“The camera must have belonged to David,” reasoned Hetty, “since he seems to be in control which of course would explain why it was in his suitcase.”
“Yes, it was no doubt a hobby of his because cinematography was very popular back then but it was also very expensive,” remarked Alex. “An expensive hobby for a humble train driver.”
“Well, I daresay he was helped out financially by his mother,” said Ginny, “after all she did own the hotel.”
“And maybe his stepfather too,” added Simon, “because between them, Harold and Florence owned the two most profitable businesses in Pentrillick.”
Emma pointed at the screen. “I wonder if this film is actually showing the chap who we assume to be Peter carving the model of his brother’s boat, Goliath.”
“Well spotted. Yes, it looks like it could be,” agreed Simon, “and that’s probably why he’s sitting near to it on the beach.”
Hetty shuddered, thinking of the earlier discovery in the churchyard. “I’ve gone all goosepimply. Seeing the brothers alive and well, I mean. This morning’s aborted funeral was quite shocking but I’m glad we’ve found David at last.”
Lottie sighed deeply. “Yes, when this film was made little did they know what lay before them.”
“Oh, looks like that’s the end of the first film,” Alex stood up as it abruptly finished. “You might find the next one is more interesting because apparently there are other people on it and it’s quite a bit longer.”
“You’ve had a sneak preview then,” teased Hetty, as Alex changed the films over. “You told me you didn’t want to know what was on them.”
“No, I’ve not had a sneak preview because I meant it when I said I wanted to see them for the first time along with all of you. It was Paul, my film enthusiast friend, who said about there being more people on the reel he’s marked as two which as I say, is also a little longer.”
“More wine?” Ginny asked, as she walked around topping up glasses, “and please help yourself to nibbles. And there are also more cans of lager in the fridge for the non-wine drinkers amongst you.”
Zac went into the kitchen to fetch cans for himself, Sid and Emma. And because no-one was driving, everyone else had wine, for Ginny had insisted Simon and Sheila must stay at Hillside for the night rather than drive all the way back to Truro.
“Well, as lovely as the first film was it hasn’t in any way helped us find out who killed poor David, has it?” sighed Hetty.
“But you don’t need to worry about it anymore,” laughed Ginny, as she sat down on a stool, “it’s up to the police to figure it out now. You’ve done your bit by being so adamant that something horrid had happened to him.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” conceded Hetty, “but I don’t like to leave a job half done.”
“Are you ready to see the second film now?” Alex asked.
The answer was yes from everyone.
“Right, here goes.” Alex started the film and then sat down.
“Surely this one’s taken in the grounds of the Pentrillick Hotel,” said Kitty, as the film flickered on the screen, “because that building in the background is definitely the hotel. I recognise the fancy balustrades around the terrace.”
“Most likely,” Lottie agreed, “because the Tregear family would have owned it when the film was taken. I don’t recognise it though but then I’ve never seen the hotel from the back.”
All eyes were glued to the screen when the camera turned towards a young couple sitting on a lawn arms round each other laughing. With them were Peter, lying on his stomach reading a book and an older couple drinking from china teacups.
Simon gasped and leaned forwards in his chair. “Good grief, that’s my mum and dad,” he whispered, pointing to the younger couple, “but if these films were taken before 1942 then it would have been before they were married. Now it’s my turn to have gone all goosepimply.”
“Oh, but that’s lovely,” cried Lottie, “I should dearly love to have a little film of my parents when they were young,” she looked at Hetty, “or should I say our parents.”
Hetty nodded. “Yes and I agree. Photographs are good but film captures so much more and this particular film is excellent quality considering its age.”
“Yes,” agreed Alex, “Paul has done a splendid job of cleaning them up.”
Hetty sighed. “Such a shame there’s no sound as I’d love to hear what they’re saying and know what their voices sounded like too.”
Lottie nodded. “Same here.”
“So, who are the older couple?” Sheila asked, “I can see that the lady is Florence - David and Peter’s mother, but who is the older man?”
Simon smiled. “He’s Harold Berryman, my grandfather and Florence’s second husband. He’s much younger there than I remember him of course but I’d recognise that smile anywhere.”
Suddenly the camera turned to a young woman with blonde hair sitting on some steps with Saffron Bun on her lap. From one hand she was blowing kisses to the cameraman; the other hand held Saffron Bun’s waving arm.”
“And that’s Edith Triggs,” shrieked Lottie, “Steve Martin’s grandmother who was of course, David’s girlfriend.”
“Hence the kisses,” giggled Emma.
“And she’s the one who called a spade a spade,” chuckled Hetty. “She doesn’t look like she’d say boo to a goose.”
Ginny nodded. “But looks can be deceiving.”
“Edith Triggs,” gasped Alex, “Oh dear, and it’s just occurred to me that we ought to have asked young Steve to join us tonight.”
“Don’t worry, we did ask him,” Hetty divulged, “but he said regrettably he couldn’t make it because it’s his girlfriend’s birthday today and so they’re going out.”
“Oh well done and perhaps we can show him the film some other time.”
Lottie nodded. “Yes, I’m sure he’d love to see it and even have a copy if possible.”
“And if it is, I’d like a copy as well,” said Simon.
“Well, we’re not learning a great deal, are we?” laughed Ginny, “but it’s very entertaining.”
“It is,” agreed Lottie, “I love glimpsing back to bygone days.”
The camera then turned away from Edith on the steps to a young woman walking across the lawn waving both arms.
“Ah, so who’s this?” Hetty asked.
“A shapely brunette,” grinned Sid, “with an unfortunate limp.”
Simon gasped. “That’s Polly, Aunt Polly. I remember now. She did have a limp because she’d had polio when she was a child.”
“Hmm, sadly it was very common back then,” sighed Hetty.
“Yes, and that,” declared Lottie, “would be why she avoided conscription, Het.”
Hetty slapped herself on the knee. “Yes, of course. Well done, Lottie.”
As Polly neared the camera, Lottie’s hands flew up to her mouth. “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness. Look at the bodice of her dress, Het.”
Hetty gasped and put down her wine glass as her eyes were drawn to Polly’s dress. Pinned to the yoke was a brooch…a beautiful dragonfly brooch… identical to the one frequently worn by Grace.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
When Grace entered the interview room in the police station, she knew by the look on Detective Inspector Fox’s face that the game was up. She sat down when asked so to do.
“You know, don’t you?” She sighed. “They’ve watched the films, haven’t they?” She hung her head and her lips quivered. “I didn’t know whether or not she’d be on them but thought the chances were that she would and that Simon would recognise her or worse still that she’d be wearing the brooch. She always wore it you see. It was her pride and joy.”
Detective Inspector Fox leaned back in his chair and joined his hands together. “Care to tell me about it, Ms Dunkerley?”
Grace nodded. “Yes, I might as well now. There’s nothing to be gained by keeping quiet and if the truth be known, I feel I owe it
to Hetty and Lottie. I’ve treated them shamefully and for that I am truly sorry.”
The inspector nodded. “When you’re ready, in your own time.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Perhaps you could start by telling me of your relationship to Polly Berryman. I assume she is the lady to whom you referred as she.”
Grace nodded. “Yes, and she’s my mother. At least she was until she died earlier this year.”
“So I suggest you start at the beginning.”
Grace took in a deep breath. “Before I start, I must emphasise that the names of my parents as told to Hetty and Lottie are not true. At least, my mother’s name was incorrect. I said her name was Anne Smith, you see. Silly really, but for some reason it was the first name that came into my head. Stupidly, I wrote it down when no-one was looking on the back of a Bernie the Boatman business card which I’d picked up in the post office and kept in my bag. Not that I was planning to go fishing. I just thought it would be nice to keep. You know, as a memento. I wrote Anne Smith down because I didn’t want to forget the name in case it cropped up again and then it must have fallen from my bag when I was in the pub buying a round of drinks.” The memory caused Grace to smile. “You’ve probably guessed who found it. Thank goodness I’d not opted for an unusual name.” Grace noticed the inspector was frowning. “I’m sorry. I’ve gone off at a tangent, haven’t I? I’ll try and stick to the facts from now on.”
“I’d appreciate that,” said the inspector, “So, can I take it that your father was a Dunkerley?”
“Yes, he was Reg Dunkerley and you’ll never meet a kinder or more generous man than he was.” She sighed. “Anyway, we’re not here to discuss the virtues of my father, are we, so I suppose I must get back to the salient facts.”
Detective Inspector Fox nodded. “Yes, if you please.”
“Right, well, my mother’s name was Polly and for most of my life I knew very little about her family. I didn’t even know that she came from Cornwall. In fact I knew nothing at all except that my mother’s maiden name was Berryman and that her mother, my grandmother was called Ethel and apparently I looked very much like her. My grandmother died young giving birth to my mother, and all Mum had to remember her by was this brooch which apparently she and my grandmother both treasured.” Grace touched the dragonfly attached to the lapel of her jacket with affection. “And now the brooch that Mother so loved has proved to be her undoing. Silly really, but it never occurred to me that wearing it would be my downfall too.” Grace laughed. “I was even stupid enough to tell Hetty and Lottie that it had belonged to my grandmother and then my mother and now me. When they admired it, why couldn’t I have said that I’d bought it in a flea market or something like that? Sometimes I question my own stupidity.”
“It’s usually the little things that result in people getting caught,” said the inspector, “and I speak from years of experience.”
Grace nodded. “Yes, I can see the logic there. Anyway, there’s nothing much more I can say about the Berrymans. On the other hand I know a lot about my father’s family. They lived in Derbyshire. Dad was a foreman in a factory where Mum worked and after they were married they settled in a cottage only a couple of miles away from where Granny and Gramps Dunkerley lived. Dad, who as I’ve already told you was called Reg, died when he was sixty two and Mum lived until she was ninety eight. Amazing really considering she’d had polio when she was a child.” Her voice softened. “She died earlier this year just after Easter. It was April the twentieth and the blackest day of my life.” Grace paused and looked to the window where a nearby building blocked out the sunlight and cast a dark shadow over the street below. She then returned her focus to the inspector. “On her deathbed, my mother said that she wanted to unburden herself from something which had troubled her much of late. I expected it to be something trivial: petty theft perhaps or a small matter of deceit.”
“But you found it was something much more sinister.” The inspector almost looked sympathetic.
“Yes. You see, it was my mother who took the life of David Tregear for no other reason than that she wanted to own and run the Pentrillick Hotel. She ran the bar there, you see, and became addicted to gin and, I’m ashamed to say, was often drunk, although she told me that she hid it well. At least she thought she did. We’ll never know for sure, will we? Anyway, thankfully, I never saw her drunk. Apparently she gave it all up long before I was born and became tee-total. As a teenager I was miffed as to why she was so anti-drink. I knew it wasn’t for religious reasons because she was an atheist. Anyway, to get back to the story, she told me that on the day that David died she’d been drinking and had then gone to Primrose Cottage to see her brother George. He was not in and so she let herself into the house using the key she knew was hidden underneath the doormat. While she was there David called. To say Mother and David had never got on well would be an understatement. And because Mother was infatuated with Peter, she told David that she wished he’d died instead of his brother. In retaliation he called her a drunken gold-digger and said she’d only been interested in Peter because she wanted to get her hands on the hotel and drink, drink, drink. She was furious because he’d hit the nail on the head and so her response was to scream, shout and verbally abuse him. She wanted her words to hurt him just as his words had hurt her. But to her annoyance, he just laughed and the more she screamed at him the more he laughed. Mother was livid. She hated being laughed at and in a rage she killed him, but she wouldn’t tell me how. I wrote down what she told me so that I’d be able to remember. Now I wish I hadn’t because her words are firmly ensconced in my brain and torture me daily. As I’ve said, I don’t know how Mother killed him but just that she did.”
“According to the pathology report there is evidence of a stab wound to the chest and that was most likely the cause of death.”
What little colour there was drained from Grace’s face. “She stabbed him! Oh no. How could she?”
The inspector nodded. “It looks that way. Yes.”
Grace looked at the floor to hide her tears. The inspector handed her a tissue. “When you’re ready, please continue,” he asked.
Grace nodded. “Of course.” She wiped her eyes and sat up straight. “When it hit my mother that David was dead she panicked. She needed help to dispose of the body and so she asked her brother George what she should do. She told me that George was furious with her; frightened too, but he had to help to safeguard the family name. He greatly admired his father, you see, and the Berrymans were after all well respected undertakers. As it happened the nature of the family business was opportune as it meant they had the means of burying David where he’d never ever be found. Peter’s grave was dug by the sexton and once done, George and my mother went out in the dead of night and dug deeper still until they had enough room for David. After putting him in the bottom of the grave, they covered him with earth, tampered it down with their feet so that no-one would be any the wiser. The excess earth they put into sacks and scattered it in George’s garden at Primrose Cottage. The plan worked. Peter was buried the next day and everyone was oblivious of the fact that he was not alone in his grave. Mother said she was relieved the plan had worked but the guilt made George ill and for a while he was off work sick.”
The inspector poured himself a tumbler of water from the jug on the table and topped up Grace’s tumbler too. “Out of curiosity. Did your mother tell you where the body was hidden between the time of death and its burial?”
“Yes, yes, she did. It was in the garage wrapped in an old blanket. Fortunately for mother and George, Jacob Wheatley, George’s lodger, was away for a couple of nights visiting relatives somewhere or other and wasn’t due back until the day of the funeral.”
“I see. Please continue.”
“Florence, who was Peter and David’s mother, was already worried because David had not been seen for several days and so after Peter’s funeral she asked my mother to help her look through his room at the hote
l to see if they could find any indication as to where he might have gone. Mother, of course, obliged and to the distress of poor Florence they found David’s personal things were missing. You know, shaving stuff, identity card and so forth. His suitcase was gone too and a carving of his boat done by his brother Peter which he treasured. Of course, Mother already knew the missing items were gone because she and George had removed them the day after David died. Or should I say, the day after Mother killed him. I still can’t believe she did it, but Mother told Florence that it looked as though David had run away, probably because he was afraid of being ‘called up’ like his brother. Florence conceded that it was the only plausible explanation and eventually accepted that she might not see him again before the end of the war. But of course he never came home.”
Detective Inspector Fox looked puzzled. “Okay, so if your mother wanted the hotel so badly why did she leave Cornwall?”
“Quite simply because George’s wife, Betty, who was of course Simon’s mother, got wind of what her husband and sister-in-law had done and so my mother, again while drunk, pushed her down the stairs and made it look like an accident. Mother assured me that George never knew what she’d done but he was heartbroken after losing his wife and for that reason she left the area because she couldn’t bear to see him so upset over something for which she was responsible, not once but twice. In fact it was the guilt of hurting her brother so badly that brought my mother to her senses. She stopped drinking, met my father, had me and blocked out the horrors of the past from her memory.”
The Suitcase In The Attic Page 17