‘Oh no, miss,’ he had replied casually, ‘nothing about flowers, she was writing a novel; been at it for months.’ When Rosy had asked what sort of novel he had seemed not to hear and had made great play and clatter with stacking the plates onto the trolley. Further diffident enquiries had been met with an impassive countenance and mild shrug. ‘That’s all madam told me,’ he had said, and clearly had no intention of being drawn further.
Rosy was puzzled. Hawkins may have known his employer had been writing a novel but nobody else in the family seemed to. Certainly they had been aware she was engaged on some sort of literary project but from what had been said they clearly assumed it to be something horticultural. Why should they have thought that unless it was what Delia had deliberately implied? Still, flowers and fiction were not mutually exclusive – as Frances H. Burnett’s The Secret Garden had so brilliantly shown. Perhaps Delia’s efforts were intended as something comparable; or a fantasy perhaps in which rhododendrons masqueraded as queens, evil gnomes lurked in the rhubarb patch and lilies took tea with the lilac …
Absorbed by such images and lulled by imagined twitters of robins in hidden gardens, Rosy’s restless mind drifted into reverie and thence into the realms of sleep where questions of murder and motive held no place.
She awoke shortly before dawn and got up to close the window. The night had turned surprisingly chilly, and pretty though the eiderdown was it lacked the insulation effect of a thick service greatcoat. Yes, she thought wryly, being in the ATS had certainly had its uses! Her present coat had been left downstairs, and in any case was hardly of the bed-slinging kind. With shivering optimism she thought there might be a spare blanket in the wardrobe. She recalled her mother’s advice to always keep a blanket in the guest room; candles too, she had said. ‘You can never tell when the next power cut will be. It’s the government – they enjoy the element of surprise.’ At the time Rosy had been indifferent to such adult concerns; but now standing in the chilly dawn she just hoped that her late hostess had shared her mother’s foresight.
She went to the wardrobe and investigated the top shelf. Nothing. Blast! She looked down at the drawer at the base and began to pull it open. It jammed – impeded by a rough plaid blanket. Gratefully she dragged it out and spread it on the bed, and turned to close the drawer. A small white folder lay on the floor which must have come out with the blanket. As she went to replace it in the drawer some pages fell out. Several were blank but a few were covered in a heavy scrawl. She slipped them back and replacing the folder closed the drawer. It seemed an odd place to store stationery but there was no accounting for people’s domestic arrangements – she had had an uncle once who regularly stored jam in his medicine cupboard.
Eager to make the most of the refurbished bed and with only three hours till breakfast she thought no more of it; and drawing the bedclothes over her head closed her eyes.
‘You know I can’t help thinking about what poor Delia was going to tell me,’ mused Lady Fawcett as she and Rosy sat in the morning room perusing the newspapers. ‘I wonder whether I would have been interested.’ (Not unless it concerned the runners at Ascot or which caterers to engage for her forthcoming party, Rosy surmised.) ‘After all,’ Lady Fawcett added, ‘the son seems to think it was nothing.’
‘From what I can make out he seems to think most things are nothing,’ Rosy said. ‘Very pleasant, of course, but I can’t see that the loss of his mother has been much of a blow – unless he has an unusually resilient upper lip.’
‘Hmm perhaps … It makes me wonder how Amy will react to my death when it comes – though I trust not in such circumstances. I do hope the dear girl will cope all right and not cause a rumpus. It would be really too bad.’ Lady Fawcett’s placid brows creased slightly, presumably visualising her daughter haranguing the vicar or incommoding the pall-bearers.
Rosy laughed. ‘Amy will rise to the occasion with élan – just as I must to tidy my room; apart from Hawkins I don’t think there’s any domestic help and I am sure he is far too busy in the kitchen.’ She rose and left her companion gazing pensively out of the window.
Upstairs Rosy tidied the dressing table, removed the plaid rug and made the bed. It was only when she went to replace the blanket in the wardrobe that she was reminded of the folder. Mentally more alert than during the night, she opened it up and glanced at the few pages. Her eye was caught by what appeared to be a heading: The Proposition (Ch.3). Rosy smiled. Could this perhaps be bits of the mythical novel!
The pencilled untidy script gave the impression of being part of a hastily composed rough draft, and intrigued Rosy sat on the bed and started to read:
Lucian Lightspring had had some difficulty in persuading the young man to accompany him. It wasn’t that the youth was nervous or hostile, merely indifferent and seemed in a hurry to be elsewhere. However, with the offer of a Turkish cigarette and exercising the usual charm and blandishments Lucian succeeded in awakening Ralph’s interest, and together they walked down the embassy steps and set off along the Faubourg in the direction of the Rue du Bac. As they went he apprised his companion of the plan. ‘It couldn’t be simpler,’ he explained, ‘all your sister will have to do is be nice to the fellow – you know what I mean,’ he winked and squeezed Ralph’s arm, ‘and after that it’ll be plain sailing. Peters is susceptible and will hand over the file without a murmur, and your delightful sister will receive our undying gratitude and a little emolument.’ He paused, and then added, ‘As a matter of fact quite a large one … as will you if you can spare the time to amuse a homesick banker.’ He gave a soft laugh.
Ralph said nothing and they walked on in silence broken only by an occasional tap from the older man’s cane as he casually flicked a kerbstone or railing. By this time they had reached the door of Lucian’s flat; but before inserting the key Lucian removed his grey homburg, and turning directly to face Ralph fixed him with a clear gaze. ‘You have made rather a good choice,’ he said easily, ‘what one might call a sound investment. You won’t regret it I assure you. My credentials are excellent, you won’t be bored. Besides, there are the parties – very select with the most charming boys and girls. And if you can persuade your sister to act further on our behalf then things could go very well for you …’ Ralph nodded and they went in.
Later that evening sitting with Klaus in the bar of the Crillon he ordered a bottle of Taittinger to celebrate his success. ‘It couldn’t have been easier,’ he laughed, ‘the boy is not the brightest and luckily very fond of his wallet, as is the sister. Once she has acquired the file and we have made a copy you can approach Andreski. Tell him our terms and don’t budge an inch; any concession and he’ll assume you are a fool.’
‘Oh you can rely on me,’ Klaus replied, ‘I make few concessions to anyone – ever.’ He spoke with a smug assurance.
Lucian nodded and sipped his champagne. Inwardly he reflected: deluded little toad, typical of that prosaic mentality – mistakes intransigence for strength! Outwardly he said, ‘Yes things are proceeding well and I have had good reports from our special clients regarding your choice of “material” for them … very discerning they tell me.’ He raised his glass. ‘Let us drink a twofold toast to venality and venery: a most felicitous union!’ They clinked their glasses.
At that point the narrative ceased and Rosy slowly reread the passage, taken aback by what seemed to be its theme. Somehow the topic did not fit her picture of the murdered woman as conveyed by Angela! She flicked to the second page but this displayed merely random jottings of dates (Jan. ’46, May ’47 etc.) and places: Neuilly, Brasserie Lipp, Les Tuileries. There was a short list of pencilled notes and queries:
1) Tie pin – otter’s head too obvious, change to fox.
2) R’s accent? Keep but omit the stammer.
3) Include name of bridge.
4) Substitute bank for Bourse.
5) K’s embassy job? Keep vague but describe room overlooking Seine.
Never having written a novel (nor wa
nted to!) Rosy found such disjointed jottings of little account but assumed they were something to do with the ‘emerging muse’. She turned to the third page. Ah, at least another snippet of proper prose and also with a heading – Ch. 25: Finale.
He contemplated the young man draped on the parapet, irritated by the cool defiance and the smile which no longer charmed. ‘On the whole I think not,’ he replied softly, ‘I have other plans. Besides I make it a rule never to succumb to blackmail – it makes everything so crude. Don’t you think?’ He stepped forward, firmly pressing the other against the broken rail. It collapsed immediately, and with a cry of terror Ralph fell back and plunged into the swirling icy waters.
For a moment Lucian gazed thoughtfully down at the pathetically floundering person who had never learnt to swim; and then lighting the inevitable Abdulla, turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction. ‘Fearful bad luck,’ he murmured to himself.
You can say that again, Rosy thought. What a nasty end! Herself a poor swimmer and hating the cold she felt a stab of empathy for the hapless Ralph. But whether it was the end of the novel itself one couldn’t tell. As indicated, the lines were obviously from the last chapter, but there was nothing to suggest that they were necessarily the concluding ones. Absurdly Rosy felt a pang of frustration; she had become quite intrigued. But what intrigued her even more was that such scenes had presumably come from Delia Dovedale’s pen. So was this the thing she had been so busily concocting during her ‘violet hours’? Nothing to do with plants but all to do with murder and other unsavoury matters! She wondered where the rest of it was and what Angela would say on the subject.
Returning to the morning room eager to tell Lady Fawcett of her find she found the bird had flown. In her place was Hawkins busily dusting and plumping the cushions. Rosy cleared her throat: ‘It was very interesting what you said last night about Mrs Dovedale’s novel. I wonder where it could be. I mean if she had kept it in her desk or bedroom presumably it would have been found by now. I gather that Mr Dovedale has already dealt with the papers in her desk, and neither Mrs Stannard nor Mrs Brightwell found anything of that sort when they came to deal with the personal things in her bedroom. Curious really; I mean if I had the energy to write a novel I would make jolly good sure to put it somewhere safe!’
There was a silence as Hawkins continued to smooth the cushion he was holding and then replaced it carefully on the sofa. ‘Perhaps it was destroyed,’ he said, picking up the other one.
Rosy was about to ask why on earth that would have happened, when he added quietly, ‘Or sent off to a publisher.’
‘Oh – yes, that’s quite a possibility! Do you think so?’
‘I wouldn’t know, madam; but I understand that is what writers tend to do.’ If Hawkins was interested in the matter he certainly didn’t show it, and straightening a pile of Country Lifes enquired whether Rosy would like tomato or mushroom soup at luncheon. ‘Mr Dovedale collects the fungi from the woods,’ he volunteered.
Rosy told him that on the whole she would prefer tomato, a choice Hawkins seemed to approve. He nodded. ‘Safer,’ he said sepulchrally and left the room.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Do you think Felix Smythe would notice if I absented myself from his talk this afternoon?’ Lady Fawcett asked Rosy. ‘He gave one of similar title in London only two weeks ago. Fascinating though the subject is, one can have too much of a good thing … I mean I know the dear Queen Mother has impeccable taste but I think I have heard rather enough of her floral preferences for the time being. It doesn’t do to gild the lily, does it?’
Rosy laughed. ‘I doubt if Felix would agree – but no I am sure he won’t mind if you’re not there. After all it was pure coincidence that we happened to be in the area at all. And knowing Felix he will be so enraptured by his own anecdotes that he’ll notice nothing except the applause at the end.’
Lady Fawcett smiled evidently pleased with Rosy’s response. ‘Mind you,’ she observed, ‘I am a little surprised that the organisers haven’t cancelled the whole thing. Delia’s tragedy will surely have deterred so many from attending.’
‘Hmm. Rather the opposite I should think,’ Rosy remarked dryly. ‘Doubtless the murder will be an added attraction. Besides, it must be a pretty costly business mounting a festival like this; to close it down could be ruinous.’
‘Yes I suppose so – and I daresay Delia would be all for it continuing. She was like that, always thrusting on. Unstoppable really …’ She heaved a sigh – whether from regret or fatigue Rosy wasn’t sure but suspected the latter. ‘Anyway,’ she continued ‘I propose retiring to the conservatory with my library book, Rajahs I Have Known by Hermione Fitz-Hartington. She was our head girl – much quieter than Delia. Had an obsession with elephants, I remember; and judging from the size of her husband, still has … So what are you going to do? Write some letters?’
Rosy said that actually she might go back into Southwold to visit one of the festival tents to pick up some ideas for her apartment balcony. ‘Apparently there’s some woman who makes a speciality of that sort of thing. And then I may just drop in to catch the tail end of Felix’s lecture,’ she grinned.
‘Oh what it is to have energy,’ exclaimed Lady Fawcett, ‘but I do advise you to take a coat. That east wind on the Common could be bitter!’ She shuddered and gathered herself to retire with the rajahs.
Rosy’s principal reason for returning to Southwold that afternoon was less to do with Felix or ideas for her balcony than to simply to enjoy the chance of having a pleasant wander in the town on her own. Constant companionship was all very well but it had its drawbacks, and just occasionally one did rather enjoy the luxury of solitude in which to do one’s exploring.
Unlike Cedric she had no nostalgic recollection of the area and instead indulged herself in its novelty. For half an hour or so she pottered happily in the vicinity of South Green with its gracious Regency houses, quaint side lanes, broad sweeps of turf with bounding dogs; and a little further on of course, the magnificent naval guns. Passing these Rosy walked on towards the windswept sand dunes, where among the dry grass tussocks she gazed out to sea studying the gulls and distant fishing smacks. Apart from the cries of the gulls there was total silence.
She felt both soothed and then strangely moved. Some words of an Ulster poet came to her mind: The dazzle on the sea, my darling, reminds me of you. There was only one person she would have wished to have at her side at that moment – and that could never be again: Johnnie, shot down just before Dresden a decade ago. For an electric moment she heard his bantering laugh, sensed his hand on her shoulder, could feel the texture of the uniformed sleeve and even caught a whiff of his favourite tobacco … She shrugged. Christ Almighty let it go, let it go! But she knew that it never would.
Abruptly she turned from the sea and looked inland surveying the spread of the town, its rearing lighthouse, and to the far left the white tops of the festival marquees on the Common. Seeing these brought to mind another tragedy – less noble perhaps, and more shocking. She shivered. Who on earth could have done that to the woman – and why for God’s sake! Slowly she made her way back to the Market Place, and despite her grim thoughts she continued to absorb the charm of her surroundings. She recalled Mark mentioning something about the Sailors’ Reading Room – apparently a small building on the East Cliff originally established as a sort of recreation space for the local mariners to divert them from the demon drink. It was, she understood, still going strong and was not only a secluded spot for reading and relaxation but also housed a remarkable display of nautical memorabilia, photographs and other items of local interest. ‘Well worth a visit,’ Mark had said, ‘and somewhere to shelter from that persistent wind: it’s a real little bolthole.’
Intrigued by his description she enquired the way, and five minutes later was standing beside its flagpole and reading the inscription over the gabled portico. She had just set her foot on the lower step when the door opened and she nearly bumped into
two people coming out. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ exclaimed the man raising his hat, ‘not looking where we’re—’ He broke off and stared in surprise. ‘Oh, it’s Miss Gilchrist isn’t? We met at the Dovedale’s the other afternoon … Doing a bit of exploring are you? You’ll find it fascinating!’
Rosy nodded and smiled politely at Lucas Brightwell, and also at his pretty companion. For some reason the girl looked vaguely familiar.
Brightwell hesitated fractionally, and then said, ‘This is Miss Morgan, the mainstay of Floyd de Lisle’s publishing firm and without whom the whole thing would go down the tubes!’ He gave a loud laugh, and then added, ‘She has to produce a brief introduction to one of his clients’ local history books, so I was just introducing her to this invaluable institution. Plenty of handy stuff here, isn’t that so Betty?’ He laughed again and the girl looked blank. Then glancing at his watch he exclaimed, ‘My goodness, time you were back at the office, otherwise I shall have your estimable boss on my tail!’ Turning to Rosy he murmured something about hoping to meet her again, and briskly hustled the girl into the road and round the corner.
In the normal way Rosy would have immediately reflected upon the encounter. But as she entered the Reading Room she was so taken by the scene that met her eyes that all other thoughts vanished. She gazed around in delight at the plethora of things nautical and maritime: the walls plastered with old photographs of grizzled coastguards and fisher folk, glass-fronted cabinets of intricately modelled vessels, brightly painted ships’ figureheads, shelves of books and magazines, an obviously much used chess board, worn comfortable chairs, a table strewn with newspapers – and everywhere the soothing smell of books, tobacco and the past. It was an ancient toy shop, a haven, a magical rabbit hole of the quaint and unexpected.
A Southwold Mystery Page 6
