The Fossil Murder

by Evelyn James

  Clara looked between him and the police coroner, who gave an apologetic smile.

  “Good news for Harry Beasley?” She surmised.

  “We analysed the blood and hair on the mallet, I have just finished my report,” Dr Deáth said.

  “And the blood is not human?” Clara guessed.

  “We can’t determine that,” Dr Deáth looked mildly ashamed at his failure in this department. “However, I can say with a high degree of certainty that the hair was not human. It is from a small animal, probably a rodent of some sort.”

  “Which fits with Harry’s story that he hit a rat,” Clara declared.

  Park-Coombs did not look impressed.

  “He isn’t ruled out. He is the only person I know of, at the moment, with motive to kill his brother-in-law and that blood on the mallet could be human.”

  “Clutching at straws, springs to mind,” Clara said, folding her arms.

  “You find me another suspect,” Park-Coombs responded. “Or prove conclusively that Harry was not there at the time of the murder.”

  “I’m working on it,” Clara swore. “Now, I have come across something of interest and it is fortuitous that Dr Deáth is here, as an expert opinion could be needed.”

  “That does sound intriguing!” Dr Deáth brightened up, he had obviously felt bad to have had to admit to Park-Coombs he could not definitively state the mallet they had found in the locker was the murder weapon.

  “What do you have, Clara,” the inspector said in a dull tone that suggested he didn’t really care.

  Clara placed the piece of paper she had taken from the crate at the town hall on the inspector’s desk.

  “I am fairly confident, Inspector, that this is the paper used to write those threatening notes. What struck me about those letters was the unusual quality of the stock, it is thicker than standard writing paper.”

  Park-Coombs picked up the sheet and rubbed it between his fingers.

  “I suppose you want to compare it to the letters?” He reached down and opened a drawer in his desk. “After we last spoke, I thought it might be a good idea to store the letters in my office. I had the feeling they might prove important.”

  He took out one of the letters and set it on top of the paper stock Clara had brought with her. He examined them together.

  “They do appear similar, what are your thoughts Dr Deáth?”

  Deáth picked up the two pieces of paper and held them to the window to examine them in the same light.

  “There is a watermark,” he said. “Very faint, could be in the shape of a rose. It is on this large sheet, in the centre. What of this letter?”

  He turned the letter in the light.

  “It seems to me there is something in the corner of the paper, maybe a rough shape. Could be a rose petal. What if I do this?”

  He overlaid the letter on the large sheet of paper and held them both to the window so the light could shine through. Clara came and stood by his shoulder, trying to see what he was doing. The paper was so thick the light barely crept through the two layers, but it did seem as if there was an impression that matched on both pieces. Dr Deáth turned the letter over and placed it on a different area of the large sheet. He did this a couple of times before he appeared satisfied.

  “Here we are. If I was in the morgue, I would get a very powerful light and could see better, but I do believe that there is a fragment of a watermark at the corner of this letter which matches with the watermark in the centre of the large sheet. What do you think Clara?”

  Clara peered as hard as she could. If she was honest, she struggled to make out the watermark on the big sheet, let alone trying to glimpse the edge of the mark on the letter. She thought there was something there, but nothing she would stake her life on.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” she had to admit.

  Dr Deáth grinned.

  “That alone is hardly conclusive,” he agreed. “Now, the paper stock is of a similar thickness and notice the lines through the paper of the mesh frame these sheets were made on. It matches. They have the same lines in the same place. There are other tests I could run and if I spoke to the manufacturer of this paper they could probably offer me a way to say for certain they were the same. But even without that, I am fairly confident this letter came from the same source as this large sheet.”

  Inspector Park-Coombs was looking brighter.

  “Where did you come across this paper, Clara?”

  “Behind the town hall,” Clara explained. “There was a hinged crate containing sheets of it. They use the paper for wrapping up the smaller fossils before they pack them.”

  “My word,” Park-Coombs gasped. “But that means…”

  “Hmm, someone from the exhibition is behind the threats,” Dr Deáth finished his sentence. “Or at least someone who has access to the same paper.”

  “Which is not going to be Reverend Parker,” Clara remarked. “He would not buy the same paper as the exhibition. This is not stationary paper. I think, whoever is writing the threats, is taking advantage of the ready supply of paper stock travelling with the exhibition.”

  Park-Coombs gave a whistle of surprise.

  “That opens a whole new can of worms,” he shook his head as if trying to shake out the thought. “The Earl of Rendham will be furious.”

  “I do not believe the earl employs you,” Dr Deáth told Park-Coombs with a slight hint of reprove.

  “No, but he makes a fuss to the men who do employ me,” Park-Coombs looked bleak. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention Clara, even if it only muddies the water further.”

  “Sorry about that,” Clara said and meant it. “I’ll keep digging about, I’m sure to unearth something good soon.”

  Dr Deáth grinned at her.

  “I say a similar thing when going about my work,” he said.

  Clara was not sure if that was meant as a joke or a serious statement. A quick glance at the inspector told her that he was not sure either. She gave a polite laugh to be safe and then excused herself.

  Clara was on a roll now. She was one step closer to knowing who was writing those letters, and to clearing Harry’s name. What she really needed was insight into the politics behind the exhibition. How did all these people click together? Who had organised the thing in the first place? Was it true that the Earl of Rendham was fronting the money for his own benefit? These were the sort of questions that could take weeks of digging to unravel, time she did not have. But Clara knew of someone who was used to rooting out such secrets and who might be able to offer her help. After all, there were not many people in Brighton more tenacious and nosier than Clara Fitzgerald, but she did know of one.

  The Brighton Gazette was situated in an unusually shaped building, with a narrow frontage and a double-height downstairs and a solitary office for the editor on a mezzanine level above. No one could quite remember what the building had been originally constructed for. Some said it had been a chapel, others that it was a storehouse, there was even a theory it had been built for net-making, the long floor space being ideal. But it was in the wrong place and far too ornate for such a mundane purpose. In any case, for as long as post people could recall, it had been the home of The Brighton Gazette.

  Clara walked into the reception, which was partitioned off from the main floor by a light wooden wall with a door in the middle. The partition did not go above eight foot, and so it did not reach the ceiling and you could hear all the noise from the room beyond; the clank of the presses, the furious typing of writers and proof-readers. The noise was somewhat over-powering. Clara paused near the girl who manned the front door and supposedly stopped people from just entering. She was a different girl from the one who had been working there on a previous visit.

  “I want to see Gilbert McMillan,” Clara told her.

  “We have a procedure for making complaints,” the girl said with a weariness to her tone that suggested she heard a similar thing day-in and day-out.

  “I�
�m not here to complain,” Clara laughed. “I want to talk to him.”

  The girl eyed her suspiciously, maybe others had tried to get past her that way.

  “If you like, go see him and say that Clara Fitzgerald wants a word. I have some questions I hope he can help me with.”

  The girl still looked uncertain, but she did finally rise from her chair and head to the main floor. Clara waited patiently, tapping her food and listening to the rumble of the heavy presses being prepared for yet another edition.

  Behind her a man rushed in. He was stout and red in the face, whether from anger or having hurried to the office she could not tell. He looked at her, then at the empty desk.

  “I want to see Gilbert McMillan!” He informed Clara, seeming to assume she could somehow help him.

  “That’s nice,” Clara said, slightly affronted. “He seems popular.”

  “Stupid oaf wrote a ghastly report about the Brighton Town Flower Committee meeting the other night!” The man puffed up his chest and waved his hands about. “Said we were floundering in our own sea of ignorance and indecision! And they printed that! Printed that in the paper!”

  Clara rarely had time to read the newspapers, but she was aware that Gilbert’s shrewd, but rather cutting, writing style had a tendency to offend nearly everyone he wrote about. It also sold the papers, which was why the editor did not deter him. Gilbert McMillan could turn the dull meeting of the local parish board into a dramatic episode full of intrigue and biting remarks. You read those pieces just to see what Gilbert was going to say next. Of course, it did also generate complaints.

  “The man can’t say those sort of things,” the gentleman next to Clara continued to protest. “I have rights!”

  “We all do,” Clara observed, trying not to get involved.

  The man, however, was determined to air out his grievances on her.

  “We are all volunteers and we don’t take any cut of the money, as Mr McMillan implied. We are allowed to claim expenses, naturally, but nothing excessive. I think it was all very rude, very rude indeed!”

  The man suddenly threw himself down onto a chair near the door and flapped a hand in front of his face.

  “Bloomin’ hot today,” he moaned. “None of this is good for my heart. My doctor tells me to take things easy. You would think being on a flower committee would be exactly that, but no, you have all these problems and people like McMillan stirring up trouble where there is none.”

  The reception girl reappeared. She caught a glimpse of the man who had entered, and her face told Clara she recognised him and was not pleased to see him. No wonder the last girl had left, if every day was about confronting those people Gilbert McMillan had made furious.

  “He said to come through, Miss Fitzgerald,” the girl told Clara.

  “Hey, hey! If you are letting her through, I can go through!” The man had jumped up from his seat again.

  “We have already had this discussion Mr Brown,” the girl responded firmly.

  Clara disappeared through the door as Mr Brown worked himself up into a temper again. She could hear his voice rising as she escaped into the din of the newspaper office.

  There was nothing orderly or tidy about the ground floor of The Brighton Gazette, desks were roughly arranged in two rows down the centre of the room and provided working space for the various journalists, typesetters and proof-readers who kept the paper running. Each desk was a swamp of paper, pencils and pens, along with the more complicated tools of the typesetter as they laid out the latest edition. Paper flopped onto the floor, some in sheets, some in crumpled balls of disgust, none appeared to make it to the wastepaper baskets provided beside each desk. Hats and coats were flung on the backs of chairs or teetered on the very corner of a desk; bags and briefcases caused trip hazards in the aisles between them, and there was all manner of random items strewn about. Clara kicked a half-eaten apple to one side with the toe of her shoe as she headed for Gilbert’s desk.

  Gilbert was waiting for her and smiled broadly. He was a shabbily dressed young man who looked like someone had thrown clothes at him and hoped for the best. His hair was a little too long for the current fashion and his fingers bore the stains of leaking pens and nicotine from endless cigarettes. He had the worst teeth Clara had seen in a long time, they seemed to be crowding each other and arguing over space, they were also stained brown by his intensive smoking habit. If his appearance was not precisely charming, he was at least amiable and a good source of gossip when Clara needed it. He also had the good grace to welcome Clara with a handshake – most men would not.

  “You want to talk to me?” He said.

  “I want to pick your brains over something. You’ve been writing all the material on the recent fossil exhibition at the town hall?”

  “I have,” Gilbert said proudly. “Have you read my articles?”

  “For once I managed to find the time and yes I believe I have read most of them,” Clara said, knowing how to butter up Gilbert. “They were most insightful and intelligently written. Not just a rehash of the usual stuff. That is why I hope you can help me.”

  In the office foyer, Mr Brown’s voice had risen to a pitch where it could be heard over the rattle of typewriters and rollers. Gilbert ducked his head involuntarily at the sound.

  “Let’s talk somewhere quieter,” he suggested. “We’ll slip out the back door, if you don’t mind?”

  Clara was merely amused.

  “Lead the way Mr McMillan,” she told him.

  Gilbert grabbed his hat and pointed to the back of the building. They just managed to exit, before Mr Brown barged his way into the newspaper office.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Gilbert knew of a little café in a back street close to the newspaper office. It was cheap and it was quiet, the haunt of most of the journalists when they wanted strong tea, greasy bacon rolls and a bit of peace. Gilbert opened the door to the place which did not appear to have a name, at least there was no signage at the front to suggest this was a café, just a notice on the door that stated the business was open. Clara walked into a wall of smoke as she entered, and discreetly coughed. There were four men already inside, dotted about the handful of tables, and each of them was smoking for Britain. The café owner was stood behind a narrow wooden counter and he too was smoking, the ash tray next to his hand revealing he was a chain smoker much like his patrons. Clara hoped he put his cigarette to one side when he actually cooked.

  Gilbert ordered them two teas, which came in thick white ceramic mugs, that looked like they might bounce if you dropped them on the floor. Then he ushered Clara to a table by the window at the front of the café. They were screened from the outside world by a net curtain that blocked the lower portion of the glass. Gilbert sat down and instantly started to roll a new cigarette. His fingers worked speedily and with practiced dexterity, the roll-up was soon lit and in his mouth. He winked at Clara.

  “Can’t think without it.”

  “I’ve never been a smoker,” Clara shrugged.

  “It’s good for you,” Gilbert gave a hearty cough. “Clears the lungs. Now, what can I help you with?”

  “I know what you are like Gilbert and I am sure you dug up a lot more information about the exhibition than the editor would allow to be printed in the paper.”

  Gilbert grinned, pleased with himself and that someone else recognised his abilities.

  “I have heard rumours, but I am curious to know if there is any truth to them,” Clara continued. “In particular, I am wondering about the Earl of Rendham’s involvement in this whole affair.”

  Gilbert’s eyes lit up.

  “What have you heard?” He asked eagerly.

  “That the earl is hoping to make a lot of money off the back of this exhibition and that is why he is its main sponsor. He is also very agitated about the murder that occurred at the town hall the other night. He is in town trying to hurry the police into making an arrest.”

  “Now I didn’t know that,” Gilbe
rt was gleeful for this nugget of information. “I can answer a number of your questions, I can probably give you more information than you want to be truthful. The earl has invested in several quarries across the country, and from them have come a few fossils over the years. Nothing hugely spectacular, until last year the skeleton of an Archaeopteryx was found.”

  Clara pricked her ears.

  “I heard he has his own Archaeopteryx,” she said.

  “It’s a good specimen too, pretty complete from what I have heard. More importantly, it is the first of its kind found in Britain. Most of the other specimens have come from quarries in Germany. The earl is a smart businessman, he knows the value of his find to museums and the like, but he also knew the real money is with private collectors,” Gilbert tapped cigarette ash into the ashtray on the table. “This exhibition is all about drumming up interest. Let people have a real good look at an Archaeopteryx, be dazzled by its rarity and uniqueness, then, bam, as soon as the exhibition is over, put the only British specimen on the market.”

  “We are talking a lot of money,” Clara surmised.

  “With all the attention this exhibition has aroused, I think you could be looking at a small fortune. And the earl would appreciate that. His father died a couple of years ago, leaving him the title and a lot of debt. The late earl did not have a head for business and wasted money on surplus servants, decorating the family home and landscaping the estate. He was one of those Victorian gentlemen who couldn’t resist building extravagant follies and redecorating the house every six months,” Gilbert chuckled to himself. “From what I have heard, the estate is close to ruin and the earl either marries someone with a lot of money or sells up. He hasn’t had much luck with the former and he doesn’t want to resort to the latter.”

  “The discovery of a British Archaeopteryx was rather lucky for him,” Clara observed.

  Gilbert’s grin became wicked.

  “Some might argue the earl makes his own luck.”

  Clara did not have to say anything to indicate her curiosity at that statement, nor did Gilbert need any encouragement to carry on.