‘It was such a different time.’ Grant’s face gazed into the distance as he started to reminisce. ‘The 1960s changed things. There was this great feeling of freedom …’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ Brigit interrupted. ‘Calling Planet Earth!’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t stop thinking about it all – the hotel and the events that took place. It was strange. We were in a bubble where so much seemed perfect until the incident.’
‘What incident?’ Brigit asked, despite herself. A petite, forceful-looking woman in her late forties, she was casually dressed in designer jeans and a warm woollen cardigan beneath a Barbour jacket and a bright checked scarf. Sitting there, she looked up at the hotel. She thought it resembled a castle, perched above sweeping lawns that stretched down to the sea way below. As it emerged from the morning fog she could discern a sharp precipice at the edge of the lawn, which gave way to red rock dropping steeply down to an expanse of sand washed by energetic waves.
‘That would be telling,’ Grant teased abruptly. He left the table, paid the bill and suggested it was time they visited the art gallery they had come to see. Brigit gave him a quizzical look.
Grant, tall and wiry, was a few years older than Brigit and was not usually noted for his reticence in telling yarns and stories of his past. The recipients of his tales could find themselves somewhat disconcerted when he got into his stride, as his eyes moved in separate directions. He maintained that this was great in meetings, where he could make two individuals feel they were the focus of his attention at the same time. It was a peculiarity that didn’t cause him a moment’s trouble or embarrassment; it was merely a party piece when the occasion demanded.
It was later that day that Grant became more forthcoming. ‘Tom Youlen was an eccentric porter at the hotel and something of a fixture there. On film nights he would interrupt the movie, even a James Bond, to announce, “Telephone call for Mr Hegarty” or whoever. He wasn’t particularly friendly, regarding us as “grockles” – as necessary but rather decadent evils. We were to be tolerated. He used to mutter to himself, “Puffin, shag, herring gull, gannet and chough.” It was a bit like a mantra to him. As teenagers we were intrigued and amused by this. It was pointed out by one of the grown-ups that they were Cornish coastland birds. On the day of the incident a few of our parents had gone to church in Zennor, where Tom lived, and on the way back in the car they encountered him staggering into a hedgerow by the road. Alarmed, they rushed to his aid. He was in a terrible way. All he could mutter was “It was him. Him from the hotel. He said he would … if I spoke.”’
Brigit considered Grant’s words in silence, allowing the impact of this to sink in. ‘How dreadful. What effect did this have on everyone?’
‘Our parents never went back. None of us did.’
Brigit was astounded. Grant had previously referred to his childhood holidays in Cornwall only in fleeting, superficial terms that had given the impression they were of little consequence. She turned to face him. Moving a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead, she inquired, ‘So did they catch the person Tom referred to as “him from the hotel”? Was it a member of staff or a guest?’
‘That was the strange thing. The staff were all cleared of any wrong-doing. It was suggested that Tom had been poisoned. Five guests were questioned, but all had alibis. I later heard that one of them had confessed something to one of his children on his deathbed, but that’s never been confirmed.’ Grant sighed and wondered how much he should divulge to his wife. Should he tell her the truth as far as he knew it? And, more significantly, should he own up to what was really driving him, the fear that had been eating away at him for more than forty years? On that last holiday he had learnt of his mother’s affair with the cardiologist Richard Hughes-Webb; he also knew that Tom’s stroke had been induced by ingesting some poisonous substance with which Richard was experimenting at his cottage in Zennor where Tom was caretaker. Grant had never been able to forget Hughes-Webb’s alibi – his own mother. What had she concealed, and how much had she known?
‘Why would anyone want to harm the porter?’
Grant hesitated. ‘Well, he had obviously seen or heard something, and someone had very real fears of being exposed for some reason. Don’t forget, this was the early 1970s, and even homosexuality was barely legal then.’ An inner voice was yelling at him, ‘Leave all this alone!’ But he knew he was now ready to examine the past; in fact, he needed to examine the past.
Later that night, as they lay in bed in their rented cottage further up the coast, Brigit’s mind returned to the subject of the porter. The howling wind and the sound of crashing waves didn’t exactly soothe the discomfort she had felt on hearing Grant’s tale. ‘Did anyone discover how Tom came to be in such a state in the lane?’
‘Yes, he seems to have been poisoned – and this caused a stroke.’
‘And did he live long after that?’
‘About five years, I was told. But I’d like to confirm that by visiting the graveyard tomorrow, if that’s OK with you.’
‘Yes, fine, but can we do a rain check in the morning? I don’t really fancy exploring a graveyard in weather like this.’
They listened to the pounding waves. The little cottage creaked and groaned under the strain of the gale-force wind. A loud thump startled them, but Grant reassured Brigit that it was likely only a piece of driftwood blown on to the roof.
She cuddled closer. ‘So who do you think it was?’
Grant paused before replying. The storm raging outside seemed to reach a crescendo, rattling windows and doors as if some giant invisible hand was shaking the foundations of the cottage.
‘The five suspects were all guests at the hotel and were each interviewed twice. Ted Jessops, a factory owner from the Midlands; Bob Silver, a merchant banker from the City of London; Richard Hughes-Webb, a heart specialist from Croydon; Paul Galvin, an accountant from London; and Arnie Charnley from Manchester, who claimed to be in print and publishing but whose son told us he distributed porn magazines.’
‘Hardly the dirty dozen.’
‘True, but it turned out they all could have had a motive.’ Grant fell silent.
For a moment Brigit thought he was asleep, but she knew his breathing patterns and realized he was wide awake. ‘Don’t you feel it was all wrong’, she whispered, ‘that no one has ever been arrested and prosecuted? And why haven’t you told me any of this before?’
‘Of course, someone should have been brought to book, but at the time we were just teenage kids, carefree adolescents enjoying new experiences. To be frank, it ended in such an unfortunate and inconclusive way that for a long time I pretended to myself that it didn’t really happen at all. Funnily enough, I remember the night one of our group, Jenny Charnley, came rushing down to the disco – near where we had lunch today in fact.’
‘And?’
‘She was hysterical. I remember Hawkwind’s track “Silver Machine” was blasting out, and she tried to shout above it.’
‘And?’
‘She was screaming about the police having taken her father to the local station for questioning. We all felt for her, of course, but we had no experience of that kind of situation, had no idea what to say. It was only the following day, when Paul Galvin’s son Danny drove four of us in his Mini to the beach at Sennen Cove, that the reality of it all hit us. I was in the car with Caroline Jessops, Suzie Hughes-Webb and Justyn Silver.’
‘So what happened?’
‘It was a glorious summer’s afternoon, the sun was glistening off the sea and Danny was looking for a parking space, when he said, “Hey, all this stuff kicking off is way too heavy. What if it’s one of our fathers?” I asked, “How do you know it isn’t one of our mothers?” “Tom said it was a man,” he replied. Danny’s outburst made us pause for thought, and finally Caroline said, “Well, they shouldn’t visit the sins of the fathers on the children.” And, to be honest, that became our attitude. At our age, life was full of possibilities, great
music and, at that moment, a fantastic beach on a sunny August afternoon. It was actually the next day, at the Office, when our mood really changed.’
‘The Office?’
‘Yes, that was the nickname of the local pub, the Cornish Arms. It was given by one of the odder guests, a bachelor of around fifty called Hector Wallace, who went there every morning at twelve midday and every evening after dinner. Hector’s life ended tragically as well.’ Grant’s voice faltered.
‘So what happened at the Office?’
‘There was another incident late that night. It made my blood run cold,’ replied Grant, quietly in a sombre voice that disconcerted Brigit. He was never this quiet. He didn’t do quiet. She sought to reassure him, feeling she had pressed him too hard. Perhaps it was better to leave the past as a place of reference, not of residence, as her father liked to say. But it disturbed her that until relatively recently he had never once mentioned the strange events that had not only caused the curtailment of his cherished Cornish holidays but which would appear to have cast a cloud over him. She was also a little confused by the mention of so many people from Grant’s past. What could be their relevance now, and would their past threaten the couple’s future?
‘I think we should leave off for tonight,’ she said. ‘Let’s visit Tom’s grave tomorrow if this wretched storm abates and try to make better sense of it all. It was a long, long time ago, and it wasn’t your fault.’ She kissed him softly on the cheek, and he half smiled.
Her words reverberated in the air as the waves continued to crash against the battered shoreline. She thought about those coastal birds: the puffin, shag, herring gull, gannet and chough. Were they out there tonight, she wondered, as she drifted into a fitful sleep. For several hours Grant thought he wouldn’t sleep at all.
4
PRESENT DAY
The car crawled up the tree-lined drive towards the sprawling castle; an expanse of turrets silhouetted against a dark but beautifully clear Cornish sky, windows aglow with light as the night drew in around them. It was late. They had arrived off the last train from London, their eyes slow-dancing with tiredness. As their car crunched across the gravel, the trees receded behind them, and ahead a wide lawn of cut grass ran away from them towards the sea. As they followed the winding drive the castle cast shadows in the moonlight, its turrets stretching skywards. The moon hung low in the sky, illuminating its crystal rays on to the vast expanse of restless ocean below. They pulled up outside the entrance. A thick layer of ivy covered the stone walls looming overhead. The great oak door opened, and there was Tom welcoming them in, while moths hovered around him, attracted by the glow from the cast-iron lantern above his head. They opened their car doors, stiff and weary from the journey, to be arrested by the smell of pine trees and fresh sea air. They could hear the sounds of voices and laughter from their friends in the dining-room filtering out through open windows, into the still night air. David Bowie’s ‘Starman’ could be heard crackling from a transistor radio somewhere below, where busy catering staff were preparing meals for the guests upstairs.
Grant awoke from this happy dream of idyllic childhood holidays and was saddened to recall Tom’s last years following his stroke. After a largely sleepless night Grant felt disturbed by the dream, which was a constantly recurring one. The setting was always Cornwall and the year always 1972; the porter was always present; and usually there was a cameo role for Richard Hughes-Webb. What really bothered Grant was the increasing frequency of the dreams, which more often than not turned into nightmares.
The next morning the storm was still raging, so the couple decided to postpone their visit to Tom’s grave and instead to take a walk. They parked their car near Gurnard’s Head and, wrapped in waterproofs and floppy hats, spent the day hiking westwards on the breathtaking cliff top, taking the south-west coastal path towards Cape Cornwall. They walked alone for around two hours, although Brigit was aware of a man some three hundred yards behind them who stopped every time she looked round. She dismissed him from her thoughts and refrained from telling her husband.
‘So, who do you think it was?’ she asked loudly, battling the wind.
‘Ted Jessops was strange,’ Grant shouted back, his eyes fixed on the rising and crashing Atlantic waves below. ‘On the last holiday he had become a rather pathetic figure. Previously he had been an imposing presence, an engaging character who could enliven any company. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he had a large face, a large stomach and a thick mop of grey-black hair with Elvis Presley sideburns. By the last holiday he had become a shell of the man he once was, and his hair – what was left of it – had turned ashen-white.
‘There were rumours that he had fathered an illegitimate child who had pursued him to Cornwall to claim paternity. Some four years before this business with Tom he and his wife had been holidaying on the north coast at Constantine Bay. Apparently his unacknowledged daughter named Joanna confronted him on the beach, causing him to panic. Ted was a strong swimmer, and he just turned round, ran into the sea and started swimming away as fast as he could. He hadn’t even acknowledged her existence, let alone responded to her pleas for recognition within his family. The poor girl apparently got into severe distress in the currents as she swam after Ted, and she had to be rescued by coastguards. By the time she was brought ashore, scarcely breathing, Ted had packed his wife and young daughter Caroline into his brown Rover and had started the drive back to the family home in Bromsgrove.’
‘So how did the story get out?’
‘One of the coastguards was Tom’s nephew Ivan. He recognized Ted as the strong swimmer who had exited the scene so swiftly while the girl struggled for her life. Although this incident had occurred four years before, it had stuck in Ivan’s mind as the most harrowing rescue in which he’d been involved. As Joanna was being dragged out to sea by the currents, he and the other coastguard genuinely feared a fatality. The waves were huge, and they really had to race to rescue the girl.’
‘Still, it was remarkable for him to have identified Ted after four years.’
‘It was, and it was an odd thing. It was partly a song that gave Ted away – as well as the presence of his brown Rover at the hotel.’
‘Go on.’
‘Apparently Ivan’s radio was blaring out the Beach Boys’ song “Do It Again” when Joanna got into difficulty in the sea. The song was still blasting out across the beach as Ted rushed his family to the Rover. Four years later, when Ivan went to the hotel to see his uncle about a private matter, he was whistling “Do It Again” when he bumped into Ted and spotted his car. Ted immediately recognized Ivan as the coastguard who had saved Joanna from drowning in 1968 while he so disgracefully fled the scene. Can you imagine the sense of guilt, shame and panic Ted must have experienced?’
‘Did they talk to one another?’
‘Apparently so. Ivan said, “I know you from somewhere.” Ted said, “No you don’t”, and barged straight past him as Tom remarked, “Mr Jessops can be a very rude man.” When Tom had his stroke Ivan was asked by the police if he knew whether Tom had any enemies; having been present at this exchange at the hotel just two days before, Ivan mentioned Ted Jessops. Don’t forget that Ted’s actions could have caused Ivan to lose his life.’
‘Did anyone know why Ivan had gone to talk to Tom while he was on duty? Wasn’t that odd? I mean, he could have seen Tom at his cottage, couldn’t he?’
‘Well, the story goes that Tom had been bailing Ivan out financially for years. When the boy was sixteen he got a local girl pregnant, and he lived with her and the child in a tiny bedsit near the coast at Newquay. He worked intermittently as a coastguard in the summertime across the north coast, but he was always short of a bob or two. His uncle, Tom, was his protector, as Ivan’s parents thought their son had brought shame on the family and had rather ostracized him.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone suspected …’
‘I know what you’re thinking, but Ivan wasn’t “him from the hotel”.’
‘Well, he was there two days earlier.’
‘Now then, Miss Marple, there was no one more upset than Ivan after Tom’s stroke. He visited him every day in his nursing home until he died, and he arranged the funeral.’
‘How do you know all this?’
Grant didn’t reply, thinking carefully about how much he wanted to reveal before deciding to ignore the query.
Brigit persisted. ‘Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? Both Ted Jessops and Ivan had children out of wedlock, even though they handled their paternity in totally different ways.’
‘I take your point, but it’s not for us to judge.’
‘I still don’t see why Ivan couldn’t have visited his uncle when he was off duty.’
‘The story goes that he caught Tom fifteen minutes before his night shift was due to start. Bill, the other porter, warned Tom that he had seen Ivan’s battered Escort in the car park. Tom didn’t seem too perturbed, but Ivan was heard to say, “You never return my phone calls, and you’re never at the pub when I call, Uncle T.” Apparently Tom replied along the lines of “You’ve bled me enough. Summer season’s ending soon, and I need to hang on to some dough.” In those days the hotel would close for the winter, not reopening till spring, and money would have been a major preoccupation. Meanwhile it seems that Ivan had become distracted by the sight of Ted Jessops heading for his car, the brown Rover, and recalled the day that he and the other coastguard had saved the seventeen-year-old girl.’
Half a Pound of Tuppenny Rice Page 2
