by Evelyn James
“I am not officially doing anything,” Clara said, hedging around the truth. “Mrs Hunt’s death is being investigated by the police.”
“That is not what everyone else is saying,” Dr Masters put down Clara’s foot at last and perched himself on her bed. For once he seemed in no hurry to leave. “Mrs Palmer, in particular, seems to be convinced you are investigating this matter as a case of murder. I might add she also thinks that a waste of your time, since she seems to believe Mrs Hunt’s demise a case of divine retribution, albeit at the hands of a very mortal soul.”
“Mrs Palmer really said that?”
“In a lot more words, of course. She was quite blunt over the affair at dinner. I happened to be late going in and the only seat spare was at the long table where your charabanc party usually dines. It seems I took your place,” this apparently amused Dr Masters. “Mrs Palmer had a lot to say on the matter of Mrs Hunt’s passing.”
“And she thinks it is not an accident?”
“From what she was saying it seems she is quite certain it was not. She had everyone listening as she deported her theories. According to her wisdom Mrs Hunt was pushed into the lake by an attacker, a person from the charabanc perhaps, who she had deeply offended.”
Clara pulled a face. Mrs Palmer’s lack of tact was appalling and rather distasteful. Mrs Siskin had mentioned how her friend seemed rather pleased by Mrs Hunt’s misfortune, almost as if she had plotted it herself. And yet Mrs Palmer was with Mrs Siskin during the entire visit to Windermere, so it couldn’t be possible for her to have committed murder. Unless Mrs Siskin was lying?
“Do you think Mrs Hunt was murdered?” Dr Masters’ broke Clara’s reverie.
“I can’t say I know what to think,” Clara admitted. “The circumstances suggest an accident. Mrs Hunt was walking alone by the water. She had suffered a head injury the day before which could have rendered her dizzy, you would agree with that?”
“The bump on her head was nasty and it would surprise me if she did not have a concussion from it,” the doctor agreed.
“In a condition like that, could it not also be possible that she felt unwell, perhaps fainted, and fell forward into the lake?”
“Severe concussions can lead to blackouts,” Dr Masters said cautiously. “But I am not certain Mrs Hunt’s was that severe. I suppose she might have fainted and not roused in time to save herself.”
“Yet it is still strange,” Clara read between the lines. “Dr Masters, what was your opinion on Mrs Hunt’s general health?”
“I only examined her briefly and was mostly concerned with her head wound,” the doctor hastened to say. “I did listen to her heart and lungs which sounded perfectly healthy for her age. There were no obvious signs of major illness, though she was deeply reluctant to be examined. The wound on her head was wide and shallow. It was a bump rather than a cut, the chamber pot having seemingly hit her on its rounded edge. It was sore, understandably, but not bleeding. I advised her to put a cold compress on it and to take some aspirin, which she promptly refused.”
“I had noticed a tremor in her hands that at times appeared quite severe,” Clara said. “At one point she seemed to be unable to hold her fork, but masked the attack very well. Which made me imagine this was not a new occurrence.”
“I was not asked to examine her hands,” Dr Masters reminded her. “I saw no signs of tremors.”
“I saw them,” Clara said firmly. “She clutched her hands in her lap to hide them, but I know she was suffering from some illness. What can cause uncontrollable shaking of the hands?”
“Many things,” Dr Masters became vague again. “Such a simple thing as bad nerves can be the cause.”
“I very much doubt Mrs Hunt had bad nerves!” Clara almost laughed at the idea. “Perhaps the police coroner will offer a solution, but I don’t hold out a great deal of hope. I thought you might offer some insight.”
“I can only go by the symptoms as presented to me and Mrs Hunt did not complain of shaking hands when I saw her,” Dr Masters answered, a little hotly, as if he imagined Clara to be accusing him of failing to diagnose Mrs Hunt’s condition correctly.
“I don’t mean to impinge on your medical reputation,” Clara said gently, noticing how easily the doctor became riled. “I was merely musing. As it seems Mrs Hunt met her fate by accident, I was just curious as to what sort of illness might have contributed to her collapse.”
Dr Masters seemed a tad mollified. He sat on the bed and drummed his fingers on the bed clothes.
“Am I the only one who finds it odd to imagine a perfect stranger killing Mrs Hunt because she offended them? Particularly one of the perfect strangers I just sat having dinner with?” he said after a moment.
“I find it poor motive too,” Clara admitted. “Though people kill for all manner of odd reasons and we can’t rule out manslaughter. But we are left with the difficulty that no one saw or heard anything and Mrs Hunt was not so far from the rest of the party to make that seem plausible. Perhaps I must accept the police are right and that she just fell.”
“So you are investigating?”
Clara saw she had been caught out. She shrugged her shoulders.
“I didn’t care for Mrs Hunt. It rather seems no one cared for her. But I don’t care for murderers either, and I can’t let the police simply brush aside the possibility that Mrs Hunt met her end by foul means. Two attempts had already been made on her life.”
“Two?” Dr Masters asked, but Clara chose to ignore the question.
“I am supposed to be on holiday,” she grumbled to herself. “Then again, so was Mrs Hunt, allegedly. Had you ever met her before the evening she was injured?”
“No,” Dr Masters clicked the clasps on his medical bag. “I ought to be going. Did you care for any painkillers or a sedative?”
“No, thank you,” Clara answered. “And ignore Mrs Palmer, I think she is as ignorant as she is loud-mouthed. She took a dislike to Mrs Hunt and that is that.”
“She explained as much to me,” Dr Masters nodded. “Said the woman got everything she deserved. Tell me, how did she upset Mrs Palmer so badly in such a short space of time?”
“Mrs Palmer is pining for her grandson lost in the war. Because they were never sent a telegram to say he was dead, she is convinced he is still alive somewhere. Mrs Hunt was rather blunt on the subject.”
“That sounds about right. I have many older patients and more than one has an attitude to life like Mrs Hunt. They seem to think belligerence is the secret to survival,” Dr Masters shook his head sadly. “They live to spread misery, that is the best way I can describe it.”
He stood from the bed.
“The foot seems to be on the mend. Take it easy for a few more days before going on these epic walks of yours.”
“I hardly think a stroll around Windermere ‘epic’,” Clara puttered, though she was not about to ignore the advice.
“Well don’t go calling me again if you ignore my prescription and then hurt yourself further. The hotel staff know how to get hold of me. I have a room here until my other patient agrees that I can leave.”
“What of your patients back at your surgery?” Clara asked, thinking it odd that a doctor would spend so much of his time with a single person, and to be so indulgent to their whims.
“Other patients?” Dr Masters smirked. “I don’t have other patients, only my elderly lady who I run to at her every beck and call. So, you see, it is most prudent of me to keep her very much alive so I can continue to be employed.”
Clara sensed this was a joke, though it had been told in Dr Masters’ serious voice and was difficult to judge. Clara dreaded to imagine how he broke bad news to his patients.
“I shall be going,” Dr Masters said again, wandering to the door.
“I’ve told no one about what I saw,” Clara said softly as he was leaving.
Dr Masters hesitated with his hand just on the door handle.
“What did you see?” he asked.
Dr Masters relaxed a little at this explanation. He let himself out of the room without a backwards glance.
What a strange man, Clara mused to herself. He seemed friendlier than at first, but there was still something about him that made her feel uncertain, as if a part of her feared he was untrustworthy. What an odd thing to imagine in a doctor, but she could not shake the feeling. But, if there was a connection between him and Mrs Hunt, Clara could not see it. Mrs Hunt had not apparently recognised him when he came to treat her head, after all. And what of this mysterious room along her corridor that the doctor was visiting? If he had a room in the hotel, which Clara was not sure about, then it would logically be near that of his patient’s. But she was on the fourth floor, so what was he doing acting suspiciously on the ground floor and why was he so secretive about it? That was a mystery Clara would like solved.
For the moment, however, she only wanted her bed and the opportunity to sleep for several hours. She limped about the room preparing herself; picking up the knocked bowl, locking the room door and slipping into her night things. It was with a guilty pang that she realised that Mrs Hunt could not now do the same – guilty because she was coming close to giving up on the whole idea of investigating Mrs Hunt’s death. She was, after all, on holiday and didn’t want to spend the remainder of her fortnight break hunting a murderer. Yet, it looked likely that such a task had fallen on her shoulders. Mrs Palmer was right, Mrs Hunt had been killed, Clara was growing more sure of that by the hour. She kept coming back to one idea – if Mrs Hunt had simply fainted and fallen into Windermere, why had she not woken swiftly enough to save herself? When people faint they are usually only unconscious for a moment or two, not enough time to drown in. Yet that is what Mrs Hunt had done, according to the police.
Clara climbed into bed, this thought on her mind – Mrs Hunt’s accident was beginning to look less and less accidental. But where did that leave Clara? Apparently with an awful lot of questions to answer and a charabanc full of suspects. Why was it that even Clara’s holidays proved so complicated?
Chapter Twelve
Clara slept soundly that night. Her dreams were not disturbed by visions of floating corpses in lakes. A thought that actually made her feel a tad guilty when she awoke. The trouble was, however hard she tried, it was difficult to feel a great deal of anything for Mrs Hunt. The woman had been so disagreeable in life that feeling sorrow for her passing did not come naturally. That being said, Clara was curious about what had happened to the woman.
Clara rose, washed and dressed. Her foot seemed reasonably restored, if a little tender. She flexed her toes tentatively and cringed at a sharp pain that radiated out from her big toe.
Picking up the brochure provided by Mr Hatton she took a glance at what the arrangements were for the day and saw that a visit was planned to Derwentwater. She had liked the sound of that particular place, especially when she heard it was the home of the exquisite artists’ pencils that had been lent their name by the location. She rather liked the idea of seeing how lead was turned into a pencil of various hardness and softness to suit artists. But her foot was not up for walking, so she placed aside the brochure and decided she would have to ask Annie and Tommy to take notes on her behalf. Maybe they could even buy her a new set of pencils so she could take up sketching again.
Clara was still contemplating her bare foot when there was a knock on the door. She wandered over and unlocked it. Outside were Annie and Tommy.
“We have an hour before the charabanc leaves,” Annie informed Clara. “Are you fit to come to breakfast?”
Clara glanced at her wristwatch and was surprised to see it was already nine o-clock. She must have slept a lot longer than she had first imagined.
“Yes. Of course!” Clara quickly squeezed on her softest shoes – the walking boots were out of the question that morning – and followed the others to the dining room.
At least by having a late breakfast they found the dining room quite quiet and they could talk discreetly without being overheard. There was no one from the charabanc party present, the only other guests in the room were an elderly couple quietly working through their bowls of porridge and a young woman Clara had not seen before. She sat all alone nibbling at a small slice of toast without any apparent sign of enjoyment or even of appetite. She was a scrawny thing, with an almost skeletal face, and arms that looked little more than bone covered with skin. She made Clara feel quite fat in comparison, (not that Clara was, she was a girl with curves, that was all) and she rather wished she could persuade the poor mite to dig into a large plate of scrambled egg, sausage and black pudding. She rather felt it would do her some good.
Annie refused to let Clara go to the breakfast table and help herself. Rest was the order of the day and under Annie’s strict watch that was precisely what was going to happen. She fetched Clara a plate of food, consisting of a little bit of everything on offer – bacon, lightly fried, scrambled egg, fried kidney, pork sausage, kedgeree, toast and black pudding. Clara took a look at her plate, then glanced at the emaciated girl across the room who had given up on her toast, and felt quite greedy.
“I’ll never eat all this Annie!” Clara said.
“You must try,” Annie retorted. “You need your strength.”
“I don’t need this much strength,” Clara puttered, but she dug into the bacon anyway. She knew she wasn’t going to win against Annie’s determination to ‘feed her up’. “So, what occurred at dinner last night?”
Tommy rolled his eyes. His plate was equally well loaded with fat and protein, but he was judiciously sharing it with Bramble who sat obediently at his side.
“Mrs Palmer occurred,” he said. “That woman positively seemed to revel in Mrs Hunt’s demise. It was embarrassing.”
“It was disrespectful,” Annie butted in sharply. “I thought the woman uncouth and callous. Why, it almost sounded as if she had plotted the thing herself. Though, of course, we all knew she had not. Quite frankly I found her most disagreeable.”
“Annie had the misfortune to sit next to Mrs Palmer. We took seats halfway down the table so as to be able to see and hear most of what was going on around us. Annie was on my right, and further along the table sat Mrs Palmer and then Mrs Siskin. Opposite us sat the Wignells. Diagonally to our right sat that Dr Masters, who had joined our table because he was late to dinner and there were no other seats available,” Tommy explained all this while loading his fork with sausage and scrambled egg. “Diagonally to my left sat Eleanora Smythe, while next to me sat a pair of ladies I had not met before. The older one was a Miss Plante, I suppose she is in her eighties. Very well turned out, definitely has money. Next to her sat Miss Soloman, a woman in her sixties, I would say. She is Miss Plante’s companion.”
“Aside from Mrs Palmer, did anyone talk about Mrs Hunt?” Clara asked.
“Mr Wignell spoke about her. He seemed agitated on the matter. Seemed to have quite spoilt his day,” Tommy said.
“You would almost imagine he had found the body,” Annie tutted. “He seemed quite fallen to pieces over it. Kept reciting some awful fact about how many suicides had occurred at Windermere in the last fifty years. His wife had that look on her face, the one which seems to imply she would rather not be associated with the man. She didn’t stop him however.”
“Between him and Mrs Palmer it was quite the diabolical discussion!” Tommy laughed. “Mrs Siskin was desperately trying to shush her friend, kept nudging her under the table, but there was no holding her back. That Dr Masters had such a grimace on his face. I think he wanted to tell her to shut up, in fact it was Miss Plante that finally came to our assistance. She was clearly tired of Mrs Palmer’s ramblings.”
Annie interjected.
“Miss Plante struck me as one of those old ladies who has decided they are now too elderly to bother holding their tongues. She cut through the conversation like my best
carving knife!” Annie’s eyes twinkled as she recalled the moment. “She turned to her right and leaned forward, so as to see Mrs Palmer better and remarked in a very calm voice that ‘people who revel in others’ misfortunes are surely very wicked.’ Mrs Palmer stopped with her mouth agape and stared at the woman. Miss Plante then said ‘if you cannot do anything but find joy in the death of another, then I despair for the health of your immortal soul. For there is an evilness in this gossip, the like of which I have not seen in many a year.’ With that Miss Plante sat back in her chair and returned to her dinner.”
“What was Mrs Palmer’s response?” Clara asked, rather wishing she had been present at this exchange.
“For a while she said nothing,” Annie said. “Then she turned her head to look down the table and declared, ‘there is nothing wrong with my immortal soul.’ And Miss Plante merely answered that she was very glad to hear that.”
“That rather brought the conversation to an end,” Tommy nodded, tossing the rind off his bacon to Bramble. The little dog danced on its back feet to get it. “Everything went a bit quiet then, until Eleanora Smythe looked up. She asked, in that quiet way of hers, whether anyone else had received a gift from the management? Naturally we all said we had not. For a moment she said nothing more, then she looked up again and I swear directly at myself and Annie, and spoke ‘there was tin of marzipan fruits in my room when I arrived. With a little card saying they were a gift for my stay. I thought it rather odd.’”
“Marzipan fruits!” Clara hissed in surprise. “Tell me the woman does not intend to eat them.”
“She informed us she had not touched the sweets because she disliked marzipan,” Tommy reassured her. “But she was curious about them and wondered if it was commonplace for hotels to leave little gifts for their guests, this being her first charabanc tour and all.”
“What did you tell her?”