A Death Overseas

by Caroline Dunford

  ‘Stupid,’ said Rory.

  ‘She seemed perfectly normal to me, and the Bishop my mother is marrying knew her.’

  ‘The what the what?’ said Rory sounding astonished.

  ‘Oh, I forgot I hadn’t told you about that.’ I laughed and tried to brush the topic aside like an errant fly. Rory’s colour was rising. Thankfully I was saved by the door opening and a rather whey-faced Bertram staggering in. ‘Couldn’t go and see if you can get me a glass of water, could you, old man?’ said Bertram, loosening his collar. ‘Have to say, I’m feeling a bit dicky.’

  Rory hurried out. ‘Eau,’ called Bertram after him. ‘Verre d’eau.’

  ‘I take it it was Mrs Brown,’ I said.

  Bertram nodded. ‘Don’t ask to see her, Euphemia. It’s not very nice, but no doubt it’s her.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said. Last year I had had to inspect bodies that had been in the sea for some time, in the search for Fitzroy. I will only say that the sights I was exposed to are not ones that will ever leave me. The sea, I discovered, is full of hungry, and undiscerning, fish. I had no desire to refresh those memories. ‘Rory thinks she was a raving maniac.’

  ‘That’s what the police here think too,’ answered Bertram. ‘I thought she got a bit excitable at times, but I didn’t pick up on any madness, did you?’

  ‘No. At times we had some deep and philosophical conversations. Although, admittedly, at other times she could seem very silly.’

  ‘Almost like she was playing a part?’ suggested Bertram.

  ‘You mean she was being underhand? That she had a secondary agenda?’

  ‘Perhaps, but until we see the letter we’re not going to know why she did it?’

  ‘I do not follow you.’

  Bertram pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. ‘Where is that man?’

  I rose. ‘Shall I go and find him?’

  Bertram took me by the wrist and gave me a gentle tug to get me to sit back down. ‘No, Euphemia. I’d rather talk to you before Rory gets back. Especially if he thinks she was a maniac.’

  ‘All right. But please try not to over-excite yourself.’

  ‘Fat chance,’ said Bertram. ‘Firstly, I’m not sure if this has been clearly stated, but it’s suicide. Rocks in her pocket. Lake wasn’t deep enough to drown in by accident. But you can drown in half an inch of water if you’re determined. Secondly, they found a letter in English that I need to translate. Thirdly, they now think she had something to do with Monsieur Toussaint’s death.’

  I sat back in my seat feeling rather winded. ‘Gosh, that’s rather a lot to take in,’ I said. ‘It is all certain?’

  ‘Not yet, but as soon as it is you can bet they will be bringing the British Embassy into it. Let’s just hope we are out of the country by then!’

  ‘Out ... but we have barely arrived!’

  ‘Euphemia, you can’t want to stay. Not after this.’

  ‘Does it seem callous? This World Fair is likely to be the only one I ever get the chance to see. I am very sorry for what has happened to Eugenie. I find it difficult to imagine her as either a suicide or a murderer...’

  ‘Murderer! Hang on a minute!’

  ‘If she helped Monsieur Toussaint to his death that is what she is.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Bertram. ‘You are a magnet for violence.’

  I ignored that comment. ‘I regret Eugenie’s death, but we were hardly close. I cannot pretend a heart-rending grief.’

  ‘Well, if nothing else, she was your chaperone. Rory will insist we have to go home.’

  ‘What? And travel unescorted with two men? I think not,’ I said.[18] ‘I shall ask Mary Hill to be my chaperone.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful,’ said Bertram. ‘That will go down well with Hans. Your chaperone: a suffragette, a mathematician, and someone who appears to have no qualms travelling wherever she wants on her own.’

  ‘She may have her own chaperone,’ I said weakly. ‘She mentioned an aunt.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bertram stingingly, ‘the invisible aunt who had tea with us.’

  This time it was Rory who saved me from further argument. He opened the door and his right hand held a full brandy glass. Bertram fell upon him like a man who had been three weeks in the desert without water.

  ‘How on earth did you manage...’ I began, but then this was Rory the perfect butler and valet. He could probably produce a five-course banquet in said desert. However, following him was a man in uniform and another in a suit of good material that had not been well tailored. Obviously the headman and one of his juniors. He fired off a barrage of French, which Bertram answered fluently.[19]

  Bertram turned to me. ‘It seems the letter Mrs Brown left has dropped us right in it.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s addressed to you, Euphemia.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  A letter of import

  At this point the uniformed man opened a satchel he carried slung over his shoulders and produced a crumpled, sealed letter. With great reverence he passed it to his superior, who passed it to Bertram, who placed it on the table and pushed it towards me. As I reached for it I was uncomfortably aware that everyone’s eyes were on me. My fingers shook as I broke the seal.

  ‘Why didn't they open it?’ I whispered to Bertram. The senior man immediately spat something in French at Bertram.

  ‘Everything you say he wants me to translate,’ warned Bertram. ‘They’re sending for their own interpreter, but so many people are tied up with the Fair they are struggling to find anyone.’ He then turned back to the man and spoke at length in French.

  I held the letter in my hand for a few moments. Writing this was the last action Eugenie had taken on this earth before she ended her own life. Why she had chosen to write to me rather than her daughter or son I could not imagine. Rory nudged me. I opened the letter. I made rather a mess of it, not having a letter opener and because my fingers were shaking so much. The fact they were shaking I was afraid would make me look guilty, which of course made them shake even more.

  Inside were several crisp sheets of paper. It was headed with our hotel’s address. I felt sick at the thought she had sat in her room next to mine and written her last account.

  The senior man grunted something. Bertram said quietly, ‘He wants you to read it out. I’ll translate sentence by sentence. Don’t go too fast. That way I can think of the best way of putting it.’ He gave me a half-wink and I understood he wanted Eugenie to sound the best she could in her own words. I suppose he hoped that they would take the word of a native speaker over that of an interpreter as long as the content was not too different.

  ‘It is dated yesterday evening,’ I said. I ran my eyes over the first few sentences. ‘I cannot believe this,’ I cried out, and tears started to my eyes. ‘I spent the majority of the day with her and she displayed no signs of any of the emotions she writes about here.’

  Bertram translated my reaction and if anything the senior man seemed somewhat appeased. ‘He says she must have been a very clever woman to have deceived so many,’ said Bertram, translating the officer’s further comments, ‘and that you should not blame yourself for not seeing through her motivations.’

  ‘Merci bien, Monsieur,’ I said in very badly accented French. Then I began to read. As he said he would, Bertram translated as I went. Everyone else in the room was silent and tense, hanging on every word.

  ‘My Dear Miss St John, Euphemia, if I may,

  I am sorry to burden you with my final wishes, but you have been so sympathetic towards me and even my ideals – though there were some points on which we disagreed. You are a young and gentle being, yet to be hardened by your life’s journey.

  Firstly I must ask you to convey my deepest love and affection to my children. They will not understand my actions, but I hope they will understand a mother’s love never fades.

  But to business. My intention was to put Monsieur Toussaint’s t
errible machinery out of action for ever and in so doing demonstrate to all those present how wrong, how ungodly, and how unnatural the new electricity is. I had with me a number of pamphlets from the Society of Natural Oneness, a spiritual organisation that looks at how best man and woman can live in harmony with God’s work, God’s love, and God’s will. I joined this society a little after my dear husband’s death, when his old college roommate, Herr Gruen, wrote to offer his condolences. He enclosed one of the Society’s pamphlets, which he hoped might be of interest. The timing could not have been better. I was lonely and missing the conversations of the many scientists and colleagues my late husband had frequently invited to our home, and to whom as a widow I was denied access. Herr Gruen and I began a lengthy correspondence, during which he introduced me to many others who followed the society’s ideals. It was one of these who suggested that the World Fair was a place where we should make known our feelings and open the eyes of the public to the dangers of going against the natural order of things.

  Mr Muller’s invitation to chaperone you was like a sign from above – a clear message that I should go forth and spread the society’s word. My intention was primarily to spread a number of our pamphlets around the Fair in places where the public would come across them. However, we spent the day together, Euphemia, and I was unable to do so. If you could be persuaded to spread them now, I would be infinitely grateful. I do not believe that offering a different point of view is a seditious or evil action. However, after what subsequently occurred I will understand if you feel unable to do so.’

  ‘I should bally say so,’ interrupted Bertram. ‘The cheek of the woman!’

  I continued. ‘Though I declined your invitation to join you at the demonstration tonight, I did actually leave before you. My intention was to spread my pamphlets on the seats of the attendees. A foolish plan as it was impossible to enter the front hall. The seating arena for the visitors was most well-guarded. I presume because of the vast demand for seats that night. I was about to retire in despair when the most fortuitous event occurred. Or so it seemed at the time.

  I was passing the rear of the Pavilion when I saw Monsieur Toussaint and a younger man, I presume his helper, arguing. I heard a crash of glass and then Monsieur Toussaint shouting words that I did not need to know French to understand. The younger man was sent running – I suspect to replace the broken item – and Monsieur Toussaint himself, who seemed most overwrought, took himself off on a tour of the rose bushes to calm down. I took this as my chance. I changed the settings on the machine. I cannot say what I did because I do not understand how the thing works. I only prayed for God to guide my hand and for me to do his work.

  I was wrong. Whatever I did undoubtedly caused the death of Monsieur Toussaint. I have broken the most serious of the commandments. I cannot live with what I have done so I have chosen to take my own life.

  I only ask that you persuade my daughter to give up her Godless study of medicine.

  Yours

  Eugenie Brown (Mrs)’

  ‘I thought that was never going to end,’ said Bertram, mopping his brow once more. ‘She did rather rush the ending,’ I said. ‘The whole tone seemed to change.’

  ‘I expect she felt that if she was going to do it she’d better get on with it,’ said Bertram.

  The senior officer asked a number of questions and I was made to read passages over and over again. By the time he was satisfied I felt truly wrung out and in need of lying down and resting.

  As we emerged from the dimness of the police station Bertram said stoutly, ‘What we need is luncheon.’

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ said Rory. ‘You may not realise it, but you need a decent meal. I suggest we go and find somewhere in the Fair rather than the slop they serve up at our hotel.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Bertram. ‘Grab us a hire, McLeod.’

  And before I could summon the energy to protest, they had pushed me into a cab.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Things do not make sense

  We ended up at the Fair having a very British luncheon without sausages or cheese. I could not tell you what else we ate nor even where we ate. My head span. I was not only drained, but extremely confused.

  ‘At least,’ Bertram said between sips of coffee, ‘the local police are happy it’s a suicide. That means there is no reason for the Embassy to get involved beyond informing the poor woman’s relatives and, er, dealing with the body.’

  Rory, who was sitting with us as an equal, usually a sign we were working on some problem together, said, ‘Aye, that’s good. We won’t be having to deal with that Fitzroy mannie.’

  ‘I was surprised that they didn’t ask more questions about how she knew what to do with the machine,’ said Bertram.

  ‘It wasn't one of their nationals that got killed, was it? I was wondering if the Pavilions are like embassies – you know, if something goes on there, it’s taken to have happened on the soil of the embassy’s homeland?’ said Rory.

  ‘Never really got that,’ said Bertram. ‘The idea that there are small bits of London that are Germany or France or even America!’

  ‘I suspect everyone wants to sweep the whole incident under the carpet. It reflects badly on everyone from Toussaint to France to the Fair. After all, it may be that nothing Mrs Brown did cause the accident that killed him. I mean, I would imagine that Toussaint’s assistant would have checked everything before he turned it on. Did she not say in that letter that she fiddled with the switches when the machinery was outside the Pavilion?’ said Rory.

  ‘Lord, you mean she might have killed herself over nothing?’ said Bertram. ‘What a tragedy.’

  ‘Aye, well, poor woman was unhinged, wasn’t she? We’re lucky she didn't decide to murder either you or Euphemia in your beds. Especially Euphemia being so, well, Euphemia-like. Hardly the demure, God-fearing little maid she might have expected she was to take care of.’

  ‘She’s not being very Euphemia-like at the moment,’ said Bertram. ‘She hasn’t said a word all the way through luncheon.’

  ‘Shock,’ said Rory.

  ‘She’s seen far worse,’ said Bertram. ‘Do you think she is ill?’

  ‘She is neither ill nor deaf,’ I said testily. ‘Things don’t feel right.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Bertram. ‘It’s all nicely tied up. Leave the dead in peace.’

  ‘It’s not our business,’ said Rory. ‘If you want to bother anyone, send Hans Muller a telegram.’

  ‘Actually, they’re doing mail by air here,’ said Bertram excitedly. ‘Sacks of mail flying through the air – in aeroplanes of course, not on their own. That would be silly. But tremendously exciting, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, I don’t want to bother Hans. He’ll have enough to handle with Richenda.’

  ‘You don’t want him to demand you come home now you’ve nae chaperone,’ said Rory.

  ‘Hans would not bother about that,’ I said. Fury crossed Rory’s face. ‘He,’ I said forcefully, ‘trusts me.’

  ‘Aye, yon mannie trusts everyone and look where that’s got him.’

  ‘Why would she go back to the hotel to write her suicide note?’ I asked.

  ‘She did not mean to kill anyone,’ said Bertram. ‘So she would hardly have had it with her.’

  ‘But we could have run into her. Besides, I got up several times in the night. I even knocked on her door. I don’t believe she was there any time that night.’

  ‘She hurried up to the demonstration before us. Maybe she did not come back until after us.’

  ‘How could she have done?’ I asked. ‘She went up to bed barely ten minutes before we left.’

  ‘Oh, it was longer than that,’ said Bertram.

  ‘No, it was not.’

  ‘Who said she ever went up to her room?’ said Rory. ‘Perhaps she went out another door ahead of us. And perhaps when she did return, whenever that was, she wrote her letter in the parlour? None of what is assumed to have happened is not possib
le.’

  I shook my head. ‘I cannot make the times add up.’

  ‘We do not know the proper times,’ said Bertram. ‘She wrote the letter in some distress of mind. Who is to say she did not write it the next day? Before breakfast. I can imagine her wandering about distressed with what had happened and not returning to the hotel until long after we had retired for the night.’

  ‘Or maybe she got the date wrong,’ said Rory. ‘I doubt she was thinking clearly.’

  ‘But would anyone take the time to write such a long letter and then return to the Fair – passing back and forth through the entrance way and presumably being observed – and then throw herself in the lake?’

  ‘She had rocks in her pocket, Euphemia. There is no doubt she intended to die.’

  ‘Did she have any other marks on her? Why rocks? Where did they come from? Why such a public place and where did she leave the letter?’

  ‘Under a rock next to where she drowned,’ said Bertram. ‘I didn’t think you needed to know all the gory details.’

  ‘There are rock gardens everywhere,’ said Rory.

  ‘But which one did she take the rocks from? Why did no one see her? We know almost nothing about the details,’ I protested. ‘Why did she write to me? Why not her daughter! And her letter, so long in places and so short in others. It makes no sense.’

  ‘Of course it doesn't lass. She wasnae in her right mind,’ said Rory. ‘Will you leave this be? You’ll only fret yourself into a state.’

  ‘I wish they had let us take a copy of the letter. It was addressed to me. Can I not demand it back? It is my property. She meant me to have it!’ My voice rose unbecomingly towards the end of my speech.

  ‘I think it is time we went back to the hotel,’ said Bertram. ‘You need a rest, Euphemia.’

  ‘I do not. I need to go back to the police station. Bertram, you must come with me.’

  ‘No, Euphemia,’ said Bertram firmly. ‘We are going to the hotel. If you do not stop this nonsense as the head of the party I will summon a doctor and have him give you something to make you rest.’