by Evelyn James
The desk sergeant noticed Clara’s demeanour was not her usual confident self.
“Are you all right Miss Fitzgerald?”
“Just had a bit of a scare, that’s all,” Clara said. “I would like to discuss it with the Inspector, it’s very important.”
The desk sergeant used the telephone behind him to let the inspector know she was there. The police station had both an internal telephone system and an external one for use by the general public to summon them. Not that most people had access to a phone, unless it was in a public place, but it was useful for the areas further away from the town where a constable was not readily to be found at the drop of a hat.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” the desk sergeant told Clara after he had passed on her message. “Why don’t you come sit in the back office, rather than out here.”
Clara was grateful for his sympathy and to be allowed to move from the waiting area of the police station into the larger, open room at the back, where the various ranks of police had desks and tables to use for writing up the endless reports they always seemed to be doing. There was also a large rank of wooden filing cabinets.
“Hello Clara,” Brighton’s sole female police officer, Sarah Butler, greeted Clara warmly. “You look pale.”
“It’s been a difficult day,” Clara sighed.
The desk sergeant made sure Clara had a chair and then went to make the tea. Sarah drifted over.
“Someone upset you?” She asked in her gentle Scottish patter.
“I was in the alley where that woman was murdered and I was accosted by a man,” Clara explained. “He was very threatening and clearly did not want me to be there.”
“Did he hurt you?”
Clara touched at her arm where the thug had gripped her.
“Not really. I was scared more than anything.”
“This is a bad business,” Sarah said with a worried look on her face. “The Inspector has me going through the files concerning that neighbourhood, it is noticeable that in the last couple of years the reports of incidents in the area have tailed off. At first that might seem a good thing, but in their place, we have reports of disappearances.”
“Disappearances?”
“It took me a while to see the pattern,” Sarah explained. “But nearly every one of the former troublemakers from that area have vanished at some point. They have been reported missing by family members and never shown up. It is like someone got rid of them.”
“That is very odd,” Clara agreed. “Either we have a remarkable vigilante on our hands, or someone is up to something and they don’t want the police accidentally stumbling across it because of a lowlife drunk or drug addict causing trouble. They get rid of them, clear the scene. For what?”
“It all adds up to something very strange,” Sarah agreed. “I’m still going through the reports, and I am going to send out a notice to other police stations to see if any of these people have appeared in their territory. I think someone may have scared them away.”
“They must be damn scary,” Clara observed.
Sarah raised her eyebrows.
“You tell me, Clara.”
At that moment, Inspector Park-Coombs appeared in the room. He saw Clara sitting down and a frown formed on his face.
“Has something happened?”
“Nothing I won’t recover from,” Clara promised him. “I have had a rather unpleasant encounter with a thug who attempted to threaten me. I was in the alley where Peterson and that woman were stabbed.”
“The murder alley,” Park-Coombs understood. “Why was this fellow threatening you?”
“He didn’t want me there. I was only looking around, trying to get a better feel for the place. I had barely been there a moment before he came up to me and demanded I leave, and then made threats of violence when I refused.”
“You should have just left Clara,” Park-Coombs told her, his frown deepening.
“No one tells me what to do, Inspector,” Clara said stoutly.
“Would you recognise this man if you saw him again?” The Inspector asked.
“Absolutely!” Clara declared. “I would have no difficulty picking him out.”
Park-Coombs turned to Sarah.
“Can you get the photograph album of known Brighton criminals? We’ll have Clara take a look through it.”
The desk sergeant arrived back just then with a cup of tea for Clara. He nodded in passing to the inspector and returned to his post.
“I don’t like hearing you have had trouble,” Park-Coombs leaned back on a nearby desk.
“It is part of the job,” Clara shrugged. “Had I thought I would be so accosted, I would not have gone to the alley alone.”
“Yes, you would have,” Park-Coombs smiled at her. “Clara Fitzgerald does not back down from bullies, and she does not like feeling beholden to a man for protection.”
“She does not like feeling scared, either,” Clara remarked. “But that is beside the point now. There is definitely something occurring in that alley, something that great efforts are being taken to protect and keep secret. I believe those alleys are being used as trackways for some purpose, and that is why people are not being allowed in them. They have to be kept clear to avoid disrupting whatever business these people are about and to prevent people witnessing it. Any thoughts on what that might be?”
“A few,” Park-Coombs said. “Drugs naturally springs to mind, but that would not require the alleyways to be kept empty.”
“I would like to know who the murdered woman was and why she died. I think that could be the key, along with discovering where the knife came from,” Clara mused. “I was intending to visit Brighton’s tattoo parlours to see if anyone recalled doing that tattoo on the woman’s leg. It looked a professional job, not something done roughly at home.”
“There was a certain artistry to it,” Park-Coombs rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not keen on tattoos, but I’ve seen enough in my time to say that one was created by someone with a flair for it. But it could have been done years ago.”
“Maybe,” Clara shrugged. “What else do we have to go on?”
“I’m going to have my lot canvas among the local prostitutes, see if anyone is missing. The girls aren’t keen on the police, but they are even less fond of one of their number being murdered. Any time a good-time girl gets stabbed, their friends start worrying about Jack the Ripper being in town,” Park-Coombs explained. “We’ll try all we can to identify her.”
“What about putting a photograph, or maybe a drawing of her in the paper?” Clara suggested. “Someone might recognise her.”
“Not a bad idea,” Park-Coombs smiled. “I’ll see what our resident sketch artist can come up with, PC Hobbs has a talent for drawing we exploit heavily.”
Sarah returned with the photo album and handed it to Clara.
“Sir,” she said to the inspector, “considering the seriousness of what happened today, might it be advisable for Clara to continue her investigations with the presence of a police constable at her side?”
Clara flicked her eyes up from the album, unsure about all this.
“A joint operation between ourselves and Clara?” Park-Coombs mulled over the idea. “That is not a bad thought. Clara, what do you say? We have a mutual goal in mind and clearly there is a lot of danger surrounding this matter. I would prefer if you had an official presence with you when you start investigating deeper.”
“I usually find that people who won’t speak to the police, will speak to me,” Clara said carefully. “I’m not sure a police constable constantly with me will make my job easier.”
“It will make you safer, however,” Park-Coombs pointed out. “And these people who are running this affair are not the sort to talk to anyone, whether they are civilian or police.”
Clara was still hesitant. She cooperated with the police, as it suited them both to share information and to be on the same side, but she liked her independence.
“I have
Tommy and O’Harris,” Clara pointed out.
“O’Harris is too biased in this matter, I don’t want him involved in any investigation,” Park-Coombs swiftly said. “It’s in his own best interest if he does not interfere. There is still a fair chance Peterson will end up being tried for this crime and if a prosecution counsel learned that evidence collected for the case was done so with the involvement of Captain O’Harris, who naturally has a vested interest in seeing Peterson acquitted, then we shall have a lot of problems. It could destroy any defence case you put together.”
Clara could understand that. She wasn’t sure O’Harris would, but she did see that keeping him at arms’ length from the investigation was in everyone’s best interest.
“I still have Tommy,” Clara insisted.
“And you will need him to be working independently on this case if you want to find all the information you can,” Park-Coombs reminded her. “No, you need someone whose sole purpose is to watch your back.”
Clara wasn’t convinced, but she could also see she was not going to get away with refusing the inspector’s suggestion.
“I would like to volunteer,” Sarah spoke up. “I recently completely the woman police constable’s self-defence course with flying colours.”
“I believe the exact words of your instructor were ‘heaven help the criminal who gets in the way of PC Butler’s truncheon,’” Park-Coombs said. “But in this regard that is probably a fine thing. Will you accept PC Butler as your assistant in this matter, Clara?”
Clara knew she had no choice.
“Do I get to use a truncheon while I am working with PC Butler?” She asked.
“No,” Park-Coombs told her firmly.
“Pity, well then, I guess you best be my temporary assistant Sarah, seeing as I shall need someone to batter the odd thug or two,” Clara replied.
“I shall be delighted to work with you,” Sarah beamed. “And any of them wee blighters threatens you again, I shall give them a Glasgow kiss to remember me by.”
“That was not on the self-defence course,” Park-Coombs said hastily.
“Aye, but I grew up in a fishing village where you learned to fight with boys sooner than you learned your letters,” Sarah grinned. “Clara won’t come to any harm while I am around.”
Clara was amused, she also felt a bit better knowing she would have someone keeping an eye on her. She had been flicking casually through the photo album, glancing at the criminals inside. Most were simply not brawny enough to be the thug who threatened her, though she did make the effort to look at all their faces. She suddenly came to a photograph and paused, tapping her finger on the edge of the picture. Inspector Park-Coombs noticed.
“Is that the man who attacked you?” He asked.
“No,” Clara peered at the picture harder. “This is the man who introduced himself as Robert and who helped Private Peterson. At least I think it is. He looks a lot younger here.”
Park-Coombs took the album off her and removed the photograph she had identified from the paper tabs holding it in place. He turned it over.
“This picture was taken in 1911,” he said. “If it is the same man, he will be a decade older. Fellow’s name is Robert Hartley and this is interesting.”
“What is?” Clara asked keenly.
“The note on the back says we picked him up because he was a member of the Seashore Boys, a gang who were a real nuisance at the turn of the century, always causing mischief. They had a knack for stealing off pleasure yachts coming down for the season. They were more active in Hove than here,” Park-Coombs examined the photo again. “They would sneak aboard yachts when they were anchored off the coast and shakedown the occupants for their valuables. They were cunning, but we caught up with them eventually.
“Robert Hartley was one of their fences. Used to take the goods and sell them on in London. He got ten years in prison, which we felt was rather lenient, but he was treated as an accessory rather than one of the main players.”
“And now Robert is living in a neighbourhood where a new gang is ruling the roost, or so it would appear?” Clara pondered. “Maybe that is why he was the only one prepared to slip out and help Peterson. He may even have contacts with this new gang. What happened to the rest of the Seashore Boys?”
“The main ringleaders got thirty years apiece, the rest of the members – we picked up a dozen in total – are doing a variety of sentences, most of them ten to fifteen years, so some will be out now like Robert. Though, so far, I’ve not picked any up in connection with any criminal trouble in the town. They may be keeping their heads down, but it won’t last, it never does with these folk.”
“I think I need to talk to Robert again and see what he really knows about this mess,” Clara said. “He seems one of the few people not afraid to defy whoever is behind this mystery.”
“Robert was a tough blighter,” Park-Coombs nodded. “Never killed anyone, but hard-as-nails. If anyone is prepared to take no-nonsense from this gang, it will be him. But you have to be careful Clara, he may be working with them.”
“That’s all right Inspector,” Clara smiled. “I have Sarah to watch over me.”
Chapter Fifteen
Clara returned home, feeling she needed to take a little time to regroup before she returned to the alleyways and spoke to Robert Hartley. She found Tommy in the front parlour, which she was pleased about as she also wanted to learn what he had discovered concerning Professor Lynch.
“Did you find Dr Finnigan?” She asked him.
Tommy looked up from the newspaper he was reading.
“I did,” he smiled. “He was very helpful and talked to me for some time, but the news won’t please Professor Montgomery.”
“Dr Finnigan did not consider Professor Lynch to be suffering from senility or madness, then?”
“He said he was as sharp as a knife right to the end,” Tommy paused, an aura of sadness coming over him. “Professor Lynch suffered from a serious health complaint for much of his life. It was incurable and led to him being a virtual prisoner at the Institute. He managed, for the most part, to continue his duties and he told no one of his sickness. Ultimately, it worsened and took his life. My opinion, an opinion I think Dr Finnigan shares, is that Professor Lynch needed to find some comfort during his troubled existence, and that came through his astrology. It gave him a sense that there was more to this life, some sort of order and reason that he could not see. Cold science could not help him in the end, so he turned to the stars.”
Clara understood such a need, during her time as a volunteer nurse she had seen many people trying to seek a logic, a reason for their illness or injury. Some sought God, others talked of fate, serendipity or similar vague and distant ideas. Why should Professor Lynch be any different? Had he found the Church in his last years, none of his colleagues would have blinked an eye.
“Did Dr Finnigan know what might be in the box?” She asked.
“No,” Tommy replied. “He saw it, but he was never shown the contents. He felt it was a secret.”
Clara sat down in a chair opposite Tommy.
“Which leaves me unsure how to proceed,” she said. “How can I discover what is in that box without opening it?”
“What if you did open it?” Tommy said.
Clara frowned.
“That is the last think Professor Montgomery wants. He doesn’t want this to become public knowledge, which it would do if the Institute was to ask the King to attend such a ceremony.”
“That isn’t quite what I meant,” Tommy had a sly look in his eye. “What if you were to get hold of the box yourself and open the contents?”
A smile crept onto Clara’s face.
“Steal it you mean?”
“It would not be stealing if you had the permission of Professor Montgomery. He is the Director of the Institute and ultimately responsible for all the property within. If he gave you permission, it would not be illegal, just an insult to some of his colleagues.”
; “I like that idea,” Clara agreed. “I have visions of us prowling about the darkened corridors of the Institute with torches. How exciting.”
“Well, you always enjoy going to places you are not meant to be,” Tommy teased her.
Clara pulled a face, then laughed.
“First things first, I’ll need to see Professor Montgomery again.”
Clara glanced at the time and was thinking about whether she could reach the Institute before they closed for the day, when the doorbell rang. Tommy rose to answer it.
“O’Harris,” his voice carried through from the hallway. “You look worried.”
Clara was on her feet and heading for the front door at once. In the hallway she spied O’Harris and saw exactly what Tommy meant. His face was ashen, and he looked as though he had not slept a lot recently, worse, his expression seemed to suggest the world was coming to an end, or at least his world.
“I had to come see you both,” he said. “Private Peterson has confessed to the murder of that woman.”
“You need to come in and sit down,” Clara took his hand and led him through to the parlour. “Tommy, can you ask Annie to make some of her special ‘consolation’ tea?”
Tommy disappeared to the kitchen. Clara showed O’Harris to the sofa in the parlour and then sat beside him and clutched his hand.
“Why would he confess?” She asked him.
“I don’t know,” O’Harris looked bleak. “He refuses to talk to me.”
“This has just happened?” Clara said. “I was only at the police station a short while ago and the Inspector mentioned nothing of this.”
“He probably didn’t know. Peterson wrote out his confession and handed it to the constable who has been assigned to watch over him. The constable had it send to the Inspector, who telephoned me a few minutes ago. I drove over here as soon as I heard, I just don’t know what to do Clara,” Captain O’Harris quivered with anguish as he contemplated the end of everything he had worked for. “I keep thinking of the enormity of it all and it scares me. Peterson will either hang or spend his life in a lunatic asylum for criminals. I have failed him, I have failed his family who beseeched me to help him. With that failure, so comes the end of my convalescence home, so ends the future hopes of the men I was aiding. I have failed everyone. Who will dare set up a similar project after this? It could be years before help is once again offered to these men and many don’t have that sort of time.”