01 - Memories of the Dead (16 page)

“I know you will.” Annie said,
deflating a little, “I still feel like throttling him on sight for all the
trouble he caused us. Did you see how he walked straight in with his wet
boots?”

Annie looked quite forlorn at
the thought of her stained carpets. Clara squeezed her shoulder.

“I think it’s high time Mr
Alfie Ling left my house.”

Clara marched back down the
hall to find Ling on his third cup of tea and finishing off the toast she had
left on her plate. He was telling some amusing story that involved a great deal
of laughter on his part, causing crumbs to spit over Tommy.

“Constable, I am ready to view
your tramp.” Clara said sternly.

“I’ll just finish my tea,
miss, no rush.” Ling said, raising his cup to her.

Clara narrowed her eyes.

“Constable, you may have
little work to amuse you today but I have a full diary and viewing a body was
not on it until now. I wish to get this over and done with and I will head for the
station whether you are with me or not.” Clara marched for the door.

Ling looked astonished for a
second, even Tommy was impressed with how scary his sister could sound. As the
front door opened with a loud snap, Ling half dropped his cup and leapt to his
feet.

“If the inspector thinks I let
her go alone I’ll be high and dry!” He squeaked, grabbing his helmet and racing
for the door.

Annie appeared at the
breakfast room door as he legged it outside. She was looking quite satisfied
with herself Tommy noted and didn’t seem at all put out that Ling forgot to
close the door behind him.

“Clara get stung or
something?” Tommy asked, still reeling at the change in his sister.

“Good riddance Alfie Ling.”
Annie said to no one, still smirking at the door.

Tommy shook his head. Women,
he thought. Then he caught a scent of something in the air. He glanced at
Annie.

“Can you smell burning cloth?”

Clara’s last visit to a morgue
had been under the sad circumstances of her parents’ deaths. They had died in
London and been identified by papers her father was carrying, but she still had
to make a visit to the Capital to identify them formally before the bodies
could be released for burial. No one had ever imagined the Germans would take
out their wrath on London using ghastly silver zeppelins that floated silently
across the night sky. Sometimes just the memory of them had woken Clara from
her sleep in a cold sweat. She would be forever grateful she had not been one
of the unfortunates who had lost all their loved ones in the conflict; at least
she still had Tommy.

Brighton’s morgue smelt of
disinfectant and bleach. It was kept cold by being partially underground and
after the winter snowfall the white tiles on the wall were icy to the touch.
Clara watched her breath fog before her face as she made her way down some
stairs and was greeted by the head coroner.

“Miss Fitzgerald.” He said
offering a hand to shake. He made no mention of Alfie Ling who was hovering at
the foot of the stairs, “I’m sorry to call you out on such an appalling
morning.”

“No matter, Mr..?”

“Deeth, Mr Deeth, only spelt
D..E..A..T..H. It quite amuses some people but it is an old, old name. All my
ancestors have been involved in medicine in some way.” Mr Death was a pleasant
man, not very tall and a little portly with black-rimmed, circular glasses
propped on his snub nose making him look like an affable owl. Clara found
herself liking him almost instantly. He seemed quite jolly for a man who worked
around corpses all day long.

“Care to come into the crypt?”
He asked, “My little joke, you’ll see what I mean.”

He led her down a cold
corridor and around a corner until they reached a brown door. When he opened it
Clara did understand what he meant. It seemed someone had been inspired to use
ecclesiastical architecture in the construction of the morgue and the white
room before them had a vaulted ceiling and pillars ranged along the walls. Big
windows at one end allowed in some street light, but the rest of the room was
lit by great swinging bulbs in green shades.

“I always feel rather holy in
here!” Mr Death laughed, “I did have an uncle who wanted to become a priest,
but they thought the name might cause awkwardness at funerals. He became an
undertaker instead.”

“Do you feel your surname has
affected your job prospects at all Mr Death?” Clara asked curiously, stepping
into the sparkling white, empty room.

“Oh no!” Mr Death smiled
briskly, “I have one maiden aunt who’s a midwife.”

He brought forward a wooden
chair and offered it to her. Clara sat, though would have rather remained
standing, she had just noticed the rows of closed, small doors on the side wall
and was beginning to have a nasty suspicion about what they were for.

“Just wait here and I will get
our man.” Mr Death scurried away, thankfully through a low arch and to some
distant room. Clara relaxed again trying not to think there were rows of dead
bodies just behind those cupboard doors.

When Death returned he was
wheeling a recalcitrant table trolley, a similar thing to what Clara remembered
from her hospital days. One wheel was jammed and kept catching on everything it
went past.

“I didn’t put him with the
rest.” Mr Death waved a hand at the ominous cupboards, “He was frozen solid and
I needed him to thaw a little before I could examine him properly, so he has
been resting in the staff tearoom.”

Clara looked mildly stunned.

“Oh don’t worry, I’m the only
soul in today and he doesn’t bother me.” Mr Death grinned, “Would you care to
take a look, I haven’t touched him yet.”

Clara stood from her chair
reluctantly and took a pace forward. The body was covered with a white sheet
and all she could make out were the contours of the poor man’s body. She
hesitated as she drew level with his sheet-covered head.

“How does he look?” She asked
anxiously.

“Like he’s asleep.” Mr Death
assured her, “Many victims that freeze to death, like our tramp here, fall into
a doze first, often helped by alcohol and then don’t notice the temperature
dropping. Compared to some methods it think it must be quite painless.”

Clara wasn’t sure that made
her feel better.

“Are you ready to see him?”

Clara nodded, biting hard into
her lower lip. Mr Death swooshed back the sheet from the corpse’s head like a
magician with a magic trick. For a second Clara’s eyes refused to focus on the
face, then slowly she controlled herself and took a good look. She let out a
sigh.

“It’s not him.” She said.

Mr Death looked disappointed.

“What a shame, at least that
would have been some sort of recognition. I guess this is another soul I have
to list as ‘unknown identity’.”

Now her eyes had adjusted to
the stranger’s face, and she knew it was nobody she recognised, Clara found
herself drawn to look at the poor man. He was the same age, roughly, as her
stalker, the same crop of brown hair, but his face was narrow and the lines
harder. He looked weather-worn, as though he had been used to the outdoors and
there was still a faint line where his neck and face were slightly darker than
his pale shoulders and chest. He had once had a good tan.

“He is just a nobody?” Clara
asked sadly.

Mr Death shrugged.

“Another tramp, we get plenty
of them, especially this time of year. Probably an ex-soldier.” Mr Death looked
grim, “I find it depressing how many of them come through here, all fine lads
who have been torn apart by conflict. I see far too many suicides.”

Clara’s mind flashed to Tommy,
then she blocked the thought out.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more
help.”

“Never mind, I’ll show you
out.”

They were coming to the morgue
door when Clara had a spark of inspiration.

“Mr Death, did you autopsy Mrs
Greengage?”

“Indeed I did.”

“Could I ask, what did you
find? I have been working with Inspector Park-Coombs on the matter as an
outside investigator.”

Mr Death shuffled his feet and
looked uncomfortable.

“I’m not supposed to talk
about my work.”

“You could send Alfie Ling to
get authority from the inspector, but it is the honest truth. The inspector has
come to a dead end and I am pursuing matters that, for various reasons, he
cannot.”

Mr Death seemed rather
twitchy.

“No one has ever asked me about
an autopsy before.”

“I wouldn’t now if it wasn’t
important.”

Mr Death rocked on his heels,
his indecision palpable then he made the error of looking into Clara’s eyes and
he was caught, with a groan he knew he would get no peace if he didn’t help.

“Perhaps you best come in the
staffroom so no–one can over hear.”

Clara wondered if he was
referring to the morgue’s dead inmates who might resent being handed to a man
who shared their secrets.

The staff tea room was compact
with a small fireplace, currently full of smouldering logs, a battered table
and several worn armchairs. Mr Death offered to make tea as he was rather cold
and Clara decided he would be more talkative if he felt this was a casual
conversation, so she agreed. Eyeing a display skeleton of a person propped up
one corner and wearing a bowler hat and scarf (which she suspected belonged to
Mr Death) she took a seat in a chair and waited as the kettle boiled.

Mr Death brought the filled
teapot over to them wrapped in a green knitted cosy and perched it by the
fireplace before gathering two mugs.

“So…” he mused as he took the
armchair beside Clara, “Mrs Greengage.”

“What can you tell me about
her death?”

“Well, it was somewhere
between midnight and eight in the morning when the maid arrived. Single bullet
to the chest, penetrating the heart and killing her near instantly. Gun wasn’t
more than three feet away, I would say.”

“Which seems to confirm it was
someone she knew and who she had let in.”

“I told the police all that.”
Mr Death shrugged again, “No signs of a struggle or a fight, no defensive
wounds. I would say she knew the person well enough, yes.”

“Could you tell if the person
was a good shot?”

Mr Death looked puzzled.

“What, in case it was luck
they hit her heart? I don’t think I can make that guess really, but it would
have been a fairly simple shot from the distance I stated. Chest is the largest
target anyway and you are bound to do damage.”

Clara realised she was getting
no further and was disappointed.

“Would there have been much
noise?”

“Yes, bit like a loud ‘pop’. I
can’t say if she made a noise, like a scream, of course.”

“No, but I would guess she
didn’t as the police had no witnesses who heard a scream.” Clara decided she
was at a dead end again, “Well, never mind.”

She drank her tea feeling the
need to warm up before leaving and facing the cold again. She hoped Alfie Ling
was standing on the steps freezing.

“If only Mr Greengage had not
taken his sleeping draught, he would have been the prime witness.”

“In my experience,” Mr Death said
between gulps of tea, “There is no legal sleeping draught a doctor can make
that can send you into that heavy a sleep without some rather nasty side
effects.”

“Really?”

“My father’s uncle was a
chemist back in the day when you could mix up pretty much whatever you wanted.
He had some fine concoctions, a lot were opium based, only he had to be careful
who he sold to, because long term users started to hallucinate or suffer severe
headaches. Some struggled to shake off the draught when they came to and others
began to complain of aches and pains, especially in the bowels. One lady was
particularly susceptible to the stuff and fell asleep for two days. Of course,
I dare say prescriptions are better prepared these days.”

“Mr Greengage seems to imply
he has been on the sleeping draughts for years.”

“Well, they won’t be
opium-based ones then, else he would be showing some severe side-effects.”

“He seemed to rouse quite
quickly when his wife was found dead and I have seen no sign of headaches.”
Clara was getting that feeling of puzzle pieces falling into place again, “How
long does a sleeping draught last?”

“Depends on dosage, but eight
to twelve hours roughly. Though the gentler ones mean the patient can still be
disturbed from their slumber.”

“The maid came in around eight
as usual, we were there until around eight or nine the night before.” Clara was
working timings out, “It’s all very close and Alice said Mr Greengage was never
awake when she did her work, so how come he proved so awake that morning?”

“He was disturbed, perhaps the
girl screamed?”

“No, she didn’t.” The thoughts
in Clara’s mind went click, “And even if it was a scream that woke him that
means he was lying about taking a draught that would render him unable to hear
his wife arguing with a visitor or being shot.”

Clara jumped from her chair.

“Do excuse me Mr Death, I must
pay a call on the Inspector. You have been most helpful and the tea was
lovely.”

Mr Death smiled at her as she
scurried out of his ‘crypt’.

“I would say visit again, but
it sounds rather morbid.” He called, “I did enjoy our chat!”

Clara found Alfie Ling puffing
on a cigarette and rubbing his hands at the foot of the stairs.

“Took your time, didn’t you?”
He grumbled as she approached.

Clara astutely ignored him.

“I have a call to make on the
inspector, Mr Ling.” She said heading up the stairs, “And I have a feeling you
may be having to wait out in the cold a lot longer before the day is done.”

Swearing under his breath
Alfie Ling followed her outside.

Clara was beginning to develop a soft spot for chemists,
they were very helpful people. Mr Palmer was an ample man who ran his little
concern on the corner of North Street with the assistance of his wife and two
unmarried daughters. He was deeply fascinated by the properties of the drugs he
sold and it wasn’t hard to get him into a lengthy conversation about any of his
products. He was a walking pharmaceutical encyclopaedia and very content with
his work. Perhaps his only downfall was his obvious inability for discretion.

“Mr Greengage? My word, I have
been preparing his powders for months, I have.” Mr Palmer was the sort of
person who liked to be helpful and the mild enquiry about sleeping draughts
mentioned to her by a friend had opened an entire dialogue, “Didn’t recognise
the doctor’s name who prescribed them, he was up in Eastbourne anyway. But I
took the prescription and filled it as needs be.”

“And the powders are safe to
taken long-term?”

“Safe as houses, madam, all my
goods are.” Mr Palmer waved a hand at his stocked shelves, “I wouldn’t care to
sell a product which I thought harmful in any way. I won’t even sell poisons,
unless by special request and even then not to women or children.”

That would explain why Mrs
Greengage had not used her regular chemist for her strychnine dose.

“Are there any side-effects?”
Clara pressed, “I have heard some bad reports about opium-based draughts.”

“Not a drop of opium in the
stuff, madam. Mild as a little lamb. Mostly herbs actually, dash of camomile,
that sort of thing. It’s a recipe from the continent I do believe, but doctors
favour it because it isn’t addictive like the stronger drugs and doesn’t have
all the side-effects.

“But it works still?”

“Would I sell it to you if it
didn’t?” Mr Palmer laughed, “I tell ladies it is harmless enough to feed to
teething babes, but good enough to take you to sleep when you need it.”

“What worries me,” Clara
continued, giving every appearance of being a plaintive customer, “is that on
occasion my brother has nightmares and gets quite distressed – the war, you
see. And our maid always comes and wakes me to soothe him, I would hate to take
something that would make that impossible.”

“Madam, this powder is to get
you asleep, but it don’t imprison you there like some. Heavens, I would hate to
be that dead to the world! I know some people like the strong stuff, but I
think you can go too far. The maid will have no issues rousing you. The draught
is more for relaxing you, really.”

Clara nodded, examining the
box he had produced for her with ‘Cartwright’s Patent Sleeping Doses’ listed on
the front.

“May I take two, to try?” She
asked.

“Of course, madam, but I have
never heard of them upsetting anyone.” Mr Palmer carefully wrapped two twists
of paper in an extra sheet and handed them to her, “That will be thruppence.”

Clara fished through her purse
for the money and then left with her purchase. Alfie Ling was standing outside
waiting for her.

“Quite done?” He said, trying
to coax some life back into his numb fingers.

“Nearly.” Clara smiled at him,
“The inspector did say to do what I told you, remember.”

“I don’t think the inspector
thought I would be standing outside all day.” Ling moaned.

Clara resisted the temptation
to say the inspector had thought of it all right and been amused by the idea, but
they were marching briskly to the Greengage residence and she didn’t want to
give him an opportunity to argue.

“You will have to wait around
the corner until I am inside.” Clara told him sternly, “I just want a quiet
chat with Mr Greengage. Come back in a little while and listen at the door, I
will shout if I need you.”

Ling protested, but it was
clear he could not win and he slumped off up the road looking aggrieved with
the world and the frozen tramp who had put him in this mess in the first place.

Clara rapped on the door with
her knuckles, discovering the door knocker was too frozen to move. She heard a
shuffling inside and then someone coming to the door. After a moment it was
opened.

“Hello Mr Greengage, how are
you?” Clara put on her best ‘concerned’ expression, the sort she would use when
at her desk and trying to look sympathetic to a client.

Mr Greengage took a moment to
recognise her.

“Oh, Miss Fitzgerald, you came
out in this?” His eyes drifted to the high banks of snow still lining the road.

“Unfortunately I had to be out
in it anyway, so as I was passing I decided to do my Christian duty and check
upon you. Now, how have you been?”

“Well… You know.” Mr Greengage
fumbled with his knitted waistcoat, Clara noted it was stained with splashes of
a brown substance and had a slightly stale smell, “I did notice the kitchen was
beginning to look a mess.”

Clara chose to ignore that
comment. If he expected her to start tidying the kitchen when he was perfectly
able to do it himself he could think again.

“Why don’t I come in for a
little chat?” Clara tried to pretend the cold snow was not eating into her
feet, “I brought a small gift.”

She held up the wrapped
parcel. Mr Greengage motioned her in, though he looked even more dazed and
bemused than normal and seemed to be stumbling about the house in a fog, his
mind elsewhere. Clara wondered if he had found some opium-based drug after all,
but she supposed that was far-fetched and besides he never left the house if he
could help it.

He almost motioned her into the
front parlour, but Clara hastily found her way to the back study.

It seemed Mr Greengage had
been doing most of his living in that room since she had last visited, if the
untidy nature of the chairs and tables, the piled papers and numerous stacks of
dirty plates were anything to go by.

“I see you are eating.” Clara
lifted a dish containing the remains of a beef stew from a chair and settled
herself down.

“All the ladies in the road
have been cooking for me.” Mr Greengage looked slightly helpless in the
cluttered room, everything seemed to tower over him, “None of them have the
time to clean though. I really need someone to do that.”

“You could try for yourself.”
Clara suggested sweetly.

Mr Greengage gave her a look
of horror.

“Oh Martha would never allow
that!” He said.

“Well, whatever the case. It
had been on my mind that you might be having trouble sleeping with everything
and I knew you took sleeping draughts, but perhaps had not been able to fetch
them yourself. So I made a trip to Mr Palmer, the chemist and – I do hope you
don’t mind – but I made some enquiries and bought you these.” She placed the
parcel on a low table and unfolded it carefully.

Mr Greengage’s eyes lit up as
he saw the little twists of paper.

“You have no idea, dear lady,
how you have saved my sanity.” Mr Greengage took the sachets with such care
they might have been made of gold, “I have not slept a wink since my powders
ran out. I just can’t seem to clear my mind and switch off.”

“I would be quite happy to get
more, if they are the right type?”

“Perfect, dear Miss
Fitzgerald, perfect.” Mr Greengage looked at her through watery eyes, “I
haven’t slept since the war. The trenches did it for me. The doctor in
Eastbourne suggested these powders as they could be used forever without causing
a problem. I had tried some of those quack remedies before, bought straight off
a shelf and they had made me quite queer. I couldn’t seem to wake up in the
morning and my head would pound for hours. They brought me no peace, you know.”

Mr Greengage stood and very
carefully secreted the packets into the bureau. He looked quite relieved when
he turned the key on a little drawer and locked his precious powders away.
Clara watched him with a sinking feeling. He looked so benign and a little
hopeless. He had lost everything with the loss of his wife and she was here not
for the generous purposes she had asserted, but on a secret mission of
subterfuge to catch a killer.

He returned to his chair and
sat opposite her again.

“Thank you again.” He held out
his hand for her to shake and she instantly noted the loose cuffs.

“Do you normally wear
cufflinks, Mr Greengage?” She said, taking his hand, “My father thought them
the mark of a well-bred man.”

Mr Greengage smiled at the
veiled compliment.

“Indeed I do, but I have had
the misfortune of misplacing one half of the pair I normally wear. My other
cufflinks are simply too flashy for everyday use, I had them for on stage you
see. A bit of sparkle in the act, dear Martha used to say.”

Clara stared at the empty
holes in the cuffs where a cufflink should be.

“My brother had a rather fine
pair.” She said, feeling sick as she spoke, “Someone bought them for him before
he went into the military. Dear me, if I can’t quite remember what they looked
like. I meant to find them up and see if they would be any use to someone.
Tommy refuses to wear them now, reminds him, you see. If I recall they had flag
on them.”

“Sounds like mine, they were a
gift too. British and French flag flying on them.” Mr Greengage said, “Martha
got them just before I went to the Front, said I could use them at fancy
dinners. Funny, but I was rather fond of them despite what they represented. I
suppose because it was the last gift she gave me. After the war we were just
too poor. Here, I’ll show you the one I have left.”

Mr Greengage went back to the
bureau and poked about in drawers for a few moments, before returning with a
small, gold, button-like object in his hand. He gave it to Clara. She held it
in her palm with her heart sinking. There were the crossed flags identical to
the two on the cufflink in the photo Tommy had seen. Everything was falling
into place and she wished it wasn’t. She looked into Mr Greengage’s open and
smiling face and tried to kid herself that he couldn’t have done it.

“Do you remember where you
last had the other cufflink? I find retracing my steps helps?”

“Why, well it must be about a
week ago. I never had them on when I went across the road on the day…” He
stumbled, then regained his control, “It was commented upon that I had one
missing and I was mortified. I was so glad to get back here so I could find the
missing one, but you know I couldn’t see it anywhere.”

“I think I know where it is.”
Clara reached into her purse and drew out a scrap of tissue paper, carefully
she unfolded it and set it beside its pair.

“Wherever did you find that?”
Mr Greengage said in surprise.

“The police had it among the
other evidence for your wife’s murder. The inspector was gracious enough to
allow me to borrow it, you see, it was a bit of a dead end for them. It could
have come from one of your wife’s guests, for instance, though they hoped it
belonged to the killer.” Clara sighed, “They never considered you Mr Greengage.
They believed the story about the sleeping draughts and no one could think of a
motive, if anything you are dreadfully worse off without your wife.”

Mr Greengage was staring at
the cufflinks.

“I don’t understand.” He said.

“Yes you do, Mr Greengage.”
Clara felt as though she was about to kick a lame dog, “Your alibi Mr Greengage
simply does not work. The sleeping draughts you take are not strong enough to
prevent you from being roused by a loud noise. A gun shot is a loud noise, and
I cannot believe that Mrs Greengage did not cry out when she saw the intruder,
unless she knew there was no one to cry out to. And then there was what you
told me about the maid Alice, ‘she didn’t even scream’ you said. How could you
know that if you were asleep as you claimed? And you roused yourself pretty
fast when the police were on their way, not the actions of a man who takes
strong sleeping draughts.”

Mr Greengage had picked up a
cufflink and was fiddling with it in his hand. He was beginning to tremble.

“If you must know…” He began
then had to quell his shaking, “I heard the cry and the shot, but I was too
scared to go look in case he got me too. I am a coward!”

“He? Mr Greengage?”

“The intruder. I was a coward
in the war and Martha called me a coward from time to time when I began to get
so I couldn’t go on a stage. On that night I heard her open the door and call
out, but I never moved. It was like being back in the trenches again and the
bang seemed so unreal. I never thought no more about it, the house went quiet
and in the morning she was dead.” Mr Greengage sifted the cufflink from hand to
hand, his lips trembling ever so slightly, and a faint glistening tear
trickling down his cheek.

“I almost believe you.” Clara
said stiffly, “Except your cufflink was left in the front parlour where
you
,
Mr Greengage, struggled with your wife.”

“No.” Mr Greengage shook his
head.

“There is no one else. All the
other suspects have been ruled out.”

“There was the man in
Eastbourne.”

“He is in prison.” Clara
explained, “His son is away with the Navy. There is no one who could have done
it Mr Greengage except you. I just don’t understand why.”

“Someone tried to poison my
wife.” Mr Greengage said sharply.

“She bought the poison
herself, I discovered that, how it got into the sherry I don’t know. But it was
luck it only killed a parrot.”

“Only a parrot!” Mr Greengage
muttered, rocking slightly, then he turned his bleak eyes on Clara and blurted
out, “Augustus meant the world to me and
she
killed him!”

Clara sensed they were closing
on the truth, but she couldn’t let Mr Greengage falter his way there in a rage.
Kindly she reached out and squeezed his hand.

“It’s time to tell me
everything so we can sort this mess out.” She said softly, in a tone she
remembered a kind teacher had once used towards her. She didn’t feel she could
blame the poor man, something had driven him to this dreadful situation and now
he needed confession if he was to have any peace. He would send himself insane
if not.