by Gwen Moffat
‘Watch your feet,’ came Rachel’s disembodied voice. ‘Feel your way over the blocks—but the cracks go deep.’
She lurched over immense and slimy angles to emerge dripping on a wet ledge.
‘Crawl up,’ came the instructions. ‘Feel for the holds.’
‘This is the limit!’ She slipped and struck her knee cap. Pain shot up the nerve to her hip.
‘Are you badly hurt? Should it be stitched?’
She continued crawling in a disgruntled silence and her questing fingers discovered a curious texture, like quilting. ‘How on earth did you get a sleeping bag here?’
‘In a plastic bag. Where are you hurt?’
‘I’m not; it was a ploy to get you to speak.’
‘I thought as much,’ the girl said composedly, ‘but I couldn’t risk not answering. You might have bled to death in the water and then it would have been my fault.’
Miss Pink could just make out a pallor that must be her face. They were in a dark corner facing the back of the cavern. Leaning out she could see Samuel hunched in the boat.
‘Are you warm enough?’ Rachel asked.
‘I’m all right; I won’t be here long.’ Despite herself she sounded as if she were on the defensive.
‘What’s happening in the village?’
Now Miss Pink, who had been trying to discern the other’s expression, blessed the darkness which hid her own.
‘The police are still looking for Thorne, but in London, and the Spitfire hasn’t been found.’ Rachel made no comment. ‘She did die in the fire,’ Miss Pink said gently. ‘She wasn’t killed first.’
‘She was unconscious.’ The tone seemed to imitate that of Miss Pink. ‘She didn’t feel anything.’
‘How was she rendered unconscious?’
A long pause. ‘With a heavy candlestick.’
‘Odd,’ Miss Pink mused. ‘Why not a bottle?’
The atmosphere was heavy with tension.
‘It wasn’t a premeditated murder,’ Rachel said. ‘Things just happened; there was no choice of weapon. It was the first thing that came to hand.’
‘Why did it have to happen at all?’
‘Rage.’ There was a sharp exhalation that could have been a kind of laugh. ‘And that wasn’t intended either. At first it was to be a confrontation: keep away from my family or else. . . . But you know—you saw her poise; even lying in bed she had poise. I was trembling when I went up the stairs. . . .’
‘What did she say?’
‘She seemed surprised. I told her to lay off. She said she’d never had anything to do with Norman. She laughed at me. I hit her.’
‘How many times?’
‘Once. It was a heavy candlestick—pewter; did I say that already? I didn’t mean to hit so hard. Do they all say that? But I thought I’d killed her so I had to set the place on fire to cover up.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘Just brandy: spilled on the bed. I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.’
‘What time did you set the place on fire?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘When did you get back to Riffli?’
‘I don’t know that either but it would be around midnight.’
‘Did you have a car?’
‘Of course not. I went and came back on foot.’ Miss Pink waited. ‘I didn’t cross the river at the bridge in the village but upstream a bit, so no one saw me. And I left Riffli and came back by the front door. Iris was in the kitchen with the telly, and Norman was working in the coach-house. Grandad had gone to bed long before.’
‘Where was the Spitfire parked?’
Rachel gave a small nervous cough. ‘I didn’t notice. It was a dark night, no moon. Since Tony wasn’t there, he’d probably taken the Spitfire.’
‘You think he left before you arrived.’
‘Hell! He wasn’t in the cottage!’
‘So the Spitfire wasn’t there.’
‘I can’t say—’ and now she was starting to lose control. Her voice rose: ‘I wasn’t looking for the bloody car; I was looking for her!’
‘Why did you take the typescript? It wasn’t in the filing cabinet and Thorne had no use for it.’
‘The typescript,’ Rachel said, with a return to composure, ‘was actually on the bed. In fact, she was reading it.’ A pause, then flatly: ‘It provided the kindling.’
Miss Pink felt cold. She reached for the end of the sleeping bag and folded it over her wet thighs. ‘So she denied having an affair with Norman,’ she said conversationally. ‘Why didn’t you believe her?’
She could tell which questions were difficult to answer; the tension might not be tangible but it was obvious. Vibrations, she thought, and waited for an answer.
‘The fog’s coming in,’ Rachel said. ‘The light’s going.’
The sea, which had been brilliant, was now dull and grey. There was no colour beyond the cavern mouth although the sun still shone. Samuel was sitting up straight and staring in their direction.
‘Jakey slashed Norman’s tyres,’ Miss Pink said thoughtfully.
After a while Rachel said: ‘I can deal with Jakey. He’s just a mixed-up kid.’
‘Did you see him last night?’
‘No!’ There was movement and the girl was silhouetted against the light, peering out to sea. ‘You’d better go.’
‘Who are you hiding from?’
‘The police. Who else?’
‘You have to come out some time.’
‘I shall.’
‘When?’
‘When I’m ready.’
‘What good are you doing here, Rachel? Are you here for some purpose?’
The girl had drawn back in the corner. She didn’t answer.
‘What happened last night?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘Nothing.’ It was quick but sullen.
‘What! Iris naked on the kitchen table—covered with burns—and the poker in the fire!’
She heard the hiss of an indrawn breath, a gasp. The girl moved again.
‘What do you want, Miss Pink?’
‘Jakey has disappeared.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘His clothes have been found on the beach.’
‘What beach?’
‘Why, in the bay: below Captain’s Cottage.’
‘Why was he killed?’
‘If Jakey was the accomplice, the presumption would be that the person who murdered Sandra killed Jakey because he knew too much, wouldn’t you say?’
‘That sounds logical.’
‘And yet, out of character,’ Miss Pink observed. ‘Sandra’s death was quick, since she was unconscious when the cottage was set on fire, but drowning takes a long time.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Rachel said with compassion, ‘he was dead before he was put in the water.’
Chapter Fourteen
The birds were quiet as Miss Pink left the cavern, paddling close to the rock in order to avoid the wire. The boat was a blurred shadow on the perimeter of her vision with Samuel immobile in the stern. She was about to call to him when she heard a bizarre sound: the heavy thud of metal on metal, and it seemed to come from the sky. Echoes cracked across the cove like gunfire. For a moment she distrusted her hearing, then she struck out for the boat and saw Samuel turn towards her, his face a caricature of caution, a finger laid across his lips. She rested with her hands on the stern.
‘There are men on top,’ he whispered, ‘bang on the edge of the cliff. I saw them before the fog closed in. They’re climbers: helmets and ropes, but I think Pryce is with them. Listen!’ Indecently loud in that claustrophobic world came the rhythmic blows of a hammer on iron. ‘Where is she?’ he hissed, peering past Miss Pink.
‘She won’t come out; I tried to persuade her but it was no good.’
‘Why not?’
‘She wouldn’t give a reason.’
‘I’ll go in and tell her about the gang on top; she’ll be caught like a rat—’
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‘But they’re not after Rachel! If Pryce were trying to flush her out and using climbers to do it, they’d come down the slab. That’s not easy, but every other line is impossible. But then if he wanted to reach the cavern, he’d do the same as us and come by boat.’
‘What’s he doing on top then?’
They had stopped whispering. Above them the noise continued and the gulls complained raucously. A little breeze got up, rocking the boat.
‘He’s sending someone down that shaft,’ she said grimly. ‘I want to see what’s happening. Take me in for my clothes.’
‘They’ll hear when I start the engine.’
‘You saw them so they have seen you. You’re after lobsters. Start the engine; I’m cold.’
‘And leave Rachel?’
‘We have no choice.’
He took her to the shelf where she peeled off her swimsuit and dressed, blessing the forethought that had made her bring a heavy sweater. After the days of heat the fog was horribly chill.
She stepped back in the boat and Samuel opened the throttle. They curved away to clear the reef. When they looked back they could see nothing, not even the portal of the great cave.
They pottered along the foot of the rock walls on a zig-zag course: going out for the reefs, coming in on the far side of them. They had no compass and they dared not lose sight of land, however forbiddingly it loomed above them. The only relief in that towering shade was the white plumage of the razorbills.
They landed at Pentref’s cove.
‘But we can’t leave the boat here,’ Samuel protested. ‘It’ll be dark in half an hour with this fog.’
‘Then it will have to stay overnight.’
They hid the outboard motor behind a rock and started up the ravine. Miss Pink walked fast and Samuel was too breathless to ask questions until they came out on the level ground where she had walked yesterday with Rachel.
‘What did she tell you?’ he gasped.
‘She confessed to the murder.’
‘Never! Who’s she protecting? Jakey, of course.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Why do you hope so?’
‘It could mean he’s still alive.’
His astonished eyes searched her face. ‘Apart from that, did she tell you anything useful: anything that helps?’
‘Oh yes.’ She lengthened her stride.
‘You do walk fast. What’s the hurry?’
‘I can’t say—but things are speeding up; don’t you feel it? As if someone’s getting desperate, panicking. What has Pryce found in that shaft?’
‘Oh, that’s where the shaft is! You said it was a dead sheep.’
‘Pritchard said there were no sheep here.’
A figure wavered in the gloom and her eyes narrowed as she recognised Carter, a pair of field glasses slung round his neck. None of them spoke. On the right a low bank showed against the background of space and she turned aside, Samuel trotting after her until he realised where he was and sat down abruptly like a stubborn dog. She continued alone down the miners’ track.
The light was almost gone. At the foot of the track forms clustered like gargoyles on the edge of the abyss. At the sound of her footsteps they turned and she was aware of uniforms, and uniform expressions: pallor and the sweat of fear. They huddled inside the parapet as if it were a barricade against the depths. The farthest man was Pryce, and Williams crouched behind him. A few feet away on the ledge at the top of the shaft stood two men in climbing gear. They wore leather gauntlets and they were taking the strain of taut ropes running into the shaft.
‘Evening,’ Pryce announced in an artificial voice. ‘Just your scene, this.’
‘You do get around,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Who is it?’ but she knew.
A bony hand appeared on the lip of the shaft and light gleamed on a red helmet.
‘It’s twisting,’ a voice said. ‘Wait—heave when he comes clear—when I say.’
‘Don’t damage him!’ Pryce cried.
‘Hell, man, you can’t help it,’ exclaimed one of the men at the top. The other asked coldly: ‘How would you like to come and do the job yourself?’ No one answered him. In the silence Miss Pink thought she could hear the tide-race running.
The third rescuer moved up, supported by his toes and a taut rope, straining at something which had not yet showed and which no one, basically, wanted to see.
There was a pale flash, pale brown, humped, with the backbone prominent, and then the rest of it, naked. They hoisted it over the edge, still in that rigid hooped position but one arm, the left, twisted back, revealing the ribs streaked and caked with dry blood. It was Jakey and he had been stabbed.
There was a change in the atmosphere and as Miss Pink tried to identify it she was aware of colour: of blue—and the vividness of shirts and helmets, of green ferns in cracks. She saw that Pryce’s eyes were frantic with the compulsion to step forward and terror of the drop—and this jumble of impressions was pierced by a thread of sound: urgent, commanding. On the skyline a man was shouting and pointing, pointing down.
The fog hadn’t gone; it had merely parted. Below them was a glimpse of wrinkled water, of birds like drifting snowflakes, and of the slab with more fog rolling up the rock and a figure in jeans and a white shirt creeping in front of it.
The figure stepped out on top, glanced casually towards the funnel and was swallowed up in the cloud.
Pryce looked at his men and they looked back at him stonily. There was nothing he could do. Only climbers could follow her and he had no justification for asking them to do so.
Miss Pink started up the track but before she’d gone a few yards he caught her up, slithering in his town shoes. He passed, very red in the face, and she plodded behind, almost dawdling but her mind racing.
Samuel stood at the top of the track, his eyes on Pryce’s retreating back. He turned to Miss Pink.
‘What was Carter shouting about?’
‘Rachel climbed out and made off towards Pentref.’ His eyes widened in delight but she was grim. ‘And Jakey was in the shaft. Stabbed.’
‘Christ!’
The fog was thick again. She led the way to the stile.
‘Do we do anything about Rachel?’ he asked.
‘She can take care of herself on this ground. Let’s find Pryce.’
They found him in the first field beyond the boundary bank, where there was a group of cars. He was using the radio on one of them while Carter stood at the open door, listening attentively.
Pryce finished and stood up. He was as pale now as he’d been flushed before. ‘I’m sealing this place off,’ he said. ‘I’ve sent for more cars.’
‘Why?’ Samuel exploded.
Pryce showed no surprise at his vehemence. ‘There’s been two murders, and the killer—’ he looked from Samuel to Carter reflectively, ‘—is still here. So are several witnesses who haven’t talked yet—like that boy.’ He gestured towards the funnel. ‘And,’ he added softly, ‘like Mrs Kemp, whom I’ve not had the opportunity of talking to as yet.’
‘You’ve eliminated Thorne?’ Miss Pink asked curiously.
‘How many killers have we got?’ They accepted this as rhetorical. He continued, with an air of conscious drama: ‘Thorne was picked up in Dover last night, trying to get across the Channel on a false passport. He was identified this afternoon.’ He turned to Carter. ‘And who are you, sir?’
‘My name is Carter. I was Sandra Maitland’s agent.’
Pryce’s face didn’t change but he was holding his breath. ‘Indeed,’ he said at last, ‘and you have something to tell me, Mr Carter.’ It wasn’t a question. He looked hard at Miss Pink who returned the look blandly, nodded and turned away. Samuel fell into step beside her.
They went to Riffli where they found Roderick with Norman in the drawing room. Miss Pink was shocked to see how tired everyone looked—except for Iris, pouring brandy competently and without orders, handing Miss Pink a generous measure with a predictable: ‘That�
��ll do you good; you look as if you’ve had a long day.’
‘Have yer seen Rachel?’ Roderick barked.
‘We have.’
‘Good. Where is she?’
‘On the cliffs.’
‘Huh. Did she come home with yer?’
‘No.’
‘Couldn’t you get her to come home?’ Norman asked, his tone resigned.
‘No.’
‘Yer a bit curt, Melinda; what’s on yer mind, eh?’
‘Rachel. She confessed to the murder.’
Norman gasped. ‘What—’
‘Rubbish!’ Iris turned back from the door as she was about to leave. ‘She’s having you on.’
‘Fantasising,’ Norman said.
Roderick was blinking at them. He turned to Miss Pink. ‘Why’d she say that, Mel?’ His tone was mildly curious.
She shrugged and smiled. Samuel’s face was blank.
‘If you ask my opinion,’ Iris said heavily, ‘she’s protecting that young imp, Jakey Jones. He’s in London right now, you mark my words. Those clothes on the beach wouldn’t fool a baby.’
‘So you reckon he joined up with Thorne, do you?’ Norman asked. ‘Always one for the main chance: that’s our Jakey. And if Thorne’s selling Sandra’s book, Jakey’ll be there for his cut.’
‘I doubt it,’ Miss Pink said.
‘Oh, you don’t think he went to London?’ he asked with interest.
Roderick leaned back against the sofa, watching her.
‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘He was stabbed last night and the body put down the old mine shaft on the headland.’
Norman gaped at her. They were all silent until Roderick barked: ‘What’s that mean?’
‘Thorne.’ Norman swallowed. ‘He came back.’
‘He was in custody last night,’ Miss Pink said. ‘The police caught him at Dover.’
Iris said unhappily: ‘This will be the death of Thirza. Someone ought to be with her.’
‘Caradoc’s there.’ Norman gnawed a thumb nail. ‘I’m thinking of Rachel. Does she know about Jakey?’
‘She saw us all gathered round the shaft,’ Miss Pink said. ‘With the rescuers there she’d draw her own conclusions.’
‘She’ll be all right,’ Roderick said comfortably. ‘How was Jakey killed?’
‘He was stabbed.’