Death at Rottingdean

by Robin Paige

  This thought made Harry shudder, and he got up and began to pace back and forth in front of his table. To forestall such a disagreeable eventuality, he had to find out who had shot Foxy Smith. Was it Trunky, attempting to insinuate himself between Harry and Foxy, or Harry and the investors? Was it one of the others, angry at Foxy’s high-handed way of doing business, or at the captain himself, who had never gotten along with anybody in the village? Or had the killing been arranged by the investors, who were frightened by Radford’s death and anxious to back out of their arrangement with the village? And how was Foxy’s murder connected to that of the younger coast guard? Had the same person killed both men? To protect himself, did he have to discover two murderers?

  Harry went to stand before the window, hands behind his back, staring at the bustle of men around the smithy, behind them a boy leading a pair of horses to exercise. The most pressing problem of all, unfortunately, had to be solved immediately. What was he to do about tomorrow night’s shipment, which Harry felt had to be signaled off, and which Trunky and the others insisted on signaling in? How could he determine what the investors expected him to do? How might he—

  The door opened with a creak and Harry turned. A slender man with fuzzy gray side-whiskers, so tall that he had to duck his head to clear the doorjamb, had entered the room, without the formality of knocking. The staff in his hand and the canvas pack on his back, from which hung a variety of clanking implements, gave him the appearance of an old-fashioned peddler of pots and pans. His smoked-glass eye preservers, in conjunction with his waterproof cloak, made him look like a masked black bat.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Tudwell,” the man said, in a deep voice colored by a slightly gutteral Continental accent.

  “Good afternoon,” Harry returned, feeling that he knew the man but unable, momentarily, to recall his name. Then, in the same instant, he remembered: this was the eccentric whom he had seen wandering about the downs on occasion in the last several summers, a foreigner with a peculiar taste for odds and ends of stones and bones. He had never known the vagabond’s name, for the man seldom came into the village and had never required the stable’s services, obviously preferring to do his perambulating on foot. Well, Harry thought, measuring him with an expert eye, it would not be advisable to hire out any of the better animals to the fellow. If he wanted to ride, he would have to be satisfied with old Jupiter, who was not so nimble-footed that he could get anyone into trouble. He was about to ask if a horse was what was wanted, when the stranger surprised him with an unusual question.

  “Are you expecting any other visitor? I do not wish that we should be disturbed.”

  “No,” Harry said, nonplussed. “That is, I—” He frowned. “Look here, sir,” he said. “Can I help you?”

  The stranger seemed amused. “No, no, I rather think it is the other way around, my good Mr. Tudwell. I am here to help you.”

  The mysterious visitor waited while Harry digested this unexpected remark, then touched the fingers of his left hand to his forehead, as a magician might, pretending to see the unseen. As he raised his hand, his implements jangled.

  “Just now,” he said, “just as I entered, you were asking yourself how you might contact certain gentlemen—gentlemen who have invested a great deal of money in this village, gentlemen with whom you have lost contact as a result of the untimely demise of one of your confederates. You were wondering how you should deal with a certain business transaction which has been scheduled for tomorrow evening.” He lowered his hand and smiled, stretching thin lips across his teeth. “I am here to answer those questions, Harry Tudwell, and to inform you of your good fortune.”

  Harry recoiled, dumfounded. This clanking apparition obviously knew more of his business than he did. “What ... what good fortune?” he demanded. He smelled a trap. But if it was a trap, Harry knew with a sinking heart, he was already well and truly caught.

  “Why, your advancement in rank,” the man said. He gave Harry a jovial grin, the effect of which was partially compromised by the fact that the expression in his eyes could not be read. “The unfortunate death of Captain Smith has left a gap, shall we say, a broken link in the chain. You, sir, are to fill that gap. You have moved one link up the chain. You have been promoted, as it were.”

  Harry pulled in his breath. “ ‘Oo the devil are you?” he cried, trying to disguise the stark fear that clutched at his innards. “Wot business do you have, coming in here and—”

  “I?” The stranger laughed with genuine amusement. “I am the next link in the chain, Mr. Tudwell. You will report to me.”

  “Your name?” Harry was conscious that his voice was not too steady. “Wot’s your name?”

  “My name, sir,” the man said, “is unimportant. Perhaps more to the point, it would be dangerous for you to know it. What one does not know, of course, one cannot reveal, even under extreme duress.” The light glinted from the smoked lenses that masked his eyes.

  Harry was beginning to feel like a small chip of wood being sucked willy-nilly into a drain hole. His ears were roaring. “But ... but if I don’t know your name,” he managed, half-gasping, “or where you may be reached, ’ow am I to ... to contact you?”

  “You are not to contact me.” The man spoke sternly, as if he were a schoolmaster and Harry a disobedient boy. “It would be hazardous to try, and this is a game where the risks run high. Your advancement, Mr. Tudwell, is of more consequence than you can know, and the game is larger than you can think. When it is required, I shall contact you. Is that clearly understood?”

  Harry closed his eyes, trying to think it through logically. Obviously, the investors, whoever they were, were no fools. They had a system, well worked-out, well-organized, carefully scheduled. He had to try to understand their system so that he could use it rather than be used by it. But he must not allow himself to be rushed into any agreements. He firmed his voice.

  “I’ll need time to think about this. I can’t commit m’self at th’ moment. There are other factors to be considered, other—”

  “There is no time,” the man said. His tone was conversational but the words knife-edged. “If you are not inclined to accept immediately, I shall walk down the High Street to call on a certain Mr. Thomas, who, I am reliably informed, has already expressed a great deal of enthusiasm for this particular position. If Mr. Thomas should be pleased to step up in rank, you will become, shall we say, superfluous.”

  Harry stared at him.

  “Superfluous, yes,” the man repeated, with a melancholy sigh, as if he rather liked Harry and wished it were otherwise. “In the same way that your unfortunate predecessor became ... superfluous.”

  Harry gulped. A sudden intuition, as sharp and persuasive as the point of a dagger, told him that this man was Foxy Smith’s killer, and that if he failed to do as he was told, he would go the way Foxy had gone. He felt himself being pulled into the vortex of the drain, the light closing down to a pinpoint over his head, the roaring in his ears almost deafening.

  “I ... see,” he said weakly. “Well, in that case—”

  “You have chosen very wisely, Mr. Tudwell.” The man lifted his head. “I am pleased that we have arrived at a meeting of the minds.” His voice became brisk. “Now, about the transaction that has been scheduled for tomorrow evening. The investors have decided that, under the circumstances, there is a very great danger of detection.”

  “Yes,” Harry said. “Right.” His mouth was dry, and his voice came out in a squeak. He swallowed, and put more force behind his words, anxious to recoup any status he might have lost by appearing tentative. “I told ’em at last night’s meeting that we should suspend operations. I said it wasn’t safe, with th’ possibility of an inquiry an’ all.”

  The smile came and went quickly, although the smoked lenses hid the man’s eyes. “A very intelligent caution, Mr. Tudwell. However—”

  “They didn’t like it,” Harry said. “They want t’ go ahead with th’ landing.”

  The man
sighed. “Unfortunately, we must go ahead with the landing. The arrangements have been made, the ship has sailed, and we cannot alter our plan. However, I must emphasize the importance of caution. Be certain that you have people you can trust.”

  “That’s th’ trouble,” Harry muttered. “I don’t know as I can trust anybody.”

  “It is time,” the man said severely, “that your troops learned to follow orders. You must see to it that they understand and obey. Whatever Captain Smith’s faults, he was not a man to brook any disobedience in his subordinates. In that way, he was quite satisfactory. He may have gone too far, but—” He broke off. “But that is neither here nor there.”

  Harry frowned, seeing another difficulty. “Th’ trouble is, they’re not troops. I’m not sure exac’ly ’ow I can force ’em to—”

  “The method, Mr. Tudwell, is not important. I leave it to you to find an appropriate way to compel their complete cooperation, bearing in mind that the operation is everything.” He pulled himself up. “Everything, you understand.”

  “Yessir,” Harry said, although for the life of him, he could not think how he could compel Trunky Thomas to cooperate.

  “Well, then. You will take your party to the position on the cliff tomorrow night. When the ship appears and shows the signal, you will answer with the appropriate designation for a landing at Rottingdean. You know the code?”

  “Three lanterns,” Harry muttered.

  “Very good. Three lanterns it is. One more thing. Tomorrow morning, a traveling case will arrive here in your office. Guard it well, for it is of great importance. After dark has fallen and before you take your position on the cliff, stow the traveling case in the first bathing machine and apply this lock to the hasp. I have the second key.” He handed Harry a padlock and a key. “Further, I wish you to see that a skiff is pulled up on the beach, near to the bathing machines.”

  “A skiff?” Harry asked, puzzled.

  The man did not answer the question. “You will not see me, but I shall know what transpires and evaluate your performance accordingly.” He smiled grimly. “This will be, as it were, your first test. Do you understand?”

  Harry understood all too well. A vast and desperate anxiety began to rise up in him.

  “Very good. I will contact you when it is safe to resume our operation. Until then, you must carefully monitor the course of the official investigation. You should particularly keep your eye on a certain party by the name of Sheridan, who is staying here in Rottingdean. He may prove meddlesome.”

  Harry nodded.

  The man pulled his waterproof around him. “It would seem, then, that the game is afoot. And that, Mr. Tudwell, is all I have to say today.” He turned toward the door.

  “Wait!” Harry cried, feeling that his lifeline was about to be cut. Fear him or not, this man was his only contact with the investors—his only contact beyond the village. And the village itself, and the villagers, now seemed terribly threatening.

  The man turned, frowning. “Yes?”

  A dozen questions were turning in Harry’s mind. He grasped at one. “Wot ... wot’s t’ be done with the goods we’ve got squirreled away down below? Where are we t’ haul ’em?”

  “Nowhere, for the moment. Until you hear from me again, you are simply to store the merchandise. Except for small lots that may be used for local consumption, discreetly and with proper accounting. No more questions. I am off.”

  The door closed and the man was gone before Harry could try once again to detain him. He sank helplessly into his chair, beaten, utterly exhausted, trembling uncontrollably. The man was Foxy’s murderer, of that he was certain. And that he could be the next victim, of that he was certain, too.

  Harry’s visitor, on the other hand, strode powerfully down the brick-paved walkway, his cape rustling, his gear clanging at every step. If he saw the boy shrink quickly out of sight into the first loose-box, he gave no visible sign of it. But who could know, masked as he was, what he had seen?

  21

  Honesty is for the most part less profitable than dishonesty.

  —PLATO The Republic

  It is an honest town ...

  —MARK TWAIN “The Man that Corrupted Hadleyburg”

  Deep in thought, with Lawrence on the seat beside him, Charles piloted the Panhard up the cobbled High Street of Rottingdean. He was oblivious to the delirious shouts of small children and the stares and head-shakings of pedestrians who had never before seen a motorcar, and he was startled into a full awareness of his surroundings only by the furious shout of a man who was herding a flock of half-a-dozen nervous sheep across the street. He pulled on the brake and brought the motorcar to a shuddering halt just in front of Seabrooke House, leaving the engine idling noisily.

  “Ah, Lawrence,” he said, pulling his goggles up. “We have arrived.”

  “Yessir,” Lawrence said. “Want me t’ put ‘er in th’ carriage ’ouse, sir?”

  “Yes, yes, please do,” Charles said distractedly, and took off his duster. “Let her ladyship know that I have returned, but that I have one or two important errands in the village.” He lifted his tweed motoring cap and smoothed his wind-ruffled hair. “I shall return by teatime, I expect.”

  “Very good, sir,” Lawrence said, and slid into the driver’s seat. The Panhard chugged off up the street, and Charles turned to walk down the street, toward the Gap.

  The constable’s office occupied the front half of a narrow wooden building on the Newhaven Road, the back half of which was taken up by the jail. One of the cells had been occupied for the night by Rafe Hawkins, whom Constable Woodhouse had reluctantly imprisoned on a charge of wife-beating on a warrant sworn out by Rafe’s angry mother-in-law. But after a night’s cooling off, the young wife, babe in her arms and both eyes purpled, had appeared to plead for her husband’s release so that he could go to his employment. The constable had willingly complied, sending Rafe off with a compassionate pat on the back. It gave Jack Woodhouse a great deal of satisfaction when the minor domestic misunderstandings that made up such a large part of his work could be resolved with so little effort.

  Now, seated comfortably in his chair, a steaming cup of tea at his elbow and the sporting page of the weekly Brighton Herald spread out on the desk in front of him, Constable Woodhouse—Fat Jack to his friends and acquaintances—was the very image of a comfortable and contented man: plump, rosy-cheeked, slow of movement. A lazy man, some might also add, and they would have been right. But Fat Jack Woodhouse had long ago discovered that, where the business of life was concerned, idleness offered greater rewards than industry, and honesty less profit than dishonesty. Watching the wall, as the old adage had it, paid off. This revelation had certainly made Fat Jack’s tenure as the constable of Rottingdean much easier and more comfortable than it might otherwise have been. As he contemplated his declining decades, he had little to complain or worry about.

  But anyone who knew the constable well would see the unwonted furrows between the eyes, notice the nervous chewing of the black mustache, and observe that despite the favorable conclusion of this morning’s domestic drama and the larger satisfactions of his life in general, Fat Jack Woodhouse was deeply worried. Even as he digested the fine steak-and-kidney pie that had been his luncheon, the constable was already feeling the first twinges of a nervous stomach, brought on by the workings of an unquiet mind.

  A shadow darkened the open doorway, and the constable looked up from the cricket results. The gentleman standing easily before him had a neat brown beard and was dressed in a brown tweed walking suit, brown boots, and tweed cap. He inclined his head and spoke in a deep, cultured voice.

  “Good afternoon, Constable Woodhouse.”

  With a sharp misgiving, the constable recognized Lord Sheridan. He had appeared with that meddling Kipling fellow on the beach when the constable was trying to handle the business of the body, and offered to take photographs of the whole sordid mess. A bother, as far as Fat Jack was concerned. Anyway, it wasn’t
a good idea to have pictures. Sometimes they showed more than you’d like, and they got handed around for others to look at.

  “M’lord,” he growled, folding the newspaper and pulling out a sheaf of papers, making it as plain as he could that he was occupied with official business and that his lordship was intruding upon his valuable time.

  The visitor stepped into the room and stood in front of the desk, ignoring the chair meant for visitors. He brought the conversation directly to the point. “I am here at the request of the Crown to ask you a few questions concerning the deaths of George Radford and Captain Smith.”

  Fat Jack felt his mouth fall open, and he shut it with an audible click. His stomach lurched. “The Crown?”

  “The dead men were Her Majesty’s coast guards,” Lord Sheridan replied. “If you feel it necessary to verify my authority for this inquiry, you may telegraph the chief constable at Brighton.” His expression was bland, but his eyes were challenging. “I shall be happy to accompany you to the post office and wait with you until you receive Sir Robert’s reply.”

  Fat Jack swiftly weighed the likelihood that the gentleman was lying against the effort required to walk to the post office and send a telegram, and decided to take his lordship at his word. He sighed. “That won’t be necess’ ry,” he said. “Sit down, sir.”