His Father's Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 5)

by Linda Stratmann

  For myself, given my concerns, I felt that I could do no more than endure the nonsense with a pretence of admiration until my business with the medium was done.

  I may have dissimulated better than I imagined, since as I rose to leave, Mrs Barnham beckoned me towards her for a private conversation. ‘Please, remain a little longer,’ she said, and much as I wanted to quit the place, I decided to oblige and see what I might learn. We sat by the fireside and waited until the other guests had departed. Miss Stone draped the spiritoscope in its black cloth and prepared rum punch. ‘How are you progressing with your book?’ asked Mrs Barnham.

  ‘I have made a beginning,’ I told her, ‘but it is painstaking work, and may not be complete for a while.’ I declined the offer of punch, which I felt might choke me.

  ‘It must be so reassuring to know that you have the approval of His Majesty. I will ask Miss Stone to make a copy of his message to you which should make a very nice frontispiece.’

  ‘It will indeed,’ I replied, summoning up a burst of enthusiasm, ‘a blessing from the King himself, what could possibly be better!’

  Mrs Barnham accepted her tankard and savoured the warm fragrance that rose from its contents. ‘If you are interested, I could make a special arrangement for you that would greatly assist your work. I sometimes offer private séances to my most important clients. In such a séance you would undoubtedly be able to converse directly with the spirits of the royal court. Now that the King himself has spoken to you I am sure that others of almost equal note will follow. Of course, such a consultation will sap my poor energies somewhat, but I am able to recover my strength very quickly if I have the right medicine.’ She drank deeply and smacked her lips. ‘Unfortunately,’ and here she gave a regretful shake of the head, ‘the medicine is very rare and hard to obtain.’

  I at once recognised her meaning. ‘Its purchase will put you to some expense,’ I said.

  She leaned towards me, as if speaking in confidence. ‘You know of course that I never ask for payment from my clients. I make no profit from my work. I hardly like to ask for a donation towards the cost of the medicine, but since it enables me to serve you better, it would be most appreciated.’

  ‘I understand of course.’

  ‘A single dose can cost as much as £20, but it will restore me to health immediately.’

  ‘You need have no worries on that account,’ I said. ‘The arrangement suits me very well, and I am more than delighted to pay the cost of your medicine. I will consult my diary and propose a day when I will be free to interview the royal spirits. I trust that they will appear before me in person?’

  Mrs Barnham hesitated, and her eyes narrowed. I don’t believe she was expecting that. ‘Anything is possible,’ she said, cautiously.

  ‘But that would be more tiring for you and require more medicine.’

  She cheered up at once. ‘Precisely. Perhaps two doses.’

  On that understanding I departed. I had the horrid feeling that had Mr Cobbe been at the séance that evening then he too would have been offered a special individual service, something I would have moved Heaven and Earth to prevent.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The morning after Mr Merridew’s revelations, Mina paid special attention to the early edition of The Times which devoted considerable column space to editorials and correspondence concerning the Holt mystery.

  THE BRIGHTON SCANDAL

  The associates of Mr Jasper Holt, the gentleman recently declared legally deceased after having been missing for more than seven years, have been making vigorous demands that the Holts’ family doctor should be requested to examine the man claiming to be Mr Holt returned from the dead, to establish his true identity once and for all. The man, having been identified by three respectable gentlemen with whom Mr Holt formerly had business connections, has been charged with fraud under the name of Jasper Holt. This despite the fact that Mr Holt’s widow and brother in law have stated that he is not Mr Holt, and they do not know who he is. The town, especially in the business quarters, is in an uproar.

  Our correspondent has been most diligent in his enquiries and secured an interview with the medical gentleman in question, a Dr McClelland. He discovered that the doctor had never examined Mr Holt, having only been concerned with the trivial and normal maladies of the children, when called in by the anxious mother. He has therefore declined to make any pronouncement on the man in the cells, or even to go and see him.

  An enquiry was then made of the Brighton and Hove Insurance Company which arranged for the medical examination of Mr Holt in order to grant the life policy, which, we must remind our readers, was never paid out on due to the suspicious circumstances of Mr Holt’s disappearance. We venture to suggest that had the payment been made the man in the police cells would be in an even more serious position than he is at present. The certificate of good health was given by a Dr Crosier, who is now unfortunately deceased. We hope and trust that the late doctor’s notes will be examined to see if any information can be gleaned to solve this remarkable mystery.

  Meanwhile general agitation remains rife. We hear that Mrs Vardy has been inundated with correspondence making the most unpleasant and ill-conceived accusations which we will refrain from printing here.

  THE TRIUMPH OF SCIENCE

  Once again, we must celebrate the valuable work of our men of science who have provided us with so many useful inventions. Not the least of these is the photograph, which has hitherto been regarded mainly as an item of amusement, and a method of recording the image of persons without recourse to engaging an artist, something that so many in our land are prevented from doing due to the expense. Thus portraits have become available to us all, and it is a good thing. The results are sometimes a little cruel, as the camera can show the sitter in the true honesty of their appearance, yet people flock to have their pictures taken, and even include them on cartes de visite, so not everyone is disappointed. And these images form treasured mementoes of those loved ones who have passed away.

  More recently the photograph, being an accurate and unflattering portrait has shown its power to assist in the solving of a mystery. The man who is currently in the cells at Brighton police station awaiting an appearance at the police court, received a very unusual visitor the other day, a young photographer of the name of Beckler who has recently set up shop in that town. Entering the station with his camera and equipment and an assistant, he somehow, making a great show of audacity and confidence, managed to gain access to the prisoner and take a picture. (We had recently supposed that he was a representative of the Scotland Yard photographic department, but we were in error and must correct our earlier report.) That portrait is now being displayed in his shop window in Ship Street. Several hundred residents of Brighton have now seen it, including men of business who were acquainted with Mr Holt and who all declare that he is the man, though undoubtedly fallen on hard times. We might wonder whether the fact that these individuals are owed money by Mr Holt has anything to do with the matter, but we are not in a position to speculate. Other residents of Brighton state that they believe they have seen the man in the streets of the town, but do not know his name or where, if anywhere, he normally resides.

  But as things stand, his former associates say he is Holt and he says he is Holt, and he has been charged with fraud under that name. The lady who has been his wife and then his widow and then the wife of another man, and now, we suppose, is his wife once more, has declined to comment.

  For the time being, however, we believe that the artist who wields brush and pen need not be concerned for his profession which still has an essential place in our society.

  TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES

  Sir — forgive me if I state that I do not believe the Holt mystery to be very mysterious at all. Neither do I attach any blame to Mrs Vardy — or should I call her Mrs Holt? — or even to Mr Saltmire for failing to identify the prisoner. We have all read of cases where a body has been identified by distressed persons as t
hat of a missing relative only to have that relative return home alive and well.

  The lady was clearly under great emotional strain at the time of her visit, and she might not have dared to take more than a glance at the man. He was undoubtedly changed from the man she had once loved and called husband, and her natural disinclination to find herself in a dreadful situation did the rest. As for Mr Saltmire, I must assume that he found it best to simply agree with his sister.

  I should also mention that according to reports Mr Holt was brought out of his cell and placed in a well-lit room to be photographed and identified. His three business associates would therefore have had the benefit of bright sunlight in which to view him, a commodity in which I understand the Town Hall police cells to be deficient.

  COMMON SENSE

  TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES

  Sir — It is said that one should never speak ill of the dead, however I feel that under the circumstances appertaining to Mr Holt and the gentleman currently languishing in the cells at Brighton, I should reveal what I know of Dr Crosier, who passed away two years ago at the age of eighty-four.

  I was once a friend of Dr Crosier, but with advancing age and the deterioration of both his hearing and his eyesight, his patients began to seek other medical advice, and his practice was greatly reduced. On the last occasion on which I saw him, I wished to be examined for an insurance policy and he told me that he was content to sign any paper required, for a fee, irrespective of any condition which might result in an increase of the premium, or even refusal of the policy. Naturally I declined the offer, but I was somewhat shocked by it, and on making enquiries found that other patients had been advised the same, although all had stoutly refused to take advantage of it. One gentleman said, and I hope he was joking, that for the right fee Dr Crosier would sign a paper to say that a man had two good legs when he only had one.

  I was considering what to do with this information, but soon afterwards I was relieved of that burden on hearing that Dr Crosier had been struck off the medical register. The proceedings were never reported in the daily press, and I believe it was assumed that he had retired due to his advanced age, however I made discreet enquiries and was told that he had indeed been struck off for signing fraudulent certificates. Soon afterwards he suffered a fit and lost the use of one side of his body. He was never prosecuted for the offence and died about a year later.

  BRIGHT RESIDENT

  TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES

  Sir — Have your correspondents not considered that the gentleman claiming to be Mr Jasper Holt may be him in fact but at the same time, deceased? It is not beyond the bounds of possibility. I myself have attended many séances in which spirits of my departed relations have appeared to me. I recognised them at once, since they were exactly as they had been in life, able to move, and even warm to the touch, only they were now clad in glowing heavenly garments. I have even been permitted to embrace my dear mother’s spirit.

  If this be the earthly reappearance of Mr Holt, then he has come to tell us of his tribulations and should be allowed to repent of his transgressions in order for his immortal soul to find the peace it craves.

  I suggest that the authorities in Brighton call in the services of a sensitive, who will be able to establish this man’s identity beyond any doubt by viewing his aura. There is a noted sensitive residing in Brighton, a Miss S who surely ought to be consulted.

  SPIRITUALIST

  When Rose brought Mina her daily post, it consisted not of one or two letters but several dozen. Mina had an unhappy feeling as to what the letters would say and on opening one of them found that her instinct was correct. The powerful hand of famed explorer, spiritualist and persistent roué Mr Arthur Wallace Hope who had so often insisted that Mina was a sensitive who refused to acknowledge her gifts, was reaching out to her even from across the sea.

  ‘There are a number of persons outside asking to see you,’ said Rose.

  ‘Are they from the newspapers?’

  ‘They don’t say they are.’

  ‘Then I expect they are. You are to admit anyone who is either a uniformed policeman or someone I already know. The others can leave their card.’

  ‘That will be all of them, then,’ said Rose.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  That evening Richard arrived home complaining of a headache and declaring himself too exhausted even to sample the delights of the town. Mina found herself unexpectedly transformed from patient to nurse as she asked Rose to bring her a cloth, a towel, and a basin of cool water with which to bathe Richard’s temples.

  ‘I now know exactly how many people live in Brighton,’ he moaned, as he collapsed into a chair by her side, ‘because every single one of them down to the last bootlace and match seller has been crowding into Ship Street, and most of them have come for just one reason, to stare at the pictures in the window of Beckler’s shop. That is all very fine for him, I suppose, and he is highly pleased about it, but when will the chaos end? The street is very narrow as you know, but much used, so the crush has been preventing the movement of traffic. And the noise! There were frightened horses and barking dogs, quarrelling ladies and burst parcels all over the place. Two carriers started laying about them with whips, three shopkeepers came in to complain to us that they weren’t getting their deliveries, and the only man who was able to travel from one end of the street to the other without hindrance was riding a velocipede.’

  ‘Did anyone have any useful suggestions as to who the man in the police station might be?’ asked Mina. ‘Apart from Mr Holt’s creditors, that is, who are all adamant that he is Mr Holt.’

  ‘Everyone has an idea, but no-one could actually give him a name. He has been everything and everyone, a beggar, a fishmonger’s delivery man, an escaped convict, a puppeteer, a famous private detective in disguise, and who knows what else, all in the course of one day. It is too much for anyone to endure!’ Richard took the damp cloth from Mina and pressed it to his face. ‘I need a brandy. I need a good smoke. I need a holiday. I need —’ he groaned. ‘I need Nellie. I wish she would come back.’

  ‘Perhaps all these people think that they will get a reward, although none has been offered,’ Mina suggested. ‘Didn’t someone start a rumour that Mrs Vardy has a secret cache of valuables, which has led the creditors to imagine they might receive their money after all? That is the person you should be blaming for the pandemonium.’

  Richard peeped out one eye from under the cloth. ‘It wasn’t a rumour it was just idle talk, the sort of thing all fellows do. It might be true though. Married ladies are always hiding things from their husbands.’

  ‘I won’t ask how you know this, but it will certainly stand you in good stead when you marry.’ Mina took the cloth and wetted it again, then dabbed it to her brother’s forehead. ‘Do you have any other symptoms apart from the headache?’

  ‘Only misery and ennui,’ he sighed. ‘But I did find something you might like.’ He sat up, produced a photograph from his pocket and handed it to Mina. ‘Don’t tell anyone but I have borrowed it. They look like a fine collection of walruses.’

  Mina put aside the cloth, dried her hands and studied the picture. It was a card-mounted tintype of a group of six gentlemen standing about a table on which was displayed a handsome model yacht. She turned it over and written on the reverse of the card was ‘Brighton Yacht Club, 1863, Old Steine, Brighton, Secretary W Sutherland.’

  ‘Why was this not collected?’ said Mina, ‘or did Mr Simpson keep duplicates as samples for display?’

  ‘Beckler keeps samples to show the customers,’ said Richard.

  Mina nodded. ‘That must be it. To encourage other Brighton clubs to have their portraits made. But the individuals are not named,’ she added, gazing once more at the row of faces. ‘I wonder which of these gentlemen is Mr Sutherland? Is he even in the picture? If he is the secretary, then he ought to be.’

  ‘That man is not Sutherland,’ said Richard, pointing to a portly figure with a heavy m
oustache. ‘He is Mr Cobbe the bank manager. I know that because he was at the Town Hall when there was all that excitement. He was one of the men who identified Holt. In fact, he looked quite frightened to see him. And Holt certainly knew him. He actually thought Cobbe was there because he was under arrest, too. I don’t know why.’

  ‘I think I can guess,’ said Mina. ‘There was some sort of scandal about an insurance company in that year. Maritime Queen, I think it was called, but it was all a fraud, a false company that did no business but was designed to cheat the investors out of their money.’

  This aroused Richard’s interest. ‘Really? How does that work?’ he asked, siting up.

  ‘It doesn’t and the perpetrators were caught and had to flee the country and one of them murdered the other,’ said Mina, before Richard could give the concept serious consideration. ‘I think Mr Cobbe was one of the accused, but he was acquitted. I didn’t know he was a member of the yacht club. Who are these other men? I wish I knew.’

  ‘I have seen a picture of that fellow at the shop,’ said Richard, pointing to a man who was rather older than the rest. ‘He was in some sort of a uniform. Naval, I think.’

  ‘I may know who he is,’ said Mina. ‘Bring me my correspondence.’

  Richard wiped his face once more, tossed the cloth into the basin, dried his hands and grinned, all his sorrows suddenly forgotten. ‘You have that look in your eye,’ he said as he brought the box of letters.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Mina.

  ‘And I know now what I shall write my book about. It will be called, “Miss Mina Scarletti the Famous Lady Detective of Brighton.” It will be a big success and I shall be very rich.’

  ‘I look forward to reading it.’

  ‘I know!’ he exclaimed, ‘You’re the real writer in the family. Why don’t you just write it for me, and I’ll put my name on it? It wouldn’t take you long.’