“I learned a lot of interesting things. About Francis Warfield’s will; and about Peter’s adoption having been arranged by Vandike. I also had an absorbing conversation with Harry Vandike the day he died.”
There was dead silence. Everybody seemed to be holding their breath.
Henry continued, “He told his young friend that he was going for a solitary climb, and left his hotel early, in climbing gear. Actually he cycled to the nearest town, where he had hired a car the day before, and drove to London, stopping at Myrtle Waterford’s house on the way to change into the city clothes that he had in his rucksack. He lunched with me, early, and then drove back, stopping again at Myrtle’s to resume his climbing clothes.”
“Then how did he die?” demanded Sir, Robert. “A motor smash? No—the police would have—”
Henry said, “I admit I’m guessing now, but I think he died just as everybody thinks—by a fall from the Devil’s Chimney, which he climbed after he got back, at dusk, and when he was tired. I’m told that you can drive—or bicycle—to a spot very near the start of the climb.”
“Had the hired car been turned in?” demanded Dr. Cartwright.
“Yes. So he must have cycled. Whether his fall was accidental or not, we’ll never know. However, he knew that I was very close behind him by then.”
“Close behind him? What do you mean?” Fred Coe asked brusquely.
“I let him know indirectly,” said Henry, “that I knew he was responsible for Peter Turnberry’s death.”
“Harry was?” Myrtle sounded incredulous.
“Yes. You see, he heard, as you all did, Peter making that appointment to see me. He also knew that Peter then went riding breakneck to St. Lawrence. It could only mean that he had gone to collect the so-called evidence, which Vandike knew was false. He couldn’t afford to have those papers seen by a policeman. So he decided to intercept Peter on the cliff path during his ride back.”
Pamela Oppenshaw said, frowning, “But if I remember rightly, Harry was out sailing that afternoon.”
“Quite correct,” said Henry. “Emmy and I were on the beach, and saw him. Sir Robert had asked him to stay inside the bay, but he didn’t. The last we saw of him, he was rounding the point in the direction of Smuggler’s Cove and the old path up the cliff. He could easily have beached the boat there—even the big lifeboat can get in—and the climb would have been nothing to him. He told me himself he had done it before.”
“So what do you think happened then?” Dr. Cartwright was leaning forward, immensely interested.
“I think,” he said, “that he stationed himself under the trees and waited. When he heard Melisande’s hooves approaching, he came out and stood on the path. Peter would naturally have reined in the horse and asked what he wanted.
“Harry must then have demanded the papers, and I imagine Peter refused to give them up. Vandike was a great athlete and very strong. I expect he actually manhandled Turnberry off the horse, and there was a fight. Of course, we’ll never know the details, but Peter must have slipped and gone over the cliff to his death.
“Vandike had to cover up. He slit the girth and ripped it, hiding under the trees to do so. The rope must have come from the boat. Melisande wouldn’t have galloped for home while there was somebody she knew around. It would have been easy enough to tether her—with a rope he knew would part quite soon. Then back down the cliff to extract the precious papers from Turnberry’s body, and quickly up sails and away to establish his alibi.
“I think Peter’s death probably was an accident, although a court might not agree. Sometime during the night, Vandike must have remembered the rope-end, and that the saddle was in the wrong place. He got up early—but I beat him to it. Emmy heard a car starting up and leaving by the back gate sometime after I’d gone—didn’t you, Emmy?”
“Yes, I did,” said Emmy.
“Vandike didn’t have his own car with him,” Henry added, “so he must have borrowed one. He drove as near as he could to the cliff path, walked to the scene of the accident, removed the rope, and put the saddle on the cliff edge, ready for Sir Robert and Timmond to find.”
Henry looked around the circle of faces. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, that’s it. That’s my conclusion. Since the verdicts on both Peter Turnberry and Harold Vandike are basically correct—wrong only in matters of detail—I see no reason to interfere with them. The case—which has never been a case—is closed.”
Immediately a babble of conversation broke out. It was abundantly clear that a great weight had been lifted from everybody’s shoulders, and the mood was one of joyful and mutual congratulation.
Only the Turnberrys did not share it. James Turnberry, his head bowed, was muttering to himself, “The professor. Who’d ever have thought that the professor—”
Henry went up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you should know.” He gave the shoulder a little pat.
Nora Turnberry said, “Come along, Father. Best be getting home.” And to Pamela, “Thank you for having us, Lady Oppenshaw.”
Later, in the privacy of their room, Emmy said to Henry, “That wasn’t true, was it? What you said down in the drawing room?”
“No, not all of it. Some of it.”
“And some of them know it wasn’t true.”
“That was my idea,” Henry admitted.
“Also,” Emmy remarked, “I don’t seem to have played my role yet.”
“Your role,” said Henry, “comes tomorrow. Pray for fine weather.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HENRY’S PRAYERS WERE answered. The next morning dawned dewy and slightly hazy, promising heat to come.
At breakfast, with all the guests assembled over eggs and coffee, Henry said, “I’ve got just one more thing I’d like to show you, before we go our separate ways.”
“To show us? Whatever do you mean?” Myrtle spoke with a forkful of fried egg and toast halfway to her mouth.
Henry smiled. “Just to demonstrate that my theory is correct.”
“Well, what do you want us to do?” Fred Coe sounded mildly amused. He was making a hearty breakfast, trotting to and from the sideboard, lifting silver covers to find yet more goodies.
Henry said, “It’s nothing at all complicated. As you can see, it’s a beautiful day. Emmy and I are going down to the beach and I’d like to make a party of it. I spoke to Sir Robert last night, and he’s having a hamper of snacks and drinks delivered down there.”
“What an extraordinary request,” said Bill Cartwright. He looked a little uneasy. “What is supposed to happen on the beach?”
“Nothing really,” said Henry. “Just a small demonstration.”
“Oh, well,” said Myrtle, “we’ve gone along with you so far, I suppose we’ll have to say yes.”
“Personally,” said Coe, “I can’t think of anything nicer. I’d been thinking of a swim anyway, and the idea of food and drink makes it even more attractive. We can talk over that Miss Twinkley idea you were roughing out last night, eh, Bill?”
“I suppose so,” said Cartwright, with little enthusiasm.
Barbara Oppenshaw was sitting silently; the plate of food that she had just brought to the table lay untasted.
Henry said cheerfully, “Good. That’s settled, then. Sir Robert can’t come himself, but Lady Oppenshaw is to come by car with the chaps who are delivering the food. The road passes quite close to the beach, you know, although many people don’t realize it. There’s a right-of-way down, which hardly anybody uses.” Henry paused. “Shall we say eleven o’clock at the beach, then?”
There was a general murmur of consent, in which Barbara Oppenshaw did not join.
Pleasantly, Henry said, “You’ll be there, won’t you, Barbara?”
“I…no. I don’t see why you need me.”
“I need you very much,” said Henry.
Barbara turned on him. “You know very well that I haven’t been down there since—”
“I
know,” said Henry gently. “That’s why it’s so important, you see. To lay the ghosts, once and for all. Please, Barbara.”
“Very well.” The words were barely audible, as if whispered by a child. “Very well, I’ll come.”
After breakfast, the members of the party went about their various pursuits. Henry made a phone call to the Turnberrys. Dr. Cartwright wrote a letter. Fred Coe read a book and Myrtle went for a walk. Barbara sat silently in her old nursery, stroking the battered teddy bear as she gazed out the window at the path she had not taken for nearly twenty years. The path to the sea.
Henry and Emmy changed into swimsuits, with shorts and shirts as cover-ups, and armed themselves with bath towels. As they came downstairs, they met Dr. Cartwright going up.
“What about the Turnberrys?” he asked. “Are they joining your beach party, Tibbett?”
“No,” said Henry. “I’ve just spoken to Nora Turnberry. They always go to church on Sunday morning, and there didn’t seem any reason to upset their routine.”
Emmy thought Cartwright looked a little relieved. However, all he said was, “Going down already? You’re early.”
“Thought we might have a quiet swim,” Henry said cheerfully.
“Mysteries, mysteries,” said Dr. Cartwright. “I think you’ve been reading too many sensational stories, Tibbett.”
“In my profession, I don’t have the time,” answered Henry with a smile, and he and Emmy went on their way.
On the pathway down to the beach, Henry explained to Emmy what he wanted her to do.
“Is that all?” she asked, surprised. “That’s nothing at all.”
Henry hesitated, then said, “Look, darling, I’m only going to tell you this. Whatever happens, you’ll be in no danger. Do you understand? No danger at all, so don’t panic. I know what I’m doing.”
The path to the sea ran down through a dense copse, so that it was with a shock of surprise, like coming out of a dim room into sunlight, that one found oneself suddenly on the beach. At the far end of the crescent of sand, the right-of-way from the road debouched in the same way—but it was considerably more overgrown and less used than the path from Carnworth Manor.
Henry and Emmy stripped down to swimsuits and took a leisurely swim in the quietly rippling water. Only small waves broke onto the sheltered beach, and the water temperature was pleasant. Henry noted and pointed out to Emmy that the water remained quite shallow—about waist-high—for some fifty yards out; after that, there was a sudden steep drop off that took them both out of their depth by some feet.
As the Tibbetts waded back to the beach, other members of the party began to gather. Fred and Bill came together, in close conversation. Myrtle came alone, carrying a large beach bag from which she extracted a towel, a tube of anti-sunburn cream, and a women’s magazine. She put on dark glasses, sat down on the towel, and began to read. It was obvious that she had no intention of swimming, for she wore the same flowered cotton dress as at breakfast time.
It occurred to Emmy that every time they had seen Myrtle, she had been alone, either physically so, in her own house, or palpably isolated from the rest of the group, as at Carnworth. Presumably Mr. Waterford, the bank manager, did exist and did come home in the evenings, but Myrtle remained in Emmy’s mind as essentially a solitary person.
Fred Coe and Bill Cartwright went in for a quick, brisk swim and came out of the water still talking earnestly. They settled down to sunbathe some distance from both Myrtle and the Tibbetts.
The next arrival was Pamela Oppenshaw, who came down the right-of-way path, pushing aside trailing branches and thick undergrowth to get to the beach. She was followed by two men, the Carnworth chauffeur and presumably a gardener. Between them they carried a big hamper and an even bigger ice chest. Everybody scrambled to their feet and made suitable noises of welcome and gratitude. The chauffeur then returned to the car for a folding table, and then, having set it up reasonably steadily, helped the gardener hoist the ice chest and hamper onto it. The helpers then withdrew.
Pamela Oppenshaw was certainly dressed for a beach party. Her beautifully preserved figure was showed to great advantage in a black and white striped swimsuit, over which she wore a frothy white lace and nylon cover-up. Her beach towel was enormous and jet black, with HERS monogrammed in white, and long white fringes. She seemed to be outfitted for the Riviera, Sardinia, or the Caribbean, rather than for the more austere waters of the English Channel. However, it was a lovely day, and the sea for once was reflecting the blue of a cloudless sky, so by a hairsbreadth Lady Oppenshaw avoided looking ridiculous.
“You must all come and have a drink,” she cried, “and I believe Cook has made us some snacks. Let’s see what we have. Fred, you open up the ice chest. Henry, see what’s in the hamper. And I’ll—” She broke off suddenly. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” asked Fred, who was struggling with the complicated clamps holding the cover on the ice chest.
“Up there in the woods…there’s somebody up there!”
Henry said, “I expect it’s Barbara, Lady Oppenshaw.”
“Barbara!”
“Yes,” said Henry. “There she is. Come on, Barbara. You’re just in time for a drink.”
Barbara Oppenshaw was standing in the shadow of the trees, just short of the beach. It was as though she could not bring herself to take the final step out into the sunshine.
“Wonders will never cease,” remarked Lady Oppenshaw. “Well, come on, Barbara, or don’t. You can’t just stand there all day.”
Fred Coe had got the top off the ice chest, and was taking orders for drinks. The chest held cold white wine, beer, and various pre-mixed cocktails in plastic containers. Disposable plastic glasses had also been provided.
Henry and Emmy took wine, Pamela and Bill Cartwright a Bloody Mary apiece, and Fred a beer. Myrtle asked a little ostentatiously for “anything non-alcoholic—orange juice, preferably,” and was told that there was no such thing, unless she waited for some ice to melt and drank the water. Having made her gesture, however, she accepted a large glass of Pimm’s No. 1, and contrived to make it appear a sacrifice to do so.
Barbara, meanwhile, still hovered on the edge of the woods. Pamela Oppenshaw called again, impatiently. “For heaven’s sake, Baba, come on and have a drink. You’re behaving like a baby.”
The predictable result was to drive Barbara farther back into the shadows. Henry filled a glass with the Bloody Mary mixture, and carried it over to where she stood. He was reminded of coaxing a small and very scared cat down from a tree. The others, meanwhile, were merrily exploring the contents of the hamper, where Cook had given of her bounty in the way of cheese straws and caviar canapés.
Henry held out the glass and said, “I know this is difficult for you, Barbara.”
“You shouldn’t have made me come.” It was the same childish whisper as at the breakfast table.
“You had to come,” Henry said. “You know that. You can’t go through life with things you can never face. Take a drink, and come on out.”
Tentatively she took the glass. Then, with a sudden gesture, she drained it and stepped forward onto the sand.
Once she had joined the party, Barbara seemed to get over her inhibitions and behave quite normally. Food and drink were handed around, and talk was general. Nobody mentioned Henry’s promised demonstration; indeed, it seemed to have been forgotten. After some time, Henry glanced at his watch—which fortunately was waterproof, as he had, as usual, forgotten to take it off while swimming. Half past eleven. For just a moment he hesitated, hating what he was about to do, but knowing it must be done. Then he looked at Emmy and gave a tiny nod.
Very casually, Emmy detached herself from Fred Coe, who had been expounding, as authors will, on the general unfairness of contracts and the rapacity of publishers and printers. In her plain dark blue swimsuit, she sauntered down to the sea and into the calm water. She stood for a moment, and then seemed about to start swimming.
&nbs
p; At that moment, the figure of a man in a black wetsuit and wearing a snorkel mask darted out of the trees near the right-of-way path. He flung himself into the sea and made for Emmy. The rest of the party had stopped eating and drinking, and were watching in amazed silence. Only Emmy, her face buried in the water as she swam out, was unaware that anything was happening. Then the man grabbed Emmy and began pulling her out into the deep water, at the same time pushing her under.
Two screams came simultaneously. One from Emmy, who had been taken entirely by surprise. The second, a wail of utter anguish from Barbara.
Running for the shelter of the trees, she screamed, “Daddy! Daddy, don’t! Jeannie…please, Daddy, don’t! Don’t!”
Pamela Oppenshaw was standing on the beach in her ridiculously elaborate outfit, looking as if she had been hit in the face. The mysterious man released Emmy, who surfaced spluttering. Quite slowly and very deliberately, the man pushed back the snorkel mask to reveal his face. Even without the beard, there was no doubt. It was Harold Vandike.
Pamela Oppenshaw came to life. She whirled to face Henry.
“You devil,” she said quietly. “I could kill you.”
“I hope,” said Henry, “that there’ll be no more killing now.”
She did not answer him, but ran up into the woods, following the path toward the house that Barbara had taken. Fred Coe seemed about to follow her, but Henry put a restraining hand on his arm.
“No,” he said. “Let them go. It’s their affair.”
Meanwhile, Harry Vandike was wading out of the water, one arm supporting Emmy, who was still choking. With difficulty, she said to Henry, “You might have warned me—”
Henry said, “I told you, darling. If you’d known in advance, your reactions wouldn’t have been natural. I’m sorry you had a fright, but you were never in any danger, and this had to be done. I didn’t enjoy it any more than you did.”
“Perhaps somebody will now do some explaining,” said Fred Coe. “By God, Harry, I’m glad to see you. We all thought you were at the bottom of some ravine in Wales. Have a drink.”
A Six-Letter Word for Death Page 23
