The Green Jade Dragon Read online

  “Precisely! And now we must act!” Mrs Wilton sat up proudly in her chair. “You do not need to worry Clara, for I am on the case.”

  “You?” Clara asked, unable to mask her amazement.

  “Yes, you are my friend and I will not see this woman ruin your livelihood. So I shall seek her out and put a stop to it.”

  “I am not sure that is such a good idea,” Clara said, knowing Mrs Wilton’s ability to cause chaos.

  “I shall not be deterred. This woman is a menace. I told Mrs Butterworth as much, but she will not hear a word against her. Said the woman has been most reasonable with her charges, so far.”

  “Implying she is cheaper than me,” Clara guessed.

  “Cheap does not mean better, far from it. Why, do we not all know that for the saving of a few pence we are often supplied with inferior goods? Why should this be any different? She is a charlatan, I am sure of it, I feel it in my bones.”

  Mrs Wilton’s reputation for sniffing out charlatans was not of the highest. She had, after all, been hooked in by a fake clairvoyant, but that was beside the point. Something certainly had to be done.

  “First things first, I’ll need to change all my advertisements and cards,” Clara winced at the time and expense that was going to cost her. “I will insist that my advertisement is unique and should not be printed next to that of Miss Butler. The cards are a real nuisance. I spent hours designing them.”

  “I am so angry on your behalf,” Mrs Wilton bleated. “But together we shall put this scoundrel in her place.”

  Clara didn’t like the ‘together’ part of that statement, but she suspected she had no choice. She took another long look at Miss Butler’s advertisement.

  “Who is she?” she asked rhetorically.

  “Mrs Butterworth says she is in her thirties and a well-built lass with fiery red hair,” Mrs Wilton answered. “She has a Scottish accent, Mrs Butterworth is most clear on that point. But she won’t hear a word against her, says she is most diligent and reliable. Of course, when I asked if she had found Mr Butterworth yet I was treated to a cold stare. Too early, apparently.”

  Mrs Wilton suddenly brightened.

  “You know, Clara, that’s it!”

  “I don’t understand?” Clara asked, worried by Mrs Wilton’s sudden animation.

  “That is how you will prove yourself over her! You must find Mr Butterworth first!”

  Clara didn’t want a third case on her hands, what with the missing jade dragon and sorting out this matter with Miss Butler, chasing a missing husband was the last thing she needed.

  “Yes, that is perfect!” persisted Mrs Wilton. “You will find Mr Butterworth first and demonstrate why you are Brighton’s premier detective and this Miss Butler will be put soundly in her place.”

  “I am really not sure…”

  “It’s perfect. You must do this for the sake of your reputation!” Mrs Wilton insisted.

  Clara closed her eyes and sighed.

  “I don’t intend to step on Miss Butler’s toes, that is unprofessional.”

  “Nonsense! Besides, look how she has stepped on your toes!” Mrs Wilton tapped fiercely at the newspaper clipping again. “Time to stop being so nice, Clara!”

  Clara didn’t think she was being overly nice, just sensible. She didn’t need to stir up extra trouble with this Butler woman.

  “Of course, you will need to speak with Mrs Butterworth. I will arrange it.”

  “How?” Clara mouthed.

  “Leave it to me, you worry about your advert and business cards. We’ll have this woman bang to rights in no time!”

  Mrs Wilton departed in good spirits, Clara was less convinced. She stared at the copied advert before her and sighed. When had life become so complicated?

  Chapter Five

  The Brighton Gazette operated out of an old building that looked from the front like a narrow chapel. Clara was not clear on what the property had originally been used for, but it was certainly one of the most awkward spaces within the confines of the high street to rent out. Clara could only conclude that the reason it had not yet been pulled down and replaced was because people thought it too quaint. Or perhaps it was very historic. Not that Clara had anything against awkwardly shaped, impractical buildings. She was just curious.

  Inside the double-storeyed, open plan building was a narrow reception that had been divided from the main floor of the Gazette headquarters by a wood and glass partition. Beyond a door that was labelled as ‘private’ were the desks of the journalists, proof-readers and other personnel who compiled the material for the paper. Another partition at the back of the building created a space for the type-setters to work in, and also a private office where potential advertisers could discuss their requirements. On a mezzanine level above all this activity sat a solitary office with big glass windows from which the Brighton Gazette editor could look down upon his workers and contemplate his business.

  Clara was so infuriated by the crass act of mimicry Miss Butler had performed with her advert that she had no time to dawdle with typesetters or advertising clerks. She wanted to see the editor of the Gazette and vent her fury. She wanted to know how the blatant copying of her advert had been allowed. She wanted to complain that her name had been printed side-by-side with that of Miss Butler’s and with a clear implication that they were connected. In short, she was about to blow her top.

  Standing in the reception of the Gazette she eyed up the receptionist who sat behind a compact wooden desk.

  “I need to see the editor,” she demanded.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the girl asked blithely, rather used to irate people standing before her. The Gazette liked to print local gossip and that tended to bring in the people who were referred to in the gossip to complain. The reception girl, despite her youth, had dealt with a considerable number of people out for the editor’s blood.

  “No, I do not,” Clara said plainly. “But I will see him all the same.”

  “He is a very busy man,” the girl said politely. “I could arrange something…”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Clara turned and waltzed straight through the door that led into the main offices and was marked private. It was not locked. People came and went all the time, and no one had the energy to keep faffing with keys.

  Clara stormed across the floor of the building, the reception girl tailing her. Clara dived between the tightly packed desks, made more impassable by heaps of paper that were stacked or piled beside each one. Some of the paper was fresh stock for the typewriters, a lot was scrap that had been thrown on the floor. Near the stairs that led up to the office of Mr Pontefract, Brighton Gazette editor, was the desk of Gilbert McMillan.

  “Morning, Miss Fitzgerald,” he called out as Clara marched past.

  She gave him a fleeting smile of acknowledgement before clattering up the ironwork stairs.

  “Please, miss!” the reception girl had stumbled over a pile of discarded copy and had fallen behind. “You can’t just go up there!”

  As she went to dart past Gilbert’s desk to follow Clara, he shot out a hand and grabbed her arm.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  The girl wrenched her arm from him forcibly.

  “None of your business,” she snapped, before chasing Clara again.

  But the delay had cost her and Clara was already at the door of Mr Pontefract’s office and striding inside. As the reception girl finally reached her, the damage was already done and Clara was stood before the editor glowering.

  “Sorry Mr Pontefract!” the reception girl declared.

  “Not her fault, the private door was unlocked,” Clara said quickly. “And I need to talk to you Mr Pontefract, on a very serious matter.”

  Mr Pontefract had lived a life in journalism and had learned that what he considered serious was not necessarily the same as the rest of the world. So he did not rush himself or look unduly concerned at Clara’s arrival. Instead he waved away the reception girl
and politely asked Clara to sit, before offering her a drink. Clara refused, she was not here on a social visit.

  “Mr Pontefract, have you seen the latest issue of the Gazette?”

  “As editor it is my responsibility to have final say over the copy it contains,” Mr Pontefract answered.

  “Then you will already be aware of the mischief you have printed in the classifieds section?”

  Mr Pontefract scratched his head thoughtfully.

  “I rarely look at that. After all, that’s what the proof-readers are for.”

  Clara glanced about the office and spotted a copy of the current issue of the Gazette resting on a side table. She grabbed it and flipped the pages until she reached the classifieds. A fresh pang of anger went through her as she noted her advert sitting next to that of Miss Butler’s, looking like two ink twins. She spread the newsprint before Mr Pontefract.

  “This is my advertisement that I have been paying to be printed in your newspaper for the last two years,” Clara pressed her finger into the centre of her advertisement. “This is what you printed last week.”

  Clara moved her finger over the rough paper and onto Miss Butler’s advert.

  “I am not affiliated with this woman, nor do I appreciate her copying my advert, or for you to allow it!”

  Mr Pontefract adjusted his glasses and took a long look at the two adverts side-by-side.

  “As I say, I don’t personally deal with the advert copy,” he said, his tone mild. He didn’t entirely see the problem.

  “However, you are the editor of this paper. You, ultimately, are where it all ends. I am very angry Mr Pontefract.”

  Mr Pontefract sat back in his chair and nodded. He did not consider the matter a big deal, but he was not going to lose a valued customer over it either.

  “This is most unfortunate. An oversight in the advertising department.”

  “I thought my advert would remain unique,” Clara pressed her finger into the paper repeatedly.

  “I don’t believe we say that in our advertising contract,” Mr Pontefract said cautiously.

  “But this is unspeakable!” Clara persisted. “The woman is effectively trading on my name. Look, people will see this and think we are associated! It must be changed at once.”

  Mr Pontefract held up his hands to calm Clara.

  “I see the problem and we will resolve it. The woman is entitled to have whatever text she chooses, as long as she is not using someone else’s trademark or slogan, but the design of the advert will be altered so it does not look like yours anymore.”

  “Thank you,” Clara said, relaxing slightly. “And I want it put in writing that no one in the future can copy my advert’s design.”

  Mr Pontefract opened his mouth to protest, but Clara held up a finger before him.

  “I am a good customer Mr Pontefract. Not only do I advertise every week with you, but many of my cases provide your reporters with great stories to print. I have always been amenable to working with the Gazette and sharing information, but I could easily become uncooperative.”

  Mr Pontefract spread out his hands, palms up, in a placating fashion.

  “There is no need to become agitated,” he said. “I am sure I can arrange some sort of agreement that prevents your advert from being copied in the future.”

  “Write it out now,” Clara demanded.

  Mr Pontefract stared at her and briefly contemplated refusing, but he knew he would not budge her from his office until he agreed. With a light sigh he pulled forward his typewriter and began the process of creating the new agreement. It took half an hour for him to create something they could both agree upon. Then he signed it and Clara added her name.

  Paper in hand, Clara went back down to the advertising office and confronted the head of the department. In truth he was the only person, aside from an apprentice, who worked in advertising. Mostly the same ads ran week after week and he just had to make sure they were all neatly arranged in the column space he was given. When Clara entered his little domain he looked up in surprise.

  A similar conversation to the one she had just had with Mr Pontefract proceeded, only the advertising head was far more amenable and nodded sympathetically as Clara explained her concerns. Then he took Mr Pontefract’s new contract and filed it away safely. They spent another forty minutes reconfiguring Clara’s own advert. She felt the old one was now spoilt by Miss Butler’s copycat antics and she wanted something new to attract people’s attention. She also insisted on having ‘first’ added to her title, now she was listed as Brighton’s first female private detective. At the bottom of the advert she had a line that specified she worked alone and was in no way connected to other private detectives. Thus feeling some of the damage had been mitigated she agreed to the new advert and left the poor advertising head bemused and alone.

  Clara took a deep breath as she stepped back onto the main floor of the Gazette’s headquarters. Gilbert McMillan was eyeing her from his desk.

  “Well? What’s all this about?” he asked her.

  Clara wasn’t sure she wanted to explain to him, she felt tired by the whole affair.

  “You need a cup of tea,” Gilbert said brightly, knowing just how to draw conversation out of a reluctant person. “Sit down and I will make you one.”

  Clara obliged feeling that a cup of tea would restore her good humour. By the time Gilbert had procured a clean mug and made her a strong brew, they both knew she was going to tell him the whole story.

  “This Miss Butler is trying to encroach on your business, then?” Gilbert said when Clara had finished her account.

  “It would seem so,” Clara replied.

  “I think I saw her come in to place her ad,” Gilbert mused. “Not everyone comes in, in person, and I am sat right near the advertising office. There was this woman last week, a broad sort of person, older than you and a bit taller. Looked like someone who had done a lot of physical labour, but she was dressed reasonable enough.”

  “Physical labour?” Clara was surprised.

  “Her hands were rough and swollen, I could see that at a glance. Made me think she had done a lot of work involving water. Her hands were ruined, would always be that way. And she was very weathered about the face, been out in the elements. Though,” Gilbert paused a moment, “it could have been because she had vivid auburn hair. People with hair that colour weather worse even in a little sun.”

  “Just who is this woman?” Clara said, mostly to herself. “No one seems to have heard of her before this last month or so. Where has she come from?”

  “She rang no bells with me,” Gilbert shrugged. “But then I don’t know everyone. I would certainly poke about and find out more about her if I was you.”

  “Really?” Clara said, she was reluctant to start probing into this woman’s life. It seemed underhanded.

  “She is trying to steal away your business, or at least use your reputation to gain work herself. When someone acts like that, you can’t waste time. You need to fight back, find out who she is, discover if she has any secrets.”

  “That sounds more like being a journalist,” Clara countered.

  “Being a journalist and being a detective are not so different. We are both rooting out the truth, bringing justice to ill-doers.”

  Clara thought that Gilbert was overrating his own work. Largely he rooted out any good gossip that would make an interesting story, and it was certainly not always to bring justice to anyone. Rather it was to sell papers.

  “You can’t let her get away with impersonating you,” Gilbert insisted.

  “Is that what she is doing?” Clara asked.

  Gilbert gave her a despairing look.

  “Isn’t it obvious? The woman is trying to become Clara Fitzgerald. To take over your work, your life.”

  “Now you are being dramatic,” Clara shook her head, not wanting to believe such a statement.

  “It’s true, look what she has done already,” Gilbert folded his arms and sat back in his
chair, looking amused. “You need to rattle out the truth of this affair.”

  He thought for a moment.

  “Abercrombie Street,” he said. “Why does that ring a bell?”

  “Because several houses in that road were being let by Mr Dunholm, a rather unscrupulous little fellow who screwed every last penny out of his poor tenants, while failing to keep his properties in adequate condition,” Clara explained. “You wrote an article about him, exposing his misdeeds.”

  “And you found out the rat in the first place. One of your charity cases,” Gilbert was rapidly remembering.

  “Mr Dunholm needed exposing. We both gave him quite a scare, even if we did not put him out of business. He still operates as a landlord, but now takes his responsibilities seriously.”

  “And he is renting a set of offices to Miss Butler? Well, two crooks in one place always excites me.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to call Miss Butler a crook,” Clara backtracked. “Misguided, perhaps.”

  Gilbert raised one eyebrow at her.

  “Too generous as always Clara. Well, anyway, start with Abercrombie Street. Worry Mr Dunholm by asking questions. He is the sort of person who needs occasional worrying to keep him on the straight and narrow anyway,” Gilbert thought he would rather like to be there when Mr Dunholm saw Clara on his doorstep again. “In the meantime, I’ll dig around and see if I can find out any information on the elusive Miss Butler.”

  “Thanks Gilbert,” Clara rose. “I am trying not to take this all too seriously. I have other business to attend to.”

  “A case?”

  Clara smiled at his sudden eagerness.

  “The burglary of Mr Jacobs’ house. I am sure you have already written about it.”

  “Ah yes, the broken tiny window and the singular item stolen from his collection. The police refused to reveal what that item was,” Gilbert looked to Clara hopefully.