A Southwold Mystery

by Suzette A. Hill

  ‘Well met!’ Huggins exclaimed. ‘I saw you through my binoculars and hoped you would come my way. It’s always nice to have a good chinwag at this time of the evening, wouldn’t you agree?’

  They said nothing but smiled politely. ‘I suggest we take that direction,’ he continued, gesturing to the way they had come, ‘there’s a bit of the beach further on that affords an even better view than from here, and it’s a real sun trap – or at least when the sun is out it is, not now of course.’ He gave a loud laugh that made Cedric wince.

  ‘Actually,’ Felix began, ‘we were about to go, so if you don’t—’

  But any such excuses were drowned by their companion’s continuing babble as he steered them firmly along the strand. He was walking at a brisk pace and Felix’s toes were being jabbed by random sharp pebbles. Really, it was too bad – his sandals were made for sauntering not striding!

  Just as Cedric was about to call a firm halt to things, Claude pointed to a mound of scree and sandy tussocks. ‘That’s where we will sit,’ he announced.

  ‘It’s getting rather late for sitting,’ Cedric replied curtly. ‘I am afraid we shall have to desert you.’

  Claude’s manner which up till then had been effusive and garrulous changed dramatically: ‘Oh dear, desert me, will you?’ he enquired with heavy sarcasm, ‘now that is a coincidence – or should I rather say another piece of the tedious pattern?’ He began to chuckle in a way that was far from genial.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ replied Cedric coldly.

  ‘Then I suggest you let me enlighten you … Pray tarry awhile while I unburden my woes!’ Claude emitted a caustic laugh.

  Despite his distaste Cedric was curious. What the hell was the fellow getting at? He shot a glance at Felix who seemed similarly intrigued. ‘What woes?’ he asked.

  Claude bent to adjust his plimsoll; then lifting his head, said: ‘The woes of persecution.’

  ‘Woes of persecution! What are you talking about?’ Felix gasped. ‘Who’s persecuting you?’

  ‘All of them,’ Claude replied. He picked up a pebble and tossed it casually at a piece of driftwood.

  ‘Ah,’ Felix said earnestly, ‘I know just what you mean: there are some days when other people can be too dreadful for words. I can’t tell you how beastly the tax man has been to me recently! And as for that firm in Madeira which is supposed to be supplying my early blooms – well frankly I think they are being positively vindictive!’ He ran his fingers through his hair which the salt air had made even spikier than usual.

  Claude Huggins regarded him impatiently. ‘Your paltry problems have little to do with me, Mr Smythe. Mine are on a rather grander scale.’

  Felix bristled. ‘Well really! One starts to show a fellow sympathy and—’

  Cedric cut in. ‘Tell us about this grand scale, Mr Huggins,’ he said quietly.

  The man studied him, paused and then said, ‘Since you have the courtesy to show a proper interest I will tell you: I am the victim of an unjust pursuit which will end in my imminent and tragic disposal.’

  ‘I see. And who exactly are these pursuers?’

  Huggins sighed and settled himself more comfortably. ‘The first is dead I am glad to say. I suppressed her with great dexterity and not a little drama.’ He turned to Felix. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Smythe? I believe you were present at the time.’

  Felix gaped and said nothing.

  ‘Yes,’ Huggins continued, ‘Delia had been most tiresome with that stupid novel of hers. I think she thought it was rather clever – too clever by half as things turned out! Had she kept her mouth shut, or rather her pen sheathed, she might be alive now. As it is …’ his voice trailed off and he gazed towards the sea. ‘There were other reasons too but I really haven’t time to go into those.’

  ‘Why not?’ Felix asked.

  ‘Because my dearest brother has shopped me to the police and as a consequence they are doubtless pounding their way here at this very moment.’ Theatrically he cupped his ear: ‘Hark! Are those their dulcet footsteps scurrying nigh?’

  They listened to the enshrouding silence broken only by the gentle slap of distant waves.

  But then the stillness was broken by a harsher sound: Huggins emitting a wild laugh. ‘Yes one is a veritable fugitive from the law. But as they say in the films, there is another gunning for me too and whose clutches I must elude.’

  ‘Whose clutches?’ they demanded in unison.

  He shrugged. ‘Lucas Brightwell of course – or Lucian Lightspring, as our inventive Delia named him. He disposed of de Lisle and now he will try to dispose of me. I know too much and am an embarrassment to him, an encumbrance – just as Delia was to both of us.’ He looked at Felix: ‘You don’t happen to have a cigarette on you by any chance?’

  Felix hesitated. Did he really want to hand one of his best Sobranies to this raving lunatic? Even HM wouldn’t be as gracious as that! On the other hand, since by his own admission the man was a fiendish murderer it might be prudent to do so … after all if he took offence anything might happen! Thus rather nervously Felix complied with the request and even supplied a light.

  Cedric was not really surprised by the reference to Brightwell: it fitted with their suspicions but it was shock to learn that his co-murderer had been this unsavoury specimen. As depicted in the bits they had read, Delia’s novel had stressed the protagonist’s cool ruthlessness. Thus Huggins’ assumption that he was a marked man was probably correct. But if so what was he doing lolling about on the shingle puffing one of Felix’s cigarettes? Surely flight might be the more practical course.

  ‘I expect you would like to know where I obtained the cyanide,’ Claude said casually.

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Spot on. How did you guess?’

  ‘Oh just something he said.’

  ‘Yes Fabius used to fly secret missions into France and Germany in the war. Like an idiot he kept the cyanide capsules they were issued with. He said he had a sentimental attachment to them. Naturally their retention contravened all regulations but somehow he wangled it. I knew where they had been put so I stole them; cut them open, poured the stuff into a file and spiked her soup … It was easy enough,’ he added nonchalantly.

  Cedric was intrigued. ‘So you say Fabius has informed against you. Why?’

  ‘Because he is sneaky fellow. Pure malice! We had an altercation – rather heated I fear. And consequently I trashed his table.’

  Felix gasped. ‘My God so it was you! But he had some superb Meissen plates and Bohemian crystal!’

  ‘Not any more he hasn’t,’ Claude said smugly.

  ‘That was a bit excessive, wasn’t it?’ Cedric remarked. ‘It must have been quite a row.’

  The other gave an indifferent shrug. ‘Entirely his fault. A couple of years ago I had foolishly left my Paris journal lying around. It contained a number of indiscreet entries and unfortunately he read them. At the time he said nothing; but after he had discovered that I had filched his cyanide capsules he became most disagreeable and accused me of Delia’s murder. He had the nerve to say that if I were not his brother he would report me to the authorities. Well you can understand my anger – hence the table. When the police came sniffing around making so-called “routine enquiries” I knew what he must have done. As said, pure vindictiveness … Mind you,’ he added darkly, ‘he has never been quite right since his breakdown after the war.’

  There followed a dazed silence during which the narrator scratched a mosquito bite on his leg.

  Felix cleared his throat and as a change of subject said politely, ‘If you don’t mind my asking, how is your book coming along these days? You were most enthusiastic about it at dinner the other night.’

  There was a long pause. And then eventually Claude said quietly, ‘I imagine the fish are reading it: I threw it into the sea two days ago.’

  ‘You did what!’ Felix exclaimed. He was almost as shocked by that as by the other revelations. Surely the man had been
labouring at it for years! Having bored everyone else with the thing had it now bored him?

  ‘What use is it?’ Claude asked indifferently. ‘In my present situation flowers and shrubs are of little account. The police are closing in; that visit was just the prelude. It is simply a matter of time, short time at that. And besides, as I have said, Brightwell will come for me. So one way or other, by noose or by gun, I am a dead man … always have been really. Except for the time in Paris – that was diverting. Yes, you could say that that was Klaus Huguenot’s finest hour: a prime procurer and oh so discreet! The Russians found me useful too … Hmm, I wonder why Delia assigned me that ridiculous name: a rather laboured play on Claude Huggins I suppose.’ He gave a mirthless laugh, stood up and began to remove his shirt.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Felix faintly, still trying to absorb the man’s words.

  He made no answer but stooping down started to take off his plimsolls. ‘Thank you for your time gentlemen,’ he murmured, ‘an unexpected and most pleasant way to spend my final evening.’

  Before they could say anything he had turned, and now naked except for the drooping shorts began to pick his way over the pebbles towards the waiting sea.

  ‘Cedric,’ whispered Felix hoarsely, ‘I don’t think he is just going for a swim is he?’

  ‘No he isn’t.’

  They watched in silence as the portly figure reached the water’s edge and without a pause began to wade into the surf.

  ‘We could pull him back,’ Felix urged. ‘If we run we can still reach him!’

  ‘There’s no point,’ Cedric replied grimly. ‘What would we save him for? To stand trial and then the noose or at best Broadmoor? Besides if he’s right about Lucas Brightwell he is destined to be shot anyway. As he said, whatever happens there is no future. He has made his choice – to go the same way as his book and the drowned village.’

  Turning from the now darkly swelling sea they began to retrace their steps along the lonely beach. At one point Felix did look back but to his relief saw nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Rosy stepped down from the platform to the sound of warm applause. It was the first time she had spoken at length in public and she had been horribly nervous. But once into her subject and reliving those extraordinary times with the other ATS girls on the south coast she had found herself enjoying the experience. The enthusiastic response was gratifying – and reassuring.

  The only thing to distract her had been the presence of Lucas Brightwell. He and Freda had been sitting in the third row flanked by Mark and Iris. Their neighbour’s normally bland face had seemed pale and strained and on two occasions she had seen him glance at his watch. It had been slightly unsettling. Were her reminiscences being so irksome? But she had also noted Hugh sitting at the back of the hall looking unusually alert and interested, so presumably her performance couldn’t be that bad.

  Once it was over and the audience dispersed, she and Lady Fawcett stayed behind drinking coffee with Iris, Hugh and Mark. And it was then that the most extraordinary thing happened.

  The door of the hall was thrown open and Freda appeared looking visibly upset, in fact Rosy thought she was on the verge of tears.

  ‘What is it?’ Iris exclaimed. ‘You don’t look too good.’

  ‘Oh I’m all right,’ Freda said quickly. ‘But it’s Lucas, he’s in an awful state. He can’t get the car to start – my fault, I was going to get petrol this afternoon and forgot. He’s fearfully angry!’

  Iris laughed. ‘Oh silly you! Come on, we’ll give you a lift of course. Tell Lucas it’s hardly the end of the world. When the garage opens in the morning they can send their pump man with a can; old Bill is awfully good like that.’

  Freda looked slightly relieved and was about to return to the car park when her husband entered.

  In his hand was a length of hose, and addressing Mark he said, ‘Would it be a bore if I siphoned a gallon of petrol from your tank? It’s rather urgent.’

  Mark looked taken aback. ‘Ah, er, yes I suppose—’

  ‘But that’s hardly necessary,’ Iris protested, ‘we have just told Freda that we can drop you off. It’s only a short way.’

  ‘Thank you, but I am going rather further than the village. I have a business appointment and am late already.’

  ‘In that case I suggest you order a taxi,’ Hugh said, ‘although ten o’clock at night does seem rather an odd time for a business meeting. Still, not everyone adheres to the social norm.’

  Whether that last comment was intended as a barb Rosy couldn’t be sure, but it certainly produced a reaction.

  Lucas Brightwell’s eyes swept over the younger man and with an icy sneer he retorted: ‘Some of us lead busy lives – an experience presumably you wouldn’t understand.’ Something must have gone badly wrong inside the suave Brightwell. For when his wife caught his arm and cried, ‘Oh Lucas, how can you say that – it’s too much!’ he swung round, and with a face contorted with fury called her a ‘stupid fucking bitch’.

  There was a stunned silence broken only by the striking of the church clock. And then Hugh stepped forward and hit him.

  Brightwell staggered backwards, lost his balance and fell to the floor. Blood streamed from his nose.

  His assailant glared down at him. ‘You are such a feeble fraud, Brightwell,’ he observed, ‘and no wonder my mother always said you were a cad!’

  ‘But not a feeble one,’ the other snarled. And reaching into his coat pocket he pulled out a pistol … a Webley, but minus its silencer.

  He levelled it at Hugh and flicked the safety catch. The bullet caught its target smack on the shoulder and with a gasp of shock Hugh sank to his knees.

  Brightwell raised his arm to fire again but was incommoded by Rosy’s handbag. It was a large one containing her notes for the talk, and its impact on his head did the job. The bullet hit the side of the stage and the gun slipped from Brightwell’s grasp – to fall at Angela Fawcett’s feet.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she murmured, and bent to pick it up. And then waving it vaguely in Brightwell’s direction, said firmly: ‘And don’t try any funny tricks!’

  My God, thought Rosy, where did she get that from – Bob Hope?

  Mercifully Mark stepped forward and discreetly relieved her of the weapon and the watchers could breathe again, not least the man on the floor.

  Mark ordered Brightwell to lie flat on his stomach, and without taking his eye off him snapped, ‘Someone call the police, we must get them here at once.’

  ‘Is there a telephone?’ Rosy asked. ‘I didn’t see one.’

  ‘There’s one over there,’ said Lady Fawcett pointing to a corner, ‘but I’ll see to it; you had better help Freda, I fear she’s about to faint.’

  She lifted the receiver and dialled the local police station, its number boldly displayed above the phone.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I have to report a rather disturbing incident that has just occurred in Blythburgh’s village hall … Oh, my name? It’s Angela Fawcett, Lady Fawcett. I am staying at Laurel Lodge as a guest of Mr Hugh Dovedale. My host has just been shot and maimed, and it would be helpful if you could attend to the matter … What’s that? No I am not the one responsible and I suggest you come quickly otherwise the actual culprit may foil us and make his escape. I also suggest that you use one of your speedier vehicles, we don’t want any hiccups … Thank you so much. How very kind.’ She gave a gracious smile and replaced the receiver.

  Listening to her Rosy thought it had sounded as if she were ordering wallpaper from Harrods. However, it certainly did the trick for ten minutes later there sounded the purr of an engine, and a flashing blue light illuminated the car park.

  Freda did faint – which was perhaps just as well for she was spared the spectacle of her husband being hauled off the floor, handcuffed and propelled into the waiting police car. It had been an ignominious end to an illustrious career.

  On his way out the captive had suddenly pulled back, and look
ing at Rosy said coldly: ‘Neat work, Miss Gilchrist. I always suspected you were one of life’s interferers – quite lethal in your quiet way!’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ she had wanted to retort, but no sound came and she watched sickened as he was hustled out through the doors.

  The sergeant turned to her. ‘What was that he said, miss?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea – I think he’s mad.’

  A little later when they had a moment together, Lady Fawcett whispered, ‘Very wise Rosy, the less said the better. I cannot see that we have a bearing on any of this. Heads beneath parapet as my Gregory used to say.’

  Rosy nodded, feeling too numbed to say anything to anybody.

  As the guests were being driven back to Laurel Lodge – their host’s shoulder being attended to at the cottage hospital – Cedric and Felix were also driving away from their own ordeal.

  After ten minutes of silent cogitation, Felix murmured tentatively, ‘Uhm … do you think it is absolutely necessary that we should mention this? I mean we didn’t push him into the water, he was planning to go in anyway. I cannot see that our being there has a bearing on anything really.’

  ‘No bearing at all,’ replied Cedric firmly. ‘I think we adopt the parapet policy, that is to say we keep our heads below it. After all, what Claude Huggins chose to do in his spare time was his own affair.’ He paused, and then said, ‘And whatever may or may not emerge in the course of the police enquiries our being on that beach is neither here nor there. The body will be washed up somewhere, they will doubtless find his shirt and shoes and obvious conclusions will be drawn. But it will be nothing to do with us.’

  Felix breathed a sigh of relief. What it was to have such a sensible friend! ‘I am presenting my trophy tomorrow,’ he said brightly.’

  ‘Exactly; and we wouldn’t want anything to interfere with that would we? Besides it is the Cambridge lecture soon: I have my notes to prepare.’