A Bloody Hot Summer

by Trevor D'Silva

  “No. I swear I didn’t know that Mr. Kerr was there until we were ordered to search for those missing wills.”

  “Yes, it would seem pointless for you to steal the wills, but there is a possibility that you needed to know who was going to inherit the estate and the line of succession. So that doesn’t completely put you above suspicion… What proof did you show Lady Fitzhugh to show that you were the illegitimate daughter of Lord Fitzhugh?”

  “After Lord Fitzhugh returned from South Africa, my mother wrote to him telling him about me. He agreed to meet us and we met in secret. He acknowledged me and promised to help us. I showed Lady Fitzhugh the letters that her father wrote to my mother. He used to send my mother some money, but of course that stopped when he died.

  “Life got even harder for us after my mother developed arthritis and she had to stop working as a secretary. She knew that most people mellow down in their old age and I had a right to get an inheritance. So we planned for me to get employment at the manor and gain Lady Fitzhugh’s trust, which I did, and it would’ve worked. However, that incident with the necklace ruined everything for me.”

  “Yes, the mysterious necklace,” said Dermot, making a wry face. “Now, tell me, how did you get involved with Charles?”

  Irene bit at her nails, but she stopped and composed herself. “Charles had come to work at the manor a few months before I did. He never got along with Miss Carter. Once I got close to Lady Fitzhugh, Miss Carter was not nice to me either. Seems she didn’t like anyone being close to her Ladyship. One day, Miss Carter got me upset and I ran into the woods behind the stables. Charles followed me and comforted me. He spoke to me with that soothing voice of his. I knew I could confide in him and I told him who I really was and why I was at Fitzhugh Manor. He encouraged me to tell Lady Fitzhugh and I did.”

  “What happened after you were fired?”

  “Mother and I decided to cut our losses and get on with our lives. Charles wanted to leave, but then Lady Fitzhugh got murdered and now he’s a suspect in the attempted murder of Master Fitzhugh. I don’t know what will happen.” She began to cry.

  Dermot comforted her and asked if he could meet her mother. Irene obliged and, after obtaining permission from the pub’s landlord, they drove for nearly five minutes until they came to a row of houses. They stopped in front of a house with the number fifteen marked on it and walked to the front door.

  Irene knocked on the door. “Mother, it’s me.” The door opened and in front of them stood a frail middle-aged woman with a walking stick. Irene introduced them and told her mother why they were there.

  “Come in, I’m going to have some tea,” Frida said nonchalantly. She then turned around and walked towards a settee, using her stick for support. They followed her; Dermot sat on the opposite settee and Irene sat next to her mother.

  “What would you like to know, Detective?”

  “Miss Shaw, you worked for Lord Fitzhugh…”

  “Detective,” Frida interrupted. “It’s Mrs. Shaw. My husband is deceased and his son owns the Boar’s Head pub where Irene works… After we moved back to St. Crispin’s Village, Mr. Shaw, who was keen on me when I was young, proposed marriage since he was then a widower.”

  She chuckled when she saw a look of surprise sweep through Dermot’s face.

  “I will tell you the whole story since I know why you’re here.” She then proceeded to tell Dermot about Lord Fitzhugh seducing her and Doris Fitzhugh dismissing her on account of the pregnancy. Her parents disowned her after she secretly had her baby in St. Crispin’s Village. So she moved to London and worked as a char to support herself.

  “What made him acknowledge Irene as his daughter?”

  “He was an old man by the time he came back from South Africa. He was upset that Allan and he didn’t get along. After he narrowly missed being killed in the mine blast, he thought he was given a second chance to right certain wrongs he had done in India and South Africa. He secretly met with us in London. I would write to him when we needed money, using the moniker ‘Miss Portia Hartford’. After burning my letters to prevent anyone from finding out, he would send us a cheque to the bank account he opened in London under my moniker. He didn’t want anyone to know that he had a child out of wedlock – he had his family name to consider.”

  Dermot nodded. “So you’re the mysterious Portia Hartford. We thought you were trying to blackmail Lord Fitzhugh because you knew a secret he wanted suppressed. Did he ever tell you what he had done in South Africa and India?”

  “No, he never mentioned them and I never asked since it wasn’t my business… However, one day he met us after his visit to St. Cuthbert’s Hospital. He was sweating profusely and looked scared. I asked him what happened and he said he thought he’d recognised a man from South Africa following him from the hospital onto the street. But it was doubtful as the man was dead. That’s all he said.”

  Dermot took out an envelope and placed it in front of Frida. She opened it and read the message.

  “I think you want to know if I sent this to Lord Fitzhugh?”

  “Yes, he received it just before he died of septicaemia. We thought it was the mysterious Portia Hartford that sent this to him.”

  Frida shook her head. “No, I did not,” she said firmly. “Because of his generosity, Irene attended a good school and I learnt to be a secretary and improved myself. When he died and the money stopped coming, my work as a secretary helped us survive; until this illness made me incapable of typing or doing anything useful.”

  She then asked him to go to the table close to him and look at the note she wrote before she developed arthritis. Dermot walked to the table and saw a picture on it. The picture was of a very attractive woman who was dressed in the style of the late 1890s.

  “Mrs. Shaw, is this you?”

  “Yes, Detective, a far cry from what I look like now. This illness has taken its toll on my body.”

  Dermot took the note and came over to the settee. He compared the two handwritings and they were completely different.

  “Well, a new mystery now emerges as to who wrote this note.”

  “I’m glad we solved one mystery for you… Now, would you like some tea before it gets cold, Detective?” said Frida smugly as she gingerly held the teapot over a teacup.

  Chapter 19: Long-forgotten Memory

  Flora handed Dermot a stack of documents.

  “Detective, here are Father’s papers. I found the reference letter that Miss Carter gave us. Surprising that Doris had it with her,” she said.

  Dermot was in the drawing room with the two elderly sisters. Flora mentioned that she had found Lord Fitzhugh’s papers in Doris’ bedroom, along with the reference letter in the same drawer. It mystified her because she had expected to find them in her father’s bedroom.

  Dermot read the reference letter written by Mrs. Mable Evans on her death bed. It painted a glowing picture of Miss Carter as a highly competent and loyal housekeeper, and Dermot realised why she was hired even though she was interviewed at the last minute. He then perused through the documents regarding the settlement made by the insurance company and the report by geologist, Gregory H. Huddleston from the Parr & Monroe Geology company, about the mine having a huge diamond deposit. He also went through the deed that made Lord Fitzhugh the sole owner of the mine. However, there was still nothing to indicate how the De Villiers family perished during the Boer War.

  Dermot noticed a brownish envelope with handwriting that had faded with time. He looked closer and saw that it was addressed to Lord Fitzhugh in South Africa. With Flora’s permission, he opened the letter and read it. It was from Christiaan De Villiers and dated the twenty-fifth of August, 1901. Christiaan gave Lord Fitzhugh the good news of having
excavated the mine a little further and finding more diamonds. The geologist had also confirmed that the mine had a vast deposit of diamonds. Christiaan said that he was now sealing the mine for the duration of the war. The last paragraph caught Dermot’s attention. It stated that Christiaan was planning on sending his share of the uncut diamonds to a safe place.

  While Dermot was wondering as to where Christiaan could have sent his share of the diamonds, Miss Carter came into the drawing room and announced that Sister Fleming from St. Cuthbert’s Hospital was on the telephone wanting to talk to Dermot. He excused himself and followed her. The phone was located next to the staircase that led to the kitchen.

  After Miss Carter went down the staircase, Dermot picked up the receiver and greeted Sister Fleming. She said that his mother had told her to call Dermot at Fitzhugh Manor. She told him that she had finally found the photograph of the hospital staff taken before the war in one of her old trunks in the attic. Dermot told her that he would head to London immediately and that he would meet her at the café in front of the hospital in an hour and a half. After bidding the two elderly sisters goodbye, Dermot got into his car and headed towards London.

  — — —

  Sister Fleming came back from the Records Room after looking at the file of a long-deceased patient. What Dr. Butterworth had said to her earlier, when she showed him the photograph, had brought back a long-forgotten memory she hadn’t thought was important until now. She must tell Detective Carlyle about it. She picked up her bag in which she had the envelope that contained the picture. Looking at the photograph brought back a lot of recollections from before the Great War, from when things were different. She recognised some of the staff who used to work at the hospital. They went off to war and never returned.

  Sister Fleming adjusted her hat, spoke for a few minutes, and said goodbye to Eunice, her assistant. She looked at the clock as she walked out of the hospital. It was almost time to be at the café. Detective Carlyle would be pleased with her. She walked out of the gate to the edge of the pavement and she was about to cross the street when she saw a man approaching her. Even though the man’s hat was lowered in an attempt to hide his face, the evening sun highlighted his visible features and Sister Fleming gasped in shock as she recognised him.

  “Oh, it’s you. I thought you were dead. Where…?”

  Without warning, the man grabbed for her bag. Clinging to it with both hands, she yelled out for help as she fought wildly with him, but he was too strong and ripped it from her grasp. He then pushed her hard towards the road. The sound of brakes squealing and the thud of the car hitting her body brought people to the spot and the man quickly walked away with the bag tucked under his arm.

  — — —

  The evening traffic into London had been heavy and Dermot’s progress had been slow. His body was tense from his concern of being late for his meeting and from suffering the frustrated drivers yelling expletives and blaring their horns. His nose stung from the exhaust fumes that filled the air while he had queued. But as he finally drove away from the congested areas towards the hospital, Dermot glanced at his watch and smiled. He was relieved that he would be on time; and he felt the tension ebb away and his shoulders slowly began to relax.

  As Dermot drove up to the hospital, he saw that a large crowd had gathered by the road at the entrance. There were people of all ages and even some in hospital uniforms, but all were jostling and peering towards the road in front of a car. As he looked at them, Dermot saw two constables run towards the onlookers and push their way through.

  Dermot pulled over at the side of the road and got out of the car. He pushed through the mass of people and when he finally saw what they were all crowding around the shock hit him like a punch to the stomach. He forced himself to take another look as bile burnt at the back of his throat. On the hot tarred road and lifeless like a doll was the body of Sister Fleming. Her blank, glazed eyes stared upwards towards the sky and her limbs were contorted around her body. Blood was oozing from her mouth and angry welts and bruises covered the exposed skin of her face and hands. The driver of the car was trying to explain to the constables what had happened.

  “Detective Carlyle from the Metropolitan Police,” Dermot said as he moved hastily towards the constables. “What happened?”

  “The lady was hit by this car. I saw a man grab her bag and push her in front of it,” said a woman wearing a brown hat. The colour had drained from her face and her hazel eyes showed the horror she had just witnessed.

  “Did she know the man? What did he look like?”

  “I was standing a few metres away. I saw the look of surprise on her face and she said something to him, when he suddenly grabbed her bag. She fought back and after he took the bag he pushed her in front of that car. He was slightly more than medium height. I couldn’t see his face because he had lowered his hat to hide it. That’s all I saw,” said the woman.

  Dermot felt his head spin. Who could’ve known that he was meeting Sister Fleming? He had spoken to her barely two hours ago and now she was dead. The orderlies from the hospital arrived with a stretcher and asked everyone to move away. They lifted the body onto the stretcher and covered it with a sheet.

  Dermot took one last look at the body as it was being taken through the hospital gates. He pushed through the crowd and went back to his car. He climbed in and put his head on the steering wheel. When he felt the dizziness pass, he started his car and drove back to Meadowford Village. One thing he now knew for certain was that David Northam was still alive.

  — — —

  The next day, Dermot drove back to St. Cuthbert’s Hospital. When he entered the hospital, he saw that it was business as usual, but he could tell that many of the staff were very distraught. He went to Dr. Butterworth’s office and knocked on the door. When Dr. Butterworth gave him permission to enter, he went in and expressed his sympathies. He asked if Dr. Butterworth had met Sister Fleming the previous day.

  “Yes, she told me that she found the staff photograph taken when the war began. She showed it to me; I glanced at it and went on my way. That was the last time I saw her…” He choked a bit and tried to hold back tears.

  “I understand, Dr. Butterworth,” Dermot said soothingly. “When you glanced at the picture, did you recognise any of the staff?”

  “It’s been a long time, Detective. Most of the staff joined the war and some never returned. Some that did went to work in other places. Ethel and David Northam were in the picture and so was I. Dr. Steward, who was the head of surgery, was in the middle… Oh… I said to her that I remember the day it was taken because it was the day that Dr. Steward decided to join the Royal Army Medical Corp. The death of Lord Fitzhugh a few years earlier had upset him a lot. He had never ever lost a patient until then. I recognised his face in the photograph and it brought back memories of that day. He still looked upset.”

  “Lord Fitzhugh developing septicaemia was a mystery, right?”

  “Dr. Steward could never comprehend how it happened. He blamed himself for being negligent, even though the family didn’t complain. When the war began, he volunteered and died in France. I think he felt he had to make restitution for being negligent.”

  “Did Sister Fleming tell anyone that she was meeting me?”

  “I don’t know. You can check with Nurse Eunice with whom she worked. She’s very distraught, so you’d better be careful when talking to her.”

  Dermot thanked Dr. Butterworth and promised him that he would find the person who killed Sister Fleming.

  Dermot then went in search of Nurse Eunice and found her in the office that she had shared with the late Sister Fleming. Nurse Eunice was in her thirties, with brown hair; her blue eyes showed the pain of losing her supervisor. Dermot went in and introduced himself. He asked her i
f she had seen the photograph and if she knew that Sister Fleming had been on her way to meet him.

  “Yes, Sister Fleming mentioned that she was going to meet you to give you the staff photograph taken in 1914. She showed me the two people you wanted to see, but the faces could barely be made out. Ethel Northam was wearing a veil on her head and David Northam had a moustache.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “She said that what Dr. Butterworth had said to her about Dr. Steward had brought back a memory. It reminded her of the day that a patient by the name of Lord William Fitzhugh was about to be discharged after having gall bladder surgery. She went through the records and found that there was a patient by the name of Franklyn Hayworth who had an infected leg. He was in the room next to Lord Fitzhugh. The leg had to be cleaned often due to the infection.

  “Sister Fleming remembered seeing Nurse Northam coming out of Mr. Hayworth’s room with a tray containing soiled bandages belonging to Mr. Hayworth. She then entered Lord Fitzhugh’s room. Sister Fleming didn’t think anything of it, but she said that it struck her as odd.”

  “Why did she think that was odd?”

  “I don’t know. That was the last thing she said to me.” Eunice starting tearing up; she took out her handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and composed herself.

  “What happened to Mr. Hayworth?”

  “Let me take you to the Records Room. I know exactly where the file is kept.”

  Dermot followed her to a big room where the files were stored. Eunice went to the cabinet with the year 1906 marked on it and opened it. She looked through the files and pulled one out. They opened the file and read the notes.

  Franklyn Hayworth had a boil that had to be lanced. However, the infection was so bad that he had died of septicaemia a few days after.