A Southwold Mystery

by Suzette A. Hill

  He depressed the accelerator.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Seated between the two officers in the back of the police car Lucas Brightwell began to contemplate his next move; and then feeling the pinch of the handcuffs realised that all moves were barred.

  One way or another it would all come out; not just the Paris high jinks (and his London recreations) but the business of the wretched Randolph and that oily little prick of a publisher. Grasping fool! He had swallowed that tale of a French firm wanting his book like a fledgling grabbing a worm. The shooting had been easy – but in the event it had somewhat backfired. Brightwell gave a mirthless laugh which startled his captors.

  ‘Glad you find it funny, sir,’ said the sergeant woodenly.

  ‘Oh it’s going to get much funnier yet,’ he replied bitterly.

  An image of the watercolour danced before his eyes and he flinched. There could be only one person who had sent that, the Dovedale’s manservant. He had been in Paris with them and said to be a bit of an artist. Nasty chap – too smooth by half, and watchful with it! It was Freda’s fault. If she had filled the car up as he had instructed he could have nipped over to Dunwich and done the job. Simple. Just as it had been with the other two. But with Claude alive he didn’t stand a chance; there was no loyalty there, never had been – which was why the Soviets had found him such an easy tool in Paris.

  He brooded on Claude, or ‘Klaus’ as Delia had dubbed him, and resolved that whatever happened, doubtless the worst, he would make sure that he swung too. What was the expression the underworld used – to sing like a canary? Well he would sing all right!

  As if to prepare for his aria Brightwell began to whistle a couple of bars from an Ivor Novello musical.

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped the young constable.

  He relapsed into silence. It was women really: they messed things up. Freda, lethal Delia, and then of course the prying Gilchrist girl – fancy being felled by a sodding handbag! If it hadn’t been for them, particularly Delia with her literary delusions, his pleasurable life could have continued as smoothly and lucratively as ever. As it was …

  At the station Brightwell was cautioned, given a cup of tea and asked if he would require a solicitor.

  He sighed wearily. ‘Absolutely no point, no point at all. Hurry up, let’s get on with it.’

  And so they did.

  It had been Jennings’ late shift and he had not been required at the station until later that morning. It had meant a nice lie-in and a long breakfast.

  When he arrived at his desk he sensed an air of buoyancy, a muted excitement which he suspected had little to do with the sudden change in the weather from drizzle to dazzling sun. Evidently something had happened in his absence.

  ‘There’s been an arrest,’ the desk duty sergeant told him ‘and the inspector wants you to report immediately.’

  Jennings did as directed and entered to find his boss on the telephone. ‘Yes, yes sir,’ the inspector was saying, ‘I take your point about him being a bit of a bigwig and to go carefully, but I can assure you by his own admission he has broken every rule in the book including murder. He made a full confession last night and very colourful it was … No we won’t release details to the press … But one thing: I don’t think the Chief Constable will be pleased – they play golf together.’ He gave a sepulchral chuckle and put down the receiver.

  Turning to Jennings he said, ‘Ah, you’ve missed some fun and games, my lad. While you were languishing in your bed, some of us have been working. I was called in late last night to conduct an interrogation of Mr Lucas Brightwell. Worn out I am, but all very instructive – most instructive.’ He grinned.

  Jennings was taken aback. ‘But we didn’t have grounds.’

  ‘Oh yes we did. Initially of the attempted murder of Mr Hugh Dovedale – but there’s going to be a lot more than that I can tell you.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Over in Blythburgh. He used a gun on Mr Dovedale: a Webley, the same model that killed de Lisle. A silencer was found under the dashboard in his car. When we enquired why he needed a pistol in his pocket when attending Miss Gilchrist’s lecture he explained that he was on his way to Dunwich to have a little chat with his good friend Claude Huggins. Apparently he was anxious to get to Mr Huggins before we did.’ The inspector shook his head sadly: ‘Just goes to show what they say about best laid plans … seems his wife had forgotten to fill the petrol tank. Very put out about that he was.’

  Jennings frowned. ‘But I thought you said to the Super just now that he had murdered someone, not just attempted it. Surely just because the weapons are the same it doesn’t conclusively prove that he had killed de Lisle … a bit circumstantial I should say.’

  ‘Would you now. Well in normal circumstances you might be right but in this particular instant you’re not.’ He paused and stretched for his pipe and then seemed to take an excessive time lighting it.

  The operation complete, he leant back and said, ‘You see our friend made a full confession – full, frank and lurid you might say. He was very explicit. Confirmed immediately why he had shot de Lisle – to prevent publication of Delia Dovedale’s novel. He had been its central character and a very nasty one it seems, although I don’t think he saw it that way himself. He seemed to think he had been rather clever.

  ‘Your Miss Morgan was right: the thing was based on post-war Paris where he and his then crony Claude Huggins had been engaging in all manner of unsavoury antics, including in his case the disposal of a call boy named Randolph. I won’t bore you with the details now but it was a sordid little saga. And you know what gets my goat? The sod has been such a flaming hypocrite! I feel sorry for the wife. Apparently he only married her for cover – to give an aura of righteous respectability. He was a user, just as he used your Betty to get information about the publisher’s filing system and a sighting of a bit of the typescript.’

  Jennings wanted to make it clear that she was not ‘his’ Betty, but there was something more pressing. ‘So how did he administer the cyanide?’

  ‘What?’

  He repeated the question.

  ‘Oh no,’ the inspector said, ‘Brightwell didn’t murder Mrs Dovedale – at least not directly – that was Huggins. I tell you, Brightwell has really shopped him. Told us lot of interesting stuff. Apparently he was furious when Huggins killed her – felt he had jumped the gun and that if they had sat tight things might have blown over or been handled more subtly. It was only when he learnt that Delia’s death was not the end of things and that de Lisle already had the manuscript and was hell-bent on publishing that he too felt compelled to act.’

  ‘Huh! A charming pair. But what I don’t understand was why Huggins had acted so rashly. I mean even if he had heard from Brightwell that it was rumoured she was writing this book it was only hearsay, he couldn’t be sure that he featured, or at least not in a crucial way.’

  ‘Precisely what Brightwell thought which was why he had been so miffed. But he reckons there was more too it. According to him Huggins had developed an obsessive dislike of poor old Delia. Apart from the threat of exposure there were other things that offended him, the main one being that she had been married to the man he had come to hate. By chance Dovedale had witnessed a knifing incident in Paris involving Huggins’ then boyfriend. He had been required to give evidence and as a result the attacker, Huggins’ boyfriend, was sent to gaol where he later hanged himself. Huggins has born a grudge ever since … But according to Brightwell there was something else too, something which he thought was very funny. I thought so too but I wasn’t going to share my mirth with that basket.’

  ‘So what was that then?’

  ‘Well from what I could make out she had disparaged his precious flower project. Indiscretion and a loud voice is not the best of combinations and unfortunately poor old Delia had both. She made a remark to a friend which he happened to overhear – something to the effect that she couldn’t imagine how one so dull and prissy
as Claude could possibly pen a book that would appeal to the plant-loving public. “Think of the turgid prose!” she had cried. Brightwell thinks that was what tipped the balance – she had signed her death warrant. Barmy really.’

  Jennings nodded gravely. ‘Oh yes, that’s very common; you often come across it.’

  The inspector, who had been in the middle of relighting his pipe, paused surprised. ‘Do I? Come across what?’

  ‘Well perhaps not you personally, sir,’ Jennings explained patiently, ‘but just in a manner of speaking. It’s an established psychological fact – it’s the little things that tilt them over the edge, especially when it affects their vanity. They take umbrage you see.’

  ‘Hmm. Do they now. So what have you been reading – your textbooks or Agatha Christie again?’

  Jennings looked nettled. ‘Actually, sir, she’s jolly good. You ought to try her, she’s—’ He broke off, struck by a thought. ‘But what about Claude Huggins? What’s he saying?’

  ‘He’s not saying anything because we haven’t got him. The bird has flown, done a runner. When they went to pick him up last night to bring him in for more questioning he wasn’t there, not a sign – though his car was still in the drive.’

  ‘Run out of petrol?’ Jennings murmured.

  ‘Oh yes very funny!’ The inspector scowled.

  At that moment the telephone rang. He picked it up and listened in silence before saying curtly, ‘Thank you. That’s most helpful.’ Replacing the receiver he removed his pipe and stared morosely at the ceiling. ‘That’s all we need,’ he sighed.

  ‘What’s he done – caught the Harwich ferry?’

  ‘No. He has been caught in a fishing net south of Thorpness. The skipper was most indignant. He had been banking on a good catch and all he got was Huggins’ body.’

  Jennings nodded. ‘As you said sir, the best laid plans …’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Shocked and exhausted Rosy and Lady Fawcett returned to Laurel Lodge driven in a police car. It was three o’clock. And yet as they mounted the steps Rosy was surprised to see Hawkins standing at the open front door fully dressed in his usual daytime attire. He gave a formal bow and informed them that the hospital had rung advising him of his master’s accident, and he had thus taken the liberty of placing hot water bottles in their beds.

  ‘Not seasonal I grant you,’ he murmured, ‘but in the circumstances I thought appropriate. Shock induces cold.’

  They were about to thank him for his thoughtfulness when he added, ‘I have left some biscuits and cocoa on a tray in the drawing room. However, if you don’t mind my saying I feel you may be in need of something a little more fortifying. Thus in addition to the cocoa I have supplied two large glasses of Mr Hugh’s best cognac.’ He permitted himself a brief smile: ‘Better than a sleeping draught any day.’

  He took their coats and ushered them into the drawing room, where again despite the warm weather there was a fire burning brightly. He turned to Angela: ‘Will that be all, my lady?’

  ‘Oh indeed, and thank you so much,’ she said appreciatively.

  As he turned to the door Rosy stopped him. ‘Actually Mr Hawkins that won’t be all – there’s something I want to ask you.’

  He looked at her quizzically.

  ‘Tell me, what made you send that painting to Mr Brightwell? What did you hope to achieve?’

  He regarded her steadily.

  ‘Nothing except my own satisfaction: I wanted to make him sweat a little.’ The old man paused, and then added ruminatively: ‘He was a bastard of the first water.’

  Rosy was startled and slightly amused; not so much by the use of the term ‘bastard’ but his choice of idiom. What century was he living in for goodness’ sake? But verbal oddities aside, and despite the quiet tone, his anger was obvious.

  ‘Yes, you are certainly right there,’ she agreed, ‘but what made you think that? And in any case why send the picture to him now?’

  Hawkins gave a dry smile. ‘I am about to retire shortly and reside with my sister in Frinton. I wanted to cause a stir, to do something wild before the onset of dotage. A servant lives in the shadow of others and defers discreetly to their whims. One is required to be bland and biddable: rarely initiating, merely complying. As it happens this mode of life has suited me well, especially after I was taken on by the Dovedales. Tact is my forte – and indeed my livelihood. But now I am nearly free of such constraints and can make a gesture of my own, ruffle some waters – and who better to disturb than Mr Brightwell?’

  ‘You mean you are breaking the mould.’

  ‘Exactly, madam, how well you put it.’

  Hmm, Rosy thought wryly, the mould wasn’t entirely broken!

  ‘Yes I understand that,’ she replied, ‘but why Lucas Brightwell – what did you know of him?’

  ‘I knew little but suspected much. The subject of my painting, Randolph Lister, had been attached to a friend of mine in Paris. They had been close until Brightwell took over and then everything was smashed up. My friend was upset – even more so when Randolph’s tragedy became known. He was convinced that Brightwell was responsible. There was no proof of course and it would have been injudicious to pursue matters. Given my position I naturally tried to keep out of things but I have always suspected that my friend was right: Randolph had become irksome, a liability which had to be discarded.’

  ‘And what about Randolph – did you like him?’

  Hawkins seemed to ponder. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘I did not. But he was superficially attractive and had a very striking memorable face … I rather enjoyed painting it.’

  ‘And then you sent it to Brightwell to needle him.’

  The old man nodded. ‘Yes. It was most gratifying.’

  Rosy hesitated and then said frankly: ‘Actually, Mr Hawkins, I think your action may have needled him more than you expected. Although he wasn’t an obvious police suspect he must have been under an awful strain. That picture coming out of the blue must have caused a sort of blind panic and sent him over the edge. His shooting of Mr Dovedale was a crazy attack which, one could say, fatally backfired … hoisted by his own something or other.’

  ‘Petard,’ Hawkins said gravely.

  When he had gone and they were left alone Lady Fawcett remarked, ‘Well they always say that a change is as good as a rest. I cannot say that I have ever subscribed to that view and in the circumstances one feels far from rested. But it has certainly been a change. Not at all what one had envisaged! London will feel quite humdrum after this.’

  Rosy thought she detected the merest tinge of regret.

  Angela’s face clouded. ‘It’s desperately sad of course and I feel so sorry for Hugh. I wonder what he will do. We must visit him tomorrow if he isn’t discharged by then. That shoulder wound looked rather nasty to me so they may keep him in for a while. But naturally we must say our goodbyes.’

  Rosy agreed and reminded her that they should also say goodbye to Cedric and Felix. ‘They won’t know about all this yet. I’ll telephone them in the morning. I have an idea that Felix is doing his trophy presentation in the afternoon, so they’ll be coming over to Southwold anyway … Oh and remember we are required at the police station to make statements. It won’t entail much I gather, just a brief résumé of what we witnessed.’

  Lady Fawcett looked suddenly anxious. ‘I take it that they only want the details of what we saw last night … It would surely be quite unnecessary to refer to anything beyond that, don’t you agree? I mean if Lucas has made a full confession all manner of things may have come out about his Paris activities and his connection with Mr de Lisle. And talking of whom, I rather fear the Huggins creature may have overheard what the young man was telling me at the funeral; he was lurking about in a most intrusive way. If so our words may have stirred his imagination! I shouldn’t care for that conversation to be included in any police report.’ She gave a delicate cough. ‘Yes, other than the facts of last night’s little drama I don’t think we sh
ould know anything, do you? It would be most unfortunate if they thought we had been withholding evidence. Although it’s not as if we have had anything actually tangible to offer, is it? Merely hypothesis and speculation. And after all one doesn’t like to push oneself forward.’

  Rosy nodded. ‘You mean we keep our traps shut.’

  Her companion looked affronted. And then she giggled: ‘Do you know that’s exactly what dear Delia used to say at school! And she was so right then … as I think you are now.’

  Rosy sighed. ‘Well that’s a relief. I’m worn out and that cognac is taking effect. Time we went to bed – another full schedule tomorrow!

  The following day they went to give their statements at the police station where they encountered Mark. The latter had already been there some time and had been informed of the fourfold charges being brought against Brightwell: for attempted murder of his cousin Hugh, as accessory to the murder of Hugh’s mother Delia Dovedale, for the intended murder of Claude Huggins and the actual murder of Floyd de Lisle.

  While they were there news also came through of the would-be victim’s body being found in a fishing net that morning. ‘At least he was thwarted in that respect,’ the inspector was heard to mutter to his assistant, ‘what you might call a case of being foiled by time and tide – or an empty petrol tank.’

  As they walked to the car Rosy asked Mark how Freda was. ‘It must be terrible for her!’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘she was pretty stunned as you can imagine. Iris stayed with her last night and she tells me that after the initial collapse she has rallied remarkably well. In fact if anything she seems strangely composed, relieved almost. Iris knows more about this than I do but I rather gather that she had been on the verge of filing for divorce and was just delaying until he had got his gong – a knighthood I think, not a baronetcy. Still, neither is relevant where he is going,’ he said grimly.