05 - Mistletoe and Murder (21 page)

“Seen a dozen like them
already.”

Grey threw up his hands in
frustration.

“Girls, get your clothes on
before you catch your death and I’ll talk some sense into our dear theatre
manager.” Grey rose from his seat, glancing at Clara as he did so, “Sorry I
can’t help. You should think about being a dancer, I could use a girl with your
curves.”

“No, thank you.” Clara rose
also, “I am very particular about remaining fully clothed.”

Grey grinned at her.

“Can’t win ‘em all.” He
winked.

“No, you can’t Mr Grey,” Clara
nodded at him as she left, “No you can’t.”

~
~ * ~ ~

Clara’s next stop was Mason’s
Bank, where she anticipated finding the young Mr Winston Mason – Boxing Day
being no excuse in the banking world for not making money, after all. The bank,
as she had expected, was open and a steady stream of customers were wandering
in and out, apparently making up for the one day of the year (excluding
Sundays) the bank had been shut. Clara wandered into a large foyer with
towering Grecian pillars and faux marble-work everywhere. She paused for a
moment to take in the decoration which screamed of expense and indulgence, then
she headed for the nearest unengaged cashier.

“Hello, might I ask if Mr
Winston Mason is in?”

The cashier looked a little
surprise to be asked such a request then turned around to speak to someone
behind him.

“Might I ask what it is
about?” The cashier said on returning to his station.

“You can say I have come on
behalf of Mr William Henry Sampford and that it is extremely important. My name
is Clara Fitzgerald, by the way.”

Still looking puzzled the
cashier asked her to wait as he moved away to a telephone and made a call. It
was not long before he returned.

“Mr Mason is extremely busy.”
He apologised.

“Please, try again and this
time state that I am here on behalf of the
late
Mr William Henry
Sampford.”

Once more the cashier
retreated to the telephone, when he returned this time he was utterly confused.

“Mr Mason asks I escort you to
his office at once.”

The cashier came around his desk
and led Clara to a short corridor where there was an elevator. A uniformed
porter nodded to them both as he opened the lift doors and took them up to the
third floor. The elevator opened onto a plush hallway decorated with paintings
of famous bankers and members of the Mason family. A formidable row of
businessmen glowered down at Clara from the walls as she walked past. She
doubted many women, aside from the odd secretary, ever wandered these corridors
and she found herself smiling at the grim faces that scowled down at her from
their canvases.

The cashier stopped outside a
rather plain door, the only ornamentation a simple name plate. He knocked and
when a voice called out for him to come in, he entered and escorted Clara
inside.

“Miss Fitzgerald, sir.” He
announced, before disappearing as fast as he had arrived.

Clara took a pace into the
room as the door clicked behind her. Winston Mason sat behind his desk, a
slender young man with slicked back hair and a pencil moustache. He was not
precisely handsome, his nose being rather on the prominent side, but he had
lively, charming eyes that drew you in. He was wearing a pale grey suit and had
his hands clutched before him on the desk.

“Miss Fitzgerald, please take
a seat and explain what this is all about.”

Clara sat in a chair facing
the desk and composed herself to break what she suspected would be very bad
news to the young banker.

“I’m sorry to call without an
appointment.” She began.

“No matter… you mentioned
something about calling on behalf of Mr William Henry Sampford. He does not
bank here, you realise?” Mr Mason was avoiding her eyes and speaking very
carefully.

“I am not here on banking
business, I am afraid. I wanted to speak to you personally, seeing as you were
a friend of Mr Sampford.”

“I barely know the man.” Mason
let out what might have been an attempt at a light-hearted laugh, “I have heard
his name, of course. His aunt banks with us, a very loyal customer.”

“I suppose that is how you met
him? Perhaps he came to discuss his aunt’s financial arrangements, though it
would have been improper for you to have discussed them with him.”

“I really don’t know the man.”

Clara paused and assessed
Mason, he was hiding something from her, she knew it, but drawing him out would
require a great deal of tact. She tried again.

“I’m sorry to hear that Mr
Mason, I really came to you because I am clutching at some rather loose straws.
On Christmas Eve William Henry Sampford apparently shot himself. I say
apparently because I am still trying to work out why and also the event took
place in a household where there has been some considerable trouble.” Clara
took a breath, “In Mr Sampford’s possession was a large sum of money in a
suitcase. Not the sort of thing someone brings with them when they visit an
aunt at Christmas. This makes me wonder if his suicide was driven by blackmail,
and if that
is
the case, I have to ask myself what was Mr Sampford being
blackmailed about? Without boring you, Mr Mason, I am aware of William Henry’s
proclivities and I am led to believe you knew of them too. Now, it is only my
personal opinion, but if a man kills himself because a person is blackmailing
him I look upon that as murder as much as if they pulled the trigger
themselves. But no one will talk to me! You are my last hope. You say you hardly
knew him, but perhaps you know of some gentleman in London who could assist me?
Something must explain William Henry’s regular trips to the city. And if there
is a blackmailer I fully intend to find them and do what little I can to see
they are brought to some sort of justice.”

Her speech concluded Clara
fell silent and waited for Mason’s response. The young banker stared at the
blotter on his desk for some time, tapping one index finger on the very edge of
it. When he raised his head his face was extremely pale.

“William Henry…” He swallowed
hard, “This is unexpected.”

Clara waited, the temptation
to interject a question was strong, but she sense that this was a time to keep
quiet. Mason turned his head and thought for a long time. His finger still
tapped absently.

“William used to come down to
London to see me.” He spoke at last.

Clara realised she had been
holding her breath and released it.

“You were good friends?” She
asked gingerly.

“Very good friends.” Mason was
breathless with emotion, “You don’t seem shocked, Miss Fitzgerald? I presume
you understand my implication?”

“I understand it well enough.”
Clara said gently, “As for being shocked, well, I don’t shock easily Mr Mason
and certainly not because a man admits to me he is homosexual.”

“Ah,” Mason said, a little
uncomfortable with hearing the word out loud, “How is Amelia coping with her
loss?”

Clara sighed.

“I don’t think ‘coping’ is the
word to use.” She said sadly, “She has had a mental breakdown.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”
Mason replied, “William said she was a very disturbed person. He told me once
he thought of himself and Amelia as two desperately lost souls that no one
understood, and one day it occurred to him he might marry her and take care of
her, and in return his father would no longer hound him about finding a wife. I
think he also looked upon it as penance for his desires, she was his burden,
his cross to bear for his sins, and he bore that burden gladly.”

“I am not sure what will
become of Amelia without him.” Clara said, realising she at last was seeing a
decent side to William Henry, “And what about you?”

Mason grimaced.

“What about me?” He said with
a grim laugh, “He was just a friend, after all.”

“Mr Mason, you may find my
next offer in poor taste, but it is meant with only good intentions. If you
wish at any time to talk about what you are feeling I will be a willing
listener.”

“You are very kind Miss
Fitzgerald, but I must ask, what is your involvement in all this?” Mason was
suddenly looking very suspicious, and Clara realised he probably assumed she
was a reporter or something awful like that.

“I am a private detective, Mr
Mason. I came to No.50 to investigate Miss Sampford’s ghost issue. If I might
take you into my confidence?”

“Go ahead, you already know
enough about me. I can assure you I am good with secrets.”

“The ghost of No.50 Berkeley
Square is no more a spectre than you or I, but a very real, living person who
has murderous designs on Miss Sampford. Now, it just so happens that the window
the ghost has been using to enter and exit the property is in the very room
William Henry died. I don’t like coincidences Mr Mason and so I have found
myself wondering about whether there was a connection between the two. And then
I find the money and it strikes me as a pay-off to someone, but who? A
blackmailer? An assassin William Henry has hired to bump off his aunt?”

“William Henry did not wish
his aunt dead.” Mason said sharply, his face tightening into a pained
expression.

“I must admit, his death seems
to imply that. But the money?”

“I can explain that too.”
Mason was so desperately trying to control himself that his words came out in a
staccato stutter, “William Henry did not wish his aunt dead, but I would be
lying to you if I said he did not find her continued residence in No.50 a
nuisance on his bank account. He wanted to free up the money used to sustain
her for his own estate, but he was not going to murder her over it!”

“Then how did he intend to
free the money?”

Mason closed his eyes for a
moment and then groaned.

“William had gone over every
detail of his grandfather’s financial arrangement for Miss Sampford. There was
a clause within it that mentioned what would occur if Miss Sampford become
incapable through physical or mental deterioration to continue to reside on her
own. In such a situation, the money set aside for her allowance would instead
be used to fund her future care. William saw this as a loophole; if he proved
his aunt was incapable of continuing to live at No.50, he could insist on her
coming to live at the Sampford estate so that he and Amelia might care for her.
And then her allowance would be paid to them to maintain her.”

Clara understood. It was a
rather dastardly plan, but it wasn’t murder.

“William would have taken good
care of her.” Mason added hastily.

Clara felt that was by-the-by.

“How did he intend to prove
Miss Sampford was incapable?” She asked.

“He had heard the talk about
the ghost at No.50. The stories are all over London and his nephew Elijah kept
mentioning it. It seemed to him, that all he need do was convince people the
ghost was a product of his aunt’s mind, and then he would be able to prove she
was unable to continue residing alone.”

“He intended to demonstrate
his aunt was senile?”

“Yes, but as I am sure you are
aware she is clearly not, so to strengthen his case he set about finding a
doctor who would testify that Miss Sampford was mentally incapable.” Mason
paused, “I suspect that is what the money you found was for. Paying off this
doctor. On his last visit to me he said he had found someone willing to
diagnose Miss Sampford with whatever he wanted.”

“This is utterly disgraceful.”
Clara could hardly contain herself any longer, “Stripping a woman of her
independence in such a way!”

“I know, I know. I didn’t
agree with it either, but what could I do? If I came forward it would mean
explaining how I came to know William’s plans.”

“And it would also mean losing
him.” Clara calmed down, “Did he also manufacture the ghost?”

“No, that was pure luck. In
any case, William thought that was a load of nonsense, or the servants
misbehaving.”

Clara found the whole thing
ghastly, but it certainly made a good deal of sense. It explained his
conversation with Amelia which Annie overheard. William had been intending to
make the pay-off over Christmas. However that raised a new dilemma.

“Oh dear.” She tutted to
herself, “That makes it all the less likely he shot himself.”

“William was never suicidal.”
Mason suddenly spoke with a spark of anger, “I know that is how everyone thinks
us ‘queers’ meet our ends, a pistol to our heads or a bottle of Arsenic, but
just because you live a double life doesn’t mean you regard that life as any
less precious. William had no reason to kill himself. He had me, and no one
else knew that. He was safe and he was happy.”

Clara smiled at Mason, knowing
all too well that what a person projected on the outside by no means reflected
what they were feeling on the inside. But she had to agree that William seemed
to have far more reasons to want to live, than he had to want to die. His
suicide had been bothering her since it occurred. It was not so much the lack
of a note, though that was troubling, but the way he had been muttering to
himself just before – and the pistol. No one seemed quite able to say where
that had come from. It was the timing that also disturbed her. To stand up and
leave in the middle of a card game to kill oneself seemed rather odd. Yet she
could not offer any other reason for why he had left the room, nor how he had
ended up in the empty spare room.

“If he didn’t kill himself,
then I am looking for a murderer.” She said at last.

“This ghost? You said the
person behind it was a killer.”

“Maybe, but how did he end up
in that room? I need to think this over further; there must be some logic to
it.” Clara impulsively reached out her hand and placed it over Mason’s, “I
appreciate you being so candid with me. I shall not repeat this meeting to
anyone, of that I can assure you.”