01 - Memories of the Dead (10 page)

“I imagine he was pleased.”

“I can’t say, I never met
him.” Delmont reclined back in her chair, “Actually now you mention it a man
did call on her, but I don’t recall the whole matter, just a lot of shouting.
Of course, the scandal ruined her reputation, and no one would visit her
anymore. I think it was her lack of discretion that upset people. I mean, going
around naming a man a murderer, is just awful, isn’t it?”

“I was under the impression
she was afraid of the man she named?” Clara hinted.

“If she was it certainly
didn’t stop her speaking about him everywhere she went. I do know her husband
was quite appalled and he found the move very difficult.”

“He has close ties to
Eastbourne?”

“No, but he came back from the
war in a bad way and just refused to leave the house ever again. Effectively
prevented him working so I suppose that is why Mrs Greengage took up the
séances. She didn’t do them before the war.”

“But eventually he had to
leave the house.”

“Certainly, but only with a
good dose of morphine inside him I dare say. Only saw him briefly as he was
helped into the moving men’s cart. He hid himself up in the back. A lot of that
sort of behaviour is in the mind, you know.”

Clara made no comment.

“The more I think about it the
more I am convinced they were a really odd pair.” Madame Delmont flicked the
red and blue beads.

“Well, thank you for taking
the time to talk to me.” Clara stood from her seat.

“Sorry I couldn’t be more
help.” Madame Delmont didn’t move, “Let yourself out, won’t you?”

Clara tutted under her breath
and fudged on her gloves. As she reached the door she paused.

“I don’t suppose you remember
the name of the man Mrs Greengage accused of murder?”

“Wait a moment.” Madame
Delmont tapped her chin, “Yes, actually, I think it was Mr Hansom, like the
cabs.”

“Thank you.” Clara said,
letting herself out.

On the pavement she continued
to fidget with her gloves, her mind racing over all the information she had
just been told. This Mr Hansom had to be a suspect, a far better one than Mrs
Wilton.

She was glancing up the street
looking for Tommy, when she saw him. It was only for a second. He was standing
at the end of an alley between two houses and looking straight across at Clara.
In that instant she was certain it was the man who had followed her the other
night. Then Tommy called her name and she turned instinctively. By the time she
looked back the man was gone.

“Any luck?” Tommy called.

“A little.” Clara said, unable
to take her eyes off the empty alley.

“Been a bit of a dead end for
us, I’m afraid.” Tommy replied, “Several houses had no one home but the
servants and most of the others never had much to do with Mrs Greengage so
couldn’t help. Mrs Rimpton at number 23 had called on her neighbour when she
wanted to get in contact with her late cat but apparently Mrs Greengage wasn’t
agreeable on the matter.”

“So she had some limits? I
propose we head back for the train if everyone is happy and I will tell you
what I learned.” Clara prised her eyes from the alley telling herself it was a
trick of the light or her memory.

“I saw they serve teas at the
station.” Annie said helpfully.

“I quite fancied that Lyons
teashop we passed on the way here.” Countered Tommy.

“Have you seen their prices
since the war?” Annie cocked her head on one side and looked scolding.

“A man doesn’t get luxuries
like that very often.”

“Luxuries? I call it a luxury
if I can get soap enough to do the weekly wash!”

Clara only half-listened to
them playfully arguing. Her mind was on the strange figure. It was preposterous
that she might be followed and even more so that her stalker would trail her
here. After all, he would have had to get on her train which meant he had been
watching her house to see where she would go. Otherwise he could not have known
she was going to Eastbourne. Clara worried at the idea. It was ridiculous, but
it was even more so to believe that a complete stranger could turn up in the
same place as herself twice in a row. So perhaps she was seeing things?

Except… except he had just
vanished as if he didn’t want to be noticed and he had been looking directly at
her, of that she was certain.

Clara shuddered. Maybe she should
tell Tommy, but the inspector had thought she was being silly and maybe her
brother would too? She sighed, perhaps after all she was just becoming
paranoid.

Hurrying, she caught up with
Annie and Tommy and discovered her brother had won the argument and they were
heading for the Lyons teashop. As they walked on, Clara only had the courage to
look over her shoulder once.

It was rather early to be knocking on a person’s door but
Clara had a lot to do today and felt bold enough to risk being impolite. Mr
Greengage opened the door looking a little worried.

“I do apologise for the
earliness of this visit Mr Greengage. You remember me from the Spiritualist
Society?”

Mr Greengage hesitated for a
moment and fiddled with the buttons on his waistcoat where a fresh yellow egg
stain lingered. He touched the damp spot and absent-mindedly put his finger to
his mouth to lick off the mess.

“I came just after your wife’s
sad departure.” Clara clarified.

Mr Greengage’s face sank.

“Oh yes.”

“I wanted to check you were
doing all right. I have an appointment in the area later and as I was passing I
thought I would drop by.”

“That’s very kind.” Mr
Greengage pulled at his buttons again, “Would you care to come in?”

Clara nodded her assent and,
to her horror, Mr Greengage led her through into the front parlour where only
two days before his wife’s cold body had lain. Clara froze on the threshold,
her eyes unerringly seeking out the blood stain on the rug and finding it. The
man hadn’t bothered to even move the rug! Clara felt her stomach turn.

On the table, where Mrs
Greengage had given her last séance, sat a half-eaten plate of bacon and eggs.
Clara was so stunned that for a moment she forgot that she wasn’t supposed to
know the murder had occurred in this very room.

“You eat in here?” Her voice
sounded sharp to her ears.

“It gets the best light in the
mornings.”

Clara regained her composure,
reminding herself that Mr Greengage was just a rather peculiar man and that she
was supposed to be a sympathetic friend of his late wife.

“I was brought up that front
rooms were only for births, marriages and funerals.” She had meant the comment
to explain her consternation, but as soon as the words slipped out she couldn’t
believe how tactless they sounded.

Fortunately Mr Greengage
seemed oblivious.

“My mother was like that. What
nonsense, why have a room and not use it I say, do take a seat.”

For a moment Clara thought her
feet wouldn’t move, then she shoved her emotions firmly down in the pit of her
belly and, with great effort, sat down in a chair. She resolutely avoided
looking at the blood stain.

“I see you are doing as well
as can be expected.” Clara spoke, aware her throat felt tight around each word.

“It’s lonely, but I get by.”
Mr Greengage replied, “People have been very kind, but I really don’t know what
I shall do now. I suppose you are aware that my dear Martha paid all our bills
with her talents?”

“I was aware you had had…
complications.”

“Doctors call it Agoraphobia.
It’s a nervous disorder that means I can’t stand being in big open spaces. Just
stepping outside the house has me trembling with fear. When the police made me
leave while they were investigating I thought I would die.” He shuddered, “I
was so relieved to get back inside these four walls.”

“It doesn’t bother you that
your wife… died… here?”

“I don’t really think about
it. Mostly I just sit and worry about what the future holds.” Mr Greengage
gazed forlornly at his plate.

Clara felt a wave of pity for
this poor, strange man. He looked so miserable, so lost, yet she could offer no
solution to him.

“How long is it since you last
worked?”

“Before the war.” Mr Greengage
jabbed his fork into the remains of egg white, “I was on the stage, you know? I
was quite well-known in my time. Performed in a lot of end-of-the-pier shows.
There was even talk of going to London but then the war came. Everything
changed after that. I was injured and lay in No Man’s Land for two days. When
they found me apparently I was completely out of my mind. I was screaming and
raving. All I remember is the shrieking of the shells going over and the
popping of the guns. I lay in constant fear of a shell landing near me and all
I could see was this big open sky, knowing that at any moment a shell could
fall out of it and finish me. When I recovered I could no longer face open
spaces.”

Clara was listening to his
story, but her thoughts had slipped to Tommy. He had never really spoken about
his war experiences. She pictured him lying alone in No Man’s Land and her
stomach clenched painfully.

“I’m sorry, I have made you
sad.”

Clara looked up in surprise at
the comment from Mr Greengage. She abruptly realised there were tears running
down her face.

“I am fine.” She fumbled for a
handkerchief, “I was just thinking of my brother. He had a similar ordeal to
you in the war.”

“Is he all right?”

“Not entirely, no.” Clara put
away the handkerchief, ferociously determined to shed no further tears.

“Let me show you something
from a better time.” Mr Greengage tapped her hand and escorted her into the
study. Clara was only too pleased to get out of the parlour.

Mr Greengage went to the big
writing desk and pulled down the front. From it he drew a pile of posters and
handed them to Clara. She looked at the first one. It was black with boxy red
letters and a face drawn in semi-silhouette. She recognised the features as an
earlier version of Mr Greengage.

“That was my first headline
performance.” He explained.

She flicked to the next
poster, this one was rather plainer. On a beige background a black and white
figure in a dinner suit lifted his arms to an audience of dogs, cats, and
birds. In orange and black letters the poster declared “The Miraculous Dr
Greengage! Makes Animals Talk!”

Clara glanced at her host
curiously.

“My gimmick was giving voices
to animals.” Mr Greengage smiled sheepishly, “I could do all different voices,
it was quite a gift. The cats spoke slowly and smoothly with a hint of disdain.
The dogs always sounded jolly and keen and the birds always spoke fast and in
short sentences. I drew quite a crowd, some people actually believed I had
taught the animals to talk.”

Clara turned to the last
poster. It was much older and Mr Greengage was not yet declared an honorary
doctor, in fact he was only a side act and introduced as Greengage the
Ventriloquist. Clara nodded thoughtfully at the posters and then handed them
all back.

“Happier times.” She remarked.

“They certainly were that.”

“I can’t help but noticing,
excuse the impertinence, but you had birds in your act and your wife also had
access to, from what I have heard, a very unique parrot.”

Mr Greengage carefully
returned the posters to the desk and clicked it shut.

“Augustus was indeed
different.”

“As I said, unique. Perhaps
you trained him?” Clara pushed.

“You are not a stupid woman, I
can see that, and I suppose trying to persuade you that Augustus was a
fortunate freak of nature would be unlikely to succeed?”

Clara smiled gently.

“I understand times are hard
Mr Greengage. Businesses all need their little novelties and devices to draw customers
in. I am not here to judge your motives or condemn you.”

“It was so logical, or so it
seemed. The move from Eastbourne lost Martha all her clients and she had to
start afresh. She needed something to make her standout from the competition.”
Mr Greengage shook his head wistfully, “Augustus was a relic from the old days.
Pre-war. He had seen some places that bird. He could ride a tiny bicycle. I
bought him off a retired animal trainer. I gave him his voice.”

Mr Greengage went quiet.

“I guessed as much.” Clara nodded,
it wasn’t much of a clue but it felt as though another piece of the puzzled had
slipped into place, “There was one other thing I needed to mention to you.”

The worry returned to Mr
Greengage’s face.

“The riddles I took from you
the other day to give to Mrs Wilton, they were all blank. Perhaps you gave me
the wrong envelope?”

“No, no! They were the correct
papers, I remembered seeing them only the night before…” Mr Greengage seemed
genuinely surprised, “How can they be missing?”

“It appears someone took the
real riddles and replaced them with blank slips of paper. Do you have a maid?”
Clara knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from him.

“No. Well. Yes. A girl comes
in occasionally to clean. You think…?”

“All I am suggesting is that
she may have moved them accidentally.”

“Alice Roberts.” Mr Greengage
said firmly, “In fact she came in the very morning… She always cleaned the
front parlour last. She knew where the spare key was kept and would let herself
in. It was convenient with my wife sometimes working late and those damn
sleeping draughts knocking me out cold for hours. She was the one who found the
body.”

“And then she woke you?”

“Actually, that’s the thing.
She rushed clean out of the house and fetched another girl. It was this
stranger who woke me. I did tell the police this, but the girl had an alibi.”

“For the murder at least.”
Clara muttered to herself, then, louder, “How long between her finding the body
and running for her friend, then waking you, do you suppose?”

“How should I know?” Mr Greengage
laughed grimly, “She’s a cool character that one, never even screamed when she
found the body. I suppose she took the riddles before waking me?”

“Perhaps.” Clara refused to
commit herself further, “Thank you for your time Mr Greengage.”

“It has been my pleasure.”
Greengage smiled, “I presume you know the funeral is tomorrow? Afraid it’s not
the Spiritualists but old Reverend Gregg at St. Peters who is conducting it.”

“Oh, yes.” Clara lied.

“I don’t expect a large crowd.
I won’t be there. Too much in the open air.” Mr Greengage shivered violently.
Clara wasn’t certain if it was because of his grief for his wife or the sudden
thought of venturing outdoors.

“I’m sure it will be a fine
service.” Clara patted his hand and then made her excuses so she could be on
her way.

She had intended visiting
Inspector Park-Coombs as her next stop, but now she was itching to find Alice
Roberts. She doubted she would be able to sit still and listen to the inspector
when there was a new witness to track down. She compromised by making her way
to the nearest teashop and ordering a pot for one. She would sit and drink her
tea while her mind settled and she considered her next move.

Was Alice a suspect or merely
an opportunistic thief? And who was the friend she had run for? Perhaps Annie
would know more, in fact the more she thought about it, the more it occurred to
her that this might be a job best suited to Annie altogether. Annie, as a
fellow servant, might be able to encourage Alice to talk, whereas Clara’s
presence would be liable to make her hold her tongue. Servants didn’t usually
gossip to their employers, but they did talk among themselves.

Clara was just debating
whether to pop home and ask Annie to visit Alice at once when a friendly voice
called to her. She looked up and was surprised to see Oliver Bankes.

“Oh, hello.” She said
absently.

“Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“I was just lost in thought,
that’s all. It is a bad habit.”

“I just came for a spot of
late breakfast. I’ve been around the corner taking photographs.”

“Another murder?” Clara said
bleakly.

Oliver laughed.

“No, just wanted to take a
shot of the sun rising over the houses. Urban landscape shots are a hobby of
mine.”

Clara now noticed the heavy
tripod and large trunk, like an over-sized suitcase, that Oliver had put down
at his feet. A couple of new customers upon entering the teashop, had trouble
negotiating past the boxes in the cramped seating area.

“I best find a chair.” Oliver
looked around the room purposefully.

There wasn’t another free seat
to be had. Clara realised what was coming and decided her manners would have to
precedence over her meditations.

“Sit here, won’t you?”

Oliver’s face lit up
gratefully.

“Thank you, I always forget
how busy this place is.” He wedged his belongings between the table and the
ornate teashop window, then whistled for a waitress.

“What are you doing here
anyway?” He asked after ordering tea and crumpets. He offered to order more tea
for Clara but she declined.

“Just carrying on with my
investigations.” She shrugged casually.

“Any luck?”

“Yes and no.”

“You are quite welcome to look
over the crime scene photographs at any time.”

“Thank you.” Clara smiled,
“But I don’t think that necessary. They can’t tell me anymore than I already
know.”

Oliver was clearly
disappointed.

“Well, if you change your
mind.” His tea and crumpets arrived.

Clara looked at the buttery
crumpets that dripped grease as Oliver raised them to his mouth and felt a pang
of hunger. She had barely eaten that morning and wandering about in the cold
had awoken her appetite. To escape from looking covetously at Oliver’s food she
glanced out the window, which was when she saw
him
again.

Tall, in a long over-coat with
brown hair and a hat, he wasn’t much to look at, but it was him alright. She
shut her eyes and wished her strange pursuer gone, but when she looked again he
was still there. There was no uncertainty left in Clara’s mind that she was
being followed. This final encounter was too much of a coincidence.

She tried to remain calm, to
rationalise the situation, perhaps he lived in this road? But that didn’t
explained Eastbourne nor why he always seemed to be watching her.

“Are you all right?” Oliver
asked suddenly, “You have gone rather pale.”

“Tell me you see a man
standing there Oliver.” Clara spoke without taking her eyes off the man.