by Evelyn James
His only obstacle attended to, the man stood up and walked down the corridor. He hastened his step near the room door where the constable had been standing guard and entered before anyone could stop him.
The room was pitch black, the patient was sleeping, and the rainy night outside provided no illumination. The man reached out for the light, he wanted to be able to see what he was doing and get the job done properly this time. The bright dazzle of the bulb for a second blinded him.
“Hello.”
The man had taken a step forward, before his eyes had adjusted. Now he stopped and looked at Clara Fitzgerald sitting on the hospital bed.
“Were you expecting someone else Mortimer Parkes?”
Mortimer panicked, he turned to leave, but Sarah was behind him, blocking the door. She looked fearsome in her police uniform, truncheon ready in her hand, like a real Scottish banshee. Mortimer opened his mouth to swear, then he decided not to waste time and launched himself at Clara. He didn’t get very far – Sarah had been itching to use her truncheon on him.
Clara watched as he crumpled to the floor clutching at his head. He groaned as Sarah stood over him, slapping her truncheon into the palm of her hand.
“What really annoys me,” she told him. “Is I am not allowed to arrest you. Women police can’t do that. But I can slap you with this truncheon until you cry for your mammy.”
Mortimer Parkes glowered between the two of them.
“You think you have won? You think I’ll be done for this? Hah!”
“Who is going to come to save you,” Clara asked him coolly. “Your boss? Why would he get his hands dirty for you?”
Mortimer hesitated, plainly starting to question himself. Then he scowled.
“You have no idea what this is all about. None!”
“Maybe I don’t,” Clara said. “But I’m not the one who is going to hang for murder.”
Parkes’ eyes grew big as he realised the predicament he was in, he was contemplating trying to escape, but at that moment Inspector Park-Coombs arrived to make the formal arrest.
“Mortimer Parkes, what a coincidence. I’ve been looking for you. Your grandfather claims you stole his father’s knife.”
Mortimer Parkes cursed his grandfather’s name as Park-Coombs slapped on handcuffs.
“Now, now,” Park-Coombs said calmly. “There are ladies present.”
Mortimer completed his crass demonstration by spitting at Clara’s feet. Sarah thumped him hard on the head with her truncheon again.
“Constable!” Park-Coombs accosted her.
Sarah merely shrugged.
“My mother always said you have to slap the rudeness out of some people.”
Park-Coombs had no reply to that, he just hauled the dazed Mortimer towards the door. Clara followed him out, turning right and going to a room further down the hall. She opened the door a fraction and looked in to see Private Peterson talking with Captain O’Harris. They were both blissfully unaware of the drama that had occurred in Peterson’s old room. Clara closed the door, smiling to herself, and headed for the police station.
~~~*~~~
Mortimer Parkes might be bruised and battered, but he was not in the mood to make a confession. He sullenly remained silent throughout his interview, until the inspector became fed up and went to have a cup of tea. Mortimer’s silence was disappointing, but not unexpected. He was a tough thug who knew when to keep his mouth shut. At least he could not escape the charges brought against him. The knife and Peterson’s testimony would send him to the hangman for sure. The only question that was left hanging over them was why? Why did he kill Jenny?
“He’ll probably never tell us,” Inspector Park-Coombs informed Clara. “My guess is that Callum Little made a mistake and Jenny was involved somehow. They both had to die. Whether Jenny knew Callum was dead we’ll never know.”
“Peterson said she was arguing with Mortimer,” Clara remarked.
“Maybe he had accosted her with what she had done wrong and she was giving him a good tongue-lashing over it. She was feisty, she wouldn’t have gone down without a fight.”
Clara leaned against a desk. The kettle was beginning to whistle and the inspector moved to pour hot water in the teapot.
“You did what you set out to do,” he said. “You proved Peterson innocent.”
“I don’t like all these unanswered questions, and we still have the problem with the gang Mortimer worked for.”
“That’s for me to worry about,” Park-Coombs told her firmly. “I don’t say this to you often Clara, but this business is out of your league. It’s too dangerous and I don’t want you investigating it further, understood?”
Clara looked glum, but eventually nodded her head. She saw the inspector’s logic, even if she didn’t like it.
“I’ll keep working at our friend, he might confess eventually. He has nothing to lose by doing so.”
Behind them there was a sudden commotion. Park-Coombs stood up as several police constables darted out of the room and into the corridor.
“What is all this about?” He hurried after them and Clara was close behind. As they neared the door they could hear cries for help.
Reaching the corridor, they saw police crowded around the door of the room where Park-Coombs had been interviewing Mortimer Parkes. The inspector pushed through the constables until he was stood in the doorway. He came to a halt, staring inside. Clara hung back, her heart sinking as she sensed something awful had occurred.
“Summon the police surgeon,” Park-Coombs snapped at the nearest constable. “And the rest of you get back to work!”
The little crowd dispersed as the constables went back to their duty. Clara stepped behind Park-Coombs. In the interview room stood a police constable looking white as a sheet. On the table stood a mug of tea that he had just been bringing the suspect – Inspector Park-Coombs always maintained his manners, even with criminals.
At the constable’s feet, lying on his back, was Mortimer Parkes. His eyes were bulging from their sockets and he was frothing at the mouth. By his outstretched right hand was a cigarette, partially smoked. Park-Coombs bent down by the young man who was just alive.
“Looks like cyanide poisoning,” Park-Coombs groaned. “Let’s keep everything quiet and put the light out, if you can keep the patient as calm as possible sometimes that helps.”
The police constable turned off the light and went to fetch a lamp, while on the floor Mortimer began to twitch violently. The inspector tried to hold him still. Clara ran into the hallway, grabbed a coat off a hook and bundled it up to place under the fitting man’s head. At least it would stop him bashing out his brains on the floor.
“He had nothing on him but the cigarettes,” Park-Coombs said, before glancing at the partially smoked cigarette in Mortimer’s hand. “Who gave you the cigarettes, Mortimer?”
Mortimer grimaced, the twitches were turning into spasms.
“They deliberately poisoned you,” Park-Coombs told him. “They decided it would be better if you were out of the way.”
Mortimer gave a small moan, his throat was rapidly constricting. Cyanide killed by making it impossible for the victim to breathe.
“C…Ca… lum,” he said, his voice trembling. “S… sold information t… to a L… London gang.”
“He sold information about your boss to his rivals and your boss found out,” Park-Coombs elaborated.
“H… had to m… make example…” Mortimer mumbled.
“And Jenny?” Clara asked.
Mortimer coughed up more foam, his face was going purple and Clara did not think he had long. But the realisation his boss had betrayed him was making Mortimer talkative. It was the only revenge he had left.
“J… Jenny s… stole the in… information… first place…”
“She and Callum were working together,” Park-Coombs nodded. “It was how she got all that money to give to her mother. So, you killed her?”
“Orders…” Mortimer hissed.
<
br /> “Who do you work for?” Park-Coombs demanded. “Give me that before you go find out what’s on the other side.”
Mortimer’s arms were starting to jump up and down, his legs were violently moving too. There was no antidote for cyanide poisoning, all you could attempt to do was keep the patient as relaxed and quiet as possible until the toxin left his system. But it all depended on how much poison they had ingested and it rather looked like Mortimer had received a hefty dose.
“Mortimer, just give us a name,” Park-Coombs pressed.
Mortimer ground his teeth together as the spasms became violent. Clara tried to hold his head still, but he was contorting so madly that it was difficult to contain him. The inspector was holding his legs and began calling for help. The constable returned with the lamp and grabbed Mortimer’s arms, together they aimed to keep him as still as possible.
The ordeal seemed to last forever, but when Mortimer finally became still, Clara knew that they had failed. He had stopped breathing. It was not long afterwards that Dr Deáth arrived and pronounced him dead.
Clara had seen men die before, but it never was an easy thing to watch. She needed the fresh cup of tea that the inspector called for as they retreated to the main office of the station. Around them constables were typing reports, or filing complaints made by Brighton residents. The sound of business was comforting, even if Clara knew the image of Mortimer’s twisted face would linger for a long time.
“If only he could have given us his boss,” Park-Coombs muttered, pacing back and forth.
“We know something at least,” Clara said, catching his attention. “Our gang are big enough to have a rival gang after them in London.”
“You are to keep out of this Clara,” Park-Coombs pointed a finger at her. “These are dangerous people.”
“I have no intention of becoming involved further,” Clara assured him. “As long as Peterson is safe, that is all that matters to me.”
The inspector eyed her suspiciously, but Clara was telling the truth. Whatever this gang was doing, and whoever was in charge, they were too big for her to deal with. For once, she was prepared to leave the matter in the hands of the police.
“The poisoned cigarette,” she said slowly. “Doesn’t it remind you of another case?”
Park-Coombs gave a sigh.
“I don’t like this one bit, Clara. This is going to give me a headache.”
Clara could not offer him any comfort.
~~~*~~~
Peterson returned to the convalescence home a hero. He was welcomed by the staff, his comrades and O’Harris with cheers. The press had been informed of what Peterson had done and the story had been printed, making it plain that he had nearly died trying to save a woman. It was the best publicity the Home could have got.
Clara watched Peterson’s return from a distance. She was still haunted by the death of Mortimer Parkes. He had been a nasty thug, but it was still a terrible way to die, and his demise had left a lot of unanswered questions.
Captain O’Harris came and stood beside her.
“You did me a great service helping Peterson,” he said.
“You know I could never let him be tried for a murder he didn’t commit.”
O’Harris smiled at her and then quietly took her hand.
“I don’t know if what has happened will help or hinder Peterson’s recovery, but I am glad he is back with us.”
“Maybe being that close to death will remind him what it is to be alive?” Clara suggested.
“Maybe,” O’Harris replied.
He was silent a moment, then he leaned over and kissed Clara. She was surprised for an instant, then turned into him and kissed him back. O’Harris lifted his head and whispered in her ear.
“I love you, Clara Fitzgerald.”
Clara hesitated for just a moment, taking in this sudden announcement. Then she moved closer to him, squeezing his hand hard.
“I love you too,” she whispered back.
O’Harris grinned.
“Well, he said, that’s settled then.”
Clara was amused.
“What is settled?” She asked him.
“Everything,” O’Harris winked at her, adding no more.
Clara shook her head.
“Men are extremely confusing,” she sighed. “And they say women are complicated.”
Captain O’Harris attempted to look hurt, but was too happy to achieve the expression. Clara nudged his arm with her elbow.
“I think you best go rescue Peterson before he is overwhelmed by words of welcome,” she said.
O’Harris took a step forward, reluctant to let go of her hand. He paused.
“You promise you love me?” He asked, a sudden hint of uncertainty coming into his voice.
“Are you calling me a liar?” Clara asked him.
O’Harris squeezed her hand.
“Never!”
He went off to save Peterson from handshakes and well wishes. Clara stood back and watched him, a smile creeping over her face. Then a chill wind whipped around the edge of her dress and she shivered. Clara looked over her shoulder as if expecting someone to be stood there.
She had this feeling – this unwelcome sensation – that trouble was brewing for her and those she cared about. There was no logic to the emotion, and she hoped she was wrong.
Still, there was something more than the autumnal breeze making Clara shake and wish to get indoors quickly.
