Mr Lynch's Prophecy Page 15

“Yet, you will have an opinion,” Clara nudged him. “This conversation is just between us, you can tell me anything.”

  “My opinion is hardly relevant,” the Head Porter said with an air of indignation. “Professor Lynch was a wise and clever man. His loss to the Institute was hard. I am sure if he felt the box was important it was.”

  Clara was disappointed.

  “What if it is true it contains prophecies Professor Lynch wrote?” She asked.

  “I do not see what you want me to say? The professor must have thought these things important and that is that.”

  The Head Porter pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time.

  “I must depart, I have a lot of things to do,” he said.

  He left Clara alone in the room and she had the impression he had disliked every moment of their conversation. She might not have learned much, but his attitude did tell her that Professor Lynch was well-liked by those who knew him, and no one wanted to speak ill of him. Professor Montgomery looked to be on his own when it came to questioning Lynch’s last gift to the Institute.

  “Never mind,” Clara sighed, she had one last person to speak to.

  ~~~*~~~

  Professor Hobart was the lecturer in advanced mathematics for the Institute and Clara caught him at the tail end of a lesson. The door to his classroom was a little open and she stood in the hall trying to follow the complicated mathematical problem the professor was revealing to his students. Clara understood that to correctly calculate star movements, trajectories and orbits required a solid foundation in mathematics and she would not have considered herself incompetent in the subject, but the vast and seemingly endless equation Professor Hobart was explaining was lost upon her. It began at one end of a very long blackboard and did not finish until it reached the other end, and there were lots of letters involved as well as numbers.

  Clara took a deep breath and consoled herself that such an equation was not necessary to her own career choice, and it was jolly good that there were at least some people in this world who understood this stuff and could practically apply it.

  The big bell in the Institute’s clock tower chimed on cue, and Hobart dismissed his class. Clara stood aside to let everyone file out, intrigued to see that none looked as baffled as her by what they had just heard, then she slipped into the classroom.

  Professor Hobart was scrubbing the equation from the blackboard.

  “Just a moment,” he said, without looking behind him.

  Clara waited patiently until he turned around.

  “Oh,” Professor Hobart was surprised to see her, “I apologise, I thought you were a student come to ask me a question.”

  “Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara introduced herself, discreetly closing the door at her side. “I had hoped to take a moment of your time to ask about Professor Lynch? I believe you knew him?”

  “I was one of his students,” Professor Hobart smiled proudly. “The professor encouraged me to take up teaching, he saw I had an aptitude for explaining complicated problems to people.”

  Clara imagined that was probably true, if the ‘people’ already had a strong foundation in mathematics.

  “Why are you asking about the professor?” Hobart paused, his smile fading.

  “You have heard about the box that was discovered in the library?” Clara asked him.

  Hobart had the blackboard eraser in his hands and he twisted it around anxiously.

  “I have. I haven’t really paid that much attention though,” he didn’t meet Clara’s eyes.

  “I hardly have to explain to you, Professor, the divide this box has caused among your colleagues. I have been asked to investigate its contents and determine what should be done with it.”

  Hobart looked uncomfortable.

  “Professor Lynch was a brilliant astronomer,” he said in a tone that implied he would not be shaken on that belief. “I admired him. I admired his intelligence and dedication to the investigation of the universe. He never once mentioned prophecies to me.”

  “Never?”

  “No,” Hobart was firm. “If you ask me, someone is spreading rumours about him, to tarnish his reputation.”

  “Why would anyone do that? Especially his former friends?”

  “I don’t know, but I can’t believe he would dabble in astrology. He was a man of science, he did not believe in hocus pocus stuff.”

  Hobart forcefully put the blackboard eraser down on his desk and Clara reflected that he would now have a chalky patch right where he sat.

  “I am neutral in this debate,” Clara told him, hoping to calm him a little. “That is the whole purpose for my being here. I have been asked to determine if there could be any validity to this box business and whether an official, formal opening should be pursued.”

  “Is that a possibility?” Hobart looked appalled. “If it is, I shall protest it to the utmost. You can’t have such nonsense going on in an Institute of science, Professor Lynch would be appalled, I am sure of that.”

  “You really think this box is a fraud?”

  “I am certain of it,” Professor Hobart was adamant. “The man I knew would never create such a thing and purport to see into the future.”

  “What if, at the end of his life, Professor Lynch was looking for some sort of comfort? Something to cling to in this time of distress?” Clara pointed out.

  Hobart shook his head.

  “Professor Lynch understood that our time on this earth is finite and then we return to dust. He had left his legacy, of that he could be proud. He would not have dabbled in mysticism. Never!”

  ~~~*~~~

  Clara made her way back to Professor Montgomery’s office, feeling she had achieved very little in the last few hours. It seemed that Professor Lynch had been a man who presented a different persona to different people. To his students he was a robust man of science, to his doctor he was a man riddled with disease and trying to cope with his suffering, while to certain of his colleagues he was a prophet. There was no obvious answer to the riddle of his box based on what she had learned from those who had known him.

  Professor Montgomery welcomed her into his office with a hopeful look on his face. Clara was sorry to disappoint him.

  “If ever there was a man who presented a different facet of himself to different people, it was Professor Lynch,” she began. “Your bursar and your librarian are certain he was a master astrologer with a knack for interpreting the stars. Your Head Porter refuses to make any comment, except that Professor Lynch was a man he greatly respected. Professor Hobart is appalled at the idea his mentor would even consider astrology and considers the box a fraud. And then there is Dr Finnigan, who saw a man on the brink of death clutching at straws and admired him for his strength of will and determination. I have no clear answers for you, Professor, and I don’t think I shall gain anymore from just talking to the people who knew Lynch.”

  Professor Montgomery was despondent with this assessment.

  “You are sure you looked through his papers thoroughly?” He asked, desperately.

  “Yes and came across a mixture of genuine scientific papers and astrology charts. There was a thesis on Halley’s Comet sandwiched between Lynch’s birth chart and a later horoscope. All I can tell you from those papers was that Lynch was a man of contradictions.”

  Montgomery groaned.

  “This is awful. I have nothing I can use to stop the librarian and bursar pursuing their idea of a public opening of the box. Even if I refuse to allow it to happen, they can stir up a fuss and talk about the box. How will I ever be able to face our benefactors and sponsors again?”

  “There is my other idea,” Clara reminded him.

  “A secret opening of the box?” Montgomery clasped his hand to his forehead and cradled his head for a few seconds. “Is that what I am reduced to? Sneaking about in my own institute?”

  “It will give you more options if you know what the box contains,” Clara said. “As I suggested before, supposing it c
ontains a final paper of such importance to the science of astronomy that it will revolutionise the discipline? Then, a public opening would be in your favour.”

  “You are trying to offer me hope Miss Fitzgerald, but what if the box contains more astrology charts?”

  “Then at least you will know,” Clara said. “And then you can argue against the opening of the box with greater conviction. Without knowing what is in that box, you are open to doubts and that is a disadvantage.”

  “I have no doubts that box should not be opened publicly!” Montgomery protested.

  “Even if it were to contain an astronomy paper, as I suggested?”

  Montgomery hesitated. Clara could see him working out the consequences of the public unveiling of an important work by the late Professor Lynch, one of the most well-remembered and beloved academics at the Institute. The publicity for his college would be of great importance and would enable him to find further funding and students. It could only benefit the Institute. Montgomery gave a little wistful sigh as he imagined such a fantastic result.

  “You know how to charm a man, Miss Fitzgerald,” he said softly. “You know how to speak to his inner accountant and give him hope. You are saying that Lynch may not have filled this box with nonsense, but with something of benefit to the Institute?”

  “I honestly do not know,” Clara replied. “I am just trying to impress upon you how difficult it is to make a correct decision about this box without knowing what it contains.”

  “And Mr McGhie will never let it be opened privately, at least with his knowledge,” Montgomery said thoughtfully. “That is for sure.”

  “A secret inspection of the box’s contents is the only thing I can think of to help you,” Clara told the professor. “I have explored every other avenue I can think of without success. There is nothing among Lynch’s papers to hint at the box and none of the people still here who knew him had any knowledge of the box’s contents. Not even Dr Finnigan, who must be considered the person closest to Lynch in his last days. He saw him daily, but was never told the secret of the box.”

  “Lynch was a very private man,” Montgomery agreed. “I see now that he kept an awful lot to himself. I thought I knew him well, but plainly I did not. Had I been more understanding of his astrology, maybe he would have spoken about the box to me.”

  “Or maybe not,” Clara consoled him. “He wanted this last great secret, a sort of legacy. He wanted people to be talking about him years after he was gone. I think I see this as a sort of immortality, a means of proving he was not forgotten. Perhaps, in the end, he feared his academic contributions would not be enough to secure his place in history.”

  “You think that a possibility?” Montgomery smiled to himself. “I can see that, yes. This box business is a way of keeping Lynch’s memory alive, and he thought it up himself.”

  “Where does that leave us?” Clara asked him.

  Professor Montgomery had to stop and think again. It was plain he was reluctant to make a decision, yet also plain he had no choice.

  “I suppose we are opening that box,” he said. “Tonight, I don’t want to waste anymore time on the matter.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Her work done at the Institute, for the time being at least, Clara and Tommy headed for the Brighton docks. Ships and boats were always coming and going from Brighton’s shores. Some were fishing craft, others were passenger ships or pleasure yachts. They needed to dock somewhere and there needed to be places for them to be repaired or just overhauled at the end of a long season. The Sailor’s Rest supposedly catered as a boarding house for seamen without a place to stay when their ships were berthed at Brighton, but, in reality, there were not that many non-local sailors entering the docks, and the seafront hotels and boarding houses further inland soaked up travellers to Brighton looking for a place to rest their heads. As a result, the Sailor’s Rest had diversified.

  Clara and Tommy found the boarding house on a backstreet, opposite a fish warehouse. The cobbles of the old road sparkled with fish scales, as children lacking shoes dashed about in a game of tag. A faded notice in the window of the boarding house indicated it had rooms to let and a bell rang as Clara pushed open the door.

  A woman emerged from the door of a sitting room as Clara and Tommy stepped into the hallway. She stared at them through thick, black glasses which made her eyes seem enormous.

  “I don’t cater for outside workers,” she told Clara firmly. “If the gent wants a lass, I’ll supply one with a room.”

  Tommy stifled a chuckle at the implication that Clara was a working girl come to look for a room to share with her client. Clara managed to take the whole thing in her stride and didn’t even blush.

  “Clara Fitzgerald, private detective, this is my brother Tommy,” she introduced herself to the woman, who looked surprised by the information. “I am looking into the murder of a woman that happened the other night and it has been suggested that the victim was called Rose Red and that she worked here.”

  The woman’s mouth gaped.

  “What are you talking about?” She demanded.

  “A woman was killed in an alleyway, she had nothing on her to identify who she was,” Clara explained. “But there was a tattoo on her leg of the name Rose surrounded by thorns. I am trying to find out who she was and also who attacked her. The rumour is she went by the name Rose Red and resided here.”

  “Why do you care what happened to her?” The woman asked, acting defensive.

  Clara was patient.

  “I don’t like to see a murderer escape justice,” she answered. “I care because someone hurt her, someone took her life and no one, not even a working girl, deserves to have their time on this earth cut short by an act of violence. I can’t say who did this without first knowing more about the victim. I hoped you could help me.”

  The woman had dipped her head and was looking bleak.

  “No one much cares what happens to us round these parts. We are expendable,” she muttered.

  “I care,” Clara promised.

  “You would be the first,” the woman snorted. “I get trouble from time to time and do I ever get help from the police? They don’t come near us. Too afraid, I reckon, or just haven’t got the time for us.”

  “Well, I am here now, and I am not the police. I just want to find out who murdered Rose Red.”

  The woman gave her a strange look.

  “There’s the thing, you are going to have a hard job.”

  “Why?” Clara asked.

  “Because Rose Red is not dead,” the woman snorted with amusement. “Rose is my sister. Rose, love, come out here!”

  A second woman emerged from the sitting room. She bore a remarkable resemblance to the woman in the alley, aside from being very much alive and well.

  “There has been talk you are dead,” the first woman told Rose.

  Rose grinned at this information, revealing that she had a gap in her front teeth.

  “Now, don’t that just tickle you!” She laughed. “Do I look dead?”

  “No,” Clara found herself smiling too. “And I am very relieved about that, but that leaves me still baffled as to who that woman was in the alley.”

  “What woman?” Rose asked her sister.

  “A woman was killed. Whereabouts did you say?”

  “Near the picture house,” Clara elaborated. “No one knows who she is, but she had this tattoo on her leg of the word rose…”

  “…surrounded by thorns,” Rose Red finished the sentence.

  Her eyes had gone wide and her smile had disappeared completely. Clara realised she was trembling.

  “You know who she is,” she said.

  “I need a cigarette,” Rose started patting her pockets, her sister hastily produced a cigarette from her open skirt pocket and handed it over.

  “Matches,” Rose muttered, turning around and heading back into the sitting room.

  Her sister looked as surprised by the development as Clara and Tommy.
/>
  “I need to speak to her,” Clara implored the woman.

  There was a moment when the woman hesitated, then her own curiosity got the better of her and she stood back so Tommy and Clara could go through to the sitting room. She followed behind.

  The room was small and swamped by a sofa and an armchair placed near a small fireplace. The walls were lined with pictures, most of them very old. They were prints cut from magazines, some pasted directly to the wallpaper, others cheaply framed. There were no photographs, but the mantelpiece and the windowsill heaved with tatty ornaments, the sort you could buy for a penny on the pier or won at the fair when it was in town. The room smelt of fried food, mainly fish, and tobacco smoke.

  Rose had lit her cigarette and now paced back and forth in the narrow space between the sofa and the wall.

  “I can’t believe all this,” Rose said. “You are sure about that woman’s tattoo?”

  “Yes,” Clara said gently. “Everyone thought she was you. There is a striking resemblance.”

  Rose Red nodded.

  “Then there is no doubting it,” she paced faster, puffing out cigarette smoke as fast as she could. “The woman in that alley, the one you thought was me, goes by the name of Jenny. I don’t know if that’s her real name, or what her last name is.”

  “Why did she have the name Rose tattooed on her leg?” Clara asked.

  Rose came to a halt, the hand holding the cigarette slipped to her side, while her other arm was clasped across her waist as if she was hugging herself.

  “Jenny and me…” Rose stopped, rocking on her heels. “This business… and you know what I mean by that, right?”

  “I am aware of the work you do,” Clara said. “And I am not here to judge, only to find out who killed Jenny.”

  Rose’s eyes flicked to Tommy.

  “Don’t feel right having a man listening to this,” she said gruffly. “Men only ever brought me and Jenny trouble.”

  “I can leave,” Tommy said graciously. “If you would prefer.”

  Rose did not say anything. Tommy took that as a hint and headed back for the hallway. Now it was just the three women in the sitting room. Rose had smoked so hard she had nearly finished her cigarette and she looked at its stub anxiously. Her sister noticed her unease and quickly offered her another. Rose seemed to relax a fraction as the new cigarette was lit.