02 - Flight of Fancy (18 page)

“Yes, I must say I found them
very disturbing.” The colonel looked grave, “To think someone would write such
things to a lady.”

Clara was touched, especially
as few people called her a lady since she took on being a private detective.

“We’ve been creating a
‘profile’ for the suspect.” Tommy added.

“Beg your pardon?” Clara looked
blank.

“It’s an American thing, you
create a description of the person who was behind the crime based on the clues
you have. They call it a profile.”

“I think it rather sounds like
something Sherlock Holmes would have done.” The colonel nodded, a little colour
returning to his cheeks.

“And this ‘profile’ leads you
to the suspect?”

“It narrows things down.” Tommy
told her, “Hey you don’t mind I rooted in your handbag for that last note you
got, do you? I saw you put it in their and it was a piece of evidence and I
didn’t want to disturb you.”

Tommy actually looked abashed,
no doubt he had searched without even thinking about what he was doing until
afterwards. Clara was in no mood to argue.

“I suppose I cannot mind what
has been done, and as it was to my benefit I see no reason to complain. Did it
help at all?”

“Well, actually, it did.” Tommy
nodded to the colonel, “Perhaps you should explain colonel.”

The colonel noticeably
hesitated, then a new spark lit his eyes.

“I dear say you have already
figured this all out Miss Fitzgerald. I am bound to be way behind the times.”

Clara smiled at him gently.

“Try me.” She said.

“Well I looked at the papers
you had received and my first thoughts were how scruffy they were. You noticed
the fingerprints?”

“Yes, very black, but smudged.”

“But we agree the person who
wrote the notes had dirty hands and had not bothered to wash them before
writing the messages?”

“Yes I agree with that.”

“I think that would imply a
person who routinely has dirty hands and, as such, fails to notice them in the
manner that a person with routinely clean hands, who just happened to have got
their hands dirty, would.”

“I can’t fault the logic to
that.” Clara nodded, “So, you suggest a person in an industry where their hands
would be regularly dirty?”

“Yes, now that may help you
already, but I looked at the notes further. I have to say the person’s
handwriting did not impress me, but at the same time I realised it was by a
person who had had some level of education. The writing may have been untidy
but there were no errors.”

“A literate person.” Clara
agreed again.

“Then I looked at the paper
itself and it struck me that that was most significant. As Tommy pointed out
most people when writing a note will use materials they have to hand, not go
out and buy something especially. This paper was rather thick and had a waxed,
greasy surface. It didn’t strike me as good writing paper and the way the
author had dug hard into it with his pencil seemed to suggest he was also aware
of its downfalls.”

“Any idea where such a paper
would be used?” Clara asked.

“That’s where I come back in.”
Tommy returned to the narrative, “Both the colonel and myself mused over the
paper for some time and then it occurred to me I had seen just such a paper
before. While I was recuperating at that old hospital the nurses liked to find
us little tasks to keep ourselves occupied and one of these tasks was growing
flowers from seeds. The seeds came in a brown paper packet with a name on it
and inside the packet the more delicate seeds were folded in a slip of waxed
paper. You could use the paper to write labels for the plants on and it would
last in the rain long enough for the plants to shoot and be identifiable.”

Clara looked hard at her
brother, then she caught her breath.

“Mr Riggs.” She sat back in her
chair, “I suspected him but I could not connect him with the messages. And then
there is the why? And how did he get past the cook and put the dead mouse in
the pate.”

“But it has to be him, doesn’t
it?”

“I must run this past the
inspector.” Clara collected her thoughts, “This is serious and must be dealt
with by the police.”

“Clara, what are you thinking?”

“Florence O’Harris did not move
her husband’s body. Colonel Brandt did not move the body. Only one other person
has confessed to being on the scene at the time and that same person has been
sending me notes to leave things alone. Mr Riggs was involved somehow, not in
the actual murder, unless he had some correspondence with Oscar O’Harris, but
certainly it seems with concealing the body.”

Clara put down her knife and
fork.

“Yes, this is serious. I may be
able to actually find the body of poor Goddard O’Harris.”

Mr Riggs was giving a preventive
douse of fungicide to his roses in case of black spot when he caught sight of
Clara Fitzgerald. She was entering the garden from the side door accompanied by
a tall, official looking man. He ignored them. Rumours of the captain’s demise
had yet to reach him and he assumed they were there on matters relating to
O’Harris. Even so, he couldn’t help a pang of anxiety as they walked right up
to him.

“Good morning Mr Riggs, your
roses look well.” Clara said jauntily, “This is Inspector Park-Coombs.”

The inspector tipped his hat.

“We’ve come to have a word Mr
Riggs.” Clara spoke as she bent down to pick something off the ground, it was a
slip of paper Mr Riggs had been making jottings on, “A formula?”

“It’s the recipe for my black
spot spray.” Mr Riggs answered, “My own blend.”

He watched uncomfortably as
Clara handed the paper to the inspector and the policeman withdrew a handful of
other papers from his pocket. He compared them at length.

“You wrote this note?” The
inspector enquired, holding up the paper with the fungicide recipe.

“I did.” Riggs admitted, “Is
this about the chemicals I use? They are all legal and bought from the
chemist.”

“No, it’s not about that Mr
Riggs.” The inspector looked grim, “You know very well what it is about.”

He held the three threatening
notes before the gardener.

“Do you recognise these?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“They are in your handwriting,
Mr Riggs, I just compared it to your recipe which you declare was written by
you.”

“That may be…”

“They also have fingerprints on
them and should I compare them to your fingerprints, which I could do very
easily back at my station, I believe I would find a match.”

Mr Riggs looked sick to his
stomach. He glanced at Clara and was surprised to see she looked sad.

“Why did you send them Mr
Riggs?” She asked, “You swore you had no connection with Millie the maid, or
the murder of Goddard. So why?”

“Millie?” Mr Riggs was
astounded, “Murder? I had no doings with that maid and I never laid a finger on
my master. I was fond of him, he was good to me.”

“But you had something to do with
it, didn’t you?” Clara insisted, “You moved his body.”

“I never…”

“Someone moved Goddard O’Harris
that evening, only three people were present and two of them are accounted for.
That leaves you Mr Riggs and, if you had nothing to do with the crime, whatsoever,
why send me notes trying to persuade me to stop?”

Mr Riggs face was contorted
into a grimace of misery. He looked at the notes the inspector still held
before him and knew he was done for.

“Will they hang me?” He asked,
trembling.

“Not for sending notes.” The
inspector assured him, “But I do need the full story, or it will go very hard
for you.”

“It isn’t like you think.” Mr
Riggs fumbled with his gardening gloves, “I never harmed anyone.”

“So why?” Clara demanded.

“Because you wanted to find the
body so badly.” Mr Riggs shook his head, “And if you had of done, that would
have been just awful.”

“You did move the body then?”

“Yes.” Mr Riggs gasped out
loud, “I come upon Goddard right here.”

He pointed at the path between
his rose bushes.

“He was dead, I knew that as
soon as I saw him and just like I told you there was Florence O’Harris in the
doorway and she was telling me she had called for a doctor. Then she vanished
inside. I told you I walked away, but that isn’t true. Because as I looked down
at Goddard I realised he had fallen with his arms in my roses. I only wanted to
move him so I could see if there were any damage, but when I did, it was just
awful.”

Mr Riggs looked horror-struck,
Clara felt a chill run down her spine. Had she missed something?

“What was awful Mr Riggs?”
Pursued the inspector.

“Where he had fallen, my roses,
they were withered and dead! A whole three bushes, fine ones too, big ones. One
was a late bloomer and the roses were curled up and shrivelled on the branch,
it was horrible.” Mr Riggs closed his eyes at the shock of the memory.

“Arsine gas.” Clara mouthed to
the inspector. Park-Coombs nodded.

“Then what, Mr Riggs?”

“Well, Mr O’Harris was in the
way, I couldn’t get to my roses to see if anything could be done, this path is
rather narrow. So I just pulled him out of the way, but when I stopped I
realised what I had done and he looked so… dead. I couldn’t have him there
staring at me while I fixed the roses, he gave me the jitters. So I dragged him
further away and rolled him into the ha-ha. I meant to tell Mrs O’Harris as
soon as I got back from my shed with some nitrogen treatments for the roses.
But I was away a while mixing some up and when I came back there were the
police and I heard them talking about murder and the vanished body and a crime
being committed, and I thought I would be in a lot of trouble. No one had
noticed me so I hurried back to my shed.”

“The body didn’t stay in the
ha-ha though?”

“No. As soon as everyone had
gone and the house had quietened down I wondered what to do. It seemed to me
confessing I had moved him would look very bad, especially with Colonel Brandt
calling out things like murder. So I sat for a bit and thought and it occurred
to me if they couldn’t find the body then the matter would be over and no one
need know I was there.” Mr Riggs gave a deep sigh, “I had to dig those dead
roses up anyway, and all the occupied bedrooms are on the front of the house,
so no one would notice me. I took up the dead roses, pitiful things they were
and threw them into my barrow and then I dug a deep trench and I pulled Mr
O’Harris from the ha-ha. He was all stiff and awful, but I did it and I tipped
him into the trench with my apologies, I ain’t an unchristian man, you know,
and I said a prayer over him.

“Then I started to fill the
trench and I realised the missing roses could look odd and people might nose in
the soil. I didn’t have any spare roses so I did something that nearly broke my
heart all over again. I dug up live roses from both sides of the path and I
spaced them all about and replanted them, so the trench would be covered and
there would be no obvious gaps. Once it was all done it was nearly dawn and I
went back to my cottage and fell asleep.”

In unison Clara and the
inspector looked downwards.

“Goddard O’Harris is buried
here?” Clara pointed to a pretty tea rose.

“Yes, and I just knew if you
found out you would insist on digging him up and my roses would be ruined
again. You don’t know how hard it is to transplant a well-grown rose. I almost
lost the lot the last time and police detectives are messy diggers.” Mr Riggs
was almost in tears, “I never hurt Mr O’Harris and I never wished him harm, I
just wanted my roses to be safe.”

“I’m sorry Mr Riggs, but he
will have to be dug up.”

“No!” Mr Riggs gave a sob.

“You’re lucky I’m not arresting
you for being an accessory to a murder!” Cautioned the inspector, “As it is
Clara has persuaded me it is not worth my time arresting you and she isn’t
pressing charges over the notes. I’ve got some bobbies round the front, I’ll
have them digging in a jiffy.”

Mr Riggs looked miserably at
Clara.

“I am sorry.” He said.

“I know. Just one thing, the
mouse?”

“I snuck it in while cook was
busy in the herb garden. I took off my boots so as she wouldn’t notice the
dirt.”

Clara nodded.

“I suspected as much. Might I
suggest Mr Riggs you go find some very big containers that we can fill with
water? I shall do my best to marshal the police into digging carefully and if
we put the rose bushes into temporary pots we might be able to save them, don’t
you think?”

Mr Riggs brightened slightly.

“That we might.” He turned to
obey her instructions, then paused, “You’re more understanding than I expected.
I should have known when I talked to you. I recognised a fellow gardener, but
this is kindness beyond what I could have hoped for.”

“Fetch those containers Mr
Riggs.” Clara smiled. The gardener hurried off.

The digging took an hour, with
Clara insisting the policemen took care around the roots of the rose bushes and
earning several grumbles and groans in the process. As each rose was up-rooted
it was placed in various containers Mr Riggs had found; one was placed in an
old wash tub, another in a rusty tin bath. Slowly the ground was excavated and
the men dug deeper.

It was midday and the inspector
was enjoying an egg and ham sandwich from a platter cook had prepared for the
workers, when a policeman gave a cry for him to come over. Clara had been
sitting on the steps to the dining room, idle in her thoughts, but ran over
when she heard the cry. Someone had rustled up a brush and was sweeping away
the last crumbs of soil from a white skull. Clara stared at the remains of
Goddard O’Harris. She had found him.

“It’s a shame the captain can’t
be around to see this.” The inspector said softly.

Clara felt her chest tighten as
she thought of Captain O’Harris’ own body lost somewhere at sea. That, she
would never find.

“You’ve solved the mystery.”
The inspector said, noticing her glumness, “Aren’t you pleased?”

“Goddard can finally be laid to
rest with Florence and we know how he died at last, yes that is good and I am
pleased.”

“But?”

Clara paused.

“I suppose I always imagined
Captain O’Harris to be here for this moment. That he is not is… wrong.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

Clara didn’t want to dwell on
the matter.

“It is all over, at last.
Florence O’Harris can rest without her name being tarnished by gossips and
though no one will see justice for this we at least now know what happened to
Goddard O’Harris.”

“Well, I suppose I shall be
organising a funeral.”

“Remember to invite me and
Colonel Brandt.”

“That I shall, is the colonel
doing all right?” They strolled together across the garden, away from the
skeleton.

“He is doing fine. I believe he
has become another of Annie’s waifs and strays and she shall do all in her
power to ensure he is looked after.”

“Another?”

“Surely inspector, by now you
realise I and my brother were Annie’s first charity cases.”

The inspector laughed stoutly.

“I have never known someone
with such a peculiar household arrangement!”

“Hardly that.” Clara pretended
to look offended.

“Well, you surprise me at every
turn Clara Fitzgerald. I do look forward to your next case.”

“Whenever that may be.” Clara
shrugged, “Perhaps I shall take the summer off.”

“Nonsense Clara, you are like a
policeman. Trouble finds you, not the other way around.”

They both turned and stared
back at the big house.

“I suppose it will be sold.”

“That is probably just as
well.” Clara gazed up at the big windows of the house, “Captain O’Harris told
me the place held ghosts for him.”

She watched as a flicker of
sunlight played on a pane of glass and for a moment seemed to make a face
appear at the window.

“I think he was more right than
he realised.”