by Gwen Moffat
‘Why is she on tranquillisers?’ she asked.
He shook his head helplessly. ‘I—don’t—know. I’ve never known. She used to tell me everything, and now she’s withdrawn; she’s on the defensive. Even last night she was tight as a spring but still in control, even if the control was paper-thin. She wasn’t giving anything away.’
‘She used to come to you before she was married: during the nuclear campaign?’
‘Lord, yes! We were living in each other’s pockets then. Terrific fun; sometimes we were up most of the night planning.’
‘You never got depressed?’
‘Not with Roderick around. How could we?’ He stopped and thought about this. ‘Subconsciously it must have had its effect on Rachel though because Norman says she dreams about it: Hiroshima, you know, and the radiation burns . . . Burns,’ he repeated thoughtfully, and stared at her. ‘Norman says she sleeps badly, and then there’s this thing she’s got about the Longheads; it used not to be like that: the cannibalism bit. . . . There’s a very unhealthy atmosphere around here, don’t you think? Horrible deaths, this recurrent motif of fire and burns; it’s not surprising that she’s on tranquillisers. All the same,’ he added, ‘she was remarkably sane last night; balanced, I mean. You’d never have thought there was anything wrong, except—’
‘Except what?’
‘She seemed—ruthless. That’s new. Now, if she’d been like this before, someone who didn’t know her might be justified in considering her as a murder suspect, but up till now she’s been passionate, lost—floundering, I thought, in something—God knows what. Bewildered, she seemed. Last night she wasn’t. She frightened me.’
He drove her to Cae Coch for her car. The fog had gone. There was a patrol car in the lay-by at the road junction, another near the turning to Cae Coch. Expressionless drivers watched them pass and on the rising ground north of the main road were stationary figures sited in such a fashion that, with binoculars, they must have the length of the road in view from bay to bay.
‘She could be on the mountain,’ Samuel said.
‘There’s no cover on the mountain,’ she responded absently. ‘She could hide under a rock but she’d have to move in front of a sweep search and then she’d be visible immediately to watchers below the mountain. It would be like beating a wood; the quarry’s got to show. So she’ll stay on the cliffs—’ she glanced sideways at him, ‘—unless she’s made other arrangements.’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
She left him at Cae Coch, placating Parry Lobsters who, with the peasant’s unfailing instinct for drama, maintained that his boat was lost although he’d known, since Samuel informed him last night, that it was beached in Pentref’s cove. She drove back to the village and Riffli. Norman Kemp appeared at the back door as her car entered the yard. She greeted him affably and asked for Roderick. He was telephoning in the passage. She nodded and walked past and out to the front lawn. Norman did not follow.
After a few moments Roderick joined her and they stood with their backs to the house looking down through the Scots pines to the sparkling sea.
‘That was Pryce on the phone,’ he said. ‘He’s sending for a rescue team to search the cliffs now that the fog’s gone. The climbers will do the slopes; his own men will be on the top.’
‘What’s he searching for?’
‘The weapon, he said. They’re going along the bottom too, in boats. She’ll dodge ’em.’ He twinkled at her. ‘Oh yes, I know what’s in his mind; he thinks she’s a killer.’ He gave a cackle of laughter.
‘When did you change your mind?’ she asked pleasantly.
His amusement died and he glowered at her. ‘Always knew she had nothing to do with it.’
‘With what?’
‘Why, that poor girl. As for Jakey Jones—’ he shrugged, ‘—could have been anyone.’
‘What about the branch on the granary steps?’
‘Yes.’ He was sombre. ‘That was probably Jakey.’
‘Why did you retract? At first you said it was an attempt on your life but after Sandra died you said you’d been mistaken.’
‘Didn’t want ter attract attention,’ he mumbled. ‘Sensed trouble when we found that cottage burned out, and she’d never tried ter get off the bed even. None of that had anything ter do with an attempt on me own life, of course, but the police would be interested if they knew about the branch and me fall, however much of a coincidence it was. Didn’t want attention focused on Riffli at that moment.’
‘Because of Rachel.’ It was a statement of fact.
He was embarrassed. ‘Bad enough for Pryce ter know Sandra came ter me party; no need for him ter know anything else.’
‘What made Rachel so hostile to her?’
He snorted and muttered under his breath. She caught something about ‘wild oats’. She said firmly. ‘Rachel has never given any indication to me of being unbalanced.’
‘Of course not!’ he exploded. ‘Just a touch of nerves.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s Iris’s term for it, but Rachel don’t talk much to us, yer know; Norman comes in for most of it. He’s a good feller; he can handle it although it seems ter be getting him down of late. Nothing in the story about Sandra, yer know; Rachel’s a bit possessive, that’s all.’
‘As with Jakey.’
A ladybird alighted on his wrist and he studied it with intense interest.
‘Feudal?’ she hazarded. He looked lost. ‘The Bowens haven’t forgotten a time when they were the law,’ she told him.
His face was all innocence. ‘Yer not taken in by that! Delusions of grandeur aren’t in our line. She didn’t take the law into her own hands and kill Jakey.’
‘She’d have some difficulty carrying him to the funnel certainly.’
‘Not if he was killed on the cliffs,’ he said absently, then raised his head and looked at her without expression.
‘She’d take the knife with her?’ She smiled. So did he. ‘Does blood worry her?’ she asked, as if on a new tack.
He blinked. ‘No; now that you ask: no. Why?’
‘What about injured animals? Does she panic?’
‘Of course not; she helps Pritchard, or did before her marriage. She’s very handy on the farm: lambing, calving, not in the least squeamish. You can’t be on a farm; some of the sights are very unpleasant: blow-fly maggots, fractures. Common sense, most of it; First Aid’s a help—yer can adapt, improvise.’
‘Rachel’s done First Aid?’ she asked idly.
‘Not Rachel, no. I’m the First Aider,’ he said proudly, puffing out his chest. ‘I’m the local secretary; we get a St John’s chap to run lectures in the winter.’
‘Here?’
‘Right here, at Riffli. We’ve no village hall, d’yer see. That’s why Pryce has had to bring in his mobile murder centre, or whatever he calls it. Great caravan, down on the quay. How much d’yer bet someone won’t take the brake off and it falls in the water?’
‘You’re very cheerful.’
He walked away a few steps, then turned back to her. ‘How d’yer expect me to behave? Run round like a hen with its head chopped off bleating: “Who did it”? I don’t know who did it but I’m going out on those cliffs and see what’s happening. They’re not hunting me own kin over me own land without me being there ter see fair play. I’m taking me shot gun—’
‘What!’
‘—ter pot a rabbit.’
*
‘I’ll cut some sandwiches,’ Iris said, ‘but if you’re going out on those cliffs, I’m going with you. There’ve been enough accidents.’
Norman gaped at her. Miss Pink said: ‘We’ll all go; I’ll run down and pick up Rupert too.’
‘I’ll ring Samuel,’ Roderick said, and walked out of the kitchen. Norman stared at Miss Pink with anguished eyes.
‘Why don’t you go and have a lie-down for a while,’ Iris urged. ‘You’ve been up most of the night—’
He ignored her and appealed to Miss Pink.
&nb
sp; ‘I’m terrified of her state of mind. . . . It’s got to stop: the drugs and the booze; she doesn’t know where she is half the time—’
‘It’ll work out.’ Iris slapped slices of bread on the table, buttering them with careless efficiency. ‘She’s got everything going for her: family, friends, a lovely home. . . .’
He sighed heavily. ‘I can’t reach her; she goes wandering all over those cliffs in the middle of the night—’
‘Not all that often,’ Iris put in quickly. A look flashed between them. ‘Moonlit nights,’ she stressed. ‘She’s romantic. She doesn’t go out when there’s no moon. She was in Wednesday and Thursday, you see.’
‘Those were the nights of the murders,’ Miss Pink said.
Norman shrugged. ‘Well, it gives her an alibi—for what it’s worth.’
‘Don’t joke about it,’ Iris said reprovingly. ‘She never set foot outside this house on Thursday night.’
‘Except when she came down to the quay in the Mini,’ Miss Pink pointed out.
‘I mean before then. I had a lot to do that evening so I was all over the place. I saw her several times.’
‘I had a drink with her at one point,’ Norman said. ‘And then we all watched a programme for a while: in the dining room because it was so hot in here. Then she went upstairs and she didn’t come down again because she’d have had to pass the dining room door and that was wide open to catch a draught.’
‘Where were you when she ran out of the house?’ Miss Pink asked. He looked blank.
‘With the telly on you wouldn’t hear her come down,’ Iris said. ‘You wouldn’t hear the engine if there was a noisy scene. I heard the engine. That’s odd. . . . Oh, I remember; I was in the downstairs toilet. It’s got a window on the yard.’
‘Yer never told us what she dreamed about,’ Roderick barked from the doorway. ‘I was going to ask her in the morning but she’d gone. What was it, Mel?’
Miss Pink said: ‘It was the kind of hallucination you’d get with something like LSD; it doesn’t seem to equate with a tranquilliser.’
‘LSD?’ Norman gasped, and turned to Iris.
She shook her head. She was packaging sandwiches neatly in greaseproof paper. ‘I know all about Thursday night,’ she said. ‘Rachel told me in the morning. It was a kind of nightmare—nasty, yes, but they don’t have to worry their heads about it, do they, Miss Pink?’
Roderick and Norman started to shout at her, then stopped. Iris placidly worked elastic bands round her packages. ‘Least said, soonest mended,’ she observed.
‘Iris!’ Norman’s tone was dangerous. ‘There’s a murderer loose in this village.’
‘Well, I don’t know—’ she cast a doubtful glance at the window, ‘—it’s not very nice; I’m glad that fog’s gone.’
It silenced them, until Roderick said flatly: ‘It’s not; there’s another bank to the south. Shouldn’t be surprised if it comes in much earlier today. What d’yer say, Mel; shall we go out to the Head?’
She hesitated.
‘I’m coming, Rod,’ Norman said firmly.
‘Right, lad; I’ll get me gun.’
‘Your what?’
They turned towards the window as they heard the sound of an engine coming up the drive. A car came into the yard and Samuel got out.
‘I’d better make some more sandwiches,’ Iris said, as if it were a tea party.
‘You’ll come too?’ Miss Pink pressed. ‘She’ll listen to you.’
Fear leapt in Norman’s eyes. ‘Of course she’ll come! She’s got to come! She’s like a mo—well, like one of the family to Rachel.’ He was trembling.
‘Look,’ Iris said firmly, ‘nothing’s going to happen; she’s just doing it for laughs, that’s all: making monkeys of the police—’ Norman made a stricken gesture. ‘All right,’ she said soothingly, ‘of course I’m coming; maybe it won’t be a bad thing to have all the family—’ Her eyes moved to the doorway. Samuel was standing there, obviously bewildered by the conversation.
‘Everyone’s going up on the cliffs?’ he asked, as if trying to understand a new development.
‘Everyone.’ Miss Pink walked over to him, conveying a message which only he could see. He followed her out to the yard where she opened the driver’s door of her car, stooped to the seat catch, then stepped aside.
‘See if you can push it forward,’ she ordered, and walked round to the passenger door. They struggled with the seat lever, their heads below the dashboard.
‘Keep close to Roderick,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t let anyone else come near him, nor between you. If you can get hold of his gun, do that; you’ll look like an armed bodyguard. And keep back from the edge. Don’t stare at me; struggle with that lever.’
The seat plunged forward. ‘Who d’you think—’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Why don’t you come? Two of us would be much better.’
‘I have to go to the hotel.’
‘Hell! Is that more important than Roderick’s life? And what about Rachel? Or—Oh, no!’
‘There’s something else I have to do. I want you to make sure they all leave Riffli. Hang around until the last one’s gone—but keep Roderick with you if you have to do that. Now go in and get them moving.’
*
Abersaint was now the centre of a double murder investigation and the hotel bar was so crowded that people were drinking outside, on the quay. There was an air of carnival, macabre against the background of flamboyant police cars, the yellow vans of telephone engineers and the big white trailer opposite the fish sheds. Beyond Riffli’s hanging woods the fog was a milky smear obscuring the horizon. Miss Pink frowned as she got out of her car. It could go either way in the fog.
The big reporter called Waterhouse was talking to Rupert in the bar.
‘Where’s Pryce?’ she asked without preamble.
‘He could be with Thorne or Carter.’ Waterhouse was equally business-like.
‘Has Carter been arrested?’
‘Not that I know of. What would the charge be?’ He looked pensive. ‘I’m not a crime man; something to do with suppressing evidence vital to a murder inquiry, or not reporting a death? There’s a road block at the top of the lane,’ he added, lowering his head like an animal about to charge.
‘There wasn’t earlier this morning.’
‘Been out then?’ He grinned wolfishly.
‘I had business to attend to.’ She was on her dignity. ‘Is there any news of the murder weapon?’
‘The last murder?’ He was pretending to be naive. ‘It could have been a chef’s knife.’ His eyes slewed to Rupert who looked bored.
‘A lot of people in Abersaint would have a chef’s knife,’ Rupert said. ‘There’s even one in Miss Pink’s cottage.’
‘So there is.’ She was genuinely surprised.
‘The killer must have been covered with blood,’ Waterhouse observed generally. ‘Who changed his clothes late that evening?’
‘Unless he did it naked,’ said a stranger at his elbow: a tall thin man with sharp eyes.
‘That’s not so fool-proof as is made out,’ Miss Pink said. ‘It takes a long time to wash off blood, and what happens to footprints on the way to the bathroom?’ She considered the other point. ‘Everyone I saw appeared to be wearing the same clothes throughout the evening—’ she smiled, ‘—but is it likely I saw the killer?’
‘Is it likely you’d know?’ asked the sharp man.
She stirred uneasily and glanced at Rupert. ‘I would have come in here after dinner on Thursday—’
‘You didn’t.’ His face was expressionless. ‘I don’t know what time you finished your dinner but you didn’t come in the bar and I was here all night.’ His eye wandered casually to the man who was a stranger to Miss Pink.
‘That’s correct,’ he acknowledged. ‘Mr Bowen was in here continually—which gives him an alibi, but not yourself, miss, ha ha!’ It was facetious, in bad taste, and totally at variance with the careful ey
es. She smiled politely.
‘And Carter dined here?’ she asked.
‘Thursday and last night,’ Rupert said slowly. ‘He eats here but I don’t know where he’s staying.’
‘He sleeps in his car,’ Waterhouse announced. They stared at him.
‘Leaves him free to roam, doesn’t it?’ put in the stranger. Miss Pink decided he was a plainclothes policeman.
She left the bar and went to the Bowens’ quarters where she found Doreen dusting in the sitting room. She wasted no time.
‘What made you think Norman was having an affair with Sandra Maitland?’ she asked.
Doreen was astonished but she recovered quickly and her eyes narrowed.
‘I jumped to conclusions.’
‘Rachel was never specific about it?’
‘No; she’s far too loyal. But something was wrong; you saw her at the party.’
‘How did you discover it wasn’t Sandra?’
‘Rachel told me; she said she loathed Sandra but in general terms, not because there was anything between her and Norman. She said Norman was terrified of Sandra.’
‘When did she tell you that?’
Doreen smiled and her eyes were quite friendly towards Miss Pink. ‘Well, you can guess when, can’t you? Thursday, yesterday? It’s immaterial. It was after suspicion started that Sandra had been murdered, of course.’
*
‘We all knew what she was,’ Caradoc said woodenly, stroking his satchel strap with fingers that needed something to do.
‘You discussed her among yourselves,’ Miss Pink prompted, ‘her diamonds, her furs—and at the time you thought she’d gate-crashed the party?’
‘She had a death wish. She was trying to destroy herself; no need to try, she was rotten at the core. A psychopath, she was: completely irresponsible. That book. . . . I mean, who’d talk about a book like that in decent company? The death wish. We said she was mad.’
‘You realised it that night.’
‘Not just me: all of us. I mean, Mrs Jones is one person and Mrs MacNally’s another. We were all agreed on it.’
‘And the ladies didn’t even see her.’
‘Course they did. Went round to the front and watched through the drawing room window, didn’t they?’ He swallowed and looked past Miss Pink’s attentive face to the white trailer beyond the police cars. ‘Mrs Jones had never set eyes on her; she had to see her that night to find out what she were like. It was important to Mrs Jones.’