‘This is actually really exciting. I wonder who will win,’ she shouted against the gale. She stood on tiptoe and peered down the course. ‘One man’s miles in the lead!’
Clifford applauded along with the crowd’s cheers as the triumphant runner, a stalwart of the Little Buckford and Chipstone running club, crossed the line. A dozen or more runners passed over the line in the next few minutes, all receiving a tumultuous welcome.
Eleanor peered down the course. ‘I can’t see anyone else coming.’
The crowd obviously thought the same and, chilled and soaked, made a mass charge for the warmth and dry of the Hall.
Eleanor and Clifford remained at their station. Clifford brushed a layer of snow off his coat lapels. ‘This is the deciding stage of the Christmas fun run, my lady. Customarily, the last runners do not make it this far and return to the Hall in Solemn Jon’s carriage.’
‘Solemn Jon, the undertaker!? Seems rather close to the mark given the state they will be in.’
‘Most likely. But, as you are aware, despite the name by which the entire area knows him by, Solemn Jon is a most jovial gentleman. And the cost of receiving a lift is only a pint in the local ale house.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘Very crafty.’ She leaned out from under the umbrella and stared down the hill. ‘Well, judging by the fact that no one appears to still be running, I imagine Solemn Jon has already collected the stragglers and will be supplied with ale through to next Christmas. Oh, hang on!’
Two runners came into view. Almost on their hands and knees, they clutched at the snow-covered tussocks of grass as they hauled themselves up and over the long, steep rise. One of the runners was so thickly coated in mud his face was hard to see. He clutched his stomach as he heaved himself over the edge with his other arm, his legs wobbling, his eyes fixed vacantly on the finish line.
Eleanor watched the man, concerned by how much he was zigzagging. He panted past in the gloom of the snowstorm, followed by a giant, bearded man. As the bearded man passed Eleanor, he seemed to find a last shred of energy. Speeding up he drew level with the other runner and knocked him violently with his shoulder. He staggered past the finishing line and, without stopping, on towards the Hall.
Eleanor turned her attention back to the other runner, who now lay in the mud and snow, his head resting on a snow-covered tussock,
‘Shall we go inside the Hall, my lady?’
Eleanor nodded, her eyes still on the fallen runner. ‘Perhaps we should just check he’s okay first.’
‘As you wish.’
They approached him, their feet crunching on the freshly frozen snow.
Eleanor called out to the man, ‘I say, do you need a hand up?’ The thick blanket deadened her voice, making it sound hollow and lifeless.
When there was not so much as a groaned response, Eleanor darted forward and dropped to her knees. With Clifford holding the umbrella over the fallen man with one hand, he helped her turn him over by the shoulders with the other.
She gasped. ‘It’s Canning!’ His eyes were unfocussed and he seemed in the throes of a violent internal struggle. ‘We need to get Doctor Browning quickly.’
Clifford abandoned the umbrella and took the fallen man’s wrist and concentrated on his pocket watch.
Eleanor’s red curls stuck to her face as she looked around for help. ‘Oh, Constable Fry!’
She beckoned and shouted to the policeman who was striding to the Hall’s entrance, head down against what was now driving sheets of sleet. Somehow he heard or saw her and changed direction, reaching them in a few strides.
‘Lady Swift, is something the matter?’
‘We need Doctor Browning’s assistance urgently. This man has collapsed and is in need of immediate attention.’
‘Doctor Browning? Last seen in the refreshment room, your ladyship.’
‘Good work, thank you. If you could fetch him then?’ Eleanor turned back to the figure on the ground as Fry lumbered off. She went to remove the fun-run number pinned to the man’s vest, which had twisted upwards and poked into his throat, but Clifford’s cough stopped her.
‘Forgive my contradictory suggestion, my lady, but I fear we should not touch the gentleman until Doctor Browning arrives.’
‘Why ever not? I’m trying to clear his airway.’
‘Regrettably, it is too late for that.’ Clifford let the man’s arm drop.
‘You mean he’s—’
‘Dead, my lady.’
Five
She stared into Canning’s now glassy eyes and felt a rush of guilt. ‘I’m responsible for letting this man push himself too far! I should have cancelled the race at the first sign of bad weather.’ She reached out again, wanting to remove the Christmas fun-run number as if doing so might somehow reverse the terrible event.
Clifford gently held her arm. ‘If you will forgive the indelicacy of my observation, the gentleman has in fact ejected some of the contents of his stomach recently, my lady. That is not something associated with exhaustion.’
She snatched her hand back.
‘And I do not think the inclement weather had much to do with his demise.’
‘But he looked so fit, well, at least athletic. I wonder if his heart gave out.’ She shivered. Too late, the wind had started to ease off and the sleet was drifting back into swirling snowflakes. She was soaked through. She knew Clifford must be too. She also knew he knew her too well by now to suggest she leave the victim.
A taut voice made her spin round. ‘Constable Fry said you were calling for me, Lady Swift?’
The elderly doctor wore a tweed jacket buttoned up against the elements and a brown homburg. Like Eleanor’s clothes, both were soaked through. His green patterned bow tie lay askew against his starched white collar. Fry silently brought up the rear.
‘Thank goodness you’re here, Doctor, although’ – she glanced at Canning’s now lifeless form – ‘I suppose the urgency has gone.’
He tottered over, gripping his cane as his stoop caused him to rock backwards and forwards. With watery grey eyes, he peered through his round, wire-framed glasses at the fallen figure, then at Clifford. ‘Mr Clifford.’
Clifford nodded back. ‘Doctor Browning. Good afternoon. I rather fear Mr Canning’s demise is—’
‘“Demise?” I am a medical man. “Demise” is for literary writers of flowery prose. In my forty-four years of medical practice, I have never written a “demise” certificate.’ He looked down at the prostrate figure. ‘Conrad Canning! The fool!’
Eleanor fought the frown that leapt to her forehead. ‘Are you going to examine him?’
The doctor held up a tremulous hand. ‘There is no point, Lady Swift. Those eyes are staring at something in the afterlife, I can see that from here.’ He turned back to Clifford. ‘Have you found a pulse?’
‘Not the faintest of beats, regrettably.’
‘It is as I suspected. Canning understood his condition well enough to know that taking part in this Christmas fun run was beyond foolish.’ Eleanor watched an expression she couldn’t read cross the doctor’s face fleetingly. He tottered the six steps to Canning’s body, now half-covered in fresh snow, and bent stiffly from his waist. His glasses slid down his nose and landed on the dead man’s chin. One lens fell out.