Strong Poison (22 page)

Miss Kitty Climpson, on the other hand, was living in what she herself liked to call a “whirl of activity.” A letter written the second day after her arrival in Windle, furnishes us with a wealth of particulars.

Hillside View,

Windle,

Westmorland.

1st Jan. 1930.

my dear lord peter,

I feel sure you will be anxious to hear, at the earliest possible moment how things are going, and though I have only been here one day, I really think I have not done so badly, all things considered!

My train got in quite late on Monday night, after a most dreary journey, with a lugubrious wait at Preston, though thanks to your kindness in insisting that I should travel First-class, I was not really at all tired! Nobody can realise what a great difference these extra comforts make, especially when one is getting on in years, and after the uncomfortable travelling which I had to endure in my days of poverty, I feel that I am living in almost sinful luxury! The carriage was well heated – indeed, too much so and I should have liked the window down, but that there was a very fat business man, muffled up to the eyes in coats and woolly waistcoats who strongly objected to fresh air! Men are such hot-house plants nowadays, are they not, quite unlike my dear father, who would never permit a fire in the house before November the 1st, or after March 31st even though the thermometer was at freezing-point!

I had no difficulty in getting a comfortable room at the Station Hotel, late as it was. In the old days, an unmarried woman arriving alone at midnight with a suitcase would hardly have been considered respectable – what a wonderful difference one finds today! I am grateful to have lived to see such changes, because whatever oldfashioned people may say about the greater decorum and modesty of women in Queen Victoria’s time, those who can remember the old conditions know how difficult and humiliating they were!

Yesterday morning, of course, my first object was to find a suitable boarding-house, in accordance with your instructions, and I was fortunate enough to hit upon this house at the second attempt. It is very well run and refined, and there are three elderly ladies who are permanent boarders here, and are well up in all the gossip of the town, so that nothing could be more advantageous for our purpose!

As soon as I had engaged my room, I went out for a little voyage of discovery. I found a very helpful policeman in the High Street, and asked him where to find Mrs. Wrayburn’s house. He knew quite well, and told me to take the omnibus and it would be a penny ride to the “Fisherman’s Arms” and then about 5 minutes’ walk. So I followed his directions, and the ‘bus took me right into the country to a crossroads with the “Fisherman’s Arms” v at the corner. The conductor was most polite and helpful and showed me the way, so I had no difficulty in finding the house.

It is a beautiful old place, standing in its own grounds – quite a big house built in the eighteenth century, with an Italian porch and a lovely green lawn with a cedar-tree and formal flower beds, and in summer must be really a garden of Eden. I looked at it from the road for a little time – I did not think this would be at all peculiar behaviour, if anybody saw me, because anybody might be interested in such a fine old place. Most of the blinds were down, as though the greater part of the house were uninhabited, and I could not see any gardener or anybody about – I suppose there is not very much to be done in the garden this time of the year. One of the chimneys was smoking, however, so there were some signs of life about the place.

I took a little walk down the road and then turned back and passed the house again, and this time I saw a servant just passing round the corner of the house, but of course she was too far off for me to speak to. So I took the omnibus back again and had lunch at Hillside View, so as to make acquaintance with my fellow-boarders.

Naturally I did not want to seem too eager all at once, so I said nothing about Mrs. Wrayburn’s house at first, but just talked generally about Windle. I had some difficulty in parrying the questions of the good ladies, who wondered very much why a stranger had come to Windle at this time of year, but without telling many actual untruths I think I left them with the impression that I had come into a little fortune (!) and was visiting the Lake District to find a suitable spot in which to settle next summer! I talked about sketching – as girls we were all brought up to dabble a little in water-colours, so that I was able to display quite sufficient technical knowledge to satisfy them!

That gave me quite a good opportunity to ask about the house! Such a beautiful old place, I said, and did anybody live there? (Of course I did not blurt this out all at once – I waited till they had told me of the many quaint spots in the district that would interest an artist!) Mrs. Pegler, a very stout, pussy old lady, with a long tongue (!) was able to tell me all about it. My dear Lord Peter, what I do not know now about the abandoned wickedness of Mrs. Wrayburn’s early life is really not worth knowing!! But what was more to the point is that she told me the name of Mrs. Wrayburn’s nurse-companion. She is a miss booth, a retired nurse, about sixty years old, and she lives all alone in the house with Mrs. Wrayburn, except for the servants, and a housekeeper. When I heard that Mrs. Wrayburn was so old, and paralysed and frail, I said was it not very dangerous that Miss Booth should be the only attendant, but Mrs. Pegler said the housekeeper was a most trustworthy woman who had been with Mrs. Wrayburn for many years, and was quite capable of looking after her any time when Miss Booth was out. So it appears that Miss Booth does go out sometimes! Nobody in this house seems to know her personally, but they say she is often seen in the town in nurse’s uniform. I managed to extract quite a good description of her, so if I should happen to meet her, I daresay I shall be smart enough to recognise her!

That is really all I have been able to discover in one day. I hope you will not be too disappointed, but I was obliged to listen to a terrible amount of local history of one kind and another, and of course I could not force the conversation round to Mrs. Wrayburn in any suspicious way.

I will let you know as soon as I get the least bit more information.

Most sincerely yours,

Katharine Alexandra Climpson.

Miss Climpson finished her letter in the privacy of her bedroom, and secured it carefully in her capacious handbag before going downstairs. A long experience of boarding-house life warned her that to display openly an envelope addressed even to a minor member of the nobilityVould be to court a quite unnecessary curiosity.

True, it would establish her status, but at that moment Miss Climpson hardly wished to move in the limelight. She crept quietly out at the hall door, and turned her steps towards the centre of the town.

On the previous day, she had marked down one principal tea-shop, two rising and competitive tea-shops, one slightly passé and declining tea-shop, a Lyons and four obscure and, on the whole, negligible tea-shops which combined the service of refreshments with a trade in sweets. It was now half-past ten. In the next hour and a half she could, with a little exertion, pass in review all that part of the Windle population which indulged in morning coffee.

She posted her letter and then debated with herself where to begin. On the whole, she inclined to leave the Lyons for another day. It was an ordinary plain Lyons, without orchestra or soda-fountain. She thought that its clientele would be chiefly housewives and clerks. Of the other four, the most likely was, perhaps, the “Central.” It was fairly large, well-lighted and cheerful and strains of music issued from its doors. Nurses usually like the large, well-lighted and melodious. But the “Central” had one drawback. Anyone coming from the direction of Mrs. Wrayburn’s house would have to pass all the others to get to it. This fact unfitted it for an observation post. From this point of view, the advantage lay with “Ye Cosye Corner,” which commanded the ’bus-stop. Accordingly, Miss Climpson decided to start her campaign from that spot. She selected a table in the window, ordered a cup of coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits and entered upon her vigil.

After half an hour, during which no woman in nurse’s costume had been sighted, she ordered another cup of coffee and some pastries. A number of people – mostly women – dropped in, but none of them could by any possibility be identified with Miss Booth. At half-past eleven, Miss Climpson felt to stay any longer would be conspicuous and might annoy the management. She paid her bill and departed.

The “Central” had rather more people in it than “Ye Cosye Corner,” and was in some ways an improvement, having comfortable wicker chairs instead of fumed oak settles, and brisk waitresses instead of languid semi-gentlewomen in art-linen. Miss Climpson ordered another cup of coffee and a roll and butter. There was no window-table vacant, but she found one close to the orchestra from which she could survey the whole room. A fluttering dark-blue veil at the door made her heart beat, but it proved to belong to a lusty young person with two youngsters and a perambulator, and hope withdrew once more. By twelve o’clock, Miss Climpson decided that she had drawn blank at the “Central.”

Her last visit was to the “Oriental” – an establishment singularly ill-adapted for espionage. It consisted of three very small rooms of irregular shape, dimly lit by forty-watt bulbs in Japanese shades, and further shrouded by bead curtains and draperies. Miss Climpson, in her inquisitive way, wandered into all its nooks and corners, disturbing several courting couples, before returning to a table near the door and sitting down to consume her fourth cup of coffee. Half-past twelve came, but no Miss Booth. “She can’t come now,” thought Miss Climpson, “she will have to get back and give her patient lunch.”

She returned to Hillside View with but little appetite for the joint of roast mutton.

At half-past three she sallied out again, to indulge in an orgy of teas. This time she included the Lyons and the fourth tea-shop, beginning at the far end of the town and working her way back to the ’bus-stop. It was while she was struggling with her fifth meal, in the window of “Ye Cosye Corner,” that a hurrying figure on the pavement caught her eye. The winter evening had closed in, and the street-lights were not very brilliant, but she distinctly saw a stoutish middle-aged nurse in a black veil and grey cloak pass along on the nearer pavement. By craning her neck, she could see her make a brisk spurt, scramble on the ’bus at the corner and disappear in the direction of the “Fisherman’s Arms.”

“How vexatious!” said Miss Climpson, as the vehicle disappeared. “I must have just missed her somewhere. Or perhaps she was having tea in a private house. Well, I’m afraid this is a blank day. And I do feel so full of tea!”

It was fortunate that Miss Climpson had been blest by Heaven with a sound digestion, for the next morning saw a repetition of the performance. It was possible, of course, that Miss Booth only went out two or three times a week, or that she only went out in the afternoon, but Miss Climpson was taking no chances.;She had at least achieved the certainty that the ’bus-stop was the place to watch. This time she took up her post at “Ye Cosye Corner” at 11 o’clock and waited till twelve. Nothing happened and she went home.

In the afternoon she was there again at three. By this time the waitress had got to know, her, and betrayed a certain amused and tolerant interest in her comings and goings. Miss Climpson explained that she liked so much to watch the people pass, and spoke a few words in praise of the café and its service. She admired a quaint old inn on the opposite side of the street, and said she thought of making a sketch of it.

“Oh, yes,” said the girl, “there’s a many artists comes here for that.”

This gave Miss Climpson a bright idea, and the next morning she brought a pencil and sketch-book with her.

By the extraordinary perversity of things in general, she had no sooner ordered her coffee, opened the sketch-book and started to outline the gables of the inn, than a ’bus drew up, and out of it stepped the stout nurse in the black and grey uniform. She did not enter “Ye Cosye Corner,” but marched on at a brisk pace down the opposite side of the street, her veil flapping like a flag.

Miss Climpson uttered a sharp exclamation of annoyance, which drew the waitress’s attention.

“How provoking!” said Miss Climpson. “I have left my rubber behind. I must just run out and buy one.”

She dropped the sketch-book on the table and made for the door.

“I’ll cover your coffee for you, miss,” said the girl, helpfully. “Mr. Bulteel’s, down near the ‘Bear,’ is the best stationer’s.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said Miss Climpson, and darted out.

The black veil was still flapping in the distance. Miss Climpson pursued breathlessly, keeping to the near side of the road. The veil dived into a chemist’s shop. Miss Climpson crossed the road a little behind it and stared into a window full of baby-linen. The veil came out, fluttered undecidedly on the pavement, turned, passed Miss Climpson and went into a boot-shop.

“If it’s shoe-laces, it’ll be quick,” thought Miss Climpson, “but if it’s tryingon it may be all morning.” She walked slowly past the door. By good luck a customer was just coming out, and, peering past him, Miss Climpson just caught a glimpse of the black veil vanishing into the back premises. She pushed the door boldly open. There was a counter for sundries in the front of the shop, and the doorway through which the nurse had vanished was labelled ‘Ladies’ Department.’

While buying a pair of brown silk laces, Miss Climpson debated with herself. Should she follow and seize this opportunity? Trying on shoes is usually a lengthy business. The subject is marooned for long periods in a chair, while the assistant climbs ladders and collects piles of cardboard boxes. It is also comparatively easy to enter into conversation with a person who is trying on shoes. But there is a snag in it. To give colour to your presence in the Fitting department, you must yourself try on shoes. What happens? The assistant first disables you by snatching off your righthand shoe, and then disappears. And supposing, meanwhile, your quarry completes her purchase and walks out? Are you to follow, hopping madly on one foot? Are you to arouse suspicion by hurriedly replacing your own footgear and rushing out with laces flying and an unconvincing murmur about a forgotten engagement? Still worse, suppose you are in an amphibious condition, wearing one shoe of your own and one of the establishment’s? What impression will you make by suddenly bolting with goods to which you are not entitled? Will not the pursuer very quickly become the pursued?