More noise. Yelps from the dog, squeals from the owner. As the two collided, yelps were replaced by staccato barks, and squeals by hooted endearments. Bartho rescued the jettisoned baggage and, as hastily as he could, hustled girl and whippet out of the station and into the car park.
Lady Fawcett had tactfully elected to remain in the car rather than to greet her daughter on the platform. Recalling her own youth, it had seemed diplomatic to allow the two young people to meet on their own. However, having heard a little of the commotion emanating from the station she felt that her decision had been not only kindly, but immensely sensible. She looked at her handbag and wondered if a third aspirin might be injudicious.
‘Mummy!’ Amy roared as she rushed towards the car, arms waving jubilantly, ‘You’ll never guess, Mr Bates has been so naughty …’
‘Oh dear,’ murmured her mother, and gave a brave smile.
Other than the traveller’s joyful chatter, the journey back to Southwold was uneventful. Amy had, of course, been inquisitive about the murder, but both Bartho and Lady Fawcett had decided that at this early stage the barest details would suffice. The subject was unlikely to go away and there would be plenty of time for the girl to indulge her curiosity.
As they reached the outskirts of the town, Bartho thought it a good idea to make a brief detour before depositing her at The Crown. Thus at the police station they turned left down Pier Avenue and drove to the seafront. ‘Ooh,’ Amy exclaimed, ‘you never told me Southwold had a pier. Has it got slot machines? I’d love to have a go sometime! I’ve got a lucky streak, you know.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ her mother said, ‘you cost me a fortune at the Conservatives’ summer fete. They made so much I nearly cancelled my subscription.’
‘We’ll approach the centre via North Parade,’ Bartho said, turning right, ‘and then you can get a good view of the lighthouse. It’s quite spectacular – it rears up at you from the very midst of the town!’
Amy was duly impressed. But she had also glimpsed the row of colourful beach huts below the promenade. ‘How quaint,’ she enthused. ‘Can one go in?’
‘No,’ Bartho said quickly, ‘they are all private.’ He accelerated briskly and steered the car back into the high street and drew up in front of The Crown.
After Amy and her impedimenta had been safely decanted and guest and dog shown the bedroom, Lady Fawcett suggested it would be nice for them all to take a stroll on South Green. ‘I expect you and Mr Bates will want to stretch your legs after that long train journey,’ she said to Amy, ‘and I’ll ask Rosy if she would care to join us.’
Amy thought that a fearfully good idea and that she could then tell them all about her Shropshire visit and the prowess of Mr Bates.
Thus a little later and joined by Rosy, they wandered on to South Green’s gracious expanse, where, in time-honoured tradition, the visitor was introduced to the elegant mix of Edwardian and Regency villas skirting its edge, the six canons on Gun Hill, the octagonal casino, and the vast vista of sea, sky and whirling gulls.
The whippet was in its element, sniffing the air and scampering around in an ecstasy of adventure. His capers were interrupted at one point by his mistress, who insisted on placing him on one of the gun barrels for a photograph. Like Felix earlier, the whippet posed obligingly (albeit precariously) and gave a couple of jaunty yaps – though unlike the other film star, seemed reluctant to display his left profile to best effect.
For a few minutes they sat on one of the seats overlooking the sea while Bartho gave Amy a meticulous account of The Languid Labyrinth, its layers of meaning, contemporary resonances, subtle ambiguity, and the tantalising fusion of myth and reality. ‘If you like Cocteau,’ he said earnestly, ‘you will love this!’
Amy did not know if she did like Cocteau, or indeed quite who he was. But she did know Alfred Hitchcock. ‘I say,’ she said, brightly, ‘since you are the director, have you given yourself a titchy walk-on part – you know, just to show that you’re the boss?’ She giggled, and added, ‘Perhaps you could even tote Mr Bates behind you on his lead!’ She looked fondly at the dog, who, having made its gun-top debut (and perhaps lulled by Bartho’s commentary), was now immobile and studying a blade of grass.
‘Well,’ Bartho replied doubtfully, ‘that might be seen as a bit derivative … and in any case it’s not the sort of film that—’
Fearing that he was about to take the spiel further, Rosy hastily asked about Amy’s Shropshire trip.
Amy replied it had been splendid and the dog’s contribution first-rate. ‘He gave the girls such a nice time,’ she enthused, ‘and went like the clappers!’ Addressing the whippet, she crooned, ‘Didn’t you, my pretty boy?’ The pretty boy regarded her with round innocent eyes and then promptly fell asleep.
‘Yes, well we don’t need to hear the gruesome details,’ her mother said quickly. ‘Now, why don’t we all have a nice ice cream? They do excellent ones in that shop in Queen Street.’ She gestured towards the edge of the green and set off smartly. The dog, roused from its well-earned rest, followed dutifully.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cedric had fallen asleep at midnight, but in his usual way had woken at three: the usual pattern of the elderly, he supposed. Elderly? No, of course not – he wouldn’t be that for at least another decade! Nevertheless, it was something that those beyond a certain age seemed to share. Come five o’clock he would doze off again until seven perhaps, or with luck seven-thirty. But until then there was always the crossword. He stretched out his arm for the bedside light and picked up the discarded newspaper.
He had just polished his reading glasses and embarked on the third clue down, when he heard a faint noise: a sort of creaking, scrabbling sound coming from below. Very slight but distinctly there.
In his warm bed, Cedric froze. A rat? He had always had a fear of rats ever since a friend of his had related an anecdote of finding one sitting on the driving seat of his tank in the Ardennes. ‘I kid you not,’ his friend had declared, ‘he was the size of Göring and with a face like Goebbels.’ Apparently, the creature had scampered away, but such had been the drama of the narrative that it had always remained in Cedric’s imagination. However, dismissing such nonsense, he concentrated his attention on the crossword. It really was a devil this week; the setter was clearly of a fiendish bent …
Oh hell, there it was again! A definite click. And what was that, a footfall? Ridiculous! It was doubtless Felix gone to spend a penny. But in which case surely he would have seen the passage light under the door; Felix was not one to blunder around in darkness. No fear, arc lamps at full blast!
Cedric lay and cogitated. If it wasn’t a rat all would be fine – he could investigate with impunity … But of course it wasn’t a bloody rat, he thought impatiently, merely one of those ‘things that go bump in the night’ – the bugbear of an insomniac. Still, perhaps he ought just to listen on the landing, but he certainly had no intention of traipsing all the way downstairs.
He got up and cautiously opened the bedroom door and cocked an ear. Apart from the slow ticking of the clock from the kitchen, there wasn’t a sound. He closed the door, but before returning to bed opened the window and peered out … Nothing. Darkness and the hoot of an owl … Or had there been something else? He couldn’t be sure. But as he was about to adjust the curtain he thought he saw a faint glow of light at the curve in the lane. A torch, a car headlamp? Perhaps the moon wafting from a cloud, its beam flickering in the branches of a tree … Well, it wasn’t a rat, that was for sure, and it probably wasn’t anything else of consequence. There was another cottage further up the lane. Perhaps its occupants had been out admiring the night sky or returning from some late-summer ritual, or whatever it was the denizens of Southwold did at three in the morning!
Cedric clambered back into bed, where, jettisoning the crossword and worn out by the unaccustomed activity, he fell fast asleep until breakfast time.
‘Well, you were making a racket in the night,’ g
rumbled Felix, helping himself liberally to marmalade and toast, ‘enough to wake the dead! It’s a wonder I didn’t have a nightmare.’
Cedric shrugged. ‘I thought I heard something, that’s all.’
‘Heard something? I should think you did, crashing about like that! I thought you were going to wrench the window out of its casing!’
‘It was a trifle stiff. It’s the wood in these old cottages, it gets warped,’ Cedric replied indifferently.
‘Like a lot of us,’ Felix quipped, ‘including that Kestrel fellow. He was most uncivil the other day. I had merely said that I thought his handling of the breakwater scene was a trifle exaggerated, and he scowled like hell and said what did I know about acting. I ask you! Simply no manners, some people.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Oh my goodness, never a dull moment! I must dash for the next shoot. Apparently I am to reappear at the height of the Somme as some dead Tommy.’ He hesitated and frowned. ‘Though why not an officer, I cannot imagine. See you later!’
Left alone, Cedric finished his breakfast at a placid pace and even completed five more clues from the previous night’s failure. He then thought about Felix and gave a rueful smile. These celluloid capers were beginning to take him over, which was all very well provided the interest was confined to Southwold. To have it continued in London would be wearisome. Once back in town he must steer him firmly in the direction of Bountiful Blooms again and the floral requirements of the Queen Mother. It was time normality was resumed! There was a crash in the porch: the paperboy with the morning’s delivery. Cedric retrieved it, eager to see the crossword solutions. Then, the main task done, he glanced at the editorial column … Hmm, the usual mix of gloom and facetiousness. He scanned the previous page and noticed an article on the Covent Garden flower market – its charm and historic role in supplying the nation’s florists. How timely. He would cut it out for his friend’s attention as a subtle reminder of the real world.
Having checked the obituary column (an essential daily perusal), he was about to clear the breakfast things when his eye fell on an item concerning the recent party political conference. MP for North Finsborough on Sparkling Form the headline ran. Cedric frowned slightly. North Finsborough? Why did he know that name? Oh, of course, it was the constituency of Tom Carshalton, relative of the Tildred girl. He read on.
What had the makings of a rather staid assembly in Eastbourne last week was certainly given a welcome fillip by Tom Carshalton. Long regarded for his genial style and safe judgement, he has now shown himself a remarkable mimic and comic raconteur – a talent that won him much applause (and surprise) from the delegates. We have to admit that in comparison with the PM’s rather lacklustre performance Carshalton struck a very lively note, delighting party loyalists not just with his merry wit but by some hard-hitting thrusts at the opposition. It was an impressive contribution – and perhaps the prime minister should take note.
Cedric raised an eyebrow. On sparkling form, was he? Full of merry wit? How resilient of Carshalton to be the life and soul of the party conference while his young relative had just been brutally murdered and the funeral not yet held. Evidently a rising star and not one to be fazed by such an event … But then, he reflected, perhaps that was the mark of a true politician: to hold steadfast in the field of battle and not be deflected by such personal bombshells. Clearly a man of dedicated ambition. A bit like young Hackle, really.
Yes, indeed, as Angela had remarked, given the grim circumstances Bartholomew was being remarkably sanguine. After all, the girl had been a member of his cast. He had known her in London and must have thought she had some quality to offer – if only as a foil to the lavish Alicia. And yet, a bit like Carshalton, he seemed relatively detached from the event. It was the film that absorbed his emotional energies, that and preserving the reputation of his cousin’s beach hut. Still, Cedric mused, you never quite knew with the young: a bit like Hartley’s past, they were a foreign country and did things differently there. Or so it often seemed.
He wondered idly what the boy had done with the two things they had found on the floor of the hut, the lipstick top and the Monaco franc. Kept them safely? Shoved casually into a pocket? Or (and it wouldn’t surprise him) thrown firmly into the sea? As far as he was aware, Hackle hadn’t mentioned them again. Perhaps he should make a mild enquiry … Or would that seem officious?
His mind turned to something else: the weather. It had been drizzling earlier on, but over breakfast the gloom had lifted to be replaced by a surly sun, which now had suddenly burgeoned into blazing light. A lover of heat, Cedric’s instinct was to retire into the conservatory and bask lizard-like, but stern duty directed him elsewhere. He would take the opportunity to go for a brisk walk across the Common … No, not a brisk walk, a relaxing ramble to savour the pleasure of summer sunshine and the unaccustomed freedom of rural space. He would take his camera and perhaps have a potter around the imposing water tower, which, like the lighthouse, had become a Southwold landmark and entirely dwarfed its modest neighbour, the Victorian original. So far he had only viewed it from a distance and this would be the time to look more closely. It was hardly an aesthetic edifice, but certainly striking and well worth closer investigation.
He set out full of purpose along Godyll Road skirting the Common – but was waylaid by a cricket ball flying from the direction of Eversley House, the boys’ prep school. Luckily, it didn’t hit him, but it was a near miss. Small boys rushed forward to utter shrill and grovelling apologies; and indignant though he had been, Cedric was sufficiently disarmed to linger some time at the edge of the turf and applaud their game.
As he watched he pondered his own youth. Had he really had that raucous energy and bounding zest? He supposed he must have, but couldn’t be sure, and certainly not on the cricket pitch or rugger field (far too cold and windy!). Fencing had been his preferred pastime at school, that and a little table tennis. But the more rumbustious sports had eluded him – and he them. There had, of course, been chess, he mused, and also—
‘Howzat!’ A falsetto voice yelled, and Cedric’s ruminations were broken.
He continued on his way towards the tower, stopping occasionally to gaze up at the sky and admire the swirling undulations of an orange kite. Its fluttering progress awoke childhood memories, and with a start he recalled the curious exhilaration of being in control of something so high and so remote.
But then for some reason (a twittering lark, a cheer from the schoolboys?) he glanced back, and saw walking some yards behind him a man with a dog. The dog was scruffy, the man familiar: the policeman Nathan.
Dog and handler looked much the same, both heavy-jowled and of bloodhound mien. And for one wild moment Cedric wondered if the hound was a trained sniffer and he was being trailed by the Southwold constabulary. Surely not. Really, he was becoming like Felix: paranoid! Clearly, Nathan was off duty and simply taking his own pet for a walk. Pet? The creature looked distinctly dodgy to Cedric.
But then so did its master. For as the chief inspector drew level (Cedric having paused to allow the straining creature room to thrust past), he coughed and hesitated as if about to say something; but then, slightly to Cedric’s surprise, pressed on. Whether such volte-face was due to the strength of the dog or to Nathan having second thoughts, Cedric was unsure. But he was relieved, anyway. The chap had clearly recognised him, and the last thing Cedric wanted was to be further reminded of the murder at such a time as this. He was here to relax, dammit!
But it was too late. The sight of the police inspector had unsettled him, and the appeal of the water tower began to fade as once more his mind was beset with images of the beach hut and what they had found there. He wondered again whether he should ask Hackle if he had kept the two ‘clues’. There were two options: to satisfy his curiosity by mentioning it to the young man (albeit perhaps risking a snub), or tactfully to say nothing and thus remain in ignorance. Hmm … tricky.
He recalled the way the chief inspector had just looked at him: not suspicious
ly, exactly, but with a distinctly quizzical glint. He had definitely been about to speak. Perhaps the police had found something or had a fresh theory and were thus planning another spate of questions. If that were the case, then the second option of not saying anything to Hackle would be by far the more sensible. After all, if one knew nothing how could one possibly comment? Yes, when in doubt a discreet silence was invariably the best course, as was keeping a discreet distance. After all, it was the Hackles’ hut, and it was entirely up to Bartholomew what he did with those things. Why should he and Felix get dragged in?
He continued in the direction of the tower, stopping to take a couple of photographs. But somehow its interest had palled, as had the sunlit marshes. And instead of moving closer he decided to return to the cottage and follow his original instinct: to sit in the warmth of the conservatory or on its veranda and immerse himself in making notes for his new researches. A most agreeable prospect. And perhaps by that time the troubling picture of the beach hut and its possibly gruesome secret would have been erased … or at least blurred.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘Oh, by the way,’ Felix said later that day, ‘I bumped into Rosy Gilchrist earlier on and she wants us to join her and Angela for a drink this evening. I gather Amy has arrived and Bartholomew is taking the girl out for a gargantuan feast somewhere – The Wentworth at Aldeburgh, I think. So apart from the pleasure of our scintillating company, they think it would be a chance to have another look at the letter that Ramsgate left here. Apparently, Angela is worried.’
Shot in Southwold Page 15
