01 - Memories of the Dead (14 page)

“Are you sure?” Oliver was out
of his chair and looking over Tommy’s shoulder.

“See the hole? It’s near where
you expect the heart to be, but a little low. To do that yourself you would
have to hold your arm like this.”

He demonstrated by taking
Oliver’s right arm and twisting it round until his hand pointed at his left
breast.

“A pistol is about this long.”
Tommy gauged the distance Oliver’s hand was from his heart, “Suicides don’t
want a mistake, so the muzzle will be pressed against you, or at least very
close. You’ll be shaking probably too, you’ll need the gun steady not to make a
mistake. Now pretend to pull the trigger.”

Oliver mimed the moving of his
forefinger pulling back on a pistol trigger.

“It’s awkward.” He noted.

“Yes. The boys in the trenches
preferred a shot to the temple or a barrel in the mouth. For certainty.” Tommy
stared at the picture grimly, “Though I do remember one aiming for the heart
like this. We always said that we thought he didn’t really mean it and wanted
someone to find him in time. But of course it would have done no good if we had
saved him, he would have been court-martialled for attempting to get out of
fighting. They would have shot him for desertion.”

Tommy’s eyes had taken on a
glazed look. Oliver touched his shoulder lightly.

“I wasn’t there, but I have
heard.” He licked his lips which were suddenly dry, “They reckon I have a bad
heart and wouldn’t let me in. I never could fathom if I was relieved or not.”

“No one wants to fight.” Tommy
said.

“No, but no one wants to be
left behind and called a coward either.” Oliver returned to his chair, “Father
felt it necessary to put a notice in the paper with the official medical report
findings.”

Tommy nodded, he had heard
such stories before.

“So,” Oliver came out of his
thoughts, “Mrs Greengage could have shot herself but it would be awkward.”

“Oh, no.” Tommy seemed to wake
up too, “You see when a gun barrel leans against you it leaves a mark when it
fires. The soot and dust that come from the bullet shooting out and sometimes
burning because the explosive inside makes the chamber red hot. The skin and
clothes get little scorch marks and there is lots of black powder. There is
none of that on this woman. Her blouse is white, you would have noticed any
marks.”

He flicked through the photos
and found a close shot of the bullet hole.

“See, the only marks are blood
and the hole in her blouse is very neat and no burning.”

Oliver examined the photo.

“Was Clara hopeful for
suicide?”

“I doubt it, she would feel it
was an anti-climax.” Tommy shrugged, “But she is feeling quite stumped at the
moment.”

Tommy had come to some
photographs of the table and then some more of the rug the body lay on.

“I take all sorts of shots,
you never know what the police will want.” Oliver said apologetically as he
caught Tommy looking at one vague photograph of the Indian-style floor rug,
“They are always asking things like, ‘Mr Bankes, have you a picture of that
second painting on the wall from the right, perhaps with a small corner of the
what-not cabinet to its left? I think it might be relevant to the case.’ Oh
yes, they come up with all sorts of ideas, so I cover myself and take
everything.”

“What is this by her hand?”
Tommy pointed to a white speck on the rug, the edge of Mrs Greengage’s arm
could be seen near it.

“I have a close-up of her
hands in that pile, is it better on that?”

Tommy filtered through the
pile until he came to a zoomed in shot of Mrs Greengage’s right hand. Lying
close to the thumb seemed to be a button.

“Do you have a magnifying
glass?”

Oliver disappeared to the
corner of the room shuffling aside a potted plant to get to a bookcase. He
returned with a magnifying glass on a wooden handle. Tommy took it without
looking up and studied the small circle on the photo.

“Not a button.” He noted, “A
cufflink and, if I am not mistaken, a military one. The cheap sort shops sold
before the war to give to men as leaving gifts, in case they had to go to a
ceremonial dinner or something in dress uniform. Little did they know!”

He let Oliver take a look.

“The detail looks like a pair
of flags crossed.”

“Yes, the union jack and I
believe the French flag. Later they did some with the America flag, when the
Yanks finally decided to come out to play.”

Oliver smirked.

“I bet those were popular.”

“Well I wouldn’t have worn
them.” Tommy grinned, “But I had a pair of these. My mother bought them. Last
time I saw them was when our trench suddenly flooded in a storm and we had to
get out with whatever we could carry.”

“Is this a clue?” Oliver
asked.

“Maybe.” Tommy said, “It can’t
have belonged to Mrs Greengage.”

“No, and she had no son that
she might want to remember by holding on to them. So perhaps this fell off the
killer?”

“If it did Clara is going to
be all over Brighton asking about cufflinks.” Tommy gave a mild groan and
closed his eyes, “Worse, she may get me to do it.”

“There must be hundreds of
these things about.”

“But few people still wear
them. Most people are trying to forget the war.” Tommy mused the problem, “And
you don’t dress up to kill someone, so whoever did it would normally wear
cufflinks and these are perhaps his usual pair, so he never thought to take
them off.”

“He must have noticed they are
missing by now.”

“Yes, but does he know he lost
one at the crime scene? When is the last time you could remember where you lost
a cufflink or button?”

Oliver nodded at his office.

“In my life, never. I just buy
a new pair.”

“Ah!” Tommy grinned, “So we
need to find who has bought cufflinks recently. Not a smart pair either, but a
cheap work-a-day variety. And if they haven’t had the time we need to look for
someone who can’t fasten their shirt cuffs.”

“This is quite exciting!” Oliver
smiled, “I never would have thought of all that from this little speck on a
piece of paper. I told you I had no imagination.”

“You don’t think it
far-fetched?”

“No, in fact, to prove it I
shall blow up this photo and you can take a copy to Clara. It won’t take a
moment.”

Oliver dashed out of the
office and Tommy felt himself warming to the quirky photographer. He wondered
how Clara got on with him, he suspected she might find him a little too clumsy
and cluttered to suit her logical mind. She could never have worked in this
office. Still, it took all sorts, and now he had a clue to take back to her. He
was pretty pleased with himself.

Mrs Pembroke had one of the grand houses on Old Steine.
She was old money and she was a snob. Her neighbours hardly knew her to speak
to, she would not respond to their cheerful ‘hallos’ unless she had known their
forefathers, and that those said forefathers had been of a social standing to
equal her own. She didn’t care for the modern world of up-and-coming
businessmen who started life as barrow-boys and ended it in a smart house on
the Old Steine. It was not fitting and she was finding that these days she
barely knew anyone it was decent to talk to.

Mrs Pembroke was a widow and
she lived alone, but she kept her home bustling with a host of servants that
were another echo of the past. She did not need a parlour-maid and a
house-maid, nor a housekeeper
and
a butler, but she had them because
that was how things were supposed to be and if any of her neighbours grumbled
that an ageing widow had no call to keep a groom and a footman, when she no
longer owned a carriage or horses, then she considered that merely because they
were ignorant working-class plebeians who had fallen into a little money. And
she ignored the fact that her groom spent most of his time drinking and
gambling with the footman. As long as they looked the part and filled the
regulation slot in her household she was happy.

No wonder, decided Clara, she
had chosen a girl like Jeannette to replace her last house-maid.

“She came with fine
recommendations.” Mrs Pembroke said drinking from a china cup.

It had been difficult to get
into the house, the Fitzgeralds had not been on a par with the Pembrokes at any
stage in their existence, but Clara’s father had once ‘miraculously’ cured Mrs
Pembroke’s lumbago problem and that had earned the family a position in the
lady’s affection that went against all her usual prejudices.

There was no point being old
money and being able to make the rules, Mrs Pembroke contended, if you weren’t
also allowed to break them.

“I would not hire just
anybody.” Mrs Pembroke said with a sternness that suggested Clara was
overstepping her mark.

“I have no concerns about
Jeannette as a maid.” Clara explained hastily, “I merely was under the
impression that she may have seen something on the day of Mrs Greengage’s
death. She was friendly with Alice Roberts who occasionally cleaned at the
house and I am told she helped on the day of the incident.”

“Oh that little thing.” Mrs
Pembroke shrugged, “I never did have a lot of sympathy for those who dabbled
with the dead, though it became quite the rage in the 80s and 90s. You could
hardly go to a party without someone claiming to be a medium and starting up
séances. It became quite dull. I never was inclined to speak to dear Mr
Pembroke after he passed on, I found it quite impossible to imagine what I
would say.”

“I confess I am not much taken
by this new spiritualist movement either.” Clara said honestly.

Mrs Pembroke put down her cup
and gave her an appraising look.

“Yes, you have the heart of
your father beating inside you. A wonderful man.” Mrs Pembroke suddenly reached
out and touched Clara’s hand, which seemed to indicate she approved of her, “He
had a magical gift for medicine, wasted as a professor lecturing others I
rather felt. I was sorry to hear of his death.”

“It was a shock.” Clara
nodded, “He had such things in mind for when the war was over.”

“Didn’t we all.” Mrs Pembroke
drew back with a sigh, “I have to say I am surprised the police allowing a
woman to investigate a murder. Oh don’t get me wrong,” she quickly added as she
saw Clara about to speak, “I am not against you pursuing this. No, no, dear me,
I was quite the suffragist in my time. In fact I drove dear Mr Pembroke quite
potty with my talk of women’s rights. He always thought me a silly thing, I
fear, but here I am running his house comfortably enough. He seemed to make
such a big deal of it, but really it is just a case of keeping good order and
routine. I think men have underestimated us for too long you know. If I was a
good deal younger I could quite imagine being a detective too, except it would
mean talking to ‘people’.”

The term ‘people’ came out in
a similar tone to one normally used for vermin and Clara assumed Mrs Pembroke
referred to anyone beneath her own social status with the word.

“I suppose you wish to see her
now.” Mrs Pembroke drained her tea and put the cup and saucer down with a
clatter, “I am to attend a lunchtime lecture at the Pavilion, I’m afraid. It is
the price of being a patron to the arts, one must show one’s face. I believe
this one is about that silly abstract movement that is on the rise in painting,
personally if anyone asked me to sponsor an exhibition of such monstrosities I
would ask them to kindly walk off the end of the pier and not bother me
further. But there, I suppose life must change and the young must have their
novelties.”

Clara politely nodded,
uncertain what the correct response to this tirade should be.

“If you don’t mind I will send
you to the housekeeper’s room for the interview. I would not want all my
servants gossiping that I left a stranger unattended in my parlour.”

“Quite.” Clara nodded
politely.

Mrs Pembroke was on her feet
and ringing for a maid.

“I don’t expect to come home
and find I am missing a housemaid.” She said coolly as the sound of the bell
rang down the corridor.

“Of course not!” Clara feigned
surprise and just hoped she could find some tactful way to call Jeannette a
thief.

A maid appeared at the door
and performed a deep curtsey.

“Take Miss Fitzgerald to the
housekeeper’s room and have Jeannette see her. She is having trouble with
another maid and needs to speak to her.” Mrs Pembroke instructed the girl, then
she turned to Clara, “I doubt you will be here on my return so I will bid you a
good day and do give my regards to your brother Timmy.”

“Tommy.”

“Indeed, lost his arms didn’t
he?”

“No just the use of his legs.”

Mrs Pembroke looked puzzled.

“Who am I thinking of then?”

Clara gaped for an answer but
fortunately the clock was chiming and Mrs Pembroke forgot her blunder to fuss
about being late and hurried out the door to find her waiting footman who had
managed to hire a carriage for her. Clara watched her vanish out the door and
marvelled at the Victorian relic of a woman who disappeared into the vehicle.

The maid bobbed another
curtsey at her and led her down a long corridor into the depths of the house. They
went down some stairs and she was in the basement world of the Pembroke
servants, another relic of a long dead past. She could not imagine many
Brighton households who would feel the need to keep so many, especially as most
seemed idle, fussing with mundane tasks of little importance because there was
nothing else to do.

“In here miss.”

Another corridor and Clara
found herself being ushered into a well-appointed housekeeper’s sitting room
with a neat fireplace, a worn but tidy armchair and a folding table. The
clatter of footsteps outside suggested she was standing at the front of the
house again, though this time below street level, with a window placed high up
to cast in daylight. She listened to people milling about in the snow slush
outside until she heard the door open with a slight click and she turned.

“Jeannette Brown?” Clara asked
as a girl peered around the door.

Jeannette nodded and entered.
She was a proud looking creature with dark hair scraped back into a hard bun
and strong features that could almost be described as manly. She was
sharp-eyed, but she held her chin too high as if she wanted to look down on the
world all the time and the line of her mouth made her look hard.

“Would you care to sit?” Clara
asked.

Jeannette pulled a chair from
near the folding table, a simply straight-backed wooden one, but still refused
to sit down until Clara had nestled in the armchair. Clara was beginning to see
why Mrs Pembroke liked her.

“I am here on behalf of a
client to investigate the murder of Mrs Greengage. I believe you went to the
house on the day the body was found?”

“Client?” Jeannette asked
curiously.

“I am a private detective. You
have heard of such people?”

“In America crime novels.”
Jeannette shrugged, “I didn’t know women could do that.”

“Women can do anything.” Clara
said stoutly, “If they set their mind to it.”

She wondered if that hit a
cord because for an instant Jeannette dropped her gaze. But it was swiftly back
on her.

“Why do you want to talk to
me?”

“You helped Alice Roberts.”

“She is a useless creature.”
Jeannette answered and couldn’t disguise a note of dislike, “She couldn’t find
her head in the dark.”

“I thought you were her
friend?”

Jeannette hesitated seeing she
had stumbled.

“I was. Before I knew her
well.”

Clara took a breath, wondering
how to broach the next topic. Jeannette was all bristles and bitterness, and
she knew the slightest misstep would have her leaving in indignation.

“Has she said something
against me?” Jeannette had interpreted the pause as a cue for her to continue
talking. She had stumbled again.

“Why should she say anything
against you?”

“She’s jealous, because I work
here and she doesn’t.” Jeannette had clutched her hands together and was
pulling at her fingers unconsciously, “She hates me, I think.”

“Now on that I think you are
wrong, but really I am only interested in what happened that day.”

“Alice came and fetched me.”
Jeannette said simply, “Came to the back door and asked for me. I was busy
cleaning a grate but she waited for me. She still had her hands dripping wet
from getting ready to wash the floors at the Greengage’s, her sleeves were
rolled back and she hadn’t a coat or shawl on. I told her she would catch her
death and she said I had to come quickly. Well I did because she looked so
bemused and upset. We got to the house and there was Mrs Greengage dead on the
floor. She wanted me to go in and make sure she was a goner, but I said I
wasn’t moving and she should fetch the master of the house. She refused, said
he liked to sleep in because of this medicine he takes and he wouldn’t hear her
if she knocked. So I said go get the police and let them wake him. That’s what
she did and I waited in the house for her.”

“In which room?” Clara asked.

“Pardon miss?”

“In which room did you wait?”

“The hallway of course, I had
no right being anywhere else. I only meant to be there in case Mr Greengage
came downstairs and stumbled over his own dead wife.”

Clara felt certain Jeannette
seemed defensive and decided she could risk pushing her.

“I’m sure you will be relieved
to know that no one thinks Alice had any hand in the death of her mistress.”

“I never thought she did.”

“Well, some suspicion arouse
because of the peculiar circumstance of the open bureau.”

Jeannette paled slightly.

“What can you mean?”

“Oh, you know how police are.
They see suspicion anywhere and they had this silly theory that someone had
killed Mrs Greengage to get at her bureau where she was keeping some odd little
riddles for one of her clients. The riddles are missing you see and they
supposedly lead to a treasure.”

“Oh.”

“Of course, no one can use
them because there are nine riddles in total and only six were in the desk.”

Jeannette was looking rather
sick. Clara let the news sink in for a moment.

“Rather a risk you took for an
incomplete set of riddles Jean Bundle.”

Jeannette snapped up her head.

“My surname’s Brown and please
do not shorten my Christian name.”

“All right.” Clara sat back in
her chair, “Mr Greengage has not reported the theft, so this is just between
you and me, though be aware that the inspector knows who took the riddles and
will act if he feels he has cause. All I want is the riddles you stole back for
their rightful owner.”

“I didn’t steal anything!”
Jeannette cried out.

“Keep your voice down, someone
will hear.” Clara said, “You know how servants gossip and the last thing a maid
needs is the word ‘steal’ associated with her name.”

“I just waited in the house.”
Jeannette said in a steadier voice, “Waited with that dead corpse. I didn’t
want to do it.”

“But Mrs Greengage had made a
martyr of your father and it was rather satisfying looking at her body and
thinking someone had had the guts to kill her.” Clara said coldly.

“It wasn’t like that.”
Jeannette shook her head, “I would never wish harm like that on anyone.”

“She destroyed your father.”

“Not alone she didn’t!”
Jeannette gulped, knowing she had come too far to turn back, “All of Eastbourne
was against him. She might have started it, but they helped her along. People
turned their backs on him, supposed friends. Our shop was always empty. Mother
had a weak heart, we all knew it, the doctor came regularly, but no one would
listen, not once that woman had set her mind to tearing us apart.”

Jeannette shuddered on the
verge of tears, the hardness in her face evaporating to be replaced by such an
acute look of vulnerability that Clara felt infinitely sorry for her.

“If it is any consolation, I
think what Mrs Greengage did concerning your mother’s death was unspeakably
horrid.”

“She was a charlatan. Everyone
knew it.” Jeannette paused, “Well, everyone with sense knew it. There were
others who thought different. She set her heart on ruining my father and I
still don’t understand why.”

“You never had dealings with
her?” Clara asked.

“No, none. She never came to
the shop. Do you know why she did it?”