The Poison Pen

by Evelyn James

  The Poison Pen

  A Clara Fitzgerald Mystery

  (Book Six)

  by

  Evelyn James

  © Evelyn James 2015

  First published 2015

  Red Raven Publications

  The right of Evelyn James to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the permission in writing from the author

  The Poison Pen is the sixth book in the Clara Fitzgerald series

  Other titles in the Series:

  Memories of the Dead

  Flight of Fancy

  Murder in Mink

  Carnival of Criminals

  Mistletoe and Murder

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter One

  It was late February 1921. Clara Fitzgerald, Brighton’s first female private detective, had spent January recuperating from a bout of influenza she had caught in London during her last case. Now she was feeling much better and was eager to get back to work. The sun was shining as she made her way to her office for the first time in over a month. Clara rented a couple of rooms over a draper’s shop to serve as a business address. It was preferable to interviewing clients at her own house though, invariably, they found their way to her home address at some point. Clara had come to accept that completely isolating her work as a detective from her private life was virtually impossible.

  There was a hint of spring in the air. Clara was glad of it. Winter made her morose, and this winter had been particularly challenging after the incidents at Berkeley Square and the sad (but completely natural) death of her elderly client Miss Sampford. Clara being so poorly had not helped her mood either; there had been moments when her brother Tommy and their maid Annie had been quite concerned about her. A doctor had been called one Saturday afternoon and had insisted on Clara taking some foul medicine, which made her feel infinitely worse, though, quite remarkably, she actually improved afterwards.

  Unlike Annie and Tommy, Clara had never considered herself in any danger of dying. She was quite convinced she was made of sterner stuff, and no amount of sneezing, coughing or feverish temperatures was going to change that.

  Clara waved to Mr Sloane who ran the draper’s shop. He was sweeping his front step to remove mud traipsed onto it by his customers. He gave her a grin and announced he was pleased to see her back. If you didn’t know, you never would have guessed from Mr Sloane’s crisp, English accent, that he was actually a Russian Jew who had fled to Britain from the anti-Jewish pogroms in Russia during the 1880s. Mr Sloane knew what it was like to be an outsider and considered ‘abnormal’, it was why he had such sympathy for a woman trying to strike up a business in a man’s world, and also why he had originally rented Clara the rooms above his shop at a foolishly low price. Even now, when Clara was making a respectable income from her work, he refused her pleas to raise the rent. Mr Sloane was just happy that Clara was there.

  Clara had a separate door to her rooms over the shop; it led straight onto a narrow staircase. She unlocked it, collected a handful of letters from the doormat, and hastened upstairs to make a cup of tea and get to work. Clara was just opening the first letter, which appeared to be an advertisement of some sort, when Mr Sloane hurried in.

  “Ah, I forgot. There is a lady who has been coming every Monday to try and see you. I told her you were quite ill and I could not say when you would be back at work. She stated she would keep trying. Today, you see, is Monday.”

  Clara smiled at the draper.

  “Thank you Mr Sloane, so I should expect a visitor shortly?”

  “I imagine so, yes,” Mr Sloane gave her another nod and started to leave. “Oh, my wife made some shortbread. Please join us at 11 o’clock for a tea break and partake of some.”

  Clara assured Mr Sloane she would and watched the draper leave. She went back to her post. There was a short letter from Edward Sampford, the brother of her last client, thanking her for all her hard work. It seemed a rather formal, bittersweet letter and made Clara feel rather despondent again. She was relieved when the doorbell went.

  Clara hurried down the stairs, and opened the door to the street, to see Mrs Wilton standing before her. Mrs Wilton was one of Clara’s very first clients. She was a remarkably superstitious woman who had been tricked into believing her dead husband had left buried treasure by a fraudulent medium. In Clara’s opinion, Mrs Wilton was a sweet, but rather silly, woman who had struggled to cope with life since her husband’s death in the war. Seeing her on the doorstep now, filled Clara with a sense of foreboding.

  “Mrs Wilton,” she said in a welcoming tone to mask her dread.

  “I am so glad you are in, my dear. Are you quite well? You look exceptionally pale, but then perhaps that is how girls want to look these days. Dear me…” Mrs Wilton tailed off, looking flustered. She was not a woman who coped well with problems.

  “Would you care to come in for a cup of tea?” Clara asked. “Then you can tell me all about what is worrying you.”

  “Yes, yes that would be good.”

  Mrs Wilton followed Clara upstairs and sat patiently in a chair, while Clara made a pot of tea.

  “My, my. It hardly seems a year ago I was last in this office!” she said, glancing up at the portrait of Clara’s father on the wall.

  “Is your son well?” Clara asked a little anxiously. Until last year, Mrs Wilton had thought her son had also died in the war. Clara had been able to reunite them.

  “Oh he is fine, dear. This is not about me, you understand. I am here on behalf of a friend.”

  Clara wasn’t sure whether to relax at this news or to be more concerned. She set a cup of tea before Mrs Wilton.

  “Why doesn’t your friend come herself?”

  “It is very difficult. To be honest with you, Clara, it took considerable time to persuade her to let me come on her behalf. She is very worried,” Mrs Wilton took a long sip of tea. “I think she was rather mortified at the idea of calling on the services of a private detective. She considered it rather distasteful. But it was either that or inform the police.”

  Now Clara was curious.

  “Has a crime been committed?”

  “I should say so!” Mrs Wilton tutted. “Mind you, it isn’t public knowledge yet, though I expect to see a newspaper report on the matter any day now.”

  Mrs Wilton was being her usual, infuriatingly cryptic, self.

  “Perhaps you can explain exactly what has happened?” Clara pressed her.

  “Why yes!” Mrs Wilton smiled. “Poison pen letters, my dear! You know what I mean?”

  “Yes. Letters that insult or offend the recipient, or insinuate they have committed some sin. Usually anonymous, and very distasteful.”

 
; “Well, there has been a spate of them around the area I live. Quite a number of people have received these disgusting things. In fact, I got one myself,” Mrs Wilton unclipped her handbag and produced a letter. “It is really quite awful, but I kept it, as I realised it was evidence.”

  Clara unfolded the crumpled letter. It had clearly been screwed up into a ball at some point, perhaps before Mrs Wilton had realised its value. The handwriting was very neat and clear, which made its rather blunt statements all the worse.

  Dear Mrs Wilton

  We know your husband is not really dead but living in London with a floozy. Your condoning of this shameful behaviour not only makes you despicable but foolish. We also know the man you claim is your son is really your lover, who you have moved into your home to fill the void in your hollow, miserable life. You are a sorry excuse for a woman and we spit on you! You are a disgrace to the neighbourhood and the sooner others realise this, the better!

  The letter had no signature and finished abruptly.

  “Of course, I laughed at it,” Mrs Wilton said, looking distinctly like she had not laughed at all. Mrs Wilton was a very sensitive soul.

  “It is all lies,” Clara said calmly.

  “Absolutely!” Mrs Wilton rallied a touch. “But it struck a nerve. I began to wonder if other people were thinking the same thing. For a time I was a little nervous about leaving the house. I looked at my neighbours and the people I met in the street and found myself wondering if they were behind it. Then, finally, I confided in a friend, and she said she had also received an awful letter. A little prudent investigation revealed that at least ten of our neighbours had also received such notes, some much worse than others. We decided to hold a meeting about it. Everyone came to my friend, Mrs Hampton’s, house. Well, no one really seemed to have much of an idea who was behind the notes, they were just very upset. Mrs Hampton suggested we speak to the police, but everyone was rather reluctant, as some of the letters have come a little too close to revealing real secrets.

  “That was when I found myself looking at Mrs Prinner. She is a little older than my son, married, with two children. A nice woman, who had received the most ghastly letter, and the expression on her face as she sat listening to the discussion! Well, I just knew that she knew more than she was letting on! After the meeting I took her to one side. I am on friendly terms with her. And I mentioned that I sensed she knew something more than the rest of us. She admitted she suspected she knew who the writer of the letter was! But she would not tell me anymore. Finally I persuaded Mrs Hampton that we must get some help. Since our meeting another five letters have been delivered. One went to Mrs Summerton who is eight months pregnant. It gave her such a shock a doctor had to be called and we all thought she would lose the baby. At some point, Clara, these letters are going to do more than upset people. They are going to cause real harm!”

  “I quite agree,” Clara had continued to look at the note as Mrs Wilton spoke. “Poison pen letters are a nasty business. That nothing bad has happened because of them already is pure luck, but something must be done.”

  “Then, might I invite you to a meeting of those who have received these letters, tonight, at Mrs Hampton’s?” Mrs Wilton held out a slip of paper, with an address written on it, to Clara.

  “I shall come,” Clara took the paper. “And it would be most helpful if I could have every letter that remains to study for patterns in handwriting and such. I promise that no word I read will be shared with anyone and you can vouch for my discretion.”

  “Yes, I can. That is precisely why I came to you. We don’t want a lot of policemen sticking their noses into our business. Far better to engage a sensible woman who knows when to hold her tongue. This must be resolved soon, Clara!”

  “I shall do my best,” Clara assured her. “Do you happen to have any thoughts on who might be behind this?”

  Mrs Wilton sighed.

  “I wish I did, but no, I can’t think of anyone who would be so awful. Or perhaps I am too trusting?” Mrs Wilton tapped her fingers unconsciously on the side of the desk. “Why would someone do such a thing?”

  “Usually, such letter writers are very bitter people, filled with a verbal bile that spills out onto paper. Because they are unhappy they tend to want to lash out at people they perceive as being happy, or as having more than them. Yes, jealousy plays a part too. Behind the pen is a person who is very sad, lonely and dysfunctional. In many regards they deserve our sympathy.”

  “Hmph! I think not Clara!” Mrs Wilton said stoutly. “I have no time to feel sorry for such vile people. Just find them and stop them.”

  “I shall endeavour,” Clara promised.

  When Mrs Wilton had gone, Clara found a magnifying glass and took a closer look at the letter she had been handed. The writing was in black ink, the letters had a gentle loop to them that suggested a well-educated hand. The spelling was precise and there was no indication of an error. Each word had been written with care, the letters well-defined, with distinct spaces between words to make the letter easy to read. This was not a person who wanted their writing misunderstood. The paper was of good quality and from a brand Clara had seen stocked in the Post Office. There was a watermark of a pelican impressed into the paper. She could see it when she held the letter up to the light. But all that really told her, was that the writer liked to use good paper, and they had enough spare money to not concern themselves about using that same paper for such a petty and pointless task as poison pen letters.

  On the other hand, the information in the letter was mundane. Everyone knew Mrs Wilton had lost her husband in the war, and it was certainly no secret that her long-lost son had returned last year. The pen writer had clearly wanted to put their own spin on two innocent circumstances, but there was no basis in truth for the claims – Clara knew that for a fact, having investigated the deaths of Mrs Wilton’s husband and son, herself, as part of the case. She had not only proved that Mr Wilton had died at the Front, as his wife had been told, but that her son had actually survived. No, the letter writer was making spurious claims to fulfil a need for spite. But what of the other letters? Could it be that the writer had stumbled across genuine secrets they now wished to reveal? It would be interesting to see what the remaining letters told her about the person behind them. Were they just being spiteful, or could they have access to damaging secrets about certain residents in Brighton? If so, it was only a matter of time before someone was hurt because of these letters. Clara looked at the piece of paper grimly. What a terrible business, she thought to herself. Then her stomach gave a rumble to remind her she had missed breakfast. Mrs Sloane’s shortbread was calling. It was never good to contemplate a new case on an empty belly.

  Chapter Two

  Clara locked up her office at four o’clock and headed home for tea. Her mind was still on the poison pen letters and the messages they contained. There was something about poison pen writers that brought a surge of anger into Clara’s chest and stomach. Maybe it was the fact they were acting anonymously, causing harm without ever showing themselves. It was such a cowardly thing to do.

  She walked home in the dusk. The streets were still busy with people. There were at least another couple of working hours to be squeezed out of the day. She passed a newspaper boy hawking the evening edition, and bought a copy to read the headlines. Brighton was quiet, news-wise, as was usual in the seaside resort. There had been a couple of break-ins of empty houses and the Brighton Pavilion had been vandalised by boys throwing stones at the façade yet again, but there was little to truly worry about. Clara folded the paper under her arm and hurried home.

  Annie baked scones on a Monday. Though dry fruit and sugar were still scarce in the shops after the war, Annie always managed to present her scones with butter and a small portion of jam. The jam was often of unusual flavours, like quince or gooseberry, and a good deal sharper than the jam Clara remembered from pre-war, but she had grown to like it and doubted she would ever be able to happily consume sugary j
am again. Clara looked forward to her scones, followed later in the evening by a minced meat pie made from the remains of the Sunday roast, and served with potatoes. Clara reflected this was probably why she was still failing to achieve the svelte figure that was all the rage among young women at the moment.

  Clara opened the front door of her house and found herself face-to-face with Inspector Park-Coombs of the Brighton constabulary. Park-Coombs was a man in his forties, whose role as Inspector had taken its toll and made him look a good few years older than he really was. His hair was greying at the sides and there were even hints of grey in his moustache, which he clearly took great pride over. Today, as he stood in Clara’s hallway, he looked even more harassed than normal.

  “Inspector,” Clara said in surprise. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “A few minutes, that’s all,” the inspector said carelessly. “I need to speak to you Clara, it is quite urgent.”

  Clara could see that. The Inspector did not usually call on her for a casual chat.

  “Come into the parlour,” Clara showed the inspector into her cosy front room, where a fire was burning in the grate and the air smelt of fresh polish and the aroma of toast left-over from breakfast. She indicated a chair for the Inspector to sit in.

  “You look done in,” she told him, as she sat down herself. “Something must be the matter.”

  The inspector rubbed his hand over his eyes wearily.

  “I feel done in,” he admitted. “These are bad times, Clara, for the police, that is. Do you remember that episode we had last summer when Billy ‘Razor’ Brown escaped from our police cells?”

  Clara could hardly forget. Billy had come after her for the sole purpose of shutting her up.

  “Yes,” she said nervously, wondering if another criminal had escaped from Brighton’s police cells.

  “At the time I was naturally concerned. But the more I looked into the matter, the more I was deeply troubled. Billy didn’t break out of his cell. I am certain someone opened the door for him.”