01 - Memories of the Dead (15 page)

Clara cast down her eyes, she
couldn’t quite meet the girl’s sad face.

“If I am honest I think it was
purely a matter of convenience. I think she believed it might boost her
business. She was a performer and she knew that scandal sold.”

“You mean, she drove father
almost mad, not to mention the rest of us, so she could get some publicity?”

Clara hesitated. Was that what
she was saying? Did she really believe that? Unfortunately she did, she
couldn’t imagine Mrs Greengage pausing for one second to consider the misery
she would inflict on the Bundles. She knew how to manipulate grief to her own
advantage. Look how she had been intent on using Mrs Wilton, such callousness
knew few limits.

“Yes, I fear that was what
drove her.”

Jeannette let out a ragged
breath.

“She was evil then.” She said.

“Perhaps, or just foolish.
Does that mean she deserved to die?”

Jeannette pursed her lips and
refused to comment. Clara doubted she could offer more than the expression on
her face already told her.

“The riddles are another
stunt. I have no qualms in telling you they are a load of nonsense dreamed up
by Mrs Greengage to trick a foolish and desperate woman out of her money.”
Clara explained, “I presume you heard about them from Elaine, Mrs Wilton’s
maid.”

“Yes.” Jeannette said quietly,
“Elaine thought they were a hoax too, but Elaine is rather a…” Jeannette looked
about her for inspiration for an adjective that would sum up her feelings
politely, “Sour individual. She can’t see good in anything and despite my
father I did know that some of the things Mrs Greengage said were true. She
told old Mrs Cole where she had lost her favourite hatpin and she predicted to
the hour the flood that would ruin the vestry of Reverend Higgins’ church. I
thought she might be right this time too and it crossed my mind that it would
be fitting if that treasure she had found came to me who she had so hurt. I
didn’t think about Mrs Wilton.”

“Hatred can be as blinding as
love.” Clara shrugged, “I presume you won’t mind returning the riddles. They do
belong to Mrs Wilton after all.”

Jeannette nodded and asked
Clara to wait. She was gone a moment and then returned with a small, worn
purse. She unclipped it and handed over the riddles.

“Thank you.”

“I couldn’t understand them
anyway.” Jeannette shook her head, “I even got a map of Brighton! But it made
no difference, waste of 3d.”

Clara didn’t mention that she
had already heard the tale of the map.

“May I ask why you came to
Brighton in the first place? It was to pursue Mrs Greengage, wasn’t it?”

Jeannette bought some time
fiddling with the clasp on her purse and then twisted her hands together.

“You know, I think I did want
revenge. My father is locked up now, did you know?”

“I did.”

“His nerves had been shot to
pieces after what Mrs Greengage had done. The police had been at our door,
poking around the shop, someone said they would exhume mother.” Jeannette
grimaced, “I thought it would finish me, I really did. I felt like giving up,
only father and my brother and sisters held me together. I thought father was
being so strong and when we heard that the police knew Mrs Greengage was lying
we thought it would all come right. But they wouldn’t do anything, said she was
just mad and it would be a waste of their time to prosecute her for being a
nuisance.

“I think that did it. Father
was shattered and the shop was close to ruin. He was barely sleeping and I
caught him crying a few times. He loved mother and it tore him up inside to
hear people saying he had murdered her for her money, it was horrible.

“And then one evening he saw
this man outside. There had been trouble with lads throwing rocks at the windows
and dabbing paint on our door, he had sworn the next time he spotted them
trying it he would beat some sense into them. So he saw this man and… I
suppose… he just snapped inside.” Jeannette trembled, “I didn’t see it. Only
found him afterwards with the knife in his hand. He was staring at the man he
had killed and said he was done for. They would have hung him had they not
declared him insane.”

“So he didn’t go to prison?”
Clara said at the unexpected news.

“Broadmoor.” Jeannette bit her
lip, “That’s bad enough isn’t it?”

“And you came looking for Mrs
Greengage.”

“I didn’t kill her.” Jeannette
broke into sobs, “I wanted to talk to her, maybe make her feel bad for what she
had done, but I could never pluck up the courage and then I heard about the
riddles… I wanted to hurt her like she hurt us, make her know what it was like
to have people’s spite turned at you. But how could she feel that if she were
dead? No, I wanted her alive to suffer.”

Jeannette pulled a cotton
handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped at her eyes.

“I understand.” And Clara did,
she knew what it was like to feel hurt and pain and to want to reflect it back
on the ones who had caused the torment in the first place, “I only have one
last question. Did you come alone to Brighton?”

“Oh. Yes.” Jeannette looked
puzzled, “Why?”

“A young man has been seen wandering
around and no one knows who he is, someone suggested he could be master
Bundle?”

“No, Alfie went to sea.”
Jeannette put away her hanky, her emotions back under her control, “Alfie went to
sea, Katie got married and Susan took over the shop. People seem to think you
should give up when something like this has happened, but we moved on. I came
here and found Mrs Pembroke. I suppose you guessed the references were forged?”

“I did wonder how you had had
the time to be a maid when you were helping your father.”

“Will you tell?”

Clara shook her head.

“Mrs Pembroke is very
satisfied with you and I see no reason to spoil that. References do not maketh
the maid!” Clara smiled at her own joke, “She made me swear I wouldn’t scare
you off before I was allowed to speak to you.”

“That is good to know.”
Jeannette looked calmer, “I am actually quite happy here as Jeannette Brown.”

She gave Clara a meaningful
look.

“I won’t tell a soul who you
really are.” Clara promised, “Though the inspector has already guessed.”

“Now the riddles are back he
won’t bother me though?”

“He has no reason to.”

Jeannette sighed with relief.

“I wish Mrs Wilton better luck
with them than I had.”

“They are a wild goose chase.”
Clara answered firmly, “But hope keeps people going.”

“Well I best show you out and
get back to work.” Jeannette stood and straightened her skirt, “I hope you find
who did this, I genuinely do.”

Clara found that now Jeannette
had let her guard down she was actually quite likeable, she allowed her to
escort her to the front door.

“One last thing.” Clara said
as she was on the doorstep, “I am aware you befriended Alice Roberts because of
her employment with Mrs Greengage.”

Jeannette looked guilty.

“As wrong as those intentions
were it would be a shame not to continue a friendship which had proved
agreeable.”

“Alice is rather a mouse.”
Jeannette gave an awkward smile, “But she is a nice girl.”

“And lonely.” Clara added,
“She doesn’t deserve to be misused because of Mrs Greengage either.”

“I’ll put it right.” Jeannette
nodded, “I’m making a new life for myself here and I need to forget what has
happened in the past.”

Clara bid her farewell,
feeling that another little part of the world was put to rights. It was only
when she reached the pavement that the realisation that she had yet to find the
real killer of Mrs Greengage dampened her optimism.

Tommy toyed with the scraps of paper on the table. It was
after dinner and they were drinking tea in the parlour while mulling over the
case. Clara was re-reading the handwritten report Tommy had worked on about the
odd cufflink in the photo. He was a stickler for keeping evidence and clues in
order and, above all else, written down so they could not be forgotten. Clara
had gone over the report three times and now just sat staring at it, her eyes
glazed and not really focused on the words.

“I think this one means a
church.” Tommy broke her out of her thoughts, “ ‘House of sorrows, house of
joy, turn to the east and follow the boy.’ I think boy means Jesus and churches
usually face east and they are places of happiness and sadness.”

“Do you know how many churches
there are in Brighton?” Clara replied.

“Perhaps when I figure out the
others it will become obvious which church it means.”

“You seem to be thinking that
those notes mean anything. They are just gibberish.”

“Mrs Greengage must have
expected Mrs Wilton to solve them at some point.”

Clara raised her eyebrows.

“You have met Mrs Wilton?”

Tommy shook his head.

“Look at this one, ‘An
oriental dream, or nightmare? Tread lightly on this spot, for Mr Fitzherbert is
here.’ That must mean the pavilion, Prince George had it built and he was madly
in love with that Fitzherbert woman, even married her. He could be Mr
Fitzherbert.”

“Except men do not inherit
their wives’ names.”

Tommy grumbled and shuffled
the notes into one pile.

“You know, you can be quite
infuriating!”

“I didn’t write them!” Clara
laughed.

“What of the cufflink, do you
like that?”

“I agree that it is a clue.”
Clara nodded, “Perhaps not the easiest one, but it will be worth exploring.”

“At least I can do something
right.” Tommy grinned, “Now about that Bankes fellow.”

“What about him?” Clara asked
casually, her eyes back on the paper.

Tommy paused and found his
words faltering.

“He’s a good… contact for a
private detective to have.”

“Oh definitely.” Clara sighed
and massaged her temples, a habit that Tommy had noticed her doing a lot
lately, “Now, what must I do tomorrow? Ah yes, see Mrs Wilton about the riddles
and visit Mr Greengage yet again.”

“I intend to solve these
riddles if it kills me. I have made copies.”

“I am quite certain it will
drive you insane. Oh I suppose I should visit the local jewellers and see if
anyone has bought new cufflinks too. Bother, Mr Greengage will have to wait.”

“I don’t think he is going
anywhere.” Tommy grinned.

“Poor man.” Clara shook her
head, “He is quite lost without his wife.”

“It strikes me they were an
unlikely partnership.” Tommy rearranged the riddles before him, “I wonder what
he was like before the war? His wife seems to have dominated him.”

“That’s unfair, he was
obviously a nervous wreck and she had to take charge.”

“By framing a man for murder?”

“That is rather sad.” Clara
admitted, “Mrs Greengage was rather ruthless, but then perhaps ruthlessness is
born out of desperation.”

“Let’s hope not.” Tommy
replied, “Else the world will get a lot grimmer soon.”

Clara pulled a face.

“Oh well, tomorrow is another
day.”

“They said in the newspapers
more snow.” Tommy glanced out the window at the night-time darkness, “Maybe you
will have to curtail your investigations until the weather settles.”

“Honestly Tommy, you believe
whatever that paper tells you.”

But he was right. Clara awoke
to not only a drift of thick snow running up to the back door of the house but
more snow falling heavily. She groaned as she dressed and wondered if the
Brighton jewellers would have the courage to open today.

“You still determined to go
out, old thing?” Tommy called to her as he was propelled by Annie into the
breakfast room.

“Time waits for no man.” Clara
sighed.

“Does it wait for a woman
though?” Tommy grinned at her, “Well, apparently I am housebound, snow
disagrees with the old wheels.” He tapped the wheels of the chair, “Doctor’s
orders.”

He tilted his head to Annie.

“Tommy Fitzgerald you are the
worst patient I have ever known!” Annie snapped with mock ferocity, “You gripe
and groan like an ungrateful child.”

“Thank you dear.” Tommy winked
at her.

Annie blushed furiously and
marched off to sort out the breakfast things.

“You shouldn’t be so
atrociously awful.” Clara reprimanded him.

“Are you referring to me or
the weather? Old bean, it is not fit weather for a dog to put a foot outside
let alone a person.”

Clara stood at the tall bay window
of the breakfast room that overlooked the street and noted the lack of people
about on their usual tasks. The snow was thinner on the roads, but even so no
one had braved it, probably any horse and cart that tried would be forced to
plough their way through and she dreaded to think what it would do to any car
that was driven in it. But Clara hated being put off a task almost as much as
she hated being wrong.

“I say Tommy, you’ll have to
take that back, why I see Mr Donald’s mongrel out there right now attempting to
find the gatepost to mark.”

“I said it was not fit, not
that dogs – or certain people – had the sense to recognise it.” Tommy shook his
head, “If I weren’t a crock I would escort you…”

“Let’s not start that again.”
Clara interrupted, turning briefly from the window, “You are far from a crock
Tommy and I won’t hear such talk.”

She turned back to the window
so she didn’t have to see his scowl.

“What’s this? Why we have a
policeman heading to the door Tommy, it seems inspector Park-Coombs doesn’t
hold with snow either.”

The heavy old Victorian bell
rang, its spring rustling seconds before the clang and alerting Annie before
the chime had stopped. She glanced in the open breakfast room door as she went
past.

“It’s a policeman Annie, you
can let him in here.” Clara called out.

Annie opened the door, spoke
quietly to a person on the step and then led a cold looking policeman into the
breakfast room. He didn’t look very old and was shivering slightly after his
long walk to the house. Clearly no one had suggested he cover his uniform with
a greatcoat in case he was mistaken for an ordinary citizen, even if it did
cost them an officer to pneumonia.

“Come stand by the fire and
warm yourself.” Clara offered as soon as she saw him.

“Thank you miss, sorry to be
calling so early like.” The constable touched the peak of his helmet in
deference and then pulled it off with a popping sound before heading to the
fireplace. A look of relief filled his face as he felt the warmth glowing over
him.

“So, why has the inspector got
you running about town on a day like this?” Clara asked, perching herself near
the fire.

“He thinks he might have
something important for you. Two builders stumbled over a body this morning on
the way to a house they are repairing. Looks like a tramp who was caught out
last night and died in the cold. Inspector says the description sounds much
like the man who was following you.”

“Really?” Said Tommy wheeling
a little closer.

“Man about thirty, short dark
hair, greatcoat. No identity papers or money.” The PC screwed up his eyes as he
remembered what he had been told, “Terrible thing, freezing to death.”

Tommy glanced at his sister.
She was staring into space, her expression oddly neutral and her skin pale.

“Inspector wants you to come
take a look. No rush though, they are still trying to get him back to the
station. He was frozen solid to the ground. They have been getting the ladies
nearby to boil kettles of water, but you can imagine what it is like in this
weather.” The constable nodded at the snow out the window and tutted as if it
was particularly inconsiderate to die in such conditions, “When I was sent
here, they was just about done. But plenty of time for a cup of tea like.”

Clara woke from her daydream
in time to catch the hint.

“Oh yes, would you care for a
cup constable? I haven’t eaten breakfast yet, so I am sure we could arrange some
toast too?”

“Much obliged.” The constable
went to touch the peak of his helmet again and looked abashed when it wasn’t
there.

Annie disappeared with a queer
look on her face to fix extra rations and Tommy motioned the constable to the
table.

“Poor soul.” Clara said as she
carelessly slipped into her chair, “I had come to the conclusion there was no
harm in him.”

“He was stalking you!” Tommy
sputtered.

“The gentleman’s right.” The
constable added, “Sorts like that can’t be trusted, they have something not
right in the head, else why would they be following a lady about? It’s not
logical, no, best you not be fretting about it.”

Clara scowled at his
patronizing tone but the constable was too busy surveying the breakfast room to
notice, Tommy did however and thought it best to move on the subject.

“I imagine this weather has
the police busy?”

“Indeed sir. Pipes burst
everywhere and carts getting stuck. We tell people if you have to deliver
something do it on foot, the horses just can’t pull in this weather. But they
don’t listen and tell us it’s their livelihood and what do we know? Well I
don’t suppose we know a lot about it, but I know how many stuck carts I see in
a day. No they always think it shan’t be them, that
their
cart will make
it through.”

Annie returned with a warm pot
of tea and an extra cup for the constable.

“I’ve set your coat before the
fire to take a little warmth before you set out.” She told Clara.

“You’re very thoughtful
Annie.” Clara noted how formal her friend was being before the constable, she
wondered what had upset her. She wouldn’t even look the man in the face.

“I’ll go get the toast.” Annie
said and disappeared.

“We’ve had three deaths this
morning as well.” The constable continued sloshing milk and tea into his cup,
“Including your tramp, there was a porter at the station dropped down dead. We
think his heart couldn’t take the cold and an old lady in Church Street was
found dead in a chair by a neighbour. But that isn’t suspicious either, people
drop like flies this time of year.”

Clara was becoming irritated
with the constable’s light-hearted air as he talked about death. She was
relieved to see Annie bring in the toast and to think she could get the
morning’s identification procedure over and done with soon. She had lost some
of her appetite because of the news. Whatever Tommy and the constable said she
hated to think of anyone having to sleep on the road and to die in the snow.
She was certain her stalker had not been evil-minded, he seemed more frightened
and anxious. If only he would have stopped and talked to her, but she supposed
the encounter with Oliver had spooked him and he had feared she would call
someone to see him off. Perhaps if they had spoken…

But it was all over now and
who he was and what he wanted she would never know. She picked up a slice of
toast knowing her two watchdogs, Tommy and Annie, would note how much she had
eaten and Annie especially would be cross if she thought Clara had gone out
with no food inside her. She was the sort of person that deemed no drama too
big as to prevent a person having three square meals a day. In contrast to
Clara’s sluggish appetite, the constable had munched through his toast in seconds
and was helping himself to another cup of tea.

“I shall escort you to the
station as soon as I have drunk this miss.” He said as he noticed Clara rising.
She wondered when he had suddenly decided that he gave orders to her? She
headed for the kitchen for her coat and to get away for a moment or two from
the annoying constable.

The kitchen, Annie’s domain,
was so warm it was hard to think of snow outdoors. The range was burning
furiously and Annie was spitting on an iron to check its temperature as Clara walked
in.

“I came for my coat.” Clara
said in response to Annie’s look, “You don’t think much of the constable do
you?”

“You know who he is, miss?”

“Clara.” Clara corrected,
though she knew it would do no better than it had done the first hundred times.

“Name’s Alfie Ling and if ever
there is a fellow who should not be wearing a copper’s uniform it is him.”
Annie sounded quite angry and slammed her heated iron down on an unfortunate
piece of bed linen.

“What has he done to you?”

“What hasn’t he done, more like?
He grew up in the same road as me. Little toe-rag from the moment he could
walk. My father gave him a hiding more than once for throwing stones at our cat
and breaking the glass roof of the greenhouse. Any trouble in the street you
could bet Alfie Ling was behind it. Windows broken, paint on doors, plants
ripped up, bicycle wheels stolen. His mother was a night-owl, if you know what
I mean.”

Clara thought she did and
decided not to ask for clarification.

“So he made it into the
police?” Clara mused.

“Don’t trust him whatever you
do.” Annie shook her head, “He has his fingers in those same old pies uniform
or no uniform. You mark my words he’ll be trouble for them, and probably
trouble for us too.”

“He has no reason to bother
us.” Clara shrugged on her coat.

“He does if you carry on with
the detecting and keep in with Inspector Park-Coombs. There’s a man Ling can’t
pull the wool over. He’s holding him back I’ve heard and Ling is bitter about
it and he takes his bitterness out on anyone who is handy.”

“I’ll watch myself.” Clara
promised, determined no local bully would get the better of her.