The Monster at the Window

by Evelyn James

  Clara had hoped for an invitation. She wanted to see for herself this man who appeared at the windows and pretended to be a reanimated corpse.

  “I don’t know if I could see my Harvey like that,” Betty shuddered.

  “Then you need not, but at least do stay here for the time being,” Lord Howton insisted.

  Betty finally conceded.

  “All right, I guess I ought to. I want to see Harvey’s grave, anyway.”

  Lord Howton promised that she would, once she was sufficiently recovered from the shock. Then he said he would leave her in peace and see that Crawley had a room prepared. He ushered Richard and Genevieve from the room, leaving Clara behind. She waited until they were all gone, then went towards the fireplace and sat down on a sofa near Betty.

  Betty watched her suspiciously, but for the moment Clara said nothing. She was being patient.

  “Are you a family friend?” Betty broke the silence at last, unable to resist speaking.

  Clara smiled as she looked over.

  “Not really. I am a private detective. I have been asked to solve the mystery of this man who keeps appearing at the drawing room windows.”

  Betty gave another shudder and looked over her shoulder as if the man might be stood there already.

  “Do you think it is my husband?” she asked Clara.

  “I don’t know,” Clara admitted. “However, whoever stands by that window, I think they are very much alive.”

  Betty seemed relieved to hear this, though did not grasp at once the implication that that might mean her husband was alive.

  “How did you meet Harvey?” Clara asked her. “You seem to have a very different opinion of him to the rest of the family.”

  Betty gave a sad smile.

  “I was a waitress in a nightclub where Harvey liked to go. I used to go around with a big tray of cigarettes sometimes. We got talking once, it just happened so naturally. Next thing he asked me to go to a dance with him,” Betty became thoughtful. “We went out a while, maybe six months. Then he asked me to marry him, but it had to be a secret because his family would never understand. I knew by then who he was and who his family were. I understood the need for secrecy.”

  “Where did you marry?” Clara asked.

  “St Martin’s church. It was a proper wedding, we had witnesses and everything.”

  That scuppered Clara’s theory that the marriage had been a sham.

  “Did Harvey always intend to keep it a secret, your marriage?” Clara wondered.

  “I guess,” Betty shrugged, she had not looked that far forward or considered the complications of such a long-term secret. “He was a good man.”

  Clara felt that a ‘good man’ would have tried harder to find a way to get his family to accept his plans and his wife, and would not have carried on courting American heiresses.

  “You loved him a lot,” Clara noted. “He was a lucky man.”

  Betty sniffed as fresh tears blossomed in her eyes.

  “Do you think? I know I am common and I ain’t a lord’s daughter or anything, but I am a decent girl. I went to my wedding untouched, I told Harvey that. In fact, I refused to let even him have his way with me until we were wed,” Betty said this with an air of pride.

  Clara thought she was an honest girl who had been badly treated by life. Harvey owed her a lot more than he had ever given her. A fur coat was no compensation for the lack of a secure future.

  “Why do the family dislike him so much?” Betty now questioned Clara.

  Clara was uncertain how to answer. She had only just stumbled into this complicated family herself and did not have a full understanding of them as yet.

  “I think it is partly because of the late Lord Howton’s unexpected second marriage and the anger that caused. My impression is that he was perceived to be betraying his first wife’s memory. There was also concern that his new wife was a fortune hunter,” Clara was careful over her words, knowing that Betty herself might be considered a fortune hunter. “I can only say that if that was the case, Harvey’s mother has paid a heavy emotional price that must surely outweigh the inheritance she received from her late husband.

  “The other part is that Harvey was a potential rival heir, both to the current Lord Howton and to Richard. This tension only rose during the war when both Howton boys were serving. If Richard had been killed, Harvey would have been the next heir. Harvey was not so much resented for himself, but for the way he had come into the family.”

  Betty seemed to understand this.

  “What do you think Harvey’s mother will make of me?” she turned big, worried eyes on Clara.

  “That is a good question,” Clara admitted. “I’m afraid I don’t know the woman well enough to be able to say.”

  Though, silently inside her mind, Clara feared Angelica would not be pleased. Clara imagined her wanting her son to marry well and to someone who’s family could boast financial stability. An American heiress would suit her, she might even be able to leave Howton Hall and live with her son. She could not possibly do that with Betty as her daughter-in-law.

  Betty fell quiet, much of her bravado had been blown away by the devastating news of Harvey’s loss. Now she looked her age, and she also looked very scared. Clara felt for her and wished she could do more to comfort her, but what words could she say to make this thing better? There were none. And the mystery of the grave walker was only going to make matters worse. The sooner Clara solved that problem, the better.

  Chapter Nine

  Evening drew around again. Clara had spent the intervening hours making arrangements for her ‘ghost’ vigil. She had sent a message home to let Annie and Tommy know she would not be back that night, and she had helped Oliver put up his cameras in a position that would make it possible to get a better picture of the man at the window. This involved placing one camera outside, hidden in a tall shrub where it would not be readily seen in the dark. The operation was done in the strictest secrecy, even the family were not informed.

  “I still can’t fathom why we are not telling anyone about this,” Oliver puttered as they struggled to push the camera’s tripod into the branches.

  “Harvey Howton, or his imposter, is most likely receiving help from someone within the household,” Clara explained. “That would be how the man at the window knew your cameras were there and stayed hidden at the edge. Even if I am wrong, I think it prudent to avoid people knowing what we are up to. Whatever is going on, I can’t help but feel it is too complicated to be the work of one person alone.”

  “Unless Harvey really is risen from the dead,” Oliver pointed out stubbornly.

  Clara resisted sighing aloud.

  “You will be able to run a wire through the drawing room doors so you can activate this remotely?” she asked.

  “I should be able to fit it through the keyhole and keep it hidden until the time is ready. I’ll probably only get the man’s profile, though.”

  “A profile is a start. This close, such a picture will surely enable us to recognise whoever is calling on the family,” Clara gave the camera an affectionate pat. “I’ll have this mystery unravelled before you know it!”

  “Does it never worry you that there might be more to this world than meets the eye?” Oliver asked her as they walked back inside.

  Clara gave the question due thought.

  “I have reached the conclusion, through experience, that nearly every mystery has its solution if you know where to look, and that includes the supernatural ones too.”

  “Nearly every mystery?” Oliver picked up on her phraseology.

  Clara simply smiled.

  “It would be conceited arrogance to state otherwise. There are some mysteries that defy the greatest minds. I only hope to never come across one of those myself.”

  They went their separate ways to prepare for dinner. Clara had sent a message home, via a footman, to explain she was staying at the hall and would need Annie to select a suitable evening outfit for her and have
the footman bring it back. She now went to the spare room she had been placed in and changed from her day clothes to her evening attire.

  Clara did not have the currently fashionable waif-like appearance, she was more Victorian in her proportions, with suitable curves. However, in a black dress with silver detail and a long string of pearls, she looked quite attractive and felt satisfied with herself. She combed her hair as she took in the room she had been offered.

  Like all the rooms in the house it was a relic from the past, this time from the late seventeenth century, when the hall was extended. In latter years the hall had suffered a devastating fire that had destroyed much of the earlier architecture, but this room was a survivor. It was called the Prince’s Room, because the family legends held that one of the Georges, before ascending the throne, had stayed in this room. No one could quite remember which one, or what the room was called before that. Everything was panelled, even the door to the adjoining bathroom looked like part of the oak panel walls. Clara found the room oppressive, but it was only a temporary living quarters and she doubted she was going to be doing much sleeping in it anyway.

  She still had a couple of hours before she was required for dinner. Clara decided to carry on with her investigating. She wanted to take a better look at Harvey’s bedroom, this time without an escort.

  The house was something of a warren, but the uniquely named rooms acted as landmarks, of a sort, and Clara was able to navigate by them. She was careful to avoid the family, even though she heard their voices coming from rooms she passed, once or twice. She didn’t want anyone guiding her or trying to prevent her from examining Harvey’s room. If someone in the household was helping the stranger in the park – and she was convinced someone inside the house was – then she did not want that person interfering with her investigation too. And as she did not currently know who that person might be, she felt it best to avoid everyone.

  Harvey’s room was unlocked – why would it be otherwise? Clara slipped inside and shut the door behind her. Now she had the room to herself and any clues it might reveal.

  Harvey Howton had been a typical young man from a wealthy family. His room revealed a love for sport; Clara found two tennis rackets and a cricket bat, all deposited rather carelessly, propped up corners or by a chest of drawers. There were also several cricket balls perched on the window sill. Clara picked one up and found it had been carefully written on. According to the faded ink, this particular ball had been used to score the winning over for Harvey’s school team in 1912. The other balls were similarly inscribed. Harvey was clearly keen to commemorate his sporting achievements.

  On a set of shelves by the window there were a couple of trophies and a perpetual shield from Harvey’s school for the best sportsman of the year. The shield was awarded to one student annually. From the gaps on the shield it looked as though there was room for several more names, but Harvey had kept it rather than handing it back at the end of the year to be awarded to the next lad. Probably the family paid for a new one. Harvey seemed to have a great desire to keep trophies of his successes. Was this a sign of his feelings of inferiority when compared to his older brother?

  Clara turned her attention to the many cupboards and drawers in the room, hoping one contained a secret or clue that would reveal what Harvey was about. Unsurprisingly, most contained clothes. She searched through pockets on his jackets and trousers in his wardrobe, but found them empty. The drawers contained socks or underwear, one was full of carefully arranged ties.

  The room was beginning to feel like a stage set, something that had been prepared by another hand. Clara feared someone had been here before her, someone who had seen fit to remove anything that might hint at what Harvey was thinking or feeling before his accident. Her last hope was the upright writing bureau that sat against the wall at the foot of the bed. Clara pulled down the front and was confronted with the usual array of small drawers, alcoves and racks these things contained. Pale blue writing paper was stacked upright in a slot set aside for the purpose. Clara pulled a sheet out and saw that it was headed with Howton Hall’s address and, more significantly, with Harvey’s own name. It was a surprising thing to find in the writing desk of a lord’s younger son. Normally such conceits were the preserve of the titled member of the family. Harvey seemed unable to concede anything to his older brother, he resented everything.

  There were envelopes to match the stationary, a drawer full of pens, and another full of spare nibs. One contained a glass inkwell full of black Indian ink. Another was specially designed to perfectly house the blotter that came with the desk. Clara moved on from the middle drawers which seemed only to contain the paraphernalia for writing, to the larger outer drawers. These were arranged either side of the bureau, with the smaller equipment drawers and paper rack set in the middle. The outer drawers were large enough to contain flat sheets of paper, perhaps even a small notebook. Clara went through them systematically.

  She found letters, mostly from the current year – 1921 – but some were older and had clearly been kept for sentimental reasons. Harvey presumably stored the rest his older correspondence elsewhere, there would not be room for it all in the bureau. The oldest letter was dated 1907. Clara quickly did some calculations in her head and realised Harvey would have been nine or ten when he received this letter. It had been sent to him by his father just before Christmas. Harvey was in his first year at boarding school and would have been counting the days to the holidays and a chance to get home. This letter must have therefore come as a shock; Lord Howton was gravely ill and had been forced to take to his bed. He was writing to his son to let him know he was alright and would be back on his feet by Christmas Eve, in time to greet his youngest son on the doorstep of the hall. The letter was full of promises of plum pudding and a fat goose for Christmas dinner. The way the letter was rumpled and stained at the edges, suggested it had been read and re-read a great number of times. Underneath it was a letter with black edges. Clara had a sense of foreboding about this second letter as she took it out to read. It was dated two days after the previous letter, and the black edges plainly indicated it was sent from a house in mourning. Clara jumped to the signature first and saw that this letter had been written by Angelica Howton.

  Angelica’s writing was scrawled and taxing to read, but her words were plain. Lord Howton had died, it would be best if Harvey stayed on at school as the house was preparing for a funeral. There was to be no plum pudding and plump goose in the family dining room that year.

  The significance of the two letters was not lost on Clara. One was the very last letter Harvey received from his father and the second was the one that must have brought his boyhood world crashing down about his ears. No child can confront the death of an immediate family member and remain the same after. Harvey had kept these letters near to him, on top of the piles of his more recent correspondence. He would have seen them and been reminded of their contents every time he went to write a letter. It seemed this one event had overshadowed the rest of Harvey’s life.

  Clara put the letters back carefully. Would anyone come for them? Or would this room and these letters become another museum set-piece within the great house? Would a future Howton find him or herself sharing this room with the memories of Harvey?

  Clara started going through Harvey’s more recent correspondence. His letters were mainly to friends, though some were to distant relatives. The replies gave more evidence of Harvey’s love for sport. He was arranging informal cricket matches right up until his death. If Harvey had planned his passing, faking it so he could play some ghoulish prank on his family, he had certainly not revealed this in his letters. Clara found one absence interesting; there was not a single letter from Betty. The obvious answer, the one the family would happily believe, was that Betty could not write. But Clara doubted that. Children from all backgrounds had to go to school these days. Betty would have learned her letters and, though she might not be a great writer, she would most certainly be able to compose
a letter.

  Either Betty did not write to Harvey, presumably at his behest, or he had destroyed her letters to him. The omission suggested Harvey was keen to keep Betty’s existence secret, he had even gone so far as to avoid having letters in his bureau from her. Did he think someone might search his bureau? Or did he fear that letters arriving in an unknown but feminine hand would attract the attention of his relatives?

  Clara had searched all the drawers on the left of the bureau, now she turned her attention to the right. The drawers here were also filled with letters, but she now realised there was a pattern. The drawers contained the correspondence from one individual or set of individuals. Occasionally there was over-spill when the number of letters from a given person no longer fitted into a single drawer and had to be moved into the next drawer, but the system was there. Drawers on the left contained personal correspondence, drawers on the right contained important correspondence. Clara found letters and bills in these drawers, the occupations of the senders were another window into Harvey’s life. Here was one from his dentist, another from his doctor (Harvey was in rude health, the doctor confirmed), here was one from his tailor accompanied by a bill. This one was from a jeweller (Betty’s wedding ring perhaps?), another was from the garage that serviced Harvey’s car. But the letters that caught Clara’s attention were those from his solicitor.

  These letters had been written in the last few weeks before Harvey had drowned, and they were all about Harvey’s intention to change his will. The letters confirmed appointments and the final one, dated just a few days before the accident, implied that a new will had been drawn up and was ready for Harvey to sign. There was no letter to state whether that had happened or not, but Clara could find that out from the solicitor. It raised one unhappy thought; presuming the will that had been read out was this new one, why had Harvey not included his wife in it? Even in death was he determined to keep her an absolute secret?