The Monster at the Window

by Evelyn James

Clara almost jumped with this new piece of information.

  “Betty Howton knew her husband was alive?” she asked.

  “I informed her as she was leaving the hall yesterday. I could not let her go on imagining her husband dead. Harvey had been so unfair to her also, even if his intentions were to secure their future together.”

  Clara wasn’t listening anymore. When she had spoken to Betty earlier, the girl had acted as if she had not known her husband had faked his death. Why would she hide that? A terrible feeling came over her.

  “Miss Fitzgerald, you will tell no one about this?” Mr Crawley insisted.

  Clara glanced at him.

  “No one,” she agreed hastily. “At least, unless I have to.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Clara went straight from her conversation with Mr Crawley to the room upstairs used by the intruder to gain entrance. There were still too many unanswered questions. She stood in the middle of the room and took great care to look about it, examining every portion so it might reveal any secret it held. Nothing jumped out at her.

  Damn!

  Everything was so circumstantial. She could place several people in the vicinity of the murder and give them a means and motive for the crime. While her instinct was to believe Richard and Genevieve when they said they had not killed Harvey, and Diana seemed an unlikely candidate, the truth was they all had the opportunity. They all knew about the loaded revolver in the display case. She only had their word they had not done it. Genevieve swore she would not have used a revolver and would certainly not kill someone, but she might have done just that to throw suspicion off her and onto her brother.

  Richard might have used the revolver as a double-bluff. Why would a clever man use a weapon that would incriminate him? Perhaps, for the very opposite reason; to make it appear he could not have possibly done it. And then there was Diana, first to the scene and only her story about running from an imagined ghost to explain her arrival.

  Richard had thrown the story of an intruder into the mix. He alone had seen this stranger and there was tantalising evidence in the forgotten bedroom to suggest someone had used it as an entry point. Clara walked to the window and turned around, examining the room as if she had just secretly entered it. The window was still slightly raised. To close it properly required a lot of force. And there was the shifted table with the marks of fingers upon it. Sadly, they were just smudges and could not be identified as belonging to anyone in the family or otherwise.

  Clara shook her head. The evidence was vague; a person wanting to make it appear that an intruder had entered could have staged everything. There was no sign outside of an intruder, except for a broken piece of drainpipe. Who knew how long that had been damaged? Everyone in the house knew the room’s window was loose and that for years it had been a secret way for Harvey’s ladies to enter and exit. That was the sort of secret that was poorly kept. No, if you were clever enough, and Richard or Genevieve were both that, you could arrange this room to look as though someone had come in this way. Throwing suspicion off the family entirely.

  Clara was worried. There was nothing concrete to prove the existence of an intruder. She had been so certain when Richard had first told her his tale and she had gone to the room and found seemingly clear evidence that he was telling the truth. Now she was questioning herself. Could Richard have been lying to give himself an alibi? Conjuring a mysterious intruder who snuck in to kill Harvey for no obvious reason?

  Clara’s mind turned to those who would have needed to break in from the outside to get to Harvey. There was only one real candidate for that; Betty. She had been staying away from the hall and now Clara knew that she was aware her husband was alive. Had that made Betty angry enough to murder him? Did she think he had betrayed her? A broken heart can be a powerful motivator. But there were flaws in that argument too. How had Betty known to climb into the house and confront her husband? And how had she slipped in and out of the inn?

  Clara was starting to feel this case was getting away from her, that the killer had vanished into thin air like, well, a ghost. This was all becoming too bizarre!

  Clara started to leave the room and then found herself pausing once more. Two other suspects had sprung to mind – first, Angelica, the distraught mother who had seemed so keen to have her son, even when dead, returned to her. But what if she had started to question that determination after dark when things always seem more sinister and evil? What if she started to wonder about Harvey’s real motives for apparently returning from the dead? Maybe, thinking she ought to be prepared, she stole the gun and lay in wait for her son’s shade? She would have heard his footsteps and come out to the hallway rather than wait for him to come to her.

  Harvey’s intentions towards his mother were not benign. According to Crawley he meant to scare her, to convince her that she had failed her son by not acknowledging his marriage to Betty. He wanted to play on her grief and guilt. What if he took the act too far and terrified his mother so badly that she shot him in self-defence? Angelica was clearly of unsound mind. Perhaps she had taken drastic action in those brief, dark moments in the hallway? If she was the killer, the odds were they would never know it.

  Then there was Crawley. The butler had helped Harvey out of a sense of duty and guilt. Harvey was blackmailing him, that was plain enough. He held a secret over the butler and was willing to threaten to use it when it suited him. Had Harvey gone too far when he used Mr Crawley’s guilt-ridden assistance against his own mother? Crawley was obviously distraught that he had been part of a plot against his beloved Angelica. Had something snapped inside the butler? Had he been pushed beyond his limits? All those years of deceit and fear because Harvey knew his secret! Had they suddenly overwhelmed him so that he plotted the downfall of Harvey?

  He would have known about the gun, and he could have access to the whole house any time he wished. He was even aware of the exact moment Harvey would be in the house, since he had been instrumental in letting him in and out. Supposing he shot Harvey in anger, not thinking of the consequence it would have on Angelica? People, even pompous, self-controlled people like Crawley, can act irrationally on impulse. He had every reason to want revenge on Harvey, to put an end to the torment.

  Yet, in his moment of triumph, what if he was almost discovered when Richard had come running down the corridor? Crawley, with his extensive knowledge of the house and its residents’ habits, could have fled through the forgotten bedroom and out of the broken window. Then, instead of running across the grounds as a real intruder would have done, Crawley would have turned back to the servants’ quarters once he was outside. No wonder Richard had been unable to follow the escaping intruder – he was already back in the house!

  Clara clutched her head in her hands and growled to herself. Too many possibilities! There had to be some further clue! Something that would point her in the right direction.

  She walked along the hall where everything had occurred and stopped at the precise spot Harvey had fallen. The hall had been thoroughly cleaned, the rug removed. She stared about her, just in case, looking for a hint of what had happened in the dark of night.

  Had it all been a terrible accident? That was a new thought. It had not before occurred to Clara that someone had shot the revolver at what they imagined was a genuine burglar. With all that had gone on in this hall recently, tensions were high and the fear of a living person entering the house at night could easily have led to drastic actions being taken.

  Clara shook her head. She didn’t think the killer could have been in any doubt as to who they were shooting.

  She knelt down and looked along the edge of the skirting boards, hoping to spot something insightful. There was not a speck of dust in the tiny groove where the skirting met the floor. The maids had been exceptionally thorough. What was she really expecting to see? A button or cufflink that had somehow fallen from the killer in their haste? A fingerprint that revealed all? No, there was nothing here. She stood up and looked about
at the glass cases with their displays of stuffed animals. Dozens of eyes had been on this spot at the moment Harvey died, and not a single one of them could act as witness.

  Clara was beginning to feel despondent. She had been asked to the hall to prove Harvey was a resurrected demon, and she had at once set about disproving that assumption. It seemed, in the process, she may have acted as the catalyst for his death. After all, proving he was a live man gave several family members, including his secret wife, good reason to want his blood. But she could not have known someone intended to murder him.

  Clara headed downstairs. Just as she was walking along the first landing that led into the great hall, she heard voices talking quietly. She found herself pausing to listen, her instinctive curiosity overriding her sense of decorum at eavesdropping.

  “The woman is in a state of catatonic shock,” a man’s voice spoke softly.

  Clara could guess who he was talking about. It seemed this was the doctor who had been called for Angelica.

  “I cannot say for how long this state will last. It may be hours or weeks. Whether she will recover entirely from it is in the hands of God.”

  “What is to be done for her?”

  That was Lord Howton’s voice. As always, he was taking responsibility for the members of his household. Of all the residents, he was the one Clara could least imagine murdering Harvey.

  “She will need to be nursed. I can recommend some very reliable people for the position,” the doctor continued. “I am very sorry I can offer you nothing more.”

  “Hardly your fault,” Lord Howton replied. “How soon before we know if her state will be temporary or permanent?”

  “That is a difficult thing to determine,” the doctor admitted cautiously. “Nothing is certain in these cases. I have known of one where the person was in such a state for years and then made a full recovery. However, in general, the first few weeks are telling.”

  Lord Howton thanked the doctor and Clara heard them leaving and heading for the front door. She sighed to herself. Poor Angelica, surely the woman did not deserve this? Had Harvey really despised his mother so much that he had been prepared to inflict such torment upon her?

  The great hall was now empty, and Clara walked through it and into the front hall, thinking to go look at the gun display case one last time for inspiration. Lord Howton was walking back inside from seeing the doctor off, ushering along with him the two walkers Clara had seen earlier at the inn. Lord Howton gave Clara a nod.

  “Spotted them sheltering from the rain in the porch. I insisted they come inside.”

  The walkers gave Clara abashed smiles, clearly embarrassed they had been discovered sheltering in an aristocrat’s porch.

  “The rain came on so heavy,” the female walker explained, “we were desperate to get out of it.”

  “Might I leave you to show them the drawing room, Miss Fitzgerald? A fire is burning in there, so they may dry themselves off. I have so many things to attend to,” Lord Howton did not wait for a reply from Clara, but hurried off on his errands.

  Clara would have liked to have reminded him that she was busy too and was not one of his servants, but he was already gone. Since she was somewhat stumped as to what direction to take next with her investigating, she was not entirely unhappy to be distracted by the walkers.

  “Come this way,” she instructed them, showing them to the drawing room and the cosy fire.

  “We really are grateful,” the woman kept speaking. “One of the perils of a walking holiday is being caught in the rain. We generally carry on, but my husband has a cold and did not want to get too wet.”

  The male walker nodded to Clara and she now saw that his eyes were streaming and his nose sore and red from being blown. She settled them both by the fire.

  “We saw you earlier at the inn?” the man spoke up, his voice hoarse.

  “You did,” Clara nodded. “I was just checking on Mrs Howton who is staying there.”

  “She is the young lady I pointed out to you, Alfred,” Alfred’s wife told him. “She looked so lonely her first night there that I asked her to join us for dinner.”

  “She has been through a dreadful time,” Clara agreed, not wanting to add that things might soon get worse for her.

  “I sensed that, not that she spoke much. Mainly she listened to us rambling on about our walks. We are bird watchers, you see.”

  Clara smiled, but was only half-listening.

  “I invited her on one of our night-time walks. We go looking for owls,” the woman carried on blithely. “The inn’s landlady is very good and leaves a key on a ledge over the door so we might let ourselves in and out. It is very considerate. I explained all this to poor Betty, but I could not persuade her to come with us. I think it would have done her good.”

  Clara glanced up. A thought had occurred to her, but she needed to speak to the inspector and see what he had come up with. Maybe something had turned up with the examination of the gun, though she was not hopeful.

  Excusing herself from the damp walkers, she departed the drawing room, her mind whirring. An idea was forming; it was risky but she thought she knew of a way to draw out the murderer. Because, otherwise, she had a nasty feeling Harvey’s assailant was going to get away with murder.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The inspector had turned the hall’s library into his temporary headquarters while investigating the murder. He would return to Brighton soon enough, but while the search of the grounds for clues was still underway, he had opted to find a space within the hall from where he could oversee things. The rain had delayed the search and threatened to wash away any visceral clues, such as footprints. Inspector Park-Coombs stood at the window of the library and sighed to himself.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector.”

  “Clara,” the inspector turned around. “Is it that time already?”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “Do you suppose if I ring one of those service bells I can have someone bring me some lunch?”

  “I should think so,” Clara nodded. “If not, I shall speak to his lordship.”

  “No need for that Clara, I shan’t disturb him over trifles,” the inspector winked at her. “I am causing him enough distress at the prospect of arresting one of his family.”

  “Do you have any leads?”

  “Nothing further to what we have already discussed,” the inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Clues are thin on the ground. Oh, but we did find where Harvey had been hiding during the performance of his prank.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. There is an old ice house at the very edge of the grounds. The family rarely use it now. Harvey had turned it into his den. We found everything inside; changes of clothes, further tubs of maggots, stage make-up. Quite the performance he had going on.”

  “And I can tell you why, inspector,” Clara responded. “Harvey wanted to play on his mother’s superstitious nature to convince her to acknowledge his marriage to Betty. He had told his mother what he had done and she had reacted badly, insisting he continue with her plans to marry an American heiress.”

  “He faked his death to haunt his mother and make her feel guilty?” the inspector asked incredulously.

  “Something like that,” Clara agreed. “I imagine he had tried every other means he could think of and was becoming desperate. He pretended to die and, with the connivance of the under-gardeners and Crawley, the butler, orchestrated this charade. Once he had the family convinced he had returned from the grave, he intended to call on his mother, play on her grief and anguish to persuade her that if she only would agree to his last wish – his marriage to Betty to be acknowledged – then her son would be miraculously returned to her.

  “Quite frankly Inspector, it is preposterous, and any rational person would not be fooled. But, as you have no doubt seen, Angelica’s mind is not what it once was, and her madness could be played upon. It was a cruel thing for her son to do, but then he might argue it was cruel for Angeli
ca to deny him his love for Betty because the girl was of working stock. Especially when his mother was from that same class. I suppose he convinced himself it was the only way, and that his mother deserved it, somehow.”

  The inspector still looked amazed by it all.

  “I tell you, Clara, these folk live apart from the real world in these big houses and they go a little peculiar. Even his lordship tells me he was convinced Harvey was dead and still prowling the grounds.”

  “I know, Inspector, it beggars belief. But not all souls are as grounded and rational as us.”

  Clara grinned at him and he laughed.

  “Well, at least we know Harvey is dead for real this time. I had Dr Deàth summoned. He confirms Harvey was shot at close range with a revolver similar to the Webley. Further tests will confirm if the gun from the display case was the weapon, though, I suspect it was. It had been recently fired and I can’t see the killer wasting time with two guns.”

  “Unless they wanted to throw suspicion on the family?” Clara suggested.

  “Let’s not make this more complicated than it already is,” Inspector Park-Coombs’ good humour evaporated. “I have too many suspects, Clara. I can make a case for half a dozen people to want to have Harvey dead and the circumstantial evidence could be used against them all. But none of it would hold before a good defence lawyer. He would rip it to pieces, point out that the facts used against one person could be equally used against another. Without something definitive, I fear I am stumped.”

  “I feel the same,” Clara admitted. “I have been over the whole thing in my head and still I can’t narrow my suspicions down. There were no fingerprints on the gun?”

  “Nothing usable. I had that checked at once, but the only ones on it were badly smudged. Luck, of course, the killer did not have the sense to wear gloves.”

  “It was a hasty act, whoever did it was not thinking clearly,” Clara paused. “Have you told anyone apart from me that the gun had no usable fingerprints on it?”