The Woman Died Thrice

by Evelyn James

  “Nor I,” Clara admitted. “But that does not mean I fail to understand the situation in others. I can’t say what drove Captain Blake over the edge, but with Mrs Hunt I rather feel her illness was weighing heavily on her mind.”

  “Mrs Hunt never struck me as the sort of person to self-harm,” Hardwich said rather flatly, then he hesitated as if he knew he had said too much.

  “You knew Mrs Hunt? I mean, before this holiday?” Clara asked, giving him no quarter.

  “I knew her vaguely,” Mr Hardwich shrugged.

  “You know, you must be the sixth person I have met who knew Mrs Hunt before this trip. I rather fancy she arranged this excursion for all her friends.”

  “Mrs Hunt did not have friends,” Hardwich said coldly. “Mrs Hunt despised friendship.”

  “Oh,” Clara let the word fall from her lips, hoping it might drag forth a little more information. When it did not, she added, “I only got to know her aboard the charabanc. She was prone to saying the most offensive things, or at least that is how it struck me.”

  “You are quite correct,” Hardwich told her. “Mrs Hunt had mastered the art of cutting a person to the very bone with her words.”

  “It sounds rather as if you knew her very well?”

  “I did. Once,” Mr Hardwich sighed. “Mrs Hunt was a cold creature. Selfish, even. She was only inclined to do things that pleased her or were to her gain. She made enemies rather than friends and she seemed happy with this.”

  Mr Hardwich stubbed out his cigarette. The room had grown quieter. The amateur pianist had given up his attempts at Mozart and Beethoven, and the room had fallen into a lull as conversation dipped away and people began to feel weariness overtaking their tongues.

  “Was she really very ill?” Mr Hardwich asked in a level tone.

  “I have been told, reliably, that she was indeed very poorly and that her condition would ultimately prove fatal.”

  Hardwich pulled a face. Clara could not tell if it was one of misery or fury, perhaps it was neither.

  “I thought she looked ill on the charabanc,” he said at last.

  “How did you know her?” Clara asked. “I assumed she was not a friend.”

  “No, never!” Mr Hardwich laughed this time, though not very loudly. “Mrs Hunt came into your life and turned it upside down. She left when things were at their worst, it was her knack, and things only seemed to get better after she was gone. I knew her far too well and for far too long.”

  “Were you surprised she was on the same charabanc?”

  “Hardly, though I suppose I was amused to think of her taking such a trip. I knew about it beforehand,” Mr Hardwich explained. “She wrote me a letter, saying she was thinking of taking the trip and would appreciate my company and an opportunity to speak with me. To make amends.”

  “What had she done to require her to make amends?” Clara asked.

  Mr Hardwich ducked his head a little and smiled to himself, but it was a bitter smile.

  “I prefer not to say, but she hurt me deeply.”

  “And now she wrote to you to ask if you would join her on holiday?”

  “Yes. I did think it was extravagant for her. She was not the type to normally care if she hurt you,” Mr Hardwich started to roll a new cigarette between his fingers, fishing in his pocket for matches. “The letter did seem a little odd, but I put it down to her getting older and, of course, the illness she hinted at. The urgency in her tone came across in her words. I rather felt as if coming on this trip would be an act of compassion, as much as anything else.”

  “Was she pleased to see you?” Clara asked, thinking that this letter business had to be key to this matter.

  “Not precisely,” Hardwich admitted. “I think her exact words were ‘what are you doing here?’ and when I explained she looked at me as if I was quite mad and denied she had ever written any letter. I assumed she had perhaps forgotten about it, some illnesses can make you very forgetful.”

  “They can indeed. But apart from that, did you ever speak with Mrs Hunt?”

  “She didn’t want to talk to me,” Mr Hardwich shrugged again. “She was embarrassed, I imagine. Mrs Hunt was always a very, very proud woman.”

  “Not the sort to throw herself into Lake Windermere?” Clara suggested.

  Mr Hardwich thought about this a moment, then finally said.

  “No, not the sort, but yet she did throw herself in, didn’t she?”

  “Presumably,” Clara did not want to argue the point too much. “Of course she might have slipped, or…”

  Clara didn’t finish that statement as it needed no conclusion to make it obvious. Mr Hardwich had that wistful smile on his face again, almost as if laughing at his own private joke.

  “I think if Mrs Hunt set her mind to it she could do anything. But, no, I never suspected her of contemplating suicide. I can’t say a lot about her, not without bringing up her faults, for there were a lot of them, but she did have her principles, that you could not deny.”

  “Principles can be very double-edged,” Clara noted. “I hope she realised that.”

  “Perhaps she did, perhaps she didn’t,” Mr Hardwich stubbed out his second cigarette. “Do you feel better now Miss Fitzgerald, as I would like to get to my room?”

  “I feel most recovered,” Clara assured him. “Hopefully tomorrow will be a very peaceful day.”

  Mr Hardwich gave a snort, perhaps to imply that he considered that a vain hope.

  “Take care,” he rose and gave an old-fashioned bow, then sauntered away.

  Clara remained in her seat, waiting to see if Mr Wignell would come back. When he didn’t she decided it was time for her bed as well. Hopefully Annie had been equally successful with her interviews and they would have something to work with, not that anyone was shaping up to be a murderer so far, but they had to be on the right track. This letter business, for instance, what was that all about? Had Mrs Hunt written the letters and simply forgotten about them? But, if so, she had also spent a lot of money on charabanc tickets. Something was off about all this business, and Clara was going to discover it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Annie appeared at Clara’s room just before nine o’clock.

  “Would you like a summary of my investigations?” she enquired.

  Clara ushered her into the room and sat her in the armchair, then she proceeded to pour her a cup of cocoa from a little pot she had sitting by the fire.

  “I ordered a prodigious amount,” Clara said as she handed over a pretty pink china cup. “Assuming you would need nourishment after your evening. I certainly required some. And we must wait up for Tommy, of course.”

  “Tommy has the worst of it tonight,” Annie nodded thoughtfully. “Did you discover anything interesting.”

  “With Mrs Unwin, no. She was jealous of Mrs Hunt over flowers of all things, but I don’t peg her for a murderer. Mr Hardwich was more complicated, in fact, he rather failed to tell me anything. I rather feel he is hiding something.”

  “Well, I went to see Miss Delaware, who was the first name from the list you gave me,” Annie took a sip of cocoa and pulled a face. “This is very strong!”

  “I asked for extra warm milk, here it is sitting by the fire, pour a little in,” Clara proffered the milk jug which was indeed nicely warm and helped to dilute the thick chocolate. “Now, Miss Delaware?”

  Annie stirred her cocoa.

  “Miss Delaware is soon to be Mrs Strathmore, and my word is she pleased to tell anyone who is nearby about it. I spent a vast amount of the evening hearing about her husband-to-be. Apparently he is in stocks and shares, its sounds rather shifty to me, but I suppose it is legitimate.”

  “It is a popular occupation these days,” Clara nodded. “Buying and selling stocks. Profitable too if you know what you are doing. Personally it seems rather too much like gambling for my taste, but some people find it hugely satisfying. I assume Mr Strathmore is one of those.”

  “I imagine,” Annie shru
gged her shoulders with the implication that this was all rather preposterous to her. “Anyway, she could not stop talking about him. As it happened I found her at a table in the small lounge with Miss Smythe. I found it most awkward to look at that woman knowing she carries a pet rat in her suitcase.”

  “That is a matter for tomorrow,” Clara mused, reminding herself that she must discover if Miss Smythe had let her rat loose earlier in their trip. “People have all manner of creatures for pets. After all, Tommy has Bramble.”

  “But at least Bramble is a dog,” Annie muttered. “A shaggy, disobedient dog, yes, but still a domesticated beast. Thankfully, Miss Smythe had not brought her pet downstairs. I asked if I might sit with the ladies, as the lounge was rather crowded and this they agreed to. Before I knew it we were ordering a fresh pot of tea for three. It soon became apparent that Miss Delaware was delighted to have anyone new to tell all about her wedding plans.”

  “She is one of those, then?” Clara said, meaning that the woman was the sort who could not restrain themselves from talking constantly over their own affairs.

  “Most definitely. I must have spent the best part of an hour listening to her detailed arrangements, from the type of lace she was to have on her dress sleeves, to the style of buckle on her shoes, oh, and a full fifteen minutes was devoted to the description of her wedding bouquet,” Annie took a long drink of chocolate, finding the sweetness helping her recover from her ordeal. “This improves with extra milk.”

  “When is Miss Delaware due to be married?”

  “That is quite the thing. Her wedding is set for early next month.”

  “Then what is she doing going on a holiday just before, when there must be so much still to arrange and prepare? Dress fittings alone take up ridiculous amounts of time,” Clara had attended several weddings of friends, and knew the frantic preparations that seemed to be required beforehand. She could not imagine any woman choosing to depart from these for over a week so near to the event.

  “I wondered the same, and I mentioned it,” Annie agreed. “Miss Delaware admitted that she had not taken this journey lightly, as it did cut into her time for planning the wedding, and she still had so much to do. But, she had been asked to come on this holiday, or rather begged to come, by her old governess and she had not the heart to decline.”

  “Wait a moment,” Clara held up her hand to pause Annie. “Let me guess who the governess was.”

  “If you cannot you must have a head full of straw,” Annie smirked.

  “I surmise that Miss Delaware was taught by Mrs Hunt and she recently received a letter from her old governess declaring that the latter wished to make amends for, presumably, being an awful tyrant in the schoolroom and Miss Delaware felt required to come away at such a busy time?”

  “That is precisely it, in fact, she had the letter on her. Miss Delaware is the sort to keep these things about her and also the letter contained the name of the hotel and the time to catch the charabanc,” Annie’s smile broadened. “I asked to borrow it. I remarked that it was written on a certain paper I have been trying to get a hold of, as it reminds me so much of some my grandmother used. I asked if I might borrow the letter and see if I could make out the watermark, or even take it to a local shop and see if they had the same. Miss Delaware was barely listening, half-intent on returning to the subject of her wedding, and she gave me the letter without thinking.”

  Annie reached down to her handbag and pulled out a pale blue envelope, that had been opened along the top with a sharp letter knife. She removed the contents which consisted of a slip of thick paper, the same colour as the envelope, and handed it to Clara.

  “There is nothing insightful in the contents,” Annie shrugged.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Clara had unfolded the letter and was glancing at the writing. “For a start, this is not the hand of Mrs Hunt.”

  Clara rose from her chair and limped over to her bedside table. From the drawer she removed the list Mrs Hunt had written and brought it back to where Annie was sitting. She compared the list with the letter for a moment then, satisfied with her analysis, handed them both to Annie. It was not difficult to see the two pieces of paper had been composed by very different writers.

  Mrs Hunt wrote in a tight, sharp style, her letters very angular and with a hint of shakiness about them, which was presumably caused by her condition. The letter to Miss Delaware, on the other hand, was in a rounded, flowing style.

  “They are not the same,” Annie said in surprise. “Why, that means Mrs Hunt did not write this.”

  “And that explains why she appears to have shown such disdain to those people boarding the charabanc who assumed she had commanded them to.”

  “Why didn’t any one of her recipients notice?” Annie stared at the letters again, the difference was too plain to be ignored.

  “A few reasons spring to mind,” Clara replied. “In certain instances the recipients probably did not know her handwriting anyway. In others many years have passed since they last heard from Mrs Hunt and people forget these little things, such as the way a person writes, unless it is exceptionally distinctive. And lastly, we must recall, that all the recipients were under the impression that Mrs Hunt was very ill, perhaps terminally so. They might assume her handwriting had altered as a result. After all, even the list we know she wrote shows clear signs of deterioration in the writing.”

  “That leaves the question of who did write this letter, and all the others?” Annie shook her head at the pieces of paper. “What a preposterous thing!”

  “I feel I have seen handwriting such as this before,” Clara mused. “But I can’t bring it to mind where. Never mind, it shall come to me. Tell me why Mrs Hunt might feel the need to make amends to Miss Delaware?”

  Clara helped herself to more cocoa as Annie started her story again.

  “Miss Delaware was not really interested to talk on the subject, but what little I did extract sounds rather typical of Mrs Hunt. Certainly her story is not very original among all the others we have heard. Mrs Hunt was Miss Delaware’s governess from the time the latter was eleven, up until she was sixteen. They never saw eye-to-eye. Miss Delaware is not an academic sort and I could see this might niggle Mrs Hunt. But, more to the point, Miss Delaware, as a child, suffered from the problem affectionately described as ‘puppy fat’. In short she was plump and Mrs Hunt railed at her on the subject on a daily basis until Miss Delaware was driven to the brink of depression over the matter.”

  Annie found herself looking at her cocoa and thinking of her own waistline, not a common habit in Annie who considered food her lifeblood, especially when preparing it.

  “Miss Delaware was rather tacit on the topic, but I feel certain that Mrs Hunt bullied her over her weight issue from the first day she arrived, until the very last. Miss Delaware, as you might recall, is still not the slightest of creatures, but she makes up for her weight by a certain gracefulness about her presence.”

  “So the letter implied to Miss Delaware that Mrs Hunt wanted to apologise for her behaviour and, considering the impression it had had on the young woman, she probably felt it would be reassuring to have that apology. Thus she was prepared to take time out of her plans to make this trip.”

  “Using the ticket Mrs Hunt sent her, yes,” Annie concluded. “The problem I see is that, as much as bullying can be a painful experience, I can’t imagine it as a reason for murder.”

  “Oh I can,” Clara corrected. Having been bullied herself at school for being rather a gawky child, too long in leg and arm, and rather ungraceful at sports and dancing, she could well imagine it. “But Miss Delaware has clearly moved on with her life and these hurts are in the past. Unless Mrs Hunt resurrected them during the brief two days they were in each other’s company, then I can’t see Miss Delaware as bothering to murder her.”

  “Then that just leaves Mrs Farthingdale, who was the other person you asked me to talk with. She was a little more interesting, but rather in a sad way.”r />
  “How so?”

  “Mrs Farthingdale is the widow of a schoolmaster. She seems rather lonely, but then again she does not attempt to make company for herself.”

  “Is she the tall woman with spectacles, in a black dress and white hair swept up in a bun?” Clara asked.

  Annie nodded as she took more hot cocoa.

  “Mrs Farthingdale was rather challenging to track down, as she does not haunt the lounges like the others. In the end I found her on the terrace outside, staring up at the stars, wrapped in a shawl. It turns out she used to be an amateur astronomer and for several moments I sat beside her as she told me the names of the constellations. She seems a very intelligent woman, though she is also very frail,” Annie sighed. “I wasn’t sure how I was going to bring up the subject of Mrs Hunt, but as it happened I didn’t need to. Mrs Farthingdale asked if it were true you were a detective and when I said it was she simply smiled. It seems word has spread that we are investigating this business of the letters.”

  “It was bound to,” Clara said, unfazed by this.

  “Mrs Farthingdale said she wondered when someone would talk to her, seeing, as she said in her own words, how she had a good motive for killing Mrs Hunt.”

  Clara pricked up her ears.

  “The woman said that?”

  “She did indeed, without hesitation. I must have looked shocked and she laughed gently. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘I thought everyone knew how much I hated that woman.’ I was as baffled as before and she shook her head at me. ‘Mrs Hunt asking for forgiveness was truly novel,’ Mrs Farthingdale continued, ‘I had to see for myself if she meant it. She did me a grave disservice, one I shall not forget until my dying day.’ And then she gave me the strangest smile.”

  “What was this disservice?” Clara asked.

  “She was circumspect at first. She went back to talking about the stars, then she asked if I knew Mrs Hunt had worked as a teacher in a school. I said, I thought I had heard something about that. She remarked that the woman had to leave in the middle of the school year under the cloud of a scandal. She gave that strange smile again,” Annie felt a shiver at remembering the woman’s look which had seemed part satisfied and part vengeful. “Mrs Hunt, she said, had been having an affair with one of the members of staff and it had been brought to the attention of the board of governors. The gentleman she was having an affair with was married, but even if he was not it was strictly forbidden for staff members to form romantic liaisons with each other. Mrs Hunt was dismissed.