‘No, we’ve been saving Eden until last. You must be upset for Alice.’
‘Terribly so,’ said Mrs Seaton. ‘And such a dear child. Different in a war, when you half expect it, but not out of the blue like this. I don’t know how she’ll get over it.’
‘Did you know she was engaged to Dutton? before the murder, I mean.’
The Seatons exchanged glances. ‘Is this official, Chief Inspector,’ asked Mr Seaton.
‘We’ll help you all we can, naturally, but I think we’d like to know.’
‘Perhaps we can call it official, sir,’ said Felix. ‘None of it will go any further unless you want it to, unless it’s pertinent to the case.’ He stopped and smiled. ‘But you know all that.’
‘In answer to your question,’ said Mrs Seaton, ‘yes, we did know. We acted as a poste restante for Joe, so of course Alice had to tell us why. It was all very hush hush.’
‘This is since Mr Dutton went away?’
‘Yes. And they sometimes met here too, though not often.’ She looked a little tearful. ‘They were so in love. They’d been together since they were children.’
‘Their parents didn’t approve?’
‘No. Well, I don’t know about his. He doesn’t appear to have a father, and she’s a bit of a dragon apparently. I think I’d rather you asked them directly about it really; I don’t much like to talk behind their backs.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘And if you can avoid telling them about the letters, we’d be grateful.’
‘But you thought they were wrong, in their judgement?’
‘Yes, we did. They might have had their reasons but I can’t think what. Joe seemed such a nice young man, and very ambitious. He’d started a cut-flower farm from scratch, you know. I don’t know what’ll happen to it now.’
‘Have you got the address?’
‘Yes, I’ll give it to you.’
‘Eden is a strange place,’ said Mr Seaton. ‘You’ll find that out soon enough. The usual rules don’t apply.’
‘What do you think if it — their philosophy?’
‘Barmy!’ said Seaton. ‘An incoherent hotchpotch of lunatic beliefs. And what happens when they get old or ill? Who is going to look after them? My in-laws might be all right – there’s money there, I think – but what about the others?’
‘It’s the children I worry about,’ said Mrs Seaton. ‘It’s not fair to them. They don’t know anything about the real world and they’re not properly educated. And when my nieces leave, which I’m sure they will, they won’t be educated at all.’
‘Any idea who might have done this?’
‘No idea,’ said Mr Seaton. ‘I can’t believe it was young Raymond though. He’s the gentlest of lads.’
‘He had a soft spot for Alice too,’ smiled Mrs Seaton but we could never tell him it was hopeless.’
They paused to lean on a rail, gazing down at the peaceful harbour and the infinitely varied blues and greens of the sea.
‘Likeable couple,’ said Rattigan.
‘Yes they are, and we may have to come back to them. As a friend in need, however, young Clive is a bit of a liability.’
‘What a pair of chumps! I wonder what Raymond was really up to?’
‘Not murdering Dutton I doubt, though it’s possible they knew something, or had some involvement in it.’
Chapter Five
‘He made a reasonable fist of giving his pal an alibi,’ said Felix, as they supped their pints, ‘and then ruined it by averring that Raymond couldn’t have killed Dutton because he was psychologically incapable of murder.’
‘Thus unconsciously implying that he didn’t really know what he’d been up to?’ said Yardley.
‘Quite so. It’s pretty clear to me, one way and another, that Raymond never went near the Mole that night, not with Clive anyway. Apart from that I’m inclined to trust their stories. They tie up, more or less. However, Eden. They’re not on the telephone, obviously, so we’ll have to take pot luck. Let’s say ten-thirty tomorrow morning. As for this afternoon I’ve arranged to meet the police surgeon. In the meantime you two had best look for anyone who saw or heard our lads hanging about the Mole that night, just in case we’re wrong. Don’t forget the crews of the fishing boats; some might sleep aboard.’
*
Dr Legg, the area’s GP as well as the local police surgeon, was a large, florid, tweedy man, projecting brisk, if slightly irritable, authority. He met them at his surgery in nearby Chartington. ‘There’s little doubt in my mind that he fell,’ he said. ‘He’s unlikely to have sustained those internal injuries just by being beaten up, though there’s good evidence of that as well.’
‘What evidence is that, Doctor?’ asked Felix.
‘Oh, the pattern of bruising, you know — face, abdomen, genitalia. Very typical. The knife didn’t pierce any vital organs or he wouldn’t have survived as long as he did. He was a sturdy, healthy chap and nothing else wrong with him. Pity.’
‘So you think he might have been beaten first then tossed over the cliff-edge? Did he try to defend himself?’
‘Heh! Well he wouldn’t have been worth beating when he got to the bottom! Sorry, I’m being facetious. I don’t think there was a fist fight, no. He couldn’t have landed many punches at any rate, judging by his hands, though there might have been a struggle of some sort. However, there was chafing to his wrists, as if he might have been tied up at some time and tried to free himself. There is also a possibility that he’d been gagged.’
‘That’s interesting. He could barely speak when they found him, just the name of his girl, and possibly the word “pushed”’
‘So I understand. He did well to manage that.’
‘Could he have been dragged or rolled to the cliff-edge, causing the other injuries?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘Not in my view. I would guess he really was pushed, although a thrust from a knife might have felt like a push.’
‘What sort of knife was it?’
‘Fairly narrow blade, single edge, only about three inch penetration. A good, sharp penknife would answer to it. Here’s my report.’
‘Ah! Good man. Has Sergeant Diffey got a copy?’
‘Not yet.’
‘No? Why is that?’
Doctor Legg observed them thoughtfully. ‘I’ve probably exceeded my authority, Chief
Inspector, for which I apologise, but I’ve no very high opinion of Diffey and I didn’t want him rushing in like a bull in a china shop collecting up knives left and right and perhaps destroying the evidence. I’d assumed the case would go to Inspector Bellinger, whom I know to be a capable fellow. I wasn’t expecting Scotland Yard.’
‘I’m becoming a repository for ticklish professional secrets,’ sighed Felix, as they drove back along the coast road.’
‘Well if it’s any comfort I agree with your decision on the Cotton case,’ said Rattigan.’
Felix turned to him in surprise. ‘Teddy, thank you! That’s greatly appreciated.’
Rattigan grimaced and stared out at the passing countryside. ‘You’re leading me into bad ways, Miles.’ He looked at his watch. ‘What do we do this afternoon?’
‘I was wondering about looking at this flower farm. Hour there, hour back.’
‘Take the lads?’
‘Yes, all right.’
*
The village of Mole was close to the Devonshire border and soon after crossing it they found themselves driving on quiet lanes in lush and rolling countryside, the reddish soil typical of that county showing here and there. The flower farm, after enquiring at the local post-office, was easy to find. ‘You’ll be able to see the glasshouses from the main road, sir,’ said the postmaster, ‘just a couple of them, and big blocks of flowers. Take the next turning left.’
‘We must be quite close to Exeter here?’
<
br /> ‘Yes, sir, three miles. Are you friends of Joe? I’m only asking in case he’s not there. He does the market on Tuesdays.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Yes, sir. Everyone knows Joe. Lovely chap.’ The man’s face darkened. ‘What do you mean, knew him?’
Felix was glad there was no-one else in the shop. ‘I’m afraid I’ve some bad news for you,’ he said.
Mrs Baker, Joe Dutton’s elderly landlady, lived in a rambling chalet-bungalow at the corner of the field. Of smartly blue-painted wood, it was surrounded by a number of large sheds, some looking recently repaired. She was several years a widow and had been glad to let the field and outbuildings to the eager young horticulturalist. She had cried when they told her. ‘He was such a sweet man,’ she said. ‘He’d do anything for me. More like a son than a lodger he was. Grandson I should say. And that was after a hard day’s work. He never stopped, even on a Sunday. All for Alice it was. It was Alice this and Alice that, morning to night. He couldn’t wait to bring her back here. He’d just bought the caravan for them and he was that excited! Who on earth would want to murder him?’
‘He had no enemies, that you know of?’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘No, sir, not my Joe. He didn’t get about much anyway. A pint at the pub now and again, just to be sociable, you know.’
‘Where is the pub?’
‘It’s the Sun, about two hundred yards on the right.’
Felix turned to the others. ‘You chaps go and interview the publican. Take the car and we’ll catch you up. Tell me, Mrs Baker, Does he owe you rent?’
‘No, sir, only for the month, but not to worry about that. He got behind sometimes but he always caught up.’
‘How much a month?’
‘Six pounds. Why?’
Felix took out his wallet. ‘If I pay you for the month gone, and a month in advance, will you hold the place for me?’
‘You don’t need to do that, sir, I will gladly. No-one else is likely to want it anyway, that I know of. Did you think that Alice . . . ?’
‘It’s only a thought. We haven’t even met her yet. She may not be interested. Did she ever see the place?’
‘No she never did. I do wish she had; he worked so hard for her. What about the flowers, sir? There’s a lot coming on.’
‘Is there anyone will pick them for you?’
‘There’s Mr Hayward up the road,’ she said doubtfully. ‘His son might do it if he can spare him. I’ll have a word.’
They wandered out onto the field.
‘All tidy and neat,’ said Rattigan, gazing about. There’s quite some value of stuff here by the look of it.’
‘Yes, there is but it’d be a full-time job picking and packing it, let alone taking it to market. It’ll have to be let go, I think. Here’s the caravan.’
‘A gypsy van! I don’t know what her mother would think of that.’
‘I don’t think we’ll mention it.’
‘Little one-bar place,’ said Yardley when they met up with the others. ‘They were closed, of course, but the chap and the girl clearing up were quite upset. Usual thing really. It seems to be quite a close community and he was very much part of it. No enemies that they knew of.’
Felix nodded grimly. ‘That’ll do, I think. There’s nothing for us here.’
Chapter Six
Eden House was an unlovely building presenting a confusion of architectural styles, the most recent addition, Felix guessed, being early Victorian. It was in a parlous state of repair. There was not a window or door in it that was square or upright, the walls were a patchwork of cracks and crumbling stucco and the whole structure seemed to lean sideways, giving the observer a mild feeling of vertigo. Probably only the great timber prop supporting a gable end prevented it from falling down. It also bore evidence of being recently altered here and there, no doubt to create self-contained accommodation for several families. The general ruination was, however, greatly ameliorated, even rendered charming, by its cloaking vegetation, including a great, wandering grapevine, a magnificent Hydrangea petiolaris and a well-laden peach-tree covering the south wall. On either side of the drive were flower borders edged with lavender and at what he imagined to be the nearest end to the kitchens was an extensive and wonderfully jumbled herb garden. It was very hot, with the scent of sage and hyssop hanging in the still air and the buzz of bees in the lavender.
Leaving the others in the car, Felix entered the veranda described by Raymond Galbraith, skirted the immense communal dining-table and peered through the open front door into the dark interior. He gained the impression the door was never closed.
‘May I help you?’ said someone behind him. It was a girl of seventeen or so, carrying by their legs a number of dead chickens. ‘Dinner,’ she explained, holding them up. ‘A fox got them.’
Felix observed her with interest. She was bare-legged, wearing only moccasin boots, a battered straw sunhat and a dun-coloured homespun frock, rather grubby about the hem. Despite these sartorial shortcomings she was rather pretty, her small face heart-shaped and her eyes large and blue. Her unfashionably long brown hair was done up in plaits. ‘Am I addressing Sister Caroline Stickland?’ he asked, taking a chance. It seemed unlikely to be Alice.
‘Why sir, you have the advantage of me,’ she said. ‘Would you be the police at all?’
‘Yes, I’m Chief Inspector Miles Felix of Scotland Yard. How do you do?’ With some juggling of chickens they shook hands. ‘I was wondering to whom I should make myself known; officially, that is. Maybe you can advise me.’
‘You’ve just done it,’ said Caroline. ‘We’re all equal here, once we reach the age of wisdom, whatever that is, but it might be politic to see Sister Clarice first, poor Joe’s mother. Alice is not in a good state, I’m afraid. I don’t think she’s stopped weeping since it happened. She’s not here at the moment. She’s gone to the beach. She’ll be back soon, I expect.’
‘To lay flowers?’
‘Why, yes! You’ve done your homework I see.’
‘We arrived yesterday,’ explained Felix. ‘Is she alone? That seems unwise.’
‘No, Mother is with her.’
‘That’s Sister Mary Strickland.’
‘That’s right. Are those your men in the car?’
‘Yes they are,’ said Felix. ‘There are four of us, I’m afraid. The big one just levering himself out of the front seat is my assistant and the other two are my photographer and fingerprint man. They’re a desperate-looking crew but quite harmless, unless provoked.’
‘Then I’d best order them a cuppa,’ said Caroline. ‘That should un-provoke them. It’s the real thing, not the herbal stuff. We won’t inflict that on the constabulary. Then I’ll take you to Sister Clarice. She’s very upset, as you can imagine. I’m not sure she’s entirely taken it in to be honest. You’ll have to make allowances.’
‘And what about you, Sister Caroline? Are you upset?’
The girl looked indignant. ‘Yes of course I am! Especially for Alice. She’s not just my sister, she’s my bestest friend, and I’ve known Joe forever, but you just have to get on with it, don’t you? Everyone has kept working; there didn’t seem anything else to do, and the children are in school. Hark!’
Felix, who had been subliminally aware of chanting, now realised it was a times table he could hear. ‘Who teaches them?’
‘Usually it’s me for arithmetic and Alice for reading and writing but I can’t face them at the moment and Alice obviously can’t, so my dad, Brother Brian, has stepped into the breach. It’s just to keep them from running around and shouting really. He’s a bit out of his element, poor thing.’
Sister Clarice’s room displayed all the comfort and homeliness of a nun’s cell. Uncarpeted, it contained only a narrow bed with straw pallet, a clothes press, a washstand with earthenware ewer an
d bowl, a small table and chair and a rocking chair, all simply but strongly made from bamboo and rough-hewn wood without a dowel of metal fixing in sight. A shelf contained only a well-thumbed bible and the complete works of Shakespeare. There were no ornaments or pictures of any kind and a single earthenware vase presently contained, of course, no flowers. Any other gesture of mourning would have seemed superfluous in such austere surroundings. She was sitting, grim-faced, in the rocking-chair, from which she never once rose or stopped rocking throughout the interview.
She made it clear that she had no truck with condolences. ‘I’d already lost him,’ she said, ‘gone these four years into the Land of Nod and a few brief letters my only solace. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth is a thankless child.’ She rocked silently for a while. ‘Have you arrested that accursed boy yet? He did it.’
‘Why do you say it was Raymond Galbraith, Sister Clarice?’ asked Felix.
‘Because I saw him. Did not Sergeant Diffey tell you? I saw him follow Joseph into Home Wood. Why else would he be doing that at such a time? He was following him to kill him.’
Felix looked out of the ground-floor window. ‘The wood in front of here, do you mean?’
‘Yes. There’s a path through it to the clifftop.’
‘Can you get to the road that way?’
‘No, you turn left for that, the way you came in. The path leads only to the clifftop.’
‘What time was this, when you saw your son and Raymond?’
‘I do not know exactly; we have no use for clocks in Eden. The party was just ending.’
‘How were you able to see them? It would have been dark by then.’
‘By moonlight. The moon was almost full that night and there was still light from the music room. We do not have curtains here. All is known.’
‘Where do you suppose your son was going at that time of night?’
‘I’ve no idea. He knew his business I daresay.’
Death of a Serpent (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 8) Page 4
