by Evelyn James
“I have two further corpses in my charge from the raid,” Dr Deáth said. “Now, one is a little curious and if you were interested in him rather than Jao I could understand why.”
Clara was on alert again.
“Why is that?”
“He was shot in the back of the head. Not so curious, you might say, during a raid where bullets were firing everywhere. But his body was found in a corridor without a window and Park-Coombs assures me no one was shot once the police and army had entered the property.”
Clara found this detail interesting.
“Where exactly was he found?”
“The corridor outside the room Jao was in,” Dr Deáth said, enjoying having important information to impart. He sipped his tea. “And, you know what I was saying about the distance of a gun from the victim determining the wound pattern? Well, all the signs point to him being shot by a gun no more than an inch or so from the back of his head.”
“That sounds more like deliberate murder than the result of a shootout,” Clara pondered. “Right outside Jao’s room? One of her bodyguards, perhaps?”
“I can’t help you with that,” Dr Deáth shrugged. “But it paints an interesting picture, doesn’t it?”
“And the final victim?”
“Oh, he was shot in the neck while standing before a downstairs window. His gun was still in his hand. Park-Coombs was certain he was a casualty of the shooting. Honestly, it is remarkable more were not killed outright, though I have heard several fellows are lying in the hospital in a critical way and might be paying me a visit sooner rather than later.”
Clara thought it was extremely lucky that few had died, and that only a couple of soldiers had been severely hurt and were still fighting for their lives. Now it looked like two of the casualties of the raid were actually the victims of murder.
“Anything on the man who was shot in the head to tell us who he was?” She asked.
“I’m afraid he is a mystery. No wallet, nothing to suggest a name, no one seems to be missing him. I’ll see if I can rattle any details from him, but the dead are rather good at keeping secrets,” Deáth was amused by his statement.
“Do what you can,” Clara said. “I have a feeling the dead might be more useful in this case than the living.”
Chapter Five
Clara arrived home once again. No sooner was she through the front door than Tommy appeared from the parlour and gave her a worried look.
“The morning room,” he said. “Brilliant Chang.”
Clara groaned, tugged off her coat and hat, and headed to the room at the back of the house. This time of year, the garden looked somewhat bleak and barren, and the morning room which overlooked it lost a touch of its appeal, though it was pleasant when the sun slanted through the windows during the early part of the day.
Clara found Chang staring out at the garden, a grimace just visible on his face. She sensed his misery from the tension of his shoulders even before he turned to her and she saw it on his face. What must it be like to both love and hate someone you are intrinsically linked with? Jao had betrayed her brother, had been willing to see him killed if it meant she would triumph, and yet through it all Chang had been devoted to her, wanted to see her stopped not so much because she threatened him or innocent lives, but because he was frightened something awful would happen to her. He had been right to worry; Jao’s rash and violent nature had been the spark for her downfall. She had fallen hard and fast, at the hands of people she presumably trusted.
“Do you have any news?” Chang asked her.
“It is early days,” Clara said gently. “I still have a lot of questions.”
“Like what?” Chang demanded.
“Like whether the angle Jao was shot at indicates whether she was shot from the street or from the room, and why she had a window open on a freezing cold day. The open window appears to be the reason there is no bullet hole in the glass pane, or is that what we are meant to suppose?”
“I don’t like questions,” Chang glared at her. “You are not trying hard enough.”
“That is unnecessary, old man.”
Tommy had appeared at the door of the morning room, sensing his sister may need backing up. Chang turned his scowl onto him, but he said nothing.
“Your sister had enemies among her own people,” Clara spoke to him in a reasonable fashion. “Just before she died, I encountered her in the Brighton hospital. It was obvious she was injured. She had been stabbed, by someone able to get close to her. She was lucky the wound was not fatal. That makes me question a lot of things about her death.”
Chang dropped his head. His fury had vanished, in its place came stark grief. It struck Clara that despite all his success, all his notoriety which gave him entry into the best parties and enabled him to have any woman he wanted draped upon his arm, ultimately, Chang was very alone. He was an outsider, working with people of a different nation, of a different culture. He had integrated and excelled, but he was still the man at the edge of the crowd, always looking on and wondering what it would be like to really be a part of something. The only thing he had had to cling to, to connect him to both his past and his present, was his sister, and she had proven to be his deadliest enemy.
“There was another dead man,” Clara continued. “We don’t know who he is, but he was found outside the door of Jao’s room. He may have been her bodyguard, watching her door. Someone shot him in the back of the head. Someone inside that house. To me, that indicates someone was trying to get to your sister, to make the most of a prime opportunity.”
Chang said nothing, he suddenly looked deflated, his skin a strange grey hue. Abruptly he folded into a chair, the movement so sudden it gave the appearance that he had had no choice – it was either quickly sit down or fall down.
“I want to be as much help to you as possible in this, Clara,” Chang said, his voice surprisingly frail. Clara had never seen Chang so utterly defeated. “You will find it hard to get anything out of Jao’s people, they are not the sort to talk to a private detective or the police. They might talk to me, and I shall know many of them personally. A number of my people abandoned me for Jao when it seemed she was going to offer them a better chance of making a fortune for themselves.”
“These men, they are being held either at the police station or at the local army barracks,” Clara pointed out. The holding cells at the police station had been inadequate for the number of men arrested, and it had been agreed that the local militia would detain the surplus prisoners. It was easier than trying to fit them in at a prison, and they were handy for questioning. “You can’t go into the police station.”
“Not precisely true,” Chang said quietly. “Though I am wanted by the police, your inspector has nothing he can arrest me for. I therefore can walk in and out of his station. That I have preferred not to go near the police in the past is another matter, and now I wonder, did my personal hesitations cost Jao her life?”
“I don’t think questioning the decisions of our past helps us at all,” Clara told him.
“Yet, we still do it,” Chang snorted.
A tentative knock on the door revealed Annie with a tray of tea and cake. Though not naturally sympathetic towards Chang – she considered him a criminal of the worst sort – Annie had taken pity on the unfortunate crime lord and had conjured up some of her best comfort food for him. She entered the room and set the tray on a low table. She picked up a hearty slice of fruit cake on a plate and held it before Chang. He seemed to take a moment to register what he was being offered, then he accepted it with a small smile.
“Thank you.”
“Tea?” Annie enquired, though it was rather more statement than question.
Clara waited to see Chang’s response.
“Why, yes,” Chang said and obediently accepted the cup of tea he was offered.
Once Annie had made sure everyone else had cake and tea, she declared she was going back to the kitchen to attend to a Christmas pudding she was mak
ing and departed. Clara waited until she was safely clear and then looked at Chang.
“Tea?”
“I recalled how much it offended her when I refused last time,” Chang managed a wry smile. “I thought it would be better to simply accept it this time.”
They supped tea and ate cake for a while, each feeling a little awkward around the others. Chang’s initial fire had worn off and now he merely seemed uncomfortable in the Fitzgeralds’ morning room.
“Look, Chang, if you want to help, I am willing to let you, but you must do as I say and not rush to conclusions,” Clara said at last. “Inspector Park-Coombs is my friend and I will not see him hurt.”
A dash of his old sparkle returned to Chang’s eyes.
“I understand,” he said. “I shall be a sidekick, merely, and nothing more.”
Clara didn’t believe him, but she did think he could be useful. She doubted any of the men Park-Coombs had in his cells would talk to her, and even if they did, it would be questionable if they would be honest with her. She could use Chang’s influence upon them and also his inside knowledge of the people working for Jao.
“I have been working on finding someone who knows about bullet trajectories,” Tommy ventured. “One of my old army pals became a range-finder on the big guns. He knew how to work out where a shell would drop. I spoke to him earlier, on the telephone, and he is willing to come down and see if he can help with figuring out where the bullet that killed Jao came from.”
“I appreciate the effort,” Chang nodded. “Even if I know you are mainly doing all this to keep your inspector friend out of trouble.”
“You do Clara a great disservice, old man,” Tommy said coldly. “Now, I am only in on this game because I want to make sure you don’t start getting ideas of revenge on the police for killing your sister. But Clara has a broader outlook, she genuinely wants to find out who killed Jao. It’s a matter of principle for her. If a murder has occurred, she is going to solve it.”
Clara was startled by this speech from her brother and also deeply moved. She was not sure if she would have been quite so generous about her motives for solving this mystery, but she appreciated the sentiment.
“Perhaps I am a little too used to being around people who only do what serves them best,” Chang conceded, though he would not go so far as to apologise.
“Well, that’s not Clara,” Tommy persisted. “She will do her best for you, and for Jao.”
Chang nodded. He looked weary again. He drained his teacup and replaced it on the tray, then he nibbled at his cake, seeming uncertain if it was entirely edible. After a moment he decided Annie was as worthy a cook as he had been led to believe and ate with more relish.
“Where are you staying?” Clara asked him.
Chang gave her a curious look.
“If you are to become my temporary partner in this affair, I need to know where you are so I can get in touch with you.”
“The Royal Hotel,” Chang answered, a playful grin coming to his lips. “I am no longer in hiding, which is truly delightful. A real suite, with a soft bed, hot and cold running water and room service.”
He sighed as he recalled these pleasures which had been temporarily lost to him while he was hiding from his sister.
“When I need you, I shall summon you,” Clara informed him. “I don’t intend on doing any more today.”
Chang looked annoyed at this statement, but Clara was tired and neither her victims nor her suspects were going anywhere.
“Before we question anyone, I want as many facts to hand as I can have. I don’t want to give any of Jao’s men the chance of lying to me,” Clara explained. “That is why I want to wait until Tommy’s friend has looked at the scene and given his opinion on where the bullet came from. And, I would like to know who the dead man found outside Jao’s door was. If he was her bodyguard, then I think we have further proof someone close to Jao murdered her. Lastly, I have asked Dr Deáth to extract the bullet that killed Jao and see if the gun it was fired from can be identified. If that gun is neither a military rifle, nor the standard police pistol, then we shall know for sure our murderer was someone inside that house.”
Chang listened patiently enough, but he still seemed displeased they were not acting at once. He could look at her sourly all he wanted, Clara thought to herself, it would achieve nothing. She was cold and tired, and running around Brighton was not going to help any of them. They needed to be patient and allow information to come to them.
“When this is all done,” Chang said solemnly. “What are the chances the Chief Constable will have the killer brought to justice?”
“Inspector Park-Coombs will insist,” Clara said.
“And what will that achieve?” Chang snorted. “We both know no one cares about a woman who was a criminal and a foreigner.”
“I shall do everything in my power,” Clara promised him. “But, right now, what is most important is determining what happened to your sister. We can work out what should become of the culprit later.”
Chang gave another of those looks that suggested Clara was both naïve and gullible. She resented his silent implication, but she doubted there was anything she could say to change his opinion. It was a time when actions would need to speak louder than words.
Chang placed his cake plate next to his teacup and rose from his chair. He looked more like his old self now, the unsettling grey hue gone from his face and a sense of vigour restored to his body. He seemed more like the Chang Clara was familiar with.
“I shall await your summons,” he said, giving Clara a bow and Tommy a nod. “I’ll see myself out.”
He left the room and Clara had no inclination to follow him to do the polite thing of seeing him to the door. A few moments later she heard the front door open and shut, and the tension she had not realised she was holding in her body slipped away. She let out a sigh and felt all the better.
“Remind me again how we became involved with that fellow?” Tommy asked, a look of consternation on his face.
“It happened the moment I started trying to make Brighton a little bit of a better place, rather than just solving mysteries,” Clara remarked with raised eyebrows. “Oh well, at least he is learning something, he remembered not to refuse tea from Annie.”
“You know, I desperately hope it does turn out this was an inside job,” Tommy said, his tone dark.
Clara looked at him sharply.
“Why? If Jao was shot during the raid, it was purely an accident. The police and army were under attack and had to fight back.”
“Yes, but Chang won’t see it that way and he will want revenge. What if, after all our assurances it was the work of one of Jao’s people, it turns out she was just another casualty of the raid?”
Clara paused to consider his question a while.
“If it comes to that, then Chang must accept the facts. His sister was walking in a dangerous world, the police were not to blame.”
“I doubt he will see it that way.”
“I shall make him see it,” Clara said firmly. “Chang cannot deflect his own guilt at his supposed failure towards his sister by pushing it onto someone else. Jao was destroying Brighton, the police raid might have been made under slightly false pretences, but its purpose was for the betterment of the town. I am impressed that Park-Coombs managed to keep the casualties to such a minimum, under the circumstances.”
Clara paused for a moment, before continuing.
“Besides, I have this feeling, an instinct, if you like, that Jao was killed by one of her own people, and the more I hear and see, the more that feeling grows.”
“I hope you are right,” Tommy said. “Because whoever killed Jao, one day, they are going to feel Chang’s vengeful wrath. And that won’t be pretty.”
Chapter Six
The following morning, having heard nothing from Malory or Colonel Brandt, Clara assumed the erstwhile Jeremiah was still missing, and went to see Ethel Dickinson. The Malorys’ maid lived down the gl
oomily titled Brown Road and it seemed the builder who had been tasked with erecting the homes in the street had taken its proposed name as inspiration. The houses were constructed out of dowdy, orange brick, with dark wooden window frames and doors, and reddish-brown tiles. The road itself had yet to be covered with tarmacadam and was simply sandy earth, with deep ruts from cartwheels running through it. With the heavy rain they had recently endured, the road was a muddy quagmire and there was no pavement to protect a pedestrian’s shoes. Clara did her best to hop from one relatively dry patch to another, wishing she had put on her walking boots.
The houses were what used to be quaintly termed ‘workers cottages’ and were arranged in blocks of three properties. They were tiny and lacking in any sort of garden at the front, though behind they had narrow, long yards. Ethel lived in number three, which happened to be the second house in the street. Clara had to conclude that once there had been a house numbered one, but it had been demolished and no one had bothered to correct the numbering system. Ethel’s cottage was in the middle of one of the trios that lined the road. It looked wedged in, as if its neighbours were leaning onto it and trying to crowd it out.
Clara knocked on the door and waited.
“Are you after the Dickinsons?”
An old man had appeared from the house on Clara’s left, identified as number two, and was peering at her curiously. He was dressed in the clothes of a labourer; worn cord trousers, worn waistcoat and worn shirt. He looked spry for his age, which was tricky to estimate, but must have been well past sixty. His hair was largely grey, and his face was heavily lined.
“I am,” Clara told the man. “Are they in?”
“Not today,” the old man shook his head sadly. “They have gone to see the vicar, about the funeral.”
Clara felt a pang of sadness.
“Funeral?”
“Ethel, the oldest girl. Took queer yesterday. Doctor said it was just influenza, as if that is something not to be worried about, I tell you! Well, she passed over yesterday evening. Her mother is devastated.”