The Woman Died Thrice

by Evelyn James

  She replaced the diary and let herself out of the room. She had learned what she needed to, after all. Blake had not hung himself from a guilty conscience, and there was still a killer on the loose, and she had to find them. As she locked Captain Blake’s door she found herself thinking over how so many people had been touched in a negative way by Mrs Hunt’s presence in their lives. What sort of person goes through the world aiming to hurt others? And could someone be blamed for wanting to stop such a creature from causing more harm?

  Chapter Thirty

  Clara had some hours to spare before the charabanc party returned and she was temporarily at a loose end. She certainly had lots to think over, but that did not lend itself to action just yet. She retired to the dining room to see if luncheon was being served and to mull over what she had learned so far today.

  Dr Masters was at a table looking very sombre, when he saw Clara he waved her over and though she would have rather sat alone so she might think, Clara felt it was only polite to join him.

  “Do you care for ham salad?” Dr Masters asked as she sat down. “Or does it strike you as a tad Continental all this cold meat and lettuce leaves? I was inclined toward a more hearty ploughman’s, personally.”

  He handed her over the luncheon menu and Clara browsed it for a moment then settled on an assorted platter of miniature sandwiches. They did not have to wait long for a waiter to appear at their table and take their order.

  “How is your patient?” Clara asked Dr Masters.

  For a moment he looked bemused and then he smiled.

  “Thriving. She has another decade in her at least.”

  “Does she not leave her room at all? I have never seen her about. I would have noticed an extra elderly lady at dinner, aside from Miss Plante, of course.”

  “She is reclusive,” Dr Masters said swiftly. “She sits with the windows open and takes the air.”

  “It seems a long way to come to just sit by a window,” Clara shook her head at the vagaries of some people. “Does she care for visitors? I am at a loose end myself this afternoon and I would gladly pay her a call.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Dr Masters spoke swiftly, too swiftly and gave the answer Clara had anticipated he would. She was beginning to have serious doubts about the reality of this ‘elderly patient’ of his.

  “You did not go on the charabanc excursion today?” Dr Masters asked to change the subject.

  “No. I had some business to attend to. Captain Blake’s suicide has rather put the cat among the pigeons.”

  “Indeed, it has,” Dr Masters paused as their pot of tea arrived. “I didn’t really know the fellow, but from what I saw of him he struck me as the morbid sort. Not that you can always tell by looking at a man if he is inclined to suicidal thoughts.”

  “He was Mrs Hunt’s nephew,” Clara threw in the statement to see what it stirred up.

  “Oh. I didn’t realise,” Masters engaged himself in pouring tea. “I suppose the shock of it all overcame him.”

  “I don’t think he cared for his aunt in the slightest,” Clara corrected. “I think it is just coincidence. He had had enough of life.”

  “Tragic,” Dr Masters seemed sincere enough in this assessment. “Perhaps there was a tendency in the family? Suicide can be like that, you see it all the time. A person kills themselves and the next thing someone is mentioning that their late father, or brother, or uncle did exactly the same. Certain families seem to inherit a fascination with self-murder like others inherit flat feet or hooked noses.”

  “While I have no doubt there might be validity in that claim, in this case it is not tenable. Mrs Hunt was murdered and I now have the proof.”

  “Really?” Dr Masters had gone a touch pale and he had to put his teacup down before it rattled in his hand.

  Clara was stopped for a moment from carrying on as their luncheon arrived. Dr Masters looked down at his hearty Ploughman’s grimly, his appetite had evaporated.

  “Mrs Hunt was drugged on sleeping powders before she drowned. Since she could not drug and then drag herself into the lake, we have to assume she was murdered. Someone gave her a last cup of deadly tea and then waited for it to take effect. The sleeping powders it contained were close to being a fatal dose as it was, but to make certain and to fool everyone into thinking she had committed suicide and drowned, Mrs Hunt was thrown into the waters of Windermere while still alive,” Clara picked up a triangular egg and cress sandwich. “Positively wicked, don’t you think?”

  “It is certainly very calculating,” Dr Masters agreed, finding himself suddenly absorbed in cutting the chunk of cheese on his plate into small cubes.

  “The powders were stolen from Mrs Wignell, at least I think they were,” Clara sighed. “It is entirely possible that the Wignells invented the story of the powders being stolen to mask their own actions. If so, they were far too honest with me about their relationship with Mrs Hunt. It would have been far better to say nothing and leave me in the dark concerning their grievance. Of course, Mrs Wignell’s powders might have genuinely been misplaced and those used to drug Mrs Hunt’s tea could have come from another source. A doctor’s bag, for instance.”

  Dr Masters looked up sharply.

  “I hope you are not accusing me?”

  “Is there reason to?” Clara asked, feigning an innocent smile. “What cause would you have to harm Mrs Hunt?”

  “None,” Dr Masters said stoutly. “None at all. The woman was a stranger to me and I to her. It would be an act of madness for me to kill a person I did not know.”

  Clara investigated another of the sandwiches on her plate and discovered it was cold chicken before she spoke.

  “How odd.”

  “What is?” Dr Masters sounded anxious.

  “That you say Mrs Hunt did not know you, when she made such a fuss about being put in a room opposite yours. I am reliably informed that it was seeing you in the room across the hall that made her insist on being moved.”

  Dr Masters gave a grunt as he prodded at the ham on his plate.

  “I am rather regretting asking you to join me,” he said.

  “I am sorry for that,” Clara said and meaning it. “But when a woman is dead and people are keeping secrets from me I become somewhat aggressive in my curiosity.”

  “Just because a person has secrets, does not mean they are a killer,” Dr Masters pointed out sharply.

  “No, it doesn’t. But I would like to know why Mrs Hunt was so averse to you, especially considering you later were called to attend to her injuries.”

  “I did not throw a chamber pot at her,” Dr Masters pointed his fork at Clara.

  “That I know for certain,” Clara assured him.

  Dr Masters looked at her curiously.

  “You know who did, then?”

  “Yes,” Clara admitted without expanding on the subject.

  “I was genuinely coming down the stairs when Mrs Hunt was injured,” Dr Masters relaxed a little, coming to the conclusion Clara did not intend a fearsome inquisition. “Everything I said about the woman’s injuries and the treatment I gave her was purely professional. There is no secret in that.”

  “Mrs Hunt did not treat you well, even then,” Clara noted. “She was a spiteful woman.”

  “Mrs Hunt, no doubt, was less than pleased to see my face again. You are right, Clara, we did know each other. But my being in this hotel at the same time as her is pure coincidence.”

  “How did you know Mrs Hunt?”

  “Through my mother, God rest her soul. Since you are well aware of Mrs Hunt’s nature it should not surprise you that her connection to my mother was neither kind nor honest. Mrs Hunt became embroiled in a sordid affair with my father, a man who I refuse to have anything further to do with.”

  “How did Mrs Hunt meet your father, if I might ask?”

  “My father is a doctor, like myself. Mrs Hunt was one of his patients while she was teaching at a girls school. It seems they began to see
each other quite regularly soon after. The affair broke my mother’s heart and I swear led to her decline in health. My father had enough conscience left in him to break off the relationship with Mrs Hunt when my mother became fatally ill. By then it was too late,” Dr Masters gave a sigh and shook his head. “My father was not discreet. The entire neighbourhood knew of what he was doing. The shame of it all strained my mother’s heart. I was a lad then, just coming to my first exams and wondering what to make of my life. I chose to become a doctor in the hope that I might be able to save my mother’s life with my knowledge. It was a foolish whim, but I was desperate. Sadly, I had barely begun my studies when she passed. I continued on, however, finding the subject more fascinating than I had expected.”

  “And with no more thought of Mrs Hunt than you could help,” Clara nodded, understanding Dr Masters slightly better. “And then, out of the blue, she is here.”

  “I haven’t seen that woman in ten years, but I could not forget her. I know she recognised me when I came out of my room. This rather makes me distinctive,” Dr Masters pointed at the scar of his hare lip.

  “It is well mended,” Clara said consolingly. “It certainly doesn’t mar your looks.”

  Dr Masters smiled and almost blushed.

  “My father fixed it for me when I was a baby. He always wanted to be a surgeon,” Dr Masters shook his head. “When I saw Mrs Hunt I was surprised, but I was even more astonished when she insisted on being moved away from my room. I was a little offended at how she took against me. Though, now I understand that she was afraid someone was out to harm her and my presence so near must have scared her.”

  “In her last days Mrs Hunt was plagued by paranoia, and much of it was not without validity,” Clara explained to him. “She knew someone was out to kill her and suddenly she was surrounded by a number of people she had hurt or offended. She must have thought herself in the middle of a nest of vipers. The question, of course, is why she chose to invite them all here in the first place.”

  Clara threw in the last comment, knowing it to be untrue, to test the doctor’s reaction. He was surprised, which she had somewhat expected, or rather hoped for.

  “She invited all her enemies to one place?” Dr Masters found the idea astounding. “It sounds like a fine way to get oneself killed.”

  “A sort of suicide, you mean?” Clara found the idea interesting, if not very plausible. “Sit yourself among your enemies and see which one tries to kill you? No, she was too worried about herself for that to have been the case. Still, she did rather set herself up for harm.”

  “Am I off your suspect list?” Dr Masters asked slyly, raising one eyebrow as he broached the question.

  “No one is off my suspect list until I know who killed Mrs Hunt, but you do have one point in your favour.”

  “Which is?”

  “I cannot place you at Windermere. You were not on the charabanc, unless you somehow made your own way there. It is quite a distance on foot, though not implausible by bicycle, but I can’t see how you would have had the opportunity to kill her.”

  “How very reassuring,” Dr Masters laughed. “Now, perhaps I shall offer some information in return? Mrs Wignell came to my room and asked if I could prescribe her some sleeping powders temporarily until she could return home and see her own doctor. The ones she was taking are particularly strong and addictive, not the sort I would willingly supply. I prescribed something much weaker, but which would hopefully help.”

  “Was this before or after Mrs Hunt died?”

  “After. So it would seem that Mrs Wignell was genuinely missing her sleeping powders, else she would not have asked for more.”

  “It does not excuse her from the crime,” Clara countered. “But, would a woman waste something so precious to her on a person she hated?”

  “More to the point, Mrs Wignell was well aware of the right dosage for the medication. She would have known how much, or rather, how little was needed in a person unused to them to induce sleepiness.”

  “So, she could have avoided unnecessary wastage?” Clara nodded. “That would make sense. It does seem whoever used the powders was heavy-handed with them.”

  Clara finished her lunch and poured herself another cup of tea. Dr Masters had hardly touched his meal. Clara suddenly felt guilty, she had rather probed him and it was not as if he had a great deal of evidence against him to justify all her questions. She had stirred up the past once again.

  “I’m sorry. I do get carried away sometimes,” she said. “I would offer to buy you cake as consolation, if you still have an appetite?”

  “I understand you are trying to solve a crime,” Dr Masters answered. “That means asking a lot of impolite questions.”

  He finally started on his Ploughman’s, his appetite having a resurge. Clara let him eat for a few moments uninterrupted, letting her eye wander about the dining room.

  “Have you noticed that girl about the hotel? Thin as a rake and looks a frail little thing,” Clara said casually.

  Dr Masters seemed to choke on his food.

  “Good heavens!” Clara cried out, about to assist him.

  Dr Masters hammered a fist onto his chest, the noise he was making alerting the entire room to his drama. He suddenly gave a sharper cough and began to breathe again.

  “Are you all right?” Clara asked, watching as his face went from a horrid reddish colour back to pink.

  “You do know how to ask all the wrong questions,” Dr Masters said as his breath returned to him.

  “What do you mean?”

  Dr Masters shook his head.

  “It seems my secret has been wandering about the place,” he coughed. “And trust you to have spotted her.”

  “The girl? She is your patient?” Clara suddenly grasped what had caused the drama. “But why is that a secret? Surely you are just helping the girl back to health?”

  Dr Masters chuckled at her.

  “For the moment I shall leave you wondering, that is one secret I refuse to disclose,” Dr Masters rose from the table. “Thank you for an interesting dinner, Clara, but perhaps we shall not repeat it too soon.”

  Dr Masters left the dining, and Clara was left wondering what new revelation she had just stumbled upon.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  That evening, after dinner, Clara quietly went about the hotel looking for Miss Smythe. She eventually spotted her in the music lounge, listening to another guest attempting to play a tune on the piano. There were a lot of dud notes and pauses as the player worked his way through the piece. Miss Smythe didn’t seem to notice, she was watching the rain falling down through the open French Windows that led onto the terrace. Clara sat in an armchair near her, making sure she was in Miss Smythe’s line of vision and then retrieved the pamphlet she had bought earlier that day from her bag. It was plainly entitled on the front cover Practical Husbandry for the Owners of Fancy Rats.

  Though not a subject Clara was much attracted to, she had a feeling that it would interest Miss Smythe and hopefully draw her into a productive conversation. It was in fact several moments before Miss Smythe observed the pamphlet in Clara’s hands.

  “Oh,” she said at first, her eyes widening with surprise. “Why, Miss Fitzgerald, do you keep rats?”

  “Not at the moment,” Clara glanced up from her reading. “That is to say, I am considering the possibility. They don’t appeal to everyone, naturally.”

  “That is true,” Miss Smythe nodded a little sadly. “Which is a shame considering they are truly remarkable creatures. Quite as intelligent as a dog and a jolly good deal cleaner. Rats are fastidious groomers.”

  “Then my reading interests do not trouble you?”

  “Quite the opposite, I am glad to see another woman taking an interest in the subject of fancy rats. I, myself, have kept them for a number of years.”

  “Well I never,” Clara remarked with apparent astonishment. “What a coincidence!”

  “It really is,” Miss Smythe moved to an arm
chair closer to Clara. “Let me see what guide you have there, ah, Mr Thwaite’s informative tome!”

  “Is it a good choice?”

  “Indeed, Mr Thwaite is very knowledgeable on the subject and president of the British Fancy Rat Society,” Miss Smythe was very satisfied with Clara’s choice of pamphlet. “Why, I have met him on more than one occasion. The Society holds an annual conference in Brighton. Everyone brings their pet rats. The little creatures appreciate the sea air.”

  “People take their rats on their travels?”

  “Why yes! No different to taking a dog after all. Though, admittedly, hotels are far less accommodating of rats than the average dog,” Miss Smythe gave a small sigh. “We live in a very unenlightened world, Miss Fitzgerald. A man sees a rat and he sees vermin and nothing else. But if only he took a moment to understand this creature who is so successful in our cities and towns, he might come to realise what a remarkable beast it was. We put such effort into exterminating rats from our streets and homes, and yet they continue to flourish. They are survivors, Miss Fitzgerald, in a world were almost every person they encounter will attempt to eradicate them.”

  Miss Smythe was certainly passionate on her subject and it made Clara stop and think. She too was one of those who saw rats as merely vermin. Seeing them through Miss Smythe’s eyes turned them into a completely different prospect.

  “In fact,” Miss Smythe continued, dropping her tone to a whisper. “I brought my rats along on this holiday. I couldn’t bear to be apart from them, and my mother detests them and would have ignored them the entire time I was away. She would have left them to starve. So I smuggled them along. No one knows, the hotel manager would get rather upset about them, I fear.”

  “Yes, Mr Stover is rather that way inclined.”