by Gwen Moffat
‘Ah yes, so yer said. Any weapon in the shaft?’
‘I didn’t wait.’
‘Who’d kill Jakey?’ Norman asked.
Samuel spoke for the first time. ‘Anyone. You, me—anyone who’d suffered from his sadism, but actually I expect it was the chap who killed Sandra.’ He grinned and his eyes were wild. ‘I’m going home. We don’t have to bother about it any more; Pryce may not get his man, but Carter will. You haven’t seen his eyes.’ He walked out of the room.
Iris said: ‘Mr Honey is so sensitive. . . .’
*
Miss Pink lay steaming in a hot bath, considering ideas and loose ends. At Pentref’s cove there was a boat; at Parry Lobster’s cottage: her car. If Rachel came across the car she might not recognise it but the boat was a different matter, and she’d have the intelligence to find the outboard motor. What was to be made of it if she escaped? And if she stayed voluntarily? And how was one to know that she’d made a choice, or that she merely hadn’t come across the boat?
She considered the possible significance of Jakey’s clothes—his jeans and shoes—being found in almost the same place as the kitten. A man like Samuel could and would kill if he came on Jakey torturing a cat, particularly Caithness, but there were two factors against Samuel’s having killed Jakey. One was that he hadn’t been carrying a knife last night, not a large one anyway, and the fatal wound had been made by something long and quite wide. The second point in his favour was that he could hardly have carried the body from the beach to the headland—nor would he have the nerve to go down the funnel. . . .
A voice asked quietly: ‘Are you there, Miss Pink?’
She stared at the window. ‘Who is it?’
‘Pryce. Can I have a word?’
She dressed reluctantly and opened the front door. He was alone.
‘It’s midnight,’ she said pointedly as they sat down. ‘Are you going to work all night?’
‘I’ll get a few hours sleep on a camp bed at the hotel. I’ve sent for the trailer we use as a control centre but that won’t get here till first light, and we can’t do anything on the cliffs until daylight.’ He settled himself in his chair and beamed, drooping but once again affable. She thought that perhaps he hadn’t been so much hostile on the cliffs as frightened of the ground. ‘What was Honey’s motive?’ he asked.
She was surprised but only mildly so. ‘I was pondering that in my bath—but Jakey wasn’t killed on the beach, Samuel wasn’t carrying the weapon last night, and he’s terrified of heights.’ She beamed back at him.
‘Indeed.’ His grin was ferocious. ‘But I was thinking of a motive for killing Sandra.’
‘Oh, Sandra.’ She shrugged. This was a point where a hostess might offer refreshment but she felt it was important not to do so at this moment. Instead she asked: ‘Why Samuel?’
‘You know that.’
‘Of course; you saw him in the cove, and someone told you that we arrived at the mines together. Yes, I was with him in the cove but our being there had no connection with your being on top. There’s a cavern underneath that shaft and Rachel Kemp was in it.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I never thought to hear you answer a question in that way, ma’am.’
‘I don’t know all the answers. I mean to discover that one though: why she was hiding in the cavern.’
‘So she was hiding.’
‘Yes. And she’s on the run from you now.’ She was equable. ‘She’s frightened, but not of you.’
‘I take it you don’t know who she’s frightened of. Could it be Jakey?’
She saw the trap and side-stepped it in the only way possible. ‘I couldn’t get her to talk.’
‘I never met young Jakey,’ he said wistfully, ‘but I know all about him. Some talked: like Myfanwy Hughes; but she talked to make sure no suspicion touched her boy. Of course, she alibis Ossie for the night of the fire but a mother’s alibi can be as valueless as a wife’s. That’s immaterial here; Ossie knew nothing about the fire. He couldn’t keep any secret, let alone one that involved murder. I was saying: Myfanwy talked about Jakey—and so did the local police officer, but no one else did. Significant, eh?’
‘He was the worst type of delinquent.’
‘And you should know.’
‘How did you know where to look for the body?’ she asked curiously.
‘We had a phone call, not really anonymous; it was from Carter but he didn’t get around to giving his name at the time. Perhaps he was waiting to see what was in the hole. He told me he was the caller when he introduced himself after we got the body up. He’s talked.’
‘And how did he know there was anything in the shaft?’
‘He watched you earlier in the day.’
‘But Samuel Honey waited for me at the top.’
‘Carter had glasses. And there’s cover; the gorse is quite high. My guess is that he watched your movements and, when you’d gone, duplicated them. He was right about the shaft.’
‘My reaction was that a sheep had fallen in.’
‘Different minds. The urban mentality immediately thought of a human body, particularly when clothes had been found abandoned. Now we know why there was no shirt with Jakey’s jeans; if he was killed with his clothes on, there’d be a cut in the material.’
‘And blood.’
‘Yes. Somewhere there’s a lot of blood. Where would you look for it, ma’am?’
She took care with her answer while he watched her intently.
‘If it were premeditated,’ she said, ‘you might expect him to have been killed in the sea, but—’ she recalled her musing in the bath, ‘—it’s too far to carry the body: from the bay to the headland. So he could—might have been killed in a bath. . . . Most unlikely: you can’t inveigle a clothed boy into a bath—and he was clothed because the shirt’s missing?’ She raised her eyebrows at her own question. ‘A compromise would be to kill him out of doors but on land, not in water; earth would soak up the blood. It’s still there of course, but less obvious.’
‘Than what, ma’am?’ The tone was intimate.
‘Less obvious than indoors.’
They regarded each other in silence. They were both exhausted; Miss Pink had reached the stage where she was running on second wind and she felt clear-headed and hardly tired at all except that when she considered making coffee, her leg muscles signalled a protest before they received an impulse from the brain.
‘You know Carter’s story,’ he said pleasantly. She nodded. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘What proof was there that it was true?’
‘But whatever credence you put—or didn’t put on it, here was the agent. You held that back.’
‘Was it important?’
He ignored that. ‘And Honey: he knew.’ She was silent. ‘You’ve got something to hide too?’ he asked. ‘I’m bringing Thorne back; if that story’s true, with him here we may find proof of it. Traces, for instance, and tracks. Thorne’s got a record, by the way: housebreaking.’ He shot her a glance. ‘No doubt you’ve found where the Spitfire was parked.’
‘Where a car was parked,’ she amended. ‘Carter postulates two killers: signalling with torches; that’s possible too.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He was heavily ironical. ‘So if Thorne’s out of it—and we know he didn’t kill Jakey Jones—we’ve got two killers here, or one left alive—’ He paused but she waited attentively, without comment. ‘The fire was set in the bedroom,’ he went on quietly, and she stiffened. They were back with Sandra. She wondered if he were being deliberately confusing: switching from one murder to the other without preamble. ‘And I’m wondering,’ he was saying, ‘if Thorne will tell us that one key of the filing cabinet was in Sandra’s handbag. He’d have a second key himself. Carter says there were two keys. So the girl would be hit over the head, the key taken, then the book, and the killer would go back upstairs to set the fire. The book may have been burned then.’
/> Miss Pink’s eyes flickered. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because I reckon that book’s a red herring. It’s got relevance but not in the obvious way. No prominent politician came speeding down here to kill her to avoid exposure, because the story hadn’t broken; it wasn’t in the papers until the following day and then she was dead. But the book was the handle that got the Press down here. At first I thought the Press were being used to complicate matters, even to widen the circle of suspects. I’ve changed my mind. When that call was put through to Fleet Street on the night of Bowen’s birthday party, the caller intended to drive Sandra Maitland away, not to kill her.’
‘How can you know all this?’
‘I don’t. It’s a theory. What do you think of it?’
‘It’s reasonable.’
‘It narrows the circle. The killer has to be someone who knew about the book. According to Caradoc Jones, that was everyone at the birthday party.’ He paused. ‘Which contradicts Carter’s story; you told him you didn’t know about the book.’
‘I was giving nothing away to Carter,’ she said stoutly. ‘For all I knew, he could be the killer himself—’
‘No; he was on a plane when Sandra was killed.’
She compressed her lips, then said: ‘Sandra did tell us that she was writing a book; not all of us, Rachel had gone to bed.’
‘She wasn’t told?’
‘Her husband told her in the morning.’
‘He says.’ It was a statement, not a question. His tone changed. ‘The Fleet Street call was intended as a frightener: to make her go. Sandra was a danger to someone in Abersaint; someone at that party. Carter hasn’t the slightest doubt who that is. Two killers, ma’am, and the only person Jakey Jones would have consented to work with is Rachel Kemp. Even Caradoc—whose mind isn’t working properly right now—says that “everyone’s hand was turned against him, except Miss Rachel’s”. His words. Have you anything to say to that?’
‘She didn’t kill Jakey; she could have done it, she’s got the temperament, but she didn’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Character,’ she lied.
He was angry. ‘What happened last night: when she came roaring down to the quay in a Mini?’
‘Well, she certainly didn’t kill Jakey at Riffli; her husband and the housekeeper were about and the place was blazing with light.’
‘So what frightened her?’
‘She saw a huge Alsatian in the woods—’ She stopped, her face expressionless.
He stood up. ‘And came down to the village instead of going to the house for her husband? She can’t get away; the peninsula’s sealed off and we’ll search those cliffs tomorrow.’
‘Who will search the cliffs?’ She put the faintest emphasis on the pronoun.
‘We’ll get professional rescuers in, like we did for the body.’
‘On what grounds can you call them in? That she’s a suspect?’
‘You know better than that. No; I’m worried that I’ve lost a witness in a murder case. She may be lying injured down a hole, even in the sea. I’ll have boats out tomorrow too, fog or no fog.’ He smiled without amusement. ‘And now I’ll leave you, ma’am; I hope you sleep well.’
Chapter Fifteen
Pryce’s veiled threat had no effect on Miss Pink who slept badly only when there were decisions to be worked out, and before he’d come to Captain’s Cottage she’d decided on her first move the following morning. She woke with a fine awareness of restored energy but, glancing at the window in the wish for a clear bright day to confirm her mood, she received a shock; there was no brilliance behind the curtains.
It was six o’clock. The visible world was demarcated by the fuchsia hedge, every leaf and bloom hung with drops of moisture. She thought of the headland smothered in this . . . but it was high summer and the fog would surely disintegrate later. That could make things easier for Pryce.
A change came sooner than she anticipated. There was a strong breeze blowing when she crossed the green after an early breakfast. Along the mountain ridge lay a thick band of cloud, its depths shadowless and still, its edges shredded by air currents. Great wraiths of cloud sped down the gullies, whirling and spinning towards the village where the sun was blazing, and a breath of icy air travelled before the cloud like wind before an avalanche.
No one was abroad except Miss Pink. There was a line of cars parked on the quay but no marked police vehicles. Soon the roads would be jammed but for the moment it appeared that she was the only person awake in Abersaint.
She strode purposefully up the valley and into the shadow of the trees. Birds sang, the river ran noisily on her left, and on the slopes above, the cloud gyrated madly down the screes.
On the left of the lane was a bank covered with harebells. There was no verge, nowhere for a car to park until one came to the turning for the mill cottage and there a notice proclaimed that the woods were private land. Past the entrance there was a stone stile on the river side of the lane leading to one of those tiny overgrown paddocks. Something had passed through the bracken recently; there were one or two broken stalks but no animal tracks showed in the lush grass.
Miss Pink stood at the top of the bank and looked down through tree trunks to stepping stones in shallow water with muddy margins—and to Avril Pritchard trampling the mud in her heavy brogues, peering at the ground as if she had dropped a small but valuable object.
‘Lost something?’ Miss Pink said as she slithered down the bank.
Avril showed no surprise to see her at such an early hour. She smiled without subterfuge.
‘Have you seen a red and white bullock?’
‘No. Have you lost one?’ Miss Pink held the girl’s eye. ‘What kind of tracks would it leave?’ They studied the ground intently. ‘Someone was here before you.’ Miss Pink pointed to the imprint of a ridged sole. The soles of Avril’s shoes were cleated and the marks of those were everywhere.
‘Are you looking for Rachel?’ the girl asked.
‘Not yet. The police will be after her today. Tell her to take care on those cliffs.’
Avril nodded. ‘I’ll do that—if I see her. ’Bye now.’
‘’Bye,’ Miss Pink returned absently, looking where Avril had been standing, shifting her feet. The mark of the ridged sole was quite obliterated.
*
‘She was here in the small hours,’ Samuel said, pouring her a cup of coffee in his kitchen. ‘She’s running rings round the police.’
‘It’s not the police I’m bothered about,’ Miss Pink said, ‘at least, not directly, but if they’ve sealed the peninsula effectively and they’ve trapped the killer, then he’s trapped with her.’
‘“He”?’
‘Or she. Why did Rachel come to you? To find out something, I’ll be bound. If she’d only talk, I wouldn’t be so worried about her. How did she get to you without the police seeing, anyway? There was someone in the graveyard before I turned in.’
‘There was a patrol car on the green too. Rachel waited until the chaps in the graveyard went down on the beach, then she came through your garden and the tombstones and climbed the downpipe to my bedroom window.’ He giggled. She realised with amazement that he was enjoying this. ‘Caithness woke me,’ he said: ‘growling. A guard-kitten, so help me.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She wanted to know what the police were doing at the shaft. Dead give-away, wasn’t it? Of course, Pryce would say it was a superb bit of double-bluff but if she’d killed Jakey, she’d tell me and be absolutely certain that I’d die with her secret intact—’ Suddenly he was serious. ‘So who did kill him? But we know, don’t we?’
‘Not necessarily; it could be any member of her family—or you.’
He was unperturbed. ‘So I know it’s one of the others.’ Then he added flatly: ‘But I don’t believe it. You’ve gone wrong somewhere.’
‘I’d like to think so,’ she said. ‘Did you tell her to take the boat from Pentref�
�s cove?’
‘She’d found it already but Pryce got there first. He must have guessed we’d beached it as close as possible and he’d have some local men with him. The rescuers were local. He’d put a guard on the boat.’
‘If she meant to go, she could have slipped across the road in the fog. Even if there were half a dozen patrol cars up there, dodging them would have been child’s play for her.’
‘She didn’t want to go. I tried to persuade her: for laughs, I said: dodging the fuzz; she wasn’t interested. She’s got something in mind.’
‘That worries me too,’ Miss Pink said helplessly. ‘What was her reaction when you told her it was Jakey’s body in the shaft?’
‘She didn’t turn a hair—’
‘Coming clean,’ Miss Pink murmured. ‘She sent Avril Pritchard to erase the tracks the killer left on the river bank. The killer didn’t use a car—I’m talking about Sandra now, not Jakey—and there were tracks. Rachel said she made them going back to Riffli so I went to look. I saw one print: of a ridged tennis shoe or track shoe but the owner had slipped. It didn’t appear large; it could have been a boy’s track, or a woman’s, or a man’s with small feet. Avril managed to obliterate that one as well.’
‘Crossing the river would mean going back to Riffli,’ he said grimly.
‘Or the hotel—in order to dodge the bridge in the village. Norman—’ she said, mentioning the name that had been hovering on the rim of their consciousness, ‘—has an alibi for the time of Sandra’s murder. We are working on the premise that both murders were done by the same person so that if a person has an alibi for one death, they appear to be in the clear. Norman has an alibi for Sandra; I’d hazard a guess that Doreen and Rupert have alibis for Jakey. Of course, that does depend when Jakey was killed—’ She pondered; was she missing something here?
‘Roderick was immobilised on the night of Sandra’s murder,’ Samuel contributed, ‘and so we’re back to Square One and everybody’s guilty again.’
Miss Pink looked at him as if she were surfacing from an anaesthetic. A tearing sound of claws on cretonne came from the living room. They ignored it.
