‘Good Lord, darling! What are you doing in this Godforsaken place? You ought to be on Brighton promenade.’
There was no mistaking the voice. The woman was Zena.
CHAPTER
13
‘YOU’LL PARDON ME IF I continue with my supper?’ said Sergeant Cribb. ‘All I had today was something alleged to be a ploughman’s lunch. Ploughman! I wouldn’t have offered it to a jockey on Derby Day. What have you got to tell me this time, Mr. Moscrop?’
He was installed at a corner table in the bar-parlour of The Seven Stars in Ship Street, a pint of East India and a large meat pie in front of him.
‘I would not presume to disturb your meal if it were not a matter of paramount importance,’ Moscrop began. ‘You see, I have seen Mrs. Prothero!’
Cribb said nothing. His jaws continued to work at the meat pie.
‘Mrs. Prothero,’ repeated Moscrop with emphasis. ‘She was at the Devil’s Dyke this afternoon. I have come to you direct from seeing her.’
‘Have you now?’ said Cribb. ‘You’ll be hungry then. That’s no end of a walk. Would you like me to order a pie?’
‘Sergeant, I don’t know whether you heard. It was Mrs. Prothero, alive and well. There can be no mistake. I spoke to her myself.’
‘Did you, indeed?’ said Cribb. ‘You were luckier than I was, then. I went to Dorking on a similar mission.’
‘You? To Dorking? Do you mean that you knew she was alive?’
‘“Knew” is putting it a trifle strong, sir. One can never be sure if anyone is still on his feet in this uncertain life, but I had reason to believe she might be, yes. What was she doing on the Dyke—meeting Prothero?’
Moscrop regarded Cribb with the look clairvoyants like to see on the faces of their clients.
‘Perhaps you should give me your account of it,’ said Cribb, ‘beginning with your pursuit of Prothero—since I take it you didn’t climb the Downs for reasons of health.’
In diminished tones, Moscrop described the events culminating in the appearance of Zena Prothero.
‘She was surprised at seeing you, I expect?’ said Cribb.
‘No more than I was at seeing her. Sergeant, I was so sure that she was dead that I was quite unable to speak for several seconds. Then I managed to stammer something to the effect that I had been recommended to look at the view from the Dyke.’
‘Resourceful. Did you ask what she was doing?’
‘No need. She was quite candid, and not in the least embarrassed at meeting me. She has a rather individual turn of phrase, as I may have remarked—a tendency to address quite recent acquaintances in terms of endearment—‘
‘Really, sir? Perhaps you would give me an example.’
‘Darling.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Darling. She calls everyone darling, or some equivalent phrase.’
‘A generous-hearted woman. And what was she doing on the Down?’
‘She made no bones about it. She had come to meet her husband.’
‘Ridden out from Dorking, d’you mean?’ said Cribb, in disbelief.
‘No, from Bramber, a railway station some six miles to the west of the Dyke. She had travelled there by train this morning and hired a horse to ride along the top of the Downs to meet Dr. Prothero.’
‘Who arranged this meeting?’
‘As I understand it, she did. She wrote to her husband explaining that young Jason had quite recovered from his indisposition—you will remember that it was because of this she took the child back to Dorking on Sunday—and that she wished to collect certain articles of dress she had left behind in her somewhat hurried departure. They were the contents of the knapsack he was carrying, you see.’
‘So he handed it over when they met?’ said Cribb.
‘Yes. It was attached to the horse when I saw her. She was planning to return to Bramber along the road, not wishing to ride over the Downs in failing light, so she took the road down to Poynings, and that was where she overtook me. We talked as I accompanied her down the hill.’
‘Did you tell her that you thought she was dead?’
‘Indeed, yes,’ said Moscrop earnestly. ‘I felt obliged to, having behaved towards her as if she were an apparition when she first greeted me. It was her so sudden departure from Brighton that misled me, and I told her so.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I am afraid that I told her something else, Sergeant.’
‘Oh. What was that?’
‘Something I now discover to be a misrepresentation of the truth. I told her that the police also believed her to have—er—joined the choir invisible.’
‘I’d call that jumping to conclusions, sir. What did she say to it?’
‘That she had no idea her innocent action had led to such complications. She at once entreated me to assure you that I had seen her and she was alive and perfectly well. She said—I think I can remember her words—that she could not bear to think of those poor pets of policemen running about Brighton like beavers because of her.’
‘Decent sentiment,’ said Cribb, with a sniff. ‘Did you ask her about the sealskin jacket we dug up?’
‘The jacket? Why, no,’ said Moscrop. ‘It wasn’t hers, was it? Your constable told me that all the buttons were in place. But I did succeed in convincing her that she had a public duty to present herself at a police station to show that she was alive. She said she would do better than that. She would come to Brighton again and meet you, since you are in charge of the inquiry.’
‘Good. That’ll save me from another ploughman’s lunch in Dorking. When’s she coming?’
‘Tomorrow morning. She was intending anyway to go on to Worthing tonight, where she has a sister, and return to Dorking tomorrow. At my suggestion she will take the first passenger-steamer tomorrow morning, and I very much hope that you will be able to meet the Brighton when it docks at the West Pier soon after ten o’clock. I must explain, though, that she is most particular about not being seen in conversation with you. She is anxious not to discommode her husband, you understand.’
‘Why should he feel discommoded if she talks to me?’ asked Cribb.
‘Ah. Well it seems that you made a not too favourable impression there, Sergeant, when you had lunch with Dr. Prothero at Mutton’s. He must have given her an account of it, because she will only consent to see you if you go on board the Brighton while it is moored at the pier. She fears that in any other part of the town there is a risk of his seeing her in conversation with you.’
‘A clandestine meeting, eh? You’ve got me at it now, Mr. Moscrop. And I suppose you’ll need to be there to make the introductions. Very well, sir. Ten o’clock on the pier-head.’
Moscrop was there by half past nine, watching with the Zeiss for the line of dark smoke that would indicate the steamer’s approach. The morning was cool, the sky flecked with thin cloud in a herring-bone pattern, the beach deserted except for fishermen and a few small boys armed hopefully with shrimping-nets. On the pier one received the inescapable impression of being an intruder, although the turnstile-man accepted the twopence readily enough. Brawny employees of the company, normally out of sight, were swabbing the decks in a perfunctory fashion and providing an exhibition of bare chests and braces. Moscrop was careful not to upset any of them by stepping on their work.
Sergeant Cribb, when he arrived fifteen minutes after, was less sensitive, planting his feet confidently on the wet planking, his lofty frame reflected under him. There was a man with style, Moscrop decided. No pier-hand would be so injudicious as to question his right to cross the boards.
‘Fresh breeze this morning, Mr. Moscrop. There’s a choppy look to that water. I hope the lady’s a good sailor.’
By now the Brighton was well in view and steaming past Shoreham. ‘Would you care to try the binoculars, Sergeant?’
‘No thank you, sir. I’ve made it my practice to avoid using such things.’
‘Really? I should have thought them an invaluable weapon for fighting crime.
’
‘In isolated cases, yes,’ said Cribb. ‘Most other times they’re a perishing nuisance. A positive encouragement to crime.’
‘Come, come, Sergeant. That sounds to me like a claim you cannot possibly substantiate. Which particular crime do you have in mind?’
‘Dipping, sir.’
‘Dipping?’
‘Picking pockets. When a man’s peering through those things, he’s a perfect invitation to a dipper. I could have copped four or five of the locals at it this week alone if I hadn’t had more important things to do. It’s a seaside occupation. Make a count of your handkerchiefs when you get home. Then you’ll know if I’m exaggerating.’
They were joined at this point by several swarthy individuals in nautical clothes, ready for the steamer’s arrival. Moscrop slipped the glasses quickly into their case. He would never be able to use them with the same confidence again.
Little more was said until the Brighton had berthed and a handful of passengers disembarked. Gulls screamed and swooped about the pier distractingly as Cribb and Moscrop descended the iron staircase to the landing stage. Words were exchanged with the white-capped man controlling the gangway, and they stepped across to the vessel itself.
‘She’ll be below,’ Moscrop explained confidently.
She was, alone in the First Class Saloon, wearing a bottle-green coat in a military style and boots with ‘fast’ front lacings. Moscrop effected the introductions and stepped back.
‘Handsome of you to come all this way to see me, Ma’am,’ said Cribb.
‘Oh, no. Handsome of you, Sergeant Cribb, to agree to see me on my own terms.’ Under the rakishly-angled hat, which matched her coat in colour, her face was more pale than Moscrop remembered it, but the features just as exquisite. ‘Particularly since I would seem to have put you to some trouble. Mr. Moscrop told me that you thought I was dead. I hope I can reassure you on that point.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am. It was a bit of a puzzle to me when you left Brighton in such a hurry. The little boy was ill, I understand.’
‘Jason? Yes. My husband decided that Brighton had upset him, so I took him back to Dorking on Sunday.’
‘What was the matter with him exactly?’
‘Oh, he was fretful the day before, you know, and awfully flushed. We thought he might have pains in his stomach. He has quite recovered now, the little beast. I wish you could see him. Mr. Moscrop is quite attached to Jason, aren’t you, darling? But Scotland Yard didn’t come to listen to a mother’s doting nonsense, did it, Sergeant?’
Cribb took the cue. ‘Might I trouble you about a few things just to set matters straight, Ma’am? I wonder whether you can recall how you spent last Saturday evening, your last night in Brighton.’
She put her hand to her forehead. ‘Saturday evening? Good God! This is just like one of those novels from the circulating library. The characters always remember exactly what the policeman wants to hear.’
‘It would have been your last night in Brighton, Ma’am,’ Cribb prompted her.
‘The night of the firework-display? Oh, yes, I shan’t let you down after all. I have a clear recollection. All too embarrassing, now I come to talk about it. Mr. Moscrop and I had made a secret arrangement, hadn’t we, my chuck? Being a man with scientific interests, you see, and an absolute Galahad to ladies in distress, he agreed to help me find out what my sleeping-potion consisted of, and took it to a chemist in Brighton. We arranged that he should bring me the answer and—well, you could tell Sergeant Cribb, yourself, couldn’t you, darling?’
‘I’d rather hear it from you, if you don’t mind, Ma’am,’ said Cribb quickly.
‘Very well.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s precious little to tell. Prothero, my husband, decided to go out for the evening, and was most particular about my being in bed before he went. I’m inclined to be nervous, you see.’
‘I hadn’t noticed it, Ma’am.’
‘How gallant! So I retired before Prothero left and pretended to have taken my sleeping-potion. That was unfortunate, really, because being in my night-things I could not possibly meet my knight in shining armour, Mr. Moscrop. I had to send my nursemaid, Bridget, instead. It must have seemed monstrously ungrateful.’
‘Not at all,’ murmured Moscrop.
‘Then the fireworks began. Oh, awfully exciting, and almost in front of the hotel! We had a grandstand position. Such fireworks, too! Sky-rockets and Catherine wheels and Chinese crackers. Set-pieces in tribute to the regiment, her Majesty’s head in profile and a crocodile, to represent Egypt, you know!’
‘I remember that,’ said Moscrop.
‘That would be after Bridget had left you, would it?’ asked Cribb, suddenly addressing a question to him.
‘Er—yes. I had given her the formula and I was starting to return along the front. I don’t believe I saw all of the display.’
‘So Bridget came back to you while the fireworks were still on?’ said Cribb, switching back to Zena.
‘Yes, and then I gave her the rest of the evening off, to watch the display. She was most excited about the skyrockets. I was not left alone, you see. I had Guy with me throughout the evening. We watched from my bedroom window. Guy stood on the balcony for a time.’
‘I saw him there,’ said Moscrop helpfully.
‘How long did the display continue after Bridget went out again?’ asked Cribb.
‘Oh God! You do ask some questions! Let me see. Half an hour, at least.’
‘Then you went to bed?’
‘No, I played cards with Guy for an hour. I’ve taught the little fiend to play cribbage. We don’t have much in common, but we can at least amuse ourselves with a pack of cards. It must have been after eleven when we finally retired.’
‘Had Bridget returned by then?’
‘Good gracious, I couldn’t tell you. She slept in Jason’s room, you see, and would have entered by the door from the corridor. I can’t remember hearing her come in, now that you ask me.’
‘But the walls were thin enough for you to hear a sound from the nursery?’
‘Oh, yes. There was a connecting door. I must have been asleep when she got back, the hussy, but I suppose a holiday is a holiday for the domestics too, if one looks at it from their point of view.’
‘Now what about your husband, Ma’am?’ said Cribb. ‘What time did he return?’
‘Prothero? God knows, darling. He was there in the morning and that’s all I recollect. Have I helped you?’
‘Substantially.’
She stood up. ‘That’s a weight off my mind, then. I’d hate to feel that I was hindering Scotland Yard in the execution of its duty. It’s rather stuffy down here, don’t you think? I wonder if it’s safe to take a turn on the deck? If I could know for certain that Prothero is not on the pier—‘ ‘I’ll go and see,’ volunteered Moscrop.
‘You will? What a divinely generous man you are! Then if the sergeant escorts me—just on the seaward side for a few minutes—no one can think I’ve sold myself to perdition.’
The sight of Cribb’s six foot one inch gallantly taking the air with Zena Prothero’s five foot two was witnessed only by the seagulls, Moscrop very decently having mounted guard at the bulwarks on the port side.
‘What do you think of him, darling?’ she asked at once.
‘Who, Ma’am?’ He seemed to be addressing the top of her hat.
‘Mr. Moscrop. Who else?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Cribb, truthfully. ‘What’s your opinion?’
‘Not to be relied upon, my dear. Harmless enough, I’m sure, but distinctly odd in his behaviour. I haven’t said a word to Prothero, but he follows me around! You don’t think I encourage him, darling, do you?’
‘I’m sure you don’t mean to, Ma’am, but he appears to have led a somewhat sheltered existence. I don’t think he understands much about the ways of the ladies.’
‘Lord, you’re right! He regards us all as racehorses, things to be watched through field-glasses. I onl
y asked him to take the sleeping preparation to the chemist to give him something useful to do.’
‘You weren’t worried about what you were taking, then?’
‘Worried isn’t the word, darling. Curious, perhaps. Yes, I was curious. Prothero isn’t communicative, you see. It was a harmless errand to send the poor little man on. He must have been disappointed on Saturday night when Bridget came down to collect the chemist’s report, poor lamb, but I had no choice, as I explained.’
Cribb stopped and put his hands on the side-rail. ‘Well, if it achieved nothing else, Ma’am, at least you now know what your husband mixes for you. A dose of laudanum as mild as that wouldn’t hurt a child, let alone a grown woman.’
She looked keenly at him. ‘But, of course. Prothero is a doctor, darling. He knows about these things.’
They resumed their walk, Zena supporting her hat-brim as the breeze stiffened.
‘I don’t know whether you’ve read anything in the newspapers about the tragedy I’m in Brighton to investigate, Ma’am?’
‘Very little, I must confess,’ said Zena. ‘The Morning Post had only a small paragraph. I don’t believe it mentioned your name, even.’
‘It was the Brighton newspapers that gave the fullest accounts, quite naturally. You won’t have read about the jacket that was dug up on the beach, then?’
‘Jacket? I don’t believe I did.’
‘Black sealskin. A coat of good quality. Better than the other clothes we found. I heard that you owned such a jacket, Ma’am. Is that correct?’
‘Why, yes. I do.’
Cribb nodded. ‘You see how we connected the tragedy with you?’
‘I suppose so,’ Zena said. ‘But dozens of women own sealskin jackets. They’re fashionable, darling.’
‘Not so many have a top button that’s had to be sewn back on with different cotton. Yours has, I understand.’
She frowned. ‘As a matter of fact, that is true. But I don’t see—‘
‘And did you buy yours last spring at Fremantle’s of Dorking?’
Mad Hatter's Holiday Page 14
