by Evelyn James
“Would you care to meet my rat Augustus? It is always best to meet the real thing when you are considering them for pets.”
“I would be delighted,” Clara replied, not sure she actually was delighted, but seeing this as a good way to speak with Miss Smythe privately.
Miss Smythe led the way to her room and opened the door for her guest. Clara entered but saw no sign of any rats. She caught herself glancing about the room.
“Ah, you are wondering where I hide them!” Miss Smythe laughed lightly. “Let me close the door and I shall show you.”
The door duly shut, Miss Smythe went to one of the suitcases under her bed, (she had two residing there) and flicked open its catches. As the lid unlocked and Miss Smythe pulled it open there was a squeak of greeting from inside. Nearly the entire space of the second suitcase was taken up by a steel wire cage. It was a deep case which meant the rat that resided in the cage could move around freely and there was room for a dish containing rat food and another for water. Miss Smythe popped open the door of the cage and the rat hopped out onto her hand. It was a grey and white creature, with large pink ears and a scaly tail that it wrapped automatically around Miss Smythe’s hand. It sat in her palm busily cleaning its whiskers.
“This is Augustus,” Miss Smythe held out the rat to Clara.
Clara did not consider herself squeamish, still it took her some effort to calmly reach out and stroke the rat’s head with a finger. Augustus stopped washing his whiskers and looked up at her, his little nose twitching in the air and his eyes looking at her brightly. Despite her reservations, Clara had to admit there was something endearing about the way the rat looked at her.
“Your travelling arrangements are certainly ingenious,” Clara noted, turning her attention to the suitcase. Something caught her eye. There was a little tin plaque on the cage and it was embossed with the name Augustus, next to it was a second plaque with the name Caesar.
“Where is your second rat?” Clara asked, pointing to the name.
Miss Smythe pulled a face and then sat rather heavily on the bed. The movement bounced Augustus in her hand and the rat looked up, affronted.
“I lost Caesar on the very first night of our travels.”
“Lost?” Clara asked.
“In both senses of the word. He slipped out of his cage that evening. It turns out the cage door was not locking properly. I was leaving the suitcase lid open so they could have some air. Caesar opened the door of the cage and vanished. I imagine he ventured out of my room window which was open at the time. Rats are full of curiosity. I came back to my room and found him missing. Augustus had slipped out too but he was in the bathroom devouring a bar of soap,” Miss Smythe stroked the rat’s grey head. “I looked everywhere for Caesar, but I only found him the next morning and he was deceased, unfortunately. He had been poisoned.”
Clara had a flash of insight.
“Was Caesar brown, perchance?”
“Why yes, how did you guess? Most fancy rats are white with blotches of colour like Augustus here, but Caesar was a throwback to wild rat colourings.”
“I think I saw Caesar,” Clara nodded. “Under a bush outside the hotel. He had consumed poisoned marzipan fruits, hadn’t he?”
“Oh!” Miss Smythe gasped. “Oh, it was awful, and yes, you are right. At the time I could not think where he had found them, but then later I learned about Mrs Hunt’s strange gift and realised what had happened. She had thrown them out the window and Caesar had come across them. I hate thinking about him eating that poison.”
“And you had no knowledge of the poisoned sweets before that?”
“No! Why would you even ask such a thing?” Miss Smythe was offended.
“Because you spoke of receiving a similar gift,” Clara said hastily. “But, there is no evidence you ever did and certainly no reason why you would considering Mrs Hunt was the target. So I find myself wondering why you would say such a thing.”
Miss Smythe pulled her lips together in a pout. Tears had formed in her eyes and one glistened as it trickled down her cheek.
“No one was taking the poisoned marzipan seriously,” Miss Smythe said. “After Mrs Hunt died it seemed as though the matter would be completely forgotten. The police seemed not to care. But my poor Caesar had been murdered and I wanted to know by whom. I thought, if I made it seem that I had received a similar gift and there were fears that a poisoner was at large, then the police would take an interest again. Mrs Hunt was poisoned, wasn’t she? Those sweets were contaminated?”
“They were,” Clara assured her. “Caesar was an unfortunate consequential victim in this affair.”
Miss Smythe sniffled softly.
“Let no one ever tell you that the death of a pet is not deeply upsetting,” she said.
“I don’t suppose…” Clara had had another idea. “Did Augustus happen to escape again? During one of our stops on the way here?”
Miss Smythe blushed.
“You have caught me out, Miss Fitzgerald, you are very observant. He did indeed escape, but not from his cage. I had brought him out in my handbag for a little air and knowing that he would be pining for Caesar. I became distracted pouring my tea and when I glanced down Augustus had slipped out. I spotted him running under the tables picking up cake crumbs. He ran over the waitress’ foot!”
“And she spilt tea on Mrs Hunt,” Clara saw how the pieces fell together. “And then you caught him.”
“Yes, but not before Mrs Hunt spotted Augustus. She must have seen me pick him up too for later on she sought me out and ranted at me. She said some awful things, accused me of trying to cause her harm of all things!” Miss Smythe shook her head. “It took a lot of persuading to stop her telling the hotel management about Augustus and I don’t think she believed me when I said I meant her no ill. It had been a pure accident.”
“You must have been concerned what would happen if she reported your pet?”
“The worst that would have occurred is that I would be asked to leave the hotel,” Miss Smythe shrugged. “If such was the case, then I would have caught the first train home. I didn’t push Mrs Hunt into Lake Windermere because she knew I had a pet rat!”
Miss Smythe was smarter on the uptake than Clara had given her credit for, but she also had a very flimsy motive for wishing Mrs Hunt dead.
“You did not know Mrs Hunt before this trip?” Clara checked, just to be safe.
“No, she was a stranger to me,” Miss Smythe said firmly. “I know you are investigating her death, but you need not look to me for your killer. I have never harmed anyone.”
“I had to ask,” Clara said, attempting to placate her. “Mrs Hunt had written out a list of names of people she thought might wish her ill. Your name was on it. But I will also quickly add that Mrs Hunt had become deeply paranoid and any slight incident would place a person under her suspicious attention.”
“She had nothing to fear from me,” Miss Smythe sighed. “Miss Fitzgerald, you do think that Mrs Hunt was murdered, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Clara agreed, there was no need to hide that fact.
“And, the person who pushed her into the water, probably also tried to poison her?”
“It’s very possible,” Clara nodded. The idea that two people would both attempt to kill Mrs Hunt independent of each other was not one she cared to dwell on.
“Then, will you do me the great kindness of keeping me abreast of all you discover? I can expect no justice for little Caesar, but I would like to give his killer a piece of my mind. His death may have been accidental, but he was still murdered.”
Miss Smythe looked determined through her tears. Clara patted her arm gently.
“I shall do my best,” she promised.
Miss Smythe gave her a difficult smile.
“I do hope you will enjoy keeping fancy rats, Miss Fitzgerald.”
“They are certainly fascinating creatures,” Clara answered, feeling brave enough to gently stroke Augustus on his small head.
Clara left Miss Smythe along with her surviving pet and was about to call it a night, when the hotel porter suddenly came upon her.
“Miss Fitzgerald, telephone call for you,” he informed her.
Clara was intrigued, had Inspector Park-Coombs dug up something in his investigations already? She followed the porter to Mr Stover’s office (the hotel manager being fortunately absent) and picked up the ‘phone.
“Hello?”
“Miss Fitzgerald.”
She recognised the voice of Dr Day-Bowers at once.
“Good evening, doctor.”
“I apologise for the lateness of this call,” Dr Day-Bowers said rather breathlessly down the phone line, “but I have had much on my mind and I could not bear to keep it secret any longer.”
“Whatever can you mean?” Clara asked, wondering if there was something more to Mrs Hunt’s illness than he had first let on.
“I feel an awful guilt that I might have unwittingly placed Mrs Hunt in a dangerous position,” Dr Day-Bowers explained, his voice beginning to tremble. “You see, it seemed a kindly idea at the time. A chance for Mrs Hunt to make peace with her past.”
“What did you do?” Clara asked, intrigued by this mysterious statement.
Dr Day-Bowers puffed and sighed at the end of the phone line, then finally he admitted his folly.
“I wrote the letters to all those people inviting them to join Mrs Hunt on the charabanc. I even paid for their tickets in certain cases.”
“Why would you do a thing like that?” Clara was astonished. The outlay for the tickets alone must have been immense.
“Mrs Hunt and I,” Dr Day-Bowers hesitated. “We had an understanding. We were both lonely, you see. But it is not right for a doctor to become involved with a patient, it is unethical. So we kept things very staid between us. But I truly adored that woman, Miss Fitzgerald and, believe it or not, I wanted to do something for her before she became too ill to appreciate it. She would talk, quite often, about people she had wronged and how she wished she could make things right. But she was too proud to do anything herself, so I took up the idea. It was meant to be a gift, a way for her to make peace with herself. I thought it might help her condition to take the weight of her sins from her.”
Dr Day-Bowers’ voice broke into a tremble and it was plain he was close to weeping.
“Instead, I surrounded her with people who wished her ill,” Dr Day-Bowers choked on a sob. “I shall never forgive myself for causing her death.”
“I am so sorry,” Clara said gently as the man cried softly. “You could not have known. It was perhaps not the wisest of ideas, but I am sure it seemed at the time to be the right one.”
“That is just the thing,” Dr Day-Bowers held back his tears long enough to speak. “It wasn’t even my idea. It was suggested to me.”
“By who?” Clara said, more sharply than she had meant to because suddenly this seemed very important.
“By Bernie Sykes. He works part-time as my gardener. I tell him a few too many of my woes while he prunes the hedges.”
“He suggested the charabanc trip?” Clara pressed.
“Not just suggested it, he arranged it,” Dr Day-Bowers explained. “When Bernie isn’t working in my garden, he is acting as a conductor for the Brighton Charabanc Company.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Clara now had more information than she knew what to do with. Mrs Hunt had not been behind the letters, it was the idea of Bernie Sykes, charabanc conductor. A fluke of fate had placed Mrs Hunt in the path of her killer. Had that person decided to murder her when their invitation for the trip arrived, or afterwards when they had found themselves in her company? A good question.
When the following morning arrived she had every intention of tracking down Bernie Sykes and hearing more about his part in this whole affair. But didn’t get the chance, for when she came downstairs that morning Mr Stover nabbed her.
“Inspector Gateley wants to see you are once,” he informed her with a very serious expression. “There is a police constable waiting outside to escort you to him by car.”
Clara glanced outside where the rain was once more slating down.
“He is standing outside in that?” she queried.
“I was not going to have a policeman waiting around in my foyer. There has been enough of that sort of drama around here lately!” Mr Stover slammed shut the guest book he had been perusing when Clara arrived and stalked off to his office.
Clara decided she better find out what Inspector Gateley wanted after all this time. She walked outside and spotted the poor police constable trying to shelter under the porch of the hotel.
“Miss Fitzgerald?” he asked optimistically. He was young and very new at being a policeman. He tended to get all the jobs no one else wanted.
“Yes,” Clara replied. “I hear I am wanted at the police station?”
“If you wouldn’t mind coming in the car, miss.”
The car was a rather old Ford Model T, probably imported during or just after the war. It had a sizeable dent in one door and the pull over roof looked a little cracked in places.
“She was a donation from the wife of a former inspector,” the constable explained as he opened the dented door for Clara. “All the constables get to learn to drive in her.”
The constable seated himself in the driver’s side, behind the huge wheel and grinned. Clearly standing out in the rain was more than compensated for by having this old car to drive. They trundled off in the rain, and Clara soon discovered that when the wind blew water came straight in the windowless sides.
Clara was rather hoping for a cup of tea and the chance to warm up when she arrived at the police station, but almost the moment she set her foot inside she was whisked along by a very efficient desk sergeant to an office. She was ushered into an armchair by an unlit fireplace, before being left alone. Clara took in her surroundings. She was in the inspector’s office; a desk sat in the centre covered with papers in neat piles, on the wall behind was a map of the area and a typed list of patrol routes. Near the window was a set of filing cabinets and, just in front of them, a tall hat-stand, currently barren of hats or coats. Clara wondered what she had been summoned here for? It was all rather dramatic if they just wanted to interview her again.
She didn’t have to wait long for her answer. She had only just finished her visual perusal of the room when the door opened and Inspector Gateley appeared looking sour-faced. He was followed a fraction later by former Inspector Wake, who smiled at Clara brightly. Clara rose from her seat to greet them.
“Is something the matter?” she asked as soon as the formalities were done.
“That is what we hope to determine in this little meeting,” Inspector Wake said, still smiling. “I thought over our conversation yesterday and it struck me there just might be something to the matter. So I rather took the liberty of investigating further.”
“I would like to state right now,” Inspector Gateley interrupted his predecessor, looking most disgruntled. “that I do not like civilians interfering in police matters.”
Clara knew precisely who he was aiming that barb at, even if technically Wake was now also a civilian. Clara chose to ignore the statement.
“What have you discovered, Inspector Wake?”
“It is rather circumstantial, but I think we may have a clue to why Mrs Hunt was killed. We are now satisfied, are we not, Inspector Gateley, that she was murdered?” Wake glanced at his colleague.
Gateley gave a huff which indicated he agreed, even if he didn’t much like it.
“Let’s sit and I shall explain,” Wake continued.
They all took a chair, Inspector Gately taking his behind the desk and feeling a little better for being able to show his superiority to the other two. He was still the only real policeman in the room, after all.
“I came to the station yesterday to look in the archives,” Inspector Wake pressed on, not noticing his colleagues’ chagrin. “I had a feelin
g there was a reason the Wignell case had been rather side-lined when we last talked. Just this little hunch that for some reason the death of the Wignell girl had not had my full attention. That is a very sad thing, I might add, Miss Fitzgerald, but it comes from having too far few policemen at hand to do the work.”
“Cases always seem to come in spates,” Gateley interjected. “It’s how it goes.”
“In this instance,” Wake carried on, acknowledging Gateley’s interruption with a smile, “it happened that we were dealing with a vanished child case at the time Miss Wignell perished. Our full attention was on finding this little girl named Mary who was only ten and had disappeared the previous Saturday. Cases like that always have us jumping because you never quite know what might have occurred. There are unpleasant people in this world.”
“Quite,” Clara nodded.
“All our resources and time were devoted to finding little Mary when we had the call to Miss Wignell’s apparent suicide. With our minds otherwise occupied, it was easy enough to look for the obvious and take it at face value. The girl had dark moods and had tried to do away with herself before. It seemed logical enough to assume that this time she had succeeded.”
“A policeman is only as good as the evidence presented to him,” Gateley bleated. He was definitely feeling rather undermined on his current case, and didn’t like to hear about other cases of policing errors.
“I was the Inspector back then,” Wake said. “Any failing over the case falls on my shoulders. I saw what I wanted to see. I didn’t have the time to consider another murder.”
“Murder?” Clara sat upright in her chair. “Then, you now think Miss Wignell did not kill herself?”
“I went back through the files. At the time I had skimmed over a lot of the paperwork. The jury at the inquest ruled death by misadventure, half the evidence was not even presented to them. We were just so busy. We found Mary shortly after, by the way, alive and well and living with an aunt who was keeping her presence a secret. Seems that Mary’s father was rather a ruffian and the aunt had spirited the child away to protect her. Finding Mary just gave us a whole batch of new headaches and by the time they were sorted, Miss Wignell’s case was long forgotten.