01 - Memories of the Dead (6 page)

“I fully understand,” Clara
made herself appear as sympathetic as possible, “And I do find men in
particular struggle to cope with circumstances such as these.”

“Exactly! And they call us the
weaker sex!” The woman clucked her tongue reproachfully, “Come in, won’t you?”

The woman let her into a
narrow, brown hallway. The maid was nearby and bobbed as she took Clara’s coat.

“He is in the front parlour
just there.” The woman pointed to the nearest closed door, “I’ll leave you in
peace to talk with him.”

Not bothering to make an
introduction for Clara the woman disappeared down the hall with the maid and
left her alone.

Clara gingerly opened the
parlour door. Mr Greengage was sat in a high-backed armchair, hands resting on
his knees limply and staring into the middle distance with a glazed expression.
He was not a very big man, but looked even smaller huddled in the large chair.

Clara edged forward and he
woke from his thoughts. He looked the sort of man to be easily dominated by
such a forceful character as Mrs Greengage. His dark hair was greying at the
sides and his round face seemed to mostly consist of a thick pair of round
glasses.

“Can I help you?” He said in a
sad tone as though he was a tradesman and Clara had stumbled into his shop.

Suddenly Clara felt sick at
the intrusion she was making on the man’s grief.

“I’m terribly sorry about your
wife.” She said awkwardly.

“Were you a friend?”

Clara gulped, he clearly didn’t
recognise her from the night before, and now her throat felt tight as she formed
a lie.

“Yes, from the Spiritualist
Church.”

“Not my cup of tea, all that.”
Mr Greengage stared thoughtfully at the parlour rug, “I’ve been an atheist
since the war, but Martha believed whole-heartedly. I hope she found her
Heaven.”

“I’m sure she did.” Clara sat
herself down in a chair and tried to appear comfortable, “And she would be
concerned to know you were all right, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Mr Greengage
grimaced, “Well not fine, obviously, but surviving.”

“I can only imagine the shock
of it all.” Clara shook her head sadly, “Bad enough these people break into our
homes, but to be prepared to kill as well…”

“I’m sorry, but what do you
mean?” Mr Greengage had a frightened little smile on his face.

“Nothing really, I presumed
she was shot by an intruder, a burglar perhaps.”

“Nothing was stolen.” Mr
Greengage said bluntly, “No, they came for her.”

Clara was no longer feigning
when she fell into a stunned silence for a moment.

“You honestly believe it was a
deliberate act, not an accident?”

Mr Greengage studied his hands
as though he had only just noticed he had them.

“She had enemies.”

“Surely not!”

“As sure as I am sitting here
telling you she was purposefully murdered.” Mr Greengage was sharp-tongued and
then he softened again, “It was that business at Eastbourne. She took herself
too seriously, that was all, that speaking to the dead nonsense, no offence madam.”

“None taken, though I don’t
see how being a medium could make her hated enough for someone to want to kill
her.”

“She was convinced she was in
touch with a woman who had been murdered.” Mr Greengage snorted, “Kept me awake
some nights she did going on and on about how her conscience would not let her
rest until she told the police and me, being an even bigger fool, finally got
sick of it all and told her to go to the damn police. I was convinced they
would send her away with a flea in her ear and the matter would be resolved,
but blow me, if they didn’t actually believe her!”

“They arrested someone?”

“The case wasn’t strong
enough, but they certainly made a fuss and my dear Martha was at the centre of
it all. She made an enemy that day, I tell you.”

“Who?” Clara asked, hardly
able to believe her ears or her luck.

Mr Greengage hesitated.

“Bumble, or something similar
was his name. I kept out of it, anyway the case came to nothing and then this
fellow starts talking of suing us for damages and there was no choice but to
leave and come here.”

Clara leaned back in her
chair, her breath taken away by the story.

“But would this Bumble fellow
really murder her?”

“Oh, I don’t know!” Mr
Greengage’s voice suddenly broke with emotion and he cradled his head in his
hands, “I should have been there, not asleep. I should have protected her.”

Clara reached out and gently
touched his arm.

“It couldn’t be helped.”

“It’s these damn sleeping
draughts I take.” Mr Greengage curled his fists angrily, “Ever since the war
the nightmares have been terrible and without the powders I just get no rest.”

“That isn’t your fault.” Clara
said soothingly.

“I should have been awake!”

“And do you think the killer
would have hesitated about killing you too?”

He paused.

“When someone has a gun and
wants to kill it really doesn’t seem to matter to them if they happen to take
out one victim or two.” Clara squeezed his arm, “It appears to me you had a
lucky escape and in doing so maybe you can help the police catch the killer.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you have to think, try
and remember something useful about last night.”

“I was asleep.” Mr Greengage
said miserably.

“Even in dreams normal events
can manifest. Do you remember any detail of a dream that may be important?”
Clara pressed on, “A sound? A noise that stood out?”

“No! No!” Mr Greengage
clutched at his head again, “I don’t remember a thing.”

Clara inwardly sighed, they
were at a dead end.

“Perhaps I should be going.”
There was no response from Greengage so she stood to leave.

“Oh, one last thing.” She
acted as though she had just remembered something important, “A woman
approached me. Oh dear, what was her name? She was quite upset about your dear
wife and kept babbling on about riddles. She was trying to track you down but I
managed to dissuade her, she didn’t seem quite the sort you would want
descending on you at a time like this.”

“That sounds like Mrs Wilton.”

“Yes! That was the name –
Wilton. She seemed a bit of a nuisance really.”

“She is.” Mr Greengage
groaned, “My wife was in touch with Mrs Wilton’s late husband and kept giving
her these riddles, clues to the man’s lost savings or something. I thought it
was all hogswash.”

“She did seem rather
persistent, but what would she want with you?”

“Oh blast, I had forgotten. My
wife was holding back some of the riddles. Even though she had them all she
pretended she didn’t.” Mr Greengage had the decency to look abashed, “You have
to understand, she was still trying to build up her clientele and money was
tight. Mrs Wilton was a promising regular and she was trying to keep her as
long as she could. I know it wasn’t ethical.”

Clara kept her expression
pointedly neutral.

“That explains what Mrs Wilton
was going on about. I imagine she will try and visit you.”

“I couldn’t stand that.” He
rubbed at his temples, “Perhaps… maybe… would you give the riddles to her? It
would save me having to see her.”

Clara made a pretence of
looking mildly put out, then appeared to relent.

“I suppose so. I did come to
offer any assistance I could.”

“So kind.” Mr Greengage
mustered a smile as he stood, “They are back in the house, I will take you
across.”

“Will you be all right going
back, I mean…”

“Yes. Yes.” Mr Greengage
brushed off the comment sharply, “The riddles are in my study anyway, and I
intend going home as soon as I can. I don’t like being out of the house for
long.”

Clara looked at him curiously,
but as she had got what she wanted (or rather Mrs Wilton had) she decided to
keep her peace.

Mr Greengage led the way
across the road and addressed himself to the constable on duty. Within seconds
they were in the house. Clara was relieved to see Oliver had gone, there was
something about him that made her lose her entire sense of self-confidence when
in his presence. Of course, she would have to visit him eventually if she
wanted to see the photographs of the crime scene, more was the pity.

Mr Greegnage led them passed
the shut door of the parlour where his wife still lay on the carpet going
quietly cold, and into the room just behind it. The study was dominated by a
writing desk and a large armchair pressed close against one wall.

“I kept the records.” Mr
Greengage said absently as he rifled through the desk, “Here you are.”

He handed over an envelope
thick with a small wad of papers. Clara gave them a glance and then turned to
the forlorn widower.

“What will you do now?” She
asked with genuine concern.

Mr Greengage shuffled about
his room, picking up and putting down books and papers.

“I don’t know really, I
haven’t worked since the war.” He fiddled with a pen on the desk, “Martha kept
us going. You see after the war I found I didn’t like being in open spaces too
long.”

Clara didn’t understand, but
merely nodded.

“Martha was helping me get my
confidence back but I guess that is all gone now.”

Clara suddenly felt so sorry
for the pitiful figure before her that she wished she could do something for
him.

“If you need anything you can
always call me.” Clara reached for her purse where she had some business cards
and then stopped herself. If he saw the cards he would know she was a detective
and her ‘neighbourly love’ approach would be ruined. Besides she didn’t want
him to think she had come only to ask questions, even if that was her reason.

“I’ll write my phone number
down for you.” She pulled a piece of paper from the desk and scribbled her
number down.

“Thank you.” Mr Greengage said
vaguely, “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to be here by myself for a
while.”

“Of course.” Clara pushed the
slip of paper towards him so he would see it and then let herself out of the
study. As she walked down the hallway she heard him begin to sob softly.

Outside she said goodbye
politely to the constable to avoid arousing suspicion and stepped onto the
pavement. The evening was drawing in rapidly and Clara pulled her collar up
against the cold. She hoped Annie had a hot meal cooking for her when she
arrived home.

She was just reaching the end
of the road when she noticed the footsteps behind her. There was nothing
particularly odd about them, but the hair on the back of her neck stood on end
at the sound.

She stopped at the curb. The
footsteps stopped. She crossed the road and headed up another street and the
footsteps followed. She stopped again, abruptly this time, and so did the
footsteps. Now Clara was certain something odd was happening. She turned
sharply and a few feet away the shadowy outline of a man could be seen just
beyond the circle of light cast by a street lamp. As she stared at him he
turned around and left.

Clara realised she was
shaking. Her heart was pounding. She doubled her pace and headed for home as
fast as she could.

Annie noticed she was out of breath as she took her coat.

“Are you all right, Clara?”

Clara looked at the girl’s
pinched expression of concern and felt her fear slowly leave her.

“I’m fine Annie, I just rushed
home.” She said, “It’s nice to hear you use my name for a change.”

Annie’s face fell.

“Sorry marm.” She said quickly
with a bobbed curtsey, then she was running off to the kitchen.

Clara groaned. She had met
Annie at the hospital during the war. Having lost both parents and her sister
during an aerial bombardment Annie was an emotional wreck as she sat on a bed
having glass pulled from her arms and legs.

There was something about her
that struck Clara instantly. She didn’t flinch as her wounds were treated, but
as soon as she thought she was alone she sobbed her heart out. Annie never
talked about her family and to the doctors and nurses she presented a cheery
façade, a ‘one-must-get-on-with-things’ outlook that always hit Clara as being
forced. Then one day, one of her other patients confided something to her that
was troubling. Annie, in a dark moment, had confessed she was planning to kill
herself as soon as she was released. She couldn’t face going on alone, the
future seemed just too daunting.

Clara made up her mind that
moment. Before Annie was due to be discharged she asked if she would be
interested in working for her. She made it sound as though Annie would be doing
her a huge favour, and that was not entirely untrue. Tommy was due home and
with his injuries Clara was dreading being in the house alone to cope. Oddly as
she spoke with Annie she found herself confiding all this. She had not talked
so openly to anyone else, but in retrospect it had been the right way to win
over Annie. She was a naturally caring soul and the thought of being useful to
someone gave her a purpose to cling to. Both women came together because of
their terror of the unknown ahead.

There was one thing, however,
that they had never quite managed to resolve. Clara didn’t see Annie as a
simple servant and found it hard to have her curtseying and bobbing to her. But
Annie had been raised with strict ideas of place and rank and refused to refer
to Clara in a familiar way. She considered Clara her mistress, even if the
situation was actually far more complicated. She only used Clara’s name when
she was worried or forgot herself, and she always reacted badly when she
realised what she had done.

Shaking her head, Clara went
to find her brother in the drawing room.

“Good evening, sis.” Tommy
called from the table where he was surrounded by books.

“Have you heard the news?”
Clara asked.

“About the late Mrs Greengage?
Yes, it’s all about the town. Annie told me when she came home with the
potatoes.”

“I’m afraid I am on the
suspect list.”

“Really?”

“Yes, the inspector says I
could have done it with your old service pistol.”

“You’d have a hard job.” Tommy
shrugged, “Had the thing with me in No Man’s Land. It was half submerged in mud
for ages before they found me and brought me back. The inside was full of the
black stuff and I hardly had the inclination to clean the thing. Whole firing
mechanism is jammed.”

Clara sank into a chair.

“Well that is a relief!”

“Why? Did you think you might
have done it in a walking trance and not remembered?” Tommy grinned.

“Don’t be silly.” Clara
snorted.

“That just leaves Mrs Wilton
then.”

“She can’t have done it.”
Clara hesitated, “Can she?”

“Doesn’t seem the type.”

“Is there a ‘type’?”

Tommy thought for a moment
then shrugged.

“Anyway, she was still rather
keen on the riddles she thought her husband was sending by spiritual telegraph.”
Mused Clara, “Had me go and collect the remaining ones, so she must have
believed in Mrs Greengage.”

“Doesn’t mean she didn’t kill
her, if she thought she was being used.” Tommy rubbed his chin, “Did you say
there were more riddles?”

“Yes.”

“Can I look?”

Clara fished the envelope out
of her handbag and passed it to Tommy.

“She was definitely stringing
Mrs Wilton along, you know.”

“Right. But if Mrs Wilton
killed her for taking her money unlawfully wouldn’t she make sure she had all
the riddles first?” Tommy thumbed open the envelope.

“I don’t know, you were the
one who suggested she might have a motive if she felt used.” Clara screwed up
her eyes, this whole nightmare was giving her a blistering headache.

“You have to test a theory,
check out its flaws before you can consider it valid. It says so in this book I
found written by an ex-Scotland Yard detective.”

“Why is he an ex-detective?”
Clara asked, opening one eye.

“Perhaps he wanted to pursue
his career as a writer.” Tommy answered sarcastically, “Hey, where did you get
these riddles from?”

“Mr Greengage gave them to me
out his desk.”

“Well, I think Mrs Wilton
isn’t the only one being strung along. They are all just blank slips.”

Clara sprung upright.

“Pardon?”

Tommy displayed the pieces of
paper he had just received from the envelope in his hands. They were all blank.

“Mr Greengage, I presume?”

“No, no.” Clara took a piece
of paper and stared at it, “He had no reason to. How would he know I would ask
for the riddles? He had no time to prepare a dummy envelope and anyway what did
he have to gain apart from the continued harassment of Mrs Wilton?”

Tommy had no answer.

“They are just riddles.” Clara
turned the paper over and over in the lamplight as if to try and reveal some
secret, “If Mrs Greengage did not have any more of them why didn’t he just say so?”

“Perhaps he didn’t know. He
thought his wife had written the rest but actually she hadn’t.”

“That makes no sense either.”
Clara looked at the papers forlornly, “I don’t understand any of this.”

Tommy was prevented from
replying by a knock on the parlour door.

“Begging pardon,” Annie
appeared, “But there is a police inspector at the door says he must speak to
you.”

“Park-Coombs.” Clara looked
meaningfully at Tommy, but he just appeared puzzled, “Send him in Annie.”

The inspector seemed slightly
more frazzled than he had that morning as he entered the room. Clara wondered
if his enquiries were proving less fruitful than he had imagined.

“Miss Fitzgerald. Mr
Fitzgerald.”

“Inspector Park-Coombs, this
is my brother Tommy.” Clara introduced them, “Tommy, the inspector thinks I am
a cold-blooded murderer.”

“Hazard of the job, miss.” The
inspector grimaced.

“Well, I think I can put your
mind at rest inspector, at least where Clara is concerned.” Tommy announced,
enjoying the moment of triumph, “You see, my service pistol is completely
inoperable.”

“I see.” The inspector said
mildly.

“I’ll fetch it if you like.”
Tommy started to push his wheelchair away from the table, but the inspector
stopped him.

“I’ll retrieve it, if you
don’t mind sir. Case of ensuring the evidence isn’t tampered with. I’m sure you
understand.”

“I’ve been here all day, if I
was going to break my own gun I would have done it by now.”

“Indeed sir, but even so…”

Tommy waved away the rest of
the words.

“All right inspector, but I
assure you I didn’t fill the thing with mud from Flanders in the last half hour
just to get my sister off the hook.”

“Could you direct me to it?”

“My bedroom is down the
hallway, last room on the right. Used to be the garden room. You’ll find the
pistol in the dresser, second drawer down under some vests. Annie could show
you.”

“No need.” The inspector let
himself out of the room and vanished.

Clara and Tommy sat in silence
for a while and then she looked at her brother.

“Is it odd that though I feel
relieved for myself I feel angry for Mrs Wilton?”

“Not at all.” Tommy told her,
“Quite natural.”

“I wish I could help her more
but I feel at a complete loss. I am out of my depth.”

“Don’t give in old thing, not
now.”

Clara sighed and dumped the
blank riddle papers into the fireplace.

“Could this be about Mrs
Greengage defrauding Mrs Wilton?” She pondered.

“If that was truly the case
would she hire you?”

“I have to face the
possibility that she may have considered my skills too inadequate to find the
truth, thus she felt safe asking me to look into the crime, knowing that by
doing so she would make it seem like she had nothing to hide.”

“You are being too hard on
yourself.” Tommy said sternly, “Besides, we have not even begun to consider the
parrot.”

Clara took a moment to register
what he had said.

“The parrot?”

“Mrs Greengage’s white
cockatiel who popped his clogs the night of the séance.”

“Augustus?”

“Yes, I’ve been looking up
talking birds in father’s old encyclopaedias.” Tommy pulled a large, heavy book
towards him.

“I thought poor Augustus died
of a heart attack?” Clara said, still trying to catch up.

“He might have done, but Mrs
Greengage was quite right in saying he was in his prime. By parrot terms he was
still a young bird, which makes it seem all the more odd that he should drop
dead the same night as his mistress.”

“You are quite right Mr
Fitzgerald.” The inspector reappeared in the room, “I was equally perturbed and
had our laboratory run a quick test on the bird. Early indications suggest
Augustus died from a high dose of strychnine. Question remains how and why was
it done?”

Clara felt the world was
spinning away from her.

“Someone killed the parrot?”

“It may have been an accident.
The drug was probably meant for his mistress, which means we are looking for a
very determined killer who planned this crime carefully.” The inspector placed
Tommy’s service pistol on the table, “As you said sir, completely unusable.”

“Thank you inspector. Was
there anything else?”

“No, I doubt I will need to
disturb you again, I will take my leave.” The inspector doffed his hat and left
without waiting for Annie to show him out.

“I don’t like it Tommy.” Clara
said as soon as he was gone, “Does a poisoner suddenly decide to take up
shooting to claim their victim? One method distances one from the crime, the
other means the act has to be up close and personal. Why such a dramatic
change?”

“Maybe they became desperate?”

“But the shooting seems so… so
spur-of-the-moment. It just doesn’t fit together right.”

“There is another thing that
doesn’t make sense.” Tommy frowned as he added to the confusion, “White
cockatiels are mimes, they talk but only by repeating what they have heard and
it takes ages to teach them phrases. Trainers work with these birds for months
just to get them to say a few simple sentences. Yet Augustus was able to say
peoples’ names and recite messages instantly.”

“Oh my.” Said Clara.

“Exactly, it shouldn’t have
been possible.”

“Unless he was a very unique
bird? But somehow I doubt that. He was a trick like everything else.”

“So how does that help or
hinder us?”

Clara shook her head.

“We have far too many
unanswered questions and I have a pounding headache.” Clara felt the pain
spiking across the top of her head as she spoke, “I think I will go lay down
for a while.”

Clara lay on her bed, but it
was hardly restful, not when her mind was whirring so fast. Strychnine and then
a shooting? She didn’t like it, it felt awkward. Poisoning was such a subtle
approach compared to drawing a gun on someone, but was she trying too hard to
see reason where there was none? In a story it would make no sense, but in real
life things tended to be more messy. Murderers did random things, especially
when a situation demanded urgency. Yet that left the question, what urgency?
For that matter, why would anyone, aside from this mysterious Bumble character,
who she wasn’t convinced about, want to kill Mrs Greengage in the first place?

She tried to rack her brain
for something she could compare the event to, but all that kept springing to
mind were the stories she had heard of the Borgias in school. At the time her
teachers had felt she had an unhealthy appetite for that long dead Italian
dynasty, who were renowned for popping off unwanted relatives and rivals with
poison. But her father had been less troubled and saw it as a promising natural
curiosity. Though Clara doubted he had ever imagined she would be using that
knowledge to try and solve a real murder.

Then again, perhaps all these
thoughts of the Borgias that were stuck in her head were more of a nuisance
than a help. Perhaps they were blinding her? They again made her feel the
change of murder style was all wrong. Something made no sense. Perhaps if she
could work out how the poison was administered?

Then there was that other nag.
Wasn’t poison the usual tool for women? Most poisoners were female, as the case
of Lucrezia Borgia emphasised. It was a feminine weapon, but that left her
suspicions firmly pointing again at Mrs Wilton – no one else had cause or
convenience to commit the crime.

It was all such a jumble.
Clara gave up trying to rest and went down to dinner.

Annie had just brought a
gammon joint to the table as Clara arrived. Tommy was already at his customary
place at the top of the table.

“That smells lovely Annie.”
Clara said as she took a seat.

“Thanks miss.” Annie bobbed a
curtsey and was then scurrying away again.

“When she comes back ask her
to sit with us.” Tommy glanced at his sister, “I hate thinking of her eating in
that cold kitchen alone.”