Grave Suspicions of Murder Read online

  “I think it is a poodle,” Herbert said. “Can't tell until you clip the hair.”

  Clara sighed. Yet another of life's waifs and strays had been deposited at her door. She stared at the shivering black thing, trying to make out which bit was dog and which was hair.

  “Get it a plate of bread and milk from the pantry, Herbert,” Tommy instructed. “Then we can get back to the matter at hand. We can ring the dog warden later.”

  Herbert went to his task. The dog sat on the chair where it had been placed looking utterly dejected. Clara knew how it felt. She had been that way since her foot was run over. She wondered where it had come from. It was clearly the sort of small dog posh ladies liked to carry around with them. It probably dined on caviar and venison most days when at home. How it had ended up here and in such a state was a mystery. Perhaps it had been stolen and then escaped its kidnappers?

  Herbert returned with a dish and placed it under the poor creature's nose. The small dog sniffed uncertainly for a moment, then consumed the entire plateful with relish. Milk dripped off its curly mouth hair as it licked the plate clean. Its meal completed, it hopped off the chair and went to a chaise longue it had spotted in the far corner of the room. It jumped onto the chaise and settled down in a curled ball to sleep.

  “Make yourself at home, won't you?” Tommy laughed.

  The little dog was already snoring.

  Herbert reacquired his seat and pulled Isaac Graves' will towards him.

  “At last I can concentrate,” he said with a sigh. He pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket and started to examine the writing.

  It had not been difficult to find genuine samples of Mr Graves' handwriting. Mr Erikson had been most helpful in sorting out old letters and documents that Isaac had definitely written himself. They also held his signature, the key factor for deciding if the will was a fake or not.

  Clara felt uncomfortable watching Herbert work. She felt as if her gaze was rushing him, suggesting she was impatient. She was, but she didn't want to show it. She would have talked to Tommy but that would be distracting. Instead she ran through the descriptions Annie had given her of the Graves family in her mind, and thought of Mr Graves' wife who she had met personally. None of them struck her as killers, but there was definitely some sort of disharmony in the family. Genuine or fake, Isaac's will demonstrated that discord. And who had let slip the rumours of Graves being possibly murdered? She hoped it was not Mr Erikson. Such indiscretion would be troubling in a solicitor.

  She was mulling on this when the doorbell rang. With no Annie at home to answer it, Clara rose using the stick she had been loaned by the doctor and went to answer it herself. On her doorstep was a rather troubled looking undertaker.

  “Mr Clark,” Clara greeted him warmly enough. She did not blame him for the accident.

  Mr Clark removed his hat and clutched it before him in both hands.

  “Might I come in, Miss Fitzgerald?”

  Clara suggested they head for the parlour and Mr Clark was good enough to shut the door for her as he came in. They settled in two armchairs before the fire, Mr Clark still looking frightened to death. Clara waited patiently for him to speak.

  “How is your foot, Miss Fitzgerald?”

  “Sore, but it will heal. I do not blame you for the accident, Mr Clark. Horses have their own minds, after all.”

  “First time old Bill has shown himself up like that,” Mr Clark shook his head sadly. “He has pulled hearses for me these last ten years. A fine horse. Normally as calm as anything. That was why I was so perplexed. I thought perhaps he was ill. But I found the cause, all right, when I got him home.”

  “Was he ill?”

  “Not as such. Some fool had placed a thumb tack under his harness. When he moved in a certain way it would prick into his skin and spook him,” Mr Clark wrung his hat through his hands. “I don't have polite words for any person who could treat a horse so badly. Not to mention it put me in an awkward position.”

  “Do you think someone wished to hurt your business?” Clara asked, her curiosity piqued. Someone had deliberately arranged for old Bill to become uncontrollable, but why?

  “I couldn't say for certain. I am on pretty good terms with the other funeral directors in the town. We don't tend to clash. It also means that someone must have snuck into my stable yard after Bill was harnessed up. I tend not to leave him too long in harness, as he gets restless. It is one of the last jobs my boys do, getting old Bill ready.”

  “You surely don't think one of your employees was responsible?”

  “No. They have all been with me for years,” Mr Clark sighed forlornly. “You should have seen poor Bill's back where the tack had cut into him. He is jumpy about having any harness put on him now.”

  “I don't blame him. What a shame horses can't talk, then he could tell us who was behind this cruel trick.”

  “I can't be dealing with people who would hurt a dumb animal in such a way,” Mr Clark concluded. “I really have taken up too much of your time. I just wanted to apologise and explain what had happened.”

  “No need, Mr Clark. I truly understand it was an accident.”

  “You are too good, Miss Fitzgerald. I would also like to offer you a discount on any future funeral you care to arrange with us. We will do it for three quarters of the usual price.”

  Clara found the offer rather disturbing.

  “Let us hope I don't have the opportunity to take you up on that offer for a long time,” Clara told him with a smile as she ushered him out of the house.

  By the time she returned to the dining room Herbert had finished his perusal of the will and was chatting with Tommy.

  “Well?” Clara asked, looking from one man to the other.

  “It is one of those situations where I can't be perfectly certain,” Herbert said, tapping the will with one thoughtful finger. “But, I would say this is an extremely good fake.”

  Clara sat down heavily in a chair.

  “But you can't be certain?”

  “Whoever created this will was very familiar with the way Mr Graves wrote, specifically the way he used language and how he structured his sentences. Wills are rather formulaic at the best of times, but you can see patterns emerge. For instance, Mr Graves was very fond of using dashes rather than commas to break up long sentences. I can see this in all his documents and in the wording of the will.”

  “But then, surely that makes the will genuine?”

  “Ah!” Herbert held up a finger. “You would think so. But Mr Graves had a very useful habit which our forger overlooked faking. I believe Mr Graves was a 'nib-licker'.”

  Tommy raised an eyebrow at the phrase.

  “It is a habit people develop when they use pencils a lot. Certain papers do not take pencil marks so well as others and licking a pencil tip can help to make a more distinctive mark. Pencil lickers tend to transfer the habit unconsciously when they write with a pen.”

  “How does this help?” Clara asked, trying to remember if she had ever licked a pencil tip.

  “When you lick the nib of a pen you leave behind saliva that dilutes the ink for a few strokes. It also has the potential to make the ink go further, because it revives dry material. Mr Graves tended to lick his pen nib when the ink was running low. A habit he was familiar with from using a pencil that refused to lay a decent mark. I can see where he licked his pen nib when I use the magnifying glass. I can see where the ink has becoming diluted on the start of words. Equally, I can see patches of text where he was running out of ink, licked the nib by habit to gain a few more letters, then refilled the pen. Refilling the reservoir of a fountain pen is such a nuisance when you are in the middle of something. If you can eke out a few more words before the pen gives up, you usually try.”

  “But the faker did not?”

  “I can see the marks I have described in several places on the documents you say are genuine. But not on the will. The writer of the will was not a nib-licker.”

  “It is a minor thing, though,” Clara said. “Perhaps, because it was an important will, Mr Graves made the effort to keep his pen full?”

  “Perhaps,” Herbert admitted. “I found something in the signature too. It was quite curious. The sort of thing that raises alarm bells.”

  Herbert moved the will towards Clara and offered her the magnifying glass.

  “Look how perfect the signature is, how smoothly written.”

  Clara looked.

  “Yes?”

  “No one writes their signature that nicely. We sign things quickly and automatically. This signature was carefully drawn. See how dense the ink is? It is because the pen was held in position for so long and the signature written slowly. It is one of the warning signs that a signature has been forged.”

  Clara studied the paper again. She thought she saw what Herbert meant, but it was all very unclear.

  “So, just possibly, we have a forged will?” she clarified.

  “Indeed. Though, you would need more than those two observations to prove anything. It is a very good copy.”

  Clara looked at the will again. Was this the first clue to something suspicious occurring in Mr Graves' life? But if that was the case, how had the forger gained access to a safe supposedly only two men knew the combination to? And where was the real will? Had it been destroyed or merely hidden? Clara studied the paper a bit longer and felt suddenly more hopeful. Perhaps there was more to Mr Erikson's suspicions than mere rumour? It was time to take this case very seriously.

  Chapter Eight

  Annie gave a shriek and almost dropped the apple crumble she had slaved over all afternoon. Fortunately, she was pragmatic by nature and, despite her surprise, the pan remained firmly clasped in her hands as she hurried to the dining room. Clara had just risen awkwardly from her chair and was attempting to discover what was the matter, when Annie appeared in the doorway.

  “Are you all right?”

  “There is a great big black rat in my kitchen!” Annie declared, looking more furious at the intrusion by vermin into her orderly domain than scared.

  She was just putting the crumble on the table when she gave another cry.

  “There it is, running past the table leg! It’s jumped on the chaise!”

  “Oh, that's just Bramble,” Tommy stated, waving a hand in the general direction of the dog.

  “Bramble? It has a name now?” Clara asked.

  “Well, it was found in a bush tangled in brambles, hence...”

  “There are no brambles in my garden,” Clara said robustly.

  Tommy gave her a look that suggested she was hopelessly misguided on that front.

  “In any case, I named the dog.”

  “That's a dog!” Annie stared at the mass of muddy fur that was the aforementioned Bramble.

  “We think it is a poodle,” Clara added. “Herbert found it in the front garden.”

  “And is it staying?” Annie asked in a sharp tone. Visions of muddy paws on her clean sheets and mysteriously stolen lamb chops had sprung to mind.

  “We thought we would try to trace Bramble's owner,” Tommy answered, trying to avoid Annie's glare. “The Home for Lost Dogs is such a cold, lonely place. To ship Bramble there seemed rather… unkind.”

  “Once you named it there was no going back,” Clara sighed at her brother. “You always did love dogs.”

  “And if you can't trace the owner?” Annie knew the answer to that one already.

  Tommy just looked sheepish.

  “As I thought,” Annie glowered at Bramble. The small dog wagged its matted tail at her and gave a friendly yap. “Well, at least you could give it a trim and find out if it is a boy or a girl. A bath would probably be a good idea too.”

  “At once. Straight after dinner,” Clara promised, glad to see Annie's temper assuaged.

  They settled down to apple crumble, Bramble watching them with a keen eye from the chaise longue.

  “Annie, I think it is time we talked with Mr Erikson again,” Clara got back to business. “He needs to know Herbert's findings on the will and we also need to try and pin down a timeline of events. Mrs Hatton states she left around quarter to eleven, that leaves an hour and a quarter before the discovery of poor Mr Graves' body. Who had access to his office during that time?”

  “I think I can handle that,” Annie said stoutly. She was beginning to get quite good at this detective lark. “I shall pop in to see him when I go to buy the fish for Friday.”

  “I think I shall ask the widow, Grace Graves, to pay another call and gently air out my suspicions. She may be able to offer an insight into the Graves' family affairs. Also, we now know that Mr Graves' will was made in favour of his sister Julia.”

  “She was the only one who looked truly upset by his death,” Annie added.

  “Which is somewhat curious if she was behind the forged will and, subsequently, his death. Unless there is something more complicated about this drama than we have yet to discover.”

  “Then there is the matter of the sabotage of Mr Clark's horse,” Tommy said, helping himself to seconds from the crumble dish. “Unless we consider that a completely coincidental occurrence.”

  “That bothers me too,” Clara admitted. “But, if it was deliberate, I simply can't see the purpose.”

  “Unless someone was trying to draw attention to the matter of Mr Graves' death,” Annie suggested.

  Clara and Tommy looked at her to expand on that statement.

  “Well, say you had suspicions about Mr Graves' sad demise, but had no proof. Causing a little chaos at the funeral would draw attention and perhaps offer a means of attracting the press. After all, such a strange incident would have the reporters hovering around the Graves family like flies. It is not as though we have a lot of news in Brighton.”

  “And once you had the attention of the press, you might slip in a word or two of your suspicions?” Tommy elaborated.

  “Yes. But no one need know it was you who had made the suggestion, because you had a perfectly legitimate reason of speaking with a reporter. It would avoid bringing suspicion down on yourself.”

  “And, if you thought the killer was one of your family, it would not be such a bad idea to keep your fears as secret as possible,” Clara added.

  “Precisely,” Annie looked deeply satisfied with herself.

  “You know, Annie, you are becoming quite the detective,” Clara grinned at her. “I think it’s about time we learned a little more about Mr Graves. Did he have enemies outside his family, for instance? He was involved in a lot of societies and charities. I can make enquiries with the Pavilion Committee. The rest I will have to leave up to you.”

  Annie gave a little sigh.

  “I wanted to wash all the table linen tomorrow,” she said, a tad grumpily.

  “I'm sure we can manage that between us, old girl,” Tommy volunteered himself and Clara.

  Annie gave them a look which suggested she had severe doubts about their domestic abilities, but there was nothing else to be done. There was a crime that needed investigating and she was the only one able to do it. Even if it did interrupt her cleaning routine.

  ~~~*~~~

  Mr Erikson sat at his desk staring at his rapidly cooling cup of tea. Mr Erikson felt old today, though many would argue he was still in the prime of life. He was fit and healthy, with no real aches and pains to complain of. He had many years ahead of him as yet. But that could not stop him from feeling old, from feeling that a great deal of time had passed without him even noticing it going by. Where had that young man full of ideas and ambitions gone to? He had expected so much from life, and he had achieved a great deal of those expectations, but now he wondered what was left? What did he have to look forward to or aim towards? In truth, Mr Erikson missed his business partner immensely.

  He had rather taken Isaac's presence for granted. He had been such a feature of everyday life for the last thirty or so years, that Mr Erikson had hardly given it a thought. They said 'good morning' to each other at eight o'clock precisely, then retreated to their respective offices with any messages their secretary had collected for them. At midday, Mr Erikson roused his partner for a drink and a sandwich. It was the part of the day Erikson really enjoyed. They would discuss work, ironing out tricky problems between themselves and relaxing. Then it was back to the office for the afternoon. Sometime around five Erikson would call it a day and head for home. He would say his farewells to his colleague who, invariably, would still be working. With any luck Isaac would just make it home in time for dinner. Then he would be off to one of his many committee meetings. Erikson would spend the evening relaxing at home with a glass of brandy, occasionally thinking of his tireless colleague and finding the thought of being able to rest of an evening all the more enjoyable because he knew Isaac would be many hours before returning to his bed.

  Erikson felt guilty about that thought now. How he had chuckled at his friend's ceaseless endeavours. Tutted quietly to himself and mumbled how Isaac would run himself into an early grave, though not really taking the thought seriously. And now Isaac was dead, perhaps in part because of his inability to rest, and Erikson felt as if he should have done more to save him.

  Erikson, in the last few days, had begun to doubt his original suspicions. Voicing them aloud to Miss Fitzgerald's agent had made them sound rather ludicrous. Perhaps, after all, it had been a natural death? Perhaps Erikson had wished it otherwise to try and assuage his own guilt at not being firmer with Isaac? If only he had insisted on him leaving the office at the same time as he did. Or, maybe, he had been a little too keen to deposit any will related work on his partner? Had he contributed to Isaac's unfortunate death?

  Annie found Mr Erikson immersed in these guilt-riddled thoughts. The legal documents he was supposed to be perusing for a client remained untouched on his desk, and a whole hour had ticked by without him doing anything but fret about the past. Annie felt sorry for him, recognising a man who had suddenly been struck by the full force of his grief.