Mrs Cobb regained her feet and promptly sent her brother for the sal volatile while they carried Maude into the sitting room and laid her on the sofa.
Maude struggled back to consciousness with the pungent whiff of sal volatile still in her nostrils. With consciousness came memory and her colour fled as she gripped Mrs Cobb’s arm and tried to ask the dreadful question through trembling lips and a dry throat. ‘Is it . . . is it Lionel?’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Please God, it isn’t Lionel!’
Mrs Cobb and her brother exchanged worried looks. ‘No dear,’ said Mrs Cobb resolutely. ‘That is, we don’t know yet, but I’m sure it isn’t Mr Brent.’
There was a knock on the front door followed by a long ring and Derek went to answer it. A man in his thirties stood on the doorstep, beaming at him. ‘Bit of a scoop this!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just come from the beach. Plenty going on down there. Thought we could help each other out here, if you see what I mean. You give me something and I’ll see that you come out looking good!’
Derek hesitated and then, remembering his conversation with his sister, he opened the door to admit the visitor. ‘I’ll tell Mrs Cobb. Please wait here.’
He went into the sitting room, announced, ‘Ben Hemmings from the Gazette!’ and raised his eyebrows. Disobeying his instructions, Hemmings followed him in. He was a thin, beady-eyed man with the look of a predatory bird. His nose was thin and his cheekbones were a little too prominent. His clothes appeared random and his shoes had seen no polish for weeks but his expression was at odds with his appearance.
‘Ah! The lady herself!’ he cried cheerfully. ‘Mrs Brent, I bring you glad tidings of great joy! The body on the beach is believed to be that of Jem Rider, late of this parish!’ He laughed, unaware of the disapproving look Mrs Cobb was giving him.
Maude sat up, her eyes wide with hope. ‘It isn’t my husband? It isn’t? Are you sure? Certain sure?’
‘Indeed I am, madam.’ He gave a small mock bow. ‘No need to shoot the messenger on this occasion. Your husband is not lying on the beach dead. We know not where he is, but we know where he ain’t!’ He turned to wink at Mrs Cobb, who turned back to Maude.
‘My dear Mrs Brent!’ she said warmly. ‘I am so happy for you. We all are! Your husband is alive and well. Splendid news!’
Maude moved her feet from the end of the sofa and sat up. Hemmings at once sat down next to her.
Maude said, ‘You are quite, quite sure about him?’
Hemmings dropped his humorous manner and nodded. ‘Quite sure, Mrs Brent. I’ve come across Jem Rider on several occasions and he is instantly recognizable. The police say he was killed by a couple of blows to the back of his head. Poor lad.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m so glad to be able to set your mind at rest for a while. There’s still hope.’
Maude looked into small but friendly brown eyes and no longer saw the rest of his poorly assembled features. This man had saved her sanity for the moment, she told herself. She was aware that the agony was far from over and that the final outcome need not be a good one, but for the present, she had been rescued from the darkest scenario. Lionel was not dead and she was spared the plunge into deepest misery. She must take what little she was offered and be thankful. And she was.
She resisted the urge to hug him. ‘Thank you, Mr Hemmings. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to hear that.’
She was so grateful that she agreed to grant him a five-minute interview, during which he asked her a series of questions that were easily answered. Mrs Cobb insisted on staying with them throughout the interview, allegedly to support Maude and make sure that Ben Hemmings didn’t bully her in any way. Maude went out of her way to praise Mrs Cobb, Derek Jayson and the staff and other guests. Everyone, she declared, had been wonderfully kind and helpful. ‘I consider myself fortunate that, in this dreadful predicament, I am surrounded by caring people,’ she told him.
When Hemmings left her to go to the bar for a whisky on the house, Maude retired to her room and supper was sent up on a tray.
Later she telephoned Aunt Biddy and brought her up to date on the latest developments, but it was not until she hung up the receiver that she took time to consider the victim on the beach. Was it possible, she wondered, that Jem Rider’s death was connected in any way with Lionel’s disappearance, or was it just a coincidence? As she climbed into bed, utterly exhausted both physically and mentally, she made up her mind to talk to Detective Constable Fleet and ask for his opinion.
Next morning Maude hugged her jacket against the unexpectedly cool breeze and hunched herself down into the collar. With her free hand she checked that her hatpins were holding fast. She felt rather guilty in case she was doing something of which Detective Constable Fleet would not approve but she had decided that she must see Emily Rider. It was nearly ten and she had eaten a hasty breakfast before informing Mrs Cobb that she was ‘going for a walk to clear her head’. Lying made her feel bad, because everyone at the hotel was trying to mother her. Still, it was only a part lie, she told herself. She was going for a walk and the blustery wind was certainly clearing her head.
As she walked along the front she saw that some people were already on the beach, mostly young families whose children were busy collecting seashells or, regardless of the weather, splashing in and out of the shallow water. A few gentlemen armed with walking sticks were giving their dogs a morning run and an elderly couple tottered along arm in arm. Were they demonstrating affection, Maude wondered, or simply propping each other up? She had never found it easy to walk on shingle.
At the eastern end of the beach she regained the road, turned left, and made her way through the old town. At last she found a baker’s van and the driver, who was adjusting his horse’s nosebag. She asked him if he knew where Mrs Rider lived.
‘Emily Rider? Course I know.’ He regarded her curiously. ‘What d’you want with Emily?’
‘I need to speak with her, that’s all.’
‘Everyone knows Emily. Lived here for years, her lot and his. Sid Rider. Fisherman he was, the husband, when he wasn’t in jail. Then he ups and leaves with a woman from Pett Level.’
He gave her the necessary directions and she followed them until she ended up outside a house and rang the bell. After a few minutes she rang again. Waiting longer than seemed likely, she wondered again about the wisdom of this visit but, just as she decided to forget all about it and leave while she could, there were footsteps in the passage, a security chain rattled and the door opened.
‘Stop ringing the sodding bell! I’ve got a blinding headache!’
The woman was red-eyed, her face was flushed and she clung to the door for support. Drunk, thought Maude with a flash of compassion, and who could blame her? This unfortunate woman had just lost her son. She said gently, ‘I’m sorry. Maybe I should come back some other—’
‘Or not at all!’ Mrs Rider swayed and instinctively Maude put out a hand to steady her.
‘I’m Mrs Brent. Your son went missing and so has my husband. I’m wondering if there’s a connection.’
Mrs Rider put a shaking hand to her head and groaned. She was still in rumpled nightclothes and her hair was a tangled mess. Maude thought with a shudder that she might herself have sunk into such a pitiful state if Lionel had been the one found dead on the beach. She said, ‘You don’t look at all well, Mrs Rider. Maybe I could come in and make you some tea.’
‘What?’ She swayed again, squinting up at Maude.
The smell of dust, damp and cat’s pee drifted forward from the passage and Maude regretted her offer. She thought it unlikely that she would get any sense from Jem’s mother and was already phrasing a sentence that would herald a change of plan when the woman turned, and stumbled away down the passage, leaving the door wide open. Maude took a deep breath of clean air and stepped inside. She closed the door and headed along the narrow passage into the kitchen where Mrs Rider was slumped in a chair. Her elbows were on the table and her head rested in her hands.
A t
ortoiseshell cat slept beside the cold stove but there was also a gas cooker that had seen better days and the kettle was already full so Maude found matches, lit the gas and placed the kettle on the hob. She sat down facing Tom’s mother.
Mrs Rider looked up. ‘They was always on to my Jem but he was a good lad. He didn’t deserve nothing bad to happen to him. Nothing like this.’ She raised her head. ‘So what if he did get in trouble now and again? Not surprising with his dad in and out of the nick all the time.’
‘I’m truly sorry.’
‘Yeah!’
Maude pulled her chair closer to the table. ‘Mrs Rider, do you think someone kidnapped your son and then killed him?’
Mrs Rider shrugged. ‘Who cares? He’s dead now. It’s too late.’
‘But do you have any idea who killed him? I’m wondering if the same man has taken my husband and . . . and he might be next. He might also be killed.’
Mrs Rider looked up suddenly, her eyes narrowed. ‘He might have done it. Ever think of that?’
‘Who might have done it? I don’t understand.’
‘Your husband might have killed my son!’
Maude’s mouth fell open with shock at this outrageous suggestion. ‘But that’s ridiculous! How dare you even suggest such a thing! Of course he didn’t. Lionel would never kill anybody!’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘Don’t you ever say such a thing again! D’you hear me?’
The woman shrugged again. ‘Might have. Someone did it. They knew each other.’
‘They did not! What on earth are you talking about? Your son was asked to deliver an envelope to Mr Brent. By somebody. We don’t know who.’
‘By him. By your husband.’
Maude shook her head, confused. ‘You’re not making any sense, Mrs Rider. Please try to think what you’re saying. Lionel did not know your son. I’m trying to discover if the man who killed your—’ She stopped abruptly, jerking back in alarm as Mrs Rider’s fist crashed down on to the table.
‘Jem said the man knew his name. Said he called him Jem and asked him to deliver the envelope, only Jem didn’t know that . . . I mean, it was later that he realized . . .’
‘That’s nonsense!’ Maude blinked rapidly, growing nervous. ‘Why should Lionel ask someone else to deliver an envelope to himself? Can’t you see it doesn’t make any sense?’ She sighed, ashamed that she was badgering the poor woman at such a time. ‘I’ll make you a pot of tea,’ she began but Mrs Rider was becoming annoyed.
‘I can make me own tea, thank you. If you’ve said your piece you can get out!’
She glared at Maude who, equally irritated, realized she should never have bothered Jem’s mother at such a difficult time. She rose to go but as she did so her eye caught a curling photograph on the mantelpiece. It showed a toddler sitting on the step. He was clutching a small wooden horse and smiling broadly.
‘Yes, that’s my Jem, bless his heart!’
Maude wanted to say something but she had the feeling that the best thing she could do was to leave the distraught woman in peace.
She said, ‘He was a bonny baby.’
No answer.
‘Is anyone coming to help you? The Salvation Army are very good. They’re used to dealing with—’
‘My daughter’s coming at twelve. Just go. I don’t want your help and I don’t want no sodding do-gooders snooping round my house.’
Maude cursed her own stupidity. Quietly she let herself out and closed the front door behind her. Walking rapidly away she returned to the seafront and, badly shaken by Mrs Rider’s accusation, stopped in a small café for a cup of tea and a biscuit. Leave well alone, Maude, she told herself resignedly. Leave it to the experts. Somewhere Lionel is alive and well, she told herself. DC Fleet will find him.
FIVE
The Hastings pier theatre was like most pier theatres, perched over the sea, its outside walls plastered with programmes of shows past and present, a jumble of posters containing sketches of the various artists and a separate sheet enclosed in a glass-fronted panel, showing the times of each performance and the prices for various seats. Hundreds of pairs of feet clattered past each day, their steps echoing above the waves twenty feet below. When a performance was due, some of the feet stopped at the theatre and carried their owners inside, through the darkened auditorium or, in some cases, round backstage to the dressing room.
Today, the men’s dressing room was thick with steam as Wahoo, the Wonderful Wizard, bent over the ironing board, trying to press a crease into each leg of the black trousers that were part of his stage costume. The previous evening, Alfie Parks had spilled half his beer down them and Wahoo (known to his friends, family and fellow artists as Sydney) had been forced to sponge them down today to get rid of the smell and remove the stain.
‘You should be doing this,’ Sydney grumbled, sending a malevolent look towards the comedian who now sat in front of the large mirror, a glass of ale hidden on the shelf below, applying his make-up with an unsteady hand.
‘Stop moaning, Sydney,’ he replied. ‘Think yourself lucky I didn’t volunteer to do it. I’ve scorched more clothes than you’ve had hot dinners!’
Alfie Parks, the show’s comedian, was a tubby man with what he called a ‘dodgy ticker’ who, on stage, made himself appear more round than he was by means of a quilted stomach, which he wore concealed under his clothes. He wore shoes that were three sizes too large in the hope that this subtle combination hinted at ‘clown’ and encouraged the audience to find him humorous. He also wore a small black bowler hat and started every sentence of his patter with ‘I say, I say!’ His jokes were tried and true but the evening crowd were very tolerant and usually laughed in the right places. The matinee audiences, however, were always the least receptive to the show and this afternoon would be no different.
The small room had beige walls and along one of these there was a row of coat hooks on which the performers hung their clothes. Above the coat hooks there was a shelf for hats and wigs. Six chairs were lined up in front of the mirror, which stretched the length of the wall. The long counter beneath the mirror was crammed with make-up of all shapes, sizes and colours, along with a variety of old rags and flannels and pots of cheap grease for removing the make-up at the end of each performance.
Sydney put the iron down, inspected his newly creased trousers and was satisfied. There was a knock on the door and one of the Sunshine Dancers put her head round the door.
‘Can we borrow your iron? Ours is kaput.’ She was tall with smooth dark hair and her face already glowed with scarlet lipstick, black-rimmed eyes and false eyelashes.
‘You can have it for ten minutes and mind you bring it back – and watch yourself. It’s hot.’ Sydney handed it over and asked, ‘What’s the house like?’
‘Not many. Mostly old fogeys but there’s a class of children booked, coming from Eastbourne on a charabanc. Don’t ask me why they’re coming here. They’ve got theatres in Eastbourne.’
Alfie grinned. ‘They haven’t got us!’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh yes! I forgot. We’re the best!’ She disappeared and her high-heeled shoes echoed in the passageway.
The Wonderful Wizard pulled on his newly pressed trousers with a grunt of satisfaction.
Alfie said, ‘They look good as new. Better, even.’
‘No thanks to you, chum!’
Alfie tried to remember the jokes that would make the kids laugh and those that would be too risqué and had to be omitted. He knew that if the punters complained, the manager would be laying down the law with a trowel.
Arturio Loreto arrived, carrying his cycle clips, which he tossed on to the make-up counter. He gave the other two men his usual grin.
‘Great goings-on at the Romilees!’ he said. ‘I wonder where the fellow is – the one that’s gone missing. Lionel Somebody. It’s all my wife can talk about! She’s convinced herself that there’s a killing spree starting and she’s very nervous. I’ve told her not to frighten the girls.’
A
rturio was a singer and a reasonably good one. His speciality was opera and he sang in what passed for Italian to further impress the audience. He believed that his act lent the pier performance a touch of class and secretly no-one would argue with that. He went on. ‘Not to mention a body on the beach! If that doesn’t put Hastings on the map, nothing will.’
Sydney said, ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t scare off the day trippers.’
‘It won’t. More likely to draw the crowds. You know how people are. It’s sure to be in the local paper this weekend. Our very own thriller! They’ll all stand around the spot where the body was found, gawping and chewing sticks of rock!’ He began to change into his outfit – black trousers, red cummerbund, not-so-crisp white shirt, black bow tie on a piece of elastic. ‘Oh God! Where’s the iron?’
‘One of the girls borrowed it.’
Sighing, he went off to retrieve it. Arturio’s real name was Arthur Law and he was slim and almost elegant and somehow girlish, with a soft mouth and gentle eyes. He was older than he looked.
‘Jessie’s bringing the children to the matinee,’ he announced when he returned. ‘It’s Dora’s birthday treat and the two girls are each bringing a school friend. We’re all having an ice cream in the interval and afterwards Jessie’s taking the four children home to tea.’
‘Very cosy!’ said Sydney.
Young Bill put his head round the door. ‘Five minutes to curtain! All present and correct?’
They nodded.
‘What’s the house like?’ Arthur asked, fastening his cummerbund.
‘First seven rows of the stalls full and the first two in the circle. Not much else.’ He hurried away to alert the girls in their dressing room.
Five minutes passed. It was the moment they longed for – and the one they dreaded. The show must go on.
The three o’clock meeting at the Hastings police station was a gloomy affair on the surface, although privately each member of the team was enjoying the novelty of an investigation into a double-edge case – at once a disappearance and a probable murder. They sat back in their chairs as Detective Constable Fleet ran through the information they had accumulated, and racked their brains for something intelligent to offer or an insightful question to ask when their turn came.
Truth Will Out Page 8
