‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘but those were rifles, not pistols.’
‘Exactly. And this has been done with a pistol: a Colt, quite likely.’
They gazed at one another in puzzlement.
‘What about the bullet?’ Felix asked. ‘Is it still stuck in it?’
Cedric shook his head. ‘No. It looks as if it’s been gouged out, probably by a penknife. Whoever fired the thing either has a clean and tidy mind or didn’t want it found and identified.’
The silence was broken by Rosy. ‘Oh my God,’ she breathed. ‘Oh my God.’ Her eyes were fixed on the wicker table where Felix had placed the coin and piece of plastic.
They were startled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Bartho asked. ‘Had a vision, have you?’
She shook her head impatiently. ‘Don’t you see? It’s obvious: a single bullet hole, a lipstick top, the Monaco franc … This is where Tippy was shot. Not on the dunes, but here, in this hut. Just where we are standing!’
Bartho and Felix looked bewildered. But Cedric said grimly: ‘It’s the franc piece, isn’t it? That’s what you are thinking of.’
Rosy nodded silently.
‘Well, I’ve no idea what you are talking about,’ Felix sighed impatiently. ‘The subtleties escape me – not unlike Bartho’s film!’
The latter ignored his words, and addressing Rosy, said: ‘Ah, I see … you are thinking of that time when she was banging on about Monte Carlo, saying she had stayed there recently with the Carshaltons, and what a marvellous time they had spent at the Monaco Grand Prix and in the casino. I can tell you, that didn’t go down too well with Alicia. She complained later that masses of people visited Monaco and Monte Carlo but only Tippy would swank about it.’
‘So when was she there?’ asked Felix.
‘From what I gather about three weeks ago; just before she came up here,’ Cedric told him. ‘Recently enough to still have the odd foreign coin in her purse, or to be saving it as a keepsake, perhaps: French francs are two a penny, but not the Monaco ones.’
‘But the girl was found on the dunes,’ Bartho protested. ‘We found her, for God’s sake!’
‘Corpses can be moved,’ Rosy murmured. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Seems a bit tenuous to me,’ Felix said. ‘There’s no proof that those bits belonged to her. Besides, how would she have got in here? I take it that Bartho didn’t give her the key?’ He glanced enquiringly at the other.
Bartho shook his head. ‘No, it’s been with me all the time.’
‘All the same,’ Cedric said thoughtfully, ‘it looks as if she might have been here somehow. One knows coincidences often occur, but in this case there seems a curious number: the girl was killed by a single bullet a few days ago; the bullet hole in that wall is fresh – perhaps no more than a week old; two items have been found, which could very well have belonged to her – though as Felix has pointed out – that is hardly conclusive. Nevertheless, it is …’
Rosy, who had been scrutinising the lipstick cap, interrupted him: ‘You can just make out the letters REV – Revlon. It’s the brand; it’s the one she used. I heard her and Alicia chatting about make-up one evening.’
‘There you are,’ Cedric said, ‘a further coincidence; though I don’t know what the police will make of it all. Probably dismiss it as empty speculation. But if nothing else, at least the bullet hole may intrigue them.’
Bartho stared at Cedric, and then said evenly: ‘The police will not dismiss it as speculation because the police are not going to be told. It would be far too dangerous.’
Cedric was slightly taken aback. ‘Dangerous? In what way?’
Bartho sighed. ‘I may not be an expert in these things, but from what one reads in the newspapers the police usually evince an interest in the owner of the premises in which a murder has occurred. For some silly reason they assume there could be a connection.’ He paused, and then added, ‘This place belongs to my cousin, and having been given the key and the permission to use it, I am its custodian or proxy owner. One or both of us could come under suspicion. Personally, I don’t fancy being reported as “helping police with their enquiries”. As you know, it’s a charming euphemism for “probably guilty as hell”. And apart from the embarrassment, I have a film to make. I haven’t time to joust with the law or its representatives.’
‘But surely—’ Rosy began.
‘Look,’ Bartho continued, ‘why do you think Felix was keen to take his hat back? It was hardly because of sentiment. He knew damn well that if it was left by the corpse he could be incriminated and subject to all manner of tedious probings. That’s right, isn’t it, Felix?’
The latter nodded. ‘It most certainly is,’ he said. ‘I have no intention of being compromised by a panama hat!’
‘Exactly. And the same goes for me. Frankly, the more we are distanced from this whole thing the better. There could be a perfectly simple explanation, which has nothing to do with the wretched girl. Why should we offer the police a plate of vague suspicions when they’ve got their own bloodhounds to deal with things? It’s called muddying the waters.’
‘Quite right,’ chimed Felix. ‘And after all, one does have one’s reputation to consider – the mud of those waters can stick.’ He turned to the other two: ‘Besides, it is pure chance that we came in here at all. If Bartholomew hadn’t suggested this as a venue for a beach party we shouldn’t know a thing about it … and just as well, in my opinion. Ignorance, like silence, can be golden.’ He regarded them anxiously, and Rosy knew he was thinking of his royal patron.
‘Good. That’s settled, then,’ the custodian of the key declared briskly. He held out his hand to Cedric who had been about to slip the coin and lipstick cap into his pocket. ‘I think I had better take those, if you don’t mind.’ He glanced at his watch and added, ‘High time I was back at my post. Fred is going to try out some new camera angles on Robert and Alicia. I can’t keep them waiting. I’ll leave it to you to think of another place for Amy’s reception … Oh, and by the way, for God’s sake don’t mention this to her when she comes – or to her mother: the whole of Southwold might hear of it!’ He ushered them out. And turning the key firmly in the lock, strode off in the direction of the studio.
‘He’s in a bit of a tizz,’ observed Cedric.
‘Are you surprised?’ Rosy asked. ‘He’s got a point. The hut belongs to his cousin. I suppose he is thinking of the headlines: Woman murdered in Hackle’s Hut: Scottish Landowner Denies Everything. You must admit it wouldn’t look too good.’
Felix tittered. ‘Perhaps he did it.’
‘Who, Bartho?’
‘No, the cousin. Slipped down to Southwold for a few days’ paddle, went for a kip in his hut, found some giggling girl he didn’t like the look of and took a potshot with the trusty service revolver he always carries in his sporran. Then, deed done, he drove her to the dunes, left her there and buggered back to Scotland … What do you think of that?’
Cedric regarded his friend with some irritation. ‘Very little. Firstly, the cousin is currently in Australia. And secondly, not content with honing your acting talent, I see you are now practising your scriptwriting skills. Personally, dear boy, I think you should stick to your real forte – arranging flowers. Chelsea has need of you.’
Felix sighed. ‘It’s my nerves, you know.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mindful of Bartho’s warning to say nothing to Angela about the bullet hole in his cousin’s hut, Rosy had dutifully kept quiet.
Nevertheless, she felt uneasy about this, not sure whether it was entirely fair to conceal the matter from one whose daughter was so closely involved with the young man. If their conclusions were correct – that it was in Walter Hackle’s hut, not on the beach, that the girl had been murdered – then surely Angela (and Amy) had the right to know … But then, she debated, with ‘clues’ being so often misleading or misread, their conclusions might not be correct. In which case she could fully see Bartho’s
point in not wishing to spread undue alarm.
Were the matter reported to the police there would be an awful brouhaha and the ramifications for the Hackles embarrassing to say the least: Walter Hackle would be recalled from his sojourn in Australia, enquiries would be made of all those to whom he had ever lent the beach hut (and thus perhaps in possession of a key), Bartholomew himself would be endlessly grilled, and doubtless – as he had clearly feared – the whole film project either seriously delayed or more than likely cancelled. And after all that fuss, supposing their discovery had no substance – nothing to do with the murder at all. Would such upheaval have been worth it?
No, she decided, it wouldn’t. Wasn’t it enough that the four of them should be faced with the matter, without roping in others and unleashing a whole spate of speculation and possibly slander? In his insistence on ignorance being golden, in this case Felix had surely been right. Thus, as far as she could she dismissed it from her mind – which admittedly wasn’t very far.
Like Rosy, Cedric too had been dismayed by the beach hut discovery and later that afternoon, leaving Felix immersed in the pages of House & Garden, he had strolled down to the boating lake to mull things over and take stock. As he ambled around its perimeter, surveying the placid waters and assailed by the squeals of laughter from youthful paddlers and punters, the whole affair seemed not only remote but absurd – or at least this latest aspect of it did.
He reviewed his initial suspicions, and dismissed them as being foolishly premature. In a way Bartholomew was absolutely right: the only real link – if any – with Tippy’s murder was the evidence of a solitary shot having been fired in his cousin’s property. And while the splintering of the wood appeared recent, there was little to suggest exactly how recent – three days ago, a fortnight, a month even? And yes, the girl had been found shot, but there was no real reason to suppose that the killing had been done in the beach hut. After all, people did own guns quite innocently (many left over from the war) and occasionally these were fired, either deliberately or inadvertently. Perhaps a borrower of the hut had been cleaning their gun, fooling around, showing off to a friend, drunk in charge of et cetera … Stupid accidents happened all the time.
But what about the coin and lipstick top? It was pretty tenuous, wasn’t it, to assume they had belonged to the girl? Rosy Gilchrist had been quick to spot the name (or half-name) of Revlon. But then surely that was a popular brand with women, almost as popular as Max Factor (or so he vaguely recalled his ex-wife once declaring). There would be masses of women both in Southwold and beyond who favoured that type.
And the Monégasque coin? Well, yes, that was a bit more unusual, admittedly. But Tippy Tildred was hardly the only person to visit the principality. After all, what about himself and Felix? They had been there only a year ago. And besides, following the Rainier–Kelly marriage the place had become fashionable again and was often featured in the films or in travel articles. It was not inconceivable that someone other than Tippy should have had a Monaco coin in their pocket or purse.
Cedric brooded. Taken individually the three things pointed to nothing … but together? Well, possibly a cumulative significance … but then, equally they could be a random set of fragile coincidences.
A set of coincidences worth mentioning to the police? Cedric frowned, and gazed ruminatively at a gently eddying dinghy. And then, glancing towards the town and its lighthouse, he was once more put in mind of wartime Southwold and the dead fire-watcher he had once seen sprawled pathetically in Stradbroke Road, victim of a casual air raid. Like the girl, he too had been struck down – suddenly, fatally, cruelly. And just like thousands of others, nothing had brought him back however much the circumstances had been discussed and analysed … Yes, Cedric told himself firmly, the deed was done: the girl dead. Nothing could alter that. Preventing a crime was one thing, but rushing around afterwards in pursuit of culprits was like shutting the proverbial stable door: worthy but too late. It was an exercise for the authorities, not for the bumbling laity.
Having reached that convenient conclusion and about to retrace his footsteps, he was waylaid by a small boy of about seven, wielding an enormous ice-cream cornet. The child stood four-square facing him, feet apart and thrusting the thing towards him. ‘Here, Mister,’ it said, ‘I don’t like this. Do you want it?’
Unused to dealing with children, Cedric was taken aback. ‘Er, well,’ he replied warily, eyeing the dripping cone, ‘not really, though it’s terribly nice of you.’ And then feeling something more was required, added, ‘But how very kind!’
The child smiled genially, and then casting the confection to the ground, stamped on it with evident pleasure. A splodge of cream fell on Cedric’s trouser cuff and he beat a hasty retreat.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘Well, at least we’ve had a formal identification,’ Nathan said, ‘so that’s one thing less to agitate the super; he’s pernickety like that, wants everything to go according to the book.’
‘And you don’t, sir?’ Jennings asked.
‘Not if it’s obvious and slows everything down, I don’t.’
‘Ah, the pragmatic initiative,’ the detective sergeant murmured.
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing, sir. Just thinking aloud,’ the other said hastily. ‘Er, so what was she like, the aunt or whoever?’
‘Like I’ve said, she’s the wife of that MP who has been spouting about the firearms trade, Tom Carshalton. Last year it was the excessive granting of shotgun licences, but he’s gone up a notch since then and now it’s illicit arms smuggling. There was a big thing about it in the press last week.’
‘So what’s his angle?’
‘Doesn’t like it; ought to be stopped. Says the police should be doing more. In other words the usual thing – blame the poor bloody infantry!’
Jennings nodded, but asked again about Ida.
Nathan contemplated his pipe, and then said thoughtfully: ‘Nice pins.’
‘What!’
‘Her legs were nice. She was quite attractive, I suppose, in a middle-aged way.’
Jennings explained patiently that he had been less concerned with the lady’s legs than with her general demeanour and whether she had said anything useful to aid their enquiry.
Nathan shrugged. ‘She had got it about right: a balance of sorrow and gallant stoicism. Just a few tears to show heart, but not too many as to cause embarrassment. What you might call “decorously poised”. But then her being an MP’s wife, that’s to be expected … They do it all the time.’
‘What, view corpses?’
‘No, Clever Clogs, cultivate a stage presence. It comes with the job.’
‘So you mean she was acting?’
Nathan shook his head. ‘No, I do not mean she was acting, or at least not in the crude sense. It’s a kind of social instinct – not something you would know much about.’ He smiled benignly. ‘Mind you, she wasn’t alone. She had got that travel writer from Reydon with her, the one that’s always on the wireless. A bit of a bumptious bloke, if you ask me.’
‘Vincent Ramsgate? Oh yes, but he’s rather good, isn’t he? I’ve read one of his books,’ Jennings said eagerly. ‘It was the one all to do with Rhodesia and the—’
‘Have you now?’ Nathan interjected quickly, parrying a lengthy résumé. ‘I am surprised Agatha Christie allows you the time.’
Jennings looked piqued but let it pass. ‘So she didn’t say anything helpful, anything that might give us a lead?’
‘What, like: “Oh I say, Officer, I know just the person who’s likely to have done it!”? No, I hate to disappoint you, old son, but she didn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact. Kept saying what a charming person the girl had been, and how impossible it was to imagine anyone wanting to harm her. “Everyone loved Tippy,” she insisted.’
‘No they didn’t,’ Jennings said, ‘or at least that’s not the impression I had when we interviewed those film people. I don’t mean that any of them said anything against
her, but then nobody said anything for her either – not unless you count that Alicia woman, and she seemed pretty phoney. Laying it on with a trowel, she was.’ He sniffed. ‘A bit like “the lady doth protest too much, methinks”, if you get my meaning.’
‘What?’
‘It’s in Hamlet, the bit where—’
‘Yes, yes. I’m sure it is … Now, let me tell you something: I’ve had some information which may have a bearing. It’s from some old girl with a spaniel. She dropped in last night all of a twitter, and saying she had seen a figure like Tippy Tildred on Sunday morning on the lower promenade, wrapped in a towelling thing and wearing a straw boater or some such. Thinks she may have been carrying a small beach bag too. At the time it hadn’t meant anything as a lot of visitors deck themselves out like that; but she had noticed her as there hadn’t been anyone else about, it being a Sunday and most people in church or cooking the family joint.’
‘Well, that’s something. Did she say what direction she had been going in?’
‘No. I asked her that, but she said she really couldn’t say. Apparently, the dog was on the verge of doing its business – the first time for three days, so she had got better things to think about.’
‘Hmm. Still, that’s better than a poke in the eye. But like we’ve established, there was no sign of a hat or anything when Hackle and his cronies discovered the body – not even shoes. At least, according to them there wasn’t.’
‘Exactly. Which rather suggests that her things had been left nearer to that area than we first assumed. When the woman saw her she must have been either going somewhere to leave them or coming from somewhere where she had put them on. Either way, after she had been shot the body would still need to be transported to the dunes; but the distance is likely to have been shorter, i.e. not from the edge of town or an outlying district, but somewhere closer to hand.’
Shot in Southwold Page 10