by Gwen Moffat
In a back room with no picture window and the river glimpsed through old iron bedsteads which formed the garden fence, where all the chairs were covered by unidentified and rather smelly clothing and there was no place to sit, their host, who turned out to be a Londoner married to a Welsh woman, thought about the previous Saturday evening. They described Lithgow and Nell but it wasn’t until they said that Slade looked like a boxer that the barman’s face showed interest and he waved a dirty hand at Miss Pink:
“Yers, I know ’im, seen ’im thump a chap once, cor’ — there was three on ’em. No one come up for more of the same. Bin in the Commandos, I think. Slade, you say ’is name was? Got a plain looking bird with nice legs. They was in Sat’day and, yers, you’re right, they was with this other chap, now I come to think: Scotch, wi’ queer eyes, works at the same place. They was in late Sat’day, near closing time.”
“Ten-thirty?”
He shot them a suspicious glance. It occurred to Miss Pink that he thought they were trying to trap him into admitting he sold drinks outside permitted hours.
“They was in about ten-thirty,” he said sullenly.
He could tell them nothing else. It was a Saturday night and the busiest hour of the week. Although the hotels were nearly empty in November, the area still attracted a large number of climbers and walkers who would camp, or sleep in huts and fill the bars in the evening. He couldn’t remember when they came in, how long they were there, nor if they came separately. All he could say was that he’d seen them, around ten-thirty.
A pound note changed hands.
“Waste of money,” Ted commented when they were back in the car.
“Not at all,” she retorted, “he didn’t see Lithgow before ten-thirty. If that is the earliest anyone saw him, where was he before that? He could have killed Bett after Hughes left the Jaguar and, if he knew in advance that Nell and Slade would be in Bontddu, he had ample time to drive here before ten-thirty and establish an alibi.”
“But he hasn’t established one. As you say, he had ample time. In any case — establishing an alibi: that sounds premeditated. I’ve got the feeling this murder wasn’t.”
“I agree. But if not premeditated, what on earth would Lithgow be doing on the cliffs on a wet Saturday evening? Dropping some equipment to do with the canoe expeditions, or picking it up? Mrs Wolkoff would know, I’ll be bound.”
As they returned to the coast she took a 2½ inch map out of her pocket and studied it. There was a path which left the main road about three quarters of a mile inland from Porth Bach and ran across the fields to the cove. They decided to approach Mrs Wolkoff’s cottage by this route.
They left the car in a lay-by and discovered the start of the track marked by an old stone stile with dressed rock for steps and a large slate placed as an additional obstruction to sheep at the top. The field wall was massive with a bank of earth on top, very similar to the walls of Land’s End, except that the rock wasn’t granite.
The presence of the stile put paid to any theory that Porth Bach was accessible to vehicles other than by the road along the top of the cliffs.
The way led across bleak and treeless fields, mostly pasture, but occasionally a few Friesian cows were feeding on kale behind an electric fence. Farm buildings showed up distinctly in the soft light although there was no sun, and whitewashed structures were dazzling. The track ran below walls for the most part, skirting farmsteads with curious names: Riffli and Corn and Nant y Pig; and here and there a green swelling was identified on the map as a burial chamber or ancient fort.
The sea showed ahead and below and the path dipped. Trees appeared: hawthorns, then sycamores and oaks. Under the trees the path was muddy and they saw with interest what they had noticed at the stiles: that many walkers, at least, many people with cleated boots, had passed this way and recently.
“The local field club’s had an outing,” Ted said, “and destroyed all the evidence.”
“You think that’s what it is?”
“I know; they were out on Sunday. I saw it in the local paper. But they went east from the cove, as the canoes did on Monday, so they couldn’t have seen the Jaguar.”
Occasionally they came on telephone poles bearing the line to the cove. They found the cottage quite suddenly because in the depths of the wooded ravine they had little idea how close they were to the shore. No smoke rose from the chimney.
“She’s out again,” Miss Pink said morosely. Then they saw the bag.
It was a plastic carrier, blue and white, from the Co-op. It was hanging from an ornamental knob in the middle of the front door. They looked inside. There were two letters and a typewritten note to the postman telling him that the writer would be away for a week or so and to leave the mail in the bag. The addresses on the letters were typed. One had a Plymouth postmark and the other came from Cardiff.
“Very careless, to advertise her absence like this,” Miss Pink muttered, “I didn’t think she was a careless woman.”
She stepped aside and peered through the living room window. What she could see of the interior appeared no different from what she had seen yesterday. The room on the other side of the double-fronted house would be the parlour. Apart from the fact that it had a tiny genteel grate instead of a range, there was little difference between this and the living room. There was a table and a sideboard facing the window with a huge looking glass from which their faces peered back at them owlishly, and every flat surface was covered by the ubiquitous files and books and newspapers.
They stepped back and looked at the upstairs windows. These were tightly closed but the curtains were drawn back. Miss Pink led the way round the side of the house to the back door which, as they’d expected, was locked or bolted. There was a window which showed them a poky little kitchen and another, very cobwebbed on the inside, that was just too high to look through.
There was a chopping-block by the backdoor, a saw-horse and an orange-crate. While she steadied the crate, Ted tried to see through the window.
“It’s too dirty to see anything,” he grumbled, rubbing a hand over the panes, “I suppose this is salt on the glass — hello!” There was a click. He stepped down as if he’d been bitten.
“What did you do?”
“I don’t think it’s fastened properly.”
“Isn’t it?” Her eyes gleamed. “You hold the crate.”
She climbed up and pushed the window. It gave, then sagged towards her slightly as she removed her hand. It was an old window, hinged at the side, and partially secured by a rusting arm with holes in it. She knew, because she had a similar window in her own house, that the catch was broken.
She sent Ted to find a tool and after a while he returned with a broken hacksaw blade. She inserted it skilfully, eased the arm off its peg and the window gaped wide.
“Should one of us watch for the police?” she asked.
“We might as well both go in; I know you won’t stay outside, and I’m your accomplice if you do the entering, so let’s go.”
They lugged the saw-horse to the window and with some difficulty, because the opening was small, they climbed inside to find themselves in a dark narrow place hung with decrepit mackintoshes, and with old tins of paint, polish, cleaning fluid, on a makeshift shelf. They moved hesitantly towards the living quarters. At the opposite end of the cupboard-like space a door gave access to the kitchen. This appeared unremarkable with a Calor-gas stove and cylinder, cupboards and shelves, a small table covered with American cloth and a sink with a metal draining board. There were no dirty dishes. The sink tidy had been emptied and rinsed clean.
Another door led out of the kitchen and into the living room. She glanced round, trying to see if anything had been changed, re-arranged. She thought not. Even the ashes in the fireplace looked the same. She couldn’t speak for all the contents of the table but a Daily Telegraph colour supplement which had been lying behind the typewriter was in the same position.
Like the other rooms, the parlour was
no more unusual than it appeared from outside.
The stairs went up from the front door. They mounted slowly but firmly, Miss Pink first. She felt cold and sick.
They looked into both bedrooms, at first flinching in anticipation, then boldly. The bedsteads were both of brass and the beds were made up neatly, with candlewick quilts. Each room had chairs, a wardrobe, and a chest of drawers. One room was obviously Mrs Wolkoff’s. On the bedside table were a Bible and a book called The Health Seeker, a powerful torch and the telephone.
In a corner of the ceiling was a trapdoor. Ted stood on a chair and lifted the trap. A shower of dust and rubble enveloped them. Miss Pink handed him the torch and he inspected the loft, then he lowered the trap and descended. “Nothing,” he said.
“It’s a good thing that what you thought hasn’t happened,” he remarked when they were downstairs again, “we’ve left fingerprints everywhere.”
“Why should you speculate on what I was thinking? We can alibi each other,” she said absently, walking into the kitchen. “No fridge,” she went on, opening cupboards, “shelves for groceries, bread bin — no bread, biscuit tins for butter and fats, more biscuit tins — empty, but cake crumbs here; cheese dish, empty. She cleared up carefully so that nothing would go bad while she was away. Was she a vegetarian? No. Bovril here, and a tin of sausages. Now where did she keep bacon and meat?”
She stood back and looked at the cooker, stepped forward, tried the screw on top of the cylinder. “Very prudent woman: remembered to turn off the gas.” She opened the oven door. “What’s this?”
“What’s that?” Ted asked from the living room.
She didn’t answer. He came to the doorway as she was turning from the open oven with a roasting tin in her hands. Something was in the tin wrapped in foil.
She unwrapped the foil to expose half a leg of lamb, raw.
*
They had hoped to find the police above Puffin Cove but the place was deserted and there was nothing to show of the crime except the marks in the turf made by the Jaguar.
“You’d think he’d leave someone on guard,” Ted said testily, “not that anyone’s likely to come here in winter.”
“There was a patrol car at the junction yesterday.”
“That explains it. They’ll be short-handed with the explosives bother and a car at the road-end is as much as they can manage. I feel we should let Pryce know about that meat as soon as we can,” he urged as his companion showed unexpected interest in the clumps of gorse beside the road.
“You go on to the patrol car,” she told him, “I’ll follow. I’ve thought of something.”
When he’d left she spent some time walking among the bushes and moving slowly up and down the tarmac near where the lighter had been found. Then she strolled back to the lip of the main cove and sat on a boulder, staring down at Porth Bach. At last she nodded to herself and got up and walked along the cliff road to the Schooner, so engrossed that she didn’t notice there was no police car at the junction.
*
Dawson of the Schooner was a surprising little man who resembled the post-war ‘spiv’. He was dark and dapper in flannels, blazer and silk cravat and he wore a toothbrush moustache. He looked as if he had got stuck in a style that was a quarter of a century out of date. He was anxious to please and talked breathlessly in accents that reminded Miss Pink of a politician who had been taking elocution lessons.
Ted had come to the hotel to make his call and Dawson had lent him an old van so that he could go to meet the police. Superintendent Pryce wanted to see him. Miss Pink’s expression betrayed her for he admitted that he couldn’t help overhearing the conversation since the telephone was in his sitting room. As he talked he ushered her into a pleasant bar with prints of sailing ships on the walls and in one corner a splendid gaudy figurehead. He switched on an electric heater. Through a wide window there was a glorious view of the bay.
She drank sherry while her host prattled on about the murder and she admired the sweep of cliffs from the headland on which the hotel was built to its opposite point beyond which lay the estuary. The voice penetrated her consciousness:
“— would never do a thing like that, never!”
“What?” She turned. “I’m so sorry, your view takes one’s breath away; you were saying?”
“Mrs Wolkoff would never go away and leave a joint in the oven. She had independent means but with inflation — you know how it is for people with fixed incomes: she had to be very careful. A joint would be a luxury to her, a special treat. She’d never buy lamb just before she was going away and then forget it!”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, “and I’m sure the police will take the same view. It’s occurred to me that you’re in a similar position to Mrs Wolkoff. No, no —” he had shot her an alarmed look, “— I don’t mean you’re about to disappear at any moment but that you’re in a situation geographically which commands the whole of the bay. Haven’t you seen anything — curious, recently?”
“No,” he confessed with regret, “I don’t use this room in winter you see, except at Christmas when friends come in for drinks. My bedroom faces the same way but, of course, the curtains are drawn at night. My kitchen and sitting room face inland and towards the west respectively.”
“Disappointing. Seeing that the hotel is so obvious from Porth Bach, I’d anticipated you would have the area under surveillance.” She smiled to take any sting out of the words.
The smile had its effect. Dawson was concerned that she should think him not conversant with the local traffic.
“Of course, I know what goes on there from Mrs Wolkoff, also from my own observations when I’m out fishing, but I’m talking generally, and there’s never been anything sinister, you know?”
“What goes on there?” she asked casually.
“Well now, where does one start?” He came from behind the bar carrying his glass and the bottle of Tio Pepe. He took a chair and they sat companionably staring out at the calm expanse of sea and the reddish cliffs. “The three cottages other than Mrs Wolkoff’s are owned, first, by a surgeon from London called Silkin; they only let to friends. Theirs is the long cottage below Mrs Wolkoff. Then comes Miss Lupin’s place. She’s not young but she’s very attractive, if you like that sort of thing, and beautifully made up. Most inappropriate for this part of the world. There’s a rumour that the cottage was a gift. She doesn’t come often but lets it — to anybody. Then there’s —”
“Stop there,” Miss Pink said, “what do you mean by ‘anybody’?”
“Well, I’m not a snob but Miss Lupin’s friends seem to be show business people and although they’re all right, they have hangers-on who —” he shrugged appealingly: “well, they’re not quite out of the top drawer.”
“Are you implying that sometimes the show business overlaps the criminal element?”
“Oh no!” He was horrified. “I’d never allow criminals at the Schooner. If I knew, of course.”
“That’s the rub, isn’t it? Tell me about the fourth cottage.”
“That’s the one nearest the jetty. It’s owned by a couple called Adams: retired hoteliers who have gone to the Algarve for a year or so to see how they like it. That’s let on a long lease to a chap called Davigdor who’s interested in underwater archaeology. He’s done some good work in the Mediterranean with Roman wrecks, I believe.”
“Are there wrecks here?”
“Ha! Reg Davigdor keeps very quiet about that, but there’s a lot of exploring going on in the bay. There’s a club from Anglesey is often here. We’re quite crowded at times. Reg always contacts me when he’s coming down so that I know they’re about when I go to lift my lobster pots. I knew a chap who got caught up with a motor boat on the Riviera and had three thousand stitches. He was lucky to be alive. I wouldn’t like to do that to a skin diver.”
“They operate from Porth Bach?”
“Yes, all of them. Davigdor’s people and the club. It’s the only access to the sea
there is in the bay, except mine but that’s private. Of course, anyone can approach by water. One of Reg’s friends has a converted torpedo boat and he comes up occasionally.”
“What were you doing on Saturday night?”
“I had a small party which included Llewelyn, the police surgeon, and another friend of mine who’s in command of a Royal Navy boat at Holyhead. And their wives. Then there was Miss Devereux who, of course, was concerned with your meal during the early part of the evening, so we dined late, about nine. For some hours before that I was dodging about between the kitchen and this room.”
“What I really meant was did you observe anything odd towards Porth Bach, but I must say, it’s pleasant to find someone with such an impeccable alibi.”
“Why, don’t the —”
A bell rang in the bar.
“Now who can that be?” her host asked and excused himself, leaving her to contemplate the unexpected relationship between him and Miss Devereux. She assumed that the mutual interest must be food.
He came back with Ted who had returned the van. He had been followed to the hotel by the detectives and now he offered Miss Pink a lift.
“We’re going to the cove,” he told her between the front door and the police car.
Pryce greeted her solemnly but said nothing at first about their illegal entry into the cottage. He didn’t appear convinced that the joint had any sinister significance. He took the view that the old lady was as mad as a hatter, led a queer life and mixed with queer people and it was quite likely that if she’d received a telephone call and had to leave suddenly, or if someone had come to collect her in a car, that she might clear away the obvious scraps of food and forget the joint which was hidden from sight.
She noted with interest that the old lady’s political activities were known to the police and she pointed out that if someone had come to pick her up in a car it would have been seen by the uniformed police at the junction.
“Not necessarily,” Pryce said, “she could have walked up the ravine to the main road. These anarchists hop around like fleas and they get no better as they get older, if anything they become more unpredictable. She’ll be in Aberystwyth or Cardiff now at some rally or just possibly looking after a sick friend, and what she’ll say when she gets back and finds her house has been entered is nobody’s business.”
