The Mudflats of the Dead (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  Palgrave got out his car and drove eastwards to Saltacres and the holiday cottage. Miranda, her plump, usually happy face clouded with shock and grief, and Adrian, haggard and with his cheeks fallen in, were alone. If he could be glad of anything at such a time, Palgrave was glad of this.

  “The inquest is to be on Monday, at Stack Ferry,” said Miranda. “We were to have gone home, but of course we must stay up for it. Will you be there, Colin?”

  “Yes, of course. Will you tell me all that has happened?”

  “But we know nothing of what has happened, except that poor little Camilla is dead. We can’t believe it has happened. She was so young, so vital, such a good swimmer. She had this thing, if you remember, of bathing at night. She thought it was romantic.”

  “But she bathed in the daytime, too. I’ve been in with her once or twice, and so has at least one other chap. I’ve seen them together.”

  “I suppose there was nothing much else for her to do here but bathe and wander about. We brought her because we thought she might like to paint scenery that was new to her, but she has done very little work down here.”

  “By the way, what has happened to the Lowsons?”

  “Cupar and Morag? Oh, they hired a boat and a boatman and have gone sailing. They are kind people and thought we would prefer to be by ourselves for a bit. Not much fun for them, anyway, with us so concerned and sad, and visits from the police and all that,” said Miranda.

  “Oh, the police have been here, have they?”

  “But of course. They asked all sorts of questions. It could be a case of suicide, you see.”

  “But nothing worse?”

  “Oh, Colin, of course not!”

  “What questions did they ask?”

  “Oh, whether she was accustomed to bathe alone.”

  “Was my name mentioned?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do they know we bathed together the night before I went to Stack Ferry?”

  “We told them that, because you had told Adrian you did, but that you had gone to Stack Ferry and could know nothing about her death. The fact that she came back here and packed her suitcase and took it away proves that she could not have been drowned that night.”

  “Has the suitcase been found? The report in the newspaper—the local paper—said nothing about it. Have the police traced it, I wonder?”

  “We know nothing about the suitcase. She must have found other lodgings and the suitcase will turn up there. But there is nowhere in the village where she could stay.”

  “She must have been shacking up with some man, don’t you think? One of the summer visitors who had rented a cottage?”

  “That is what we wondered, too. You know what she was like.”

  “Somebody she met that day she took my car, perhaps, or the chap I saw her with once. If that is so, ten to one the chap won’t be too anxious to come forward.”

  “Why not? The death was an accident.”

  “What else did the police want to know?”

  “Only whether she was happy or had anything on her mind. Well, of course, if she had anything on her mind, it was men, but we did not tell them that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, but, Colin, the poor child is dead! We couldn’t put her in a bad light now!”

  “Are the police likely to come here again?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said Adrian, speaking for the first time during the interview. “I suppose it depends on what comes out at the inquest. I just simply hope nothing does.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Nothing will ever convince me that Camilla swam when the tide was going out. Even by night she’d have known what it was doing, which way it was running. She knew all about the dangers of this part of the coast and, besides, she had a manual of tide-tables.”

  “I suppose—” began Miranda.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, you know how fond she was of you, Colin.”

  “Fond of me, my foot! I was just another man to be pursued, that’s all. If you’re suggesting that she came after me to Stack Ferry and oiled herself in at The Stadholder, well, simply, she didn’t. She didn’t even know where I was staying, did she?”

  “She could have asked around until she found you,” said Adrian.

  “She never came anywhere near me at Stack Ferry. What if she had done? She wasn’t drowned there. The tide sets the wrong way for that. She would have been carried—oh, no, perhaps she wouldn’t though. Anyway, whether she came to Stack Ferry or not, I certainly saw nothing of her there.” He realised, too late, that he was on the defensive and that Adrian knew it.

  “Not to worry, Colin,” he said kindly. “The police seem satisfied that she bathed alone on an outgoing tide and at night. That will be the end of the matter. I’m glad she had no parents. I hate breaking bad news.”

  The inquest was soon over. Adrian went through the formality of identifying the body and the medical evidence of death by drowning was clear. There was only one unsatisfactory detail, but on this neither the police surgeon nor the pathologist was prepared to be dogmatic. Neither would commit himself as to the exact time of death to within a period of forty-eight hours. The body had been some time in the water, so the usual rate of decomposition had been retarded. There was more explanation given, but perhaps the most important feature, so far as the police and the public were concerned, was that there were no marks of violence on the body and no evidence that the deceased had been other than a completely healthy and carefree young woman who, although she was not a virgin, was not pregnant.

  The verdict (to quote the local paper) was a foregone conclusion. The deceased had come by her death accidentally through drowning on an outgoing tide. The coroner pontificated upon this for the benefit of other holidaymakers and the incident appeared to be closed. Palgrave attended the inquest but not the funeral. He returned to Stack Ferry and suddenly found the opening sentences for his book.

  He was not quite so lucky in dismissing Camilla from his mind as he had hoped to be. Apparently Adrian and Miranda were not the only people who were puzzled by the disappearance of Camilla’s suitcase. He had been back to The Stadholder for a couple of days when there came a tap at his bedroom door.

  “Telephone, Mr. Palgrave.”

  “Oh, thanks.” It must be from the Kirbys, he supposed. He wondered what Adrian or Miranda had to tell him. He assumed that they had returned to London as soon as the funeral was over. However, it was neither of them on the line.

  “Mr. Palgrave?”

  “Speaking.”

  “County Police here, sir. We’d like a word with you.”

  “I’m not in trouble about my car, I hope?”

  “Nothing like that, sir. We think you may be able to give us a little help over another matter. Would you prefer us to come to you, or would you rather come to the station?”

  “What’s it all about?”

  “I would rather not talk over the telephone, sir.”

  “Oh, in that case, you had better come here, then. When can I expect you?”

  “Would noon tomorrow suit you, sir?”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose so, but I wish I knew what it was all about.”

  “Until tomorrow then, sir, at noon. I shall be in plain clothes, of course.”

  Like most law-abiding people, Palgrave was happy enough to know that a police force, however greatly undermanned it might be, did at least exist, but, again like the majority of citizens, he was much less happy when a member of it looked him up personally and began asking questions.

  “You will have heard about the drowning fatality, sir? We believe you were intimate with the dead girl. I refer to your relationship with the late Miss Hoveton St. John.”

  “I don’t care for your use of the word ‘intimate,’ Inspector. It conveys an entirely false representation of my relationship with Miss Hoveton St. John.”

  “So there was a relationship, sir?”

  “She was a holiday acquaintan
ce, that’s all.”

  “But you stayed at the same cottage as she did, I believe. Wasn’t that so?”

  “I was there for a few days before I moved to this hotel, yes.”

  “Why did you move on, sir?”

  “The cottage became overcrowded. Two more people turned up, so I opted out.”

  “You did not move because the young lady had become an embarrassment to you?”

  “Good heavens, no! It was just to make room for the newcomers.”

  “Had they the prior claim, then?”

  “Well, actually, I suppose not. It was a case of an overbooking.”

  “Then what made you decide to leave? I am told that arrangements had been made to accommodate you.”

  “Look, Inspector, what is all this, for goodness’ sake? The ‘arrangements’ you mention were most unsatisfactory. Why shouldn’t I have moved on?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind, sir. Why did you leave Saltacres so precipitately?”

  “I’ve told you. There’s nothing else I can say.”

  “Would you mind if I had a look round your bedroom, sir?” (They were in a corner of the bar.)

  “Good Lord! Why? I’m not a dope smuggler, neither have I half a dozen illegal immigrants hidden under the bed!”

  “If I might just have a look round, sir.”

  Palgrave produced his key. The Inspector was not long gone. He handed back the key. Palgrave took it with an attempt at a contemptuous snort.

  “I hope you found the hoard of illicit diamonds,” he said.

  “Now, now, sir,” said the Inspector, smoothly. “All I was looking for was a suitcase.”

  “Well, you were in luck, then, weren’t you? I actually possess such an object. I hope you examined it for a false bottom.”

  The Inspector smiled gently.

  “I am perfectly satisfied with what I found, sir—or, rather, with what I did not find.”

  “And that was?—or shall I be snubbed again for daring to ask a question?”

  “We are still looking for the suitcase which belonged to the deceased. Thank you for your co-operation, sir. I don’t think I shall need to trouble you again.”

  “That’s as well. I shall be leaving here quite soon and going back to London. No objection to that, I hope? Do you want my home address?”

  “That will not be necessary, sir,” said the Inspector gravely. “We have all the information we need at present. Is it true that you went swimming with the young lady?”

  “Now and again I did.”

  “When was the last time, sir?”

  “The night before I came here. Why?”

  “Just cross-checking, sir. You mean that you were the last of your party to see her alive.”

  “How do you know that? I was not the only one from the cottage who was out that night.”

  “Your exit disturbed the gentleman in the parlour. What made you return to the premises that night, sir?”

  “I went back to collect my things.”

  “Would that not have waited until the morning?”

  “I suppose so, but I thought I might as well be off.”

  “And where was the young lady, when you returned to collect your things?”

  “Still in the sea, I suppose. She always stayed in the water much longer than I did.”

  “Were any other members of your party out that night, sir?”

  “We all were, at some time or other. When I found myself unwilling to accept the arrangements which had been made to accommodate us all, I took the entire party out for a farewell drink. I didn’t want anybody to think I was going off in a huff. It was none of their faults that the cottage had been double-booked.”

  “Was Miss St. John with you?”

  “No. She wasn’t in the cottage when I issued my invitation and, to save you the bother of asking the question, I have no idea where she was.”

  “But you met her later.”

  “Purely by accident. I was standing beside my car when she came along and asked me to come for a swim. It was so damned uncomfortable trying to sleep in the car that I thought I might as well use up some of the time, so I went along with her. I came out of the water before she did, dried and dressed, went back to the cottage to change my clothes, as I think I told you, collected my suitcase and drove about until I found a café where I could get some breakfast.”

  “After you had had your drinks, sir, can you be sure that the rest of your party returned to the cottage?”

  “No, of course I can’t be sure. My car was parked further up the road. I said goodbye, climbed into it and made myself as comfortable as I could on the back seat.”

  “And later you went swimming with Miss St. John.”

  “That’s the size of it.”

  “Did either of you see anybody else about?”

  Palgrave thought for a moment in order to consider his answer.

  “I believe one or two of the others may have gone for a stroll by moonlight,” he said, “but I couldn’t be sure. There was some talk of it, I believe.”

  “While you were at the public house?”

  “Yes, that’s when it would have been.”

  “But you don’t know whether any of the party except you and Miss St. John were actually out of the cottage while you were swimming?”

  Palgrave could answer that question truthfully and without equivocation.

  “No,” he said. “I know nothing of what the others were doing while we were swimming.”

  “What about when you went back to the cottage after your bathe?”

  “I’ve no idea about that, either.” The Inspector gave him a very sharp glance, but did not query the answer. He closed his notebook and merely said:

  “Thank you for your help, sir. It’s only the missing suitcase that bothers us. Mr. and Mrs. Kirby, who brought the young lady down here on holiday, are convinced that she wouldn’t have bathed on an outgoing tide. Have you any ideas about that, sir?”

  “She wouldn’t if she had realised that the tide was going out.”

  “Just so, sir. If she had realised. Just so.”

  CHAPTER 6

  SERIOUS DOUBTS

  “Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were,

  The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear

  Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong,

  Blind gods that cannot spare.”

  A.C. Swinburne

  Somewhat shattered by the interview with the Inspector, Palgrave decided to leave Stack Ferry at the end of the week. The plot of his book was maturing in the most irresistible and comforting way. All that remained, he thought, was to write the story. That would be done more conveniently in his London lodgings than in the claustrophobic, barely furnished little upstairs room at The Stadholder, especially if it was going to be open to police inspection at any hour of the day or night.

  He recognised this last thought as psychotic and wondered whether he was becoming the victim of a persecution mania. This must at all costs be suppressed. He could not afford to have irrational fears come between him and his novel.

  He thought he had settled upon his heroine. She was to be a femme fatale in her early thirties, beautiful, sophisticated, incredibly attractive, but he realised that she was turning into Morag, and this was the last thing he had either envisaged or wanted. He made a determined effort to turn her into the Camilla he had known. She would have to be older than Camilla, of course, and that coltish immaturity changed to suit his theme, but Camilla it would have to be. In bed that night he wondered (and found himself worried about it) whether in death she was going to haunt him even more effectively than, during the few days of their acquaintanceship, she had attempted to do in life.

  He began to think over everything he knew about Camilla. It was precious little, but that, he realised, would prove more of an advantage than the reverse. She would have to be provided with a background. He wondered what sort of childhood she had had, how and when she had
lost both her parents, and under whose testamentary dispositions she had obtained her modest but undeniable private income.

  He knew that she had shared a London flat with three other women all older than she. He had heard little about them from Camilla, but Miranda had told him more. There was fat, dark, slightly moustached Gerda who, like Miranda, taught part-time at the art school and otherwise painted racehorses, pedigree hunters and showy little trotting-ponies. There was Mevagissey, descendant, (according to Camilla, who obviously had not believed the claim) of a hundred earls and was now in her fifth year at the art school because she had set her cap at the principal and was still hoping to trap him into marrying her. Lastly there was Fenella, who, according to Camilla, was a callgirl when she was not at the art school where, so far, she had not learnt enough even to slap paint on a barn door, let alone contrive a decent picture.

  He wondered how soon they had learned of Camilla’s death. Miranda would have told them by this time, even if they had not read of it in the papers. He wondered how they had taken the news. Had they been fond of Camilla, he wondered, or had they regarded her merely as a person who was good for her share of the rent? He began weaving fantasies which became wilder and more unlikely as sleep came nearer to him. When he did fall asleep, his dreams were even more fantastic than his thoughts and filled him with an almost nightmare dread, so that he was relieved to be awake again.

  He worked hard all the next morning on his book and in the afternoon took his car out. He cruised around the neighbourhood for an hour or so, followed the road to the south and then came upon a signpost which showed that there was a cross-country route to Saltacres. He had no desire to return there, but concluded that there would be a diversion somewhere along the route which would take him back to Stack Ferry.