01 - Memories of the Dead (11 page)

“Where?” Oliver looked
outside. It was hard to miss who she meant; there was only one man outside.          

“He has been following me.”

“Do you know him?”

“No, but I am sure he is
following me. Inspector Park-Coombs thinks I am imagining it.”

But there was no imagining the
cold chill that had crept down her spine or the painful spasm of panic deep in
her belly.

“Why would he follow you?”
Oliver asked logically enough.

“I don’t know. I think it
might be to do with the murder of Mrs Greengage.”

Could her stalker be the
murderer? The thought scared her. If he was, was he following her to make sure
she didn’t discover the truth? Did that mean she was in danger?

Abruptly Oliver was getting to
his feet.

“What are you doing?” Hissed
Clara.

“I’m going to talk to this
fellow.”

“But you can’t!”

“Why not?”

Clara wanted to say because he
might have a gun or be violent, or because he might be a murderer, but that
wasn’t the sort of thing you blurted out in respectable teashops. Besides, she
could see that nothing would deter Oliver.

She need not have worried. As
soon as Oliver was out the door the strange man took to his heels and ran off.
Oliver set out after him but came back shortly, empty-handed.

“He was definitely watching
us.” He said breathlessly, “He wouldn’t have run like that if he wasn’t up to
something suspicious.”

“Could you escort me to the
police station?” Clara asked, hiding her trembling hands in her lap.

“Of course! You are reporting
him?”

“For what good it will do.”
Clara was resigned to the inspector’s scorn, but she gladly took Oliver’s arm
as they left the tearooms.

Inspector Park-Coombs was on his tea break when Clara
arrived and would have refused to see her had Oliver not used his connections
with the police to insist she went straight to his office.

“Miss Fitzgerald.” He said,
putting down a biscuit he had been looking forward to dunking in his tea.

“Inspector.” Clara said
politely.

“Look here.” Oliver butted in,
“She is being followed by this very unsavoury character and I am concerned that
your men don’t seem to be taking the situation very seriously.”

Clara felt herself reddening.
She had not planned to have Oliver accompany her to the inspector’s office, nor
did she like anyone thinking that she needed someone else (a man in particular)
to speak up for her. She rather felt that his presence diminished all the
effort she had put into convincing the inspector that she was an independent
and fully capable person, despite being a woman.

“Mr Bankes.” The inspector
said coolly, “I was aware of the suspicion Miss Fitzgerald had,” He gave her a
look that suggested she was still making a fuss over nothing, “but I take it
the matter has become more serious?”

“I saw the dirty fellow!”
Oliver stated, jabbing a finger into his chest in emphasis, “He looked a real
rogue and ran off as soon as I tried to approach him.”

“Could be a coincidence.” The
inspector said drily.

“He turned up at Eastbourne
when I was there.” Clara responded, “That was a bit far-fetched to be a coincidence.”

“He could be the murderer!”

“Calm down, Bankes.” The
inspector commanded the young man, “Why don’t you go wait downstairs while I
have a chat with Miss Fitzgerald.”

“Oh.” Oliver glanced at Clara
hopeful that she would interject for him to stay, but she declined to say
anything, “All right. Shall I wait around to walk you home Clara?”

“No need Bankes, I’ll have one
of my boys walk Miss Fitzgerald home. You must be very busy.” The inspector
laid heavy emphasis on his last sentence and Oliver mumbled uncomfortably about
appointments he had forgotten until that moment and then left abruptly.

“I thought you would prefer a
private interview.” The inspector said after he was gone.

“He is very sweet.” Clara
said, finally accepting the chair the inspector offered, “But I really don’t
need him to fight my corner.”

“That I am certain of. But why
was he with you?”

“It was just as he said, we
saw that man again and I was a little shaken so I asked him to walk me here. I
have no idea who this man following me is, inspector.”

“When you first told me about
him I was inclined to think you had an over-active imagination.”

“Thank you inspector.” Clara
said caustically.

“Let me finish. But my boys
have seen him hanging around the crime scene. Same description, youngish, pale
over-coat, dark hair, very ordinary looking, but runs off as soon as anyone
tries to talk to him.”

“So you have no idea who he is
either?”

“No. Somehow though, I doubt
he is the killer. Most murderers have the sense not to loiter so obviously near
the place they committed the crime.”

“That doesn’t really help
much.” Clara shook her head.          

“I’ll have a man escort you
home as I promised.” Park-Coombs answered, “And I suggest you always go out
with company. Never alone. We will catch this fellow sooner or later the way he
keeps hanging about. He’s probably just a vagrant.”

Clara didn’t feel particularly
comforted but accepted the advice.

“Was there anything else?”
Park-Coombs was eyeing up his tea and biscuit.

“You said you would find out
about that other case Mrs Greengage was involved with?”

“Oh yes.” The inspector shoved
his tea to one side forlornly, “I looked into it, as you asked.”

“And?”

The inspector settled himself
back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly.

“It all began with Mr and Mrs
Bundle.”

“Ah, Bundle not Bumble!”

“Pardon me?”

“I apologise inspector, do
carry on.”

The inspector sighed heavily.

“The Bundles were a typical
Eastbourne couple, she had run a boarding house with her mother while Ted
Bundle was a tradesman in the grocery business. When the old mother died Lily
Bundle sold the property, which was her inheritance, and suddenly became quite
a wealthy woman in her own way.

“She married Ted and lived
with him over his shop. From all accounts it was a contented match. They were
both in their thirties when they married, but still managed to raise a brood of
four children; three girls and a boy.

“The war made things difficult
for them and for the first time there were monetary concerns. All the children
remained at home, the youngest only just making it into active war service in
the last year of the conflict. It was that same year it all went wrong for the
Bundles.

“The neighbourhood gossip had
it that Ted Bundle made some bad deals and was seriously in debt, close even,
to losing the shop. Mrs Bundle could be his saviour with her hidden fortune but
it seems Lily was disinclined to help out her husband or at least that was what
everyone was saying.

“Then, in November 1918, one
of the Bundle girls came home and found her mother stone cold dead in an
armchair. Ted was out of town and the post-mortem indicated it was a heart
attack, though the coroner couldn’t be sure. Lily had always been prone to
palpitations anyway.

“No one was particularly
surprised or concerned. Lily had looked off-colour lately and the stress of
seeing her only son go off to war had apparently been quite telling on her. The
funeral was a closed affair with only immediate family and a few neighbours
attending. Afterwards everything fell back into its normal flow. Ted ran his
shop and was able to pay off his debts with his late wife’s estate, but no one
thought that odd.

“Then Mrs Greengage came on
the scene. Mark my words she was a determined lady. She went to the police
claiming she had seen Mr Bundle buying poison at three different chemists. Of
course, that was a lie, she had actually ‘learned’ all this during a séance
with the late Mrs Bundle. But she was smart enough to know the police would not
take her seriously if she didn’t make out that her evidence was first-hand.

“And the police
did
take it seriously. They went after Ted Bundle like hounds after a hare. They
interviewed his neighbours, had him in the police station, searched the shop
and family rooms more than once for poison. They turned the whole man’s life
upside down and were coming close to exhuming the body when a new witness came
forward to raise her suspicions against Mrs Greengage.”

“Who was that?” Clara asked.

“A lady named Madame Delmont.”

“Really? That’s interesting.”

“Now may I continue?” The inspector
said tartly, “The police backed off as soon as they knew the truth. Mrs
Greengage was in quite a predicament and had to admit that she had lied about
witnessing the poison sales and had actually only heard about it via Lily.

“Lily Bundle had been quite
talkative about her death apparently and visited Mrs Greengage nightly to talk
about her awful demise and press the clairvoyant to do something. She claimed
Ted had been poisoning her for months and the final dose had been left for her
in her jar of coffee. She was the only one in the family who drank the stuff, so
Ted was quite safe lacing it. If he did, of course.

“There was no evidence,
however. No chemists recognised Mr Bundle and the coffee jar had been emptied
long ago and reused for sugar, so even if the police believed Mrs Greengage, or
should I say, Lily Bundle, there was no way of proving their suspicions.

“But public opinion can be
dreadfully damning and Ted Bundle found a black cloud had been cast over him.
His shop was ostracised by the locals, though the seasonal trade kept him
going. He was shunned by former friends, was voted off the local shopkeeper’s
committee and in general became the least popular man in Eastbourne.

“It seems this, along with his
real grief for Lily and the determined campaign Mrs Greengage kept up against
him, finally tipped him over the edge.

“One night he thought he
spotted a prowler outside as he was closing up. A sensible man would have just
kept watch or called the police. Ted Bundle grabbed a carving knife from the
kitchen and attacked the man. In the subsequent scuffle the suspected prowler
was killed; stabbed repeatedly. Only then did Mr Bundle recognise the face of
his prowler as that of a local policeman who was off duty at the time and
awaiting his fiancée.

“You can imagine the outrage
it caused. Bundle’s only saving grace was that he was deemed insane. He’ll
spend the rest of his days in an asylum.”

Park-Coombs stopped and took a
long sip of tepid tea.

“What about Mrs Greengage?”
Clara asked, “Surely someone must have seen her accusations as the spark that
ignited Bundle’s madness?”

“That they did. Her campaign
of hate against Mr Bundle was used by his defence team as a reason for his
insanity. Many people felt if she had kept her mouth shut the poor policeman
wouldn’t be dead.” The inspector agreed, “Besides the murder of Lily Bundle had
never been proved, many felt Mrs Greengage was a trouble maker, stirring up old
dirt unnecessarily. Suddenly she was the one everyone disliked! I’m not
surprised she had to leave Eastbourne.”

“I see.” Clara said, only she
didn’t ‘see’, not really. She had thought learning about the crime Mrs Greengage
had become involved in would answer everything. Only it didn’t, unless…

“Mr Bundle is in the asylum
right now?”

“Yes, I checked.” The
inspector looked conspiratorial, “I don’t mind admitting that we are at a dead
end with this too. Mrs Wilton as the killer no longer makes sense and anyway, I
don’t think she is capable of murder.”

“Exactly what I have been
saying.” Clara managed to keep the note of triumph out of her voice.

“I thought this Bundle case
might give us some leads too. I have a worrying feeling this is going to be one
of the cases we have to mark as unsolved.”

Clara had that feeling too and
it depressed her. Her first real case and she seemed set to fail. What would
become of her reputation if she couldn’t solve her one and only murder case?
Thoughts of Mrs Wilton had long ago gone out the window; this case was about
pride now. She had to solve it, she just had to!

The headache was back and Clara rubbed at her temples
agitatedly. She was sitting at the dinner table with Tommy again, after a weary
day. She was still trying to pluck up the energy to tell him about her feared
‘pursuer’. She was concerned he would get all silly and insist she didn’t go
out alone or something similar.

Fortunately her follower had
not reappeared when she left the inspector and she was able to persuade the
young constable who accompanied her home to leave her at the corner of the
road, so Tommy could not spot her escort. Still, she supposed it was only fair
to tell him.

“Tommy…”

“I did a little digging into
Mr Greengage’s past today.” Tommy interrupted her, “There are some quite
interesting books on pre-war theatricals and I found his name mentioned
remarkably often. He was rather famous in certain circles, apparently for a
ventriloquist he was quite exceptional.”

“It’s a shame he cannot be
persuaded to perform again.” Clara concurred, “He doesn’t have a penny to his
name. How he will ever get by I just don’t know.”

“War does funny things to
people.” Tommy said darkly, then he visibly brightened, “Something will come up
for the old fellow, don’t worry.”

“I only wish I could figure
out this murder and maybe bring him some peace that way.”

“The funeral’s tomorrow, isn’t
it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going?”

Clara groaned inwardly, the
last thing she needed was a funeral.

“I don’t think so.”

“Could be a familiar face
there? A new suspect?” His sister didn’t reply so he decided not to push his
luck, “I suppose we can definitely rule out Bundle as a possibility, presuming
he really is in the mad house.”

“Don’t call it that.” Clara
said quietly.

“I was in one, so I am allowed
to.” Tommy winked at her, trying to lighten the mood.

“You were in a military
hospital.” Clara said firmly, she struggled to talk about that dark period in
her sibling’s life, “Anyway, the inspector assured me Mr Bundle was still where
he is supposed to be.”

“What about the younger
Bundles? The children?” Tommy pointed out, “Family seeking revenge on behalf of
a loved one is as old as the Romans.”

Clara considered this. How old
would the Bundle’s son be by now? Twenty? Could he be the man seen loitering
around? Her pursuer? He looked older than twenty, but as Tommy said, war did
funny things to people. He might just appear older than he actually was.

Yet the inspector seemed very
certain that whoever this ‘watcher’ was he was unlikely to have been involved
in the actual murder. Killers didn’t linger around the crime scene usually.
Though Clara knew as well as anyone else that people did not always do what was
logical or sensible, and policemen were not always right.

“She let the killer in, I’m
sure of that.” Clara said aloud, “If one of the Bundle children turned up to
talk she would probably ask them in. She might even feel bad enough about the
fate of their father to not be suspicious of their late arrival.”

“It’s a possibility anyway.”
Tommy agreed, “Better than Mrs Wilton.”

“The inspector has come to his
senses and ruled her out of the inquiries. He’s not as pig-headed as I first
thought. I suppose I will have to go see her.”

The conversation was cut short
as Annie entered with a rather small roasted chicken and some limp greens. At
least there were plenty of potatoes. There were always plenty of potatoes.

“Join us for supper Annie.”
Tommy said quickly.

“Oh, but I can’t sir.” Annie
answered with a wink at Clara, “I’m off to the pictures.”

“With whom?” Tommy achieved
looking stunned and appalled at the same time.      

“With Alice Roberts who does
for Dr Macpherson.”

Tommy turned to Clara agog.

“Who?” He seemed only mildly
relieved it was not a young man.

“Alice Roberts.” Clara told
him sternly, “Honestly, men never listen! The maid who cleans at the
Greengages’ house and accidentally opened that bureau where the riddles were
kept.”

“I’m on a mission.” Annie
added proudly, “To interview Alice discreetly and get the ‘scoop’ on her.”

“You’ve been reading my
American detective books again.” Tommy glared at the pair of them.

“I’ve got a nose for gossip.”
Annie tapped her nose and gave Clara another, more theatrical, wink before
leaving the room.

“I suppose it was only a
matter of time before you corrupted her too.” Tommy shook his head at his
sister, “Is Alice a suspect?”

“For the murder? Of course
not!” Clara spoke confidently, but as soon as she said the words she had to
reconsider. Was anyone excused from being a suspect? “My word, a maid could
slip in poison so easily!”

Tommy looked alarmed.

“I was only jesting!”

“Whichever way you look at it
poison is a woman’s weapon, I’m afraid,” Clara drummed her fingers on the
table, “My mind keeps thinking of Lucrezia Borgia.”

“Ah, but that’s another
matter. Lucrezia has been railroaded by history.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t you remember your
history? It was her father and brother who poisoned everyone, probably with
Arsenic by the way. The myth about Lucrezia being a serial poisoner came about
much later.”

“I’ve been so dense.” Clara
scolded herself, “I was so quick to take the incident with the poison at face
value.”

“And?”

“What if it is a red herring?
Designed to throw us off the scent? Even perhaps to make us suspect a woman and
make us turn away from wondering about the real murderer?”

“Who are you thinking of?”

“Maybe Mr Greengage tried to
poison his wife and when that failed he shot her.”

“But he has an alibi.”

“For the shooting but not the
poisoning.”

“I’m not sure…”

“The poison had to come from
someone in the house, didn’t it?”

“Maybe.” Tommy consented
reluctantly, “But you, yourself, said about the maid being a possible suspect.
What about other clients? It would only take a second to dose a glass of
sherry.”

“Except it wasn’t in the
sherry! Why didn’t I see that before, just how was Augustus poisoned? No, the
more I think about it the more I think the poison was meant to lead us astray.
We both agreed that shooting and poisoning were two very different forms of
murder, and it seemed unlikely that the same murderer committed both crimes,
but what if it was meant to look like that?”

“Mr Greengage still has an
alibi for the shooting.”

“So he had an accomplice, why
not?” Clara cast up her hands in triumph. Tommy remained dubious.

“What of motive? You said
yourself that Mr Greengage is virtually destitute without his wife.”

“One thing at a time.” Clara
almost snapped, not wanting this bubble to burst, “Tomorrow I will take a tour
of the chemists of Brighton and see if anyone has sold strychnine to a man
fitting Mr Greengage’s description. They have to list all those sales in a
poisons book, don’t they?”

“The man doesn’t leave his
house!”

“So he says! But he managed to
move from Eastbourne to here, what if he is merely trying to build up further
proof of his lack of a motive?”

“Still… it will be a long job,
do you know how many chemists there are in Brighton.”

“Long job or not, it is real
detective work. Didn’t father used to have a trade directory somewhere?”

Clara was up from the table,
her meal abandoned and rushing to her father’s study to scour his books. Tommy
sighed and helped himself to her potatoes.

Alice had promised to meet
Annie at the entrance to the picture house. There was more snow in the air and
Annie stamped her feet as she waited impatiently. Most of the other patrons
were inside and the picture would be starting any minute. She was starting to
wonder if Alice had seen through her invitation and changed her mind when the
girl appeared, running down the road.

“Sorry! Sorry!” She cried
coming to a halt so fast she splattered wet slush onto Annie’s legs, “Dr
Macpherson’s surgery appointments overran and there was such a lot of clearing
up to do and the charwoman who usually helps has her grandson down with the
measles.”

“Well, I think we are in time
to catch the start if we hurry.”

They handed over their pennies
at the ticket booth and found seas in the half empty auditorium. It seemed
colder inside the building and the girls kept their coats on as their breath
fogged before their faces.

“Have you seen this one?”
Alice asked as the screen flickered into life.

Annie didn’t recognised the
nondescript title.

“No.”

“I’ve seen it twice, I love
the pictures. It’s a murder mystery. The girl did it.” Alice gasped as she
realised what she had said, “Golly, I’m terribly sorry! I do rattle off my
mouth some times. Have I ruined it for you?”

Annie replied that she hadn’t,
while wondering how Clara could contemplate this girl as being a criminal of
any description. She supposed it was possible she was a thief, the ditzy types
could be prone to such vices Annie had found in her experience.

They watched the film for a
while, Alice occasionally commenting in a manner that she probably considered
helpful about important clues and the backgrounds of the characters. At one
point a person in the next row shushed her.

“Golly!” Alice exclaimed in a
whisper, “Some people are rude! Though… do you think I talk too much? Jeannette
says I do.”

“Jeannette?” Annie was utterly
bored with the rather dull film that seemed to be building up to a mediocre
climax.

“You know, that maid at Mrs Pembroke’s
house.”

Annie pictured a young lady
arguing over the price of a map.

“Oh yes, I recall her. I
didn’t realise she was a friend of yours.”

“Well,” Alice’s jolly face
fell, “I thought she was.”

There was a long pause and
then, in the tone of someone confiding an immense secret, Alice continued
hurriedly.

“We used to come to the
pictures all the time together. We met once at that clairvoyant’s, what’s dead,
house. I was cleaning and Jeannette had come for a reading.”

Annie pricked up her ears;
this was something Clara would want to know.

“I’m not sure how she afforded
it, mind.” Alice went on without waiting for a response, “Mrs Greengage wasn’t
cheap but I assumed she had money from a relative or something.”

Alice was either very trusting
or a confident liar Annie concluded.
She
would have been immediately
suspicious of Jeannette.

“Jeannette had to wait a while
before the reading and we chatted. She was ever so lonely.” Alice paused again,
“At least, she said she was anyway. We talked a while and got quite chummy and
then I said I liked the pictures and she said, so did she, but she didn’t like
going alone and not knowing anyone here meant she never went. So naturally I
asked her to come with me. I don’t really have a lot of friends, do you?”

“Not many.” Annie admitted,
“It’s hard when you work like we do.”

“Exactly!” Alice was clearly
pleased to have found a kindred spirit, “Me and Jeannette went to the pictures
quite a bit after that. Every day off I had, in fact. It was a little hard on
my purse but Jeannette would insist on paying if I was short.”

Annie wondered again at this
girl’s trusting nature.

“Do you ever think some people
weren’t meant to be maids?” Alice said thoughtfully, “Not me, of course!
Heavens, no! All I know is scrubbing and cleaning. But Jeannette is different,
I think her name sounds French, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Different how?”

“She was ever so well spoken
and educated. Knew all sorts of things and could do her sums like a… a… a…
professor! She spoke a little French, that’s why I wondered about her name.”

“Perhaps her family had fallen
on hard times and she had to work.” Annie suggested.

“That’s what I thought, but
you can’t ask people, can you?” Alice teased the finger of her glove, “It was
all that money she had that worried me. After a while I started to think to
myself, where do girls like us get that sort of money?”

That was a good question and
the only answers Annie could think of were all decidedly illegal. Yet she
wasn’t about to say that to Alice.

“Perhaps Mrs Pembroke is a
generous employer.”

“Hah! No fear! She keeps her
claws firmly on her purse!” Alice spoke a little loud and someone shushed her
again. Even in the darkness of the seats Annie knew the girl was blushing.

“Want to get a cup of tea?”
She offered.

“Yes please. You won’t mind
missing the end?”

Annie indicated she wouldn’t,
in fact she had lost interest in the torturous plot some time ago. The girls
retreated to across the road where a late-night cafe was serving teas and
suppers. Annie paid 3d for a pot of tea and a cheese sandwich, while Alice
fumbled in her purse and finally found a penny for her own pot of tea. They
settled in a corner table by the big glass windows and watched fresh snow begin
to fall.

“I hate snow.” Alice gave a
little shudder, “Dr Macpherson’s patients are ever so inconsiderate and walk it
all in on their shoes. His carpets are sodden by the end of the day.”

Annie watched the clumps of
flakes falling, trying to work out how to return the conversation to Jeannette.
Fortunately Alice offered her an opening.

“I was quite surprised you
inviting me to the flicks like this.” The teas had just arrived and she was
warming her hands on the brown teapot.

“I have been meaning to ask
you for ages, but as we said work gets in the way and then I saw Jeannette and
it reminded me.” Annie answered.

“You saw Jeannette?”

“Yes, in the bookshop buying a
map.”