“But why did you throw your jacket over the fence?” Dan asked.
“I didn’t. The bags were too heavy, slowing me down, and I felt too conspicuous. So I ditched one bag and the suit carrier, then I went on my way. When I’d put enough distance between me and the hotel, I took a cab to the station and grabbed the next train out of there.”
“Someone must’ve found the suit carrier and rifled through it,” Dan said. “When they didn’t find a wallet, they threw the jacket over the fence.”
Edward nodded. “Well, now you know the truth, what are you going to do?”
“Your secret is safe with us,” Dan replied. “There’s no need for us to tell anyone, although you may want to contact the Devon and Cornwall Police. I’m afraid we filed a missing person’s report.”
“I’ve taken care of that already,” Edward said. “Friends in the Home Office come in handy once in a while.”
“Good. That’s all right, then.” Dan caught Alan’s eye. “We should be leaving. It’s a long drive back to Devon.”
Alan nodded, but he kept his attention on Edward. “If you don’t mind me asking, what should we call you?”
“That’s kind of you, Alan, but I’m still Edward. Max serves her purpose, but she’s just one aspect of who I am. This is how I choose to live when there’s no one else around. There’s only Clarence, and he doesn’t care what I wear. I have no neighbours, no one overlooks the property, and hardly anyone knows this address. I’m free to do as I please, and I spend most of my day at the keyboard. But, whenever I want, I can change into a collar and tie and go out into the world as Edward Hatcher.”
“You mentioned a gardener,” Dan said. “Doesn’t he notice?”
“He only comes once a week, less often in winter. He potters around outside, but he likes to keep to himself. He prefers plants to people, and he’s too shy to look me in the eye.” Edward stood, smoothing down his skirt. “I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I have a schedule to keep, and I really must get back to work. I’ll see you out.”
Dan and Alan stood awkwardly.
“Thanks for seeing us,” Alan said. “We’ll leave you in peace.”
Edward led them to the front door and held it open for them, but as they stepped outside, he said, “Hold on a second, Dan. I believe I owe you for services rendered.”
“Oh, not at all,” Dan replied. “Forget about it. I hardly did anything.”
“But I’ve put you to all this trouble,” Edward protested. “I feel awful.”
“There’s no need,” Dan insisted. “You’re in one piece and that’s all that matters.”
“And you can rely on us to be discreet,” Alan said. “Bye, Edward. All the best.”
“Goodbye,” Edward replied. “And thank you.”
“Bye.” Dan waved, then he and Alan turned away and headed back to car.
“So, the underwear that was left in the hotel bedroom…” Alan began.
“I’d have thought that was obvious,” Dan said.
“Yes. I suppose it is.” Alan’s expression brightened. “Lunch?”
Dan nodded firmly. “Lunch and then home. And I don’t know about you, but I need to finish putting my Christmas decorations up.”
EPILOGUE
Newquay
When it was all over, Roz took a long walk, and found herself drawn to the coastal path.
It was good to stand and watch the wind whisk the wavetops, and the breeze brought a revitalising tingle to her cheeks. The ocean swelled and roiled, seething with uncontrollable power. And yet, twice a day, every day, the tide crept in gently to wash the sand clean and leave the stones glistening in the sunlight.
Once, Roz had looked to the ocean and seen only oblivion; now, she saw renewal.
After a while, when she felt strong enough, Roz walked to the place where it had happened. Had Rudge been afraid? she wondered. Had he begged Tim for mercy even as the cliff’s edge had crumbled beneath his feet? Or had he been resigned to his fate, knowing he’d been beaten, the bully finally cowed?
Roz could hardly comprehend the dreadfulness of Rudge’s final moments. But there was one question she’d asked herself more often than any other: was it her fault?
She replayed the phone call over in her mind for the thousandth time, and she could almost feel the damp mist that had seeped into her bones on that dreadful night.
Tim had answered her call straight away.
“Toad,” she’d said. “I need to talk to you.”
“Roz? What’s the matter? Where are you?”
“Outside. Near Fistral beach.”
“Why? What’s happened? Roz, you sound terrible.”
“I don’t know, Toad, I…” Her voice had failed her.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Tim had said. “Why don’t you come to the hotel? We can talk in person.”
“But Toad, I mean, Tim, I’ve done something.”
“What? Are you hurt? Do I need to call an ambulance?”
“No. I’m all right.” Roz had hesitated, but then it had all come spilling out. “That reporter who was hanging around the hotel, I’ve talked to him, told him all about Rudge, how he harassed me, how he took advantage of me, how he… he…”
Tim had groaned. “Roz, you poor thing. You shouldn’t have done that. I had it all worked out. I told you I’d stop him. You know I’d do anything to take care of you.”
“But you could never be with me. So I’ve taken care of him myself, Tim. I had no choice.”
“You’ve made a mistake, Roz. You shouldn’t have talked to the press. Now I’ll have to change my plans. I’d better go. I haven’t much time.”
“But, Tim—”
“Come back to the hotel,” Tim had said. “No, wait. Go somewhere public. Find a restaurant or a pub or something. Make sure they can see you the whole time.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, Roz. Please. Don’t come back here for at least an hour. That should give me time.”
“Time for what?” she’d asked. But Tim had ended the call.
She’d known that Tim was up to something. The letter she’d received had been from him. He’d meant it to appear anonymous at first glance, just like the other typewritten notes, but to Roz’s eyes, he’d given himself away. It had read:
In the space between reality and imagination, your work illuminates the darkness within.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy fears fulfil.
She’d recognised the last lines immediately. He’d taken them from a song by the poet John Donne. It was called Sweetest Love, I do not go, and more than once, Tim had read it aloud to her as they’d snuggled together in bed. Their time together had been punctuated by intervals of loneliness and separation, but their shared love of Donne’s songs and poetry had provided a thread of continuity that bound them together. So she’d known he’d written that letter, and that meant he’d sent all the notes. But she couldn’t have known what he was going to do. No one could’ve predicted that.
Now, Roz watched the tide rise over the rocks where Rudge had breathed his last. The cold gnawed at her fingers and toes, but she stayed until the tip of the last rock had slipped below the surface.
No, she decided. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault at all.
Roz turned away from the sea and walked into town. As she passed WH Smith, she stopped to listen to a busker. The young woman was good, playing her heart out, her strong voice filling the street and banishing the bitter chill of winter.
Searching through her purse, Roz gathered together all her notes without counting them, and laid them in the girl’s guitar case, sliding them under the handful of coins that were already there.
Without missing a beat, the busker smiled and slipped the words thank you into her song.
“Thank you,” Roz said. And then, her heart feeling lighter than it had for a while, she strolled through t
he town with a sense of purpose. There was a little shop that sold art supplies, and she had a sudden impulse to stock up. There was work to be done, and stories to be told, and one thing was for sure: from now on, her stories would be filled with light and colour, but most of all with joy.
*
Thank You for reading Murder Between the Tides
I hope that you enjoyed it.
Keep turning the pages to read a few notes that add extra background information.
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AUTHOR NOTES
Is the Regent Hotel a real hotel in Newquay?
As with all the Devonshire Mysteries, places are used in a fictionalised way. There are some big old hotels in Newquay, and I stayed in one of them, immediately realising that it had to feature in a mystery. The staircase was grand, the halls wide, and there was plenty of polished wood panelling. The hotel I stayed in was Victorian rather than Regency, but some of its features have made it into the book, albeit on a grander scale than reality.
Similarly, I have played fast and loose with the geography of Newquay, while trying to evoke a sense of the place. I always feel that there’s something intriguing about seaside towns out of season; it’s almost as if you shouldn’t be there. You feel as though you’re trespassing, peeking behind the scenes, and I tried to bring some of that sensation to the story.
There is a coastal path in Newquay, and there’s also a statue of dolphins at Fistral beach. The Horizon cafe was inspired by a vegan cafe tucked away in a side-street, but you’ll be glad to know that The Drowned Sailor exists only in my imagination. Also, the delightful pub called The Rusty Saw was purely fictional.
What about Arlesford?
I visited Arlesford, a small town near Winchester, and it does have a steam railway, a church and a lavender farm, and so on. The post office counter is even inside the co-op. But Cardew Lodge is purely fictitious. I invented the name Max Cardew right at the beginning of the first draft, long before I thought of using Arlesford as his hideaway. I was horrified to discover that there is a Cardew House in the town, but by then I was writing the last chapter and it was far too late to go back and change the name, so I soldiered on. To avoid confusion, I made a fleeting reference to Cardew House, and I hope the residents don’t mind.
Is the Empire Number One a real typewriter?
Yes. I researched this quite a bit, and you can get a flavour of my progress by reading about Alan’s attempt at research. The typewriter I wanted had to be distinctive in some way, and I discovered that almost all typewriter ribbons are the same width, except for a few older models. Also, the Empire Number One fitted the bill in that it was small enough to be concealed; unlike some of the big old office machines which were enormous. The typewriter Dan and Alan discovered in the pub was based on an Imperial portable machine that I’ve owned for many years, and like Alan, I own an Olivetti Lettera 32. I bought it at an auction when I was still at school, because even back then, I wanted to be a writer. I still covet such machines, and one of these days, I hope to find an Olympia SM4 at a reasonable price.
Some of the writers play games with character names; do you?
Just between ourselves, I can tell you that many of the character names have been borrowed from members of my extended family. But I won’t tell you which ones, and I must stress that borrowing a name is not the same thing as basing a character on someone! In fact, I invent characters first and then give them names afterwards. For me, characters have to be imaginary; if I felt they were based on real people, it would hold me back.
I think a lot of writers play games with words for their own amusement because we tend to spend all day in our heads, and our brains need a little light entertainment. Sometimes, I’ll imagine a certain actor playing the part, and then I might base a name on that actor to remind me. I’ve always admired ‘character actors’: those talented individuals who seem to disappear into a part. In this book, I realised that Dr Brian Coyle could be played by the actor Brian Cox. My little joke here is that the actor shares his name with the scientist and TV presenter, Dr Brian Cox. I’ve heard the actor say that people are sometimes disappointed to discover that they’re not about to meet the scientist. And so, my fictional character insists on people using his title, even though he’s washed up as an academic. It’s not hilarious, but it kept me entertained.
More beer?
Yes, the brands of beer mentioned are authentic, and no, I’m still not receiving anything in return for mentioning them. Not so much as one drop.
Can we see some of the sources you used for research?
Certainly. Here you go:
https://mikeycampling.com/murder-between-the-tides-sources/
Will you talk to my book group?
Yes, if we can arrange a date and time, I’m happy to chat with your group via an online call, or I’ll answer your questions and record a video for you. Please get in touch via the contact page on my blog: https://mikeycampling.com/contact/
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Also by Michael Campling
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The Devonshire Mysteries
A Study in Stone
Valley of Lies
Mystery at the Hall
Murder Between the Tides
The Brent Bolster Mysteries
Dial G for Gravity
Dead Men Don’t Disco
The Surrana Identity
Double Infinity
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CHEATC0DE - The Downlode Trust Book I
The Trust - The Downlode Trust Book II
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Wall - Colony B Book I
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Control - Colony B Book III
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Colony B Box Set Books I-IV
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Breaking Ground - A Darkeningstone Prequel
Trespass: The Darkeningstone Book I
Outcast—The Darkeningstone Book II
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After Dark - Thoughtful Horror Book I
Once in a Blood Moon - Thoughtful Horror Book II
A Dark Assortment - Thoughtful Horror Book III
Other Fiction
The God Machine
Changes
Destiny’s Hand
The Expanding Universe Books 3-5
About the Author
Michael (Mikey to friends) is a full-time writer living and working on the edge of Dartmoor in Devon. He writes stories with characters you can believe in, and plots you can sink your teeth into. His style is vivid but never flowery; every word packs a punch. His stories are complex, thought-provoking, atmospheric and grounded in real life.
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Special Thanks to:
Janette Mattey
Philip Van Itallie
Rosemary Kenny
Julie Blaskie
Copyright
© 2020 Michael Campling All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the copyright holder, except as permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Timestamp: 2020-06-05 11:17
Murder Between the Tides Page 24
