His Father's Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 5)

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘Only if I can keep all the money from the sales.’

  He scowled. ‘That’s not fair! It was my idea!’

  Mina left him to ruminate on this claim, and soon found the letter from Mr Phipps about the Maritime Queen scandal. ‘Yes, I was right, he is Captain Horace Bulstrode.’

  ‘That was his name, yes. What did he do?’

  ‘He was a director of the company that collapsed due to the discovery of the fraud. But he was just an innocent dupe, brought onto the board for his name and reputation, to give confidence to the investors. There were two others, friends of his, I think, retired military men, though the rest of the men in this picture are far too young to be either of them, so I doubt that they had any connection with the club. The other members look to be no more than thirty.’

  Mina looked carefully from face to face, seeing proud looks, smiles and youthful undisciplined whiskers, some of the last being more extensive than others. There was one expression that particularly caught her eye, less smiling, more of a self-satisfied stare. She had seen it before. The man held his hands in front of him and the finger and thumb of one hand grasped a signet ring on the little finger of the other. Mina gave a sudden shiver. ‘Mr Vardy,’ she said.

  ‘Vardy?’ exclaimed Richard. ‘Not —?’

  ‘Yes. The husband of Mrs Vardy. The lady who is the widow of Mr Holt.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  Mina paused. ‘I — have had dealings with Saltmire and Vardy the porcelain company.’ Fortunately, Richard seemed to accept this explanation and Mina continued. ‘This picture is very interesting. We have here in all probability Mr Sutherland, who advised the fraudulent company on investments but was not thought to be involved in the fraud, and also, and this may or may not be a coincidence, he is the owner of the yacht from which Mr Holt vanished. But if he is in the picture, I don’t know which one of the gentlemen he is. There is Captain Bulstrode, one of the notable directors of the same company, who was undoubtedly innocent, and was probably the means to attract the other notables. Then we have Mr Cobbe the banker who was tried for the fraud but acquitted. And we have Mr Vardy.’

  Richard stared at the picture again. ‘So that means three of the men in this picture were involved in this fraud?’

  ‘Three at least. Some might have been the actual culprits who planned it, others were simply drawn into the scheme and acted in good faith.’

  ‘How do you know so many things?’ asked Richard. ‘How do you remember them all?’

  ‘I am older than you, my dear,’ said Mina comfortingly. She was hardly more than a year older than her brother, but he didn’t argue.

  ‘I’ve brought you this as well,’ said Richard, taking another picture from his pocket, this one printed on paper. ‘There were a number of copies made. You said you would like to see one.’

  Mina stared at a portrait of a seated man, and there was no doubt in her mind as to its subject. It was a grim picture, taken quite close so as to figure only his head and shoulders, the lines of the face deep and shadowy, the brow heavy with pain. ‘This is the man in the police office.’

  ‘The very fellow.’

  Mina studied it carefully. ‘It is a little dark, but I suppose the light was wanting. Poor man, he looks very neglected. If he is Mr Holt, then he has been shifting for himself as best he can these last few years. But I can see from this that it would be very hard, even for someone who knew him well to say whether or not it is he, what with that great thatch of hair and the beard covering most of his face.’

  ‘Have you seen him before?’ asked Richard, hopefully.

  ‘I would not want to swear on a Bible that I have. If he was bathed and barbered, there might be a better chance of knowing who he is. The newspapers say he still languishes there. Poor fellow!’

  ‘Yes, well if he is Mr Holt, he is a criminal, and if he is not, he is a lunatic. Either way he has to stay there for his own safety. He is not claiming to be a ghost so I didn’t expect it would interest you so much.’

  Mina thought it best not to bring out the collection of papers she had been lent by Mrs Vardy while Richard was there or he might let slip to her mother that she was taking on too much, and she would never hear the end of it. After her brother had gone to dinner, Rose brought up a tray, and Mina was able to extract the papers from her desk and place them on the table by her side. She was then able to compare the picture Mrs Vardy had provided with that of the man claiming to be Mr Holt, but hard as she tried, she found it impossible to tell whether or not these were pictures of the same man.

  Mrs Vardy had been quite certain after a single visit that cannot have taken long that the man in the cells was not her former husband. What had made her so very sure? A man with no distinguishing marks, a man undoubtedly changed with time and privation, a man no longer tidily groomed. How Mina would have liked to have been at that confrontation, watched Mrs Vardy’s face, and heard her voice. Did she lift her thick veil to see him, or did she view him through the fabric? Did she ask him to speak? What did her brother have to say? Who else was present at that meeting to observe her reaction?

  Mina looked at the two portraits once more, but the main difference she saw between them was the eyes. Mr Holt in the family portrait was proud and confident and looking directly into the camera. The man held by the police was devastated and crushed by circumstance. His eyes were vacant, devoid of hope. He was a man nourished only by pain.

  Mina composed two letters to be sent immediately. The first was to Mr Phipps:

  Dear Mr Phipps

  I am not sure if you were aware of this, but I have discovered that three of the gentlemen whose names were mentioned in connection with the Maritime Queen Insurance Company fraud were at one time members of the Brighton Yacht Club. They are Captain Bulstrode, Mr Sutherland, and Mr Cobbe. The club premises was located in Old Steine, where the Company also maintained an office. I don’t know if the Club or its records still exist, but I do have the loan of a photograph of its members which may be of assistance. Perhaps the senior partners who recall the case might like to see it,

  Yours faithfully

  M Scarletti

  Mina’s second letter was in response to a piece published in The Brighton Gazette, which caused her some annoyance:

  MR HOLT’S CREDITORS RIOT IN BARTHOLOMEW SQUARE

  The Town Hall Square witnessed some shocking scenes this week as a great crowd of men, numbering several hundred, all assembled demanding to enter the police offices and see the man being held there under the name of Jasper Holt. At one point your correspondent was nearly trampled in the rush and assaulted with walking sticks. The two constables guarding the Town Hall were unable to restore order and it was left to Mr Livermore, a hotelier, to calm the rioters. The excitement was a result of the rumour that the lady known as Mrs Vardy has privately concealed assets of substantial value, which would enable Mr Holt’s creditors to make a claim on the estate. As to the truth of this rumour we are not in a position to comment, but it has become the subject of energetic debate in town.

  Mrs Vardy has refused to make any statement to the Gazette. Mr Holt remains in custody and will shortly appear before the magistrates to answer a serious charge of attempted fraud.

  Meanwhile we must make an earnest appeal to Miss Mina Scarletti the noted spirit medium and sensitive, whose powers have been commented upon by no less a personage than Viscount Hope, to pay a visit to the Town Hall and settle the dilemma once and for all.

  She wrote to the editor of the Brighton Gazette:

  Sir — please could you publish the following notice.

  Miss Mina Scarletti wishes it to be known that despite allegations to the contrary made by uninformed persons, she is not a spirit medium or a sensitive and has never claimed to be such or practised as such. Residents of Brighton are therefore entreated not to contact her either directly or indirectly with demands for her to provide any assistance in the case of the individual currently in police custody under the name
of Jasper Holt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sometimes Franklin Holt thought he was dead. He was not sure what being dead felt like, so he could not be entirely certain. Would death mean that he could float about in the air, drifting though the world wherever he pleased? Or would he soar up to heaven to be with the angels? Both possibilities felt pleasing, desirable, in fact far better than his present earthly existence. Maybe, he thought, next time the witch gave him the poison, he would swallow every drop of it, even ask for more, and then at last, he would find some peace.

  In some of his dreams however, death was very different. His soul was still trapped in his body, which lay in a coffin, his flesh rotting, until all that was left was a skeleton. If that was true, then one day, he would be found in his miserable grave and dug out of the soil to make way for another corpse, and the gravediggers would tell jokes about him and use his leg bones to tap out their doleful music on his grinning empty skull. Perhaps, he thought, after all, it was better to endure his present ills than escape to something that might prove to be far worse.

  Matthew wasn’t there anymore. He had been sent away to another school, but Franklin didn’t know why. Mother and Mr Vardy and Aunt Marion walked about the house whispering, although much of the time Mother took to her room. He was told she had a headache. Sometimes he could hear her crying.

  There were noisy people in the street outside the house. At first, he thought he had imagined them, or if they were real, they were angry devils come to take him down to regions of fire. But when he was properly awake, which he was when he managed to spit out the witch’s potion, he was able to look outside and then he saw that they were only men.

  ‘Why are there men outside?’ he dared to ask Aunt Marion one afternoon. She had brought him some books of lessons to keep him busy, which she dropped with a thump onto his little writing desk. ‘I can hear them talking. Why don’t they go away?’

  ‘They want to see your mother, but they won’t,’ said his aunt, throwing down an exercise book and some pencils.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Oh, you’re full of questions today!’ she snapped. ‘They’ve come about your father, if you must know!’

  ‘But — but father is dead. What do they want with him?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, this is the child who imagines he has seen his father’s ghost,’ she said derisively. ‘Well, I have some news for you, and when I have told you it, I want all this silly ghost nonsense to stop. Do you understand?’

  She had her witch face on, and he nodded. There was nothing else he could do.

  ‘Your father isn’t dead at all. He’s come back but you’ll never see him again, because he is a very wicked man. He has done some bad things, and he has been locked up. He’s nothing more than a criminal, and he will be in prison for the rest of his life. And if you don’t behave yourself, that’s where you’ll end up!’

  She walked out.

  Franklin started to sob, but no-one came to comfort him.

  Since Mrs Vardy had been unable to attend the most recent séance due to illness, Mina had not expected to hear from her. She was especially pleased therefore to receive a letter from Mrs Vardy, although less so when she read the contents.

  Dear Miss Scarletti

  I do hope this finds you well.

  Forgive me for not writing to you sooner, but the recent terrible events have left me quite devastated.

  I am sure that you have heard the news that a man claiming to be Jasper has appeared at the Town Hall. The poor soul must be deluded, and I have the greatest of sympathy for him. I did go to view him, and it wanted barely a minute of my time to advise the police that he was not Jasper. That was perfectly clear to me. How can a wife not know her own husband?

  But it seems that I am not to be believed. The horrible letters that have arrived at my home making the cruellest accusations have quite undermined my health. Only yesterday we were obliged to summon a policeman to urge a crowd of particularly vociferous individuals standing outside our house to depart peacefully. And poor Franklin, who we have done our best to protect from all this has heard them talking, and now he is more distressed than ever. My sister is doing her best to keep him calm and reassures me that when these dreadful events are past and forgotten, he will recover.

  I believe more strongly than ever that Franklin is in touch with his father’s spirit, which is unable to be fully at peace in the heavenly realms until his earthly troubles are resolved. I would do anything in my power to relieve his troubled soul, but poor Jasper is unable to tell either Franklin or myself what it is we must do. That appears to be the nature of spirits, they seem to exist in a region where all is indistinct, and they cannot think in practical terms as we do or even as they once did when alive. Mrs Barnham has explained all this to me. That is why the messages we receive from our departed loved ones are often couched in the vaguest of terms. Materialists who refuse to believe in these communications complain that they are so general that they say nothing at all, but I beg you, do not listen to them. The spirit world is not like ours, but they cannot comprehend it.

  Silas has informed me that he paid a visit to you as he was concerned that you were in danger of suffering a relapse if you continued your enquiries, and he implored you to desist. Naturally the last thing I wish is to be the instrument of any harm to you, and in view of these recent events you would be well advised not to continue, or you may find yourself similarly assailed by the outspoken and ignorant rabble. I do not feel it would be wise for me to visit you again, and this may be the last letter I will write to you.

  Please therefore, do not trouble to reply, and if you must have an object to which to devote yourself then it should be the pursuit of good health.

  With warmest good wishes for your recovery

  Charlotte Vardy

  Mina felt only sorrow for Mrs Vardy. The lady was understandably going along with her husband’s wishes, as the thing she craved most of all was a peaceful domesticity. Mr Vardy was not someone who would take kindly to being disobeyed by his own wife. She wondered if Mr Vardy had seen and approved the letter and suspected that he had not, and it had somehow been smuggled out to the post box by a sympathetic servant. Despite the wishes expressed by Mrs Vardy Mina felt reluctant to step back. She wanted some means of contacting the unhappy lady if she was needed. She recalled that Mrs Vardy’s good friend who accompanied her to the séances was a Mrs Wandle, a widow. Her late husband according to the spiritoscope, had expressed his approval of how she managed an inn, presumably the business they had once managed together. Mina looked once more in Page’s Directory and found a Mrs E Wandle, of the Ship Inn, Seabourne.

  Dear Mrs Wandle

  Please forgive me for writing to you, as we have never been introduced. Your good friend Mrs Vardy has recently consulted me about matters of which I am sure you are aware. I wish there was something I could do to relieve her distress, but she is anxious that I might make myself ill in so doing and has urged me not to write to her again. I will of course, respect her wishes.

  If there is any way, however small, in which I can help her, please do write to me.

  Assuring you of my good intentions,

  Mina Scarletti

  Mina had scarcely completed her letter and settled to some reading when Rose announced that Mr Merridew had called and begged to be allowed to speak to her. She agreed at once that he should be shown to her room.

  ‘Dear lady,’ said Mr Merridew to Mina, ‘please excuse my unexpected arrival but I have news to impart which I know will interest you.’

  Mina was happy to put her books and papers aside. She could see that the customary elegance of her visitor’s superior wig was a little ruffled by exertion. ‘I am all attention,’ she said.

  ‘Having waited for the first wild undisciplined crush to abate, I determined to wend my way to Ship Street, to see for myself the portrait of the unhappy man now languishing in the cells at the Town Hall. Avoiding pitfalls and obstacles, and the inevit
able dust and dirt of the road, I saw that there was an acceptably respectful assembly outside the window of Mr Beckler’s photographic shop, where a boy had been specially employed to sweep away any debris which might have discouraged potential customers. Persons of all ages had stopped to stare; gentlemen of business, gentlemen of leisure, tradesmen, ladies with their maids and nursemaids with their charges. Even quite small children were being held up above the heads of the crowds to examine the portrait of the unknown man. Rather like the observation gallery at a trial, a lively debate was in progress in the crowd, with every individual having his or her own theory.

  I entered the shop and found a busy bustle of customers, their chatter almost obscuring the delicate sound of the bell, examining the sample portraits which covered an entire wall, and a display of ornamental frames. Your brother was standing behind the counter doing his best not to look bored, a task which I am sorry to say was quite beyond him.

  I decided to be a moving advertisement and so adopting my most melodious voice I exclaimed ‘What a delightful shop this is! I have been more than satisfied with the set of portraits I had made here.’ I walked about the premises, smiling and bowing politely to the ladies and having thus charmed them, I approached the counter.

  ‘I have come for the exhibition of cave pictures but will certainly return for another sitting,’ I said. ‘Also, I had to see your most famous picture — the one in the window. I can’t say that I have seen the fellow before, but if the Brighton Theatre Company was ever to mount a production of King Lear, I would engage him in a trice and have him howling like a madman in a thunderstorm.’

  ‘I hope he won’t have many lines to learn,’ said Richard. ‘He didn’t look up to it when I saw him. Is it a large part?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all, it is mainly howling. The real hero of the play is the Duke’s son, young Edgar, who feigns madness in order to protect his sovereign, defeats the traitors, and marries the King’s virtuous daughter. It is a role I have long coveted.’