by Evelyn James
“I was hired by Mr Earling!” he said swiftly. “He acts like an agent for thieves and other criminals. Who employed him I don’t know, but he hired me!”
Jasmine pulled herself out of Tommy’s arms with a huff of affront, but she winked at Clara. Clara managed not to grimace. The girl was a little too wild.
“What did he say when he hired you?” Clara turned to Simon instead.
“He gave me an address, said the only way to get in was this small window, hence why I was hired. People had been watching the house for days.”
“People hired by Mr Earling?”
“No,” Simon shook his head. “Mr Earling only hired me. The rest was done by the people who worked for the guy who employed Mr Earling. Whoever this guy was, he had his finger on every action, from the guys scoping out the place, to learning the routine of the victim and his staff. Only thing he didn’t have was someone who could climb through a window like me.”
“How do I find Mr Earling?” Clara asked next.
“I don’t know,” Simon shrugged. “You don’t find Mr Earling, he finds you. Look, he said there was a job that would suit me. It would pay me well, only I had to swear I would not steal anything but the item I was told to. They didn’t want anyone to realise the place had been burgled too quick. I promised and Mr Earling was satisfied I was trustworthy. He gets me a lot of work, and if I had broke my word he would never have hired me again.”
Simon shuffled in his chair, trying in vain to move away from Bob.
“I knew something was up with it all. There was too much money involved,” he moaned to himself.
“You know nothing else?” Clara persisted, hoping to wring out one last drop of information from Simon.
But Simon Clark had told him what little he knew. Mr Earling never gave out more information to his hirelings than was necessary.
“I was told to sneak in and steal this green dragon. I was told where the window was and shown a map of the place. I knew exactly which door to go through and where the display case was,” Simon shrugged helplessly. “I had exact instructions. I was to leave everything as I found it. The only thing I could not help was the glass from the smashed window.”
Clara could see that the burglary had been extremely well planned, and Simon Clark was merely the helper in this affair. He was of no further use to her.
“All right, I’m satisfied,” Clara informed her friends. “We can let him go.”
Bob started to untie Simon’s bindings.
“Now you are a wealthy man, Clark,” Jasmine loomed over the figure in the chair with her ladle, “you might think about paying my father what you owe him?”
“I don’t see…” Clark began, but he had no time to finish that statement because Jasmine clobbered him over the head with the ladle so hard his ears rang. “All right! You damn bitch! Take the money from my pocket!”
Jasmine did exactly that. She had taken the exact money her father was owed just as Bob finished with the rope and Simon leapt to his feet and fled out the door. Clara let out a whistle of breath. She glanced at Jasmine who was smiling at the money in her hand.
“Did you have to hit him?” Clara asked.
Jasmine grinned at her.
“What next Clara?” O’Harris asked, unperturbed by the girl’s actions. “Find this Mr Earling?”
Clara looked at her watch.
“We are out of time. Besides, finding this Mr Earling might be tricky. We should head back to Brighton and plan our next move.”
They thanked Jasmine for her help and the use of her lodgings, then hastened out to find an omnibus and get back to the train station.
“Interesting girl,” Tommy remarked to them all as they hurried.
“Violent!” Clara replied sharply.
“I bet she makes a good soup with that ladle!” Tommy laughed.
They put aside thoughts of Jasmine and her wild antics as they rushed away, perilously close to missing their train. Clara tried not to think too much as she moved. There was still a lot to do in London and it felt wrong to be leaving so soon, but she had no other choice. She would come back, and on her next visit she would be paying a call on this Mr Earling, to discover just who was behind the disappearance of the green jade dragon.
Chapter Eighteen
Clara slept a little on the train ride home. Her dreams were dark; slender men roamed through darkened houses and strangely formed dragons loomed around corners. She woke herself with a start just as they were pulling into Brighton’s train station.
After all he had done to help them, it was natural to invite Bob home to supper. Bob lived alone, so the invitation was warmly received. Clara popped into the station office and asked to use their telephone. After some wrangling over the cost, she was allowed to make a brief call home to inform Annie they were on their way and were all sound and hearty. Annie sounded most relieved.
The day had turned wet and rain fell down as they hurried the last few steps to Clara’s house. Tommy was stiff from all the walking he had done, but tried not to complain. Clara gave him a sympathetic smile and locked her arm through his. O’Harris seemed quiet too. Clara watched as he walked ahead of them, seeming lost in his own thoughts. She worried about him after his nervous breakdown. She hoped the visit to London had not shaken him.
Annie greeted them on the doorstep with the sort of smile usually reserved for travellers who have been away for months, not hours. But then Annie hated people straying too far from home.
“I have made a steak and kidney pudding,” she informed them as they appeared. “With lots of potatoes, fresh peas and extra gravy. And there is a blancmange for dessert.”
She shuffled them inside, took coats and hats without allowing arguments and herded her little company into the dining room.
“I cooked some fresh bread rolls, as well,” Annie pointed to a basket of rolls on the table and the butter dish all waiting for them.
“You have been busy,” Tommy grinned settling himself gratefully into a chair. There was a joyous yelp and Bramble, the Fitzgeralds’ small poodle, dived into his lap and smothered him with canine affection.
“That dog has pined all day!” Annie declared. “He hates everyone being out.”
Clara thought, but did not say, that Bramble and Annie had an awful lot in common.
Dinner was served and everyone ate hungrily. Annie made sure Bob had extra helpings, as she worried he did not get enough home cooked meals. Considering the size of the fellow, Clara did not think she need fear. But Bob hardly argued as Annie thrust more pudding and potatoes onto his plate. Clara was relieved to see that O’Harris ate well too. Whatever thoughts had been swirling in his mind as they left the station no longer seemed to disturb him.
They were just consuming the blancmange when there was a loud rapping on the door. Annie put down her spoon crossly.
“Who calls at this hour? Surely everyone is eating their dinner?” she complained.
“Don’t answer it,” Clara suggested promptly, thinking that for once they were entitled to some peace.
But the person on the doorstep hammered on the wood again, bouncing the door knocker so fiercely against the wood Clara envisioned scars forming in the paint. Annie could not ignore such a summons. She rose from her chair and went to see who it was. Clara took another spoonful of blancmange, one ear open for voices. More often than not, an urgent rapping on the door meant someone wanted her. The voices from the hallway were muffled, but there was an agitation to one of them that implied to Clara that someone was not happy. Annie reappeared in the dining room.
“There is a man on the doorstep demanding to see you, Clara. His name is Mr Butterworth.”
Clara put down her spoon, undecided for a moment whether to interrupt her dinner, but she supposed she ought to.
“He sounds upset.” Clara mused to Annie.
“He is. I can send him away?”
“No, send him through to the parlour.”
Clara excused herself from the
table. She waited until Annie returned to the dining room before heading to the parlour herself. She closed the door behind her as she entered, guessing that Mr Butterworth would appreciate the privacy.
Mr Butterworth was a man in his middle years; a little bald, a little plump and a little short. He was the sort of nondescript person who, a few seconds after meeting them, you promptly forget. He was trying to coax a moustache to grow on his upper lip, but it didn’t appear to be working.
“Mr Butterworth,” Clara held out her hand to shake.
Mr Butterworth was too agitated to respond, he was pacing back and forth before her fireplace.
“How could you do it?” he demanded of her, waving his arms up and down. “What business was it of yours?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t quite know what you are referring to?” Clara said, though she had a hunch.
“You told my wife where I was living!” Mr Butterworth pointed a finger at her. “Isn’t a man entitled to his privacy?”
“Mr Butterworth, I did nothing of the sort,” Clara assured him.
Mr Butterworth continued to pace.
“She said she hired a detective to find me. Her very own words! That’s how I know it was you!”
Clara was beginning to realise that here was a perfect example of the extra complication having two detectives in Brighton could cause.
“She did not hire me, Mr Butterworth,” Clara persisted. “You can ask her that yourself. I am not working for your wife.”
“But…”
“There is another private detective in Brighton. She recently set herself up in business,” Clara grabbed the newspaper from the table. It happened to be the latest edition of the Brighton Gazette, containing Clara’s new advert along with the one placed by Miss Butler. Clara opened it to the classifieds section and showed it to Mr Butterworth. “See? Your wife has hired this woman. I know this because a friend of mine informed me.”
Mr Butterworth stared at the paper and slowly his fury dissipated. He was not a man who became angry easily, nor one who maintained that rage for long. He was deflated and embarrassed.
“I apologise, Miss Fitzgerald,” he said sheepishly.
“That’s quite all right,” Clara made him sit down in an armchair. “I can understand you’re upset. I take it your wife came to visit you?”
“She did,” Mr Butterworth said glumly. “She took the cat. Agamemnon was all I had of worth from that wretched marriage, and she insisted on taking him too.”
“Who owns the cat?” Clara asked.
“That’s the problem, no one can say,” Mr Butterworth shrugged. “We bought the cat after we were married so technically, I am told, he is marital property, much like the house or the furniture in it. We both own him and neither of us have a greater right to him. But, even so, she could have let me have him.”
Mr Butterworth slumped into his chair. He looked utterly downcast. Clara felt sorry for the poor man.
“Would you like some blancmange, Mr Butterworth? We were just having dessert?”
Mr Butterworth admitted that he was rather fond of blancmange and Clara ran across to the dining room to fetch him a bowl. He seemed to brighten at the sight of the pale pink pudding wobbling in its bowl.
“Now,” Clara said once he had eaten it up. “Why don’t you explain all this to me?”
“I left my wife,” Mr Butterworth said, as if it was that simple.
“There must have been a reason for that?” Clara nudged him gently.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mr Butterworth sighed deeply and his head fell down to his chest until his chin seemed to vanish into his collar. “I suppose, once, we were happy. But things had changed. She is such a demanding person and I felt… stifled. Some days I felt more attached to the cat than I did to her. Which was when it occurred to me that I might just leave her.
“I had to be sensible about it. I didn’t want to go and then have to come crawling back. Money was, of course, the biggest concern. My wife inherited money from her father and it was arranged into trusts that I could never touch, so I knew she would be fine without me. I wouldn’t leave her in the lurch, not after all these years. My situation was more complicated.”
Mr Butterworth tapped his spoon in the empty dessert bowl.
“I have had to work all my life to supply myself with an income. Not that I begrudged the fact. Instead of relying on my wife’s trust investments I paid for everything. The trusts were going to be for our old age together. But then I started to see how things would be once I did not bring in any money. Once it was all about my wife’s money, then… well, she would control me completely. Any time I wanted to buy the littlest of things I would have to ask her. My freedom would be gone completely.”
Clara imagined that was the way many wives felt about their marriages, but did not bother to protest. It was the way things were supposed to be for women. Not that she didn’t feel for Mr Butterworth, she would feel for anyone in his position.
“Is that what decided you?”
“That and a lot of other little things,” Mr Butterworth explained. “Too many to list. Niggles that built up over the years until they formed this huge pile of complaints and with very little in the way of kindnesses to offset it all. I had to wait until the time was right. The company I worked for as a clerk was closing down. I didn’t tell my wife, but I knew I would be offered a small sum of money in return for my years of service. When the time came, I took the money and then pretended to still go to work every day. In the meantime, I was looking for another job.
“I found it and straight away I arranged for new lodgings in Hove. I gave the job my new address and suddenly I was free. She couldn’t find me easily. That afternoon I went home while she was at one of her painting classes. I collected Agamemnon, my lone friend through the final years of my marriage, and I walked out. That night I slept the best sleep I have had in years.”
Mr Butterworth let out a long, peaceful sigh as he recalled the moment he realised he was released from his shackles.
“She reported you missing to the police,” Clara interrupted his thoughts.
“I know. They found me. I suppose for them it wasn’t so hard. I explained the situation, told them I didn’t want to see my wife and they left it at that. They had better things to do.”
“If only you hadn’t taken the cat with you, you would probably still be living in peace,” Clara pointed out.
“Agamemnon was worth the risk,” Mr Butterworth gave a little sniff and his thin moustache twitched. “How can I get him back?”
“I couldn’t say. Perhaps you ought to hire a solicitor?” Clara thought for a moment. “If you could arrange a divorce, then it could be ironed out that way.”
“My wife won’t agree to a divorce,” Mr Butterworth shook his head. “I know that well enough. She will keep her fingers hooked into me as best she can. But I will hire a solicitor, see if I can get Agamemnon back. In the meanwhile, I suppose I shall be moving lodgings again.”
“I’m sorry,” Clara said quietly.
“Not your fault, Miss Fitzgerald. It’s the fault of this other woman. I shall have to go see her instead.”
Clara knew that was not quite true. She had been the one who had told Sarah Butler, in good faith, where Mr Butterworth was living. She had trusted to the woman’s judgement and discretion, now Clara could see she had been mistaken. Where Clara would have tried to gently mediate between the unhappy couple, Sarah Butler had just passed on the information directly with no real thought or consideration as to the consequences. Clara guessed that Miss Butler was not a great diplomat or very tactful and that could cause a lot of difficulties in the business she was now running.
“It’s just so unfortunate,” Clara added. “But a solicitor would be your best port of call.”
“I apologise for disturbing your dinner and accusing you,” Mr Butterworth replied, now standing to leave. “I made my own assumptions that were very clearly wrong.”
“No matter,”
Clara shrugged, eager to accept his apology as it somewhat assuaged her own guilt.
She showed him to the door.
“Maybe I need to accept things for what they are,” Mr Butterworth said as he turned to take his leave. “Get another cat.”
“Maybe,” Clara said.
“Then again, I really am rather fond of Agamemnon. Oh well, goodbye Miss Fitzgerald.”
“Goodbye.”
Clara closed the door and stood silently in the hallway. What a mess. She should have been angry, after all, it was all Sarah Butler’s fault that Clara had been accosted in her home. She had an awful vision of this happening more frequently as Sarah continued her business. Was Clara now going to have to spend her evenings explaining to irate people that she was not responsible for their misfortune but that it was the other female detective in town. Oh dear, that did not sound appealing.
If only Clara had not allowed her guilt to sway her into revealing the information she had on Mr Butterworth to Sarah. Now she felt a whole new form of guilt. Maybe she should have a word with Sarah about professional discretion… No, she had already interfered too much and made a mess of things. She would just have to keep Sarah Butler at arms’ length and hope no one else came calling to complain about her. It was a nuisance, but one she could overcome and with time people would realise there were two private detectives in Brighton and would not immediately assume she was working on any given case.
At least…. That was what she hoped…
Chapter Nineteen
The burglary had been carefully planned. Clara was clear on that. Which also meant that it was possible someone had seen something important without realising it. People watching a house for days, or even weeks, do get noticed, even if it is just by the busybody across the road. Then there was the knowledge that Simon Clark had seen a map of the house, and had clear instructions of exactly where to go when inside. Someone had to secure that information for him. Someone involved in the planning of the burglary had been inside Mr Jacobs’ house and had made a careful study of it.
