The Riviera Express

by TP Fielden

  ‘So you never saw Mr Hennessy after Exeter.’

  ‘I didn’t see him after Paddington. I stayed in the compartment.’

  ‘And,’ said Topham, ‘Miss Lake I think said that her father travelled down alone.’

  ‘He often used railway carriages to rehearse his lines out loud – he was about to go into another film, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The first-class section of the train was pretty empty – he had the compartment to himself. So he could practise his lines.’

  ‘The first-class section was down the back end of the train. Anybody from second class would have gone past your window. Did you see anybody who looked like they didn’t belong in first?’

  ‘Most of the time I had my eyes on Marion. I think even you would understand that.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Maltby,’ said Topham in a prickly sort of way. ‘I see you didn’t stay to witness the inquest?’

  There was a confused snuffle at the other end. ‘I didn’t think it wise, given the circs.’

  ‘You might have been able to prevent Prudence Aubrey from attacking Miss Lake.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Inspector. I have my reputation to preserve.’

  Topham did not like this at all, but said nothing. Quite soon he rang off and used the telephone to contact one of his subordinates.

  His instructions were terse and to the point: there was at least a twenty-minute gap after the train left Exeter when an assailant or thief could have entered Hennessy’s carriage. It was now their job to track that person down.

  And, while they were at it, they’d better find out about that blessed dog.

  *

  On this late summer evening, when Inspector Topham found himself reversing slowly towards the truth, while Betty was out dancing and Terry charming the ladies, Judy Dimont was enjoying a rare night at home. The floral gift from the Mothers’ Union was clinging to its last glory in the bay window. She sat at the piano and worked her way through a couple of Chopin waltzes – not without difficulty – then spent some time talking to Mulligatawny. They enjoyed a glass of elderflower champagne in the late sunlight on the terrace (a gift from Mrs Purser across the lane, such a dear), then came inside to enjoy their respective suppers.

  This last had been done to the strains of a Michael Holliday show on the Light Programme, but as she washed the dishes Miss Dimont found it difficult to concentrate, and switched off the radio. She settled with The Times crossword, Mulligatawny sitting obligingly by her side on the sofa, but even this perennial remedy to distraction and general out-of-sortness failed to work.

  She sighed, laid the paper aside, and stared at the mantelpiece. In his shining silver frame, he looked down on her and smiled. It would be his birthday in two days’ time.

  They had been glorious years – for Auriol, for Judy and for Eric. The work they did together during the War had seen some triumphant moments and though its shadowy nature even now barred her from discussing it in general conversation, Miss Dimont never felt the need. The whole story was held, complete, in her heart and there was little reason to share it with those who’d doubtless misunderstand; for after the War those who were lionised were those whose victories were visible and largely had been conducted in uniform. Auriol had worn a uniform, but her brother and Judy did not; and when war service came up in conversation Judy adopted her reporter’s manner – asking questions rather than offering reminiscences. People always had plenty to say about themselves.

  It was curious but, given the laws of coincidence, not remarkable that old Rudyard Rhys should turn up again. Back in the days when they all worked together in that tiny cramped room in the basement of the Admiralty, he was Roger Rhys, of course – a quite talented sub-lieutenant in the Wavy Navy who came up with some good wheezes to distract and thwart the enemy. The ‘Rudyard’ came after he became an unofficial spokesman for their group and from there started writing, which led him ultimately to journalism.

  Mostly, though, he was known as Rusty Rhys – it seemed to fit.

  In those days he rather fancied he would become a novelist eventually, but it was not to be – he lacked the concentration and capacity for the sustained effort it required. He’d always had a slightly awkward nature, which only grew as the years went by, and when she met him ten years after the War’s end that element of his personality was uppermost. Technically, he had been a junior figure in an office where both Auriol and Judy held sway; now he was her boss.

  It had taken longer for Miss Dimont to find her home in journalism, because for a while after the War she continued plying the trade which had seen so many successes during the conflict. But eventually with the rise of Suez and the Cold War she saw that a new breed was needed to fight the enemy, and that the old rules of 1939–45 no longer applied. Even if her bosses in Whitehall failed to respond with any alacrity to this reality, she could see, or felt she could see, what was coming and Temple Regis was a welcome relief. She loved it here.

  Eric’s jaunty smile from the mantelpiece encouraged her to search out the elderflower champagne and pour herself another glass. It would have been his forty-ninth birthday, but the tears had all been shed long ago, and now he was simply her constant companion. When she and Auriol met, they talked about Eric and reminded themselves of those silly antics on his motor-bicycle, the elegant clothes he wore, the dramatic figure he cut on the cricket pitch, and that endless ringing laugh like church bells which echoed still down the years. Eric had been one of the War’s heroes, but his name was virtually unknown – there were, after all, so many more like him.

  ‘And now there’s only you,’ she sighed and, as if he instinctively knew this was his moment, Mulligatawny stole sinuously into her lap. She looked down at the noble head and, gently stroking his marmalade ears, added: ‘He was a bit of a fool, wasn’t he? He should never have gone that last time.’

  Mulligatawny indicated his agreement by settling deeper into her lap and crossing his paws. He waited patiently while his mistress summoned, and slowly dismissed, her thoughts of long ago.

  ‘You’re just as much of a fool as Eric. Up that tree one minute, shooting across the road the next – no acknowledgement of danger, ever. Scrapping with that horrid next-door cat . . .’

  Mulligatawny scrunched up his face with pleasure at this compliment, and languidly he washed a paw while Miss Dimont’s memory-release took her back to her childhood in faraway Ellezelles, her schooling in East Anglia, her university days and, naturally, her mother. For the redoubtable Madame Dimont was never far from Judy’s thoughts, or from her letterbox through which cards, letters, telegrams and other missives of torment never quite ceased to flow. Madame remained safely in East Anglia in order to return home via Harwich regularly to check on her siblings; but though it was a lengthy day’s journey from there to south Devon, Judy could never quite be sure when she might receive an unannounced visit.

  The moon rose, and through her window she watched the chasing cloudscape, signalling a change in the weather. And maybe much more besides.

  EIGHTEEN

  Betty was processing the fortnightly dispatches from the village correspondents. These down-to-earth but essential links with the readership were written not by journalists but by local people who were quite as clever as – often far more than – the newspaper staff to whom they submitted their weekly gleanings.

  Only problem is, thought Betty snootily, as she fed in the copy-paper to her typewriter, they don’t know a story when they see one.

  Others might argue that the correspondents knew all too well what a story was – the vicar berating his flock for their poor attendance record, the parish council chairman falling down in the pub (again), the carnival queen and the undue influence her mother brought to bear on the vote – but they didn’t want to see it in the paper. The rules which Dr Rudkin applied to wiping clean Temple Regis’s muddy escutcheon were equally practised in the many small villages which surrounded the town.

  So Betty, who
was less than generous about being made to handle these weekly slices of village life, looked at the handsomely handwritten account of the recent meeting of Silverham WI on her desk with some disdain before shovelling more paper into her typewriter for a quick rewrite.

  ‘We may have met on a wet and windy night,’ went the lively account, ‘But spirits were soon lifted when members saw the speaker for the evening, Jackie Ensor, behind a table laden with all types of greenery, flowers, robins and all.

  ‘With Christmas just over the horizon, we were shown how to make a door wreath from a traditional wire frame and an oasis ring. Also table decorations, large and small, a time-consuming swag, and to finish a lovely hand-tied bouquet. All were made to perfection and made us feel we really must have a go this year!’

  Terry sauntered over and they compared notes from last night.

  ‘Lively, wasn’t it?’ said Terry. And rather more so than Betty knew, because after she slid out of the door with Mr Hannaford, there’d been a bit of a dust-up.

  ‘Dunno what the fuss was about,’ he complained.

  Betty was listening while typing up the Bedlington Harbour Boat Club report – ‘There are a few places left on next week’s course, “Know your local waters”, to help you understand charts and tides.’

  ‘What happened, Ter?’

  ‘I thought I might do a picture feature on Jill Ferrers and Mavis Coryton – fashionable coronation ball wives – but their husbands took exception. Specially old Ferrers when I asked Jill to get up on the table and raise her skirt a bit.’

  ‘Mutton dressed as lamb,’ gritted Betty, pencil between her teeth as she wrestled more copy-paper into her typewriter. She was now writing up Exbridge Flower Club – ‘Fiona started her demonstration using an oval-shaped dish to display a large array of twisted willow, senecio, violet irises, purple and yellow tulips. A lovely evening and Janet Eccles gave the vote of thanks.’

  ‘Old Barry Ferrers wanted to take it outside. He’d been at the bar for the best part of an hour and probably would have tripped over his shoelaces on the way out. Still, it was nasty,’ added Terry, sublimely unaware of his part as agent provocateur in this disturbance.

  ‘Heskton Natural History Society,’ rattled Betty furiously, nodding her acknowledgement. ‘Our next meeting is all about our lovely local River Avon. It looks idyllic as it tumbles down from Dartmoor to the sea. But its biological condition is not as good as it should be.’

  ‘Done your ball report?’ asked Terry, sensing Betty hadn’t.

  ‘Not yet,’ hissed Betty, for though it was mid-morning she had yet to wrestle the cocktail-stained notes she made last night from her purse. The evening had turned out to be much longer than anticipated, and she was not quite herself.

  ‘Stowchurch Sorority,’ she hammered. ‘Dora Freeman told us she began composing music at the tender age of nine. From the age of four, she yearned to have piano lessons but her mother refused until she had learnt how to read. She started by playing sixteen short pieces inspired by her life in Devon, followed by some lengthier compositions. Members were grateful for the teas supplied by Mesdames Smith, Turner, and Babcary.’

  ‘Just wondered what your intro would be,’ said Terry, leisurely enjoying his mug of tea.

  ‘“Coronation Crowns”,’ said Betty peremptorily. ‘Those women who wore tiaras. That’s a first.’

  ‘Ur,’ said Terry who wanted to push the pics of his overexcitable matrons.

  ‘Dartmoor Ramblers,’ typed Betty distractedly, for her thoughts were now on Mr Hannaford and his Rolls-Royce. ‘Eight miles and grade is strenuous. Bring packed lunch.’

  ‘Got time to come over to the darkroom and have a look at what I’ve got?’ Terry, like Miss Dimont, never left a job overnight and could not rest until his film had been through the bath and the prints had come off the dryer.

  ‘Not just now, Terry. Got to write up the ball before old Rudyard comes round looking for copy.’

  Terry, who had nothing much to do, went to fetch them both some more tea, then sat down in Judy Dimont’s chair opposite, reckoning he could persuade Betty to change her mind about Mesdames Ferrers and Coryton.

  Betty sat for a moment, willing herself to sum up the spirit of last night. Like all journalists she found the longer you left it, the harder it is to write, and what with her slightly aching head she was finding it difficult to construct the first sentence.

  ‘Interesting what old Ferrers had to say,’ said Terry, for his was not a trade which required inspiration. He did not mind interrupting a train of thought.

  ‘What,’ said Betty crossly. It wasn’t a question.

  ‘That Gerald Hennessy. Apparently the grandson of Bill Pithers.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Betty. ‘We were talking about him last night. Claud Hannaford got left his Rolls-Royce.’

  ‘That horrid pink thing?’

  ‘It’s very comfortable inside,’ said Betty, smirking proprietorially.

  ‘Well Hennessy . . .’

  ‘Apparently he left loads of money, Bill Pithers. Squillions.’

  ‘Really,’ said Terry. ‘Because Gerald Hennessy—’

  ‘Hold on,’ interrupted Betty, suddenly struck by inspiration. She began to type: ‘The Coronation Ball had, apparently, reached new heights of style with the adoption of tiaras as female headgear.’

  No, that didn’t sound right. She pulled out the copy-paper, threaded in a replacement, and started again. ‘The Coronation Ball . . .’

  ‘Well, that’s interesting,’ said Terry crossly to himself as he got up and walked away. Nobody ever listened! Hennessy not only came from around here, but he had been left a small fortune by the most disreputable person Temple Regis ever had the misfortune to welcome into its fold. As information went, it was worth a mint, and you never knew when it might come in handy.

  This is how newspapers work. People who aren’t paid to find things out, find them out, but don’t necessarily share them. It would be of interest to Miss Dimont that both Betty and Terry had gleaned some remarkable information at the coronation ball last night, coming as it did from different directions, but each was too busy paddling their own canoe to pass on to her what they’d learnt. Terry had told Betty and Betty had told Terry, and there the matter rested. In limbo.

  Betty battled on with her report and barely noticed when Judy sat down opposite. The paper debris created by her uninspiring task had spread like molten lava across the desk to engulf most of the available space between the two reporters, but Miss Dimont did not mind. Instead she did her best to tidy things up without in any way wishing to make her gestures seem reproving. Long ago she’d come to the realisation that Betty was an untidy individual, it was something you learned to live with – the borrowed pencils which were never returned, the shorthand notebooks in which she would find Betty’s notes when she couldn’t find her own pad, the purloined pairs of gloves.

  In her orderly way, Miss Dimont scooped up the well-bred communications from the Silverham WI, the Bedlington Harbour Boat Club, the Exbridge Flower Club and the rest and put them neatly into a folder. As she was separating the envelopes to throw in the waste-paper basket she found one which remained unopened and clearly had missed the ‘From Our Village Correspondents’ column for this week (apologies, shortage of space, was the usual cry when such a report went missing, which happened quite often).

  The missing dispatch was from the Arburton Golf Club, a lengthy account of the annual general meeting and election of officers – an arduous narrative which included the name of just about everybody who had any association with the club, the sport, the village – indeed, the whole county. Just the sort of report which bred ill will on both sides, for Rudyard Rhys would never allow more than four paragraphs on any given topic and here was a full page; severe editing would reduce the mind-numbing effect of this roll-call of the great and good, but there’d be Complaints because of the severe pruning. More diplomatic, by far, to cry ‘shortage of space’!

  Miss D
imont was nonetheless diligently shuffling the paper into the folder when her eye spotted something which caused her quickly to haul it out again. There, buried in the indigestible account of the affairs of Arburton GC, was the name Hennessy.

  She looked closer.

  ‘There were cheers when it was announced that Mr Gerald Hennessy had agreed to become Life President of the Club.’ That was all.

  The Gerald Hennessy? If so, when was this written? And did this lost message contain the so far unexplained reason why he had come to Temple Regis?

  ‘Penny for them,’ said Terry who’d wandered back – he really had nothing to do this morning, did he? Photographers rarely understood one needed time just to think – just because one wasn’t writing, or phoning, or collecting up green wedding forms, it didn’t mean you weren’t working.

  ‘Hennessy,’ said Miss Dimont half under her breath, but Terry was more interested in tackling Betty over the lively Mesdames and their lifted skirts. However, Betty had disappeared into that hinterland which can never be invaded – when a writer starts to write, nothing must breach the sacred moment – and instead he had to listen to Judy.

  ‘This is odd,’ she said. ‘Some time before he died – but only a week or so, given the date of this letter – he’d agreed to become Life President of the golf club.’

  ‘Pithers,’ said Terry knowingly. It was inordinately frustrating to Judy that he always seemed to know more than she – even if he didn’t know what to do with it.

  ‘Tell me,’ sighed Miss D, flopping back in her chair.

  ‘Bill Pithers bought himself honorary presidency of the club – that’s why they couldn’t chuck him out when he behaved so badly – and when he died, obviously he told them who was next in line. His grandson.’

  ‘Grandson?’

  ‘He left Gerald Hennessy a stack of money and the presidency of the golf club. Heaven knows why Gerry should want to take it up, but obviously he felt the need.’