Murder and Mascara

by Evelyn James

  The attendant was looking pale now. Perhaps he had a guilty conscience, or perhaps he didn’t like the idea of losing his job. Unemployment was not a pleasant prospect with England’s economy in a slump. Who could afford to lose their job? Especially a well-paid one such as working on Ward D?

  “People don’t understand how hard it is in here,” the attendant said as he opened the door wider for Clara. “The people here aren’t like normal patients. Look at this, for a start.”

  The attendant rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and revealed a bite mark.

  “The old fellow in the far bed did that this morning. All I was trying to do was check his temperature. The people in here are more animal than human,” the attendant tutted to himself. “You’ll soon get to understand it. Any of those folk complaining should try working in here for a day or two!”

  Clara was no longer listening to him because she had spotted Dr Cutt sitting beside Captain O’Harris’ bed. She was flooded with relief to see the two were talking and Captain O’Harris no longer looked drugged up to his eyeballs. Clara hurried over, abandoning the attendant.

  “Clara,” O’Harris smiled as she approached.

  Dr Cutt looked up and gave Clara an amused smile.

  “How did you wrangle your way in here?” he laughed.

  “I pretended to be on official business,” Clara hissed. “Don’t break my cover!”

  She winked at them both. O’Harris started to chuckle too.

  “Now, I think we have talked enough,” Dr Cutt nodded to his newest patient. “And you should rest. Clara, as much as you would like to be here, I think your presence may cause more harm than good.”

  Dr Cutt stood and took her arm.

  “I have been assured that Captain O’Harris will be returning to a normal ward later today, where I shall be attending him daily to supervise his recuperation.”

  “Thank you doctor,” O’Harris’ eyes still looked foggy from the sedative. “It was good to talk to someone who understands.”

  “I shall see you soon,” Dr Cutt told him, then he led Clara out of the ward.

  Once in the hallway outside he wagged his finger at her.

  “Do you wish to raise Dr Patton’s goitre?”

  “I only wanted to see what was going on,” Clara shrugged. “I don’t trust them in there.”

  “But you trust me,” Dr Cutt reminded her. “Now, will you please behave yourself. I would like to explain all this to you, so shall we go see if they serve edible sandwiches and tea in the hospital canteen?”

  Clara followed the elderly but spry man along the corridor and through several turns until they reached the canteen. It smelt as Clara so vividly remembered it; of boiled cabbage and cleaning fluid. Dr Cutt paused before a glass case within which sat some rather bleak looking sandwiches.

  “Might this one be cucumber?” he asked the girl behind the counter, who was waiting for him to order so she could retrieve the said sandwich for him.

  “Yes sir,” she said.

  “And might that one be cheese?”

  “Yes sir. And that one is corned beef, and that one is meat paste. We don’t do any others.”

  Dr Cutt agreed to the cucumber sandwich, which looked the most likely to agree with his digestion, while Clara contented herself with cheese. The sandwiches were retrieved and a pot of tea fetched. Clara and Dr Cutt found themselves a spare pair of seats at a table and picked at their respective meagre lunches.

  “Hospital food has not changed since my days as a medical student,” Dr Cutt reflected with a half-smile. “It is still cheap and made by someone who has not the first notion of the way to present a sandwich to make it look appetising. Here, you see, I have the evidence of a ham-fisted chef; finger impressions in my sandwich where they have pressed down far too hard when cutting the bread in half. Sadly, someone with more finesse cut the cucumber, it appears with a fine razor as the slices are barely discernible against the butter.”

  Dr Cutt opened his sandwich to show wafer-thin cuts of cucumber, sliced so thin they had a translucent appearance. Clara preferred not to inspect her cheese sandwich too hard.

  “What was your opinion of Captain O’Harris?” she asked instead.

  “A sensible man of remarkable resilience,” Dr Cutt responded at once. “I found him a pleasure to talk to. Just as importantly, he was acutely aware that he had a problem. So many of my patients are trapped in a spiral of denial that restricts my ability to help them. Captain O’Harris, on the other hand, accepts that his mental condition has not been of the best lately and has gladly agreed to my help.”

  Clara relaxed. She physically felt her shoulders drop down as the tension in them was relieved and her stomach eased.

  “You were concerned he would not be so forthcoming?” Dr Cutt guessed.

  “Captain O’Harris is a war hero and a proud man. I thought he might struggle,” Clara admitted.

  “I can’t deny that a lot of men do, but I think Captain O’Harris has been so trapped in turmoil that he was only too relieved to find someone who might understand him. He spoke very honestly with me about his experiences over the last year. I am not surprised in the slightest that he is having some trouble adjusting back to ordinary life,” Dr Cutt sipped his tea. “I find it baffling that so many within the medical profession are oblivious to the impact dramatic events can have on both the body and mind. It is not as though we do not have enough evidence for this after the last few years. There has to be a change, Clara. I must find others willing to help me make that change.”

  Dr Cutt’s smile became sad.

  “I am an old man thinking of starting a new crusade. Is it all too late?”

  “Never,” Clara insisted to him. “Whether you enact a change yourself or inspire someone else to, this will be all worthwhile.”

  She had given up on her sandwich, her nerves were back as she asked;

  “Can O’Harris be helped?”

  Dr Cutt lost his moroseness as he reached out for her hand.

  “Of course, my dear, everyone can be helped. Captain O’Harris is suffering from a condition I have seen several times among men and women who have experienced traumatic events. I have treated a number of former soldiers who have the exact same symptoms and they are now leading normal lives. I can’t say I am an expert on the subject, as I doubt there are any experts as yet, but I know enough to be able to help,” Dr Cutt squeezed her hand. “The brain is a surprisingly fragile object. I mean, most of us understand that we have a thick skull to protect our soft brains, and that beneath the bone is a very unique and easily damaged object. But, aside from the physical, so few appreciate how truly vulnerable our brain matter is.

  “Look at those people in Ward D Clara. Each and every one of them has a damaged mind. For some that damage is caused by physical harm. Seizures that rattle the brain in the skull. Cancer that grows tumours on the brain. Even old age which, in some people, seems to cause irreversible damage to the grey matter. Thankfully, I do not have that condition!”

  Dr Cutt chuckled to himself.

  “Then there is other damage, which we barely acknowledge, let alone understand. This damage is internal and not caused by a blow to the head or a disease. Rather it is caused by emotional events that occur to us without leaving any physical scar,” Dr Cutt threw up his hands. “How little we know! Science fails to explain how an organic mass of pink tissue that looks rather disgusting, I might add, can enable us to speak, imagine, dream. How this blob inside our skulls can enable some people to paint masterpieces, while others struggle to draw the simplest of things. If we don’t understand how it even works, then how can we hope to understand why it breaks down at times? All we can do is devise ways to ease the symptoms.

  “Captain O’Harris’ brain has suffered a series of shocks that has left it traumatised. I think that is the best way I can describe it without there being more serious study of these things. Like a frightened animal his mind tried to hide away, so we have this period of time when
Captain O’Harris refused to speak. His brain had shut itself completely down. But the world around him forced Captain O’Harris’ mind to cease hiding. He has been forced to cope with the situation at hand, but because his mind is not in a fit state to do so, so sometimes it has these moments when it becomes overworked. We are only just beginning to understand the psychology of the mind, but it is safe to say that dramatic events can leave the brain so shaken that it needs time to heal. And if not given that time, then it develops these little blips. I like to think of it as a badly fixed broken bone, which causes the sufferer occasional periods of pain.”

  Clara had listened to this with a slight frisson of horror.

  “What if Captain O’Harris cannot be healed?” she asked.

  Dr Cutt shook his head.

  “You haven’t been listening. Brains can heal just like bones. Scars may be left behind, but they will be minor compared to the original damage. Captain O’Harris will recover.”

  Clara gave a sigh.

  “I should not doubt you,” she said.

  Dr Cutt shrugged.

  “Why should you be different to everyone else?” he said, amused. “People doubt, they can’t help it.”

  “Well, from now on I shall put my trust in you,” Clara said, utterly resolved. “And I shall not interfere.”

  “Oh Clara,” Dr Cutt chortled. “Both you and I know that is a promise you will find impossible to keep!”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Clara headed for Arthur Crudd’s lodging address. It was in one of the less congenial areas of town. The families that resided in these streets were just clinging on to their veneer of respectability, but it wouldn’t take much to tip the balance. People eyed her suspiciously as she wandered down the road. She looked far too well dressed for this part of Brighton.

  Crudd’s lodging house was in the middle of a row of terraces. It belonged to a widow who rented out two bedrooms to provide her with a little income. She lived on the ground floor and from the look of the worn paint on the window frames and door, the income her lodgers were providing was not entirely sufficient. Clara knocked on the door, noting the empty space where a door knocker had once hung. Perhaps in better times the lady of the house had been proud to display an iron or even brass knocker on the door, but it had long been sold for scrap to pay the bills.

  The woman who answered the summons was wearing a long apron, and had a duster in one hand while the other held a chipped porcelain ornament that displayed the legend ‘A Souvenir of Blackpool’. She was a tall woman, with little meat on her bones. Her hair was fiercely swept up and hidden beneath a large handkerchief, presumably with the intention of keeping it clean and out of her way while she worked. A cigarette lolled at the side of her mouth and she squinted at Clara with unpleasant narrow eyes.

  “What do you want?” she demanded. It was immediately apparent to this woman that Clara was no prospective lodger, at least not in a dive like this. “If you are collecting for some charity you can sling your hook!”

  “Actually, I am looking for Arthur Crudd,” Clara said politely.

  “You and me both,” the woman scowled. “He went out late last night and never came back. I don’t hold with that sort of thing. Only reason people go out and don’t come back of an evening is because they have got themselves into trouble and I don’t like trouble in my house.”

  Clara imagined that the landlady caused trouble enough for her lodgers without them trying to add to it.

  “Hasn’t paid me for today’s lodging, either. If he intends to stay another night I expect to be paid by eight sharp in the morning. It’s my rule. Else how am I supposed to support this place and buy food? If my lodgers pay me extra I even cook them a supper, now they can’t say better than that. But I haven’t had a penny from Crudd,” the woman paused and glowered out her door at the world around her. “Gone and done a runner, that’s what it is. I should have known when I first clapped eyes on him that he was trouble. Too many ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’ for my liking. Always fawning and being polite, didn’t seem right for a lad like him.”

  “When did you last see Crudd?” Clara asked.

  The landlady’s forehead actually managed to furrow into a deeper frown.

  “Would have been just after supper. I always make it for seven o’clock. That’s another of my rules. I keep to a strict routine. Mr Brown, my long-term lodger, understands and appreciates this,” the woman’s tone softened as she spoke about her clearly most cherished lodger. “Crudd had paid for supper and ate it, though I didn’t care for the look he gave my food. I made fried kidneys on toast. That is Mr Brown’s favourite, but young Crudd gave it such a sneer when he thought I weren’t looking! I asked myself, what does he expect? The lad acted as if he were used to much finer eating. Made me suspicious.”

  “Did Crudd say where he was going?” Clara asked, thinking that she might have difficulty consuming fried kidneys on toast too.

  “No, he didn’t. Why are you asking?” now the landlady looked at Clara curiously, clearly wondering what this smartly attired woman’s interest could be in a working class lad.

  “I should explain,” Clara gave her an apologetic smile. “I am a member of the Brighton Pavilion Preservation Committee and Mr Crudd has been doing some work for us. He was asked to come to the Pavilion today as urgent work was required, but he failed to show. This has caused us some inconvenience and I was asked to seek out Mr Crudd and discover why he did not appear.”

  “Well he never got your message,” the landlady said, looking almost satisfied by this statement. She was probably enjoying Crudd getting into trouble after he had looked down on her cooking. “I still have the note he was sent sitting on the mantelpiece.”

  “I am concerned about what might have befallen him,” Clara said, genuinely worried. “He is a young lad alone in this world. He was taken on by the Pavilion workforce as it was felt he would benefit from the guidance and practical education. We feel responsible for him. I hope he has not found himself in serious trouble.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” the landlady shrugged. “I take no responsibility for anyone but myself. If you are that worried, you can go up to his room and look through his things. I glanced in this morning and saw that everything is still there, so if he has legged it he has left all his stuff behind. Better for me that way, I’ll pawn the lot.”

  Clara hesitated, searching through someone’s private things felt a little bit intrusive.

  “Go ahead,” the landlady noted her trepidation. “I’m only going to clear the stuff out of there myself shortly. I’ll be letting out the room again as soon as I can and it will need a good clean. I was just getting my other chores done before I set to work up there. Don’t go getting all precious about it, now.”

  The woman seemed amused by Clara’s reluctance, she clearly saw nothing wrong about invading another person’s privacy. Clara decided that with Arthur Crudd apparently vanished, there was a fitting reason to examine his belongings. Perhaps it would provide a clue to where he had gone and, if he was in trouble, it would be best for him if it was discovered where he might be. Clara overcame her reservations, especially when she saw the landlady smirking at her with deep amusement.

  “I will take a look, seeing as he is missing.”

  The landlady almost laughed, clearly enjoying Clara’s discomfort.

  “Go on up, first door to the right of the landing,” she instructed. “Mr Brown has the room straight ahead. Don’t go wandering in there.”

  Clara thanked her, though she was not entirely sure what she was thanking her for, and headed up the stairs. There were two doors at the top, as the landlady had described. She ignored the one immediately ahead of her and turned right to the door just along the landing. She found it was unlocked and opening it she came into a small room with a bed, a dresser, a wooden chair and a small wash stand as its sole furnishings.

  The room had been kept very neat by Arthur Crudd. The wash stand included a
jug full of clean water, apparently unused. Presumably it had been placed there after he had left. The dresser was empty and the drawers smelt rather musty. Crudd had made no effort to settle himself in this room, almost as if he had always known he would be leaving again swiftly. Well, with the limited work he had available to him with Mr Taversham, that was a logical assumption, but Clara rather felt there was something more to this seeming desire to leave the place untouched.

  The bed had not been slept in. It was of a flimsy brass construction with a very lumpy mattress. Clara bent down to look underneath and spotted a suitcase. She pulled the case out and the first thing that struck her was how nice a thing it was. The case was of tooled leather and relatively new. How strange, Clara mused, not the sort of thing you would expect a poverty struck lad like Crudd to be carrying. She flipped its clasps upwards and lifted the lid. Inside there was a shirt and a pair of trousers. Clara lifted them out and then she paused in surprise, for beneath the male attire was a pair of frilly and very feminine knickers, and just beneath them was a pair of stockings. When Clara looked at the stockings closer she realised they were an Albion pair just like the ones used to strangle Esther Althorpe.

  Clara sat back on her heels. What was this? She emptied the case and found another pair of knickers and a fancy hairbrush, not the sort of thing a man would use. It was rather expensive as it was made from tortoiseshell. Clara rose and took another look around the room. Now she thought about it, there was a distinct lack of male accoutrements about the place. Where, for instance, was the razor that any man who did not want to grow a beard would require? Crudd was young, but not so young that he would not need to shave at least occasionally. Was it feasible he had taken his shaving kit while leaving his suitcase behind?

  Clara started to put everything back into the case. Knickers and stockings were too outlandish in a man’s suitcase to be ignored. Could it be, Clara wondered, that Arthur Crudd liked to wear women’s clothes? Or, and this idea intrigued her even more, could it be that Arthur Crudd was actually a woman? It was not unheard of. Women sometimes dressed as men to pursue careers only open to male candidates, though in general these were better professions than that of a jobbing builder. But if Arthur Crudd was an alias, then who was he or she really? And why were they in Brighton? Could it be all this charade was to enable them to commit murder?