Truth Will Out

by Pamela Oldfield

For a few moments they stood in silence while Maude tried to summon her courage for the inevitable question. At last she asked quietly, ‘Do you understand what’s going on, Mr Jayson?’

  He hesitated. ‘I think so but perhaps DC Fleet should explain it all.’

  ‘I’d rather hear it from you – if you could bear it.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I know what they say about shooting the messenger that brings bad news but . . . It’s none of your doing and I do need to know.’

  He sighed deeply, obviously unhappy with his task. ‘I gather that this was not a genuine kidnapping, Mrs Brent,’ he began. ‘It was a ruse. Your husband thought of a plan to extract money from you and . . . and your companion was part of the plan. I think her part was to win your confidence.’

  Maude’s head swam but she told herself to hear him out. She had to face up to whatever had happened.

  ‘Go on,’ she whispered.

  ‘It seems that they were going to take the money and run away together. Then Jem got involved and presumably knew too much. He must have become some kind of a threat, so your husband . . . It’s alleged that your husband killed him. Possibly accidentally.’

  At last she was forced to protest. ‘My husband is not a murderer, Mr Jayson.’ He was silent, leaving her time to think. She went on, ‘At least . . . he might have done it accidentally. Alice did say something like that, didn’t she?’

  He nodded.

  Maude continued, ‘So Alice is . . . is somehow close to him. I dare say she has fallen in love with him but she . . . It’s hard to believe that all this time . . .’

  Suddenly DC Fleet stood outlined in the back doorway. ‘I’d like you to come back inside,’ he told them. ‘I’m going down to the station for reinforcements. We’ll get the blighter!’

  Maude, galvanized into action, stepped forward. ‘If he’s not going to get any money, why do you have to try and arrest him?’ she demanded desperately. ‘Let him turn up, find nothing and go away. Just forget everything. I won’t bring charges. Please!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Brent. A crime has been committed. A robbery has been planned. A ransom note has been sent. There has been a conspiracy to defraud.’

  ‘But if I choose not to press charges?’

  ‘You forget, Mrs Brent, that he is also wanted for murder.’

  Once inside the sitting room, he told Maude to keep Alice at the hotel.

  ‘And if I don’t?’ she demanded.

  To Mrs Cobb he said, ‘You hear that. Alice Crewe doesn’t leave this building. If we can arrest Brent we’ll lock him up overnight pending enquiries and tomorrow we’ll be back to interview Miss Crewe.’

  Derek Jayson said, ‘Hang on a minute! We can’t keep the young woman here against her will! I’m sure my sister doesn’t want to be held responsible for her.’

  ‘It’s either that or I arrest her now for conspiracy. Make up your mind because we’ve got bigger fish to fry. We have to catch a murderer!’

  Hidden under a large sack beside a dustbin, Lionel waited on a darkened corner on the opposite side of the road, about a hundred yards from the entrance to the pier. He needed to discover what the police intended to do. He had stipulated that Maude should come alone in a taxi and leave the money in a bag tied to the pier’s rail, but he didn’t expect the police to allow this. They might send a policeman disguised as a woman. That had been known. They might try and surround the place. His own plan was to be there early and watch for anything suspicious, and if he spotted an ambush he would melt into the darkness and try again some other time with a different plan.

  The church clock struck quarter past two and still the street seemed to be deserted; there was no sign of the taxi. Cautiously Lionel moved the sacks so that he could peer over the edge of them. A quick glance to right and left revealed nothing remotely suspicious and he smiled with satisfaction. There was an unfortunate smell coming from the dustbin and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. If anyone had ever told him he’d be hiding under sacks beside a stinking dustbin he’d have laughed at them but it was a case of playing the police at their own game. They’d sneak along and try to hide but he’d spot them a mile off. ‘No flies on me!’ his father had frequently claimed and his son was made from the same mould.

  The beach in the middle of the night was eerily silent. A world away from the daylight when the day trippers enjoyed their ice creams, toffee apples and the inevitable sticks of rock. An image rose unbidden, of Alice sitting on the beach eating her ice cream, her eyes sparkling with happiness, while the gusty breeze blew her hair around her face. He had told her she looked like a mermaid.

  ‘Oh, happy days!’ he murmured. He had enjoyed his short marriage to Alice but it was time to change his life around and there was now no place for her in it. He frowned. ‘Stupid wretch!’ All that fuss over Jem Rider, who was worth less than a snap of the fingers. She had actually wept for him! No accounting for taste.

  He squinted into the darkness. Any minute now. There was no sign of the taxi or the bag of money but surely there was still time. Nothing on the seafront moved until a cat slithered along the road and disappeared down the steps to the beach. No doubt hoping for a mouse that had ventured on to the shingle in search of careless crumbs left by a holidaymaker’s picnic.

  To dull the agony of waiting he thought about his future. He would go abroad, he promised himself, once he had the money. He would make his way to somewhere where it was always sunny and every day was exciting. Mexico appealed to him. He had discussed it with Alice and they had agreed it would be fun to live somewhere like that. They would rent a hacienda. Correction. He would rent a hacienda. Alice, his lawful wedded wife, would not, after all, be travelling with him. He grinned. There would be plenty of señoritas in Mexico who would appreciate a handsome man with money to burn . . .

  To his right, a movement caught his eye. Damn. An elderly man was shuffling along towards him and Lionel ducked back beneath the sacks, pulled them well over his head and held his breath. The old chap was snorting rheumily – like a sick pig, thought Lionel irritably – probably about to shuffle off this mortal coil. With any luck he would cross over to the beach side of the road. To his dismay, however, the erratic footsteps didn’t waver but came closer still and Lionel hunched down as far as he could and pulled the sacks a little closer. He closed his eyes.

  ‘Keep going, old man!’ he urged wordlessly but instead he heard the dustbin lid being lifted and there were sounds of a hand rifling through the rubbish. In the darkness, Lionel could see nothing as he tried to peer through the mesh of the sacks but he could hear various items being tossed from the dustbin – an empty bottle that smashed on hitting the ground, a couple of tin cans, one of which rolled, and something that sounded wet, like soggy cardboard.

  ‘Nothing. Sod it!’ the old man muttered and, replacing the lid, he shuffled on, fortunately ignoring the shapeless mound beneath the sack.

  Lionel breathed a sigh of relief as the footsteps retreated. His first challenge successfully overcome, he told himself triumphantly. He was going to outwit them all – even the coppers when they came, which he knew they would. He had killed Jem Rider and they wanted his scalp! Still, he had always considered himself more than a match for them. Coppers were a joke. They were nothing but a load of pea-brained numbskulls dressed up in fancy uniforms.

  Further along the road the old man reached a row of shops and stopped at one that had once sold a variety of seaside souvenirs – framed sketches of the pier or the famous cable car; pottery mugs with the words ‘From Hastings’ painted round the side; tasselled pencils and small shell-topped boxes and the inevitable saucy postcards. Now awaiting a new owner, the windows were painted with whitewash on the inside and covered with a motley arrangement of bills and posters on the outside.

  The old man tapped twice on the door and, when it opened, stepped smartly inside. In the gloom he could see his four colleagues waiting eagerly for the chance of some action. PC Batts pulled off the false beard and greasy old cap, and divested
himself of the shabby coat. Then he grinned broadly and gave them a thumbs up.

  He turned to DC Fleet. ‘You were right! He’s under the sacks beside the dustbin.’

  Grumbling good-naturedly, the rest of the men handed over their sixpences. Betting on the suspect’s hiding place had helped them through a boring wait.

  PC Batts said, ‘I doubt he can see anything through the sacks.’

  DC Fleet nodded. ‘Then we’ll send you and you –’ he pointed to the chosen constables – ‘to make your way along the beach westwards, then cross over and make your way back along the beach. Then come up on him from the other side.’ He turned. ‘You two do the same going east. When you’re within ten yards, whistle and we’ll all close on him. We should have him surrounded before he knows what’s happening. Everyone clear? Right, get to it. And good luck.’

  NINE

  Lionel heard the single whistle blast and, taken by surprise, it took him a fateful second or two to understand what it meant. He had seen and heard nothing suspicious, but the sudden sound of pounding feet coming in his direction finally alerted him to his danger. He’d been outwitted! As he hurled aside the sacks and scrambled to his feet, the police were already upon him. They surrounded him and DC Fleet cried, ‘Give yourself up, Brent. There are five of us. You have no—’

  Lionel’s instinct for self-preservation kicked in and adrenalin surged through him. Springing to his left, he snatched up the metal dustbin lid and swung it with all his might at the circle of police who waited with their truncheons raised. Only their teeth showed in the darkness and the grinning policemen reminded Lionel of a pack of animals with bared fangs. But their grins faded abruptly. By the time they saw the impromptu weapon it was too late. It caught DC Fleet full across the forehead and knocked him backwards. He fell with a scream of agony and struck his head on the ground as the vicious sweep continued to scythe through his men. It hit the next man across the neck, causing blood to spurt and then, still arcing downward, caught the third man’s upraised arm and broke it. DC Fleet had not moved.

  That did it, thought Lionel, with a mixture of regret and satisfaction. Even as he darted forward, pushing the two remaining constables aside, he knew he had gone too far. Assault on three policemen! If he was caught now, he could look forward to charges on multiple offences and hanging might be the kindest sentence he could expect. He had nothing to lose. Whatever it took, he could not allow himself to be taken. Turning only to hurl the dustbin lid at one of his pursuers, he raced across the road and on to the pier. There was no sight of the bag containing the ransom and he swore. His feet echoed on the wooden boardwalk as he forced his legs to a maximum effort, conscious of the footsteps behind him and the frantic whistles of the police who were trying to call up help.

  Long before he reached the end of the pier, Lionel was gasping for breath and he sensed that the man behind him was gaining. If he were caught, he could expect a thorough beating on the spot.

  ‘Give yourself up, you swine!’ his pursuer shouted breathlessly.

  Lionel realized with a sickening feeling in his stomach that he was running out of pier. He couldn’t swim but there was only one way to go and that was down into the water. He staggered to the railings, climbed shakily over the rail and turned back to shout a last defiant curse at the policeman.

  ‘See you all in Hell!’ he yelled. Then he steadied himself, took a deep breath, pinched his nose and hurled himself into the darkness.

  As he fell he heard the constable shout, ‘Drown, you bastard!’ and then, with a splash and a flurry of gurgling bubbles, the cold sea closed over him.

  The following morning found Jane Dyer at the reception desk of the gallery as usual. It was nearly eleven o’clock and raining steadily, a fact that always seemed to deter people from browsing in art galleries. Normally Jane would have been in the small kitchen next to the office, making a pot of tea for herself and Mr Barlowe, but today she was being deliberately awkward.

  ‘Let him ask for it,’ she told herself irritably. He shouldn’t take her for granted. She was a paid employee, not a slave. He should consider her feelings more than he did. Since their disagreement over Mrs Brent and the list of paintings, Jane had cooled towards her employer. Not that she had ever liked him the way she liked Lionel Brent, but she had always been polite and respectful and ready with a pleasant smile. She enjoyed her job and her mother had advised her to be ‘biddable’ whenever suitable, but not ingratiating.

  Today Jane’s pretty face bore the signs of strain as she turned to see her employer coming down the stairs, his face like thunder.

  Now what has upset him? she wondered. If he asked about the pot of tea she would give him an innocent smile and pretend she had forgotten the time.

  Glancing round the gallery to satisfy himself that there were no clients to overhear, Barlowe pulled up a spare chair and sat down next to her desk. He looked shocked and Jane prepared herself for bad news.

  ‘There’s been some trouble, Miss Dyer. Serious trouble. You’ll have to hear it sooner or later.’ He rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Oh!’ She stared at him fearfully. ‘It’s not Mrs Brent again, is it?’ If he was going to try and involve her again in lies, she would walk right out of the gallery and go home. Then she would write a letter of resignation. Her mother had told her Mr Barlowe’s behaviour was unpardonable.

  ‘Not exactly.’ He leaned back and stared upwards, his mouth tight. ‘It’s Mr Brent. He’s . . . The police think he’s dead.’

  Jane felt as though he had punched her. She sucked in air and then let it out again in a long trembling sigh. ‘Dead? Oh no! Not Mr Brent. What happened to him? Who killed him? Is he going to be all—?’ Don’t be stupid! She stopped herself just in time. Of course he wasn’t going to be all right! He was dead. He would never be all right. Lionel Brent would never be anything but dead. Tears filled her eyes.

  Barlowe said, ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t give way to tears. Not here. Save them until you get home.’ He shook his head. ‘I never really believed anything like this would happen. It all seemed so . . . unlikely.’

  ‘But who killed him?’ She fumbled for her handkerchief.

  Barlowe drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. ‘He jumped into the sea and they think he drowned. So nobody actually killed him. It seems he attacked a policeman – several actually. Injured a couple of them.’

  Jane wiped away her tears and shook her head vigorously. ‘No! Not Mr Brent. He would never do such a thing! Attack the police? Never!’

  Her employer shrugged. Briefly he brought her up to date with the case. ‘That was them on the phone,’ he went on, ‘warning me to be on the lookout in case he didn’t in fact drown. It was pitch dark and they only saw him jump. They have to assume that he might somehow have survived. If he has survived and shows his face here, try not to let him in. He’s killed a man, remember. And the one called Fleet, the detective, is injured. Felled by a blow on the temple. Unconscious. Maybe in a coma.’ He tutted. ‘Brent’s very dangerous, Miss Dyer. Remember that.’

  ‘If he’s still alive, you mean.’ Her voice quivered.

  ‘Let’s hope he isn’t. Better for everyone.’ He pursed his lips, frowning. ‘It’s all very awkward at the moment. If he is still alive he’s definitely on the run and he’s still married to Mrs Brent, in which case he might try to take away some of our paintings.’ He wagged a finger at Jane who recoiled slightly. ‘If he’s alive and you help him in any way, you’ll be an accessory to a crime. If he sets foot in here call the police and on no account help him in any way.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I’m only trying to help you, Miss Dyer. If you are foolish enough to help a wanted criminal – a wanted murderer – I won’t be able to bail you out. In fact, to be brutally honest, I wouldn’t want to bail you out if you had been so foolish as to ignore my advice. Just so you understand my position. I have to be seen to be beyond reproof – and so should you.’ He sat back in the chair and eyed her severely
. ‘But I’ll tell you this – I shall be staying well away from him if he does turn up again. Lionel Brent is not going to ruin my life. When I think of the way he’s behaved and the lies he’s told . . .’ He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, and covered his face with his hands.

  Jane watched him, wondering what she herself would do if the man she had adored had survived and should ask for her help. If he needed money he might come to her to beg for one of the Cope paintings. Could she refuse him when he needed her most? She had never had a gentleman friend and her ideas about the opposite sex were mostly gleaned from the books she read, which her mother recommended from time to time – mostly the classics, but Jane did sometimes buy magazines, which she read avidly at slack times in the gallery and then threw away. She would never take them home.

  Mr Barlowe asked, ‘What happened to the tea, Miss Dyer?’

  ‘Oh dear!’ She glanced at the clock with feigned surprise. ‘I didn’t realize it was so late, Mr Barlowe. I’ll make it now.’ She jumped to her feet but he was also rising.

  ‘I won’t have time to drink it now,’ he said. ‘The phone call has made me late already. I have to catch a train for Canterbury. This Miss Brompton seems promising. We sell quite a few miniatures . . .’ He paused to snatch up his hat and umbrella. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Dyer. Try to forget about Lionel Brent and concentrate on your work.’

  She watched him go, pleased to see the back of him. She needed time to think about Lionel. Could he really be dead – and could he really have killed somebody? It was ridiculous. Perhaps he was being framed! She gasped. Had the police thought of that, she wondered? The Lionel she knew was a gentle soul. She smiled as his image rose in her mind. He had always treated her with respect, she thought, a faint smile lighting her face. Pushing aside the ugly accusations, she thought over the time she had spent working for the gallery. Mr Barlowe had always been fair, she conceded, but Lionel Brent had made her feel . . . desirable.