Uncle Bob’s files were beckoning. The filing cabinet was locked, but Clara found the key on the bunch Barnaby Jennings had left with her. She opened the cabinet and was pleased to see that everything seemed neatly sorted into alphabetical order. As a librarian – and a scientist – she appreciated the efficiency of it. She wondered where she would find information on the agents who worked for her uncle. ‘A’ for agent or perhaps ‘E’ for employee? She searched both sections and couldn’t find anything that seemed to fit the bill.
Under ‘A’ there was a thick file entitled ‘Armstrongs’ and a quick flick through suggested it was work done involving the big armaments factory of that name in Gateshead. It appeared as if there had been theft of weaponry components and bullets. Goodness me, thought Clara, that’s a cut above a divorce case. It detailed how an agent called Johnson had been sent in undercover as a machinist and had eventually tracked down the culprit, to the satisfaction of the client and full payment of the bill.
Clara was taken aback by the size of the bill – far more than she would earn in a year at the library. She wondered what the meeting with Jennings’ son and the accountant tomorrow would reveal about the value of her uncle’s estate. That and the two-thousand-pound house – which she still had to see – suggested she might be in for more than she had expected. She’d come up to Newcastle more out of respect for her uncle than with a genuine expectation that she would inherit anything of substance. Could this actually be a viable business? Could she seriously take it on? Could she honestly see herself tracking down bullet thieves and poisoners? She still didn’t know, but she had to admit that she hadn’t been this excited about a new opportunity since that first day at Oxford University, nearly a decade ago now. Yes, she reminded herself, ruefully, and look how that turned out. Don’t get your hopes up too high, old girl.
Clara sighed and flicked to the ‘J’ section to see if she could find Johnson. Yes, there was a file there with that name. She was just about to open it when there was a knock at the door. She went across and opened it and was slightly disappointed to see Barnaby Jennings, all red-cheeked and mutton-chopped. ‘Mr Jennings!’
‘Miss Vale! So glad you’re still here. Dreadfully sorry I had to rush off like that, but Mr Balshard is a long-standing client who can be – ah – a little demanding.’
Clara smiled reassuringly. ‘That’s all right, Mr Jennings. Mr Danskin and I had a good talk, and he has helped me understand a bit more about how the business works.’
‘Ah, well, yes, good. I hope he behaved himself?’
Clara suppressed a smile. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it. He has, well, let’s say he has a bit of a reputation with the ladies, and in ordinary circumstances I would never have left you alone with him, but well – er – these were not ordinary circumstances. I hope you understand?’
Clara nodded and resisted the urge to pat the earnest gentleman on the shoulder. ‘Of course I do. Not to worry, Mr Jennings, Mr Danskin was the perfect gentleman.’
‘Ah, well, yes, good.’ Jennings cleared his throat. ‘So, are you ready to view the St Thomas’ Crescent house? It’s just around the corner.’
Clara’s interest was piqued again. ‘Oh yes please! I should love to.’
St Thomas’ Crescent was only two minutes’ walk away from the hustle and bustle of Percy Street, but it seemed as though it was another world. The crescent of Georgian terraces curved gracefully up to the edge of leafy Leazes Park with its tennis courts, bowling greens, bandstand, croquet lawns and artificial lake, home to ducks and swans. Opposite the park, Mr Jennings told her, was the Royal Victoria Infirmary and just further down the street, Armstrong College and beyond that the Hancock Museum.
Jennings took Clara to the door of a three-storey town house, near the top of the crescent. All the houses uniformly presented a brown brick façade, black-painted front doors, tall sash windows with white trim and grey slate roofs. Each house was fronted by a postage stamp garden behind black wrought-iron railings. There was something calming and peaceful in the uniformity, and Clara’s first impression was that this was somewhere she would enjoy living. Jennings took out a separate bunch of keys to the office ones – which Clara now had in her handbag – and opened the door. The house exhaled its stale air into the face of its new visitors.
‘It’s been shut up for a while,’ Jennings observed.
‘What about the housekeeper, Mrs Hudson?’
‘Mrs Hobson. She was never a live-in. She came in each day. I gave her three months’ wages to tide her over, but as your uncle says, you’ll have to decide whether you keep her on.’
Clara’s heart sank as Jennings led her through the house. The order and efficiency that had characterised the office was not evident in Uncle Bob’s home and every surface and corner was filled with artefacts and ornaments. Jennings noted her discomfort. ‘Your uncle was a great collector. He travelled the world and brought back keepsakes from every continent. He went on digs to Egypt and the Levant. He spent time in Indochina, and he told me he once travelled up the Amazon River in a canoe! In fact, he continued travelling abroad on short trips to archaeological digs and such at least once every couple of years, until quite recently. And this, I’m afraid,’ he said, gesturing to the clutter, ‘is the result.’
Yes, Uncle Bob had told Clara some of those stories when she was younger, but they were served in small, bite-sized chunks. What faced her now was a banquet of Roman proportions – far too much to digest. But – good gracious, is that a shrunken head? – if she could get her anxiety about the chaos under control, she would be very interested to see what curiosities her relative had amassed over the years. ‘The housekeeper didn’t seem to do much cleaning,’ she observed.
Jennings nodded in sympathy. ‘It was not for want of trying, I can tell you. But Bob wouldn’t let her move anything. She kept the kitchen spick and span though. That was her domain. And the bathroom too – if I recall – although the water closet is outside. You might want to have that changed if you decide to stay. Or even sell. It will add value to the property and there should be enough in the estate to cover the renovation quite easily.’
‘Yes,’ said Clara, ‘an inside lavatory is essential. I assume the house has hot water?’
‘Oh yes, inside plumbing and all the modern conveniences in the kitchen – Mrs Hobson insisted – but she never quite managed to get him to modernise the ablutions. He spent most of his time here in his laboratory, so for him it was just as easy to step out from there than to walk up three flights of stairs to the bathroom.’
‘He had a laboratory?’ asked Clara, wondering where on earth he found space for it and why no one had mentioned it before.
‘Oh yes, but no one else was allowed down there. I’ve never seen it myself. It’s in the basement. Would you like to see it?’
‘I should love to!’
Jennings led Clara through the kitchen (which, as promised, was in perfect order) to a door beside the larder. En route, he pointed to the outside lavatory through the kitchen window. The door to the basement was locked and it took him a while to find the correct key on the bunch. He tried a few keys more than once and Clara was itching to snatch them from him and do it herself. But she restrained herself, only allowing an impatient tap of her toe on the slate tile floor. Eventually the door was opened, an electric light cord was pulled, and a short flight of stone steps was revealed.
Clara sniffed the air and was thrilled to catch a miasma of chemical odours.
‘What did Bob do down here?’ Clara asked as they descended the stairs.
‘He called it “criminalistic science” or just “criminalistics”. It’s a scientific way of forensically examining evidence. I think he was just an enthusiastic amateur, really. But he did manage to identify the poison that killed someone a year or two back.’
‘Ah yes, Mr Danskin mentioned something about that. Goodness me, I had no idea Uncle Bob used science in his work.’
‘That and photography,’ said Jennings as he pushed open a door to reveal a small but pleasingly tidy laboratory, complete with microscope, a Bunsen burner, a rack of clean test tubes and a shelf of variously sized beakers. There was also a kitchen dresser lined with neatly labelled chemical bottles and jars. Jennings nodded to another door on the far side. ‘I think that must be the darkroom over there. Bob told me he partitioned off part of his laboratory for his photography.’
Clara was itching to have a sniff around, but Mr Jennings was already heading back towards the steps. She was disappointed, but, she realised, if she got the house keys from Jennings – and why shouldn’t she, they were now legally hers – she could have a look around at her leisure later.
But as she left, one thing caught her eye. There was a sample tray on the bench beside the microscope, and in it a piece of wood. Beside it on a notepad was a chemical formula; she didn’t have time to look properly, as Jennings was already halfway up the stairs, but it looked like the composition of kerosene. How interesting, thought Clara, how very interesting.
Mr Jennings locked up the St Thomas’ Crescent house and was just about to pocket the keys when Clara thrust out her hand.
‘Perhaps I should take those now.’
‘Oh? Have you decided to accept your uncle’s inheritance?’
‘Well, I haven’t decided not to. I think I should take a bit more time to think about it all. As you’ve said already, I can sell if I want to. But it’s too early to tell yet. And I think I would like to come here again and spend some time going through Uncle Bob’s things. There was a lot to take in on such a short visit, don’t you think?’
Jennings looked mildly chastised and nodded. ‘Yes, you’re quite correct, Miss Vale. My apologies for rushing you. It’s just that I have another client to meet this afternoon.’
Clara gave an appreciative nod. ‘That’s quite understandable, Mr Jennings. And I don’t want to keep you any longer. If you don’t mind, I’m going to have a spot of lunch then I might come back here on my own. Would you have any objections to that?’
‘Of course not. Shall I direct you to a decent eatery?’
‘Oh yes please,’ said Clara. ‘I’m famished.’