01 - Memories of the Dead by Evelyn James Page A

Inspector
Park-Coombs is a sharp spark, though he likes to pretend he is as dense as the
rest of them.”
    Clara tried to hide her
discomfort as he mentioned that dreaded name.         
    “Perhaps I have learned all I
can here.” She could think of nothing else but getting out of the room.
    “Have you seen anything, a
clue maybe, that will help your client?” Oliver asked.
    “No, not really.” Clara
admitted, looking once more hopefully around the room, “Odd…”
    “What is?”
    “How after the shock has worn
off you stop thinking about there being a dead body in the room. It is just,
well, there .”
    “I know.” Oliver was staring
hard at her, “It is like being wrapped up in your own work so much you forget
to notice that there is a pretty girl in the room.”
    Clara returned his stare
evenly.
    “I doubt you ever forget, Mr
Bankes.” She said sharply.
    Oliver grinned.
    “If you want to see the
pictures when they are done – to help your client, of course – come by my shop
in a couple of days’ time.” He held out a card.
    “You gave me one of those
already.”
    “Oh yes, so I did.” Oliver
withdrew his hand hurriedly, flushing a little, “But do come by. I keep copies
of every photo in case the police lose the originals, which happens more often
than not.”
    “I shall bear it in mind.”
Clara replied, “Oh, I don’t suppose you know where I can find Mr Greengage?”
    “Across the road, at number
84.” Oliver followed her into the hallway, “He needed somewhere to collect his
thoughts.”
    “I don’t blame him.” Clara
edged open the front door and tried to nonchalantly look outside and see if the
constable was there.
    “The constable didn’t really
give you permission to come in, did he?” Oliver said behind her.
    She could tell from the manner
of his voice he was grinning again.
    “Good day Mr Bankes.” She said
without looking back and then made a dash for the front gate.
    She was just stepping through
it as the constable emerged from two doors down. She let the gate swing to on
its latch and crossed the road as though she had not just been sneaking around
a dead woman’s house. The constable was too concerned with his freezing fingers
to give her much thought.
    At number 84 Clara rang the
bell and tried to think of a good reason to speak with Mr Greengage. A maid
answered.
    “Good afternoon, I was told Mr
Greengage was here?”
    The maid looked uncertain and,
after indicating Clara should wait, hurried indoors. A few moments later a
stern-looking woman appeared.
    “Can I ask what is your
business?” She said in a tone that matched her fierce appearance.
    Clara braced herself.
    “I’m from the Spiritualist
church, I take it you know Mrs Greengage was a member?”
    The woman raised an eyebrow
which Clara took as an acknowledgement that she did.
    “I have come on behalf of Mrs
Greengage’s many friends as quickly as I could after hearing the news to see if
her husband requires anything, specifically a temporary place to stay, but I
see he has found himself a place here, so I shall just leave my condolences and
go.”
    Clara turned away hoping she
had judged the woman correctly.
    “Wait.”
    Clara faced her again.
    “As you may appreciate space
and provisions are limited for a widow woman such as myself.” The woman’s stern
appearance was sinking to one of consideration, “I am happy to offer Mr
Greengage accommodation for a short stay – a very short stay – but as you say a
burden shared is a burden lightened, and I see no reason why others shouldn’t
help out. After all, I hardly knew the Greengages. Not that he’s a burden.” She
added quickly.
    “I fully understand,” Clara
made herself appear as sympathetic as possible, “And I do find men in
particular struggle to cope with circumstances such as these.”
    “Exactly! And they call us the
weaker sex!” The woman clucked her tongue reproachfully, “Come in, won’t you?”
    The woman let her