Free 05 - Mistletoe and Murder by Evelyn James Page B

before
boarding. Somehow the novel glow of tube travel, which she had carried with her
all these years, now seemed faded. She was rather relieved when she reached her
stop and headed out into the street.
    Almost at once Clara found
herself immersed in a crowd of Christmas shoppers. There was hardly a gap to
walk through on the busy pavements as people nipped between shops, grabbed
tables in restaurants and cafes, or wasted time before the theatres opened.
People were smoking feverishly, partly to pass the time and partly to warm
themselves. Clara found herself walking through a fog of smoke that hung just
at head level.
    She stepped off the pavement
briefly, thinking to dodge around the hordes, and was almost flattened by an
omnibus. She jumped back onto the pavement as the driver shook his fist at her
and told her to be more careful. Now Clara was paying attention she realised
the roads were far busier than she was used to in Brighton. Some form of
vehicle came past almost every moment. Despite this people were crossing the
road, dodging cars without any apparent concern for their wellbeing. Clara
nudged her way back onto the pavement and made sure to stay close to the shops
rather than risk being knocked into the thoroughfare.
    It was slow progress up the
street, pushing through the people and constantly repeating ‘excuse me’, ‘may
I?’ ‘would you mind?’ all the time. Clara treated herself to a bag of roast
chestnuts off a street seller to warm her hands. Finally, after what seemed a
considerable age of bumping into people, Clara found the office building
belonging to Mr Mollinson. There was a brass plaque on the wall bearing his
name. She entered the foyer and found herself before a concierge.
    “Is Mr Mollinson in his
office?”
    “Have you an appointment?” The
concierge, a young man with greased hair, asked.
    “No, I have only just come
down to London and was hoping he might be free to see me.”
    “Mr Mollinson rarely speaks to
people without an appointment.” The concierge continued in a rather grave tone.
    Clara felt he was rather
over-stepping the limitations of his role.
    “Might you at least try
contacting him? And if he is not available today, then perhaps we could arrange
a more convenient time?”
    The concierge gave himself a
moment to consider the acceptability of this request.
    “I suppose so.” He picked up
the receiver of a large black phone and dialled a number, “Hello? Mr Mollinson?
It is Patrickson at the front desk. A lady is requesting to speak with you.”
The concierge paused to listen, “He wishes to know what the matter is
concerning.”
    “Please could you say it is
Miss Fitzgerald wishing to speak to him on Miss Sampford’s behalf?”
    The concierge repeated the
message, then again paused to receive instructions. His face slowly took on a
look of surprise. He carefully put down the receiver.
    “Mr Mollinson says he will see
you at once.” He said, clearly astonished, “Please go to the third floor, first
door on your left.”
    Clara was not surprised at
Mollinson’s willingness, not once he had heard the name of Miss Sampford. In
fact, his sudden interest only helped fix in Clara’s mind his potential as a
suspect. He was clearly still very keen to get his hands on number 50. But keen
enough to frighten a little old lady into abandoning her home? Now that really
was the question.
    Clara ascended the stairs,
which curved upwards in a wide spiral, wondering how long an audience she would
have with Mollinson once he learned she was not there to help arrange the sale
of the house. She found his office – marked with his name – easily enough and
knocked. A male voice asked her to enter.
    Mollinson was sat behind a
large mahogany desk; it was an antique, once owned by his grandfather. Mollinson
valued its origins as much as the statement it made to people entering his
office. Mollinson was all about statements. Everything he wore, every piece of
furniture in his office,