by Evelyn James
“They said because I dusted and polished the netsuke cabinet they could get no prints off that, either.”
“The thief would have worn gloves,” Clara promised. “This is not some opportunist crime. Someone planned this.”
Mrs Crocker wasn’t listening, she was thinking about the accusations the police made towards her and dwelling on them. Clara decided that she had probably gained all she could from the woman.
“Thank you, Mrs Crocker,” she rose to leave, neither expecting nor receiving a response from the housekeeper.
Clara returned to Mr Jacobs in the sitting room.
“Well?” he asked her.
“Mrs Crocker has confirmed what you first suggested, that the person behind this was a professional,” Clara told him. “There is not a lot else to go on, but I will certainly endeavour to dig up the thief.”
Mr Jacobs looked relieved as she said this. He had clearly thought she would tell him, much like the police had done, that there was no hope for resolving the matter.
“I imagine the dragon is very valuable?” Clara asked.
“Very,” Mr Jacobs nodded. “In terms of its design, craftsmanship and quality it is virtually unique. I suspect it was made for someone very important, though, my uncle never offered me information on its provenance. Why would he? I was but a small boy and he died before I could ask questions.”
“I shall see what I can do,” Clara promised. That was the best she could offer.
Upon leaving Mr Jacobs’ house she walked all the way to Brighton police station, to see if Inspector Park-Coombs was in and could offer her some insight. She first, however, had to negotiate her way past the station’s desk sergeant who had little time for Clara and her investigating.
“Good evening,” Clara nodded at him, it was now approaching seven o’clock and there was a fair chance the inspector had gone home but, then again, he might be working late.
“What do you want?” the desk sergeant responded in his usual tone of disapproval. Clara featured on his list of people he classified as nuisances and troublemakers.
“I would like to see Inspector Park-Coombs, if he is about?”
“You can’t just come waltzing in here demanding to see senior policemen,” the desk sergeant barked. “You are just a civilian, I might remind you.”
“I could remind you that, as a policeman, you are here to serve civilians,” Clara pointed out, her indignation threatening to get the better of her self-control. She was trying not to lose her temper, but it was a perilously close thing. “Surely it is up to the Inspector whether he wants to see me or not?”
“This is the problem with modern women, they think the world owes them something,” the desk sergeant puttered loudly, so others waiting in the police station could hear him. “The world owes you nothing Miss Fitzgerald.”
Clara was becoming very annoyed. She gripped the edge of the counter with her fingers until her knuckles went white.
“Is Inspector Park-Coombs in the station or not?” she asked again.
“I couldn’t say. I haven’t seen him lately,” the desk sergeant said priggishly. He turned back to the papers on his desk, filling in some form, probably about annoying women.
Clara closed her eyes for a second and tried to calm herself. Her working relationship with Inspector Park-Coombs had always been good and mutually respectful. They helped each other to solve crimes and avoided standing on each other’s toes. But her relationship with the desk sergeant was fraught with trouble. He had never liked the idea of a woman having access to police business and he was always obstructive when Clara came into the station. Clara knew that belligerence was not going to get her any further. She stepped back from the front desk, letting the person waiting behind her take her place.
She could go home and try again tomorrow, but the same battle would ensue. The desk sergeant would be in no better mood after a night’s rest, she knew that well enough. The question was whether she could be bothered to wait around and fight him when, for all she knew, the inspector could have already gone home. She wouldn’t put it past the desk sergeant to torment her, keep her arguing, just to inform her the inspector had left over an hour ago. Clara was in two minds about it all when she heard the man who had been behind her in the queue speak.
“I would like to see Inspector Park-Coombs.”
Clara turned sharply. She had not taken a good look at the man who had stood behind her, why would she? Now she noticed he was quite well-dressed in a navy suit, with an overcoat thrown over one arm and a suitcase held in his hand.
“So she has you working for her now, does she?” the desk sergeant said snidely. “Well, I’ll tell you what I told her. It isn’t for civilians to come in here barking orders about who they want to see. So you can clear off!”
Clara edged a little closer to the front desk. She had no idea who the man asking for the inspector was, but the look on his face suggested he was not going to take no for an answer. In fact, he looked rather alarmingly cross at the desk sergeant’s scornful tone.
“You refuse to let me see him?” the man asked, the question very loaded to Clara’s ears.
“Yes,” the desk sergeant growled. “I’ve got better things to do than constantly put up with you lot. Hop off home!”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the man at the desk pulled an identity card from his jacket pocket and handed it to the desk sergeant.
The sergeant’s face had grown pale. He took the card in uncertain fingers and flipped it to read the name.
“Superintendent Foster,” he read. “I do apologise, Sir.”
“So you should. Your attitude both to myself and this young lady is unbecoming in a police officer. I shall be having words with the Inspector about your position, perhaps reassigning you to a patrol route would do you some good?”
“Oh no, Sir. I have bad feet,” the desk sergeant cringed.
“You have a bad attitude as well. Watch your step,” Superintendent Foster now glanced at Clara. “About time the Inspector was summoned, don’t you think?”
The desk sergeant said no more. He picked up the telephone that connected internally and called Inspector Park-Coombs. He informed him that Superintendent Foster was downstairs, but omitted Clara’s name. Even when cowed, he could not let go of his hate for her.
After a few moments the Inspector appeared. He glanced at Clara first, then turned to Foster.
“Superintendent,” he held out his hand. “Pleasure to see you. I was expecting you first thing tomorrow.”
“I caught an earlier train. I want to be back as soon as possible. I have a meeting late tomorrow. Now, if you can spare me a moment? Oh, and I think this lady wishes to see you too.”
The superintendent motioned a hand to Clara, but she sensed there was something important going on and should not interfere.
“You are busy,” she told Park-Coombs. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
The inspector gave her a wry smile. She guessed he was not looking forward to his chat with the superintendent. She said goodbye to him and the superintendent and slipped away, wondering what was going on. Well, the desk sergeant had certainly suffered a scare by all accounts. Perhaps he would be more amenable to her in the future. Clara smiled to herself, doubting that hugely. Never mind, there was always time for another battle with him tomorrow.
Chapter Four
Clara returned to the police station bright and early the next morning. She was ready to joust with the desk sergeant, but that was to prove unnecessary. He wasn’t there. Someone new had taken his place. For an instant Clara hesitated, then she walked over and asked to see Inspector Park-Coombs. Without a pause the new desk sergeant rang up for the inspector and asked if he was free to see Clara. A few moments later she was walking along the upstairs corridor towards Park-Coombs office.
“Morning Clara,” the inspector greeted her as she entered his office.
“Morning. Thank you for seeing me,” Clara cleared her throat. “I hope
your meeting with the superintendent went well.”
“Foster is a pain in the backside, but that is what superintendents are paid to be,” Park-Coombs snorted, causing his moustache to jiggle. “He came to inform me of some new initiatives the higher ups are introducing and to inspect the station. Well, you saw what happened with the desk sergeant.”
“Yes,” Clara said, feeling a pang of guilt. Had she not been ahead of Superintendent Foster in the queue and stirred up the desk sergeant’s ire, the man might not have been so awful to him. “Has he been replaced?”
“Temporarily,” Park-Coombs reassured her. “I’ve got him on day patrols for a month, then maybe he will be more appreciative of his usual role and less obstructive. Superintendent Foster called him the worst excuse for a policeman he had ever come across. Which I find rather far-fetched. Do sit down Clara.”
Clara took a seat opposite the inspector.
“I feel it was my fault he was so rude to the superintendent.”
“He’ll live,” Park-Coombs shrugged. “Now, why did you want to see me?”
Clara roused herself from her guilt.
“I have been asked to investigate a case that was previously in the hands of the police.”
“Ah, someone doesn’t feel we are doing a sufficiently good job for them?” Park-Coombs raised an eyebrow, he was smart enough to know that people only hired private detectives when they had given up hope on the police solving a crime.
“To be fair to you, Inspector, there is so little to go on with this case I doubt you could solve it. I rather doubt I will be able to either, but I’ll give it my best.”
“Which case is it?”
“The burglary at Mr Jacobs’ home.”
Park-Coombs held up a finger indicating he wished her to pause while he consulted his files. He went over to his filing cabinet and trawled through the drawers for a moment or two before returning with a cardboard folder. Clara noted the name on the front of the folder was ‘Jacobs’.
“We haven’t closed the case,” he said as he sat back down. “Else this would be in the archives. Let’s see, ah, happened very recently. A window was broken to gain entry, but not much sign of anything else. And a small neft-u-ka…”
“Netsuke.”
“Yes, a small one of them was lifted,” the inspector closed the folder. “No fingerprints, no witnesses, no suspects. Doesn’t look hopeful.”
“I feared as much,” Clara admitted. “But I have been hired, so I will endeavour. I just felt I ought to let you know what I was up to, seeing how it is an active case.”
“You are welcome to it. In truth, burglaries are a nightmare to resolve unless someone has a hunch who took the loot, or it turns up in a pawnshop. I don’t think that is going to happen here.”
“I agree,” Clara nodded. “Oh well.”
“Is that all you are up to?” Park-Coombs asked with a hint of something Clara could not place in his voice.
“How do you mean?” she asked.
“It’s just that there have been rumours running about.”
“Rumours?”
“About a new private detective doing the rounds. A woman.”
Clara shuffled in her seat. She rather felt she had been the last to know about this Sarah Butler.
“I heard about her yesterday,” Clara said. “There is no law against another person setting themselves up as a private detective.”
“No, of course not,” Park-Coombs gave her his knowing grin. “But it’s the sort of thing that rankles. I could imagine how I would feel if another police station opened in Brighton.”
“I am sure there is enough work for both of us,” Clara didn’t quite meet his eyes. “It is not as though I can do anything about her.”
“What’s her name?” Park-Coombs asked.
“Sarah Butler.”
He shrugged.
“Name doesn’t ring a bell,” he said, “but I will keep my ears open for you.”
Clara was beginning to feel that everyone was taking this new detective far too seriously. Surely they could see that she was not concerned?
“I’ll let you get on,” she said. “No doubt the superintendent has lots for you to attend to.”
“Too much,” Park-Coombs groaned. “He has this idea that we need a female police constable.”
“Not such a bad idea,” Clara mused. “I could see the benefit.”
“Yes, well, try explaining that to my existing constables. For that matter, where I am going to find a woman to take on the position?”
“Don’t look at me, Inspector. I already have a career.”
Park-Coombs managed a smile, then Clara sauntered out and went to her office.
She was just approaching the haberdashery shop above which she had her rooms, when she spotted Mr Stein who ran the shop waving at her from his doorway. As she approached Mr Stein hissed across to her in a stage whisper.
“That woman who is always calling is here.”
Clara wasn’t sure who he meant.
“Which woman?”
“The annoying one. Who brought the case about the dead canary.”
“Oh, Mrs Wilton,” Clara understood. The day Mrs Wilton had brought her the case of the ‘murdered’ canary, Clara had been out of her office and she had waited for her in the haberdashery shop. There she had told Mr Stein all about the case. He had found it as preposterous as Clara had when she returned. Canaries are rather prone to mysteriously dying, but Mrs Wilton saw conspiracy everywhere and was convinced the bird had been done in. It had taken several cups of tea and a lot of talk to persuade her not to pursue the matter.
“My wife made her tea,” Mr Stein continued. “She seemed very agitated when she arrived, but she won’t talk about it. That struck me as strange.”
It struck Clara as strange too. Usually Mrs Wilton could not stop talking. She followed Stein into the shop and found Mrs Wilton out the back, sipping tea from a tiny porcelain cup. She almost dropped it in her excitement to see Clara.
“Clara! I must speak with you!”
“Why don’t we go up to my office?” Clara suggested.
Mrs Wilton abandoned her tea, thanking Mrs Stein for it, and departed with Clara. Mr Stein managed to give Clara an amused look as she departed, and she responded by rolling her eyes. Up in her office she offered Mrs Wilton a chair and asked her what was the matter.
“I am most distressed, Clara. I really am. It is one thing to have this Butler woman setting herself up as a private detective, and quite another to have her deliberately mimicking you.”
Clara was confused.
“What has happened, Mrs Wilton?”
“Do you take the Brighton Gazette?”
“Not regularly,” Clara admitted. “Tommy sometimes buys a copy to read. But he is rather fond of the national papers.”
“But you advertise in the Gazette?”
“I do,” Clara answered. “It has always served me well.”
“I imagine that is the reason Miss Butler has done this,” Mrs Wilton produced a clipping from a newspaper from her handbag. It was an advertisement from the Gazette. For a moment Clara thought it was her own advertisement, until she read it.
“But… it is identical to my advertisement!” she said in horror.
The notice read – Female Private Detective. Available for cases both domestic and criminal. Reasonable rates, reliable service. Contact Miss S. Butler at 42 Abercrombie Street. The text was enclosed in a box made of one thick and one thin black line, each corner ornamented by a swirling leaf. Not only the design, but the text was the same as Clara’s own advertisement, aside from the name and address.
Clara looked up at Mrs Wilton, her expression demonstrating how appalled she was.
“I spotted it this morning when I was looking through the private ads for a local gardener. Mine has just retired, you know. And there was your advert, right in the centre of the page as I always see it, and slap bang next to it was this one,” Mrs Wilton tapped her finger sha
rply on the clipped advertisement. “Disgraceful, I told myself, disgraceful. I can’t believe it was allowed.”
Clara couldn’t believe it either, but the implication was plain enough. Miss Sarah Butler had deliberately copied Clara’s advert to implicate that they were somehow connected, or perhaps to piggy-back on Clara’s reputation. Anyone seeing Miss Butler’s advert could not possibly fail to note the similarities. They might imagine that Clara endorsed Miss Butler, perhaps had even trained her up. They might think the two women were, in fact, in business together. Whichever way you looked at it, Clara’s success and name was being used to promote her rival.
“I can’t believe the woman would be so duplicitous!” Clara said in astonishment.
All the compassion she had felt for the woman, imagining her much in the same boat as herself and understanding what it was like to try and carve out a place for oneself in a male world, was gone. Whatever respect she had imagined for the woman was lost. Now she just felt cheated, as if the woman had somehow been in her office and stolen all her ideas and contacts.
“I’m afraid it gets worse,” Mrs Wilton’s tone had softened, she could see how shocked Clara was already. Dipping into her handbag again, she produced a small business card on cream stock. “I borrowed this from Mrs Butterworth.”
As with the advertisement, at first Clara thought she was looking at one of her own business cards, but her recent surprise made her second guess that idea and, even before she had taken the card from Mrs Wilton, she knew what she would see. The card did not bear her name, but it did exactly mimic the design of her own cards, right down to the scales of justice symbol Clara had had placed in the bottom left corner. Clara closed her eyes and inwardly winced. The woman was trying to steal everything from her, even her business cards.
“Now do you agree we must take this seriously?” Mrs Wilton was looking worried, she could see how affected Clara was by this information and perhaps regretted bringing it up, but she knew she had to. “Whoever Miss Butler is, she has crossed a line, don’t you agree?”
“This is serious,” Clara said stiffly. “She is using my name and reputation, however obliquely, to attract clients. I cannot have that. I cannot have people thinking I am somehow connected to her. Not only might I lose business, but what if she proves a fraud or a bad detective? I could be tarred with the same brush!”
