Salcombe, close to Plymouth on the Devon side, is surrounded by the sea. Through the centre of the little town runs the harbour, part of the estuary which ebbs and flows each day as the tide travels the six miles back and forth from the larger town of Kingsbridge and then out into the English Channel. Tiny, perfect beaches line the sides. A ferry runs every day in summer, taking passengers up and down from Kingsbridge. As it reaches the open sea, the waters are guarded by Bolt Head on the Plymouth side and by Prawle Point on the Dartmouth side. The sea is in Salcombe’s blood. Over the years the men of Salcombe have sailed against Philip of Spain’s Armada, smuggled brandy and tobacco to be hidden in secret caves in the cliffs, and sent fast sailing ships, fruit schooners, to bring in fresh oranges and other exotic fruit from Spain and the Azores. In recent years its beauty and the mild climate had been bringing in more and more visitors.
The estate agent’s office, open only in the mornings two days a week in the winter and spring, was manned this morning by Jimmy Johnston, another young man whose job took him regularly between offices in Kingsbridge and Salcombe. Mark Vaughan and Jimmy Johnston had been at school together and were still friends in their late twenties. Sergeant Vaughan was tall and slim with piercing blue eyes. He was a feared centre three-quarter in the county rugby team, famous for gliding through the opposition lines like a man who seems to have left the room without actually opening the door, as the rugby correspondent of the Western Morning News put it.
‘Good to see you, Marky boy,’ said Jimmy, six inches shorter than his friend with a shock of red hair. ‘Are you here on business or dropping in for a chat?’
‘Business, I’m afraid,’ said Sergeant Vaughan, lowering himself into an ancient armchair, ‘and it might be serious.’
‘I see,’ said Jimmy, going to the door and closing it with a sign saying back in half an hour on the side facing the street. ‘Fire ahead, my friend.’
‘The inquiry comes from an Inspector in the Met. He’s investigating a triple murder, I don’t know where. He is interested in a party of two or three people, who might or might not be South Africans, who might or might not be staying in a place in the West Country like Salcombe. They would be in a hotel or a rented house. If troubled, they could be extremely dangerous. Does that ring any bells, Jimmy?’
‘Holy Christ,’ said Jimmy Johnson, ‘I think it does. Just give me a minute to think about it.’ He began pulling papers out of a drawer in his desk and placing them on the table. ‘I’ve been wondering if I should let you know about these people for some time,’ he said. ‘You could say I’ve been expecting you. We have a party of three foreigners, staying in Estuary House just up the road from here, between the Marine Hotel and the Yacht Club. Bloody enormous place, Estuary House, owned by some rich industrialist in Birmingham who asks us to let it for him when he’s not here. They came,’ he consulted his paperwork, ‘at the beginning of January. They took the house for three months. Strange thing was, we never saw any of them at all. The deal was organized through a man from Chesterton’s in London who came down to sort everything out for them. It was if they didn’t want to be seen.’
‘Have you had any dealings with them since? Do they wander about the town and so on?’
‘Not exactly, no. I mean there have been sightings, but only of them inside the house. Every inhabitant of Salcombe now peers up at the windows when he or she goes past. I have no idea if this is correct or not, but the gossip goes that there are three of them, one in his fifties or a bit older, one in his thirties, the last one a bit younger.’ Jimmy paused for a moment and looked at his door as if one of the visitors might be about to walk in. ‘They say,’ he went on, ‘that one of the younger ones has a great black beard, but he hasn’t been seen for a while. The other younger one is clean-shaven. But the really strange thing, and I don’t see how anybody could have invented it, is that the older man has only got one eye. He wears an eye patch on the other, as if he’s some pirate on the Spanish Main.’
‘Can we just go back a moment, Jimmy? The lease on Estuary House, whose name is that in?’
‘It’s in the name of the man from Chesterton’s.’
‘Are you telling me that nobody’s got an idea what these people are called? For all we know it could be Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego looking out at the harbour from that great house up there?’ Sergeant Vaughan’s granny used to read to him from the Scriptures last thing at night.
‘It could, though there are no rumours of our three having been sent into the burning fiery furnace.’
Sergeant Mark Vaughan looked around the office ‘You don’t have a telegraph here, I suppose?’
‘Place is too small,’ said Jimmy. ‘They’ve got one up at the Marine Hotel.’
‘Look, Jimmy,’ said Mark, ‘this could be very serious. I need to tell my bosses here and the police in London need to know all about it. Could you look up what paperwork you have about these people? The man from Chesterton’s, for instance, he must have had a bloody name even if his clients didn’t. And he must have an address. I’m going up to the hotel now. I may have to take a peek at Estuary House on the way.’
Sergeant Mark Vaughan stopped in the middle of the road and stared up at Estuary House. It was on three storeys with great tall windows on the first floor looking out over the harbour. A balcony ran most of the width of the house. On the top floor there were a couple of rooms with smaller balconies and elaborate railings. The curtains were still drawn on the first floor. On top there was a tiny gap, as if somebody needed room to stare out at the harbour and the little town.
Horace Ross, general manager of the Marine Hotel on the other side of the road, lived next door to Mark Vaughan’s aunt in a house near the waterfront.
‘Horace, you old rogue,’ said the sergeant cheerfully. ‘Why didn’t you report that you had some very strange people staying across the way? People have gone to jail for less, you know.’
Horace Ross laughed. ‘I’ll say they’re strange, young man. Do you know, to this day I’ve only set eyes on the youngest one.’
‘Let’s get down to basics then. How many of them are there and what sort of ages?’
‘There are three of them. I’m sure of that because one of the waiters here saw them all sitting down together once. For the last couple of weeks there seem to have been only two of them. The third one has disappeared, or he’s not been seen.’
‘What on earth was your waiter doing over there?’
‘Sorry, Mark, I should have said. They have a lot of their meals delivered to them from the hotel here. Normally one of our waiters takes the food over on a big tray, two if there are a lot of courses, leaves it by the front door and rings the bell. The time they were all seen together the door was left open and our chap assumed he was meant to bring the supper inside.’
‘Age? Appearance?’ Sergeant Vaughan was writing very quickly in his notebook. Outside the windows in Ross’s office the seagulls were performing their dance to welcome the spring, swooping and soaring and shrieking above the water.
‘Oldest one, mid-fifties perhaps? Middle one with the great black beard, thirty-five or thereabouts, I should think. Youngest one mid-twenties. Oh, and I nearly forgot. The oldest one has lost an eye somewhere along the line. He was wearing a crimson eye patch the day our waiter spotted them all.’
‘See here, Horace, I need to ask you some more questions in a minute. But for now I need your telegraph machine. Right now, if you please. I think we’re going to make a Detective Inspector in the Met very happy indeed.’
Mark Vaughan sent his preliminary report to his Inspector in Kingsbridge. He suggested, and was later instructed, to stay in Salcombe for the rest of the day and gather as much information as he could about the mysterious guests in Estuary House.
This time Inspector Devereux did ring Markham Square with the latest news. ‘Lord Powerscourt?’ He was almost shouting with delight. ‘I think we’re in business. Let me read you this wire from Inspector Timpson in Kingsbridge n
ear Salcombe in Devon.
‘“From Inspector Timpson, Devon County Constabulary. To Inspector Devereux, Metropolitan Police. Re: Triple Murder. Sergeant reports from Salcombe three males staying in Estuary House, large villa by the sea. House lease arranged by London estate agent, address to follow. Eldest, mid-fifties, has lost eye, wears eye patch. Middle one, middle thirties, has long black beard, not seen for some time. Youngest twenty-five to thirty. No contact with the town. Stay in villa. Meals delivered from local hotel. No names known at all. Locals believe they are plotting a major crime somewhere, man with eye patch the mastermind.” What do you think, my lord?’
‘Excellent news, excellent, Inspector. I think we should pack our buckets and spades and prepare for a holiday by the seaside. Devon is usually bracing at this time of year.’
‘I think we should wait for the news from South Africa, my lord. Then we might have some names. I’ve asked the Kingsbridge police to seal Salcombe off, discreetly, of course, so nobody can get in our out without our knowledge. Their sergeant is making further inquiries in the town. Is there anything you would like to suggest for them?’
‘Laundry?’ said Powerscourt. ‘Is there a laundry facility in Salcombe? Or do they send it over to the hotel? And do they have access to a boat? There must be a reason for going to a place right on the water.’
‘I’ll pass that on, my lord. Hold on, there’s another message coming in. Looks like it might be from South Africa. I’ll call you back.’
Powerscourt stared out into Markham Square. Green was returning to the trees and there was a blaze of daffodils at the King’s Road end. The traffic was stuck again, a line of four red buses seemingly impaled in the middle of the street. He looked again at his atlas, establishing in his mind the precise whereabouts of Salcombe in relation to places like Torquay, Exeter, Brixham and Plymouth. He went to his telephone and placed a call to one Fruity Worthington, a close relation of Lady Lucy’s. By night Fruity was one of the leading lights of the West Country social scene, a tireless frequenter of hunt balls and dinner parties, and, a great boon to hostesses with a surplus of ladies, he was still single. By day Fruity was a naval captain, based in His Majesty’s Western Fleet Headquarters in the City of Plymouth.
March 6th 1910. 14.10.
From: Inspector Paul Roos, Durban Borough Police, South Africa.
To: Inspector Devereux, Metropolitan Police.
Re: Triple Murder.
Think we have man you want, Wilfrid Allen, 57, rich businessman ex Johannesburg. Widower. Only one eye, circumstances of loss as yet unknown. Also paid for ticket first class of William James Strauss, same address as Allen in Johannesburg, twentyfour years old, and one Elias Harper, labourer, second class. All singles Durban Southampton. Inquiries will continue about the others, and in Johannesburg where my colleagues are collecting information about Allen. Regards.
Regards? Regards? I’ll say regards fifty times over, Inspector Miles Devereux said to himself, as he telephoned the news from South Africa to the Powerscourts in Markham Square. The reaction was swift.
‘I’ve been checking the trains,’ said Powerscourt. ‘There’s a fast service that leaves Paddington in an hour or so. Could you catch that? And I’m sure you’ll leave a competent man on duty with those machines in case some more news comes through.’
‘Don’t worry, my lord, I shall join you on the train. I’m going to book us all in at the Marine Hotel. I’ll tell them that you’re a private investigator in case they’re not sure what you’re doing in our team and I’m going to take over the telegraph there for the duration of our stay.’
Once Powerscourt had finished speaking, Johnny Fitzgerald commandeered the telephone. He had to wait a long time for the recipient of his call to find what he wanted but he joined Powerscourt and Lady Lucy in the drawing room with a huge grin on his face.
‘Thought I’d just make a little inquiry of my own about this fellow Allen,’ he began. ‘It’s not conclusive as there are plenty of Allens about. I’ve just been talking to the army records people in Brecon. I bought a lot of malt whisky for a captain there who seemed to have a couple of brains to rub together, saying as I left that I might call back later or want more information. The last records of the First and Twentyfourth Regiment of Foot, the Warwickshires, taken three or four months before the battle of Isandlwana, unfortunately, do show an Allen in the ranks.’
‘Did he have an initial, Johnny?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘He did.’
‘And what was it?’
‘It was W. He could have been a William or a Walter or a Waldo or a Willoughby. And he could, of course, have been Wilfrid.’
There was one further message from Devon before Inspector Devereux set off for Paddington Station and the West Country.
March 6th 1910. 14.30.
From: Inspector Timpson, Devon Police.
To: Inspector Devereux, Metropolitan Police.
Re: Triple Murder. Reluctant to bring another corpse to your attention, but two weeks ago body of a male in his mid-thirties was found at sea. Death by drowning. Despite appeals throughout this and neighbouring counties, nobody has been reported missing.
The man with one eye had made his fortune by taking great care over his business deals, never leaving any stone unturned and never taking any unnecessary risks. Now in his splendid house overlooking Salcombe harbour he stood by a minute gap in the curtains on the great first-floor windows and thanked God he had taken precautions. Early on during his stay he had secured the services of the head porter at the Marine Hotel. In return for large sums in cash that official had promised to keep him informed of any developments that might not be welcome. So he knew now that the police were making detailed inquiries about him. He knew there were plans to close off the town with officers posted across all the roads leading in and out of Salcombe. He knew, too, that more police and an investigator called Powerscourt were on their way from London. He looked again at the two notes he had received from the hotel that morning and finished one of his own, to be taken to the Marine by the waiter who came to collect the remains of the lunch. He had consulted his train timetables and discovered that the train he thought the London people would arrive on should reach the town shortly before seven. Ever since he arrived in Salcombe he had a plan of escape if the need arose. He looked up at the sky. Dusk, that would be the time. As the light began to fade over the town and the harbour, he would make his move.
Sergeant Mark Vaughan had been very busy. He had taken over the two rooms on the Cliff Road side of the Marine Hotel with the best view of Estuary House. When his forces grew more numerous, a constable would be on watch there twenty-four hours a day. He discovered the answer to the laundry question, that the clothes were washed in the hotel and transported to and fro in an enormous wicker basket. He had secured from his friend in the estate agents the name, Giles Coleridge, and the address on the King’s Road, Chelsea, for Chesterton’s Estate Agents who had arranged the lease on Estuary House and sent them to London. About four o’clock he began wondering why a man with murderous intent would come to Great Britain and choose to stay in a place like Salcombe. Surely London or Bristol or even Southampton where the liner came in would provide better places to hide. The answer might be linked to London’s questions about a boat. Why had these people come to Salcombe?
Perhaps, Sergeant Vaughan said to himself, they are thinking of escaping by sea. You could sail out into the English Channel and reach Plymouth in a couple of hours. If the boat was a good one with an experienced crew you could sail more or less anywhere. He suspected a mere sergeant would not be very welcome at the Salcombe Yacht Club where they had a reputation for looking down their noses at most of the population. He was right. A superior sort of flunkey told him that they had no idea of any visitors with boats or yachts. It was all they could do to keep tabs on their own vessels. When the sergeant pointed out a large and handsome yacht on the East Portlemouth side of the harbour, clearly visible from the club’s windows,
the man from the Yacht Club said it had nothing to do with them, and did the sergeant mind, there was rather a lot on today with a dinner for eighty people in the evening.
Praying quietly that some god of the sea, possibly Poseidon himself in a bad mood, would wreak a terrible vengeance on the Salcombe Yacht Club, Sergeant Vaughan made his way to the solicitor’s where a friend of his worked who was a member of the local Lifeboat. Freddie, for that was the name of the lifeboat man, told him that they had only discovered the details of the boat the previous week.
‘She’s called Morning Glory,’ Freddie told him. ‘And here’s the strange thing. Nobody knows the name of the owner. Well, he’s not properly the owner, she’s rented from some man in Southampton for three months. Even then, whoever the man is, he got a firm of ship’s agents and chandlers in Southampton to do the deal.’
Just like the estate agents from London and the house, the sergeant said to himself.
‘Tell me this, Freddie, has she been out for a sail since she’s been here?’
‘Well, yes, she has, a couple of times. You know Nat Gibson, that chap who’s almost a professional ship’s captain? Lives in Island Street round the corner from here? The chandlers in Southampton commissioned Nat to go there and sail the boat back here. He’s paid to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.’
Death at the Jesus Hospital Page 32
