01 - Memories of the Dead by Evelyn James Page B

into a
narrow, brown hallway. The maid was nearby and bobbed as she took Clara’s coat.
    “He is in the front parlour
just there.” The woman pointed to the nearest closed door, “I’ll leave you in
peace to talk with him.”
    Not bothering to make an
introduction for Clara the woman disappeared down the hall with the maid and
left her alone.
    Clara gingerly opened the
parlour door. Mr Greengage was sat in a high-backed armchair, hands resting on
his knees limply and staring into the middle distance with a glazed expression.
He was not a very big man, but looked even smaller huddled in the large chair.
    Clara edged forward and he
woke from his thoughts. He looked the sort of man to be easily dominated by
such a forceful character as Mrs Greengage. His dark hair was greying at the
sides and his round face seemed to mostly consist of a thick pair of round
glasses.
    “Can I help you?” He said in a
sad tone as though he was a tradesman and Clara had stumbled into his shop.
    Suddenly Clara felt sick at
the intrusion she was making on the man’s grief.
    “I’m terribly sorry about your
wife.” She said awkwardly.
    “Were you a friend?”
    Clara gulped, he clearly didn’t
recognise her from the night before, and now her throat felt tight as she formed
a lie.
    “Yes, from the Spiritualist
Church.”
    “Not my cup of tea, all that.”
Mr Greengage stared thoughtfully at the parlour rug, “I’ve been an atheist
since the war, but Martha believed whole-heartedly. I hope she found her
Heaven.”
    “I’m sure she did.” Clara sat
herself down in a chair and tried to appear comfortable, “And she would be
concerned to know you were all right, I’m sure.”
    “Oh, I’m fine.” Mr Greengage
grimaced, “Well not fine, obviously, but surviving.”
    “I can only imagine the shock
of it all.” Clara shook her head sadly, “Bad enough these people break into our
homes, but to be prepared to kill as well…”
    “I’m sorry, but what do you
mean?” Mr Greengage had a frightened little smile on his face.
    “Nothing really, I presumed
she was shot by an intruder, a burglar perhaps.”
    “Nothing was stolen.” Mr
Greengage said bluntly, “No, they came for her.”
    Clara was no longer feigning
when she fell into a stunned silence for a moment.
    “You honestly believe it was a
deliberate act, not an accident?”
    Mr Greengage studied his hands
as though he had only just noticed he had them.
    “She had enemies.”
    “Surely not!”
    “As sure as I am sitting here
telling you she was purposefully murdered.” Mr Greengage was sharp-tongued and
then he softened again, “It was that business at Eastbourne. She took herself
too seriously, that was all, that speaking to the dead nonsense, no offence madam.”
    “None taken, though I don’t
see how being a medium could make her hated enough for someone to want to kill
her.”
    “She was convinced she was in
touch with a woman who had been murdered.” Mr Greengage snorted, “Kept me awake
some nights she did going on and on about how her conscience would not let her
rest until she told the police and me, being an even bigger fool, finally got
sick of it all and told her to go to the damn police. I was convinced they
would send her away with a flea in her ear and the matter would be resolved,
but blow me, if they didn’t actually believe her!”
    “They arrested someone?”
    “The case wasn’t strong
enough, but they certainly made a fuss and my dear Martha was at the centre of
it all. She made an enemy that day, I tell you.”
    “Who?” Clara asked, hardly
able to believe her ears or her luck.
    Mr Greengage hesitated.
    “Bumble, or something similar
was his name. I kept out of it, anyway the case came to nothing and then this
fellow starts talking of suing us for damages and there was no choice but to
leave and come here.”
    Clara leaned back in her
chair, her breath taken away by the story.
    “But would this Bumble fellow
really murder her?”
    “Oh, I