Grave Suspicions of Murder Page 5

  Mrs Graves and her daughters lived in a double-bay red house, set in mature gardens. The path to the house was laid with gravel and crunched under Annie's feet. She was nervous again. Meeting Mr Erikson was one thing, being confronted by the Graves family was far more daunting. She tried to distract herself by naming the shrubs in the border as she went past and wondering how old the gnarled wisteria was that grew over the front door. It did little to help. When she reached the door she reminded herself that she was here on quite legitimate business, before ringing the bell.

  The door was opened by a woman in her late forties. She stared at Annie through a pair of small spectacles.

  “Yes?”

  “I have come on behalf of Miss Clara Fitzgerald to pay her respects and to offer her apologies for being unable to attend the funeral of Mr Graves.”

  “Well, she was run over by my brother's hearse,” the woman was suddenly amused. “I think she can be forgiven.”

  “She also wished to give a donation to a worthy cause of your choosing, as she was not able to do so at the funeral.”

  “You best come in then,” the woman seemed a lot less formidable. “I thought for a moment you were another of those awful press people who keep calling.”

  “Press people?” Annie asked in confusion.

  “Yes. We have had dozens of them on the doorstep. Someone has suggested to them that my brother may have died under suspicious circumstances.”

  The stunned look on Annie's face was completely genuine, though not for the reasons the Miss Graves before her might imagine.

  “Who would say such a thing?” she was thinking about Mr Erikson. Could it be he had let his suspicions slip?

  “There are always those who see the worst in perfectly innocent situations,” Miss Graves shrugged. “I am Annabel, by the way, I shall introduce you to the rest. We are very informal. It saves time, don't you think?”

  She escorted Annie to a well-appointed sitting room where the sharp April sunlight was pouring in on four women. Three were around Annabel's age, the fourth was a great deal older and was clearly Mr Graves' mother.

  “Here we have my sisters Agatha, Christiana and Julia. And this is my mother. Now, what was your name?” Annabel turned to Annie.

  “Annie Green.”

  “Right ladies, this is Annie Green who has come on behalf of Miss Clara Fitzgerald who, apparently, is feeling rather bad that she missed the funeral.”

  “Nonsense!” declared Mrs Graves, “She was run over by the hearse, wasn't she?”

  “Yes,” Annie answered. “But she was unable to offer her donation instead of flowers because of the incident, and wanted to make amends.”

  “Really, what a fuss,” Mrs Graves snorted. She was a tall and lean creature, who looked surprisingly sturdy considering her age. Robust was a fine word for her. She looked likely to live many years as yet. “Is Miss Fitzgerald recuperating well?”

  “She is, though she is very impatient to be on her feet again,” Annie found she was actually warming to the Graves women. They were not so intimidating and clearly did not take much heed of common pretensions.

  Annabel offered her a chair and fetched a cup of tea. There was an open box of fudge on the table, and she asked Annie if she would like a piece. Annie declined. Fudge she found too sweet and sickly.

  “I do feel poor Isaac would be mortified to think he ran over one of his own mourners,” Julia Graves said, helping herself to fudge. She appeared the youngest of the sisters, with fair blonde hair that draped about her shoulders.

  “A rogue horse is hardly Isaac's fault,” Annabel chimed in. “Isn't Miss Fitzgerald on the Brighton Pavilion committee?”

  “Yes,” Annie said. “That was how she knew Mr Graves. She was shocked, as we all were, by his sudden passing.”

  “It was unexpected,” sighed Mrs Graves. “And after he had recovered so well from the pneumonia. I fear he returned to work too soon.”

  “He detested being stuck at home,” Agatha Graves added. “I don't mean to speak ill of Grace, but my brother found home-life tedious. He lived for his work. I can't imagine he enjoyed being trapped at home all those weeks he was recuperating.”

  “Mr Erikson was good enough to send some papers to his house for him to work on in bed,” Mrs Graves took up the thread of the story. “I know Grace was cross about it, but really he was going stark mad lying in bed with nothing to do. A man like Isaac cannot survive on the limited stimulation of newspapers and novels for days on end. He needed something to get his teeth into.”

  “He was a specialist in wills, I believe?” Annie said.

  “Yes, he was good at intricate wills that would trouble other people,” Mrs Graves smiled proudly as she thought of her son. “As he would explain it, most wills are simple things, but sometimes people have such complicated financial arrangements in life, that they require a similarly complicated arrangement in death. He was very good at untangling such matters and making sure monies were directed to where they ought to go. I remember he worked on the will for that tinned meat fellow, what was his name Annabel?”

  “Mr Matthews. He had founded a company on tinning pork and beef. Most households have such a product somewhere in their larders.”

  “Yes, that's him. Well, Isaac had endless dramas over his will because he insisted on constantly adding codicils, you know, the little additions you can put at the end of wills. One minute he was disinheriting his sons, the next he was leaving the estate to them. It went on for years! Isaac handled the legal side of the will when Mr Matthews died. It proved quite complicated to unravel all the alterations he had insisted on making during his lifetime.

  “The silly man did not understand that making a new will would have solved a lot of problems, just kept altering the original,” Mrs Graves tutted. “But that was the sort of work Isaac relished.”

  “He will be sorely missed,” Julia Graves spoke softly. Of all the family she seemed the quietest and the most distressed by her brother's death. She had grown pale during the conversation and now looked almost sick to her stomach. Annie wished she could try to comfort her in her distress.

  “We will all miss him,” Mrs Graves concluded. “Life will not be the same without his visits.”

  “And this matter of the newspaper folk is so inconvenient,” Agatha added. “Really, who spreads rumours of murder?”

  Julia swallowed hard as if she was about to be sick. Annie found herself wondering precisely which sister had been given the lion's share of Isaac's estate. It was not a question she could ask the family and she had failed to get the information from Mr Erikson. Julia was the sister who looked most distressed. Was that meaningful?

  “I say, Miss Fitzgerald is a detective!” Annabel perked up. “Perhaps we should ask her to dig into this matter? Find who has been spreading this nonsense! Put an end to it.”

  Annie shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  “Miss Fitzgerald is rather incapacitated,” Mrs Graves reminded her daughter. “Besides, I am certain this matter will blow over soon enough.”

  “I can't see how anyone could imagine Mr Graves had been murdered,” Annie interjected, feeling she should offer something to the conversation. Clara would be most aggrieved if she did not follow up this train of thought when she had the opportunity.

  “Some people see suspicion everywhere,” Annabel said stoutly. “It all began just a few days after his death was announced, if you recall mother? That man from the Gazette appeared on the doorstep and wanted to know if we had heard the rumours. I sent him packing with a flea in his ear.”

  “People always speculate over sudden deaths,” Agatha shrugged. “But we shouldn't bore Miss Green with that nonsense.”

  Annie wanted to say she was far from bored, but it would be deeply suspicious to do so. Instead she found the interview coming to an end. She arranged for a donation to be sent to the Children's Hospital, the cause the Graves family had chosen to receive the money people would normally have spent on flowers.

  “I did wonder why there were no flowers at the funeral,” Annie said as she handed over a cheque Clara had prepared for her.

  “Isaac was allergic to a great deal of things,” Mrs Graves explained. “Flowers gave him awful hayfever. After his bout of pneumonia he was even more susceptible. He detested them. A single whiff of roses would have him sneezing for a week.”

  “It would have been rather ironic to put flowers on his coffin,” Annabel voiced the unspoken thought everyone else was thinking. She was the bluff sister who tended to speak in a forthright manner.

  At the door Annie tried to find a way of bringing up the possibility of Mr Graves being murdered again, but she could not find the words. Frustrated, she said goodbye and headed off down the path. She had the shopping to do and needed to pay a visit to Mr Erikson to ask for the will so Clara could examine it. She was feeling no further forward.

  She was just opening the garden gate when she was accosted by a man standing half hidden by a bush that grew over the wall.

  “Hey, miss?”

  Annie glanced up in surprise. She took in the man's appearance; shabby coat, dusty shoes, rain damaged hat, and suspected he was a tramp.

  “I have no money on me,” she lied quickly.

  “I don't want your pennies. I want to know why you were visiting the Graves family?”

  Annie took another good look and noticed that he had a pad of paper and a pencil in his hand. Ah, so he was a newspaperman.

  “I was merely paying condolences on behalf of my employer,” Annie answered, trying to move around the man.

  He blocked her way.

  “Who is your employer?” he asked.

  Annie glared at him and tried to step past. He blocked her again. Annie grumbled to herself.
br />   “I work for Miss Clara Fitzgerald.”

  “Ah, Brighton's premier private detective? And what is her interest in the Graves?”

  “Nothing more than mutual sympathy. Clara… I mean Miss Fitzgerald, worked on the Pavilion Committee with Mr Graves.”

  “So she is not investigating the possibility he was murdered?”

  Annie snorted with derision.

  “What is all this nonsense of murder about? Why should anyone murder Mr Graves?”

  “Ah, well that is the question. But I have it on good authority that his death was not altogether natural and that someone benefited significantly from his death.”

  “Then you should go to the police.”

  “Without proof?” the reporter laughed. “All I have is speculation. But it does make you wonder. A man goes to work and dies at his desk. I have seen the coroner's report, I have my sources, and there is no evidence to suggest what killed him. The more you look at it, the more you have to ask yourself, was it natural?”

  “You are lacking a motive,” Annie pointed out, finding herself inclined to argue with this annoying man.

  “I'll admit that is a sticking point. Mr Graves does not seem to have had any enemies. Though I do find myself wondering about his associations with the Ladies' House of Reform.”

  “I hope you don't intend to disturb the family with all this nonsense,” Annie moved past him at last. “They hardly need such speculation on top of their loss. It is a shame people don't think more of them when they make such silly accusations.”

  “Is that Miss Fitzgerald's official line on the case?”

  “There is no case,” Annie snapped. “Miss Fitzgerald is recuperating with a broken foot at home.”

  “Then she has plenty of time to read the papers and see what all the town is talking about.”

  Annie shook her head.

  “You are grasping at straws. Who started these rumours, anyway?”

  “Ah, my sources must remain confidential,” the reporter grinned. “Let it just be said that they were in a position to know the truth.”

  “I wish you would all let poor Mr Graves rest in peace,” Annie sighed.

  She was just walking away when the reporter called out to her.

  “Ever wonder what happened to old Mr Graves? He died at his desk too, you know. Coincidence or the tell-tale mark of a murderer?”

  Annie stopped in her tracks and found herself turning back to the reporter.The reporter tugged the brim of his hat as a mark of farewell and disappeared back among the bushes, clearly staking out the unfortunate Graves.

  Annie hurried down the road feeling a little shaken. No one had mentioned the senior Mr Graves before. He had been dead over twenty years and probably most people had forgotten about him, but if he had died in the same way as his son, then the matter did require investigating. Was there more to this matter than met the eye? But, if this was the cause of Mr Erikson's suspicions, why had he not mentioned this before?

  Annie was very glad she could hand over this confusing state of affairs to Clara as soon as she reached home. There were too many loose ends and, just perhaps, the Graves family was a little too light-hearted about the death of Isaac. She had not seen much sign of mourning, except from the distressed Julia. Was that a sign of guilt or simply stoicism? Annie found all this wondering was giving her a headache. She went to buy some apples and butter. Apple crumble did not cause this sort of confusion, and right now Annie was longing to get back into the safe orderliness of her kitchen.

  Chapter Seven

  Herbert Phinn sat at the Fitzgeralds' dining table and looked down at the last will and testament of Isaac Graves. Herbert was a chemist by training, a jolly good one too, but he had a passion for handwriting and had become quite the expert in fraudulent penmanship. It was a sideline, but one that had earned him more acclaim than his day job testing common household products for hazardous chemicals.

  Herbert had known Tommy Fitzgerald since they were both at school. They were chalk and cheese, but in a way that worked to the benefit of both. They complemented each other. Clara liked Herbert for his frank, happy nature. He saw solutions rather than problems in any given situation. A man whose glass was always half full and with the promise of being refilled at any moment. Herbert usually couldn't resist a problematic will. Identifying fraud was one of his favourite aspects of these sorts of cases. It required a keen eye and an understanding of the victim. But, right at that moment, Herbert was struggling because he was being distracted.

  “Can you hear that whining sound?” he asked the others. The noise had been bothering him since he had arrived. “I first heard it coming up your path. Could it be a baby left alone?”

  Herbert was soft-hearted, and the thought of any living thing in distress troubled him. Clara cocked her head and listened. She had noticed the odd whining sound too, but had thought it was the wind in the chimney. Tommy merely shrugged.

  “Sounds like a cat to me.”

  Herbert shook his head, looking upset and a touch cross.

  “Have you not seen how women leave their children all alone? I see prams left outside shops, and infants left home on their own. Do you know how many cases there are every year of children under five swallowing dangerous household chemicals when left alone? It would make you shudder. I had a case only last week. A child had consumed a bottle of household cleaner and died. The manufacturers had scented it with roses to make it more appealing and the child thought it was something sweet to drink. I was called to discover how much of the stuff would be fatal and whether the manufacturers were at fault for not putting a warning label on the bottle,” Herbert grimaced. “Perhaps the manufacturer could have been more cautious, but the mother had left the child home on its own while she went shopping. She returned two hours later to find the infant in a terrible condition. Surely she bears some responsibility for the accident?”

  “I dare say,” Clara said gently, trying to appease the clearly distraught Herbert. “But mothers will claim they must go out and sometimes they cannot take a child on errands.”

  “It is unforgiveable,” Herbert insisted. “It has played on my mind ever since.”

  He turned his attention back to the whining noise outside.

  “One of your neighbours has left a child unattended,” he declared.

  “I doubt that, most of them are too old to have young children,” but Clara was also now wondering what that odd noise was.

  “I must investigate. Excuse me,” Herbert rose from the table and left the two siblings who were unable to follow.

  Clara glanced at her brother.

  “Herbert gets very upset about these things,” Tommy said.

  “I don't blame him. Too many children die in accidents because of a lack of supervision.”

  “But it really must be a cat?” Tommy was distracted by the sound of Herbert forcing himself into the large bush outside the dining room window. “What is he doing now?”

  Herbert emerged from the bush looking like a wildman, with twigs tangled in his hair and his glasses askew. One of Clara's passing neighbours gave him an odd look. Then Herbert vanished again and they heard the front door open and close.

  Herbert appeared at the door of the dining room with a bundle under his arm. For one awful moment, with the bundle almost hidden by Herbert's jacket, Clara thought a baby had been abandoned on her doorstep. Such things did happen, though never to her before. But when Herbert pulled the bundle out from under his jacket it was not a human infant. It was a small black dog with extremely curly hair.

  “It was whimpering in the bushes. It’s all skin and bones,” Herbert placed the dog on the seat of the chair he had just vacated and they all looked at the scruffy thing.

  It didn't look very appealing with its tatty overgrown coat, mud caked on its paws and no sign of eyes among the fur of its face.