‘Why the divorce?’ enquired Lady Fawcett ever interested.
Mark shrugged. ‘Oh the usual thing, adultery of one kind and another. They had never been close. She is talking of going to stay with cousins in Kenya for a few months to recuperate and get away from the gossip. A good idea I should think.’
‘Very sensible. A change is as good as rest,’ was the sage response.
Rosy smiled. Not quite the view of a few hours previously!
They said goodbye to Mark and went to visit Hugh in the cottage hospital.
Yes, the matron told them, Mr Dovedale would be remaining a little longer. His shoulder had been quite badly damaged but nothing too drastic.
‘She means,’ a voice shouted form a side ward, ‘that they won’t have to saw the ruddy thing off!’
They followed the direction of the voice and found the patient lying in bed eating chocolates and reading an Edgar Wallace.
Despite the traumas of the night and the sling and bandages he looked surprisingly cheerful. He greeted them warmly, apologised for their less than tranquil sojourn and thanked them for their patience with the pugs. ‘Nice little things if you don’t mind short legs and snuffling noses. But they mean well – unlike that snappy little poodle Brightwell had for a time.’ He frowned but then brightened: ‘As it happens, I am feeling rather pleased with myself. The police were here earlier asking more questions about last night, so I thought I would take the opportunity to make a full confession; it’s the sort of thing they like.’
‘What sort of confession?’ Rosy asked a trifle warily. On the whole she felt she had had enough surprises.
‘About poor old Floyd: shoving him up on the cannon that way. I have been feeling rather bad about that, it’s been getting me down in fact. So I mentioned it to the inspector.’
‘Was that wise?’ Angela asked anxiously. ‘Don’t they call it tampering with the evidence or interfering with the scene of the crime?’
‘Oh they are bound to have some term for it!’
‘What did the inspector say?’ Rosy asked.
‘Not much. He looked a bit dour and said he’d have to look into it and that I would be hearing from them. He also mumbled something about mitigating circumstances, but at that point the nurse arrived and practically had apoplexy because of his pipe, so I didn’t hear any more.’ He closed his eyes.
‘You must be tired,’ Lady Fawcett said sympathetically, ‘we’re just going. But tell me Hugh, what are you going to do once this is all over? What do you think Delia would have wanted?’
‘She would have wanted me to be happy,’ he said simply. ‘And that being the case I am going to New Orleans.’
‘New Orleans!’ they gasped. ‘Whatever for?’
‘To learn to play the trumpet. Besides, it’s warm there – I can’t stand this east wind.’
They gazed at him nonplussed. And then Lady Fawcett said thoughtfully, ‘I seem to remember that your father was fond of the trumpet.’
He grinned. ‘What you might call a zealous blower … which is why I want to learn the technique properly. Hence New Orleans.’
A thought struck Rosy and she asked him about Peep and Bo: ‘They are not going to become orphans, are they?’
‘They were Mother’s not mine, so Hawkins is having them. I have given him a rather hefty golden handshake so he is kindly taking them to Frinton with him. His sister likes dogs and has grandchildren, so they will get all the attention they could wish.’
A nurse appeared and announced loudly: ‘Now Mr Dovedale, it’s time for your blanket bath.’
‘Christ!’ he groaned.
The ladies took their leave.
Later, as arranged on the telephone, they met Cedric and Felix for a light lunch at The Swan. Ready for the trophy presentation and Felix’s speech, each was elegantly attired: Cedric looking suave in a light grey suit, Felix a little more raffish in cream jacket and floral cravat. His en brosse hair was sleeked with brilliantine (not entirely resilient to the spikes) and his polished shoes shone like beacons.
The two women filled them in on the events of the night and what they had learnt from Mark, plus the news of Huggins’ drowning. The former prompted swift and animated comment. But for some reason their response to the latter was distinctly tepid, and the subject was quickly dropped in favour of more pressing concerns, such as the forthcoming ceremony. It was only six weeks later that Rosy learnt from Cedric of their unsettling encounter on the Dunwich beach.
Over coffee, feeling that his friend was becoming a trifle too fulsome about his role in the trophy presentation, Cedric felt a small damper was in order.
Thus leaning across to Felix he said quietly, ‘Let us hope that this time your performance on the platform will not be interrupted as it was at the last. It would be unfortunate were there to be a repeat dose.’ He gave a sly smile.
To his disappointment Felix merely turned the other way and sighed disdainfully. ‘Such bad taste!’ he remarked.
Which of course it was; and for once Cedric felt duly chastened. He resolved to redress the gaffe by leading the applause in the auditorium.
Fortunately, as things turned out the ceremony proceeded without a hitch and Felix’s address was a veritable triumph. Amid plaudits prompted by Cedric he beamed with gracious modesty and congratulated the runners-up on their valiant efforts. Rosy couldn’t help thinking that the actual trophy recipient had been more than upstaged by its presenter. However, since the lady had also acquired a fat cheque she didn’t look unduly perturbed.
As the two guests took their leave of Laurel Lodge and its pugs, and wished their host’s loyal retainer well in his retirement, Rosy said ‘Oh one thing Mr Hawkins before we go: you didn’t by any chance leave some stationary in the blue room’s wardrobe, did you?’
The old man hesitated and then with a sigh said, ‘An oversight I fear. I intended to remove it before you arrived but forgot. And then once you were here it was too late … had you noticed it being there one day and gone the next its absence might have caused offence.’
‘Most tactful I am sure, but what was it doing there in the first place?’
‘It was part of an early draft of my employer’s novel Violets and Vicissitudes. I believe she intended making a sinister feature of the former. She had shown it to me seeking my view. I told her that it seemed very promising but advised putting it in a safe place, that is to say, not her desk. As a temporary measure she slipped it into that drawer. More material was later produced which evidently she took to the publisher. Naturally I asked no questions and never pursued the matter.’
‘Most correct,’ Lady Fawcett observed approvingly. ‘People are too explicit these days; a little reticence is always welcome.’ She shot a meaningful glance at Rosy.
In the car she observed that Mr Hawkins was really an exemplary servant and were he younger she would employ him herself. ‘Such an asset for my parties!’ she exclaimed.
As Rosy and Angela were speeding their way back to London the two police officers were mulling things over in the office.
‘Why did Huggins choose cyanide?’ Jennings asked.
‘That’s what we would all like to know but since he’s dead I suppose we never shall. Even Brightwell seemed clueless on the subject. And when we asked the brother he just looked blank and scratched his head.’
‘Hmm. So when did the brother turn up?’
‘Straight after the suicide became known. Strolled into the station and casually admitted to giving us those tip-offs. When I accused him of withholding prior evidence he mumbled something about not having any and that it was just a hunch which had suddenly caught him unawares. Said he hadn’t liked to be more direct for fear of confusing matters and misleading our enquiries, and he hoped we didn’t mind. I ask you!’
‘Dearth of imagination,’ Jennings pronounced solemnly, ‘it makes them odd. Still it’s a pity about that cyanide – I’d still like to know how Huggins got hold of it. Presumably he thought he was being cl
ever using that method in those circumstances.’
‘Oh yes he thought that all right, as did Brightwell – the slippery hypocrite. But then there was someone else who thought he was being clever too, that Hugh Dovedale. Very bright shoving that poor beggar on top of the gun. What you might call a jolly jape I suppose.’ The inspector looked grim.
‘Tight as a tick, wasn’t he? But I bet we could still get him for obstructing the police in their enquiries.’
‘Hmm. We could but is it worth it? It didn’t obstruct us all that much and unlike the other jokers this one is harmless, just a bit skew-whiff that’s all. And I suppose the death of his mother in that way can’t have helped. No we’ll give him a caution and leave him be, the silly clod. The press will hound him for a bit of course – the public enjoys escapades of that sort. But that’s as far as it’ll go.’
Jennings looked disappointed, his sense of protocol offended. ‘But what about the Super? Surely he’ll want us to press charges, won’t he?’
‘Highly unlikely I should say. His Nibs rarely does more than is strictly necessary. And he’s so cock-a-hoop over nailing Brightwell and that we can account for Mrs Dovedale’s killer that he’ll probably think anything else would be paltry in comparison and detract from the main effect. Always has a nice sense of theatre, has Mr Smithers.’ A leer crossed his face. ‘I tell you who won’t be much pleased about all this and that’s the Chief Constable. Brightwell was his golfing partner.’
The inspector knocked out his pipe, and opening his desk drawer drew out a bottle of whisky. I think after all our hard work we deserve a little treat – or at least I do. I suppose you would rather drink Tizer or some such.’
Jennings looked affronted. ‘Certainly not sir! I’ll have the same as you if you don’t mind.’ He pushed a plastic mug across the desk.
‘Good lad,’ said his superior.
CODA
After they had been back in London for a week Felix received a letter postmarked Southwold. It read as following:
Dear Felix,
I write to say how much I enjoyed your company at supper with us recently, and am delighted that you share my love of shire horses – something I fear my brother Claude could never do. I also wish to thank you and your friend for helping me when I was under the weather over that little upset about the dining table.
Fortunately, following recent events and a certain action I took, I am now feeling much better. Indeed life has taken on a rosy prospect. In celebration I have had a haircut (en brosse like yours) and trimmed my beard. To redress the wanton destruction of my valuables I have decided to start a whole new collection and will thus be in London shortly to see what Sotheby’s has to offer. Perhaps you and your friend would care to meet me in Regent’s Park to feed the ducks – or at the zoo perhaps to inspect the monkeys.
Yours gratefully,
Fabius Huggins
Felix set the letter aside, and gazing at the signed photograph of his patron ran his fingers through his spiky hair.
Rosy wondered how Angela was faring, and apart from genuine interest felt it would at least be courteous to telephone. She dialled and waited for some while. When at last she heard the familiar voice it sounded slightly muffled. ‘I can’t hear you terribly well,’ Rosy said, ‘are you all right?’
‘Not especially,’ Lady Fawcett replied, ‘I have taken to my bed.’
‘Oh dear! Are you ill?’
‘Not as yet but I am likely to be.’ There was a sigh.
‘Ah … do you mean you are sickening for something? I do hope that east coast wind hasn’t—’
‘No it has nothing to do with the wind. It is Amy: she has returned from the camping absurdity in France.’
Rosy was puzzled. ‘Er, I see … well that’s rather nice isn’t it?’
‘Far from it. She is accompanied by a Frenchman in a beret who assures me he is about to become my son-in-law …’ the voice faded and the line went dead.
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About the Author
SUZETTE HILL was born in East Sussex, and spent much of her childhood playing spies and smugglers on Beachy Head and picnicking at the foot of the Long Man of Wilmington. Hill worked as a teacher in both public school and adult education before retiring in 1999. She now lives in Ledbury, Herefordshire. At the age of sixty-four and on a whim, she took up a pen and began writing. Hill has since published seven novels, including the Reverend Oughterard series.
www.suzetteahill.co.uk
By Suzette A. Hill
A Little Murder
The Venetian Venture
A Southwold Mystery
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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allisonandbusby.com
First published in 2015.
This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2015.
Copyright © 2015 by SUZETTE A. HILL
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1754–5
A Southwold Mystery Page 22
