05 - Mistletoe and Murder (12 page)

“Edward Sampford. He is the
next male heir. After him it will go to Elijah.” Amelia spoke sadly, “It
disappointed us both gravely that we never had children to pass on our legacy
to.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t lie Miss Fitzgerald,
you are on Miss Sampford’s side and you couldn’t care less about me or my feelings.
You are one of these modern single women who choose a ‘career’ over a husband
and look down on those of us who value married life. It’s why she picked you,
two peas in a pod.”

“You do me a disservice.”
Clara said calmly, refusing to be offended as that was clearly what Amelia
desired, “I would appreciate you not judging me from the very little you know
of me. You will only get it wrong.”

“I might say the same.” Amelia
folded her hands together, “You have been listening to that witch and her
thoughts on me. Has she told you I am interested in nothing but money? No doubt
she paints me as black as she can.”

“Miss Sampford has said very
little concerning you.” Clara answered truthfully, “Besides, I always make a
point of forming my opinion of someone, good or bad, from first-hand
experience.”

“You are really very dull.”
Amelia snorted, “No wonder you are still single. Men do not like dull women.”

“Goad me as much as you please
Mrs Sampford, it won’t stop me attempting to help your late husband.”

Amelia turned her head away,
propping her elbow on the arm of the chair and cupping her chin in her hand.

“William was not suicidal.”
She said slowly.

“He did have a lot on his
mind.”

“So does everyone!” Amelia
barked, “William did not take his own life! I know him, I know that would not
be his style.”

“What was his style?”

“Working through problems,
finding solutions, not just… giving up!” Amelia snapped her head round to face
Clara, “How is this helping?”

“When did you last see
William?”

“Just after dinner. I went to
read a magazine and someone suggested a game of cards. They needed a fourth
hand for Bridge and no one knew how to play except William. He was roped into
the business and they came here, to the snug.”

“The other card players tell
me William left the room a little while later for a decanter of Scotch?”

“William liked a drink in the
evenings.” Amelia smiled at the memory.

“But he never came into the
drawing room for the decanter?”

“No!”

“Any reason he would go
upstairs?”

“No.”

“What about the pistol? Did he
own one?”

“No!” Amelia suddenly burst
into tears, “I can’t stand it anymore! I don’t want to answer any more silly
questions! Leave me alone!”

She leapt from her chair and
bolted out of the room. Clara let her go. She doubted there was more to be
said. It seemed William Henry had reason enough to consider taking his life. Mounting
pressures both emotional and financial could easily have tipped him over the
edge. There was no reason to expect any other scenario, there was certainly
little benefit to Amelia in his death, she would now be lumbered with the
estate. Unless, of course, she planned on selling it. Clara suspected such a
shrewd man as William Henry would have made that impossible in his will,
perhaps tying up the estate in some sort of trust for Elijah to ultimately
inherit, so the property remained in Sampford hands.

That seemed a lot of fuss for
old bricks and mortar. Better to sell it to someone who could look after it,
then cling to it and let it rot to nothing for the sake of familial pride. She
got up from the chair and walked into the hallway. A police constable was stood
at the front door and a detective was interviewing Humphry. Upstairs there
would be more policemen studying the crime scene and preparing William Henry’s
body for removal. Then there would be statements taken and evidence collected,
until everyone was satisfied William Henry had killed himself. Suddenly Clara
felt very tired, but there was nothing else for it. She braced herself for a
long night ahead and hoped the ‘ghost’ would have the decency to avoid haunting
the house for the next few hours.

Clara did not fall asleep until
the early hours of the next morning, which happened to be Christmas Eve.
Despite this she woke at 6am and determined to get up and to business before
the rest of the household was awake. The bedroom was icy cold as she slipped
out of bed; no maid had yet arrived to light the fire. She dressed as rapidly
and quietly as she could, so as to avoid disturbing Annie – the poor girl had
spent most of her night in the kitchen consoling Mrs James and the maids and
persuading them, yet again, not to abandon the house as soon as dawn broke.
William Henry’s death had everyone shaken.

Clara pulled her curtains open
a fraction, just enough to glimpse the world outside and to see that a light
snow had fallen in the night. Clara was strangely pleased by this sight; snow
showed footprints, should the ghost have been prowling around in the night
there might just be some evidence. Not that anyone appeared to have witnessed
anything supernatural during the commotion – perhaps even ghosts had a sense of
decorum?

Clara collected her notebook
and pen and headed upstairs as noiselessly as she could. Distantly the
rumblings of the kitchen whirring into life could be heard. Mrs James would be
trying to prepare a suitably festive breakfast and no doubt Humphry was laying
out the dining room table. How many of the house guests would feel much like
eating was another matter, but one couldn’t break with tradition, could one?

Clara slipped past the room
belonging to Edward and Hilda Sampford, only pausing a moment to listen to the
faintest of snores. Their room was at the far end of the corridor, nearest the
main stairs, and about as distant as it was possible to be from William Henry’s
room. Amelia Sampford had (naturally enough) refused to sleep in her own
bedroom that night. Nor could she bear to reside on the same floor as the one
on which her husband committed suicide. After much discussion she had switched
rooms with Elijah and he had taken over one of the other guest rooms on the
third floor.

Clara came to the room in
which William Henry had met his end. It was an unused box room without a
fireplace or bed. Perhaps at one time it had served the purpose of a dressing
room for guests, now it was barren except for a large old rug across the centre
of the floor. Clara stepped inside, turned on the electric light and looked
around. There was not much to see; a forgotten print of a Hogarth cartoon hung
on one wall, faded with time. On another wall was a sad watercolour of flowers
in a vase, executed by an amateur hand and now damaged by damp. A small chest
of drawers sat between two tall, narrow windows with thick drapes. Clara
carefully closed the door behind her and went to the chest. She opened each
drawer to assure herself they were empty. Clara now noticed the pale green
striped wallpaper and the marks on the wall where other paintings had once
hung. She could also clearly see the dark red stain, almost black, on the large
rug.

William Henry had been
standing with his back to the watercolour flowers when he died. He had been
almost parallel with the doorway when found, but must have been standing
further into the room, since he fell backwards without hitting the wall, which
he surely would have done had he been level with the door when he was alive.
Clara paced the room, working out where William had stood. She placed herself
on the rug in the position he must had been and observed the room around her.
In front was the Hogarth print, showing a scene of debauchery and drunkenness,
to her right was a window. Clara imagined holding a pistol to her mouth. She
found herself wondering what was the last thing in that room that William Henry
had fixed his eyes on as he pulled the trigger.

Morbid thoughts. She turned
around and looked at the blood stain on the floor. A lot of blood. She assumed
it had been quick. So, William Henry had come into the room, locked the door
behind him and shot himself. It was all very obvious and Clara could give no
reason for the slight pang of doubt that assailed her as she considered it. No
one else had been in the room. It was locked from the inside. Everything
pointed at suicide.

Clara left the room and headed
into William Henry’s bedroom. It still troubled her about the light going out.
She was just about convinced that she had mistaken the footsteps next door as
coming from this room. But what was the explanation for the sudden blackout?
William Henry could not have controlled it from the dressing room.

Clara lit a candle and pulled
a chair over from the side of the bed and placed it under the light fixing in
the centre of the room. Then she climbed on it and reached up for the bulb. She
stopped just before her fingers connected with shattered fragments. The bulb
was smashed, or perhaps it had popped? Ironic it had chosen the same instant
William Henry had shot himself to explode. Clara didn’t do ironic. She got back
off the chair and stared at the light. A thought struck her, it was an old geometry
puzzle she had once had to master at school, calculating the angle that a ball
would fly at if kicked in a certain place. Clara slowly drew a mental line
between the burst bulb and the wall that adjoined the unused box room. Angles
were important, they could lead to such strange events.

She went to the wall and took
a good look at the heavily patterned paper. It was not easy to make out
anything in-between the swirls of dark blue and gold that twisted in gothic
fashion all across the wall. After a moment of staring in vain she searched she
fetched the candle. Holding it close to the wall, she searched the paper in the
rough area that coincided with the position of the light fixing. Slowly working
upwards, avoiding the confusion of the mad swirls and intricate patterns, the
flicker of the candle illuminated an odd shadow. Clara stepped closer. The
yellow light traced the edges of a hole in the wall. A very small bullet-sized
hole. Clara had her answer. This was a stud wall, perhaps dividing up a once
much larger room. When William Henry shot himself the bullet had nowhere to go
but through his skull and into the wall. It slashed through the paper and, its
speed rapidly decreasing, slammed into the light fixing, breaking the bulb.

So that was it. So simple and
not a ghost in sight! Clara was pleased she had solved one mystery, but
confusion still remained. Had William really taken his own life? There had been
no note and Amelia seemed set against the idea, but then she wouldn’t be the
first wife who failed to understand her husband’s innermost thoughts.

Clara wondered how long she
had before the rest of the household woke up? She had an idea, but it went
against the grain and seemed decidedly dishonourable. It would not be good for
anyone else to catch her. Thing was, this might be the only chance Clara had to
take a really good look around William Henry’s room. It seemed rather deceitful
and a bit sneaky, but if she didn’t take the opportunity now she might never
know the truth about last night. Amelia would have ample time to remove
anything she deemed bad for the reputation of the family.

Her guilt assuaged, Clara set
to work exploring the room. She confined herself to items that looked likely to
belong to William Henry – of course Amelia’s belongings might contain a clue or
two but exploring the private possessions of the living somehow felt a lot more
wrong than exploring those of the dead. She went through the side tables by the
bed and a case that contained William’s cufflinks and watch. She explored the chest
of drawers, feeling in pockets for forgotten slips of paper and finding none.
She went to the wardrobe and examined William’s clothing, and finally turned
her attention to his suitcase, still standing in the corner. It was not locked
and she hoped to find papers inside. Instead she found a lot of bank notes, a
quick count suggested something in the region of a thousand pounds, all just
sitting in a case on the floor.

Clara closed the suitcase and
stood up. Who carried that sort of money with them? Not allegedly hard-up
gentlemen. But here it was. Did Amelia know about this? Clara suddenly felt a
little giddy; there were only a handful of reasons she could think of that
would make someone carry large sums of money around, and most were of the
illegal variety. Blackmail sprung to mind. Annie had overheard Amelia say
something about William Henry’s regular trips to London. He had no business in
the city and could hardly afford the trips for pure pleasure. What was so
pressing to bring him to the capital? Blackmail was also a very strong motive
for suicide. The pressure to find more and more money, the fear that the
blackmailer will reveal what they know, it could all lead to such dreadful
despair that their seemed only one way out of.

Then again, what if this
wasn’t William Henry’s suitcase? What if he was the blackmailer and this was
his
pay-off? Clara decided she needed to let this information simmer for a while
before she came to a conclusion. She needed a lot more evidence as well, but
the money was a mystery.

Clara let herself out of the
room without anyone seeing her. It was still early, but she did not doubt that
Miss Sampford would be rising soon. She headed downstairs to the dining room
and found a breakfast spread laid out that would have warmed the cockles of any
country squire. Sausages, bacon, fried eggs, scrambled eggs, toast, black
pudding, kippers, kedgeree. It was a feast that seemed far too jolly on a dark
morning like this. Clara picked up a plate and took some scrambled eggs and
toast. There were little ceramic pots of butter. She helped herself to one and
sat down at the dining table facing the window. Outside the first workers were
ambling down the road to begin yet another morning of labour. She saw a chimney
sweep go past, followed by the milkman with his cart and large churns of milk.
Just because it was Christmas Eve the city did not stop. She was beginning to
think about having some more eggs and toast when Humphry appeared.

“I apologise madam, I was not
aware anyone had come down as yet.”

“I’m an early bird.” Clara
smiled.

“Would you care for some tea?”
Humphry had a large teapot in his hands, “Freshly made, this is around the time
the mistress comes down, so I always have the pot ready for her.”

“Tea would be lovely.” Clara
said.

Humphry poured precise
quantities of milk and tea into a small porcelain cup, then offered Clara the
sugar bowl.

“No thank you.” She turned it
away, “I hope you managed to get some sleep after the commotion last night.”

“I am well rested madam.”
Humphry said with his usual lack of emotion.

“Queer business. I wish I knew
why the man had done it. This rather casts a pall over Miss Sampford’s festive
plans.”

“I dare say we shall manage.”
Humphry took his stiff upper lip extremely seriously.

“She doesn’t need this on top
of the ghost nonsense. I wouldn’t blame her for kicking that silly man Andrews
out of the house.” Clara was hoping to draw Humphry out, but it appeared she
was failing for he gave no reply.

“Do you believe in ghosts
Humphry?”

“They do not assist towards
the smooth running of a household.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Indeed, madam.”

Just then Miss Sampford
appeared at the dining room door.

“My dear, you are up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Clara
admitted, “Last night had me thinking hard.”

“Me too.” Miss Sampford took a
seat. She looked rather shaken and pale, “Humphry, might you fetch me a plate
of kedgeree?”

“Certainly madam.” Humphry was
in fact already in the process of placing the rice mixture onto a plate. As he
placed the dish in front of Miss Sampford he presented a toast rack full of
crisp white slices to Clara, “I thought you might appreciate a little more
madam, on such a cold morning.”

Clara was impressed at the
man’s intuition.

“Thank you Humphry.”

“I still can’t believe my
nephew is gone from us.” Miss Sampford plucked at her rice with a fork, “I
suppose Amelia will wish to go home. She shouldn’t be alone at a time like this
though. I wish I knew what had driven him to it.”

“Amelia seems to doubt he
would even have contemplated suicide.” Clara said cautiously.

“Wives often refuse to see
what is right before their eyes when it comes to their husbands. Though I admit
it baffles me also.”

“William Henry had a lot of
problems concerning the family estate, though?”

“Mostly of his own creation,
but I suppose that makes little difference.” Miss Sampford sighed, “And of
course they never had children. I am not the sort of woman who berates the
failures of others when it comes to producing offspring, but I know William
Henry wanted an heir and Amelia is bitter that she never gave him one.”

“Was there ever another…”
Clara stopped herself from being indelicate, she fudged around with a piece of
toast to give herself time to rephrase the question, “What of acquaintances?
Friends who might have known he was depressed or anxious?”

“You may have noticed William
Henry was not the sort for friends. What were you going to ask me before that?”

Clara pulled a face.

“Miss Fitzgerald, surely you
are aware by now I am not easily shocked. Please, speak your mind.”

Clara still toyed with her
toast, then she looked directly at Miss Sampford.

“Is William Henry likely to
have sought the attentions of a woman other than his wife?”

Miss Sampford gave a wry
smile.

“Possibly. But he never told
me about it.”

“He was making frequent trips
to London in recent months without specifying to his wife why.” Clara refrained
from mentioning the money in the suitcase.

“That is interesting. I didn’t
know, since he certainly didn’t visit me on those occasions. I’m afraid
probably the only person who can tell you more about what he got up to in
London is William Henry himself.”