05 - Mistletoe and Murder (15 page)

Clara lay in bed thinking about
the slight sting at the back of her throat and the shivers running up and down
her spine. She had drunk camomile and honey tea before bed, hoping to quash the
illness that was threatening before it began. The last thing she needed was a
full-blown cold in the middle of a case. She pulled the bed covers right up to
her chin and tried to get warm. The house was silent; everyone was abed, except
for Andrews’ team of ghost hunters who were taking turns to watch for the ghost
in the corridor outside. Clara had heard the hourly change over a few moments
ago, Simon Jones replacing Captain Adams and his big shotgun.

Somewhere outside a clock bell
rang the hour. It was 1am on Christmas morning. Very soon small children
everywhere would be bouncing out of bed and insisting on opening presents. The
butcher would open his shop to sell his last few geese and turkeys, the baker
would pull up his shutters and offer hot bread to early morning shoppers, the
religious would head through the cold to church and the newspaper boys would
hawk the papers as they did every day of the week. Finally, just before dinner,
the world would go quiet. The shops would shut, the stragglers would go home
and for a few hours Christmas would be enjoyed (or endured) by almost everyone
who was able to.

Clara tried to will herself to
sleep. It was almost impossible. She was considering getting up and finding a
book to read when she heard the soft sound of a bell beginning to ring before
being abruptly silenced. Clara held her breath. Andrews had rigged his usual
traps, the bell being just one of them, but no ghost would know to reach out
and stop the bell from ringing, would they? On the other hand, a person, a
living intruder, just might.

Clara strained her ears for
any sound and there it was, very soft and careful footsteps coming from her
left, from the direction of the back stairs. To her right she heard movement;
Simon Jones rising from his chair. He had heard it too. Clara slipped her feet
out of bed and reached out to try and find her dressing gown. Even as she did
so she heard the sound of a bowl wobbling on a table, as if someone had bumped
into it. Simon Jones sprang forward, she heard his feet moving, and suddenly
another set of feet running. Simon Jones was in pursuit of
something.

Clara’s hand felt around
frantically for the dressing gown, where was the damn thing? She heard a
clatter, a splash and then the crash of porcelain as one of Andrews’ water
containers took a tumble. Clara gave up on the dressing gown and dashed for the
door. Pulling it open she was just in time to see Jones flying through the door
to the back stairs. Captain Adams, Oliver and Elijah were all coming out of
their respective bedrooms.

“They went that way!” Clara
announced turning to her left as she spoke.

She was about to dash after
Jones, and was halfway down the hall, when Oliver suddenly grabbed her around
the waist and halted her.

“Not over that!” He pointed to
the floor.

In the glimmer of moonlight
from his room could be seen shards of broken pottery dotting the floor. Had
Clara carried on she would have cut her bare feet to shreds.

Adams came pounding down the
hall after her.

“Someone clear up that mess.”
He ordered, his slippers flapping as he ran past, “Come on now!”

He was just about to leap over
the debris and follow Jones when there was a sudden shout and then a cry,
following by a series of thuds and crashes emanating from the back stairs.
Clara went stock-still, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. It
didn’t take a detective to know what had caused those noises.

“Jones?” Captain Adams went
towards the door more cautiously now.

“He fell right to the bottom.”
Clara said very quietly, so only Oliver overheard.

“Jones?” Adams opened the door
to the back stairs and peered into the darkness.

“What’s going on?” Miss
Sampford appeared at her bedroom door looking ashen, “What has happened.”

“A bowl was broken.” Elijah
said as lightly as he could manage, stepping towards his aunt and shuffling her
back into her room, “And Mr Jones has tripped on the stairs in the dark. It
will be all sorted in a moment.”

“Oliver, we have to go
downstairs.” Clara pulled away from the photographer and went to grab her
slippers as Captain Adams hovered at the door of the back stairs, apparently
unwilling to go down.

Clara and Oliver made their
way to the basement area, where the back stairs emerged into a corridor next to
the kitchen. There was a door at the bottom. Clara stood before it.

“I can do this.” Oliver said.

Clara smiled at him wanly.

“I’m not scared of the dead.”
She said softly, then she lifted the latch on the door and pulled it open.

Simon Jones tumbled half out.
His head flopped at Clara’s feet, while his legs still lay on the stairs as he
had fallen. Clara managed not to gasp, though she hopped back as the body
slumped towards her. Falling three flights of stairs is never a good idea; it
had certainly done Jones no favours. Clara bent down and looked for signs of
life.

“I’m pretty certain he is
dead.” She whispered to Oliver.

Oliver grimaced.

“He slipped, and all those
narrow steep stairs are lethal.” He shook his head, “Tragic.”

Clara stood and stared up the
staircase.

“He was chasing someone.”

“The ghost?” Oliver glanced at
the stairs too, “I heard nothing.”

“That’s because they silenced
the bell.” Clara was starting to feel very angry, “And they were treading very,
very carefully, except they did not know about the water bowls. And when Jones
spotted them they ran. Does that sound like the behaviour of a ghost?”

Oliver had no answer.

“Simon Jones was running
upstairs, how often have you tripped running upstairs Oliver?”

Oliver shrugged.

“More times than I care to
remember.”

“And what happens?”

He gave her a curious look.

“You fall on your face, it
hurts.”

“I know, I’ve done it. You
might slip a few steps, but not the whole way because you grab out with your
arms. But you know, the one time I did fall properly down the stairs was when I
was coming down, not going up.”

“What are you saying Clara?”

“Simon Jones was running
upstairs, if he tripped it’s unlikely he would have fallen like this. No, he
was either already heading back down when he stumbled, or…”

“Or?”

“Or he was pushed. Which makes
our ghost a killer.”

Oliver grimaced.

“Don’t say that Clara.”

“Why not when it is true? He
was chasing someone, well, where is that person?”

Oliver peered at the stairs
again.

“I think we ought to call an
ambulance.”

“All right.” Clara said, “And
in the meantime it would be best to call this a horrid accident and not
speculate to anyone about murder.”

“Agreed.” Oliver pulled a
face, “I’ve gone off this ghost hunting business.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Clara
frowned at the body of Simon Jones, “I’m just warming up to it.”

It had been another very
disturbed night and Christmas morning arrived with a subdued air in the
Sampford household. Somehow Mrs James had managed to whip up a Christmas
breakfast that exuded the festive cheer no one else could muster. She was just
about holding herself and the two maids together; the news of Simon Jones
accident had not gone down well. It was fairly certain Jane would be leaving
the following day, though Flo had promised to soldier on. Clara didn’t want
anyone to leave while the mystery of this murderous spirit remained unsolved.
She was beginning to doubt everyone in the household, no matter how innocent
they seemed.

After a stout breakfast that
really should have seen them fit for anything, Miss Sampford and her brother
and sister-in-law announced they were going to church and would return in a
little while. Clara felt it was a good idea to get Miss Sampford out of the house
for a time, she needed the fresh air. Simon Jones’ death had shaken her to the
core. She hardly said a word as she put on her hat and left with Edward and
Hilda. Clara hoped she might have some answers by the time they returned.

As soon as they were gone, she
headed upstairs, right to the top. She wasn’t sure which floor Simon Jones had
fallen from, but it had to be either the third or the attic, and somehow the
third floor seemed to be drawing all her attention. She examined the landing in
the attic first, just in case. There were no overt signs of a struggle, but
then she hadn’t really expected any. She came to the third floor and found Mr
Andrews examining the door to the back stairs. He paused when he heard her
footsteps and acknowledged her with a nod.

“Nasty business.” He said
quietly.

“I’m very sorry about Mr
Jones.” Clara replied.

“So am I. In all my years
doing this I’ve never had someone die before.”

“Had Jones been doing this
long?”

“Oh, about five years.”
Andrews shrugged his shoulders, “I met him at a dinner in Oxford. I was guest
speaker for a literary society Jones belonged to. He had read my book
Forty
Years as a Ghost Hunter
. After a little discussion I agreed to involve him
in one of my next cases. He proved very adept at tracking ghosts and very
reliable. He was with me during the Wiggleford Forest expedition, when we were
chased by something unspeakably horrid.”

“He knew how to deal with
ghosts then?”

“I should say so! Not that
they precisely need dealing with. They are ethereal entities, spectral
memories, nothing substantial. Most of the time we just prove they exist for
the benefit of the frightened household, or for that matter, we prove they
don’t.”

“And your thoughts on last
night?”

Andrews gave her a sly look.

“Is this an interrogation Miss
Fitzgerald?”

“Jones is dead, William Henry
is dead, I don’t particularly want the police around tonight too. So, yes, I
have questions that need answering, but I am honestly interested on your
thoughts about last night. Do you think he simply tripped and fell?”

“It’s a dark staircase.”
Andrews said.

“True, and Simon Jones may
have reached the top, found nothing, turned around to come down and fallen.”

“But you are not convinced?”

Clara pulled a face.

“Just something about the way
Jones fell, I don’t think he was coming down the staircase, I think he was
running up, maybe on the very last step. I think he fell with his back to the
stairs.”

“You mean he was pushed.” Andrews
cocked his head reflectively.

“I don’t like coincidences.”
Clara continued, “The death of William Henry, apparently an unforeseen suicide,
and now the seemingly accidental death of Jones troubles me. Two deaths in two
nights strikes me as a pattern of sorts.”

“Your standard ghost isn’t
much of a killer.” Andrews mused, “Unless you want to look upon people who have
been scared to death as murder. No, ghosts don’t deliberately kill.”

“Then at last we are agreeing
on something, You see what this means?”

“Yes Miss Fitzgerald!” Andrews
suddenly snapped his fingers, “It’s perfectly clear now. It couldn’t be a
ghost!”

Clara felt like cheering, but
restrained herself.

“Precisely, there has never
been a ghost at Berkeley Square.” She smiled.

“No, indeed! I have been
looking at this all the wrong way.” Andrews looked surprisingly jovial for someone
who had just been proved wrong.

Clara started to feel
uncomfortable.

“If Jones did not encounter a
ghost last night…” She began, but Andrew interrupted.

“I should have considered this
sooner, I once saw it happen in Ireland.”

“I suspect Jones met a person
last night,” Clara quickly finished, “A living one.”

“A person!” Andrews stared at
her in astonishment, “Yet again you prove how naïve you are young lady. No
person was on that landing!”

Clara folded her arms across
her chest. The phrase ‘young lady’ had not gone down well.

“Honestly, it is fortunate for
Miss Sampford I am here.” Andrews chuckled to himself in his infuriatingly
patronising manner, “A person? That was no person! The creature on the landing
last night must have been an Elemental.”

Andrews opened the door from
the back stairs and stepped into the third floor corridor.

“An Elemental?” Clara called
after him, curious despite herself.

“That would explain the
attraction to water.” Andrews was muttering to himself, “And the sudden
appearance after years of no disturbances.”

“Mr Andrews, you do appear to
be babbling.”

“Spare me your sarcasm Miss
Fitzgerald. Jones was killed by an Elemental, a being of evil that was never
alive, has never existed so to speak. Some refer to them as the spirits that
dwell in nature. When disturbed they rise and take form and can often be
particularly malevolent. Yes, that explains why Bridget struggled to fix on a
voice during the séance, there was no spirit to communicate with! I’ll need to
change my equipment at once!”

Clara left Andrews to his
enthusiastic ramblings, tutting to herself as she went back down the stairs.
How anyone could believe in such nonsense was beyond her. Clara’s next stop was
the drawing room where she found Elijah sitting smoking before the fire. It was
about time she had a good chat with the people relevant to this case, and
Elijah happened to be one of them. She asked him to join her in the ‘snug’ and
shortly afterwards they were tucked away in Miss Sampford’s private room,
over-looked by various family members peering from their photographs.

“How can I help, Miss
Fitzgerald?” Elijah asked as soon as they were settled, he looked quite jaded
behind his friendly smile.

“I’m trying to get my head
around this business of the ghost.” Clara began, “I hoped you might be able to
help me. Perhaps we could begin by discussing your aunt?”

“My aunt?” Elijah looked
blank, “What about her?”

“Do you like her?”

“Of course! What a silly
question. She is a dear, old lady. Very sweet.”

“And you like living here?”

Elijah lightly smiled and
leaned forward in his chair.

“I understand what you are
implying; nephews do bump off their aunts. However, I have no desire to do so.
For a start it would leave me without a comfortable abode in London, I would
have to rent a place and find servants which I would find most loathsome.
Auntie has left me some money, I know that much, but that is really
inconsequential since mother sees fit to supply me with a healthy allowance,
most of which is accruing nicely in my bank account. I have no major debts and
no need of auntie’s money.”

“You get on well with your
aunt then?”

“Miss Fitzgerald, if I didn’t,
would I be spending Christmas here rather than with my mother?” Elijah sat back
in his chair with a sigh, “I don’t get on so well with mater, I don’t really
live up to her expectations. It’s not that I don’t try, I try extremely hard,
but somehow I can’t manage the top scores in exams and I seem to always annoy
her. I would much rather be here. Auntie doesn’t pester me about my results,
she lets me come and go as I please. I feel she understands what it is like to
be a disappointment to your parents.”

Clara nodded sympathetically.

“What about your cousin,
William Henry?”

Elijah shook his head.

“We hardly spoke, he was a
great deal older than me. My late father was William Sampford’s (William
Henry’s father’s) younger brother by a number of years and married late in
life.”

“You must have had some
opinion on him?”

“I mostly tried not to think
about him. He was not exactly pleasant, and that awful wife of his, Amelia. I
really wish my aunt would let her go home. I hear her sobbing and talking to
herself in her bedroom during the night. It is most horrible, she sounds mad.”

“Had you any suspicions
William Henry was suicidal?”

“None.” Elijah stuck out his
bottom lip, “He didn’t seem the sort, but I suppose you just don’t know. We had
this fellow at university during my first year who killed himself, drunk a
mixture of carbolic and prussic acid of all things. None of us were surprised,
he seemed the type. Always despairing of this or that. William Henry was rather
the sort who would look down on shooting oneself, at least that is what I would
have said before he did it.”

“I had a similar feeling.”
Clara admitted, “But if he did not lock himself into a room and put a pistol to
his head, we are left with the awful possibility of murder.”

“That, oddly enough, would
seem more likely to me!” Elijah laughed bleakly, “I could name you a fair few
who would like to shoot him.”

“Would you include yourself?”

Elijah was brought up short.

“Whatever reason could I
have?”

“William Henry leaves no heir,
and his only male relative, aside from you, is considerably aged. Eventually,
after the death of Edward Sampford, you will inherit the family estate.”

Elijah looked unimpressed.

“That is hardly something to
kill for. The estate is in debt up to its crenelated turrets. It needs massive
refurbishment work. Even if I sold it, I probably wouldn’t have enough to pay
off its debts. No, I am in no rush to gain that house. I hope Uncle Edward
lives a very long time, long enough to have to deal with all those problems
himself.”

“There still might be worth in
the land.” Clara said, not convinced.

“Trust me, there isn’t.
Anyway, if you recall I was in the same room as your brother and Oliver Bankes
when William Henry killed himself. That puts me out of the running for
murderer.”

“I suppose so.” Clara was
noncommittal, “What about last night? What can you remember before poor Simon
Jones fell?”

“Well…” Elijah paused to
recall the night before, “I was in bed around midnight, having danced over all
those pots and pans of water Andrews put out. The captain was on watch at that
point with that huge gun of his. I really didn’t trust him with it. I climbed
into bed. I was dog-tired and had drunk a fair amount of port. Amelia was
raving next door, as usual. Not loudly, more under-her-breath, so I couldn’t
hear what she said, but it was annoying nonetheless. Despite that I did drift
off to sleep, and then something woke me,” Elijah tapped his finger on his lips
as he tried to recall what had roused him, “It was before the bell rang. It was
something like a door slamming, no, rather like a window slipping shut. I
didn’t really pay much attention. I turned over to go to sleep and it was a few
minutes longer before I heard the bell begin to ring and then stop. I rolled
onto my back, not sure I had really heard anything at all. Then I heard
footsteps. Very soft. Then someone knocked a bowl over and it smashed. Someone
ran past my door, must have been Jones. I jumped out of bed and threw back the
door. I saw you, Oliver and the captain again. There was smashed porcelain all
over the carpet but no sign of Simon Jones. Then there was the crash and,
well…”

“Thank you Elijah, that has
been most helpful.” Clara said.

“I’m sorry about Simon. I feel
bad about it since I asked Andrews and his team to investigate. Now this
dreadful accident.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“And auntie is so upset. I
thought having other people in the house would help, rather it seems to have
made things worse.” Elijah groaned, “Why can’t I ever do anything right?”

“It isn’t your fault.” Clara
insisted quietly, “Mr Jones slipped, such things happen.”

Elijah shut his eyes and
looked miserable.

“I keep wondering, who will be
next?”

“There will be no one else.”
Clara assured him.

“Really?” Elijah asked
unconvinced.

“Really.” Clara said firmly.