02 - Flight of Fancy (11 page)

“I’m sure it was harmless. Say,
what do I owe the pleasure?”

Clara picked up the paper bag
and passed it over.

“For some unfathomable reason I
felt like popping in and visiting.”

Oliver peeped in the bag and
saw the jam tarts.

“Lovely! Just could do with an
afternoon pick-me-up. Do you care for a plate? I might be able to find one…”

Both their eyes trailed to the
heaped up desk, the papers in disarray, dirty crockery stacked in heaps, poorly
developed photographs scattered across the top.

“I think I can manage.”

“As you can see I am not
terribly fussed about crumbs.” Oliver had the decency to look abashed at the
state of his office as he handed over a jam tart, “I bet you were after looking
at some photos of the old O’Harris house?”

In fact it had not crossed
Clara’s mind, but Oliver was already getting up and searching through one of
his great wooden filing cabinets while he munched on the tart.

“Father probably took some, he
took lots of different things.” Oliver fudged through over-stuffed drawers,
“Any closer to a solution?”

“No, not really.” Clara looked
around the office, noting the dying geranium on the windowsill and resisting
the urge to water it.

“Ah, damn it, I can’t find
them.” Oliver cursed, closing one filing cabinet and heading for another.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But you came all this way just
to see them!”

“No I didn’t.”

They paused. Clara realised she
was blushing a second after Oliver had turned around to look at her with an
expression of surprise and delight.

“I mean…” Clara fumbled, “I was
in the High Street and last time I was a touch rude and… I thought I might make
amends.”

Oliver shoved closed the
drawers of the cabinet and came back towards her.

“You came just to visit?”

“Yes, well, I suppose…”

“I thought you were still on
the O’Harris mystery.”

“I am, but I don’t spend
all
my time on it. Just most.” Clara found the embarrassment lifting, “Besides,
someone has to turn up and pull you out of a gas cloud, don’t they?”

“I’ll try and gas myself more
often then, if it brings you running.”

“Please don’t.” Clara took a
bite of her tart, grateful for the distraction, “I have enough with my brother
and his adventures.”

“Tommy? What is he up to?”

“He has this notion in his head
he can be a co-pilot for Captain O’Harris on his next flight. They both have it
planned.”

“Flying?” Oliver shuddered at
the idea, planes held as much allure for him as a muddy ditch, “Really? And you
will let him?”

“It’s not up to me, he has his
own life and, well, he can lead it as he chooses. I have voiced my thoughts but
if he really wants to do it what right do I have to stop him?”

Clara abruptly looked so
miserable Oliver reached out his hand and touched hers.

“I could have a word with him?”

“Thanks, all the same, but you
can’t say more than I have and he will know I sent you and I would hate that.”

“Then talk to O’Harris, tell him
not to take Tommy!”

“O’Harris is stubborn as a mule
and certainly would not listen to me.”

“I doubt that.” Oliver smiled
sadly, “He is rather taken by you, can’t you tell?”

Clara could tell and she had to
admit she had been flattered by his attention, but she also knew he was a man
who would put his spirit of adventure and lust for freedom before anything
else.

“He still would not listen to
me.”

“Then what will you do?”

That was the question that
Clara had no idea how to answer.

“I suppose I shall carry on as
usual.” She ate a corner of the tart, the jam still slightly under-sweetened
and bitter tasting. When would sugar become a staple again? “Could we talk of
something else?”

“The O’Harris murder?”

“No, something other than
that.”

“All right, let me show you my
latest photographs.” Oliver led Clara back through to his laboratory full of
enthusiasm, “I’ve been experimenting with light and dark, it is why I am trying
to fix a better developing solution. If I can get really dark shadows I can
take my pictures the next step.”

He grabbed a picture off a
string hanging from the ceiling. It showed an image of a small bridge over a
stream, each of the bridge railings heavily contrasted against the bright sky.

“You see this one, why this was
near perfect. The shadows were so deep you feel you can fall into them and look
how they make the reflection in the water stand out. And this one…” He grabbed
a photo of an old cart wheel propped against a wall, “See how every spoke casts
this dark shadow? You feel you could pick it up. Compare it to a normal photo
and you can see the difference, the shadows, well they just ‘pop’.”

“Pop?”

“This could be a whole new way
with photography. Imagine, Clara, if we could make photography a form of art
rather than just a way of recording people and events. If photos were hung in
galleries next to old masters and admired in the same way, imagine!”

Clara enjoyed his enthusiasm,
it bubbled over and was highly infectious.          

“Perhaps one day.”

“But first we have to perfect
the art of taking a picture. I have no time for these photographers who touch
up their shots afterwards, painting in what they actually wanted. No, I want to
capture what my eye sees and I want it to be purely an act of photography.”

“You seem to be on the right
track.”

“Well yes, but, and here I
really must curse my own slap-dash ways. I failed to write down the formula for
the solution that made these images and now I simply can’t remember it.” Oliver
pegged the photos back onto the string and turned to his trays and chemicals,
“I can remember the first step, but it is the amount of the later components
that flummoxes me. I’m sure it was three drops…”

“Oliver, you are not mixing
that now?”

There was a sudden snap and a
new waft of pungent gas erupted from the dish Oliver was standing before. Clara
watched in horror as he took a pace back and then collapsed. She rushed to him
and found he was unconscious.

“Oliver!” She slapped his
cheek, slowly his eyes fluttered open.

“That quite took my breath
away!” He rose himself on his elbows, “Did I faint?”

“Don’t you dare do that again!
These chemicals are dangerous, that is twice you have nearly gassed yourself!”

 “But I only fainted.” Oliver
protested, “I’m sure that shouldn’t have happened anyway, I’m starting to think
some of my supplies are contaminated.”

“One minute you were there and
the next you were gone.” Clara involuntarily shivered, “It was quite horrid.”

“Funny how a gas can do that.”
Oliver said, his joviality at odds with Clara’s concern, “I just took a sniff
and bang I was flat on the floor. I never even realised.”

Clara pulled him to his feet.

“At least, if you must dabble
with these things, do it outside in the fresh air!”

“Yes.” Oliver was more amenable
now he was up and noting that his head was thumping hard, “I think I might have
to lie down for a bit, that gave me one shocker of a headache.”

Clara sighed.

“You have an apartment
upstairs?”

 “I do.”

“Then go get some rest and I
will shut your shop for you. Have you a spare key.”

Oliver offered some vague
directions to a spare key beneath the counter. His grin had returned by the
time he headed for the stairs, idly rubbing his head.

Clara was of the opinion
mankind was hopelessly inept and determined to make themselves extinct as she
fished out the key and left the shop. The spring sun was shining, but it was
still cold as she set out for home. She pulled on her gloves. A thought was
nagging at the back of her mind, it had been since she had helped Oliver but
she had been too busy to notice.

She let her mind go blank as
she walked, hoping this would draw out the errant thought. What was it that was
bothering her? She waved to a friend and tried to think about supper and
whether Annie had forgiven Tommy yet, but something still niggled at the back
of her mind. It was something to do with the gas Oliver had created. Was it
lingering fear?

She turned off West Street and
concentrated on her way home. Boys were playing in the road, dodging horses and
carts and the odd motor car. She watched them without seeing. The thought was
starting to form, but if she reached out too soon it would slip from her. She
watched a pigeon heading for its nest with a mouthful of twigs and slowly
wondered if the doves would roost in her pear tree again. She turned a corner
and suddenly it was bang there before her eyes, so obvious she could have
slapped herself.

Clara hurried home, was
breathless when she arrived and let herself in. She went straight to Tommy.

“Gas Tommy! But it could have
been gas!”

Tommy looked at her aghast,
then he slowly turned the book he was reading towards her.

“I was just thinking the same,
more specifically arsine gas.”

The book was about early
experiments into using gas in warfare and it had been written by Goddard
O’Harris.

“The bulk of the book is about how
throughout history new weapons have been developed, but there is a whole
chapter about gas weapons. All the time I was reading it I was thinking that if
you wanted the perfect murder weapon this would be it. Pick the right gas and
there would be no marks on the body and no sign of what occurred and it is
quick.” Tommy flipped a page, “There is a whole section here on arsine gas,
it’s a form of arsenic but it is highly deadly. Workmen in certain industries
were white arsenic is a by-product used to stumble upon pockets of arsine gas.
It was instantly fatal and men just dropped down dead. Goddard mentioned how it
was considered as a humane gas for use in war, but delivering it was the
problem and other gases found favour instead.”

Tommy felt violently sick.

“I’ve seen lads choked by gas
in the trenches. The lucky ones died immediately, the unlucky ones got took to
the hospital and suffered days of torment before they passed. Some of the stuff
they threw at us rots you from the inside out.” Tommy had to stop, the images
were too strong in his mind, “Seeing it so calmly written about in a book turns
my stomach. Goddard wasn’t just describing it, he was advocating it!”

Clara took the book and read a
few paragraphs, then she placed it down and was silent.

“This is the first clue we have
had to point to a murder weapon.” Tommy continued, “It’s not conclusive, but
what else have we got.”

“It had to be something like
this, or a poison. Did you look up fast acting poisons?”

“Yes, but with little luck. To
kill a person instantly with a poison you would need a huge dose and delivering
it would be difficult. The person would be liable to notice the taste or have a
dramatic reaction.”

“But arsine gas?”

“Goddard states it is almost
odour-less, is colour-less and is denser than air, which is essential when
using gas as a weapon. It is also lethal in very small doses. It’s downside is
that it is highly flammable. It usually occurs when material containing arsenic
is mixed with arsenic-free zinc and dissolved with sulphuric acid. Arsine gas
is given off and can be quite hazardous to chemists.”

“So how could it be delivered
to Goddard?”

“That, I don’t know. A hidden
canister perhaps?”

“This is almost unthinkable.”
Clara stared at the page, “But Goddard wrote of it, could he have… No, I don’t
have a reason for suicide. If he had been dying it might have been different
but there was nothing wrong with Goddard except for a bad heart.”

“This mystery stunk of murder
from the start.”

“I agree, but the murderer had
to have a fair amount of chemical knowledge to develop his weapon, and you have
to admit it was worth it. The crime has gone unsolved these last ten years.”

They sat in silence for a
while. The mantel clock ticked towards five o’clock and distantly the clinking
of crockery suggested Annie was laying the table.

“She hasn’t said a word to me
all day.” Tommy sighed.

Clara made no response, even if
it did take all her effort to bite her tongue.

“I wish she could be more
understanding.” Tommy pushed for a reaction but his sister would not give him
the satisfaction, “Perhaps that is why O’Harris has no girl.”

“O’Harris is very lonely.”
Clara said quietly, “That is something to bear in mind.”

“Because he flies?”

“I did not mean that. Just, he
sees the world differently to you and I.” Clara caught her brother’s eyes and
tried to impress upon him her words, but she would not spell it out for him,
not again.

“Oh, while you were out a
letter was delivered.” Tommy wheeled himself to the mantelpiece and retrieved
an envelope.

It bore Clara’s name in a poor
hand, but no address. The envelope was slightly dirty. Clara opened it and
pulled out a sheet of paper, marked at the edges with dirty fingerprints. There
was only one sentence on the paper.

“No good comes of digging up
the past!”

“Warning no.2.” Clara waved the
note at Tommy.

“You do attract them Clara,
last case it was a stalker this one threatening letters.”

“I think I’m close Tommy.”
Clara smiled, “I think I have the killer on the run.”

Tommy looked worried.

“You talk of me taking risks Clara,
but you are getting threats and do nothing about it but smile and say it proves
you are right. What if this killer tries to put you out of the way?”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Clara
tutted, “That sort of thing only occurs in books.”

“I still think you need to be
careful.”

“Well, remind me of that when
you get in O’Harris’ plane.” Clara said pointedly.

Tommy scowled, but there was no
point in arguing further.

When Clara found her way to
Belgrave Street the next morning she was in fine spirits. She finally felt on
course and the solution to this riddle seemed within reach. The last few pieces
needed to fall into place and then she would have her answer. It was so
exciting she felt a spring in her step and it almost distracted her from
thoughts of Tommy taking to the skies. O’Harris had printed an announcement in
the paper that morning that the weather looked promising for an attempt at the
record next weekend. Clara’s heart had jolted at the words. She hid the paper
from Annie, but she would know sooner or later.

Down Belgrave Street lived Owen
Clarence the builder who had constructed the garage next to the O’Harris house.
The road was lined with small terraces, some in serious need of a builder’s
attention. Dark-eyed women watched her from doorways as she trotted past in her
smart jacket and heels. Clara refused to be intimidated, even when a dirty pair
of boys started following her. She turned on them abruptly and told them to
leave her alone. She must have seemed particularly forceful that morning because
they both scampered away.

Even so, she was glad to find
Clarence’s house at last and be let in.

“Good morning Mr Clarence, I’m
glad I caught you in.”

“Ah, well you would do, my back
is playing up again.” Mr Clarence was in his fifties with grey hair. He shuffled
uneasily into a parlour and pointed out a seat to Clara. Stretching out his
back painfully he asked if she would care for a cup of tea.

“Please don’t put yourself
out.” Clara responded.

Mr Clarence nodded. With great
care he lowered himself into a high-backed armchair, a grimace of discomfort
scuttling across his face.

“What did you do to it?” Clara
asked sympathetically.

“Usual thing, trying to lift
more than I should. I’m short-handed, that’s the trouble of it. Hardly any fit
lads in the area and the ones that are, are trying to look for better work than
being a labourer. That war gave ‘em all airs and graces, I tell you! I have
lads come to me before the war would have been glad to get into the building
trade, now they turn their noses up and say as they will try and get something
better.”

Mr Clarence eased his aching
back with a cushion.

“It is most unfortunate.” Clara
said, “Is there nothing the doctor can give you?”

Mr Clarence waved a hand
disparagingly.

“Don’t start me on doctors
miss. What they know ain’t worth tuppence, but anyhow, what was it you called
about? I ain’t exactly taking on work at the moment.”

“Oh, it isn’t like that.” Clara
answered, “I am making enquiries on the behalf of Captain O’Harris.”

“The pilot fellow? Thinks he
can cross the Atlantic in that little wooden box of his?”

“That would be him.” Clara
agreed, her mind uncomfortably turning over the words ‘little wooden box’, “I
am helping him to solve an old family mystery and I was told by someone you
might be able to help.”

“By who?”

“Oh, a painter I believe. It
was a chance conversation.”

Mr Clarence looked uncertain,
clearly wondering if some of his old building work was about to come into
question.

“This has nothing to do with
your integrity as a craftsman.” Clara buttered him up, “In fact, it has more to
do with someone disturbing your work. I am talking about the garage or barn you
built for Goddard O’Harris just over ten years ago.”

Mr Clarence’s eyes lit up.

“I remember that!”

“Do you also remember remarking
that the footings of your project were disturbed?”

Mr Clarence hesitated. A lot of
time had passed since 1908 and a lot of building projects too. He had seen a
daughter married and a son go to war, welcomed home his first grandchild and
spent far more time than he would care to think about repairing and demolishing
bomb-damaged Brighton. Lots of memories had been made and forgotten, but a
thing like the O’Harris disappearance, that stuck in your brain.

“I recall there were all manner
of rumours about where the body went to.”

“Yes?”

“I can’t think who first
suggested the footings would make a good grave. One of the workmen, I guess. It
weren’t me, I know that, I never gave it much interest once I knew Mrs O’Harris
could keep paying us.”

“But once you did think of it?”

“I can’t be certain, but one
morning I looked at the foundations we had just dug and filled. We dug them and
filled ‘em day after O’Harris died. Well, I looked at ‘em and I thought to
myself something funny is going on here. They were all disturbed, there were
splashes of concrete all on the side of the trench, and not just the splashes
you make filling the things. These were big splashes, as though someone had
been messing about in the concrete and slopped some over the sides. Then I
looked a bit more and I thought to myself, well I don’t know but that concrete
looks higher than I recall. You see it weren’t just a splash, but the concrete
had over-filled the trench and slopped over. It was messy and I didn’t like it.
I knew I hadn’t left it that way.”

Clara realised she hadn’t
breathed for a moment or two.

“What could have caused that Mr
Clarence? Aside from you over-filling it?”

“I didn’t over-fill it, of that
I can assure you.”

“I believe you, but what would
have caused it?”

Mr Clarence thought silently
for a while again.

“Only one way I can see it
happening. Someone put something in the concrete that caused it to splash over
the sides. They dropped it in, yes, that’s how I would describe it.”

Clara thought her heart was
pounding in excitement. Could it be she had located the body of Goddard
O’Harris?

“Precisely Mr Clarence which
foundation trench are we referring to?”

“The East trench, southern end.
Perhaps I should have done something then? Oh well, too late now.”

Clara was up and grabbing her
handbag.

“It is never too late Mr
Clarence. Thank you for the chat, I do hope your back feels better soon.” Clara
pulled on her hat, “No, don’t get up, I’ll let myself out!”

She flew away with a new spring
in her step. Mr Clarence watched her curiously and wondered if the Goddard
O’Harris mystery was about to be unravelled.