05 - Mistletoe and Murder (22 page)

“Thank you, Miss Fitzgerald,
for seeking me out. Had you not come I would not have known of William’s death
until I read about it in the newspapers, and that would have been far worse.”
Mason rose to show her out of his office.

“Will you be all right?” Clara
asked with real concern.

“I don’t suppose I have much
option but to
be
all right.” He answered morbidly. He hesitated at the
door of his office, “I loved him, Miss Fitzgerald. One shouldn’t say that about
another man, but that is how it was.”

“I understand Mr Mason, I
really do. And I am sorry for your loss.”

Mason gave her a faint smile
and then escorted her to the elevator. There was no more talk of William Henry,
which was how Clara had expected it to be. When they reached the lift Mason
wished her well, as if she was just another of his banking clients. Clara
stepped into the elevator feeling deeply sadden. Life could be very hard and
cruel, she mused, and this business of being a private detective – delving into
everyone’s secrets – sometimes seemed a very unpleasant thing. If it wasn’t for
people in desperate need like Miss Sampford, Clara would dare say she would
have given it up a long time ago.

“There is a gentleman waiting for
you in the dining room, madam.” Humphry greeted Clara on the doorstep with his
usual sombre expression, “He appears to be that fellow from the paper.”

Clara thanked the butler and
headed to the dining room where she found the newspaper reporter Hawkins
sitting at a table and helping himself to a plate of mince pies.

“Ah, there you are!” He stood,
brushing off crumbs from his shirt and offered his hand to shake.

“You have news, Mr Hawkins?”

“I do indeed, took a bit of
digging but then I came up trumps.”

“About William Henry?”

“No, nothing about him, well,
there was stuff but it wasn’t very exciting. I did chase a few of my contacts
but your William Henry was a sly beggar and I came up empty-handed.”

“Never mind him then, I
presume you have some worthwhile information on Miss Sampford?” Clara took a
seat at the dining table, her head ached and she couldn’t decide if she was hot
or freezing cold. Wandering about in the snow was doing nothing for her
streaming nose and sore throat.

“Now, Miss Sampford gave me
quite a surprise.” Hawkins resumed his own seat, “Mince pie? You don’t look
well.”

“I have a winter cold.” Clara
explained, taking a mince pie and nibbling at the corner. It was warm and
straight from the oven, “And this case is wearisome.”

“I know how it is, flog
yourself silly trying to trace down loose ends and come up with the best story
and at the end of the day you wonder if it was all worth it. I’m still not sure
why I keep at it, something in the blood I reckon. I can’t let a good story
go.” Hawkins grinned, “Talking of stories, did you see the piece in the paper
this morning?”

“I missed it.” Clara
confessed.

“I came prepared for that.”
Hawkins opened a leather bound notebook and removed a newspaper clipping. He
slipped it across the table to Clara.

The top of the page was
dominated by a picture of Berkeley Square taken at a wide angle, just beneath
this image a large headline read “Berkeley Square Ghost: Truth or Fiction?”
Under that was a long article going over the details of the haunting and the
interview with Miss Sampford. Care had been taken to not specify the house
number, nor reproduce Miss Sampford’s real name. Not that anyone who had spent any
time in London recently would be fooled about which house it was referring to.
Clara read the piece carefully.

“A very balanced article.” She
said at last, “Was your editor pleased?”

“Delighted! The Boxing Day
paper is the worst to fill and not always easy to sell, but this story has had
it jumping off the shelves.”

“Good.” Clara pushed the
clipping back towards him, “But what about Miss Sampford?”

Hawkins held up a finger,
indicating she should wait, and then opened his notebook. He flicked through a
few pages of shorthand that looked to Clara like no written language on earth
and then came to a halt.

“Here it is. I couldn’t trawl
through every single issue over the span of Miss Sampford’s lifetime looking
for her name – it would have taken weeks – so I concentrated on her time with
the Suffragettes, my theory being that was the most likely period when anything
significant might have happened.”

“Reasonable.” Clara concurred
with him.

“Going through the papers, one
story jumped out at me and I remembered seeing some unpublished notes. You see,
not everything a reporter collects can be published, but sometimes the editor
sees fit to keep the reporter’s notes for future reference. That was when I
remembered seeing Miss Sampford’s name before. I went to the files where notes
on stories are archived and did a quick name search, and there she was!

“In a story your editor could
not publish?”

“Exactly, only it was a
different editor back then, but the same principle. Anyway, I pulled out the
file and compared it with the stories I had found in the papers, and it all
seemed to add up. Of course, it was all circumstantial, not enough to stick
your neck out and publish names and so forth, but I reckon you will find it
interesting.”

“You are keeping me in
dreadful suspense Mr Hawkins.” Clara informed him with a slight chastising
tone, “Are you going to explain what you found?”

“Right, yes, sorry I ramble
when I get the whiff of a good story.”

“I fully understand, but what
is
that story?”

Hawkins pulled his notes in
front of him and pressed a finger firmly beneath the start of his shorthand
scrawl on the topic of Miss Sampford.

“I found the story in one of
the October issues from 1913. As I am sure a lady of your political acumen is
aware, that was the year the suffrage movement was really hotting up and I mean
really
!” Hawkins was getting excited again, “We had paintings being
slashed in the National Gallery, houses being set on fire and threats of bombs,
it was all so sensational!”

“And did the good cause the
ladies were attempting to promote no favours whatsoever.” Clara sighed, “Things
had gone too far.”

“In any case, that sets the
scene for the events I am about to describe.” Hawkins tapped his notes, “On 12
October 1913 six ladies set off from the Christchurch home of Mrs Allens, who
happens to be one of the heads of the ‘Women for Reform Movement’. Mrs Allens,
herself, was not with them, but the police strongly believed she had given them
instructions for the evening. In any case, these six suffragettes were carrying
between them a basket of old lemonade bottles that they had filled with oil or
some sort of fuel, to make fire bombs.”

“Oh good lord!” Clara
shuddered at the thought.

“What we know for certain is
that on that same night six houses belonging to MPs known to be antagonistic to
the suffragette cause were set on fire using such devices. The ladies who threw
the bombs were never officially identified, though in the notes I uncovered was
included a list of names from an unknown source.”

“I have a nasty feeling you
are about to tell me Miss Sampford was on that list.”

Hawkins gave an apologetic
smile.

“Six houses went up in flames,
all bar one were empty at the time. The home of Mr Sidney Edgbarton was
supposed to have been empty that night, Edgbarton being away in the country. But
the MP’s daughter, 14-year-old Christina, had become ill with scarlet fever and
the whole family had returned to their London home late that evening. The
suffragettes had clearly not been informed of this change in the Edgbartons’
plans; had they been I suspect they would have called off the attack on
Edgbarton’s house.”

“We have to hope.” Clara
agreed.

“Around nine o’clock the
household had mostly gone to bed. The daughter was confined to her bed upstairs
with a nursemaid to hand. Mrs Edgebarton came downstairs for some reason and
went into the front drawing room carrying a candle. Her husband joined her.
With the drapes closed and only a candle for light it would have been
impossible to know from the outside that anyone was indoors.”

“And yet they were.”

“Yes, it was just after nine –
the nursemaid said about a quarter past the hour – when she heard a terrific
smash followed by dreadful screams and shouts. She ran down the main stairs and
to her horror saw smoke coming from beneath the door of the drawing room. She
ran towards it and reached out for the brass door knob which was already red
hot and burned her hand. She started to shout for help and more servants
appeared. The drawing room was completely engulfed in fire by this time. There
was no sign of Mr or Mrs Edgbarton. Christina was hastily carried out and
deposited in a neighbour’s house while the fire brigade was called. As you may
imagine there was panic among the neighbourhood, lest the whole street be set
ablaze. Fortunately the fire brigade arrived promptly and the fire was brought
under control within the hour. It was only when the chaos had calmed down did
anyone set foot in the drawing room.

“There they found the bodies
of the unfortunate Mr and Mrs Edgbarton, burned almost beyond recognition, but
she was still wearing a diamond necklace that had survived the flames and he
was identifiable by his unique dentistry work. The remnants of the fire bomb
were found too. After studying the scene the fire brigade concluded that the
bottle had smashed the window and struck Mrs Edgbarton, setting her alight. As
she stumbled about, setting the room ablaze, her husband tried to come to her
aid. He was either set on fire trying to help his wife, or died in the smoke.
The room was engulfed in fire within minutes and there would have been no
possibility of escape.”

Clara closed her eyes and
tried not to linger too long on the image of Mr and Mrs Edgbarton burning
alive.

“What of the culprit?” She
asked with trepidation.

“Neighbours reported seeing an
older woman running away after the smash and the scream. The woman had grey
hair that was uncovered. Having gone through the list of suspects I found among
notes on the story, there is only one likely culprit.”

“I knew you were going to say
that.” Clara sighed, “Miss Sampford.”

“Yes. Naturally there was
public outcry over the incident. When Miss Edgbarton had recovered from scarlet
fever she made a very emotive appeal in the papers for someone to come forward
with information. I suspect the police had a list similar to the one I found in
our archives, but without evidence they could do little about it. The only
people who could provide the testimony they would need for a conviction were
the very women behind the attack. Coming forward would mean implicating
themselves and none would do that. Besides, it was a matter of principle.
Emmeline Pankhurst released a pamphlet attacking the police for always blaming
suffragettes for these actions and then ruined her argument by using the fires
as an example of the passionate feelings running through the suffrage cause.”

“Oh dear.” Clara said to
herself, “Was anyone brought to justice?”

“No. The matter continued to
cause outrage until the ugly beast of war raised its head and Germany took
everyone’s attention.”

“And what of Christina?”

“I can’t say. Was this the
sort of story you were looking for?”

“Well, it would make me want
to kill someone.” Clara declared.

“Then… what now?”

Clara rested her chin in her
hand, bracing her elbow on the table. She had a lot to mull over, but first
there were important matters to be dealt with. Hawkins waited patiently until
Clara’s attention came back to him.

“You wanted a scoop Mr Hawkins
and you have kept your side of the agreement. I suggest you remain here tonight,
I suspect there will be a story in it if you do.”

“Might Miss Sampford object?”

“I’ll hide you in Tommy’s
room. Tonight everything will happen and then we will know who is behind the
ghost of Berkeley Square.”

Hawkins gave her a huge grin
and bundled up his shorthand into one pile.

“The editor will be
delighted.”

“Just remember you are dealing
with peoples’ lives and I expect tact.”

“Miss Fitzgerald, tact is my
middle name.” Hawkins assured her.

“If that is the case, I
suspect you to be quite unique in the world of journalism.” Clara grimaced,
wondering that she had done, “I do hope Miss Sampford can forgive me.”

It was close to midnight by the
time Clara had her party ready for action. She hoped the rumours of Miss
Sampford sending home her guests would be enough to smoke out the ghost, the
rest of her plan was simple enough; once the ghost was in the house she wasn’t
getting out again. Presuming the ghost’s accomplice would leave a door unlocked
for her, Clara issued all her team with keys and instructions on how she was
going to cordon off the second floor. Andrews and Captain Adams were roped in
after Clara explained the situation to them. The knowledge that Simon Jones had
been killed by a very living person had had the effect of even quietening
Andrews’ objections, though he still maintained the idea that this was really a
savage Elemental. Adams and Andrews were stationed secretly on the second floor
landing, the idea was that when the ghost appeared and entered the second floor
corridor (depending on whether she came down the main stairs or via the back
stairs) they would quietly follow and block her exit. Clara stationed Oliver on
the first floor landing of the back stairs. He was to creep up and block the
back stairs door with a chair, as soon as he was confident the ghost was in the
corridor.

Meanwhile Tommy was stationed
downstairs with the key for the front door. He was to keep watch from the
dining room and note who unlocked the door in the entrance hall. Once it was
safe he was to lock the door again and then place himself at the foot of the
stairs to block an escape. Clara and Annie had the most difficult and dangerous
task of all. They were to remain in Miss Sampford’s bedroom and surprise the
ghost when she entered. Clara was determined that at all costs she would
protect Miss Sampford and trap her assassin. As soon as she raised the alarm
all the men were to run to assist her, as long as they had completed their own tasks.

The idea that Annie and Clara
would be confronting an armed, and possibly insane, woman on their own had not
gone down well. Oliver had even suggested calling in Elijah as a third party to
help the girls. But Clara refused. She had to keep her party to those who were
least likely to have a motive to harm Miss Sampford, she could not rule out
Elijah, nor the other members of the Sampford family. Equally Miss Sampford was
appalled at the idea of having men in her room while she was in her night
clothes. There was nothing for it, Clara insisted, but to leave the ambush to
her and Annie. Tommy had scowled about this. Annie was not exactly delighted
either, but she understood the logic. The only thing that finally placated
matters was Captain Adams handing Clara an old army pistol he had brought with
him as back-up should the shotgun fail. Clara accepted it graciously, knowing
full well she had no intention of using it.

When everyone had gone to bed
Clara’s ambush party quietly arranged themselves into position. The house was
silent and care was taken not to disturb those outside of the plan, even
Humphry and the servants had been excluded from the mission. Clara was taking
no chances.

Accompanied by a downcast
Annie, she went to Miss Sampford’s room. Miss Sampford was in bed, the covers
pulled up to her chin, looking as frightened as a rabbit that has just heard
the bay of hounds.

“Is that you Clara?” She
hissed into the darkness.

“Yes.” Clara replied as she
carefully locked the door. Everything had to appear normal to avoid arousing
suspicion, “Don’t fret Miss Sampford, this will all be over soon.”

“So you say, my dear, so you
say.” Miss Sampford’s words were muffled by the blankets.

Annie gave the fire a good jab
with the poker – the room was icy cold – and then sat down in a chair. Clara
followed her example and sat too. They were in complete darkness except for the
glow of the fire and the temptation to fall asleep was ever present. Annie gave
Clara a nudge with her foot.

“You are sure this is a
person?”

“Yes Annie, a living,
breathing person.”

Annie was silent for a moment.

“I’m not sure if that makes me
more nervous or less.”

“Go for less, we don’t need
nerves tonight.”

The two women sat in silence.
After a while the heavy sounds of breathing coming from the bed indicated that,
despite her fears, Miss Sampford had fallen asleep. Clara envied her. Her cold
was in its worst stage yet; she was constantly reaching for a hanky and feeling
hot and light-headed. All she wanted was to climb into bed and sleep for as
long as possible, but that would simply not do. She glanced over at Annie and
could just see the glimmer of the girl’s eyes.

“Annie, if I fall asleep you
have to kick me.”

“I like the way you think I
won’t fall asleep.”

“Do you suppose Oliver will
stay awake?”

Annie mulled this over.

“I think that very unlikely.”

“That’s what I fear.”

The minutes ticked by. Clara
found herself growing to dislike clocks more and more, there was something very
dogmatic and militaristic about the way they crisply marked time. Her eyes
started to close. A sharp pain in her ankle roused her.

“Ow. How did you know?”

“I was falling asleep, so I
figured you must be too.” Annie’s voice was jovial despite their late-night
mission.

“What time do you suppose it
is? I can’t remember hearing the clock chime.”

“Shush! What was that?”

Both women paused and
listened. In the corridor someone stepped very stealthily along the carpet
runner, only the faintest creak coming from the floorboards. Clara held her
breath. The footsteps drew closer ever so slowly. They were coming from the
direction of the back stairs. She desperately hoped Oliver had remained awake
and spotted the ‘ghost’. She rose very carefully and walked quickly to the far
side of the room, positioning herself to one side of the door so she could
block any escape attempt. Annie also stood and damped down the fire so there
was no light at all in the room, and then she slipped to the window and hid
behind the drapes, ready to spring out at a moment’s notice.

The footsteps drew to the door
and a key slid into the lock. It was turned slowly, making as little noise as
possible. Clara flattened herself against the wall and wondered why she had
come up with this crazy plan in the first place, if anything happened to either
Miss Sampford or Annie she would never forgive herself.

The door handle creaked and
the door swung open. A veiled woman crept inside and pushed the door shut
behind her. The room was so dark she had to reach out a hand to find the bedpost,
then she lifted her veil so she could see what she was doing. Clara was behind
her, watching her hands. The veil lifted, the ghost woman reached to her belt
and pulled out a knife. Its sharp blade seemed to cut through the darkness as
she raised it up in both hands.

Clara sprang. She grabbed the
woman about the waist and dragged her off her feet and to the floor. Annie
jumped from behind the curtain as the woman attempted to swing round the blade
and stab Clara. Annie grabbed at the knife arm. The ghost woman screeched and
flailed her other arm at Annie, snatching at her skirt and then her ankle,
trying to pull her down too. Clara was half under her on the floor, but managed
to reach up and wrap her fingers around the woman’s wrist, holding tight to the
arm that wielded the knife. Then Clara started to shout.

The next few moments flew by
in confusion. The woman bit Annie’s leg and Annie kicked her (muttering an
apology as she did so). Clara wrenched at the knife arm and tried to lever the
woman’s fingers from the hilt of the blade. The woman flailed her legs
furiously, writhing on the floor like a snake and almost throwing herself out
of the grasp of both women. Miss Sampford sat up in bed and started to scream,
and scream, and scream.

The bedroom door flew open and
the lights flashed on. Oliver was jumping into the fray, sitting on the woman
and wrestling her for the knife. Captain Adams and Andrews were not far behind,
nor were the rest of the household, now roused by Miss Sampford’s screams. The
struggle lasted only seconds more. The woman’s desperate strength finally left
her and the knife dropped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Clara
pulled the woman’s arms behind her and tied them with a cord Annie quickly
handed her. Only later did she learn Annie had swiped it earlier in the night
from Mr Humphry’s dressing gown. There were a few more moments of furious
struggling, then the woman gave in. She hung her head, panting hard, finally
subdued. Someone turned on the electric light and Miss Sampford gazed into the
face of her would-be killer. She was disappointed not to recognise it.

Clara, feeling rather ill and
dizzy, got to her feet and stood over the Berkeley Square ghost. She was rather
breathless and it was a second before she could say;

“Good evening, Christina
Edgbarton.”

The ghost looked up. She had a
very pretty and very young face that was wrought with hatred. She glowered at
Clara and then Miss Sampford. In her bed Miss Sampford had heard the name and
gone very pale. Clara needed no further proof that Hawkin’s assumptions had
been correct.

“It’s time we called the police.”
She instructed the room, “Then might I ask everyone to come down to the dining
room? I think a strong cup of tea and an explanation are in order.”

Clara had Christina escorted
to the library and sat her down in a chair. Oliver waited outside while Clara
questioned the Berkeley Square ghost alone. Christina sat hunched, her head
down, her lips set in a line of resignation and resentment. Clara sensed this
was not going to be an easy conversation.

“I know all about your parents
Christina.” She began, “I know that is why you have come after Miss Sampford.”

Christina’s head shot up. She
gave Clara a vicious scowl.

“But you won’t let me kill
her!”

“No.” Clara said firmly,
“Another death will not make things better. You would end up facing the noose
and I hardly think your parents would want that.”

“How would you know?”
Christina snarled, “All I wanted was for some sort of justice. The police
couldn’t offer me it, so I had to take matters into my own hands.”

“Your actions are still
illegal.”

“But justified!”

“And what of Simon Jones? What
had he done to you?”

Christina looked blank.

“Who?”

“The man you pushed down the
stairs the other night when he chased you.” Clara explained patiently.

“Oh him.” Christina gave a
slight shrug, “He shouldn’t have pursued me. I couldn’t have him revealing me
as the ghost before I was done. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just shoved him
away.”

“And yet because of you he is
dead.” Clara sighed sadly, “What about William Henry? Why did he have to die?”

“William Henry? William Henry
Sampford?” Christina looked puzzled, then she let out a sharp laugh, “I didn’t
kill him! I heard he shot himself. I stayed away from the house that night.”

“But he died in the room you
used to enter this house.” Clara insisted.

“What does that prove? I never
shot him, for that matter I don’t have a pistol.” Christina smirked, “Not such
a clever detective, are you?”

“I wouldn’t look so smug if I
was you.” Clara was annoyed, “After all, you walked into my trap. I suppose
your accomplice failed to warn you?”

“Accomplice? What accomplice?”
Christina’s eyes flicked away as she spoke and this time Clara was sure she was
lying.

“You need say no more, the
police will arrive shortly and there are more than enough witnesses to testify to
how you attacked Miss Sampford.”

Christina snorted.

“She deserved it! The old cow.
She ruined my life!” Christina growled, “Why are you protecting her?”

“Only because two wrongs don’t
make a right. I understand how you are feeling Christina, I would probably feel
the same…”

“Don’t try and sympathise with
me!” Christina snarled, “Go fetch the police, go! I want no more to do with
you!”

With that Christina forcible
shoved round her chair and faced the wall. Clara recognised a lost cause when
she saw one. She quietly left the room, locked the door, and went downstairs to
join the others.

The entire household was in
the dining room looking sombre and tired. Humphry was serving tea or coffee,
depending on preferences, while Mrs James and the maids were sitting in the
corner yawning. Clara came to the head of the table and rested her hands on the
back of a chair. She felt exhausted and ill, yet there was still much more to
be done.

“Upstairs in the library the
ghost that has been troubling this house is safely secured.” She began, her
eyes wandering to Miss Sampford, “Her name is Christina Edgbarton, a very
disturbed young woman who has been perpetrating this crime against Miss
Sampford.”

“But, why?” Edward Sampford
looked up sharply from his coffee, “Why would anyone want to harm my sister?”

Clara’s eyes had not strayed
from Miss Sampford. The old woman now looked up at her pleadingly. Clara knew
it was not her place to speak the truth, not yet at least.

“Miss Edgbarton holds a grudge
against the suffragettes, who she blames for the deaths of her parents. She
fixated on Miss Sampford as a former suffragette. As I said before, she is
quite disturbed.”

“But how did she get in?”
Edward persisted, “She didn’t walk through the walls like a ghost, now did
she?”

“Miss Edgbarton used the
renovation works next door at No.49 to aid her entry. As I discovered the other
day, both houses have the same internal locks and keys, a cost-cutting measure
by the original builders, no doubt. Christina stole a key from No.49, then made
her way along the ledge of the third floor to one of the empty bedrooms. She
pried up the window and slipped inside, before using the key from No.49 to
unlock the bedroom door. She was then free to explore the house.”