by Gwen Moffat
‘Well, wrong if there was no ulterior motive.’ She stood up. As she moved towards the door, he followed diffidently, the kitten in the crook of his elbow.
‘I don’t like the sound of that. What kind of ulterior motive?’
‘I don’t know.’ She paused with her hand on the thumb latch. ‘And I don’t like it either.’
*
‘Just the person we want to see,’ Pryce said fruitily as Williams stopped the car on the bridge. He climbed out, wiping his forehead. ‘Park on the quay, sergeant.’ He surveyed the harbour with satisfaction. ‘I’ve worked in worse places. Does the name George Harte mean anything to you? Harte with an “e”?’
Miss Pink was watching a black-back scavenging on the tide-line. ‘George Harte. No, it means nothing to me. What does he do?’
‘He is—was Sandra Maitland’s agent.’
‘Oh.’ Her eyes jumped to Samuel’s cottage, in full view beyond the green. He said nothing. ‘You got an answer to that one quickly.’
‘That’s how it goes sometimes: a flood of information then, perhaps, a lull.’ His face hardened. ‘We’ve had reports on the fire. A couple travelling late pulled their caravan into a lay-by on the main road,’ he gestured up the river, ‘and they saw the glow a few minutes before midnight. Then a farmer, coming back from town, saw it about ten past twelve. He’d been drinking, the caravanners were strangers; neither reported it until this morning when the news got round about the fire. Started early, didn’t it?’
Sergeant Williams had walked back from the quay and stood regarding her with his spaniel eyes.
Miss Pink said slowly: ‘She couldn’t have been drunk. She was sober at eleven and an hour later the fire must have had a good hold. A glow suggests flames coming through the roof.’
‘That cottage,’ he said heavily, ‘was treated for woodworm last winter, at the same time as it was re-wired. It must have gone up like a tinder-box.’
‘She didn’t have a chance! But then—’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘Why was she still in bed? You’d expect to find the body under the window—no, there were only skylights. . . . And the floor had collapsed. Even then you’d expect to find a body anywhere except on the bed.’
‘Did it never occur to you that it might not have been an accident?’
‘No.’ She stared towards the moored boats but she didn’t see them. ‘There was a possibility,’ she confessed. ‘I refused to consider it.’
‘But if you had, you’d have thought there were a lot of coincidences, eh?’
‘As you do.’
‘As we do. A person burned to death in bed is either dead-drunk or—otherwise incapacitated.’
Miss Pink swallowed. ‘Dead already?’
‘Or unconscious. The post mortem might tell us something; the lungs may be whole. Soot in the air passages will indicate that she died in the fire, but she could have been unconscious when it started.’
‘That’s vile.’
‘I think that too.’
Williams shifted his feet and, catching her eye, nodded agreement. Her face was stony.
‘What would be the motive?’ she asked. ‘He didn’t have to kill her in order to steal the book.’
Pryce looked surprised. ‘If you reverse that, it makes more sense. From what we’ve gathered, those two were tensed up from the moment the reporters arrived first thing, yet they didn’t have a moment to themselves all day until eleven that night. Then—a quarrel, violence, and him thinking she was dead, and the fire started to cover the crime. On the other hand, it’s possible that it’s Thorne in the cottage, in which case we’re looking for Sandra Maitland. There’s only one body. The post mortem will tell us which one it is.’
‘How do you explain the car not being outside when the television men arrived last evening?’
‘Ah.’ His eyes were like chips of rock. ‘That’s nasty, isn’t it? That looks like premeditation. And there’s that telephone call to Fleet Street. I’ve got men looking for people who saw strange cars after dark. The day trippers had gone home but the position’s complicated by the reporters’ cars. Were they meant to complicate matters? Another coincidence? That someone should ring Fleet Street and get a horde of strangers down here only a few hours before she dies—or someone dies—and a very valuable property’s stolen?’ His voice changed. ‘Thorne could have made that call.’
‘Not from the cottage.’
‘Why not? The girl was drunk already when she left Mr Bowen’s party.’
Beyond the two policemen she saw Samuel approaching across the green.
‘None of this explains why the Spitfire wasn’t outside the cottage late last evening.’
‘I’ve no doubt that will fall into place in good time. Perhaps when we find the agent.’
Samuel had stopped and was looking at the yachts. She frowned. ‘You don’t think he was down here!’
‘He certainly wasn’t in his flat. Oh yes, we found that. Not too difficult; The Sketch put us on to some publishers who’d seen part of the book: the firm that turned it down. They had Harte’s address: a flat in Kensington. Neighbours say he’s a middle-aged man who minds his own business. We’ll get more in time. He hasn’t got a record, not under the name of Harte anyway.’
‘You’ve entered the flat?’
‘Not so far. It’s under surveillance—’
Williams was signalling to him with his eyes. Samuel had come up and was waiting. Pryce turned and studied him as Miss Pink made the introductions.
‘I think,’ Samuel said with decision, ‘I have to talk to you.’ He avoided Miss Pink’s eye. ‘Perhaps you’d step over to my cottage. You see, I wrote the book.’
Chapter Nine
Sparrows were foraging under an open window in Riffli’s yard and the sound of sawing came from an outhouse. Norman Kemp looked up as Miss Pink’s shadow blocked the light. He was wearing old jeans and a faded fisherman’s smock. He straightened his back and gave her a faint smile.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Pink?’ His voice rose in a question.
‘Good afternoon. Is Rachel about?’
‘She’s gone for a walk.’
‘She was going to show me some plants.’
‘She must have forgotten.’
‘That’s not surprising; you’ve all had a bad shock.’
He nodded miserably. ‘How’s Roderick? We’ve not seen him since breakfast time but Doreen rang and gave us the news. How’s he taken it? Doreen was rather non-committal.’
‘He took it very well, considering. He’s not what you’d call fragile.’ She smiled.
‘Perhaps people can absorb shocks better as they get older. That’s more than I can say for myself. But won’t you come in?’
He moved towards the door and she fell back and glanced round the yard. In one corner was a barn with a flight of stone steps against its gable-end. Raw timber uprights were in position on its outer edge.
He followed her gaze. ‘He’s definitely not fragile. That’s where he took his tumble. I’m putting up a handrail. He hasn’t seen it yet. There’ll be ructions when he does.’
‘Coffee, Norman?’ Iris MacNally stood at Riffli’s back door, solid and respectable in a tight brown dress. ‘It’s Miss Pink, isn’t it? We were just going to have coffee. Won’t you join us?’
‘I’ve come at lunch time.’ Miss Pink was apologetic.
‘No; we have it early.’
‘Local custom,’ Norman explained, ushering her indoors and along a stone passage past an open door with a glimpse of slate shelves and huge earthenware crocks.
The kitchen was shaded but hot. On the table flan cases and cakes were cooling on wire trays.
‘Baking day,’ Iris told her superfluously, clearing a space. ‘I should give you coffee in the drawing room but we’re all at sixes and sevens today, what with one thing and another. Did Mr Bowen say when he was coming home?’
Miss Pink took off her rucksack and sat down. ‘No, he didn’t. Ha
ve the police been here yet?’
Norman stared at her. Iris said comfortably: ‘Not yet. How could we help?’
‘About the time of the fire.’ Miss Pink glanced at the window. ‘You’re on high ground. The glow might have been visible from the upper storey.’
‘Oh, I don’t—’ Norman began, and looked at Iris. ‘Would we—?’
‘It doesn’t make any odds.’ She took a coffee pot from the side of the stove. ‘We didn’t see it—at least, I didn’t. You couldn’t have seen from the yard but I suppose we might have noticed when we went to bed. What time was it?’
Miss Pink accepted a cup of coffee. ‘It must have started soon after eleven; the glow was seen just before midnight.’
‘Goodness!’ Iris reached for Norman’s cup. ‘Who saw it?’
‘A farmer and some visitors.’
Norman shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t have seen anything from the yard because the outside light was on. I was working late on the handrail. What time did I come in, Iris?’
‘It was midnight exactly; I looked at the time. I was tired and I wanted to lock up.’
‘I had to get the uprights in position when the old man was in bed; you know that. And you were watching telly so you weren’t waiting for me.’
Miss Pink looked round the kitchen.
‘Where were you watching television?’
‘In here. I bring my portable down when the others have gone to bed because the sound might keep them awake. Noise carries in this house. Now when did I go up for it? They’d have gone to bed so it would be after ten.
‘Perhaps Rachel—?’ Norman was curiously diffident.
‘No,’ Iris said firmly. ‘Take a bun, Miss Pink. Rachel would have been asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.’ Her eyes met the man’s for an instant. There was a strained silence.
‘We—I never got a chance to thank you—’ Norman was having difficulty completing his sentences today. ‘I mean, you stopped a nasty scene at the party. We appreciate it.’ He was stilted, on his dignity.
‘Mr Bowen’s hospitality was too lavish,’ Miss Pink said solemnly. ‘And Sandra’s entrance came as rather a surprise.’
He looked at her doubtfully. ‘I meant Rachel. The point is, she’s on tranquillisers, and she’s not supposed to mix them with alcohol. It doesn’t need much; she had hardly anything that night, I was watching her. But she’s never made a scene like that before—’
‘Miss Pink doesn’t want to hear about our troubles.’ Iris was sharp. She went on smoothly: ‘There’s nothing wrong with Rachel; she’s highly strung.’
‘You weren’t there—’
‘I heard about it. I’m sure I’d have been upset if a woman like that walked into my lounge, and it is her home, Norman. Mr Bowen should have consulted her before inviting anyone, let alone—well, we all know about Miss Maitland. Actually I’m sorry I missed her; quite a sight, Jones said: diamonds and a white fur! Did you ever!’
‘She’s dead, Iris.’
The woman put a hand to her mouth. ‘There, I was forgetting. Poor thing. I used to smoke but I made a point of never smoking in bed. That’s how so many accidents happen.’
‘Particularly if you’re drunk,’ Norman put in.
‘We all have problems.’ Miss Pink found the housekeeper’s platitudes trying but she gave no sign of it. The woman droned on: ‘She had no friends down here from what I gather, only the man she was living with, and Jones hadn’t a good word to say for him. A lout, he said. Mind you—’ she smiled, ‘—Jones hasn’t a good word for anybody except the Lord.’ It didn’t raise a smile from Norman. ‘But I suppose Thorne was a kind of—’ She hesitated.
‘Pimp is the term,’ Norman said, ‘with all due respect.’
‘As I said: she had her problems. From all accounts she was attractive too.’
‘She was beautiful,’ Miss Pink said.
‘Really? I should have met her. I never ran into either of them.’
When she left, Norman followed Miss Pink into the yard.
‘Where are you off to now?’ he asked.
‘I thought I’d go on the cliffs. I might find Rachel.’
‘I hope you do. You mustn’t take any notice of Iris; she’s a nice old stick but she’s a bit dim. She mothers us all, but particularly Rachel.’ They were strolling round the corner of the house. ‘This path will bring you out to the cliffs. I was saying: Rachel’s been a bit uptight lately; she’s on these tranquillisers and she does drink with them. The combination has weird effects at times.’
‘Such as?’
He was embarrassed. ‘Difficult to explain. She seems miles away: living in a world of her own—I mean, when she’s drinking. It’s physical, of course, something to do with the effects of the drugs—two drugs—on the brain. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure she’s quite with it. . . . It’s all right in the daytime, when it’s just the tablets, but in the evening she’ll have a sherry or two and after a while she gets hazy and then she just flakes out.’ He looked harassed. ‘And in the morning she can’t remember what happened.’
‘She must have a reason for taking tranquillisers.’
‘It’s a combination of circumstances,’ he assured her. ‘And it’s snowballed lately. Rachel always has to be involved. She wants to dive in the deep end every time and then she exhausts herself. First there was the nuclear campaign, then we met and we came back here, but the campaign’s over and she’s got nothing to do. Oh, I know the place is falling down and there’s enough to keep me busy for years, but I’m happy to take work as it comes, and the interesting jobs are a man’s work. And Rachel can’t start slapping paint on windows when the frames are all rotten. She helps Iris, but Iris is quite capable of running the house on her own; she lets Rachel help, like for therapy: knows it does her good if she feels she’s indispensable. Trouble is: basically she’s superfluous; that’s what she says. The idle poor, she calls herself. So she just slopes around the place. . . . That’s another thing: she goes out in the dark to watch the Longheads coming out, like badgers. I don’t like it. It’s morbid. I mean, archaeology’s all right but I find all this concentration on the death bit unhealthy. Cracking their victims’ skulls to get the brains out and eat them! It’s wild!’
‘Wrong culture,’ Miss Pink murmured.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It does seem a little—perhaps Rachel’s something of a late developer; some youngsters do go through a phase of being fascinated by death.’
‘If you find her, will you talk with her: try and draw her out? I don’t think she tells Doreen much, if anything. Maybe she only tells me. She tells me a lot,’ he added gloomily, then his face lightened. ‘Iris is a help for all she’s so thick. She’s reassuring—a bit too much at times. I think you should try and face facts.’
*
The Corn cromlech consisted of three upright slabs supporting a massive capstone. As Miss Pink approached, sheep emerged from the shadowed space beneath and moved away, redolent of hot wool and dung. An abandoned tractor stood in the next field. Despite local custom it would appear that the Pritchards indulged in a protracted lunch hour.
She came to the heath and followed sheep paths through the gorse, not bothering to make a noise for she felt that even an adder would not expose its body to the heat today. All around her the gorse pods were popping in the sun and the strongest smell, above salt and guano, was of scorched grass.
She came to the new fence above the funnel and, crossing it by a rudimentary stile, swung down the miners’ track to the top of the great slab.
She stood on the lip and tried to imagine Rachel’s feelings as she launched herself out on this sweep of rock (sound but appallingly smooth) with no more security than confidence in her own prowess. Or was it a matter of negative values and Rachel did not know fear?
The slab was empty now and nothing moved in the water a hundred feet below except the dusky forms of the young shag. There was no sign of the old fencing that Pritchar
d had tipped down the funnel. It occurred to her that, despite everything, the wire would form a very efficient obstruction to people in boats who might want to approach the cavern, and then she wondered if the tipping had been deliberate: to protect the kittiwake colony. Roderick was a devious old man and the Pritchards an unknown quantity.
She trudged back to the top of the funnel and turned west, arriving in about a quarter of a mile at an empty cottage which she had passed yesterday. Below it was a ravine running down to the sea and there were signs of a path, cropped by sheep and fringed by head-high bracken. Following it downhill she came on the foundations of a number of hut circles. Some of the stones were black and, using a rock as a hammer, she chipped a corner of black stone and underneath it was grey. Did that mean that twentieth century people camped here or that soot could last thousands of years?
Below the site a stream gurgled down steps of boulder clay, its level stretches choked by mint and watercress. A peacock butterfly rested on a stone, grasshoppers clashed like cicadas, and the scent of honeysuckle hung on the heavy air.
The stream slid through a channel where carmine cranesbill made a frieze against the sea. The path swung down to a sandy cove backed by chunky pearl-coloured rock. Off to one side stood a big square stack capped by grass and dotted with herring gulls. Its base was exposed by the receding tide and, crouched in the classic pose of a child above a rock pool, was a figure in a white shirt, but the tawny hair was unmistakable.
Miss Pink looked longingly at the water, jade above the shallows, then took off her rucksack and sat down, wincing at the touch of hot sand. Behind her the bracken slopes rose to an aching blue sky and in front, a chough dropped off the plum-red stack with a piercing “kee-or!” Rachel glanced up and saw the watcher on the beach. She came wading through the water, her jeans rolled to her knees, her track shoes in one hand, a clutch of shells in the other. Miss Pink beamed at her.
‘Is that chough nesting?’
‘Yes, they always nest in that place: under the overhang. They’ve got four young. It’s nice to see you.’ She was polite rather than enthusiastic. She sat down and placed her shells on the sand. Miss Pink inspected them with interest.