The Traitor's Bones

by Evelyn James

  The Traitor’s Bones

  A Clara Fitzgerald Mystery

  Book 14

  By

  Evelyn James

  Red Raven Publications

  2019

  © Evelyn James 2019

  First published 2019

  Red Raven Publications

  The right of Evelyn James to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the permission in writing from the author

  The Traitor’s Bones is the fourteenth book in the Clara Fitzgerald series

  Other titles in the Series:

  Memories of the Dead

  Flight of Fancy

  Murder in Mink

  Carnival of Criminals

  Mistletoe and Murder

  The Poisoned Pen

  Grave Suspicions of Murder

  The Woman Died Thrice

  Murder and Mascara

  The Green Jade Dragon

  The Monster at the Window

  Murder on the Mary Jane

  The Missing Wife

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter One

  Drizzle quietly dripped down the windows. It was a rainy early summer’s day, the sort farmers crave and everyone else grumbles about. People were coming into the Brighton Pavilion shaking rain off their hats and coats, muttering that they had not brought umbrellas to protect themselves against the unexpected downpour.

  Clara Fitzgerald, Brighton’s first female private detective, was already inside and had avoided the showers. As a member of the Brighton Pavilion Committee, (the volunteer organisation that had valiantly fought to save the eccentric building from destruction) she had been there since the break of dawn making sure everything was in order for their latest open day fundraiser.

  Clara discreetly yawned. She had spent too many sleepless nights over this whole affair. Certain sections of the pavilion were regularly opened to the public, these included the exhibition gallery and some of the more interesting rooms. But the majority of the apartments were reserved for private use only. The large banqueting room, for instance, with its many nice paintings, was only for private hire and they charged a sum in keeping with its grandeur. Other areas of the Pavilion were considered too fragile or valuable to be constantly open to the general public. Some had exquisite, but easily damaged, furniture or wallpaper that was rapidly fading and needed to be kept in near permanent darkness. Some people complained over this, which Clara thought was childish. They were preserving something for the future, for a time, hopefully, when it would be easier to keep such delicate things in pristine condition.

  Not everyone saw things this way and ultimately a compromise was needed – one that would also supply the committee with much needed funds to maintain the pavilion. For, as Clara well knew, the building’s structure was in serious need of attention. For every leak they found and fixed, another would spring up. For every rotten window frame they repaired, a floorboard would spring or a lump of plaster would fall from the walls. Some of the jobs required experts in preservation who knew how to charge for their skills. Clara had to wonder how many of the people who filed into the building were aware of the ongoing battle the committee was facing, or the fact that some of them (Clara included) distinctly felt they were losing.

  The people who were now arriving through the main doors had paid for tickets to go on a guided tour around the usually inaccessible rooms. The tickets were not cheap, but did include refreshments and dinner in the banqueting room. Clara had chipped in with the rest of the committee to make sure all the rooms were fit for visitors. There had been mild panic when it was discovered that the Chinese room had developed a severe case of damp seemingly overnight, which had required a rearrangement of some furniture to mask it. And only that morning Clara had stepped into the crimson room to discover another plaster fall had occurred, this time from the ceiling right onto the bed. She had personally fetched a brush and pan to deal with the miniature disaster.

  She was still anxious that something unexpected might happen and interfere with the day ahead. The last thing the committee wanted was anyone to see how poorly preserved the fabric of certain parts of the pavilion was. The committee had promised to keep the pavilion in perfect condition, preserving and saving it for future generations. A noble promise, if you had the cash. They didn’t, and everyone was worried that their guests would notice and criticise their efforts. The last thing the committee needed was someone thinking they were not doing their job. They tried their hardest, they really did. They just did not have the money to keep up with all the repairs the pavilion required.

  Sometimes Clara wondered if their desperate efforts were worth it all. Today was one of those days. She was feeling tired and despondent, and not at all inclined to marvel at the pavilion’s fabulous gilt-work, ornate decoration, randomly sensual architecture and all the other things that made the crumbling building too unique and too special to lose.

  “Are you Miss Fitzgerald?”

  Clara glanced to her right and saw a woman stood there. She was a decade or so older than Clara and wore nothing but black. Clara guessed she had recently been widowed. She was short, a little stout, but not in an unattractive way, and had dense curly brown hair. Clara smiled at her.

  “I am.”

  “I hoped you were,” the woman fiddled with her handbag. “I hoped to find you here. Not that I bought my ticket for that reason.”

  The woman looked suddenly appalled that it might be imagined she had bought her ticket for reasons other than to support the pavilion. Clara was really not fussed why she bought the ticket, as long as it was another one sold.

  “You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” she said.

  The woman relaxed a little, but her hands still gripped tightly to the handles of her handbag, as if she was clinging on for dear life.

  “I almost did not approach you,” the woman continued. “I bought the ticket to see the private rooms, I really did. It was only afterwards that I remembered you were a member of the committee here and I hoped I might bump into you.”

  “You could have come to my office,” Clara said lightly. “I am always open to enquiries.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” the woman shook her head. “Someone would see and then they would talk about it.”

  She bit at her lip anxiously.

  “No, I had already discounted that possibility and then this opportunity arose and I thought I might just happen to bump into you and it would seem
all so natural,” the woman glanced about her. “No one must know what I am up to. They will say such horrid things.”

  Clara was not sure what the woman was talking about, no one else seemed bothered, or even aware that they were talking. But the woman’s agitation was catching and she was starting to feel that this was important.

  “Why don’t we get a cup of tea?” Clara suggested.

  A long table had been laid out with teapots and cake. Clara poured two cups and then offered the woman a piece of shortbread. The woman took it without really appearing to notice what it was. She was still surveying the room as if at any moment a person would spring out and accost her.

  “Would you like to go somewhere quiet we can talk?” Clara asked.

  “Yes…” the woman blinked. “No, it would seem more obvious that way. Why don’t we go over to that wall of pictures and pretend we are talking about them?”

  The woman pointed to a selection of nautical themed paintings, including a portrait of Nelson, which hung on the long wall of the reception room. Clara was amenable to the idea. They stood before the paintings and the woman gave a long sigh.

  “You may think I am crazy,” she said softly.

  “I would never presume,” Clara reassured her. “I get the impression that whatever the problem you are enduring is, others have been less than sympathetic?”

  “You could say that,” the woman nodded. “My name is Emily Priggins, by the way.”

  Emily spoke with her eyes fixed on the paintings.

  “And what has happened that brings you to me?” Clara asked.

  Emily seemed to freeze a little bit, as if whatever she wanted to say was almost impossible to spit out. She blinked back tears and then took a trembling breath.

  “I want to know what happened to my brother,” she said at last, still keeping her attention fixed on Lord Nelson’s portrait. “He disappeared in the war.”

  Clara felt her heart sink a little. She had pursued a number of such cases and, as the years rolled on, so the likelihood of her searches being successful became less and less. To find someone alive after they had been absent all this time was unlikely. If they were still alive, then they had to have strong reasons for not wanting to be found. Her lack of a response prompted Emily to speak up.

  “I know he is probably dead,” she said hastily. “But I need to know for certain. Also, I need you to find out the truth about his actions in Belgium.”

  Clara was curious.

  “What do you mean?”

  Emily was really struggling with her tears now.

  “It is hard to speak aloud, though so many have said it to me in the past. I don’t like the words coming from my own lips. My brother has been accused of being a traitor to his king and his country. He has been accused of working with the Germans against his own people. I cannot believe such lies, but many feel his disappearance during the war confirms his guilt,” Emily paused, too choked for a moment to carry on. “He was a good man, Miss Fitzgerald. He would not have betrayed us. Yet, nearly all my friends and family are convinced that is exactly what he did. Even our parents…”

  Emily hastily found a tissue in her bag and dabbed at her eyes.

  “The army would have conducted an official investigation into these accusations,” Clara said carefully.

  “He was not in the army,” Emily shook her head. “My brother was a Catholic priest. He went to Belgium to bring some sort of hope to the unfortunates there and to strengthen the brave souls fighting for freedom. This is why I know he did not betray us. It was not who he was.”

  Clara frowned, finding it hard to know how to reply. She had seen many things and knew that no one was perfect or free from vice. The devotion of a loved one was no real confirmation that that person was innocent of their crimes. Love was blind, as they said, especially the love of a loyal family. Though clearly Emily’s parents thought differently. The fact that they had accepted that their son was a traitor was just as damning as the accusations in the first place. Their reasons for such acceptance had to be based on a greater knowledge of their son’s character, or so you would imagine.

  “When was the last time you heard from your brother?” Clara asked Emily gently.

  “The first of October 1917,” Emily answered promptly. “That was the date of his last letter to me. We learned two days later that he was missing by telegram. The accusations began a week after that.”

  Emily rummaged in her handbag and produced a grey envelope. It had a Belgium postmark. She handed it to Clara.

  “His last letter. I have found nothing insightful in it, but maybe you will see something I do not.”

  Clara gingerly removed the extremely thin paper from the envelope. By 1917 shortages meant that paper pulp had to be stretched to the limit to make the most product from each batch. The result was tissue-like sheets, thin enough that the writing on the back could easily be read from the front. Clara could see the pink of her finger as she held the fragile paper in her fingers. The missive had been read over and over, removed and replaced in its envelope so many times that the edges were torn and damaged. It would not be long before the letter was completely unreadable.

  Clara turned her attention to the script. It was written in blue ink, the hand bold and free, the letters looping and clear to read. She scanned the message which was rather typical of the sort of letters sent home from the Front during the war.

  It started with the usual formalities – hoping everyone was well and noting that the writer, himself, was fit and hail. It then went on to discuss a few mundane things, such as the difficulty in getting any sort of bread or fruit. Next the writer mentioned an outside religious service he was hoping to hold for the local families. Without the date for context, the letter would seem quite innocuous, but Clara knew what was happening in Belgium at that period of time, how many parts had been overrun by the Germans. She could only guess what was really going on in the background.

  Clara glanced at the end of the letter.

  “Your brother’s name was Christian Lound?”

  “Yes,” Emily nodded.

  Clara folded the letter and returned it to her in its envelope.

  “I see what you mean, the letter gives no real insight and no indication that he was fearful for his life or was about to commit an act of treason.”

  “Thank you,” Emily sighed with relief. “I have felt the need so desperately for someone else to say that. I am sure my father thinks there is some code in this letter, some detail we are missing. My brother wrote nearly daily from Belgium. I have all the letters he sent to me, but I cannot say about the ones he sent my parents.”

  Emily gulped back tears.

  “It would not surprise me if my father burned them all. He was so quick to believe the worst about Christian.”

  Behind them, a voice called out that the tour was about to begin and everyone should gather. Clara felt now was the time that they should retreat to somewhere private to discuss matters further. She just had to persuade Emily.

  “I have an office here in the pavilion,” Clara said. “We could go there to talk further, I want to know all the details about your brother’s disappearance. If we remain here, it will seem more obvious that you are talking to me.”

  Emily was reluctant, that was apparent. She glanced at the other guests rapidly vanishing to gather in the main hall.

  “I can only be sure I can help you if we speak in detail,” Clara persisted. “This is not the place for that.”

  Emily dabbed at her eyes again. Clara sensed that her reluctance was waning. She had come this far and could not turn back now. If she left, Clara felt she would not return. She waited for Emily’s decision, ultimately it was up to her.

  “I am assured you are discreet, Miss Fitzgerald.”

  “Absolutely, and call me Clara,” Clara smiled.

  “Clara,” Emily seemed to test out the name. “I have wanted to speak with someone for so long, yet I have held myself back for what seems like forever
. I feel so torn.”

  “I am your opportunity to speak,” Clara said. “The real question is whether you want me to listen or not.”

  Emily turned her attention back to Lord Nelson. Slowly her face hardened into a look of determination. She squeezed the handkerchief into a ball in her hand.

  “I must speak with you,” she said at last. “I cannot abide the silence any longer.”

  Clara smiled, then she quietly guided her through a side door and to the staff rooms at the back of the pavilion.

  Chapter Two

  When Clara had said she had an office in the pavilion, what she actually meant was that the committee reserved a room near the kitchens for their administrative work, and it was used by all the members. Clara was relieved to find it empty. She had hoped it would be considering most of the committee would be concentrating on the tour, but someone might have slipped away to do some work.

  She pulled out a wooden chair for Emily and then secured one for herself. She dug among some paper on a desk and produced a clean sheet and a pen.

  “Now,” she said, “let’s go through this from the start.”

  Emily gave that familiar shaky sigh.

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Tell me about Christian,” Clara nudged.

  “Christian is my junior by four years,” Emily explained. “He was a brilliant scholar as a boy. So very bright. My father is a politician, you may be familiar with Amadeus Lound?”

  Clara paused. She knew the name. Amadeus Lound had served as the MP for Brighton close to two decades, before losing his seat at the last election. He was known for being outspoken, somewhat brusque and a complete philistine. He had been firmly set on seeing the pavilion sold off, wanting the land to be reused for luxury houses. There had been talk at the time that he was good friends with the developer interested in purchasing the site. Clara had not personally crossed swords with the man, but some of her colleagues had and considered him a wolf masquerading as a lamb. All he was interested in was feathering his own nest, pleasing his influential friends and keeping his seat in parliament. There had been genuine delight when he had lost his place to another, more community-minded politician.