The Poison Pen

by Evelyn James

  “Blast it all Tommy, you are looking jolly good for a man I thought was dead!”

  The statement threw Tommy for a moment, then he found his smile.

  “You too, old man, you too.”

  Tommy showed Herbert into the parlour. He was relieved that Herbert made no attempt to aid him with his wheelchair, as so many would; it was always an awkward gesture that made Tommy feel even more of an invalid. He wondered if those people ever considered how he moved around the house when no one else was there? Herbert, however, treated him as if he was walking on two legs.

  “I say, how are your parents these days?”

  There was a difficult pause.

  “Ah,” Herbert said, embarrassed.

  “It was a Zeppelin bomb in London. Damn unfortunate.”

  “I should say.”

  “Clara is well though.”

  “That would be your little sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “The precocious one, who was always interfering in our plans?”

  “That would be Clara,” Tommy laughed. “And she still interferes, just in other peoples’ plans now, and usually for their benefit.”

  Herbert strolled to the fire and warmed his hands.

  “I confess, I only knew you were still alive because of this magazine,” Tommy lifted ‘Horrid Crimes’ off the table and showed it to Herbert. A grin beamed across the latter’s face.

  “Fabulous bit of rubbish that,” he said. “I love the magazine, have a subscription to it. Most of it is rather torrid, but there is one journalist on their team who specialises in cracking articles on crime detection. He came to interview me when he was in London a few months back writing a follow up piece on Jack the Ripper. You know the sort of thing. Thirty years on do we know anything more about the Ripper? Anyway, he paid me a call. I happened to be working on a forged will case at the time and was in London to give evidence at the Old Bailey.”

  “It says in the article that you have become an expert in handwriting.”

  “Yes, though it is really a side-line to my day job. I work for a pharmaceutical company now, coming up with all manner of new products. I also do a lot of safety testing, freelance. It’s frightening some of the chemicals they put in beauty and health products these days. I have my own laboratory, so I can do independent testing for companies or individuals.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “It can be. I had this one case, a while back now. I was asked to test a skin whitening product for a well-to-do lady. She was of a dusky complexion and had used the stuff in an attempt to lighten her skin. The results were horrendous. She will probably be permanently scarred,” Herbert shook his head sadly. “I was hardly surprised when I did the tests. The stuff was dreadfully caustic, should never have been allowed near a person’s skin. Jolly lucky she didn’t get any in her eyes, she would have been blinded. She took the manufacturer to court and the product was withdrawn from sale.”

  “Makes me rather glad I’m not a woman,” Tommy said.

  “Don’t think male health products are any better, goodness no. My advice is to avoid the lot of them.”

  Herbert flicked open the cover of ‘Horrid Crimes’, and it was then he noticed the pile of letters Tommy had conspicuously left on the table nearby. For someone fascinated by handwriting, any glimpsed letter demanded attention. Tommy said casually;

  “Clara’s latest case, someone writing poison pen letters.”

  “Does she know who?”

  “Not yet, no one seems to have recognised the handwriting, and the letters themselves offer little clue.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Herbert used the tip of one finger to drag the letters a little nearer, he nonchalantly glanced over them. “Victorian loops, right slant, yes, I would say this was written by a person who was taught to write around the 1850s or 60s. The penmanship was practiced on a slate first, rather than paper, which is why the pen bites so deep. You need to press more firmly on a slate to write than you do with a pen on paper, a habit once developed that is hard to break. Note the slight hesitations after so many words. This person is used to writing with an old-fashioned nib pen that had to be dipped in ink every so often. Regular use forms the habit of knowing when to re-dip the nib before the ink runs out completely and spoils the flow of the lettering. Even when using a modern pen with an ink reservoir, the habit lingers in little, subtle, pauses of the pen. Here, on the end of this ‘e’ is a clear one. The pen was lifted unconsciously mid word, so the ‘e’ does not quite join with the letter beside it as it should.”

  Herbert peered at the letter more closely. The contents were, for the moment, irrelevant to him. It was the way the words were formed that fascinated him.

  “The sharp angles at the tops of some letters, this ‘o’ for instance, which has almost become a pyramid with a rounded bottom, is taken as a sign of a hard person, who was writing with spite and anger on their mind. The words are grouped very tightly, a sign of internal tension, as is the smallness of the words and the way even downward loops, such as on the ‘g’, barely drop beneath the writing line. And yet, as the letter progresses, the words expand, the tail loops grow. Yes, the person found the process of writing these letters cathartic. It released the tension within them.”

  “So we are dealing with an older person filled with anger and bitterness, whose only way of expending that fury is to write nasty letters?” Tommy said.

  “A woman, I would suspect, some of the language has a feminine tone and the character of some of the letters suggests a female hand, like this ‘p’ and this ‘s’. Women tend to create more flowing curves when writing a letter s, men tend to make the curves sharper. Though, that is more subjective than my other observations.”

  “Hmm,” Tommy mused. “Those are certainly insights I would not have noticed.”

  “With more time, I could perhaps pick out more. I need to get them under a magnifying glass, perhaps test the ink to suggest a source for it. The paper is good quality. I would imagine the ink will be too.”

  “I don’t think Clara would like the letters leaving the house,” Tommy admitted reluctantly. “Some of the contents are quite private and personal.”

  “Gosh, yes, I just read this one. How ghastly!” Herbert was genuinely appalled. “How can anyone write such things?”

  “That I don’t know,” Tommy shrugged. “Would you like a cream horn? I sent for them especially.”

  Tommy picked up a plate of cakes from the table and held them out towards Herbert.

  “I would indeed, my favourites. You know Tommy, I am jolly glad you rang. I’ve been feeling rather lonely.”

  “To be honest, so have I,” Tommy sighed. “I mean, I have the girls, so I am hardly alone as such. But I’ve been lacking in male company since I returned. My own fault though, for a time I just didn’t want to see any of my old friends.”

  “That is understandable,” Herbert licked cream off his fingers. “War makes one think in a different way. It is hard to imagine how we used to be so carefree. Some of the things I used to worry about seem so unimportant now.”

  “I miss the cricket team,” It was the first time Tommy had said the words out loud and, as he did, he realised how much he meant them. “I miss the glory days of summer before the war. Sunday afternoon on the cricket ground, batting up, bowling for Brighton. The clunk of leather on wood. I even imagined…”

  Tommy stopped himself and laughed.

  “What did you imagine?” Herbert asked quietly.

  Tommy groaned softly.

  “I imagined becoming a professional. Not sure how the parents would have taken it, but I was convinced I was good enough to do it.”

  Herbert did not respond. A silent lament for lost dreams drifted over the table between them. The cream horns on their plate suddenly seemed sour reminders of long ago times.

  “Tommy, there was one thing you taught me all those years ago, a thing that kept me going through my horrid schooldays and later in the
trenches,” Herbert finally said. “You taught me never to give up because, if you give up, then you’ll never know if you were just one day, or even one hour away from achieving what you always wanted. At the time, all I wanted was to survive. Well, I did that, but I saw others who gave up and didn’t.”

  “A goal has to be achievable for it to be worth not giving up on,” Tommy answered bitterly.

  “It was just a thought,” Herbert said. “Look, on Saturday the Salvation Army band is playing a concert to raise funds for injured ex-servicemen. I am going to attend. Would you join me?”

  Tommy hesitated, wasn’t he an injured ex-serviceman?

  “I go for the music, really,” Herbert tried to defuse the tension. “I like the jolly stuff. And, well, I…” Herbert blushed. “There is this girl in the Salvation band, she plays the trumpet. Did you ever hear of a girl playing a trumpet? She really is quite good, and I said I would go along and watch her. But, I’m a little bit…”

  “Shy, old man?” Tommy interpreted.

  “I suppose, yes. She scares the life out of me, to be honest. But I am determined not to give up! Only, a little moral support wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Tommy had to smile. Herbert had not changed a jot since he had last seen him and, as usual, Tommy found it impossible to say no to him.

  “All right, you have won me over.”

  Herbert grinned.

  “Thanks for the cake, old man. I must get back. I left an experiment on the boil. You must come to the lab one day.”

  “Sounds grand.”

  “I’m jolly pleased you got in touch,” Herbert shook Tommy’s hand warmly. “You know, that was one of the other things I didn’t give up on. I didn’t give up on surviving and I didn’t give up hoping that you had made it too. And now here we are.”

  “And here we are,” Tommy repeated.

  Herbert stood back and smiled, as if finally believing what his eyes told him – that his old friend was real and sitting just before him.

  “It was a long war, Tommy, but we made it.”

  “Some in better shape than others,” Tommy answered morbidly.

  Herbert slapped him hard on the shoulder.

  “You have all your limbs,” he said firmly. “That, my friend, is a very good start.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Clara checked her wristwatch. It was ten minutes past four and there was no sign of Mrs Prinner. Her neighbour had reported seeing her pop out to the shops a half-hour ago with the baby. She had yet to return. Clara perched herself on the garden wall and decided to wait. It was already dark and the road did not have streetlights, except for some very old gas ones which did not appear to work anymore. Clara didn’t much like waiting around in someone’s garden in the dark, but Mrs Prinner was not going to elude her, of that much she was certain. She was looking forward to a warm fire and a good dinner when she eventually arrived home.

  There were footsteps in the darkness. Clara checked her watch using the light from a nearby house window; it was now fifteen minutes past four. The squeak of a wheel gave Clara hope that this was Mrs Prinner returning with the baby, she had no doubt assumed Clara would have given up waiting five minutes ago. The footsteps slowed as they reached the house. Even in the dark, Mrs Prinner could make out the shape of someone sitting on her garden wall. The pram squeaked to a halt.

  “Mrs Prinner,” Clara couldn’t quite make out the woman, but she felt fairly certain it was her. “I do apologise for being early, I had not realised we had changed the appointment to half four.”

  “Oh,” Mrs Prinner was flustered. “I… I was delayed at the shops. I needed some Syrup of Figs for Ivor.”

  “The baby?”

  “No, my eldest. He is five and… and… his grandmother will be bringing him home soon. He stays with her on a Thursday so I can get my housework done.”

  “Then we best have our chat before Ivor returns,” Clara held open the garden gate for the pram and Mrs Prinner reluctantly pushed the baby to the front door.

  It was all too apparent she had been attempting to avoid Clara.

  “Mrs Prinner, why are you so concerned about speaking to me?”

  “I’m not,” Mrs Prinner tried to laugh off the suggestion. “I just lost track of time. That is how it is when you have children.”

  Mrs Prinner fumbled with her house key. Clara peered into the pram at the sleeping baby; a contented, plump thing with rosy red cheeks.

  “Anyway, it’s not as though I have anything to tell you.”

  Clara was sorely tempted to call Mrs Prinner out on a barefaced lie, but bit her tongue. The pram was hauled into the house, the bump up the doorstep not disturbing the slumbering infant, and Clara followed. Mrs Prinner made a fuss of turning on the lights and stirring the parlour fire into life, before offering Clara a chair. Clara observed that the room was cluttered with the debris of household chores; an airing horse had been hastily moved back from the fire and was draped with baby’s napkins, a pile of clothes stood waiting to be ironed, while a basket by the chair contained a mountain of socks to darn. An old rag had been left forgotten on the mantelpiece from when Mrs Prinner had made a start on the dusting before being distracted, and tucked behind an ornament was a jar of lead black for the fireplace hearth. The room was awash with half-begun tasks, destined never to be fully finished.

  Mrs Prinner pulled a teddy-bear from under a cushion and tucked it up with the baby in the pram. She was avoiding meeting Clara’s eyes.

  “I read the letter you received,” Clara said, deciding she would have to force the issue. “Suggesting you had spread lies about a certain Miss Grimes out of jealousy.”

  “Yes,” Mrs Prinner faffed around the baby’s pram. “Nonsense, of course.”

  “Who is Miss Grimes?”

  “My cousin,” Mrs Prinner shrugged. “I don’t see her very often now, but I used to a lot as a child.”

  “And the rumours?”

  Mrs Prinner shook her head.

  “I had no need to say anything. People talk about a thing like that. But they blamed me because, well, they said I was jealous. Jealous!” Mrs Prinner snorted. “They should look at themselves for jealousy. Miss Grimes was said to be involved with a married man. That is as much as I knew. I deliberately kept out of it. But people are not blind and they talk. The gossip grew so bad she had to move away. People felt sorry for the wife of the man, naturally.”

  “The letter against you seemed very personal, more personal than the others.”

  Mrs Prinner fluffed the baby’s blanket and the little creature moaned in its sleep.

  “You know who sent the letters, Mrs Prinner,” Clara persisted.

  “How should I know over everyone else?” The woman laughed. “You’ve been talking to Mrs Wilton. She imagines she knows people better than they do themselves.”

  “Maybe she is right, in this instance?”

  “I know as much about those letters as any other poor soul who received one. They are despicable and the person who sent them is horrible, but I can’t say any more than that.”

  “Then I am at a dead end,” Clara sighed. “I had in mind the Cotterley sisters were behind this.”

  Mrs Prinner gave a little jerk, enough for Clara to notice and to note it.

  “But Miss Wicks seems convinced her letter was by someone else,” Clara finished.

  Mrs Prinner should have relaxed at this statement, instead she seemed more tense than ever and, at long last, Clara felt she was heading in the right direction.

  “Do you know the Cotterley sisters?” Clara asked.

  Mrs Prinner took a while to answer.

  “They are my great aunts,” she said at last.

  “Then Miss Grimes is…” Clara was cut off by the front door opening and a child giving a huge bellow of ‘hello’, before charging down the hallway and straight up to his mother. Ivor had returned.

  “I must get on with supper,” Mrs Prinner told Clara, her relief at escaping the interview evident. She bus
tled off Ivor with the excuse of getting him to wash his hands and take off his shoes.

  Clara decided she would have to let herself out. In the hallway she came across Mrs Prinner’s mother, trying to fold up an old umbrella so she could jam it into the hall stand. The umbrella clearly had other ideas. Clara met her eyes.

  “Are you that detective woman?”

  “Yes,” said Clara.

  “Maud Harris,” the woman introduced herself.

  “Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara responded.

  “I would talk with you,” Maud said, glancing down the hall to where her daughter had vanished into the kitchen. “See you tomorrow, Janice.”

  From the kitchen came a voice saying goodbye.

  “I’ll walk with you a bit,” Maud nodded to Clara and followed her out the door.

  Once on the pavement outside she began to talk.

  “What did my daughter tell you?”

  “Very little,” admitted Clara.

  “She thinks her great aunts are behind all this.”

  “The Cotterley sisters?”

  “Yes, well, they are called that, but Heather Cotterley was married to Martin Jenkins. She only reverted to her maiden name when he died.”

  “And, are you related to them?”

  “Heavens, no! Or at least not by blood, only marriage,” Maud laughed grimly. “Mighty relieved I am about that too. There is madness in the women of that family. I worry about Janice a little because of it. No, my husband’s father was a Cotterley. But, you see, he died in an accident when my husband was quite little, and my mother-in-law remarried to a Mr Harris and changed her son’s surname. That did not go down well with the Cotterleys, no indeed!”

  “Do you think they are behind these letters?”

  “Almost certainly,” Maud nodded, “I don’t know why, nor how you will prove it. But the handwriting looks like that of Heather Cotterley.”