The Poison Pen

by Evelyn James

The lad was clearly shaken by this tirade. He half fell off his cart in his haste to obey Mr Summerton’s barked order. His cart was full of coal, and it happened that he had several empty sacks lying on top of his cargo. He grabbed the shovel he used for loading and unloading coal, and scooped up the manure into a sack. Then he looked timidly at Mr Summerton, waiting for a further command.

  “Well? Take it away then!”

  The lad threw his shovel and sack back onto the cart and scurried up onto his seat. He clicked the pony’s reins so fast Mr Summerton barely had time to spring out of the way before the cart was rolling along again. The boy cast one nervous look back at the belligerent man, before hurrying to the end of the road.

  Clara walked over to Mr Summerton quite calmly. He was just returning from work. He still had on his apron. Clara recalled being told he was a general grocer with a shop down by the quay. He turned to her with an angry look, then realised who she was and mellowed.

  “It’s a disgrace,” he muttered, almost apologetically. “Look how clean we keep this road.”

  He gestured along the street which was, indeed, very neatly swept.

  “I helped form a committee to pay for someone to sweep the roads every day,” Mr Summerton said proudly. “Our idea was highly commended. You see, there is this lad who has not got all his marbles. His parents wanted to find him some work to keep him busy, but no one wanted him. And then I said, what if we paid him to keep the roads swept? Kills two birds with one stone, that. Do you know how much disease is caused by filth and rubbish left in our streets? It pollutes the air and causes people to become ill. I learned that in hospital during the war.”

  Mr Summerton gave a decisive nod of his head to punctuate the point.

  “Then you get people like that boy coming along and messing it all up without thinking,” he snorted. “I’m not just thinking about myself, mind. My wife needs the best air possible while she is expecting, and the baby will too, when its born. I’m thinking of the children.”

  “I understand completely,” Clara assured him. “I happen to be a little early, but if you wanted to commence our appointment..?”

  “Come this way at once, Miss Fitzgerald. It will only take me a moment to change into some decent clothes. My wife will make you a cup of tea.”

  He escorted Clara along the road to his house. As Clara had expected, his front garden was exceptionally neat and arranged with small shrubs.

  “Lemon balm, rosemary and that there is lavender,” Mr Summerton informed her as he opened the gate. “All herbs that sweeten the air and create a soothing atmosphere. Very restorative.”

  He opened the front door and called out,

  “Rosalind!”

  There was a rustle of papers from further down the hall, and the heavily pregnant Rosalind tottered through a doorway, a magazine still clutched in one hand.

  “Rosalind, Miss Fitzgerald is a little early. Make her comfortable, won’t you, while I get changed.”

  Without another word, Mr Summerton headed for the stairs and left Clara alone in the hallway with Mrs Summerton. Rosalind gave a shy smile and a slight shrug, then she motioned for Clara to follow her back into the room she had just left.

  It proved to be a snug sitting room, with a fire burning gently in the grate and magazines strewn everywhere. Mrs Summerton was clearly an avid reader.

  “Take a seat,” she said. “Would you like tea?”

  “Only if you let me help you make it,” Clara responded.

  “Oh,” Rosalind looked a little flustered. “Well, I suppose so.”

  She led the way back into the hall and towards the kitchen at the end of the house.

  “When are you due?” Clara asked.

  “Next month,” Rosalind gave a wry grin. “It won’t be soon enough. My ankles and feet are so swollen I hardly fit any of my shoes.”

  “Is this your first?”

  “Yes. Joshua, my husband, is delighted. We weren’t sure we could have children when he came back from the war. He was gassed, you see, and no one really knows what that does to a man, not even the doctors.”

  Clara began to understand Mr Summerton’s obsession with clean air.

  “Well, congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” Rosalind beamed with pleasure. “Do you have children? Oh no, but of course, you are a ‘miss’.”

  Rosalind blushed, feeling she had just made a dreadful social faux pas.

  “I don’t, no,” Clara told her.

  “I always say the wrong thing. I am dreadful for it. Joshua tells me I must think before I open my mouth.”

  “Really, it is of no matter,” Clara smiled. “It was a natural enough question.”

  They finished making the pot of tea and Clara carried the tray of tea things back to the sitting room. Mrs Summerton gave the fire a hearty stir with the poker, and then settled with a groan into a chair.

  “No one told me how tiresome having a baby was,” She sighed gently. “Everything is such a chore.”

  “It will be over soon enough.”

  “Oh yes, and then I really will be tired!” Rosalind giggled to herself. “I know that part, my friends are all keen to tell me how they spend most of their nights awake listening for baby. Joshua worries about me so much, he even suggested we hire a nanny! How could we possibly afford that? But, bless him for being so concerned for me.”

  Rosalind gave Clara a theatrical wink.

  “I’m tougher than I look,” she added.

  “I’m sure of it,” Clara smiled.

  Just then Joshua returned. He glanced at the two women seated and drinking tea, and felt a little uncertain about intruding. He suddenly felt out of place.

  “Joshua, do come and sit down,” Rosalind glanced up at her husband.

  Joshua settled into the remaining armchair and looked a little apprehensively at Clara.

  “You know about the contents of the letter we received?”

  The blustering, gruff man from outside had suddenly dwindled into a quiet, nervous creature. Clara found the change quite surprising. Out of his business clothes, Mr Summerton had become anxious and uncomfortable in her presence. It turned out that in many ways he was as shy and socially awkward as his wife.

  “Yes. I don’t believe it for an instant.”

  “Good. To infer that Rosalind had been cavorting with another man…” Mr Summerton bit his lip. “There was talk, you see, when I came home, that my injuries might make having children a problem. I was gassed and nearly died. I’m one of the lucky ones. My lungs are not so good, which is why my old boss left me the grocery business when he retired. He didn’t know who to pass it on to, you see, and he knew I would need an inside job with only light lifting. It was very kind of him. Even so, I have to be careful this time of year not to become ill, it could turn into pneumonia. I came home in 1917, I didn’t look so good then, my body was broken.”

  “He had this awful yellow tinge to his skin,” Rosalind piped up. “It was ghastly.”

  “Yes, and, of course, we hadn’t been married long before I left for the front. Just a couple of months. When I came back, well, people assume the first thing a young married couple does is have children, but when three years passed with no sign of Rosalind… well… the rumours began.”

  “In a road like this people gossip constantly,” an angry look had appeared on Rosalind’s face. “It is as if they have nothing better to do.”

  “Perhaps they don’t?” Clara suggested slyly.

  “We knew what they were saying, naturally,” Joshua added. “I can’t say I wasn’t hurt, but at the same time I was happy with Rosalind, and I wasn’t going to let anyone spoil that for me. We moved to Brighton when we were first married because I was offered a job at Carter’s General Grocery and we wanted to be in a town rather than in the countryside. Towns have more opportunities.”

  “And better schools,” Rosalind nodded.

  “So, we married and we moved here, but within a month I had my letter to say I was to go i
nto the army. It was awful. I had to go to my boss and explain. I thought the man would be furious when I showed him the letter, but he said ‘you’ve got something more important to do now, lad, than stacking boxes’ and gave me his blessing. He is a very good man, Mr Carter. He promised to keep an eye on Rosalind and he did.”

  “He called in once a week, on a Sunday, to make sure I was all right and to hear the news on Joshua,” Rosalind filled in her portion of the story. “He had three sons at the front and his wife had taken it hard. I think he liked to talk with someone about it. He would bring over the letters from his boys and we would read them together. He lost two of them, you know, and the third son came home without an arm.”

  Rosalind fell silent, a haunted look creeping over her face. Those had been long years, anxiously exchanging news on a Sunday, feeling temporary relief that for one more week everyone was safe. And then the bombshell of the losses.

  “I think that is what started the gossip,” she said at last. The angry look returned to her face. “It was so unkind. To infer we were misbehaving, when all we were doing was trying to bring a little hope and comfort to one another. I had no friends here then, who was I to talk to about Joshua? Those old gossips in the road? Oh, they would have loved to hear all about his doings at the front, but I refused to give them the satisfaction. I knew I could talk to Mr Carter, and he would listen sympathetically and say nothing to anyone else. I couldn’t believe the cruelty of people.”

  “Then, when I came back, he offered me the business, despite that I had only been working for him a couple of months. People thought that was suspicious too,” Joshua sighed sadly. “Mr and Mrs Carter still come round for tea on a Sunday. I refuse to let peoples’ twisted minds spoil our friendship.”

  “But when three years passed and there was no baby, people started to say that Joshua was too sick or that something worse than gas had happened to him on the front. I thought it would all stop when I discovered I was expecting, but what a fool I was! People started saying instead that I must be carrying Mr Carter’s child, that there was an understanding between us and Joshua, which is why he was given the business. I have never felt so disgusted and sickened!” Rosalind suddenly let out a small sob, the humiliation of the gossip had been unbearable, especially after all she had been through; the worry, the uncertainty. No one could tell her if Joshua would survive his first winter home, and then there had been the terrible influenza outbreak. She had lived constantly on edge, lest he catch the disease and die.

  Joshua reached out for his wife’s hand and squeezed it.

  “Can you see why that letter made me so angry? To see all those rumours laid out in black and white. Rosalind read it and fell to pieces. I was scared we might lose the baby.”

  “We have done nothing wrong, Miss Fitzgerald, so why do they hate us?” Rosalind gave an exasperated cry.

  “They don’t hate you,” Clara said calmly. “They are just bored, silly people, who have little else in their lives to occupy themselves than scandal. Besides, I don’t suppose all your neighbours were involved.”

  “No, no, that is true,” Rosalind took a shaky breath. “It is really only a handful, and I have now made friends here.”

  “We won’t let this nonsense drive us away,” Joshua Summerton said firmly.

  “Good,” Clara smiled at them both. “Now, do you have any thoughts on who sent the letter?”

  Rosalind glanced at Joshua, he just shook his head.

  “I thought I did, but I was wrong,” he said.

  “Who did you suspect?” Clara asked.

  Joshua gave a humourless laugh.

  “Mrs Wilton! But then she received a letter too. She is one of the worst gossips in town.”

  Clara couldn’t deny that. Mrs Wilton was always so busy interfering in other peoples’ business that she had no time to take care of her own.

  “Do you know the Cotterley sisters?” she asked after a moment.

  “Oh, they live down the road,” Rosalind said. “You never see them. They are recluses. I don’t think they ever have visitors. One has a daughter who brings their shopping, but she only stays as long as she must. Have they received a letter?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Clara lied. “Their name came up, that is all. I wondered if it was important.”

  “I don’t think I have ever even spoken to them,” Rosalind added.

  “They did send a letter once, to the Clean Streets Committee I founded, stating their wholehearted support for the scheme. I believe they even donated a ha’penny,” Joshua said.

  “They are mean too,” Rosalind nodded. “Though, perhaps they are just poor. I hear they live on nothing but cabbage, potatoes and a little liver.”

  “I don’t suppose you still have the letter they sent to the committee?” Clara was thinking that a comparison between the two missives might prove enlightening.

  “It will be with the committee papers. The Chairman looks after that. We elected Reverend Harding for the role.”

  Clara knew the name. The conversation came to a natural lull and it was clear there was no more to be discovered from the Summertons. Clara thanked them for their time and honesty and excused herself. As she headed for home, she once more glanced in the direction of the Cotterley house. Yet again there was someone in the window peering out at her. The expression on their face was not friendly. Clara gave them a wave anyway, she had nothing to hide. The face vanished from sight and a net curtain swung into its place. Clara shook her head. Strange, strange people. After such a long day she was really looking forward to a quiet evening at home.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Heavens, I hope there is a large pot of tea ready, Annie. I feel I have walked a marathon distance. My feet are killing me and I am absolutely…” Clara stepped into the parlour and spotted an unfamiliar woman in her favourite armchair, “…exhausted.”

  Clara turned her head to Tommy who was looking a touch embarrassed. Agatha had arrived spot on time, but his sister had run late, and it was now close to five o’clock. Annie had made an effort to suppress her jealously and be exorbitantly nice to their guest, but after forty-five minutes of bravado, the façade was wearing thin.

  “May I introduce…”

  “Agatha.”

  Tommy and Agatha spoke at once. Clara looked at one, then the other, before walking forward and shaking the hand Agatha offered.

  “Agatha..?” Clara asked.

  “Christie,” Agatha smiled. “But please use my Christian name, I find it less formal.”

  “Clara,” Clara said.

  “Agatha is a mystery writer,” Tommy quickly explained. “Down in Brighton doing some research for her next book. She wanted to meet a real detective.”

  “Oh?” Clara said. “And where would you find one of those in Brighton?”

  Agatha was amused.

  “You are too modest, Miss Fitzgerald, or may I call you Clara?”

  “You may,” Clara started to pull the scarf from around her neck. “Will you excuse me a moment while I take off my coat and fetch myself a cup of tea?”

  “Of course.”

  Clara exited back into the hall and went in search of Annie, wondering just what had been going on in her absence. Who was Agatha and why on earth would she want to know about Clara? Clara felt a little embarrassed by it all, the woman had seemed quite delighted to see her, as if she was someone famous. It had quite flustered Clara.

  She entered the kitchen and threw her coat over the back of a chair.

  “Annie, who is this woman in the parlour?”

  Annie had a face like thunder. Clara had always considered that an odd analogy, but seeing her friend’s mood, she rapidly began to understand the allusion.

  “That would be Agatha,” Annie said with difficulty through the angry pout on her lips. “Tommy invited her.”

  Clara looked at her curiously.

  “You don’t like her?”

  “What is there not to like?” Annie declared, her tone suggest
ing the complete opposite.

  Clara was bamboozled. Why had Annie taken so against this woman?

  “Has she been rude to you?”

  “No. Perfectly polite.”

  “Then, what have I missed?”

  Annie didn’t answer, but handed Clara a cup of hot tea and a plate of sandwiches.

  “You look done in. Go sit down and eat this,” With that Annie stormed off to the pantry for potatoes, with no intention of returning until Clara was gone from the kitchen.

  Clara made her way back down the hall, feeling a stranger in her own home. She had only been gone a few hours, yet it could have been years the way the world had changed around her. A stranger greeting her like an old friend, Annie in a dangerous temper. It was all so bizarre.

  She came to the parlour and took a seat on the old sofa, which sagged in the middle and had a nasty tendency to erupt springs in the most inconvenient places.

  “I won’t keep you long Clara, for I can see you are tired. Perhaps, when you are less busy, I could pick your brains over a few things?” Agatha said.

  “Really, it’s no bother,” Clara assured her, feeling she would rather get this meeting over and done with then have to arrange another time.

  “Tommy has been telling me about some of your previous cases. From what I understand, you work as a team?”

  “I am very much an assistant only,” Tommy quickly said.

  “Tommy does his fair share,” Clara corrected him. “Without his assistance, and his ability to piece together puzzles, I would be lost.”

  “How fascinating,” said Agatha. “And what are you working on at the moment?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “No, no. Of course not. Now, tell me Clara, what is it like being a detective?” Agatha turned a very serious look on Clara. “I imagine it has its dark moments.”

  “That it does,” Clara agreed. “It can be exhausting and frustrating, also there are times when you wished you had not solved a case.”

  “You feel some mysteries are best left unsolved?”

  Clara hesitated. Was that what she meant?

  “No, it’s just… Digging around in peoples’ lives often brings up secrets that are irrelevant to the case, but which nonetheless are revealed. If a person keeps a secret for a long time, invariably it is because it may hurt them or someone else. When it relates to a crime, I have no sympathy, but sometimes I feel investigating causes a lot of ‘collateral damage’, as the Americans put it.”