People Say I'm Different: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by John E. Conley

  “If Bingham finds that a fuel was used, does that help eliminate the likelihood of suicide being a motive?” Mary asked.

  “Would Anna know that a fuel would be needed? Possibly,” Charles suggested.

  “I’m going to bed,” Mary announced, rising from her chair. “Good night, gentlemen.”

  Unknown Past

  Clifford Rothwell was among those roused by Charles when he banged on Bingham’s and Mary’s doors. He was dressed within seconds and, with notebook in hand, joined the throng at the burning shed. There was no need to write a story. Nobody was hurt; no other structures sustained damage; nothing of value was lost. There was no connection between the blaze and Irene Hall’s murder, his primary concern.

  But, one of the people he talked to before everyone dispersed was Abigail Harker. Her tiny home was closest to the shed, being a mere stone’s throw away in the direction of the coastline.

  Abigail had seen and heard nothing prior to the fire and the shy woman provided little information of use to the reporter. Clifford ended the discussion, however, with an inquiry as to Mrs. Harker’s availability in the morning. He told her he wanted to chat more about the shed, but his true purpose was completely different. Abigail saw no harm in talking to the friendly young man and agreed.

  Clifford kept the appointment the next morning and was received into Abigail’s home with an offer of food and drink, which the reporter politely refused. They sat in the living room with Clifford admiring the woman’s natural attractiveness, as he had done the night before. She wasn’t beautiful, but Abigail Harker was appealing without even knowing it, her red hair and freckles drawing attention to a strong face.

  “Mrs. Harker, the real reason I wanted to talk to you,” Clifford said after a few moments of small talk, “is John Clarke.”

  Abigail did not look surprised at Clifford’s comment. She was getting used to more and more people in the village asking her about him, the consensus being that their marriage would be a good thing for both.

  “What about John?” she asked graciously.

  “His background. What has he told you about himself?”

  Abigail quickly replied, “You may know as much as I, Mr. Rothwell. He has told me he came to Alnmouth from Ireland. I have no reason to doubt him. John said he was a headmaster there, but preferred to be in England. He’s been very kind to me and the boys. I’m not one to pry into other people’s previous affairs.”

  “I don’t mean to pry…,” Clifford began defensively.

  “Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Mr. Rothwell. I didn’t mean you when I said that. Please don’t take it the wrong way. I’m just saying that I judge people on who they are now and how they treat me. John has been a total gentleman in every regard.”

  Clifford smiled and said, “I’m very glad to hear that. It is what I have heard from many other people.”

  “But you are talking to me because you are writing about Irene Hall’s death,” Abigail said bluntly.

  Clifford nodded, seeing no need to hide his intentions.

  “That is true, Mrs. Harker,” he said.

  “So let me make your job a little easier,” she told him. “John Clarke had nothing to do with her death and for you to even consider that possibility is not a good reflection of your investigative skills. I don’t understand what it is about people in Northumberland that someone who comes to them from elsewhere is suspected right off of being no good. John is an excellent headmaster. He is a good friend. He is most certainly NOT a murderer.”

  The interview ended promptly after that with Clifford escaping before further damage could be done. He walked briskly up to Northumberland Street and into the telegraph office where he sat to compose a message to the Belfast Telegraph newspaper. Clifford included a physical description of Clarke and his current employment. He closed with a request of any prior news of him in Belfast.

  The reply was delivered to him as he sat eating lunch in the Brampton dining room. He eagerly opened the cable and read:

  ‘No one by that name in news. However, gentleman of that approx. age and description, while serving as headmaster, suspected of blackmailing local businessman. Charges never filed for lack of evidence.’

  Clifford finished his meal while accumulating in his mind everything he had heard and seen of John Clarke. Blackmail? It seemed out of character for the scholarly man, but Clifford had to admit he wasn’t sure what a blackmailer should look like. It deserved further pursuit.

  Upstairs, Bingham was meeting with Charles and Mary to discuss the finding of his chemical analysis of the shed’s charred remains.

  “We can say without a doubt that kerosene was present in the floorboards,” Bingham said, as the three sat around Charles’ bedroom table. “I suggest that the amount of kerosene found is not consistent with normal use of that shed. It’s my opinion that was the fuel used to set the fire. The presence of broken glass would bolster my belief that the kerosene was contained in a bottle that was lit and either thrown or dropped into the shed. It would have burst into flames, explaining Anna’s statement to Mary about the flash she saw.”

  “Where do you purchase kerosene in Alnmouth, Bingham?” Mary asked.

  “Edward William’s shop, for one. I’m not sure where else, if you are assuming it was purchased here and not brought into the village,” Bingham replied.

  Mary looked at Charles and said, “Will you rule out suicide now?”

  With a grin, he said, “It seems less likely, my dear.”

  “Thank you. So who would want to kill Anna?” Mary asked both men.

  Charles replied, “You’re assuming this was an attempt on Anna’s life because she was there. What if it was a successful attempt to destroy something else in the shed…like evidence?”

  “Evidence?” Mary asked.

  “Anything secretly stored in there that would be destroyed in a fire, such as paper records,” Bingham offered.

  “Or money,” Charles added.

  “But the arsonist knew Anna was in there? Why would they risk murder?” Mary said.

  “What if they knew she was almost certain to get out, either by the door or window?” Bingham said. “Most people in the village wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to blame her for the blaze and there would be no investigation. That’s pretty much what is happening anyway.”

  Mary frowned and said, “They knew she was in there. They knew she might not get out. Who would do that?”

  “Probably not Williams himself,” Charles suggested. “That leaves Donald Hall, Dorothy Dunne, John Clarke and every other resident of Alnmouth. We need a motive.”

  “Can’t we talk to Edward Williams to find out who has purchased kerosene recently?” Mary said.

  “Splendid idea, Mary” Charles answered gleefully. “It’s a start, at least. If Williams is our man, it’ll be wasted time. But let’s do it anyway.”

  Charles and Mary strode together down Northumberland Street toward William’s shop. The wind was picking up and Mary clung to her wide brimmed hat the entire way. They acknowledged familiar faces as they walked purposely ahead.

  A single stone step took them up to the door of the shop. A bell rang overhead when Charles pushed the door open for his companion to enter. The smell of tools and wood greeted them, along with the sound of voices from the direction opposite the door.

  They walked down a center aisle past nails of every size and tools of every shape. At the counter in the rear, a customer dressed in farmer’s clothes spoke to the cash register attendant.

  “It was an eerie sight, I’m tellin’ ya,” the customer said. “The color of the flames and the smoke and the fog made it look like something out of hades itself. How the retarded girl lived I’ll never know.”

  “Mr. Williams told me…,” the attendant began to say, leaning forward onto the counter before eyeing the approach of Charles and Mary.

  “Oh, can I help you find something, sir?” the attendant asked with a tip of his cap to Mary.

  “You can
direct us to Mr. Williams, kind sir,” Charles replied.

  “Why, he’s up in his office. You’re more than welcome to go up the back stairs if you wish.”

  The attendant waved his hand in the direction of a narrow hallway leading farther back in the shop.

  “Delighted. Thank you so much,” Charles said with a nod.

  He took Mary’s arm and ushered her into the somewhat dark passage, then they turned at the back door to proceed up the narrow, steep steps. The sound of their shoes on the steps echoed around them as they climbed. As always, Edward Williams needed no door knocker to advise him when he had company.

  Still, he awaited the knock.

  “Hello, Lord Stewart,” he said after opening the office door. “Miss Hastings.”

  “Hello, Mr. Williams,” Charles said. “May we come in?”

  “Of course. Of course,” Edward said, stepping aside.

  They had all met informally during the course of normal business since Charles and Mary arrived in the village, but had not talked at length. Edward looked more closely now at Mary, who was a few years younger than himself. She wasn’t in Irene’s class, he thought to himself, but very nice all the same.

  “Please call me Edward,” he told both of them, but he was looking at Mary.

  “Thank you,” Charles replied. “We have a fairly simple question to ask, I believe, and hope not to take up much of your time.”

  “What can I help you with?”

  “Do you know, or can you determine from your records, who has purchased kerosene from you recently?” Charles asked.

  “Good heavens,” Edward answered. “Many people in Alnmouth routinely buy kerosene from us. Mostly tradesmen and fishermen, but also residents who use it for various purposes, like heating or lamps.”

  “What volume do they typically buy it in?” Mary inquired.

  “By the liter, most often. Large quantities are not uncommon,” Edward said. “We have a storage tank.”

  “Would it be possible, then, to determine who recently purchased a small quantity that does not normally buy kerosene from you?” Mary said.

  “I’d be more than happy to look at our records for that, Miss Hastings. What do you consider ‘recently?’”

  “Within the past month,” she replied.

  Edward nodded. “I’ll try to get that for you before the end of the day.”

  Charles and Mary expressed their appreciation and made their way back out onto Northumberland Street, where Charles told Mary, “This is really a long-shot, you understand. And besides, I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

  Mary giggled and said, “I can understand how Irene Hall might have been drawn to him. He does seem the type of man to admire women, not that I’m to be admired in that manner.”

  “Mary, my dear, you are much admired by me for all the right reasons,” Charles said as they approached the Brampton. “Our friend Edward, as he prefers you call him, will no likely go far out of his way to please you, as well.”

  A couple hours later, a young man employed by Williams tracked down Charles and Mary and handed them a note from Edward. Charles opened it to find a dozen names, dates, and quantities of kerosene purchased in the past thirty days. Included were the familiar names of Dorothy Dunne, John Clarke, and one of Abigail Harker’s sons.

  “Not much help, I’m afraid,” Mary sighed.

  “I agree. If it had only been one person, we might have been onto something. This doesn’t help at all,” Charles said.

  “Do you find it odd, Charles, that Edward never asked why we were inquiring about kerosene?” Mary asked.

  Charles smiled broadly and said, “You are getting much better at this sleuthing business, my dear Mary. How do YOU answer that riddle?”

  “Because he knew why we were asking,” she said.

  Charles nodded. “And what does that indicate to you?”

  “That he already knew what caused the blaze in the shed.”

  The Package

  Charles awoke the next day feeling somewhat guilty about his treatment of Mary. What started out as a holiday had turned into a continuous pursuit of facts surrounding the death of Irene Hall. He had taken her through Scotland to Ireland and back. Little or no time was spent on activities she suggested.

  He resolved himself to reserve that day for whatever Mary wanted to do. Charles only briefly considered the option that she might request to go back to Scarborough. However, he assumed correctly that she would not do that to him.

  He made the offer at breakfast and Mary’s eyes seemed to light up.

  “Why, thank you, Charles,” she said gleefully. “I can choose anything?”

  “Anything.”

  Without much hesitation, she stated, “Let’s go back into Alnwick and spend time in the shops. And don’t give me that look. You made the offer and had to know that was a possibility, if not a likelihood.”

  “I will go anywhere with you, Mary,” he replied. “The residents of Alnwick will not have the slightest inkling of my true thoughts.”

  She laughed quietly and said, “We’ll see about that by the middle of the afternoon.”

  Even Bingham appreciated the prospect of taking the Daimler for a short drive. He spent far more time cleaning and preparing the vehicle than the length of the trip called for.

  However, that gave Mary time to change into one of her favorite casual outfits: flowy green denim pants and a red checked shirt with big red buttons down the front. She sometimes turned the shirt’s collars up in cooler weather, but the day was comfortably warm and she let them lay flat.

  In due time, they were on their way and Charles instructed Bingham to drop them off at the end of Fenkle Street, after which Bingham planned to revisit Alnwick Castle and pick them up at a time they all agreed upon. The city was bustling and the customary attention was paid to the ostentatious auto typically only seen on the grounds of the castle itself. Charles helped Mary out of the car and they blended in with the pedestrians when the pedestrians determined there was nothing else to see.

  The cobblestone street and wide sidewalks were a noticeable improvement over Alnmouth and Mary felt a certain comfort in being back in an environment closer to the Scarborough she was used to. This was not to mention a variety of shops that she unabashedly took Charles into.

  She found a knit shawl that would prove to be comforting in the evening should they end up staying along the coast much longer, which seemed a certainty with little movement in the Irene Hall matter, at least in her eyes. Charles purchased a soft nap wool cap that would serve him well on the Scottish links he loved to frequent.

  “Are you hungry, yet?” Mary asked Charles after that purchase.

  “I am. And you?”

  “Yes. Do you recommend anyplace?” she said.

  “We’re near The Black Swan on Narrowgate. It’s a nice pub,” he replied.

  “I suppose you deserve a pint,” she smiled.

  They entered the long, narrow establishment through a solid wood door and withstood a barrage of gazes from locals not accustomed to gentlemen and female visitors arriving for lunch. The proprietor escorted Charles and Mary to a booth as far from the bar as the interior would allow, with a six-foot partition half enclosing the area.

  Feeling adequately secluded, Charles and Mary considered the menu items offered up by the server. After ordering, they chatted on the morning’s successes and the afternoon’s prospects.

  However, the discussion was short lived.

  “Mary. Mary Hastings,” they heard a woman’s voice call out.

  They both turned to find Dorothy Dunne walking down the steps from the second floor.

  “My heavens, imagine finding you in Alnwick,” Dorothy exclaimed when she got to the table.

  “Hello, Dorothy,” Mary said. “Do you care to join us?”

  It was an invitation she made out of common courtesy without the slightest expectation of acceptance. To Charles and Mary’s dismay, Dorothy eagerly settled into the space n
ext to Mary on the bench.

  “Why thank you, Mary. I see you’ve been shopping,” Dorothy said, eyeing the packages.

  “Just a few things,” Mary said. “What brings you to Alnwick?”

  “Visiting friends,” Dorothy said. “Nothing of real importance.”

  Dorothy switched her glance to Charles and said, “Haven’t we had the excitement in little Alnmouth what with the shed going up in blazes the other night.”

  “Yes. Quite unexpected,” Charles said dryly. “You raised the alarm, did you not?”

  “I did,” Dorothy proclaimed with pride. “I believe I saw it first, except perhaps for the poor child Anna.”

  She shook her head and then raised a hand as if to signal she remembered something, saying, “Did I tell you that I saw somebody else near the shed, Lord Stewart? And it was not Anna.”

  “Tell me, Dorothy,” Charles said.

  “Well, soon after seeing the first of the flames…I was on Northumberland Street on my way home, you see…I saw somebody running from the shed in the direction of the alley behind the shops opposite the Brampton,” she said. “There was no doubt it was a man. Not Anna.”

  “Just one man or two?” Charles said.

  “Just one…that I saw.”

  “And he disappeared around the area of the back of Edward William’s store?”

  “That was the last I saw of him, but I’m not saying he went inside,” Dorothy told him. “By then, I was more concerned with raising the alarm.”

  “Of course. Of course,” Charles assured her. “Did you hear anything? A loud pop or explosion prior to seeing the flames? Any screams from Anna?”

  “Not a sound,” Dorothy replied. “Not until the crackling of the fire itself.”

  Charles nodded.

  “Dorothy, you told Clifford Rothwell at one time that you saw Donald Hall putting a package in the attic of the Brampton,” Charles said. “Is that correct?”

  “I did,” Dorothy said with a hint of embarrassment.

  “You know for sure it was Donald Hall?”

  “As sure as I know you are Lord Charles Stewart,” she said with confidence.