01 - Memories of the Dead (7 page)

Clara resisted the temptation
to smile and replied.

“She never listens to me. My
suggestions are never ‘proper’.”

“Try. Please?”

“Well, back me up then, she is
far more likely to listen to you.”

Just then Annie returned with
a dish of slightly over-boiled sprouts.

“Last in the pantry.” She
announced not noticing Tommy’s nose wrinkling in distaste, “I’ll just get the
potatoes.”

“Good and then you will sit
and eat with us, won’t you Annie?” Clara said.

Annie hovered by the table, a
mix of emotions fleetingly crossed her face before she settled on blank
politeness.

“It would not be proper miss.”
She replied with a hint of remonstration.

Clara gave a ‘told-you-so’
look to Tommy and he pleaded with his eyes that she keep trying.

“You should know by now Annie
that I am not a person for doing things the proper way.” Clara tried a
different approach, “Besides I am full of a headache and I doubt I will be much
dinner company for Tommy. There is nothing more miserable than eating a meal
with someone who wants to keep cradling their head in their arms. If you eat
with us you will distract him from my sufferings.”

Clara ignored the glare her
brother was aiming at her, feeling mildly self-satisfied. Annie still
hesitated.

“Well miss…”

“Come on old thing.” Tommy
turned his full smile on the girl, “Indulge a poor crock at his dinner time.”

“You are not a crock, Tommy.”
Annie said with a spark of emotion that surprised Clara.

She had thought the
infatuation very much one-sided.

“I’ll get another plate.”
Annie said quietly with a look about her as if she was doing it as a service.

“Anything I should know?”
Clara asked her brother as soon as Annie had vanished.

“Oh there are probably quite a
few things you should know, but I wouldn’t inflict imparting information on you
when you have a headache.” Tommy was grinning.

Clara felt inclined to leave
behind all her manners and throw a sprout at him.

Annie returned with the
potatoes and a third plate and for a time everyone was absorbed in the
processes of serving and beginning a meal. The steady click of cutlery
accentuated the silence and the throbbing in Clara’s skull. Clara decided she
better start the conversation.

“What have you two been up to
today?”

“Well, I had hoped to return
to the book shop but my nursemaid banned me.” Tommy said with a mischievous
glance at Annie.

“You complained of a sore
throat yesterday and I wasn’t going to be responsible for letting you catch
pneumonia.” Annie said piously, though a hint of a smile played on her lips.

“Ah, the ex-detective’s book?”

“Good guess, Annie collected
it for me.”

“Yes, when I went for the
gammon and quite an episode it was too.” Annie suddenly became animated as she
relayed her gossip, “That new maid from Mrs Pembroke’s house was in there and
making a fine fuss at not being able to get a map of Brighton for less than 5d.”

“Still not found her feet in
the town, I imagine.” Tommy said.

“Most people just ask
directions.” Clara observed.

“She is a fine one.” Annie
tutted, “You would think she served the queen or some such person, the way she
goes on and always turning her nose up as if Brighton isn’t good enough for
her.”

“A maid buying a map,
honestly! Mrs Pembroke can’t have her running that far afield, surely?”

“And when she finally decided
on paying the 5d the fuss she made because the maps she looked at didn’t cover
all the countryside and villages around the town as she wanted. I said to
meself, she wants an atlas not a map, way she goes on.”

Clara smiled as her mind
relaxed and tuned into the everyday matters that didn’t involve death which
Annie relayed. Even the headache seemed to be lifting.

“Thick as thieves with that
little Elaine as works for Mrs Wilton, she is. I had meant to say to you miss,
about it. Thought perhaps you could mention it to Mrs Wilton before that girl
turns Elaine’s head with all her talk about what she would do if she had a
spare bit of money. Fancies herself a lady that one.”

“See what I miss when I don’t
go out?” Tommy complained with a devilish smile.

“Tsk, Thomas Fitzgerald, I
only think of your health.” Annie pouted.

“And very glad I am for it too,
but I get fed up being cooped indoors.”

“Well the weather is about to
turn and then you can be a gad-about again.” Said Annie, trying to press a
disintegrating sprout onto her fork, “Or so the boy who works for Mr Bankes
tells me.”

“Mr Bankes?” Clara said
sharply.

“The photographer in the high
street. Bit experimental, or so I hear, very keen on ‘natural light’ apparently
for his pictures, which is why he keeps such a close watch on the weather, so
he can predict when to take the best portraits or something. So his errand boy
says, I think its half nonsense the lad makes up, he reckons Mr Bankes gets his
forecasts from a man in London!”

The conversation reminded
Clara of a job she had to do the next day which she wasn’t looking forward to. Annie
was clearing away the dinner plates and talking about pudding, but Clara
protested her headache and said she was going to bed early.

Upstairs she lay in her dark
room, her mind flicking from the happy noise of Annie and Tommy laughing
downstairs to the visit she must pay to Bankes the next day, and his crime
scene photos.

Bankes photography stood between a bakers and a butchers,
which had created an oddly pleasing rhyme in Clara’s head and made her wish
Oliver had been a candlestick maker to fit in with his neighbours.

It was a neat, but not grand
shop, painted dark green with the name picked out in gold and the window
blocked with thick black drapes like an undertakers. Though, instead of a
display of coffins or memorial stones, Bankes had several large family group
shots and portraits mounted on easels. A quick glance certainly would have
given no notion of the darker side of Oliver’s work.

Clara pushed open the heavy
door and stood in a small reception that smelt faintly of chemicals. There was a
counter with a bell on it. She waited a moment then rang it.

“Coming.” A harassed looking
woman with her hair all at odds appeared from a side door, “Are you a client?”

“Not as such, but Mr Bankes is
expecting me.”

“Can I take your name, dear?”
The woman reached out for a scrap of paper with one hand and a pair of glasses
with the other, “Memory like a sieve, so I write everything down. I blame
working around these fumes all day. Right, who should I say is calling?”

“Miss Clara Fitzgerald.”

“I’ll tell him straight away,
but he’ll be a moment. The cat has knocked a load of bottles all over, yet
again. Gone on the floor and on Mr Bankes, poor soul. Some of them chemicals
can scald you know. But won’t have a word said against that cat. Just wait
here, won’t you?”

The woman bustled off again
and Clara took to surveying the many photographs lining the walls. Gentlemen
stared out at her with their thick moustaches and elegant ladies in heavy
dresses scowled, while alongside them more modern artistic images of girls in
cloche hats and shapeless dresses displayed the changing times and fashions.

“Some of those are my
father’s.”

Clara jumped at the unexpected
appearance of Oliver behind her and was instantly cross with herself.

“I thought some were a little
before your time, unless you are much older than you look.” She said.

“I’ll treat that as a
compliment.” Oliver grinned, as Clara blushed with annoyance, “Father rented
this place after the war, said the old studios held too many memories, but he
prefers to do artistic photography these days and leaves the running of the
business to me. Would you like to come through and have a cup of tea?”

Without waiting for a reply,
the eager photographer led Clara through a curtained archway and into an untidy
backroom that served as his office space. The walls were lined with heavy wood
filing cabinets and an old desk was wedged between two of them and littered
with papers, loose photos, a week’s worth of newspapers and a tea plate with
the remains of cold toast sitting on it. The office had very much the feel of a
man’s working domain and that wasn’t just because of the odd scattered hat or
jacket, or the smell of tobacco. It was the sort of place women would rarely
enter, Clara suspected, even perhaps the bumbling receptionist.

Oliver dragged a stack of
unused photography plates from a green leather armchair and motioned for Clara
to sit. He then proceeded to remove a well-fed tabby cat from his own, wooden,
desk chair. The creature gave a disgruntled yawn and headed out of the door.

“Mrs Grimby, pot of tea
please?” Oliver yelled before sitting at his desk with a smile, “So, to what do
I owe the pleasure.”

Clara was regaining her sense
of calm now she was sitting in the studio surrounded by the detritus of
ordinary life.

“You invited me to come and
see the photos you took at Mrs Greengage’s house.”

“So I did.” Oliver nodded, the
smile fading a little, “Are you sure you want to see them?”

“It can hardly be worse than
seeing the actual dead body.” Clara replied with false bravado.

“I suppose.” Oliver got up and
went to a filing cabinet, “Inspector Park-Coombs has had copies of course.”

He brought back a selection of
black and white pictures.

“I take lots in case some
don’t come out.” Oliver was a bit apologetic about the number of photos,
“Lighting outside the studio can be so tiresome.”

Clara cast through the pile,
scenes of Mrs Greengage’s parlour from all angles and directions flitted before
her eyes; close-ups of the table and rug, and the sideboard where glasses had
been stacked.

“There is something missing.”
Clara tapped the pictures and looked meaningfully at Oliver. With a sigh he
handed over the photographs he had carefully held back.

Clara looked at the new images
displaying Mrs Greengage’s body. Oliver had been as thorough with these as with
the other shots and there were several taken from varying angles and distances.

“She doesn’t look like a woman
who was shot.” Clara remarked, surprising herself with the statement.

“How do you mean?”

“She looks peaceful, maybe a little
puzzled, but not scared or distressed.”

“Most murder victims don’t.”
Oliver answered, “It’s a myth of fiction that people die with their faces
twisted in an awful grimace, most just look, well, dead.”

Clara sorted through the
photos again, vaguely aware that she was no longer disturbed at the sight. This
Mrs Greengage felt distant, removed, not a woman she had met and who had then
been horribly murdered. Not a woman she had sat and drunk sherry with only two
nights before.

Sherry!

She flicked back through the
shots until she reached the one of the sideboard and drinks cabinet. There were
all the glasses, all empty except for one. How many had had sherry that night?
Herself, Tommy and Mrs Wilton, that would account for three glasses, but the
fourth one had been for Mrs Greengage and she had never touched hers because of
the commotion surrounding the sudden death of Augustus. And the poison found in
the parrot had made them all assume that someone had wanted to kill Mrs
Greengage, but had anyone thought to test the glass of sherry? It had to be in
there, didn’t it? Not the whole sherry bottle or else they would all be dead,
but just that glass, specifically that glass.

“We have to test the sherry in
that glass Mr Bankes.” She said aloud just as Mrs Grimby walked in with the tea
tray.

“Miss Fitzgerald is a keen
amateur photographer, Mrs Grimby.” Oliver said, carelessly knocking some papers
over the top of the Greengage photographs.

Mrs Grimby gave Clara a smile
and left the tea tray on a stack of old photography magazines.

“She doesn’t like the murder
pictures.” Oliver said when she was gone again, “Sorry, I should have mentioned
that sooner. But what was that about the glass?”

“The police now know Augustus
was poisoned and the natural conclusion that I jumped to when I was told was
that the poison was actually meant for Mrs Greengage. The means was the bother,
but I saw that picture and it was so obvious. It had to be in the sherry, but
not the decanter, else we would all have perished, but just one glass. Specifically
the full glass in this picture. Augustus drank from it. It was a shocking risk
for the murderer to take, presumably he knew how the glasses were laid out and
handed around so he could guess which glass would ultimately end in Mrs
Greengage’s hand, but it still could have easily gone to someone else. Of
course, this is assuming there
is
poison in that glass, the same poison
that killed Augustus.”

Oliver gave her a confused
frown.

“You mean… this could point to
the killer?”

“Yes… I mean… maybe. Actually,
I am not sure, but it must mean something, I suppose. I shall have to see the
inspector straight away.” Clara was gathering up her things without even
touching her tea. Oliver tried to detain her.

“You’re going now?”

“No time like the present.”

“Perhaps there is more in the
photographs? Perhaps another look?”

“No, I’ve seen enough. Thank
you for helping me Mr Bankes.

“Oliver, please. And if you
need to see the photos again come straight here, I am almost always around.”

They had made their way back
to the reception area and Clara was fumbling with her hat as she darted out the
door.

“Thank you again, Oliver.
Goodbye.”

She waved as she dashed off.

“Bye.” Oliver called after
her.

He watched her run up the
road, her hat half on and her hair flying wild. He was picturing her through a
camera lens, capturing that moment of excitement and haste. Oliver wondered, as
the door slowly closed, what it would be like to take a girl like Clara to the
music hall.

The sergeant on the front desk
of the police station couldn’t have been less helpful if he had tried.

“You can’t just waltz in and
see the inspector, it isn’t procedure.”

“But it is extremely urgent.”
Insisted Clara.

“So are most things people
come in here for.” The sergeant replied with heavy sarcasm.

“He will want to see me.”
Clara demanded, but the sergeant had flipped open one of the big ledgers on his
desk and was studiously ignoring her.

“Honestly!” Clara gasped in
exasperation looking around the police station for inspiration. There was only
an old drunk asleep on a wooden bench which didn’t help her at all.

“It’s about a murder.” Clara
hissed to the sergeant, but he didn’t even look up, “How do you ever solve
crimes if you never listen to anyone?”

“What crime is that Miss
Fitzgerald?”

Clara glanced up and was
immediately torn between hope and annoyance at the face that greeted her. His
name was Percy Boyle, an odious boy Clara had had the misfortune to go to
school with. He had been a typical bully, though Clara was exempted from his
more unpleasant torments because of having an older brother who was quite good
with his fists. Tommy had sent Percy sprawling more than once.

The fact that Percy had made
it into the police was more down to a shortage of men with all their limbs
attached after the war than to any real talent on his part. He had been
overlooked for military service due to a horrendous squint that made it seem as
if he was always talking to a person’s left shoulder. Getting into the police
force had been a lucky break for him and maybe it was for her too. Percy might
be an idiot, but his healthy respect for Tommy (thus transposed to his sister)
might mean he could help her to see the inspector.

“I have vital information on a
case for inspector Park-Coombs, but the sergeant here won’t let me through.”
She explained briefly to Percy.

“Not procedure.” Tutted the
sergeant, irritated to feel the need to explain himself to a mere constable.

“Well, you can always tell me
old bean and I’ll pass it along.” Percy beamed and Clara noted the gleam she
had half expected in his expression. Knowing Percy he would already be looking
at ways to get into the Inspector’s good books and a lead on a case would be
just right.

“Won’t do Percy.” Clara said,
making her voice sound forlorn, “Tommy made me promise I would only speak to
the inspector.”

A shadow fell over Percy’s
expression.

“Tommy, huh?” Percy’s eyes
seemed to be staring everywhere at once, which was fairly easy for a young man
with his condition, “I heard he was back but not so fit. Can turn a man’s head
all that blood and violence. Tommy all right, is he?”

Clara sensed his trepidation.

“He does all right, gets about
quite well considering.”

“Mobile then, is he?”

“Oh yes and travels all about.
Mind you, he sometimes worries me when that temper takes hold of him.”

“Temper?” Percy looked uneasy.

“Quite frightful when he gets
in one of his moods and takes against someone and then no one can stop him from
going to find them and having it out. He gets this determined look in his eyes.
I have had to search all over Brighton for him at times.” Clara was quite
enjoying her creation of the ‘monstrous Tommy’ and the effect it was clearly
having on Percy.

“Still, don’t suppose he can
do much damage as he is.” Percy said in a tone that suggested he was trying to
reassure himself.

“No, well not
alone
, he
can’t.” Clara laid her emphasis heavy, “He always did have a lot of friends
though.”

“Oh yes, lots of friends Tommy
always had.” Percy was uneasy, “And he said, er, that you should only speak to
the inspector?”

“Yes, but I suppose he wouldn’t
be too displeased if I told you, I mean you can pass the message on and you
were one of Tommy’s pals, weren’t you?”

“Definitely.” Percy had a
glazed look as he was remembering the sight of Tommy Fitzgerald angry with him
because he had made Clara cry.

Then he made up his mind.

“Look here sergeant. I think
we should let the inspector hear the girl out. I’ll escort her up and take
responsibility if you like.”

The sergeant gave a
noncommittal shrug, his eyes looking a little too shrewdly at Clara who was
doing her best not to smile.

“As you wish.” He shrugged.

With that Percy was leading
the way upstairs.

“You’ll tell Tommy I helped,
won’t you?” He asked as they entered a dark corridor with doors leading off it
on either side.

“Certainly. I shall sing your
praises to him and I am sure he would like to visit an old friend. He knows
where your ma’s house is, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, I don’t live there
anymore.” Percy said quickly as he knocked at an office door and ushered Clara
through, “Miss Fitzgerald to see you, inspector.”

Percy almost raced back out
the door, shutting it firmly behind him.

“Are you in the habit of
intimidating officers of the law, Miss Fitzgerald?” The inspector asked drily
as he looked up from his papers.

“Not wittingly.” Clara lied.

“You never do anything
unwittingly Miss Fitzgerald.” The inspector replied, motioning to a chair in
which he expected her to sit, “I am informed you paid a visit to the Greengage
residence yesterday. Mind explaining that to me?”