by Evelyn James
Tommy was countering this complaint by reminding her how hurt Annie was when they missed teatime, especially when she was toasting crumpets. They turned a corner and walked straight into a crime scene.
There was a moment when Clara could not quite grasp what she was seeing, then she took account of the five constables dotted around the street, and an old ambulance stood to one side. The snow had made driving the motorised ambulances challenging, so an old horse-drawn vehicle had been brought back into use. There was no sign of a body, but the number of policemen told Clara that something had occurred. She approached Constable Watkins, who was one of the newer members of the Brighton force.
“Miss Fitzgerald,” he nodded to her.
“Why are you all here?” Clara asked.
“A body has been found in an upstairs room,” Constable Watkins motioned with his eyes to the upper floor of the building nearest to them. “Landlady heard a commotion, went upstairs and found her lodger dead.”
“Shouldn’t we be finding that telephone,” Tommy hinted to his sister, aware that the sky was already growing dark.
Clara had to admit that, for once, this was none of her business. She thanked Constable Watkins, hoped he would not be out in the cold for too long and was heading away when a voice called out to her.
“Clara!”
Clara turned and saw Inspector Park-Coombs appearing from the door of the house. He was rubbing his hands together, blowing hot air into them.
“It’s him,” he said as Clara approached.
“Him?” She asked.
“Bobby,” the inspector shrugged. “Throat slit from ear to ear, even I can tell how he died. Just waiting for Dr Deáth to arrive and give us the all clear to remove the body. Landlady called an ambulance first, thought it was a suicide.”
Clara recognised the implication.
“You don’t?”
“Not when the man’s hands had been tied behind his back,” the inspector said. “Killer cut the ropes loose before he left, but he didn’t have time to remove them before the landlady came upstairs. I suspect he escaped out a back window which was open.”
Clara considered what he was saying with care.
“Chang sent someone for Bobby, even though he said he would wait for me to finish looking into Leong’s murder.”
“Chang wanted his revenge,” Park-Coombs grumbled. “Especially when he thought he had been used.”
Clara found her attention turning to the house, envisioning Bobby upstairs, suddenly confronted by his killer. There had been no escape, in the end.
“Can we be sure he killed the right man?” Clara said to the inspector.
“I asked my men. We think Bobby was cornered on the first-floor landing. There was a lot going on and no one can be certain, but as best we can say, that was where he was when he was arrested.”
“Anyone else arrested on the upper floors?”
“Not that any of my lot can remember,” the inspector replied. “Bobby did not have a gun on him, however. Constable Noble recalled that, it stuck in his mind because Bobby was the only man he arrested who was not armed and he didn’t have to be asked to drop his gun first.”
“Then he discarded the gun somewhere,” Clara said thoughtfully. “And, in the commotion, with so many guns lying about, no one would think twice about finding another. Maybe he threw it out a window or maybe he tossed it to the ground floor. What are the chances of us finding it?”
“My men picked up every gun they could find,” Park-Coombs said. “But if he threw it far enough out a window, well, it could have fallen into the street or an alley and anyone could have it by now. I could, if you really wanted, have the guns we found tested for fingerprints, but I suspect you will only find smudges and policemen’s prints. My men were getting the scene clear and no one was thinking about the guns needing to be traced back to a specific person.”
“I truly understand Inspector,” Clara assured him. “It was a strange night.”
“You can say that again,” Park-Coombs shuffled his cold feet. “Look, we have circumstantial evidence that points at Bobby being Leong’s murderer, we aren’t going to get much more and anyway Bobby is now dead and Chang is satisfied he has had his revenge. This was never going to have a good ending, Clara, not with the Chief Constable determined to wipe his hands of the matter.”
Clara knew he was right, but she would have liked to have been absolutely sure that they had found the man behind Leong’s death.
“To be honest,” Park-Coombs went on, “we are not dealing with nice folk, here. Bobby had a criminal record as long as my arm and some of the stuff he did was pretty nasty. He should have been in prison for life, only he kept just out of our reach. I am not particularly grieved by his death. Same applies to Jao Leong. I wanted to know what happened to her because that is the proper thing to do. The police have to hold themselves to a higher standard, after all, and we should investigate any time our actions result in someone dying, even a criminal. I believe that. But I am not devastated by her death. She was dangerous, too dangerous.”
The inspector stomped his feet.
“Bloody cold! Get off home Clara, at least one of us should be warm.”
Clara had no more to say. The gang business in Brighton had come to a close, even if that did not mean it was entirely finished. There would always be crime in the town, Clara was not naïve to that, but the horrors of Leong’s reign as criminal queen had at least come to an end.
Turning to Tommy, they set off for home once more. They never did manage to call Annie. The Post Office was already closed by the time they arrived, so they were prepared for her ire when they stepped back in the door.
“They cancelled the buses,” Annie said to them before they had a chance. “You had to walk all that way home?”
Annie was sympathetic for once, rather than angry.
“I stoked the fire up warm,” she said. “You’ll need it. Oh, and a note arrived for you Clara.”
Clara noticed a slip of paper on the hall stand. She picked it up as Annie returned to the kitchen.
“That was unexpectedly civil,” Tommy said, looking a touch dazed that they had escaped reprimand.
“Even Annie cannot blame us for the buses being stopped,” Clara grinned at him.
“Wonder how long this understanding will last?” Tommy mused.
At that moment, a shriek came up from the direction of the kitchen.
“Bramble! Get off those crumpets!”
“Not very long,” Clara laughed to her brother as he fled down the hall to retrieve his errant dog.
Clara headed into the parlour and was glad to warm herself by the fire. Once some sensation had returned to her fingers, she opened the note that had been left for her. She recognised the handwriting before she began to read – Chang’s way with a pen was distinctive.
Dear Miss Fitzgerald,
Our mutually agreeable working relationship is now at a close. Your help in all things these last few weeks has been appreciated. I return to London at once to mourn my sister and restore my affairs. I am in no doubt you will be glad to be rid of me. I enclose a small gift in thanks for your assistance. Should you consider it a bribe or something similarly unethical for you to accept, then you may burn it. Though I hope you have better sense. Until next time.
Brilliant Chang.
There was a cheque with the letter. The amount was sizeable. Clara stared at it for a while, considered tossing it in the fireplace and then changed her mind. She had been through a lot of trouble due to Chang and his sister, she had been afraid for her wellbeing. Chang had placed a considerable amount of pressure on her and put her in a position that at times felt untenable. He owed her for that. The cheque would do nicely.
He had not mentioned Bobby Jones, but that was understandable. Chang would be cautious as to what he wrote down in ink, less it be used against him at some later date. Clara was certain, though, that he was responsible for the man’s demise.
She kic
ked off her shoes and felt the fire warming her toes. For the first time, in a very long while, she felt truly safe in her home. The troubles were over, and she could go back to her regular detective life. That was perilous enough, thank you very much, without Chang and his sister making it worse.
In fact, she was probably due a holiday. From now until after Christmas she was going to take on no new cases and just have a little bit of time for herself. She would spend as much of it as she could with John.
Clara folded her hands in her lap and rested her head on the back of the chair. Her eyes shut easily, and she felt herself slipping into sleep. There was a scuffling sound at the doorway, and something ran across the floor. She was on the verge of drifting off when suddenly a sodden poodle launched itself into her lap.
“Bramble!”
