“On a brighter note,” Charles continued, “we will have to visit the library and the Market House before leaving. I think you’ll enjoy them.”
They turned the corner at the mall onto College Hill and saw a cricket team on the grounds.
“That’s the Armagh Cricket Club, my Lord,” the driver told them. “The clubhouse is there at the far end. We were Senior League champions two seasons ago and hope to repeat. In fact, a vital match is scheduled for tomorrow against North Down. Don’t miss it, if you are still in town.”
“We’ll make time for it, I’m sure,” Charles said, winking at his less than thrilled companion.
The taxi pulled up in front of the Heatherdowns and Charles and Mary entered the most modern of the buildings on the street. No mention was made of ghosts or murders and the visitors accepted third floor rooms without question.
Within an hour the refreshed couple were seated in a local diner for tea.
“Tell me your plan for our visit,” Mary said to Charles.
“We begin with a visit to the Royal School, the headmaster of which should know whether a particular John Clarke was employed here,” Charles explained. “Not necessarily at the Royal School. I don’t expect that. But, at any of the local schools.”
“What makes you think John was not truthful?”
“Bless you, my dear, for believing all people at all times. It’s a noble trait,” Charles said. “However, a murder has been committed and theft or bribery is certainly going on. It is easier sometimes to eliminate suspects that it is to name them. Eliminate enough and you are left with the culprit. For your sake, Mary, I hope to eliminate Mr. Clarke as a suspect.”
“Why for my sake?” she asked.
With a smile, Charles answered, “Because I think you wish him to be innocent. I hope he is.”
“Charles, I’m not as naïve as you think,” she retorted. “I have no particular interest in John Clarke. I’m far more concerned with Anna and he is an important part of her life. My prediction is that we will find nothing egregious in John’s background here.”
“You realize, of course, that our second visit will be to the local police,” Charles told her. “I cannot assume that the Royal School headmaster will either be truthful or completely knowledgeable about Clarke. I will get a second opinion.”
“Fine. We will take home more proof of his innocence,” Mary replied emphatically.
“First thing in the morning we will go to the school,” Charles said. “Dinner at six in the hotel dining room sound reasonable to you?”
Mary agreed and they retreated to their separate rooms until then. The meal of potatoes, cabbage, and meat was filling and much appreciated by the tired travelers. The hotel in general, and particularly the dining room, was bustling compared to the Brampton.
Charles and Mary overheard much talk of the cricket match. As darkness fell on the town, revelers in the pub next door overflowed into the street just below Charles’ and Mary’s windows. Neither of the guests felt especially well-rested the next morning, but they ate heartily with a long day of interviews and, perhaps, some sightseeing in front of them. Their first stop was the Royal School.
Created in 1608 by King James as one of five ‘free schools’, it was originally intended to be built to the south of central Armagh. Unrest in Ulster caused it to be moved to the center of the city. It relocated in the 1770s to College Hill, where Charles and Mary found the red stone boys’ school.
Headmaster James Gray was easily found inside and Lord Stewart and his guest were warmly greeted by the large man. Once seated in Gray’s office, Charles answered the jovial man’s question of what brought them to Armagh.
“We are in search of knowledge, Mr. Gray, and thought of no place better than the renowned Royal School,” he said.
Gray chuckled and said, “You may be a bit over the age limit and, Miss Hastings doesn’t qualify, but for today we will make an exception.”
“Thank you, sir. We are interested in obtaining information about a young man who may have been a headmaster in this area in the recent past. His name is John Clarke. Not a large man in stature, but perhaps had a substantial beard and round glasses.”
Gray’s countenance disclosed his attempt to recall the name and face. He shook his head slightly and said, “I don’t recollect the name but…yes, yes, I remember the man with the big beard. A year or two ago at the Christian Brothers’ school. I believe his name was Clarke.”
“Now it’s coming back,” Gray stated. “I talked to him only briefly on a few occasions and I always thought it strange that a man who said he came from Glasgow sounded so little like every man I ever met from Glasgow. He told me once he wished to get back to England, if possible. Nice man, he was. Stayed a short while and moved on.”
“Were you aware of any trouble he caused?” Charles asked.
“Trouble? Good heavens, no. The John Clarke I knew at Christian Brothers’ didn’t seem the type to cause trouble,” Gray said with confidence. “You never saw him much in town, but that could have been that the people of Armagh have never taken too strongly to strangers, what with all the conflict in Ulster and such. Still, I never heard a bad word about him.”
Satisfied that they had learned as much as they could from Mr. Gray, Charles suggested to Mary they visit Christian Brothers’ school next. Gray offered to drive them across town to the school and Charles eagerly accepted.
Within minutes, Charles and Mary were seated with the headmaster of the much smaller school. Yes, John Clarke had been there and fulfilled his duties without incident. Clarke was excellent with the students and parents. He departed as quickly and quietly as he had arrived.
The next stop was the Armagh police station and even less information was obtained there. No records could be found of John Clarke having run afoul of the law at any time he resided in Armagh.
Mary was in such good humor by mid-afternoon that Charles could not deny her the opportunity to shop. The selection of shops was not as great as what they saw in Belfast, but certainly exceeded that of Alnmouth. She bought a single woolen sweater and consider the day a success.
Over dinner, they discussed John Clarke.
“The man is not capable of murder,” Mary said emphatically. “How many more people do we need to tell us that?”
Charles bowed his head and said, “You are most likely correct. Can we say the same for theft or bribery?”
Mary said, “It would be an easy conclusion to come to if he had been run out of Armagh because he stole from the school coffers. There’s no evidence of that.”
“And only circumstantial evidence of that in Alnmouth,” Charles said. “Very thin evidence, I must say.”
“So, can we exclude John from the suspects in Irene’s death and consider him as having a possible role in money mismanagement that may or may not be happening?” Mary said.
Charles shrugged, saying, “Exclude? How about move down the list? There’s danger in excluding anybody when so little is known in a murder like Irene’s.”
“I swear, Charles,” Mary exclaimed. “All of Alnmouth is suspected in your mind. John Clarke didn’t kill Irene Hall. He wouldn’t know how. Can we go back now and search for the real killer?”
Charles smiled and said, “If you insist.”
The Shed
The night that Charles and Mary returned to Alnmouth from Armagh was cool and still, with a thick fog rolling in from the North Sea. Darkness came early and few people were on the streets. Anna Walker, however, did not allow the weather to prevent her from making a trip to the shed and feeding the rats. She talked to them about how she missed Miss Hastings, but that tomorrow they would certainly be together again.
Anna stood at the window and scrutinized every room in every building that showed light. The fog added a touch of surrealism to an already murky scene and Anna could make nothing out. She did, however, catch sight of a woman moving about between buildings on the street. The woman moved very much like Dorothy Dunne
, but was too covered up in a coat and scarf for Anna to know for sure.
Anna turned and walked to the workbench, scattering the few rats that scrounged for the last tidbits of corn. She picked up a knife and moved to the wall opposite the door. It was the largest open space in the shed and she used it to etch things into the wood. Sometimes it was her name, or Mr. Clarke’s name. She attempted many times, without luck, to carve an outline of a rat eating corn. It was a frustrating diversion, but kept her occupied when nobody was in their windows.
Suddenly, her attention was averted by a sound at the door.
At that same instant, Dorothy Dunne was back on Northumberland Street, turning north toward her cottage. She was walking at an accelerated pace to beat the worst of the growing fog. She was passing a storefront when a reflection in the window caught her eye and caused her to pause. It was the colors that she couldn’t ignore; a collection of reds and oranges.
Realizing it was a reflection, Dorothy turned around and squinted at the glow beyond the end of the road. Within seconds, it became clear she was witnessing flames pouring out of the windows of Anna’s shed.
“Goodness gracious!” Dorothy uttered.
The nearest light was from the entrance to the hotel and Dorothy ran that way as fast as her shoes and dress would allow. As she sprinted, holding up the hem of her dress, she watched the flames grow thicker. In the midst of the smoke and fog, she was certain she saw a figure moving away from the shed.
Reaching the hotel entrance, she entered and yelled toward the desk, “Fire! Fire! Somebody call Alnwick. Anna’s shed is on fire.”
The night clerk came rushing out and heard Dorothy issue her plea for a second time. He picked up the phone and dialed the operator, relaying instructions for her to contact the fire station in Alnwick and send equipment to the bottom of Northumberland Street.
Dorothy ran to the hotel entrance, glancing down the road.
“It’s too late. They shall never arrive on time,” she declared.
Flames leaped up the side of the shed through the window and door; the roof was only seconds away from being engulfed. Eerie shadows gyrated like apparitions as the fog was disturbed by heat and flames. Lights began to appear in nearby windows and the first bystander appeared across the street. Soon, scores of people in various forms of nightdress were on the street and the general commotion grew louder.
Lord Charles Stewart stirred in his bed.
“Good Lord. I thought we left the revelers behind us in Armagh,” he grumbled.
When the voices only grew louder, he threw aside the covers, stepped into his slippers, and walked lazily to the window. He raised it and immediately was hit with a double dose of sensory perception: he heard the clamor and smelled the smoke. The heavy fog helped hold both the noise and the odor closer than normal to the ground.
He looked down the street toward the river and saw what was now a conflagration. Charles turned quickly and grabbed a robe from his chair. He rushed out the door into the hallway and pounded on Bingham’s door.
“Bingham! Bingham! Get up, man. There’s a sizable fire in town. Bring Mary with you.”
He likewise knocked loudly on her door several times before running down the stairs. He encountered dozens of residents on the street outside the hotel and joined a few men sprinting in the direction of the shed.
It was plain to Charles long before reaching the end of the street that the shed was a total loss. His thoughts turned to Anna and the chance she might be inside and then to Mary and what that would mean to her. As the heat from the flames hit his face, he and the others slowed.
Behind them, the sound of bells from a pumping engine announced the arrival of the Alnwick firefighters. Three men hung from the back of the engine as it sped toward the shed. The sea of men parted and the truck ground to a halt.
“It’s too late,” Edward Williams shouted to the driver as he climbed out. “There’s nothing to save.”
“Anybody inside?” the driver asked.
Charles replied, “Perhaps a teenage girl who was known to visit at night. We’ll need to determine her whereabouts.”
“Very good,” the driver said, surveying the scene along with his crew.
Bingham arrived and Charles said, “Where’s Mary?”
Bingham turned to look behind him and answered, “Right behind me, my Lord.”
With hair flowing behind her and her gown flapping, Mary jogged the final few yards to join them.
“Have you seen Anna?” she asked breathlessly.
“Not yet,” Charles said. “Do you want to go back to her cottage or should we send someone?”
“I’ll go. Oh please let her be safe,” Mary pleaded as she turned.
Her mind was so filled with panic that she almost missed the sight of a lonely figure sitting on the bench in the darkness of the small park.
“Anna!” Mary called out.
The girl looked up.
“Are you alright?” Mary asked when she was closer.
“Yes, Mary. But the rats. What will happen to the rats?” Anna said in misery.
“The rats will be fine, Anna. They ran away when the fire started. Tell me what happened,” Mary said.
Only then did Mary realize Anna held a knife in her lap as she talked.
“I was writing on the wall,” Anna said, turning the knife over in her hand. “I heard a sound at the door but a bright light didn’t let me see who it was. Then there was a fire, Mary. I was scared and the door was behind the fire, so I went to the window and crawled out, just like at home. And I came here. I was afraid to go home, Mary. Martha will hit me when I go home.”
The girl leaned over and began to sob on Mary’s shoulder. Mary held back her own tears as she held Anna tight.
“It’s alright, Anna. Nobody will hit you. We’re all very, very happy you are safe.”
Mary let the child calm down before saying, “I’ll take you home and explain everything to Martha. Nobody will hurt you.”
As Anna leaned up, Mary said, “Why don’t you give me the knife, Anna. I’ll keep it for you.”
“No. I can’t. It belongs to Mr. Clarke. He gave it to me. I can’t let anybody have it,” Anna told her between the last of her sobs.
As much as Mary would worry about her young friend moving about at night with the knife in her hand, she knew better than to confront Anna about it.
“OK, let’s go home, Anna.”
With the girl safely returned to the cottage and Mary having done her best to placate Martha, she returned to Northumberland Street and walked back to Charles and Bingham. She found them commiserating with the firefighters and village residents.
“Good news, I hope?” Charles asked her.
“Yes. She’s fine. I’ll tell you about it later,” Mary said.
“Bingham, I have a job for you,” Charles said to his butler. “When the last of the flames are out, I would like you to put your chemical analysis skills to work. Take samples from inside the shed, particularly the floor, and let’s find out what started this.”
Mary pulled the two men away from the crowd and said quietly, “Concentrate on the area around the door. I have reason to believe this was arson…and attempted murder.”
“Gracious,” Charles muttered. “We DO need to talk.”
They walked back to the hotel to allow Bingham to dress. While he changed and returned to the fire scene with the necessary tools, Charles and Mary sat in Charles’ room.
“Somebody snuck down to the shed while Anna was in it and tossed something inside the door that burst into flames,” Mary said, after telling how she found Anna. “They thought she would be trapped, but the girl is quite the expert at window escapes.”
“Some type of hand-held fire bomb or makeshift equivalent,” Charles surmised. “Probably lit it before opening the door…tossed it…and ran.”
“That makes the most sense,” Mary replied. “If Bingham tells us there was some type of fuel used, I think you’ve hit it on the
head.”
It was about an hour later that Bingham returned and knocked on Charles’ door.
“Anything left to salvage?” Charles asked as he let the man in.
“Of course,” Bingham said, settling into a chair by the window. “All we need are floorboards and there were plenty, although a little worse for wear. I put them in my room and will begin work on them tomorrow if that is alright.”
“Yes, yes,” Charles confirmed. “No need for an answer tonight. Mary and I suspect the obvious: a flammable device of some sort thrown into the shed.”
“This was from Anna’s statement to me,” Mary explained.
Bingham nodded. “And the perpetrator?”
Charles shrugged and said, “To be determined. Shall we name suspects?”
“How about Dorothy Dunne?” Bingham said. “First on the scene.”
“Dorothy Dunne has no reason to harm Anna, whom she had to suspect was in the shed,” Mary said.
“That is probably correct, assuming Anna was the only thing in the shed,” Charles said. “We don’t know that something else might have been hidden there.”
Bingham said, “I’ll inspect the rubble first thing tomorrow, before it’s disturbed.”
Charles agreed and said, “Mary, I know you will object, but how about John Clarke?”
“Charles! How could you say such a thing? He’d no sooner hurt Anna than…than…ANYTHING. That’s a ridiculous suggestion to make,” Mary declared.
She added, “I’d sooner point a finger at Martha. She’s the one seemingly put out by Anna’s presence.”
Charles stared at the window and slowly turned his head to say, “There’s another option.”
When silence ensued, he said, “Suicide. We only know what Anna has told Mary. Could she be making it up to cover a suicide attempt that she later thought better of?”
Mary’s grim face betrayed her acceptance of the possibility. Her experience with troubled children in Scarborough taught her not to rule it out simply because she liked Anna.
People Say I'm Different: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery Page 11
