The prospect of being closeted with Claude Huggins without the bolstering presence of Cedric had made Felix uneasy. After all, he barely knew the fellow; and impressive though his garden had sounded, and much lauded by others, he was not entirely sure that he wanted to spend a whole evening mulling over varieties of columbine and phlox. Had Claude been a commercial florist, it might have been different. They could have spent an amicable time disparaging the egregious taste of the flower-buying public, tutting about the rising prices at Convent Garden (not to mention the increasing ill-manners of its porters) and speculating just how much longer Moyses Stevens was going to hold sway in central London. And after all, had there been a lacuna in the conversation Felix could always have filled it with the saga of his Royal Warrant and the Queen Mother’s graciousness in granting it.
Unfortunately he rather suspected that Claude Huggins knew little of the flower trade and even less of Royal Warrants. Exotic grasses and coastal sub-species appeared to be his main speciality, and frankly Felix cared not a fig for either. He envisaged the likely tedium of the visit but comforted himself with the thought that at least if things became too sticky he could always enliven matters by enquiring of his host exactly how much longer he expected his garden to survive the ravages of wave and wind before toppling into the sea to nestle with the rest of the submerged parish … Yes, if the worst came to the worst he could always play the Dunwich Erosion Card: a handy backstop should all else fail.
However, such mental preparation proved largely unnecessary. That morning Claude telephoned to ask if Felix would mind frightfully if there were a slight change of plan. Apparently his oven had given up the ghost and the electricity was on the blink. Thus in the circumstances it seemed sensible to switch the venue of Dunwich for his brother’s house in Walberswick. This, he explained, was a much smaller residence but in the present situation safer. ‘Of course Fabius will be there too,’ he added, ‘but I can assure you he’s perfectly docile.’ He gave a thin chuckle. It was only later that it dawned on Felix that the reference had been not to the dog but the brother … Oh well, so long as he is docile does it matter, he thought. Might even be handy.
Despite the warmth of the day Felix found himself that evening driving through Walberswick in a veil of mist. It cast a vaguely romantic aura on the clusters of cottages and partially ruined church. Aesthetic no doubt, but it didn’t make finding the Huggins’ place any easier. Claude’s directions had been sparse. He had been told to look for a small whitewashed cottage with wooden railings (Could have been one of many!) What was its name? Oh yes, something ridiculous like Hampton Court; an attempt at irony he supposed. He drove past the two pubs, peering irritably from side to side and finally located it set back slightly at an angle to the road. Contrary to what he had heard of Claude’s domain this was indeed of modest dimension – less ‘bijou’ than shed size, and a rather shabby shed at that. But assuming the food was edible and, as Claude had promised, the owner docile things should be all right.
He parked the car, negotiated the narrow path and rapped firmly on the door. It was opened by what at first Felix took to be a scarecrow: a gaunt ramshackle figure in carpet slippers, collarless shirt and dilapidated trousers hitched uncertainly by frayed braces; and whose straggling beard and shoulder-length hair seemed virtually indistinguishable. The figure looked at the visitor saying nothing, and it occurred to Felix that perhaps Claude’s brother ran some sort of refuge for tramps.
‘Er … I’m Smythe,’ he began nervously. ‘I believe I am expected for dinner.’ He smiled brightly.
‘So my brother tells me,’ the other replied slowly, extending a tentative hand. ‘You had better come inside.’
He led the guest through a low-slung hallway and then into an unexpectedly large room: a room that was not dissimilar to a minor bombsite. Books, furniture, newspapers, discarded garments and all the random debris of years lay strewn in profligate disorder. It was like confronting a sort up visual uproar. A pair of Burmese cats crouched on a bookcase like vagabond sentinels, surveying the blitz and its intruder with studied indifference.
But what riveted Felix was the vision in the centre: amid the appalling chaos stood a richly polished Georgian table resplendent with the most exquisite silver, white napery and flickering candelabra. Posies of flowers, delicate Sèvres and Meissen porcelain and glinting crystalware had been arranged with meticulous care. Such an elaborate display must have taken an age to assemble and the effect was dazzling … and given the context impossibly surreal.
‘How beautiful,’ Felix said faintly, not sure whether he was in the Ritz or a doss house.
‘Hmm,’ muttered Fabius. ‘I like to eat decently in the evening, puts a full stop to the day. I’m not one of those to slum it with bread and cheese and a tray on my knee. No fear! After all, one must maintain standards.’ He looked rather grim and Felix nodded in hasty agreement.
There was a silence during which Felix wondered where Claude was but didn’t like to ask. Instead he looked at the cats. ‘Charming creatures,’ he remarked vaguely.
‘No they’re not, they’re bloody,’ the other replied. ‘I only keep them because of Claude. He kept moaning that they interfered with his work. So for a bit of peace and quiet I offered to keep them here – bloody things.’
Felix cleared his throat. ‘And er, is your brother coming?’
For the first time the other smiled. ‘Oh yes, old Claude’s here already. I’ve set him to work on the soufflé. He likes doing that – it’s the rotating of the egg whisk, his one culinary skill. Keeps his mind off that confounded book of his … Still, I suppose with you being here there’ll be no holding him.’ He sighed. ‘But at least we’ve got the Château Mouton Rothschild to compensate, it’s a 1945.’ He nodded in the direction of a rickety sideboard where there stood a pair of stylish claret jugs and a large decanter of whisky.
Crikey, Felix thought, Cedric will be wild with envy! But it serves him right for being such a traitor. He smiled, anticipating the satisfaction of telling the coward what he had missed.
The meal, including the soufflé, had been good and the claret excellent; and despite the incongruity of the dreadful surroundings – and, as Fabius had predicted, Claude’s lengthy discoursing on his project – Felix had found the experience not displeasing. Unlike his brother, Fabius spoke only occasionally but when he did it was to utter something mildly gnomic or unrelated to whatever it was Claude was expounding. On the whole Felix welcomed these contributions.
‘You know what,’ Fabius suddenly said apropos of nothing, ‘I think the son did it.’
There followed a blank pause; and then Claude said, ‘I take it you are referring to the tragedy of poor Delia.’
‘Of course I am,’ Fabius replied, ‘what other topic of current interest is there?’ Claude looked pained, but before he could resume his own theme the other had continued. ‘You see,’ he said, addressing Felix, ‘if you ask me, that Hugh Dovedale has always been odd – ever since he was in short pants. A funny cove altogether; not what you would call orthodox. A bit weird I should say.’
Felix contemplated the Wild Man of Borneo sitting opposite him at the lavish dining table in its shambolic setting. ‘In what way weird?’ he enquired politely.
Fabius shrugged. ‘What they call psychological – to do with his mother I suppose. Oedipus gone wrong, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He winked at one of the cats and took another helping of plum tart.
‘Yes, well I am sure our guest doesn’t want to listen to your unsavoury speculations, Fabius,’ Claude intervened quickly.
As it happens Felix would have very much liked to hear some unsavoury speculations – whether about Hugh Dovedale or anyone else. However, he didn’t get the chance for at the next moment Fabius announced he would treat their visitor to a glimpse of his priceless collection of old photographs. ‘You’ll like them,’ he said sternly.
Felix said that he was sure he would and diffidently enquired their subject.
; ‘Suffolk shire horses circa 1900. They’re my speciality; few people have so many.’ He left the table and went to rummage noisily among a conglomeration of boxes in the corner of the room.
‘You are privileged,’ Claude remarked dryly, clearly piqued that his own obsession was being upstaged, ‘he doesn’t show them to everyone, only the chosen few.’
Felix was startled; and fingering his chic bow tie wondered which was preferable – to be seen as having an affinity with cart horses or to be dubbed one of Fabius Huggins’ elect. Neither was especially appealing. However, before he could explore the matter further his host was at his elbow, and clearing a space on the table began to deal out the photographs in front of him like playing cards. The Chosen One gazed down at the rows of sepia beasts with their massive rumps and mop-like hooves. Apart from the fact that some had knotted manes and some did not there seemed little distinction. ‘Remarkable,’ he declared.
After a while and further tactful epithets, Felix managed a covert glance at his watch and was able to make suitable excuses about the lateness of the hour and the likelihood of fog. ‘It was quite misty when I arrived,’ he said hopefully.
The brothers concurred; and sombre valedictions over, their guest picked his way down the unlit path wondering vaguely how long it would take Fabius to dismantle the splendour of his table. Half the night he imagined. And the following evening – would the ritual once more be so enacted? He rather thought it would.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Affable though his hosts had been Felix was glad to get away. As feared, Claude did go on rather, especially about the niceties of indexing, and the brother’s endless photographs of hulking farm horses had challenged his patience more than somewhat.
Still, the latter’s comment about Hugh Dovedale had certainly been intriguing and he wished he had heard more – though whether such views could be taken seriously was hard to say. But whatever the chap’s own oddity he had certainly been generous with the food and drink. Too generous really, as the latter, plus the two cups of coffee, was beginning to taunt his bladder. If he drove quickly he could surely reach the hotel without inconvenience … But then that was just it: what with the encroaching fog and the unfamiliar twisting road across the heath, driving quickly was more than a touch hazardous. He eased his foot from the accelerator, and to distract his mind thought about the Queen Mother.
She really had been most gracious at their last meeting and he liked to think that his suggestions about the gardenias had been appreciated. She had certainly looked very interested. But then one never quite knew with royalty … perhaps she had been mentally mixing a gin and tonic. Or was that the footman’s job? Possibly. To the faint sound of bustling corgis he brooded upon the drinks protocol of the royal household. It wasn’t the best of subjects; for images of gin, tonic water and flunkies wielding soda siphons rekindled thoughts of his bladder. How vexing, he really would have to stop!
He slowed seeking a suitable place to park. By now the fog had come down quite heavily and he was hard-pressed to see the side of the road – or indeed the reeded ditch running close beside it. He drew up carefully, got out and promptly slipped on a slurry of mud. Steadying himself he could just make out a small plank bridging the ditch into the nearby field. Old habits of propriety die hard, and while it was unlikely that at such an hour he would be caught in someone’s headlights, instinct prompted him to move a few yards off. Gingerly he crossed the ditch, and standing in the lee of a small hedge unbuttoned his trousers.
Phew! What relief! Fog permitting he could now drive on to Aldeburgh liberated from such concerns and be greeted by a nightcap and a warm bed. He thought of the comfortable room with curtains drawn and neatly turned down covers. How restful! He started to squelch his way back over the rutted ground peering for sight of the wooden plank.
He had just put a tentative foot on it when something appalling happened. There was a sudden sloshing noise. And out from the reeds a shape reared up at him: something big and solid, with glittering eyes, monstrous orange fangs and outlandish white whiskers. He froze, paralysed with horror. ‘Christ almighty!’ he gasped.
The thing gasped in return – or rather made what sounded like a rasping belch, a sharp creaking noise like a rusty hinge. Felix stared transfixed by the vision. The chomping jowls loomed enormous; and for a split second he shut his eyes vainly hoping to make the figment vanish. It did not but remained only too palpable. And then – horror of horrors – it began to advance slowly, dragging a thick rope-like tail swishing in the grass with sinister rhythm.
Felix felt he was going to faint. However, instinct prevailed and he moved instead: backing hastily and then tried to leap sideways. But the creature, by now making odd grunting sounds and awaking all the terrors of childhood, also leapt; and then with a purposeful sally thrust itself towards Felix’s right foot.
This was too much, and with a banshee shriek which later embarrassed him Felix hurled himself towards the road, missed the plank and slid into the ditch. Careless of the brackish water he staggered on wildly to the sanctuary of the car convinced the fiend was at his heels.
Five minutes later with breath recovered, nerves moderately under control and trousers soaked, he thought about the blithering coypu. Yes, that’s what the bastard had been – one of those beaver things Claude Huggins had been talking about at supper; one of the ‘fascinating fauna so typical of our Suffolk marshes.’ At the time he had thought the man was exaggerating but now he had first-hand knowledge. Rotten sodding thing! Shouldn’t be allowed! He drove on grimly through the fog, desire for a warm bed replaced by need for a searing brandy.
But alas, this was not to be the last of Felix’s trials that night. More was in store.
What with the fog, tiredness, and his mind still addled by the features of the coypu, he had somehow taken a wrong turn; and instead of driving south to Aldeburgh had in fact been trundling in the opposite direction – indeed, had reached the approaches to Southwold. Here the fog was much thicker and it was only after he had driven over the Buss creek and recognised the vague outline of the King’s Head that it dawned on him where he was. He groaned. ‘That’s all I bloody need. If it’s not one bloody thing it’s the frigging other.’
He cursed himself but also his two hosts. After all if it hadn’t been for Claude Huggins’ effusive insistence he could have spent the evening safely enwrapped at The Sandworth sampling their excellent cocktails and sporting his new smoking jacket. It was too bad!
He heaved a sigh and started to turn the car, but in mid-manoeuvre was struck with a thought. What with the strain of the drive and stress from the creature he could do with a fag and a short stroll, perhaps even a whiff of sea air; a calming respite before driving all the way back to Aldeburgh. Thus righting the wheel he continued slowly along Station Road and up the High Street in the direction of the sea front. By this late hour there wasn’t a soul about – or if there was the enfolding murk would have made it impossible to tell.
He drew up in the Market Place now utterly deserted and without a glimmer of light even from the windows of The Swan. He got out, and lighting a cigarette wandered along the narrow alley of Church Street towards East Green. The air was still and faintly clammy, and the little houses jostling either side shrouded in mist and sleep. Despite the silence his thin shoes, now heavily caked in mud, made no noise, and he almost felt as if he were walking in a dream. A dream considerably more agreeable than the nightmare of the bloody coypu!
Emerging into the Green he was confronted by the lighthouse looming spectral in the mist and casting a pallid ray towards the sea and its sailors. He leant on the railings above the promenade hearing the mournful bittern-like calls of the fog horns far out in the bay; and below onshore the dragging slap of wave on shingle. He remained standing for some time, lulled by the sounds and savouring the merest touch of a breeze ruffling his hair. Only at this point could he have felt such a touch; a few yards inland the air stayed eerily calm.
He lit
another cigarette and walked on towards South Green. This too was swathed in an enveloping mist, and the grand houses skirting its western edge utterly obscured. He hesitated, wondering whether to walk straight back along the central path to the Market Place or to take the more circuitous route past the six sentinel cannons on the cliff and then to veer inwards. He decided on the latter. What with all the festival commitments, not to mention the ghastly murder, there had been little chance for sightseeing and as yet he had only seen the artillery depicted on postcards. He would take a quick look now – as good a time as any – and then make for the car and home.
He strolled across the turf peering at the outline of the guns – or rather at their blurred dark shapes. From his current vantage they could have been anything, rocks or giant pieces of driftwood. But as he moved nearer he could just make out the long barrels and wheeled undercarriages. He went up to the first for a closer inspection and despite the dark and the mist could detect enough to be impressed by its strength, solidity and fine preservation. He ran his fingers along the hard cold metal. Even in the present gloom he felt that collectively they made an imposing, heroic effect. ‘Rather good theatre,’ as Cedric might have said.
For a brief moment Felix saw himself on the nursery floor sprawled out with his fort and collection of lead soldiers. Among the Howitzers and machine guns there had been a couple of grey cannons – his pride and joy and far smarter than those mouldy tin things that belonged to Robert Wilson next door. He smiled in superior recollection.
And then as he took a final look around his gaze fell on the gun at the end of the row, and smile turned to a puzzled frown. There was something on it surely, a shape of something rather big. How odd.
A Southwold Mystery Page 9
