by Evelyn James
“Have you seen anyone loitering about the house? Perhaps someone appearing to watch the property?”
Yaxley gave the question the decency of lengthy consideration before answering;
“No.”
That was disappointing. Clara had hoped the astute butler might have seen something. Perhaps his keen eyes were a little too fixated on the internal affairs of the house?
“You were away with Mr Jacobs at the time of the burglary?” Clara unnecessarily checked.
“Indeed.”
“But Mrs Crocker was here?” Clara decided to try one last ploy to break through the man’s cool façade. She knew there could be intense rivalry between servants and Mr Yaxley did not strike her as the sort of man who liked spending time with others, especially other servants. “Did you wonder at her not hearing anything the night of the burglary? The glass smashing would have made a distinctive noise.”
Yaxley narrowed his dark brows.
“Mrs Crocker is rather deaf. I did not consider it strange she heard nothing.”
“Had you been in the house, would you have so quickly written off the broken window as a boy’s prank?” Clara pressed, playing on the man’s ego.
“No,” Yaxley could make that one word sound uncommonly condescending. “I would have summoned the police at once, and I would not have removed the glass.”
“What do you make of the fact that Mrs Crocker did?” Clara persisted.
“She is a woman of mean intelligence,” Yaxley stated coldly. “It does not surprise me that she would fail to see the importance of leaving the evidence untouched. If you wish to imply that she may have been connected with the crime, perhaps bribed to not notice anything, I could not comment. The woman was hired by Mr Jacobs and I have not known her a sufficient time to fully assess her character.”
“She has been here a few years?” Clara pointed out.
“As I say, I have not known her for a sufficient time,” Yaxley repeated himself, clearly annoyed by Clara’s statement. “She seems honest enough, for the work she is given. If you think she might be involved in the crime, I would suggest you speak to her.”
That was exactly what Clara intended to do. She thanked Mr Yaxley and left him to resume his post observing every move the workmen made. She did not envy Mr Thomas and his men working under such an intense gaze. It was enough to make anyone suddenly clumsy and self-conscious.
Clara made her way to the kitchen where she found Mrs Crocker up to her elbows in soap suds. She was washing out glass jars, the sort used for storing pickles and jams. She gave Clara no more warm a welcome than Mr Yaxley had. Clara wondered if it was a particular requirement of Mr Jacobs’ servants to be so unusually unfriendly.
“Good morning,” Clara greeted her brightly, refusing to be intimidated by the woman’s glaring eyes. “Might I ask you a few questions again?”
Clara sat herself at the kitchen table and laid out her notebook, making it plain that she was not really asking permission.
“You can,” Mrs Crocker said gruffly. “But I’ll keep on with my work while you do.”
Clara did not complain.
“I have located the man who broke into the house,” she informed Mrs Crocker, waiting to see if the woman flinched or looked concerned. She did not. “He was working for someone else, and I now know that the house was being watched for a considerable period of time.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Mrs Crocker sniffed. “Thieves are always eyeing up places like this.”
“Because they assume they contain many things of value?”
“Precisely.”
Clara paused, then she said;
“Only, the thieves observing this house already knew of the one item inside that they wanted. They were not opportunists casing a house that appeared full of valuable things. They knew where the dragon was.”
Mrs Crocker was unmoved. She rubbed a cloth in a glass jar until it squeaked. Clara was reminded of Annie’s vigorous cleaning of their own windows.
“Have you noticed anyone suspicious about the house?” she changed tactic.
“Don’t know,” Mrs Crocker shrugged. “I don’t know everyone here. And mostly I am in this kitchen.”
Mrs Crocker paused in her cleaning to cast a disgruntled look about the room. She was not a person content with her allotted place in the world.
“Do you remember an inspector from the electricity board?”
“No. He came around on my day for visiting my sister,” Mrs Crocker shrugged. “Mr Yaxley mentioned him later. Wanted me to go through the house and check he had not left any mess behind him. Yaxley can’t abide footprints on the carpets.”
“Had the man left any trace of himself?”
“Not as far as I could see.”
Clara felt she was not getting very far. If Mrs Crocker was involved, she was hardly about to admit it, and her caution made it very hard to trick her into revealing herself.
“You’ve worked here a while?” Clara asked, mainly to buy herself some thinking time.
“Since the last housekeeper died, God rest her soul. I imagine that Yaxley worked her to death.”
“You don’t like him?”
“More like, he doesn’t like me,” Mrs Crocker huffed to herself. “He considers me common because I don’t speak nice like him and I don’t go about in a fancy uniform.”
Mrs Crocker’s irritation as she thought of Yaxley was taken out on the glass jar, which squeaked in protest as the cleaning cloth was fiercely rubbed against it.
“Does he think I had something to do with this?” she asked suddenly.
Clara saw an opportunity.
“He just remarked that he would not have swept up the broken glass,” she said casually.
Mrs Crocker turned from her sink of soapy water, a flush of anger had risen up her neck and across her face.
“He would!” she snapped. “The man is always criticising my work. I stick by my actions. I had no reason to think the house had been burgled, so I cleaned up the mess.”
“Why were you so sure boys might have broken the window?” Clara asked. “After all, the glass was smashed at the side of the house. It would not be possible to do that from the street.”
“I never thought it was street boys,” Mrs Crocker snorted, as if she was finding Clara unbelievably stupid. “The family next door has three sons. Rogues the lot of them. I have caught them climbing over the wall into Mr Jacobs’ garden before now. When I chased them off they threw stones at me. Then, another time, they threw stones when I was hanging out the washing. I would complain, but the father is an important barrister who would not take kindly to the likes of me criticising his offspring.”
“Ah, so you assumed they had been up to their antics again?”
“Exactly,” Mrs Crocker agreed. “There were no stones about on the floor, that I will admit. But I just thought they had smashed the window with a brick, or something. Hammered at it rather than throwing things at it. Those three will grow up to be horrible young men.”
Clara was beginning to understand why the housekeeper had been so blithe about the smashed glass, and why she had failed to see its real purpose.
“I think, given the circumstances, I might have been inclined to think the same as you did,” Clara told her. “And I imagine I would have acted accordingly.”
Mrs Crocker, finding someone prepared to defend her actions, mellowed.
“I am not as big a fool as Yaxley likes to make out. Had doors been open I would have realised there had been a burglary. As it was, I saw nothing to concern me until later,” Mrs Crocker paused. “Now you mention it, something springs to my mind. I noticed a fellow on the corner of the road a few times when I went to do my shopping. He was there at the same time every day for around a week and I never could fathom what he was about. Then he was gone again.”
“He may have been one of the men sent to watch the house,” Clara told her. “They would have been paying attention to the times when Mr Jacobs left the house and for
how long he was away.”
“I still get the shivers thinking how I was upstairs alone with a man prowling about down here,” Mrs Crocker visibly trembled at the memory. “I have no hearing in my right ear due to a childhood illness. When I lay in my bed upstairs, I tend to turn in my sleep onto my left side, so I cannot hear a thing. It distresses me to imagine I was up there, vulnerable, and unable to hear anything.”
“At least now the remaining window is secured,” Clara pointed out.
“Mr Jacobs has always been conscious of the security of this place. He knows he has many valuable items here. He insists on the shutters being drawn at night, even when everyone is home. I always felt safe here,” Mrs Crocker looked around her kitchen, a sadness coming over her. “Now I don’t. I’m not sure I can continue here. It is bad enough feeling Mr Yaxley’s suspicious eyes on me, but to not feel safe in my own bed as well? Maybe I will have to change positions.”
“It is still early days,” Clara told her reassuringly. “The shock is still fresh. Give it time. Any house can be burgled, but at least now Mr Jacobs knows where his house is vulnerable.”
Mrs Crocker seemed unconvinced. She went back to her sink and her glass jars. Clara left her in peace. She had come for information and she was now satisfied that Mrs Crocker was not involved in the burglary. Nor, for that matter, did she think Mr Yaxley involved. But this mysterious inspector was another matter. First she would need to discover if there really was a Douglas Jones at the electricity board and, if not, then she would need to see if she could learn who he really was. Things were definitely hotting up.
Chapter Twenty-One
Brighton’s Electricity Board was rather a humble affair; three men, one secretary and a small office in the town hall. When Clara visited them and asked if they had sent an inspector to the Jacobs’ house one Sunday, they laughed. They were far too busy, she was informed, to send people out to private homes. They had enough trouble keeping the main system operating and ensuring places such as Brighton’s hospital were kept functioning. There was no time for random inspections. Nor was there any sign of a man named Douglas Jones. Clara had expected as much.
Her next port of call was the police station, to see if Inspector Park-Coombs was free to talk to her. She rather fancied that if anyone knew how to track a mysterious man with a sea serpent tattoo it would be a policeman.
The atmosphere in the station was tense. Clara nodded to the constable on the front desk. He was young and very green. He was looking anxious and his eyes kept flicking unconsciously to the stairs that led up to the inspector’s office.
“What’s going on?” Clara asked conspiratorially.
The young constable started to open his mouth, and then hesitated.
“Can’t say, miss,” he mumbled.
“Oh dear,” Clara smiled at him. “Well, is Inspector Park-Coombs around?”
The constable’s eyes swivelled to the stairs again.
“Can’t say, miss,” he repeated, looking embarrassed by his failure.
Clara wondered what was going on. She almost wished the old desk sergeant was back so she could have an argument with him. He usually gave something away when he became cross. The young constable, instead, was playing dumb.
She was about to ask another question when footsteps came thumping down the stairs.
“It won’t do, Park-Coombs. I told you to start the process and yet you have done nothing,” Superintendent Foster appeared in the police station foyer.
Inspector Park-Coombs was trailing him.
“Hardly nothing, sir,” he protested, looking very hang-dog about the whole affair.
“It is not a difficult thing, inspector,” Foster persisted. “I expect progress and I expect it soon.”
Superintendent Foster donned his hat and marched out of the station without a word of goodbye. Park-Coombs stood on the bottom step of the staircase and grumbled to himself. Clara watched on, partly bemused, partly upset on the inspector’s behalf. The lack of respect the superintendent had shown him was most pointed and rude.
“Is everything all right?” she moved next to Park-Coombs.
The inspector gave a start. He had not noticed her.
“Clara,” he sighed. “No, everything is not all right. But never mind.”
“It’s lunchtime,” Clara pointed out. “Would you like to grab a bite to eat and a cup of tea? You look in need of some fresh air?”
The considerate invitation eased some of the tension in the inspector’s shoulders. He glanced at Clara.
“Why not?” he said. “I could do with a change of scenery.”
They strolled to a nearby tearooms which offered light lunches along with big pots of tea. They were soon settled at a table by a window, waiting for cheese sandwiches and fresh scones.
“So,” Clara asked after their order was placed, “what has caused the superintendent such consternation that he can’t even remember to say goodbye?”
Park-Coombs gave a long sigh.
“It’s this female police constable business. Apparently, I am not moving fast enough on the matter for his liking.”
“Have you anyone in mind for the role?”
“Not really,” Park-Coombs rested his arms on the table. “It’s not the sort of thing you advertise in the paper either. I don’t want all and sundry turning up to give it a go.”
Clara doubted there would be that many women in Brighton prepared to try their hand at police work, but she grasped the inspector’s point.
“I’ll keep my ears open, if I hear of someone suitable I’ll let you know.”
Park-Coombs thanked her as their food and tea arrived.
“Now, why were you in the station?” he asked.
“Curiosity, as always,” Clara smiled. “I have a couple of leads on the Jacobs’ case. I wanted to run them past you.”
“Go ahead,” Park-Coombs mumbled through cheese crumbs. “The case has come to a dead end for us, but it still sits on my desk taunting me and adding to my ‘unsolved crimes’ statistics. Which, by the way, is another reason for the superintendent’s consternation. The police force as a whole is failing to solve too many crimes. Naturally, informing him that half the problem is a lack of resources and funding would not go down well.”
“Naturally,” Clara replied, sipping tea. “I have two potential leads in the Jacobs case. I managed to track down the thief who broke into the property, but as far as he goes he is meaningless, merely a tool in someone else’s schemes.”
“So you are pursuing the theory that this was a professional job? Someone carefully planned it and hired the thief?”
“Exactly. Suggesting this was a mere opportunist at work defies belief. The person responsible knew precisely what they wanted. I now know that the thief was hired by a gentleman called Mr Earling. Earling works as a criminal agent. He knows who is best for a given job and supplies them. I suppose he gets a good commission from it.”
“He is not a man who has come to my attention,” Park-Coombs said apologetically. “But I know his type. Never one to get their hands dirty, but always somewhere behind a crime.”
“I would like to trace him. To ask who he was acting for.”
“That would be very dangerous,” Park-Coombs’ dark brows folded together in a look of intense seriousness. “Men like this Mr Earling are nasty and they have important friends. He won’t tell you a thing, you can trust me on that. And he might just decide you need taking care of if you keep asking questions.”
Clara was no fool. She had imagined as much, but hearing it from the inspector made her own concerns seem less silly.
“I do have another lead,” she said.
“A safer one?” Park-Coombs asked.
“Well, it depends,” Clara smiled. “The thief who robbed Mr Jacobs was supplied with a detailed plan of his house. Someone had to have been inside the property to be able to draw it. I have ruled out the servants and the workmen at the house, however, a man called upon Mr Jacobs one Sunday be
fore the burglary. He said he was an inspector from the electricity board, but the board have never heard of him.”
“Did he give a name?” Park-Coombs wondered.
“Douglas Jones. An alias, I would imagine.”
“It doesn’t ring a bell,” Park-Coombs shook his head before starting on his scone. “Anything else to go on?”
“He had a strange tattoo on his right wrist. A sea serpent or perhaps a dragon, with Japanese characters alongside.”
Clara had barely finished the description when Park-Coombs slapped the table with delight.
“I know who that is!” he grinned, ignoring the other diners who were looking across curiously at the noise. “I’ve had that fellow in my cells before now. Douglas Jones he calls himself currently? Last I met him, he was going along as George Cranshaw.”
“He has worked in Brighton before?” Clara queried.
“He’s a local lad,” Park-Coombs elaborated. “But he spent a lot of time in London, where he became involved with gangs. That was his downfall. He started his life as a merchant seaman and, by all accounts, he would have made a good one and might have found his way to being a skipper with his own ship one day. But he couldn’t take the stricture of life at sea. He fell in with some of the criminals who work the races in the summer. They were Londoners and he took a shine to their lifestyle and their seeming easy money. Since that day he has forgotten the sea and taken to a life of crime. His mother is most distressed about it all.”
“His mother lives in Brighton?”
“Yes. She’s about the only reason he comes back here. She is a good woman. Her son’s dubious choices have caused her a lot of heartache.”
“I think I will need to see her,” Clara said. “George Cranshaw is involved in this burglary and might be able to tell me who hired him.”
“He is involved with gangs, Clara,” Park-Coombs tried to rein her in. “Even if he does tell you, you will be dealing with some very unpleasant people. Perhaps, for once, you will have to give up on this case.”
“I can’t,” Clara insisted. “Not when I am getting so close. In any case, I am not intending to cause these people trouble. All I want is the dragon back and I imagine Mr Jacobs would willingly pay for its return. I’ll find the culprit behind it all and offer him money. Now no criminal will ever refuse money.”
