by Evelyn James
“Suicide? Oh dear, I hadn’t considered it.”
“It is rather on my mind today,” Clara grimaced as her mind went back to Mr Johnson and the cracked ceiling of his front room.
“Excuse me, ladies?”
Clara glanced up. The Chinese gentleman had come over to them. He spoke good English, even if his accent was still strong.
“Did you say, ah, Mrs Welk is sick?”
“Yes,” Clara met the man’s eyes, trying to get a sense of who he was and what he was doing there.
“She is very sick?”
“Yes, do you know her?” Clara asked.
“Only through business,” the man gave her a little bow. “Please excuse me.”
With that he left the hotel, not even looking back once.
“What a curious man,” Agatha said, a frown on her face.
“Suspicious was more my thinking,” Clara pursed her lips. What had the strange foreigner wanted with Mrs Welk? What business could he have with an elderly woman at this time of night in a hotel? The more she considered it, the more uncomfortable she felt.
However, just then the doctor appeared. He had rushed to the hotel as fast as he could and was still doing up his tie as Mr Miller rushed over to him and introduced him to Clara and Agatha.
“Where is the patient then?” he asked impatiently.
The doctor was shown upstairs. Miller had his master key at the ready. Outside Mrs Welk’s door Agatha knocked on the woodwork. There was still no answer.
“We can hear her groaning through the wall,” Agatha explained to the doctor. “And she missed a dinner engagement. I thought she looked unwell at teatime.”
Miller opened the door. The doctor led the way inside, looking reassuringly confident. They entered a sitting room that formed one half of the suite. A long sofa stood with its back to them, to the right the door to the bedroom was open. The room was filled with the odour of sickness and a gasping wheeze could be heard coming from the floor. The sofa blocked their view, but, as they moved around it, Mrs Welk came into sight. She was lying face down on the floor, near to a puddle of her own vomit. A smashed glass was by her foot and a wet patch indicated where the water from it had spilled. The doctor crouched by Mrs Welk and felt her pulse. He carefully turned her over and propped her head on a pillow. She looked a nasty shade of grey and her lips were rather blue.
Agatha glanced at Clara. They had both done their time as nurses during the war and they recognised a serious case when they saw it. Mrs Welk appeared to be struggling to breath, and had been for some time. Without asking, Clara knew her heartbeat would be fluttery and faint, and her pulse would be slower than normal. Mrs Welk was on death’s door.
Mr Miller was trembling in the doorway, visions in his mind of policemen and ambulances, and the ghastly newspapermen they would attract like flies to an open wound. Only his professionalism prevented him suggesting they extract Mrs Welk from the hotel as fast as possible.
The doctor sat back on his haunches and looked up at Agatha and Clara, his face was serious.
“She has taken something,” he said. “I wouldn’t like to say what exactly it was at this time, but it is a drug of some description. Was she a known addict?”
“I suspected as much,” Agatha admitted. “But I thought her drug of choice was ether, this seems more dramatic.”
“Ether is not so easy to get hold of these days,” the doctor said. “She may have decided to try something new. She is not the first I have seen like this. I suggest we call an ambulance. It might be worth pumping her stomach, then again, if she has inhaled something there is little we can do but wait and see.”
Mr Miller made a strangled noise, then composed himself and said he would call an ambulance at once. Agatha sat on the sofa near Mrs Welk and shook her head.
“Poor woman. If only I had known earlier.”
Clara set out to explore the small suite. In the bedroom it seemed as if Mrs Welk had been sleeping, and then had rapidly climbed out of bed and headed for the sitting room, perhaps when she began to struggle to breathe. The bed clothes were in a tangled mess on the floor and a lamp had been knocked on its side as she had panicked and clambered out of bed. Clara opened the bedside table drawer, looking for suspicious contents. There was nothing but a Bible provided by the hotel.
Next to the bedroom was a private bathroom, and this proved more illuminating. There was a night bag on a shelf containing a range of pill bottles, everything from a daily laxative to harmless vitamin pills. There were also several pill boxes sitting on the edge of the sink. Clara opened each one, looking for a substance she could not place. While most seemed to contain aspirin or digestion aids, one opened to reveal a strange white powder. Clara carried the pill box through to the doctor and showed it to him. He glanced at the contents, dipped his finger in them and then placed a miniscule amount on his tongue. He savoured it for a moment.
“Cocaine,” he said. “Yes, a large dose of that could leave a person in a mess like this.”
Agatha looked close to tears. Clara clicked closed the lid of the box. Her mind was on the Chinese man in the foyer and his mention of business with Mrs Welk. It had to be said that a lot of the drug trade, be it opium, heroin or cocaine, had an oriental source. She wondered if she had just met an upmarket drug dealer.
Mr Miller appeared back at the doorway.
“I have called for an ambulance, it shall meet us at the kitchen entrance.”
Agatha glowered at him, and the man shrunk a little from the force of the look. Clara placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. It might be just as well for all concerned if Mrs Welk was discreetly taken to hospital. The poor woman would not want her secret exposed to the world.
The ambulance arrived within fifteen minutes and Mrs Welk was taken away on a stretcher. She looked extremely pale and was breathing shallowly. The doctor appeared to be pessimistic about her chances of survival. Clara escorted Agatha to her room and ordered her a brandy from room service.
“Did you ever see a soldier addicted to cocaine during the war?” Agatha asked her.
“No,” Clara admitted. “I have heard about it. I saw plenty of men addicted to morphine.”
“Just as bad,” Agatha nodded. “I met one or two who had developed a cocaine habit. It wasn’t pretty.”
“That man who spoke to us about Mrs Welk, had you ever seen him before?”
“The Oriental?” Agatha shook her head. “I would have remembered.”
Clara advised Agatha to get some rest and then headed for home. She was exhausted and hungry, and deeply concerned. She was under no illusions that Brighton had avoided succumbing to the drug scandal that was affecting much of the country; they were too close to London for that. The national papers regularly discussed the problem which, according to them, was becoming an epidemic. But to see it so close to hand – in a respectable hotel – made her shudder. It was like some monster had crawled up from the pit where it belonged and into the sunlight. The whole business had left a very nasty taste in her mouth.
Chapter Twenty-One
Clara made a leisurely start to Saturday morning. There had been snow in the night and she was not inclined to go out until the usual traffic had cleared at least some of the roads. Besides, she was still tired from the night before. She drank two cups of tea and ate the eggs and bacon Annie had insisted on cooking for her. Annie was complaining that Clara looked peaky and had lost some weight. Clara felt that, according to the fashion standards of the day, she could easily afford the weight loss, but Annie was appalled. She came from a traditional family of hard-working women who knew that an ample body was the best insurance against the deadliest of winter diseases. Annie had no time for magazines that instructed woman to reduce themselves to skeletons. She was convinced one good bout of fever would kill off half the fashionable female gender. As she had no intention of Clara being part of that number (and having been deeply worried about her during her illness), she was determined to feed her up. For t
hat matter, Tommy was coming under her eagle gaze too, though, in his case, he actually liked being stuffed with food. To Annie’s alarm (and Clara’s envy), Tommy failed to put on a single pound despite the copious amounts of food Annie fed him.
Clara wrapped herself up well in a warm coat and scarf at ten o’clock and set out on her first mission of the morning, which she was not particularly looking forward to. Most of the roads had been cleared by the early morning carts, but the pavements were still deep in snow and Clara took her time, picking her steps carefully. Her mind briefly turned to Mrs Welk; had she survived the night?
She walked past Mr Johnson’s house and another pang of sadness filled her, that was swiftly followed by anger and, by the time she reached the front door of the Cotterley sisters’ home, she was feeling quite furious. The harm and evil these three women had caused, all out of spite, was unspeakable, and she knew full well that little would be done about them. But, if she could stop the letters, that would be something. She rapped hard on the door.
No one answered. She cast her eyes to the bay window on her right and a face vanished behind a curtain. She knocked again, harder. There was still silence inside. The Cotterleys were not going to answer the door. Clara felt even angrier at the sight of such cowardly behaviour. How was she supposed to confront the Cotterleys if they would not even come to the door? She was about to leave and rethink her plan when she heard footsteps crunching behind her.
She turned to see a very thin woman with a time-worn face standing just inside the garden gate. She was dressed all in grey and had a large basket gripped by the handle in both hands. Weary, puffy eyes looked at Clara.
“They won’t answer.”
“I need to speak with them,” Clara insisted. “Are you Mrs Grimes?”
“Yes,” Mrs Grimes gave a start. “How did you know?”
“I was told you brought the Cotterleys their shopping. If I cannot speak with them, could I speak with you for a moment? It is very important.”
Mrs Grimes chewed on her lip, looking anxiously at the door.
“What have they done?” she asked, after a long moment.
“Aside from writing some appalling letters, they are very much morally responsible for the untimely death of Mr Johnson.”
“Poor man,” Mrs Grimes sighed, staring down into her basket. “Why don’t we go back to my house? It is just a couple of roads away.”
Mrs Grimes led Clara to a respectable terrace, considerably bigger than the one occupied by the Cotterleys. She took Clara in through the back door and into a warm kitchen. A beef pudding was slowly boiling in a pan and there was a smell of freshly baked cake. Mrs Grimes clattered tea cups down from a shelf before offering to take Clara’s coat.
“Did you know about the poison pen letters?” Clara asked when they were settled.
“I had heard rumours, but everyone is being very discreet about it. It hadn’t occurred to me that my mother or aunts could be involved.”
“Your mother’s handwriting gave them away. It was recognised,” though not by Miss Wicks, Clara conceded to herself, which was worrying. “There were other clues too.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs Grimes groaned a little. “Thomas will be furious. He hates them already. He will try and insist I never see them again. But, I can’t abandon them, can I? Who would do their shopping?”
Clara felt inclined to say that, perhaps, if the Cotterley sisters had to do their own shopping and leave the house, they would have less time for venting their spite on the innocent. Then again, maybe not.
“Is shopping the only thing you do for them?”
“No,” Mrs Grimes pulled a face. “I post letters for them too. I suppose I posted those letters.”
Mrs Grimes gave a groan.
“Are the Cotterley sisters ill, Mrs Grimes?”
“Only the complaints of old age. A little arthritis here and there. Oh, but you mean, why don’t they leave the house?” Mrs Grimes gave this some thought. “I suppose it is because they are afraid of people. They don’t want to talk to anyone, in case someone asks them a difficult question. They have always had extremely high expectations and are very proud. But pride can so easily turn to shame, don’t you think? They are ashamed of so many things in their lives, not least my own daughter’s indiscretion, which they encouraged. That shame keeps them housebound. They don’t want to let the outside world in, for fear it would remind them of their failings.”
“Well, they have invited me into their lives through these letters.”
“Yes, I suppose they didn’t think of that.”
“I need to speak with them. I hope a quiet chat will stop the letters. If I must I will take this matter to the police,” Clara avoided adding that she didn’t have enough evidence to get the police involved.
“They would hate that.”
“Which is why I hoped to talk to them before it came to that. They have done a dreadful thing, and it has cost one man his life.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs Grimes looked close to tears. “If I had known I never would have posted those letters.”
“Please, I am not accusing you,” Clara reassured her, but the woman still looked distressed. Clara tried to distract her. “I don’t suppose you have a sample of your mother’s handwriting I could compare to the letters?”
Mrs Grimes left the table and went to a Welsh dresser standing against one wall. She rummaged in a drawer and produced a handful of letters. She placed them on the table.
“These are a few years old, from when my mother still took holidays. She would write to me every day. But I also have this,” she drew a handwritten shopping list from her pocket.
Clara studied the letters and the list for a few moments. The writing was identical to that she had seen on the poison pen letters.
“Might I take the shopping list and one of the letters?”
Mrs Grimes nodded. She looked worn down, all her strength gone from her. She sat down quietly, staring at a knot in the woodwork of her kitchen table.
“I am sorry to ask, but could you get me inside the Cotterley house to speak with the sisters?”
Mrs Grimes pulled another face. No doubt she was thinking of the reprimands and lectures she would receive for weeks after for helping Clara inside. Clara found it hard to imagine putting up with such people, even if they were close kin. But Mrs Grimes clearly felt obligated to them. After a long silence Mrs Grimes looked up.
“I will help you, only because they have done such an awful thing and they need to be stopped. They destroy lives, not through violence, but through their insidious lies and false promises. I wish I had recognised their nature sooner, maybe Ellen could have been spared their influence,” a tear fell down Mrs Grimes’ face. “I know her disgrace was in part their doing. Ellen met Major Dennis at a Victory ball. He had more interest in her than she did in him, at least at first. But she told my mother and aunts and they turned her head with ideas that she would be the envy of all the local girls as a Major’s wife. They imagined he had a lot of money too. None of them guessed he was married, and when it was discovered, well, my aunts saw that as no real issue. He clearly no longer loved his wife, or why was he courting Ellen?
“I found out too late what was going on. Ellen made a fool of herself and everyone learned of it, Mrs Dennis made sure of that. And then the good Major just abandoned her for some flat-chested blonde with a wealthy daddy. I was heartbroken. Thomas, my husband, has not spoken to Ellen since the day it all came out.”
Mrs Grimes choked back a sob.
“They seem to keep bringing hardship upon me,” she shook her head. “People say I should have nothing to do with them, but they are family. I know I am a fool.”
“Let me speak with them and, hopefully, there will be no need to take this further,” Clara was still sorely tempted to hand the Cotterleys over to the police, but she was beginning to see it would do no real good and would probably only bring harm on those already affected by the Cotterleys’ maliciousness. Inst
ead, she would see to it that the sisters suffered a punishment far worse to them than a fine handed down by a judge. They would be shamed in front of their neighbours.
Mrs Grimes escorted Clara back to the Cotterley house. She explained on the way that she had her own key and would let them both in. She also warned Clara to expect to be verbally assaulted the second she stepped over the threshold. Clara was prepared for that and, in response, she was armed with her own sense of indignation and righteous fury. Besides, she had dealt with gangsters in the past, how scary could three little old ladies be?
Mrs Grimes took them to the front door, explaining that the backyard was virtually impassable these days. The weeds and shrubs had taken it over, the sisters were not inclined to gardening and the chore used to fall on Mr Grimes’ shoulders. But the scandal over Ellen had finished that. Mrs Grimes looked quite ashamed that her husband would so neglect her mother and aunts. Clara, however, could fully understand the man’s principles. She was beginning to recognise Mrs Grimes as one of life’s martyrs; in fact, it was a trend that seemed to run through the Cotterley family. She was bowed down by her misery and constantly blamed others for her misfortune when, in reality, much of it was of her own making. She could, at any moment, remove herself from the presence of the Cotterleys and most of her neighbours would understand the decision. But she wouldn’t do that. Suffering was a badge of honour for her, one she wore with pride.
The key turned in the lock and the door swung open. The hallway was dark. A staircase ran up the left hand wall. Clara nipped in behind Mrs Grimes and pulled the door closed. Now she was truly trapped inside the lion’s den.
“Hello?” Mrs Grimes called out.
“Here!” a shrill voice cried from the back parlour.
Mrs Grimes went to the doorway. Three old women were sat around a brightly burning fire.
“We expected you earlier. Maggie looked out the window when she heard someone knock, thinking you had mislaid your key, but it was that ghastly female detective who has been snooping around,” Heather Cotterley declared to her daughter.
