The Fossil Murder

by Evelyn James

  Miss Holbein graced him with a smile, which seemed so out of character that it almost startled Tommy. He would have liked to have said that a smile improved Miss Holbein’s face, but it was clearly not a natural thing for her and rather reminded him of a leering gargoyle.

  “Quite lucky then,” he said awkwardly. “Are your parents not about?”

  “They are dead,” Miss Holbein said bluntly. “I live alone, and I have a lot of money.”

  She reached over and placed her hand on top of his.

  “People say money can’t make you happy, what do you think Mr…” Miss Holbein paused. “I don’t know your name?”

  “Tommy,” Tommy said, trying to remove his hand from hers without looking obvious. “That is quite a fine garden.”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Holbein looked disinterested. “I avoid the sun if I can help it. It does nothing for the complexion. Now, tell me a little about you. You look like the sort of man who would have been in the war?”

  Tommy had failed to remove his hand from beneath Miss Holbein’s and now she was edging herself nearer to him. She shuffled up until her hip bumped against him and she was pressing against his arm.

  “Were you a soldier, Tommy?”

  “I was,” Tommy said uneasily, trying to think how to escape. When Clara had said Miss Holbein would probably speak to him more readily than she would to her, he didn’t think this was what she had in mind.

  “Do you still have the uniform?”

  “Er, yes?”

  “Oh, then you must come around wearing it one time. I simply cannot resist a man in uniform,” Miss Holbein purred into his ear. Less and less Tommy was feeling that Miss Holbein was a naïve young lady in danger of being seduced by a money hunter.

  “Wouldn’t Victor mind that?” Tommy asked her.

  “Victor is beginning to bore me,” Miss Holbein snorted. “He was exciting at first, I even considered his marriage proposal, but now I am not so sure. I’ve had several marriage proposals, you know. I’ve been engaged twice, but broke it off because those men proved to be so… unworthy.”

  Miss Holbein gave a sigh.

  “It is all so tiresome. I want a husband, I do. But I want them to be fun, interesting, not dull. People all prove to be dull in the end. But you won’t, will you Tommy?”

  “I, er…” Tommy cleared his throat. “I think you probably see more in me than I do. I’m afraid I am rather boring.”

  “Don’t say that Tommy!” Miss Holbein beseeched him playfully, slipping her arm through his. “We could have a lot of fun together. Do you work Tommy?”

  “No, not really…”

  “Victor works, but he tries to insist he doesn’t,” Miss Holbein laughed. “He won’t say what he does, but I know he only pretends to be a playboy.”

  “He is lying to you,” Tommy tried to sound affronted on her behalf.

  “Oh, I don’t care, not really. All men lie to get what they want,” Miss Holbein rubbed her shoulder against Tommy’s. “My mother used to say that all the time. You know, my father promised her she could continue singing on stage after they were married, but that was a lie. No sooner was the ring on her finger he crushed her dreams. She never forgot that. She used to praise the day he was run over by a carriage.”

  Tommy did not know what to say, the statement was so blunt.

  “Do I shock you?” Miss Holbein chuckled. “I speak my mind, I consider it a virtue. Too many people can’t speak their thoughts. They smile when they are sad, laugh when they hate, say they are your friends when really they only want to control you.”

  “That is a harsh assessment of the world,” Tommy said.

  “But truthful. I’ll admit, when I first started being pursued by admirers, I was blind, I listened only to their words and thought they loved me. Now I understand,” Miss Holbein was hugging his arm to her chest. “They wanted my money and they would say and do anything for it. I was upset, at least at first. I know I am not pretty or accomplished, I can’t sing like my mother, or dance, or do anything that is considered enchanting in a woman. I suppose I am unattractive and that would be an awful disadvantage if it was not for the fact that I have money, a lot of it.”

  “I don’t see…”

  “Oh, you do see Tommy, its why you came here today, its why all the men come and fawn over me. I have a fortune and men want my fortune. That made me unhappy until I realised it gave me power. Power over my admirers and over my future husband. I am being honest with you, Tommy, so you won’t be surprised later on.”

  Tommy abruptly rose from the sofa and disentangled himself from Miss Holbein. He walked to the window, trying to put space between himself and her.

  “I’m not one of those men,” he said firmly. “I didn’t come here to court you.”

  “What then?” Miss Holbein said with a smirk on her face. “Why did you come?”

  “To return the handkerchief…”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “All right, I was curious,” Tommy shoved his hands in his pockets and paced before the window. “I wanted to know why a girl like you was with a man like Victor Darling.”

  “You think he is not good enough for me?” Miss Holbein laughed.

  “He didn’t seem… a good fit,” Tommy replied.

  “And you are right, he isn’t good enough, far from it. But, oh, he does make the neighbours curl their toes when they see us together. Why, my mother’s friend lives just down the road, and I do delight in giving her the terrors by parading him before her,” Miss Holbein laughed even harder. “They all think they are protecting me, when I really don’t need their protection. I know what Victor Darling is after. He wants my money and he has been very accommodating to try and get it. I like that. Most men would not give me the time of day, if it weren’t for my wealth.”

  “You sell yourself short,” Tommy frowned at her. “You should be looking for a man who wants you with or without your money.”

  “No man exists!”

  “Why not? Because you have not met him yet?” Tommy could not fathom how Miss Holbein was so content to accept that her money was the only thing attractive about her. True, her personality and looks were not easy to get past, but he was sure if she tried she could find someone who wanted her because they liked her, not because she had a fortune.

  “Tommy, you act as though it even matters,” Miss Holbein gave him a pitying look. “It doesn’t bother me. If a man wishes to please me because I have a big bank account, that is just as good as if he wants to please me because I am pretty.”

  “What about love?” Tommy asked her.

  “Love doesn’t exist outside novels!” Miss Holbein found that most amusing. “Many of the girls in my social circle say they married for love, but within a year, maybe two, they hate their husbands. No one knows what love is, maybe it is just being nice to someone because they can give you something back.”

  “I think that is an awful thing to believe,” Tommy shook his head. “You are too young to be so cynical.”

  “Are you saying you are not here for my money?” Miss Holbein leaned back on the sofa.

  “I can honestly say I am not,” Tommy told her firmly. “That was never my intention.”

  Miss Holbein was quiet for a moment. She spread her arms out along the back of the sofa and tilted her head to one side.

  “You are a strange kettle of fish.”

  “I’m ordinary,” Tommy replied. “I don’t need your money and I would never marry a woman for that reason. I intend to marry for love. I want my future wife to be my friend, first and foremost. We shall be companions, happy in our lot whatever that is. We may be poor or rich, but we shall have each other.”

  Tommy paused and his gaze went to the window and to the lawn outside. His mind had drifted to Annie.

  “And people call me a fool,” Miss Holbein scoffed at him. “I have never heard such nonsense. But, if that is the way you feel…”

  “It is,” Tommy said.

  Miss Holbein smile
d.

  “I dare say I like the challenge. A companion, a friend. All right, if that is how you want it.”

  “What?” Tommy said uneasily.

  “I shall be interested to see how this goes, especially if you are genuine about not wanting my money. I wonder if you will be so amenable as the others who did want my fortune? You might argue with me, now that would be novel!”

  “I think you have the wrong end of the stick,” Tommy said hastily. “I was not implying I was here to court you.”

  “I’ve blown your bluff,” Miss Holbein mused. “You’ll need to save face, naturally. Men can’t bear to be caught out. I like your tease with the handkerchief though, so genteel. Victor was far more brazen, he turned up on the doorstep with a picnic hamper and told me he was going to sweep me off my feet. I much prefer things this way.”

  “I really need to be going,” Tommy headed for the door as fast as he could.

  “You never finished your drink,” Miss Holbein pursued him. “Why, I have never run after a man before! This is quite fun. Are you coming back tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think so,” Tommy had his hand on the handle of the front door, but Miss Holbein had caught his arm.

  “You must, you know. Don’t be a tease!”

  “I never meant for this,” Tommy extracted himself from her grasp and stumbled out of the front door, hurrying for the road as quickly as he could.

  “Ta-ta!” Miss Holbein waved at him. “Until tomorrow, my sweet.”

  She blew him a kiss. Tommy was too horrified to respond, he just wanted to get as far away as fast as he could. He had no idea how he was going to explain this all to Clara. He wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself. Tommy felt a new respect for Victor Darling. Anyone who could survive whole days in Miss Holbein’s company, even if they were only out for her money, surely deserved a medal!

  Chapter Eight

  Clara knocked hard on the door of the house next to Mrs Morley’s. This property was in better repair; the door had been recently painted and the front garden had been mown and weeded, with pretty Busy Lizzies in a bed before the window. An older woman opened the door and looked at Clara with slight apprehension. Clara imagined she looked rather urgent and dishevelled, she was certainly feeling agitated.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but Mrs Morley has been taken very ill. I am trying to locate her brother.”

  The older woman peered around her door to her neighbour’s house, a knowing look on her face.

  “I said she wouldn’t last the year out,” the woman tutted to herself. “Harry Beasley lives five doors down. You’ll probably find him there, he works nights at the railway station. He won’t appreciate being woke up.”

  The woman’s expression suggested that Clara was really making a fuss over nothing, and ought not to bother people further. Clara opted not to listen.

  “Thank you,” she said, deciding she had got as much help from the woman as she was going to give.

  Clara had not even reached the garden gate before she heard the woman slam shut her front door. So much for neighbourly love, the woman was clearly not going to interfere in Mrs Morley’s affairs any more than she had to. Clara shook her head, slightly angered by the woman’s cool disregard for someone else, then she hurried to find Harry.

  The Beasleys lived in a house that had a very similar appearance to the Morleys’ home, except the door was intact and none of the window panes were broken. But the front garden needed attention, the grass of the lawn growing high and encroaching on the shingle path up to the front door. The garden gate was rotten on its hinges and nearly fell off when Clara opened it. She did her best to shut it after her, out of politeness, then remembered she was wasting time. Her mind seemed to have gone fuzzy after Mrs Morley collapsed and she was fixating on the most minor of things, rather than the problem at hand. She snapped herself out of her daze and hurried to knock on the Beasleys’ door.

  Mrs Beasley opened it to her. She was about Clara’s age, with very curly hair and a delicate face you could have imagined on a china doll. She smiled at Clara brightly, the first person that morning to be welcoming. Clara felt awful that she was about to rain bad news on the woman.

  “My apologies for interrupting your day, but Mrs Morley has been taken very ill.”

  Mrs Beasley’s eyes grew large as she took in this news.

  “Oh dear! She will want Harry then. Is she at home?” Mrs Beasley was hurrying into the house as she talked, Clara followed her, the layout of the house was the same as the Morleys.

  “Yes, I’ve left her in the kitchen. I wanted to call a doctor,” Clara said.

  “Oh, you mustn’t do that. Doctors are so expensive. I’ll get Harry and we shall come over at once. I have some medicine in a cupboard we can bring,” Mrs Beasley disappeared through the door at the back of the room and Clara could hear her heading upstairs.

  The woman had seemed so calm and in control of the situation, which was more than Clara felt right then. She could not help thinking that without a doctor Mrs Morley’s condition would prove fatal. Truthfully, even with a doctor there may be no hope. And then there was the situation with her husband. Did Harry Beasley know that his brother-in-law was dead? Clara felt there was so much to explain to these people, so much grim information to impart. She tried to distract herself by looking about the front room. It was in a better condition than the Morleys’, there were a number of porcelain ornaments on the mantelpiece and a painting on the wall. There was even an old piano sandwiched into a corner. It had a gaping hole in the side of its case, but appeared in working order.

  Clara’s brain was flitting again. She was not normally like this in an emergency, but there was something about Mrs Morley’s situation that made her feel desperate, as if every second she wasted was one less the poor woman had. Clara paced and wished she could go for a doctor, maybe if she offered to pay… But people could get very upset about such perceived acts of charity, it could hurt their pride.

  Mrs Beasley reappeared in the room.

  “Harry will be there as soon as he can. He has to get dressed. We should go ahead. I have the medicine,” Mrs Beasley had a bag in her hand, she seemed unnecessarily cheerful about the whole thing.

  The two women headed back down the road at a brisk pace. Across the street a couple of neighbours were talking in their respective front gardens and watched them pass. Clara sensed there were a lot more eyes on them than just the ones she could see. People would be peering from windows, peeping between the curtains, surreptitiously monitoring what was occurring. Clara knew the same would happen in her own road if there was some emergency occurring. People were all the same, always interested in the misfortune of others, though not always prepared to help them.

  Clara was relieved when they were back in the Morleys’ house and the front door was closed behind them. Mrs Beasley had slipped ahead and hurried to the kitchen. There, thankfully, Mrs Morley was still sitting in the armchair, though she was all flopped over to one side.

  Mrs Beasley crouched before her.

  “My gosh, she do look blue!” She gasped, before opening her bag and producing a bottle of smelling salts.

  Mrs Morley had taken on a duck egg hue since Clara had left her. Her cheeks looked as though someone had painted them with the colour and her lips had turned grey-blue. Clara understood, from her time as a nurse during the war, that this implied she was not getting enough air into her lungs. Since she was not being artificially suffocated, by a cloth or a rope, for instance, the cause must be a medical complaint. Clara had seen men who had been gassed and left with such badly damaged lungs that they struggled to breathe and slowly suffocated to death. There were diseases of the lungs that could cause something similar. Equally, if the heart was not strong and could not pump blood around the body sufficiently, it could cause the patient to lack oxygen and turn blue.

  Only a doctor could say for certain what was wrong with Mrs Morley and if there was any hope of curing it. Clara feared, from the lo
ok of the woman, that her condition was far advanced and there was no chance of saving her in the long-term.

  Mrs Beasley wafted the smelling salts under Mrs Morley’s nose and the unfortunate woman roused slightly, enough at least for Mrs Beasley to open a big brown bottle of sticky yellow medicine and place a spoonful in the woman’s mouth. Mrs Morley swallowed with difficulty and her eyes fluttered weakly.

  “Ruby, dear, stay with us. Harry is coming,” Mrs Beasley clutched the hand of her sister-in-law. “Gosh, she is cold.”

  Clara was feeling useless up until then. She suddenly sprang into action and pulled a crochet shawl from the back of a chair and placed it over Mrs Morley, tucking it around her.

  “What if I make a cup of tea?” She suggested.

  “We can try to get her to drink it,” Mrs Beasley frowned. “She has had these episodes before, but never quite this bad.”

  Mrs Morley’s head had flopped to the side again and it was hard to know if she was conscious or not. She did not look in a fit state to drink tea. Clara sighed.

  “Has she been ill a long time?” She asked.

  “Years now,” Mrs Beasley answered, her voice quiet as she packed away the bottle of medicine. It appeared to have had some effect as a little colour was returning to Mrs Morley’s cheeks. “As long as I’ve known her, anyway, and that is now five, no, six years. I was friends with Ruby before I knew Harry. She introduced us.”

  Mrs Beasley smiled to herself.

  “I was luckier in love than poor Ruby. Harry is a good husband, loyal and kind.”

  “Unlike John Morley?” Clara asked in a hushed tone, just in case Mrs Morley was still awake.

  Mrs Beasley’s frown deepened. She looked at Mrs Morley for a while, then she rose and took Clara aside.

  “John Morley is a brute when he is drunk,” she said. “Harry has squared with him more than once over how he treats Ruby, but it never does any lasting good.”

  “Are you aware that John Morley was killed last night?” Clara asked softly.

  Mrs Beasley’s startled look was all the answer Clara needed.