The Woman Died Thrice

by Evelyn James

  Clara thought the woman was foolish. If someone was trying to kill her why goad them? If they were on the charabanc, that is. Clara sighed and set to her unpacking, she would be glad to have some time to herself. She was emptying her suitcase when she came upon the pretty tin which Mrs Hunt had received her poisoned sweets in. The tin sat in her hand neatly, looking innocuous enough. Who had had the time to go to the sweet shop and buy it? Well, nearly all of them, Clara supposed. As it happened, the seat she had occupied outside the teashop would have granted her a prime position to see who came and went from the sweet shop. Unfortunately, Clara had not been paying much attention, at the time she had had no reason to.

  Clara was just arranging herself for dinner when there was a frantic knock on her room door. When she opened it Annie was on the threshold.

  “You better come quickly!” Annie declared, before rushing away and assuming Clara would follow.

  Clara grabbed her cardigan, for the evening had taken on a chill, and went after her. Annie led the way down the corridor and up the back stairs, the ones usually used by the servants. Clara started to ask a question, but Annie put a finger to her lips. They carried on in silence reaching the third floor and hurrying along. Finally Annie stopped outside the room ominously numbered as 13C (the C indicating the floor they were on). Annie pushed open the room door and ushered Clara inside before shutting it behind them.

  Mrs Hunt was sitting in a low chair while a man who appeared to be a doctor took her blood pressure. The charabanc driver was also in the room and glanced up at Clara with an expression of relief and panic.

  “Thank you for coming, Miss Fitzgerald. She was asking for you,” the driver came over, wringing his cap in his hands.

  “You’ll wreck the rim,” Clara told him gently. “Put that cap down and tell me what is going on.”

  They discreetly moved to a corner of the room to talk.

  “I was taking Mrs Hunt’s luggage up from the charabanc. She was the last to have her suitcase taken out, due to her being unhappy with her first room and insisting on changing it. She said we should not carry up her luggage until she had found a room to her liking.”

  That sounded exactly like Mrs Hunt, Clara thought.

  “She finally settled on this room and I was just bringing up her suitcases, we were on the second flight of stairs to be precise, when the most horrendous thing happened. A chamber pot, the old-fashioned porcelain sort, came flying down from above and hit Mrs Hunt on the head!” the driver grimaced at the memory. “I looked up almost at once, but I saw no one at all. It just came out of nowhere!”

  Both of them glanced at Mrs Hunt who was delicately touching the back of her head.

  “What happened next?” Clara asked.

  “Well, I bent down and gave Mrs Hunt a little shake. She was lying on the stairs, you see, and I could not think what else to do. She didn’t move, so I said her name, just quietly like,” the driver was becoming agitated again and wanted to do something with his hands, but Clara had made him put down his cap, so he had to console himself with clutching his hands together. “I shook her again, it never occurred to me she was dead.”

  “Dead?” Clara said quietly, out of the corner of her eye glancing at the very alive Mrs Hunt.

  “She wasn’t breathing. I didn’t realise that until that fellow over there came down the stairs and spotted us,” the driver nodded at the doctor attending Mrs Hunt. “He said he was a medical man and at once realised we were in a pickle. He checked her pulse and her heart and her breathing. Mrs Hunt was dead! He said so!”

  The word ‘dead’ had been loud enough for Mrs Hunt to hear and she cast an accusing glare across the room at the driver.

  “I was temporarily indisposed,” she told Clara stoutly. “Dead is rather exaggerating the fact.”

  “The doctor said she was dead,” the driver whispered to Clara. “We carried her up here between us, she didn’t rouse at all. I thought to myself, I didn’t become a charabanc driver to spend my days carrying corpses about!” the driver pulled another face. “Can you imagine what it will be like explaining this all to Mr Hatton?”

  “But it appears Mrs Hunt was not dead?” Clara said.

  “She was, I swear it!” the driver hissed. “Only, when we had laid her on the bed, she suddenly starts to breathe again. Just as we were planning on calling for the police or something. She started groaning and said she needed to speak with you at once. The doctor thought I ought to fetch you, but in my panic I couldn’t remember your room number. As it happens I stumbled upon your friend and she said she would fetch you.”

  The driver paused, his hands twitching to be wringing his cap rim again.

  “Might I go now, Miss? I feel a bit queer and could do with a rest meself.”

  Clara agreed that he could go and the driver disappeared hastily. Clara now turned to the doctor who was finishing up with Mrs Hunt.

  “Well? What verdict do we have?” Clara asked him.

  The doctor was in his thirties, well-dressed, nice looking except for the residual scar from a hare lip. Clara thought he had a serious face, perhaps one that was even inclined to be depressive or stern. She couldn’t immediately say if she liked or disliked him, only that he seemed a person not inclined to open himself to other people.

  “Mrs Hunt sustained a bad blow to the back of the head. I expect her to have sustained a concussion,” the doctor spoke with a very slight lisp, which perhaps explained some of his apparent sullenness for conversation.

  “I do not like the sound of ‘concussion’,” Mrs Hunt said bluntly. “Therefore I refuse to have it.”

  The doctor gave her a rather cross look, but then Mrs Hunt had that effect on people.

  “Is it true Mrs Hunt was technically dead?” Clara asked.

  “There you go, using that word again!” Mrs Hunt snapped.

  “Mrs Hunt had no life signs when I first saw her,” the doctor said carefully, ignoring the outburst from his patient. “She was not breathing, nor did she appear to have a pulse or heartbeat. To most intents and purposes she was dead.”

  “But I am alive now, that is what matters,” Mrs Hunt muttered impatiently.

  “How can a person be dead then alive?” Clara pressed on.

  “The easiest thing to suggest is that her heart had temporarily stopped, and then, for some reason, began to beat again. It has been known to happen. In fact, it is for this reason life-saving techniques focus on getting the heart to beat again,” the doctor explained.

  “But you had not tried any of those techniques?”

  “Not at the time, no. I would suggest Mrs Hunt’s heart restarted quite spontaneously. A miracle, if you will,” the doctor did not seem much impressed by this miraculous resurrection. He reached down for his surgical bag. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to change for dinner.”

  The doctor excused himself and left. Mrs Hunt scowled at the door as it closed behind him.

  “Miserable sort,” she complained. “Probably not a real doctor at all. Probably a dentist with ambitions.”

  She touched the back of her head and pulled a face.

  “It was a nasty blow,” Clara observed.

  Mrs Hunt placed her hands, one on top of the other, in her lap and looked Clara squarely in the face.

  “The second attempt on my life, Miss Fitzgerald. I do hope you will take me seriously now.”

  “I took you seriously before.”

  “No, you did not. I saw it in your face when you left me. You thought I was a silly old bat who had been taken unwell and had become fanciful.”

  Clara could not immediately say she had not thought that.

  “I went to look for the marzipan in the morning, all I found was a dead rat.”

  “And so it seems I was right?” Mrs Hunt nodded gingerly, trying to avoid hurting her head further. “I have a ringing headache, that doctor gave me something for it. Might you assist me to lie down on the bed?”

  Clara helped Mrs Hunt to her feet
. The woman suddenly seemed a lot frailer than she had the night before. She felt light as a feather, as if there was nothing to her. Annie pulled back the sheets on the bed and together they hoisted Mrs Hunt onto the mattress and settled her in an upright position.

  “Shall I ask someone to send you up some dinner?” Clara asked.

  “I should hope so!” Mrs Hunt pressed at her head again.

  Clara shared a look with Annie, they were both thinking the same, that Mrs Hunt was truly insufferable.

  “Did you see anyone on the stairs before your accident?” Clara changed the subject.

  “No. Except that useless driver.”

  “Who knew you were changing rooms?”

  “It was hardly a secret!” Mrs Hunt puttered. “I changed rooms on purpose, you know, to put a spoke in the murderer’s wheel. I thought they might have arranged another little gift for me like last night.”

  “But who would be interested in killing you?” Clara found the whole situation baffling. “You are sure you knew no one on the charabanc?”

  There was a long pause. Mrs Hunt stared thoughtfully at the bed linen, finally she spoke and in a very precise voice said;

  “I know no one aboard that charabanc.”

  Clara sighed.

  “Have you any enemies?”

  “Probably,” Mrs Hunt replied unhelpfully. “I am a woman who speaks her mind. I won’t suffer mumblers or those who refuse to say what they think or feel. This world is half ruined because of those sort. If we had spoken our minds sooner the war may never have happened.”

  “I think that unlikely Mrs Hunt,” Clara said calmly. “Have you spoken your mind to anyone recently?”

  “Probably,” Mrs Hunt admitted. “I don’t keep track.”

  That didn’t surprise Clara.

  “Do you have family Mrs Hunt? Or anyone you might like me to send a message to on your behalf?”

  “No,” Mrs Hunt’s voice for the first time became uncertain. “No, I am alone in this world.”

  “Not even a friend I could write to…”

  “No!” Mrs Hunt glowered at Clara. “Enough, young lady! I am quite sick of you, of you all! Go! Leave me alone! Find who did this if you are any sort of detective and prevent them from succeeding the next time!”

  Clara was quite ready to take her leave. She politely stated that she hoped Mrs Hunt would recover swiftly then left the room with Annie. They headed back downstairs almost without a word, then Annie piped up.

  “I could think of several people aboard that charabanc who would be glad to see the back of her. Myself included.”

  “But you don’t intend to kill her,” Clara pointed out.

  “No. Do you really think this was intentional and not some silly accident? A chamber maid perhaps not taking enough care?”

  “Had there not already been the previous incident I might have considered that possibility, but someone appears to have made two attempts on Mrs Hunt in a short space of time. Whatever our feelings on the woman, we can’t allow a murderer to succeed.”

  “I suppose not,” Annie replied. “At least we don’t have to worry about her sitting with us at dinner.”

  Clara was reluctant to admit that she was relieved by that thought too. They were just about to depart to their separate rooms when a man came rushing up to them. He was in a fine suit and Clara recognised him as the hotel owner. He was a tad out of breath as he stopped before her.

  “Is it true?” he asked Clara. “Has someone tried to kill a guest?”

  “I can’t say for certain,” Clara told him gently. “It may have been an accident. Tell me, do you provide chamber pots for your guests?”

  “Chamber pots?” the hotel owner looked aghast. “In a modern establishment like this? Each floor has two bathrooms, one at each end, I must point out madam. Chamber pots are so old-fashioned!”

  “So there are no chamber pots at all in the establishment?”

  The hotel owner began to speak, then hesitated.

  “Actually, we did retain some for emergencies and, occasionally, guests request them,” the hotel owner gave a polite look of disbelief at the ways of his older guests. “Some guests simply can’t get out of the habit of using them.”

  “Have any guests requested chamber pots today?” Clara asked.

  The hotel owner started to shake his head, then he paused as a thought struck him.

  “Mrs Crimp did,” he said at last. “Yes, she came to the front desk for one. Does Mrs Hunt require anything?”

  “She would like dinner in her room,” Clara informed him.

  “Naturally, naturally! I will arrange that at once,” the hotel owner began to bustled off, then turned back. “Be assured I run a safe and respectable establishment!”

  He vanished with his new purpose in mind. Clara turned to Annie.

  “Is there a Mrs Crimp on the charabanc?”

  Annie thought about this.

  “I believe so. But it’s odd.”

  “What is?”

  “Well, if she is the lady I am thinking of she is only in her forties. Not precisely what I imagined when the hotel manager spoke of older guests.”

  “Everyone has their quirks,” Clara went to her room door and paused with her hand over the handle. “I wonder if Mrs Crimp is missing a chamber pot? Perhaps we ought to arrange to sit near her at dinner?”

  Annie rolled her eyes at her.

  “I just can’t stop you being a detective, can I?”

  Chapter Seven

  Mrs Crimp proved to be a well-padded lady in her early forties, with a round happy face and a dimple on her chin. She had decided to try out the new fashion for shorter hair, which had not worked terribly well on her robust form. She rather looked like an egg someone had dropped an under-sized wig onto. Nor did the rather straight-waisted dress she had opted to wear to dinner do her figure any favours. It was in a rather unappealing puce colour, with a hummingbird design sequined onto the top. Perhaps on some emaciated model it would have looked becoming. On Mrs Crimp it gave the appearance of a badly stuffed sofa.

  Her fashion issues aside, Mrs Crimp was a pleasant enough woman. She was the wife of a bank manager who liked to fund her little excursions to keep her amused. Mr Crimp did not travel, he was rather too busy with work and was one of those type of people who imagine themselves indispensable. But he was also a man who found his wife rather overwhelming at times, so he sent her off on these little jaunts to give himself a much needed break. Considering Mrs Crimp’s rather larger-than-life persona, Clara could understand Mr Crimp’s need for the occasional separation.

  Apparently Mrs Crimp’s life revolved around these short breaks. She confessed she did not have much in the way of hobbies. She couldn’t knit or crochet. The garden annoyed her because things took so long to grow. She had never been much use at cooking. And she was rather a careless housekeeper, flicking a duster around when it suited her, usually just before some guest was due to arrive. Aside from reading (Mrs Crimp was a voracious reader) there was little else in the lady’s life apart from her holidays. She spent a great deal of time planning for them and organising her wardrobe, as she explained to Clara;

  “I always buy a new dress for a trip away. It is an indulgence, I admit, but I can’t resist it. I saw this dress in the window of Kendril’s Department Store and had to have it. Perfect, I said to myself, for our special evening meals.”

  In Clara’s head she had a sudden vision of Mrs Hunt’s disapproving face and imagined her muttering something derogatory about Mrs Crimp’s fashion sense.

  “I try to keep abreast of the latest trends,” Mrs Crimp continued, fluffing up the side of her awful haircut. “One might not be so very young anymore, but one can still try. I tell my husband that all the time.”

  “Today’s fashions seem to change so fast,” Clara pulled a face as she toyed with the tomato soup they had been offered for that evening’s starter. She rather had the feeling it had come out of a can. “Each month there seems to be a
new trend for hemlines or seams, or a dozen other things.”

  “That is why I always buy something just before I am due to go away. So I can keep up-to-date. Mind you, that dress you are wearing is very pretty and most becoming,” Mrs Crimp revealed that outside of the air-headed fashion follower she was in fact a very nice person. “I do like the little roses on it. They are just the right shade for your skin tone.”

  “Thank you,” Clara said, touched by the complement. Only later remembering how awful Mrs Crimp’s idea of suitable colours was. “I am rather new to this whole charabanc lark and was beside myself as to what to pack.”

  “Practical clothes for the day-time,” Mrs Crimp explained helpfully. “Walking shoes are a must on these things as they will drop you off at some footpath and expect you to walk the whole thing and be picked up at the other end. I always bring a thick jumper and a good coat. But in the evenings it is rather nice to dress up.”

  “And is this the usual sort of accommodation you would expect on one of these excursions?” Clara motioned with her soup spoon to the hotel at large.

  “Yes, we generally stay in a hotel. Though once we had to spend the night in a private house due to the charabanc breaking down!”

  “How awful!”

  “Oh, the house owners were very accommodating. It was rather fun actually. We slept on chairs or rugs and rather ‘roughed’ it for the night,” Mrs Crimp smiled. “It was quite entertaining.”

  “I’m rather glad we made it to the hotel!” Clara laughed. “The accommodation here seems rather good, though the bathrooms do seem rather a long way from the rooms.”

  Mrs Crimp gave a giggle.

  “Don’t mention to anyone, but I thought the same as you in regards of the distance to the bathrooms and so I asked for a chamber pot! You can still get them in hotels, you know, and they are much more convenient for the middle of the night,” Mrs Crimp’s eyes danced with amusement. “I grew up in a rather old-fashioned household and we swore by our chamber pots, really we did. It’s hard to break the habit!”