Miss Pink Investigates series Box Set Part Two

by Gwen Moffat

‘You don’t think he’s got him?’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Caithness.’ He was almost beside himself. ‘He got over the wall; I thought he wasn’t big enough. I missed him only half an hour ago. Did that little bugger say anything?’

  Miss Pink looked into the imploring eyes. ‘No, I don’t think he’s got Caithness. Why don’t you look on the beach? He might be with people down there.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ He started to plunge away. ‘What were you talking about?’ It was an afterthought.

  ‘Nothing to interest you at the moment. You look for your kitten.’

  As soon as she set foot in the hotel, Miss Pink was aware of a difference in the atmosphere from last night. The receptionist, immaculate in silver eye shadow and not a hair out of place, greeted her from behind her desk, and her expression was merely welcoming. From the direction of the bar came a subdued murmur of conversation. There was none of the excitement of last evening; there were no reporters. Things were back to normal, except for Rupert—or did he normally eye his guests warily as he greeted them? Could he still be feeling his way into the role of mine host?

  A stranger stood at the bar whom he introduced as Mr Carter. She saw a small, hollow-eyed man with a thin mouth and a fleshy nose. There were deep lines between nose and mouth. His hair receded, his cheeks were sunken, and his lightweight fawn suit had been made for a plumper man, or for this one before he lost weight. He looked like a sad comedian.

  ‘Miss Pink,’ Rupert was saying, ‘is a great bird watcher.’

  ‘A pleasant pastime,’ Carter observed. ‘Quiet and peaceful.’

  She thought of the fierce sea cliffs, and Rupert caught her hesitation.

  ‘Not where our birds are concerned,’ he put in. ‘You’ve got to be a mountaineer to get into position to watch the auks.’

  ‘Auks?’

  Rupert deferred politely to the expert.

  ‘Guillemots and razorbills,” she told him. ‘Like penguins. You’re quiet tonight.’ She looked meaningly at Rupert. She didn’t want to disturb his guests unnecessarily, but she need not have worried.

  ‘I was discussing it with Mr Carter. The focus has shifted to London. The post mortem’s over and the forensic people have about finished at the cottage so they’re concentrating on looking for Thorne. I understand the police are still interviewing reporters who were at the cottage yesterday but they’ve left the village. They know all about the fire now.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Miss Pink said. ‘I’ve not heard anything. Do you know the result of the post mortem?’

  ‘No surprises. She died in the fire.’

  ‘It was her then?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘Of course it was. And there’s a brandy bottle near the bed, a melted ash tray and a lighter, damaged but identifiable. I identified it, as a matter of fact.’

  She said nothing, and realised that they were both watching her.

  ‘No surprises,’ he repeated.

  ‘Have the police found the Spitfire?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. They may never find it. Stolen cars can disappear without trace.’

  ‘Any word of the agent?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so, or it would have leaked through. The police rang about the post mortem because it’s our business in a sense, but we’re not concerned with who did it.’

  ‘“Who did it”?’ Carter repeated slowly. ‘I thought you were implying it was an accident.’

  Now Rupert was the focus of attention. He was flustered.

  ‘Who took the Spitfire, I mean—and the book. The book was stolen.’ It sounded weak. He glanced at Miss Pink as if for assistance. ‘You were up at Riffli,’ he said meaningly. ‘Norman came down and told us.’

  Carter said quietly: ‘A girl’s dead and her fellow’s missing. Do I take it that the police suspect foul play?’ His eyes rested on Miss Pink.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Rupert rushed in. ‘She drank heavily, and the lighter being there points to. . . . And then she couldn’t get out; there was no window.’

  ‘A bedroom with no window?’ Carter looked interested.

  ‘Only a skylight,’ Rupert said. ‘And if the door stuck—she was overcome too quickly anyway; she was lying on the bed—’ He stopped and glared at Miss Pink.

  ‘How is your father?’ she asked, a little too loudly.

  ‘Oh, Roderick. Yes, he’d like a word with you. Upstairs. Something about—er—insurance? If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you up to him.’

  Doreen was with Roderick in the sitting room. Miss Pink sank down beside the old man on the white settee.

  ‘Find Rachel?’ he barked.

  Rupert, on his way to the door, paused. Doreen looked tense.

  ‘Yes,’ Miss Pink said. ‘She was in the cove on the west shore, where there’s a stack called Ebolion. We had a long talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Dad!’ Doreen looked shocked. ‘Don’t pump Miss Pink.’

  Rupert took a step back into the room. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘You’d better go back to the bar, sweetie,’ Doreen said. ‘I’ll see to the drinks.’

  Rupert hesitated, shrugged and went out. Doreen sat down near the window, her back to the light.

  ‘I’m glad you met Rachel.’ Her tone was brittle. ‘Did you swim? That cove’s lovely for swimming.’

  ‘No.’ She was aware of Roderick’s scrutiny. ‘We talked about pre-history: the fort, hut circles, how the people lived. She has a most fertile imagination. I think she could write.’

  ‘Do yer, by Jove!’

  ‘You don’t think she’s just a little too imaginative?’ Doreen was all maternal anxiety.

  ‘No.’ Miss Pink returned the other’s gaze. ‘She’s dramatic but there she takes after Roderick. I don’t know where the line comes between imagination and fantasy. When she can manipulate her thought processes, control them, channel them, with some competence at syntax she could make a novelist. The potential’s there.’

  ‘Good!’ Roderick exploded, slapping his knees. ‘Great—as she’d say.’

  ‘I think control is the operative word,’ Doreen said. ‘She’s a passionate child. Always has been.’

  ‘Sudden fierce spurts,’ Miss Pink qualified. ‘They’re soon over.’

  ‘You discovered a lot in one talk.’

  ‘It was deliberate; I wanted to get to know her. She’s an interesting study.’

  Momentarily Doreen’s face lost its brittle quality and she gave Miss Pink a grateful smile. In this transformation there could have been an element of relief.

  ‘What d’yer mean: I’m dramatic?’ Roderick growled, but there was an impish light in his eyes.

  ‘The branch on the granary steps.’

  She’d confused him. He blinked and averted his eyes, then he muttered: ‘Made a mistake; must have got so absorbed in me owls, I didn’t hear it come down.’

  Miss Pink stared at him.

  Doreen said conversationally. ‘As you’ll have noticed, we’ve got rid of the police—and the Press, thank goodness; they took up a lot of room in the bar—the Press, I mean, not the police. I understand they’ve all pushed off to London, after Thorne, although that wouldn’t be ethical, would it? Pryce would have to sub-contract to the Metropolitan people.’ She gave her tinkling laugh. ‘But you’ll know far more about police procedure than we do. Pryce will have to pay us one more visit though; he has to see Jakey Jones.’

  ‘Couldn’t he find him today?’

  ‘He went to school—and that’s not to be wondered at. On an occasion like this young Jakey would put as great a distance as possible between himself and the police. He’s got too much to hide. He can run rings round our local bobby, but a detective superintendent is a very different kettle of fish.’

  ‘What time does he go to school?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘The school bus picks him and Ossie up about eight-thirty from the green. Why?’

  ‘No one knew about the
fire until after nine: when the television men went to the cottage. How would Jakey know the police were coming?’

  ‘Coincidence,’ Doreen said.

  *

  Miss Pink ate her solitary dinner and slipped out of the hotel without meeting any of the Bowens again. It had been a long day.

  The sun had set and against the luminous sky the swifts went hawking through the dusk with thin high screams of excitement. A shadow moved among the shadows of the fish sheds: disappearing, reappearing in another place. He came softly and lightly across the cobbles and bent to peer under the first parked car.

  ‘Samuel! Haven’t you found him yet? Come back to my place and join me in a nightcap. I’m feeling a bit low.’

  ‘You are? Why?’

  ‘Reaction. At this time last night she was still alive.’

  It was crude but at least he turned and started walking with her. She was prompted less by compassion than by the fear of his running into the execrable Jakey, who knew so well how to exploit human frailty.

  The fish sheds muffled the sound of the engine until the last moment and it was a shock when the yellow Mini came slewing and roaring off the Riffli track, tyres screaming, and the little car slid crab-wise before it settled facing them and they heard the crunch of bad gear changes.

  ‘Christ!’ Samuel gasped. ‘That’s Norman! For Heaven’s sake!’

  The Mini leaped towards them. They stepped back hurriedly to give it a clear run to the hotel but it stopped, the driver’s door flew open and Rachel ran towards them.

  ‘Sam!’

  He put his arms round her. ‘Take your time, kid. You’re all right; I’m here. . . . What’s wrong?’

  She pushed back her hair. She was shaking and she was a bad colour. Between broken breaths she jerked out: ‘It’s Iris . . . dead . . . on the table. . . . The poker. . . . I can’t take it; I can’t take any more, Sam, honest I can’t. She’s all covered with burns, naked. . . . The poker’s in the fire.’ She buried her face in his chest.

  ‘She’s hysterical,’ he said.

  ‘Shocked,’ Miss Pink corrected, ‘but not in hysterics.’ She glanced towards the Mini, its engine still running. Rachel lifted her head.

  ‘We have to go back!’ She broke away and ran to the car. ‘Quick,’ she shouted, ‘she may not be dead.’ She started to turn the car.

  ‘Whatever’s happening?’

  ‘Let’s go and see.’

  They piled into the back of the Mini, Miss Pink bracing herself against the front seat but, surprisingly, Rachel drove slowly at first, along the quay and up the track. Samuel was leaning forward, grimacing with tension as he studied her profile.

  ‘What is it, love?’

  ‘I told you: Iris is naked on the kitchen table covered with burns and the poker’s in the fire. The door of the Aga’s open and the end of the poker’s sticking out. Someone’s burned her.’

  ‘Who else is there?’ Miss Pink asked.

  The car leaped forward, crashing over the cattle grid. Miss Pink and Samuel were thrown back in their seats and then flung sideways as they bucketed round the bend. The trees rushed to meet them.

  The yard showed ahead and Miss Pink’s abdominal muscles contracted.

  Rachel stopped, facing the kitchen. The light was on, the casements open. From their low seats they could see nothing more than the beamed ceiling, the top of two walls and an empty clothes rack. Rachel sat still.

  ‘Go and look through the window.’ Her voice was terrible.

  They got out and approached the window and stopped. They looked from the bare scrubbed table to the Aga with its fire door closed, the empty clothes rack, the gleaming sink. Miss Pink walked back to the Mini.

  ‘There’s nothing on the table,’ she said.

  Rachel stared through the windscreen. Samuel approached and looked at Miss Pink.

  ‘She’s been moved,’ the girl said tonelessly. ‘Dragged down to the cellar, or put in the freezer—if there’s room.’ She studied their faces which were intent but kind. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have to go right to the bottom now, don’t I?’

  Miss Pink flinched. Rachel got out of the car and led the way indoors. It was a warm evening in the open but the heat of the house struck them like a blow. They went along the stone passage to the door of the dairy which was closed. Rachel opened it, switched on a light, went to the freezer behind the door, turned to Miss Pink as if to ask a question, then sighed deeply. She lifted the lid. Samuel and Miss Pink looked blankly at the packages which more than half filled it. Rachel closed the lid without looking at them and walked out.

  They followed her to the kitchen. She crossed to a door beside the fireplace and opened it, clicked another switch and illuminated a flight of steps. They descended and walked round the cellar among wine racks and old grain bins. The lighting was excellent. There were no dim corners and nothing untoward, not even rats.

  They climbed the steps and put out the light and shut the door. They had said nothing since Rachel left the car and now, standing by the cooker, clasping her elbows and shivering in the stifling atmosphere, the girl said: ‘We have to search the house.’

  ‘Very well,’ Miss Pink began, but at that point they all heard footsteps on the stairs. Samuel put his arm round Rachel.

  High heels clacked along the passage and a voice said: ‘I thought I heard the car—why, good evening!’

  Iris MacNally, in her old brown dress, came in carrying a vase of wilting roses and crossed to the sink. Miss Pink was just in time to help Samuel as Rachel crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

  Chapter Eleven

  Miss Pink awoke with a sense of doom and lay staring at the drawn curtains recalling her conversation with Rachel yesterday. Had something she’d said precipitated that ghastly hallucination? For that was what she thought it was. When the girl had been carried upstairs to the room she shared with her husband, the bed was made, the counterpane uncreased. If she’d had a nightmare, she hadn’t been sleeping here, although that was what they’d told Norman when he appeared on the landing as they struggled up the stairs: that Rachel had had a nightmare.

  Samuel and Miss Pink had come down to the kitchen as a car drove into the yard. Doors slammed, there was a flurry in the passage and Doreen whirled in.

  ‘What happened? Rupert said Rachel tore down to the quay like a mad thing and you two piled in. . . . Well, what has happened?’

  Roderick stumped in after her, looking pathetically tired.

  ‘She had a horrible dream,’ Miss Pink said. ‘A nightmare.’

  ‘So what?’ Doreen snapped. ‘She wasn’t alone up here, was she?’

  ‘Iris heard her drive away. She thought she was upset about something. Norman was around.’

  ‘When?’ He appeared behind them in the doorway. He sighed. ‘Hello Doreen, Rod; they’ve told you then. Iris is with her now. She’s come round.’ He slumped into a chair.

  ‘Had you been quarrelling with her?’ Doreen asked viciously.

  ‘What? When she passed out? I haven’t seen her all evening—yes, I have; I went in the drawing room about—Christ!’ He dropped his head in his hands. ‘Oh, nine-ish, I guess. She was in there then.’

  ‘What was she doing?’ Doreen asked.

  ‘Drinking,’ he said resignedly.

  *

  Miss Pink got out of bed and parted her curtains. The sea was bland and beautiful and her spirits rose a little. All problems were capable of solution. Perhaps Rachel’s youth would make the solution easier, or easier to find. Nevertheless she had no doubt that the problem was neither tranquillisers nor alcohol; they were merely symptoms.

  She swam before breakfast: working hard, concentrating on her rhythm and, as she turned for the shore and waded out, two gulls came swooping along the edge of the water, screaming and diving.

  She stood dripping, her shoulders heaving, and peered at the flapping birds. On the wet sand a tiny black and white object checked, ran, crouched at a gull’s steep plunge and she heard,
above the wash of low waves, a spitting hiss. She lunged forward, whirling her arms.

  ‘Get off, you bastards!’

  Caithness scuttled to her and crept, quivering, on to her feet. She knelt and he jumped on her thighs. He was boned like a robin, too small to fondle. Where had he been? As she rose he fastened his claws in her swimsuit and clung like a burr. She walked back to her wrap, the kitten immobile and silent in a wide-eyed trance.

  The french window was open on the patio. She called to Samuel from the graveyard side of the wall, handed Caithness over and went away quickly, leaving him to croon over the prodigal.

  It was late when she finished breakfast. She went down to the quay and mingled with the first visitors emerging from their cars. The vehicles were being marshalled by Caradoc Jones, a man of many parts, now authoritative with a leather satchel slung across his chest.

  Miss Pink found herself beside him and remarked that the village was returning to normal with the police and the Press departed, and, for herself, she was not sorry to see them go. All the same, she added with a fussy air of trying not to give offence, it would have been good for trade.

  ‘We can do without that kind of custom,’ he told her loftily. ‘I was in Lord Barmouth’s service at one time; he would have thrown reporters off the estate.’

  Miss Pink said that she supposed they were only doing their job, but that unfortunately they did attract undesirable elements.

  ‘I had my hands full yesterday,’ he confided, ‘and we haven’t seen the last of them. Someone asked me just this minute where was the cottage and whether the body was still there.’

  ‘But they could be useful,’ she mused. ‘A lot of people roaming the countryside: inquisitive, poking in odd corners, dogs off the lead in the woods; they might find a clue—like the Spitfire—’ her eyes were round behind her thick spectacles, her voice awed, as if at her own temerity, ‘—even Thorne’s body.’

  He regarded her with condescension. ‘You’ve been misinformed, madam; Thorne drove away in the Spitfire and is now being sought in London.’

  ‘Jakey’s a very bright boy.’

  Caradoc had hazel eyes which protruded slightly and now, as he turned on her, rims of white showed round the irises.