05 - Mistletoe and Murder (8 page)

Before Andrews spoke, Clara
butted in.

“Absolutely not. No one was banned
from going downstairs. We only want to know if what Mr Sampford heard was an
actual person. There is nothing to be concerned about.”

“And,” Jane’s voice had almost
dropped to a squeaky whisper, “And, if that person accidentally forgot to
not
use the back stairs, would they be in trouble for that?”

“No.” Clara said gently,
“Jane, did you go downstairs?”

Jane gave a little sniff.

“I wanted a drink of water,
that’s all. I remembered to use the main stairs to go down, but when I went to
come up I forgot myself and just ran up the back stairs. It was about an hour
ago, I suppose.”

Andrews was about to explode
with indignation, so Clara shoved him firmly out of the room.

“Thank you Jane, you did
nothing wrong. Go back to bed.” She said as she disappeared after him.

She only just managed to get
Andrews onto the main stairs before his temper let loose.

“That damn stupid child ruined
everything!” He snarled.

“These things happen Mr
Andrews, at least we have explained the footprints.”

“You are just delighted to be
right.” Andrews pointed that aggressive finger at her, “Hah, but I have the
last laugh Miss Fitzgerald, for what about the bell? Who rang that I ask you?”

“Could not someone going up
the stairs have done it?” Clara suggested.

“No, no, no. I have you there!
Something rang that bell and you can’t prove it was a person.” Andrews gave her
a smug smile and then trotted off down the stairs.

Clara found herself screwing
up her hands into fists. Some people, she found herself thinking, were
completely unbearable.

Clara found Tommy in his bedroom
wrapped up to the chin in a thick coat and scarf and sniffling loudly. He
sneezed into a handkerchief as she entered.

“How are you?” She asked.

“Dying.” He snuffled miserably.

“Jolly good. I was thinking
you could pay a call on the British library and see what material they have on
the history of Berkeley Square.” Clara said, having not listened to Tommy’s
answer.

Her brother glared at her over
his scarf. Clara paused for a moment.

“Unless you don’t feel up to
it?”

“I did say I was dying.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

Tommy sighed.

“That fellow Andrews really
has you in a tizzy, doesn’t he?”

“He is impossible!” Clara said
rather loudly, then she looked guiltily at the open door. She went and closed
it before, in a more subdued tone, she continued, “He refuses to listen to
rational thinking.”

“I heard the commotion last
night. I feel quite left out down here.” Tommy sniffed morosely.

“Quite frankly, you are better
off down here. He has turned the second floor hallway into a spider’s web of
wires and managed to give poor Elijah a mild concussion in the process. He has
bells and things that measure vibrations. You should have seen his face when he
thought he had caught ghostly footprints in the flour he left on the staircase.
He almost exploded when he learned one of the maids had accidentally made
them.”

“So, no phantom last night?”

“As far as I can tell…” Clara
hesitated, “Look, between you and me Tommy, I can account for everything that
went on up there except for the ringing of a bell. Mr Andrews is adamant the
bell would not have rung just because a maid ran up the back stairs. Naturally
I didn’t believe him, so I conducted an experiment while everyone was at
breakfast. I ran up and down the stairs several times and the bell remained
silent. The only time I caused it to ring was when I actually plucked the wire
it is connected to. Now I heard that bell ring in the night and Elijah says the
same, of course he could be lying or mistaken, perhaps he tripped the bell
himself. But why would he be out in the hallway in the middle of the night?”

“So something could have been
abroad last night?”

“Or someone.” Clara pulled up
a chair next to her brother and sat down, “Unfortunately Miss Sampford is in a
position where at least two people find her continued existence troublesome.
She masks it well, but she is very scared. If someone is trying to frighten her
to death they are doing a jolly good job.”

“People play some nasty
games.”

“Don’t they just. Look I am
going to pay a few calls before Miss Sampford’s relatives arrive, and Andrews
has some extra ghost hunters turning up to help him conduct an all-night vigil.
Do you want anything before I go?”

“No, only a damn end to this
cold.”

“Never mind, it will be better
soon.” Clara stood and kissed him on the forehead, “See if you can keep Oliver
out of trouble, will you? He has become rather taken with this ghost hunting
lark and is following Andrews everywhere.”

“If he happens to appear on
the ground floor, I’ll nab him.” Tommy promised.

Clara headed out into the
Square. The morning was brisk, a hint of snow in the sky. Everyone was wrapped
up as tightly as they could be in coats, hats and gloves. Clara settled a scarf
about her neck and headed towards number 49. She knocked on the door and waited
to see if anyone was in. There was silence.

“Right Mr Mollinson, where am
I likely to find you?”

Luckily Mollinson had left his
business card with Miss Sampford on each occasion he visited and Clara had
taken care to collect one of these cards before leaving the house. She read off
his office address then went to find the nearest tube station.

Clara had travelled via
London’s great underground network of trains only once before. The great
labyrinth of tunnels, all tiled in white and with the smooth gliding carriages
running on electric rails, filled her with a sense of awe. It seemed remarkable
that anyone could create such a magnificent subterranean world and, to think,
some parts of the system were nearly sixty years old already. On her first
visit she had been around twelve and it was part of a school outing to see a
pantomime at Christmas. The girls had been allowed to buy their own tickets,
which seemed at the time extremely grown-up. Going on the trains, however, had
been quite daunting for some of them and one girl became overcome with
claustrophobia. Not even the headmistress’ usually infallible smelling salts
could bring her out of it. For Clara the journey had been an exciting
adventure, something which the pantomime, their ultimate destination, could
hardly compete with. Clara felt a thrill of elation as the train shot down the
tunnels, electric lights on the walls bursting in and out of her vision. She
felt like a mole burying underground and it was with a strange pang of
giddiness that she wondered at how fast they were going and whether the train
could brake quickly enough in an emergency, say like a cave-in of the roof. On
reflection, Clara’s musings in this direction (unfortunately voiced out-loud)
had probably not helped the claustrophobic girl’s panic.

Over a decade on, Clara bought
her ticket without thinking and boarded a carriage with a sense of purpose
rather than excitement. She took a seat among businessmen, office girls and
casual shoppers, wondering if her old school still ran trips to the pantomime
at Christmas.  The carriage was cold, not something Clara had remembered, and
the passengers were all engaged in their own activities, mostly reading
newspapers or looking out the windows. No one seemed inclined to speak and
Clara found herself regretting she had not picked up a newspaper before
boarding. Somehow the novel glow of tube travel, which she had carried with her
all these years, now seemed faded. She was rather relieved when she reached her
stop and headed out into the street.

Almost at once Clara found
herself immersed in a crowd of Christmas shoppers. There was hardly a gap to
walk through on the busy pavements as people nipped between shops, grabbed
tables in restaurants and cafes, or wasted time before the theatres opened.
People were smoking feverishly, partly to pass the time and partly to warm
themselves. Clara found herself walking through a fog of smoke that hung just
at head level.

She stepped off the pavement
briefly, thinking to dodge around the hordes, and was almost flattened by an
omnibus. She jumped back onto the pavement as the driver shook his fist at her
and told her to be more careful. Now Clara was paying attention she realised
the roads were far busier than she was used to in Brighton. Some form of
vehicle came past almost every moment. Despite this people were crossing the
road, dodging cars without any apparent concern for their wellbeing. Clara
nudged her way back onto the pavement and made sure to stay close to the shops
rather than risk being knocked into the thoroughfare.

It was slow progress up the
street, pushing through the people and constantly repeating ‘excuse me’, ‘may
I?’ ‘would you mind?’ all the time. Clara treated herself to a bag of roast
chestnuts off a street seller to warm her hands. Finally, after what seemed a
considerable age of bumping into people, Clara found the office building
belonging to Mr Mollinson. There was a brass plaque on the wall bearing his
name. She entered the foyer and found herself before a concierge.

“Is Mr Mollinson in his
office?”

“Have you an appointment?” The
concierge, a young man with greased hair, asked.

“No, I have only just come
down to London and was hoping he might be free to see me.”

“Mr Mollinson rarely speaks to
people without an appointment.” The concierge continued in a rather grave tone.

Clara felt he was rather
over-stepping the limitations of his role.

“Might you at least try
contacting him? And if he is not available today, then perhaps we could arrange
a more convenient time?”

The concierge gave himself a
moment to consider the acceptability of this request.

“I suppose so.” He picked up
the receiver of a large black phone and dialled a number, “Hello? Mr Mollinson?
It is Patrickson at the front desk. A lady is requesting to speak with you.”
The concierge paused to listen, “He wishes to know what the matter is
concerning.”

“Please could you say it is
Miss Fitzgerald wishing to speak to him on Miss Sampford’s behalf?”

The concierge repeated the
message, then again paused to receive instructions. His face slowly took on a
look of surprise. He carefully put down the receiver.

“Mr Mollinson says he will see
you at once.” He said, clearly astonished, “Please go to the third floor, first
door on your left.”

Clara was not surprised at
Mollinson’s willingness, not once he had heard the name of Miss Sampford. In
fact, his sudden interest only helped fix in Clara’s mind his potential as a
suspect. He was clearly still very keen to get his hands on number 50. But keen
enough to frighten a little old lady into abandoning her home? Now that really
was the question.

Clara ascended the stairs,
which curved upwards in a wide spiral, wondering how long an audience she would
have with Mollinson once he learned she was not there to help arrange the sale
of the house. She found his office – marked with his name – easily enough and
knocked. A male voice asked her to enter.

Mollinson was sat behind a
large mahogany desk; it was an antique, once owned by his grandfather. Mollinson
valued its origins as much as the statement it made to people entering his
office. Mollinson was all about statements. Everything he wore, every piece of
furniture in his office, everything he did, even down to the pen he used to
write with, was all about drawing attention and displaying his power and
wealth. When he sat behind his desk he wanted people to see a man of quality,
dressed in an expensive tailored suit. He wore his hair slightly longer than
most to make him appear younger and was vain enough to have it dyed to mask
most of the grey. He was pleased that his face did not require similar
treatment, though he had been known to surreptitiously use his wife’s wrinkle
cream before going to bed. He kept out of the sun, got enough sleep and always
used a sharp razor when shaving to avoid cuts. If his skin was not exactly
flawless, it was at least well-tended, he was satisfied that he did not look
his fifty-five years and had not suffered the ravages of time so many of his
business fellows had.

As he sat at his desk, toying
with an ivory letter-opener, he was arrogant enough to believe he could charm
anybody into doing anything he wished. And now he believed those charms had
worked their magic on Miss Sampford and had finally convinced her to sell.

He rose as Clara entered and
smile broadly.

“Do take a seat Miss
Fitzgerald.”

Clara sat in front of the
desk, noting astutely that her chair was a fraction lower than Mollinson’s, so
he appeared to tower over her slightly. It was a neat psychological trick she had
heard about before.

“Good morning, Mr Mollinson.
Is it always so busy in the streets around here?”

“Well it is Christmas.”
Mollinson lounged back in his chair, “How can I help you? You mentioned Miss
Sampford?”

“Yes, I am working on her
behalf.”

“And how much is she willing
to accept for number 50?” Mollinson pulled a cheque-book from a drawer as he
spoke and held his pen poised over it.

“You mistake my intent. Miss
Sampford is not interested in selling number 50.”

“Still?” Mollinson’s façade of
charm momentarily deserted him, “I thought she would have come around by now.”

“Is there any particular
reason for that Mr Mollinson?”

The businessman gave her a
puzzled look.

“What do you mean?”

“You implied you have been
expecting her to ‘come around’ to the idea of selling her home. Could you say
why you were so certain she would?”

“No.” Mollinson looked
worried.

“You have heard about Miss
Sampford’s problems?”

“Problems?”

“The ghost.” Clara elaborated,
feeling a touch exasperated by the man, “You commented on the problem to her.”

“Oh
that
. Does she
still have a ghost?”

“Yes Mr Mollinson, perhaps you
know something about it?”

Mollinson took a moment to
grasp her insinuation.

“Miss Fitzgerald, who exactly
are you?” He demanded to know.

Clara calmly fished a card out
of her bag and handed it to him.

“A private detective? But
you’re a woman…” Mollinson bit his tongue, “I see where this is going, I’m not
stupid. You want to know if I have been trying to scare an old lady out of her
home, well the answer is a firm no.”

“You have to admit, if this
haunting forces Miss Sampford to move, it will be very advantageous for you.”
Clara pointed out.

“That’s by the by. I don’t go
around scaring people. What sort of man do you think I am?”

“You can’t deny Miss
Sampford’s refusal to sell has been a nuisance.”

“Every project I do has a
thousand nuisances. I work around them to find a solution. In this case I made
an offer to the landlord of number 48, he accepted and now I have my two
buildings for my hotel.”

“So why do you still want
number 50?”

“Aesthetics mainly. You see
number 50 and number 49 are laid out on very similar plans and have identical
frontages, which would make combining them a lot simpler. Number 48 will take
more work, but that inconvenience is not enough to make me consider scaring
Miss Sampford out of her home.” Mr Mollinson sat back in his chair. Clara had
to admit his arguments were quite convincing.