by Alex Pavesi
‘My dear, that was a most interesting discussion. Let’s hope the matter is laid to rest soon. Have a wonderful day.’
And he walked off towards the white house on the hill.
In fact, Mr Brown had found Gordon Foyle quite pleasant and sympathetic when they’d sat down together the day before, at a small table in a cell of the local police station.
The young man had looked at him with pleading blue eyes. ‘They’re going to hang me.’
Between them was a piece of paper and a pencil. Gordon Foyle’s movements were slow and ponderous, partly due to his nature and partly because his hands were chained to the table. He straightened the paper and started to draw. ‘I’m frightened.’
‘Why do you think they’ll hang you?’
Gordon continued to sketch as he talked. ‘Oh, because I keep myself to myself. Though that makes it sound like a selfish thing to do. It’s not really, I’ve just never been very good at making friends.’
‘Nevertheless, they’ll need some evidence.’
‘Will they?’
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Mr Brown chose his words carefully. ‘If you’re innocent, there is reason to be hopeful.’
Gordon waved his right hand dismissively. There was a cascade of metal as the chain fell from the table. ‘There was actually a witness, you know.’ The young man was looking directly at Mr Brown now. He turned the piece of paper around; he’d drawn a yacht, floating on the straight line of the sea. ‘A boat, about two hundred yards out in the bay. It was painted red. That’s what it looked like. It was too far away for me to get the name, but if you can find whoever was on that boat they would have been able to see everything.’
Mr Brown closed his eyes, as if he were breaking bad news. ‘But only if they were looking.’
‘Please, Mr Brown, you have to try.’
‘There’s only one unusual thing about this crime and that’s the unflinching ruthlessness with which it was carried out. A quiet young man kills the mother of the woman he loves and all it takes is a gentle push.’
After his visit to the police station, Mr Brown had been met by his old friend Inspector Wild. They were discussing the case over sherry at the bar of Mr Brown’s hotel.
‘We have no real evidence,’ the Inspector continued. ‘But what evidence could we possibly have? It’s the perfect crime, in that sense. With no witnesses except for the birds.’
‘If it leaves him as the only suspect, I would say it’s rather imperfect. Wouldn’t you? How can the poor man ever prove his innocence? People have been hanged on less evidence than this and you can’t tell me that’s not a possibility here.’
Inspector Wild brought finger and thumb together along the length of his pointed beard and cocked his head back. He let out a long sigh. ‘I damn well hope it is. I think he’s as guilty as a louse.’
Mr Brown lifted his glass. ‘Well, then. Here’s to the inquisitive, open minds of our police detectives.’
Inspector Wild narrowed his bright green eyes. ‘I would be glad to be proved wrong.’ And he finished off his drink.
They ordered food and the hotelier brought them some disappointing sandwiches, tinted pink by the red lamp behind Inspector Wild’s head.
‘Then he lives alone,’ asked Mr Brown, ‘our friend, Gordon Foyle?’
‘It’s rather a tragic case, really. You can see how he’d get out of line. Both his parents died seven years ago, when he was eighteen, in some kind of motoring accident. But they left him the house and enough to get by, so he’s come out of it all right. I don’t believe he’s done a day’s work in his life.’
‘But he must have help?’
‘Yes, a lady comes up from the town every day. He says he likes it that way, rather than having someone living in. But the whole thing happened before she was due, so instead we know about his movements from a local woman named Epstein.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Brown. ‘And where can I find her?’
Whitestone House sat in its surroundings – a neat, green lawn and beyond that a brownish expanse of heather and gorse – like an egg, snug in a nest. At present there were no signs of life and each of the dim windows showed only a dusty white leg of curtain, running seductively down the side of the frame. All of the rooms inside were dark.
Mr Brown knocked his hat back with the head of his cane and took in the whole scene at a glance. ‘An empty page,’ he muttered to himself.
He carried on walking and came to a wooden bench just beyond the house, before the start of the footpath. It had a charming view of both the sea and the town. A woman was sitting on it, facing away from him: he could see only the deep red shawl covering her back and a sweep of long white hair hanging down from her head. Two bruised orange butterflies hovered around her shoulders.
Mr Brown approached her and removed his hat. ‘What a wonderful view.’
She hummed and turned her head towards him. ‘You’re with the police, aren’t you? I can always tell.’
‘Actually, I’m afraid I’m not.’
She nodded. ‘Then you’re a journalist?’
‘I’m conducting my own enquiries, on a private basis.’
A small, fluffy brown dog was running around her feet.
‘The police all think he’s guilty. And so do the newspapers. But I’ve always liked him. The people around here are rather judgemental, when it comes to outsiders. Where do you stand on the matter?’
‘Only where you see me, Mrs Epstein.’
She blinked at him, her smile unbroken. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘It’s written on the diary poking out of your bag.’
‘You’re very observant.’
‘I should hope so,’ he said, ‘that’s why I’m here. I understand you were present on the day Mrs Allen died?’
‘I’m here every day, from nine to half past. I sit here from one strike of the church clock to the next. Jacob gets upset if we don’t follow our routine to the minute.’ She reached a hand down and placed it defensively on the dog’s back, as if she was testing a radiator to see if it was warm.
‘And what can you tell me about that day?’
‘I’ll tell you what I told the police. There was a strong wind that morning. Gordon left the house and set out along the path at about ten minutes past nine. He came running back in this direction three or four minutes later, shouting something about an accident. I don’t remember his exact words, but he was awfully upset. I followed him inside and we rang for the police and a doctor.’
‘And you heard nothing during the few minutes he was gone?’
‘Nothing at all. The poor boy was in a terrible state.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Brown. He had no further questions. He checked the time: it was five minutes past nine. ‘I do hope you have a lovely day.’
She watched him walk off. ‘Be careful,’ she called out, pointing to the ground.
He’d already seen it. Three telltale fingers of dog faeces lying on the grass, like the rotting hand of a corpse, rising from its grave.
‘Of course,’ he said, and stepped around it.
To enter the path Mr Brown had to go through a little wooden gate, padlocked shut. There was a battered sign tied to the middle of it. ‘This path is closed for reasons of public safety.’
‘Well,’ he said to himself, ‘I imagine the police would consider me an exception.’ And he climbed over it without difficulty.
The path formed a thin line between two impassable types of nature. On the left was a thick verge of sharp gorse and soft heather – yellow and purple flowers playing out a kind of puppet show of good and evil, their heads bobbing in the gentle breeze – that led to the edge of the cliffs and the sheer drop beyond, where the polished ocean seemed to wink in the sunlight. And on the right was a steep rise leading up five yards or so to the brow of a hill, which was itself crowded with vegetation and covered sporadically with trees.
Mr Brown was unable to see the cliff face to his left, but he co
uld see its twin a hundred yards ahead of him where the path turned out towards the sea. There the broad expanse of white stone was dappled with grey and stained almost red in places, leading down to a tuberous growth of furious black rocks. An unpleasant place to land, he thought.
He’d asked Wild about the state of Mrs Allen’s body: her neck had been broken and her eyes were bloated and black. A chunk of flesh on her right arm had been gouged out and four ribs on that side had been crushed by the impact with a rock, presumably one below the surface as they’d found no traces of blood on anything.
They’d had to row along the cliff in a small wooden boat and fish her body out with an oar and a net. ‘In Foyle’s defence,’ Inspector Wild had said, ‘we might never have found her if he hadn’t raised the alarm so quickly. But then to do otherwise would have made him look guilty, wouldn’t it?’
Mr Brown followed the path at a very careful pace. The brush-covered verge and the shadowed slope were littered with oddments – handbills, cigarette ends, various food wrappers – but he was unable to find anything incriminating among the mute pieces of illegible litter. And the ground wasn’t soft enough for footprints.
Nonetheless, he stopped every few yards and examined the path carefully on both sides, using the head of his cane to raise and lower the brim of his hat as he turned between the silent shade of the slope and the sudden loud blue of the sea.
After a couple of minutes he came to a small dark stone of irregular shape, sitting in the middle of the path. He stooped down to look at it, then shook his head. It was an uncharacteristically dry piece of canine excrement. He flicked it into the sea with the tip of his cane and watched it fall to its death, then turned back to look for Mrs Epstein, wondering if her dog had been on the path at the time of the incident.
That’s when he realized how severely, and yet imperceptibly, the path had been twisting and turning since he’d clambered over the gate. Whitestone House had vanished from view and so had Mrs Epstein; he could see nothing of any interest behind him, or ahead. The path here was truly isolated.
It was the perfect place to murder someone.
And yet there was a witness, Gordon Foyle had said: that yacht, out in the bay.
‘I wonder,’ said Mr Brown, squinting out to sea.
A hundred yards further along he spotted a white shape swirled through the innards of a heather bush, almost glowing against the dark green background. It was hidden deep enough that he doubted anyone else would have seen it, but Mr Brown’s powers of observation were nearly supernatural and he was justly famous for them. He poked his cane into the bush and through patient, skilful manipulation he managed to twist the white material around the end of it. Then he pulled it out.
He extracted what turned out to be a white scarf, coiled through the bush like a tapeworm. He ran the length of pale fabric through his gloved hands. It clearly belonged to a woman and had recently been worn. There was no blood on it, but there was a boot print at one end in the shape of a slender heel.
Most illuminating, thought Mr Brown.
Vanessa Allen had been wearing a scarf when she died, according to her daughter. But they hadn’t found it with the body. They’d assumed it was lost in the sea.
He folded it into a small rectangle and put it in his pocket, then wiped his cane on the grass.
It was Miss Jennifer Allen that had brought him into this affair. She’d called on him at his house in London, two days after her mother’s death. ‘I hear you have a record of solving problems where the police have failed?’
Her eyes were still red from crying, but she seemed a very calm and level-headed young woman. Mr Brown showed her through to the parlour. ‘Oh, I’ve managed it once or twice. What can I help you with?’
She told him the facts of the case, including her own version of events. She’d been having breakfast at home that morning, with a view over their front garden. She could see the footpath from there and she watched her mother set out along it, struggling into the wind. ‘And that’s all I saw, until the doctor appeared. About half an hour later. To tell me the news.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Mr Brown. ‘This must be a very difficult time for you.’
She stared down at her shoes. ‘Poor Gordon. The police are determined to hang him, of course.’
Mr Brown nodded. ‘And you’re hoping I can prove his innocence?’
She reached up and wrapped her fist around the silver locket she was wearing. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if they hanged him.’
After a few more steps Mr Brown stopped again. Here the heather on the left side of the path was visibly disturbed: its normally resilient branches were trampled down and torn aside.
‘We found some signs of a struggle.’ So Inspector Wild had told him. ‘He claims that she was ahead of him on the path. He saw her slip and fall, and pushed through the heather to the cliff edge to see if she’d managed to save herself. But by that time she was just a splash and a smear of clothing on the rocks.’
Mr Brown lifted one of the broken branches with his cane. ‘The green incarnation of urgency.’
Thirty yards beyond that he reached the place where Gordon Foyle claimed the accident had happened. The cliff edge came right up to touch the path – the result of decades of erosion – leaving a crescent-shaped indentation in it, like a bite taken out of a biscuit. The path here was still a generous three feet wide, but if you weren’t paying attention you could easily fall.
‘Maybe that’s how it was done.’ Mr Brown whistled to himself. ‘Death by distraction.’
He took an absurd degree of care as he positioned himself next to the gap and leaned forward to look down. The sight of the sheer drop embraced him bodily and he held tight to his cane to steady himself. Below him the buttressing rocks extended only slightly into the sea, while around them the waves showed their white teeth. It was a picture of pure terror.
He turned his back on it and continued on his way.
The rest of the path was unremarkable. It soon broke from the erratic shoreline and cut straight across the land. There were trees and a multitude of bushes on both sides of the path now, forming a quiet, secluded corridor; the light was green here, even on such a bright blue day. After that the path led further inland to twist around a row of pastel-coloured cottages that had originally been built for coastguards.
The first of them, a pleasant yellow, had been the home of Mrs Allen and her daughter. It was set back from the path in a garden overflowing with flowers. A stark contrast to the white walls and plain grass of young Gordon Foyle’s house. The front door was a deep, dark red.
Mr Brown knocked on it twice.
A young woman answered the door. She was rather small, with her hair tied back in a plait; she looked startled to see someone standing there. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
She must be the maid, thought Mr Brown. ‘I do indeed hope so. May I speak to Miss Allen?’
She frowned and looked tentatively behind her. ‘I’m afraid Miss Jennifer’s not in, sir.’
‘That is unfortunate. Would it be worth me waiting for her to return?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Miss Jennifer won’t be home for a while.’
‘Of course.’ Mr Brown smiled at the shy young woman. He removed his gloves, took a folded map from an inside pocket and held it open before him. The thin paper rippled between his leathery hands. ‘I wonder, would it be terribly rude of me to ask to step inside and inspect my map in the hallway, out of the wind? Only I have a terrible memory for directions, and I would like to get my bearings.’
She breathed in sharply at the audacity of it, but stood to one side and nodded sheepishly. ‘Please, sir.’
He smiled as he passed through the doorway.
Mr Brown’s shoes were slightly muddy and he stepped carefully from the doormat onto a half-page of newspaper, which had been placed in the corner of the hallway, next to a grubby pair of Wellington boots. He stood in that pose for half a minute, with his tough, blunt thumb following the a
ncient line of the coast as he pretended to study the route.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I see where I am now. Thank you; I shall be on my way, then.’
There was movement behind one of the closed doors leading off from the hallway. The maid flushed with embarrassment. The door opened and Jennifer Allen emerged from the room.
‘Mr Brown.’ She glanced at the maid. ‘Forgive me, I asked not to be disturbed. But I didn’t know you’d be stopping by.’
‘That’s perfectly all right. I’m just making my investigations.’
She stepped closer to him and spoke in a whisper. ‘How is it proceeding?’
‘I have a lot of things to think about.’ He noticed that she’d taken off the locket she’d been wearing. ‘Are you starting to have doubts?’
‘No.’ She put a hand to her forehead. ‘I don’t know. People have been telling me stories. Have you found anything yet? Anything that proves his innocence?’
He felt that he should say something comforting. ‘I’m afraid it’s too early to tell.’
Then he left the house and made his way back to the path.
His walk back to Evescombe went fairly quickly: the case was a simple one, after all, and he considered it almost solved. He even went so far as to light his pipe and trundle along with one hand held aloft, the smoke tangling itself in the trees and the glowing bowl announcing his passage through the undergrowth to anyone watching.
He arrived at the wooden bench by Whitestone House just as the church clock was striking half past nine. He sat down to take in the view. The sky was dim now and the day was curiously quiet. He looked down at the dark water, riddled with white reflections, and thought of the terror she must have felt tumbling into it. ‘An unpleasant way to die.’
He sat and smoked in solitude, watching the waves, wondering if Mr Foyle’s secret boat had really existed. Then he tapped his tobacco ashes into the deep and set off again for the railway station.
The following evening Mr Brown and Inspector Wild were reunited in the restaurant of the Palace Hotel. Both were smoking – Mr Brown with his rustic, twisted wooden pipe, like a claw in his cupped hand, and Inspector Wild with a thin cigarette – and their corner of the room was crawling with curls of tobacco smoke. The two demonic figures sat in this dark haze drinking brandy, after a heavy meal of red meat and vegetables, and their talk turned to the Foyle case.
