01 - Memories of the Dead (17 page)

“Tell me about it.”

“You saw Augustus, didn’t
you?” Mr Greengage had more tears in his eyes, “He was a fine bird, I bought
him from a Sikh in London. He knew all sorts of things and with a little
patience I had taught him to flap his wings on command and to pick up cards. He
was amazing in my shows, pulled in the audiences and of course I always did his
voice.”

Greengage looked wistful.

“I thought the world of that
bird, he travelled the country with me. It always struck me there was a sort of
wisdom in his eyes. I had other animals too, but with Augustus it was
different, you felt he understood you when you talked.” He shuddered, “I dreaded
leaving him during the war, I was not cut out for fighting and I did try and
stay on at the music halls, but business was bad and Martha said it was not fit
a healthy man shirking his duty. Besides, Augustus was white, and she said it
looked rather dubious a man performing instead of fighting with all those white
feathers about him.”

Clara patted his hand.

“Many men felt the same.” She
assured him.

“I know, but I am a coward,
always have been. Martha pushed me on and, as long as she was at my side, I
could do anything. But once I was in France I was all alone and people were
dying and all you could hear were bangs and men screaming.” Mr Greengage drew
back his hands and pressed them against his ears for a moment while his eyes
screwed up painfully and he seemed to be remembering the noise.

Gently Clara pulled his hands
away.

“Let’s not think of that, what
about after the war, when you were home?”

“I was all wrong in the head.”
Mr Greengage’s throat rattled with unvoiced sobs, “I got home and I just
couldn’t leave the house. I tried to go back to performing, Martha had booked
some theatres and that first night I got myself all dressed up and Augustus was
dusted with chalk to make his feathers glow and I got to the front door and I
just couldn’t move.

“My heart was pounding and my
ears popping. The world seemed to sway and I could hear my own breathing as
loud as a bell. I thought I was going to drop to the floor and put Augustus
down sharply. Martha was furious, but I couldn’t help it. She tried to get me
out the house, oh she tried, but the first step I took out the door I sank to
my knees and began weeping, so she swept me up and got me inside before the
neighbours could see.

“That was it. My career was
over. Martha marched off to the theatre to tell them I was ill and I returned
to my bedroom with Augustus. Martha didn’t understand, she had never felt like
that, she was always strong and knew what to do. She had never been scared in
her life and I knew she despised me at that moment, I felt it. She detested me
because I wouldn’t work and she could see no reason for it. Only Augustus
understood. I could see it in his eyes as he sat beside me. He knew it wasn’t
my fault.”

Clara slowly rubbed his hand
as Mr Greengage finally descended into tears. He had suppressed himself for so
long that now his emotions came out in a torrent.

“I understand.” Clara
promised, “The war changed people and you are not a coward because of that.
What happened to you is perfectly usual and things can be done to improve it,
but you have to take it slowly.”

“You are kind.” Mr Greengage
nodded, “You have been ever so kind, which is why I feel so awful…”

He pulled away from her.

“You are right, I did shoot my
wife.”

Clara fell back in her chair
almost astonished by the confession, she had known but at the same time not
wanted to know. She had expected him not to admit it and without a confession the
inspector said nothing could be done. But he had spoken and so now she knew,
and how she hated being right.

“Why Mr Greengage? Because she
was a bully?”

“Oh no!” Mr Greengage looked
appalled, “Martha was many things, but not that. We were poor, Miss Fitzgerald,
but we tried to keep up appearances and my performances kept us from starving.
Martha always put rent before food because she knew how important it was for us
to look respectable. I had to keep getting work, sometimes she would refuse to
eat dinner so I could have a bigger meal, because she said I was the one that
needed it.

“Once she realised I was not
playing a fool and my head problems were real, she was very kind and started
the medium business again and had me do the ventriloquism. She was a good
woman, my Martha.”

“Then why on earth did you
kill her?” Clara couldn’t hide her confusion, was he really saying he loved
this woman so much and then shot her?

“I never held a grudge, never,
and I always forgave her foibles, but… but…” Mr Greengage sobbed, “She never
should have done for Augustus! He was my bird, my f…friend.”

Clara paused.

“The strychnine and the
sherry? It wasn’t an accident, but it also wasn’t to kill Mrs Greengage, it was
always destined for Augustus.”

“He couldn’t resist a drop of
sherry. I knew what had happened when I saw him dead like that.” Mr Greengage
let a spasm of anger flicker over his face, “Martha had been on and on at me
that he was sick and had to be dealt with. I told her to leave well alone,
Augustus was a wise old bird and would tell me if he was unwell with a sign.
She said I was blind to it and the bird was suffering, she called me cruel. I
shouted take him to a vet then and she said, what makes you think we can afford
a vet? No, best thing out is to put him out of his misery.’”

“She might have been right.”
Clara said tentatively, “He was quite old.”

“Don’t say that! Not for a
parrot!” Mr Greengage cried, “He kept me sane, that bird. I fed him from my own
plate every night. He was just a bit peaky, he never did like the cold. But
Martha would keep going on and on. She said she would get me another bird, a
canary. I said how can I have a canary with its brainless warblings when I have
had the pleasure of owning the king of birds? She said, how about a budgie
then?”

“Are you saying…?”

“On the night he died, when
you had all gone I confronted her and asked her what she had done. She said the
bird was sick, she had told me before. I was so upset I went to drink the
sherry, the one from her full glass and she shrieked and made me stop. She
emptied the glass and filled me a fresh one, said it had sat out too long. But
I knew there was something else, I knew. I said Martha what have you done? She
couldn’t lie anymore then.” Mr Greengage suddenly looked very serious and a
darkness had crept over his face, “She said she couldn’t bear to see the bird
suffer anymore and she had done for him with strychnine. I felt like my heart
had been ripped out. It was a betrayal beyond any I have ever suffered. I never
argued with my wife, it was a principle, so I left the room with her trying to
explain and saying she was sorry.”

“And then later you came back
and shot her.” Clara said, her sympathy slowly fading, “Because of a parrot.”

“Because of Augustus!” Mr
Greengage yelled violently and at the same moment there was a thud as the front
door burst open and Alfie Ling hurried into the room.

“Now calm down sir!” He said
to Mr Greengage who had jumped from his seat and was towering above Clara.

“You need to arrest him Mr
Ling.” Clara said quietly, trying to keep her fear buttoned tightly inside, “He
killed his wife.”

Looking a little baffled Alfie
Ling came forward and took Mr Greengage by the arm.

“She betrayed me!” Mr
Greengage beat his chest with his hand, “She took my last strand of sanity, she
killed herself, really, she did!”

Ling’s look of bafflement had
faded to one of calm professionalism.

“I think you best come with me
sir.” He drew Mr Greengage to the door.

“No!” The old man shouted,
“No! Don’t make me go outside! No! No! Not again, I can’t, I can’t.”

Mr Greengage was writhing in
Ling’s hands.

“He was like this on the day
we had to move him across the road to tend to Mrs Greengage.” Ling scowled and
with a final shove he had Mr Greengage outside, where he stood in the snow and
wept.

“Take his coat, you fool!”
Clara snapped at Ling, running to Mr Greengage and draping a grey jacket over
his shoulders. Then she whispered to him, “Don’t be afraid.”

“I wish I had died out there.
I wish I never came home.” Mr Greengage sobbed.

A few neighbours had opened
their windows to ogle the scene with curiosity. Clara cast a scowl at them, but
in truth she knew she would have done the same had the matter been occurring in
her own street.

“It’ll be all right now.” She
soothed the frail old man who looked a world away from being a killer once
more, if she had not seen that shock of temper within him, she never would have
believed her own theory. He was the farthest thing she could imagine from being
the ‘murdering-type’.

“Now, sir, it’s a bit of a
walk.” Alfie Ling took Mr Greengage’s arm and led him out of the garden.

The old man trembled and
cowered at each sound – the click of the gate, the bark of a neighbour’s dog,
the dull thud of snow falling from tree branches – and looked more like a
spooked rabbit than a human. Clara followed quietly. She wondered if policemen
always felt so sick and hollow when they found their culprit, or whether it was
just her. Perhaps she wasn’t cut out for this business after all, not when the
answers she sought so hard proved so painful. Justice seemed far away at that
moment.

“Cheer up, old thing.” Tommy squeezed her hand.

They were walking down North
Street, heading through the town and out into the remains of the fields beyond.
Tommy had finally figured out all the riddles, or at least he thought he had.
There still seemed an awful lot of leeway and compromise in his decryptions for
Clara’s tastes, but they had kept him busy during the days when the snow was
too thick to let him out the house, so she was at least grateful for that.

It was now a week since the
arrest of Mr Greengage and a warm spell of weather had reduced the snow to an
icy layer of an inch or so. Tommy refused to be cooped up in the house any
longer and, with the riddles solved, he was desperate to go off treasure
hunting.

Annie had been
characteristically appalled at her patient’s determination and had made her
usual protests and obtained the usual platitudes and brush-offs from Tommy, who
more than ever was dying to get outside and enjoy the world at large. He
threatened to push his own wheelchair if no one would help him, and after
almost tipping himself over trying to get out the front door, it was agreed it
was safer to give in to his request then to ignore it.

Now he was wrapped in a thick
sweater and coat, gloves, scarf and hat – all appeasements to Annie, who had
also insisted on preparing a stone hot water bottle that she had somehow
balanced and strapped to the footrests of his chair.

Tommy had restrained his
resistance to these measures for the greater good, a part of which was getting
Clara out of the house. She had not gone to her office in the last week,
claiming the weather too bad, which seemed feeble even to Annie. She was
depressed in spirits and Tommy understood the cause, having listened to the
entire story of Mr Greengage’s confession on the day of the arrest. What he
didn’t understand was how his sister could feel guilty. She had done her duty,
she had not made Mr Greengage a murderer and clearly the man was unstable. How
could she feel sorry for him? It would be like Tommy feeling guilty over the
Germans he had shot in the war. He knew some men did, he knew it tore them
apart, but for him it had all become crystal clear the moment he stepped out of
a trench. You shot them or they shot you. There was no place for guilt.

He supposed it was being a
woman that made Clara feel things so deeply. He was beginning to suspect she
was on the verge of giving up being a private investigator entirely and he knew
if she did it would be the biggest mistake she could make.

So his treasure hunt was
partly fuelled by his own excitement and partly by his desire to get Clara out
and about and thinking again. The only downside was that she had insisted on
letting Mrs Wilton know about the plan and the woman had invited herself along.

“You do look rather dismal,
dear.” The woman now said as she heard Tommy’s comment, “Anyone would think you
hadn’t solved this case at all, instead of bringing a murderer to justice.”

“Is it justice though?” Clara
was half-lost in her own thoughts, “He is a poor old man, it hardly seems
justice to lock him away.”

“He shot his wife.” Mrs Wilton
said steadily.

“I know, I just… oh, I don’t
know how I feel.”

“It’s the weather.” Mrs Wilton
said with the certainty of the ignorant, “Now when will you be back at work?
I’ve told all my friends about you and they want to bring you their problems.”

“I’m not sure…”

“She’ll be back on Monday.”
Tommy interrupted his sister. She glared at him.

“Jolly good, I’ll let them
know. I must say this is quite exciting. A treasure hunt! I haven’t down such a
thing since I was a girl. I do hope we have the right spot, is there any doubt.”

“None.” Tommy said
confidently.

“Oh, this is simply
exhilarating.”

Clara had other words for
their adventure including cold and boring, but she was biting her tongue for
everyone’s sake. She knew she had been rather gloomy of late and didn’t want to
spoil the day for Tommy. He had been so proud to crack the riddles; she only
hoped they found something and that Mrs Greengage wouldn’t prove the old
con-artist Clara suspected she was.

They passed out of the main
town and into the quieter roads.

“Now if you will look at the
map.” Tommy wrenched off a glove using his teeth and unfolded a large sheet of
paper. Annie tutted.

“I’ve marked the sites I
believe the riddles refer to.” Tommy said, spitting out the glove, “That is the
ruined church, riddle no.6.”

He pointed over the field.

“I shan’t go over the earlier
clues that led me to this stage, suffice it to say they referred to various
spots within the town. I chose Mrs Wilton’s house as a starting point, because
it seemed logical that her husband would expect to lead her from there.”

Clara felt like interjecting
some comment on the nonsense of it all, but decided she would only sound catty
and kept her mouth shut.

“Now, a little further on is
Muggett’s field.” Tommy was indicating red crosses on his map, “After that we
have to leave the road.”

Annie let out an exasperated
gasp.

“It isn’t far.” Tommy
promised, trying to twist backwards and look up into Annie’s face.

“At least all this pushing
keeps me warm.” Annie muttered.

“I’ll help Annie, I can take
one handle.” Clara offered.

“Oh no miss.” Annie looked
shocked, “That is not fit, not in front of a guest.”

Clara blushed as though she
had been scolded.

“That’s Muggett’s field!” Mrs
Wilton yelled out in excitement, almost running up the road to reach it first,
“I know this place, my dear husband and I used to come here when we were
courting and look at the cows that used to be kept here. They were milkers, and
were as friendly as a dog. We even named some.”

Mrs Wilton stared across the
icy field lost in her own memories.

“Even if we don’t find
treasure, we’ve made her day.” Tommy winked at Clara.

She managed to smile. Watching
Mrs Wilton’s excitement was beginning to cheer her.

“You have to go back to work,
old thing.” Tommy added.

Clara looked at him sharply.

“I know a dark humour when I
see it, old girl, I get it enough.” Tommy grinned at her, “But you can’t give
in to it. You wouldn’t let me mope, would you?”

She had no time to answer as
they were at the gate and Mrs Wilton was eager for the next clue.

“We head for that rotted
barn.” Tommy said, “Until we see a large stone, at least I think that was what
the riddle meant. It will be distinctive, and then we head left.”

“That will be right through a
field.” Grumbled Annie. Tommy pretended not to hear her.

They marched along a rutted,
frozen track that was used as a local shortcut by everyone who came this way, their
eyes peeled for a distinctive looking stone.

“I think I need to have words
with this Mr Wilton.” Annie muttered as she forced the wheelchair over the hard
ground.

Clara felt herself smiling
more, she was starting to enjoy herself.

“A big rock!” Mrs Wilton cried
out excitedly, “This way!”

And now they were marching
over pasture ground awaiting its springtime tenants and Mrs Wilton was so far
ahead that when she came to the next marking point Tommy had worked out, she
was beyond it before he could call to her.

“Towards the lightning struck
tree!” Tommy yelled and pointed.

Mrs Wilton fluttered and
skipped like a girl to a ruined tree set to one side of the pasture. She was so
eager that she reached inside the hollow tree to see if anything obvious had
been hidden there and drew out her arm and gloved hand filthy with dirt and
green grime.

“I feel like a little girl!”
Mrs Wilton laughed at them, self-consciously showing her stained clothes, “I
really am being such a fool, aren’t I?”

“Enjoy yourself.” Clara said
and she meant it, if only everyone could be made so carefree by a silly game of
riddles.

“I think you’ll find we have
to dig.” Tommy interrupted.

“Yes, I suspected that when I
saw the shovels.” Clara looked on forlornly as Annie unstrapped a bundle from
the back of the wheelchair. She gave Clara a long-suffering look and deposited
two shovels on the ground.

“Oh, let me, I used to be
quite the gardener.” Mrs Wilton grabbed a shovel and began ploughing her way
enthusiastically into the soil.

Clara watched her for a moment
and then sighed and picked up the remaining tool. The ground was frozen hard
and difficult to dig, but Mrs Wilton’s excitement spurred them on. She talked
all the time about the savings her husband had and all his investments and how,
now she was to have his money, she would do up the old house, fix the plumbing
at long last and take to having a fire lit in more than one room at a time. She
made no mention of dismissing Elaine, Clara noted, she wondered what the story
was between those two.

But as the ground yielded inch
by steady inch with no obvious signs of anything beneath it the talk subsided.
Mrs Wilton’s smile began to fade to a determined frown and she dug like a fury,
but it seemed her effort was in vain. As the hole widened and deepened, and
Annie took a turn with the shovel it slowly dawned on everyone there might be
nothing there.

Clara took a break, her arms
burning and her palms blistered, to stand behind Tommy’s wheelchair and observe
the proceedings. Mrs Wilton could not be persuaded to stop despite it becoming
more and more apparent she was not about to find a hidden treasure.

“I was so sure.” Tommy said
sadly.

“You really believed in it,
didn’t you?” Clara said kindly.

“I did, I… I liked the idea of
there being a pattern to all of this business, that somehow goodness would
shine through. I liked the idea that someone in Heaven was watching over us,
even just our dead relatives.”

Clara watched the heartbreak
forming on Mrs Wilton’s face as finally she too began to realise she was not
about to strike gold. Suddenly this adventure seemed a very bad idea.

“I wish I had never allowed
this expedition.” Clara sighed.

A chill wind had started to
blow over the pasture and it swept aside her scarf. She turned to gather it and
glimpsed someone at the hedge. She stopped and looked longer. It could have
been a passing walker, or a labourer curious at the mess they were making. It
could have been anyone at that distance, but the long coat and the dark hair
seemed all too much of a coincidence.

Clara took two paces across
the field and then paused. Would he run now? Why had he followed them here when
Mrs Greengage’s killer was captured?

She shielded her eyes from the
low sunlight of the afternoon with one hand and studied the young man at the
edge of the pasture. He was not watching her, but staring at the digging party.
She couldn’t tell at this distance what the expression on his face was, but he
seemed interested. Plucking up her courage she marched across the hard grass.

She was nearly upon him when
he looked up.

“Don’t run.” She immediately
stood still, as if she had just stumbled on a wild bird and didn’t want it
taking off in fright.

He was younger than she had realised
when she saw him close to, but there was a haggardness about his mouth and eyes
that aged him. She knew that look. Tommy had worn it often enough.

“You’ve been following me.”
She said carefully.

“I didn’t mean any harm.” He
was politely spoken.

“I know, so why did you do
it?”

His eyes wandered across the
pasture again.

“You don’t know what it is to
feel a stranger in your own town. To hear people say you were dead and not
recognise you. War does that to you. Sometimes you want to go back so bad, but
your feet won’t let you because you are scared of the look people will give you
when you see them at last.”

“Who are you?” Clara asked.

“Can I come in and join your
party?” The young man had not taken his eyes off the diggers.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure
about you.”

“I won’t ever follow you
again.” He looked at her and promised solemnly, “I only did it because I was
plucking up my courage. Can you understand? You were the closest I could get,
you were like a link until I was ready.”

Stiffly he held out his hand.

“I’m Edward Wilton.”

Clara shook his hand, feeling
stunned but also delighted.

“Mrs Wilton’s son?”

“Yes.”

“It was thought you were
dead.”

“I’m not.” Edward sighed, “But
I was in a German prison camp for two long years. Someone must have muddled my
dog tags. I finally got back here and it seemed all so… so… so familiar, so the
same. I felt like a trespasser stepping back into Brighton with all these dark
memories I have stored up here.”

He tapped the side of his
head.

“I felt I was disturbing
something, that I would ruin what little was left of the goodness of Britain.
Do you see?”

“Yes.” Clara understood well,
“My brother was in the war also.”

“The gentleman in the
wheelchair?”

“Yes.”

Edward Wilton abruptly looked
at his feet and turned away slightly.

“I’m sorry if I scared you. I
wasn’t sure why mum had gone to you, I thought she might be looking for me and
I had this idea I could come to you and you would make all the introductions
that I couldn’t. But it didn’t work like that. I lost my nerve.”

“Never mind that now, you must
come and see your mother.”

“Do… do you think she’ll want
to see me?” Edward glanced at his mother who was finally putting up her shovel
in defeat, “It’s been a long time and I’ve changed. Will she want me back like
this?”

Edward was utterly terrified
at the thought of being rejected and he was close to walking away and leaving
Brighton for good rather than risk facing that possibility. Clara reached out
and took his hand.