The Woman Died Thrice

by Evelyn James

  “And the box?”

  Mrs Hunt pointed to the floor down beside the dresser. From the angle Clara stood she could not see behind the dresser but, when she walked towards it, she spotted a small box lying on the floor. It was made of tin and very prettily enamelled with pink flowers on a green background. It was, indeed, the sort of tin people sent Christmas gifts in and it was only just large enough to contain four marzipan fruits. Clara opened the tin and smelt inside; she caught the scent of almonds, unsurprisingly since that is what marzipan is made of, she could also smell the metallic odour of the tin. But nothing else struck her. She turned over the little box and looked to see if it had a maker’s name underneath. There was a small label, the sort used to discreetly price goods in quality shops. Clara read the name and realised this tin had been bought in the last village they passed through. The one with the Post Office that sold souvenirs. She had spotted a sweet shop two doors down from the Post Office, but had paid little heed at the time. Now it appeared someone had bought sweets there and handed them to Mrs Hunt. But was it really an attempt to poison her? Or had some other illness overcome Mrs Hunt and she had wrongly associated it with the marzipan? In any case, Clara thought it prudent to keep the tin.

  “Mrs Hunt,” Clara returned to the bedside. “Why would anyone on this trip wish you harm? Surely they are all strangers to you?”

  “Strangers or not, someone left that box for me. Can you deny it?”

  Clara could not deny the tin, though she was uncertain about its contents.

  “I really am quite tired now,” Mrs Hunt rubbed a hand wearily over her forehead. “I just wanted to let someone know.”

  “I should call a doctor if you suspect you have been poisoned,” Clara repeated.

  “No! I don’t want the fuss!” Mrs Hunt glowered at her. It was an aggressive, even a threatening look. Clara decided she had no more time for this woman.

  “Then I shall return to my bed,” Clara replied, heading to the door and mightily glad to be going.

  “Miss Fitzgerald!” Mrs Hunt called out one last time. “If anything should occur to me… Well, I have given you due warning.”

  Clara did not understand what she meant. Was she warning her that if someone harmed Mrs Hunt Clara would be seen to have failed? Or merely wishing to warn her that something might happen and Clara would need to investigate it? Whichever it was, Clara was too tired to care anymore.

  “Goodnight Mrs Hunt.”

  Clara left the room and headed down to her own. She spotted the hotel owner hovering by her door, clearly waiting to hear what had gone on after he had left.

  “Is the lady all right?” he asked, looking flustered.

  “She seems so,” Clara answered, thinking it would take more than poisoned marzipan to see off such a creature as Mrs Hunt. “I don’t suppose you leave little gifts for your guests in tins like this?”

  She showed the hotel owner the tin. He shook his head.

  “Gifts? We don’t leave our guests gifts. How odd a thing?”

  Clara had expected such an answer, after all, there had been no tin in her room to welcome her. If it was hotel policy, why had she been missed out?

  She thanked the hotel owner and went to her room, locking the door behind her and deciding that if someone knocked for her in the night again she would not answer. She went back to mixing a glass of bicarbonate of soda with water and dropped the marzipan tin unceremoniously in her luggage. What a load of nonsense! Mrs Hunt had been taken bad, perhaps with a coughing fit or something like that. Clara had already noted the tremble in her hands. She was not a well woman. Probably this was yet another symptom of her condition which she wrongly attributed to poison. Still, it was rather strange that someone, presumably from the charabanc crowd, had left Mrs Hunt a gift. But people do strange things without there being any evil intent behind them. Clara decided it was not something to be dwelled on. She supped her drink, which almost made her gag, and hoped to get some sleep before morning arrived and they made the next leg of their journey.

  Chapter Five

  There was no indication of the dramas of the night before when everybody boarded the charabanc the next day. The driver and his conductor seemed bright and breezy, ready for another day of endless travel. Clearly it suited them. Most of the guests were equally alert and eager to be off, having indulged in a hearty breakfast their Italian host had laid out for them. Clara had found it impossible to contemplate kedgeree and herring after her night of indigestion and declined food. Annie couldn’t even tempt her with porridge, which she insisted was a good lining for an upset stomach. Clara just wanted to avoid food altogether for a while.

  Clara had wondered if Mrs Hunt would continue her journey with them, but she should have realised that the woman was made of sterner stuff and a bout of poisoning was not about to deter her from her holiday. She appeared in the dining room looking as stern and neatly turned out as ever. There was no sign of her indisposition from the night before, though she did seem to rather glower at her fellow charabanc travellers as if she suspected them all of a conspiracy against her.

  Clara had spent most of a restless night pondering the question of whether or not Mrs Hunt had been the victim of poison. It was certainly intriguing that she had received a gift, which had clearly been made to appear to be from the hotel. That was odd. Clara had left the dining room early with the excuse that she wanted to stretch her legs and get some fresh air before they continued on their journey. She had hobbled on her walking stick around the side of the hotel and to the window that served Mrs Hunt’s room. Beneath it were some thorny rose bushes, not quite in bloom as yet. From the angle of the window Clara thought it most likely that the discarded marzipan fruit would have fallen into the bushes. She poked around with her walking stick at the base of the roses. She didn’t spot the lost sweet, but she did find a dead rat.

  It was a curious set of circumstances and Clara was just wondering whether the rat should be retrieved as evidence when she heard a yap behind her.

  “There she is!”

  She turned and spotted Tommy and Annie walking Bramble. Tommy was limping along with his own walking stick, having been sternly told by his doctor that if he wanted to recover the use of his legs he must take a short walk every morning. Clara thought they must look a right pair hobbling along together on their respective sticks. Annie had accompanied Tommy as much to keep an eye on him as to check up on Clara. She knew something was afoot. Clara didn’t turn her nose up at breakfast lightly.

  Clara stepped back from the rose bush and gestured to the window above her with her stick, almost unbalancing herself in the process.

  “Mrs Hunt was taken ill last night. She claims she was poisoned by a box of marzipan fruits left in her room,” Clara turned her stick to the rose bush. “She threw the last sweet out the window and I suspect it landed in this bush, where we find our one and only witness to the crime.”

  Clara used her stick to lift up the bottom branch of the rose bush and reveal the rat. Annie pulled a face at the sight, while Bramble tried to grab the rat and was hastily restrained.

  “You think the rat ate the sweet and died?” Tommy asked.

  “Well, it’s possible. Of course, it could have been there a while, or died of some other ratty illness.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if someone tried to kill that woman,” Annie interjected suddenly. “She has a way about her that makes enemies rather than friends.”

  “But in such a short space of time?” Clara said. “We have only been on the charabanc a day!”

  “Perhaps that is all the time it took?” Annie remarked, pulling Bramble back from the bush sharply. “So it wasn’t just indigestion that kept you awake all night?”

  “No,” Clara admitted with a blush. “I just can’t seem to get away from being a detective.”

  “Yes, well Mrs Hunt is alive, so you have no need to do any more investigating. You are supposed to be on holiday,” Annie wagged her finger at Clara. “Just
stop trying to find crimes for the sake of something to do.”

  Her tone was firm, but there was amusement in her eyes. Clara couldn’t help but smile. She shrugged and left the dead rat for nature to deal with.

  Their second day aboard the charabanc followed the pattern of the first. They stopped for morning tea at ten and Clara found herself sitting at a table with two fellow passengers who she had not spoken with before. One was a young man, with a serious face and an inclination to peer down his nose at people. The other was a woman in her twenties, dressed smartly if not expensively who had the feel of a schoolmistress about her. While they were waiting for tea and cake Clara made the introductions.

  “Clara Fitzgerald, this is my brother Tommy and our friend Annie Green.”

  “Edwin Hope,” the young man introduced himself. Hope was still young enough to be infused with the arrogance of adolescence. He didn’t look like the sort of man who took charabanc tours.

  “Madeleine Reeve,” the woman followed suit. She looked rather anxious and certainly not like someone on a holiday. She kept glancing around as if someone might suddenly ask her something or accuse of her being in the wrong place.

  “This is my first charabanc trip,” Clara told them to draw out some conversation. “Have you been to the Lakes before?”

  “Never,” Madeleine answered at once. “This is my first time away from home.”

  So she was not a schoolmistress, or at least not one that worked away from home at a boarding school. She could be a teacher at a local school.

  “Are you enjoying it so far?” Clara asked. Her tea had arrived along with a large slice of Victoria sponge and she was feeling rather queasy again.

  “I don’t know,” Madeleine gave a self-deprecating smile. “It’s all rather different.”

  “What made you decide to book the excursion?” Clara continued, wondering where a woman of Madeleine’s standing found the money for such an expensive thing as a charabanc tour.

  “Oh, well I didn’t, that is…” the woman gave a little cough. “It was a present from a friend.”

  “How nice,” Clara smiled politely. “And you Mr Hope? How do you come to be here?”

  “Curious, aren’t you?” Hope said sharply. “Typical woman, needs to know everything.”

  “Watch your tongue, old man,” Tommy grumbled like a dog that has seen a cat. “It was only a polite question.”

  Hope glanced at Tommy, contemplating arguing the issue. But, while Tommy’s infirmities might make him look like someone who would be a push-over, his confident demeanour quickly altered that perception. Tommy was a fighter through and through, he had survived a war because of his gut determination and he wasn’t someone to be taken lightly. Hope shut his mouth and concentrated on his cake.

  Clara was beginning to feel she was travelling with a coach-load of rogues. No one, except perhaps Mr Wignell and his wife, seemed typical holiday-makers. They were all rather surly and keen to be left alone – which was altogether odd when travelling with a crowd of people on a charabanc. Clara wondered if this was the usual sort of folk Mr Hatton attracted to his trips?

  “I saw you had the misfortune last night to dine with Mrs Hunt,” Madeleine spoke up, trying to ease the tension which had fallen over everyone.

  “You know her?” Clara asked.

  “Everyone knows her by now!” Madeleine laughed, though it seemed a little forced. “Mrs Siskin was not particularly discreet about how Mrs Hunt upset her friend.”

  “It was an unfortunate comment,” Clara agreed, her eyes twitching to Hope to give him the hint. “We all say them from time to time.”

  “Then she had tea dropped over her, and that poor girl got the sack,” Madeleine added.

  “The girl deserved it for being so clumsy,” Hope said, the words seeming to roll down his arrogantly long nose.

  “Yesterday I dined with the Wignells,” Madeleine pressed on, not acknowledging Hope’s interruption. “They had sat in front of Mrs Hunt that afternoon and she had complained the whole journey about this and that. Not to them, but to her unlucky neighbour on the next seat. She also said some cruel things about her fellow travellers, according to Mr Wignell.”

  “Gossip!” Hope scowled at Madeleine. “Is that all women are capable of?”

  Madeleine was cowed into silence, much to Clara’s annoyance. She decided to turn her attention on Hope.

  “You don’t feel the need to take an interest in your fellow passengers then?” she asked him bluntly.

  Hope tilted his head before saying.

  “I keep my thoughts to myself. If more of us did that then we would not be having this discussion, Mrs Hunt being a prime example of a person who clearly cannot keep her own thoughts silent.”

  “Or maybe she doesn’t care to?” Clara suggested. “Some people like to say things that hurt.”

  She held Hope’s gaze for longer than necessary and was certain he received her message. A moment later he excused himself and left his cake and tea unfinished on the table. Madeleine pressed crumbs together on her plate with her cake fork.

  “I met Edwin yesterday, he’s a student and a little full of himself,” she confided. “He doesn’t seem right for a charabanc tour, does he?”

  The similarity of this insight to Clara’s own, made her almost smile.

  “No, Mr Hope does not seem the sort.”

  “He is one of those people who seem to think the world owes them something,” Madeleine said. “You know the sort?”

  “I do,” Clara nodded. “I also know such types of people tend to end up with a lot less than they could have achieved because of the chip on their shoulder.”

  Madeleine considered this thoughtfully.

  “You know, I rather imagine that sums up Mrs Hunt.”

  It was Clara’s turn to consider this idea.

  “You know, I think you may be right.”

  ~~~*~~~

  They carried on until noon. Clara found it possible to doze in her chair if she lowered herself slightly and rested her head against the window. She woke with a stiff neck and feeling like someone had knocked her over the head for her efforts. Dinner was served as a picnic, prepared at the last stop. Unfortunately, the weather had turned to drizzle and, as beautiful as the countryside was, no one felt eager to disembark and endure English rain for the sake of it. So the picnic was served onboard and discreet toilet arrangements were prepared for those who could not wait until their next convenience break.

  Clara accepted her portion of the picnic from the conductor. It was in a cardboard box tied with string and when she opened it she found ham sandwiches, a boiled egg still in its shell, a slice of pork pie and an apple. This was sufficiently plain and rustic to restore her appetite. Annie engaged with her boiled egg with the eye of an expert; she would know at once how fresh the eggs used were and whether they had been given sufficient time in the boiling water. Tommy shovelled pork pie into his mouth with a look of satisfaction, the water pastry almost melting on his tongue. For once the entire charabanc party seemed content.

  Sadly, Mrs Hunt had to spoil it.

  “As we are all gathered so agreeably, perhaps someone would like to admit to leaving me a gift in my room last night?” she asked the passengers, sounding all too much like an accusing headmistress. “Well? Will no one admit to their act of generosity? A shy gift giver are they?”

  Aside from Clara and the person who sent Mrs Hunt the marzipan fruits (presuming they were one of the travellers) no one knew that the sweets had been poisoned. So everyone was more curious than disturbed by this question.

  “Why would someone leave you a gift?” Mrs Siskin remarked, perhaps wondering why she had not been treated to such generosity.

  “If I knew who had sent them I would be better set to answer that,” Mrs Hunt responded in a condescending tone. “All I can say is they were most delightful.”

  Mrs Siskin obviously could not understand why anyone would want to give Mrs Hunt a gift. She screwed up her roun
d, fat face.

  “Perhaps it was a friend from home?”

  “They would not know where I was staying,” Mrs Hunt corrected her. “I did not know the address of the hotel until we arrived.”

  “Perhaps they gave it to the conductor?”

  Everyone turned to the conductor and the driver, who both quickly denied any knowledge of a gift.

  “Isn’t it curious?” Mrs Hunt said in a jovial voice. “Well, if they will not declare themselves I can hardly thank them, can I?”

  Mrs Hunt finally turned to her lunch, taking a very small bite from her sandwich.

  “My word! This ham is salty!” she declared loudly and in a disparaging voice.

  Everyone ignored her, especially as no one else had noticed anything particularly salty about the ham. The atmosphere aboard the charabanc had taken a cold air, which was all the more curious considering that the real nature of Mrs Hunt’s ‘gift’ had not been revealed, and the question she had asked would have seemed innocent enough to anyone who did not know about the marzipan fruits.

  Clara found her eyes straying about the charabanc, looking to see if anyone seemed uneasy or guilty. No one did, but, then again, no one looked particularly happy either. Mrs Hunt had cast a cloud over them and it seemed the only one to be taking delight in this was the culprit herself. Mrs Hunt seemed to almost smile as she ate her salty ham. Clara suspected the woman was pleased with herself and perhaps believed she had rattled her would-be murderer (if there was one aboard). Clara saw things differently; she feared Mrs Hunt was making things worse. But what could Clara say? Nothing at all. She concentrated on peeling her hard-boiled egg and wondered why some people are so fond of unpleasantness.

  Chapter Six

  When they finally arrived at the hotel where they would be spending the next five nights Clara was most relieved. The first thing she did was retreat to her room and lock herself in, enjoying the reprieve from all the strange characters on the charabanc.

  After their picnic the atmosphere aboard the vehicle had deteriorated. Mrs Hunt’s words seemed to loom in the air for no real reason, after all, only one other person was aware that Mrs Hunt had nearly died the night before, so why should the entire charabanc party descend into melancholy? It was something in the way Mrs Hunt had burst out with her question. It had felt like an accusation, and no one could mistake that.