Half a Pound of Tuppenny Rice

by David Coubrough

  ‘That woman clearly had no idea of what a ridiculous figure she must have cut.’

  ‘Too true. We were suppressing fits of laughter at the Royal Progress as Tom slowly drove his VIP passenger down the drive.’

  ‘So what was achieved by this diversion?’

  ‘Two-thirds of diddly-squat. The Duchess enjoyed her day out enormously, convincing everyone she met that she was some sort of minor royal but that protocol prevented her from saying any more. Tom later revealed they all thought she was most strange. Meanwhile Arnie, free of the worry of upsetting his wife for the time being, settled down in the TV room to watch several hours of cricket. He bore a striking resemblance to Lancashire’s highly successful captain at that time, Jackie Bond; he was actually seen on the hotel lawn one day enjoying a clotted-cream tea while signing autographs as Jackie Bond for a group of senior citizens who had disembarked from a coach. Apparently he tried to charge for this. Sadly for Arnie, Ted came along and spoilt his game by asking, “What’s he been telling you?” Arnie’s new-found admirers soon abandoned him. No one found this more amusing than Arnie himself who delighted in telling the story.’

  ‘But what happened to the cash?’ asked Brigit.

  ‘Well, Tom went to see Ivan, who, predictably, said he didn’t know what he was talking about, which Tom had no option but to accept. Arnie was devastated. He had pinned his hopes on Ivan being the culprit and returning the cash.

  ‘Arnie’s attitude to Tom changed overnight. There was no more banter, just hostility. He told Tom he had better find his money pretty damn quick or he’d call the police. Tom, feeling cornered, countered that he would tell the Duchess everything. Arnie couldn’t face that, as he feared his wife’s wrath like nothing else, so he vowed untold trouble for Tom if he didn’t return the cash by the following Wednesday. He added that he might have to get some funny people he knew up north involved.

  ‘The following Thursday we were all scheduled to leave the hotel, and Arnie was very exercised about checking out with his family, fearing he would be unable to settle the bill. His two children, Nick and Jenny, were made aware of his predicament but were ordered not to tell their mother. Both adored their father, for all his faults, and, knowing only too well the grief he would receive from their mother, they needed no persuading.

  ‘Meanwhile, fearing the worst, Arnie approached his friends for a loan to pay the bill. First refusal came from Ted Jessops, who said it was a bad time for him to loan money as his factory had recently burnt down and the insurance company was being sticky. Second refusal came from Paul Galvin, who revealed the problem of the failed building project in Penzance and his worries of being wiped out. Next up Bob Silver said he would see him right but disappeared on the Thursday for some high-powered meeting in London and didn’t return for the rest of the holiday. In desperation Arnie finally turned to Richard Hughes-Webb, who said, “I am a heart surgeon, not a loan shark”, and left Arnie in no doubt that he did not approve of anyone being unable to pay their bill. Arnie promised that he would drive to Croydon the weekend following the holiday and repay the loan in cash, but Richard observed him disapprovingly before exclaiming, “No chance.”’

  9

  20 AUGUST 1972

  The police swarmed into the hotel on Sunday lunchtime, alighting at breakneck speed from three panda cars with blaring sirens, tyres screeching to a halt outside the front entrance. This followed a call from the ambulance services after the Sunday-morning churchgoers had discovered Tom collapsed in the lane near Zennor. The senior paramedic at the scene had been alarmed by the state Tom was in and by the comments made by the group in the car who found him. The police promptly took statements from all four: the GP Margaret Silver, Anne Jessops, Yvie Hughes-Webb and Robert’s father Mark Vernon. The words uttered by Tom electrified the investigation: ‘It was him. Him from the hotel. He said he would … if I spoke.’

  The police had real fears that a murderer was at large, but the scene that greeted them at the hotel was highly incongruous. The residents were tucking into roast beef with huge Yorkshire puddings as the hotel manager, James Simpkins, was alerted to the police’s arrival by his receptionist. Simpkins had been reading the Sunday papers in his flat adjoining the hotel but, as the duty manager for the day, was on call if required. He was attired in a morning suit with striped black-and-grey trousers. He donned his black jacket over his grey waistcoat, straightened his cream tie and wasted no time in marching to the hotel lobby, looking every bit the archetypal hotel manager.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, determined to take a firm grip on whatever was occurring. The police officers, who by this stage numbered eight or nine, got straight to the point.

  ‘We need to interview your staff and guests immediately. This is an inquiry into an attempted murder.’

  Simpkins was aghast at the chaotic scene unfurling in front of him and started to feel faint. The last words he heard were along the lines of, ‘Your night porter has been poisoned and has alleged that someone at the hotel is responsible.’

  As the words sank into his consciousness, he collapsed, chipping his two front teeth on the reception desk as he fell heavily to the ground. His wife Jean emerged from their flat and screamed as she saw him unconscious with a pool of blood seeping from his mouth. She soon regained control, and an ambulance was summoned. It wasn’t long before Simpkins was being transported to the Royal Cornwall Hospital in Truro.

  Guests came running out of the dining-room. One clumsily bumped into a large silver trolley used for gueridon service, lost his footing and tripped over the waiter who was pushing the trolley towards a table. An atmosphere of chaos ensued. There was a dearth of senior staff on hand. Simpkins had rostered himself as the duty manager for the whole weekend, giving his two assistants – a deputy who was principally in charge of hotel bedrooms and a food and beverage manager – the weekend off. The barman, Sidney, tried to take control, but it was soon clear he was out of his depth. The head waiter, Luigi, came running out of the restaurant shouting and complaining that his customers were upset; he considered this a very bad state of affairs, as upset customers were, in his experience, bad tippers. At this point Richard Hughes-Webb took control, suggesting that everyone should calm down.

  ‘Who are you?’ inquired Inspector Roy Higham, a lanky, earnest-looking man with a pencil-thin moustache and wiry black hair parted in the middle. His stooping gait gave an appearance of awkwardness, but he was the senior police officer at the scene, and he wanted people to know it.

  ‘My name’s Richard Hughes-Webb. I’m a surgeon, and I’m trying to enjoy a fortnight’s holiday here with my family, as are a great number of other people. Now I suggest you do what you need to do, Inspector, in an orderly fashion and come into this room through here.’ His manner was authoritative and his presence almost overbearing, and the police, momentarily nonplussed, allowed themselves to be ushered into the empty flat of the now-absent Simpkins and his wife. Once ensconced there Arnie, by now aware of the commotion, started liberally dispensing sherry in an attempt to lighten the mood. Richard persuaded Inspector Higham to reduce his numbers, as he felt it was highly unlikely there was a murderer on the loose. Six of the police left the scene, initially to check around the premises for suspicious persons and were soon seen departing down the drive.

  The scene in the flat’s living-room became somewhat farcical, as Hector Wallace, returned from his late-morning foray to the Office, joined the throng, eagerly accepting Arnie’s offer of a sherry. ‘A free tipple is never to be declined. That would be most rude.’

  At that moment Ted Jessops entered, looking whiter than a newly starched hotel bedsheet, asking what all the fuss was about.

  ‘Fuss from the fuzz,’ announced Hector, chortling loudly as he downed the sherry with alacrity.

  Paul Galvin was haranguing the young unfortunate receptionist at the desk, threatening to seek compensation for the disturbance his family was suffering. Spotting the door open to the flat on the opposi
te side of the main corridor from the reception desk, he joined the assembled throng inside.

  ‘What in the name of Adam and Eve … ?’ he said, seeing Hughes-Webb, Charnley and Wallace drinking sherry while chatting to the three remaining policemen.

  ‘Pretty random stuff, Paul,’ responded Hughes-Webb, still attempting to control events. ‘Poor old Tom, the porter, has suffered a stroke in the lane near his home in Zennor. He was discovered by our morning churchgoers. The inspector here and his good team are trying to put two and two together and, I rather fear, have made five.’

  Inspector Higham looked stunned at this, but before he could attempt to wrestle the initiative back the group was confronted by the arrival of the head receptionist.

  ‘I came as soon as I could,’ she announced. She was a strident, rather matronly woman of advancing years. Her face looked as if it had been created from fine bone china and her voice was a little on the shrill side. She introduced herself. ‘I’m the head receptionist, Thora Fabian, and I’ve been called on my day off by Sally on the front desk. She’s new, you know, so I thought I’d better get here fast. Obviously I wouldn’t be dressed like this if I were on duty. Heavens, no.’

  As she joined the group in the flat’s living-room she seemed more concerned with her attire than with the scene she encountered. She plainly felt self-conscious standing in front of four of the hotel guests while wearing mufti. The presence of the police didn’t seem to faze her at all; what concerned her was not having the time to get herself appropriately dressed for her position with her customary layers of thick make-up. ‘So, please tell me, what’s the problem?’ she inquired, trying desperately to establish authority.

  On being told about Tom she asked if she could speak to the police in private. She related the episode on the beach in 1968. Tom had shared the story with senior staff at a Heads of Department meeting and had mentioned the angry encounter between Ted and Ivan just a few days earlier. She also suggested that the police contact Bill Treverney, the other night porter, before jumping to any conclusions. PC Gary Stobart thanked her for her information and asked for her contact details.

  The porter Bill was unavailable that afternoon. He and Tom worked out the week’s rota between them; both liked working six days, or rather nights, with just the one day off. They overlapped on five days, with Bill taking Sundays off and Tom absenting himself on Mondays. Bill, a creature of habit, would hit his local pub on Sunday lunchtimes and could often be seen singing his way home at about five in the afternoon. He would get back, collapse in a chair in his front room, put on the television and wake up freezing cold some hours later with his bladder close to bursting and the test card on the television. After relieving himself he would stagger up the stairs to his bed and awake around eleven the next morning. However, on this particular day Bill had managed to climb the stairs and go to bed in a more conventional way. Some years earlier his wife, Sarah, had despaired of his unusual lifestyle and had left him for a coalman from Redruth. Popular legend had it that she had departed on a Sunday afternoon knowing that Bill wouldn’t notice that she was missing until at least Monday lunchtime.

  On this Sunday the police hammered on the door but, getting no reply, resolved to interview Bill the next day. They switched their attention to the hospital in Truro where they found Tom Youlen in a stable condition. However, they made no progress, as he was now completely mute. James Simpkins, meanwhile, was in casualty awaiting treatment for his facial injuries, and the police were forbidden access to him.

  Gossip in the hotel had turned to the disappearance of Bob Silver, who had last been seen three days earlier. His wife told all and sundry that she didn’t have a clue where he was. However, she was being economical with the truth. She had discovered him on the Saturday afternoon in one of the art galleries in St Ives enjoying the company of a young male friend. She had decided to keep this information to herself while she thought things through, although unbeknown to her she was not the only person to know about her errant husband’s connection to the gallery.

  10

  21 AUGUST 1972

  Ted Jessops couldn’t get out of bed on that last Monday morning; he was severely depressed, so heavy-headed that the rest of his body had become inert. He had no energy and felt in a sort of neutral state, like a car that couldn’t move forwards or go into reverse; he had no means of achieving motion. Anne, his good-natured wife, whose patience had become increasingly tested, was at her wits’ end. Ted had stopped talking and was haunted by the Philip Larkin poem ‘This Be the Verse’. He was facing up to his sins and now knew that you reap what you sow. He kept thinking he should admit Joanna’s existence, apologize and make it up to all concerned. He was not the first man to father a child out of wedlock, for goodness’ sake, he kept repeating to himself. But he was like a politician issuing statements of innocence while in a downward spiral. He had denied paternity with regard to Joanna so many times that to admit it now would leave his credibility in tatters. He suspected that Tom, through Ivan’s evidence, might incriminate him and felt that ultimately he had let all three of his children down.

  Anne watched as Ted lay in bed staring at the ceiling. She noticed he had a sheet of paper next to him, picked it up and read the Larkin poem. It made little sense to her, but she was distressed at its effect on her husband. He had added his own line underneath: ‘I have reaped what I have sown.’

  Anne, who by her own admission had little interest in poetry, was completely disoriented by this. She placed the piece of paper back on the bed and took another uncomprehending look at her husband, whose eyes resembled clear glass. Then she left the room, placing a ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the outside of the door. She went down in the lift and in the lobby bumped into Bob Silver’s wife, Margaret. She asked to speak to her in private. The two women withdrew to a small lounge where they found themselves alone. Anne poured her heart out about Ted over a coffee. Margaret then suggested they should invite Richard Hughes-Webb, of whom she was rather in awe, to join them. As if on cue he walked into the lounge carrying a copy of The Lancet, looking for a quiet place to read. He listened to Anne’s anxieties about Ted and suggested they summon a local GP as soon as possible and offered to brief the GP. Anne, who was very distressed, readily agreed to this. It didn’t take Richard long to take charge and, on ascertaining from reception the name of the local doctor on call, arranged to meet him on his own. For this Anne was extremely grateful.

  Meanwhile the police had been busy. Bill Treverney received a visit at eight on the Monday morning, just as he was rejoining the human race after his Sunday excess. Initially he was grumpy and told the police to bugger off, which didn’t go down too well. Inspector Higham, PC Stobart and a small team of officers got heavy; doors were slammed, officers shouted and Bill found himself being knocked about a bit. He soon revealed all. Apart from incriminating Ted Jessops, whose story was beginning to become familiar to the police, he revealed details of Paul Galvin’s failed property development in Penzance, Richard Hughes-Webb’s activities at his cottage in Zennor, Arnie Charnley’s stockpile of cash taken from Tom’s cottage in Zennor and Justyn Silver’s angst at discovering his father’s presumed homosexuality. Tom had clearly breached Justyn’s confidence by telling all to his colleague Bill.

  The police interviewed Tom’s nephew, Ivan, that afternoon and took Arnie Charnley into custody that evening. It was at this point that his daughter, Jenny, had rushed into the disco in a panic. It was the following afternoon, on the Tuesday, while Danny Galvin was driving his friends to the beach at Sennen Cove, that warrants were made for the arrests of Richard Hughes-Webb, Ted Jessops, Bob Silver and Paul Galvin. Arnie Charnley was released on bail, paid for by his wife, who declared it most odd that he claimed not to have any money. This was to precipitate the collapse of the marriage of Arnie and Lucy ‘the Duchess’ Charnley; it was to prove a permanent marital breakdown.

  The police started reviewing staff records at the hotel and, following a detailed conversati
on with Simpkins, set up some interviews: one with a sous chef with an attitude problem and another with a former linen porter, an itinerant Kiwi who had started a fire in one of the outbuildings and been sacked. He was tracked down living rough in St Ives. These were routine interviews with a few people with whom Tom had crossed swords and didn’t produce any strong lines of inquiry. Tom never minced his words but was generally a popular figure with the other staff, even though he wouldn’t talk to any new members of staff until they had been there for three months, dismissing newcomers as ‘just passing through’ until they proved worthy of his consideration.

  ‘Motive and opportunity, Police Constable. Motive and opportunity,’ Inspector Higham impressed on his subordinate PC Stobart. The police concluded that there were five suspects staying in the hotel, all of whom had secrets – some darker than others – known to Tom. They had established that he had consumed the toxic substance at around ten on Sunday morning, some two and a half hours after he had returned home from his night shift. Any one of the five suspects could have visited his cottage at that time. Not one was in church at that precise time, and as the Sunday papers hadn’t arrived that day several guests had gone into town to buy their own. So, on the face of it, none of the five suspects had an alibi and all of them had the opportunity. Furthermore they all had reasons to want Tom to keep his mouth shut.

  11

  PRESENT DAY

  ‘Bob Silver’s young friend Clive Holford had endured a harsh childhood in a village near Tintagel.’ Grant was continuing to talk about the past to Brigit as they drove back to their cottage. ‘He was the only child of Ken and Mary Holford, and he had grown up in a dysfunctional family where Ken’s short temper had been the prevailing force. His mother was a gentle soul who helped make pottery for a local trader and lived in fear of her husband, who was in and out of jobs, mainly as a farm labourer but sometimes part-time bar work. Ken soon degenerated into a life of wife-beating and son-terrorizing – followed by bouts of remorse and self-loathing.