The Woman Died Thrice

by Evelyn James

  “Do you have an alibi?” Clara pressed, thinking Mr Hunt talked a good talk, but had yet to offer her anything tangible.

  “An alibi?” Mr Hunt looked sour for a moment, then a thought struck him. “Actually, I do. I was walking by myself along the lake when my peace was interrupted by those two women, Mrs Palmer and Mrs Siskin. I couldn’t get rid of them. I was with them most of the afternoon. Ask them.”

  Clara intended to, but it was a good alibi. Not one but two witnesses could claim to have seen Mr Hunt at the time his wife was being murdered.

  “I can see why you would consider me to have motive for this crime, but I really did not harm Mildred. Had she given me the chance, I would have taken her back in an instant.”

  Clara thought that Mr Hunt had been lucky his estranged wife had not offered that chance. But, he was right, for the moment she had nothing truly against him.

  “I hope your headache is improved soon,” Clara rose from her chair. “And thank you for talking so freely with me.”

  “Not at all,” Mr Hunt smiled.

  Clara left the lounge and headed for her room. Mr Hunt appeared to be a dead end, but that was not the end of the story. Clara just had to find the right way to wheedle out the truth from this mystery.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “The reality is I have a number of suspects and none I can actually place at the scene of the crime,” Clara informed Tommy and Annie that evening as they sat in Clara’s room after dinner.

  “May I suggest a rest from all this investigating?” Annie said. “You are supposed to be on holiday and, it seems to me, you are facing a dead end.”

  “You are right,” Clara concurred. “Here I have all the pieces of the puzzle and yet none fit. I have all these people with a grudge against Mrs Hunt on the same charabanc as her, placed there because of a plan concocted by her lover and his gardener, neither of whom, as far as I can see have a motive for wishing her dead. Both were attempting to do her a good turn, to bring her peace after a turbulent life. They located former clients and friends of hers, even finding her nephew and estranged husband, and they brought them altogether in the hope that Mrs Hunt would have the wherewithal to do the rest. Clearly she did not, and clearly she felt threatened by the presence of so many she had done harm to.”

  “And yet, so far, only one we know of actually tried to hurt her. Her nephew,” Tommy pointed out.

  “And his attempt failed. But it does at least tell us something. Excluding the chamber pot incident we can see a pattern. Our killer favours poison. Their first attempt involved poisoned sweets, their second poisoned tea. So, the question remains, who had access to such poisons and the means to give them to Mrs Hunt?”

  “And there we come to a dead end,” Annie repeated. “Look, tomorrow is our final excursion day. Let us enjoy it. Take a break from these matters Clara and maybe then the solution will appear.”

  “We can only hope,” Clara nodded. “For I fear, once this holiday is over, our killer will have every opportunity to vanish and return to their usual life. Leaving us all none the wiser as to who killed Mrs Hunt.”

  “If I was to be reckless enough to say ‘do we really care’, you will probably think me callous,” Tommy said thoughtfully. “But the woman spread a lot of nastiness in her time and I can’t help thinking she is best off out of the picture.”

  “She was still murdered,” Clara reminded him. “We can’t ignore that.”

  That concluded the discussion and they all retreated to their respective beds. The next morning they rose early to be ready for the last charabanc trip of the holiday. They had been promised a visit to a nearby miniature village that had been built by a local man and then opened to the public. There was also a rumour of a pub lunch and a specially arranged tour of a local stately home. Had Clara not had so many dark thoughts on her mind, she might have been more interested.

  They made their way onto the charabanc. There was a noticeable absence of certain key suspects in the Hunt mystery. Mr Hunt was not presence, nor Edwin Hope or Madeleine Reeve. The Wignells, however, were present and seemed determined to make the most of what remained of their holiday. Clara sat beside Tommy and tried to distract her mind from the problem of Mrs Hunt’s death. She tried to take an interest in the scenery they passed, or the conversations of other passengers, but to no avail. Time and time again her mind reverted to the problematic murder.

  They were just passing through a little village, and crossing a pretty brook when there was a sharp hissing sound and the charabanc lurched to the side. For a brief, troubling moment it seemed the driver had lost control of his vehicle and the charabanc wobbled back and forth across the road. Then he tapped on the brakes and they came to a halt.

  Driver and conductor both left the charabanc to see what the trouble was. The driver returned almost at once looking most crestfallen.

  “We have punctured a tyre,” he informed his passengers. “I’m afraid we will have to stop here a while. I’ll try to find a garage that can replace it. In the meantime, this is a very pretty village and perhaps you would all like to take in the views while I get this old girl back on the road?”

  With the odd disgruntled mutter about vehicular troubles, the passengers disembarked. Clara stood at the side of the charabanc and stared forlornly at the very flat tyre. She gave it a little nudge with her good foot.

  “How long will it take to fix?” she asked the conductor who was busy going around apologising to everyone about the inconvenience.

  “I can’t say, miss. Depends if we can find a replacement. Don’t think it can be repaired. It is proper burst.”

  Clara gave a sigh. She had been looking forward to the tour of the stately home. The conductor took pity on her.

  “Here, why don’t I make us all a nice cup of tea?” he declared.

  Clara perked up at once. She glanced at the conductor.

  “How?”

  Bernie Sykes, the conductor grinned.

  “These here engines run red hot,” he said knowledgably. “I worked out a while back that I could rig up a little stand over the hottest part and boil a travel kettle there. I do it all the time.”

  Bernie vanished briefly and reappeared with a copper kettle and a little trivet that he had personally designed to fit on top of the engine. He unlatched the bonnet hood of the charabanc and folded it up and back, revealing the vehicle’s inner workings. Then he propped his trivet and kettle on the engine. He took a canister of water from beneath the driver’s seat and filled the kettle carefully, whistling to himself the whole time. Then he left the water to boil and retrieved a teapot from the luggage compartment, two mugs and a large tin biscuit box.

  “You are very organised,” Clara observed as the teapot was balanced with the mugs on the running board.

  “We do a lot of winter trips,” Bernie Sykes explained. “And we get no pay to stop at a teashop ourselves. So we make do and keep ourselves warm this way.”

  The copper kettle began to sing and Bernie Sykes was briefly distracted. Clara moved towards the biscuit tin which had been stood on the running board.

  “Does this contain the tea?” she asked, crouching by the box.

  “Yes, miss, oh, but I’ll do that. You’ll get your dress dirty on the running board!” there was a slight hint of panic in Bernie Sykes’ tone, he was already replacing the copper kettle on the trivet as fast as he could.

  But Clara was not listening. She already had her fingers under the ridge of the tin lid and was forcing it open. She was greeted by a little packet of powdered milk, a bundle of loose tea leaves, two teaspoons, a small glass jar containing sugar cubes and one packet of half used sleeping powders.

  Clara picked up the packet and noted that it had a label upon it with the name ‘Mrs Doris Wignell’ written in ink. Clara glanced up at Bernie Sykes who was staring at her with his mouth open and a look of horror on his face.

  “You have some explaining to do Mr Bill Ayres,” Clara said.

  Bill Ayre
s turned and bolted. Clara had expected as much, she glanced at the few fellow passengers still standing by her. None had been paying much attention to her antics until then.

  “Catch that man!” she instructed them. Each failed to move.

  “Oh for crying out loud!” Clara cast aside her walking stick and started to chase Bill Ayres. Fortunately for the latter, Clara was constrained to a fast hobble by her sore foot.

  Tommy and Annie had been sauntering up the road when all the teapot commotion was going on, and the first they knew of Bill Ayres’ attempt to flee was when he dashed past them.

  “Stop him! He’s the killer!” Clara yelled.

  Tommy looked on at the rapidly disappearing figure, knowing he was not fit to run and yet desperately wanting to be of help. It was Annie who intervened and saved the day.

  “Go fetch the police!” she instructed Tommy and then she bolted after Bill Ayres.

  Annie had once done exceedingly well at a school sports event. It had been a sort of genteel assault course for young girls. She was known among her fellow pupils as a remarkable sprinter when the urge took her. Annie had not run in years, but she was still fast and, more importantly, she was doggedly determined.

  Bill Ayres was running up a lane. Clara was still calling out for someone to stop him. Two farm labourers were chatting over a wall as Ayres raced past them. They looked up in surprise, but failed to move. A moment later Annie whipped past them and they heard Clara, now fallen behind, shouting that a killer was getting away. They both turned and began to follow Ayres.

  Bill Ayres was starting to pant now. He was not a natural runner and he spent most of his days manning a charabanc or pruning rose bushes. The sprint had taken it out of him. Even so, he was stunned when someone suddenly grabbed his arm and swung him around. He stumbled over his own feet, still trying to run as he was spun to face an irate Annie. He tripped himself up and fell to the ground. Annie half-fell on top of him and knocked the air out of him. Bill Ayres was coughing and groaning as the two farm labourers ran up and grabbed his arms.

  It was still several moments before Clara hobbled up. By which time Annie had caught her breath and Bill Ayres was almost recovered from his sprint.

  “This man…” Clara said, having to gasp for air. “Murdered a woman… I have proof…”

  “Rest against the wall, Clara,” Annie took her friend’s arm and propped her against the nearby wall.

  “You are Bill Ayres?” Clara asked firmly.

  Ayres pulled a face.

  “You poisoned Mrs Hunt’s tea and then drowned her in Lake Windermere. You also sent her poisoned sweets in a previous attempt. I presume you laced the marzipan with rat poison, which is so readily available. When that failed you had to become inventive, knowing you could not attempt the same trick twice. So you stole Mrs Wignell’s sleeping powders and, when you were alone with Mrs Hunt, you offered her a mug of freshly brewed tea. She was not to know it was heavily laced with the powders.”

  “I thought they would kill her outright, such a big dose,” Ayres pulled a face. “But she kept on breathing, even when she was unconscious. I couldn’t fail again.”

  “So you dragged her into the lake and let the water do the rest. It almost fooled everyone into thinking Mrs Hunt had befallen an accident, but, unfortunately for you, she had previously informed me about the poisoned sweets and the coincidence was too plain.”

  Ayres sneered. He sagged in the arms of his captors, the fight had gone from him.

  “This was all for Miss Wignell?” Clara said more gently.

  Ayres’ face fell. He looked deeply sad now, almost as if about to cry.

  “She killed her, you know,” he spoke softly. “No one believed me. But she did.”

  “I believe you,” Clara assured him. “It is most unfortunate that it took this second crime to reveal the truth about Miss Wignell’s untimely death. The police now also believe she was killed by her tutor.”

  “That’s good,” Bill Ayres nodded. “Even though I shall hang for it, I am glad for that.”

  “How did it all begin Bill? When did you plot revenge?”

  “From the start,” Bill said, his eyes drifted up as a policeman became visible hurrying up the lane. “From the moment I knew the police were not going to take me seriously. But I didn’t know how to go about it, and then I lost track of Mrs Hunt. I went on with my life. I moved to Brighton, thinking I would find Mrs Hunt again. A part of me thought I could make her confess. I got the job at the charabanc company, but it was only last year that I spotted Mrs Hunt again.”

  “At Dr Day-Bowers surgery?”

  “Yes. I had gone there about a boil on my neck and I saw her. After a few enquiries I learned she and the doctor were on very friendly terms,” Ayres gave a bitter laugh. “I offered myself to the doctor as a gardener on very reasonable rates. His garden was awful and he snapped up my offer. From then on I plotted, trying to think of a way to do away with Mrs Hunt so no one would know it was me.”

  “And you came up with the charabanc idea,” Clara filled in the gaps. “What better way to avoid being suspected of murder than to place your victim amid a hoard of her enemies? There would be so many suspects that the police would be pulling it apart for years. And then, as it happened, the police thought her death natural after all.”

  “It all should have worked,” Ayres complained. “I had changed my name, and no one remembered me, not even the Wignells.”

  By now the policeman had arrived and wanted to know what was going on. Clara briefly explained that Bill Ayres had poisoned one of his charabanc passengers and that Inspector Gateley would understand. The policeman looked puzzled, but agreed to conduct Bill back to the station and inform the Inspector. The two farm labourers, who had been listening to all this keenly, refused to let their captive go and helped the policeman escort him to the small village station.

  Clara returned to the charabanc. The driver was just arriving back with the local mechanic, who he had been fortunate to find. He saw his conductor being escorted into the police station and looked confused. But it was Mr Wignell who first asked the obvious question;

  “What is going on?”

  Clara laid a hand on his arm.

  “Mr Wignell, I have a lot to talk about with you and your wife. Perhaps we should go aboard the charabanc for privacy?”

  Mr Wignell was baffled, but he agreed to the suggestion. Over the next half hour Clara explained to him and his wife the truth about their daughter’s death. It did not make things any easier for them to know she had been murdered, but at least they knew she had not taken her own life. By the time Clara had finished, Inspector Gateley had appeared and new explanations were required. Clara sighed again as she followed the Inspector into the police station to make her statement. She was certain now she was going to miss out on the much anticipated tour of the stately home.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Clara was in a lot of pain by the time she finally hobbled back to the hotel. Running, albeit it a shuffling run, had not helped her foot at all. Annie had to help her up to her room and insisted she rest on the bed while she ran to get Dr Masters. When Dr Masters arrived he gave her a disapproving look.

  “What have you done now?” he enquired.

  “Chased down a murderer,” Clara informed him plainly. “Mrs Hunt’s killer is now in custody.”

  “Hmph,” said Dr Masters. “So it is all over now?”

  “For my part, at least,” Clara nodded. “Would you mind looking at my foot while I answer your questions?”

  With difficulty Clara had removed her shoe and now proceeded to peel off her stocking. Her foot looked red and swollen. Dr Masters took one looked and sighed in disappointment.

  “Really, Clara?”

  “Really,” Clara said impatiently. “It had to be done.”

  Dr Masters examined the foot and pronounced that it was just inflamed and should return to normal with rest and a cold compress. The examination concluded he sat in the
armchair opposite Clara.

  “I think I owe you an apology.”

  Clara glanced up.

  “For criticising my behaviour?” she asked.

  Dr Masters grinned.

  “No. That deserved criticising. What I meant was that I was rather brusque with you at our last meeting. I took offence at being viewed a potential suspect.”

  “Many people do,” Clara groaned. “But how else am I supposed to solve a case?”

  “Well, precisely. But I took offence and then I was rather rude,” Dr Masters looked abashed. “Especially over the details of my patient here at the hotel. I was rather annoyed you had seen through my ploy and I became rather surly.”

  “Then there is no elderly hypochondriac old lady?”

  “No. She was an excuse to protect the identity of my real patient.”

  “The young girl?” Clara had guessed as much. “Why did you feel the need to be so secretive?”

  “Because, she is shy and embarrassed by her condition, and she is my sister,” Dr Masters shrugged, as if that explained it all. “I would not have been so elusive had it not been for the fact that by sheer coincidence Mrs Hunt had arrived here. I honestly had no knowledge of her charabanc tour, but when I saw her I became determined she would not know of my sister’s condition. I did not want her learning about her illness, nor about her in general.”

  “I didn’t know you had a sister?”

  “She is a half-sister, really. Another indiscretion on my father’s part. Another reason I did not want Mrs Hunt to know anything. I love my sister dearly and would not have her brought into that woman’s sphere.”

  “And what is wrong with her?” Clara asked.

  “Simply stated, she doesn’t eat. But it is more complicated than it sounds,” Dr Masters gave a wan smile. “I hoped this trip would be restorative.”

  “And has it been?”

  “Maybe. Too soon to tell,” Dr Masters’ smile faded. “We return to London tomorrow.”