Truth Will Out

by Pamela Oldfield

Maude detected a note of reproach.

  ‘It passes the time after supper, Mrs Brent. Have a little think.’

  Without warning Maude felt a frisson of fear. It was quarter to six. She saw Mrs Cobb’s mouth moving but heard nothing but a faint roaring in her ears. Her main emotion passed from anxiety to an intuitively deep awareness that something was wrong. It obviously showed in her expression because Mrs Cobb looked at her in alarm. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Brent? You seem very pale.’

  Maude pressed her two hands against her chest and whispered, ‘Something has happened to him!’

  ‘Of course it hasn’t. What on earth could happen to a grown man in Hastings? This is a very safe town, Mrs Brent. You really mustn’t let your imagination run away with you. Your husband hasn’t been away that long and he won’t want to come back to a panicky wife, now will he? Do try to stay calm, Mrs Brent. There really is nothing to worry about.’

  THREE

  Half an hour later, Alison Cobb stood in their small private sitting room and regarded her brother irritably. ‘What on earth are we to do?’ she demanded. Even though there was no way they could be overheard, she spoke in a whisper. ‘That wretched man! Where can he be? What is he up to, messing us about like this? And his silly wife, working herself into such a state over nothing! What are we supposed to do about it? The police weren’t really interested and why should they be? He hasn’t been gone that long. I just don’t know what to do about our little soirée!’

  Derek was staring out of the window. His hands were thrust into his pockets defensively. ‘Don’t ask me! How should I know?’ He was very like her but in his late thirties. There was strong family resemblance but he had so far kept his youthful charm. He was never short of female admirers but had never felt inclined to marry.

  She tugged at his arm. ‘At least talk about it, Derek. We have to deal with the situation. Mrs Brent is in her room, no doubt crying her eyes out by now. The police aren’t taking it very seriously. Doing next to nothing.’

  He turned. ‘You can’t say that. Constable Wickens is asking lots of questions and he says the Folkestone police are going to send a man to Brent’s home to see if he’s gone back there. If he’s got amnesia that’s quite possible.’

  ‘Amnesia? But he was perfectly well this morning.’

  ‘A blow on the head might cause it. If he has been knocked down . . .’

  ‘Knocked down? Oh, what nonsense. He’s probably having a drink or two somewhere and lost track of time. I just don’t want this bit of bother to get out, Derek.’

  ‘But how could it hurt us? It’s not our fault he’s late back. Might even give us some good publicity. I mean, we called in the police when Mrs Brent deemed it necessary. We’re playing our part.’ He was brightening. ‘Might even do us some good in the long run.’

  Alison closed her eyes. ‘That’s so like you! Always thinking about yourself. Lord help your wife if you ever find one!’ Words failed her while she admitted grudgingly that her brother did have a point. If they remained calm and acted sensibly they might well come out of the situation smelling of roses.

  Opening her eyes with a snap, she said, ‘Right! Then we’re going on with the soirée. That’s settled. We can’t let the other guests down. Can’t ruin their holidays. Mrs Brent will stay in her room and—’

  ‘She might not. She may not want to be alone. We should have called a doctor to give her a sleeping draught. I suggested it but she wouldn’t agree.’

  Alison sighed. ‘She says she wants to stay awake to see him the moment he comes back.’

  ‘If he comes back.’

  Her confidence faltered suddenly. ‘If? What on earth do you mean? Of course he’s coming back!’

  They stared at each other.

  Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, Alison saw the headline in the paper:

  ROMILEES GUEST MISSING

  Shocked, she sat down heavily in the nearest armchair. ‘This is ridiculous! He’ll probably walk through the door at any moment.’

  Derek poured himself a stiff whisky and before she could complain he said, ‘Let me get you a sherry, Ali.’

  She shook her head. ‘And don’t call me Ali. You know I hate it.’ As she looked at him she saw fleetingly the young boy he had once been. Such a disappointment. She had grown up longing for a sister. Occasionally she wondered why she had persuaded him to invest in the hotel after her husband died. It had seemed a good idea at the time but today she wondered if it had been a mistake. He didn’t really enjoy it the way she did and she sometimes felt a little guilty.

  He finished his drink but before he could decide to pour another she returned the bottle to the sideboard. ‘We must think positively,’ she told him briskly. ‘The police think the press might get hold of the story, if there is a story, and if so you’ll have to deal with them, Derek. I shall try to carry on as usual and . . .’ She recalled her earlier decision. ‘As soon as the police have finished their questioning, I shall announce the soirée and pin up the programme. We’ll give everyone a free glass of that cheap champagne we can’t sell – what a mistake that was! – by way of compensation for the disruption.’ Derek started to interrupt her but she ignored him. ‘Yes. That’s what we’ll do. You deal with the police and the press while I hold the fort. We must try to protect the guests from any more disappointments.’

  ‘Protect them? What d’you mean? Disappointments? They’re secretly loving it.’ He grinned. ‘Something interesting at last to write on the back of their saucy postcards.’

  ‘Really, Derek!’ Recovering from her fright, Alison threw a glance skyward as she hurried towards the door but stopped halfway to take the list of ‘entertainers’ from her pocket and read it aloud. ‘Mr Hurst, an amusing anecdote from his childhood . . . The Stevens sisters, a duet. You’ll have to play for them, Derek. They’ve brought the music . . . Young Miss Elroyd will recite a narrative poem, and her mother is going to play something from Gilbert and Sullivan . . . It’s quite a mixed bag. Should be long enough but if not—’

  ‘I know.’ He rolled his eyes humorously. ‘I’ll play and we’ll have a sing-song!’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t revel in your moment of glory. You’ve always loved showing off at the piano. Mother was always praising you. She never praised me.’

  ‘I practised, that’s why. You never did.’

  ‘I hated piano lessons . . . Oh Lord! There’s the phone. Answer it, Derek, please and if it’s that chap Hemmings from the Gazette, be nice to him! Get him on our side whatever you do. Offer him a free night’s bed, breakfast and evening meal for two as long as he’s fair to us in his article – and as long as it’s not July or August.’

  An hour or so later, Alice and Biddy were standing on the Fairways lawn, trying to decide how croquet was meant to be played. They had carried out a box containing four long-handled mallets, four large balls – red, green, yellow and blue – some cast-iron hoops and what Alice referred to as a coloured stake. They had spread these out and were awaiting inspiration. Primmy had examined these items with interest but, finding them lifeless, had withdrawn to the shade of a tree and now watched the proceedings closely in the hope that some excitement would follow at some point.

  ‘It’s simple,’ said Alice. ‘You have to hit the ball through all the hoops and whoever does it first wins.’

  Biddy was leaning over the box in search of instructions. ‘It can’t be that easy,’ she argued. ‘There are rules and things but I’ve forgotten them . . . and how do we know where to put the hoops? I’ve seen it played but I was a child and it’s all a bit hazy now. I do know it’s not just a straight line of hoops and it’s not random, either.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I think there may be some things missing . . . And two players may not be enough. It might need people to play in pairs.’

  She straightened up from the box, one hand to her back. ‘There are no instructions. I suppose over the years they’ve got lost. I can’t recall when they were last used.’

 
Alice laughed. ‘If that’s so then we can’t even start! Unless we make up our own rules. Croquet for two players.’

  Biddy began to protest but changed her mind. ‘I suppose we could,’ she conceded. ‘Since we’ve dragged it all out here. I know it should be played on a special court – a large grassy area marked out in some way.’

  After a short discussion they agreed to set the hoops out randomly, a few yards apart.

  Alice said, ‘We’ll take it in turns to have one go at each ball and score a point if the ball goes through the hoop. We’ll have to ignore the stake thing because we don’t know what it’s for.’

  Before Biddy could reply Primmy leapt to her feet and raced off round the house in the direction of the front steps.

  Biddy said, ‘You go and see, Alice. Your legs are younger than mine. I’ll catch you up.’

  Primmy was yelping with excitement and Biddy soon saw why. Alice was standing on the front steps holding on to the dog’s collar while trying to speak to a policeman who was eyeing Primmy nervously. Biddy hurried up to them. The policeman was a heavy-looking man with a greying moustache and Biddy guessed him to be around forty years old. He introduced himself as Sergeant Taylor.

  ‘I’m Biddy Cope, the only family member here today. I hope there’s nothing wrong, Sergeant.’

  ‘Nothing to worry you about, ma’am,’ he assured her. ‘Just an enquiry from the Hastings force about a Mr Lionel Brent. Seems he’s wandered off somewhere and they’re looking for him. They think he might have come home.’

  ‘Wandered off?’ Biddy stared at him in shock. ‘Wandered off? Lionel? There must be some mistake.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Alice turned to him, releasing Primmy who rushed round and round the policeman legs, longing to be noticed.

  Biddy said, ‘Mr Brent wouldn’t wander off. Why should he? He’s at the Romilees Hotel in Hastings with his wife until—’

  ‘Except that he isn’t,’ the sergeant insisted. ‘My information is that he went out after lunch and hasn’t been seen since. No explanation about where he was headed. Wife’s very anxious and—’

  ‘Oh! Poor Maude!’

  ‘She thinks he’s been in an accident but nothing’s been reported, according to the hospitals.’ He fumbled in his pocket and found a page of scanty notes. ‘Wife, Maude Brent, has spoken to the Hastings lot as we speak and has suggested that he might have developed amnesia and be trying to reach his home. The Hastings lot are checking with us, you see, asking for us to help them out.’ He glanced up enquiringly. ‘I take it you haven’t seen him.’

  Alice shook her head. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she muttered.

  Biddy said, ‘He wouldn’t just get amnesia. I might, but not Lionel.’

  He shrugged. ‘Might happen if he got a bang on the head. Concussion. That sort of thing. Could have fallen and banged his head. Could have been attacked.’

  Alice looked at Biddy. ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ she said slowly.

  The sergeant looked from one to the other, pencil poised. ‘Nothing to add, then? No insights into what may have happened? Anyone in Hastings he might know? Anyone he might be visiting?’

  They regarded him blankly. Primmy, desperate for attention, jumped up at him.

  ‘Get down!’ he roared and, although he hadn’t touched her, Primmy gave a little yelp of terror and fled up the front steps to relative safety.

  ‘You’ve frightened her!’ Alice told the sergeant indignantly. ‘She wasn’t going to bite you. I told you she was friendly.’

  He brushed bits of grass from his uniform. ‘I don’t like noisy dogs,’ he replied. ‘She ever bite the postman? The butcher’s boy? I bet she has.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong because she hasn’t! She doesn’t bite. She’s just young and excitable.’

  Biddy intervened quickly. ‘So what’s the next step, Sergeant? If Lionel is officially missing, what do you have to do now?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘Refer it back to Hastings. It’s their problem. They’re Sussex. We’re Kent. We’re just helping them out.’

  ‘But who can we ask for further news?’

  He shrugged. ‘Best bet is probably the hotel where the wife’s staying. So, before I go, have either of you got any ideas what may have happened or where he might go?’

  Alice shook her head but Biddy said, ‘There was an odd chap round here the other day. Said he’d brought something and had to hand it over personally to Mr Brent.’

  At that moment Primmy made another attempt to ingratiate herself with the stranger. She trotted cautiously forward, stopped about three yards from Sergeant Taylor, wagged her tail and then gave three short barks and moved forward again. The constable eyed her with obvious irritation until she barked again and then he lunged suddenly forward. ‘Hop it! I’ve told you once.’ He grinned as Primmy turned tail and fled.

  Alice said angrily, ‘You’ve got a cheek! I told you, she’s not much more than a puppy.’

  ‘And I told you I don’t like noisy dogs.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘This odd chap?’ He looked at Biddy.

  She hesitated, not wanting to accuse him of anything serious. ‘He was . . . unsavoury, if you know what I mean. A bit odd. He made us nervous.’

  ‘I’d forgotten about him!’ cried Alice. ‘Biddy’s right. He was really scruffy and sort of belligerent, wasn’t he?’ She turned to Biddy. ‘Did he say what his name was?’

  ‘Belligerent? But he didn’t actually threaten us, Alice. He was odd, that’s all, and he seemed to know Lionel, but Lord knows how.’ Biddy shook her head. ‘Gone missing! It’s incredible. It was supposed to be a holiday.’

  The sergeant asked a few more questions, made occasional scribbled notes but he seemed fairly disinterested, Biddy thought. Not on his patch so why should he care?

  The policeman finally nodded. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way.’

  Alice said, ‘You haven’t written much down yet.’

  ‘I’m not investigating the case, Miss. Just been asked to see if he’s here.’

  He gave them a mock salute and they watched him in silence as he collected his bicycle.

  When he’d gone Biddy said, ‘I can hardly believe this is happening!’

  Alice slipped an arm through hers. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she told her, without much conviction. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Biddy. I promise you it will be all right.’

  Maude sat on the edge of the bed and tried to breathe slowly, in and out, in and out . . . She had talked to a Constable Wickens until her head was spinning but had refused the idea of a sleeping pill because she was terrified by what she might be told when she woke up. She needed to be alert. If Lionel were to be found injured or had finally made his way to a hospital, she wanted to be able to go there at once. If, as she still hoped, Lionel was going to return to the hotel in one piece, she wanted to be awake, to throw her arms around him and hold him close. She clung to the idea of amnesia as the least worrying explanation. She yearned to be back at home with Aunt Biddy and Alice but it made more sense to wait here. The Hastings police seemed to know what they were doing – at least she hoped they did.

  There was a knock on the door and she felt a cold rush of fear. ‘Not bad news,’ she whispered. ‘Please God, not bad news.’

  It was Mrs Cobb. ‘My dear, I’ve brought you a light snack. On Sundays we always have a big Sunday lunch and then high tea. Some people call it supper. We don’t mind. You must try to eat.’ She set the tray on the small table. ‘I’ll send Penny up later to bring your sweet course and take your empty plate.’

  Mrs Cobb was kind, thought Maude, and meant well but how was she supposed to eat anything? Her throat was dry and she felt slightly sick. She said, ‘Thank you. I will try but . . .’

  ‘I know, dear. You’ve lost your appetite but you need to keep up your strength. You don’t want your husband to come back to a wilting flower!’ She laughed to show this was a small joke. ‘At moments of crisis you should always eat something to help the body
’s defences. They need to rally against the shock, you see. And I’ve decided to go ahead with our little soirée after supper. We owe it to our other guests and—’

  ‘Oh yes! You mustn’t let us spoil things for everyone else.’

  ‘Of course not but I hope you’ll come down if you feel up to it. Everyone is wishing you well and you’d be very welcome. It might be easier than sitting here alone.’

  Maude nodded without committing herself and looked at the tray.

  Mrs Cobb said quickly, ‘A slice of my own home-made onion tart with salad and thin brown bread and butter. And then we have strawberry sponge with cream. I’ll send some up in ten minutes. I’ll leave you to it, Mrs Brent and . . .’ She held up crossed fingers. ‘Don’t give up hope. I feel sure fate will be kind.’ She closed the door carefully and Maude listened to her departing footsteps.

  A kind fate. Was that was she was hoping for? Maude picked up a piece of lettuce and put it back on the plate. In a kind of daze she spread the serviette across her lap and picked up the knife and fork. She shook her head, put the knife and fork down and picked up a small triangle of brown bread. Somehow she chewed it up and swallowed it. Then she picked the onion tart up in her fingers and took a large bite. It was delicious. She swallowed, almost choking with eagerness, and bit into it again as though she had not eaten for a week. Still using her fingers, she stuffed salad in to her mouth, chewed, swallowed, then more tart and more salad, forcing it all down.

  Before long the plate was empty and she sat back exhausted, but yes, she must be honest, she did feel a little better. She had helped the body’s defences. Thank you, Mrs Cobb, she thought. She sat back as unexpected tears streamed down her face. Struggling to defeat a growing feeling of hysteria, Maude waited numbly for the strawberry sponge to appear.

  Constable Wickens left the Romilees and returned to the Hastings police station. He stood in front of his superior’s desk, trying as usual to look older than he was, and hoping to make sense of his handwritten notes.

  ‘Er . . . The Hursts passed the missing man going out as they came back. He said he was going to–to buy his wife something which he described as “a surprise” but wife claims there was no birthday due and no other special date.’