Death at the Seaside

by Frances Brody

  ‘It would be useful to be thought a widow, but I would hate to deceive Felicity, or upset her.’

  ‘Do you bear Walter no malice?’

  She sighed and opened her palms, in an accepting manner. ‘He was a bounder and a charlatan, but charming. He cured my fainting fits. I had a cut-price wedding and a bouncing baby. Things could have been worse.’

  ‘Does Felicity ask questions?’

  ‘She stopped talking about her father ages ago. It’s just this business with Sergeant Garvin. As if he’s probing on someone else’s behalf.’

  ‘If this Mr Cricklethorpe, your co-owner of the property, is in contact, I suppose he would tell you where Walter is.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if Sergeant Garvin would let the matter drop. He misses nothing. He sees it as his duty to ensure all in Whitby is above board. This can be a tut-tutting sort of town. I’m sure if I served in a shop or attended church on Sundays no one would dream of questioning my background.’ She picked up a copy of her prophecies from a pile on the ledge beside her, and began to fan herself. ‘We might think of something, some way of you coming into contact with Sergeant Garvin. If you cross paths with him, you might slip in the fact that you were witness at my wedding, and how we are good friends, mention Walter Turner and perhaps hint that he is dead.’

  ‘You know I’ll help you if I can, Alma, but I’m not sure that would work.’ I could not quite think how I would manage to hint that Walter Turner was dead, and that the news had come to me but by-passed Alma. Also, I could not tell Alma that I had already met Sergeant Garvin under rather unfortunate circumstances. I cast about for something to say, while she looked at me expectantly.

  I’m sorry to say, I merely stated the obvious. ‘You’ve made the best of things under difficult circumstances.’

  She looked so miserable that I picked up a couple of copies of her shilling prophecies. ‘One for my neighbour, and one for my mother. They’ll be very interested.’

  This was my pathetic attempt at consolation. It worked, to some extent. Alma paused in fanning herself. She reached for her pen, dipped it in the inkpot and signed each pamphlet with a flourishingly illegible scrawl. ‘It’s what authors do these days you know, adds a personal touch.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does.’

  She blew the ink dry. ‘I have made the best of things as you say, and I may not have developed my gifts if life had treated me more kindly.’

  I put the money for the prophecies on the table. ‘There is that. I certainly wouldn’t have been investigating if Gerald had come home.’

  ‘But he didn’t, and you are, and very good at it. I’m sure you’ll be able to think of something for me. You trace people, don’t you? Trace Turner. I know the obvious move would be for me to tackle Crickly but that would be so humiliating.’

  It would be a waste of time for me to start investigating something when Alma would be well able to find out for herself. I tried to put her off. ‘Perhaps you’re worrying too much. If Sergeant Garvin knew something, he would act on it. There’s no question of your admitting to being in a bigamous marriage. All you have to do is keep quiet.’

  ‘I would like people to think I’m a widow. After all, I’m not properly married.’

  ‘But why now, Alma?’

  ‘It’s only fair that I should tell you. A gentleman is interested in me.’

  ‘Tell me more. Who is he?’

  ‘I’ll tell you how it happened. I did my own Tarot reading and for once, surprisingly, my romantic prospects were most definite. There was no mistake. That very afternoon, I met the gentleman in town. We were acquainted of course – everyone in Whitby is. He asked me to tea. Since then, he has shown great kindness to me, and to Felicity.’

  ‘Oh that’s nice. Who is he?’

  ‘You won’t believe my good fortune when I tell you. Finally, something in my life has gone right. He’s well-placed, a bachelor, still handsome. Heaven knows how he’s stayed free so long.’

  Something came back to me, from an article I had read. ‘I’m sure there’s a legal way around your difficulty, if you think this new friendship might lead to something. Say you hadn’t heard from Walter for seven years, he might be presumed dead without your having to say a word about the marriage being bigamous.’

  She sighed. ‘I can’t do that, because of Felicity. It’s impossible. She’d want proof. She’s never forgotten him.’

  We were silent for a moment in the face of this impenetrable difficulty. ‘Well, this man, might you simply… you know… people do.’

  ‘He’s far too respectable for that.’

  ‘Who is he? What’s his name?’

  ‘His name is Jack Philips. He has the jewellers on Skinner Street.’

  I am usually good at not revealing an over-reaction but I was suddenly aware that my mouth had opened wide enough to swallow the crystal ball. Alma had set her sights on Jack Philips. This could be the reason Sergeant Garvin told me not to mention the death to her. Did the sergeant suspect my friend of murder?

  Seven

  The heat in Alma’s fortune-telling pepper pot was now unbearable. I felt slightly sick.

  She leaned forward, full of concern. ‘Kate, you’ve gone green. Is it something I said?’

  Of course it was something she’d said. She had pinned romantic aspirations to a man who lay dead on a worn rug in the back of a shop brimming with diamonds. I couldn’t find the words.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Here I am, rattling on, and you’ve had a long journey and probably no lunch.’ She stood. ‘I must shut up shop and we’ll go for tea at once.’

  ‘Stay here, Alma. You may have other customers. I’ll walk along to Botham’s and surprise Felicity.’ I needed time alone, to gather my thoughts and try and stay calm, and keep quiet about what I had seen. Before she could stop me, I picked up my bag and made for the door.

  She was behind me. ‘I’ll close now. I’ve told enough fortunes for one day.’

  ‘No! Don’t let me stop you having your palm crossed with silver. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up.’

  ‘You always were the best, Kate.’ Her voice became slightly tremulous. ‘I know you liked our school, but I hated it, except for you. You never once called me by that beastly name. I think it was Pauline Bennett who started it. Do you remember her?’

  ‘Yes I do.’ She was a jolly girl who excelled at games.

  A movement near the door of the hut caught our attention. We both realised that someone was there, and that a consultation might be required. Here was my escape opportunity, before the heat baked me to a crisp.

  ‘I’ll see you at Botham’s, Alma. Don’t worry if you can’t make it. I might just go back to the hotel and have a rest.’ I had begun to hope she wouldn’t make it. I hated the thought of keeping my secret about the murder.

  Going to the door, I spoke in a louder voice for the benefit of the person outside, waiting her turn. ‘Thank you so much for the consultation, Madam Alma.’

  She saw me to the door, saying in a stage whisper, ‘Don’t go to the Baxtergate Botham’s. Felicity’s in the Skinner Street tea rooms.’

  Skinner Street. The last place I wanted to go, passing the jewellers, which might now be under police guard.

  As I left Alma’s domain, I glanced at the waiting client. She returned my look and smiled. ‘Hello, Mrs Shackleton.’ It was the chambermaid from the Royal.

  ‘Hello, Hilda.’

  By this evening, it would be all round the hotel. The new guest made the fortune teller her first call. ‘She’s a widow, you know, probably enquiring after her marriage prospects. And did you know she was escorted back by the police this afternoon?’

  The gulls, perched on cliff ledges, guffawed at life in general and me in particular. The sea had become rather choppy. The sun slid behind a cloud.

  Alma had said that Pauline Bennett had started the name-calling. Pauline was captain of the hockey team and always chose me first. In return, I had amused her with a little ta
le about the Tennessee Fainting Goats. Now it all came back to me. The taunting of Alma Bartholomew was entirely my fault. It is not often that life offers an opportunity to make amends, but here was mine.

  It was only to be hoped that Alma had not fallen in love with the unfortunate jeweller. How horrible it would be if she had already built castles in the air, and was soon to find out that the man of her dreams had been murdered and that her former bridesmaid and old friend had known and not told her.

  I dismissed my earlier mad thought that Alma might be a suspect. Was she right in thinking the local sergeant knew something about Walter Turner’s bigamy, I wondered.

  Better still, I might discover that Walter Turner, hypnotist and deceiver, was no more – and she would be well and truly free of him.

  After a stroll along the pier to clear my head, I made my slow way to Botham’s for tea, and to say hello to my goddaughter the waitress.

  I braced myself to walk past Philips Jewellers shop. It appeared deceptively normal. The shop was tightly shuttered and the Closed sign displayed. Otherwise there was no outward sign of anything untoward having occurred. I deliberately kept as far away from the window as I could, walking along the edge of the pavement, passing the post office, also now closed.

  It was a relief to walk through the familiar doors of Botham’s, breathing the smell of freshly baked bread and sweet cakes. I walked up the stairs to the tea room, taking my time, feeling the solid banister under my hand, reassuring to the touch.

  An oasis of calm with its dark polished wood, white starched table cloths and family portraits, the tea room created the feeling of life being lived in the best sort of way. The most striking portrait was of the baker businesswoman who had founded this flourishing enterprise. Mary Botham died years ago but in this portrait, she looked real enough to step from the frame and inspect her own tea shop; a woman of substance, stout, astute and every inch a grandmother and matriarch.

  The place was busy, with families, couples and friends all too immersed in their own concerns to notice another customer waiting to be seated.

  A young waitress smiled and asked where I would like to sit. I chose a seat by the window and ordered a pot of tea, explaining that I was waiting for a friend. There were newspapers on the table by the wall. This reminded me that somewhere along the way I had lost the Whitby Gazette bought for Dad. For diversion, I picked up the café’s copy. The paper had not changed in years. On the first page was a photograph of two buses locked to each other on the swing bridge. The article had the caption:

  Whitby and Modern Traffic Problem which must be faced

  On Monday morning, two motor-buses endeavoured to pass each other on Whitby Bridge, with the result that they came into contact and stuck. It was some time before the roadway was cleared, the wheels of one of the vehicles having to be lifted onto the pavement.

  The story of a murder would destroy the tone of the paper altogether. Would it ever again, after reporting the death of Mr Philips, be able to deliver, with its former innocent enthusiasm, stories about fertile ewes and healthy lambs?

  I had finished my tea. The waitress had asked, once more, if I wished to order. ‘Five more minutes, and if my friend doesn’t come…’

  Then I caught sight of Alma through the window. She wore a glorious purple and gold robe over her multi-coloured gown. Her hennaed hair, now released from its turban, was swept up into a ridge from her widow’s peak to the crown and caught with combs, creating the shape of a Roman helmet. It was topped by a scrap of purple cloth. A small gaggle of bedazzled visitors parted for her to pass and enter the tea shop door. Moments later, she swept into the room, turning heads.

  The waitress had already recommended the best polony sandwiches and pork pie. To that we added scones, Russian slices and gingerbread.

  ‘Is Felicity on her break?’ Alma asked as the waitress took our order.

  The girl blushed. ‘I don’t know, madam. I don’t think she’s here.’

  Something about her voice told us that Felicity certainly was not here.

  I poured tea.

  Alma tonged a couple of sugar cubes into her cup. ‘I wonder if they’ve sent her to the Baxtergate premises today? That would be a feather in her cap. It’s rather grand, you know.’

  While we waited for our order to arrive, we talked about what events would be worth attending during my time here. Alma told me about the concerts, the fund-raising bazaar and sale of work at the Seamans Mission, and about the shows coming to the Coliseum. All this was just what I might have expected: to walk, to explore, and to attend whatever took my fancy. But that was before I went into the jewellers shop.

  The waitress brought our food. I forced myself to eat something while we chatted about the news in the Whitby Gazette, which is so much more entertaining and reassuring than talking about news from The Times or the Yorkshire Post.

  Alma mentioned an item with a coupon to cut out. ‘The editor offers half a guinea for the fire that’s been burning longest in a farmhouse kitchen in the Whitby area. To enter, a person gives their name and address and fills in the blank for the number of years the fire hasn’t gone out.’

  An image came into my head of the cold hearth in the jeweller’s back room. How long had he lain there, I wondered. I tried to blank out the image and to listen to Alma. I asked, ‘What’s the record so far, for a farmhouse fire?’

  ‘Who knows? Apparently some fires have burned for over twenty years.’ Alma placed a Russian slice on her plate. ‘Felicity made me laugh. She said, if someone claims their fire hasn’t gone cold since Victoria came to the throne, how will the editor know that’s true?’

  At that moment a tall, rather handsome woman dressed in black came striding towards our table, smiling graciously – until she came upon us. Her expression then turned to one of subdued annoyance.

  Alma looked up in pleased surprise. ‘Miss Botham, hello.’

  Miss Botham shook her head, not in denial of her name but with some barely controlled irritation. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Turner.’ She spoke very quietly, which Alma took as a hint that she should do the same.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I am disappointed in Felicity.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘To give me such short notice.’

  ‘Notice?’

  ‘And with no explanation. We’re at the height of the season. It’s most inconsiderate…’ Miss Botham stared at Alma. ‘You do know about it…’

  Alma clearly did not know about it, but raised voices and the sound of crashing crockery from the direction of the kitchen caught Miss Botham’s attention and she turned away.

  ‘What can she mean?’ Alma pushed away her Russian slice. ‘Felicity hasn’t given in her notice. That would have to come from me. I came with her to see about the job and it was made clear. They’re very proper about that kind of thing. It’s in the letter of engagement that the parent or guardian must give notice.’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough. Perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding, or she’s unwell.’

  ‘I’d know if she was unwell.’

  ‘I’ll come back with you. It can’t be anything too serious. Perhaps someone upset her.’

  ‘She does take umbrage easily, and she is rather impulsive. But this is her third job this summer!’

  ‘Don’t let this spoil your tea, Alma. Eat your Russian slice.’

  From the numbers of people who exchanged ‘hello’ or ‘good day’ with Alma as we walked down Skinner Street, I realised that she was well-known here, and popular, too. I was glad of that.

  Alma took my arm. ‘This way. We pass by Amen Corner.’

  ‘Amen Corner?’

  Alma indicated the churches. ‘I call it that because there’s a church on every corner.’

  ‘Whitby folk must be very religious.’

  ‘Seafarers and their families have good reason to be. It helps to know there’s someone up there looking out for them. And I’ll send up a prayer that Felicity hasn
’t entirely cooked her goose. I’ll drag her back there to talk to Miss Botham, sort it out.’

  We waited to cross Bagdale, the main thoroughfare into Whitby. I had of course seen the old house that we now approached. We waited on the pavement for a bus to pass, followed by a sanitary cart, its iron hoops rumbling noisily across the cobblestones.

  When the cart had passed, I had a clear view of the fine Tudor mansion solidly built of soft-hued stone, its walls unadorned with ivy. The pointed dormers on the second floor and the tall chimneys suggested that it was built with light and warmth in mind, and gave off an air of welcome.

  We crossed the street during a brief lull in traffic.

  Despite looking as if they had not been cleaned in a hundred years, the small panes in the leaded lights reflected the early evening sunlight.

  ‘How beautiful this is! You didn’t tell me you live in a Tudor mansion.’

  She gave a dismissive gesture. ‘I live in a state of deep chill, with ghosts treading the stairs half the night, mice scuttling about the kitchen and Mr Cricklethorpe dragging me into his money-spinning enterprises and complaining that there isn’t sufficient light for him to paint.’

  ‘Oh yes, you told me he’s an artist.’

  ‘Aren’t we all, Kate? Artists of some sort or another. How else would we deal with life? But yes, he is a good painter. You’ll meet him.’

  I paused by the small paved yard in front of the building. It was surrounded by a low wall with a gate.

  ‘We don’t use that door.’ Alma led the way along a narrow pavement around the side of the building.

  On the wall of the house were two stone heads. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Oh, them – search me! From their headgear, they must have been important. One of the owners had them brought from a mason’s yard. They’re said to be all that’s left of Stockton Castle. The previous owner took a fancy to a gravestone, too, and put it in the front yard. Takes all sorts.’

  ‘This must be the oldest house in Whitby, Alma.’