‘Seriously, my dear, what will you do if he asks for it back?’
Cedric shrugged. ‘I doubt if he will – not if he’s got any sense. There are times, as my wise friend recently remarked, when silence is golden. If I were in his position I should clasp discretion like a lifeline and take a long holiday. He may not have committed murder, but who wants to be exposed to public gossip and ridicule, especially someone of his renown?’
‘Hmm. Exactly,’ his guest agreed vehemently. ‘I’ll kill that Ida Carshalton if I ever see her again!’
And with that threat affrighting the summer night, the two ladies began to stroll back up the little path and onwards to the welcoming lights of The Swan.
When she reached her bedroom door, Lady Fawcett turned and whispered to Rosy, ‘Remind me to take two aspirin at breakfast: Amy is arriving at midday.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
For the second night Rosy lay awake for longer than she cared. Cedric’s counsel to shelve the whole matter was all very well, but she was assailed by a number of niggling questions. The situation as described by Tippy certainly had its comic element – the makings of a good Whitehall farce, in fact. But unlike such farces, the script had been penned by a murder victim and was not (presumably) an imaginative invention. Despite what Cedric had rather pedantically insisted about the blackmail not being explicit, it was quite obvious that that had been the whole point of the letter.
How seriously had Ramsgate taken it? To have slipped the note casually between the pages of a book suggested not very – and still less to have then mistakenly given that book away. Still, people did have moments of aberration. (Dr Stanley, her brilliant boss, had them all the time!) She wondered if they had met for the requested ‘powwow’. And if so, how had he handled it? Like the Carshaltons, with promises of indulgent holidays and presents? Or had he sent her packing with a flea in her ear – or perhaps even more robustly with a threat to report her to the police? Maybe he had ignored the whole thing, made no answer and sat tight hoping that, like a bad dream, it would just dissolve … Or had he, after all, as in the best gangster novels, sent a trusted hit man to ‘take her out’?
Rosy grinned into the dark. No, despite her own facetious conclusion earlier, that hardly seemed likely. Far more likely (and prosaic) was that Ramsgate had been in the middle of deciding how to handle the girl, when the murderer struck. Thus the question of what response to make had suddenly become irrelevant, and he and the others left horrified and safe.
Rosy plumped the pillow and turned on her side ready for sleep. But just as she closed her eyes she also recalled the other bit of the letter, the bit about Ramsgate’s companion emerging from the study next to the hall. According to Tippy he had been at the party. Well, there had been a lot of men at the party and they had all seemed fairly affable and well acquainted with Ramsgate. It could have been one of any number (the old boy who had mistaken her for Lana Turner, for example!). Tippy had coyly implied the man might have been one of the bedroom revellers. But that was pure surmise. And after all, he had been in the hall, not bounding up the stairs!
She closed her eyes and mind, and drifted into sleep. But it was not of the most soothing kind, being beset with images of crime and carnage, plus ludicrous scenes of Tom Carshalton (whom she had never met) crawling furtively on a landing, Lady Fawcett commanding a bordello and poor Robert Kestrel going quietly berserk with a sickle.
Luckily, when she awoke the perturbations of the night seemed far away. From outside her door came the cheerful sounds of the chambermaids’ chatter and the buzzing of a hoover. The sun, thrusting its way through the shutters, was almost dazzling; and she was ravenous for breakfast! Somehow the linking of poor Tippy’s death to someone in her immediate circle seemed absurd – a lurid fantasy of no account. The girl had been done to death by some stranger, a mindless nutcase visiting Southwold for its salubrious sea air. Yes, that was it.
Of rather more account, Rosy felt, was her promise to remind Angela to take the two aspirin in preparation for her daughter’s arrival. She grinned. Amy Fawcett had the temperament and guileless nature not unlike that of a boisterous water spaniel. Lacking her mother’s wafting elegance, she made up for it with an explosive zest, which, though often enlivening, could also overwhelm, (hence the aspirin).
Her train was to be met at Darsham by Bartho and Angela. Thus deeming it best to steer well clear of the Fawcett–Hackle reunion, Rosy decided to spend a peaceful time amid the curiosities of the Sailors’ Reading Room, followed by a light snack in the cosy tea shop in the high street. Afterwards, she might perhaps have a wander in the precincts of St Edmund’s church. The latter held a special resonance – partly because of the ancient beauty of the church itself, and partly because at their last visit to Southwold it had been where she had attended the funeral of Angela’s old school friend Delia Dovedale, whose life had been so spectacularly destroyed. Funerals were not particularly Rosy’s penchant but that one held a vivid memory, and she recalled that Delia’s grave lay unobtrusively beneath one of the several spreading trees …
In fact, she had never known the woman; but having once been a guest in her house and privy to all the complexities of her death, it seemed fitting that she should re-pay her respects. There would never be another chance.
At breakfast, and having prompted her companion regarding the aspirin, Rosy asked where Amy would be staying: ‘Up with the others on the East Cliff?’
Lady Fawcett frowned. ‘I am not sure that the facilities there are entirely suitable: a trifle spartan, I believe. And besides, there is the problem of the dog.’
‘Which one – Mr Bates or Pixie?’
‘Both, really. They may not approve of each other.’ She paused fractionally, and then added, ‘And actually I am not sure – protocol being what it is – that it would be entirely fitting for Amy to be under the same roof as Bartholomew; I mean they are semi-engaged.’
‘But surely that makes it simpler.’
‘It may be simple but would it be safe? One has to be practical, Rosy. Dear Amy can be so impulsive.’
‘Ah … so where will she be staying: here with us?’
When her companion shook her head, saying she had secured her a charming room at The Crown, Rosy thought she detected the merest flicker of relief. ‘They are most welcoming of dogs,’ Lady Fawcett explained, ‘and in any case it will be nice for Amy to have a little distance. I am sure she doesn’t want to be under her mother’s eye all the time.’
Rosy smiled in agreement, but couldn’t help wondering for whom the distance would be the greater benefit: daughter or mother.
Breakfast over, Rosy decided to reverse her morning’s planned itinerary. Her first visit would be to St Edmund’s and to seek out Delia Dovedale’s grave. And then, with sober duty accomplished, she would relax in the quaint and cosy Reading Room before enjoying a snack lunch in the high street or perhaps in the back bar of The Crown. The alternative, of course, would be to join the film crew on the East Cliff. Doubtless, the spectacle would be entertaining – but busy and noisy. (The battle sound effects of Tobruk and Sole Bay were ear-splitting, not to mention Bartho’s vigorous use of the megaphone!) And for the time being she preferred a restful solitude.
Being in no hurry and glad of the walk, she turned left out of The Swan and took a detour, approaching the church precincts circuitously via the lighthouse and St James Green. It was a beautiful morning, and despite the recent shock and tragedy, Rosy could not help but take pleasure in her surroundings. The bright air held the faintest tang of salt, and the little streets with their huddled sleepy cottages exuded not just charm but a reassuring stability, a sort of protective peace … which Rosy knew to be illusory, but savoured all the same.
She meandered down towards Church Green. And as she approached the gate to the churchyard, as with the lighthouse (and although familiar with its location) she felt a start of surprise to be faced with such loftiness towering up amid so modest a context.
&
nbsp; She picked her way among the trees and shrubs, seeking Delia’s grave. Her recollection was right, and she found it easily enough beneath one of the trees. Rosy stood contemplating the small patch with its clear but modest headstone; and the images of the funeral with all its disquieting consequences flittered before her. A sadness, a regret for one she had never known but of whom she had heard much, stirred within her. And she remembered the portrait over the stairs of the woman whose reputation had been of loudness, but whose eyes had looked quiet and benign … Poor Delia.
Rosy started, feeling slightly guilty. Poor Delia? But what of Tippy whom she had known: why no feelings for her – or at least only of the impersonal sort? The sort you naturally felt when someone was killed brutally and pointlessly: decent laudatory sympathy but not much else.
She shrugged inwardly. Ah well, the heart was an illogical thing; it couldn’t be dictated to. And after a last lingering look at Delia’s grave, she turned and walked briskly towards the church.
Rosy had not been inside St Edmund’s since the day of the funeral. And then, of course, it had been filled with people, spectacle and sound. She had been moved, but by the activity rather than the surroundings. Now, in silence and alone, she had a chance to properly look and absorb. She gazed around, awed by the nave’s soaring height and its trumpeting angels, the sense of space and light and sheer gracious beauty. It was a world at once majestic and enfolding, a world that soothed yet stirred.
Slowly, she began to walk down the central aisle, her eyes magnetised by the huge intricately decorated rood screen, and beyond that the splendour of the high altar backed by its glowing stained-glass window. The harmony of light and colour drew her on towards the choir stalls where she stopped, delighted by the animal and human figures ingeniously carved on the arm rests.
She put out a hand to caress a monkey’s polished head, when a voice behind her said: ‘They are enchanting, aren’t they? I always think that those medieval craftsmen must have had such fun devising them. Probably the best bit of their project.’
Rosy spun round, expecting to be faced by some clerical official – or, given the graciousness of the surroundings, even a bishop!
It was neither deacon nor bishop, but someone more familiar: one of the guests at the Ramsgate party, Mickey Standish.
‘Hello,’ he said smiling. ‘You may not remember me but we recently met at Vincent’s house and tried to exchange a few words against the din. You are Rosy Gilchrist, aren’t you?’
She smiled back. ‘Yes, I am, and I remember you perfectly well, Mr Standish.’
‘Oh, Mickey, please. We may be in solemn surroundings but there’s no need to stand on ceremony!’
She laughed and asked him what he was doing there: ‘I thought that when you were in Suffolk you spent much of your time fishing.’
‘Oh, I do. But I also have a peculiar penchant for ancient churches. My family were as poor as church mice – well, more or less – and so perhaps I have a sort of homing instinct. But this one is particularly lovely and one always finds something new and unexpected. Thus, when I stay with Vincent I generally try to come over here and have a little potter; it’s a soothing pastime … By the way, I trust you have bid good morning to Southwold Jack?’
‘Who’s that,’ Rosy asked, ‘the gravedigger?’
‘No,’ he laughed, ‘the bell-ringer; the little fellow with the red pants and sword and the axe. He’s up on the wall there. I’ll show you.’ He took her to the west end and pointed out the clock-jack soldier, axe poised all ready to strike the bell.
Seeing Rosy’s fascination he offered to show her other features, and she readily agreed.
Her guide proved both knowledgeable and witty, and Rosy found the time passed most agreeably. Then as they paused before the font to admire its vivid carvings, he looked at his watch and exclaimed, ‘Ah, tempus fugit, I fear. I have to drive back to London this afternoon … But I tell you what, if you can bear it, would you like to share an early lunch at the King’s Head? They do excellent sandwiches and serve very good beer. Any chance?’
Rosy grinned, saying she thought there might be a fair chance. And thus leaving the church they strolled back into the sunshine, crossed St Bartholomew’s and made for the pub.
Ensconced in the cosy King’s Head they ordered sandwiches, and Mickey persuaded Rosy to try a local beer rather than her usual gin and tonic. To her relief she found her companion as entertaining out of the church as he had been in it, and they quickly fell upon topics of mutual interest, principally baroque painting and the jazz trumpeter Miles Davis. Of the latter Rosy had only scant, albeit appreciative, knowledge; but Standish was obviously an aficionado and he talked enthusiastically about Davis’s latest arrangements.
However, slightly to her dismay, he also returned to the subject of her aunt, Marcia Beasley, and the mysterious circumstances that had surrounded her death. This was not a topic Rosy had any desire to pursue, and she listened bleakly when he said cheerfully, ‘Oh yes, as mentioned, I came across Marcia a few times in the war. In those days I was pretty young and wet behind the ears, and as an older woman Marcia always struck me as being the epitome of sophistication. She had a boyfriend, didn’t she? – well, one of several, I suppose – and occasionally one would see them propping up the Ritz bar. She always looked a hundred dollars!’ He regarded her intently, and said, ‘Obviously you were much younger than her, but I expect you were close, weren’t you?’
Rosy felt a flash of irritation. Why was the man being so damned inquisitive? Just idle curiosity – or was there something darker? Huh, perhaps he was an MI5 snout trying to pump her! But surely they hadn’t opened up the whole thing again, had they …? Of course not, she thought impatiently, she was just being hypersensitive about the wretched affair, and he, poor chap, merely showing a polite interest.
‘Oh yes,’ she replied, ‘Aunt Marcia always looked pretty good. But actually, we were never close. I knew very little about her life and she certainly never took any interest in mine!’ Rosy gave a light laugh, and bent down to pat a spaniel who had wandered over.
Mercifully, Standish turned to another topic – though also concerning the dead, namely Tippy Tildred. But at least this was something more expected and less personal.
‘It’s funny about that girl on the sand dunes,’ he remarked. ‘Not quite what one expects in Southwold! And, of course, ghastly for all of you having known her on the film project. Pretty bad luck on the director too: it must have cast a blight over everything. How is he coping? Or is that the end of it all?’
Rosy assured him that Bartholomew had no intention of cancelling things and was pushing on with his usual zeal. ‘Of course he and the scriptwriter have had to make some adjustment to the structure and a couple of the scenes, but other than that he’s going great guns.’
‘Hmm. From what he was telling me at the party the script is so fluid and gnomic that I should imagine any change would be easily absorbed.’ Standish smiled. But then his face clouded as he said, ‘But it’s such a dreadful business, isn’t it? And absurd, really – she was such a kid, or so it struck us at the party: prattling and posing all over the place! Vincent took it rather badly – he had been amused by her, although I had the impression one or two of his female guests were less so. Not one to have endeared herself to the ladies, I imagine! But hell, who would have expected that to happen?’
Rosy nodded. ‘Yes, it was an awful shock.’ She hesitated and then added quietly, ‘Especially as it was us who found her – Bartho, me and Cedric and Felix. We had gone for an evening stroll, and suddenly there she was – lying in front of us. It was terrible.’
Standish winced. ‘God, it must have been! What bad luck, coming to Southwold for a bit of a jolly and then being faced with something grotesque like that. Appalling.’ He frowned in kindly sympathy, and then after a pause said, ‘As mentioned, I’m afraid I’ve got to get back to London pretty soon, but may I give you my card? Do look me up when you return and perhaps we might
grace the portals of Ronnie Scott’s jazz club in Gerrard Street. Do you know it? I believe there is rather a choice repertoire scheduled.’
Rosy took his card. ‘I have heard of it but I’ve never been. It sounds fun.’
‘Good. That’s a date, then. Call me at your convenience, Miss Gilchrist.’ He gave her a mocking salute, rose from the table, and negotiating the spaniel now fatly sprawled across the entrance, walked briskly from the pub.
Left alone, Rosy finished her drink and studied his card. It was a good address: close to Chelsea Embankment. Very chic. The nameplate read M. Z. Standish, Accountancy Consultant. She wondered what the Z stood for. Zaccariah? Perhaps she would find out at Ronnie Scott’s.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Amy’s arrival on the platform at Darsham was accompanied by much noise, drama and confusion. When the train halted, a window was yanked down and its door violently rattled. The door did not yield. ‘It’s stuck!’ an anguished voice yelled.
‘Try the next one,’ Bartho was about to yell back, but the next moment he was assailed by a suitcase being hurled from the window. This was followed by a handbag and a bulging holdall. Moments later, accompanied by banshee shrieks, Amy’s agitated face appeared two doors further down. ‘He’s gone!’ the girl bellowed.
‘What?’ Bartho shouted, as he ran towards the carriage.
‘Mr Bates – he’s disappeared down the other end of the corridor!’ She gesticulated wildly in the direction of the engine. ‘Tell them to keep the train!’ she cried.
Bartho wrenched the door open and hauled the protesting girl onto the platform. A whistle blew and the engine roused itself. ‘They’ll take him on to Lowestoft!’ Amy wailed. ‘He won’t like it; he can’t stand fish!’
The train, having gone a few yards, lurched to an abrupt halt. A guard’s peaked cap poked out from a window near the driver’s end. ‘’Ere,’ an irate voice called, ‘is this your blooming hound? Good riddance, nasty little beggar!’ The next moment the whippet had been tossed unceremoniously onto the platform.
Shot in Southwold Page 14
