Dressed for Death

by Julianna Deering

  “Right. And you?”

  “I’m going down to see if the Onde Blanc is still this side of the Channel.”

  “Ah.” Nick grinned. “The bean-and-a-half, I’ll wager.”

  “Right. And I want to see if there’s any sign of Rinnie and his mates yet. Back in a jiff. You might tell Birdsong to send someone over to pick up Laurent if he’s still there when they arrive.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Drew hurried back down the path, taking the turn away from the newly whitewashed dock and up toward the bluff overlooking the Solent and much of Armitage Landing. Just as he was about to go back down to the village, he saw The Gull chugging toward the dock. He hurried down to the phone box.

  “Birdsong’s on his way,” Nick said. “He also said that if this turns out to be another fool’s errand, it’ll be the last he does on your account.”

  Drew sniffed. “He can come or not come, be it on his own head, I say. But I’m going down to have a chat with Master Rinnie and the charming brothers Kimlin.”

  Nick’s eyes lit. “You saw them. They’re coming in?”

  “Right now. If we can hold them at the dock, then Birdsong won’t have that tiresome manhunt to see to. Maybe then he won’t look down on our humble efforts.”

  Drew and Nick were waiting when The Gull pulled up to one of the unpainted docks.

  “Heading out again?” Drew asked pleasantly as Tom Kimlin tied up the boat. “Rather late in the day, isn’t it?”

  Rinnie returned a faint sneer. “Might be. Might not. What business is it of yours?”

  “We’re just concerned citizens, aren’t we, Nick?”

  Nick gave the man a sunny smile. “Good neighbors. Here for you chaps’ benefit.”

  “What’s that mean?” Rinnie asked, scowling behind his ginger beard.

  Drew held out the little scrap of label he had found, displaying it for Rinnie’s benefit.

  “They know,” Tom whimpered. “They know everything.”

  With an oath, Rinnie shoved Drew away from the boat. “Gun it, Bert! Get us out of here.” The little engine sputtered, and the boat began backing away from the dock.

  Drew shook his head in mild reproof. “The police will be here any minute now.”

  “We’ll be halfway to France before they get here!” Rennie shouted.

  He stood, arms crossed and sneering, as the boat began chugging along the shoreline.

  “Not at that speed!” Drew called back, and he gave them a cheery wave.

  “He’s right,” Nick muttered. “Dash it all. They need only nip across the Channel.”

  Drew scoffed. “They’d be hours in that tub.”

  “It’s ten to one they disappear into France never to be seen again. At least not under those names.”

  Drew stared after them, eyes narrowed. He couldn’t lose them now, not when he had finally made the connection between them and Laurent. Not when there was so much more he wanted to know. Not if—

  “Not if we can stop them. Come on.”

  Drew sprinted up the dock and back along the path that led along the bluff to the Cummins house. He could still see the fishing boat moving along the shoreline and hear its engine running at full laborious speed.

  “You don’t think we can outrun them, do you, old man?” Nick huffed behind him.

  “Spit spot now, Nick. It’s not so long since we ran cross-country at school, eh?” Drew lengthened his stride. “We don’t have to beat them to France, just to the dock at Winteroak House.” There was a little skiff pulled up on the beach, and Drew angled toward it. “Quick now. Before they’re out of reach.”

  “Oughtn’t we wait for the police?” Nick asked as they clambered down the bluff and then along the beach. “This isn’t strictly our boat, you know.”

  Drew didn’t spare a glance back. “Tal would have said to take her, I’ve no doubt of it.”

  They leapt aboard, and a moment later, engine racing, they were headed along the coastline.

  “There they are!” Nick said, pointing not far ahead of them. “Good thing that tub of theirs doesn’t have much of a motor.”

  Drew grinned. “Good thing this one does.”

  They were quickly making up the distance between them and Rinnie’s boat. Bert Kimlin was at the wheel, brow furrowed as he hunched forward, urging the little fishing boat to give him all the speed she had. His brother hung on to the rail, leaning out to better see their pursuers. Rinnie himself stood in the stern, fists on hips, fixing Drew and Nick with a killing glare.

  Drew gave him another wave. “It’s a fine effort, Rinnie, I’m sure,” he called, “but I’m afraid you’re outclassed. Make it easier on yourself and head back to the dock.”

  Rinnie spat a curse at him.

  “Temper, temper,” Drew shouted, “but I really must insist. It’s either that or we run you aground here, and then what happens to your nice new boat?”

  “You’re not the police!” Rinnie shouted back. “You got no right to interfere with us going about our business! Let us alone or wish you had!”

  “They’ll be here soon enough. May as well make it easier on everyone. I understand they go easier on those who are cooperative.”

  Rinnie set his bearded jaw and did not reply.

  “May as well head into shore,” Drew said. “The game’s up already, and the police are on their way.”

  “Full throttle, Bert,” Rinnie snapped.

  Bert glanced back toward their pursuers. “I’ve already got it wide open.”

  “Give her more!”

  “She won’t take it! She’s burning up as it is!”

  “Get out of my way!”

  Rinnie shoved Bert aside and took over at the helm, and The Gull lurched forward, forcing Tom to clutch the railing or be thrown overboard. Bert staggered back to the stern.

  “They’re gaining on us, Bill! We’ve got to heave to!”

  The engine purred as Drew angled the skiff closer to the other boat. “You ought to listen to him, Rinnie. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief in the end.”

  “Not so much as I’ll give you if you don’t leave us be!” Rinnie barked.

  “Bill,” Tom whined, “do something!”

  “You shut your miserable gob, Tom Kimlin! If you’re staying aboard, shut up.”

  He jammed the throttle forward, and the engine gave a terrific roar. Then a coil of black, foul-smelling smoke curled out of the engine compartment, and with a bang and a sputter it fell silent.

  Seventeen

  Tom Kimlin looked at Bill, mouth hanging open, and Bert stormed toward the wheel. “What did I tell you? Now you’ve gone and fixed us sure!”

  With a whimper, Tom heaved himself over the side of the boat into the Solent, thrashing through the shallow water and onto a narrow strip of beach, making for the dense trees beyond.

  “Tom!” his brother called, and then with a desperate look at Bill, he vaulted over the rail. “Wait up, Tom!”

  “Come back, you yellow dogs!” Bill howled.

  “You may as well do as he says,” Drew said, slowing the skiff next to the fishing boat. “You can’t get far.”

  He nodded toward the road, and the three fugitives looked in that direction. Two police cars, bells jingling, screeched to a halt, and a number of sturdy-looking constables piled out with Chief Inspector Birdsong right after them. Tom and Bert trudged to a stop and stood, slump-shouldered, awaiting their fate. On the deck of The Gull, Bill Rinnie kicked the still-smoking engine compartment and then grimaced and swore as he leaned down to rub his foot.

  “All right, Rinnie,” Birdsong called. “Make it easy on all of us.” He motioned toward one of his men. “Go on and get him, Parkins.”

  “Never mind,” Rinnie groused. “I’m coming.” He climbed over the side and dropped into the water where he stood for a moment, glaring at the boat. “Stupid tub. Drift out to sea and sink for all I care.”

  “Oh, no,” the chief inspector said, looking rather pleased with hi
mself. “That’s evidence, that is. We’ll see she’s well taken care of.”

  Police Constable Parkins took hold of Rinnie’s arm once he was on the beach and fastened handcuffs around his wrists. Two other officers were doing the same for the Kimlins.

  “What’s this about?” Rinnie demanded. “Can’t a man go about his own business anymore?”

  “Seems your business has become our business,” Birdsong said. “Mr. Dennison here tells me you and your two mates have been conducting yourselves in a manner that lies contrary to established law.”

  “Him and his nibs there, eh?” Rinnie sneered at Drew and Nick. “What’s a load of toffee-nosed prigs got to do with it?”

  Nick climbed off the skiff and waded ashore, catching the line Drew tossed to him and securing it to a heavy bit of driftwood. Drew followed him onto the beach.

  “You might ask them about this, Chief Inspector.” He gave Birdsong the scrap from the whitewash label. “Laurent too.”

  “Ah, yes.” Birdsong took it from him. “Actually, the monsoor should be with us any minute now. I’ve sent two of my men to invite him to meet up here so that we can all go up to Winchester for a soirée.”

  “What do you want with that paper?” Rinnie demanded. “That don’t mean nothing.”

  “Have a look at the deck of the Onde Blanc,” Drew told Birdsong as if Rinnie hadn’t spoken. “I’d wondered what made those marks on the deck and why there was a residue left at the waterline at the lower end of Claridge Rindle. That’s the connection right there.”

  Birdsong’s forehead wrinkled. “And just what is it?”

  “Blanc de chaux. You ask Monsieur Laurent if he doesn’t recognize it.”

  The chief inspector tucked the scrap into his coat pocket. “I’ll do that. But first we’ll see what these fine fellows have to tell us about how they’ve been bringing their goods up into Winteroak House and what they have to do with the murders up there.”

  Tom Kimlin made a little squawk and looked pleadingly at his brother, but Bert was only staring at Birdsong, openmouthed.

  “Here now! We none of us had anything to do with those killings, and you can’t say as we did. Tell ’em, Bill. We couldn’t’a done. We weren’t never close to the place.”

  Birdsong looked unimpressed. “That’s more than I know. But I do know anyone who was to tell us how you lot got the goods from the Solent into the warehouse in London might find the judge a bit more lenient than usual.”

  Drew nodded. “A bit less likely to need his black cap, eh?”

  Tom Kimlin’s eyes went wide. “You can’t hang us! Not for smuggling! Not for just bringing the stuff in! It’s the Frenchman gets the money off it. We got hardly anything.”

  “Shut up, Tom,” Rinnie growled. “You say another word and I’ll kick your teeth in, I swear.”

  “What’ll it hurt now?” Drew asked. “You may as well tell us everything. It’s not as if you’ll be able to keep at your little trade after today.”

  Rinnie grinned humorlessly. “It’s more than our lives are worth, mate. You find what you find. Heaven help you, but we won’t.” He glared at his two confederates. “None of us.”

  Birdsong shook his head. “We’ve been over this whole place, Mr. Farthering, caves and all, and more than once. Not a thing. But at least these three won’t be bringing anything in that way or any other way. Not for a very long time.” He looked back toward the road, seeing another police car had pulled up. “That’ll be Laurent. I’ll send these three along to Winchester, but we’ll have a chat with our Frenchman before he goes. Take them up to the station, Parkins. I’ll see to our foreign guest.” He waved to the constable driving the recently arrived car. “Down here, Maxwell.”

  Maxwell escorted his prisoner down to where Birdsong, Drew, and Nick awaited him. Laurent looked only mildly curious as he passed the three fishermen. Rinnie walked by him, head held high, jaw defiantly set, making no acknowledgment whatsoever. Bert turned his face away, careful not to make eye contact. Tom, looking as if he might burst into tears, fixed pleading eyes upon him, but Laurent looked down his nose at the pitiful sight and then turned a bland smile on the chief inspector.

  “I did not expect we would meet again, sir. I was told I was free to go, yet I am once again treated like the basest of miscreants?”

  “Where’s his man, Adkins?” Birdsong asked.

  Constable Maxwell shook his head. “He wasn’t there, sir. The prisoner said he’d gone to see to some things before they returned to France.”

  “Where?” Birdsong demanded.

  Laurent huffed. “He went to purchase the white tea I prefer. The foolish man had allowed our store on board to run out.”

  “Where?” Birdsong repeated.

  “Southampton. The shop is in the High Street. Bayard’s. What is it now that you want?”

  Birdsong nodded toward the car Rinnie and the Kimlins were getting into. “I thought you might want to hear what those three had to say about certain . . . activities here in the area.”

  Laurent shrugged. “What would I know of such men? They could not begin to appreciate my wares, much less pay for them.”

  “And what, monsoor, would you know of this?” He took the waterlogged scrap out of his pocket and showed it to Laurent.

  Laurent frowned contemplatively. “And this is what?”

  “Blank de show,” Birdsong told him. “Right, Farthering?”

  “More or less,” Drew said. “Blanc de chaux, Monsieur Laurent. Nice and tidy little cans of whitewash dropped off into the Solent for our local fishermen to pick up. They dump the paint into Claridge Rindle and remove the contraband from the bottom of the can, and then you come into port with nothing but your fine wares, all duty paid of course, and nothing to touch you.”

  Laurent gave a guileless smile. “But the police have nothing to tie me to such a practice. And what good would it do me to give these men this contraband, whatever it may be? The cocaine, yes?”

  Birdsong narrowed his eyes. “And how would you know that if you weren’t involved?”

  Laurent put up both hands and shrugged. “The girl, I am told it is what killed her. And the police in their very annoying way asked me about it at the time. It is a natural conclusion.”

  “What good it would do you,” the chief inspector said, “is once the locals have collected the contraband, they bring it up to the house, and from there it goes up to London to be sold. And you are paid handsomely for your part in it.”

  “That seems very unlikely, does it not, monsieur? The fellow from Scotland Yard, Endicott, he says he has people watching Winteroak House for some months now. When the lovely Mademoiselle Henley, she dies, they searched the whole house, attic to cellar, and again found nothing. How then does this supposed contraband come in and come out?”

  Drew glanced at Nick, then looked back at Laurent. “Why don’t you tell us?”

  Laurent laughed. “Monsieur Farthering, you are a most amusing fellow. It may be that these fishing men have done just as you say and by some miracle brought their goods to Monsieur Cummins to sell in London. But again you have nothing to show I have been involved in the matter.”

  “Nothing but Bill Rinnie and Bert and Tom Kimlin,” Birdsong said. “And you can be sure one of them will talk before long.”

  “But evidence,” Laurent said. “I am given to understand even in so barbaric a place, there must be evidence for an arrest to be made. What do you have against me? A scrap of a label which could have come from anywhere, and the testimony of three ne’er-do-wells? It is less than nothing. You cannot possibly hold me with nothing more.”

  “We can question you,” Birdsong said stubbornly, and then he fixed Drew and Nick with a sour eye. “Was there anything more you had to tell me on this?”

  “The cans,” Nick said, but Drew stopped him.

  “Perhaps you ought to send Monsieur Laurent back to the car, Chief Inspector. No need tipping our hands quite yet, eh?”

  Birdsong nodded
at Maxwell. “See he has a nice comfortable seat. I’ll be there straightaway.”

  “Right you are, sir.” Maxwell took Laurent’s arm. “All right, Frenchie, come along with me.”

  Laurent sighed. “As you say, Officer, but you will find your time is wasted, and mine as well.”

  He followed Maxwell placidly enough, and Birdsong said nothing until he had been put back into the car that had brought him.

  “All right then, Detective Farthering, I want to know what other evidence you have that links Laurent to the smuggling operation.”

  “The cans,” Nick said. “We were aboard his yacht last week. Drew saw some marks on the aft deck, just little curves, and we couldn’t figure out what made them. A bit of white in the crevices. Well, whitish stuff, I suppose. It was rather faint. But then we found out about the cans of French whitewash, and the rest seems fairly obvious. Isn’t it, Drew?”

  Drew smiled. It did seem a rather frail chain of events put that way. “You can see a white mark all along the waterline in Claridge Rindle, farther up, out behind Winteroak House. Rinnie and his lot had to have been pouring out the whitewash there. Tom Kimlin was seen dumping some. Put that with the marks on the deck of Laurent’s yacht and the waterlogged labels on the cans, and it all makes sense.”

  Birdsong looked at him, eyebrows arched. “That’s it?”

  “But it’s the connection between them. It has to be. Tom Kimlin practically blurted it all out not five minutes ago.”

  “The Frenchman’s protected himself fairly well on this. If they don’t talk—and at this point I can’t tell if Tom Kimlin is too scared to say anything or too scared not to—we won’t likely be able to hold Laurent. He’s a cool one, isn’t he?”

  “You will see to Adkins while you’re at it, won’t you?” Drew asked. “He bears watching if anyone does. I don’t much care for him running loose at this point.”

  Birdsong huffed. “I expect Scotland Yard know more about that one than they let on. But we’ll see to him, no fear. I have to wonder, though, why he and that whole lot didn’t clear off the minute they were allowed to. Laurent’s been nattering about leaving for a whole miserable week.”