by Evelyn James
“Annie’s pickles are to die for,” Tommy said enthusiastically. “Would you care to join us?”
“It would make a change from crumpets, so yes, I would.”
“Excellent! Now, let’s see about paying for this little lot…” Tommy put a hand in his pocket.
“Nonsense!” Agatha declared at once. “This is my treat for you being such an understanding listener.”
“But really…”
“I insist. This is the Twentieth Century, Tommy, and a girl can pay for a man’s tea and cake if she jolly well pleases.”
The grin of pleasure this rebuke caused Tommy, made Annie feel all a-tremble inside. She had never made such a grand gesture, in truth, she had never been able to afford it. Nor had she ever thought of paying for a man’s food. Her mother would have been appalled, though probably Clara would think nothing of it. And that was when the realisation hit her; Agatha was rather like Clara, a modern woman fascinated by crime and the seedier parts of life, and Tommy was smitten with her. Of course he was! She was a woman who appealed to his mind. Annie bit her lip. How on earth could she compete with that?
The arrangements made, the party broke up. Agatha had more work to do at the library. She was determined to take something of value away from her trip to Brighton. Tommy said his goodbyes and said he would look forward to four o’clock. Annie somehow managed to hiss out a farewell as she pushed Tommy’s chair outdoors. The February cold bit into them as they exited the warm teashop and Annie made a fuss of seeing that Tommy’s coat and scarf was best arranged to keep him warm. At least that was something she could do, she doubted Agatha would worry about whether his scarf was neatly knotted. She didn’t notice how frustrated Tommy was growing – he disliked being treated like an invalid.
They set off down the road, Annie walking more briskly than normal. Her mind was whirring as they reached the corner. She could hold her tongue no longer.
“Why did you have to ask that woman to tea?” she demanded.
“She wants to meet Clara,” Tommy said innocently.
“Supposing Clara doesn’t want to meet her? She is very busy at the moment. She might appreciate to eat her tea in peace, rather than have some busy-body asking a lot of questions.”
Tommy didn’t answer at first. When he did his tone was clipped.
“That was an unpleasant thing to say, Annie.”
Annie caught her breath. The mistake seemed to linger between them.
“I’m sure she is perfectly nice,” she said, meaning it as an apology, but the words came out hard-edged and sounded like another insult.
“What is the matter with you Annie? Last night you were belittling Oliver, today you are rude about my new friend.”
“It’s nothing.”
They walked on in silence.
“I’m sorry,” Annie said after a while, this time her words were genuine.
Tommy did not respond. The walk home was painfully quiet.
Chapter Ten
Mrs Uxbridge was a small woman of around seventy who had worn ‘widow’s weeds’ for the last twenty years, ever since her husband had died. She looked like a relic from another age in her Edwardian black gown and mourning jewellery. But she was a pleasant hostess, who saw instantly that Clara was tired and a little out-of-breath from her long walk (Clara had had to run most of the last half mile to make sure she reached Mrs Uxbridge in time for their appointment. This had not been easy in dress shoes), and sat her in a chair, before fetching a jug of the most exquisite lemonade. It turned out that Mrs Uxbridge devoted her life to food and drink, which for one so painfully thin was surprising. Mrs Uxbridge rarely ate or drank any of the things she made, but she was a prolific and proficient cook nonetheless. Her Dundee cake was highly regarded at the Church fete, and she made ends meet by providing simple wedding breakfasts to couples on a budget. Her finger sandwiches were, apparently, to die for.
Needless to say, it was Mrs Uxbridge’s culinary talents that had roused the jealous monster within the poison pen writer. Mrs Uxbridge had destroyed the letter in a fit of uncharacteristic fury, when a batch of currant buns had burned in the oven unexpectedly. Up until that point, she had thought to keep it as evidence.
“I almost went to the police,” Mrs Uxbridge explained. “Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Things like that upset you a great deal when you are all alone with no one to confide in.”
Mrs Uxbridge stared at her lemonade; she was a very sad figure who had never come to terms with being made a widow in her fifties. Mr Uxbridge had been her life. She had spent endless hours cooking for him; it had been her greatest pleasure. Then he was gone and, with no children to dote on, she found herself lost and unsettled. Her outlet had, yet again, been cooking. This time it was for her husband’s wake. But when she received so many complements for her efforts, she began to wonder about doing something else. There was the summer fete coming up, after all, and the church jumble sale. Before long Mrs Uxbridge had thrown herself once more into baking for others, and it had brought her great comfort, and even a little income, over the last two decades.
“It said things about my cakes that no one should ever say,” Mrs Uxbridge grew stiff. “That letter was the work of the Devil himself.”
“What exactly did it say?”
“It accused me of things. I should explain. You are probably too young to remember, but, back in 1906, there was a dreadful cholera outbreak in the town. It was eventually traced back to one water pump used extensively by several households, but not before there had been a number of deaths. You are, no doubt, aware of how deadly cholera can be?”
Clara indicated she was.
“I remember it was one of those whispered words during my childhood,” Mrs Uxbridge continued. “Whenever someone was sick with a stomach complaint, especially a child, it was dreaded it might be cholera. No matter if you had your own pump or lived in the smartest of houses with piped water, the worry still hung over you. Many people were not sure how it was spread, and that added to the agony. People drank contaminated water without realising it would make them sick. I really can’t emphasise enough the dread the disease caused to anyone living in a town or city. When someone was diagnosed with the sickness, panic would follow.
“But I am rambling,” Mrs Uxbridge apologised. “I merely wanted you to understand the context of the accusations and why that letter caused me such pain. Cholera is a hated word among people of my generation. In any case, I must return to 1906, and the outbreak that swept through a number of the poorer families in the town. Two of its many victims happened to be a recently wedded couple, Mr and Mrs Miles. They were a lovely couple. He was a labourer on a farm and she used to walk the beach combing for anything of value. Her family had been beach combers for generations. It was a hard life, but they were content and happy, and they had none of the harshness that can seep into people who have to scrape a living. I liked them the first time I met them.”
A smile came on Mrs Uxbridge’s face.
“They reminded me of myself and my husband, Bill, all those years ago. I met them at a church function. I had prepared a buffet for the ladies’ choral society, and it so happened that Mrs Miles – well, she was Miss Brown then – was a member. She approached me very quietly about what I would charge for a wedding cake. I am extremely soft-hearted, and I saw at once the poor dear did not have a lot of money to spend, so I asked her how much could she spare? Well, it wasn’t much. Just enough for the ingredients, really. She said she would make do with a façade cake, do you know what that is?”
“I believe it is when a cardboard box in the shape of a large wedding cake is iced to look like the real thing. When, in fact, beneath the box, is a small sponge cake,” Clara suggested.
“Indeed, I have made several of those before now. They look the part, but are a great deal cheaper. But, you see, I liked Miss Brown and her fiancé, and, back then, I had not done many wedding cakes and fancied the challenge. Most people went to the bakery on the corner
of West Street for their wedding cakes. So, I said I was sure I could make the cake of her dreams for the little she could afford. A slight lie, I suppose, but nothing evil about it.”
“Not at all,” Clara agreed.
“And that is what I did. I made a square fruit cake and I iced it with marzipan and white royal icing. Oh, it looked beautiful! I even iced on the date of the wedding, and a little verse about wedded bliss. When Miss Brown saw it she almost cried, and thanked me from the bottom of her heart. She pressed an invitation to the wedding and the reception into my hand, and kissed me on the cheek,” Mrs Uxbridge’s eyes sparkled with tears. “It was a wonderful day. So much laughter and happiness. It seems so awful now, when I think on it, that that joy should have ended in death a mere week later. The wedding was on the Saturday. Mr Miles was taken ill on the Sunday night. The couple had just moved into Mr Miles’ parents’ house, which happened to have its water supplied by the affected pump. At first we imagined he had overindulged at the wedding, everyone was too joyous to think otherwise. But then he became worse, and other people in the neighbourhood sickened too. The doctor came and diagnosed cholera. He told everyone to only drink boiled water and he had the pump water tested. But it was already too late.
“Mrs Miles was already sick. She tended her new husband as long as she could, then she was taken so ill she was confined to bed. There was talk of taking them to the hospital, but money was so tight and hospitals cannot do much for cholera. By the following Saturday young Mr Miles was dead and his wife followed shortly after. They say she had shown signs of improvement, but when she heard her husband was gone she simply closed her eyes and wasted away. I remember the funeral so vividly. They were buried together. I did the food for the wake. It was the best I could do, as a gesture of my deep sympathy.”
“That is very sad,” Clara said. “But what do two deaths from cholera fifteen years ago have to do with the letter you received?”
“Because of what they wrote in it,” Mrs Uxbridge looked astonished, as if Clara had asked an absurd question. “The letter implied that Mr and Mrs Miles did not die from cholera at all, but from arsenic that I had laced their wedding cake with! Can you imagine anything more hurtful? To accuse me of murder is one thing, but to imply I poisoned one of my own cakes? I take great care and pride over my cooking, Miss Fitzgerald, I can’t think of a more ghastly thing anyone could say to me.”
“How curious, the letter writer referred to events that had happened in 1906? That means the person behind the letter has been in Brighton a considerable time, to remember the deaths of the Mr and Mrs Miles. Have you contemplated who the writer might be?”
“Many people know I make cakes and, I dare say, a large number of them are aware I made the wedding cake for the Miles’ marriage. I have no one specific in mind.”
“Is there anyone you can think of, who you might have unintentionally upset in the last few months?”
“I am not that sort of person!”
“No, no. But perhaps someone has taken offence over something you could not help. People do sometimes.”
Mrs Uxbridge gave a sniff, implying she did not like the idea that she made enemies, but considered the question nonetheless.
“I cannot think of anyone. No one has a complaint against me…” she hesitated. “Unless someone dislikes my cooking?”
Mrs Uxbridge looked mortified, as if her world had crumbled a little around her.
“I am sure that is not the case,” Clara said quickly. “I merely meant that some people take grudges over the silliest of things.”
“Hmm, yes, I suppose. Like the Cotterley sisters across the road,” Mrs Uxbridge pointed out of her window to the house opposite. “They are poor old souls who never leave their house these days. Oh, but look in their front garden by accident and you’ll be accused of spying on them. Knock on their door to pay a visit and you will be called an interfering busybody who wants to know all their business! Really, they are so determined to isolate themselves.”
Mrs Uxbridge tutted.
“Could they…?” Clara began.
Mrs Uxbridge stopped her with a laugh.
“My dear, they don’t leave the house. Besides, I hear tell they received a letter too. But heaven help anyone trying to find out what was in it. Best leave them to their own misery.”
Despite Mrs Uxbridge’s denial, Clara made a note to keep the Cotterley sisters in mind as suspects. For the time being, they were the only candidates she had.
“Well, thank you Mrs Uxbridge.”
Clara took her leave. On the street outside, she took a good look at the Cotterley house. A wizened face appeared suddenly at the window and scowled back at her. What had Clara said about the letter writer being bitter and vindictive? And what of Tommy’s suggestion that there was more than one person behind the cruel notes? She met the mean look in the eyes of the wizened face. It suddenly retreated. Clara felt a new door opening into her investigation.
Chapter Eleven
Clara ate lunch in a local pub that had a women’s room. Clara’s suffragette leanings resented being shunted into a separate room just because she was female, but she did enjoy the peace and quiet. She indulged in a Ploughman’s; thick brown bread, cheese, raw onion, a slice of gammon, pickles and an apple that had survived the long winter stored in a cellar. She ate slowly and thought hard. What connection could she make between the Cotterley sisters and the other recipients of the letters? And how could she explain the letters being taken to the town post office, a considerable distance from the Cotterley residence, if the ladies never went outdoors? Just as importantly, how was she to get an audience with the sisters? She still needed to know more. Clara finished her lunch and headed for her next appointment – Mr Vincenzo at no.29.
Igio Vincenzo was Italian. He spoke with a light Sicilian accent and welcomed Clara into a house that was airy and sparsely furnished. Mr Vincenzo liked space, and he refrained from keeping the clutter that over-crowded most of the houses in Brighton. Mr Vincenzo owned a smart restaurant in the better part of town. It opened at seven o’clock and did not close until midnight. That was why he was home during the day.
He smiled at Clara’s arrival, kissed her on both cheeks, and showed her into a back room that overlooked a very small, but incredibly well-tended, garden. He ushered her to a chair and without another word vanished, only to return with a plate of glistening cakes. He offered a dainty pastry to Clara and she felt it impolite to refuse. The twist of puff pastry had been fried and coated in sugar. It tasted divine and unlike anything Clara had ever eaten before.
“You are a very good cook,” Clara complemented the Italian.
Vincenzo flung his hands up heavenwards.
“I should hope so. Mama would be disappointed if I was not. She taught me when I was just a little boy.”
“What brought you to England, Mr Vincenzo?”
“War,” Vincenzo shrugged. “Not the last one. My father decided to leave Italy when there was such strife over unification. Dear General Garibaldi was trying to make the country better, but all my father saw was conflict and bloodshed. So he brought his family to England.”
“Then you were raised in England?”
Vincenzo gave another big shrug,
“I’ve never even been to Italy,” he laughed. “But mama taught me how to cook properly, not like English food. Forgive me, but I cannot stand roast beef, it is so soulless.”
Clara, who was personally fond of roasts, let this comment pass.
“Can I ask about the letter? I have read it, naturally.”
Vincenzo gave a laugh that sounded a little forced.
“How stupid was that letter? I read it and I think, what stupid person has written this? It says I am a foreigner who should go back to where he came from. I was born in England! I am living where I came from. Ah!” he threw up his hands in despair, it seemed this gesture was his favourite and could mean a variety of things.
“Were you angry when you read it?”
“I was disappointed. Anger is wasted on such things. I get angry when my chef overcooks the pasta, or I can’t find decent tomatoes. Anger is best saved for important things, like that.”
“And have you ever considered who sent it?”
Vincenzo gave his most dramatic shrug.
“Someone who doesn’t like foreigners?” he offered.
The Vincenzo interview had been rather disappointing and Clara found herself having to dawdle outside to waste time before her appointment with Mr and Mrs Summerton. She found a corner shop selling an array of magazines, including several from America. Before she knew it she was ordering a subscription to ‘Horrid Crimes!’ a US publication that, despite its gory title, had several good pieces of journalism on crime detection and psychology inside. She saw it as something Tommy would enjoy reading; he was always going on about American detectives and their wily tricks for catching criminals. This was the problem, Clara reflected as she pulled coins out of her purse, with having too much time to waste; it tempted you to spend money. She toyed in the shop a little longer, contemplating buying a fashion magazine featuring some patterns for new dresses, when she heard a noise outside.
Clara glanced up at the shopkeeper who was leaning as far over his counter as he could manage to see out of his shop window.
“Mr Summerton again,” he said in a tone of resignation. “Now what is the matter today?”
Clara didn’t ask for further details, she was too busy darting for the door to get outside and see what was going on. Mr Summerton was in the middle of the street yelling at a young lad driving a pony and cart.
“And that is what is wrong with this world!” he was shouting, while one irate finger pointed down at a large, steaming, pile of manure the boy’s pony had just deposited. “We have lovely clean streets and the likes of you go along messing them up! Do you know the sickness that can cause? We have to think of our health! You will clean it up, at once!”
