The Trouble With Tortoises

by Evelyn James

  “I don’t know anything about a tortoise,” Alf said.

  That was not what Clara had expected to hear.

  “But, was he not inside the biscuit tin?” Clara asked.

  Alf shook his head very slowly.

  “What would I do with a tortoise?”

  “Then, what did Ethel bring you?”

  Alf blinked lethargically.

  “A leather notebook and a fountain pen, and some ink,” he said, his voice once more seeming to come from a faraway place. “I want to begin to write my story, about the war. This man told me writing down my memories would help with my episodes.”

  Clara glanced at the landlord, but he could offer her nothing.

  “That is what you traded the pawn ticket for?” She asked.

  “That, and some fresh bread and beer,” Alf confirmed. “I suppose it was a tough deal, but I don’t have many options.”

  Clara cursed her luck silently. Jeremiah had never been in the biscuit tin. He had never been taken by Ethel. Then where was he?

  “Did Ethel steal the notebook and fountain pen?” The landlord demanded of Alf.

  He shrugged once more.

  “I suppose. I never asked. Last I saw of her she was heading out of my little hut into the pouring rain. I told her she would catch a chill, at least… I think I did.”

  Alf frowned to himself.

  “Sometimes I think of things but don’t actually say them aloud.”

  Clara had hit another brick wall. The biscuit tin had seemed a sound lead and with the house and gardens thoroughly searched at the Malory residence, it had only made sense that Jeremiah had been spirited away. Now, once again, she was back to the notion that either he had somehow wandered off and escaped the inescapable garden, or some stranger had snuck in, found him by chance, and stolen him. The former seemed impossible considering what she had seen of the garden, and the latter seemed highly unlikely. Where did that leave her?

  “Are you going to take the notebook and pen?” Alf asked her, and for the first time he showed genuine emotion. He was sorrowful at the thought of the loss.

  Clara made a quick decision.

  “No,” she said, “I am not going to take them away. I have not been hired to find a missing notebook or pen, and since I do not know where Ethel got them from, there is no reason I should remove them from you.”

  Alf looked greatly relieved and the secret smile that came for just a moment to the landlord’s lips, told her that he, too, was glad of her decision.

  “Thank you for speaking to me, Alf,” Clara said, and then she pulled a card from her handbag. “If ever you want help with your episodes, come to me. I know someone who can assist you.”

  Alf did not at once take the card, so Clara pressed it gently into his fingers.

  “You served our country bravely,” she added, taking heed of his medals. “That must never be forgotten. I do not forget.”

  After a moment, Alf closed his fingers around her card.

  The landlord showed Clara back out to the bar.

  “I misjudged you, Miss Fitzgerald. I thought you an interfering toff when you first came in. I was wrong.”

  “Oh, I am interfering,” Clara laughed.

  The landlord smiled sheepishly.

  “Ever you happen to be passing, pop in for a drink, on the house,” he told her.

  Clara appreciated the gesture.

  “Thank you, and my offer to help Alf is genuine. Don’t let him forget that.”

  “I won’t,” the landlord assured her. “And about that fee for me telling you he was here…”

  Clara waited for him to name his price.

  “Forget about it,” Fat Sam shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

  Clara headed back out into the snow. She paused to look at the darkening sky.

  Now, what was she going to do about Jeremiah?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tommy and Harold had managed to make their way home by the time Clara returned. They were in the process of changing their clothes, (sodden from ploughing through the thick snow) and donning thick rubber boots to go out again.

  “What are you up to?” Clara asked, curiously.

  “Insanity, that is what it is,” Annie said with a scowl on her face. “Am I the only one who has the sense to stay indoors in the warm? Look at you, Clara, the bottom of your coat is drenched.”

  Clara lifted up the edge of her long wool coat and glanced at the hemline. It was wet along the last four inches. She had not realised how wet it had become as her galoshes prevented the damp fabric sticking to her legs.

  “The snow is surprisingly deep,” she said.

  “Where have you been?” Tommy asked, fighting on a wellington he had not worn in quite some time. His foot appeared to have grown, or maybe it was his calf getting fatter.

  “Alf Martin turned up. He is a poor, wretched soul with the weight of the world upon his shoulders,” Clara sighed.

  Tommy had his full attention on her and was no longer fighting the welly.

  “And?”

  “He knew nothing about a tortoise. The biscuit tin contained a notebook and a fountain pen, which I suspect Ethel stole from the Malorys. She could hardly have afforded them on her wages.”

  “Hm,” Annie huffed, expressing her thoughts on servants that stole from their employers.

  “Alf wants to write down his memories, to try to exorcise his demons. Anyway, he has not got Jeremiah and it seems Ethel had nothing to do with his disappearance.”

  “That’s a nuisance,” Tommy frowned. “Where else could the fellow be?”

  “Excuse me,” Harold butted in, “have I missed something? Who is this Jeremiah?”

  “A missing tortoise,” Tommy answered him. “Clara’s other case. Bit of a puzzle where he could have got to.”

  “A tortoise?” Harold said in surprise. “I had a friend as a boy who had one of those as a pet. Dull old thing, truth be told. I would rather have a dog.”

  Bramble, who had become a devoted follower of Harold since his arrival at the house, gave a friendly bark as if he understood what he had said.

  “You will tell Mr Malory about what Ethel really stole?” Annie turned to Clara with her firmest look.

  “I shall,” Clara reassured her. Though she did not add that she did not intend to say where the items now where. Mr Malory could afford a new notebook and pen, and if the items helped Alf, she would not begrudge him them. Yes, it was slightly unethical, but you had to see the bigger picture. After all, Malory did not appear to have even noticed the pen or the notebook being absent.

  “You didn’t explain what you are up to,” Clara turned to her brother.

  “We are going back to Leong’s headquarters, to see if we can find the bullet that killed her bodyguard,” Tommy had finally mastered the wellington and stood up to adjust his feet in the bottom. “The bullet passed straight through the man’s head. If we can locate it, then we can compare it to the one that killed Leong. Harold thinks we might be able to prove the two bullets were from the same gun. Which would mean Leong was shot from inside the house.”

  Clara brightened at this news.

  “That would be truly significant. I shall come with you.”

  “Clara!” Annie protested.

  “We have an emergency on our hands,” Clara reminded her. “We only have so long to conclude this case before the Chief Constable moves all our suspects to a proper prison and takes them out of our reach. I only have access to these men currently because the inspector wants me to find out what really happened. If they are sent to a prison to await trial, I shall never get to them again.

  “Not to mention Chang is a loose cannon. He is looking for a culprit but won’t worry if he gets the wrong man at first. I want to resolve this before anyone else gets hurt unnecessarily.”

  “Implying someone might actually deserve to get hurt,” Tommy said in a loud aside to Harold.

  Clara cast him a look.

  “You know what I mea
n.”

  Annie pursed her lips.

  “I can’t talk to you, I really can’t. Well, go out if you must, but I shall not look after you if you all end up with a chill.”

  She stormed off to the kitchen, indignant that they could not be persuaded to stay indoors.

  “She worries about us,” Tommy elaborated to Harold. “She is a good egg, just too fretful.”

  “Seems to me rather nice to have someone to care so much about you,” Harold gave a sad smile. “I remain a bachelor. Too absorbed in my books, I fear.”

  Tommy patted his shoulder.

  “There are plenty of girls out there.”

  “Yes, but that is part of the problem. They are out there, and I tend to be inside somewhere, on my own,” Harold chuckled at his self-derogatory comment.

  “Well, while you are in Brighton…”

  “Please do not take pity on me Tommy, that would be even worse,” Harold grinned at him. “Come on, I want to find this bullet so we can finally return and remain in this nice snug house.”

  They headed out on a familiar route. The buses had stopped running. The roads were silent. Children crowded around any open space they could find where the snow lay thick and they could build a snowman. The snowflakes had stopped falling and the sky had turned blue and pink with the slowly setting sun. Tommy had remembered to bring torches for them all, as it would be nearly dark by the time they reached the house.

  In the dusk light, the empty building looked bleak and creepy. The broken windows gaped like howling mouths. If Clara had found the place unbearable in daylight, she found it even bleaker now.

  They went through the back door again, securing it after them in case someone decided to follow. This would be a tempting refuge for the homeless, and Clara would not resent them using the property for shelter, but first she had to be sure they had retrieved all the evidence they could from the place. Until then, no one else must enter and potentially interfere with something vital.

  The boarded windows of the lower floor had not allowed in much light during the day. Now it was dusk, the space was pitch black. They switched on their torches and got their bearings. Almost at once, Harold’s torch beam swept over a large pool of blood, a stark reminder of what had happened here.

  They found their way to the staircase and climbed up. For a reason none of them could explain, they all fell silent and walked cautiously, as if they feared to disturb something in the dark. The torchlight formed a narrow tube of vision for them, leaving the corridors and rooms around them hollow shadows. It was like something out of a nightmare and Clara was beginning to think it was folly coming here so late. How would they find a small bullet in the dark?

  Harold was leading the way and he paused when they reached the door to Leong’s room.

  “Dr Deáth said the unfortunate bodyguard had fallen with his face this way.”

  Harold motioned with his torch beam the direction the body had fallen.

  “That means he was facing away from the staircase landing when he was shot.”

  They turned around on themselves. The staircase they had just climbed had been set into the front portion of the building. It dog-legged once and then emerged a few feet from the door of Leong’s room. There were no windows either on the staircase or at the top where it led into this dim corridor. Opposite the door of Leong’s room, another door opened into a wide attic space that took up the remainder of the top floor and was probably used for storage in the past.

  “The way the bodyguard fell,” Clara said, “ties in with the theory he knew his attacker. Why would he turn his back otherwise?”

  “And the shooting had to have occurred before the police and army entered the house,” Tommy added. “For if there were men storming up those stairs, the bodyguard would never have turned away. He would have been waiting for them.”

  Harold had been only half-listening to this talk, his mind was on finding the bullet and he had lost track of anything else.

  “The bullet would have gone through him in a second,” he said, casting his torchlight across the walls of the hallway. “There is no window for it to punch through, so logically it hit one of these walls.”

  “We are looking for a bullet hole.” Clara confirmed.

  “Yes, and with luck the bullet will still be in it,” Harold gave a shy smile. “Bullets do odd things sometimes, like ricochet somewhere you least expect them.”

  They spread out and started to explore the hallway. The walls had been papered in the past with a brown floral design, which made things harder. You saw what you thought was a hole, only to discover it was a faded flower that had looked just the right size in the dark. After a while, Clara started to run her hand over the paper, along with using her torch, to aid the discovery of the bullet.

  “Any chance it could have driven into the floor?” Tommy asked after they had been searching for twenty minutes. “If Freddie was bending down, perhaps, when he was shot?”

  “Why would he be bending down?” Harold asked.

  Tommy had no answer, he had just thought that might explain why the bullet was not springing into view.

  “It was just a thought.”

  “We shall check the floor, to be thorough,” Harold conceded, “once we are sure the bullet is not in the wall.”

  Clara bit her tongue on mentioning they should have waited until it was daylight, that seemed petty when she had been as keen as the boys to get to the house sooner rather than later.

  She edged her way into the far corner of the corridor, without seeing any sign of a hole. She started to explore the back wall, hoping she was not on a fool’s errand. The bullet could not have simply disappeared, could it?

  She reminded herself she had said the same about Jeremiah the tortoise.

  Her hand ran over the paper at her head height, and she followed with her torch. There was nothing obvious, except that the paper felt distinctly damp. The whole place was full of rot and decay, so that was hardly surprising. Clara dropped her hand a few inches and repeated her search back the way she had come. That too failed. She dropped her hand again, though now she was looking at a portion of the wall that would have aligned with Freddie’s belly. Was it possible the bullet had dropped so low?

  She was about to ask the question, when Tommy gave a shout.

  “I have a hole!” He declared.

  Harold came over, adding his torchlight to Tommy’s. He leaned close to examine the dent in the wall.

  “Sorry Tommy, that looks like someone pulled out a nail or something from the wall,” he said. “It is too small.”

  “Rats,” Tommy cursed.

  “I hope not,” Clara said to alleviate his dismay. “Could we be looking in the wrong place?”

  Harold flicked his torch about the corridor.

  “I was sure,” he said, then the doubt crept into his voice. “A few more moments, please.”

  Clara and Tommy agreed, and they set to work once more. Clara had not left her spot when the discovery had been made, and she went straight back to examining the stretch of wall. She did not expect to find anything, but when her finger briefly slipped over a dip in the surface she hesitated. She cast her torch beam to where her finger sat and carefully examined the paper. In the white light, that threw all sorts of weird shapes on the wall, she could see a flower, yet another of the faded florals that had been plaguing her search. However, when she looked closer and felt with her finger, she realised there was a hole right in the centre of the flower. It was the dimension of her little finger, and when she held the torch just right, she was sure she saw something glinting within.

  “Harold!”

  Harold hurried over and she showed him the hole. He examined it for so long, she was sure he would say the same as what he had done to Tommy – a nail hole, or something. Then he pulled a pair of long tweezers out of his pocket and grinned at Clara. With care he inserted the tweezers into the hole and, with a little wriggling and twisting, he managed to latch the ends around somet
hing.

  Slowly he drew back the tweezers. From his pocket he pulled a handkerchief and held it in the palm of his hand, just beneath the hole. As the tweezer tips emerged it was plain they were holding onto some small, golden object. It fell into the handkerchief.

  Harold shone his torch onto the discovery. There was no doubt what it was; a bullet, barely damaged by its flight into the wall.

  “We’ve done it,” Tommy sighed, then he felt a pang of uncertainty. “That is the bullet that shot Freddie, isn’t it?”

  “I would say so,” Harold told him. “It’s from a pistol. There is still a little blood on it. Remarkable.”

  “And you can compare this with the bullet that killed Leong?” Clara wanted to be sure she had understood.

  “Yes,” Harold replied.

  He folded over the handkerchief, cocooning the bullet as carefully as if it was an antique piece of glass. Then he produced his cigarette case and stashed it inside. The case bulged as he tried to shut it, but with a bit of persuasion it clicked closed.

  “I wasn’t sure we would find it,” Harold admitted, returning the cigarette case with its precious evidence into his pocket. He looked sheepish. “I didn’t like to say.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Tommy laughed. “We would not have searched so hard otherwise!”

  Clara could not express her relief at what they had found. She just hoped this would prove the key to unravelling this case.

  “We wouldn’t have thought to look at all without you,” she told Harold warmly and he broke into a broad smile.

  “Thank you, Clara,” he said.

  “Don’t know about you two, but I want to go somewhere warm now, and I would suggest that means going home,” Tommy slapped Harold’s arm. “Let’s not make Annie wait any longer.”

  They headed for the stairs and Clara was not the only one glad to once more be leaving Leong’s headquarters and the ghosts that seemed to linger there.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “We have to think of a new way to trace Jeremiah the tortoise,” Clara said, sitting on the sofa the following morning with a cup of tea. It had snowed harder overnight and the world was now iced in thick white drifts. Very few people were venturing outdoors, if they could help it. “If Ethel did not take him, then I am convinced he is still inside the house, somewhere.”