The Monster at the Window Read online

  The Monster at the Window

  A Clara Fitzgerald Mystery

  Book 11

  By

  Evelyn James

  Red Raven Publications

  2017

  © Evelyn James 2017

  First published 2017

  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

  The Monster at the Window is the eleventh 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

  Grave Suspicions of Murder

  The Woman Died Thrice

  Murder and Mascara

  The Green Jade Dragon

  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 Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter One

  Oliver Bankes stumbled over a log in the darkness. He fell to his hands and splashed muddy water from the ground onto his face. Blinking, briefly, he got to his feet and kept running, his terror moving his body despite the tightness in his chest and the ache in his legs.

  Even as he fled in fear, his mind was repeating over and over that what he had just seen was not possible. But he could not disbelieve his eyes, or his other senses. What he had seen that night beggared belief, but that did not mean he had not seen it. The sight had scared him out of his wits, and he had turned and run for his life through the dark night, across the parkland, wildly guessing the direction to the road. He had left behind his expensive photography equipment, not that he cared in that moment. All that mattered was escape.

  Another tree root threatened to topple him. He somehow kept his footing. Nearer, nearer the road drew, the landscape becoming vaguely familiar. He was sure he recognised that burned out tree, struck by lightning years ago and left as a stark reminder of the cruelty of nature.

  Nature!

  What creation of nature had he seen that night? Was this some sort of strange natural phenomena, explainable by science? He feared not, but he did know of one person who might be able to explain. He had at first only meant to run away as fast as possible, now he had a new idea and with it came purpose. He had to reach Clara Fitzgerald and explain this terrible night to her. Maybe she could solve this nightmare and put everyone’s mind at ease. At least she would be practical about the whole thing and, right there and then, what Oliver needed most was someone practical.

  The wall of the estate was in sight, just beyond would be the road. Oliver breathed a sigh of relief. It was still a long walk to Brighton, but the draw of the town with its many residents was too tempting to ignore. Oliver wanted to be among people, a lot of people. He wanted to see lights in windows and hear people laughing and shouting. That was the only way to banish this horror from his soul. He skirted the wall until he found the gate, and then he was on the road and slowing to a fast trot. He was out of puff and sore, but ahead was salvation.

  He strode on into the night, determined to put as much distance between him and the monster he had just seen as was possible. Every step counted as he made the tedious journey back to Brighton.

  ~~~*~~~

  Captain O’Harris had suggested going to the picture house. There was a horror movie playing, one based on Frankenstein. As the evening was damp and dark, autumn closing in fast, it seemed a perfect time to go to the movies and escape the real world for a bit. Clara agreed even though she was not that fussed about horror movies, she just liked being in O’Harris’ company.

  Clara was Brighton’s first female private detective, an accolade that brought her as much grief as it did fame, but she loved her work and the help she could bring to others. If someone had told her two years ago that she would be solving murders and confronting hardened criminals she would have thought they were talking rot, but that was her life now. It was certainly not a usual career for a woman, at least not in Brighton.

  Clara had first met Captain O’Harris on a case. He had been curious about the mysterious death of his uncle. The unravelling of the mystery had brought Clara close to O’Harris, a closeness she had hoped to pursue until he vanished during a record-breaking flight across the Atlantic. A whole year later he had turned up in America, so ill and traumatised he could not even state his name to those who helped him. It was only by chance that his real identity was discovered, and he was ultimately returned to England. O’Harris was still battling his demons, but at least he was home and each week that passed brought improvement. Clara had high hopes that he would soon be completely fit and back to the man she remembered. In the meantime, they were reacquainting themselves with each other, and that closeness they had barely touched upon a year ago was rapidly growing.

  All of which meant that Clara was quite happy to sit in the picture house with O’Harris and watch the silent production of Frankenstein, while a pianist played appropriate accompanying music. The only thing she was not able to do was act like the other girls in the audience, who were screaming and squeaking as the monster lumbered across the screen, and ducking their heads into the shoulders of their male companions. Clara watched these antics with mild interest. She did not find the movie very frightening at all, in truth, she felt sorry for poor Frankenstein who was taking the brunt of people’s misunderstandings and prejudice.

  Clara didn’t really do screaming or running for cover into the arms of the nearest young man. She would hardly be doing the career she did if she was so inclined. But she was beginning to wonder if perhaps it was rather expected whilst watching a horror movie to act terrified for the sake of your male companion. It seemed to give them ample excuse for indulging in heavy petting. Things were becoming a little unseemly in certain quarters.

  Clara nestled herself a little closer to O’Harris, to remove herself as much as possible from the next-door couple who had given up on the movie and were now kissing with little regard for their whereabouts. Captain O’Harris glanced at Clara and smiled, then he reached out and took her hand in his, squeezing it lightly. Clara was close to explaining that she was not scared, only aiming to avoid the people next to her, but decided that would be rather tactless. In any case, she was quite happy to have her hand held by O’Harris.

  On the screen Frankenstein roared mutely as the villagers chased him up to the top of a tall ravine. There, jabbed at by pitchforks and
flaming torches, the tormented creature stumbled backwards and fell down into the rocky crevasse.

  Around Clara people cheered. She was rather disappointed in their failure to understand. The monster was not the ugly, stomping brute who cried out in silent pain to his pursuers. The real monsters were the villagers who hunted him just because he was different and strange. Clara sighed softly to herself. People never learned.

  Clara and O’Harris returned to the foyer of the picture house and the captain retrieved their coats. Outside it was pouring with rain and the pavements swirled with puddles.

  “Sorry Clara, I didn’t think to bring an umbrella,” O’Harris grimaced as he looked at the rain.

  Clara shrugged.

  “No matter,” she said. “Nor did I.”

  “We’ll make a dash for it then?” O’Harris suggested, holding out his arm for Clara to take.

  Clara pulled her hat firmly down on her head.

  “Sounds like the best solution!” she took his arm and they darted out into the rain, laughing as they dived around puddles and splashed their way home as fast as they could. They were bound to get soaked, running did not make a difference, but they ran anyway, dodging the odd vehicle meandering along the roads and keeping to the lit streets where they could see the path clearly.

  By the time they had reached Clara’s house they were both drenched.

  “You should come in and dry off,” Clara said to O’Harris.

  “I’ll only have to get wet again heading for Dr Cutt’s house,” O’Harris remarked. “Not that I am turning down your offer lightly. I would rather sit by your parlour fire for a time, but the thought of warming up and then having to come out in the rain again gives me a chill.”

  “Oh, you can borrow an umbrella,” Clara said cheerfully. “You shan’t get wet again. At least stop for a cup of cocoa.”

  O’Harris did not need a lot of persuasion. He grinned.

  “As long as Annie won’t get cross about me dripping on her clean floors.”

  “Annie will putter,” Clara admitted, referring to her friend and housekeeper, “but she will understand.”

  Clara led him into the hall of the house and took his wet raincoat. Clara’s brother Tommy emerged from the parlour, having heard the front door opening and closing. He looked at the drenched pair and nodded.

  “Is it raining then?”

  “Not so you would notice,” O’Harris responded brightly.

  “You best sit by the fire and dry off!” Tommy pointed the newspaper he had been reading at them. “You’ll catch your deaths.”

  “You are beginning to sound like Annie,” Clara teased him, heading through into the parlour and poking up the fire so it blazed.

  O’Harris joined her and they both gave a sigh of relief as the warmth of the flames started to get through to their bones. Annie appeared in the doorway of the room, wiping her hands on a cloth.

  “You two will catch your deaths!” she declared.

  “I already told them that,” Tommy interjected.

  “Hot cocoa at once!” Annie said, ignoring him. “Why on earth did you not take an umbrella, Clara?”

  Clara could only shrug helplessly, knowing Annie would tut at her as she stalked off to make the warm drinks. Tommy shook his head at them.

  “At least was the film good?”

  “It was sad,” Clara replied. “The poor monster was so misunderstood…”

  She was interrupted by a rapid hammering on the front door. Tommy glanced at them with a frown.

  “Who would it be at this hour?” he tilted his head to the clock which was already showing a quarter to ten on its dial.

  The hammering came again, hard and insistent. Perplexed, Tommy went to answer it. From where she stood by the fire, Clara heard him declare;

  “Oliver! Look at the state of you! Come in at once.”

  Tommy brought a dishevelled Oliver Bankes into the parlour. The poor man was soaked to the skin and covered in mud. He was trembling and looked fit to collapse.

  “Fetch him some dry clothes,” Clara instructed, grabbing a chair from the breakfast table and hastening to sit Oliver in it. “You look a state, where have you been?”

  Oliver’s teeth were chattering so badly he could not answer. He was not wearing a coat, only a woollen waistcoat over his shirt. Tommy started to help him take these off. Oliver’s hands were shaking too hard to undo the buttons.

  “Annie, we need warm towels urgently!” Clara called out.

  Annie darted back to the room to see what had occurred since she had been gone.

  “Oliver Bankes!” she looked at the shivering man with an expression of horror, then she moved into action.

  Disappearing briefly, she returned with large towels, one of which she threw over Oliver’s bare shoulders, now his shirt had been removed. She fetched further clean clothes from Tommy’s wardrobe as Oliver was stripped of his socks and trousers. With only his underwear to protect his decency, Oliver trembled under his towel and gritted his teeth.

  “I think he needs a stiff drink,” O’Harris suggested, moving to the Fitzgeralds’ drinks cabinet and pouring out a large brandy. “He looks fit to faint.”

  The drink was pressed into Oliver’s hand and he sipped at it, his shivering making it difficult to swallow. They wrapped him in the towels until he was swaddled like a baby and made sure he was sitting as close to the fire as possible. Annie had wasted no time filling a stone hot water bottle from the kettle and put this under Oliver’s feet. Warmth started to return to his body and he relaxed. By the time Annie appeared with the cups of cocoa, colour had returned to Oliver’s cheeks and he had stopped shivering.

  “Well, Oliver Bankes!” Annie said as she pressed the cup of cocoa into his hands. “What have you been up to? You look like a man who has seen a ghost, if truth be told!”

  “Not a ghost,” Oliver answered, finding enough strength to speak. “But something far worse.”

  He sipped his cocoa and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Tonight, I have witnessed the impossible and I am sorely in need of Clara’s skills as a detective to explain it all to me.”

  Clara was surprised.

  “Where have you been?” she asked him.

  “The estate of Lord Howton,” Oliver explained. “I was his guest for the evening. He wanted me to take photographic proof of the horror afflicting the family.”

  Clara was baffled.

  “The horror?” she repeated. “Is something wrong with the family?”

  “You could say that,” Oliver answered. “Clara, if I understood anything I had seen tonight I would be happy, but none of it makes sense. I went to Lord Howton’s home utterly sceptical about what I would find or see. Now I come away baffled and very afraid.”

  “Have you walked all the way from the estate?” Tommy asked, noting the thick layer of mud on the bottom of Oliver’s shoes which now sat by the fire, steaming slightly as they dried.

  “I ran most of the way,” Oliver corrected. “Until I was too exhausted to run anymore. If you had witnessed what I had, you would not have stopped either until you were back among civilisation.”

  “Old man, has someone been hurt?” O’Harris asked carefully.

  “Good question,” Oliver nodded. “When this nightmare began, I was in the company of Lord Howton’s eldest son, Richard. He ran in one direction, I in the other. I hope he made it back to the house.”

  “Oliver, what on earth did you witness tonight?” Clara demanded, deciding it was time to get to the bottom of all these riddles. “You speak as if you saw a monster.”

  “I think I did, Clara,” Oliver replied. “I certainly can’t explain it any other way. I went to Lord Howton’s home to prove that a fraud or hoax was being enacted on the family. I have come away convinced that the supernatural exists and is plaguing them. They are cursed Clara, that is all it can be.”

  “The supernatural?” Annie said, looking nervous. Out of all of them she was the most convinced tha
t ghosts were a very real thing.

  “There is nothing supernatural in this world,” Clara said firmly. “Everything has a rational explanation.”

  “You would not say that if you had seen what I have seen!” Oliver said firmly, almost snapping out the words.

  “And what did you see Oliver?” Tommy asked calmly.

  Oliver opened his mouth to speak and for a moment no words came out. Then he closed his eyes and resolved himself to talking.

  “I saw a corpse rise up from the grave,” he said in a rush. “The corpse of Lord Howton’s late brother!”

  Chapter Two

  There was a long pause.

  “You see? This is precisely what I expected. A man is not believed when he is telling the absolute truth!” Oliver snapped, sounding somewhat hysterical. It had been a very long and traumatic night.

  “I do believe you, Oliver,” Clara said gently. “I believe you saw something inexplicable, at least for the moment, and that it was a terrifying experience. But, there will be a logical reason for it, nonetheless.”

  “You were not there Clara,” Oliver’s voice had regained its steadiness. “I saw a man who has been dead these last three weeks! He stood before me smelling of putrefaction, his skin the colour of ashes, his eyes glazed and wild. There were maggots falling off him! I saw a corpse reanimated!”

  Clara took a seat opposite Oliver. She was still trying to comprehend how her rational and sensible friend could possibly imagine he had witnessed a dead man come back from the grave that night. Of course, as Oliver had pointed out, she had not been there to witness what had occurred.

  “Let’s start at the beginning Oliver, what were you doing at Lord Howton’s home in the first place?”

  Oliver gave a sigh, relaxing somewhat since he was no longer being questioned over what he had seen. He closed his eyes a moment, then lifted them and looked Clara square in the face.

  “Lord Howton invited me. This horror is not new to him. The corpse of his late brother has been prowling about the house and terrorising the family ever since the funeral was over and done with,” Oliver paused, waiting for a reaction. No one spoke, so he continued. “Lord Howton knew that, just as I have experienced here tonight, he would not be believed if he told people this. He wanted proof that he could show to the world and remove doubt. He knew it was the only way to find help for his family without being laughed at. He wanted the assistance of the Church and the authorities to rid him of this monster. None would help without evidence of his claims.”