01 - Memories of the Dead (4 page)

“That’s small birds.” Mrs
Wilton protested, “Big birds like parrots can last for decades.”

“Even so, more likely the bird
died of natural causes, such as too much sherry, than ‘spirits’.” Clara insisted.

“I still don’t like it.” Mrs
Wilton shuddered.

“It’s getting cold to stand
here and discuss this.” Clara decided it was time to get away from séances and
dead birds, “We best be on our way home.”

“But you haven’t said if you
will pursue my case.” Mrs Wilton said hastily.

The last thing Clara wanted to
do just then was to start explaining her reasons for retreating from this case
as fast as she could, while standing freezing to death on a doorstep.

“Perhaps you would call at my
office tomorrow, Mrs Wilton, and we will discuss it.” Clara said, “Any time
will do.”

“Oh. Very well.” Mrs Wilton
seemed a touch annoyed, but Clara couldn’t face a debate on the matter there
and then.

“I must get Tommy home out of
the cold.” She excused herself and pushed her brother’s wheelchair out of the
front garden and along the path as fast as she dared.

“You are going to turn her
away aren’t you?” Tommy asked dismally.

“Mrs Greengage is a fraud,
therefore the riddles are frauds too.”

“How did she know about the
watch?”

Clara hesitated.

“I don’t know, but if you
believe that was genuine do you also think father wants me to give up my work
as she said?”

Tommy scratched at his head
and sighed.

“No, of course I don’t believe
that. It was just odd about the watch, that’s all.”

“And there’s enough oddness in
this world without Mrs Greengage adding to it.” Clara pushed him up to their
front door and it was quite clear the matter was settled.

“Shame.” Tommy muttered to
himself.

Clara arranged logs in the hearth of the old brick
fireplace in her office. The room was freezing and icicles had formed on the
inside of the window. Donning her gloves she broke each one off and tossed them
out of the window to the pavement below. The world was in the tight grip of
winter, snow was thick on the roads and the workmen’s carts were struggling to
get through. Clara wondered what insanity brought her to work on a day like
this. If she hadn’t promised to see Mrs Wilton that morning she would have been
tempted to stay at home.

She hadn’t slept well, her
mind had been on the obscure messages Mrs Greengage had given them from their
father. Tommy had been rummaging through drawers first thing to find father’s
watch and was now proudly wearing it. That only made Clara think of the harsh
words directed at her. Had it really been her father telling her to give up
work or just the malice of Mrs Greengage? Her rational side firmly said the
latter, but somewhere deep down there was this worm of worry making her second
guess herself. It didn’t help being in the cold office with no work to do
except turn down Mrs Wilton’s case when she arrived.

Picking up an old magazine she
glumly thumbed through the pages to the fashion section. The black and white
pictures brought back the times when she would have delighted in going shopping
with her mother. Now all the coats and hats made her feel depressed, not least
because she knew she could not afford most of them.

That was why she worked. Oh
her father’s investments kept the house going, paid the bills, made sure there
was food on the table, but there was nothing left over for luxuries and these
days that even meant a new warm coat. Clara threw the magazine aside angrily
and picked out an old book on criminal psychology from the bookcase. It was from
her father’s library and had a fascinating section on phrenology. It was a load
of nonsense, of course, but it teased the wistful side of Clara’s nature to
imagine that the solving of a crime could be just as simple as finding the
right man with the right bumps on his head.

She read until the clock
chimed midday. Rubbing her tired eyes she wondered where Mrs Wilton could be.
Perhaps she had decided to give up trying to persuade Clara to help. She had
been pretty obvious the night before about her feelings on Spiritualism.

Clara rummaged in her bag for
the cheese sandwich Annie had made her that morning. The bread was stale and
the cheese as hard as marble, but any food was welcome on a cold day. She was
just working through the thick crust when her doorbell rang.

“Mrs Wilton, at last!” Clara
said with relief, thinking she could at least get home as soon as she had dealt
with the woman.

She hurried down the stairs
and opened the door to a man in a dark overcoat.

“Oh.” Clara said, noting to
her horror that there was a uniformed policeman standing behind the stranger.

“Mrs Fitzgerald?” The man in
the overcoat asked.

“Miss.” Clara corrected
automatically as she shook the hand he offered.

“Inspector Park-Coombs, miss.
May I come in?”

“Of course.” Clara stepped
back from the entrance even more baffled and worried than before and showed the
inspector the way upstairs.

“Has something happened?” She
asked, thinking instantly of Tommy. How often had she worried in her darkest
moments about him doing something foolish?

“We don’t really investigate
things that haven’t happened.” Inspector Park-Coombs said glibly, “I believe
you know a Mrs Greengage?”

Clara’s stomach flipped over,
had the police discovered Mrs Greengage was a fraud and thought Clara was
somehow working with her because of Mrs Wilton.

“I only met her last night.”
She said.

“You went to one of her
séances?”

“Yes, under protest I might
add.”

“You don’t believe in such
stuff?”

“No, not really. The most
exciting part of the evening was when the parrot fell off its perch.”

“Parrot? What parrot?”

“Augustus.” Clara said
uncomfortably, “He had a heart attack or something and fell down dead.”

“Ah, well now he can be
reunited with his mistress.” The inspector shrugged.             

“What do you mean?” Clara
spared an anxious glance for the policeman hovering in the office doorway.

“Mrs Greengage was murdered
last night.”

Clara was stunned into
silence.

“Appears she was shot.” The
inspector continued, “What time did you leave her house?”

Clara took a moment to
register the question and even then she could not formulate an answer.

“Murdered?”

“Yes. So what time were you
there?”

Clara mentally shook herself.

“We got there just before
seven and left around nine. I really didn’t look at a clock, so I can’t be
certain.”

The inspector calmly took a
notebook from his pocket and wrote laboriously for a few minutes. Clara found
herself starting to fidget uncontrollably. She still couldn’t believe her ears.

“Are you sure?” She finally
broke out and asked.

The inspector gave her a
questioning look.

“That she was murdered?
Perhaps it was some sort of accident?” Clara heard the desperation in her tone.

“It’s quite hard to shoot
oneself accidentally square in the heart.” The inspector replied, “Besides we
found no gun. Someone took it away.”

The inspector glanced around
the small office, pausing on the portrait of Clara’s father.

“You’re the daughter of
Professor Fitzgerald, I believe?”

Clara was thrown for a second.

“Yes.”

“Our medical fellow down at
the station is always raving about him. Was one of his students before the war.”
The inspector paused thoughtfully, “Killed in London by one of those devices
the Zeppelins dropped, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, they were on a visit
there. No one expected such a thing to happen.”

“The Hun is devious like
that.” The inspector tapped his pen on his lip, “Tragic loss. Do you have other
family?”

“Yes, a brother.”

“He must have served in the
war then?” Now the pen tapped idly on the edge of the notebook.

“He did, yes.”

“Did he keep his gun?”

The question, shot out of the
blue, took Clara by surprise. She realised she had been happily allowing the
inspector to lull her into a false sense of security that he had then equally
deftly destroyed in an instant.

“I believe he did. A lot of
the lads liked to keep mementos.”

“And where does he keep it?”

“How should I know?” Clara
snapped more than she had intended, she didn’t want him to know how much he had
unsettled her, “If you are implying Tommy might have shot Mrs Greengage then
you are completely wrong. Tommy is confined to a wheelchair, he lost the use of
his legs in No Man’s Land when he was machine gunned. He couldn’t stand long
enough to shoot an empty bottle off a shelf, let alone a person.”

“People usually tell me, when
I accuse their loved ones, that they could never shoot a person because it is
not in their nature. You on the other hand give me practical objections.” The
inspector smiled, Clara was beginning to distinctly dislike him.

“I wouldn’t insult your
intelligence.” She said coldly, “Tommy served for years in the trenches, of
course I know he is capable in a dire situation of shooting someone. You would
not believe me if I said otherwise and then anything else I said would be
suspect.”

“Very clever Miss Fitzgerald,
but you miss my point, anyone in your household might have used that gun. You
were one of the last four people to see Mrs Greengage alive.” The inspector
smirked.

“What about the husband?”
Clara was determined not to be pinned to a murder no matter what the inspector
said.

“Claims to have taken a
sleeping draught that would have knocked him out for hours. Besides he doesn’t
have a motive.”

“And I do?” Clara said
astounded.

“I have it from a reliable
source you considered Mrs Greengage a fraud who was praying on the naïve.”

“Who said that?”

“Confidentiality, miss. I am
also informed you became quite angry last night over some of the information
Mrs Greengage gave you.”

Clara was stunned, it seemed
the whole world was ganging up on her just because she had a conscience.

“Mrs Greengage said some
things to me that were spiteful, but I don’t go around shooting people because
they say hurtful things.” Clara was flushing with embarrassed anger, “Being
spoken harshly to is no motive for murder.”

“Oh, but it can be.” Inspector
Park-Coombs said with a glint in his eye, “Many a maid has dropped a little
poison into her mistress’ tea because of a cross word.”

“Well I am not a maid.” Clara
said sourly, “And I think you are grasping at straws Inspector. You are at a
loss, so you are shaking a few trees to see if any rotten apples fall out.”

“As I said before miss,” The
Inspector grinned, “You are very clever. I’ll pop round this evening to speak
to your brother, miss. I am sure you would like to be there, being so
protective and all.”

The Inspector tipped his hat
at her and let himself out of the office and down the stairs. Clara followed
and shut the door firmly behind him and the silent uniformed policeman who
shadowed him.

“Horrible man.” She groaned,
flopping down on the bottom stair and holding her head in her hands, “How dare
he?”

She had barely been there a
moment when there was a rap on the door. She didn’t move. Had the Inspector
come back? The knock came again, more frantic this time. Clara stared at the
door.

“Who is it?” She called
reluctantly.

“Mrs Wilton, dear. Please let
me in.”

Thinking the morning could not
get worse Clara stood and opened the door. Mrs Wilton was shivering on the
doorstep.

“I’ve been waiting for that
ghastly inspector to leave, I’m frozen to the bone.” She said.

“It’s not much better in
here.” Clara stood back and let her through, “How did you know that was the
inspector?”

“He visited me this morning.”
Mrs Wilton suddenly looked close to tears, “Isn’t it awful!”

“Yes, very sad.” Clara ushered
her up the stairs.

“I mean, who will get in touch
with Arthur for me now?”

Clara hid a scowl as she
showed Mrs Wilton to a chair placed before the fire to catch its rudimentary
warmth.

“Perhaps concerns about the
more recent dead should be our top priority.” Clara said as politely as she
could manage.

“Oh dear, oh dear. Yes you are
quite right. This whole matter has quite upset me and I have no one to talk to
about it.” Mrs Wilton let out a slight sob and fussed in her pockets for a
handkerchief.

Clara leaned against the edge
of her desk and tactfully looked askance as Mrs Wilton wiped her eyes.

“Who could have done such a
thing?” Mrs Wilton said.

“I really don’t know.” Clara
shook her head, “You knew Mrs Greengage better than me, did she have a
grievance with anyone?”

“Grievance? You mean someone
she argued with or upset?”

“Precisely, after all she was
in a profession fraught with controversy. Maybe she told someone something they
didn’t want to hear.”

“She never spoke about other
people and the Spiritualist Church members were full of praise for her.”

Clara glanced out the icy
window. It would be a frozen, cold funeral for Mrs Greengage.

“Well I suppose that means the
inspector has only four suspects. Myself, you, Tommy and Mr Greengage.”

“You mean the man who burst in
last night? First time I had seen him.” Mrs Wilton paused, “I must apologise to
you Miss Fitzgerald.”

Clara looked over.

“Whatever for?”

Mrs Wilton twisted the
handkerchief in her lap.

“I did something rather awful
and I fear you will be very upset and find it hard to forgive me.”

Clara said nothing waiting for
her to finish.

“When that inspector came this
morning he gave me a fright with all his questions and I got in such a dither
and then it seemed as if he was accusing me of killing her!” Mrs Wilton
directed an expression of disbelief at Clara, “Apparently Mrs Greengage had
something of a reputation with the police. Some story about her predicting a
murder and reporting it to the police, I think. Quite extraordinary.”

“I should say so.” Clara
concurred, knowing Mrs Wilton’s confessions tended to be on the long-winded
side.

“Apparently after that the
police took an interest in her work and even started compiling evidence that
she was a fraud! Well what it all comes down to really, is that I was
technically the last person to leave Mrs Greengage’s. You were already walking
away before I had quite got myself together and so that means you can’t be my
alibi, because I ‘might’ have hung around to commit the foul act.” For a moment
Mrs Wilton sounded hurt, “And there is no one at my house to say what time I
came in. The police are suggesting I learned that I had been taken in by a
fraud who had stolen the last of my money and out of desperation or revenge I
took my dear Arthur’s service pistol and shot the woman!”

“They are clutching at
straws.” Clara repeated.

“But that awful Mr Greengage
told them I had hired you and lied and said it was because I thought his wife
was a fraud, when I had quite clearly told Mrs Greengage you were there to help
me with the riddles my husband had sent me!” Mrs Wilton snuffled again and
dabbed at her eyes.

“They can’t prove anything Mrs
Wilton. It is all a load of nonsense.”

“But it hurts to know that
someone could even think that about one, even if it is only a policeman.”

“They have suspicious minds.”
Clara responded soothingly.