by Evelyn James
“And why is that?” Lord Howton asked, his curiosity tempered by his natural reserve.
“I am a private detective,” Clara elaborated. “I have helped to solve a number of high profile cases that have been reported in the press.”
“Oh,” Lord Howton seemed to look at her even more sharply. “That is an unusual occupation for a woman.”
Clara felt no need to reply to that statement.
“I suppose Mr Bankes has told you something of what occurred here last night?” Lord Howton asked, looking displeased.
“I wouldn’t have…” Oliver began, but Clara interrupted him.
“Oliver was in a state of shock last night, what he said or did not say is hardly relevant. I am not here on business, just as a friend to help him with the camera equipment.”
Lord Howton tilted his head, seeming somewhat reassured by her answer.
“Are you good at your profession?” he asked, rather impertinently.
“My clients seem satisfied,” Clara responded. “I always have work.”
“You solve all manner of mysteries, then?”
“Yes,” Clara agreed. “Everything from lost pets to murder. I aim to help my clients in whatever way I can.”
Lord Howton paced slowly towards one of the tall house plants and fondled a green leaf. He seemed to be coming to a decision.
“Miss Fitzgerald, terrible things have been happening at my home and the police seem disinterested. It is hard to convince people that you are being plagued by the walking corpse of your deceased brother,” he paused, waiting for Clara’s response.
She remained mute. She had already heard everything from Oliver and saw no need to act shocked or astonished for the sake of Lord Howton. He seemed to appreciate her calm.
“In truth, I would greatly value an explanation of this strange occurrence,” Howton continued. “I am not a normally superstitious man, religious yes, but not inclined towards ghosts and ghoulies. But I can’t deny the evidence of my eyes. Out there, at night, walks a dead man and God only knows what his intentions in doing so are.”
“Lord Howton, I should state that I do not believe in the supernatural,” Clara said carefully. “I believe in there being a rational explanation for everything that occurs on this earth. Whoever is tormenting your family, I am certain of one thing; dead men do not rise from their graves.”
“You would not be so sceptical if you had seen the things we have,” Lord Howton said with a touch of sadness.
“Maybe so,” Clara replied, “In fact, I would like to be here to see things for myself and to learn the secrets behind this rather nasty game that is being played upon you. I might not believe in the supernatural, but I do take this matter seriously, as the police should. Someone is intent on disturbing your family, what their goal in doing so is, I really cannot say. But I can’t help but think they have evil in mind.”
“Now, on that we can agree,” Lord Howton almost smiled, his old and weary face briefly seemed to spark with hope. Here he was, a man in his sixth decade, trying to live a quiet and uneventful life and having all that spoiled by some monster out of a bad novel. It was all too much, he felt it eating away at him.
“This whole affair has left me confused and, I will admit, frightened,” Lord Howton continued. “I have felt a fool from the very first, tormented by this creature and yet unable to ask for help for fear that in doing so I will reveal myself to be losing my mind. I am not losing my mind, but I know the sorts of things people who have not seen what I have would say. Asking for help has been nearly impossible, which is why I asked Mr Bankes to take a photograph of the monster.”
“That is certainly wise,” Clara nodded. “But, anyone with an ounce of intelligence should realise that something sinister is happening here, whether they believe in the supernatural or not. I think there is a rational explanation for everything that has occurred, but that does not take away the fact that someone appears to wish your family ill.”
“You are very astute, Miss Fitzgerald,” Lord Howton smiled faintly. “It seems fate has brought you to me. I need someone like you to solve this riddle. You seem to be the only other person in Brighton prepared to listen to my story. Even though you are a woman, I would appreciate your help.”
Clara did not like his implication, she felt a pang of anger jump inside her. She could turn him down, of course, tell him that as she was a ‘woman’ she could not possibly take the case. But she wasn’t so petty, besides, what better way to prove just what a woman could do then to solve this mystery?
“Are you saying you wish to hire me?” Clara asked.
“I suppose I am,” Lord Howton smiled, his grey eyes crinkling into his face as he smiled. “Will you accept?”
“Yes, if we shake on it,” Clara offered her hand once again.
Lord Howton hesitated, looking as if her hand might be poisonous to the touch. Then he relented and took it. They shook on the agreement.
“I suppose you will want the full story?” he said.
“Every detail,” Clara answered. “But let us start with Harvey Howton, your half-brother. What was he like?”
Lord Howton became sombre, he walked to the mantelpiece and picked up the photograph of his brother. He stared at it for a moment.
“Harvey was troubled,” he said at last. “He had his share of demons and was a little too keen on having a drink to keep them at bay. I feared he would die young, he seemed destined for it.”
“He lived at the house?”
“Yes. I had no issue with his presence about the place, I might add. We were not close in the sense of brothers, but more like an uncle and nephew. As you noticed earlier, Miss Fitzgerald, Harvey was the same age as my son Richard. They grew up together, went to school together. I always considered Harvey part of the family.”
“And what did Harvey think?” Clara asked.
Lord Howton glanced back at the photograph.
“Harvey thought the world owed him something,” he said at last. “He got that from his mother. She thought Harvey should have inherited half the estate when my father died. She is not an aristocrat and doesn’t seem to grasp that is not the way things work. Harvey was granted a sizeable allowance and could remain in the house for as long as he wished, but he could never inherit the title. It will pass from me to my son and hopefully to his sons. That is how it is.”
“But Harvey wanted more?”
Lord Howton shrugged his shoulders.
“Our father died when Harvey was ten. The title went to me, as had always been intended. What more can I say?”
Clara could understand a little better now why Harvey Howton scowled in his photograph. There was nothing worse for souring the soul than bitterness, especially bitterness that is wholly unfounded. As the younger brother Harvey could never inherit the estate, unless Lord Howton’s son were to die.
“I heard he had a mausoleum built?” Clara queried.
Lord Howton gave another sigh.
“That horrible thing. It was an obsession of his. He wanted it built in his lifetime, so he could oversee its construction. As for its location, that was controversial, but I conceded because I have always felt a little guilty over Harvey. I feel bad that I am the eldest son,” Lord Howton found bitter amusement in this. “He wanted it even nearer to the house, but we were able to settle on its current location. I never imagined it would be used so soon, however.”
“What happened to Harvey?” Clara asked.
Lord Howton smiled sadly to himself.
“Life caught up with Harvey,” he muttered. “He drowned, in the lake. He swam every day, but on that final day something happened. He was rescued by two of the gardeners, but they dragged him out too late.
“My poor brother, Harvey Howton, drowned. And there was not a thing I could do about it.”
Chapter Four
“Were I to hire you to solve my mystery, would you be agreeable Miss Fitzgerald?” Lord Howton asked, escorting his guests as he talked towards the
ill-placed mausoleum.
“I would certainly try my best. As long as you do not require me to prove the supernatural, that is.”
Lord Howton laughed, but it was with little humour.
“I would much rather you prove otherwise, it would ease my mind considerably. Did you know that the Howtons are supposedly cursed?”
Clara admitted she did not.
“My family can trace its origins back to the Norman period. Back then the original Howton was a knight of distinction who was granted a gift of land for his loyal service to the king. Over the centuries, the Howtons have courted power, not always wisely. Our worst hour came during the English Civil War. As a member of the nobility, it was expected we would side with the king, but my ancestor, Theodore Howton, chose a different path and sided with Cromwell.
“At first this might have appeared a wise decision, after all the Parliamentarians were triumphant and many a loyal nobleman had to flee for the Continent when the king lost his head. The Howtons would appear to have picked the winning side but, as any student of schoolboy history will tell you, the Cromwellian age died with its namesake. Too many powerful people wanted the monarchy restored, and so it was. Suddenly, the Howtons were viewed as traitors.
“Theodore survived the turmoil, losing some of his estates and influence, but at least not his head. However, not all were satisfied with the retribution the Howtons had received. Some of the nobles thought we had, to put it in modern parlance, gotten off lightly. A conspiracy was formed and a small society of Royalists chose to condemn the Howtons for all time using black magic.
“Clearly it was not a secret society, the word spread of what they had done; invoking demons and consulting an aged witch to work their curse. A note was sent to Theodore telling him he was cursed. It is still preserved in the library. Supposedly Theodore laughed at it.”
“Sensible man,” Clara replied. “He was not going to give in to petty taunts made by his enemies.”
“No,” Lord Howton agreed carefully. “And many might argue that, considering the fortune and power the Howtons still preside over, the curse was not very successful. But it was meant to strike at something more personal, more private than land and money. It did not seek to remove these things from the Howtons, for if the Howton line died out then there would be no one to suffer under the curse. No, it was meant to be much more cruel. The curse states that no male descendent of the Howton line shall die in his bed, and each will know terrible personal tragedy, so that their days are marred with misery.”
“Certainly a very cynical revenge,” Clara agreed. “I hope you do not take it too seriously?”
Lord Howton chuckled, amused by Clara’s simple scepticism.
“My dear, you come from the standpoint of only just hearing of this silly curse and thinking it all nonsense. I come from a long line of men who have watched the curse unfold upon themselves and those they love. Theodore Howton was the first. Shortly after the Restoration, his beloved daughter stabbed herself with a rose thorn and died of blood poisoning. Theodore, himself, fell from his horse while out hunting and died in a ditch before he was found. Each generation has seen tragedy and no male Howton has died in his bed.”
“Do you mean to say that Harvey Howton’s death is the work of this curse?” Oliver said in a breathless tone.
Clara cast him a look, but he was not paying attention to her.
“It would seem so,” Lord Howton tipped his head, his expression grim. “Miss Fitzgerald looks aghast, I can only say, my dear, that if you lived in this family and knew all the old stories of what has happened in the past, you would not be so stunned.”
“I think stories can be twisted to suit a given set of facts,” Clara said carefully. “I think most lives are touched by tragedy, depending on how you look at it. And I think many people do not die in their own beds. For instance, I lost both parents in the war during a bombardment. Truly a case of ill luck, neither died in their own bed.”
“But you have stated the fault in your own case,” Lord Howton said with a satisfied tone. “Many people do not die in their own bed, but not every person. Every male Howton has had the misfortune of dying in strange circumstances, no other family can claim such a thing. Were there even just one or two Howtons who had passed away peacefully in their sleep in their own beds, then I would laugh at this curse. But there is not even that. And the tragedies that have occurred to the family are more than the norm. The things that have occurred to this family were once described by a historian unaware of the curse as ‘the most chronic case of appalling bad luck he had ever come across in his research’.”
“No Howton man has ever died in his bed?” Clara pressed.
“None,” Lord Howton assured her. “Even the late Jonathan Howton, who was bed-ridden the last three years of his life, died outside of his own bed. There was a fire in the house and Jonathan was carried outside to save his life. Unfortunately, it was a terribly cold day, and the shock of events, coupled with the chill temperature brought on a heart attack. He died on the gravel drive, on a couch the servants had brought out for him. Even he could not escape the curse.”
“Poor man,” Clara said with genuine sympathy. “You must forgive my cynicism, I just find it hard to comprehend anything so… occult.”
“On the contrary, your cynicism will be most welcome in this case,” Lord Howton smiled. “I need a cynic to see what is real and what is not. I would be delighted if you could find a rational explanation for all this. The Howton curse is bad enough, but it has never taken on such a dramatic form.”
They had arrived at the mausoleum. It was a ghastly looking thing. Grecian columns were adorned with winged women from Egyptian mythology, while grinning gargoyles growled from the pediments and arches of the curved roof. The walls were engraved with long passages of script in Arabic, of which Clara could not read a word.
“Peculiar thing, isn’t it?” Lord Howton mused. “Ugly as sin. My wife detests it.”
“Your brother seems to have been influenced by eastern cultures,” Clara ran her hand across the feathers of the wings of the strange Egyptian women. The whole tomb was a hotch-potch and poorly designed at that, but the actual craftsmanship seemed of high quality.
“I don’t know what he was influenced by,” Lord Howton said with a huff. “He was never a student of Arabic or Ancient Egypt. He was not a learned man in any shape or form, quite the opposite. My wife is convinced he made the thing as hideous as possible, so we would suffer looking upon it each day.”
“Did your wife not care for Harvey?” Clara asked.
“They rarely saw eye-to-eye,” Lord Howton hefted his shoulders in a shrug. “You have to understand the great age difference between myself and Harvey. My wife and I watched him grow up along with our own children. My wife still perceives him as a naughty schoolboy.”
Lord Howton caught himself.
“She did still perceive him,” he corrected himself. “I still forget myself sometimes. And with all this… strangeness, I find it hard to consider him gone.”
Clara said no more, but rubbed her fingers over the Arabic script which had been highlighted with gold paint. She glanced at Howton.
“What does it say?”
“Knowing my brother, it will either be gibberish or something crude. I don’t much care to pay the expense of having it translated.”
Clara walked around the mausoleum, assessing its size. It was not huge, but big enough to accommodate one, if not two, individuals if they were laid out side-by-side. It was rectangular in shape, the short ends aligned with the Howton house, the longer sides facing opposite ways across the rolling grounds. The place looked wholly substantial. There were no signs of cracks or secret passages. If a tunnel had been created from the tomb to somewhere else in the estate, it would take some effort to find it. Tracking down the men who worked on the construction might provide some insight into that as a possibility. She returned to the front of the mausoleum.
“What is it made of
?” she asked Lord Howton.
“Brick, largely. Just one layer thick, faced with sandstone. It will weather down nicely enough, perhaps, eventually, it will not seem so awful.”
Clara tapped a wall and there was a distinctly hollow sound.
“And the entrance?”
“Between the two winged women,” Lord Howton explained. “My son says they are harpies, you know, but I don’t think the Egyptians had such a thing in their mythology.”
He showed Clara the outline of the door, which had been carefully concealed by the cut of the sandstone to avoid it appearing unsightly.
“Before Harvey’s death, this side of the tomb was completely open. We had the odd tramp take a liking to sheltering in it during the winter,” Lord Howton explained. “After his passing, Harvey was placed inside and the opening was bricked up and the final sandstone slabs put into place. It is still just possible to see where the doorway was.”
Clara traced her fingers along the very fine line that showed where the door had been. The workmanship had been extremely precise and she would not have noticed the gap at all had it not been pointed out to her. It seemed unlikely that anyone was somehow opening and closing this entrance every night.
“Might I see up on the roof?”
Clara’s request required the finding of a gardener and the borrowing of a ladder. The mausoleum was only just over seven foot in height at its tallest point, but since its occupants did not intend to stand up inside it that hardly mattered. Even so, Clara required a ladder to be able to reach the roof and look over it for potential signs of a hidden entrance. The arched roof, covered smoothly in grey concrete, looked impeccable. Any theory Clara had briefly entertained of Harvey faking his death, emerging from his coffin in the mausoleum and exiting the tomb via a secret door was rapidly becoming implausible. The vault was sealed shut, as far as she could see.
“This was where you came across the man last night?” Clara asked Oliver.
“Yes,” Oliver gave a shudder, memories flitting back across his mind. “It was the most horrible sight.”
