The Woman Died Thrice Read online

  The Woman Died Thrice

  A Clara Fitzgerald Mystery

  Book 8

  By

  Evelyn James

  Red Raven Publications

  2016

  © Evelyn James 2016

  First published 2016

  Red Raven Publications

  The right of Evelyn James to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the permission in writing from the author

  The Woman Died Thrice is the eighth book in the Clara Fitzgerald series

  Other titles in the Series:

  Memories of the Dead

  Flight of Fancy

  Murder in Mink

  Carnival of Criminals

  Mistletoe and Murder

  The Poisoned Pen

  Grave Suspicions of Murder

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter One

  Clara concluded that a charabanc was the only way to travel. She had boarded the elegantly painted brown and cream vehicle in Brighton to begin a tour of the Lake District. Two hours later she was already convinced this was a very fine way to view the world. She was sat on a comfy leather seat, like the sort you found on smart omnibuses, with her legs stretched out and her damaged foot snugly installed on a cushion. She was very cosy in fact and, with the charabanc driver sticking to a decent 20mph, she was finding it a very settling experience. Unlike her last ride in a car which was at very high speeds and hugely disturbing. Clara could get quite used to this sort of travelling.

  Clara had been gifted this little holiday through the gratitude of Mr Hatton, the owner of the Brighton Charabanc Touring Company. His little buses went all across the country, taking people to see the best sights and to visit the most interesting places England, Scotland and Wales could offer. Mr Hatton had been the victim of a nasty blackmailer and Clara, Brighton’s first female private detective, had saved him from scandal. As a thank you, Mr Hatton had offered her a free charabanc holiday, for herself, her brother Tommy and their maid and friend, Annie.

  Clara had not at first been enamoured with this idea. Charabancs looked big and daunting, and she suspected they went rather fast round corners. But Annie found the whole idea exciting and Tommy was determined to go. In the end, Clara really had no choice.

  As it happened, once aboard the charabanc, Clara had discovered it was neither overly large nor daunting. And the driver and conductor were both very professional and friendly, there seemed no reason to fear that this would be anything but a truly enjoyable jaunt around the countryside. Admittedly, at 20mph, it was going to take a long time to reach the Lake District, but the driver had promised his passengers that there would be ample stops for comfort breaks and a hotel for an overnight stop halfway.

  Mr Hatton had an eye to the future; his charabanc was not the open-topped nightmare that mills and factories hired for day trips for their workers. For a start his had a properly built roof and glass windows to protect his passengers (the usual charabancs had a canvas roof that was kept collapsed until needed, like the soft roof of a sports car). While he could do little about the rather hard suspension, he compensated by providing well-cushioned seats that acted very nicely to smooth out the shocks caused by the bumps and lumps of the road. Mr Hatton predicted that luxury coach travel would prove a booming industry soon and had plunged a lot of his own money into having specially designed coaches built for his company. So far his investment had proved wise. Many of his customers enjoyed travelling around the country in his charabancs and appreciated the extra comforts he had gone to great lengths to provide.

  Mr Hatton had once been told that, technically, what he actually had was a fleet of ‘motor coaches’ not charabancs. But he found this a rather confusing idea, after all, coaches were pulled by horses. In any case, his customers were not familiar with ‘motor coaches’ but they did understand the concept of a charabanc and it sounded much nicer in his company name. The term ‘motor coach’ had a rather cumbersome ring to it, so Mr Hatton remained head of the Brighton Charabanc Touring Company and had nothing to do with this ‘coaches’ nonsense.

  Clara was sitting one row from the front of the charabanc, to her right sat Tommy with his dog Bramble on his lap. The small black poodle seemed almost as intent on watching the world flash by as Clara. Ahead of them both sat Annie, on a seat all to herself. This had caused her some mortification when she first sat down, not only was she sat on a seat alone, but she was right at the front of the vehicle where everyone could see her. Fortunately, she had her picnic hamper beside her – Annie had insisted on bringing a selection of sandwiches and cake, as she was convinced that once they strayed past Brighton’s outskirts they would be subjected to unusual and unfamiliar foods – and this took up a good place on the seat beside her and provided Annie with a barrier between herself and the world. If anyone looked in her direction, she could console herself with the thought they were looking at the hamper and speculating on its contents, rather than looking at her.

  Outside the windows of the charabanc the landscape had merged into a vista of never-ending fields. Clara found herself impressed by how rural some parts of England could be, though, she also had to admit, the endless ranks of green were rather boring after a while. She switched her attention from the view outside to her fellow travellers.

  The charabanc could hold twenty-four people, excluding the driver and conductor. It seemed virtually full to Clara’s eyes. The passengers were largely female and mostly in their later years. Clara was certain she and Annie were nearly the youngest women aboard. There were also a few men, usually accompanying wives and apparently retired from the strains of a working existence. Tommy had said earlier he felt a little out-of-place. He had just about managed to stagger aboard the charabanc using a walking stick. Though he was regaining some use of his legs – Tommy had been left crippled by a bullet in the Great War – he was a long way from being able to walk around on his own and relied on a wheelchair. The chair had been stowed behind the driver’s seat, which was rather a tight squeeze. Tommy, therefore, had a valid reason to be jaunting off on a holiday in the middle of the working week, but he couldn’t help but feel that everyone would wonder about him.

  Then there was Clara with her bandaged foot. She was also hobbling about on a stick. She had had her foot run over on her last c
ase and was still suffering the consequences. Clara found it amusing as she and Tommy stumbled around on their sticks. Tommy just found it embarrassing.

  “I could murder a cup of tea,” Annie pondered from the seat in front. She glanced at her hamper, knowing that inside she had a full tea set, but, alas, no means of heating water to place in the teapot she had carefully packed. One could never be sure what sort of facilities would be available on a trip such as this, it was better to be prepared.

  Almost as if he heard her, the conductor rose from his small seat beside the driver and wobbled into the aisle of the charabanc, hanging onto the edge of a chair as the vehicle hauled itself around a corner.

  “We have our first stop coming up in a few minutes,” he declared. “Mrs Woodcock has a dear little house and has turned the front room into a small tea shop. Refreshments will be awaiting us at no added expense. There are also facilities should anyone require a comfort break.”

  Everyone seemed pleased with this announcement.

  “You may be interested to know that Mrs Woodcock’s house dates back to the days of Charles I and there are some particularly fine beams in the front room, one of which is said to bear the initials of a Cavalier soldier who was secretly housed there during the Civil War. The fireplace incorporates stones from a former priory that used to exist just along the river, but which fell out of use during the Reformation. The stone was reclaimed for local properties. Mrs Woodcock informs me that the house is said to be haunted by the ghost of a serving maid, but that she has never had her night’s rest disturbed. Ah, here we are now,” the conductor held on to the back of the driver’s seat with one hand as the charabanc rolled to a halt. There was a gentle groan as the brakes took hold and the passengers were lightly jerked forward and back.

  Mrs Woodcock, a dapper country lass with broad arms and a rosy face, waved at them and brandished a brown teapot.

  “I believe we are quite welcome,” Clara smiled. “That makes a change. Usually when I visit people they don’t want to know me.”

  The passengers were ushered off the charabanc onto a little grass verge. There were several wooden chairs and tables outside Mrs Woodcock’s property, and plenty more inside. Her guests could choose between sitting outside in the sunshine or going indoors where they could sit beneath her famous roof beams. The ‘facilities’ were at the back of the house and consisted of two lavatories in a brick outhouse. These proved initially more attractive to the passengers than the pots of tea Mrs Woodcock was rapidly brewing. An orderly queue soon formed.

  Clara and Tommy found themselves at the back of it, being, as it were, the least mobile of the passengers. Tommy preferred to leave the charabanc after everyone else so he would not hold up anybody and Clara stuck with him. By the time they had visited the facilities and made their way back to the front of the house all the tables, both outside and in, were taken. It looked for a moment as if there would be no space for either of them, then Clara spotted Annie waving her hand. The little maid had nabbed three seats for them at a table on the verge.

  Clara helped Tommy to the table and they sat down with a nod and words of greeting to the ladies already present. These proved to be a very upright woman, with a sharp nose and black hat, an older lady who had brought her knitting with her and was busily clattering out a cardigan sleeve, and a plump woman who sat back in her chair and contentedly rested her forearms on her sizable belly.

  “Clara and Thomas Fitzgerald,” Clara introduced herself and her brother to the ladies.

  “Mrs Siskin,” the plump lady said. “And this is my friend Mrs Palmer. Are you first time charabanc tourers?”

  “Indeed,” Clara answered. “It is much nicer than I imagined.”

  “Mr Hatton’s charabancs are very nice,” Mrs Siskin nodded, folding her hands on her stomach. “Not like those dreadful things we used to see before the war. Not that I ever travelled on those.”

  “I did a few times,” Mrs Palmer spoke up, her needles clacking away at speed. “Back when I worked in the elastic webbing factory. They would organise day trips for us and we would travel by charabanc. I stopped after that dreadful accident where several girls were killed.”

  “Accident?” Clara asked anxiously.

  “Yes. It rolled over, you see, and being open topped and all, everyone tumbled out.”

  “Don’t let Lizzy scare you,” Mrs Siskin interceded, noticing Clara’s face. “Mr Hatton’s charabancs are perfectly safe, else I would not get on one.”

  They all paused as Mrs Woodcock appeared with plates of cake and a large pot of tea. For a while everyone was intent on eating and drinking and talk was stifled. Then Mrs Palmer gave Tommy a long look up and down.

  “May I ask, were you in the war?” she said at last.

  Tommy almost choked on a crumb of cake. It was not that he was unused to the question, but it still amazed him how perfect strangers could find it acceptable to quiz him on his past. Tommy preferred not to think of the war, but the rest of the world would not let him be.

  “I was,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “I take it that is how you acquired your limp?” Mrs Palmer pressed on, oblivious to the discomfort she was causing. “My grandson was also in the war.”

  Mrs Siskin had suddenly become very absorbed in her cake as her friend spoke. Clara was observing them both with interest, she sensed this was a topic of conversation Mrs Palmer referred to often and not with the approval of Mrs Siskin.

  “He never returned, you know,” Mrs Palmer continued. “But I am certain he is out there still somewhere. They never declared him dead, only missing. I keep knitting things for him, because when he comes home he is bound to need new clothes.”

  Mrs Palmer’s needles clacked, for a moment no one was sure what to say, then the stern looking woman sat beside Annie carefully put down her slice of cake.

  “You do realise being declared missing by the army is as good as dead?” her tone was icy and her words cut through the silence like a razor.

  It was a cruel thing to say, and the woman knew it. Mrs Palmer’s needles came to a halt.

  “Missing. Only missing,” Mrs Palmer repeated. “I saw the telegram myself.”

  “Missing only means they don’t know where his body is,” the stern woman said as if talking to a very dull child.

  “Here now, don’t say things like that!” Mrs Siskin jumped to her friend’s assistance. “You don’t know that, you are only saying it to be spiteful. Lizzy, of course your grandson is out there somewhere. You keep on knitting.”

  For a moment Mrs Palmer didn’t move, then the clack of the needles began again and she slipped into the rhythm of knitting. It seemed to soothe her. The stern woman observed her for a while longer, then finished her tea and excused herself.

  “Right cow,” Mrs Siskin informed the others once she was gone. “You can tell by her face she has nothing but nastiness inside her. Right cow.”

  Clara did not reply, merely finished her cake and tea. The conductor appeared among them again and announced they should be on their way. Mrs Woodcock was complimented on her hospitality and waved off her guests as if they were old and much-loved family members. Tommy struggled up the charabanc steps, followed by his sister. They returned to their seats and settled for the next leg of the journey. Clara tried to relax as she had done before, but the atmosphere had changed aboard the charabanc. There was a tension hanging in the air now, as if everyone was on edge, yet only Mrs Palmer, Mrs Siskin and the stern woman had anything to be upset about. Mrs Palmer was sat with her friend in the opposite row, knitting automatically. If the incident had upset her badly it did not show. Mrs Siskin looked a little uncomfortable, the unpleasant conversation had tainted her day perhaps more than it had her friend’s. The stern woman was too far back on the charabanc for Clara to see. She wondered who she was and why she had felt the need to be so sharp with Mrs Palmer. Perhaps she was merely one of those people who speak without thinking. Clara decided it was not worth dwelling over, she
was here to enjoy herself, not ponder on other peoples’ affairs. Even so, the countryside proved less distracting than before and her mind kept turning over the strange conversation. What a cruel woman, she mused, what a cruel, cruel woman.

  Chapter Two

  After the initial excitement of charabanc travel had worn off, Clara found herself feeling a little bored. The problem was the monotony of it all; the rolling countryside interspersed with quaint, but very briefly seen villages, the constant thrum of the engine and rumble of the wheels, the sitting still in one place for far too long. Clara was beginning to find it all very tiresome. She had never travelled in a vehicle for this long before, even a train ride to London was only a couple of hours. She had been on a steamer once for several hours, but that was different, you didn’t sit still on a steamer.

  The only way Clara could distract herself was by observing her fellow passengers and even that grew monotonous, for most either stared out the window or dozed. Clearly they were more experienced at this sort of travel than her. Mrs Palmer busied herself with knitting, it seemed to be an unconscious habit, she could knit while looking out the window. Clara wondered how many jumpers she had made for her lost grandson and where she kept them all. Beside her Mrs Siskin was sound asleep, her head slumped back and her mouth emitting the sort of snores more suited to an elephant or hippopotamus. The gentleman trapped sitting behind her looked most aggrieved by the disturbance.

  Further back on the bus Clara could just spy the unpleasant woman who had caused such a problem back at their first tea stop. She was sitting looking straight ahead, as if the countryside rolling by her window held no appeal for her. Another woman was sitting beside her and reading a magazine. They didn’t talk and didn’t appear to know each other. Clara could not look any further back in the charabanc without appearing obvious, so she concentrated on the first few rows of seats and, when that grew tiresome, she switched her attention to the conductor.