The Case of the Hidden Flame

by Alison Golden

  Or, he chuckled – hang it all, we only live once – Mrs. Right, for that matter.

  It was just this attentiveness, which usually let not a detail pass by, which brought him to a discovery both heartbreaking and, even for a military man, unbearably gruesome.

  Just where the beach met the sea wall, the sand swelled up into a mini dune, perhaps four feet high, studded with tufts of grass and a discarded soda bottle, Graves noted with distaste. But then there was something else, and it attracted his eye because it absolutely did not belong.

  It was a dainty, pale, human hand.

  “Well, what in the blazes…?” he muttered darkly.

  His first thought, given the location, was that this might be someone washed onto the beach from the ocean. An unfortunate migrant, perhaps, dead from exposure and then deposited here at high tide. This would hardly be his first encounter with a corpse, but a quiet beach on this idyllic little island was the last place he’d expect to see one. He frowned and slowly approached the small rise of the dune, peering at the hand as if it might transform into something innocuous, and this strange moment might then be discarded as no more than a reason to visit the eye doctor.

  He knelt by the dune and carefully smoothed away a little of the sand that covered what was clearly the almost translucent skin of an inanimate forearm. At once, the Colonel knew that this was no washed-up asylum seeker. Nor was this some prank, the kids burying their mother in the sand and then forgetting about her as ice cream and soda beckoned.

  There was a silver bracelet, rather expensive, which shone brightly now in the sun. And it was instantly familiar.

  “Oh, no,” Graves shuddered. “Oh, good heavens, no…”

  * * *

  “Gorey Police Station, Constable Barnwell speaking.” Barnwell’s bright and cheerful manner contrasted markedly with the tone of this caller, only the third of the day. It was the sound of a man still struggling to bring his emotions under control despite decades of practice.

  “Yes, I’m… erm… This is Colonel George Graves, and I’m calling from the beach at Gorey, just opposite the pier and about ten yards west of the stone stairs that lead down from the Inn,” he said. Barnwell, who was struck by the Colonel’s precision, began making notes at once. “Yes, sir?”

  The Colonel took a breath. “There’s… Well, a body here.”

  Barnwell’s eyebrows shot up. He gesticulated toward the office where Roach was filling out a report.

  “Get in here!” he whispered loudly.

  “I see, sir,” he said, bringing his most professional and sober tone. “Have you checked for signs of life?”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid there are none,” Graves said soberly. “No pulse. And… Well, I believe I may know her, you see.”

  The bushy black eyebrows were aloft once again. Just for a second, Barnwell felt that he might be about to hear a man confess to a murder.

  “Are you able to identify the deceased, sir?”

  Graves cleared his throat and bit back the urge to unleash some of the emotion he was feeling. It wasn’t fair. They’d met only a few months earlier, just after Graves arrived on Jersey to begin a long hoped-for retirement of sand and sun and…

  “I believe it’s Dr. Sylvia Norquist. She’s a resident at the White House Inn. I have…” he began, fighting back his first tears in many years, “I have no idea how she came to be here.”

  No confession, then, Barnwell noted with a slump of his shoulders.

  “Well, sir. You’ve done the right thing. And I’m sorry for your trouble. As it happens,” he said, one hand aloft and circling in his continuing efforts to get Roach’s attention, “our new Detective Inspector has just checked into the White House. I’ll let him know what’s happened and ask him to join you immediately.”

  “Do I need to do anything?” Graves wanted to know. “Call her family?”

  “We should wait until there’s a formal identification. Would you simply stay where you are for the moment? Detective Inspector Graham will be with you shortly.”

  Graves said that he would before ending the call.

  He squatted uncomfortably by the sand dune, part of him needing to hold the small, ash-white hand, another repelled by it, and yet another simply stunned at the continued, harsh unreasonableness of the world.

  “Oh, my darling,” he said softly, a single tear finally rolling down his face. “My darling girl. Whatever happened?”

  * * *

  DI David Graham found Graves sitting by the dune. Graves looked shattered, ashen and old beyond his years.

  “Colonel Graves?”

  He stood and extended a hand, more by habit than any impulse to be friendly. “At your service.”

  “I’m truly sorry, sir. And I understand that you knew her?” It was always troublesome, Graham found, to select the most appropriate tense in these situations. Using the past tended to reinforce the unrelenting reality of the loss, but the present seemed strange, uncomprehending, a form of denial.

  “Quite well. We were…” It took all of the military man’s trained self-control to keep his composure. “I was going to ask her to marry me, you see.” His gaze became distant, his jaw muscles tensing rhythmically as he began to contend with the pain of his own grief, with the lost promise of happiness so brutally snatched from him.

  Graham brought out his notebook – he was still an old-school pen and paper type – and began making notes. “And when did you last see her?”

  Graves thought for a moment. “We had dinner two nights ago. At the Marina. She was in great spirits. Full of life,” he said, with great pain. “We are both residents at the White House Inn,” he explained further.

  “But you hadn’t proposed yet?” Graham asked as sensitively as he could.

  “No,” Graves said, shaking his head sadly. “Should have taken my chance, eh, Detective?” He felt the need to sit down again, his legs unsteady and balance betraying him. “Oh, God, the poor girl…”

  Graham brought out his phone, turning to mask his words amid the waves of the low tide.

  “Barnwell? Yes, I’m here with Colonel Graves. I need an ambulance – discreetly, Barnwell, let’s not make a fuss if we can help it… and the pathologist…. Good man. Quick as you can. And send Harding to secure a room at the White House Inn… Sylvia Norquist.”

  Graham took a moment to spell the name. He turned to see Graves staring inconsolably at the sand dune then spoke into the phone once again.

  “That’s it for now, Barnwell.”

  * * *

  Two volunteer Community Support Officers in their reflective yellow tunics kept back a small crowd as the pathologist, Dr. Marcus Tomlinson, and his assistant delicately brushed sufficient sand from the body to carry out their initial investigations. Tomlinson was a 40-year veteran, thorough and perceptive, and little escaped him. He took Graham to the shoreline so that they could speak without being overheard.

  “The time of death will be difficult to ascertain. The sand, sea, and salty air all combine to mess with the state of the body.” Tomlinson was apologetic.

  “Can you give me a clue?” Graham retorted.

  “My best guess is sometime in the last eighteen hours. I can’t be more accurate than that, I’m afraid.” Tomlinson reported.

  “Hmm,” Graham was surprised. “So she could have ended up here in the middle of the night, or she may have keeled over at midday on a busy beach?” he said, thinking out loud.

  “Admittedly,” Tomlinson added, “on one of its quietest stretches.” They both glanced around and noted the secluded nature of the spot, beneath the steps but away from the broader, most popular stretch of sand. “I’ll know more once we complete toxicology screens,” Tomlinson told him, “but for the moment we can’t rule out foul play.”

  “Oh?” Graham said, witnessing the complexity of this case ballooning before his eyes.

  “She’s in her fifties, and according to the Colonel, in robust health apart from needing a double hip replacement.
Although you hear the uninitiated say it often enough,” Tomlinson warned, “people generally don’t simply keel over and die. After four decades in this business, I’ve become a firm believer in cause and effect. Plus she was buried. It’s windy today but not so much that it would have whipped up the sand to that extent.”

  “So you think,” Graham asked, his voice deliberately low despite the waves crashing a few feet away, “she was murdered?”

  Tomlinson shrugged. “Like I say, no way of knowing until the tox report is in.” He referred to his own notebook, shrugged, and closed it. “Standing here, right now, I’d bet fifty guineas and dinner at the Bangkok Palace that Dr. Norquist met her end neither by her own hand nor by natural causes.”

  DI Graham cursed colorfully under his breath. “You know I’ve been here five minutes, right?” he mused aloud.

  “And you know we haven’t had a murder here since the Newall Brothers axed their parents for their inheritance money, back when you were in college?” the older man replied. He gave Graham a comradely pat on the back. “Well, DI Graham, welcome to the Bailiwick of Jersey.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MRS. MARJORIE TAYLOR, the matronly owner of the White House Inn, was caught between moments of great anxiety, genuine grief, and her wish to be as useful to the police as possible. She simply couldn’t believe that a nice lady like Sylvia – a respected oncologist and a pillar of their close-knit community – could have been taken from them so suddenly. So terribly. Why, she had eaten lunch just a couple of hours ago! But being the good citizen and innkeeper that she was, Mrs. Taylor worked to find a balance between helping the police and carrying out much-needed rumor control, lest her guests suddenly decide to check out en masse in a fit of panic and ruin the Inn’s precious summer.

  “We’ll aim to cause as little disruption as possible,” DI Graham informed her during a short meeting in her office just off the hotel’s lobby. “But it’s important that no one except the police enters her room. We can do without ‘Police Caution’ tape everywhere,” he assured her, “but we must be thorough.”

  “I appreciate your discretion,” Marjorie said. “This is just so… awful.”

  It was the same word everyone seemed to use on first learning the sad news. “Too awful,” one said. “Simply awful,” commented another. The only person who had said no such thing was Constable Roach, who saw not just a silver lining to this cloud, but also that the cloud itself was laden with gold. Career-making gold, at that.

  Sylvia’s was a corner room on the third floor, to Marjorie Taylor’s relief, so that the police could gather evidence without disturbing the rest of the hotel. Still, the sight of blue uniforms did cause some flutters, and the spreading news brought a tense, worried atmosphere to the place. Marjorie told the tea room staff to waive everyone’s checks for the rest of the day and the bar staff to do the same in the evening. It was the least she could do, the experienced hotelier reasoned to herself.

  Dr. Norquist’s room was neat almost to the point of obsession.

  “No signs of a struggle,” concluded Constable Roach.

  He was elbowed aside by Sergeant Harding, who led DI Graham into the room.

  “Thanks, Sherlock,” she whispered with heavy sarcasm. “Once you’re finished here, you can get back to finding Jack the Ripper. For the moment, just watch the stairs, like I told you to. And keep Mrs. Taylor company. She’s a bit jittery with all that’s going on.”

  “Yes, ma’am. No one’s to come up without your say-so,” he replied crisply, hiding his hurt at the jibe. When I release my tell-all book in a few years’ time and become a crime-fighting media celebrity, you’ll rue the day.…

  “So she was here at lunchtime,” Graham mused, looking about the room.

  “Would seem like it, sir,” Harding responded.

  “And she ordered the fish,” observed Graham. “Mostly uneaten, too.” Atop the room’s oak dresser was a gleaming, silver tray with a single plate, a small vase with a bright daisy, and silverware. He smelled the food. “Chili, ginger… But no indication that the fish was off,” he concluded.

  “I mean,” Harding began, poking at the fish with Sylvia’s fork, “if the fish had been rotten enough to poison someone, wouldn’t it have been obvious as she was eating it?”

  “Yes, we can rule that out,” Graham told her, writing the details in his notebook. “Mrs. Taylor?” he called out. “Do you know who brought Dr. Norquist’s lunch today?”

  The rotund lady appeared around the corner, along with the intensely curious Constable Roach.

  “That would have been Marcella,” she replied. “Lovely girl,” she said, turning to Harding. “From Lisbon. She sets the tray outside the door and knocks. That’s always been our policy.”

  Graham asked, “So she wouldn’t have heard anything through the door?”

  “We are not in the habit,” Marjorie replied a little testily, “of listening at our residents’ doors, Inspector. Sylvia had a male friend, and one never knows what one might overhear. My guests are often very private people,” she said, proud of the service she provided but equally keen to help. “You know, I could think all day and all next year, and I wouldn’t know a single soul who might want to hurt that dear lady.”

  Graham finished his notes and slid the book back into his jacket pocket. “Well, I suspect someone did, Mrs. Taylor,” Graham said soberly. “And I’m afraid,” he added with a strange frown, “that they’re right under our noses.”

  * * *

  Sitting resolutely upright, staring out to sea from his table by the window, Colonel Graves ignored the pot of tea laid out for him by the concerned and sympathetic staff. As Graham approached, Graves made to stand, but the detective waved him to his seat.

  “At ease, Colonel,” Graham said, but regretted the quip. This wasn’t the moment for levity. At least, Graham could see, the Colonel seemed to have gathered himself a little since their encounter on the beach, but both men knew that Graves would be carrying the emotional weight of his terrible discovery for the rest of his life.

  “Have you found anything new, Detective?” Graves asked. He still looked ashen and careworn, but his straight back and clipped diction gave him a stoical air, like that of a man forced to deal with the worst kind of news but doing so with grace and determination.

  One of the tea room’s more experienced waitresses, the aforementioned Marcella from Portugal approached with her notepad, and Graham couldn’t help ordering a pot of Fujian Jasmine.

  “Nothing concrete,” he admitted. “At this stage, it’s more a case of eliminating lines of inquiry,” Graham explained. “We know that Sylvia was not poisoned by her lunch, but that’s about all so far.”

  “Poison?” Graves spoke the word in a hushed, stunned tone. “So this was deliberate?”

  Treading carefully, Graham said, “We mustn’t jump to conclusions, certainly not as early as this.” Once Marcella returned, he poured his own tea with an almost ritualistic fluency of movement. “I’m waiting to hear back from the pathologist. I’m sorry,” he said, meeting the older man’s gaze. “This must be just awful.”

  Colonel Graves sighed. “Were you in the service, Detective?” Graham shook his head. “I’ve seen things so dreadful I’ve sworn never to speak of them to anyone. Things happen,” he said, steepling his hands on the table top, “to your friends, to your enemies, that humans should never do to another. But,” he said, straightening his back once more, “that’s war. One does what is necessary. Sylvia was not at war, Detective. She never hurt a soul. It is that which bothers me the most.”

  Graham noted the word – bothers. It wasn’t what the Colonel meant, but it befit the bearing of a man trained in self-control, well-practiced in keeping hidden that which should not become public. Graham felt a real sympathy for him, which was why he resented the necessity of eliminating Graves himself from the inquiry.

  “Colonel, I’m sorry to ask this, but…”

  “Where was I at lunchtime today?” he s
aid.

  “Like I say, I’m sorry…”

  “You’re following procedure, Detective. I’d have been surprised if you hadn’t asked me. Not a little disappointed, too.”

  “Really?” Graham asked, lifting the teacup sufficiently to enjoy the floral waft of Jasmine.

  “Sylvia was to be my wife,” Graves said solemnly. “At least, if she had accepted my proposal. And I expected her to, you know.” He was nostalgic once again. “I’m not the finest catch in the ocean, I’m sure of that… But we would have been happy together. That’s all any of us wants, isn’t it?”

  Graham felt reassured by this more philosophical side to the Colonel but was aware that Graves had yet to actually answer his question. “So, at lunchtime?” he said. “Just for my notes.”

  “I was on the phone to my real estate broker in London for about an hour, all told. Bloody tedious stuff but had to be done. I’m trying to make a few quid over in the States with quick house renovations in desirable areas. Buy them, do them up, sell them on, you know. Here,” he said, handing Graham his cell phone. “You can check the call history. No warrant required,” he added.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Graham said, resolved that he was not in the company of a killer. There had been a flash of concern just after Graves had admitted being of a mind to propose to Sylvia. The Colonel would hardly have been the first man to react badly to a refusal, but there was nothing in his behavior to suggest that he was anything other than sadly and unfortunately bereaved.

  “She wanted to come on my afternoon strolls,” Graves continued. “I always head down the beach for a mile or two after lunch. But she suffered terribly with her hips.”