Grave Suspicions of Murder

  Grave Suspicions of Murder

  A Clara Fitzgerald Mystery

  (Book 7)

  by

  Evelyn James

  © Evelyn James 2016

  First published 2016

  Red Raven Publications

  The right of Evelyn James to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the permission in writing from the author

  Grave Suspicions of Murder is the seventh book in the Clara Fitzgerald series

  Other titles in the Series:

  Memories of the Dead

  Flight of Fancy

  Murder in Mink

  Carnival of Criminals

  Mistletoe and Murder

  The Poisoned Pen

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter One

  The newspaper report on the sad death of Mr Isaac Graves stated that he had passed peacefully at his office desk one dull April morning. It made a great deal about his work with local charities, his regular support for Church fundraisers and the time he devoted to the committee that tended to the Brighton Pavilion. It mentioned his still living mother, (now in her eighties and a keen lady golfer) and his sisters, before reporting that his widow had asked for donations to a good cause rather than flowers at the funeral. Mr Graves had disliked flowers due to his acute sinus problems.

  At no point did the newspaper so much as hint that Mr Graves' death had been anything more than a sudden fluke of fate. There was not a whiff of the possibility of it being anything other than natural. Which was why Clara Fitzgerald, Brighton's first female private detective, was startled to receive a visit from Mr Graves’ former business partner, Mr Erikson, to ask her to investigate his late associate’s death.

  According to Erikson there was every reason to fear that Mr Graves had died from that deadly disease called murder, and he was quick to point a finger at several suspects.

  The problem was that Clara could not see any real proof for the suggestion. Mr Graves had not been in the best of health, considering he was only just into his fifties. He had had a bad bout of pneumonia over the winter which had left him weak, and the stress of his job as a solicitor tended to damage his health further. He took on too much work and spent too much time at his office. He didn't eat well, nor did he get enough sleep. He compensated by smoking a pipe continuously and constantly sucking mint imperials that he kept in a paper bag on his desk. Most people had not been very surprised when his death was announced. He was the sort of person you expected to die sooner rather than later.

  But Mr Erikson was adamant that there was more to the matter and Clara took on the case more to stop him causing any trouble for the grieving family by spreading his suspicions abroad, than from any real conviction that she would find anything. It was better, she concluded, that she investigate the case thoroughly and provide Mr Erikson with proof that his suspicions were unfounded, than to let the matter rumble on secretly and for rumours to tarnish Mr Graves' memory.

  The morning of the funeral was as grey as the day poor Mr Graves had died. The newspaper had painted a detailed picture of the dedicated solicitor found slumped at his desk, still working through the paperwork of a particularly tricky will. There had been an outpouring of grief in the town, for quite a number of people knew Mr Graves either through his work, or through the charitable causes he supported. There was expected to be quite a turn out to the funeral, and there had been a private announcement that a horse-drawn hearse would take Mr Graves from his home and, if people wished to pay their respects, they could do so by lining the streets along its route. Needless to say this rather informal suggestion had attracted quite an audience, some of whom were more curious gawkers than real acquaintances of the deceased. Though there was a nice turn out from the Ladies' House of Reform, (which Mr Graves donated his money and time to regularly) with a long line of women in black stationing themselves along the road as a mark of respect.

  The hearse was the finest Mr Clark the undertaker had in his yard. Pulled by a magnificent ebony stallion, with black feathers on his head and a real strut to his elegant trot. The horse was blinkered to avoid him being distracted by the crowd and normally Mr Clark would have expected the whole procession to go quite smoothly. The black stallion was, after all, hugely reliable, and had never been a bother. He knew the right pace to walk so that the mourners behind could keep up without having to endure the indignity of walking briskly or (heaven forbid!) having to run. In fact, Mr Clark had no inkling that morning that his funeral procession was about to become the talk of the town for all the wrong reasons.

  Clara had positioned herself at the corner of the road just before the church to pay her respects. Like many in the town she had a vague knowledge of Mr Graves, though she had not made more than a passing acquaintance with him. She had recently been encouraged (some might term it press-ganged) into joining the Royal Pavilion Committee of Friends, which endeavoured to keep the building looking spic and span, and open to the public when convenient. Mrs Wilton, a former client, had persuaded her to join with the remarkable insight that it would be good for Clara's business to be seen serving the public. Clara thought this a little far-fetched, but somehow she had allowed herself to be persuaded. So far she had only attended a single meeting and had been briefly introduced to Mr Graves when someone pointed him out across the table. They had nodded at one another. Clara had not taken much notice of him at the time. He was an ordinary, middle-aged man, who looked very tired, but spoke with great enthusiasm. Had she known he was about to die in odd circumstances she would have paid greater heed.

  Clara stepped to the very edge of the kerb and peered around the line of people next to her to glimpse the hearse travelling up the road. Mr Clark looked very formal in his top hat and black suit and there was quite a row of mourners walking behind the hearse, at the head being the grieving widow who was heavily veiled and impossible to recognise as Mrs Grace Graves. Clara was just thinking that, if nothing else, Mr Graves was going to get a good send-off, when Mr Clark's reliable black stallion suddenly reared up and bolted. The poor undertaker was cast to the floor as the horse started to charge. There was panic from the mourners as the dearly deceased started to hurtle down the road and who knows where he might have ended up had not a couple of lads from the gathered crowd had the instinct to jump out and grab the stallion's reins.

  Mr Clark came running up, completely flustered by the ordeal. He had never experienced such an episode in all his many years of ferrying the dead back and forth. As he went to take the reins of the agitated horse his top hat blew off and over the back of the stallion, before landing on the road by the hearse's wheels. Clara stepped off the pavement and
picked it up, brushing a speck of dust off the brim. The mourners were catching up. They were looking most indignant at the scene, well, at least those not wearing veils were. It was difficult to say what the heavily concealed widow was thinking.

  Mr Clark was thanking the lads who had stopped the runaway horse and trying to get proceedings back underway as fast as possible. He reached over the back of the stallion to take his hat from Clara, and it was as she handed it over that something spooked the horse once more. With a terrible neigh of outrage, the horse bolted yet again and Clara could not move out of the way in time. There was an awful moment of pain as the hearse ran over her right foot and she collapsed backwards onto the pavement with a cry.

  For a moment Clara hardly dared move. Her foot felt on fire and, casting a cautious glimpse at it, she half expected to see it mangled out of all shape. There was a little bit of blood and the foot was swelling and going red as she looked at it, but she had been lucky in that the hearse wheel had slipped over the middle of her foot quite quickly and the damage was not as severe as it might have been.

  Someone was calling for a doctor. As it happened there was one on the opposite side of the street. He came running over to assess the situation. He gently removed Clara's shoe, though she had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out again. The damage was more visible with her shoe off. The mark of the wheel was plain to see, but her toes had been untouched and the doctor was optimistic when he saw the damage that the foot would heal with rest.

  Rest? Clara was appalled. She had a case to attend to and rest was the last thing she was able to do. But she had to admit she was not going to be walking anywhere anytime soon. The slightest movement of her foot was agony.

  Mr Clark was mortified at what had just occurred. He rushed to Clara and made profuse apologies. Never had his horse bolted like this, never. He would have to have the vet out to see if he was ill, and he would pay for Clara's medical bills, naturally. Clara waved him away. It was an accident and, though it hurt dreadfully, she was not going to blame Mr Clark for it.

  The two lads who had stopped the bolting horse the first time now came to Clara's aid. Between them they carefully lifted her up and stood either side of her, while she rested her good foot on the ground and gingerly held up the crushed one. The doctor insisted on accompanying her home. It seemed a long walk. Even moving carefully Clara felt every step in her damaged foot and by the time she reached home she was about fit to burst into tears and sob over her misfortune.

  Annie, the Fitzgeralds' maid and loyal friend, opened the door and stared at Clara's unhappy face.

  “What on earth have you done? You only went to a funeral.”

  Clara suddenly felt embarrassed.

  “I was run over by the hearse,” she admitted.

  Annie stared at the scene for another second or two, then she began to giggle.

  “Oh Clara, only you could be run over by a hearse!”

  Clara did not see the humour in the situation as she was carried into the parlour and deposited in her favourite armchair. The doctor set about bandaging her foot, while Annie went to make tea. Clara looked at her foot miserably.

  “How long will it take to heal?” she asked.

  “You will need to give it a few weeks at least,” the doctor said. “Maybe a couple of months.”

  Clara felt even worse.

  Annie returned with a tray of cake for Clara's helpers and a hearty piece for Clara herself. The doctor declined staying for a cup of tea as he had a funeral to attend. But the lads who had carried Clara hung around for some time, explaining how the horse had bolted and how Clara had been run over.

  “Never knew old Bill to act like that,” one shook his head. “Bill, being the name of the horse, naturally.”

  “Is he the black stallion Mr Clark always uses for special funerals?” Annie asked.

  “That he is.”

  “He pulled the hearse for the late mayor,” Annie nodded. “I thought he looked a sound creature.”

  “He pulled my parents' hearse,” Clara added.

  There was an uneasy silence as the spectre of death seemed to have crept over the tea party. The lads finished their cake and made their excuses. Clara thanked them for their help as they left. Then she flopped back into her chair and let the full misery of the situation take over her.

  “Oh, Clara, it won't be so long,” Annie saw her face and tried to make amends for laughing earlier.

  “I have a case to investigate,” Clara said miserably.

  “It will have to wait.”

  “It can't.”

  Annie pressed her lips together, trying to think of a solution. At that moment the front door clattered again.

  “That will be Tommy home,” Annie said, with a touch of relief. “He went with Oliver to visit Herbert Phinn.”

  Tommy, Clara's older brother, appeared in the doorway. Tommy had been confined to a wheelchair since the war. If anyone should have sympathy for Clara's current condition, you would imagine it should be Tommy.

  “Hey ho, there she is! The woman who can't resist trying to catch speeding hearses with her foot,” Tommy was grinning and it was clear there was going to be little sympathy for Clara's plight.

  “The news is all over Brighton of what happened,” Oliver Bankes, the Fitzgeralds' friend and Brighton's police photographer, winked at Clara. “You won't live this one down in a hurry.”

  “You are both horrid,” Clara groaned, looking at her poor foot. “It hurt a lot!”

  “Ah, now, we didn't mean it,” Tommy changed his tone. “Is it very bad?”

  “The doctor says I must rest, and how am I to investigate my case like this?” Clara pointed at her foot.

  For a moment no one spoke, then Oliver piped up.

  “You need a detective by proxy,” he said. “Someone to do all the footwork, excuse the pun, for you. You can still piece all the evidence together once they bring it back.”

  “And precisely who do you have in mind?” Clara asked forlornly.

  Again no one spoke, then, first Tommy, then Oliver, looked at Annie. Annie didn't notice at once, but when she did she jumped up like a startled rabbit.

  “Oh no!”

  “You could do it Annie!” Tommy declared. “Who else can Clara trust? Besides, it would be awful for her reputation if she handed over responsibility to a man, think what people would say.”

  “But I would have to visit people!” Annie looked aghast.

  “You could do that, old girl, you have helped out before.”

  “Helped,” Annie clarified. “Not acted as a detective!”

  “Supposing you did do it, Annie,” Clara was looking at her keenly now, “you would get me out of a bind, and it would only be for a short time. You would be my eyes and ears.”

  “Really!” Annie shook her head.

  “What else can I do?” Clara pleaded. “If I back out of this case, it will just be awful. Will people want to hire me afterwards?”

  “You can't help being hurt,” Annie insisted.

  “But people don't think like that. They just get cross because I didn't handle their case,” Clara fixed her eyes on Annie. “Annie, this time I really need your help.”

  Annie felt hemmed in. She had only one argument left.

  “What about the housework?”

  “We can arrange something,” Tommy brushed the difficulty aside. “Perhaps hire a temporary maid?”

  “I think not!” Annie snapped.

  “Well, we will work something out. You won't be rushing around like Clara does, just doing odd errands.”

  Annie looked back at Clara, who did her best to look persuasive.

  “I really need your help,” she said.

  Annie knew she was beaten. She took another look at Clara's bandaged foot and sighed.

  “Fine then, I shall be a detective by proxy, but don't expect me to do anything dangerous.”

  “When do I do anything dangerous?” Clara declared.

  They all gave
her a stern look.

  Chapter Two

  Clara's foot was propped up on a stool. She glared at the broken appendage as if it had done something wrong.

  “It won't get better any faster with you casting the evil eye on it,” Annie said as she pinned her hat to her head. “Do I look respectable enough to visit a solicitor?”

  Annie was masking her emotions well, but she was very nervous about her first day as a detective.

  “You always look respectable, Annie,” Clara assured her. “Probably more so than I do.”

  “Well, I just hope Mr Erikson is understanding about my replacing yourself in this case.”

  “He really has to be understanding, I can't do anything else,” Clara frowned. “Remind him that I will be going over all the evidence you gather personally, so he doesn't think I have completely abandoned the matter.”

  “Do you think poor Mr Graves was done in?”

  “I am open minded on the subject, as I must be on any case. And, avoid using phrases like that around Mr Erikson, he may not take them well.”

  Annie pulled on her coat.

  “Now, I have left the potatoes on the table in a bowl for you to peel. Tommy is in charge of the bacon joint. I gave him all the instructions for it.”

  “I assure you, we shall have dinner ready for when you return.”

  Annie looked less than convinced.

  “I've got a jam roly poly ready to boil. But I should be home in time to do that,” Annie gave Clara one last look. “And don't sit here all morning feeling sorry for yourself. I told Tommy to fetch some books from the library for you when he went with Oliver. Oh, and Dr Cutt is due to visit at half two to check your foot.”

  Clara nodded, wishing she was the one now leaving the house. She had already had enough of being an invalid.

  “I'll be off then,” Annie picked up her handbag and took a deep breath.

  “You will be fine,” Clara promised.

  Annie glanced back.

  “I will try not to let you down,” she said over her shoulder as she headed out.