I wondered if the offer still stood now that she was dead. Would an intention in a letter be legally binding? Or was there some nephew lurking in the background who would want his due inheritance? Did James know about this? The thought of his brilliant eyes blinded me for a moment. I sucked in on my breath.
I tried to remember who had been at her funeral. No one had caught my eye as a possible relative, but then I hadn’t been looking for one.
The last envelope held a photograph. Eagerly, I turned it over. It was photograph of the old air raid shelter that straddled the two gardens. Perhaps Ursula had sent it to Messrs Rogers & Whitworth as proof of its eyesore rating. I looked closely at the photograph with a magnifying glass but it was nothing more than an ugly concrete block half hidden in a bank of earth, covered in weeds and brambles, its steel door rusted solid.
There was a booklet of matches, the kind hotels give away. The Hilton, London, was stamped on it in gold. What could a nun possibly be doing at The Hilton? Rattling a collection box in the foyer?
I needed a place to think. I took my disappointment down to the beach. An early winter fog had crawled in and there was no seam between the sand and the sea. It was all one bleak grey panorama and yet eerie in its strangeness. The edge of the sea was a killing field, carcasses of fish strewn upon the wet cement-like sand with flocks of seagulls going crazy over the fresh flesh. There were more severed heads than fish. The heads were a delicacy and birds went for them first. I was sickened by the slaughter.
The mist was so thick that the sea front hotels and boarding houses slowly disappeared from view. Even the long-legged pier was swallowed from sight and I was all alone. My only point of reference was the sea. If it was coming towards me then. I should back off, fast. The tide raced in over the endless sand.
A solitary reduced figure was coming out of the mist like in Lawrence of Arabia, emerging from a desert mirage. The thin black shape was moving quickly. It was not Omar Sharif perched on a camel. It was a boy on a bicycle.
He went by swiftly and I was left with the quarrelsome gulls and the dainty little ringed plovers running swiftly in unswerving lines across the sand on their tiny feet.
My thoughts went back to the items in Ellen’s beside drawer. They had held no surprises. No secret documents, no incriminating telegrams or stock-piled junk mail to send to Ursula. No black marker pen. The photograph and the matches were only marginally interesting. She had been using the matches to burn the currency. I remembered a scattering of thin, designer sticks in the grate. Had she met someone at the Hilton, someone who prompted her into that insane burnt offering? Had that someone been so incensed by her action that he strangled her and then hung her on a hook like a side of beef?
The mist was so damp that my hair was beginning to curl. Drops trickled down my neck with icy fingers. I stood very still as the mist rolled off the sea. I couldn’t even see the waves, only hear them crashing some distance away. The tide was still going out and retreating fast over the flatness in a last desperate escape from the bondage of the land. I had no idea which way to go. My sense of direction was nil and the gulls were no help.
“James …” I called hopefully. My voice sounded feeble and pathetic. Did I really expect a patrol car to loom out of the mist to rescue me, lights flashing, siren wailing?
There must be fingerprints on the photo or the matches. But would they tell us anything? Despondency leaded my boots. I wasn’t getting anywhere with anything. I had no hope of finding Ben Frazer. Ursula’s persecutor had covered his tracks; the tortoise had been a fluke.
Epitaph: She was a lousy detective but brilliant with animals.
I stood in the cold, chilling fast. I was lost. This was not the time to panic. There were sounds but nothing was real.
I thought I could hear something, like footsteps squelching in the wet sand. I swung round but saw no one. The footsteps had stopped. But I could still hear a sea-less sound. It was breathing, slightly out of breath breathing. Someone who was older, not used to chasing over the beach in the dark.
I waited. “Hello,” I said but my voice was thin and reedy.
There was no answer.
I froze. Someone was there. I knew it. There was nothing in my pockets except a biro pen. My screwdriver was at home. I was half way across the Channel, well, almost, and defenseless. I did not know which way to run. My legs had lost their running tone even if I knew which way to go.
A wet spaniel came charging out of the mist and greeted me like a long lost friend. He scampered round, barking and panting, his brown coat flattened into wet curls, his brown eyes glowing with fun.
“Hello, boy! Hello, boy! Are you lost too?”
Whatever he was, he’d decided my company was better than none. Cheered by his enthusiasm for me, I set off with a more determined walk but the dog did not seem too keen on following. He crouched down, tail wagging. Then I realized this area of sand was becoming wetter and rivulets were washing over the toes of my boots.
“Oh, dear, wrong way,” I said, making a half turn.
I thought I recognized several dead fish and grinning skulls as we walked back. The dog sniffed at them but wasn’t into fish. It was growing dark, much earlier now that we had lost the extra hour of British Summertime and I sharpened my step. This was ridiculous. I’d never been lost on the beach before and I’d walked its four mile length a hundred times.
“Come on, dog,” I said. “It can’t be far now.”
Unless I was walking parallel to the sea and not back to the shore at all. At this rate I would end up at Bognor Regis.
Then I saw a thin, looped string of tiny lights, far distant in the mist winking like a half-imagined fairy ring. The promenade lights had come on and the sulphur street lamps were throwing banners of orange down onto the wet sand. I could have kissed the entire town council for their prudence.
The dog sensed my joy and leaped around, leaving sandy paw marks on my jeans. We set out briskly towards the lights, over drier sand, stepping over a scattering of rocks, then white and ghostly buildings loomed ahead and we were clambering up the steep and slippery pebble shelf onto the promenade. People, cars, traffic lights… suddenly they all seemed wonderful.
“We’ve done it,” I said, fondling the dog’s head.
“Where the hell have you been?” said a man in a waterproof Barber jacket and holding a lead. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, damned dog.”
The spaniel trotted obediently over to his master without a backward glance. Some friend. My role was over.
Derek was waiting on my doorstep, the collar of his raincoat turned up like Tom Cruise. The garment was too big for him and flapped round his ankles. He probably bought it in a sale. His face lit up as I arrived.
“Hello, stranger,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Derek,” I said wearily. “You can’t come in. I’m cold and tired and I’m very wet. And I have a lot of work to do.”
“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” he offered.
My tea, my biscuits, my time, probably my supper later as well. I knew him of old. He could make a five minute visit last five hours. And I didn’t want him kissing me. No, sir. I needed my mind on my work.
“No, thank you. I’ve got masses to do.”
“You can’t mean it?” He looked hurt, then huffed.
“Yes, I do. Don’t you ever listen to what I say? You can’t call on me and expect me to be available, whatever. I’m a working girl. I have a business to run.”
“Oh, yes, I know, you and your modern independence.” He spat the state out as if it was a dirty word. “You certainly know how to hurt a person.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” I called after him as he walked away. “I only said you couldn’t come in. Make a proper date if you want to see me. Invite me out to something.” As if he would, he’d have to pay. A no-go area.
I quickly went indoors. I didn’t like the grievance etched on his face. He looked vicious and it wasn’t nice. He needn’t make me feel
guilty. I’d only said no for once. Still, I locked both my doors because, God knows why, that look frightened me.
The two doorbells started ringing, shrill and imperative. I ignored them, getting out of my damp coat, drying my hair with a towel, filling the kettle with water, trying to stop my hands from shaking.
Still the bells rang. I threw up the window and leaned out. “Go away,” I shouted down. “I said no and I mean no. Go away.”
A figure was below on the doorstep, shoulders hunched in a bulky grey anorak. I wasn’t seeing straight. I ought to have recognized that crew-cut.
“Jordan,” he called up. “Don’t be daft. It’s me, James. Let me come in. I’ve got some information for you. Am I welcome?”
“Yes.” I didn’t say how much.
“You look about as welcoming as a crocodile.” He did not dare mentioned the word jaws.
“It was someone else,” I explained. “A pain, a pest. I thought it was him, pestering me.”
“You look frightened.”
I slumped, elbows on the sill. “Sorry, James. I’ll come down and let you in.” Relief rolled off me. Derek was an unknown quantity. But James was here and I was safe.
James shot me a concerned look from the doorstep. I went down and unlocked the front door.
“What’s all this about? Why have you turned yourself into a fortress? I heard all those bolts going back.”
I shook my head. “I’m all right.” I had to stop myself burrowing into his arms. He looked big and tough and safe. “How about a bowl of soup? Lentils, barley, chick peas and onions, green peppers. Touch of garlic. It’s all ready. Made it myself.” I was gabbling.
“Gastronomic.”
I have really old-fashioned gold-edged china soup bowls and two long-handled silver soup spoons, relics from the tableware of some big Edwardian house. It was pleasant to share the opulence with someone who appreciated their solidness. James weighed the spoon in his hand without comment. I served the soup with bacon and cheese flavoured croutons. The combination was gastronomic; his word.
He sat on the floor with his back against the radiator. He looked very much at home and relaxed. I averted my gaze so he would not know what I was thinking. I wondered what he had come to tell me.
“This is good,” he said. He didn’t ask for more but I gave him a second helping anyway. I remembered how he had paid for my fish and chip lunch without asking.
“Those fragments of currency you found,” he began at last but cautiously. “Very interesting. A lot of people have been interested.”
“Oh?”
“An expert from the Bank of England has had a look at them. He got pretty excited. He said he’d never seen anything like them before. Hardly anyone has but there was enough data to confirm several important facts. Firstly, they were genuine British currency. The bits of metallic thread still visible on some pieces proved that. They were something new that the bank were experimenting with around that time. But the notes were not easy to identify or date. In fact, he seemed to think there was something extremely rare about them.”
I was nearly hyperventilating. “For heaven’s sake! He’s the expert. Does he or doesn’t he know?” I hardly knew what I was doing, slopped soup over the rim of the shallow bowl.
“Don’t be so impatient, Jordan. Interrupt me again and I’ll go. We’re talking about a major discovery and one which might provide a motive for Ellen Swantry’s murder. And I’m only telling you this because you found the pieces in the first place.”
“It’s called co-operation,” I murmured, calming down.
“Apparently during the Second World War, the War Office, in conjunction with the Bank of England and the Treasury produced bank notes to be used by the Armed Forces in the event of a possible coin shortage or breakdown of Royal Mint production. In 1941 the Bank of England prepared eight million five shilling and eight million half-crown notes. This move was also to conserve silver which had to be imported from the US and repaid after the war. However, they were never used and destroyed after the war.”
“Destroyed?”
“Heavens girl, I said don’t interrupt. In the same year the Bank made two hundred and fifty-nine million notes for use by the Armed Forces in the Western Desert and other battle zones. They were known as BMA’s, British Military Authority notes.”
“Two hundred and fifty-nine million? What denominations?”
“One pound, ten shilling, five shillings, half-crowns and even a one-shilling note. There was a lion and a crown in the design. They were due to be pulped in 1948 or 1959 but …” he hesitated.
“Well…?”
“No one is sure if they were destroyed. Some were. The rest completely disappeared, vanished off the face of the earth, millions of pounds worth. Think of their rarity value now. Every one a collector’s item. A fortune in printed paper.”
“And Ellen Swantry was burning them in her fireplace. The first piece I found had ‘ence’ on it - two shillings and sixpence.” My voice nearly cracked.
James leaned forward, his unfathomable eyes brilliant. I was transfixed.
“And I bet she knew where the rest were, where they were hidden. That’s why she was murdered, because she wouldn’t say.”
“Trenchers Hotel,” I said on a long breath. “The hoard is hidden somewhere in Trenchers. It follows. Heads of state stayed there during the war. Security was strong. Secret meetings of the War Office were held there and Oliver Swantry was part of that set-up, I’m sure.” I couldn’t stop the excitement rising in my voice.
“Slow down,” said James calmly. “You may well be right.”
“Let’s go to Trenchers right away. Now.”
“Hold your horses, Jordan. You’re not going anywhere. And we’re not starting any search in the dark. Tomorrow morning is soon enough. My men will move into Trenchers and take the place apart, brick by brick.”
My heart missed a beat for two reasons. “But you can’t,” I said, stabbing out the words. “You can’t demolish that beautiful old hotel. It’s history, it’s a landmark, part of West Sussex’s heritage. You can’t touch it.”
“Claptrap. We want to get to the truth.”
“But you can’t. It’s a listed building. And you can’t stop me being there.”
“Oh, yes, I can. I’m grateful for your help in my investigations but I have to remind you that from now on it’s official. I have a warrant. You are an informant, a valuable one but that’s all…”
“But you can’t tear down that beautiful staircase, that elegant ballroom…”
James said a rude word about the elegant ballroom and beautiful staircase. I was beginning to regret my openness.
“I shall picket the hotel, get the Conservation Society on my side,” I said, outraged. “You wait and see.”
“Oh, grow up, Jordan. You know you won’t do anything of the kind. You are as keen as me to find out who killed Ellen Swantry and why. You may not be a good detective but deduction and investigation is in your blood.”
I swallowed any further retorts. Everything was in balance. He was right. I was going off like a loose cannon (current phrase in the tabloids), but Trenchers meant a lot to me and I had no idea why.
“There’s something else,” I said, the words coming out against my will. I didn’t have the resources and needed his help. “I’ve a few other bits and pieces from The Beeches which might be of interest to your investigation.”
“Jordan? Bits and pieces? What do you mean?” His voice dropped an octave. The chill crept back into his voice which no amount of home-made soup could warm up. The first frost of winter. Isobars from Siberia. I was never going to find anyone to warm me. My slender hopes were sliding away on the ice. I felt as if the ceiling was lowering on my head. I could hardly stand his face being there, so close, yet so far away.
“Her bedside cabinet. I’ve got some stuff from it.”
This was one very angry Detective Inspector. He heaved himself up from the floor and suddenly the room was cr
owded.
“Would you please explain what you were doing, removing evidence from The Beeches? I can’t believe this. Haven’t you got any sense? I’m conducting a murder investigation and you walk off with some of the victim’s possessions. I could book you for this.” He turned on his heel, practically grinding up the carpet pile. I saw little tufts sprout, rescued the soup bowl.
I didn’t like the way he was treating my carpet. “Don’t shout at me. Your people had already been through The Beeches. This stuff was left there. They missed it. They ignored the contents of her bedside cabinet which was strewn on the floor. It’s not my fault if they are thick and incompetent. What was I supposed to do? Call you up at the station and get you to send some jerk over? I’m sure that would have gone down really well.”
“Where are they now?” He was grinding his white teeth.
“In my office at the shop. And keep your hair on, what little you’ve got. There’s nothing mega. No keys to the safe, no plan of Trenchers with X marks the spot. I am capable of evaluating what I found.”
“I don’t think you’re capable of evaluating a snow plough in a snow storm,” he glared.
Derek seemed almost a sweet-mouthed saint by comparison.
James was shrugging himself back into his anorak with minimum effort. He would never visit me again. This was back to square one minus in the white charger stakes. My knight. I’d be on HRT before I found anyone half way as attractive. Call him attractive? I must be out of my tiny mind. He was eyeing me like an enraged bull.
“I’ll let myself out,” he said.
But he didn’t go. Instead he drew me against him and his firm mouth came down on mine. He was compelling and rough but then the kiss melted into a sweetness that drained all the stress from my veins. My arms crept round his neck and I felt the softness of his cropped hair against my skin.
James pushed me away with a groan, no wasted movement.
Jordan Lacey Mystery 01 Pray and Die Page 15
