by Evelyn James
So far she had found nothing enlightening, but perhaps Mrs Hunt chose to keep important items elsewhere? Clara opened the drawers in the dresser, then went to the bedside table. She opened its drawer and found that Mrs Hunt had stored a romance novel inside – that alone was a surprising find considering the woman! Clara lifted up the book, but it seemed ordinary enough, it was as she went to put it back that the pages fluttered open and a slip of paper fell to the floor. Clara bent and picked the paper up.
“What is that?” Mr Stover asked, though from the safety of the far side of the bed in case Clara started pulling out underwear again.
“A list of names,” Clara said, pulling a frown as she read. The people named were all travelling on the charabanc. Was this a suspect list Mrs Hunt had compiled?
“Does it tell us next of kin?” Mr Stover asked hopefully.
“No,” Clara answered.
“Then you must put it back,” Mr Stover said stoutly.
Clara glowered at him, but he was not to be deterred. She insisted on writing the names down in her own notebook for future reference, then returned the paper to its place between the book pages, and restored the novel to the drawer.
They were done at last and Mr Stover was eager to have Clara out of the room. He shuffled her into the corridor quite brusquely and then locked the room up again. Clara wanted to say something, but decided keeping silent was more prudent. She would likely need more help from Mr Stover as yet. But the list was curious – why had Mrs Hunt listed those names? There was no order to them that Clara could see, but that just meant she did not know the order Mrs Hunt had put to them. But it was a clue, Clara was sure of that, and she would follow it up no matter what Inspector Gateley thought.
Chapter Fourteen
Mr Stover was rather acting like a man with a guilty conscience as they headed back downstairs. He was upset at having to prod around in a guest’s bedroom. Clara thought it rather a cowardly way of thinking, after all, it was his hotel and he was fully entitled to enter a deceased guest’s room and make arrangements for her belongings. Clara decided that Mr Stover took his guest’s privacy a little too seriously and needed to remember that a woman had met her end a lot sooner than she should have. Mr Stover also didn’t seem to like the fact that Clara insisted on following him back to the front desk, he rather felt she was putting him in a very difficult position. What if the police did suddenly decide to take an interest in Mrs Hunt’s death? He could hardly lie if they asked him if anyone had been in Mrs Hunt’s room after her demise, and then he would have to explain his actions. No, he was really most concerned about this pushy woman who seemed to poke her nose into his business. He should never have agreed to let Clara into the room at all.
Mr Stover was hoping to be able to shut himself away in his office, but Clara spoke before he had that chance.
“Might I use your telephone?”
Mr Stover hoped to put her off so he could retreat to his private office.
“There will be a necessary charge for making a call.”
“Naturally,” Clara said without hesitation. “Telephone calls do not come cheaply, but this really is important.”
Mr Stover still hesitated.
“Perhaps a letter sent overnight…”
“Mr Stover,” Clara said sternly. “Are you always this unaccommodating towards your guests? All I am asking is to use the telephone and I am quite willing to pay any charges incurred as a result.”
Mr Stover sighed, glancing briefly at his office where he desperately wanted to hide himself away from the world.
“Very well,” he gave in and opened the office door to Clara.
“Thank you,” Clara said, pointedly shutting the door behind her so her call could be private.
Clara needed to know more about Mrs Hunt’s health, because it was just possible that she had been overcome by illness and had fallen into the lake. Equally, as she had no evidence to the contrary, it was also possible that there had been no poison in the tin of marzipan fruits Mrs Hunt received, and that her strange episode had been a result of the same sickness that caused her hands to shake. On the other hand, Mrs Hunt’s doctor would be well placed to give Clara the names of next of kin, because someone ought to be contacted and informed of Mrs Hunt’s death – there had to be someone who cared even just a little to know about it.
Unfortunately, Clara did not have the number for Mrs Hunt’s doctor, all she had was his name and the address of his surgery that had been printed on the label on the pill bottle she had found. Nor were telephones all that common in Brighton as yet. The best houses tended to have them, more as novelty gadgets to demonstrate their owner’s largesse than for any practical purpose, and some businesses found them valuable – for instance, Mr Hatton at the Charabanc Company had a telephone and was always using it to prepare arrangements for his latest planned trip. But they were the rarities. Clara would have to think laterally if she was to somehow get Mrs Hunt’s doctor on the ‘phone.
Her first step was to try and contact Oliver Bankes, Clara’s friend and police photographer. Oliver had his own photography shop in Brighton, inherited from his father, but he did not possess a telephone. Therefore Clara would need to find someone who did, who could then pass the message to Oliver, and Oliver could then locate Mrs Hunt’s doctor. After a moment of consideration Clara knew who she could ring. She lifted the receiver to her ear and heard the line crackle, as if somewhere a bird had picked that moment to land on the telephone wires. A feminine voice came onto the line.
“Operator speaking. Number please.”
“Brighton 16,” Clara said, hoping she had correctly remembered the number for Miss Maundy’s Post Office. Miss Maundy was a woman with a keen sense of the way the world was turning and had decided to have a telephone installed at her Post Office that the public could use for a small charge. It was not so far-fetched an idea, considering they already had the telegraph for receiving messages and the ‘phone was only a more advanced form of communication using wires. Miss Maundy was very accommodating with her telephone, particularly as she charged callers a penny per minute of use.
The line rang for several moments, the operator briefly came back on the line to ask if Clara wished to persist.
“Yes, do,” Clara told her. “No doubt Miss Maundy is too busy to answer just yet.”
The operator fell silent and the phone continued to ring. Clara was half expecting the operator to return and inform her she should put the ‘phone down when Miss Maundy herself answered.
“Brighton Post Office,” she declared in her best King’s English.
“Miss Maundy, its Clara Fitzgerald.”
“Oh Miss Fitzgerald! I have a parcel for you. I sent the boy round to let you know, but no one was at home.”
“No, I am currently on holiday in the Lake District.”
Miss Maundy made an approving noise.
“About time you took a holiday. You were beginning to look rather pale. How is the foot?”
“Improving daily,” Clara lied agreeably. “I wonder Miss Maundy if you might be able to send someone to fetch Oliver Bankes to your ‘phone? I must speak with him at once.”
“At once, you say?” there was a pause on the line as if Miss Maundy was glancing around to see who was available. “Ah, the boy has just returned. Peter, go fetch Mr Bankes from his shop and tell him I have Miss Fitzgerald on the telephone for him!”
There was another moment of silence.
“Peter’s gone to fetch him,” Miss Maundy assured Clara. “I hope nothing is seriously amiss.”
“Oh, no, no, just trying to help out someone here.”
“They aren’t taking advantage of you, are they Miss Fitzgerald? You are supposed to be having a nice peaceful holiday,” Miss Maundy had adopted a stern tone that sounded altogether too much like Annie for comfort.
Clara wondered why so many people felt the need to fuss around her? Did she really give the impression of someone who failed to take proper care o
f their health? Clara considered herself quite robust in that sense.
“No, no, just helping someone out by finding a name for them, that’s all,” Clara promised.
“Hmm, well don’t let them monopolise your time. Now, I have a customer and must get on. I shall leave the ‘phone off its hook until Mr Bankes arrives.”
“Thank you.”
The line went quiet and Clara sat idly staring at her fingernails and wondering if she really did look rather pale. Clara felt perfectly fit and healthy, aside from her foot, yet Miss Maundy’s comments had given her a pang of worry. Perhaps she was working too hard?
She was spared any further musing by the arrival on the ‘phone line of Oliver Bankes, who sounded out-of-breath, as if he had run across from his shop.
“Everything all right Clara?” he asked anxiously.
“Perfectly,” Clara told him. “I am fine, Oliver, nothing to worry about.”
“Oh good! It was just so strange to hear you had telephoned for me I started to worry you had taken on a case!”
Clara gave a slight cough.
“Supposing I had taken on a case?”
“Clara! You are meant to be on holiday! Do you know what a holiday is? It involves relaxing and reading a book and getting utterly, utterly bored. Not taking on cases!”
Clara rather found the way everyone berated her for doing her job a little offensive. Did everyone in Brighton feel the need to concern themselves with her wellbeing? Did she seem such a hopeless case?
“Look, Oliver, I am relaxing and reading and I am utterly, utterly bored,” she said, unable to mask her cross tone. “But a woman died here yesterday and the police are being awfully useless.”
“So you are taking over the matter?” Oliver said with a gentle sigh.
“The woman confessed her fears to me only the other night,” Clara responded, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. “Now, while I can’t say for certain yet that she was murdered, it looks awfully like it and I need to make a few discreet enquiries. If I do not the police will chalk this up to accidental drowning and a killer will escape.”
“All right, I understand,” Oliver attempted to appease her. “As long as you are also going out to see the sights and getting plenty of fresh air and rest.”
“Honestly, you are worse than Annie! I have been out, in fact, I was out so much yesterday my foot is now protesting, so I am taking some time off sight-seeing today. Are you satisfied? I might add they are feeding us as if we just survived a famine, I have never felt so stuffed in my life! And there even happens to be a doctor in the hotel, who has been good enough to look at my foot. So, you see, I am amply taken care of!”
“Steady on, I grasp that you are being well looked after,” Oliver chuckled lightly down the line.
“Sorry Oliver,” Clara apologised. “I just rather feel that people imagine I am incapable of taking care of myself. I had Miss Maundy lecturing me before you came on the line.”
“No more lectures,” Oliver promised. “I am sure Annie has those all sorted anyway. Now, what has happened that you need my help? You say a woman has died?”
Oliver whispered the last sentence, not wishing to cause a stir in the Post Office; public telephones were not particularly private, after all.
“Yes, the woman was Mrs Hunt and it seems she fell into a lake yesterday and drowned. No one knows much about her, or at least they won’t admit to knowing anything to me. I am hoping to find some next of kin at least, to offer her belongings to. I came across a bottle of pills in her belongings and the doctor named on the label is a Brighton man. I would dearly like to talk to him.”
“What is the name?” Oliver asked.
“Dr Day-Bowers,” Clara said, referring to the notes she had made. “I didn’t recognise the name of the medicine. He has a surgery in the Avenue, number 52.”
“I’ve written that down,” Oliver assured her down the line. “Is there anything else?”
“If you could arrange for Dr Day-Bowers to ring me on this telephone, unless he happens to have his own he could use, then that would be perfect,” Clara read off the hotel’s telephone number from a printed slip of paper stuck on the base of the ‘phone.
“I’ll get on to it straight away,” Oliver told her. “Now go enjoy some sunshine, if you have any.”
Clara glanced out of the office window and saw Mr Stover glaring at her and tapping his watch.
“First I have to appease the hotel manager who I appear to have offended.”
“Oh Clara!” Oliver laughed.
“He is remarkably sensitive,” Clara said stiffly. “Thank you Oliver, in any case.”
Oliver said his goodbyes and hung up. Clara put down the receiver before the operator could come back on the line, then rose to speak with Mr Stover again. There was one last thing she needed to discuss with him.
Mr Stover was looking impatient when she exited his office. It was nearly half an hour since she had gone inside to use his telephone and he was not pleased.
“Please place the charges on my bill,” Clara said calmly. “And there is one other thing.”
Mr Stover seemed to slump a fraction, as if he was convinced he would never get rid of this woman who was determined to torment him.
“Yes?”
“I take it you are not in the habit of leaving gifts for your guests in their rooms?”
“Gifts?” Mr Stover raised his eyebrows in a perfect look of surprise.
“I thought not. Miss Smythe received a box of marzipan fruits in her room, however, she does not care for them and it seems unlikely they were intended for her. In any case, she has been advised to bring them to you.”
“Marzipan fruits?” Mr Stover’s voice had taken on a comical edge to it, he seemed quite aghast at all this.
“When she brings this tin to you, might I request you advise me of it? I am concerned that the sweets may contain something harmful.”
“What…” Mr Stover shook his head and decided further questions would only prolong his torment. “Yes, yes, I’ll do that.”
Clara nodded.
“Thank you, Mr Stover. I will be expecting a telephone message later on.”
Mr Stover grumbled under his breath as he finally returned to his office, and shut the door firmly behind him. Clara couldn’t say how she had managed to so offend him, but clearly she had. She limped her way through to the hotel’s sun lounge, her aching foot demanding she sit down. Hopefully Oliver would be able to find the doctor, but whether that would provide any answers was another matter.
Clara sat in a chair that faced the tall windows overlooking the lawn. It was a slightly overcast day and the garden had that damp look about it that only occurs in spring. Clara thought of Mrs Hunt. Who was this woman and why did she imagine someone was so intent to kill her? And what was important about the list of names she had made? Clara glanced at her notebook, but the names seemed to have no rhyme or reason to them. Why would anyone off this list want Mrs Hunt dead? Clara settled into her chair and thought over her own conversations with Mrs Hunt. Nothing particularly revealing. Only that the woman seemed to attract misfortune. Perhaps it was all as simple as that – misfortune? Well, perhaps the doctor could shed some light on the matter, for the moment it was all a mystery. One thing Clara did know, despite Oliver’s warnings, investigating the death of Mrs Hunt was proving far more interesting and distracting than any holiday!
Chapter Fifteen
Clara watched the world go by. It was quite therapeutic. Just outside the tall windows of the sun lounge, on the patio, sat Miss Plante and Miss Soloman. They had clearly decided they would rather sit quietly in the sunshine than go on another excursion. Miss Plante was wrapped up in a shawl, just her head protruding from a heavy layer of knitted Arran wool. Miss Soloman was reading to her from an Elizabeth Gaskell novel in a hushed tone. Clara couldn’t hear what she said.
“Miss Fitzgerald?”
Clara glanced up and saw Henry Wignell standing at her side, one
hand resting on the wing of her chair.
“Did you not go to Derwentwater, Mr Wignell?” Clara was a little surprised to see him. Henry Wignell struck her as a person who would take any opportunity to explore the English countryside.
“Yesterday rather unsettled us,” Mr Wignell said very solemnly. He lowered himself into the chair next to Clara’s. He did look extremely deflated, his usual exuberance seemingly lost.
“I am sure you must know some interesting facts about Derwentwater,” Clara tried to distract him. “I would have loved to have gone, only my foot hurts too much. Possibly you could tell me something of what I am missing?”
Mr Wignell was staring out the window at Miss Plante and Miss Soloman, he didn’t seem to have quite heard Clara.
“Lake Windermere is known for its drownings. Most are accidental. Boats overturned, or sudden storms taking swimmers by surprise. And then you have the suicides,” Mr Wignell said instead. “The history of it all is quite appalling. Why would anyone ever wish to go near such a place after hearing all that?”
Clara wasn’t sure what to say. Mr Wignell seemed unduly distraught by Mrs Hunt’s tragic demise the day before. Certainly it was shocking, but not the sort of thing to dwell on.
“I hear Derwentwater has several islands within the lake, one being named after a seventh century priest,” Clara said, hoping to lure Mr Wignell off these gloomy thoughts. “Its name may mean ‘river with oak trees’, or so the booklet Mr Hatton provided states.”
“It is three miles long, by one mile wide and 72 feet deep,” Mr Wignell joined in, though without losing his morose demeanour. “One of the islands is inhabited and bears an eighteenth century house.”
“Now that would be very interesting to see,” Clara nodded. “Though I don’t suppose it is open to the public.”
