Shot in Southwold

by Suzette A. Hill

  He asked about the film and her connection with its young director. She began to explain about Amy, and the girl’s absence on account of Mr Bates’s Shropshire mission, but then stopped. Vincent Ramsgate was approaching (cap slightly askew).

  ‘Ah, Lady Fawcett,’ he cried, ‘I’ve been looking for you. The birthday girl, I gather! How noble of you to forsake the hotspots of Southwold for my meagre gathering. You deserve a prize for fortitude: in short, a little birthday token … I shall present you, dear lady, with the veritable limes of paradise!’ He executed a theatrical bow.

  Lady Fawcett was flummoxed. Really! It was bad enough being faced with the bogus birthday, but what on earth were these limes the man was babbling about?

  Her confusion must have shown, for Standish said patiently, ‘He means he is going to give you his new book, The Limes of Paradise.’

  ‘Indeed, I am,’ the author beamed unctuously, ‘and here it is: my latest collection of travel essays all signed and sealed.’ He thrust the volume into her hand and made another bow.

  ‘How kind,’ the startled recipient replied – and wondered how much longer his fez would stay the course.

  After he had gone, Standish said, ‘So today is your birthday?’

  ‘Oh most certainly,’ Lady Fawcett lied, ‘it’s the same date every year.’

  As Felix and Cedric hovered in the entrance hall, waiting for the others to say goodnight to their host, the latter remarked that on the whole it had been a moderately congenial evening. ‘One has known far worse, wouldn’t you agree? But I just hope that young Bartholomew is sufficiently steady to get us back to Southwold without incident, he looks a trifle flushed.’

  ‘Most of them do,’ replied Felix, ‘even Rosy Gilchrist. I noticed her in a huddle with Robert and Alicia. Alicia looked tigerish and was obviously effing and blinding about something.’

  ‘Sozzled?’

  ‘More sodden, I should say.’

  Cedric laughed. ‘Well, Tippy Tildred was certainly having fun. Extraordinary, really: I happened to be standing minding my own business inspecting that Bechstein, when all of a sudden she rushed up to me spluttering that she had taken a shine to Mickey Standish and didn’t I think he was an absolute dish!’

  ‘Oh, indeed? And without wishing to be inquisitive, what did you say, exactly?’

  ‘There wasn’t time to compose an answer, dear boy. She had run off.’

  ‘Hmm. If you ask my opinion, Tippy Tildred takes a shine to most people providing they are male and with money,’ Felix observed dryly. ‘But she won’t get far with that fellow. I should say he’s immune to frippery, wouldn’t you?’

  Cedric glanced behind him to the drawing room where the tall figure of Standish could be seen by the French window, passive and alone. In his hand was a glass of colourless liquid, which some might have assumed to be vodka, but which Cedric suspected was water. ‘You could be right,’ he said.

  Revelry over, Bartho drove back to the centre of Southwold with commendable caution.

  Rosy pressed her face against the car window, and absorbed by the moonlight, the sleeping fields and spectral trees, was content to let the others conduct the autopsy. But when there was a lull in the conversation, she said brightly: ‘I say, do you think I look like Lana Turner?’

  There was a silence. And then Lady Fawcett murmured, ‘Uhm … well not entirely, I shouldn’t think – though, of course, some might see a resemblance. Er, what do you think, Felix?’

  ‘Obviously two sheets to the wind,’ was the answer.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Felix had cooked a superb supper. And Cedric, in mellow mood after the shrimp ravioli and Alsatian Riesling, suggested they took an evening stroll to complete the evening’s pleasure. Felix agreed but said he had had enough of the sea for one day, having been required by Bartholomew to hover endlessly around a breakwater while Robert Kestrel strutted and declaimed. The scene had not been notably successful and would doubtless have to be reshot the following day.

  ‘Let’s go the other way,’ he said, ‘down to those marshes by Buss Creek.’

  Cedric was slightly surprised but said nothing, recalling that the last time Felix had been near marshland the dear boy had suffered an unfortunate experience … But it was an excellent idea as he could then show his friend where he had been strafed by a Messerschmidt in ’43 and the exact spot by Might’s Bridge where he had taken cover. Thus turning left they sauntered on down towards Buss Creek where Cedric, to the murmured appreciation of Felix, spent a happy ten minutes recreating his ordeal and discovering the abandoned pillbox that had also served as shelter during the ordeal.

  Drama exhausted, they retraced their footsteps up towards the town. For once Cedric was talking volubly, clearly still reliving those fraught moments: ‘And then it turned round, dipped its wings and—’

  Felix gripped his arm. ‘Ssh,’ he whispered. ‘Watch out!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Move over, it’s that bloody girl!’ He pulled Cedric into the shadow of the hedge by the library.

  A chattering trio passed them, two youths and a girl: Tippy Tildred. Her companions appeared to be the two young men from the film crew who had been with her in the Sole Bay. Their arms were linked, their feet unsteady and from their mouths issued a mangled version of Paul Anka’s ‘Put your Head on My Shoulder’ interspersed with stifled guffaws.

  ‘Well, she’s certainly having fun,’ Cedric observed, ‘probably won’t remember a thing in the morning. Just as well she didn’t see us – might have wanted to try on another of your garments!’ He gave a sly laugh.

  ‘Doubtless,’ Felix said disdainfully. ‘So vulgar!’ Clutching Cedric’s sleeve he continued to hover in the lee of the library, glaring at the trio’s retreating backs as they entered and stumbled across North Green.

  Cedric cleared his throat. ‘Uhm – do you think it’s safe for us to move on now? I am sure Tippy is far too preoccupied to notice us and it’s getting a little chilly.’ Pointedly, he turned up his jacket collar against the mild air.

  ‘Hold on a bit,’ Felix breathed, ‘with luck they’ll turn off up Victoria Road and we can walk on unmolested.’

  Then, just as Felix declared it safe to detach themselves from the hedge, they saw the figure of a man cross the road from the King’s Head on the corner, and begin to walk slowly in the same direction as Tippy and her cavaliers. He seemed in no hurry. And when the group stopped, and amid gales of giggles the girl struck a pose and did a little jig in the middle of the green, he remained in the shadows as if watching the performance from the wings.

  The three moved on; as did the man, keeping several yards behind.

  ‘Looks as if she’s got a hidden admirer,’ Cedric said.

  ‘Huh! I can’t think why. Nobody but a—’ He broke off as Cedric nudged him.

  ‘Oh, look,’ the latter whispered, ‘it’s Robert Kestrel. What’s he doing slouching around Southwold at this hour?’

  ‘Doubtless looking for where he was strafed by a Messerschmidt,’ Felix tittered. It was a foolish riposte for it nearly cost him his bedtime Calvados and cocoa.

  For a few moments they watched Kestrel as he sloped on behind Tippy and her escorts rollicking up Victoria Road. He kept his distance and was clearly in no hurry to catch up – stopping whenever they did, and melting into the shadows like some hack private eye.

  ‘But he is staying at The Swan, surely the quicker route would be the high street,’ Cedric said.

  Felix sniffed. ‘Clearly enjoying the night air and that excruciating scent the girl wears. I can think of more congenial pursuits.’

  They turned, and crossing the road made their way back to the discreet fragrance of Cot O’Bedlam.

  Meanwhile, in the lounge of The Swan, Lady Fawcett pored over her crossword, the gnomic clues an invaluable antidote to insomnia. If she could just manage to complete that top corner she would call it a day and retire to bed, brain happily exhausted.

  Inspiration flashed, and
smiling in triumph she started to complete one of the longer clues. With a flourish she pencilled in the final letter – at which point she was aware of a presence in front of her. She looked up and saw it was Alicia, equipped with a large brandy and a scowl.

  ‘You haven’t seen Robert, have you?’ she asked. ‘We were supposed to meet for a nightcap at least twenty minutes ago and there’s not a sign of him. It’s too bad!’

  The other hesitated, reviewing the events of her evening. ‘Er – yes, as a matter of fact, about an hour ago. He said he was going to have a stroll along the seafront to rehearse his lines and hone his part.’

  The young woman raised an eyebrow. ‘Hone his part? Well, that might be an idea; it could help him no end.’ Angela thought she detected a gleam of mirth, but couldn’t be sure.

  She invited Alicia to sit down. ‘I am sure he’ll turn up at any moment,’ she said. ‘Men are like that, no idea of time. The times I had to wait for my Gregory! And then they suddenly turn up … I won’t say like bad pennies: a bit like gold dust, actually.’

  The other swirled her brandy and took a sip. ‘Hmm. I don’t know about gold dust where Robert is concerned, more like silver foil, I should say.’

  At that point, and as predicted, the errant companion did indeed appear; and seeing the two of them on the sofa, walked briskly over. ‘I am so sorry, sweetie,’ he said, addressing Alicia, ‘I had gone for a walk along the promenade and got so immersed going over that scene where I have to sit on the breakwater and gaze at the wraith of Felix Smythe, that before I realised it I was right down by the putting green and the pier!’ He beamed at Lady Fawcett: ‘That’s the trouble with us thespians, we get so absorbed by our roles that everything else just fades into the ether!’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if I can manage the ether, but I am going to fade into my bedroom,’ she replied. ‘I have been awake far too long for one day.’ Lady Fawcett rose, and tucking the crossword under one arm, waved them a kindly goodnight with the other.

  At the door she caught the sound of Robert’s voice earnestly regaling Alicia with his nocturnal impressions of the canons on South Green and the outline of Southwold’s pier. (‘So striking and romantic in the moonlight!’ he enthused.) She suspected it was a topic not entirely to the other’s interest. She was also uncertain about the quality of the moon: it hadn’t been much in evidence when she had last looked out. In fact, the evening had been decidedly dull and misty. But then, with a name like Kestrel perhaps he had hawk-like eyes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The following morning was tough – for Felix at least. There had been a small dispute between Bartholomew and Fred regarding the rushes of his ‘seagull’ scene, the director deciding that dawn, not dusk, would give the better effect. Thus a reshooting had been scheduled for first light – a time not entirely congenial to Felix. However, in a mood of noble martyrdom he joined the rest of the team on the clifftop, and draping himself across one of the guns thrust his profile towards the camera, and intoned the familiar spiel.

  ‘Cut!’ yelled Bartho.

  Oh hell, had he messed up? Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Tippy with a big smirk on her face. Bitch! He was about to reset his features for another take, when to his surprise Bartho said: ‘That’s absolutely fine, just the job. Now you can go back to bed.’ He looked quite pleased.

  Felix, now also pleased, gave a jaunty bow and turned to leave – but not before Tippy had scampered up and said, ‘Oh my, you looked just like Laurence Olivier, although you are just a teeny bit shorter.’ She sniggered. ‘What a pity you’ve got such a tiny role, and you are trying so hard! Perhaps if you’re nice to me I can pull a string or two to get His Nibs to expand it a bit.’ She gave a patronising smile.

  Unsmiling, Felix wandered back across the turf knowing exactly why murders were committed.

  At the cottage, boosted by breakfast and Cedric’s emollient words, he felt better. Nevertheless, when Rosy rang to ask if they would be lunching in Walberswick to watch some more location work by the estuary, Felix declined.

  ‘I gather Miss Tildred has a scene there this afternoon,’ he replied, ‘and having already encountered the lady once today I do not need to repeat the experience. Besides,’ he added rather grandly, ‘Cedric and I have a prior engagement, which we really cannot miss.’

  The former looked slightly surprised. ‘Have we?’ he asked, after Felix had replaced the receiver.

  ‘Surely you remember,’ his friend beamed, ‘an exploration of Orford Castle followed by a leisurely lunch of delicious oysters, Chablis and grilled sardines at Mrs Pinney’s seafood place. What could be nicer? Beats filming any day!’

  ‘You could be right,’ Cedric replied. ‘And the sun’s coming out; you might wear your panama.’

  Alas, Felix could not wear his panama as he had lost it (a blow which had nearly stymied the whole Orford project).

  But meanwhile, sitting next to Rosy in The Bell at Walberswick, Tippy Tildred made it clear to her neighbour how much she was looking forward to sporting her new scarlet bikini. She had bought it at Denny’s in Market Place just the other day, she confided, and couldn’t wait to show it off. ‘You see,’ she exclaimed, ‘I have this little anklet from Selfridges, and the red beads will match the bikini exactly!’ She stretched out a neatly shaped calf adorned by a ring of chichi nonsense.

  ‘Very pretty,’ said Rosy politely, ‘but will you have time to wear it? And besides, the bikini sounds more typical of Le Touquet than Southwold. From what I’ve seen, most of the bathing costumes here are woollen one-pieces. You might create a disturbance!’ She laughed.

  ‘Exactly what I intend,’ the girl said airily, ‘this place needs shaking up!’

  She turned her attention to one of the grips sitting opposite. ‘I say, Charlie, you’ll take me swimming, won’t you? What with your muscles and my wiggle we’ll turn every head on the beach!’

  Charlie looked shifty and took refuge in his pint and cheese sandwich. The girl persisted. ‘Won’t you, Charlie?’ she cried.

  The young man seemed embarrassed. ‘Er, well I would, I suppose,’ he mumbled, ‘if I could swim; but I can’t really, never got the hang of it somehow. But I’ll wade about a bit if you like,’ he offered vaguely.

  Tippy tossed her head scornfully. ‘Oh, don’t bother. I’m certainly not going around with a mere paddler!’ Rosy had the impression the youth was rather relieved to hear this.

  Yet despite her irritation, she felt slightly sorry for the girl: a silly little show-off; but underneath the flounce and bounce, perhaps lonely. She had known one or two like that in the ATS: insecure youngsters putting on the style. Thus, as a kindly gesture, she complimented the girl on her performance the previous day. It hadn’t really been much good, but propriety dictates the occasional lie.

  ‘Oh, but it could have been much better if Bartho hadn’t been so boring,’ Tippy lamented. ‘I mean, every time I really wanted to express myself he accused me of overacting. Honestly, it made me feel so confined, so thwarted. Terribly frustrating!’ She pulled a face.

  ‘I am sure it will turn out beautifully,’ Rosy said encouragingly. ‘And that scene shot with just you and Robert was most convincing. There was such a good contrast: you looking all fragile and gamine, and he so tough and imposing.’

  Rather to Rosy’s surprise this remark elicited a fit of giggles. ‘Imposing? I wouldn’t call him that, exactly. Far from it!’ There were more giggles. ‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘Robert Kestrel is the least imposing person I know.’ Rosy must have looked curious, for by way of explanation the other said in a loud stage whisper, ‘He has difficulties, if you see what I mean.’

  Rosy thought that she probably did see, but had no intention of pursuing the matter with the sniggering Tippy. She was about to turn the conversation but was forestalled.

  ‘Frankly,’ the girl said with confiding relish, ‘he made an enormous pass at me the other day: wined and dined and all the usual old preliminaries, and then, if you p
lease, the idiot couldn’t cope. Simply could not cope. Pas du tout! It would have been pathetic if it hadn’t been so humiliating – for me, I mean.’ She lowered her voice, and added, ‘He’s got a wife in Surbiton, and I was so angry that I told him I would spill the beans – all of them, I may say. He didn’t like that, I can tell you. Not one little bit, he didn’t!’ She gave a malevolent grin.

  ‘Oh, but you wouldn’t do that, surely?’ Rosy murmured, rather shocked. ‘It would hardly be wise.’

  ‘Perhaps not wise,’ the girl said, ‘but definitely fun, don’t you think?’

  Luckily, Rosy did not have to answer that question, for at that moment her sleeve was tugged by Fred on her left. ‘Do you think,’ he asked earnestly, ‘that I should have Pixie’s toenails clipped before she gets married? You see it might make her more responsive, sort of more comfortable. What do you think?’

  ‘Oh, most certainly,’ Rosy said firmly, ‘a good pedicure is essential at such times.’

  ‘Hmm, that’s what I was thinking,’ the solicitous owner replied thoughtfully. ‘And I suppose a spot of worming wouldn’t be a bad thing?’

  Rosy nodded vigorously, glad to be rid of Robert Kestrel’s problems. Somehow the Newfoundland’s intimacies seemed the more manageable.

  A little later, as they were about to leave the pub, Rosy noticed Robert alone at the bar draped over the last drops of his pint. It might have been her imagination, but she couldn’t help thinking he looked decidedly down in the mouth. Was he brooding on how to handle his next appearance before the cameras … or his wife’s fury in Surbiton should Tippy’s threat be delivered? Judging from the Brando scowl it could have been either.