by Evelyn James
The first thing that greeted her was the unhappy face of the club butler. He was a man who had mastered a condescending sneer which never left his face and deepened into a look of outrage at the sight of Clara. They had first met two years ago when Clara was working a case. He had never liked her, for the simple fact she was a woman who had walked into his club and obviously did not respect the way things were meant to be. His glare had never bothered Clara, she actually found it somewhat amusing.
“Colonel Brandt asked me to come,” she informed the butler, feeling pleased that she had been invited by a club member. That burst the butler’s indignant bubble.
He took the note she held out to him and glowered at it.
“Wait here,” he said, looking less and less pleased by the minute.
He headed through a door, with a backward glance to make sure Clara was behaving herself and doing as she was told. Clara felt close to laughing; the butler’s unnecessary sullenness always had that effect on her.
A short while later, Colonel Brandt appeared through a different door.
“Ah, Carlton found me and told me you had arrived,” he said. “I asked him to fetch Malory, shall we head into the visitors’ lounge?”
“Carlton’s manner has not mellowed with time, I see,” Clara remarked as she followed Brandt.
“Oh, he is an institution in himself, some of the fellows would be lost if he actually spoke to them nicely. He makes the place for them. I suspect it is a childhood hang-up, something to do with going to boarding school,” the colonel chuckled. “I don’t have that problem as I was educated in a local school at the insistence of my mother who refused to be parted from me. I seem to do well enough despite the disadvantage.”
Brandt winked as he said the last word and Clara knew he saw no disadvantage at all from his education, though no doubt there were many of his contemporaries who would see it as a misfortune.
They arrived in the lounge which was empty for the moment. Well-appointed with deep, leather sofas, the sort you could comfortably fall asleep in for days, and with a nicely stoked fire burning heartily in the grate, Clara could not fathom why this room was so neglected. She gladly sat in one of the sofas, the arms so high they eclipsed her head and would keep at bay the most penetrating of icy draughts from the door. Brandt sat beside her and asked if she would like something to drink.
“Oh, and look at the time, I must have called you away from your lunch. Will you accept some of the club sandwiches as a poor substitute for the delicacies Annie prepares?” Colonel Brandt was enamoured with Annie’s cooking and refused to even contemplate the possibility that someone else might be capable of a similar level of culinary skill.
“That would be lovely,” Clara accepted gladly, her stomach rumbling at just the right moment, as if it was also offering its approval.
Brandt stood and went to ring the bell, but just at that moment the butler, Carlton, opened the door and showed in another man.
“Carlton, just the man! Have cook whip up a luncheon platter for us, will you? But none of that chutney he served the other day, not sure where he got it, but it tasted like… well, not something you should eat,” Brandt called out.
Carlton glared at him, but as this was his normal appearance when being requested to do something, the colonel did not take offence. The butler departed, shutting the door a little harder than was perhaps called for.
“Malory, this is Clara Fitzgerald, who I told you about,” Brandt waved at Clara.
Clara rose and took a good look at Malory. He looked to be in his fifties, maybe pushing sixty. He was a neat man of average height, wearing a smart grey suit that seemed to sit upon him perfectly. He was handsome in the way some older men could be, and his figure was still trim to pass for that of a man half his age. He had sad eyes, but there was a twinkle to them that suggested a hidden mischievousness. He carried himself with military bearing and had that sense of confidence and authority about him that some men acquire quite naturally.
He held out a hand to Clara and they shook, which instantly gained him her approval.
“Miss Fitzgerald, Colonel Brandt has sung your praises to me. I am sorry to have called you out on this horrible day, but the colonel was certain you would be able to help me with this difficult situation I find myself in.”
Clara added ‘charming’ to the list of qualities she had been mentally assigning Malory.
“I hope I can be of assistance. Is it a serious matter?”
Malory sighed and cast a quick glance at Brandt.
“You could say it is a matter of life and death, there is certainly an urgency to the affair.”
“Then we best sit and discuss it,” Clara declared, returning to her spot on the sofa. “Now, what is the nature of the case?”
“I’ve misplaced something,” Malory said, taking a seat on a sofa that stood at right angles to the one Clara sat on. “At least, I hope that is what has happened, and someone has not robbed me. No. No, I am sure I have just been careless.”
“Missing property?” Clara said to be clear, her heart had sunk a little. That was not the sort of case she was keen on.
“Missing, yes, property…” Malory pulled a face. “I bought my wife a present for Christmas. Knew it was exactly what she wanted, and I thought I had put it somewhere it would be perfectly safe. Then I go this morning to check on it and, gone, just gone.”
Malory threw out his hands to emphasise the disaster.
“Where were you keeping the gift?” Clara asked.
“In the old linen cupboard. Nobody goes there and it is right next to the hot water pipe and keeps lovely and warm.”
Clara frowned at this piece of information and Brandt intervened.
“I think you ought to explain what the present is,” he said.
“Of course, I am being foolish, I can’t think straight this morning. I bought my wife a pet,” Malory explained. “His name is Jeremiah.”
Clara wondered what sort of pet would happily stay in a linen cupboard.
“A cat? A dog?” She asked, curious that the man would leave such an animal in a confined space.
“Oh no, neither,” Malory assured her. “Jeremiah is a tortoise.”
He smiled at the look on Clara’s face.
“My wife has always wanted a tortoise and the other week I was talking to someone who happened to be looking for a new home for his great aunt’s tortoise. The lady had recently passed on and the tortoise needed a new residence. I gladly offered to take him, and I was given Jeremiah in a wooden box lined with straw and told he was hibernating, and I should put him somewhere warm.
“That is why I put him in the linen cupboard. No one would disturb him there and he would be nice and toasty. I checked on him every morning, just to make sure he was all right. This morning he was absent, and I can’t fathom where he is gone or how he escaped. He was asleep, you see.”
Malory looked morose.
“Tortoises don’t do well in cold weather and the linen cupboard is right next to the back door. I have this dread Jeremiah has ambled outside into the garden looking for something tasty to eat. The cook is always leaving the door ajar, it doesn’t close easily in winter, swells up, and if you don’t give it a good shove, well, it springs back open,” Malory slumped, looking despondent. “I have failed the little fellow. If he dies of cold, I shall never forgive myself.”
“There, there, old boy,” Brandt said kindly. “I told you, no one better to solve such a mystery as Clara.”
“You said you had wondered if someone had stolen Jeremiah?” Clara interjected. “What made you consider that?”
“I just could not see how else he got out. The box was quite deep and there was a lid, but that had been knocked to one side. And the back door being often open, it crossed my mind that someone slipped in. Of course, they would have to know he was there, unless the thief just got lucky,” Malory sighed. “Naturally, the finger of suspicion in the case of Jeremiah being stolen points to someone in
the household. I don’t like to think of a thief on my staff, it would be extremely unpleasant.”
“Have you asked your staff to search the house and grounds?” Clara asked.
“No,” Malory admitted with a sheepish look. “You see, if I did that, my wife would be curious, and she would be bound to discover what I had been up to. I don’t mind her discovering what her secret Christmas present is, but I would hate for her to learn that I had let Jeremiah wander off, possibly to his doom. She would be devastated if he was to perish. My wife adores animals and takes the death of any of her pets very hard. Even a dead bullfinch on the lawn makes her weep, and she won’t have a cat for that reason. She is a vegetarian, you know, on principle.”
Malory’s eyes shone as he spoke of his wife and Clara did not need further convincing that he loved her dearly and was deeply devoted to her.
“Will you help me?” Malory asked.
“I will,” Clara promised him. “I shall do all I can, though I have never been on a missing person case where the victim is a tortoise. I will need to investigate the habits of the animal to determine how to go about finding him.”
“I considered asking the police, you know,” Malory continued. “I said as much to Brandt, but the colonel thought they would not be interested. That is the trouble with the world. People don’t value an animal as dearly as a person, but I ask you this, Miss Fitzgerald, when did a tortoise ever start a war? When did a dog ever assassinate a king? When did a cat ever rob a bank? We value ourselves over our dumb friends, but are we right to do so?”
“You have a point,” Clara nodded. “I shall do all I can for Jeremiah. How long do you imagine he has been missing?”
Malory considered the question, his face grower bleaker and bleaker.
“I last checked on him at nine yesterday morning. He was tucked up in his box, legs and head all neatly folded in. There was no indication of him being awake. It is now midday, so theoretically, he could have been missing for more than a day.”
“Let us hope that is not the case,” Clara said, seeing the despair that was creeping over Malory. “And, after all, tortoises are not fast creatures, he surely cannot have gone far.”
This did not seem to have the comforting effect she had hoped for.
A knock on the door announced that Carlton had brought lunch; a reasonable spread, though Clara thought Annie would have disapproved of the small range of triangular sandwiches. The butler set it on a table before them, scowling the whole time. Once he was gone again, Clara looked to Malory.
“As soon as we have eaten, I shall come to your home and begin investigating. Now, tell me everything you know about tortoises.”
Chapter Three
Malory lived in a former vicarage, a rambling seventeenth century house which he fondly referred to as ‘our cottage’. Considering it had five bedrooms, a dining room, drawing room, study, garden room and extensive kitchen and pantries (along with a large, multi-roomed cellar), anything less cottage-like could not be imagined. The property had settled into itself over the years. A matronly house, that even seemed to have a smile about its eaves, as if life had been good to it, overall.
And somewhere within its white plastered walls, or possibly in the walled garden that surrounded it, a tortoise was loose.
Malory showed Clara and Colonel Brandt, (who had tagged along mainly because the mystery was a distraction from the usual tedium of his day) to the linen cupboard and the forlornly empty wooden box.
“I had almost hoped I would open the door and see him returned,” Malory nudged the box with his foot.
It was thickly lined with straw and wood shavings, an oval indentation in the middle indicated where the tortoise had formerly been. The wooden lid of the box was knocked to one side and had slipped behind, lying at an angle against the back of the cupboard. Clara crouched down, though she was not sure what she hoped to find – footprints? Droppings? How did one track a tortoise?
“And that’s the awkward door, I suppose?” Colonel Brandt pointed to a door at the end of the passageway.
It was an old-fashioned, bare wood door with great black metal hinges and a sizeable latch. Over the years it had swelled and shrunk in its aperture and clearly caused the household a nuisance, either getting stuck or refusing to close. Several inches had been shaved off the bottom, yet still the door seemed to swell beyond the size of its frame during the winter, while in the summer a gap would appear beneath as the wood contracted, allowing snails and slugs to wander in.
“I should have it replaced,” Malory said, yanking hard on the door as it stubbornly refused to budge.
With a groan it suddenly gave and rattled open from the force, as if marking its protest at such ill treatment.
“It’s original to the cottage, that’s the bother. Seems wrong to change it after all this time and there is not a spot of rot in it.”
The door opened onto a small step and then into the back area of the garden. Clara noted several bushy shrubs which might provide an attractive hiding place for a tortoise.
“Was the door open when you found Jeremiah missing?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” Malory sighed. “You see, if you don’t push it firmly enough in place, it pops open after a while.”
Malory demonstrated this by pushing the door closed without dropping the latch. The door sounded as if it had slipped snugly into the frame, but after a few moments it popped out and swung inwards.
“The latch is tricky, you really have to wedge it into the little slot,” Malory continued. “And I think cook doesn’t like doing that, as then it is very hard to lift again, and her fingers get stiff these days. I suspect she pushes it to and hopes for the best, rather than fight the latch.”
“In short, your back door is a day-long invitation for anything to come in or go out,” Brandt nodded in understanding.
“You could say so,” Malory agreed. “Though, with the kitchen just beyond that doorway, I have never been concerned about anyone coming into the house to steal anything. Until now, that is. I can’t help wondering if someone took a chance, snuck in, opened the cupboard, found Jeremiah and disappeared with him. It would make better sense than a sound asleep tortoise waking up, opening its box, climbing out and disappearing.”
Malory looked miserable as he cast his eyes along the floor and out the door, as if imagining the progress of Jeremiah across the floorboards and into the garden.
“Well, we ought to start with the most logical solution first,” Clara said to cheer him up. “Let’s conduct a thorough search of the garden and assure ourselves that Jeremiah is not just tucked up under a rose bush.”
They stepped out into the cold garden. The back of the house was north facing, and the sun barely peeped into it at this time of year. It was hard to see how a warmth-loving tortoise might be tempted to come out into this dark patch of damp earth. They made a good effort, however, to track down Jeremiah, examining every bush, probing every corner, even lifting up plant pots for good measure. Having explored every hidey-hole they could find, they were all satisfied that Jeremiah was not in the back garden.
A solid brick wall with an inset gate split the back garden from the front, and also blocked off the view of a yard at the east side of the house which contained all the practical stuff that is required when living in the country. There was access to a cesspit, a large water tank and the coal store. After checking the two gates that led from the back garden to either the yard or the front garden, Clara was convinced Jeremiah could not have crawled under them.
They searched the yard, all the same, as the daily maid had to go in there every day to collect coal. It was possible she had left the gate open while loading her bucket and the tortoise had scampered in. The yard had quite a few interesting nooks and crannies, that required Malory to find a torch to examine them thoroughly, but there was still no sign of Jeremiah.
Now cold and damp, fingers frozen and feet like ice blocks in their shoes, the trio retreated indoors to the kitchen
where cook was in the process of making a suet pudding for dinner.
The woman glanced up at the threesome, curious. She was a stocky woman with big hands that were reddened and swollen from years of kneading, stirring and chopping.
“This is Gladys Webb,” Malory introduced them. “She has been our cook for, what would it be Gladys? Ten years?”
“Eleven and a half,” Gladys promptly replied.
“Eleven and a half,” Malory repeated. “And a fine cook she truly is. This, Gladys, is a friend from the Club, Colonel Brandt.”
“Madam,” Brandt gave the cook a polite bow, which startled the cook as she was not used to being treated so cordially.
“And this is Miss Clara Fitzgerald, she is a private detective.”
“I have heard of you,” Gladys said to Clara. “But why are you here? Has something happened?”
“Something has gone missing,” Malory said. “But in no way am I considering you culpable, dear lady.”
He spoke hastily as Gladys’ eyes widened. The worst fear of any household servant was to hear that ‘something had gone missing’. How many servants had seen years of hard work and loyalty lost overnight to the suspicion that they had stolen something?
“Have you been to the old linen cupboard recently, Gladys?” Malory continued, pointing out the door.
Gladys stared past him, seeming to think this a bizarre question.
“Why would I go in the old linen cupboard?” She asked. “There is nothing in there I would want. I keep all the tablecloths in the press in the dairy, along with the napkins.”
“Yes, of course,” Malory nodded. “You see, there was a…”
He hesitated, Clara wanted to nudge him to spit out the truth, after all, it was far too late to be worrying about the secret Christmas present being revealed to his wife. It was more important that Jeremiah be found before he froze to death.
“There was a tortoise,” Colonel Brandt solved the problem. “In a box, in the cupboard. Its name is Jeremiah and it has taken itself for a walk, by the looks.”