The Fossil Murder

by Evelyn James

  “All right Dr Browning. I’ll take the case.”

  Chapter Six

  “We shall have to divide our efforts,” Clara explained to Tommy over breakfast. “I need to work on the Archaeopteryx case, while you could investigate Victor Darling. Honestly, I think you will succeed better there than I will.”

  “Really, old girl?” Tommy said with a twinkle in his eye. “Not admitting I am better at something than you, now?”

  “Victor will speak to you more freely than he would to me,” Clara said smiling. “I would have to interview him formally, you can chat with him when he comes to see O’Harris’ car collection. I also think you might have more luck with Miss Holbein. She didn’t want to speak to me at all, but she might speak to a gentleman who shows a little interest in her.”

  “What is this?” Annie looked up from her breakfast plate of toast and marmalade.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Holbein is a sour-faced creature who’s only redeeming feature is proving to be her vast fortune,” Tommy grinned. “I’ll see what Victor Darling has to say about her, maybe she has some qualities that have not as yet been apparent.”

  “She doesn’t have any female friends, from what I can tell,” Clara added. “She struck me as jealous of other women and didn’t want to know them. In any case, she has met me and brushed me off. But Tommy can talk to her as a friend of her boyfriend. All we really need to know is if Victor Darling is a money hunter.”

  “I am not sure Miss Holbein would much care if that was the case,” Tommy postulated. “She seemed to enjoy the power she had over him. That power came from her money.”

  “Sounds a rather unhappy person,” Annie munched on toast. “If the only way you can draw people to you is by your wealth, or rather, that’s the only way you think you can draw people to you, it’s not going to make you content in life.”

  “She is difficult to like,” Clara said, then added diplomatically. “Maybe she was having a bad day.”

  “We did interrupt her picnic and snatch Victor away from her,” Tommy laughed. “No wonder she didn’t want to talk to you.”

  Clara rolled her eyes.

  “Anyway, I need to delve into this mystery at the town hall. Something serious is going on and Dr Browning seems justified by the events of last night to be worried.”

  “How awful that he sleeps alone in that place with all those bones,” Annie gave a shudder. “It’s not right, there should be a proper watchman on duty.”

  “Costs money,” Tommy shoved half a slice of toast into his mouth in one, then mumbled through the crumbs. “This exhibition must be costing a fortune as it is.”

  “Who puts the money forward for such a thing then?” Annie asked.

  “Various sponsors,” Clara guessed. “This exhibition is not about making money, though it will recoup some of its costs with ticket sales. It’s a philanthropic endeavour to spread knowledge across the country. I believe the Gazette stated that it was backed by a lord, or something. Dr Browning is officially employed by the Natural History Museum in London and has been loaned for the tour as much as the fossils in his care.”

  “Hmm,” Annie considered this. “So, all the publicity the exhibition can get is good? Even the controversial stuff?”

  “Well spotted, a good controversy draws in the crowds and sells tickets,” Clara was amused to see how much Annie was thinking like a detective these days. “It is why the Archaeopteryx is the star attraction. Without the controversy, it would just be another fossil.”

  “Well, I think it is a lot of fuss about nothing. Still, people do find all sorts of things to get hot under the collar about. Just remember to be home for dinner, I am making a steak and kidney pudding,” Annie picked up her plate from the table and departed the room.

  Clara eyed up her brother.

  “When are you and Annie going to admit to liking each other?” She pinned him.

  “When are you and O’Harris?” He shot back.

  “That’s different.”

  Tommy raised an eyebrow to indicate he did not think it was. Clara let the matter rest.

  “I am going to see if the inspector has figured out who the dead man is, and then I need to speak with everyone involved in the exhibition,” Clara rose from the table. “Any idea when Victor is coming to see O’Harris’ cars?”

  “He seemed keen, I doubt he’ll want to leave it long. With any luck he has already arranged to go over today. I’ll give the captain a call and find out. If not, I might just pay a call on Miss Holbein. I do believe she dropped her handkerchief on the beach yesterday,” Tommy produced a handkerchief from his pocket, it was prettily embroidered around the edge.

  “That’s my handkerchief,” Clara pointed out.

  “Is it?” Tommy feigned ignorance. “I could have sworn it dropped from Miss Holbein’s pocket.”

  “I am slightly concerned this detective business is bringing out the worst in you,” Clara teased him. “When did you become so deceptive?”

  “I learned from the best,” Tommy winked at her.

  ~~~*~~~

  Clara had no trouble finding the inspector at the police station, for he was just coming down the stairs as she arrived.

  “Briggs? Where is my tea? Ten o’clock sharp there is supposed to be tea on my desk!” Inspector Park-Coombs bellowed into the rooms behind the front desk. He looked up at Clara. “Good morning. Did you get some sleep?”

  “Yes, did you?”

  Park-Coombs snorted.

  “Do I look like I slept?” He turned and shouted through a doorway again. “Briggs! Tea!”

  “Dr Browning hired me after all,” Clara explained her presence. “He is concerned that last night’s incident is just the start of something more. He says there have been threats against the exhibition.”

  “Yes, he said that to me too,” Park-Coombs yawned. “I think he is getting worked up about nothing.”

  “A man is dead.”

  “Yes, a man who was clearly an idiot for wanting to smash the cases, but that does not mean that there is this great threat hanging over the exhibition in general,” Park-Coombs looked exasperated. “It is one isolated crime that Dr Browning is taking to indicate a great conspiracy. Most of these protestors are old men and married women who enjoy making placards and leaflets, but don’t intend to take things further.”

  “I can imagine something along those lines was said about the suffragettes, and look what trouble they caused,” Clara said.

  Park-Coombs gave another dismissive snort. Clara could see he was too tired to pay full attention to her concerns.

  “You don’t mind me poking around, do you?” She said.

  “Not at all, if it means Dr Browning does not keep pestering the police with his concerns, all the better,” Park-Coombs frowned and lowered his voice. “Between you and me Clara, I am not sure how I will solve this murder. It looks like a crime of opportunity and I have no clue who could be behind it. I am not hopeful.”

  “Have you discovered who the dead man was?” Clara was undeterred, she felt that getting to the bottom of this mystery would be tricky, but not impossible.

  “Ah, we did find that out,” Park-Coombs scratched his nose and looked exhausted. “John Morley was his name. There was nothing on his body to give us an identity, but about an hour after we found him Mrs Morley came into the station to report that her husband had not come home that night. The desk sergeant was bright enough to pay attention and ask her questions about the clothes her husband was wearing. Then he came to see me. Just after midnight, Mrs Morley identified her husband’s body.”

  “Poor woman,” Clara sighed. “Did she know why he had gone out that night?”

  “She said she thought he had gone to the pub, as he often did in the evenings. He was a keen darts player, apparently, and was on the local team. They had a match coming up, or something, and he was putting in extra practice. Anyway, he did not come home when she expected and that was not like him.”

  “Was he a drink
er?”

  “His wife was cagey on the subject,” Park-Coombs’ expression indicated he thought it very likely John Morley enjoyed a tipple or two.

  “Had he taken part in the protests outside the exhibition?”

  “His wife said he had not. He works during the day. Morley was a carpenter.”

  “Easy access to a hammer.”

  “Exactly,” Park-Coombs slammed a fist onto the front desk. “Is that cup of tea coming?”

  “I suppose I should speak to Mrs Morley and to John’s friends,” Clara said, thinking it might be wise to leave the inspector in peace. “Could you give me her address?”

  The inspector fudged around in his pocket and found a piece of paper to write on, before scrawling out the address of Mrs Morley.

  “Oh, before you go, we found a considerable sum of money in John’s pocket. His wife was surprised at the amount and said he had not had it when he went out. Perhaps someone paid him to commit the crime?” The inspector shrugged, then went back to trying to summon up his tea.

  Clara found the address down a quiet road, halfway between poor-but-respectable and down-at-heel. The address the inspector had given her led her to a terrace in the middle of a row. It looked as though the occupants had been experiencing some troubles; the door had a hole in the bottom half, as if someone had kicked it in and the pane of a window had been smashed and covered with newspaper. Broken glass littered the garden path and crunched under Clara’s feet. She looked around her and wondered what to expect when Mrs Morley opened the door, she wasn’t hopeful.

  John Morley had been big and strong, even in death that was obvious. His wife was the complete opposite. When she opened the door to Clara she was hunched up, her skin a nasty shade of grey and her eyes and hair dull. She had an old bruise on her cheek and the worn expression of someone so used to trouble they hardly care about it anymore.

  “Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara introduced herself. “I am very sorry for your loss, Mrs Morley.”

  Mrs Morley gave a mumble, it was not plain what she said. She pulled an old cardigan tighter across her body and Clara noticed there was a hole in the elbow.

  “I am helping the police with their enquiries,” Clara edged around the truth. “Might I interrupt your day for a moment or two?”

  Mrs Morley muttered something again, it might have been an invitation for Clara to come in or it might not. Clara found herself leaning closer to the woman to try to hear what she said. Fortunately, Mrs Morley punctuated whatever she had mumbled by opening the door a little wider, and Clara surmised she was welcome.

  Clara walked straight into the front room, which like most front rooms was reserved for special occasions and had the starched air of a space little used. Mrs Morley led her through a door at the back of the room which entered a corridor running horizontally across the width of the house. A staircase ran up to the first floor on Clara’s left, while dead ahead was another door leading into a kitchen. A fire was burning low in the range and the supper things from the night before still sat on a table in the middle. Two armchairs squeezed against the wall nearest the door, almost blocking entry. This was the space where the Morleys spent their time. They ate and sat in this tiny room, on top of one another, because for the sake of form the front room was reserved for Christmas, weddings and funerals. Clara had always been practical over fashionable, which was why she utilised all the rooms in her house and did not keep one sealed up for important events.

  Mrs Morley walked into the room ahead of Clara and paused by the table. Resting a hand on the wooden top she sharply coughed, the sound more of a bark than a polite clearing of the throat. She had her back turned, but Clara could guess the strain on her face the exercise had just caused. Mrs Morley’s head drooped for a moment, then she recovered.

  “Take a seat,” she said in a hoarse voice that was at least loud enough to be audible.

  Clara slipped into the nearest armchair, noting the arms were black with dirt and grease from fingers and arms. Cloths on the top of the chair back had been put there to try to keep the fabric clean from the oiled hair of men sitting in them. Clara spotted that they needed washing and opted to perch at the front of her seat.

  “I could make tea,” Mrs Morley had turned to face the table, now she had both hands resting on it and was still hunched up as she made the offer.

  “Please, there is no need,” Clara assured her. “I would just like to talk.”

  Mrs Morley nodded sadly. She coughed again.

  “Such a bad night,” she said, mostly to herself. “I shan’t be much help at all.”

  “Maybe I could make a cup of tea for you?” Clara asked, feeling concerned about the way the woman was leaning over the table. “Mrs Morley, are you quite well?”

  Mrs Morley coughed hard into her hand.

  “Would you be so kind as to fetch my brother?” Mrs Morley said weakly. “I feel rather unwell.”

  Suddenly Mrs Morley collapsed forward onto the table and then slipped to the floor. Clara jumped up and ran to her.

  “Mrs Morley?” She touched the woman’s skin, which was clammy and taking a blue tinge. She was unconscious.

  Clara wasn’t sure what to do at first, but she did have to get the woman up off the cold floor. She pulled at her arms and was surprised at how light Mrs Morley was. It did not require great amounts of strength to lift her into one of the armchairs, though it was awkward to get the woman to remain in it. She seemed determined to slump back to the floor.

  Clara tapped her cheek gently, but Mrs Morley was not coming around any time soon. Her breath was coming in and out in nasty rasps and her lips had become very pale. Clara felt sure she needed a doctor, but wasn’t convinced the woman would thank her if she went for one. People like the Morleys did not have money for luxuries like medical care. Yet she did need help.

  Clara made a decision, Mrs Morley had asked for her brother and someone in this road must know where he was. She hurried outside to fetch help for the poor woman.

  Chapter Seven

  Tommy knocked at Miss Holbein’s door. Captain O’Harris had informed him that Victor Darling was going to look at his car collection that morning, which gave Tommy the ideal opportunity to catch Miss Holbein alone. When he was done, he intended to head to O’Harris’ house and talk to Victor too. O’Harris had extended a luncheon invitation to the man, so he was going to be there a while.

  Miss Holbein’s maid opened the door.

  “Hello, I was hoping to see Miss Holbein,” Tommy told her with his best smile.

  The girl eyed him thoughtfully. He had the impression he was not the first strange man to turn up on Miss Holbein’s doorstep. The maid appeared used to such arrivals. She disappeared into the house, closing the door behind her, and without saying anything. He assumed she intended to return, and that he was not standing there like a fool before a closed door.

  A few moments passed and then the door reopened; this time Miss Holbein was stood before him.

  “You?” She said curiously, she had a sullen look on her face, but Tommy caught a hint of interest in her eyes.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but I believe you dropped this yesterday?” Tommy produced Clara’s handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.

  “It’s not mine,” Miss Holbein said instantly.

  “Oh, I apologise, I’ll not trouble you any longer,” Tommy gave her a smile and then turned away. He was only a couple of paces down the garden path when she spoke to him.

  “You can come inside for a drink.”

  It sounded more like a command than a request, but Tommy wasn’t going to argue, she was after all talking to him, which was more than Clara had achieved. He turned back around and walked to the door.

  “A drink? Would that not be disrespectful to your young man?” He asked.

  Miss Holbein shrugged.

  “Do you care?” She asked him.

  Tommy did not, and plainly nor did Miss Holbein.

  “A drink would be nice,” To
mmy answered.

  She led him through to a sun lounge at the back of the house. Big picture windows overlooked a beautifully kept lawn that had been recently rolled into a chequer-board pattern. Soft, over-padded sofas faced the window and Miss Holbein motioned carelessly to one.

  “Sit.”

  Tommy obeyed her command. The room was very modern in style, quite minimalist in appearance. A gracefully elongated ceramic greyhound throwing up its head as if to howl was the only work of art in the room. It stood in a corner, catching the sun. Otherwise the walls were bare apart from a large mirror on the wall behind the sofas. A large drinks cabinet stood in the corner of the room and when Miss Holbein opened the doors, she revealed a vast selection of spirits. Tommy was somewhat surprised, and then he spotted the cocktail shaker on the top of the cabinet and realised Miss Holbein was following the latest fad from America for mixing spirits into new drinks with unusual names.

  “Whisky?” Miss Holbein called out to him.

  Tommy glanced at his watch, it was only a little past ten o’clock.

  “Just a small one.”

  Miss Holbein appeared a second later with a large tumbler of whisky and a gin and tonic for herself. She handed the alcohol to Tommy and he took a polite sip. The whisky was neat, and it was far too early for Tommy to be in the mood for drinking. He tried to appear nonchalant as he placed the tumbler on the nearby coffee table.

  “Well,” Miss Holbein said. “This was unexpected.”

  “I thought the handkerchief was yours,” Tommy repeated.

  “You said,” Miss Holbein told him bluntly. “I wouldn’t carry a handkerchief like that, too frilly. I like things clean-cut, modern, simplistic.”

  Miss Holbein took a big sip of her drink.

  “You’re in luck,” she said.

  “Am I?” Tommy asked.

  “Victor called off our trip out today,” Miss Holbein pouted. “He said he was unwell, some sort of stomach upset. Really inconvenient of him. I was just feeling quite despondent, and then you turn up.”