The Woman Died Thrice

by Evelyn James

  But he had stirred something in Tommy, rattled a demon that usually lurked safely in its cage. Tommy had a temper and he had never tolerated bullies. He jumped from his chair far faster than he thought possible and raced across the room to Blake, then he snatched the man by the coat collar and dragged him back into the room. Slamming him up against the wall, knocking a picture frame sideways he stared Blake straight in the eyes.

  “This isn’t the trenches, and I am not one of your men,” he hissed at him. “So don’t try and threaten me. I didn’t spend four years up to my neck in Belgium mud to be intimidated by the likes of you. I survived that war, I fought it. If you want to discover just how tough I am you are going the right way about it.”

  Blake licked his lips, but had deflated. Like many a bully he was cowed by his victims retaliating. He gave another chuckle, this one more nervous.

  “I don’t doubt you are tough. Four years is nothing to be sniffed at.”

  Tommy released him and stepped back. They squared up eye-to-eye, but there was no fight in Blake.

  “She wasn’t a woman to lose your temper over,” Blake said, still a slight smile to his face. He went out the door with no further word.

  Tommy gave it a moment, then he stumbled back and had to hastily find a chair to sit down in. His legs had not appreciated his sudden action and felt shaky. He sat and caught his breath, realising he had come very close to striking Captain Blake. Where had that fury come from? Tommy shut his eyes and calmed himself. Blake had triggered something within him, something angry and terrible. But it was gone now and there was no harm done. If anything Blake would think twice about infuriating Tommy again. He took a deep breath. If nothing else he had learned something useful, something that would interest Clara. For if anyone seemed like the sort of person to murder their aunt it was Captain Blake.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning the charabanc party were due to travel to Coniston Water and to explore the ancient ruins of Furness Abbey. Mr Wignell seemed back on form after his bout of the doldrums the day before. His confession to Clara had clearly eased his mind. He informed everyone at breakfast that Coniston Water was the third largest lake in the Lake District, a good five miles long and half a mile wide. It had two true islands and one partial island. This geographic information excited Mr Wignell a great deal and he delighted in telling anyone who would listen how the lake had been formed during the ice age by a glacier.

  Clara had offered instructions to Tommy and Annie that it might be advisable to ‘divide and conquer’ during the drive to the lake. So they all agreed to discreetly spread themselves out on the charabanc and talk to someone else other than themselves. Tommy was still a little ruffled by his encounter with Captain Blake the night before, but since the Captain had not decided to join their expedition (in fact he had not come down to breakfast) he could try to relax and forget what had occurred. Clara had been quite firm in her assessment of Blake – after Tommy had explained what had happened – as an oaf and a fool. She was quite prepared to tell him so to his face if needs be. Tommy replied he would much rather see his lights knocked out. Clara mused on this and then stated that she was quite prepared to do that as well. Tommy gently informed her that if anyone was going to knock Captain Blake’s lights out it would be him. He really didn’t need his baby sister fighting his corner.

  Clara found herself a seat on the charabanc next to Eleanora Smythe. There was a good reason for choosing to sit next to the bashful spinster – she had claimed to have received a box of marzipan fruits, just as Mrs Hunt had. Clara thought the box could be useful evidence. Untouched it might reveal if the fruits contained poison, and thus would lend substance to Mrs Hunt’s earlier claims that someone had tried to poison her. Clara could only assume, as Miss Smythe seemed a very unlikely murder victim, that the poisoner had accidentally delivered the marzipan to the wrong room. It was intriguing to note that before Mrs Hunt insisted on a room change, she had been situated right next door to Miss Smythe.

  Clara sat next to the woman who had already acquired the window seat.

  “Oh,” Miss Smythe glanced up as she sat down. “Miss Fitzgerald.”

  “You don’t mind me sitting near you?” Clara asked with a smile. “We boarded a little late, you see, and have to spread ourselves about the seats.”

  “No, of course not, but if you would like me to move and allow you a seat for your brother, or friend…”

  “Nonsense! I would never ask such a thing. You are clearly quite settled there. Please remain where you are.”

  The charabanc rolled off and took to its gentle perambulation of the country lanes.

  “Are you enjoying your holiday Miss Smythe?” Clara asked her neighbour.

  “I thought I would enjoy it more than I am,” Miss Smythe admitted with a sigh.

  “The tragedy on Monday rather dented the holiday atmosphere,” Clara nodded.

  “Oh, it was before that…” Miss Smythe stopped herself and bit her lip. “Yes, Monday was awful.”

  Clara wondered what she had been about to say, but knew prying would not release the truth from such a cautious soul.

  “Still, there are several more days to go and we shall endeavour to make the most of them,” Clara said brightly. “I hear tell you had a small gift sent to your room?”

  Miss Smythe looked at her blankly.

  “Perhaps I was mistaken,” Clara said apologetically. “I just wondered how one went about getting presented with a tin of marzipan fruits. I am rather fond of them.”

  “The fruits!” Miss Smythe suddenly understood, then she blushed furiously at having been so absent-minded in the first place. “I had quite forgotten mentioning it.”

  “You only seem able to buy them at Christmas usually,” Clara continued as if she had not heard. “I really rather fancy some. Were they purchased locally?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Miss Smythe was still blushing. “I really do not eat them.”

  “Then, might I be awful and ask to buy them off you?” Clara persisted. “I would be quite happy to offer you the value of the tin.”

  “Ah,” Miss Smythe shook her head. “I threw them away, I do apologise. I do not eat them and someone told me that Mrs Hunt had taken ill after receiving a similar gift. I thought perhaps the batch was bad and disposed of them. It happens sometimes.”

  “What a shame,” Clara did not need to feign disappointment, she had hoped the marzipan might have been part of the key to this mystery. “Perhaps the tin would have the name of the shop on it? Or the maker? So I might know where to purchase some.”

  “I… I gave the tin to one of the maids in the hotel,” Miss Smythe said, looking flustered now. “She mentioned something about needing a new container for her pins and needles, so I offered her the tin.”

  “A very kindly act,” Clara assured her.

  Miss Smythe looked somewhat distressed by the conversation and Clara wondered if she had perhaps been too forceful with her questions. Perhaps Miss Smythe was one of those people who feel awful when they let others down, even when it is not their fault. Clara hoped she would not feel guilty that she had given away the tin before she could see it.

  As it was, Miss Smythe was reluctant to make any more conversation for the rest of the journey and resigned herself to answering anything Clara said with little mumbles of assent or dissent, and nothing further. Clara had gained no further information by the time they reached Coniston Water.

  The lake was truly beautiful. It was surrounded by tree covered slopes and glimmered in the sunlight. To the north-west rose the fells, including the one known as the Old Man of Coniston. The party were to spend a couple of hours admiring the lake, then they would reboard the charabanc and travel towards the coast and the ruins of Furness Abbey. It was going to be a long day as the trip to the abbey would take a good couple of hours and then they must travel all the way back. A hearty picnic had been provided by the hotel to sustain their guests’ spirits.

  Clara took
out her new sketching book and found a suitable rock that she could prop herself on and observe the view. Folding back the cover of the sketching book and removing a pencil from the brass tin Tommy had given her, she settled to drawing, after all, this was her holiday too and she was entitled to a little break from investigating. She had been at this activity for about half an hour, and had a reasonable drawing forming on the paper – certainly nothing spectacular but respectable for an amateur – when she sensed that someone was standing behind her. She glanced up and saw Miss Plante staring over her shoulder. The old woman was quite short-sighted and had to peer through a pair of half-moon glasses balanced on the tip of her nose.

  “Excuse my curiosity, Miss Fitzgerald,” the old woman said, though clearly not in the least fazed by being noticed. “You draw well.”

  “I have not picked up a pencil in years,” Clara responded, not being particularly unsettled by her observer.

  “Might I ask how goes your investigation?” Miss Plante said, edging herself around the rock Clara sat on and lowering herself very genteelly to sit upon it. She was a bird-like creature, who looked fit to be blown away by the slightest breeze. She rested both hands, one atop the other, on the handle of her walking cane.

  “Investigation?” Clara feigned ignorance.

  “Please do not belittle me, Miss Fitzgerald. I know you are investigating the sudden demise of Mrs Hunt.”

  “What is there to investigate?” Clara answered honestly enough. “The woman appears to have drowned.”

  “And yet that in itself raises so many questions. Was she suicidal? Did she slip? Why did she not call for help? I was not in any sense fond of the woman, I met her only on Saturday and it struck me that she was one of those individuals who delights in making the world a little more unpleasant for her fellow human being,” Miss Plante allowed herself a small smile. “But she was also an old woman, as am I, and I don’t like the idea of people going about assuming they can do away with old women, even when they are cantankerous and rude.”

  “I don’t think Mrs Hunt’s age was a consideration in the matter,” Clara said lightly. “That is, if she was murdered, and I might add the police do not think that the case.”

  “And of course the police know everything,” Miss Plante said with just the right amount of sarcasm in her tone that you could almost have missed it if you had not been paying attention. “You are investigating Miss Fitzgerald, of that I am certain. I witnessed your quiet conversation with Mr Wignell. His daughter’s death, so similar to that of Mrs Hunt, was tragic and I could quite understand if he resented the woman.”

  Clara looked up sharply.

  “I am partially deaf, Miss Fitzgerald,” Miss Plante waved a hand at her ear. “I lip-read very well and it masks my disability. I watched Mr Wignell’s mouth as he talked. He forms his words very precisely and with a great deal of movement of the lips. I gathered the essence of your conversation.”

  “You will not share the information?” Clara asked her.

  “Of course not! I consider such things a private matter, and I am the soul of discretion. But, you see, it made me wonder just who else might have known Mrs Hunt before seeing her on this charabanc.”

  “That I cannot answer.”

  “But you are looking into the matter?”

  Clara conceded in the face of the woman’s determination, even if she said she was not Miss Plante would not believe her, so why lie?

  “Yes, I am investigating.”

  “On whose behalf?”

  “Mrs Hunt’s,” Clara said simply. “She asked for my assistance before she passed. She feared someone intended her harm.”

  “I see,” Miss Plante rested her chin on her hands and stared out over the water. “Strange how life tends to catch up with one. The deeds we perform in our youth and which we forget about so easily, have a tendency to find one again when age has cast its withering spell upon you. No one tells the young this, yet it is a most valuable and worthwhile lesson. Imagine if we lived our younger years with the knowledge that our actions will one day seek us out and pay us back for our sins?”

  “That is a sad thought, for the last few years have seen many commit awful sins,” Clara noted.

  “It is a thought that I think haunted Mrs Hunt constantly,” Miss Plante said solemnly. “The old tend to seek each other out. I spoke with her the night before she died. I found her a most disagreeable creature but, at the same time, I sensed that she had a burning desire to make amends. The problem was, her wickedness was so ingrown that she found it hard to prevent it spilling out. So she offended others without even giving it a thought. That is the sadness of it all. I hope she is at peace now, though perhaps many would not.”

  Miss Plante raised herself stiffly from the rock.

  “What makes you seek out the truth, Miss Fitzgerald? It cannot be for a love of the woman.”

  “It is for a love of justice,” Clara said calmly. “Murder, under most circumstances, is a most vile act. Perhaps Mrs Hunt threw herself in the lake, or fell in by accident, but I fear someone wished her harm and harm has now befallen her. I find myself coming to only one conclusion, that a murder has been committed and a woman has perished just at the moment she appears to have been trying to make amends for her past misdeeds. That cannot be allowed to stand.”

  “And what if you find the murderer was justified? Perhaps performing their own undeniable justice?”

  Clara considered this for a while, the water of the lake rippling a short distance away and the birds chattering in the trees.

  “I think that unlikely, but, as you know, I am not the police and I can make my own decisions on the subject.”

  “Very well,” Miss Plante gave her a sage smile, one that spoke of indulgence and the amusement of seeing the young work out a problem she had long ago solved. “Very well. Enjoy your drawing. You are, honestly, very good at it.”

  Miss Plante hobbled away. Clara watched her leave and then tried to turn her mind back to her sketching, but the impetus had gone. She could not find the energy or the concentration to finish. She tapped the pencil on the side of the book and looked away into the distance, at Old Man Coniston and the other fells. Was there a killer among them? Clara feared so. But, if there was, the motive remained a mystery. Why had Mrs Hunt died? That question rang in Clara’s mind and prevented any thought of drawing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The tour party turned their attention to the afternoon’s excursion. The driver bustled them back aboard the charabanc just on eleven o’clock in the morning, tapping at his watch and clearly concerned that their diversion might take a considerable length of time. He even risked taking the charabanc to 30mph on the long stretches to get them there sooner.

  The passengers were less concerned. They had been supplied with ample lunches in individual baskets and contented themselves on enjoying the contents and remarking on the fine nature of the weather. Once lunch was consumed and there was a risk of boredom setting in, the conductor stood up and, while holding on to the support pole just behind the driver’s seat, he regaled them with a potted history of Furness Abbey.

  “While it may be somewhat out of our way, the abbey is worth our attention as one of the great ancient monuments of Britain,” he stated, swaying to the left as the charabanc took a corner. “Furness was established as a monastery in 1123 and passed to the Cistercians in 1147. The ruins are made of sandstone and largely date from the original construction in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It became one of the richest monasteries in the country, but was sadly destroyed during Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries.

  “For those of you partial to folklore, there are legends of a tunnel under the abbey which hides both the Holy Grail and the lost jewels of King John. And, if you are of a sensitive nature, do mind the sandstone arch near the abbey tavern, where the ghost of a headless monk on horseback is said to appear.”

  The party gave a suitable chuckle of derision at this conclusion to the other
wise factual history. But the brief talk had served its purpose and gave the passengers something to think about and discuss for the remainder of the journey.

  Clara had not sat next to Miss Smythe again. The woman seemed to be positively avoiding her and had wedged herself beside Mrs Crimp. Clara found she was restored to her friends and sat on the long bench at the back of the charabanc next to Annie and Tommy. Annie asked after Clara’s drawing, and Clara produced the book and the half completed image.

  “Miss Plante distracted me,” Clara said to excuse her unfinished composition. “She is very curious about this matter.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Tommy noted. “There must be an inquest soon. You and Annie will have to give evidence.”

  “Oh, tosh!” Annie declared stoutly, being actually utterly appalled by the idea of standing up before a host of strangers and talking. “They won’t need that for a drowning, will they?”

  “All unexplained deaths are put before an inquest to determine, by jury, the cause, or whether further measures must be taken,” Clara broke the news to her gently.

  Annie pulled a face.

  “I shan’t be going to it, in any case,” Annie muttered.

  “I’m afraid, old love, you won’t have a choice,” Tommy squeezed her hand and tried to soften the blow. “Hopefully they will have the sense to hold it before we all have to go back to Brighton.”

  Clara said nothing. She didn’t want there to be an inquest before she had a handle on her own investigations.

  The charabanc pulled up near the abbey ruins in the early afternoon. The sun was still shining and the party were quite jolly as they disembarked. Clara took up her sketching book, determined to make some drawings of the ruins which were nothing if not picturesque. Tommy and Annie declared they were going to wander around and examine the old stone rooms. Clara set herself on a piece of fallen masonry and eyed up a large arched window that she supposed had once contained medieval stained glass. Now it just gaped open, framing a section of wall and the branches of a tree. Clara stared at it for a while, deciding which angle might make the most attractive drawing, and then set to work.