Grave Suspicions of Murder Page 4

  “I think I do,” Annie agreed.

  “Unlike my marriage,” Mrs Hatton gave an odd snort. “I would be quite happy if I knew my husband spent all his time at his office and not elsewhere. But such is life.”

  They were silent a moment, then Annie remembered something Clara had reminded her to ask.

  “Did you have a glass of water while in Mr Graves' office?”

  “No, I was only there, what? Ten? Fifteen minutes?” Mrs Hatton shook her head. “There was no need.”

  “Was there a glass of water on Mr Graves’ desk?”

  “What an odd question,” Mrs Hatton's forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I really can't remember. I suppose I looked at the desk as we were making the final arrangements. I signed my name to the papers after all. But a glass of water? I don't recall one, but I wasn't really paying attention.”

  “I don't suppose you saw anyone coming in as you were leaving?”

  “No. Look, if these papers have gone missing,” Mrs Hatton refrained from using the word 'stolen', “then what is Mr Erikson going to do about it?”

  “I cannot answer for him,” Annie said honestly.

  “If they fell into the wrong hands...” Mrs Hatton wrung her own hands together. “My husband has enemies. He is an important man. It comes with the territory.”

  Annie felt helpless to assist the woman. All she could do was report back the loss and hope Mr Erikson knew where the papers were. It did, however, add a new dimension to the possibility that someone had stolen into the office between eleven and midday. Not that that meant Mr Graves had been murdered, but perhaps someone had seen an opportunity?

  “I will inform Mr Erikson at once,” Annie promised. “Now, I have already taken up too much of your time.”

  “Oh, don't think on it,” Mrs Hatton waved a hand to dismiss the comment. “I was bored anyway.”

  Annie saw herself out, leaving behind a very worried Mrs Hatton. She felt sorry for the woman, even if she did seem a little insipid. She walked back beneath that monstrous chandelier and the maid met her at the door.

  “Thank you,” Annie said as the door was opened for her, feeling decidedly odd that she was the one being waited on for a change.

  She wandered into the street and considered what she must do before heading home. She would need to see Mr Erikson and let him know there may have been a theft from his office. What an awful thought! Who would do such a thing? Well, someone who wanted to blackmail a person she supposed. It was starting to look as though Erikson's ears were not playing tricks on him after all.

  It was only when Annie was halfway down the road and mulling over what she had in the pantry to go with the bacon for dinner, that it occurred to her that she only had Mrs Hatton's word for the time she had left the office. She could be lying. But what would be the purpose? And all this fuss about divorce papers – would she be making that up if they had not really disappeared? Annie decided she was confusing herself unnecessarily. The woman had seemed honest enough and lying about getting a divorce was a dangerous matter should it leak back to her husband. No, that was not a lie, though she could still have been in the office longer than she stated. But Annie had the feeling that Mrs Hatton was a dead end, other than possibly being another victim in this strange saga. It suddenly seemed that there was a lot more to Mr Graves' death than met the eye.

  Chapter Five

  Clara had placed a large piece of paper before her, upon which she intended to create a chart of clues and evidence in the Graves' case. So far there was not a lot on it. Aside from a misplaced glass of water and some missing papers, (which may or may not have simply been misfiled in the confusion after Mr Graves' sudden death) all she had was Mr Erikson's assertion that he had heard a door opening and closing long after Mrs Hatton had left the building. But that hardly amounted to murder. In fact, it hardly amounted to anything. Clara tapped her pencil lightly on the paper. Where to look next? Who to ask? So far she had yet to prove to herself that there had been foul play, let alone any hint of a suspect.

  Annie placed a cup of beef tea on the table. She was utterly convinced that beef tea could cure all manner of ailments, including broken feet.

  “It doesn't look promising,” she said, looking down on the piece of paper.

  “No. What is your take on all this Annie? What was your feeling when you talked to Mr Erikson?”

  Annie shrugged her shoulders.

  “I don't know.”

  “A large part of detective work is about instinct. Having a feeling for something. Maybe something that seemed minor at first, but that would bear fruit if examined further?” Clara tried to tease out something from her friend. She had overlooked explaining how useful it was to analyse a witness’ manner of speech and general demeanour when she sent out Annie. It was something she hardly noticed herself doing in the first place, but now she realised how important such observations could be.

  Annie mulled for a while.

  “Mr Erikson did not seem terribly impressed by any of the Graves family. I think he felt they rather used Mr Graves.”

  “The mother and his sisters, you mean?”

  “Perhaps also the wife. Or maybe he felt she was a little hard done by.”

  “Realistically, if Mr Graves was murdered, the first suspects would be his close kin. Someone who perhaps knew about the change in his will. But, then again, they were rather late to kill him after the new will had been created.”

  “Unless the will was fraudulent?” Annie suggested. “Then perhaps someone would wish him dead before the fraud could be discovered?”

  “The sister who received the bulk, for instance?” Clara considered this, “We need to know more about the family. Which is why I have invited Mrs Grace Graves around for tea. I suggested she might help me to go over some business her husband had left incomplete with the Brighton Pavilion Committee. Also, we must arrange for Tommy's friend, Herbert Phinn, to take a look at Mr Graves' final will.”

  As she spoke the clock on the mantel chimed a quarter to four. Clara carefully folded up her piece of paper and asked Annie to place it in a drawer. They had not long finished when the doorbell rang. Annie went to answer it and showed in Mrs Graves.

  The widow was a little younger than her husband, but had not worn quite so well. She looked drawn and as if she had lost a fair amount of weight rather too swiftly. There were unpleasant sags of skin beneath her chin, as if she were a toy someone had pulled the stuffing out of. She was dressed all in black, but had dispensed with a veil. Her dress was quite modern, a straight low-waisted number that masked a great deal of her weight-loss. She looked very unhappy; grey shadows gave her eyes a bruised look and she stared at the floor rather than meet Clara's eyes. She did not look a merry widow, but rather a woman who greatly begrudged her loss.

  Clara asked her to sit and apologised for her own inability to move.

  “I saw what happened,” Mrs Graves said as she took a seat, perching right on the edge of the chair as if she might need to spring up at once. “I was just behind the hearse. I do apologise.”

  “Hardly your fault,” Clara said kindly. “Accidents occur.”

  “My husband would have been mortified to think his own hearse ran you over. And when you were fetching the undertaker's hat too. Mr Clark was very distressed over it and has insisted on offering us a discount on any future funerals.”

  “How kind,” Clara said, finding the idea morbidly humorous. “May I ask how you are Mrs Graves?”

  “I…” Mrs Graves stared into the fireplace, then she gave a little sigh. “I don't know how to describe the way I feel. Just… just I am so very tired and so sad. I miss my husband. The house seems empty, which is strange considering he spent so little time at home. But there was always the anticipation of him coming home, if you see what I mean. Now I have nothing.”

  “It is never easy to lose someone dear,” Clara said, the comment rather innocuous, but Mrs Graves didn't seem to mind.

  “I suppose I shall find a way to compensate. My mother is still alive and has asked me to live with her. Perhaps I shall. I don't have any children, so there is really no need for me to stay in that big house.”

  Clara politely overlooked the financial considerations of the move which Mr Graves' unusual will would have caused.

  “You had some business to ask me about?” Mrs Graves added, making an effort to change the subject.

  “It's a very minor matter, but, as you know, I joined the committee for Brighton Pavilion recently and Mr Graves was our Chairman.”

  “Yes.”

  “At our last meeting it was arranged that a local builder would be contracted to deal with the leaky roof. As Chairman, Mr Graves was to sign the agreement when it was drawn up to give his approval. With his sudden… Now that he has left us, we have agreed that for all contracts and agreements arranged before he went, we should ask you to act as his proxy. It is really only a formality. The papers require his signature, or that of his agent, as he was named in them.”

  Mrs Graves seemed to be only half listening. She gave a nod.

  “Isaac loved the Pavilion,” she murmured.

  Clara passed her the papers. It was fortunate she had been placed in charge of them at the last meeting, just before Mr Graves' untimely demise. They gave her the excuse she needed to assess Mrs Graves without rousing suspicion.

  “Would you care to join the committee, Mrs Graves? In memory of your husband?”

  Mrs Graves shook her head.

  “No, that was his affair.”

  “I have no doubt this is a trying time for all the Graves family. How is Mr Graves' mother taking it?”

  “Who can say? She is made of sterner stuff than to be left devastated by the loss of her only son,” there was a hint of bitterness i
n Mrs Graves' tone, but she masked it well.

  “I believe I saw her in the funeral cortege, heavily veiled and followed by her daughters.”

  “Yes. She is still quite spry considering her age and health. They say she has a bad heart, but it does not seem to stop her.”

  “She will miss her son though?”

  “She will miss his money,” Mrs Graves laughed sourly. “He worked all the hours God sent to please her and ensure she could live in the manner she was accustomed to. He drove himself into the grave for her and his sisters.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “I was not completely surprised when I heard he had passed at the office. Though, I thought it would be a heart attack.”

  “Was it not?” Clara asked curiously.

  “No. At least, the coroner who examined my husband said there were no overt signs of his heart giving out,” Mrs Graves pursed her lips. “There were no real signs of anything, except that he had died. His throat was a little swollen, that was all. He had not been strong after his attack of pneumonia.”

  “That is a withering disease,” Clara agreed.

  “He wore himself down, Miss Fitzgerald. Our doctor told him time and again that he must take better care of himself. Plenty of sleep, regular meals, but would he listen? We all tried our best for him, I know Mr Erikson was very good at making sure he had something at lunchtime. But the man worked himself into the ground. I suppose in many ways I expected this.”

  “He was a dedicated solicitor.”

  “He was a dedicated son and brother,” Mrs Graves gave a bitter laugh. “He killed himself to make sure his sisters had good dresses and meat on the table seven days a week. That his mother might still have a carriage and footman, even if she barely used them. He kept them in feathered hats and silks, and what did they do in return? Complain, that was all. They never had enough and my husband was such a good man that he wore himself down trying to please them.”

  Mrs Graves gave a slight moan of sorrow. She pressed a black handkerchief to her mouth.

  “I tried to make life simpler for him. I tried not to ask for much. All I wanted was for him to come home at regular hours and eat dinner with me. But I could never compete with the demands of his family.”

  “I'm sorry,” Clara said gently.

  Mrs Graves did not seem to be listening anymore.

  “May I say,” Clara added as a silence opened before them. “Mr Graves was very fortunate to have a wife so understanding as yourself.”

  “Understanding?” Mrs Graves almost laughed. “Oh, I wish that were so! I put pressure on him too, just not financial pressure. I was always asking him to come home early, or to spend the weekend with me. Do you know we had not been away on holiday in over twenty years? Not since his father died, in fact. He said he could not afford the time. I so wanted to have a week in Cornwall with him, just walking and breathing the sea air. I was certain it would do him good. I suppose I was just too late.”

  “It sounds as if Mr Graves was his own worst enemy.”

  “That he was. But I shall miss him deeply. Was there anything more you wanted?”

  Clara said there wasn't. Mrs Graves made her excuses and departed. Clara felt she had gained very little from the interview, other than proving even more conclusively that Mr Graves was a prime candidate for death from exhaustion. Still, there was more evidence to examine.

  Clara headed for the 'phone in the hallway and looked up the number for the Brighton Constabulary. Then she made a call to Inspector Park-Coombs.

  “Inspector, how do I get hold of Dr Deàth?”

  Deàth was the only coroner in Brighton and it seemed most likely he had been the one to attend to Mr Graves. The Inspector promised to pass a message along that Clara wanted to speak with him. There was no telephone in the morgue, but Dr Deàth had one in his office. A short time later Clara's 'phone rang and the friendly voice of Dr Deàth answered her when she said 'hello'.

  “Miss Fitzgerald, how may I help you?”

  “Good evening, Doctor, have I called you away from anything important?”

  “No, no. I was just finishing up here before heading home. The wife has a bridge party organised. Do you play bridge? I can't stand it myself, and everyone gets very agitated when I mention my work. People are surprisingly squeamish about what is a very natural process. Death must come to us all.”

  “Indeed,” Clara had never known a man so content with his work and with his own mortality as the coroner. “I wondered if you could help me?”

  “Has someone died?”

  “Not anyone I know, at least, not recently. Actually I wanted to ask you about the unfortunate demise of Mr Graves the solicitor.”

  “Oh that. Yes, very tragic.”

  “I have been asked to investigate some unusual circumstances concerning the death,” Clara explained. “Needless to say, this is all confidential.”

  “Absolutely,” Deàth assured her, his ears now firmly pricked.

  “What was the cause of Mr Graves' death?”

  “I shall be completely honest with you, Miss Fitzgerald. Mr Graves’ death was one of those that seemed to have very little cause. He was in a weakened condition after his bout of pneumonia. I found a number of lesions on the lungs that indicated he may have had trouble breathing. The heart, however, seemed healthy, and there were no obvious signs of a particular disease. There was some swelling in the throat, which may have been due to a number of reasons, none of which were particularly suspicious. My best conclusion was that he had simply stopped breathing. Sometimes it happens.”

  “Could the swollen throat have been a sign of something sinister?”

  “Asphyxia?” Deàth was silent for a moment as he considered the possibility. “Had there been marks on the neck I might have considered it. He was a man who had trouble breathing, therefore it would only require relatively minor pressure to cause him extreme difficulties. Had he been in his bed, we might have wondered about a pillow across the face. If we were suspicious of the death, naturally. Smothering could be possible, but I saw no evidence for it on the scene.”

  “What of poison?”

  “That is a wider spectrum for speculation,” Deàth confirmed. “A number of poisons can affect the breathing. Equally, for a man in such a condition of ill health as Mr Graves was, some usually harmless substances might have proved hazardous. Smoke, for instance, might have caused his throat to swell as his body overreacted to the stimulation. I once had a case where a man died from being caught in a thick smog. He was an asthmatic and the smog brought on an attack. Clara, does someone believe Mr Graves' death was unnatural?”

  “There has been some speculation from a certain party, yes. But I can find no evidence to back the suspicion.”

  “There was nothing on the body to indicate violence,” Deàth mused. “I don't like the thought of being wrong.”

  “At this stage, I very much doubt you are,” Clara assured him. “But I want to temper these speculations before they cause any harm.”

  “Indeed. Well, if I can be of any further help, do call.”

  Clara thanked Dr Deàth and put the 'phone down. As she retrieved her paper from the drawer she mulled over the matter yet again. Mrs Graves had given her no indication that someone would want her husband dead, in fact his mother and sisters were better off while he was alive. And Dr Deàth was good at his job and would have spotted something amiss. Really, the evidence was mounting up against Mr Erikson's suspicions. Perhaps, for once, Clara was to discover an innocent death rather than a murder. Clara tapped her pencil on the paper again. So why was it the more she dug into the matter, and the more she found evidence against murder, the more she began to have her own suspicions about Mr Graves' tragic end?

  Chapter Six

  Annie had a busy morning ahead of her. Her first port of call was the home of Mrs Graves, Isaac's mother, and her daughters. Clara had given her the covering excuse of paying her respects on the bereaved family. As Clara's agent, Annie was entitled to pay a call and offer condolences. Equally, Clara had intended to offer a donation to a good cause the ladies favoured instead of buying flowers for the funeral. However, her accident had belayed this desire, and now she was sending Annie to make amends. Of course, she also had the distinct ulterior motive of seeing if there was any clue the ladies could offer about Mr Graves’ sudden death. After all, there was still the mystery of the new will.