by Evelyn James
The inspector looked dubious, but he knew enough about Clara to realise that arguing with her was not going to succeed. He finished his scone.
“I wish people would take better care of their property,” he sighed, mostly to himself. “This week alone I have had two reports of bicycle thefts, one of a missing dog, five house breakings and an armed robbery at a druggists’ shop. Though, at least in the latter, I have a good idea of who might be behind it.”
“You work hard, as always, Inspector.”
“Theft is such a difficult one to solve,” the inspector continued. “Rarely are there any clues left behind. And it can be such an anonymous thing. Still, we do our best.”
“Would it be possible to have the address for George Cranshaw’s mother?” Clara distracted him.
Park-Coombs gave her a long, hard look. Then he took a notebook from his pocket and, after a moment of thought, scribbled down an address.
“Mrs Pear is the recalcitrant lad’s unfortunate mother,” he said, tearing out the page and handing it to Clara. “I believe his real name is Albert Pear, but I could be wrong. He has used so many aliases in his time in my police cells. Mrs Pear is a nice woman, don’t go upsetting her.”
“Would I?” Clara asked.
Park-Coombs merely huffed.
Their lunch finished, Clara insisted on paying their bill as a thank you for the inspector’s time. He protested lightly, more for show than because he felt he should pay. They parted company at the door to the tearooms with Clara promising to try and find a suitable female candidate for Park-Coombs’ police force. The inspector gave another of his solemn huffs and walked back to the station.
Clara went home. She wanted to collect her thoughts before going to see Mrs Pear. Despite what the inspector thought, she had paid attention when he had mentioned to her the dangers she could be facing. She was dealing with some very nasty sorts of people. There was no knowing what they might do to someone poking about in their affairs. Clara would have to take things carefully.
She found Tommy and Captain O’Harris in the dining room when she arrived home. They were going over some papers covered with drawings. There was a larger sheet which had been rolled up and sat to one side. They greeted Clara as she arrived.
“What is this?” Clara unfurled the large roll of paper and saw that it was the architect’s drawing for O’Harris’ house. While the captain had been absent, his large manor house had remained empty. One evening a tramp had found a way in and had started a fire in the dining room to warm himself. The fire had grown out of control and had gutted the dining room and left structural damage to the ceiling and rooms above. O’Harris was having the house restored before he moved back in.
“I have been making plans, Clara,” O’Harris pushed a piece of paper towards her. It was another drawing of the ground floor of his house, but this time the rooms had been renamed.
“Why has the music room become a bedroom?” Clara pointed at the drawing.
“That is part of it,” O’Harris grinned. “I have been wondering what to do with my life, now my adventuring days are behind me. Oh, maybe I will fly again one day, but that desire to be in the air all the time has been knocked from me.”
O’Harris glossed over his flying accident which had come close to killing him and had resulted in him being missing for a year.
“It was while we were walking about London that it came to me. It was seeing that poor war veteran sitting on the pavement. Much has been done to treat the physical injuries of such men, but what about the mental damage? I know myself, as does Tommy, how debilitating those unseen wounds can be. My nervous breakdown was more frightening than my accident and it cannot be healed so simply as a broken leg. Yet, all about us are men who have come home from the war suffering just the same, and we are doing nothing for them.
“Which is when the idea blossomed. That horrid psychiatric ward in the hospital nearly finished me. But the generous Dr Cutt offered me a place in his house, a place in a home where I could forget I was ill and just concentrate on healing. I want to offer other men the very same.”
O’Harris pushed another piece of paper towards her.
“I give you the O’Harris Hospital for War Veterans, specialising in the treatment of mental illness. It will be a place of non-judgement for men who can no longer cope with ordinary life, and will provide the latest, most progressive of treatments. All approved by myself.”
Clara looked at the paper which showed a sketch of the three floors of the manor house, laid out as a series of bedrooms and communal rooms. There were offices set aside for doctors and rooms for the nurses and attendants.
“I estimate that the house could provide accommodation for six men at a time, that is taking into account the room required for the administrative staff and doctors and nurses. And naturally, I will have a suite of rooms too,” O’Harris pointed all this out on his diagram. “Cost will be the greatest challenge. Which is why I must ask for my patients to pay for their treatment. However, I intend for there to be at least one room set aside for poor patients. The cost of the treatment for these men will be offset by the paying patients. And I shall also ask for donations.”
“I am impressed,” Clara nodded, looking at the drawings. “It is ambitious, but if anyone can pull such a scheme off, it shall be you.”
Captain O’Harris smiled brightly at her. She sensed he had desperately wanted her approval and was relieved to receive it.
“Well, all I can say is that I am not doing the cooking,” Annie declared, walking into the room with a tray loaded with teacups and teapot. “But I think it is a grand idea, nonetheless.”
Clara looked around her at the three smiling faces and felt a wave of happiness come over her. She was so glad to see the captain making plans after his frightening ordeal and it filled her with a sense of contentment. She looked back at O’Harris, at the handsome face once more alive, rather than filled with the darkness and despair that had scared them all so. A gush of warmth flooded her chest. Clara tried not to over-analyse those feelings when they came upon her, but she knew they were growing day by day. She told herself she was just so glad to see her friend improving, she dare not admit to the real fondness that was blooming between them. She was not quite ready for that. Not just yet.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mrs Pear lived in a very respectable little cottage on the road that led from Brighton to Hove. She was a widow of some twenty years and had grown accustomed to living on her own, except for the occasions when her son visited her. She kept a neat vegetable garden that supplied most of her needs and was very fond of cats, having three of her own and often leaving out scraps for the local strays. Her neighbours found her pleasant and polite, no bother to anyone and always happy to help someone with a problem. Which made it seem all the more baffling that her son had turned to a life of serious crime. While Mrs Pear did not give much away, it was well known that her son, Albert, was part of a London criminal gang and only came down to see his mother when there was some crime afoot. Which was why everyone had been most careful to lock their doors when he appeared unexpectedly one weekend a month ago.
Clara hoped that Mrs Pear would be amenable to a little chat about her son. It was difficult to know what her response would be. While the woman had not cut Albert completely from her life, she certainly did not approve of his lifestyle or the company he kept. When Mrs Pear opened her door and saw Clara on her front step she was initially surprised. She rarely had visitors who were not already known to her. When Clara asked if it would be possible to have a chat about her son, Mrs Pear assumed he had caused the woman some trouble and felt the usual anxiety that accompanied all discussions about Albert.
“You best come in,” she said.
Mrs Pear had just celebrated her sixty-fifth birthday, but the worries of life hung heavy on her and made her seem several years older. She shuffled about the house and her completely grey hair was kept swept back in a bun. There were birthday cards still sit
ting on the mantelpiece, though the one from Albert was half hidden behind a clock.
“Please sit, I could make tea?”
Clara had drunk enough tea in the last few hours to last a lifetime.
“No thank you,” she answered politely. “I won’t trouble you for too long.”
“Will it be trouble?” Mrs Pear asked anxiously. “What has Albert done now?”
Clara thought there was little point in beating about the bush.
“I believe Albert to have been involved in a recent burglary,” Clara explained. “Can I just confirm that he has a dragon tattoo on his right forearm?”
“Yes,” Mrs Pear agreed. “Ghastly thing. I hate it. There are these weird symbols next to it which he tells me mean something. They just look a mess to me. Did he rob someone?”
“No. I believe he was involved in spying on a property to supply information to the thief.”
“Oh,” Mrs Pear was miserable. “I suppose it was during that weekend when he came home suddenly. He never visits without being up to something.”
“Did he mention anything while he was here about what he was doing?”
“No, but then he never does,” Mrs Pear sighed. “I shouldn’t let him in the house, really. I just can’t help myself. He is my only child, for all the woe he has brought me.”
Abruptly Mrs Pear stood and went to a small table near the door. She returned with a framed photograph. A young man beamed out of the frame in black and white. There was nothing about him that suggested he was a criminal, he seemed very ordinary. This had to have been taken some years ago, since Mr Yaxley had described Albert Pear as being in his forties. Clara studied the picture for a moment, ingraining Albert’s likeness to memory, then handed the picture back to his mother.
“A handsome lad,” she said.
“He always was, and a bit of a charmer,” Mrs Pear sighed. “I had such hopes for him as a boy. He was going to go to sea and become a captain of a steamer, like my dear old Henry had been. But when Henry drowned, Albert turned completely against the idea. He always blamed the ocean for the loss of his father. He and Henry were very close.”
“Do you know anything about his criminal life?”
“As little as possible,” Mrs Pear assured her. “I am sorry he has burgled your house, but I really can’t help you.”
“I was hoping to contact him,” Clara said quickly, seeing that Mrs Pear was ready to dismiss her. “The item that was stolen has sentimental value. I would be willing to pay for its return, and I am not involving the police. That is assured.”
Mrs Pear grimaced at her. Clara could not tell if it was a look of disappointment or one of disgust. Perhaps the woman was shamed to hear how Clara was prepared to bend the rules as well. Well, Clara was not ashamed. She knew the limitations of the police and arresting Albert Pear would do little good in the grand scheme of things. She had a task, to retrieve the jade dragon, and that was what she intended to do.
“I don’t give out his address,” Mrs Pear said firmly.
“I am not intending to cause him trouble,” Clara promised. “If anything, I am offering him money.”
Mrs Pear began to speak again, when there was a shuffling of feet outside the door. Albert Pear appeared in the doorway of the room.
“It’s all right, mother. I’ll speak to her,” he said, fixing Clara with his dark eyes.
The young man from the photograph was gone. He had been full of youthful enthusiasm and joy, what had replaced him was a sinister shadow. Albert Pear was now filled with suspicion, paranoia and anger. All these he radiated at Clara.
Mrs Pear glanced from her son to her visitor. Then she made a noise, like a half-sob, and left the room. Albert Pear closed the door behind her and came to sit opposite Clara.
“You better speak quick,” he said, his dark eyes full of menace.
“You helped in the theft of the green jade dragon from Mr Jacobs’ house,” Clara explained swiftly, there was no point messing about. “I want to get it back for him. So I need to know who has it now. Presumably that would be the person you work for?”
Albert Pear cracked his knuckles.
“Who says I was involved in that?” he said.
“A silent witness,” Clara answered, then pointed to his rolled up sleeves and the tattoo on his forearm. “Your own skin ratted you out.”
Albert glanced at the tattoo in blue ink. He laughed to himself.
“The butler fellow,” he said. “Eyes like a hawk. He never left my side as I went about the place.”
“It is distinctive,” Clara told him. “The characters are Japanese?”
“No, Chinese,” Albert answered. “They stand for luck, fortune and longevity. But you didn’t come to talk about tattoos.”
“No, I came to see if there is a means of getting the dragon back,” Clara admitted. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here, however. That was a stroke of luck.”
“You think so?” Albert was amused.
“I would rather talk to you here than trying to track you in London. I have been up there twice already and train tickets don’t grow on trees,” Clara said. “I met Simon Clark, the thief.”
“The only one of our party who was an outsider,” Albert nodded. “The weak link.”
“He was hardly that,” Clara sighed. “He gave me very little, in fact, and most of what I got was by pure chance. Still, I owe him nothing and I don’t much care if his employers find out I spoke with him. The only thing he really told me was that he was hired by a man called Mr Earling.”
“I don’t know about that,” Albert shrugged. “I was just in charge of making a plan of the house and seeing where the netsukes were kept.”
“Tell me, was the dragon stolen because of its value or for another reason?”
“Such as?” Albert seemed confused.
“It was just a thought, something that was mentioned to me,” Clara did not want to give Albert any further ideas about the dragon. “Do you know if your employer still has the dragon?”
“You seem to think me very knowledgeable,” Albert responded, cracking his knuckles casually.
Clara ignored the gesture of intimidation.
“You work for a criminal gang, and that gang will have a leader who decides what you will do. He was the one who orchestrated the burglary, who sent his people to watch the house, to learn the routines of its residents and to draw a plan of the interior. The only person he could not provide was a suitable thief,” Clara paused. “So, yes, I do think you might be quite knowledgeable on the matter. You seem to have been with this gang some time, you probably know all its inner workings.”
Albert gave that mirthless laugh again.
“And even if I do, why would I tell you?”
“I don’t know,” Clara confessed. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but I hoped you might as I am offering money for the dragon. If the thing has already been sold, then I shall need to think again, but if not then I am sure Mr Jacobs will match any other offers for it.”
Clara was not sure of that at all, but she was attempting to gull Albert and buy herself a little more time. If she walked away now she had nothing, and her only other lead looked even more hopeless.
“I don’t speak for my employer,” Albert told her.
“Then take him a message from me? Tell him, I want to buy the dragon.”
“I’m not a messenger boy,” Albert snarled. “I don’t do things like that.”
“And what, may I ask, will happen when you employer discovers he could have made a ready sum of money and you prevented it? Will he be delighted? I doubt it!” Clara leaned forward in her chair. “If you don’t want to be the messenger boy, give me the name of the gang leader, tell me how I can get in touch with him and leave the rest to me.”
Albert didn’t instantly reply. Clara’s implication that he might be in more trouble for refusing to put her in contact with his employer had worried him. Life in the criminal underworld was cutthroat and full of misstep
s. You might think you were doing everything you were supposed to be, only to discover that you had accidentally done something wrong. Gang leaders could be fickle, Albert knew that well enough. He had survived all these years because he was canny enough to know when to act against orders. Now might be one of those times, but he was not certain.
“Do I look like a great threat to your organisation?” Clara asked him. “I am just a woman, after all.”
Normally Clara would revolt at being so self-deprecating, but on this occasion she felt it necessary. Albert sniffed haughtily, clearly giving Clara another good look and concluding that she was certainly no great threat to him.
“What will you do if I tell you?” he asked carefully.
“I will go to this gang leader and make my offer,” Clara answered. “I only want the dragon back, nothing else.”
Albert cast his eyes about the room thoughtfully.
“It was only a little green stone,” he muttered to himself. “Why all the fuss?”
“Because of sentimental value,” Clara said, not wanting to educate Albert as to the monetary value of the dragon. “Mr Jacobs was given the dragon by his late uncle. It was the last gift he ever received from him. A parting gift, except neither realised the parting would be so permanent. Shortly after, his uncle was killed in an accident. Mr Jacobs was just a boy, but the incident seared itself into his memory and the dragon became a vital link between him and his uncle.”
Clara had a hunch that Albert might respond to such a story. He had his own tale of tragedy – the sudden loss of his father – which might make him understanding of Mr Jacobs’ situation. At least that was what Clara hoped. It was difficult to know how much soul Albert had left after all these years with a gang of hardened criminals. Sentiment was redundant in such surroundings, it was something too easily mocked or lost. It could make a man vulnerable.
