02 - Flight of Fancy (6 page)

“I was employed to be a
nursemaid, remember?” Annie grinned, “A home help, I was supposed to be, I only
took on the rest because we couldn’t survive on the food you were cooking up.”

Clara looked mildly offended,
but she was too exhausted to really care.

“As long as you don’t mind.”

“Really, I don’t.”

Clara nodded and bid her maid
goodnight, she left the room, pulling the door ajar in case Tommy cried out in
the night. As she climbed the stairs she heard Annie talking.

“Oh Tommy Fitzgerald, if only
you could see yourself walking! If I could only make you see… I would do
anything to prove to you these damn legs of yours can actually work!”

“Is Mrs Rhone in?” Clara asked
the flustered looking reverend who answered the door with a cup of tea
absent-mindedly cradled in his spare hand.

“Mother’s Union, is it?” He
asked.

“No, I believe we met the other
night at Captain O’Harris’ house?”

“Oh, is it raising funds for
the unwed mothers again? I did rather think it was a poor show last time, Mrs
Thwaite did cook those gorgeous crumpets and hardly any sold. I rather fear
people have a thing against the unwed mothers’ fund, I honestly can’t think
why.”

Clara looked at the bemused man
before her feeling a little confused herself.

“Perhaps people feel unwed
mothers do not deserve help?” She offered.

“That is simply not possible,
besides, it was for
charity
. Everyone knows one must give generously to
the charity box. No, I fear it was hiring that lamentable singer that drove
them away. Quite shocking she was, and after all those fine credentials she
presented to me.”

Clara endeavoured to keep a
straight face as the reverend tailed off on a tangent.

“I should have known better,
all that music hall business. She was really too racy for a church function.
She used the word ‘bloomers’ you know.”

“Really!” Clara tried to look
as shocked as he had clearly been, she felt like patting the dear man on the
shoulder and saying ‘there, there’, “Actually, I am not here about church
business. I am here on behalf of Captain O’Harris and wondered if I could have
a chat with Mrs Rhone?”

“Gladys is in the back
parlour.” The reverend Rhone ushered Clara into his vicarage, “I’m supposed to
be writing a sermon, but I just can’t seem to get the angle right. I fear I
have become a little boring of late. Quite frankly on occasions I have to catch
myself from falling asleep during my own sermon.”

“Oh dear.” Clara said
sympathetically.

“Are you a church goer?”

Clara hesitated.

“Before the war.” She
eventually admitted.

“Yes, that’s just how it is.
Quite depressing for myself of course, and no doubt God is rather miserable
about it too. It was the war you know, never knew anything like it for thinning
out my congregation.”

Clara felt the vicar’s choice
of words slightly unfortunate.

“Of course, I expect things to
pick up once people get over it. God is always there, after all. Actually, that
might not be a bad catch for the sermon?” The vicar abruptly wandered off
reciting his last words to himself.

Clara was left to find her own
way about the vicarage and to the back parlour, which was a cramped room with
the advantage of looking over the garden. Mrs Rhone was in the centre of it
surrounded by piles upon piles of knitted squares, which she was busily sewing
together. She looked up as Clara entered and removed her glasses.

“Miss Fitzgerald, isn’t it?”
She stood to greet her guest.

“Sorry to bother you Mrs Rhone
when you are so busy.”

“No matter dear, take a seat.
These will take me days to sew together. There are several dear ladies who keep
their ends of wool to knit assorted squares for blankets and then they pass
them to me to sew up. I feel a tad put-upon every time they appear at my door
with another bundle. But they are so intent on doing good. This latest batch is
for the orphanage.” Mrs Rhone, indicated the various piles that stood around
her like stumpy pillars, “I don’t suppose you sew..?”

Clara obligingly received a
needle and a set of four squares to sew together.

“Now, pray tell me what brings
you here?”

“Captain O’Harris’ mystery
brings me. He wants me to try and find the truth.”

“That sounds like a good way to
bring him more heartache. He believes his aunt guilty?”

“I think he would like me to
prove otherwise.” Clara perched two squares on her knee and began sewing with a
long strand of green wool, “I thought I would pop by and have a little chat
about the late Florence O’Harris. You knew her well, I presume?”

“Oh my yes!” Mrs Rhone briefly
looked up from her work to smile, “Florence Minerva Highgrove was my Sunday
school teacher as a girl, before she married of course and became Florence
O’Harris.”

“Could you tell me a bit about
her?”

“Well…” Mrs Rhone sucked at a
strand of wool she was trying to thread into a needle, “She was pretty much
like any girl. Let me see, she would have been eighteen when I was eleven, yes,
that’s about right, and she taught at the Sunday school until I was fifteen,
and then she left to be wed. She would have been 74 this year, you know, that
makes me feel rather old! Anyway, I always remember her as a young, quite
forceful woman, who knew her own mind and would tell you as much. When she took
our lessons I always knew we were in for a good one, because she would read the
bible stories with such flare and if you asked her a question she would look
you straight in the eye and ask a question right back. I know several of the
older lads were besotted with her. My brother was fourteen and convinced he
would take her to a dance one day, when he was old enough and had a penny or
two. Of course, they were all downcast for a week when they heard she was
getting married. Nothing lasts long at that age.”

“How did she meet Goddard O’Harris?”

“I believe he was a connection
of the family. Florence’s father was in business and had done quite well for
himself, her mother was a force to be reckoned with too. I always thought they
must have come as quite a shock to dear Goddard, he was a bit too meek and mild
for them! I’m not sure the exact way they met, but by the summer of 1866 they
were walking out and a pretty pair they made. Goddard was quiet but handsome.
He was studying at Cambridge as his father wished, but he rather fancied going
into the army instead. I can picture them now, walking along the promenade,
Florence looking pleased as punch with herself and Goddard trying to keep up
with her.”

“May I ask an indelicate
question?” Clara interrupted, biting off her wool.

“What is it?”

“Did Florence marry for love,
or…”

“Oh, I see what you mean. The
O’Harris family was wealthy even then. I suppose they did rather eclipse the
Highgrove fortune, but Florence was by no means poor.” Mrs Rhone toyed with her
needle, “I must admit, when I first heard I was a touch surprised. There was a
rumour amongst us gals that Florence had secretly been writing to a young Royal
Marine who had spent time at Brighton. Molly Durrant was adamant she had seen a
letter Florence had written to a young man who was not Goddard, but Molly was a
touch daft and not a good reader, so I never gave it any credit.”

“But it might have been true?”

Mrs Rhone wrapped the thread
from her needle round and round her fingers looking rather anxious.

“It’s not the sort of thing I
ever considered… but I do recall she used to mention a man called Edward, not
often mind, but occasionally she would just slip and mention his name. I never
thought it serious, but then again I was eleven, and Florence was not from a
poor family and her father was really quite liberal so I would see no reason as
to why she could not have married a Royal Marine had she chosen to. No, she
really must have married for love.” Mrs Rhone spoke decisively and seemed to
have settled the matter with herself.

“I suppose what I am trying to
find out and, really, rather struggling with, is whether Florence had any
reason to want her husband dead.”

“That is an awful thought.” Mrs
Rhone shook her head glumly, “I really can’t help you there because I did not
know them well as a couple. Florence would come to church and help out at
functions, but Goddard was rarely around. Then I met Isaiah, my husband, and I
moved around for a time. We came back to Brighton in 1900 but it was only after
Goddard’s death that my acquaintance with Florence was refreshed. Let me tell
you this Miss Fitzgerald, when I first encountered Florence O’Harris after all
those years I hardly knew her. I said to myself, there is a woman whose heart
has been broken. I never knew a creature look so sad and downcast. She never
raised a smile in all those remaining years I knew her. I do not care what
logic says or anything else, Florence loved her husband and his passing pained
her deeply.”

Mrs Rhone went briefly back to
her sewing. A clock in the front room ticked methodically and then chimed the
hour. Clara slipped her needle through the woollen squares and let this new
information sink in. If Florence had truly loved her husband then his death was
even more illogical.

Abruptly Mrs Rhone looked up.

“Have you found her diary?”

Clara ceased sewing too.

“No, I wasn’t aware she wrote
one.”

“I am pretty certain she wrote
one, right until her last days. I doubt it has been touched since her death.
Her bedroom has not been altered, I believe. Captain O’Harris has enough rooms
without interfering with his aunt’s. Her diary should be there. I saw her
carrying it once or twice. It was covered in green leather with a stamped
detail of butterflies.”

A ray of hope seemed to light
up before Clara. This could provide vital new clues, of course she could hardly
expect a confession written in the diary, but then again…

“Thank you Mrs Rhone, I do
apologise for disturbing you once again.” Clara handed back her completed
squares and Mrs Rhone took them with a curious look, “I must be on my way
again, goodbye.”

Clara hurried from the room her
mind whizzing with possibilities. No sooner had she gone Mrs Rhone gave a small
sigh and started unpicking Clara’s work.

Clara had developed a working
relationship with the Brighton police after her last case when she had proved
an asset to them for finding out information they could not. Inspector
Park-Coombs had not initially approved of a woman poking her nose in his
business, but his mind had been changed when he realised people would talk more
openly to the friendly Clara Fitzgerald than his uniformed policemen. He had
had to reluctantly confess she had proved herself rather a good detective. In
recognition of her abilities he had typed out a card with her name on it and
his signature which would give her full access to police archives and (when
suitable) police assistance at any time. Now Clara was going to use her ‘free
pass’.

When Inspector Park-Coombs had
given Clara her token detective card she had almost turned it away. The events
of that winter when she had become embroiled in her first murder case had taken
their toll on her. She had come to wonder if her heart was really in solving
mysteries, but time was a great healer and the distance of those dark days in
January now made them feel much less grim. She wanted to solve this new
mystery, she felt that renewal of excitement and enthusiasm that pulsed through
her as she sent her mind to work. The O’Harris mystery was just what she needed
to break her back into the detective business.

At the front desk of the
Brighton police station she flashed her card and asked if the Inspector was
about. The duty sergeant gave her a disapproving look then escorted her
upstairs. The Inspector was in his office supervising a two man team of
painters who were freshening up the station walls with a coating of whitewash.

“Miss Clara Fitzgerald.” He
cast her a knowing look as she approached, “I knew you wouldn’t stay out of the
detective business for long.”

“Good morning Inspector, having
a little work done?”

“Oh you know, had a little
money left over in the budget and thought the old walls could do with sprucing
up.” The inspector cast a beady eye over the workmen, “Trouble is, I’ve nicked
that one for stealing before now and I don’t dare take my eye off him.”

He pointed out the younger
painter who seemed a little jittery under the gaze of the policeman.

“Have you a moment to talk?”
Clara asked, ignoring the policing dilemma the inspector was facing.

“So you have a new case?”

“Rather an old one that I am
revising. Have you heard of the Goddard O’Harris mystery?”

The inspector broke into a
broad grin.

“That old chestnut! Body
vanishing in the night, no witnesses, no suspects, no murder weapon, quite a
pickle. That was before I was inspector of course. So you are looking into it?”

“As best I can, time is not an
asset when it comes to solving crimes I am realising. Were you on that
particular case?”

“No, I was on day duty that
week. Knew the fellows who were on it quite well though. They were a good lot,
very professional. They told me the case was unsolvable and I believed them.”

“Are there files on it?”

“Certainly, what little there
was. Probably no more than a report but I can find it for you…” The inspector
glanced at his workmen, torn between helping Clara and keeping his eye on the
reformed criminal.

“Shall I watch them for you?”
Clara offered.

“It is not a job for a woman.”
The inspector frowned.

“Neither is being a detective,
perhaps we can avoid such sentiments?”

Inspector Park-Coombs let out a
laugh then he swapped places with Clara and headed for the archives.

“If they cause you any trouble
just call the sergeant!”

Clara watched him go and then
sighed and sat down on the edge of his desk. She pulled a mirror from her bag
and inspected her lipstick.

“Miss?” She looked up at the
older painter who had visibly relaxed since the inspector’s exit,

“Are you talking about that
case where the old boy died and vanished from his own garden?”

Clara smiled at him.

“Yes I am.”

“I’ve done some work at that
hall, including on that airplane hangar in the grounds.”

“Yes?”

“If he is still alive, and I
can’t say he is, but if he is, I should talk to the builder who hired us for
the job. I remember him making a remark about the foundations a couple of days
after the death.”