‘But so early? What was Mr. Collyer doing on the tennis courts at such an hour?’
Mr. Tyndall hesitated. ‘He rose early, I gather. His wife says he’d often go for a walk before breakfast.’ He glanced at the police activity. ‘And he’d said something about a tennis lesson too. He was even wearing tennis shoes. The strange thing is…’ He faltered. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the police know what they’re doing.’
His tone was oddly abrupt. He turned to her, and said, as if to change the subject, ‘I gather you have an interest in such matters.’
She shook her head.
‘They say you write novels about such things?’ he pursued.
There was a friendliness about his faded corduroy jacket, a comforting warmth in his blue eyes. She relented. ‘I write novels, yes,’ she said. She flicked a hand towards the tennis courts. ‘It has nothing to do with this.’
He breathed, then said, ‘All I was going to say was, that Mr. Collyer was found by Mr. Farrar.’
‘That is odd, I agree.’
He seemed not to want to say any more. They stood in companionable silence. The scene below them was like a painting, with the bright blue of the sea, the low white walls, the groups of people poised.
Among the uniforms there were two other figures. One, a woman, in a slim dress of cherry red, full grey hair piled in a neat coil on her head. The other a man, thin-faced, black-haired, standing stooped and fretful by the tennis courts. He shifted, raised his eyes towards the terrace, lifted his arm towards Robin Tyndall in acknowledgement. The woman, too, gave a brief wave.
‘That’s Lillian Adler,’ Robin Tyndall said. ‘The widow of Dr. Ernst Adler. And that’s his secretary, Mr. Fitzwilliam.’
‘They’re here very early,’ Agatha said.
‘The police must have sent for them,’ Mr. Tyndall said.
‘But –’
Mr. Tyndall turned to her. ‘I fear…’ he began. ‘I fear it’s this problem with the papers. The biography … Something was causing some friction between them all.’ He raised an arm in greeting towards them, then turned back towards the French windows. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘We’ll soon find out, no doubt.’ He yawned, stretched, as if to lighten the mood. ‘I could do with some breakfast, couldn’t you? Let’s see if there’s anyone in the kitchen who might fry a rasher of bacon. Ah – there’s just the chap.’
As he spoke, Mr. Finch came into view, framed by the windows.
Agatha turned to join the guests, who were now clustered round the hotel manager, fretting, fussing, demanding. But before she went inside, she caught a glimpse of another figure, standing at a distance from the tennis courts – Kurt Farrar, in white shirt and loose white trousers, his hands clasped behind him. His gaze was fixed on the crime scene, glassy-eyed, shadowed with horror. Then he turned and disappeared towards the lower lawn.
The dining room had been transformed. An army of kitchen staff smoothed linen, laid tables, boiled eggs. The kitchen boy, young Hughes, was placing breakfast dishes on the hot-plates. There was a warm smell of bacon. The hungry, anxious guests had become chatty, smiling, even. Blanche Winters, seeing Agatha and Mr. Tyndall, indicated the two places at her table.
‘Did you hear it?’ she said, as Agatha sat down. ‘The gunshot?’ she went on. ‘I heard it. I thought it was hunting to start with, until I remembered where I was. Did you hear it, Mr. Tyndall?’
Mr. Tyndall had to admit he didn’t hear a thing. ‘Still asleep, I was.’ Agatha agreed she, too, had heard nothing.
‘Six in the morning, they’re saying, aren’t they, Sebastian?’
The tennis coach was blond and groomed as ever, in spotless white. He smiled, nodded.
‘Poor Sophie,’ Mrs. Winters went on. ‘You won’t get on the courts for hours, now.’
Sophie pouted, shrugged.
‘Heaven knows what it will do to her practice,’ Mrs. Winters continued.
Sophie seemed not to be listening.
Then Agatha saw Mrs. Collyer, standing stock-still in the doorway, ashen-faced, her hair falling from its pins in loose strands. Mr. Finch appeared, led her to a corner table, poured her a cup of tea.
The boy Hughes had reappeared with a dish of poached eggs, and now Agatha saw him give a tiny wave to Sophie. Sophie blushed, giggled.
‘Kurt,’ Blanche was saying. ‘Has anyone seen him?’
Mr. Tyndall said, no, he hadn’t seen him. Agatha was wondering whether to mention that he was down by the courts, but Mrs. Winters was speaking again. ‘This really is the last thing we need. My husband asked me to look after him, they’re old friends, you see. He won’t be pleased at all when he hears that I’ve brought poor Kurt into some kind of crime scene.’
Her tone was light, almost laughing, as if the whole thing was just a minor inconvenience, or an amusement laid on for the guests. But then her smile faded, and Agatha, looking in the same direction, saw Kurt appear in the doorway of the dining room. He had changed his clothes, and looked somehow clumsy, in a rough canvas jacket, wrongly buttoned, his hair untidy, a heavy frown across his features. Seeing Blanche and her party, he gave a cough, crossed to the table and sat unevenly into the spare chair.
‘Did you hear?’ He addressed the table. ‘They’ve found the murder weapon,’ he said. He gave a bark of laughter. ‘It was just lying there, down by the tennis courts. A Weston Mark Six. A true soldier’s weapon,’ he said. ‘Point blank range.’ He held up his right hand as if holding a gun, flicked his finger against the imaginary trigger. ‘Ka-pow,’ he said, loudly. ‘Your man falls to the ground. You drop the gun and run.’ Another mirthless laugh.
Robin Tyndall had been quiet, finishing his plate of bacon and eggs. Now he looked up, uneasily.
‘They’re very excited, those policemen,’ Kurt went on. ‘And they’re asking everyone, who found the body? But no one knows the answer. No one,’ he repeated, as if it was a joke.
‘Kurt – please,’ Blanche said.
‘What?’ He gave a broad, unfocussed smile. ‘I’m just catching you up with the news. And there’s more,’ he went on. ‘Down there on the tennis courts, there’s Frau Adler, widow of the old chemist, whose life our poor dead friend was trying to write about. It’ll all be about that story, you mark my words.’ He laughed, again.
‘Kurt – you’re not yourself.’ Blanche placed a hand on his arm.
He shook her away. ‘What, because I’ve had a drink? In my view, that makes me more myself than ever.’ He beamed at the company, as if pleased with this.
Robin Tyndall got to his feet. ‘Mr. Farrar,’ he said. ‘Come on. Let’s find you a nice quiet cup of coffee somewhere.’ He tucked his arm under Mr. Farrar’s, levered him to his feet, and walked him out of the dining room.
Agatha noticed how Blanche gave an out-breath of relief.
She also noticed that Mr. Farrar was wearing white tennis shoes.
*
The morning wore on. Cars came and went. People came and went. The sun went in and rain clouds gathered. By lunchtime, the large band of policemen had dwindled to two or three, and the weather threatened drizzle. Outside, the one lonely local newsman had been joined by reporters from Truro and Exeter, burly men with tripods and flashlights.
Agatha escaped the hotel via the staff entrance and went for a walk.
The sky was grey, and a sharp wind buffeted the cliffs, but she breathed the fresh air with relief.
Word will get to London, she thought. She remembered the face of Mrs. Collyer, hollow-eyed with shock. She had disappeared to her room after breakfast and no one had seen her since.
Archie will worry, Agatha thought, as she tramped between the patches of gorse and heather. Perhaps I should get someone at the hotel to send word that everything’s all right.
The air was crisp, the view sharp with beauty. Her spirits began to lift as she rounded the hill. The village lay before her. Once again she could see the skeletal curves of the shipwreck. The villagers were still busy, carrying its rem
ains to the shore. It reminded her of something. A flash of memory; the pyramids at Giza before the war, a trail of workers carrying bricks against the undulating heat and sand. Even then, watching the ruins of the Giza Necropolis, the ancient pyramids rising up in the distance, even then she’d had a sense of the stories of the past buried deep within the scattered stones.
A snatch of music chimed with her thoughts. One of the women had stopped her work, and stood at the edge of the shore, singing. She was barefoot, in a loose, pale skirt and dark shirt.
‘The tide flows in, the tide flows out, twice every day returning…’
The others stopped, listened.
‘A sailor’s wife at home must bide, he parted from poor me a bride, just as the tide was flowing…’
Some of the others began to hum along. Behind them rose up the jagged ribs of the broken ship, the remnants of men’s livelihood, now become their coffin.
Clouds were hunched on the horizon.
‘I stood here once in bridal white, but now I stand in mourning…’
Agatha listened to the sweet, clear voice. She thought about Mr. Farrar and his talk of grief. She thought about his bright white tennis shoes.
*
On the way back, picking her way between the gold and the purple, she looked up to see a young man pushing a bicycle along the track, further ahead. It took her a moment to recognize young Hughes, the kitchen boy. It took her another moment to see that the pretty girl strolling at his side, her face lit up with laughter, was Sophie Winters.
Chapter Five
The clouds had begun to lift. A thin ray of sunlight filtered across the hotel terrace.
Agatha had stumbled past the persistent journalists, and now found Mr. Finch standing in the red-carpeted hallway, as if expecting her.
‘Ah, there you are, Madam,’ he greeted her. ‘Tea is being served in the Palm Court.’ He looked somewhat reluctant, took a step closer, spoke in a low voice. ‘I’m afraid to say that the Detective Inspector is with us. He wishes to question everyone. I tried to explain that it would be a terrible imposition on our guests, given that no one knows anything about these terrible events, but he said that the law must take its course. And I suppose that he is right in that regard. Detective Inspector Olds, he is, from the police station at Porthleven.’ He sighed. ‘At least he’s local.’
He led the way towards the Palm Court. ‘If you don’t mind, Madam,’ he went on, ‘I’ve seated you with poor Mrs. Collyer. Her friend, Frau Adler is joining her, as the police wish to speak to her too. I have to say, Madam, my view is that it’s a terrible way to treat people, pushing them around like that, and ladies too, it’s not as if they’re under the slightest suspicion. Any more than you are, Mrs. Christie.’ He allowed himself a small smile, ushered her into the Palm Court and showed her to the table.
*
The table was still otherwise empty. Agatha was relieved to be left alone, for now at least.
The tennis party was already seated, and Mr. Farrar was with them. The unsteadiness had left him, and now his hair was combed, his shirt neatly buttoned. He was wearing dark brogues. He sat in a depressed silence. Sophie, however, was animated and smiling, even listening to her mother’s chatter with polite respect.
The room was bright with sunlight and the fresh green of the palms. There was a clink of teacups, a low murmur of conversation, the tinkle of the piano, this time being played by a young man in a stiff white shirt and black jacket.
Then, in the doorway, there appeared the two women. One still in her cherry red dress. The other was wearing a pastel-flowered tea gown, which lent her an air of delicate beauty, despite the pallor of her face and her haunted, shadowed eyes.
‘I gather we’re joining you,’ Frau Adler said.
Agatha smiled. ‘My pleasure,’ she said.
‘In terrible circumstances, I fear.’ Frau Adler had a very slight accent, an upright posture, and, Agatha noticed, elegant heeled shoes in black suede. She pulled out a chair for her friend, who sat down with demure weariness, then sat down herself.
‘Frau Adler,’ she said, offering her hand. She had an intense dark gaze. Her lips were painted a cherry red to match her dress.
Agatha introduced herself.
‘I was here early this morning,’ Frau Adler said. ‘Early, early. And now they won’t let me go home. I have dogs, waiting. They’ll be howling. I only hope my neighbour has the sense to pop in with some titbits for them. The cats can fend for themselves, but the dogs, ach…’
Mrs. Collyer managed a thin smile. ‘I’m sure they’ll let you go soon, Lillian.’
‘Perhaps they will, Nora. If not, I shall just get in my car and go home anyway. It’s not as if they don’t know where to find me. And if you had any sense, you’d come with me. You need friends around you, Nora dear, at such a terrible time. Terrible.’
Mrs. Collyer gave a tiny shake of her head.
‘Stuck in a hotel, when such a ghastly thing has happened,’ her friend went on, ‘with that rabble of reporters outside like vultures. Ah, good, here comes tea. And with dear Olly too.’
Young Hughes the kitchen boy appeared with a large tray and now approached their table.
‘Oliver dear, how lovely to see you,’ she said.
The boy bowed his head, placed teapot and cups on the table.
‘Some compensation for being kept prisoner here,’ she went on, ‘is that at least I get to see you.’ Frau Adler patted his arm. ‘I hope they’re looking after you.’
‘Oh, Mrs. Adler, they are. They are.’ His voice burst with enthusiasm. ‘I like it here very much. And Mr. Finch says one day he’ll teach me to drive the car too.’
Frau Adler smiled. ‘Good. You’re a good boy.’ She watched as he hurried back to the kitchens. ‘And where is Mr. Tyndall, I wonder,’ she said, her eyes searching the doorway. ‘Well, never mind. I was rather hoping he’d join us. And as for our secretary, I think he’s out with the Buick. He’d rather sit with the car than with me.’ She gave a fond laugh. ‘Oh dear, Nora, what are we to do? Such a mystery. Such a peculiar, ghastly thing to happen. Whoever would have wanted your husband to meet such a fate?’
Mrs. Collyer shook her head, blinked tearful eyes.
‘One can only hope that this policeman will at least shed some light on the matter, given that he’s gathered us all here.’ Frau Adler reached for a cucumber sandwich, and cut it neatly in half. ‘Ah, here at least is Mr. Tyndall.’
Robin Tyndall came to their table, bowed, and took the fourth seat. ‘Ladies,’ he said. He poured himself some tea. Agatha saw the unsteadiness of his hands.
‘Oh, Robin, what are we to do?’ Frau Adler gazed at him with dark eyes. Her dress was made of heavy silk, its frilled collar pinned with a large brooch of ornate silver. She turned to Agatha. ‘When we first came to the village, my husband and I, we relied on Mr. Tyndall here to look after us. To show us how to behave.’
He smiled, briefly. ‘Nonsense,’ he began, but she went on.
‘He has looked after us,’ she said. ‘Foreigners, you see. Incomers. And in these times too, my husband being so very German, me less so…’ she laughed. ‘You have been a friend to us, Robin,’ she said. ‘And then, when I lost my husband, two years, no, nearly two and half years ago now… Well, Mr. Tyndall has made sure I didn’t sink into loneliness. Just me and the menagerie, it was indeed a danger. The children do what they can, but they have such busy lives…’ She reached for another sandwich. ‘And you were such a help to Frederick, too, when he came to me about my husband’s work.’
‘I tried,’ Robin said. There was something rather tight-lipped in his reply.
She looked up, and a glance flashed between them.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You tried.’
‘These papers,’ he began.
‘Not now, Robin,’ she said.
‘You’ll want them back,’ he said, and his eyes rested on hers.
‘All in good time,’ she said.
It was
Nora who spoke. ‘You can have them all.’ She spoke emphatically, wearily. ‘They’re no use to anyone now, are they?’
Robin reached across and patted her hand.
‘But really,’ Nora Collyer went on. ‘All this fuss about Dr. Adler’s papers, and Frederick ending up with them when you didn’t really want to part with them, and now he’s dead, and it doesn’t matter does it? It doesn’t matter what he was going to say about your husband and whether it was right or wrong?’ Her eyes flashed with rage, with grief. Her voice cracked with tearfulness.
There was a brief silence. Around them the Palm Court settled back to its quiet hum of tea and conversation.
Lillian Adler leaned across to Mrs. Collyer. ‘My dear Nora,’ she began. ‘I’m so sorry. As you say, it really doesn’t matter now. There are far more important things to worry about than a few letters. However…’ She glanced at Robin, then turned to Mrs. Collyer again. ‘However, it would be nice to have them back sooner rather than later. Given that, as you say, it doesn’t matter now. We don’t want them getting all mixed up in the police investigation, do we?’
Nora Collyer sniffed, patted her pretty hair. She nodded. ‘I’ll try and find them for you,’ she said.
‘Good,’ Frau Adler said. ‘I do think that would be best.’
She then turned to Agatha. ‘Art and Science, you see,’ she said. ‘My husband was a linchpin between the two. Is that the right expression, Robin?’
‘Well…’ his tone was hesitant. ‘If you mean –’
‘I mean, the war,’ she interrupted. ‘These men, Mr. Tyndall knows too, their work was beyond compare. The marriage of chemistry know-how and artistic genius – and bravery too… Oh, the lives they saved. I know we were German by origin, but our home is here, our children are British … I am proud of what my husband did.’ She stopped, breathless.
‘Camouflage,’ Mr. Tyndall said, as in explanation. ‘Dr. Adler worked on types of paint that would survive a war environment. Pigment, you see, that would reflect light rather than absorb it, keep the enemy guessing.’
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