02 - Flight of Fancy (7 page)

“What sort of remarks?” Pressed
Clara.

“Something about the concrete
being all messed up, as if someone had been fiddling with it when it was
drying, and one of the foundation trenches had been topped up with extra cement
and it didn’t match. We all wondered, you know.”

The man finished abruptly and
picked up his paintbrush to continue working. Clara considered what he had
said, her thoughts had also gone to the barn when she first saw it. New
constructions could prove a convenient place to hide things. She would have to
find this builder.

“What was his name? The
builder?”

“Mr Owen Clarence.” Responded
the painter, “He used to live in Belgrave Street.”

Clara nodded, taking a small
diary from her handbag and noting the name and address.

“Thank you.”

“Do you reckon he was murdered,
miss?” The painter had paused again.

“I think if he was not, someone
went to a lot of trouble to hide an accident.”

Inspector Park-Coombs appeared
in the doorway with a thin cardboard folder which he handed to Clara.

“Peruse at your leisure.” He
said, “There is a friend of yours downstairs in the archives.”

Clara looked up curiously.

“Oliver Bankes.” The inspector
looked mischievous, “He might have a picture or two that could be useful.”

Clara had not given a thought
to Oliver since she had last seen him on the pier fumbling with his camera and
moaning about high-speed photography.

“You might like to take a look
at some of the other files down there too. I noticed one other with the
O’Harris name on it, but wasn’t sure it was related. You should take a look.”

Clara knew when she was being
politely route-marched into a meeting with Oliver Bankes.

“Thank you inspector.” She said
hopping from the desk, “I shall take a look.”

“Do, and if you ever need to
delve into the archives feel free.” Park-Coombs had resumed his position in the
doorway facing the painters, “Were these two any trouble while I was gone?”

“Quite the opposite.” Clara
smiled as she walked away and left the inspector to his supervising duties.

At first Clara was not sure she
wanted to enter the archives and see Oliver. She was aware Mr Bankes was keen
on her company and tried to involve himself in her cases as much as possible,
but she wasn’t sure about her own feelings on the matter, and she was
uncomfortably aware of the time she had recently spent with Captain O’Harris.
Why did she feel so guilty about such an innocent acquaintance? She was working
for O’Harris, so naturally she would spend time with him, but she couldn’t help
a twinge of conscience as she toyed at the archives door before finally
plucking up the courage to enter.

The archive was quite a small
room, lined and divided by stacks of bookcases containing file after file of
criminal activity. There was one window that had been blocked up and only
allowed light to slip in through its top portion, and a measly bare bulb lit
the remainder of the room. At the far side a desk was position as close to the
light sources as possible and stacked with forgotten folders and unfiled
material. It was about what Clara had expected.

Bankes was at the desk going
through some photos. He glanced up as she entered.

“Hello Clara.”

“Hello Oliver, what are you
working on?”

Oliver lifted up a photograph
of an artist’s studio.

“There was break-in at this
place a few nights ago, stole some valuable pieces that had just been sold.
I’ve been keeping my eyes open for the canvases and I had a feeling I had seen
one in a little gallery near the promenade.”

“Would someone be so careless
as to sell them like that?”

“Oh you know how they think,
give it a few days and the police will give up and besides a policeman can’t
tell a Picasso from a Rembrandt. Though to be honest I struggle a little with
these paintings.”

Clara glanced at the photo and
noted several canvases decorated with random blobs of colour, horizontal lines
and multi-coloured splatters.

“This photo was taken for a
lifestyle magazine a few weeks ago. Owners think this spurred the robbery.”

“And you think?”

“That the owner is in debt and
can claim compensation for the lost paintings as well as selling them a second
time. I don’t think they were genuinely sold, you see.”

“Well, Oliver, I didn’t have
you pegged as a detective.”

“Didn’t you?” Oliver grinned, “Art
crime is a hobby, you would be surprised how much of it goes on.”

“So, have you seen one of the
canvases?

“Hard to tell, to be honest.”
Oliver shrugged, “Modern art and all that. So what are you up to?”

“Exploring an ancient mystery,
well, sort of. Ever heard of the O’Harris disappearance?”

Oliver paused and mulled over
the question.

“Rings a bell, was it during
the war.”

“No, long before. 1908.”

“I would have been 13.” Oliver
shrugged, “Must have slipped me by.”

“Well, you aren’t alone, it
slipped me by too.”

“How old were you in 1908
Clara?” Oliver asked slyly.

She glanced at him with a half-smile
then carried on, ignoring the question.

“Goddard O’Harris dropped dead
in his garden and then his body simply vanished. So far I only have two
witnesses, three if you count the gardener who saw the body.”

“I always count gardeners.”
Oliver interjected solemnly.

“No clue to where the body
went, how Goddard died or even what the motive might have been. I have only one
suspect for moving the body, Mrs O’Harris.”

“So where is the problem?”

“Too many unanswered questions.
Why? How? Where? Captain O’Harris wants me to solve the mystery.”

“Ah, Captain O’Harris.”

Clara felt uncomfortable at the
words, she almost blushed.

“He is quite the heartthrob
among the ladies of Brighton, no doubt many would be jealous of you consorting
with him.”

Clara wasn’t sure if Oliver was
teasing her or probing for information.

“He is a paying client just
like any other.” She said stoutly.

“So you haven’t noticed he is
handsome and dashing?”

“Have you?”

They stared at each other in
uncomfortable silence, finally Oliver cleared his throat and put away his
photographs.

“I best be on my way.” He put
the folder back on a shelf and started to walk to the door.

“No, please don’t…” Clara bit
at her lip, “I was a touch rude.”

“I was only teasing you.”
Oliver said petulantly, “You quite snapped.”

“I am a little tired of late.”
Clara excused herself brusquely, “And… I don’t like my professionalism being
called into question. I’m not helping O’Harris just because he is dashing and
handsome.”

“I know that.” Oliver’s grin
returned, “So you had noticed?”

This time Clara did blush.

“Oliver Bankes, sometimes you
drive me to distraction!” Clara tutted, “He thinks his aunt killed his uncle
and it is an awful thought to bear. He wants me to find out the truth, one way
or another.”

“And how do you intend to do
that?” Oliver came back beside her.

“Like any puzzle, I suppose I
shall just pick at it until I find a solution.” Clara indicated the folder
inspector Park-Coombs had handed her, “He said there is another file with the
O’Harris name on it, perhaps connected? This one looks rather flimsy.”
She opened the folder and glanced at the rather uninspiring two slips of paper.
One was a report from the duty sergeant about the call-out and the second was a
record of the search the police had made the next day. There was nothing else.

“They didn’t really try, did
they?” Oliver said.

“I suppose there was so little
to go on. What do you do if you haven’t got a body or even know how a person
died? Perhaps they thought it was a hoax and that Goddard had run off instead.”

“With his mistress perhaps? And
his wife claimed he had died and vanished to save face? That didn’t happen, did
it?”

“Colonel Brandt assures me
Goddard O’Harris was quite dead and I have no evidence of a mistress.”

Oliver nodded.

“Shall we see about that other
file?” He went to some shelves marked 1908 by a fading slip of paper and ran
his fingers along the assembled folders, “Here it is, a touch thicker but I
wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

He brought the folder to the
desk and opened it. They both looked at the top sheet.

“Goodness!” Remarked Clara,
“Another murder!”

“It was ruled accidental.”
Oliver pointed out.

“A maid takes a tumble down the
main staircase and your mind doesn’t spring to foul play?” Clara flicked
through the papers, “Ah, a post-mortem, and as I thought she was pregnant.”

“I don’t know whether to say
you are just deeply clever or have a dreadfully suspicion mind.” Oliver
chuckled.

“I do not mind either. Accidental,
my foot, the girl either threw herself down because of the shame or was pushed
and whichever way you look at it that is murder to me.”

“And a motive for Goddard’s
death?”

“I consider it very feasible.
This happened 1907, a year later Goddard dies. That is time enough for someone
to learn the truth and plan their revenge.”

“It is always extraordinary fun
having conversations with you.” Oliver grinned, “I never know quite what to
expect.”

“I’m rather glad my morbid
interests appeal to you.” Clara replied, “Most people find them remarkably
awful and prefer I don’t discuss them.”

“They are clearly very dull
people then. Anything else I can do to help?”

“I wonder… do you suppose you
may have some photos in your shop archives of the old O’Harris manor around
that time?”

Oliver considered.

“Father may have taken some
shots. Can’t guarantee anything, but I will take a look.”

“Thank you Oliver.” Clara
smiled, suddenly very glad she had not turned away from the archive door.

“May I walk you home?” Oliver
asked.

“Yes you may.” Clara responded.

Captain O’Harris looked quite
miserable when he opened the door to Clara the next day.

“Excuse my expression.” He
muttered as he ushered her inside, “I’ve received some bad news.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”
Clara said, genuinely concerned to see this lively man so downcast, “Anything I
can help with?”

“No, unless you can resurrect
the dead? Sorry, that was poor taste.” O’Harris slumped into a chair and waved
a telegram at her, “Bertie Law, first-class pilot and jolly good shot. Used to
act as my gunner from time to time in the war and saved my backside more than
once from the bloody Hun.”

Clara realised the captain was
a touch drunk.

“What happened to him?”

“Took a job on one of these
Arctic explorations, aerial reconnaissance is all the rage. They build these
little Arctic planes with enclosed cockpits and skis instead of wheels and pack
‘em into boxes for the journey. Bertie went with a German party, the irony hah?
He was to fly whenever he could and take photographs.” O’Harris stared at the
telegram, “His plane crash-landed into the ocean, took those bloody Huns two
days to find him and it was too late. Poor chap died of hyperthermia.”

O’Harris crumpled up the slip
of paper and threw it on the floor.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Clara
said gently.

“It’s the shock of it that does
you in. You know these planes are a bloody risky business, the Buzzard has had
some near misses in her time, but you never really think it will happen. You
tell yourself your luck will hold out for one more flight, one more dance
across the sky.”

“Then why do it?”

“Oh, for the thrill, for the
buzz. To be in a plane and know you are one of the few to do just that and to
stare down on a world so small below you and to be free of it for just a
whisker of a second. If I couldn’t fly I think I would go mad, or perhaps go to
sea. Bertie was the same, he had no intention of being land-locked once the war
ended.”

“Captain, is it Bertie’s death
that has so upset you or the thought that it could be you next?”

Captain O’Harris was stunned.

“He was my best friend and he
plummeted into the Arctic ocean and froze to death, I think that is a good
enough reason to be upset.”

Clara said nothing but looked
thoughtfully at O’Harris, the silence stretched on until slowly a new
expression crept onto the captain’s face. This time it would be best described
as morbid.

“I’m not a man who scares easy
Clara.”

“I thought as much.” Clara
nodded.

“I flew over those battlefields
of France, looking down on mud and barbed wire and I never flinched. I don’t
mean to sound cocky, because it is simply the truth. I never felt the fear of
death like some men did, don’t get me wrong those Huns shooting at you and the
sudden arrival of one of their planes had my heart racing and my guts in knots,
but I never thought for an instant that I would die. I was scared, but not
enough to stop me flying and certainly not enough to think I was chancing my
luck.”

“And now?”

“Now life should be simpler.
There aren’t any enemy planes buzzing you, there aren’t any guns firing for
your wings or shells zipping through the air. If I felt almost safe then in my
aircraft, surely I should feel all the more so now? Yet, instead… I don’t know,
I have this terrible dread rising in me.”

“Dread?” Clara took a seat
opposite him.

“It’s like I don’t believe in
myself anymore, like I don’t believe in the Buzzard. I keep thinking that if I
try this record as I mean to, it will be my last flight.” O’Harris stared
bleakly ahead of him, “That telegram only made it clearer to me. In an instant
you are gone. Bertie Law was a good pilot, but even a good pilot can’t do
anything if an engine fails or the weather turns against you.”

“But Bertie was flying in the
Arctic.” Clara tried to bring some rationality back to the captain’s thoughts,
“That has to be one of the most dangerous places to fly. You don’t intend to be
an Arctic aviator, do you?”

“No… I just keep thinking, what
if it happens to me?” O’Harris shook his head sharply as if shaking out bad
thoughts, “I’m glad your brother isn’t here to see me like this Clara.”

“He would understand.”
“Maybe, but that’s not the point.” O’Harris took a long look at Clara, “I
wasn’t expecting you today, any news?”

“Nothing definite.” Clara
apologised, “But I wondered if I might look in your aunt’s bedroom, I am told
she kept a diary which might shed light on all this.”

O’Harris gave a shrug.

“Never seen one, but doesn’t
mean it doesn’t exist. You are quite welcome to look, I haven’t set foot in her
room since she died. Not that I ever went in it when she was alive! I imagine
it is exactly as it was the day she passed.”

“Then hopefully I shall find
her diary. Are there any keys for the room? For locked drawers or a desk,
perhaps?”

O’Harris pulled out his wad of
house-keys.

“Think these are furniture
keys.” He showed Clara several small keys of various design, “I haven’t found a
purpose for them yet. Here, take the whole bundle.”

Clara did as he said.

“Will you be all right while I
take a look?”

“I have done the ‘drowning my
sorrows’ part, now I just want to sit here and remember. Does it sound selfish to
say I wish Bertie could have stayed on the ground so I didn’t have this shock
to contend with mere days before Buzzard’s flight across the Atlantic?”

“Perhaps a little selfish, but
I understand it.” Clara promised, “If he had made it, it would have filled you
with confidence for your trip, instead it fills you with worry. But it mustn’t,
you are not Bertie Law, the Buzzard is not his plane and you are not flying on
an Arctic expedition.”

“No.” O’Harris nodded, “Too
true. Look, will you stay for lunch? I’ll have the cook rustle up a good
spread. I don’t feel like eating alone today.”

“I’ll stay.” Clara said, “Now I
best look at this room.”

“Watch out for dust and
woodworm.” O’Harris managed a wan smile as she rose and headed out the room,
“Top floor, third on the right, blue door.”

The late Mrs O’Harris’ room had
the feel of a place out of time. Painted and decorated largely in shades of
blue and cream, it had the atmosphere of a Victorian lady’s boudoir, down to
the four-poster bed with matching curtains and the old-fashioned washstand.
Stepping inside was a bit like stepping into a drawing from an old book. The
room had an atmosphere. Something slightly musty, but also eerily still, as
though the room was holding its breath until the lady of the manor returned.
Walking from the hall into the bedroom it felt as though Clara had entered
another house, perhaps more curiously, it felt strangely lonely.

Clara absorbed the feel of the
room. Perhaps she was foolish, but it crossed her mind that bedrooms could tell
you a lot about a person, they were one of the most private rooms in a house,
but also the most personal. This room kept the echoes of Mrs O’Harris, as
though only a moment ago she had stepped across the threshold. It was a pause
in time.

Clara moved about, feeling an
intruder. A scent of lavender lingered in the air. Was this the room of a
murderess or a grieving widow? Did Florence O’Harris lie on the bed and dream
of her triumph or cry herself to sleep?

On the dressing table sat a
brush and various half-empty cosmetics, several bottles of perfume were slowly
turning to vinegar and a pretty vase sat bereft of fresh flowers. For a moment
Clara thought of Florence coming to this very table and preparing her toilette
for the day, looking in the mirror and seeing herself each day growing a
fraction older. She opened the drawers of the table methodically, sorting
through the debris of fifty years of life in the mansion. Old hair clips
mingled with letters never replied to, clean handkerchiefs and old theatre programmes.
Nothing revealing.

She moved on to a tall boy and
worked through the drawers. Again there was nothing but clothes, mainly
undergarments and stockings. Each drawer gave a new waft of the lavender
fragrance as it was opened, for a moment bringing the elusive Florence a touch
closer.

The bedside table was more
promising because the top drawer was actually locked. Kneeling, Clara went
through the bundle of keys O’Harris had handed her selecting the smallest ones
from the ring and trying them each in turn. None seemed to work. She tried them
all and then sighed to herself. A little disappointed she decided to try again
just in case and worked through the keys until she reached one that was rather
short and stocky, and didn’t look the least promising. Clara pushed it into the
lock and rattled it around, for a moment it jammed then, suddenly, she felt it
turn. The drawer clicked open and Clara could only hope her effort was about to
be rewarded.

In the drawer were further
letters, but these ones were more personal than the general correspondence in
the dressing table. There were several letters from Florence’s sister-in-law, Captain
O’Harris’ mother. A few others were from Goddard and had a semblance to love
letters, even if they were a bit dry and rambling. Goddard was clearly not a
poet. Clara placed them all on the bed intending to go through them for clues
when she had time.

The drawer contained a lot of
knickknacks partially hidden under a lace shawl that had been wedged in. A
silver pincushion in the shape of a pig jostled for space with a bone
letter-opener and several miniature glass bottles semi-full of all manner of
old liquids. It was rather disappointing. Clara fumbled in the drawer and found
a few lost assorted buttons and a hatpin that pricked her finger. Cross at her own
carelessness and feeling foolish for not thinking of it before she went to
remove the shawl so she could examine the drawer properly. It was then she
realised the shawl was a lot heavier than it should be. Unfolding it, she had
to smile as she revealed three leather-bound books, the top one being green
with butterflies tooled into the cover.

“I found your diary Florence.”
Clara whispered to herself.

Strangely she did not feel the
need to rush downstairs and show her prize immediately to O’Harris. Instead she
sat on the bed which groaned in the manner old beds do, and thumbed through the
first and newest of the diaries. Though not all the entries were dated it seemed
to chart Florence’s life from the year 1900 onwards, there were great gaps,
sometimes as much as a month, before feverish, dedicated entries charting life
in Brighton almost by the hour. She turned the pages to 1908 and looked for the
entries closest to the time of Goddard’s death.

There was no entry on the day
of his actual demise, that would have been too fortunate, reflected Clara, but
there was one piece vaguely dated Oct. ’08, that was apparently written at the
time of his funeral.

Oct. ‘08

Despondent. No time like
present for new charity drive, but have not the energy. Mrs B. keeps asking
when we can discuss the flower festival. Can’t think about that. So lonely
here. Have asked young John to visit, perhaps a little youthfulness will chase
away the gloom. Feel like Goddard is everywhere, yet nowhere. Turn a corner and
expect to see him.

Just collected apples from
orchard. Poor harvest, wasps too numerous. Should have done it earlier. Can’t
seem to get on top of things. Cook wants to make apple pie, but I shan’t eat
it. Was Goddard’s favourite, would feel disrespectful. Have dreadful headache.
Should sleep but another visit due from Mrs M. about Church social. Really hate
all this. Wish they would leave me alone.

Clara paused in her reading.
Florence might have seemed a tough, even hard character on the outside, but
clearly inside she felt things as strongly as any person. She also seemed to
have grieved deeply for the loss of her husband.

“Could you really have killed
him?” Clara said to herself as she read on.

Mr C. wants to know about
the ‘barn’. I suppose it should be finished as Goddard wanted. Only the
foundations have been dug and it would not take a moment to grass it back over,
but I cannot bring myself to do that. I shall not sell Goddard’s cars and they
must have a home. Maybe when it is finished I shall feel some peace.

Letter from John arrived. He
is coming soon. Haven’t seen him since the funeral and now I regret inviting
him. What can I say to him when I see him? I feel such guilt over Goddard. I
wish I could make it right.

“Miss?”

Clara snapped the diary shut as
a maid appeared at the door.

“Sorry to bother you miss but
luncheon will be ready in about half an hour, the captain wanted to let you
know.”

“Thank you.” Clara smiled at
her and the maid vanished again.

She sat for a moment, the
appearance of the maid had reminded her of the other incident that had marred
the O’Harris’ home-life. She returned to the diary and flicked back several
pages until she arrived at 1907. The maid had fallen to her death in the spring
of that year, Clara turned to the entries in the diary just before.

April ‘07

John has been paying a visit
all week, I am quite exasperated by his presence. He seems to be everywhere I
go, but Goddard is pleased to see him. He has been gloomy of late after his
spell of influenza and it does him good to have a young person about. He has
come up with this idea of a huge ‘barn’ to house his cars. He tells me it is a
thing called a garage which is all the rage in America. I am disinclined
towards the idea.

John went home today.
Goddard sullen again.