NO VACATION FROM MURDER
Pollard & Toye Investigations
Book Six
Elizabeth Lemarchand
To C.M.L.
Table of Contents
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
Epilogue
ALSO IN THE POLLARD & TOYE INVESTIGATIONS SERIES
1.
With full assent they vote.
Paradise Lost, Book Two
‘Those in favour?’ From the Chair Philip Cary ran a practised eye round the library table. ‘Those against?’ he enquired perfunctorily. ‘Right. We accept Endacott’s estimate for the renewal of guttering and downpipes. On to Item Eight, then. Summer letting. Over to you, Bursar.’ He sat back, intercepting an amused glance from Miss Isabel Dennis, one of the governors in the know. There would be opposition, of course. Hugh Stubbs, founder of the Kittitoe Residents’ Association, for one. Probably Lady Longridge, the Old Girls’ representative…
The governors of St Julitta’s School variously ticked their agendas, glanced at their watches, and looked hopefully in the direction of cups and saucers set out on a table. Professor Tyson, who had taken a lucky dip from the bookshelf behind him, continued to read a life of Bismarck, balancing the volume discreetly on his knee.
Andrew Medlicott, the school bursar, cleared his throat nervously and took up some correspondence neatly clipped together.
‘I have to report, sir, that the Committee of the Frensham Children’s Home has accepted the increased rental we agreed on at our last meeting. I have here a letter from the Secretary booking our premises for the third and fourth weeks in July, as usual.’
There was a murmur of satisfaction, but Mrs Withers, a brisk hatted woman in tweeds, sniffed audibly.
‘Of course they’ve accepted. They’re not fools. Where else would they get amenities like ours at such ridiculously low cost? In my opinion, our parents are subsidizing them heavily.’
‘The gross rental received is surely not the only aspect of the situation?’ came Hugh Stubbs’ thin dry voice. ‘Up to the present the Frensham people have at least shown a responsible attitude towards our property, and refrained from making public nuisances of themselves.’ He looked pointedly across the table through his rimless spectacles at Donald Glover, who had developed a caravan site on the edge of the village.
‘I’m sure we all agree that the new arrangement with Frensham is most satisfactory,’ the Chairman interposed. ‘They’ve certainly been model tenants up to now. Carry on, Bursar.’
Andrew Medlicott exchanged the Frensham correspondence for a sheet of notes.
‘This year we have had an application for a let for the second and third weeks of August,’ he announced. ‘It is from Mr Horner of Uncharted Seas, and he is offering exactly double the rent Frensham is paying.’
The languishing meeting was galvanized by this information.
‘One moment, ladies and gentlemen,’ Philip Cary broke in, raising his voice above the buzz of conversation. ‘Let’s hear the facts first, shall we?’
‘Mr Horner,’ Andrew Medlicott resumed, ‘has, of course, been obliged to cancel all Horner Holidays based on his hotel at Biddle Bay, as a result of the fire there. However, he is most anxious that the Horner Discovery Fortnight held in this area shall go ahead if possible, and has applied to rent the school for this purpose.’
Hugh Stubbs, who had been opening and shutting his mouth like a goldfish in a bowl, was the first to get the floor.
‘It’s a gross impertinence,’ he stuttered. ‘Expecting us to open the place to any Tom, Dick and Harry who can pay what he charges. They could be highly undesirable — hippies, drug addicts…’
Donald Glover, a stocky man with a knowing eye, squared himself for action.
‘The last speaker’s talking through his hat,’ he cut in brusquely. ‘Why, these Discovery Fortnights as Eddy Horner calls them are highbrow stuff — lectures on seaweed and old houses and what-have-you. They only attract serious types. Retired people, a lot of ’em, looking for something to fill up their time. We’d be a pack of fools to turn down a good offer like this.’
Philip Cary allowed the wrangling to take its course. Hugh Stubbs continued to expostulate angrily. Lady Longridge wondered if letting to Horner’s Holidays mightn’t cheapen St Julitta’s just a little? One had to think of the parents. An orphanage was rather different, surely? Canon Arthur Fuller, vicar of the parish of Kittitoe, was in favour of encouraging people’s instructive hobbies, and at the same time of benefiting the school’s finances. Donald Glover continued to back the Horner application with ham-fisted enthusiasm, thereby developing sales resistance among the undecided.
Isabel Dennis looked at him thoughtfully, wondering what lay behind his attitude. A prosperous local business man and a former St Julitta parent, his election to the school’s governing body had eventually become inevitable, but so far the latter had failed to assimilate him. She decided on a diversion.
‘Mr Chairman,’ she asked, ‘if we decide to let to Mr Horner, what would happen about domestic arrangements? Frensham bring their own staff, don’t they?’
‘I’m glad you’ve raised this point,’ Philip Cary replied. ‘Perhaps Miss Prince will come in on it?’
He turned to the headmistress, up to now tactfully silent on his right. Mr Horner, it appeared, had called to see her on this matter. He had suggested that Mrs Makepeace, the domestic bursar, should be asked if she would give up part of her summer holiday to run the housekeeping side of the Discovery Fortnight. He had offered very generous terms, both to her, and to any members of her staff willing to take on a holiday job. After thinking it over, both Mrs Makepeace and an adequate number of her helpers had accepted Mr Horner’s offer.
‘Now that there’s a question of this second let,’ Miss Prince went on, ‘I feel rather bad about my Canadian trip. I don’t know whether after all —’
‘Put any ideas of that sort right out of your head,’ the Chairman told her, amid a chorus of agreement. ‘Go off and have the holiday of a lifetime, as the travel agents’ blurbs say. Mr Medlicott and Mrs Makepeace can perfectly well hold the fort, and come to that, Mr Horner himself is within shouting distance.’
Donald Glover remarked that Marcia Makepeace was a grand girl, bang on top of her job, and the pair of them would be a match for anybody.
Ignoring him, Mrs Withers asked if the Discovery Fortnight would have some responsible Horner staff in charge of its activities.
Certainly, Philip Cary told her. A Mr Michael Jay would be in overall charge, who had run Fortnights at Biddle Bay for the past few years, and there would be three other lecturers and a hostess, the wife of one of them.
Seeing that the steam was running out of the discussion, and that the ayes were going to have it, he invited a proposition from the meeting. Successfully avoiding Donald Glover’s eye, he accepted one from Canon Fuller, to the effect that the school should be let to Mr Horner for the second and third weeks in August, subject to a satisfactory legal agreement. Professor Tyson surfaced smartly from the Franco-Prussian War, and seconded. Hugh Stubbs and Lady Longridge chose abstention in preference to certain defeat.
‘Those in favour?’ Philip Cary asked. ‘Thank you. Those against? … I declare the motion carried. On to Item Nine, then. Any other business?’
At the beginning of the Second World War St Julitta’s had been evacuated from the south coast to the less vulnerable village of Kittitoe on the west coast, where it established i
tself in the Headland Hotel. This was an elongated building on a terrace at the landward end of Beckon Head, a spectacular mass of rock rearing up out of the Atlantic. The terrace ended seaward in low cliffs overlooking the beach. There was a south aspect, and a stupendous view along the coast. Parents acclaimed the health-giving ozone, the facilities for sea-bathing and riding, and the aesthetic quality of the new location. When the war ended, St Julitta’s remained at Kittitoe. Gradually, as building restrictions were relaxed, the hotel was expanded, and made more suitable for its new function. In a comparatively short space of time the school became integrated into the neighbourhood.
Philip Cary was the last of the governors to leave the meeting at which the summer holiday lets were agreed upon. Soon after five he was going down the drive in his car. Emerging on to the road he turned left, and immediately left again, into the drive of Uncharted Seas, the home of Eddy Horner, founder and owner of Horner’s Holidays, a well-known travel agency.
It had been a perfect early spring day, and after gaining height he drew up to enjoy the panorama of sunset sky and darkening sea. Ahead of him rose the massive black silhouette of Beckon Head. The lights of Kittitoe were reflected in the driving mirror, and far away to the south the beam from a lighthouse swept rhythmically over the water. The excrescence of Donald Glover’s caravan site was happily swallowed up in the dusk.
Uncharted Seas was a large bungalow, built by Eddy Horner regardless of cost. It was not immediately above St Julitta’s, but slightly further out towards the headland. An elongated building like the school, it was strung out along a similar terrace at a higher level. Behind it a path led up another fifty feet to a notch in the spine of the promontory. On the far side of this a flight of steps provided the only land access to Beckon Cove, an enchanting small cove fringed with shingle and sand at low tide. Before going into Uncharted Seas Philip Cary went up the path, and stood looking down into the Cove whose gently rising and falling waters mirrored the golden afterglow of sunset.
Eddy Horner came to the front door to let him in.
‘Haven’t I told you to walk right in?’ he demanded. ‘Nice of you to come up,’ he added, leading the way to the long south-facing sitting room overlooking the sea.
‘It’s all yours,’ Philip Cary told him, with a gesture in the direction of the school. ‘Second and third weeks of August. You’ll be getting it officially from Medlicott.’
Eddy Horner’s wide mouth upturned at the corners expanded into a grin, and he gave a satisfied chortle. A balding little man in a fisherman’s jersey, he suggested a friendly but sagacious kobbold.
‘Thought my offer would fetch you lot down there,’ he said. ‘Whisky?’
‘Thanks, I will.’
A log fire was burning on the hearth. Philip Cary subsided gratefully into an armchair, and contemplated the affluent comfort of the room. It’s got a bit bleak without Penny’s feminine touches, though, he thought. Eddy Horner, twice a widower, had only one child, a daughter by his second marriage. In the previous summer she had married Bob Townsend, a promising young Horner executive, now being trained up for his father-in-law’s shoes.
The clinking of glasses heralded Eddy’s return from the extensive bar at the far end of the room.
‘Daresay you think I’m a bloody old fool,’ he said, setting down a drinks tray, ‘but the Horner Discovery Fortnights mean a lot to me. What we make out of ’em’s chicken feed, but it’s knowing that they show a few folk that there’s more to life than bingo and the box. You’d be surprised at the letters we get. Say when.’
‘When. You’re a romantic, of course, Eddy,’ Philip said, taking the glass held out to him. ‘And by way of being a philanthropist. Cheers.’
‘Cheers. That I’m not. I’ve made a packet out of Horner’s Holidays. Mind you, I’ve always given value for money. No misleading ads, and that goes for long before the Trade Descriptions Act.’
They sipped their drinks in companionable silence.
‘Talking of making a packet, how’s Bob doing?’ Philip enquired presently.
‘Pretty well. Got imagination, and his head screwed on into the bargain. And he knows what work is. Tourism’s booming, of course. Seen how the shares are keeping up?’
‘I have. Wish I had a few more myself. What’s the news of Penny?’
‘Fine. She rang yesterday, after her check-up. The doctor says everything’s OK.’
‘June, isn’t it?’
‘End of the first week. She’ll be down here with the baby by the end of the month, and stay for the summer. Bob can’t leave the office in the height of the season, of course, but he’ll run down weekends. Then he and Penny’ll go off on their own in October, leaving the kid and its nurse here till they get back.’
‘You can thank your lucky stars you’ve got a separate guest wing,’ Philip said with feeling. ‘Margaret and I are flat out after relays of grandchildren in the summer holidays. Which reminds me, she wants to know when you’re coming over for a meal?’
When this point had been settled, he heaved himself up out of his chair and took his departure, Eddy Horner standing at the front door with hand raised in a friendly salute as he drove off.
Glad the let went through for the old boy, he thought, heading for his home in a neighbouring village. That damn fool Glover nearly stymied the whole thing, throwing his weight about like that. Wonder why he was so keen on Horner having the place? They’re both in the local tourist market.
2.
Bottom: Are we all met?
Quince: Pat, pat; and here’s a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Act III Scene I
On the afternoon of Thursday, August 5th, Marcia Makepeace returned to Kittitoe to make her final preparations for the Horner Discovery Fortnight, due to start on the following Saturday.
The drive of St Julitta’s was deserted, and the school’s long facade had the blank look of an institution out of action. Getting out of her car she unlocked the front door, and walked into the airless silence of the entrance hall. As she did so footsteps came hurrying from the direction of the kitchen quarters. Mrs Bond, the gardener’s wife, appeared, plump and cheerful in a cotton frock with a pattern of sunflowers.
‘There now, I said to George there’s Mrs Makepeace’s car,’ she exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Glad to see you back, dear. Have you had a nice holiday?’
‘Fine, thanks, Mrs Bond,’ Marcia told her. ‘I’ve been staying with my sister and her family on their farm in Sussex.’
‘That’s right.’ Mrs Bond shot a quick glance at her.
‘Everything been all right here for you and George?’
During the holidays the Bonds moved into the school from the gardener’s cottage to act as caretakers. As she listened to a breathless account of the Frensham let and other matters, Marcia gathered that there was no domestic crisis needing her immediate attention.
‘And before I forgets it,’ Mrs Bond broke off from her narrative to say, ‘Mrs Medlicott looked in with a note for you this morning, and they’re expecting you round to supper. But there’s a couple of nice lamb chops in the fridge if you don’t feel like going out again.’
‘I think I’ll go,’ Marcia said. ‘It’ll save time in the morning if I see Mr Medlicott about one or two things tonight.’
‘Right you are then, dear. I’ve got your tea all ready on a tray, and I’ll send it up in the service lift straight away.’
She hurried off purposefully. Marcia collected her belongings from the car, and went upstairs to her rooms on the second floor. There was a pile of correspondence on the table in her sitting room. As she looked quickly through it for any personal letters she remembered with a stab that there was now no one in the world whose letters really mattered to her. Before her husband had been killed in the car crash two years ago, she’d lived for the sight of his sprawling handwriting during his brief absences from home.
She glanced round the room. There were flowers to we
lcome her: Mrs Bond had even put a vase of roses by Stephen’s photograph. People at St Julitta’s were so kind, like the Medlicotts remembering to ask her to supper this evening. Still, she’d have to move on to something a bit more challenging soon, or she’d begin to vegetate.
Over her tea she slit open the manila envelopes of school correspondence and sorted their contents into little heaps. Then she went downstairs to check that the stores ordered in for the Discovery Fortnight had arrived. She became involved with both the Bonds, and it was later than she had realized when she managed to break away and bath and change before going out.
Ready to start, she paused for a moment before a long mirror to scrutinize her hemline. Tall, slender and loose-knit, she moved this way and that with an easy grace. The blue-grey of the frock matched her eyes, and set off her golden-brown hair. As she considered, her teeth nipped the lower lip of her rather wide mouth.
It was a bit short, she decided. Skirts were definitely dropping. Snatching up her handbag she hurried down to her car. A high tide was sweeping up the beach. An intermittent hiccupping came from the blowhole, an air shaft leading from a cave in the cliffs below to an opening in the school grounds. Inevitably named Sir Toby Belch, it was the pride of St Julitta’s. The sun was dropping towards Beckon Head, and the sea darkening to turquoise. It’s a marvellous spot, she thought, getting into the car. One even feels happy here in patches.
The Medlicotts had a bungalow on the outskirts of Kittitoe. Andrew came out to greet her, and in the warmth of his welcome Marcia recognized the usual tinge of relief at the arrival of support. He would never quite recover from the trauma of finding himself an unemployed senior executive in his early fifties. The modest bursarship at St Julitta’s had been his lifeline back to self-respect, and in gratitude he slaved and fussed unnecessarily over the school’s business. As they went into the bungalow, Marcia heard that Frensham had blotted its copybook by cracking a washbasin, but had paid up without demur.
No Vacation From Murder Page 1