Stephen put down his palette and wiped his hands on a piece of toweling. “Tom knows all the influential people on the island. I guess they don’t want him to get ahead of them, socially that is. Excuse me.”
He took his brushes into the bathroom and turned on the faucet.
I sat in one of Stephen’s old armchairs, idly picked up a sketchbook, and lifted the cover. The first image surprised me. I turned to the next and then the next, my attention now totally captured. Page after page were drawings of Alicia—Alicia reading in a chair. Alicia peering into the telescope. Alicia smiling. Alicia frowning. Alicia sleeping. I closed the sketchbook and pulled out another one. It was more of the same.
“Did you get any breakfast?” Stephen called out from the bathroom. “Don’t answer that. I won’t be able to hear you with the water running.”
He turned off the tap and reentered the studio. The second sketchbook was still open on my lap.
“Norlene made malasadas this morning. Did you get one?” he asked. “She…” He stopped when he saw what I was examining.
“I thought you said she was a poor model,” I said, looking up from a drawing of Alicia with her head cocked to the side.
Stephen lay his brushes down on the table, took the chair across from mine, and gently pulled the sketchbook out of my lap, turning it so he could see the picture I was referring to. “No,” he said as he slowly turned the pages. “You said she was a poor model. I just didn’t correct you.”
“Why not?”
“How can I put it? The truth is that I couldn’t paint her. As I said, she didn’t have the patience to sit still for a painting, but she was a perfect subject for the quick sketch, the kind when I want my impressions to be loose and spontaneous. I used charcoal, sometimes pastel, even crayon. I tried to capture that effervescence, that quixotic nature of hers. I never knew when she would run off.” He sighed.
“You were in love with her,” I said gently.
His laugh was rueful. “It shows that much?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so,” I replied, smiling.
He exhaled, sat back and shook his head. “She was practically my sister,” he said, slapping the book closed and tossing it on the pile of other pads. “There was no way we could ever be together in that way.”
“But she wasn’t a blood relative,” I said. “You’re Tom’s stepson. She was his niece.”
“Yeah, I know. I think a lot about whether Alicia would accept the fact that I had certain feelings for her. But even if she did—and I was never sure—Tom would never have stood for it. He’d think it would have made him look bad.”
“How so?”
“Even though we weren’t related by blood, she was still family, and to Tom, having members of the family marry each other wouldn’t look proper. A proper appearance is everything to him. His reputation stands on it. But it’s all just conjecture now. Alicia’s gone.” His eyes filled with tears, but he willed them away and stood abruptly. “I’m going to take a walk,” he said. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“May I come with you?” I asked.
“Sure. Why not?”
I followed him down a back staircase I hadn’t seen before that led to the kitchen. We left the house by a side door and took a different path to the beach than the one I was familiar with. This one was steeper, winding in and out of patches of sage and palmetto, with no gravel to prevent one from slipping on the sandy soil. Stephen sprinted down it like a mountain goat, sure of his footing. I trailed him more slowly.
Could this have been the route Alicia had taken to the beach? If so, it was not surprising that I hadn’t awakened to the sound of footsteps on the gravel, or that Godfrey Reynolds hadn’t heard anyone passing by his cottage. Of course, he hadn’t heard me either when I’d walked down to the beach and run back. It was something to ask him about at another time.
The sandy soil gave way to beach and my feet sank down into the sand, the warm silky grains filling my sneakers. I half-trotted, half-trudged over to where Stephen was throwing shells into the surf like miniature Frisbees, the bottom of his jeans wet to the knees. I picked up a broken scallop shell, flipped it into the water, and watched a rolling wave return it to the sand.
Stephen took a deep breath and stretched his arms wide above him before heading along the water’s edge in the opposite direction from where I’d found Alicia’s body. I joined him and he slowed his pace.
“Stephen, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” I said.
“You can ask,” he replied.
“I saw you and Madeline arguing with Alicia at the party. Would you care to tell me what that was about?”
He pulled off the bandanna and ran a hand through his hair. “You know, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m not even sure. Alicia had been taunting us all day and evening about a surprise that she had planned.”
“Do you know what it was?”
“No idea. Maddy thought maybe she was going to marry Charles Davis. He’s the nephew of Agnes Chudleigh-Stubbs. Did you meet her?”
“Yes, and Charles as well.”
“I didn’t think that was it. Charles is a nice guy, but he’s, well, he’s weak, not in the physical sense but in his nature. He’s just not strong enough for her. He would’ve been miserable if he ever married her. She would have eaten him alive.”
And you wouldn’t have been very happy either, I thought. I wondered if Stephen was giving me a true picture of Alicia and Charles’s relationship or simply what he hoped was the case. How far would he have been willing to go to prevent Alicia from marrying Charles? He obviously loved her. There was no question about that.
Had they walked down to the beach together that night? Could she have tormented him with the idea that Charles was about to propose? Was it even true? Had he strangled her in a jealous rage and then attempted to pin the crime on the island’s Jack the Ripper killer?
Stephen didn’t strike me as a violent man, but when passions come into the picture, the calmest of us are capable of actions we never thought possible.
We continued to walk for fifteen minutes without another word between us, turned and started back toward the house, each of us caught up in our own reveries. The sea air and the exercise had conspired to make me hungry.
“I hope Norlene has some malasadas left,” he said, echoing my thoughts. “I could eat a dozen right now.”
“I think I could, too,” I said, smiling.
“Speaking of Norlene,” he said, shading his eyes with his hand and waving at the cook, who stood on the bluff above.
We tramped up the sandy path we’d taken down to the beach until reaching Norlene.
“Mrs. Fletcher, I’ve been searching all over for you,” she said.
“Sorry, Norlene,” Stephen said. “I dragged her off for a walk.”
“Why are you looking for me?” I asked.
“You have a visitor.”
“I do?”
“Yes. An Inspector Sutherland.”
Chapter Fifteen
“My goodness, George. This is a surprise,” I said.
Britain’s Metropolitan Police Service Chief Inspector George Sutherland rose from the sofa where he’d been sitting and came to greet me. He took both my hands and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek, his eyes smiling. “Always good to see you, Jessica.”
“When did you arrive?” I asked. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I would have met you at the airport. Have you been to headquarters already? You know about the fourth murder? Of course you do. Where are you staying?”
“One question at a time, lass,” he said, chuckling. He led me to the chair by the window where Alicia had sat reading when I first arrived, and took the seat across from mine next to the telescope, laying his raincoat over the arm of the chair. “I apologize for not alerting you to my pending arrival. As you may presume, it was a late decision, prompted by circumstances.”
“Murder number four,” I said.
“Precisely so.”
“Were you waiting very long?” I asked. “Had I known you were here, I would have come up from the beach earlier.”
“Not long at all.” George patted the top of the telescope next to him. “I entertained myself with this while I was waiting for you,” he said. “Thought I might see you wandering along the shore.”
“And what did you see?” I asked. “I haven’t looked through it myself.” I stood and leaned over to peer into the viewfinder.
“Just a portion of the beach,” he said. “It’s locked, and I didn’t want to change someone’s settings.”
“A very important portion of the beach,” I said, sitting down again. “That’s the scene of the crime.”
“You’ll have to show it to me before I leave.”
George looked tired. There were circles under his eyes and lines next to his mouth that I didn’t remember seeing there before. Travel can do that to you, especially a trip that hadn’t been planned in advance. He must have rushed to make his transatlantic flight, and if he was unlucky enough to sit in the middle seat in coach, it would have made the trip torture. For someone his height—well over six feet—those seats are a tight squeeze, making a lengthy journey seem even longer. Put that together with grabbing meals on the fly from airport fast-food outlets, not to mention the pressure to make his connecting flight to Bermuda, and he had every reason to look worn out. But I suspected there were stresses I wasn’t aware of contributing to his weary demeanor. Even so, he was still one of the handsomest men I knew. Of course, my fondness for him might color my view.
“I caught the first flight out after the news arrived, barely had time to pack a bag. As you can see, I’m still carrying my mackintosh”—he patted his raincoat—“even though the climate here is quite lovely.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said. “You’ll probably find plenty of use for it. I got caught in a downpour just the other day.”
“Did you? Well, then, I won’t complain,” he said. He cocked his head. “Met your host, the judge, leaving with his man as I was coming in. Seems a decent chap.”
“Tom has been very generous, continuing to entertain his guests even though this has got to be a terrible time for him and his family. I feel a little guilty that my being here is preventing them from having a private mourning period.”
“They could have asked you to leave. Perhaps they’re grateful for the distraction. Some people would prefer to ease into their grief, rather than having it beset them all at once.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said. “My staying near the scene of the crime does have its advantages. I wouldn’t confess to Tom that I’ve been conducting my own investigation, but it’s difficult not to think about his niece’s murder while surrounded by those who knew her, and in particular those who disliked her.”
“Are there many who disliked her?”
“For someone so young, she seemed to have approached the world with a scorched-earth policy, gleefully alienating people, although I haven’t uncovered many details of how she managed to accomplish this so easily.”
I turned at the sound of someone clearing her throat.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher,” Norlene said, coming into the room with a heavy tray. “I thought the gentleman might like a little something to eat.”
George rose from his chair and relieved her of her burden. “Thank you, madam. You’re very kind.”
“How thoughtful of you, Norlene.” I pulled a small table closer to us so George could set down the tray. “This is more than a little something,” I said, smiling at her. “This is a feast.”
In addition to a pot of tea and its accompaniments, Norlene had piled up two sandwiches on the plates, and even included a couple of her malasadas for George.
“If you’d be more comfortable in the dining room, I can set you up in there,” she said, a question reflected in her voice.
“Please, dinna fash yourself on my account,” George said, slipping into his Scots dialect. “This is wonderful exactly as it is. You are an angel come to a starving man’s rescue.” He put his hand over his heart and gave her a big grin.
Norlene blushed and aimed a small smile in my direction, clearly charmed, before returning to the kitchen.
It was his considerate manner that had captivated me for so long as well. George was certainly the consummate professional Freddie had said he was, but he also had a personal warmth that set people at ease and made them want to please him. I imagine that such charisma was helpful in drawing out suspects, encouraging them to give away the information he sought. And I saw firsthand how loyal his staff was—the respect and admiration they felt for him. With George, such appeal was not something he turned on and off. It was his nature to be kind and courteous. Yet everyone who met him knew there was a will of steel beneath his manners and refinement.
I withheld my questions while George ate. I poured tea for both of us, shared one of his sandwiches, but left the other and both the malasadas for him to enjoy. When he had finished his meal and picked up his second cup of tea, sighing with contentment, I was confident my curiosity wouldn’t be out of line.
“Is there a problem with the investigation, George?” I asked. “I had the impression it was going well. Why did you need to rush over here?”
“It’s a long story, lass,” he said, peering into his cup as if the tea leaves could divulge the future.
“Do you have time to fill me in?”
He sat forward, set his cup down on the tray, and reached out for my hand. “I do. But why don’t you take me down to the scene. We can talk along the way.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m fully content.” He patted his stomach. “Please thank that lovely lady again for me.”
We exited by the terrace doors after I had notified Norlene that we were leaving and passed along George’s and my gratitude for the food. We took the gravel path, stopped at my cottage so George could drop off his raincoat on the swing of my porch, and talked all the way to the beach. George gave out with a belly laugh when I told him the story of my encounter with the intruder who turned out to be Freddie Moore.
“The redheaded man! Sounds like a great title for one of your books,” he said. “Freddie would love to be a scary character.”
“I certainly felt foolish once I met him and we had a chance to talk,” I said. “He’s not scary at all.”
“People often mistake Freddie for someone other than who he is. No, he’s not scary, but he’s nobody’s fool either. Very shrewd, that one. It’s easy to dismiss the costume and the bumbling manner, but his method of getting into character in his own way has been very efficient at solving crimes.”
“I thought that’s what he was doing. He’s dressing like Inspector Frederick Abberline to think through Bermuda’s version of Jack the Ripper.”
“Or he may be impersonating Jack the Ripper himself. If it helps him to get into the mind of the murderer, it’s fine with me. I don’t question whatever works for him. Plus, he’s a whiz with electronics. One of the best we have.”
“He was going to show me what he carries in his suitcase,” I said, “but we were interrupted by news of the fourth murder.”
“Plenty of time for that. He’s scheduled to give a class to the Bermudian police before he leaves. Perhaps you can sit in.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
I led George to the place on the beach where I’d found Alicia’s body. Under the azure sky, boats bobbed in the water, and with the sun bouncing off the wet rocks and the foam washing up the sand, it was a beautiful setting with no sign of the terrible act that had taken place there.
George examined the rocks, and looked back to the window in the house where he’d seen this portion of the beach through the telescope. I showed him the spot that Freddie had revealed to me, where my red-haired friend had found evidence of a hiding place that may have been used by the killer.
There was little more to see, so George and I sat together on the bottom step of the fli
ght of stairs that led up to the Jamisons’ property, and that Charles and I had occupied two days earlier. As we watched a motorboat cruise along the shore just beyond the breakers, I gave him a rundown of all my activities to date, my suspicions and my lack of conclusions, plus the few trails I still wanted to follow. He listened carefully, nodding at intervals, until I fell silent.
“You’ve gathered a lot of productive information,” he said. “Unfortunately, my team is not free to pursue Miss Betterton’s killer.”
“So Freddie told me.”
“We have to be careful what toes we tread on here. Our duties are clearly circumscribed with no room to improvise or to expand our investigation.”
“It sounds as if the Bermudian police are upset that Scotland Yard is here,” I said. “I thought they had specifically invited your help.”
“They did,” George replied. “But it’s a complicated relationship we have.”
“I’m sure you can simplify that for me,” I said.
George laughed and took my hand in his. “Let me try. You see, we train many of their officers. Their system is very similar to ours, almost a copy of it. Yes, they want our help, but only on their terms. And they’ve basically given us a time frame to put up or shut up, as you Yanks like to say.”
“Why would they be so impatient?” I asked. “They must know an investigation takes time.”
“They don’t trust us, you see.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see. Why don’t they trust you? They asked you here, didn’t they?”
“They did, but they’ve invited us in before with spectacularly unfortunate results.” George paused and I waited for him to continue. The topic was evidently one he found difficult to explain.
“This is not the first time the Yard has been called in on a difficult case on the island,” he said. “In the seventies, not so long ago that I can’t remember hearing about it, we were called to help investigate the murder of the island’s commissioner of police.”
“No!”
“Ironic, isn’t it? But that was not the worst of it. Later, we were called again when the island’s governor and one of his aides were assassinated. In each instance, to our great irritation and to the Bermudian government’s frustration, we were unable to determine the perpetrators or effect any arrests. We returned home with a blot on our record.”
Trouble at High Tide Page 14
