01 - Memories of the Dead (8 page)

Clara’s mind flicked to Oliver,
perturbed that he had given her away.

“I was paying my respects.”

“Try again. The neighbour says
you claimed to be from some Spiritualist Society and asked to talk to Mr
Greengage. Miss Fitzgerald may I remind you that you are not a police detective
and you should stay out of men’s business.”

Clara brindled, her whole skin
pricked at the insult. She had to take a deep breath before she could give a
calm answer.

“Now you have offered me your
advice perhaps we could discuss what I came here for.”

“I might as well be talking
out of my ar…” The inspector caught himself, “My posterior.”

“That is your own business, it
is perfectly acceptable for a private detective to investigate a case on behalf
of their client, which is what I am doing. My gender is of no concern.”

“You are the first female
private investigator I ever heard of.”

“I don’t doubt I will have to
prove myself to you and many others, inspector.” Clara became serious, “I knew
that perfectly well the moment I decided to start my business, but then there
is very little in this life that a woman doesn’t have to prove herself in. Even
as a nurse during the war, the male doctors were all patronising buffoons who
thought us girls had just been wrangled in from the nearest dance hall.”

The inspector smiled weakly
and leaned back in his chair.

“Your point is made.” He
assured her, “Perhaps you’re right and women will make fine detectives. God
knows you lot are certainly nosy enough.”

Clara didn’t rise to the bait,
she had more dignity.     

“You want to discuss this case
then?” The inspector suggested to break the stony silence he was receiving, “By
the way, I have officially taken you off my suspects list.”

“Jolly good, and what about
Mrs Wilton?”

“That old cat’s still on the
top of my agenda. Dead fishy it is spending all your time searching for a lost
treasure your deceased husband has supposedly told you about through the agency
of a clairvoyant.”

“I don’t deny it is odd, but
many people believe in women like Mrs Greengage, especially since the war.”

“Mrs Wilton is a funny one,
but I take it you are trying to prove her innocent?” The inspector steepled his
fingers under his chin.

“More precisely, I am looking
for Mrs Greengage’s murderer, which may, indeed, prove Mrs Wilton’s innocence.”

“So you are not sure yourself?”

“I am keeping an open-mind,
which I believe is the typical police approach.”

“Quite.” The inspector paused,
“I expected a woman to be more…”

“Emotional?” Clara suggested.

“More inclined to stick up for
one of her own.”

“We, women I mean, are not a
club or secret society, inspector, and I take my work very seriously.”

“I can see that, so what is it
you wanted to talk about?”

Clara was relieved to be
finally getting back to business.

“You tested Augustus the
parrot for poison and he came back full of strychnine. Why did you think to
test him, may I ask?”

“Just a hunch really. Dropping
down dead like that just before his mistress did the same seemed rather
suspicious. In my line of work coincidences are less common than mistakes made
to look like them.”

“But Mrs Greengage wasn’t
poisoned.”

“No, but our doctor down here
had seen a bird die like that before from poison. He recognised the signs and
as I had already told him I was suspicious about the bird’s death he decided to
test the corpse for foreign chemicals.”

“So that is clear, but now
tell me, did you test the sherry?”
There was a flicker of uncertainty on the inspector’s face.

“As you say the woman was
shot.” He said as he reached for a pile of brown cardboard folders, “Even if we
found the poison it wouldn’t convict the murderer, unless you are thinking of
sending this matter to the RSPCA.”

“You know as well as I do
inspector that how the poison came to be in the parrot could be a vital clue.”

“It had to be in the sherry,
no other option.” The inspector was thumbing through papers now.

“I agree. But the murderer
took a terrible risk, he could have killed any of us. It was clumsy at best.”

“Or audacious.” The inspector
suddenly relaxed, “Here it is.”

He held a piece of paper
towards Clara smiling in a manner she considered rather self-satisfied. She
read the laboratory report he had just handed her.

“There was no poison in the
sherry.” She put the paper down in amazement, “Can there have been a mistake?”

“It does seem a little curious
but our chemist is highly regarded and reliable. If he says the sherry was
clear, it must be.”

Clara couldn’t believe her
eyes; she had been convinced the sherry was the medium for the poison. Or had
she been? Why had she pushed so hard to find out if she was so certain, after
all? No, that doubt had been there already and now it was confirmed.

“Poison in the parrot but not
in the sherry.”

“Certainly puzzling, though it
explains why the rest of you were fine. I am tracing strychnine sales in the
local area of course.” The inspector took back his piece of paper a little too
gleefully for Clara’s liking, “Anything else I can help you with?”

Clara pulled her thoughts back
together, this was important she felt, but she could assess the implications
when she was back home. Right now she had to concentrate, she might not get
another opportunity to grill the inspector.

“There was one other thing. I
was told that Mrs Greengage had to move to Brighton from Eastbourne because she
had accused someone of murder, could you get me the details?”

The inspector returned to
leaning his chin on his hands.

“I expect I could, I don’t
think it’s connected though. She was just an old busy-body.”

“Or someone who knew something
but was afraid to reveal how she knew.”

“That is typical female
thinking, over-complicating everything.” The inspector shook his head.

“Then I suppose I am also
over-thinking when I consider it peculiar that the riddles have gone missing.”

“Riddles? What riddles?”

Clara enjoyed a moment to feel
satisfied that she knew more than the inspector.

“The riddles Mrs Greengage had
been communicating to Mrs Wilton via her, ahem, mediumship. There were nine, I
believe, but Mrs Wilton only ever received three and now the other six have
vanished.”

“Then that only strengthens
the case against Mrs Wilton.”

“Except she came to me on the
very morning of the murder, after you had interviewed her, to ask me to
retrieve the remaining riddles for her. Which I tried to only to discover they
were gone.” Clara explained calmly, “She would hardly send me after them if she
had already stolen them.”

“Unless it was to cast
suspicion off of her – a double bluff.”

“Inspector, I think both you
and I can agree that Mrs Wilton is not that clever a woman.”

The inspector thought about
this a moment and then sighed.

“So now we have theft to add
to the list. This just gets better and better.”

“It may also throw new light
on the motive for Mrs Greengage’s murder.”

“I should have known having a
woman involved in this would make my life harder. You should meet my wife, you
would get on well.”

“If you don’t mind my saying
inspector, she must be a remarkable woman.”

The inspector huffed.

“I’ll call back in a couple of
days for those details.” She added, collecting her gloves and hat.

The inspector grumbled
something under his breath and got up to open the door for her.

“Oh, one last thing.” Clara
paused, “A strange man followed me home yesterday, I didn’t like the look of
him.”

“You are letting this
detective business go to your head.” The inspector replied, “Go home and carry
on with your wonderings if it pleases you.”

Clara was annoyed at the
dismissal of her worries and as she walked down the stairs of the station the
inspector’s words rolled around her mind. Could he be right and she was making
something out of nothing? Perhaps the man behind her
had
been a simple
coincidence and she had let her thoughts of murder go to her head. She hoped
that was not the case, she considered herself more rational than that. But the
inspector was right, why would anyone follow her?

She exited the police station
and anxiously looked up and down the road. There were no mysterious strangers,
only an old woman with her shopping in a basket and a young mother pushing an
infant in a pram. It seemed the inspector was right about one thing and her
follower had been all in her imagination.

Even so she couldn’t quite
shake her anxiety and it suddenly seemed a long, lonely walk home, especially
when she was looking over her shoulder all the way.

Annie met her at the door looking worried.

“He’s having one of his ‘dos’
miss.” She said quickly as Clara came in.

“What brought it on this
time?” Clara asked, discarding her coat and hat.

“Don’t rightly know, miss.”
Annie was a bundle of nerves, “He insisted on going out, you know how he hates
being stuck indoors. I only left him a moment by the bandstand while I bought
two teas.”

“It isn’t your fault Annie.”
Clara rubbed the girl’s arm, “It is one of those things the war has left us
ladies to deal with. I think the War Office assumes that is all we are here
for, to pick up the pieces. He will be all right.”

Annie bobbed a curtsey and
scurried off while Clara headed for the parlour.

Tommy was sat at the table,
head in hands. A newspaper and a magazine had been ripped to pieces and lay
scattered about the floor. Something had been flung at the wall cracking a
picture frame, though Clara counted her lucky stars it had missed the huge
fireplace mirror just next to it. As she entered the room her feet crunch on
something and she looked down at the remains of a tea cup and saucer.

“Go away Annie.” Tommy said
gruffly, not looking up.

“It isn’t Annie.” Clara
stalked across the room, “Have you been redecorating?”

“Go away.”

“Not if you are going to throw
tea cups around again.”

Clara sank into the nearest
armchair and waited. Several moments passed.

“Are you just going to sit
there?” Tommy snapped.

“It seems likely.”

By now Clara was used to her
brother’s outbursts triggered by anything as random as a dead cat by the road
or the smell of frying bacon. She also knew that taking a sympathetic approach
only deepened Tommy’s self-pity and loathing. Instead she had to snap him out
of it as speedily as possible by standing for no nonsense. The nurses at the
hospital had termed the process ‘jollying’ a person up.

Tommy suddenly snatched up a
teaspoon and twisted back his arm to throw it.

“Don’t you dare.” Clara told
him in a tone that sounded all too much like her mother for comfort.

“You don’t know how it feels!”
Tommy yelled.

“No, but I know how hard it is
to get dents out of a teaspoon and I am fed up rummaging in Mr Morton’s junk
shop for old tea cups just so I can afford for you to break them. So kindly put
down that spoon.”

Tommy hesitated, there was a
long pause where the teaspoon’s fate hung perilously in the balance. Then, with
exquisite care, he put it down.

“You’ve been buying old tea
cups at Morton’s? How many have I broken?” He asked stiffly.

“Sixteen.”

The danger was passing and
Clara began to relax.

“It just gets to me some
days.” Tommy sank his head into his hands, “And then I just want to yell and
shout and break things. I feel as if I keep it all bottled up any longer I’ll
just go insane.”

“I know.” Clara spoke softly,
“So what sparked it this time?”

“Eric Sprigg.” Tommy shrugged,
“He didn’t mean to.”

“Clerk at the biscuit factory,
isn’t he?”

“Yes and he spotted me at the
park. He just wanted to talk about old times. He wasn’t to know. He has hopes
to start the county cricket team up again.”

Clara understood. Before the
war Tommy had been a champion cricketer, it had even been said he could play
for a national team. There had been debate whether Tommy would continue his
academic studies or try his hand at playing for England. But the war had ended
that debate.

“He was so eager to pick my
brains.” Tommy snorted, “And tell me all about his problems finding enough
able-bodied men willing to play. If Annie hadn’t returned at that point I think
I might have socked him one right in his smiling face.”

Tommy fingered his useless
legs, legs that had once carried him across the green grass of a cricket pitch
and now could barely carry him from his bed to his wheelchair.

“It was ill-manners on Eric’s
part, I don’t suppose he thought how it would affect you.”

“No one does.” Tommy wrapped
his head back in his hands, “Some days it’s like the war never happened and
everyone is trying too hard to behave as if everything is normal, but it’s not
normal. I will never be normal again.”

“On that I don’t agree with
you.” Clara walked to him and gently stroked his hair, “Now come on, we’ve
worried Annie long enough.”

“Poor Annie.” Tommy woke
momentarily from his slump, then he sank again, “I wonder she puts up with an
old crock like me.”

“It must be love.” Clara said
lightly enough, but Tommy’s head shot up.

“What do you mean?”

“Well she hardly puts up with
you for the pittance I can afford to pay her.”

That did the trick. Tommy was
too distracted to continue moping about his own woes. Clara decided to maintain
the diversions.

“So, are you ready to hear my
news?”

Tommy glanced at her.

“What news?”

“There was no strychnine in
the sherry. Augustus was not poisoned that way.”

“Actually, I am quite
relieved. It has been on my mind that we all came very close to a nasty end,
but now we know it wasn’t just good fortune that kept us alive.”

“Yes, but it leaves us no
closer to an answer.” Clara sighed, “I was thinking…”

A knock on the door
interrupted her. A head appeared.

“I thought it sounded calmer.”
Annie edged nervously around the door, “Are you better Tommy?”

“Course Annie.” Tommy pulled
out a big smile for her, “You must take no notice of me when I have these silly
moods.”

Annie merely nodded.

“I’ll get dinner on then.” She
curtseyed and vanished.

“She’s still upset.” Tommy
sighed.

“She will get over that too.”
Clara assured him.

Tommy drifted into thought
again, then roused himself visibly.

“You were saying?”

“I am thinking I need to
spread my net wider, as the saying goes, and see what suspects I can catch.
I’ve asked the inspector to get information for me on that old case Mrs Greengage
was involved in, but I wouldn’t mind a trip to her old neighbourhood in
Eastbourne to make some enquires.”

“You think that will help?”

“I don’t know, but in my
experience a good neighbour, and by that I mean one who is dreadfully nosy,
often knows far more about a person than any policeman can discover. Besides, I
don’t trust the inspector to tell me everything.”

Tommy looked at her curiously,
and she felt expected to explain.

“He thinks I am just a woman
who is too bored to do anything else but sniff around in his business.”

“Then he’s a fool.”

“Yes, but he is the fool who
is in authority. Trust me Tommy when I say I know what it is like to feel
useless and left out.”

Tommy looked mildly abashed.

“Hope I never caused you to
feel that way, old thing.”

“Oh Tommy, of course you have,
but you couldn’t help it, you’re just a man and society teaches you how to
treat women.”

“Well this last year or so has
taught me that a lot of things in this life are not as they ought to be. I have
faith that you can solve this case and anything I can do to help I shall.”

Clara considered for a moment.

“Are you up for a train ride?”

“Always. I haven’t been on a
train since they shipped me home, and that wasn’t exactly a joyful ride.”

“Then I’ll inform Annie and
tomorrow we will be up early and heading for Eastbourne.”