by Evelyn James
“The government is always interfering in the lives of ordinary folk,” Mrs Fawkes interrupted angrily. “What does it matter to them how I know Sarah?”
“In recent years there have been scandals,” Clara replied with a heft of her shoulders. “The government has been criticised for not properly overseeing things such as the licensing of businesses, or taking enough interest in the protection of workers. This is just one of a number of initiatives to try and remedy that. I know it is a nuisance and I do apologise…”
“Why are you apologising?” Mrs Fawkes snapped. “You are just doing as you are told. But I find it an invasion of privacy, that’s what it is. Though what should I expect? No one gives a damn about the lives of people like me. They feel they can probe into them without a by-your-leave.”
Mrs Fawkes tightened her lips into a righteous scowl.
“Any time a person tries to improve themselves some nosy official comes around and begins asking questions,” she muttered. “No one wants the likes of me to improve our lot.”
“Is that what Miss Butler is endeavouring to do? To improve her lot?” Clara asked, hoping her tone sounded suitably sympathetic.
“Sarah is a hard worker and she wants to make something of her life. Doesn’t want to finish her days in a place like this,” Mrs Fawkes looked up at her own home pointedly. It was a tidy terrace house, but small, much like those in Abercrombie Street. From the looks of Mrs Fawkes, she had to strain every week to make ends meet. Life was a continual struggle for money and there was always that nagging fear that one day there simply wouldn’t be enough. The lines on Mrs Fawkes’ face had been impressed upon her flesh by that constant anxiety. “Can you blame her?”
“No,” Clara agreed, feeling a pang of guilt at how she was fudging around in Miss Butler’s private life, trying to root her out like a snail from its shell. The only thing that mitigated that guilt was the knowledge that, either through intent or ignorance, Miss Butler had stamped about on Clara’s territory first.
“I admire a woman who wants to make her own way in this world,” Clara said honestly.
“Not everyone does. Some feel threatened,” Mrs Fawkes gave another nod to her house. “Like him indoors. Can’t abide the idea of women working in anything better than manual drudgery. He won’t have Sarah in the house.”
A sudden softening occurred within Mrs Fawkes’ heart as she explained all this. Perhaps it was the kindly smile Clara still bore, or the way she was so apologetic. Or maybe it was just that it was nice to be able to talk about things such as women working without Mr Fawkes throwing a hissy fit. Mrs Fawkes found herself walking to the wall yard with the intention of speaking her mind.
“Sarah is a good woman. Reliable, strong, determined. All the things a person needs to be in this life to survive. She was never one for married life. The only man in her life was her father. She took care of the house for him, when she was home at least.”
“She was often not at home?” Clara asked.
“Sarah started her working life like me, in the fish docks,” Mrs Fawkes finally admitted. “But she never intended to stay there. She was just waiting for the right time, when she had enough money, to do something else. Something more.”
“She was a fisher girl?” Clara elaborated, finding it a curious place for a private detective to start. “She would come down for the season to gut and pack fish?”
“Exactly,” Mrs Fawkes nodded. “What other work will the men let women do on the docks?”
She huffed to herself with the unfairness of it all.
“My husband’s a fisherman. More’s the pity, I met him at the fish docks. I was a packer then. He had aspirations to become a skipper and have his own trawler. He never did, of course. But when you are young you believe people when they talk about such ideas,” Mrs Fawkes snorted to herself. “He was always full of such rot.”
“I have it in my notes that Miss Butler is originally from Scotland,” Clara moved the subject along a little, Mrs Fawkes was becoming consumed in her own regrets a little too much.
“Yes, she comes from the south. Sarah has a lovely Scottish lilt to her voice. Different from some of the other girls who come down. Some of them speak the old tongue rather than English.”
Clara pondered this piece of information. What other tongue was there in Scotland? Then it dawned on her.
“Gaelic?”
“Something like that,” Mrs Fawkes shrugged. “All I know is you couldn’t speak with ‘em and they kept themselves to themselves. But Sarah spoke the King’s English good enough, with just a little accent. And she is clever too. Too clever for gutting fish. I told her that once.”
“That was why she decided to change direction,” Clara said in understanding. “I note she has listed her new occupation as private detective. Quite an ambitious move.”
“She always wanted to use her mind and to be independent. Last thing any of us wants is to be stuck under the direction of men,” Mrs Fawkes huffed. Her eyes flicked to her house and presumably to her husband sitting inside. “A lot of us fail in that, but not Sarah. She could have been a teacher, perhaps, or maybe a typist, but she would be most likely employed by a man. No, Sarah didn’t want that, so she went out on her own.”
“What about her father?” Clara remembered the previous mention that Sarah Butler had kept house for him.
“That was pretty awful,” Mrs Fawkes shuffled her feet and cast down her eyes. “Sarah was close to her pa. He was a good soul who wanted her to do well for herself. Her mother died when she was five and she had looked out for her pa as soon as she was able. He made sure she had a decent education, nonetheless, and encouraged her to learn. But he was a humble trawlerman, so there was not much help he could give her with her ambitions beyond buying the odd book for the cottage.”
“Something happened to him?” Clara guessed.
Mrs Fawkes gave a long groan, she seemed engulfed in grief herself, but probably it was just empathy for her friend.
“He was lost at sea. The trawler he was on simply vanished. It happens. I’ve expected it to occur to me many a night when Fred is out at sea in a storm,” Mrs Fawkes’ mood had mellowed and she now looked towards her house without the anger that had marred her earlier glances. “I would be lost without him.”
“Men know how to break our hearts in so many ways,” Clara mumbled.
Mrs Fawkes didn’t seem to notice the sentiment.
“Anyway, the late Mr Butler had been sensible enough to insure his life with a fishermen’s benevolent fund. The payment, along with the sale of the cottage, provided Sarah with enough to plan a new future for herself. She came to Brighton because she had me here and I promised to help in whatever way I could. And there are more opportunities here than in the Scottish village she was from.”
“It was certainly a bold move,” Clara was beginning to admire the guts of Sarah Butler, even if some of her tactics were underhand.
“Sarah had thought about it for a long time. She liked the idea of helping people and earning money at the same time. Also, well, I expect you know, there is already a private detective in Brighton and Sarah thought she could do a lot better than her,” Mrs Fawkes was leaning forward conspiratorially.
“Oh really?” Clara said, her earlier admiration evaporating.
“Yes. I mean, you read about this woman in the papers all the time, but she mostly takes cases from important people. People with money. Sarah is going to help the little people, like you and me,” Mrs Fawkes beamed proudly at the ideals of her friend. “She is going to help every poor soul, not just the rich ones. She already has a case on her hands.”
“Jolly good,” Clara said, her throat seeming to go tight over the words.
She was offended, there was no denying that. Clara helped everyone who came to her door, along with the charity cases she took on. But she had to be realistic; the ‘little’ people often could not afford a detective and Clara was not rich enough herself, or paid sufficiently by someone
else like the police, to investigate without being paid for it. She would do free cases on the side that caught her attention and seemed deeply important, but on the whole she had to be practical and take on paying clients. If Sarah Butler wanted to make a living as a private detective, she would soon discover the same for herself.
Clara decided she had heard enough. She now knew a little more about Miss Butler and her intentions, though she was unclear on just where the woman’s feelings lay regarding Clara herself. From the way Mrs Fawkes spoke, it rather felt as if Miss Butler had an agenda, and at the top of it was giving Clara a run for her money.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs Fawkes,” Clara said, detaching herself from the wall. “Everything seems in order. I won’t disturb you any longer.”
“I think you will find that Sarah will make an upstanding member of the business community here in Brighton,” Mrs Fawkes said, lifting her chin into the air with an attitude of grandeur. “She has every intention of being a success and I don’t doubt she will succeed.”
Clara felt like adding that that was all well and good, as long as she stopped stealing other people’s reputations and ideas, but that would have blown her cover, so she merely smiled.
“She sounds an amazing woman. One day I hope to meet Miss Butler in person.”
“You will not be disappointed,” Mrs Fawkes assured her.
Clara walked away muttering to herself. What did this Miss Butler know about her and her work? How dare she imply that Clara was somehow snobbish, only taking work from certain sections of society. Clara was surprised how that idea had hurt her. She had always considered herself egalitarian and certainly tried to do her bit for those worse off than herself. Mrs Fawkes’ implications stung. But one thing she knew for sure; there was no way Miss Butler would be a better detective than Clara, she would not allow it.
Chapter Eight
Clara headed home with renewed determination to solve the mystery of the green jade dragon. Solving the crime and restoring the little netsuke to its owner now seemed the way to proving herself as a detective. She couldn’t allow Miss Butler to get the better of her, and while she was dealing with a marital dispute, Clara would be working to solve a crime the police had given up on as hopeless. The only question that remained was how did she begin?
Clara mulled this over while she was eating her lunch. Her thoughtful mood, overshadowed by a frown of determination, had her brother and Captain O’Harris remaining silent while she ate. They sensed that something was brewing and now was not the right time for questions.
Clara had considered the problem from several angles. It seemed to her that to trace the dragon would involve a backwards, rather than a forwards journey. Beginning by asking herself who would want to steal it? Who had the resources to plan such a discreet burglary? And what did they intend to do with it, once they had it? That backwards journey would have to start by following the jade dragon’s own footsteps. She would go to the British Museum in London and talk to people there. Perhaps someone had been paying particular attention to the dragon while it was on display? In the meantime, she needed to try and track the person responsible for breaking into Mr Jacobs’ house. With any luck, the culprit was a local lad who had been paid for the work. He might even be prepared to reveal his employers.
Finished with lunch and now resolved as to what she had to do, Clara set out to find an old friend. Bob Waters had been involved in a cold case Clara had found herself embroiled in the year before. The victim was small-time criminal Mervin Grimes and Bob Waters had been his childhood friend, a sort of punchbag for Mervin, as Bob was a quiet, inoffensive soul who tagged along behind the others. The only time Bob had stuck up for himself was when he insisted on having a respectable job and refused to go down the route of criminality that his friend had. Bob was a carpenter and an all-round nice guy. But he was also built of bricks, with fists the size of footballs and he did not like to see his friends hurt. He scared people a little, though not Clara who was rather fond of him.
After the Grimes case, Clara had stayed in touch with Bob, mainly so he would not be lonely. Bob had taken a fair few shocks during the case and had had his world rather shaken about him. Clara often asked Bob around for Sunday dinner; as Tommy pointed out once, Bob was yet another of Clara’s waifs and strays. He had said it with an amused smile, for Tommy didn’t mind Bob’s company and he would be forever grateful to the man for protecting his sister when the Grimes case took a nasty turn.
Clara was aware that Bob was working on a new house down Queen’s Drive and set off in that direction to find him. A light cloud was passing over the sun, and there were a few leaves tossing about in the road as if autumn was giving out hints about its future plans. It was still, however, a fine day to be out and Clara enjoyed the walk to the building site.
The house was going to be a villa style mansion for a wealthy businessman. It dominated a large plot between equally fine houses. The construction was in its early stages and the villa was no more than a wooden skeleton. Clara walked across the front lawn, there being no barrier around the work site. She saw several men carrying timbers or bearing hammers, but Bob was not among them. So she stopped a gentleman marking out planks to be cut and asked where he was.
Clara was directed to the far corner of the property and found Bob erecting the joists that would ultimately hold up a roof for a small garden room. It seemed the designer of the property intended for the property to be largely timber-framed. There was certainly a shortage of bricks about.
“Hello Clara,” Bob grinned at her.
“I was hoping for a chat, but I can see you are busy,” Clara paused beside him. “Have you hurt your thumb?”
Bob wriggled the digit which was wrapped in white bandages.
“Hit it with a hammer,” he said in amusement. “Not the first time. I’m due a break shortly, if you could wait?”
Clara agreed she could and she wandered away to sit on the lawn and enjoy the sunshine while it lasted. Bob worked for another half an hour, fixing up the roof joists to his satisfaction. Then he turned and nodded to Clara. They walked away to a small hut that had been temporarily erected in the corner of the plot. Inside was a small oil stove and a teapot, and several unclean mugs.
“I’ll forgo tea,” Clara announced as soon as she saw the state of the tea-ware. “But you carry on, I don’t want you to miss your break.”
Bob started the process of brewing himself a mug of tea.
“What are you up to then Clara?” he asked.
Clara had found herself a stool to perch on. It wobbled if she moved too much, but was otherwise satisfactory.
“I am working on a case and could do with your help.”
Bob raised his eyebrows.
“My help?”
“You still know a lot of people who are involved in the criminal side of Brighton?” Clara queried.
Bob blushed a little.
“You know I do. I can’t go around cutting off my old friends.”
Soft as butter, Clara thought to herself. Bob would always be friends with Brighton’s criminal underworld because he had grown up with most of them as a lad and found it hard to understand why he should stop associating with them. It was not as if Bob ever did anything criminal himself.
“There was a burglary over a week ago. I have been asked to find the person responsible,” Clara explained.
Bob frowned thoughtfully.
“I can’t go around dropping my friends in the stew,” he apologised to her. “They wouldn’t ever talk to me again.”
“I know, and I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” Clara reassured him. “I think the real person behind this robbery was someone who hired a thief to do the job for them. I want that person, not the actual burglar. In fact, my real concern is just the return of the stolen item. It’s the police who can worry about catching the culprit.”
Bob understood.
“You want me to ask around and see if anyone knows who committed the crime?”
“I do, Bob. And then I want to know who hired that person, but first things first. Do you think you can do it?”
“I don’t see why not,” Bob beamed his familiar good-natured smile. “Give me the details again?”
Clara went through what she knew about the case; the small window, the way the burglar knew exactly where to look and the stolen object itself, the green jade netsuke.
“I don’t know anyone who sounds right for this,” Bob scratched his head. “If the window is as small as you say, well, you would need a child or someone very thin to get through it.”
Clara was disheartened to hear that. She had considered the possibility of a child being hired and that worried her, but she was also inclined to think that the crime was so professionally handled that it had to have been carried out by an experienced adult.
“Maybe the thief was not local,” Bob mused to himself.
“That would be awkward,” Clara sighed. “I won’t be able to trace him so easily.”
“Don’t be so quick to fret,” Bob winked. “The local lads are very particular about outsiders coming in and stealing their business. If they know a crime was committed and none of their friends did it, well, they will be making their own enquiries.”
That possibility had not occurred to Clara. Of course, the criminal world was quite ‘clicky’. You were either in or you were out. And the local boys never liked when outside gangs, usually from London, stepped onto their turf. Perhaps, after all, Clara would get the information she needed.
“You haven’t heard anything about the burglary?”
“Not so far, but I know something has gotten up the noses of the local boys. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was this.”
Now Clara was excited.
“As soon as you have anything, please tell me.”
“Will do,” Bob grinned. “Sure you won’t have a mug of tea?”
~~~*~~~
Clara was looking forward to a quiet evening as she headed home. She needed time to think and muse over what she had been told. Certainly she needed to decide what next to do about Miss Butler. If only the woman had not gone about copying her advert and business cards then she could have ignored her. But that wasn’t going to happen, so she had to figure something out. She wasn’t against the woman being a private detective, she just didn’t like the very personal attacks she felt were being directed at her. Surely there was room for the both of them in Brighton? Especially as Miss Butler had made it plain she was going to be helping a very different set of clients to Clara.
