The Riviera Express

by TP Fielden

  From Topham’s point of view, these questions unnecessarily raked over old coals. Hadn’t the inquest disposed of these two deaths? Hadn’t the disappearance of Cattermole more to do with the fact he couldn’t bear living with that old Gaiety Girl any more and had found a younger companion? That left only the attaché case, which was quite simply an opportunistic theft: young man goes past first-class compartment, sees Hennessy asleep (or dead), nips in and takes the case.

  The inspector, despite having a good war, was feeling his age. He suddenly wanted to go home to Mrs Topham, always a comfort in troubling times. Theirs may not have been the most demonstrative of marriages, but she gave him strength. Miss Dimont, he found, was too daunting an adversary.

  ‘Nothing more to be—’ he started.

  ‘Two deaths, Inspector. One missing person. A chap on the run with a vital piece of evidence.’ Her tone was firm, her point incontrovertible.

  ‘Did you ever think of becoming a detective?’ asked Topham acidly, jutting his chin forward, his defences running low.

  If only you knew, thought Miss Dim, that while you were in the desert bravely winning your Military Medal I was . . .

  But she let the thought go, and parted from the policeman with as much cordiality as she could muster.

  Back in the office, she looked for Athene but soothing Miss Madrigale was evidently elsewhere, engaged in necessary converse with the spirits. Instead she had to make do with Betty, who was filing her nails and reading a magazine.

  ‘Have you had any dealings with Topham?’ asked Miss Dimont, more as a conversational opener so that she might air her despair about his inadequacy.

  ‘Lovely man,’ said Betty warmly, patting her hair. ‘Bit of a war hero. Just the sort to have in the police force. He was very kind to me when I . . .’

  Judy stopped listening. If it wore trousers and didn’t send her telegrams, it was OK with Betty – no point in further discussion. Topham probably once bought Betty a cup of tea, that’s all it took. She would have to wrestle alone with her conscience on this one.

  In a post-war world, which even a decade and a half after peace this still was, conflicting forces were at play in Temple Regis. There were bad people – the fat-rendering Bill Pithers sprang to mind, and there were others like him – and then there were those who wanted to paper over the cracks and assert that yes, there was honey still for tea. Civic pride was ever-present, wherever you turned. You only had to see old Miss Pleram with her ancient blunt secateurs, walking down the street and snipping odd outgrowths from hedges and bushes, picking up the discarded toffee papers, leaving her apple crop outside her front door for passers-by to help themselves. People wanted life to be as it once was; murder had no part in this healing process.

  Rudkin, Topham, and the others were working towards a better future, to a time when Temple Regis would be acknowledged internationally for the warmth of its sunshine and of its welcome. For that to transpire, there could be no blots on the town’s escutcheon. When Samuel Brough, the mayor, walked behind his tailcoated sergeant to St Margaret’s Church each autumn to rededicate the town to goodness and prosperity, he wanted to do it with head held high.

  Miss Dimont saw it all and sympathised, for she loved Temple Regis too – who did not? But you could not excuse wrongdoing – wasn’t that also what the War had been about? To preserve the reputation of this place at the expense of justice, which is what these people seemed to want to do, seemed a dangerous step – for what other misdeeds would be covered up in the interests of Temple Regis’s future prosperity?

  And then again, if she was right, there was a killer on the loose. Unless action was taken he could strike again. Something needed to be done and if the police wouldn’t . . .

  There was sometimes a recklessness about Miss Dimont – anybody who’d been privy to the business of the Conservative Winter Ball could attest to that – and there were few who could rein her in. Curiously, one who could was Terry Eagleton. Though they were oil and water – the thinking versus the instinctive – she recognised in the photographer qualities she herself lacked.

  Terry was talking to the pretty girl in reception. She could never remember anybody’s name, which Miss Dim found irritating, but Terry didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Terry, may we speak? Come to the Fort?’ Reluctantly the photographer detached his gaze and picked up his camera bag.

  The snug bar at the Cap’n Fortescue was deserted. Miss Dimont did not waste words.

  ‘. . . you’d almost think it a conspiracy. Two unexplained deaths and they want to bury any questions along with the bodies. And Inspector Topham! Do you know, now he’s wasting his time – and that of his men – chasing some young lad who pinched Gerald Hennessy’s attaché case from the train.

  ‘Not,’ she snarled, ‘because maybe he caused Hennessy’s death – I don’t know how, but he could have done – but the retrieval of stolen property seems to concern the inspector more than any number of suspicious deaths.’

  ‘He’s very sweet on Prudence Aubrey,’ said a laconic Terry, sipping his cider.

  ‘Well, he shouldn’t be,’ snapped Miss Dim. ‘There’s something very strange about her. She told me she felt like killing him – and the way she blows hot and cold, sweet to me one minute and at daggers drawn the next . . .’

  ‘Actress,’ said Terry, as if he knew.

  ‘Topham seems to be on a personal errand to get back her husband’s attaché case instead of concentrating on the job in hand.’

  Terry looked at her steadily. ‘Is that like a briefcase? This attaché case?’

  Miss Dim blinked. Really, photographers, did they know nothing at all? Of the near-million words in the English language, how many did they ever deploy in daily conversation? How many did their brains hold in reserve for special occasions? Did they write poetry ever – come to that, did they ever read it?

  She could do no more than nod. Words, of which Miss Dimont had many at her disposal, failed her.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Barry Shaldon,’ said Terry.

  Miss Dimont looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Barry Shaldon. The chap with the whatever-you-call-it case.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Miss Dim heatedly.

  ‘Saw him getting off the train when we were on the platform. Nice chap, bit sad really.’

  The reporter almost knocked her glass of ginger beer over. It was impossible. A photographer who didn’t know what an attaché case was, but could name a murder suspect – just like that. Impossible!

  ‘Terry,’ she said slowly, ‘you realise we’re talking about a possible murderer. We’ve been going round in circles trying to get to the bottom of these two mysterious deaths. Why on earth didn’t you . . .?’

  At that Terry took umbrage. ‘If you’d said briefcase,’ he said. ‘If you’d used plain English. If you’d told me what’s in that complicated mind of yours instead of wandering round the houses. If you’d done any of that I could have told you. Barry Shaldon.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Garage mechanic. When he’s working. He fixed the timing chain sprocket on the Minor the other day. But he’s a bit strange, lives with his aunt and uncle – his parents were killed in the War. Army lorry went over them in the blackout. Barry too.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ asked Miss Dimont in bewilderment. ‘How do you know it was him with the att— er, briefcase?’

  ‘I recognised him as he got off the train, didn’t I? Now I see why he didn’t want to know me – he’d just nicked that case.’

  Miss Dimont threw down the remains of her ginger beer.

  ‘Let’s go and pay a call on your Mr Shaldon,’ she said.

  TWENTY

  In September, when the holidaymakers had gone but the weather was still wonderful, the townsfolk of Temple Regis took their passeggiata down through the greensward, past the bandstand, and out on to the seafront. It was remarkable how many familiar faces you could see, stopping at Ber
yl’s for a glass of lemonade or an ice, nodding to each other. The town stopped work at 5.30 prompt and there were still a good couple of hours before the purple and grey crept up to claim the daylight.

  Betty was having a cup of tea with Claud Hannaford. Neither was quite as the other remembered from the Coronation Ball, for daylight has a way of telling truths that are sometimes best left unsaid. Claud sat urbanely on his chair wishing it was cocktail time while Betty was noticing that his hand shook ever so slightly when he reached for his cup. He’s older than I thought, she said to herself. Not so pretty when she’s wearing her work clothes, observed Claud.

  Still, whatever occurred in the cerise Rolls-Royce had been the beginning of something which neither, for their different reasons, wanted to let go just yet.

  ‘We might stroll on to the Grand for a drink,’ said Claud by way of conversation.

  ‘Oh,’ said Betty, colouring. ‘I’ve got a . . . it’s the Council of Social Services meeting at seven.’ Implicit in this response were two contiguous messages – that she did not drink alcohol while she was still working (a good girl) but if he cared to wait until the job was done, she’d be gasping for a Babycham (but not all the time).

  ‘Let’s have another cup,’ said Claud, who understood her meaning if he could be bothered to. You could tell this wasn’t going well.

  Betty struggled to keep the conversation afloat as Beryl and her sluggish daughter slowly worked their way round the seafront tables taking orders.

  ‘Tell me more about Bill Pithers,’ she said, looking out to sea. Claud had banged on about the old crook leaving him his Rolls, he enjoyed talking about that. Keep ’em talking, Betty had learnt long ago, it keeps ’em happy.

  ‘He was very proud that Gerry Hennessy was his grandson, but long ago Gerry put a stop to him boasting about it. He told him it was bad for business. Fat rendering and film stars don’t exactly make ideal bedfellows,’ said Claud, waggling his eyebrows. Betty simpered.

  ‘It’s odd really. Old Bill took orders from nobody – he was rude, he was overbearing, he’d steal your last shilling if you left it on the counter. He was rough and – well, you know about the women,’ said Claud, and Betty nodded.

  ‘I think, though, that he thought in death their names should be linked – which is why he gave the presidency of the golf club to Hennessy – so that everyone in Temple Regis would know he was Gerry’s grandfather. And what could Gerry do but accept? For all I know, when Bill left him his millions, maybe he made it a condition of acceptance that Gerry would take on the club as well.’

  That had got him going again. He was quite lively when you got him on song.

  ‘You said there were two grandchildren,’ said Betty, smiling engagingly. ‘Who was the other one?’

  Just then Beryl’s surly daughter, a recalcitrant recruit to the family business, dropped the contents of a hot cup of tea into Betty’s lap and an evening laden with promise evaporated in an instant.

  *

  Terry and Judy were sitting on a bench high above the town in Westville, a clutch of small Edwardian cottages which marked the civic boundary. From this standpoint they could view the swoop and rise of Temple Regis’s elegant contours and its multi-coloured roofs melting into the green and blue of the landscape and sky, as if nature were trying to steal back the land robbed by centuries of slow urbanisation. Beyond lay the bleached-gold wheat fields awaiting their harvesting, while below, away from the town, lay a broad valley studded with pink sheep, their fleeces dyed by the rich red earth beneath their feet. In the clear still air you could hear the bell of St Margaret’s chime the hour, a message which at this distance sounded both protective and devout.

  Terry was noisily sucking a toffee. ‘Won’t be much longer,’ he said.

  ‘That’s all right,’ replied Judy. ‘It’s heavenly up here.’

  As if in agreement, Terry picked up his camera, selected f8 at 1/125th, and focused on the spire of St Margaret’s below. He never wasted film, and had got what he wanted in two shots. Then slowly he turned the lens on Judy Dimont, who was looking quite beautiful in the evening sunlight. She smiled, pushed back her corkscrew hair, and Terry pressed the shutter. In the shining evening light, time stood still for a moment.

  Slowly into view meandered a lost-looking young man, his eyes cast down to his feet, his demeanour one of world-weariness and despair. He was tall, handsome in a rough-cut sort of way, and athletic. He walked as though a part of him was missing.

  ‘Our murderer,’ whispered Miss Dimont.

  ‘Hello, Barry,’ called Terry, unimpressed, but for a moment the young man did not respond. Then, as he continued towards them, he suddenly looked up. He blinked and then said, ‘Mr Eagleton. How’s the Minor?’

  Terry nodded approvingly towards the car, parked on the opposite side of the road. ‘Your mum and dad said you were on your way back from Exeter.’

  ‘Been to see about a job.’

  ‘This is Miss Dimont, she works with me at the Express.’

  ‘Two Riviera Expresses,’ said Barry quite slowly, unwinding the long scarf which seemed superfluous on such a warm day. ‘The train, and the newspaper. That seems strange.’

  ‘Have you just come back on the Express now,’ said Miss Dimont, catching the moment, ‘from Exeter?’

  ‘I love it. I’d be able to go on it every day if I had a job in Exeter.’

  The reporter chose her words carefully. ‘Did you go up to Exeter last week?’

  ‘Most weeks I go up. I’m trying to find a job. There are more jobs up there. Only part-time work at the garage here.’

  Miss Dimont felt her heart soften as she looked at this handsome but broken young man, coming home for his tea to the two loving guardians he called his mum and dad. She looked into his eyes in the hope of catching some information as to his character: could this sad and disconnected individual, who clearly had little chance ever of leading a fully independent life, have had a hand in ending the life of Gerald Hennessy? It seemed so unlikely, but she must be sure.

  ‘Do you remember last week, on the train, going into the first-class compartments?’

  ‘I do that once the guard’s been round and punched my ticket. After Exeter he doesn’t come round again. The seats are more comfortable.’

  ‘Do you remember the day when there was a bit of a fuss?’

  Barry shot a hostile look at Miss Dimont. He didn’t say anything.

  She tried again. ‘A man on the train died.’

  ‘They took the train out of service,’ said Barry helpfully. ‘Shunted the first-class round into the sidings. The carriages stayed there until 3.23 p.m. the next day. Then went back up the upline. The police . . .’

  ‘On the train, Barry. When you were on the train, did you see the dead man? Did you go into his compartment?’

  The young man started angrily. Some native instinct warned him he was under threat. ‘What’sitmatterwhat’sitm atterwhat’sitmatter?’ he stuttered, and he stepped forward urgently, moving his shoulders around like a boxer warming up.

  ‘You took his, ah, briefcase,’ said Judy Dimont, with just a trace of imperiousness. ‘We know you did. What did you do to him, to Gerald Hennessy? Did you fight with him? Did you knock him about so you could steal his case?’

  ‘Naaaaaaaaggghhhhh!’ shouted the young man, and launched himself at his inquisitor. He clamped his muscular hands on her shoulders and started to shake them very hard indeed. Miss Dimont’s glasses fell off and a look of terror gripped her features.

  Terry was quick and efficient. ‘That’s enough, mate,’ he barked, and punched Barry underneath his outstretched arms. That was all it took, and the attack was over in less time than it takes to tell. Barry flopped down on the bench and began to sob.

  Miss Dimont sat down next to him, for she was very shocked and her legs did not feel too sturdy at that moment. Terry picked up her spectacles, took out his lens cloth and gave them a gentle polish, and put them back on her nose.

  Sh
e turned to Barry. In those brief, violent, few seconds she had deduced what had happened.

  ‘He was dead, wasn’t he? You saw him when you went into first class and he was dead? You thought he wouldn’t mind if you took his case?’

  Barry was still crying. ‘Never seen anyone dead before,’ he said, and burst into angry shudders of remorse. ‘Apart from my mum and dad. They were dead. They’re still dead. I want them back, but they won’t come.’

  ‘But you took his case?’

  ‘I dunno why. I was angry because he’d only just died, and Mum and Dad had been dead for years and years. I wanted to punish him for . . . only just . . . dying.’

  ‘So you took the case?’ Miss Dimont had taken his hand.

  ‘I’ve never stolen anything,’ sobbed Barry. ‘I was just . . . so angry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Miss Dimont, and squeezed his hand. ‘You went into Lovely Mary’s – the Signal Box Café – and had a cup of tea. I would have wanted a cup of tea after that.’

  ‘She was very nice to me. Said I could have a slice of toast for nothing with my tea, but I couldn’t eat nothing.’

  ‘What did you do with the case?’

  ‘In the coal cellar.’

  ‘Here?’

  Barry nodded. At that point Terry took over, leant forward and said quite quietly, ‘Let’s go and find it, Barry, shall we?’ and the pair wandered off together.

  In her time Miss Dimont had seen many tragic cases of personal loss, and long ago had come to the conclusion there can be no greater damage done than to those who are orphaned in childhood; they have lost, and nothing can ever be done to ease their wretched pain. She composed herself, for the whole episode had been quite upsetting, and reached into her raffia bag for a handkerchief.

  Terry was back within a minute. ‘I let him go indoors,’ he said. ‘No point in upsetting him further – that one’s got an ugly streak, you can see. Is this what you were looking for?’