Mr Lynch's Prophecy

by Evelyn James

  “And that was why Professor Lynch made and studied astrology charts?”

  “Yes. It was a hobby at first, then in his final days it became his comfort. He read into the charts what he wanted. I would go see him and he would declare that his latest chart indicated he had a long life ahead of him and that made him sure my next remedy would work.”

  “Then the box of prophecies, was created not for some joke, or because of senility, but out of this genuine belief that astrology charts could predict the future?”

  Dr Finnigan shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Professor Lynch never discussed the matter with me, I just know how he felt about the charts he showed me. He wanted to cast my horoscope, but I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t like the idea of having hints concerning my future. Imagine if my horoscope had informed me of this?” Dr Finnigan lifted his almost useless hand and shook his head. “Some things are best not known. Why is this all being worried about now, anyway?”

  “Professor Lynch left some very peculiar instructions about the box only being opened in the presence of the king and several bishops. There are those at the Institute who want to follow his wishes, and those who think doing so will irreversibly damage the academic reputation of the Institute,” Tommy elaborated. “Among those who want the box dismissed, the hope is that it might be proved Professor Lynch was mad in his final days, and thus the box was a product of his madness.”

  “Well, I can assure them that was not the case,” Dr Finnigan said stoutly. “I don’t know what purpose Professor Lynch was serving with that box, but he created it while in full control of his faculties, and I would say as much to anyone who needs to know. Twenty years have not dimmed my memory. I can picture him on his final day. I saw him just a couple of hours before he passed. He wanted to discuss his telescope. He said the calibration was off and someone needed to check it. That was the concern on his mind. He said he had had trouble getting it to focus on the moon the previous night, let alone on more distant stars. I said nothing, but I believe his eyesight was failing him in those last hours. It was his body shutting down.”

  Dr Finnigan suddenly sat upright in his chair and shook his fist at Tommy in a fierce fashion.

  “But he was not mad! How dare they insinuate that!”

  “They are afraid, if people learn that Professor Lynch dabbled in astrology, it will destroy his academic reputation,” Tommy replied, trying to be careful with what he said and not make the doctor angrier.

  “Bah!” Dr Finnigan growled, his voice rising. “They don’t care a jot for his reputation! It’s all about them! It always has been!”

  Tommy didn’t know what to say to calm the aging doctor, who was now clearly upset. Luckily, at that precise moment, Mrs Finnigan arrived with the tea tray.

  “What are you two talking about? You look grimmer than a tiger in the zoo!” She put the tea tray down with a firm clunk. “Whatever it is, I want you to talk no more over it. Have some tea and cheer up.”

  Tommy decided she was right. Talking further on the subject of Professor Lynch’s sanity was not going to change Dr Finnigan’s mind, nor his opinion. He gave an apologetic smile to the old doctor, who just glowered, but then he took a cup of tea and starting talking about the weather.

  They were able to finish the conversation on mundane topics and everyone relaxed. Tommy left with a better understanding of Professor Lynch’s last days. Somehow, he didn’t think that was going to cheer Clara, however.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Colonel Brandt was always happy to help Clara. He had served in the army and retired before the Great War. He had always felt a slight pang of regret that he had been deemed too old to play his part in that conflict. Brandt was a bachelor, who had dedicated his life to serving his country and now felt rather lost and forgotten. His friendship with Clara broke up his otherwise unchanging routine of going from his house to his club and back again.

  Clara found him at home that day, as he was suffering from an episode of gout that was making him feel most morose. He brightened when she appeared and joined him in his sitting room, which overlooked the garden and was warm with the autumn sunshine.

  “The year is on the turn again,” Brandt remarked as he pointed out a chair for Clara to take. “I always feel rather down at this time of year, like so much is concluding.”

  “Yet, there is a whole new season about to begin,” Clara reminded him. “And while some things stop, other things come into action. The leaves fall, but the bushes burst into berry, and while the swallows leave, so other birds arrive. It is not things ending, it is things changing.”

  “You are always so bright about these things,” Colonel Brandt smiled at her. “I think too hard, I fear, and this damn leg is making me sour.”

  “Your housekeeper told me about the gout,” Clara said. “You should have sent word, I would have come over sooner.”

  “Don’t be silly, you have a life to lead and I am perfectly all right here. I am looked after,” Brandt sighed. “It was my own fault, anyway. My doctor warned me that strawberries would trigger it off, he said he had seen it before. Gout isn’t always caused by cheese and port, as we all used to think. No, it can be caused by fruit and vegetables too. And I am such a glutton for strawberries.”

  Colonel Brandt hefted his shoulders, as if to say – what can you do?

  “No more of Annie’s famous strawberry jam?” Clara teased.

  “Don’t you dare!” Brandt pointed a finger at her. “That’s a court martial offence, madam!”

  Clara laughed at his mock fierce look.

  “Probably strawberry jam doesn’t count anyway,” she said.

  “I should cocoa!” Brandt chuckled. “Now, did you come over to depress me about my jam privileges or are you on a case?”

  “You know me too well,” Clara’s eyes twinkled. “Though, I do try to come to see you as a friend, and not just on business.”

  “But it is the middle of a weekday morning,” Brandt pointed out. “That constitutes working hours for you.”

  “Fair point,” Clara observed. “I was hoping you could give me some military advice, you have the contacts, after all.”

  “Ah, and in what capacity would you need it?”

  “Ever heard of an Indian hunting knife made in 1855 for British Army officers who helped quell a rebellion in the country that year? It was a ceremonial thing, rather than practical.”

  “I have heard of it,” Brandt nodded. “Actually, I knew a fellow who had earned one. He was one of the youngest officers to receive a blade and he was just reaching retirement as I was entering the service. He was a colonel by then and he was a real old hard-nails who we all tried to avoid. He used to keep the knife on a stand on his desk. If you got called into his office for some misdemeanour, he would grab it up and point it at you. Vicious blade on that thing. I guess he is long dead now.”

  “Such a knife has been used to commit a crime in Brighton, and I am hoping to track down who it belongs to.”

  Colonel Brandt frowned.

  “How odd! They were the sort of item people treasured. Not many were made, and they marked out those men who stood up to the rebellion,” Brandt’s eyes drifted to the garden outside his window. “There were many ups and downs in India in those days, still a few now with all these rumblings of the country wanting its independence. I’m not saying there wasn’t bad business on our side, I’ve seen some things in my time that made me ashamed to be British, but that does not give a fellow the right to go after British women and children who have done him no harm.

  “The 1855 uprising was a small one, in comparison to others, that took place in one province where a number of British families had settled, mainly army families. I heard it was a bloody affair and some real savagery took place. Women raped and children butchered. It was nasty, and the retaliation was even nastier. That’s why the officers were given those knives, because the government was grateful they had stopped the situation spreading. Could have been really awf
ul if it had. It was awful enough as it was. That sort of thing you have to be a tough fellow to survive and live with the consequences.”

  “Considering the time that has passed since that event, the person who used this knife is mostly likely a grandson of the officer who received it. Unless, of course, it somehow found its way into a pawnshop and was bought by a random individual,” Clara said.

  “Anything is possible,” Colonel Brandt agreed. “But those blades are worth a lot today. A clever pawnbroker would likely realise the value of such a rare item. I doubt they would let it go cheaply to a street thug, not unless they were utterly stupid.”

  “As you say, anything is possible,” Clara said, suddenly beginning to doubt her lead. “I am curious if any of the officers who participated in breaking the 1855 uprising settled in Brighton when they retired, or had family here. Might you be able to find out?”

  Brandt nodded.

  “I certainly could try, I do have contacts in various regimental societies who could help me. What was the nature of the crime, dare I ask?”

  “A woman was stabbed,” Clara said. “She died, and another man was stabbed in the back. Unfortunately, he cannot remember what happened. However, the knife was most certainly not his and it would be a very odd thing for a woman to be carrying.”

  “Odd for anyone to carry unless they meant to use it,” Brandt added. “It is not a knife that is easy to conceal or which you would use like a pocketknife. I shall investigate and see what I can find out.”

  “That would be much appreciated. Now, I assume you are coming to Sunday dinner this week? All being well with the leg?”

  “It will be well!” Colonel Brandt said stoutly. “Nothing shall keep me from Annie’s best roast beef!”

  ~~~*~~~

  After leaving Colonel Brandt, Clara made her way back to the scene of the crime. Once again, she noticed the unsettling emptiness of the alleyways in the area, it was as if people were afraid to use them. But why? Clara came to the spot where the woman had died and stared at the dark brown stains on the ground and wall where her body had slumped. She pursed her lips and frowned.

  “Hey! Who are you?”

  The stern voice came from her left and Clara glanced up. The man approaching her was in his early twenties, wearing a green-brown jacket and a bowler hat. He had the worst teeth Clara had seen in a mouth for some time and he was looking aggressive as he approached her. Rather than being concerned, Clara was delighted that at last someone was interested in talking to her, even if it was to threaten her.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, the time having just ticked past noon. She did not give her name. “Are you aware a woman died here?”

  “What of it?” The man barked at her. “You are not supposed to be here!”

  Clara frowned at him.

  “How do you mean? This is a public right of way.”

  “You are not meant to be here, no one is!” The man loomed over Clara, trying to threaten her with his bulk.

  Clara was far from deterred.

  “Look here, I am from the council. We were informed that an incident occurred in one of our public rights of way. We manage these alleys as we do the roads, and it is our responsibility to ensure they are not obstructed or unavailable for public use,” Clara said quickly. “Now I want to know who has told you this area is not open to the public, because it was certainly not the council. I have been sent here to see that the alley is still fully accessible. Who is spreading these lies that this alley is not for public use?”

  “Listen lady, I don’t care who sent you, you don’t move on at once I’ll be slamming my fist into your face,” the man leaned further over her; he was a lot bigger than Clara.

  Clara narrowed her eyes, she was scared, no doubt about that, but she was also stubborn.

  “Then I shall be forced to instruct the council to close this alley and the ones surrounding it as they are a public health hazard. They will place barriers across the ends and then have the whole neighbourhood thoroughly inspected, and I have a feeling that would upset whoever you are working for a great deal,” Clara lifted her chin and sized up the thug. She was certain he was just a messenger boy. “How much would it mess up your business if you couldn’t use these alleys, huh?”

  “I’ll beat you black and blue!” The thug persisted, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes and Clara was going to jump on that. He wasn’t very bright, after all, and she could see he was worried he might be making matters worse.

  “Not just a public health hazard,” Clara continued. “I shall inform my superiors that the area is prone to flooding and needs to be dug up at once and new drainage installed. Such work could take, oh, I don’t know, months, and there is a backlog on tasks, so it could be a good year before anything begins. In the meantime, measures will be taken to prevent anyone using this alley and permanently sealing it.”

  The thug rocked back as he started to process this information.

  “I could kill you!” He snapped as one last volley.

  “And how would that help?” Clara asked him sarcastically.

  The thug didn’t seem used to being confronted and he had run out of arguments. He still loomed over Clara and had his hands balled into fists, but he wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I see,” Clara said. “I think you ought to tell whoever it is who employs you that people are taking note. Murdering that woman was a very bad idea if you wanted to keep a low profile.”

  “They caught the murderer,” the thug snarled.

  “The police know he could not have done it,” Clara laughed. “Only a simpleton would imagine he was responsible.”

  “There were no witnesses,” the thug growled, caught up in Clara’s game now. He had not even realised he had just admitted that he knew a good deal more about the murder than an innocent person should. “No one saw anything.”

  “You don’t need witnesses to unravel a crime,” Clara told him calmly. “Anyway, that is the police’s business, I am just here to make a report for the council.”

  Clara produced a notebook from her handbag and made a pretence of writing something down.

  “Does no one ever use this alley?” She looked about her as if she had just noticed how quiet everything was. “Hmm, if that is the case, the council may consider acquiring the space for some other purpose. This is a very wide alley, after all, big enough for a cart to go down. We could use that space to significantly extend the household yards.”

  “What are you saying? You’ll take away the alley?” The thug was looking worried, which told Clara all she needed.

  “Honestly, it is too big. If it was being used more productively we could overlook that issue, but as it is so clearly ignored by the residents I think the wasted space could be repurposed. In fact, we could dispose of this alley altogether and interlink the gardens for the purposes of getting dustbins out. That would also resolve the public right of way issue you were complaining about.”

  The thug’s eyes widened.

  “What complaint?” He asked in alarm.

  “The one you just made about people wandering through this alley, I assume you are concerned about crime? In recent years there has been a suggestion that these alleyways encourage illegal activities and the council is considering removing the majority of them. Your complaint further indicates this is a significant issue,” Clara continued to pretend to make notes.

  “I made no complaint!” The thug shouted.

  “Do not worry, it will be taken in complete confidence. You inform your boss we are listening to the concerns of our residents.”

  “Look here, don’t go telling the council anything!” The thug grabbed Clara’s arm and his fingers dug in.

  “I think you better let me go,” Clara told him coldly and with the voice she used to use on difficult patients in the hospital. Tommy described it as her schoolteacher voice. “I think you better let me go right now, don’t you?”

  There was something in that tone, it suggeste
d an awful lot of nastiness could follow if things did not go Clara’s way. It usually reached deep down into a fellow and found his inner schoolboy.

  The thug slowly released her.

  “I have seen enough,” Clara told him, her tone stern. “And trust me, you have provided me with all I need to know. Good day!”

  She stormed off, her legs feeling a little shaky as she departed the alley. She didn’t look back. She didn’t dare.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clara went straight to the police station and found Inspector Park-Coombs. Her initial bravado was wearing off and she was now feeling very shaken and a little unwell. It was only once she was safely out of harm’s way that it had occurred to her how much trouble she could have been in had the thug not reacted to her words and her aura of authority. He could have killed her, he certainly could have harmed her a good deal, and there was not much she could have done about it. Clara was not someone to be cowed easily, but she was disturbed that she had narrowly avoided a great deal of trouble.

  She asked the desk sergeant for the inspector. A few months ago that would have been an ordeal in itself, but the old desk sergeant had been replaced by a younger constable. It had first been temporary, but the removal had so dented the former desk sergeant’s ego that he had decided to leave the force rather than face the barbs of his colleagues over his behaviour – he had managed to offend a very senior police officer and nearly landed them all in a lot of hot water.