers.” Grey said to Clara, again his eyes roved over her,
“Reckon you might be all right up there too. Men like a bit of flesh on their
dancing girls, a bit of wobble and ripple.”

Clara couldn’t decide whether
to be offended or (in an age when so many fashion magazines insisted girls with
curves were abnormal) flattered. All she could safely say was that she was
feeling most uncomfortable. Things began to get worse as the music ramped up
and the girls on stage, who had previously been moving around in rather mundane
theatrical poses, started to strip off their clothes.

“Told you they are corkers.”
Grey smirked as flimsy skirts and blouses dropped to the floor. It was the
first time in Clara’s life that she had seen another adult woman naked. That
uncomfortable feeling was getting worse.

“Mr Grey, you do recall Elijah
Sampford who you were at university with, I suppose?”

“Yeah, him? Boring as
dishwater, old Elijah.”

“Well, William Henry was his
uncle. On Christmas Eve he shot himself.”

Grey’s grin froze a little. His
still eyes followed the girls on stage, but Clara sensed his mind was
elsewhere.

“I am not here to cause you
any problems Mr Grey. All I am trying to discover is why William Henry took his
own life. It has been suggested to me that I should speak to some of his
special friends, and you, I was led to believe, were one of them.”

“You were led to believe
wrong.” Grey stubbed out his cigarillo in one of the little ashtrays theatres
have attached to the back of their seats.

“Mr Grey, please, your name
will not be shared with anyone, but I fear William Henry was being blackmailed
and this led to him taking his own life. Surely you want the person who drove
him to such lengths caught?”

Grey said nothing.

“I appreciate a man of your
inclinations has to be extremely careful.”

“Inclinations?” Grey glanced
at her, “What inclinations would those be?”

“Oscar Wilde loved the theatre
too.” Clara said in answer.

Grey snorted.

“I don’t know who you have
been talking with, but you have the wrong end of the stick, love. I spend my
days surrounded by beautiful, semi-clad women. What more do you need to know?”

“And I imagine not a single
one of those girls ever goes home with you.” Clara looked at him pointedly, “I
am not judging Mr Grey, I just need help understanding William Henry. I thought
you might give me some answers.”

“You thought wrong,
sweetheart.” Grey’s attention was back on his dancers, “Well Derek? I said they
were beauts.”

Derek gave him a shrug.