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“There’s never a ghost around when you want one,” Sally Donovan muttered to herself. She looked round at the scene and wondered where to start. The SOCOs had completed their part of the investigation, the force medical examiner had done her examination and the body had been removed, so now it was up to her to decide what would happen next. Uniformed officers were already undertaking door-to-door enquiries and her own team were searching the rest of the house, which left Sally standing in the doorway of the room where the elderly lady had been murdered.
The house was part of a Victorian terrace, and although clean and tidy had clearly seen better days. Some of the other houses in the terrace had been modernised, often several times, but it was evident this house had had little done to it for many years. It was, Sally felt, somewhere the ghosts would have felt at home.
“So where are you?” she muttered again.
“We’ve been up in the attic,” a voice beside her said.
“Doing what?” Sally asked. She stepped further into the parlour, not wanting to be overheard. The ghost, who she had recognised as Inspector Lestrade, followed her.
“Having a good look round. You ought to go up there. There’s all sorts of things which might prove useful, although Holmes says there’s nothing immediately relevant. More motive than anything.”
“Well, we’ll get there eventually, but it might not be today. Can you do anything to speed it up?”
“Of course!”
The ghost vanished and a minute later, Sally heard thuds coming from the attic.
“What’s going on up there?” one of her team called.
“Probably rats,” another replied.
“We need to take a look,” Sally said. “Wyman, can you reach up and open the hatch?”
Wyman did as requested and pulled down some steps. One of the others climbed up into the attic and whistled, “Boss, you need to see this.”
Sally followed him up and watched as he shone his torch around. It was set out like an old-fashioned schoolroom, with chairs facing a blackboard. Each chair had a photograph on the seat and a small pile of books underneath it.
“Right,” she said, “get SOCO back, we need photos of all this in situ. And then get it boxed up and taken back to the station. I want to know who all these people are or rather were.”
“What caused the thuds we heard?” Wyman asked.
“From the amount of chalk dust in the air, if I didn’t know better, I’d say someone had been throwing the board rubbers on the floor,” Sally said. “But since that’s impossible, we’ll go with rats knocking something off.”
In fact, Sally was confident the board rubbers had been thrown on the floor, a fact that was confirmed when she was back in the parlour and found a rather chalky looking Stanley Hopkins waiting for her. There were only three armchairs, so Hopkins had been left to stand.
“Right,” Sally said, “I’ve not got long, so what can you tell me? Who are, or were, all the people in the photos, and what connection do they have with the death of the owner of the house?”
“As far as I can tell,” Holmes said, “they were all servants who worked in the house. The earliest dates from around the turn of the century, our century, not yours. The latest maybe thirty years ago. I went by the look of the pictures to determine the ages. All were young at the time the photographs were taken. The names of a couple of the oldest seemed familiar but I’d need to look them up.”
“But from my point of view we need to start with the most recent photographs. The subjects may still be around or there will be relatives or friends who knew them. On the other hand, if there is something linking them all, and given the way the attic was set out there has to have been, then the oldest ones would be a good starting point for you.”
“Can you bring the items to us tonight?” Holmes asked. “Or at least get pictures for me.”
“Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem. Will your tenants be around?”
“No, they’re on holiday for a fortnight,” Dr Watson said. “Come the back way.”
“Will do!”
***
That evening Sally knocked on the back door of 221 Baker Street and felt it open as she did so. She went inside and up the stairs, to be greeted by the ghosts.
“Holmes has been looking through his commonplace books,” Watson said, “and he’s had some ideas.”
“And I’ve someone I’d like you to meet. Clara, come and say hello to Inspector Donovan.”
A female ghost materialised and said, “Ooh, she’s flesh. Can she see me?”
“Hello, Clara,” Sally said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Ooh!”
“Clara was one of the first servants at your address. Tell the Inspector what you told us!”
“I’m not sure…” the woman began.
“It’s okay, Clara, I just want to help,” Sally said.
“Well, all right then. My da was hanged for, um…”
“I don’t need to know why.”
“Yeah, well, he was hanged. And this gentleman said he’d give me a job, ‘cos I needed to support me mam and little sister and brother, and he said no-one else would employ me ‘cos of me da. So I went to work for him. He didn’t pay much but he said he was sending some of my wages to me mam, which I wanted anyway. But then one day I was at the market and met my sister and she told me my little brother had died, ‘cos of not having the medicine he needed.” Clara paused, still upset about it.
“Take your time.”
Clara nodded and then continued, “And I said that I’d asked the master to send more of my wages to pay for the medicine and he’d paid me less, so I thought he’d sent it. But he can’t have. And then I asked my sister how much me mam got from him every week and it was only half of what he should have given her. So I decided there and then to run away from him. Which I did, and I did find work in a factory. It weren’t great, but at least I got to keep all the money I earned.”
“I’m very sorry to hear what happened to you and glad you found another job,” Sally said. She took out her phone. “If I show you a picture, could you tell me if this is you.” She showed Clara the photograph with her name underneath it.
Clara shook her head. “That’s not me. It’s a bit like me, only not the same.”
Holmes came over to look at the photograph. “That was probably cut from a newspaper at the time.”
Lestrade joined him. “It wasn’t unheard of for an unscrupulous journalist to find a relative who bore some resemblance and offer them a few coins to take a picture and then print it as 'the hanged man’s daughter’.”
“Is there anything else you want to know, Inspector?” Clara asked.
“No, thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to show my thanks, but if there is, please tell me,” Sally replied.
“There is one thing, but…”
“What is it?” Sally smiled to encourage the woman.
“I always wanted to light one of them posh candles for my brother who died, but I could never afford it. Even later on there were the nippers to feed and it seemed like a lot of money when it would make no difference.”
“If you could let Dr Watson know which church you would like a candle lit in, I will make sure it’s done. It might not be for a day or two though, as I’m going to be very busy.”
“He’s waited over a hundred years; I don’t think a few days will make any difference. Thank you very much!”
“I will be very happy to do so for you.”
Once Clara had left, Sally asked Holmes, “Do you think the others in the photographs were employed for the same reason? And if that’s the case, then I think we can assume they received similar treatment.”
Holmes looked at the photos Sally had taken of the earliest records and said, “Yes, I’m sure that’s the case. I certainly recognise the names of a number of them and once you have a full list of names, I’m sure there will be many over the years who are familiar to me.”
“And do you think the same will be true about the other photos, that they aren’t necessarily the actual servants?”
“For the earlier ones, I think you can be confident about it,” Lestrade said. “Immediate families would avoid having their picture taken and there wasn’t the ability to take photos quickly like there is now. I’d take a good look at the picture and especially what’s on the back of it.”
“If that’s the case,” Sally said, “it’s going to be even harder to trace those involved. Although presumably there would be nothing to stop the owners of the house taking their own photos later on.”
“But until quite recently they would still need to have them developed, which might be risky,” Hopkins said.
“I’ll make sure all the photos are thoroughly checked. Thank you all, that’s given me a lot to think about. One last thing, we’ve confirmed the newest victim, because I think that’s what they can be called, was in 1992. When you were in the house, did you see any signs of anyone having been there recently?”
There was a pause, then Holmes said, “I think the collection in the attic ceased when the old lady, the last remaining owner, could no longer safely get up there. However, there are distinct signs of three cleaners having been working in the house this week, so it is possible elements of the practice have continued.”
“Right, we’ll look into that as well. And now I must be off. I’ll let you know how I get on!”
***
The following morning Sally was discussing the case with her team. She briefly summarised what Holmes had told her by saying a friend was interested in Victorian history and recognised the name. She had added he had told her the picture was unlikely to be that of the person whose name was on it. This explained something which had confused the team when they had discovered that in the most recent cases the photographs did not seem to tie up with the names they had been given. Sally’s phone pinged with a message which said simply ‘Found them’.
She stood up. “I think we need to take another look in the house. Now we know there had been something going on for many years, I’d like to be sure it stopped in 1992 with the objects in the attic, and that it didn’t continue into more recent years. Wyman and Barron, you’re with me. Greenborough and Thompson, see what you can find out, but don’t put too much stress on the photos.”
When they arrived at the house, Sally heard the parlour door creaking slightly. “We’ll try in here first,” she said.
They split the room up between them and each began a methodical search for any indication of subsequent servants. It wasn’t long before Barron said, “This bit of skirting board seems loose, let me see if I can prise it off.” She did so and cautiously put her hand inside the gap which it revealed and pulled out one shoebox and then a second.
She lifted them onto the table and the three of them carefully looked at the contents. Inside were index cards, all neatly labelled, and separated by one thicker card with a photograph glued to it.
“Exactly the same principle as the ones in the attic,” Wyman said. “You were right, Boss, these carry on from when the others ran out.”
“Which means these must be the latest,” Sally said, spreading three pictures out on the table.
“So we should be able to identify them.”
Barron shook her head. “I think the photos are the same as the others, not the actual people involved. Look, you can see where these have been cut out of newspapers.”
“They’re clearly not living here and there’s no address on the cards. We could try tracing the names, but ten to one they’re not registered anywhere.”
“And if the old lady was following the same principle as before, she’ll have chosen people who believed they were unlikely to get work elsewhere, so probably outside the system.”
Sally’s phone rang. She answered it and having rung off said, “There’s a patient at St Thomas’ asking to speak to me. Apparently he’s not in a good way, so I’d like to get there as soon as possible. If you take the shoeboxes back to the Yard, you can drop me off on the way.”
The walked to the police car. Barron was driving, so Wyman went to get in the back, but Sally said, “It’s all right, you go in the front, you’re dropping me off on the way.” The four ghosts had appeared, and she suspected they would be coming to the hospital with her. It would be better, she felt, if she were the one who sat in the back with them.
As it was, it was an uncomfortable ride. Neither of the two in front could see the ghosts, and while it was true they had no corporeal form, Sally still felt she was being squashed as Holmes, Watson and Lestrade shared the back seat with her. Hopkins had initially laid down on the parcel shelf, but Barron commented that the rear windscreen seemed rather foggy, so Sally had pointed to the footwell, and Hopkins had moved.
Once in the hospital Sally was led to a side ward, where an old man lay in a bed. He looked so ill, she didn’t need Watson’s comment that the man hadn’t got long to go.
“You’re looking into the death of that old crone in Palmerston Street, aren’t you?” he croaked.
“Yes,” Sally said quietly.
“I was one of the kids who they employed. That’s what we were, scarcely more than kids. Now they’d call us vulnerable, but then… Me dad had just been banged up for life and me mum was in no position to work, and these people offered me a job, no questions asked.” He coughed. “We should have asked the questions. After a couple of years, I learnt better and got out, got work on the markets, it weren’t much better, but they weren’t pocketing half me pay and pretending it was going to me mum. And I vowed I’d get even with them. Almost left it too late, but at least she won’t get her filthy claws into anyone else.”
“How did you kill her?”
“Strangled her. Then collapsed the following morning and they brought me in here. I won’t be going home again.”
He shut his eyes and although Sally suspected he wasn’t asleep she decided not to ask anything more. She stood up and said, “Thank you for telling me this. You can rest easily now.”
She left the hospital, mulling over what he’d told her. She got on a bus back to New Scotland Yard, and found a quiet seat upstairs, then took out her mobile so she could pretend she was having a conversation on the phone.
“Well,” she said, “do you believe him?”
“Do you?” Holmes asked.
“No. He told the truth about being brought into hospital yesterday morning, so timewise he could have done. But there’s no way he’d be strong enough.”
“I thought method of death hadn’t been released,” Lestrade said.
“It hasn’t, so I presume he knows who the murderer is. But there’s no point in pressuring him, he's got nothing to gain by telling us.”
“The rest of his story was true, I think,” Hopkins said. “He wasn’t making that up.”
“We can check. He should be one of those in the attic and we’ve got the basic details on file now. But I have a dilemma.”
“Accept his confession or continue to look for the real murderer?” Watson said.
“Precisely.”
“What will you do now?” Lestrade asked.
“I shall bring the rest of the team up-to-date and then go and see my DCI.”
“Let us know what happens,” Holmes said.
“I will do. Are you getting off here with me?”
“No, this bus will get us most of the way home,” Watson said.
When Sally called in at Baker Street later that day, she told them she and her DCI had been to see the Superintendent who had been of the opinion that given the number of possible suspects they accept the confession she had received. Sally hadn’t been particularly happy, but her DCI had suggested they keep the details on file in case further information came to light at a later stage, which she reluctantly accepted.
“I’m not happy with that,” Hopkins said.
“You’re welcome to continue the investigation,” Sally said.
“There are two possibilities,” Lestrade said, “either it was one of the current employees and therefore a spur of the moment action, or it was someone from the past, which was planned.”
“I agree,” Holmes said. “And if it was a spur of the moment, then it’s unlikely to happen again. However, if it was planned, I’d be less certain of that.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sally said. “But there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“What will you do now?” Watson asked.
“I shall go and light a candle for Clara’s brother, if you know which church she wanted.”
“I do. May we come with you?”
Sally smiled. “Please do.”
And while she stood and watched the flame flicker on the candle she had lit, in another part of the church, Hopkins gently blew, and a number of little night light candles started to burn. “In memory of all the others who also suffered,” he said.