Resort to Murder

by TP Fielden

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Miss Dimont sharply, ‘wait a minute … the dead girl? Go back – I don’t know about this!’

  ‘Name of Faye Addams, contestant in the Riviera Queen pageant. Girlfriend of the bass guitarist in The Urge and, come to that, probably of that creep Cyril Normandy. And possibly somebody else as well.’

  Miss Dimont sat up straight. ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘Oh, just been doing a bit of digging,’ said Valentine casually.

  ‘You seem to be catching on quite quick,’ she said after a pause, and smiled. Valentine came over and settled beside her.

  Just then Betty poked her head out of an upstairs window. ‘Byeeee,’ she called down in a fed-up voice. ‘Back to Newton Abbot.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ cried Judy. ‘Can’t be for too much longer.’

  ‘Another two months. I don’t think I can bear it.’

  ‘Good luck,’ answered Valentine. Betty had run out of time to meet the Fleet Street boys and catapult herself into their ranks, and he felt sorry for her, but at least it meant she wouldn’t be swarming round his desk any more. He waved to her then turned his face to the sun as well.

  ‘There’s a lot to talk about,’ he said. ‘Should we …’

  ‘Not here,’ declared Miss Dimont with finality. ‘I’ve got some ginger beer in the pannier,’ pointing towards ever-ready Herbert, ‘want to come up to Mudford Cliffs? It’s on your way home, you can take your devilish machine and I’ll see you up there.’

  Valentine grinned. ‘Ha!’ he said, ‘sure you wouldn’t prefer a ride in the Heinkel?’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  They made their way separately.

  From where they sat on the green above the cliffs, it was as if they could see the whole world. Spread below them were the pink sand, the ivory blue water, the red rocks – and now the tide was at low water, they could see the remains of old ships, spines intact but bodies long gone, sticking up out of the waves like broken teeth. The sun’s rays, sharper now as the day drew out, pinpointed the harbour beneath with its ships and trawlers and small boats bobbing gently on the water. The air was still, the gulls were silent, and for a moment the world appeared to stop turning.

  They were sipping ginger beer from tin cups but Miss Dimont’s eyes were focused on the prospect below.

  ‘“Verweile doch, du bist so schon”,’ she said, almost to herself.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Valentine. ‘The old German’s a bit rusty.’

  ‘Faust. He discovers what for him is the most beautiful moment in life and he wants to stay in it for ever . He says, “Stay awhile, you are so beautiful.”’

  There was a pause.

  Then Valentine replied, ‘No words I might write in a lifetime in journalism could express it better.’

  Miss Dimont turned to see the young reporter suddenly delving in his notebook; he hadn’t necessarily been talking about the beauty of the seascape below. ‘Better bring me up to date,’ she said briskly, pouring more ginger beer.

  ‘I don’t know what to make of Mr Rhys’s behaviour,’ began Valentine. He described Molly Churchstow’s call to the Express, and that she had been put through, after a lot of fuss, to the editor’s office, that she had said that she believed the dead body on Todhempstead Beach could be that of missing Faye Addams, and that the editor said something would be done about it.

  ‘Why didn’t she call the police?’

  ‘No idea. Maybe she thought there’d be some personal publicity in it for her – you know, Judy, those beauty pageant girls live a desperate life. They exist on cigarettes and I know not what, they save all their money for make-up and nylons in the hope their beauty will carry them through to a better life. They’re exploited appallingly.’

  Judy thought about this. ‘You could also say they do it of their own free will, nobody asks them to parade around in swimming costumes with a cardboard number taped to their wrist.’

  ‘I’d say they can’t help it,’ said Valentine. ‘All they have is their beauty.’

  ‘Do you think they’re beautiful?’ asked Miss Dimont, curious.

  ‘Not really. In fact, not at all.’ He lifted his head and looked away.

  ‘So then …’

  ‘So then Mr Rhys sat on the information, didn’t tell a soul. Why would he do that? Do you think that in some way these two deaths are linked?’

  ‘I doubt it. In any case, far too early to say.’

  ‘Well, I’m no detective but I think it strange that he should hide in his office like that.’

  ‘Fleet Street, I told you.’

  ‘No, it’s something else,’ he insisted.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Miss Dimont, who felt this was going round the houses, ‘we’ve established the identity of the murder victim. You talked to her friends – did you discover who might want kill her? And why?’

  Valentine turned a page in his notebook. ‘She was having a love affair with Boots, the guitarist. Molly thinks she may have been involved as well with Normandy, the beauty pageant man. And then there was this chap in The Shadows. Each one might have wanted to kill her simply on the grounds of jealousy.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting the Sisters of Reason?’ asked Miss Dimont, for these were her preferred candidates.

  ‘Women killing each other in order to make a point about exploitation? I don’t see it.’

  ‘You haven’t met Ursula Guedella, she’s positively frightening. And more than a bit mad. Athene heard the Sisters talking about the murder when they were in the Chinese Singing Teacher.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Valentine, baffled by this abstract notion – a Chinaman teaching singing? An Englishman teaching you how to sing in Chinese? Neither of these?

  ‘Tell you later. There’s definitely something about to happen with the Sisters of Reason – they were talking about an Action Day. Athene got the impression it was a series of events likely to happen all over the country.’

  ‘Well,’ said Valentine practically. ‘Clearly, Action Day is not yet upon us. The murder of this girl happened days ago. If they are planning something, they’re not very co-ordinated about it.’

  ‘That sounds like your Army training coming out,’ laughed Miss Dimont. ‘With women it’s different, it doesn’t all have to be straight lines and precision timing. We do things the way we think is best, when we think is best, not by ticking off a list on a clipboard.’

  ‘Well,’ said the young man, ‘if the Sisters of Reason killed Faye Addams simply to make a point, they made a pretty poor job of it. Nobody knew who she was until just now so there’s been no publicity, which surely must have been the point of the exercise. I think if you’re going to kill someone to make a point, then the point should be made.’

  ‘It’s chilling to think they could kill in cold blood like that,’ agreed Miss Dimont, ‘but, to be fair, behind all this extremist talk is a very potent argument about women and the way they’re treated. For heaven’s sake, we’re very nearly in the 1960s, but for all the progress that’s been made since the War we may as well be in the 1860s.’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Valentine. ‘There are more efficient ways of going about achieving your aims.’

  ‘Men!’ huffed Judy.

  ‘Women!’ riposted Valentine.

  It had come to this.

  What looked like blowing up into a heated debate was punctured by the arrival of a brace of dog-walkers with a selection of adorable companions. Normally during the day, the green up on Mudford Cliffs was the province of the She-Club, the group of enthusiastic dog owners whose knowledge of this quarter of Temple Regis was second to none – they would have provided a wonderful intelligence-gathering unit during the war so rigorous was their interview technique, so sharp their observation of each other. But now, at the day’s end, it was the turn of the men.

  ‘Oh look,’ said Judy. ‘That’s Captain Hulton! And his dog, Bruce!’ She gave them both a wave and the ancient soldier gently fluttered a hand in reply.
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  ‘I wanted to ask you about the Larsson business,’ said Valentine. The evening sun was hot and he took off his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

  ‘Not so fast. The girl – Faye whatshername. You think it’s jealousy, and that the murderer could be one of three men she was involved with. I think it’s more likely it was the Sisters, and though the most likely candidate there is Ursula Guedella, it could equally be that de Mauny woman – she seems to be very much under Ursula’s thumb. The Commandant, she calls her – such nonsense!’

  ‘That about sums it up. By the way, are you thinking of sharing any of this with the venerable inspector?’

  ‘But of course – at the right moment. I had a most useful conversation with him last night in the Grand, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We were going over the Larsson case. The problem here is that there are so many suspects – the stepson Gus Wetherby being the most obvious, so one can almost certainly discount him straight away.

  ‘Then there’s Mrs Larsson – my preferred candidate if it’s not the Lazarus League – fearing the loss of her position as chatelaine of Ransome’s Retreat. She’d betrayed her husband and had everything to lose.

  ‘There’s the manservant Lamb, about to lose his job. I had lunch with him at Lovely Mary’s and I’ll tell you more about that separately. It could be him – he had the motive and the opportunity – but he’s a pretty sad figure with a drink problem, so I think probably not.’

  ‘May I kiss you?’ said Valentine.

  ‘You may not. Pay attention.’

  The young man rolled over onto his back and stared up at the sky.

  ‘Then there’s that group of oddball followers who Larsson encouraged – no way of knowing if one of them had lost someone and planned an act of revenge. Anonymous people with easy access – we have no idea of their names or where they came from – and if it was one of them, they’ve performed the perfect murder.’

  ‘We’re never going to find them,’ said Valentine.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. If you are scrupulous in your examination of the other suspects, it may be that you’re able to identify one of them as the culprit. If you can’t do that, then – and only then – it could be the Lazarus lot.’

  ‘Or not.’

  ‘Yes. Or not.’

  ‘There’s one more you can add to the tally,’ said Valentine. ‘And that’s Boots McGuigan.’

  ‘The beat group chap, boyfriend of Faye?’

  ‘How does he come into the picture?’

  ‘Well,’ said Valentine, ‘apparently at about the same time Mr Larsson was rejuvenating himelf to death, Boots disappeared from a rehearsal. He came back later in a foul temper and shut himself in the van.’

  ‘That’s not much to go on. How do you make a connection out of that?’

  ‘He’d been asking the manager, Gavin, about Ben Larsson and Ransome’s Retreat. He was really agitated. And it was just after that he bunked off the rehearsal. Derek told me.’

  ‘Derek? Who’s Derek?’

  ‘One of the biggest stars in our pantheon – you know him as Danny Trouble.’

  ‘Huh!’ said Miss Dimont, who if not interested in Danny was certainly interested in what he had to say. ‘No evidence, though, is there that this Boots actually went up to the Retreat? Why would he want to?’

  ‘No evidence he went up there, none at all, but if he did he could easily have joined in with the Lazarus lot and gained access to the great man that way.’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘I’ve been chewing that over. Can’t think of an answer. But it links the two murders, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It most certainly does,’ said Miss Dimont, briskly packing up the cups. You could tell she didn’t think so at all.

  The editor’s door was tight shut, just as it had been the past couple of days. Essential work was conducted through intermediaries while everyone tried to pretend it was business as usual.

  Athene sat at a far desk with the deputy editor Peter Pomeroy, whose wife loved the astrologer’s predictions so much she read all twelve star signs each week, just for the sheer pleasure. Athene had made Peter a cup of her special tea while they discussed the contents of this week’s page, but soon their conversation strayed – as it often did – from matters temporal to those of a higher plane.

  Pomeroy was ready to spend the rest of the morning in private debate with Devon’s most gifted astrologer but found his attention distracted by the arrival in the newsroom of a well-dressed, perfectly groomed woman of a certain age carrying a battered leather portfolio. Though her forward progress appeared determined, it was clear she was not sure where to go.

  ‘Can I help?’ asked ever-courteous Peter.

  ‘Looking for the editor’s office. I don’t have an appointment but I expect he will see me.’

  ‘He’s very busy, what with the … Perhaps I can help?’

  ‘Please kindly mention my name to him. He’ll see me.’ She seemed very sure.

  ‘And the name is …?’

  ‘Auriol Hedley.’

  At that moment the office door opened and the bewhiskered face of Rudyard Rhys appeared. ‘Auriol,’ he said, his voice conveying a mix of disbelief and fear.

  ‘If I may have a minute, Richard.’

  Rhys looked at her, then at Pomeroy. Though he said nothing his eyes conveyed a beseeching plea for help.

  ‘Anything I can do, er, Rudyard?’ Peter was confused by Auriol’s choice of first name.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Rhys blankly. Turning to Auriol he said with distaste, ‘You’d better come in.’

  The door had barely shut and Rhys was still lumbering back to take shelter behind his desk when Auriol started in.

  ‘Not a social call, Richard. Official business. As your former senior officer I’ve been asked to come in and enlighten you as to a few matters.’

  Rhys knew the routine all right. He’d done a bit of enlightening himself in his time, and he knew this was not going to be pleasant.

  ‘What authority?’

  ‘Room 39.’

  ‘Get on with it, then.’

  ‘For the duration of this conversation, Richard, you will bear in mind our respective ranks,’ said Auriol commandingly. ‘Please address me properly, and with respect.’

  The editor reached for his pipe. ‘The War’s over, Auriol. Fourteen years. Half a lifetime.’

  ‘The Official Secrets Act lasts several lifetimes. You are bound by it. And please don’t light that thing.’

  Rhys scratched his beard and looked out of the window. ‘All right,’ he muttered in surly tones. ‘Go ahead.’

  Auriol opened her portfolio and took out a sheaf of papers. ‘Operation Tailcoat, obviously. Bengt Larsson.’

  ‘Well, obviously.’

  ‘I won’t go over the mess you left behind back in Berlin. Three agents dead, the failure to find and fix that traitor Railton Freeman. Larsson – our man, Richard, not your man – left high and dry in Berlin with the Gestapo surrounding him. If it hadn’t been for some great good fortune, Richard, Larsson would never have got away.’

  ‘You don’t know anything, Auriol. I never heard a word of criticism from him about what went wrong, and quite right too. Once he’d got over the initial shock, of course.’

  ‘I must say I marvel at human nature’s ability to heal its wounds,’ replied Auriol scornfully. ‘What a mess it was. But let’s not dwell on it – what I want to know is what on earth you were doing up at the Retreat when Ben Larsson was killed. The Office wants to know too.’

  ‘He told me he was going to the newspapers to prove he wasn’t a fraudster as they claimed, but a war hero. I told him he couldn’t, reminded him of Official Secrets.’

  ‘I know all that. Hugue – Judy – told me. Did you kill him?’

  ‘Certainly not. Why would I? The threat of prosecution was enough to make him see sense.’

  ‘You threatened the man whose life you so nea
rly lost? With prosecution?’

  Rhys turned to look at his inquisitor. ‘Yes,’ he said unblushingly. ‘He had no right to reveal what went on during the War, he knew that.’

  ‘If he had, of course, your reputation would be in ruins. I’d say that was motive enough to consider murdering him.’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ said Rhys, the authority draining out of his voice.

  ‘No, Richard,’ said Auriol, after a pause, ‘with your general level of competence I think it’s most unlikely that you did. But is Tailcoat going to make headlines in the next few days?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ said the editor, shaking his head. ‘I got Mrs Larsson to promise that she wouldn’t mention it.’

  ‘Oh yes? She went and told Judy all about it straight after.’

  Rudyard Rhys looked alarmed.

  ‘I’ll take care of that,’ he said after it had sunk in. ‘I am her editor, you know. She can just forget all about it. Anyway, I ordered her to stay away from the Retreat.’

  ‘Just so she didn’t learn any more about Tailcoat, Richard? About how incompetent you were?’

  ‘Accidents happen. In war, in peacetime.’

  ‘Tailcoat was no accident, Richard. You were lucky to get away without an official inquiry. And when I think how we tried to salvage your reputation after your failure to arrest Lord Sempill.’

  Rhys levered himself out his chair. ‘Don’t start that up again!’ he roared.

  ‘There he was, running round the Admiralty – a Japanese spy.’

  ‘And, if I may remind you, a member of the House of Lords. He had powerful friends – for heaven’s sake his father was a chum of the King!’

  ‘He was selling secrets to the Japanese and, because of your failure, the best we got was his resignation from the Royal Navy when he should have been court-martialled and executed!’

  ‘I really don’t see what this has to do with anything,’ said Rhys. He looked angry and cowed.

  ‘The Office want to be sure that Tailcoat does not come out into the open.’

  ‘I can’t guarantee that.’ Rhys’s voice was shrill. ‘We’ve got half of Fleet Street buzzing round Temple Regis, determined to get a scoop on Ben Larsson. Even if Mrs Larsson stays quiet, there’s still the stepson, Wetherby. Who, by the way, killed his stepfather in my opinion.’