“Be that as it may,” said Dame Beatrice, “I have a feeling that Miss Beverley, as she had found out so much, would have known the woman’s name, whether or not it was Mrs. Spalding,”
“But you mean she might not have told Junie? Of course, Nina was a deep one. Spoilt, you know, and used to getting her own way. Maybe she thought she could even up things better for Junie not knowing the whole story. If it was in a book, you might think blackmail was at the bottom of it.”
“Blackmail? Do you really think Miss Beverley would stoop to that?” asked Dame Beatrice, as though she found the idea incredible.
“Well, perhaps she wouldn’t think of it like that,” said Mrs. Keggs, “but she wouldn’t be the first girl to put a bit of pressure on a young man, if there was something she really wanted. What was to stop her saying something to the effect of if he didn’t stop playing around she would report him to his headmaster for making passes at a married woman? That wouldn’t have done him much good in his job, would it?”
“I see what you mean,” said Dame Beatrice.
“What’s more,” pursued Mrs. Keggs, “if he’s disappeared, ten to one that’s what she did say—or to that effect—and so he thought he’d get away while he could, not to have to face being disgraced and sent away from the school.”
“I don’t think Mr. Eastleigh would be as harsh as that,” protested Laura. “He would probably have given him a stiff ticking-off, and warned him, and left it there. I can’t imagine him sacking anybody for a thing like—well, for the sort of thing young men do before they’ve settled down.”
“I don’t know so much,” said Mrs. Keggs. “If you ask me, these private schools have got to be like Potiphar’s wife.”
“I thought that was Mrs. Spalding’s rôle,” said Laura. “You mean Caesar’s wife, I fancy, but no matter.” Mrs. Keggs glared at her, and Dame Beatrice, murmuring thanks and civilities, took Laura back to the school.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A Mother—Naked Man
“I could scarce persuade myself that murder had actually been done.”
“Well, it looks as though we can give up worrying about Ferrars. He’s just simply hopped it. I never quite swallowed that tale that he and the Beverley parted because he’d smacked one of her little boys,” said Laura, after they had left Mrs. Keggs’ house. “She wouldn’t have given a hoot about anything of that sort. I think at last we’ve heard the truth. He’d done a Mac-heath with three women and made the neighbourhood a bit too hot for himself.”
“I think, all the same, that I must have a word with Mrs. Spalding before she goes to Jersey,” said Dame Beatrice.
“I thought she told you and Colin that she wouldn’t go to see her husband. Wasn’t she sending a letter?”
“I am sure she will change her mind. Mr. Ferrars has made a significantly successful disappearance, don’t you think? I do not like it very much. Let us drive at once to the lighthouse.”
“To do what? To tell her ‘’tis pity she’s a whore’?”
“To ask Mrs. Spalding to tell us what she knows about the disappearance of Mr. Ferrars.”
“What have you got on Mrs. Spalding? There’s something up your sleeve.”
“I hope that I fail to understand you.”
Laura grinned.
“A hope doomed to crash at the first fence,” she said. Her expression altered. “You don’t think she really knows anything, do you?” she asked. “About where he is, I mean.”
“Time will show.”
Time, with its accustomed liberality, showed more than even Dame Beatrice had envisaged. She and Laura arrived at the rented lighthouse less than half an hour before the police turned up. Fiona was not expecting visitors. She had just finished washing her hair, she explained, when, turban-towel on head, she opened the door to Laura and Dame Beatrice. She was alone. Colin, she explained, had gone to the mainland to book two passages on the Channel Islands boat for St. Helier.
“I couldn’t fly,” she added, with tremendous emphasis, “and the boat gets there in less than a day. Of course, we shan’t go until after the school breaks up. My husband is not on the danger list.”
“We are glad you will find your husband sufficiently recovered,” said Dame Beatrice, “but we came for more reasons than to tender our good wishes.”
“Oh, yes? Would you like a cup of tea? No? What is it, then? You haven’t any more news of Howard, have you?”
“I regret to say that we have not. Our errand is in connection with the prolonged disappearance of Mr. Ronald Ferrars.”
“Yes—yes, well, I suppose it is prolonged. But what has that to do with me?”
“I am hoping that you will be good enough to answer that question yourself.”
Fiona’s expression was one of extreme alarm.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “I know nothing whatever about his disappearance.”
“Very likely not,” said Dame Beatrice briskly, “but he was a fairly frequent visitor here, I believe.”
“Oh, Colin brought him over once or twice. They were at school together, you know, and then we met him again on a cruise some years ago. But I’m sure I’ve told you all this.”
“Oh, yes, of course you have. There is more. He was not always accompanied by your stepson when he came here, was he?”
“He may have looked in a couple of times on his own,” admitted Fiona, glancing from one of them to the other. “There isn’t much for them to do on their free afternoons, and he and Colin didn’t often have those together. I really couldn’t say. Why does it matter? I don’t know anything about his disappearance, I tell you. How should I? He was only an acquaintance. I don’t see what you think I can tell you. What’s it to do with you, anyway? You’re not related to him, are you? Did his parents send you? Oh, but he wouldn’t have told them anything. It was—I mean, there wasn’t anything to tell!”
“Do you remember the dates on which he came?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I wonder whether your husband would remember?—Not that I should think of worrying him in his present state, of course.”
“Howard?” Her first appearance of panic was giving way to wariness, Laura thought. “It wouldn’t matter whether you worried him or not. He’s even more vague about dates and things than I am. Besides, he spends so much time up on the lighthouse gallery that he may not even have been down here when Ronald called. But what’s this all about?”
Before Dame Beatrice was able to answer this question, there came the sound of a car. It pulled up and the ensuing silence was broken by a knocking on the door. Fiona answered it. Her voice came clearly to the visitors.
“The police? Have you brought me news of my husband? Is he—is he—is it bad news?”
“We have no further information about your husband, madam. We should be glad of permission to search these premises. I’m sure you won’t make any difficulty.”
“Search the premises? But why?” There was no doubt about the panic in her high-pitched, unnatural voice.
“If we may come in, madam, I shall be glad to explain.”
He was shown in by Fiona, and Dame Beatrice, who had recognised his accent, found herself greeting the inspector. He was followed by his sergeant and by two constables.
“Well?” said Fiona. “I can’t tell you any more than you already know. What do you want this time? I don’t know where Ronald Ferrars is! Why are you pestering me again?”
“No, I don’t imagine you can help us more than you have done, madam,” said the inspector, a large, calm man with blue eyes and a Dorsetshire burr. “Not about Mr. Ferrars, I mean. Until his body gets washed up somewhere—and where that’ll be, and when, is known only to the Race and the Almighty—we’re rubbing the poor young gentleman off our slate, as you might say.”
“Then what do you want? I’m trying to get myself ready to go over to Jersey to visit my husband. This is a most inconvenient time to have people call.”
“You
have come to the conclusion that Mr. Ferrars is drowned, then,” said Dame Beatrice.
“Doesn’t seem much else to think, Dame Beatrice. We soon tore up that convict’s tale as how he found those clothes in the lighthouse tower. He’s come clean about that. Now says he found ’em in a little, half-dug quarry t’other side of the island, out beyond those cottages at Casley. We argued it this way: if the cove had croaked Mr. Ferrars he would never have stopped to strip him to the buff. He’d have taken his jacket and trousers, and his shirt and pullover, and likewise his shoes and socks, but not the rest of the clobber. He’s been put through it properly by us and by the prison governor, and we reckon he’s telling the truth. The poor young gentleman must have fancied a swim. It looks easy enough to get into the water if you scramble down the rocks. Those long, flat blocks that are only about a couple of inches or so above water-level at high tide might look ideal to bathe off to anybody who didn’t know this coast and thought he could keep his head above water a-swimming in the Race. We’ve had it happen before. You can’t stop people being foolhardy. Although why anybody should fancy a swim this time of year…!”
“Oh, I don’t know. I had a swim myself the other day,” said Laura. The inspector gave her a look of fatherly disapproval, and turned again to Fiona.
“But if it isn’t about Mr. Ferrars, what is it about?” she asked. “As for searching the place, well, it isn’t for me to say. You’ll have to get my husband’s permission. He’s the tenant here.”
“In that case, madam, a search-warrant may be the answer.”
“A search-warrant? Oh, but, really!”
“Perhaps I should explain. We have reliable information that this place was used, before you came here, of course, as a repository for smuggled goods. Naturally, we are anxious to confirm this, as it seems doubtful whether all these goods have been removed.”
“But that has nothing to do with us!”
“Of course not, madam.” In the face of her obvious terror, the inspector’s voice had become suspiciously soothing. “We wouldn’t think of suggesting that you and your husband are implicated. But we’ve had this tip-off, as I say, and we can’t afford to ignore it. Well, I will proceed to obtain the warrant, madam. You will have no objection to my leaving the sergeant here, of course?”
“Oh, well, I suppose—well, you’d better carry on,” said Fiona. She looked so pale that Dame Beatrice took her by the arm and led her to a chair. As she sank into it, and the strong yellow claw released its hold on her arm, she clutched at it. “Please don’t go! Please don’t leave me!” she said. The constables made an unostentatious move towards the door and went out to the base of the tower. The inspector nodded to his subordinate and the sergeant made short work of turning out the living-quarters. When he returned empty-handed the inspector said:
“Before we check the tower, madam, perhaps you would kindly assure yourself that everything in the rooms here has been left as the sergeant found it.”
“Check the tower?” cried Fiona. “Why—why would you want to do that? Nobody but my husband uses the tower. You won’t find anything there but a lot of old junk.”
“Very likely, madam. But, you see, if there is any contraband on the premises, the tower is the most likely place for it. We’ve gone over your quarters more as a matter of form than anything else, not expecting to find what we’re looking for. So now for what we think is the real hiding-place, if any. You are welcome to come with us, if you wish.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Laura. “The lugger in Kitt’s Hole!”
“I beg your pardon, madam?” said the inspector, swinging round on her. Laura waved a shapely palm.
“A sort of quotation,” she explained. “I was wondering whether there might be any connection.”
“With the smuggling, madam?”
“Well, yes.” She told him about the large, sea-going vessel she had seen early one morning standing off the little cove where, later on, she had swum.
“There could be a connection,” said the inspector. “Your description ties in very well with some other information we received about this boat. We think she brought over tobacco, in the form of cigars, from Holland, and brandy from France. We also believe that the stuff was taken off her in rowing boats and winched to the cliff-top by means of the derricks the fishermen use in these parts where there aren’t any beaches.”
“A neat idea,” commented Laura approvingly. “None of that nonsense about concealing the booty in caves and then having all the sweat of manhandling it up the cliff-face. I call it an intelligent use of the local amenities, don’t you?”
“Yes, madam, but not intelligent enough to allay the suspicions of anybody who happened to see them at work. Of course, they’re amateurs,” he added, in an indulgent tone. “The pros would be running drugs or diamonds.”
“Oh, you’ve got witnesses, have you? People who’ve spotted them at work?”
“Not eye-witnesses, madam, unfortunately, but have you ever ridden your bicycle, or used your typewriter, or handled your fountain pen after somebody else has had a go with them, madam?”
“Oh, the kineaesthetic sense in reverse, so to speak? The genuine island boatmen got the feeling that alien hands had been operating their pulleys?”
The inspector did not answer, but permitted himself a sly Dorsetshire smile. Then he turned back to Fiona, who was still clutching Dame Beatrice’s hooked, yellow fingers.
“With your permission, then, madam,” he said, and led the way out, followed by the sergeant. A constable came into the room and fixed a stolid, non-committal gaze on the fireplace.
“Please go with them,” said Fiona, releasing Dame Beatrice’s hand. “I’d like somebody to—to see what they’re up to. I don’t know what Howard will say when he finds out they’ve gatecrashed his precious lighthouse.” She attempted a laugh, but it was unconvincing. It was clear that she was in a state of terror.
“Laura will go,” said Dame Beatrice. “I think I will remain here with you.” Eager to be in the picture, Laura followed the policemen out of the room. The inspector seemed to have his plan of campaign cut and dried.
“We’ll start at the top and work down,” he said to the sergeant. “You two chaps”—to the constables—“stay down below. If we need anything we’ll call you. Hullo, Mrs. Gavin, are you coming along?”
“Just to keep an eye on Mrs. Spalding’s interests,” said Laura, grinning. She followed the two men up the iron staircase, thinking of Howard and his discourse upon the seabirds. From the gallery, where the inspector took a survey and some notes, they went into the lamp room and then, as they descended, flight by flight, they inspected the bunk-room, the living-room, and the galley. These, it was obvious, had indeed been used as junk-rooms by previous owners of the property. The two officers methodically turned over the contents of cardboard boxes, packing-cases, battered and handle-less suitcases, store-cupboards, the oven, and some shelves piled with old books and disused crockery. It took a considerable time before they were satisfied, but at last they descended almost to the foot of the tower.
“Looks as though, if there ever was anything, they managed to get it away before the tenants moved in, sir,” said the sergeant.
“I don’t believe there ever was anything here,” observed the inspector. “All that junk we’ve been looking at wouldn’t leave any room for anything else, and it wasn’t put there yesterday, either. Oh, well! Last lap!” He turned the handle of the lowest door. “Hullo! This is locked. Perhaps we’ve struck oil after all. Sergeant! Trot back to Mrs. Spalding and ask her for the key of the store-room.”
“Right, sir.” The sergeant removed himself with stately, official tread, to reappear almost immediately. “The lady says it’s always been locked, so far as she knows. She says her husband may have a key, but she hasn’t one.”
“Oh, well,” said the inspector, withdrawing from a pocket a set of keys of various sizes, “let’s see what we can do without their help.”
At his
third attempt the heavy door opened. Laura, peering over his shoulder, saw a room larger than those they had already inspected, for the lighthouse tapered towards the top. The room was empty except for one thing. In the middle of the floor, face downward and with outspread arms, lay the purplish and greenish body of a naked and extremely dead man. The inspector turned and ordered her out of the way.
“No place for you, madam,” he pronounced austerely.
“Well, it wasn’t, actually,” said Laura to Dame Beatrice, when they were on their way back to the school. “I only got a glimpse of the corpus, but it looked absolutely beastly and the smell was horrible. I went out and catted. What did you make of it when they called you in to look at it through forensic spectacles?”
“That fatal injuries had been sustained as the result of a heavy fall, and that there may have been a fight, but none of us cared to linger in the room for very long. My examination was cursory.”
“I suppose it’s Ferrars?”
“I have no idea. It is logical to suppose so, but a formal identification will be necessary.”
“I should think it’s a foregone conclusion that’s who it is. I mean, he’s been missing and the convict had all his clothes. Looks pretty bad for him, doesn’t it?”
“The convict? I should say that it looks infinitely worse for the Spaldings. For one thing, it would seem to explain Mrs. Spalding’s acute fears when she knew that the police intended to search the premises. Her obvious panic is bound to have coloured the inspector’s views.”
“You mean she knew the corpse was there? I say, it might explain why Howard made his getaway to the Channel Islands, mightn’t it?—and why he picked up Manoel as a sort of smoke-screen on his way out. What do you suppose will happen now?”
Skeleton Island (Mrs. Bradley) Page 16