Unmoved, the inspector continued. ‘What did you do then?’
Clifford handed Eleanor a pristine handkerchief. Discreetly wiping away the trickle of tears that had fallen down her cheeks, she regained her composure. ‘War broke out shortly afterwards and even though there was no actual fighting in South Africa, they were short of nurses in West Africa and elsewhere. I’d looked after myself during my travels and had some rudimentary medical knowledge, so I volunteered. I also changed my name back to my maiden name as it was… easier than using my dead husband’s. So I joined the South African Military Nursing Service for the remainder of the war.’
‘You stayed in South Africa?’ His tone was disbelieving.
‘Not that I see it is relevant to whatever picture you are trying to create, but I was brought up abroad by parents often considered, well, rather bohemian in their outlook. South Africa felt much more like home than England, so, yes, I did. However, by a twist of fate, most of us were sent to Abbeville in France. Then, after the truce, I returned to South Africa and went back to working for Mr Walker. But life had changed and my heart was no longer in it. To cut to the end of my story, just over twelve months ago I received a letter saying my uncle had passed away and left me his estate so I set off for England to see if that was where my heart might lie.’ She drained the last of the brandy, feeling totally wrung out.
The inspector tapped his pencil against his notebook page. ‘And you last heard from your husband when?’
‘The day before he left, six years ago.’
‘And not a word since? Really? Surely you must have expected at least a note?’
‘Why would I have expected to receive word from a man whom I thought dead?’
‘Hmm. If you truly believed him to be dead, why was it you planned to join your husband here at the Grand?’
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘As I already told you, I did not. I could not possibly have imagined he was here.’
The inspector shrugged. ‘It does sound very hard to believe. The man my men have just removed from the hotel, covered in a sheet, borne on a stretcher’ – he paused at Eleanor’s sharp intake of breath – ‘checked in on the evening before last. He then left the hotel before breakfast the following morning. Only to return that evening and, except for a trip out around nine thirty, stayed in his room. The maid alerted the manager at nine o’clock this morning that the gentleman had not vacated his room in time for it to be cleaned and as no amount of knocking could rouse a response, the manager used his pass key to enter the room, only to find that the man was—’
‘Dead,’ Eleanor finished for him. She ran her hand over the soft plum upholstery of the settee. ‘I know, I saw him, remember? That is the precise reason I awoke from an unladylike faint, swathed in a blanket in this very room, although I have no idea how I got here.’ She looked questioningly at Clifford who bowed. ‘I have to say I am surprised, given my distressed reaction to witnessing my… my husband’s body being carried through the hotel, that more compassion might have been shown.’
‘Would you?’ He gave her a thin smile. ‘Lady Swift, there will be time for compassion to be shown later, if it is due, of course. Now, you stand by your statement that you did not know your husband was here at the hotel?’
‘Of course I do.’ She shook her head. ‘I believed him already… dead, as I said.’
Clifford coughed. ‘Inspector, perhaps Lady Swift might be able to rest now? This has been a most upsetting experience.’
‘Perhaps it has.’ The inspector rose. ‘I have to warn you, Lady Swift, that your arrival at the hotel today is extremely suspicious. You may retire to your room now but must stay within the town’s limits and remain available for questioning.’
She stood up. ‘Before I leave, I have a question for you.’ She clasped her hands to try and hide how hard they were trembling. ‘How did my husband die?’
The inspector looked her in the eye. ‘Well, Lady Swift, you yourself told me that he was shot for siding with the enemy six years ago on the other side of the world. If, however, you are referring to the man found dead in his hotel room this very morning…’
She nodded. Stay calm, Ellie.
‘Then that man… was murdered.’
Four
The sting of the cold sea breeze whipped through Eleanor’s tousled red curls and tugged at her cashmere scarf. She didn’t care. For the first time since the distressing scene she’d witnessed in the hotel lobby, she could breathe freely. Having finally checked in, she had found her chest tightening even further as she’d entered her suite. Hurriedly turning around, she’d asked Clifford to accompany her on a walk anywhere away from the hotel.
Outdoors had always been her haven and nothing soothed her frazzled nerves more than walking and talking, usually to herself, or, since moving to the Hall, Gladstone. Now, however, she walked in silence along Brighton’s raised promenade with the roar of waves to her left and Clifford’s calming presence to her right. She tried to focus on the gulls fishing for crabs in the foamy shallows of the receding tide. But even staring at the hypnotic patterns their feet made on the wet grey sand couldn’t quieten the troubling thoughts running around her head. Finally, Clifford spoke.
‘Are you alright, my lady?’ His normally inscrutable face was etched with concern.
‘Alright… enough.’ She turned to him. ‘Thank you for being here, Clifford. It would be so much harder to deal with this on my own.’
He scanned her face. ‘I would not countenance being anywhere else until all of this is over.’ Her late uncle, on his deathbed, had made Clifford swear he would look after Eleanor’s welfare, and he’d lived up to his word ever since.
‘Thank you.’ She paused and clung to the cold iron railing, running her gloved finger along the surface pitted by decades of salty sea spray. ‘How is it possible that Hilary died this morning? That policeman, Grimsdale, said he’d… he’d been murdered. Stabbed in the back. But it was an army captain who came to tell me six years ago that… that Hilary had been sent before the firing squad.’
Saying those words aloud made her clutch her throat. Even though he’d deceived her and then left her, she had innocently loved him with all of her heart. With the overwhelming wave of grief that washed over her, she realised with a jolt that a part of her still did.
Clifford stayed silent, giving her jumbled thoughts and emotions room to spill out.
A rush of anger bubbled over her.
‘Blast him! He called Hilary a traitor, but what does he know? I was Hilary’s wife and I have no idea what the truth is. Oh dash it, Clifford, we’ve joked about my hapless affairs of the heart, but Hilary was… different.’ She bit her lip as a particular memory swam before her tear-filled eyes. ‘The day we married, I truly believed we both wanted to see the world together, to… raise a family together… to grow old together. What a fool I was.’ Her head fell to her chest, the wind whipping the end of her scarf against the rail.
Clifford cleared his throat. ‘My lady, it is not my place I know, but it pains me greatly to see you like this.’ He stared out to sea. ‘I have learned that the scars of lost love can be healed, and one can learn to love again.’
She gasped. ‘Clifford! You too?’ She peered at his face, which bore only his usual enigmatic expression. ‘Gracious, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’ She mentally slapped herself for momentarily forgetting how fiercely private he was. ‘My apologies,’ she repeated.
‘There is nothing to apologise for, my lady, I believe I spoke out of turn. And to answer, Voltaire said, “Is there anyone so wise as to learn by the experience of others?”’ Gesturing further along the promenade, he hastily added, ‘Shall we?’
Eleanor noticed very few of the tiny kiosks or the ornate black street lamps and matching scrollwork benches which followed the sweeping curve of Brighton’s seafront. Even the squawking of the seagulls and the clinking of the halyards on the myriad small sailboats rising and falling together in the swell of
the waves failed to disturb her thoughts. Brighton was still out of season and only a few hardy souls were strolling the promenade, while many of the stalls dotted along the walkway were yet to open.
Still wrestling with a thousand questions, she realised Clifford had ducked under one of the few wind-blown, green-and-white striped kiosk awnings. He pulled some coins from his pocket, tipped his bowler hat to the warmly wrapped woman inside, and returned with two sticks of bright-pink rock. She smiled as she took the one he offered her.
‘Thank you. I definitely feel nine years old now.’ One of her most treasured memories filtered into her mind. Her mother tucking her up in bed after an upsetting experience and whispering, ‘Sleep well, darling girl. All will be fine, I promise, because tomorrow doesn’t know what happened today.’ Her tears dried. She stared down at her stick of rock and then smiled up at Clifford.
‘I do apologise. So much for your holiday. It’s only been a few hours and you’ve already had to gallantly rescue me from a faint and suffer my uncharacteristically emotional tirade. But worst of all’ – she pointed at his head – ‘accept that the damp sea air has permeated the brim of your usually impeccably stiff bowler hat.’
He glanced up. ‘That is no problem, my lady, I have brought a spare. And I thought we had agreed we would be confirmed donkey ride and ice cream types whilst in Brighton? A stiff bowler is not needed for either of these diversions, I fear.’
That drew a snort of a laugh from deep in her tired chest. ‘I promise I shan’t actually expect you to join me on a donkey ride.’
‘There is some good news left today in that case.’ He looked suspiciously at his lurid coloured stick of rock and pursed his lips.
‘When in Rome?’
‘On three. One, two, three.’
They both popped the top of the sweets into their mouths.
‘Oh, do you know, it’s quite good,’ she said a moment later.
Clifford sniffed. ‘With nothing else in line for a compliment at this precise minute, this’– he held the rock away from him – ‘confectionery may be declared passable. That is, if one has no regard for retaining one’s teeth.’
She laughed. ‘High praise, indeed.’
They walked on as her racing thoughts settled into a less chaotic jumble.
‘Clifford, why on earth do you imagine Hilary was here? I suppose what I really mean is, how could he have been alive all these years?’ She sighed. ‘And why… why didn’t he contact me?’
Clifford smoothly dropped his stick of rock into a bin and coughed. ‘Perhaps to spare you further distress, my lady? Even men with a chequered past can be capable of deep and honourable feelings.’
She stared up at the clouds scudding across the darkening afternoon sky. ‘Do you suppose then there is any chance he came to England because he was looking for me?’
‘That is a possibility.’
Her next words stuck in her throat. ‘But someone murdered him, Clifford.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘It is so clear to me now that everything I thought I knew about him was false.’
He nodded. ‘That may be so, my lady, but, at the risk of causing you further anxiety, I was significantly disquieted by Inspector Grimsdale’s inferences that he finds your presence here suspicious.’
‘Hmm. I was most unnerved by that too. It doesn’t look good on my side though, does it? Estranged for six years, with no word from Hilary. Then he mysteriously appears in England and I arrive at the scene of his murder a few hours later.’
‘I admit, my lady, on paper, that is an unfortunate set of circumstances.’
She groaned. ‘And ones likely to lead that bullish Grimsdale to jump to all the wrong conclusions. He struck me as being a most cold-hearted and unsympathetic individual.’
Clifford arched one brow.
‘What?’
‘Forgive my observation but I vaguely recall a few similar conversations over another detective inspector, of whom one’s opinion may now be significantly different. A gentleman much closer to home,’ he said conspiratorially.
‘Seldon, you mean?’ Warmth surged through her chest. She’d met the gruff Detective Chief Inspector Seldon when she’d first arrived at Henley Hall and become embroiled in a murder. To begin with she’d found him insufferable, but as time went on she’d fallen for him. So much so, that on New Year’s Eve she’d broken off her relationship with the son of a local lord, and promised herself she’d see where DCI Seldon would take her.
Clifford adjusted his cuffs. ‘Unfortunately, Detective Chief Inspector Seldon’s “patch”, as I believe it is called, does not extend to Brighton. Nevertheless, in the past, we have proven that we are quite the team at unearthing the truth. And, against my better judgement, I confess I feel we have no choice but to investigate the tragic event at the Grand regarding your husband. However, I insist on adding one caveat. Only if you are confident that you are robust enough to weather the consequences.’
She laughed grimly. ‘No need to skip around the bush, Clifford, I know you mean I may not like the truth about Hilary and why he married me.’
He sniffed. ‘Fortunately, I am not in the habit of skipping, my lady. I find it most unbecoming.’
She resumed walking. Now the tide had receded, she stared out on a large expanse of soggy sand to the horizon. She felt an unexpected surge of comfort from the timeless body of water acting out its daily routine regardless of human tragedies, large or small. Clifford fell in step behind in his customary manner.
‘I will be fine,’ she said with certainty. ‘However, I apologise in advance as I fear you may be subjected to a few more emotional tirades and cold, wet walks as I need to gather my thoughts. But, in exchange, on our return to Henley Hall, I will purchase you the perfect new bowler hat so you still have a spare.’
‘A most generous arrangement, my lady. One from which I shall unquestionably profit the most.’
Suddenly, he lunged forward and grabbed the collar of a grubby young boy who had dashed up to Eleanor.
‘I’m not picking pockets, mister, honest,’ the boy wheezed. ‘Got a message for the lady.’ He held up a folded square of paper. ‘Look, see.’
‘Who gave it to you?’ Eleanor said, taking it.
The boy shook his head, wide-eyed. Deftly, he wriggled out of Clifford’s grasp and disappeared down a side alley.
Frowning, Eleanor unfolded the paper and read aloud. ‘If you want to find out who killed your husband, be at the end of West Pier at five past ten tonight. No police. Nothing clever.’ She gasped. ‘Clifford!’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘It appears the first step in our plan may have been arranged for us.’
She looked at the message again. Then at his face. ‘You think we shouldn’t go, don’t you?’
He inclined his head. ‘I think it is far too risky, yes.’
‘A trap, perhaps?’
‘Possibly. I also think, however, as you doubtlessly intend to go anyway, we should at least be prepared.’ He gave her a resigned smile.
At precisely ten o’clock, as they reached the bandstand halfway along West Pier, the electric street lamps that had replaced the gaslights only that year snapped off. Darkness engulfed them, only the feeble light of the waning moon showing the boards beneath their feet.
Eleanor, still wrung out from the emotion of the afternoon, shivered in the bitter March evening air. Clifford had repeatedly tried to persuade her to stay behind at the hotel, but she’d reasoned that the note had been written to her specifically and whoever had sent it was unlikely to take kindly to Clifford taking her place.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Not a bit. So let’s go,’ she whispered back.
From nowhere, Clifford produced a long black torch and clicked it on, casting eerie shadows along the length of the pier’s wooden boards.
‘Turn it off!’ a voice growled to their right.
Clifford shone the light where the voice came from.
‘OFF!’ the voice barked.
> The torch clicked off. The vague outline of a man was visible in the darkness.
‘Lady Swift, I wasn’t sure you’d show up.’ The figure stepped closer. ‘Hilary got one thing right. You’re spirited.’
Eleanor swallowed hard. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about me. Neither do I care for your opinion. After all, we haven’t even been introduced. Who are you?’
‘Me?’ A set of stained and broken teeth grinned in the dark as the shadowy form lit a cigarette from a pocket lighter. ‘I’m the man who killed your husband.’
Five
Eleanor stiffened as she heard a pistol cock and then relaxed, as Clifford swung the gun into view.
Where on earth did he produce that from?
She addressed the ghostly form. ‘Whoever you are, we’re going to take you straight to the police.’
A scoff rang through the air. ‘For what?’
Eleanor tried to keep the tremble from her voice. ‘For murdering my husband in the hotel, what else?’
The shadowy shape stepped forward. Eleanor took in his fair hair, long nose and hollow leathered cheeks. It was the man who’d been in the hotel lobby apparently perusing the newspapers when she’d first arrived. He grinned.
‘I wouldn’t be doing that, if I were you.’ The man’s voice was gravelly, with a coarse London accent overlaid with an inflexion she couldn’t place.
‘And why not?’ Clifford said, keeping the gun trained on him.
The man shrugged. ‘’Cos I never killed her husband, that’s why.’
Eleanor frowned. ‘You’d better stop playing games. You admitted to killing him a moment ago.’
‘I didn’t.’ The stranger reached forward and coolly pushed the barrel of the gun away. ‘I admitted to killing him six years ago.’
Eleanor felt all the air leave her body. ‘You were part of the… the firing squad in South Africa?’
He shook his head. ‘Nah, not part of it. I was in charge of it.’
Mystery by the Sea: An utterly addictive English cozy mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 5) Page 3