Murder on Skiathos

by Margaret Addison

  A look of unmistakable fear crossed Ron’s features. Rose had the impression that his brain was working very quickly. Once, or twice, he opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. She had asked a simple and seemingly harmless question, and yet the young man was patently reluctant to answer it. She did not doubt for one moment that he was able to do so if he chose, that the initials were as vivid to him now as they had been last night, when he had been staring at the pocket watch.

  ‘From memory,’ he said at last, ‘I believe they were “A”, “E”, “G”, but, of course, I might be mistaken.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘Well, he got the “E” and the “G” all right, and in the correct order,’ said Mr Kettering, ‘I’ll give him that. As to the “A”, well he made the same mistake as Miss Adler initially did, which is perfectly natural because as the young lady said, some people write a capital “A” as if it were a large lower case “A”, which is easy enough to confuse with an “O”.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose, ‘and I suppose one could also argue that Mr Thurlow would naturally assume the “O” to be an “A” on account of Dewhurst’s Christian name being Alec.’

  ‘And the “G” of course was for Goodfellow, which was the fellow’s real surname. The duchess and Mr Thurlow mentioned that the middle initial was an “E” even if Miss Adler didn’t recall it.’

  ‘’But what I don’t understand, Mr Kettering, is why Mr Thurlow was so reluctant to tell us. It was almost as if he was making it all up.’

  ‘Well, I don’t trust the fellow myself,’ said the hotel proprietor, ‘as you know, your ladyship. All that nonsense about him being innocent. To my mind, Thurlow’s far worse than Dewhurst because he goes about the place pretending to be all pleasant and honest when really he’s nothing of the sort. Still,’ he added, ‘it’ll be an easy enough story to check. That employer of his should be able to tell us whether he‘s telling the truth or not.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Rose. ‘By that I mean, if it is true, his employer might not want to admit it. Don’t you see?’ she added, as the hotel proprietor looked at her with a rather blank expression. ‘He would have to acknowledge that his daughter was a thief who had escaped justice. I doubt any father would care to admit that.’

  Before Mr Kettering had a chance to comment, Cedric appeared at the door. ‘All done? I daresay you’ve had quite a day of it. Are you any nearer to arriving at the truth?’

  ‘I can’t say that we are,’ Rose said, with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘It seems to me that practically everyone had a reason for wishing Alec Dewhurst dead. Admittedly some of the motives are stronger than others.’ She sighed. ‘But really, everyone had an opportunity to do the deed and no one has an alibi to speak of.’

  ‘And some of them are holding things back, you can tell, my lord,’ said Mr Kettering, with a worried frown. ‘Not that I think we’ll get much more out of them. You’ve got your work cut out for you, your ladyship, if you don’t mind my saying, if you’re to find the murderer.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Rose, ‘I’ve got this niggling feeling at the back of my mind that I’ve been given a number of clues, if only I could recognise them.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Cedric, looking interested.

  ‘The pocket watch, for instance,’ said Rose. ‘I can’t help thinking it’s important, but I haven’t the faintest idea why it should be, or how it’s connected with the murder. Then there’s Miss Peony. Her behaviour is very odd. I’m sure she’s hiding something, and Miss Hyacinth looks absolutely frightened to death. The duchess is definitely holding something back, and really, it is very strange that she should decide to abandon a husband whom, according to you, darling, she was absolutely devoted to, only to run off with a charming, but fickle young scoundrel. It doesn’t make any sense because she doesn’t strike me as a stupid or impulsive woman, rather the contrary in fact. And then, of course, there is Mr Thurlow who is quite possibly not the gentleman he appears to be.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Cedric with a chuckle, ‘you certainly seem to have a great many lines of inquiry to pursue.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose, somewhat distractedly, for she had picked up the hotel proprietor’s pocketbook and was flicking through the pages. ‘I say, Mr Kettering, would you mind awfully if I were to take this? I should very much like to pore over your notes this evening. It’s just possible that they may suggest something or show a discrepancy between the statements.’

  ‘But of course,’ said Mr Kettering, making a little bow. ‘I’m afraid my shorthand is not up to scratch. I tried to capture the flavour of the interviews, if not every word. Now, of course, if it had been my brother Giles taking the notes …’ His face clouded slightly as a thought occurred to him. ‘I do hope, your ladyship, that you can read my handwriting; it’s not very neat.’

  Rose glanced down at the writing, which seemed to her to have been written in a meticulous hand and laughed in spite of herself. ‘Why, Mr Kettering,’ she said, ‘I do believe you are quite wasted in your profession. You should have been a calligrapher!’

  Following her interview with Rose and Mr Kettering, Lavinia had returned to the Belvederes’ rooms in a state of considerable excitement. An arrest was imminent and none of the other guests had the faintest inkling. How delicious it was to be in possession of this tantalising fact and how utterly frustrating to have no one to share it with. Where was Ceddie? He ought to be here. It was absolutely maddening that he wasn’t.

  She picked up a magazine and flicked aimlessly through the pages, barely affording them a glance. With increasing frequency, she gazed at the clock on the mantelpiece. It seemed to her impatient mind that the hands had stopped or, if not halted exactly, that they crawled forward at the slowest of snail paces; certainly they barely moved. She got up and began to pace the room. It was likely to be simply ages before anyone returned. She couldn’t possibly be expected to wait and keep what she knew to herself. It was beyond human endurance. She sat down hard on the sofa. To stay here and do nothing when goodness knew what was taking place in the foyer …

  Lavinia leapt up from her seat. After all, there was no earthly reason why she had to remain here. She was not a child that had been banished to its room. There was nothing to stop her wandering over to the entrance hall of the hotel. What could be more natural than that she should wish to study the list of organised excursions that was affixed to a wooden board at one end of the foyer?

  The thought had no sooner taken hold than she had sailed out of the room and was crossing the terrace. A moment later and she had collided with the Misses Trimble, who happened to be out for a stroll and were trying to decide, with little success, where to walk which did not involve either the cliff or the beach.

  ‘Oh dear, Lady Lavinia, I was only saying to my dear sister that I don’t know whether I shall ever be able to bring myself to stand on the edge of the cliff again. The view is quite spectacular, of course, but I know for certain it will conjure up the most awful images. When one thinks what happened to poor Mr Dewhurst –’

  ‘I shouldn’t think about it if I were you,’ said Lavinia quickly. ‘Much better to come back to my rooms with me and have some tea. I don’t know about you, but I am simply famished.’

  Before they could reply, Lavinia had rather expertly herded the two Trimble sisters towards the Belvederes’ quarters. A quarter of an hour later and they were comfortably ensconced with a good selection of cakes and sipping from fine bone china teacups. Only then did Lavinia impart her news with much made of the fact that she was taking Misses Hyacinth and Peony into her confidence, and really they mustn’t breathe a word of what she told them to another living soul.

  ‘Mr Thurlow!’ squealed Miss Hyacinth, very clearly agitated. ‘Why, surely dear Lady Lavinia, there must be some mistake?’ Such a very pleasant young man, always so courteous. I can hardly believe him to be a murderer. And he’s spent some time in prison, you say? Dear me, how dreadful …’

  Miss Hyacinth prattled
on in a similar fashion for a full five minutes. Her sister, in contrast, remained silent. This, in itself, was not particularly remarkable, Miss Peony being known for saying very few words in company, preferring instead to retreat into the shadows and hide behind her deafness. On this occasion, however, even a casual observer might have noticed that, at mention of Mr Thurlow’s imminent arrest, she had turned very pale and the knuckles of her hands, which she clasped tightly together, showed white.

  A few minutes later and Miss Peony had claimed a headache which necessitated that she must retire to her own room to rest. No, she did not wish Hyacinth to accompany her. Much better that her sister remain here so that she, Peony, could have some peace and quiet. Besides, it would be much more pleasant for her sister than to tend to the needs of a patient.

  Miss Peony set out towards the room that she shared with her sister. Once arrived, she closed the door securely behind her and locked it. Next she drew the thin material, that served as a curtain, across the window. A part of her was even tempted to close the shutters, but she decided that one had to draw a line somewhere. It would have surprised her sister very much to know that Miss Peony’s next move was not to take to her bed. Instead, she sat behind the smallest of tables, lit a candle and pulled a sheet of notepaper slowly towards her, all the while contemplating what to write.

  How, she wondered, did one address a murderer? One could hardly write “Dear Murderer”, but then “Sir” or “Madam” seemed hardly to suffice. After some deliberation, she settled on: “To whom it may concern.” She knew the identity of the intended reader, of course, but the fear that her letter might fall into the hands of others, for whom it was not meant, made her adopt caution. Next, she had to decide what to write. That in itself was difficult enough and, after several false starts, she had just completed writing the letter to her satisfaction when Miss Hyacinth came gliding into the room. Miss Peony, hoping the ink had dried sufficiently, hastily covered the sheet of notepaper with a convenient book which happened to be lying on the table.

  ‘Oh, Peony, I thought you’d be sound asleep. You do still look a little bit peaky, you know, dear.’ Miss Hyacinth settled herself down on the sofa. She stared inquisitively at the book, for her sister was not a habitual reader. ‘I’ve been having the most splendid little chat with Lady Lavinia. We thought it would be a frightfully kind gesture if we were to give the duchess a little box of sweetmeats. What do you think, dear?’

  ‘I think,’ said Miss Peony gruffly, ‘that you’re beginning to sound a great deal like Lady Lavinia. It will be interesting to see what our little village of Clyst Birch makes of it.’

  ‘We thought it would show the duchess that we were all thinking of her,’ continued her sister, not at all deterred by her reception. ‘She must be feeling dreadfully alone at this sad time.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Miss Peony, with feeling. ‘The woman brought it on herself, carrying on with a man that’s hardly out of short trousers while she has a husband tucked up in a castle and pining for her.’

  ‘We thought we would sign it “from your fellow hotel guests”, though, the way you’re carrying on, dear, perhaps we should write “from your fellow hotel guests, with the exception of Miss Peony Trimble.”’

  Her sister croaked with laughter in the manner that was peculiar to her.

  ‘Really, Peony, dear,’ said Miss Hyacinth, standing up, ‘you do sound rather like a frog when you make that sound. I do hope you’ll never do it in company.’ She fluttered about the room. ‘But I take it from your laughter that you have no objection to being included among the hotel guests sending their condolences to the duchess?’

  Miss Peony gave a snort which might have been interpreted in several ways. Miss Hyacinth chose to interpret it as one of acquiescence. She gave a furtive glance at her sister. Miss Peony looked thoroughly bored by the subject. Well, she would say no more about it. Her sister caught her eye. It is quite possible that it occurred to her that she had been rather churlish because the next minute she said, no doubt pretending an interest she did not possess:

  ‘I suppose it is you who are putting the sweetmeats together rather than that Lady Lavinia?’ Her sister nodded, wincing a little at the common nature of Miss Peony’s language. Really, anyone would think, listening to her, that she had been born in the gutter instead of being the daughter of a respectable clergyman. ‘I suppose,’ continued Miss Peony, quite oblivious to her sister’s thoughts, ‘that you’ll be wanting me to tie it up with one of those fancy bows I’m so good at doing?’

  ‘Oh, would you?’ exclaimed Miss Hyacinth, clapping her hands together in childish glee. ‘It would be awfully good of you if you would.’

  ‘Hmm,’ grunted Miss Peony, which Miss Hyacinth interpreted as being a “yes”.

  Miss Hyacinth, easily pleased, proceeded to sit at her dressing table and apply cold cream to her face while murmuring how drying to the skin the Grecian sun was, and did Peony know that Lady Lavinia applied cold cream to her face at least five times a day?

  No, Peony did not know how many times Lady Lavinia applied cold cream to her face each day, and neither was she the faintest bit interested in such a trivial piece of information. Rather, her thoughts returned to the sheet of notepaper concealed beneath the book. After a quick look at Miss Hyacinth, which assured her that her sister was absorbed with studying nothing better than her own reflection, Miss Peony surreptitiously withdrew the sheet of notepaper from its hiding place and hurriedly reread its contents, whispering the words very quietly to herself as she did so.

  ‘“To whom it may concern. I feel it my duty to inform you that I am in receipt of certain knowledge concerning the murder of Mr Alec Dewhurst. I should like you to know that it was never my intention to reveal this information, indeed that I meant to take it to my grave and would have done so gladly had I not had reason to believe that an innocent person is about to be arrested for his murder. As you will appreciate, I cannot in all conscience stand by and allow this to happen when I am in receipt of the true murderer’s identity. I ask that you do not force my hand. It would be much better for you, I feel sure, if you were to come forward and confess your guilt. A Well-wisher.”’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Rose had mistakenly assumed the other hotel guests would keep to their rooms that evening, and that dinner would be served to them on trays. It had not occurred to her that, having been holed up in their rooms all day, they would be bored of their own company and also that of their immediate companions. It was not that they had been imprisoned, yet they had felt tethered, for most were nervous of venturing too far from their own quarters. The dining room provided a welcome sanctuary and satisfied their craving for company. It also represented a return to some form of normality, albeit a temporary one. For they could dress for dinner, as was their custom, and continue conversations they had begun before Alec Dewhurst’s untimely death. Indeed, they could sit at their usual tables and almost pretend that everything was as it had been before the murder cast its awful, rippling shadow.

  As she entered the room, Rose nodded to her fellow guests. On first glance it appeared most were already there. Mr Vickers and Mr Thurlow were sitting in their habitual places, two solitary figures, one of them loud and mildly inebriated, the other quiet and reflective. The courier had risen from his seat on her entrance, as had Father Adler, a few tables away, who, up to that moment, had been sitting in a troubled silence beside Mabel. The girl might be physically present, yet she gave the impression of being distant in spirit. Rose wondered idly whether the gulf that existed between father and daughter would ever be truly healed. Cedric, Rose noted with amusement, was glaring at Mr Vickers, who had remained resolutely seated. It did not bother her particularly that the private enquiry agent was discourteous. Rather, it made her want to laugh. She wondered whether she was becoming irrational, the effect of having been cooped up in Mr Kettering’s office for hours on end, asking the same questions, prying and probing into others’ private af
fairs in a relentless fashion. At least, she thought, the Misses Trimble appeared unchanged, with Miss Hyacinth prattling on to her sister and the elder Miss Trimble, as always, nodding her head at regular intervals. On closer inspection, however, it appeared Miss Peony was not listening to what her sibling was saying. Indeed, she looked rather vacant, her eyes glazed, as if her thoughts, like Mabel’s, were elsewhere. Wherever they were, they caused her to frown and her eyes to dart about the room in something of a furtive manner, which had Rose intrigued.

  Rose was aware that her own arrival had cast a shadow over the proceedings, that she was being viewed with a degree of wariness. It was a situation that was not unfamiliar to her, for she straddled the precarious line between neighbour and detective. While she might sympathise with her fellow guests’ predicament, she did not share it. They were suspects and witnesses in a murder investigation, and she was their inquisitor.

  Rose’s appearance in the dining room that evening may well have caused conversations to falter and stop, but it did not produce gasps or sharp intakes of breath. These reactions were reserved exclusively for the woman who appeared in the doorway a few minutes later. Every head turned, all eyes drawn to look at the figure that hovered on the threshold of the dining room. She suffered their penetrating gaze without flinching. The woman had drawn herself up to her full height and observed her fellow guests without expression. Only her hands betrayed that she was anxious, her fingers clutching tightly at a little beaded evening bag. She did not move from her position by the door. Having arrived, she gave the impression that she did not know what to do. Should she venture into the room, or turn back and retrace her steps? It is quite possible that it occurred to her that she had made a ghastly mistake. She was a figure of interest and fascination. She could not enter the room without her every movement and expression being scrutinised. Perhaps it was preferable after all to remain in her own rooms with only the well-meaning, but insufferable, Miss Calder for company. On reflection, she thought it was, and was on the very point of retreating when Cedric, the first of those present to collect his senses, advanced forward to greet her.