Murder on Skiathos

by Margaret Addison

  ‘Oh Peony,’ she cried. ‘What have you done?’

  It took Rose but a moment to read the scrap of paper and digest its contents. She folded it once and put it in her pocket to join the other objects she had accumulated during their search of the guests’ rooms. Though she was aware that Mr Kettering had been watching her closely while she was reading the slip of paper, she did not tell him what was written on it. Neither did he ask her, and she wondered whether he was still reeling from the discovery that at least one of the Trimble sisters was a thief.

  They made their way back to the hotel proprietor’s office, each absorbed in their own thoughts. It was only when they entered the room that either showed any inclination to speak. It was Mr Kettering who broke the silence. It was patently apparent to Rose, from both his manner and his speech, that he was beginning to fret.

  ‘They’ll be wondering what has come of us. By that, of course, I mean the guests.’ He stared forlornly at the pocket in which Rose had stowed the objects she had found. ‘I suppose we shall have to inform them that we have searched their rooms. I mean to say, they will wonder how we came across those … those items.’

  ‘They will assume that we have been talking to the duchess,’ Rose said. ‘I don’t think it will have occurred to them that we have searched their rooms.’ She turned to face Mr Kettering in order that she might impress upon him the importance of her next words. ‘I shall not necessarily tell them what we have found. Indeed, I do not intend to mention it unless I feel it has a bearing on the murder investigation.’

  ‘But your brooch –’ objected the hotel proprietor.

  ‘Just because a person is a thief, it doesn’t necessarily mean they are a murderer,’ said Rose firmly. ‘My brooch has been retrieved and returned to my possession, so no real harm has been done.’ She held up her hand as Mr Kettering made to protest. ‘It is not as if we found any other stolen jewellery. Now,’ she said, raising her voice slightly to indicate that she did not wish for there to be any further discussion on the subject, ‘I wonder who we should interview first? Of course, I shall need to speak with the duchess again.’ She paused a moment and saw Mr Kettering pale at this somewhat alarming prospect. ‘But I expect she is still sleeping and it is probably best to wait a while till she is over the initial shock.’

  She was aware that it was on the tip of the hotel proprietor’s tongue to say they should see the Trimble sisters first. Her own choice, however, was quite different. Somewhat to Mr Kettering’s surprise, she said:

  ‘I think we should see Mr Vickers first. If anyone has anything of interest to tell us, I think it will be that gentleman.’

  Mr Kettering raised his eyebrows above his horn-rimmed spectacles but refrained from comment. Instead he picked up the bell on his desk and rang it. The servant who came in response to his ring was promptly dispatched to get the guest, and a minute or two later the gentleman himself appeared.

  The first thought that struck Rose was that Mr Vickers was highly amused both at having been the first person to have been summoned, and also by the rather strange sight that greeted him on his arrival. For both Rose and Mr Kettering were seated behind the hotel proprietor’s large oak desk, almost as if they were sharing equal billing. Mr Kettering, it seemed, did not intend to be hidden away in some discreet corner to take his notes. Rather, he intended to be an active participant in the proceedings.

  A chair had been drawn up in front of the desk for the intended occupation by the person being interviewed. Indeed, Mr Kettering indicated as much by way of a curt nod of his head in the direction of the chair the moment Mr Vickers entered the room.

  It immediately became apparent, however, that the newcomer had other ideas. Instead of taking the proffered chair, he remained standing and took up a position in front of the fireplace, one elbow propped nonchalantly on the mantelpiece in a gesture reminiscent of an idle young man, rather at odds with his advanced years. Indeed, there was something insolent about the pose he struck and the leer on his face which accompanied it, which was almost grotesque. The hotel proprietor did not beat about the bush in reprimanding the fellow.

  ‘You’ll sit down and do as you are told. We’ll have none of your ill-manners or cheek here, my man. You’ll answer our questions and be done with it.’

  Mr Vickers pulled a face. ‘That’s no way to speak to one of your guests. I’m as good as the next man, I am, and I won’t stand for it, do you hear?’ He did not allow the hotel proprietor any time to answer, but carried on, wagging his finger at Mr Kettering while he spoke. ‘And here’s another thing. There’s no one here as can say as how I have to sit down, and I won’t neither, not if I don’t want to,’ he said sulkily. ‘And as to you asking me questions, well, you haven’t any right to, poking and prying into things that don’t concern you. Anyway, you can ask your questions all you like, but it don’t mean I have to answer ’em, not if I don’t want to.’ He gave Mr Kettering a sardonic smile. ‘Last time I looked, you weren’t the police, even if you gives yourself airs and graces what you don’t deserve and behave as if you are.’

  ‘That’ll do,’ snapped the hotel proprietor, keen to stem the tirade that was being flung at him. ‘We’ll have none of your lip here. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll answer our questions and be done with it. It’ll be better for you if you do. Any respectable man would do so and, if you don’t, we’ll only go thinking you have something to hide. And you wouldn’t want us to do that now, would you?’

  Rose found herself wincing slightly at Mr Kettering’s condescending tone. To her mind, he was speaking very much in the manner of a headmaster addressing an unruly child. Given Mr Vickers’ speech to date, she had expected him to answer the hotel proprietor’s reproach with a few choice words of his own. Instead, the man’s only response to this admonishment was to scowl ferociously.

  ‘And I’ll ask that you keep a civil tongue in your head,’ continued the hotel proprietor, getting into his stride and feeling as if he had the upper hand. ‘You’ll treat Lady Belvedere with the respect she deserves, or you’ll have me to answer to.’

  All the while, during this exchange, Rose had been sitting quietly, her eyes never for one moment leaving Mr Vickers’ face. It seemed to her that the man was a mixture of emotions. He was highly amused by the proceedings, but he was also wary. He was insolent and outspoken, and yet he was also snivelling and subservient. It was difficult to know how best to deal with him. That he was in possession of useful information, she did not doubt. But that he would be reluctant to divulge what he knew, she was also equally certain.

  ‘You are quite right, Mr Vickers,’ she said at last. ‘I have no right to ask you any questions and equally you are not obliged to answer them. I would, however, be very grateful if you would indulge me and concede to our request.’

  ‘Fancy yourself as a bit of an amateur sleuth do you, your ladyship?’ Mr Vickers asked with the same sardonic smile.

  Before Rose could answer, Mr Kettering said indignantly: ‘I’ll have you know that Lady Belvedere has a very great reputation in that field, not that it is any business of yours.’

  ‘I’d say it’s every business of mine if you’re intending –’

  ‘You are quite right, Mr Vickers,’ said Rose quickly, fearing that she was making little progress, and conscious that there was a roomful of guests waiting to be interviewed. ‘I am only an amateur sleuth, not a real one. That’s to say, it is not my profession.’ She paused a moment before adding: ‘But I am certain your employer, if he were here, would want you to answer my questions.’

  ‘Eh, what do you know about my employer?’ demanded Mr Vickers, clearly rattled. ‘I ain’t told you what line of work I’m in.’

  ‘You informed me,’ said Mr Kettering a trifle frostily, ‘when you made your booking. Yes, I have it here.’ He selected a piece of paper from his desk and gingerly picked it up by one corner, as if he feared that in some way it might be contaminated. ‘Under occupation, you have written ‘commercia
l traveller.’ In fact, when you first arrived, you told me some highly implausible story about your holiday being some sort of a reward for procuring the most orders in your region.’ He glared at the man seated in front of him. ‘Of course, I thought it most improbable at the time. Having become further acquainted with you and the sort of man you are, I now know it to have been a lie.’

  ‘’Ere you can’t talk to me like that,’ said Mr Vickers, jumping up from his chair in his agitation. ‘I don’t have to stand for it, I don’t.’

  ‘You are quite right, Mr Vickers,’ said Rose, yet again giving the hotel proprietor something of a reproachful look. ‘All the same, I think your employer would prefer you to answer our questions. If he were here, he would, quite rightly, insist that you do.’

  Mr Vickers resumed his seat reluctantly and said again: ‘What do you know of my employer? You’ll tell me. I won’t answer any of your questions if you don’t. No, and you can’t make me, neither,’ he added, turning to glare at the hotel proprietor.

  ‘We know you’re not a commercial traveller,’ said Mr Kettering wearily. ‘We know you are a pressman employed by the penny press to write some scandalous nonsense.’

  There was an awkward silence and then, much to the hotel proprietor’s surprise, Mr Vickers threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘That’s what you think I am, is it? One of them reporter fellows?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Kettering.

  ‘No,’ said Rose quietly. ‘I admit I thought you were at first, but I have since changed my mind. It was when I discovered this.’ She produced from her pocket the informal photograph taken of the Duke and Duchess of Grismere in their garden. She laid the snap on the desk in front of Mr Vickers.

  He started. ‘’Ere, where did you find that?’

  ‘I think you know very well where we found it,’ said Rose.

  ‘You’d no right to search my room, no right at all.’

  Rose was of the opinion that she had every right to search the man’s room, and, besides, the hotel proprietor as owner of the property had given his permission and been present during the examination. She did not think it worthwhile, however, to argue the point. Instead, she said:

  ‘All the same, we found this in your room.’ She spoke firmly. ‘If you will just hear me out, you shall have an opportunity to speak. When I found this photograph,’ she paused to tap it with her finger for added emphasis, ‘it occurred to me that your profession was likely to be very similar to my own amateur one. By that, I mean, I think you are a private enquiry agent and that your employer … that’s to say, the person who has engaged your firm to provide him with information, is the Duke of Grismere. I believe he gave you this photograph from his private collection, so that you might recognise his wife.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Mr Vickers looked considerably taken aback and impressed in equal measure by Rose’s pronouncement that he was a professional sleuth. As for Mr Kettering, he seemed to be on the verge of having a nervous fit. His face looked incredulous. Barely conscious of what he was doing, he removed his horn-rimmed spectacles and polished them vigorously with his handkerchief. Only then did he seem to have regained the ability of speech.

  ‘A private enquiry agent?’

  ‘Yes,’ affirmed Rose.

  From his expression, she wondered whether the hotel proprietor considered such an occupation even more demeaning than that of a newspaper reporter. Though, of course, he would be far too polite to say so aloud, given her own amateur involvement with such a profession.

  Mr Vickers looked as if he was fit to burst with pent up indignation, but then thought better of it. Instead he chuckled and said: ‘Well, I’ll be blowed! Perhaps you are a bit of an amateur sleuth after all. You’re right, of course. I am a private enquiry agent as you call it, or as good as. Not a bad one at that, if I says so myself.’

  It occurred to Rose that having spoken, the man looked relieved. The veil of pretence had been lifted from his reluctant shoulders, and he could be himself. His natural inclination appeared to be rather verbose and she wondered how much of the drunken hotel bore had been an act.

  ‘Course this isn’t my usual line of work,’ Mr Vickers was saying. ‘Working for the gentry, that is. I’ve searched for many a disappeared person in my time and, whether they’re living on the street or a clerk in one of ’em posh offices, I always says how it makes no difference, not to me it don’t. Of course, it shouldn’t have been me as come to Skiathos. It should have been Frank. Much better at it, Frank is. With his fancy ways and his handsome looks he’d have given poor old Dewhurst a run for his money, so he would. But he’s gone and broken his leg, and Jameson, the chap what owns the agency that employs me, what else could he do but give me the job? Needs must and all that and he knew I’d get there in the end, even if I did ruffle a few feathers in the process, and who’s to say it didn’t do ’em a bit of good to be ruffled?’

  The man paused to give the hotel proprietor a meaningful look. Rose concealed a smile and took the opportunity to interrupt Mr Vickers’ monologue.

  ‘You found the duchess and her companion in Athens and came to Skiathos believing she would come here?’

  ‘That’s right, my lady. I took a photograph of them in Athens too, though they did their best to keep out of sight. That’s to say the duchess did. That young man of hers doesn’t like to be kept hidden. I heard about this here hotel opening. Very grand they said it was and it seemed to me just the sort of place the duchess would choose to lay low. Very respectable and all that, with big, airy rooms and the service all proper. Course, I wouldn’t know much about that myself, having been given no more than a broom cupboard in which to lay my head, but the duchess had a fine set of rooms for her and her fancy man, I’ll say that.’

  Mr Kettering looked horrified at such talk, but Mr Vickers had more to say on the subject.

  ‘I won’t say it isn’t a decent place you’ve got here, Kettering, but it ain’t for the likes of me, I’ll tell you that. And why anyone would want to go and stay on the other side of the world, when they can go to Eastbourne, I don’t know. I’ve never been so hot in all my life as I’ve been here. Burning, the sun is, fit to make you blister. I’ll go back home the colour of a lobster, so I will; my missus won’t recognise me.’

  ‘Mr Vickers,’ Rose said, keen to bring the man’s observations to a close and return to the subject in hand, ‘am I correct in supposing the Duke of Grismere has engaged your agency to find his wife?’ Mr Vickers hesitated a moment before nodding. ‘They say the duchess left her husband a letter,’ continued Rose. ‘Do you by any chance know what was written in that note?’

  A sly look came over Mr Vickers’ face. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know, my lady? That’s confidential information, that is. Sworn to secrecy we were. I can’t just divulge it to anyone.’

  ‘We’ll have none of your insolence,’ snapped Mr Kettering. ‘Answer her ladyship’s question.’

  ‘All right, all right. Keep your hair on,’ said Mr Vickers somewhat rudely. ‘I don’t see as how it matters now, what with the chap being dead and all.’

  ‘Mr Vickers, if you do know what was written in that letter, I’d be awfully grateful if you would tell me,’ said Rose quietly. ‘I’m not saying that it has any bearing on Mr Dewhurst’s death, but it would help with my investigation if I were in possession of all the facts.’

  There was a long pause while the private enquiry agent considered this request. He passed his tongue over dry lips and gave the impression of an animal caught in a trap desperately trying to decide how best to save its own skin.

  ‘Very well, as you like,’ Mr Vickers replied, at last, somewhat grudgingly. He retrieved from his pocket a rather grubby notebook and flicked over the pages until he came to the one he wanted. ‘Copied it down, so I did, word for word.’ Rose caught the hotel proprietor’s eye and indicated that he should do the same. Mr Kettering picked up his fountain pen and sat with it poised above a crisp, blank page of his p
ocketbook. Meanwhile, Mr Vickers took a deep breath in preparation for reading aloud what he had written down in an untidy scrawl.

  ‘Here, we are.’ He coloured slightly before he said: ‘‘My darling. I ask that you forgive me for what I am about to do.’ He coughed. The words sounded strangely odd uttered as they were in Mr Vickers’ rather common accent. ‘If there were any other way, then please believe me, I would have taken it, but I have no wish to bring disgrace on you, or on your good name. I ask only that you respect my wishes and do not search for me. I do not wish to be found. Know only that I have loved you deeply and that I could not have wished for a better husband.’’

  ‘Good heavens!’ said Mr Kettering, finding himself moved by the expression of such desperate sentiment.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Vickers. ‘Not bad. That’s to say, I’ve read a lot worse in my time, I can tell you. If you’re going to throw your spouse over for another, you’d do worse than copy what the duchess has written. Proper flowery stuff it is, all right, and though there’s some who’ll say it’s nothing but sentimental drivel, it’s a good deal kinder than some of the nonsense I’ve read. Shocking it is, some of it.’

  Rose repeated the words over in her mind. The only comment she voiced was that it made no reference to Alec Dewhurst.

  ‘What can you tell me about Mr Dewhurst? That wasn’t his real name, was it?’

  ‘No, it weren’t, as I was only after telling Lord Belvedere last night, only he wouldn’t listen. Frogmarched me out of the dining room, he did, as if I were nothing but a common criminal,’ said Mr Vickers, sounding indignant. ‘And there was me only trying to do my job. Can’t a man do an honest day’s work these days without being accosted?’