For twenty minutes or so she wandered around reading this, examining that; until seduced by a battered arm chair she sat down and closed her eyes. It was only then that the image of Lucas Brightwell and Betty Morgan came back to mind.
She remembered the girl of course: it had been the one in the teashop the other day, the girl Floyd de Lisle had approached. Presumably, and as just indicated by Lucas, Betty Morgan was his secretary. What had her companion said? That she was compiling an introduction to one of de Lisle’s publications? Rosy couldn’t help feeling a little dubious. Certainly the girl was very pretty and doubtless very nice – but bright enough to compose an introduction? It seemed a little unlikely. Immediately Rosy felt ashamed by her own snobbish cynicism, but it persisted all the same.
They struck her as an unlikely duo – the suave, middle-aged Brightwell and the gauche teenage secretary (not even his own). She couldn’t imagine that they had much in common … well, other than the age-old and obvious! She recalled Mark’s description – ‘a nice little bolthole’. Was that really what they had been doing in the Reading Room: conducting a cosy little tête-à-tête surrounded by photos of the knowing old salts and the roguish eyes of ships’ figureheads? An odd venue perhaps but it certainly had the merit of warmth and seclusion. One could think of less convenient places.
As she prepared to go she noticed something propped against the table leg, a smart attaché case. It didn’t look like a permanent fixture to the Reading Room and in all probability it had been left by someone – though not, she assumed, by one of the regular denizens. A visitor like herself perhaps; maybe even Lucas Brightwell … If he had been busy chatting up the girl something as prosaic as an attaché case could easily have slipped his mind.
She picked it up and inspected the contents. At first all she saw was a copy of that day’s Financial Times and a spectacle case. Not much of a clue there. She withdrew the newspaper hoping to find something more indicative of the owner. Ah, that was better – a small folder holding a few bits and pieces: a couple of London theatre tickets, a newspaper cutting about some tin mines in Bolivia … And yes confirmation: three cheques made out to local tradesmen signed Lucas Brightwell. He would be glad to get those back – as no doubt would the recipients. What else? Nothing much – an invitation to one of the Buckingham Palace garden parties later in the season marked ‘accepted’ and a small Basildon Bond writing pad.
Without thinking she casually flipped open its cover to see a half page of pencilled notes or what might be the draft of a letter. Indifferently she ran her eye down the page. When she reached the bottom she muttered something a trifle unladylike: ‘Blithering hell!’
The contents struck her as singular especially the penultimate sentence. There was no salutation.
I consider your action to have been precipitate to say the least: a monumental blunder and one you may live to regret. When you made the proposal naturally I thought it was said in jest. Never for one moment did I think you would pursue such an idiotic scheme. Yes, the initial problem is now disposed of – but oh my God at what likely cost! If it backfires, as it may well do, the consequences could be mutually disastrous.
Let us hope that the powers that be are too inept to draw conclusions. However, should they begin to I shall have no hesitation in stopping your mouth. Meanwhile if you take my advice you will decamp for a ‘well-earned’ holiday.
There was no signature or date and the words fizzled out into squiggles and asterisks. Rosy assumed that its writer (Brightwell?) had run out of steam – or spleen. There had been plenty of the latter all right! She wondered whether the edited text had ever been posted and whether its despised recipient had taken the advice about a holiday. But who was the recipient? A business colleague who had been less than prudent? Some collaborator in a scheme that had gone wrong? Or more sinisterly perhaps Brightwell had been engaged in something illicit or fraudulent even, and which was now jeopardised by the man’s action. Well whatever it was the writer was certainly very angry – and distinctly threatening. The coarse note struck by ‘I shall have no hesitation in stopping your mouth’ was as unexpected as it was crude. Could this this really be from the pen of Lucas Brightwell?
She thought of the man’s slightly starchy dignity, his bland courtesies and complacent pronouncements on the government’s mishandling of the markets. It seemed unlikely. But then she also recalled Hugh Dovedale’s acid observation – ‘no perks for jerks!’ Perhaps he was less upright than his formal manner would suggest. And what about the wife, Freda? Rather a wholesome sort of woman she had thought. Did she know of her husband’s financial affairs? Possibly not – although she might know more of the other sort! (Assuming of course that there was another sort: after all just because she had bumped into the pair coming from the Reading Room porch hardly meant they were conducting a torrid liaison.)
Rosy grinned and told herself she was turning into a regular old woman; snooping all over the place and drawing the most scurrilous conclusions. Doubtless Lucas and the girl had been earnestly discussing Southwold’s maritime past and the Battle of Sole Bay. And as for the contents of the note pad – well perhaps he was writing a part for the local drama society’s next production. That was it. Obviously!
She hesitated wondering if he had already missed the thing … perhaps he was about to return to the Reading Room. Oh well, she couldn’t hang about on the off-chance. She would telephone that evening.
Making her way back to the car she inspected a couple of sweet shop windows in the vague hope of glimpsing some of Dr Stanley’s required peppermint rock. There seemed plenty of toffees and pear drops but no rock, unless one counted the thin barley-sugar sticks. Well he would just have to settle for a couple of bottles of Adnams special brew – bound to be more sustaining in any case. Knowing him the yen for pink rock was probably just another of the pre-war fantasies that he so readily indulged … She also decided to give Felix Smythe’s lecture a miss – as Angela had earlier remarked, one could have too much of a good thing.
As she drove, her thoughts went back briefly to the two on the East Cliff; and she reflected that when returning Brightwell’s property it would be best to keep a discreet silence regarding Betty Morgan, especially if Freda happened to be with him. No point in mentioning his companion unless he did first. She heard her late father’s voice: ‘Foot in mouth, that’s what my girl!’
Back in her room she heard a tap on the door and Lady Fawcett appeared looking unusually animated.
‘How were the rajahs?’ Rosy asked.
‘Very dark,’ she replied. ‘But much more entertaining have been the police: they arrived about an hour after you left and started asking Hugh questions all over again about Delia’s friends and whether he know of any new acquaintances she may have made in the last six months; or indeed was he sure that she had no enemies or someone with whom she had any recent altercation. I can’t say that Hugh was in the most cooperative of moods and he told them that he wasn’t one for monitoring his mother’s social contacts, and as for enemies – well didn’t we all have those … As a matter of fact judging from that inspector’s rather sour expression I suspect Hugh has just made a new one! He wasn’t exactly what I believe the newspapers call a sympathetic witness.’ She paused and then said pensively, ‘In fact in some ways that young man reminds me of Amy: stubbornly difficult. Except of course the dear girl means well. I am not entirely sure that Hugh always does.’ She paused again, and then with a bright smile added, ‘fortunately I was able to be of help.’
‘Really?’ Rosy asked in some surprise. ‘In what way?’
‘I told them my theory of Delia being of no account to anyone.’
‘You said what? That was a bit harsh wasn’t it?’
‘Oh I don’t mean of no value, simply – as I’ve said before – that she was being used for practice fodder or as a decoy. Indeed I told the inspector I thought he was barking up the wrong tree and that if I were in his shoes I would be marching up and down the east c
oast looking for other instances of sudden poisoning. “There’s bound to be a pattern,” I told him, and “Mrs Dovedale was just a random factor”.’
‘Er, and how did he react?’ Rosy enquired, trying to imagine Lady Fawcett marching anywhere.
‘He didn’t: just stood and scratched his head. But the young constable seemed very impressed. Kept nodding and making notes. And then as they were going I heard him say to the inspector, “You know sir, I think that lady may have something”.’
‘What did the inspector say?’
Lady Fawcett shrugged. ‘Grunted, I think. But frankly in my experience our law officers are not always the most articulate …’
‘I don’t suppose by any chance they gave a clue as to when the body might be released did they?’
‘Oh yes I knew there was something important! It seems that panellist who Cedric mentioned may have been telling the truth after all and that he really did hear her say “almonds”. The laboratory people have finished their tests and established cyanide as the cause. Disgraceful! Still, the inspector said the body can be released for burial, so at least that’s an achievement if nothing else.’ She paused and then said, ‘And another might be if we could prise some sherry out of Hawkins. Do you think he might serve some in the drawing room? All this police work is really quite exhausting.’
Later, with supper over, Rosy went into the hall and picking up the telephone dialled the Brightwells’ number. Needless to say it was Freda, not Lucas, who answered; and slightly wrong-footed she hesitated before explaining who she was and why she was calling.
‘You see,’ she said, ‘I was in the Sailors’ Reading Room this afternoon and came across a briefcase. I think it may belong to your husband and I imagine he may be looking for it.’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Freda answered. ‘But why do you think it’s his?’
Rosy explained that she had found the cheques and the Royal Garden Party invitation, but made no mention of the scribbled letter – or indeed of Betty Morgan.
‘Well I suppose it must be his,’ Freda said doubtfully, ‘but what an odd place to find it. I don’t think we have been there since about five years ago when they were holding some commemorative thing for perished sailors. Are you sure it is his?’
‘Well that’s what the cheques say – Coutts, and his name and signature. The cheques are just made out to local firms.’
‘Oh well, it must be his then – how strange.’
At that moment Rosy heard the faint noise of a door opening and then the sound of movements, followed by voices. ‘It’s that Rosy Gilchrist,’ she heard Freda say, ‘something about your briefcase …’
The next voice was not Freda’s but that of Lucas himself. ‘Ah, he said, ‘I was wondering where that had got to. How kind of you to call. I’m not in a position to pick it up just now – I have some urgent business in London and we are about to take off immediately. It’s not essential but I should be most obliged if you could guard it safely. Naturally we shall be back for Delia’s funeral. I’ll see you there.’ The next moment he had put the phone down.
It wasn’t the most gracious of responses, Rosy felt. And feeling slightly peeved at his perfunctory manner, when she returned to her room she opened the case and had another look at the letter. Huh! Whoever the recipient was he had certainly had a dressing down! Not at all the thing one would like to receive. She wondered about him and what his response had been – assuming of course that the thing had ever been sent. But even if a mere draft written in the heat of the moment it did rather suggest that Lucas Brightwell was not a man to be trifled with … She had better watch her p’s and q’s when she saw him at the funeral!
As she pushed the thing back into an inside pocket her fingers touched what seemed like a stiff piece of cardboard. She pulled it out. It was a photograph of a young man: head and shoulders and obviously posed, like a studio portrait. The youth was rather good-looking with dark lazy eyes and an ironic mouth … Brightwell’s son? No they didn’t have any children. She remembered Freda making a joke saying that was one less thing to worry about. The photo wasn’t exactly pristine – in fact it looked quite old, taken about ten, fifteen years ago? She turned it over looking for a date. There was nothing except the letter R written in slightly faded black ink.
CHAPTER TEN
While Rosy was acquainting herself with the charms of Southwold, her host had been receiving the attentions of Detective Inspector Rawson and his assistant DC Jennings. Their visit to Laurel Lodge had not been especially productive.
As they walked back to the car Jennings observed, ‘Rum sort of fellow isn’t he, sir? I mean you’d have thought that what with his mum being done in like that he’d have shown a bit more interest. If you ask me he was more concerned with those blooming dogs than our questions.’ He shot a sly look at the inspector. ‘Actually from what I could make out the only time he showed any real reaction was when you put your hat down on top of that china vase thing. He didn’t seem too pleased about that, not pleased at all!’ He grinned.
The inspector grunted. ‘Typical of that sort – dogs and objets d’art, that’s what they like; human beings take a back seat in their priorities.’
‘But do you still think he may have done it?’
‘Never thought he did. I’ve told you before, no motive. Plenty of money and doesn’t inherit any more for another few years regardless of whether Mummy is dead or not. Nothing to be gained.’
Jennings let in the clutch thoughtfully. ‘But there could be something else, something psychological – I mean money isn’t the only factor, is it sir?’
‘Isn’t it?’ said the inspector curtly. He had just been baulked of a handy payrise and was in no mood to listen to Master Freud chuntering on about psycho this and psycho that.
‘You see,’ Jennings continued, ‘it’s my belief it could be a case of blackmail. It often is, you know.’
His boss emitted a billow of pipe smoke into the car which fogged the driving mirror. ‘I see. So you have the deceased marked down as putting the frighteners on the vicar for some misdemeanour in the vestry, and being none too pleased with her curiosity he gives her a lethal dose … Yes, yes, Jennings, good thinking; I am sure you are getting close.’
‘Oh much simpler than that, sir,’ explained the detective constable undeterred by the other’s jibe, ‘I think she could have been putting the frighteners on her son.’
His boss looked mildly shocked. ‘As a general rule, Jennings, mothers don’t do that.’
‘Oh mine does,’ replied Jennings cheerfully, ‘all the time.’
‘Hmm. So you think that Mrs Dovedale had uncovered something dubious about her son’s past or present activities, cut up rough and threatened to expose him. Or was she perhaps milking him dry and saving up for a mammoth world cruise? Could have been either I suppose.’
The other frowned and gripped the steering wheel more tightly. The problem with one’s superior officers was that the bastards thought they knew it all.
When they reached the station the inspector was about to alight when his colleague suddenly said, ‘And what about that other lady, sir?’
‘What other lady?’
‘The one with the title and long nose.’
‘What about her?’
‘Well like I said, I think her theory about the deceased being used as a sort of decoy was not necessarily all that daft. She might just have something there.’
‘Ah, so we have discounted the son theory, have we?’
‘It’s as well to keep an open mind, sir,’ replied Jennings primly.
A little later the inspector sat at his desk nursing a cup of cocoa and brooding on their not very satisfactory visit to Laurel Lodge. A funny lot really: a po-faced one-eyed butler – or whatever it was these people employed – a pair of squinting canines, the victim’s son sardonic and testy, and the thin languid woman from London who claimed she had known Delia Dovedale at school.
He thought he might have got a lea
d there, some clue from the past perhaps. It had been a long shot but he needn’t have bothered. When pressed all she could do was rattle on about some school play they had been in and the hash the deceased had made of the third act. And as for her notion about the victim being just a cipher in a bigger plan – well really, you wondered where the public got their ideas from! Those Agatha Christie novels presumably that young Jennings had always got his nose stuck in.
Still, he reflected, she had also made some casual allusion to the florist person they had questioned at the time of the death. ‘Frightful for poor Felix to be sitting so close,’ she had lamented. Well ‘poor Felix’ had been a lousy witness, as had that smug friend sitting in the front row. He had put them at the bottom of his ‘Try Again’ list. But perhaps now was the time for another approach. One of them might suddenly remember something, such late memory flashes were not unknown … Besides, he was still puzzled by the victim’s cry of ‘Oh Felix’. Did it signify a closer relationship than the chap had acknowledged? Yes, he brooded, perhaps a closer look there was called for.
He summoned his subordinate. ‘We’ll have another go at that Smythe and Dillworthy pair over at Aldeburgh.’
‘Good thinking, sir!’ Jennings exclaimed approvingly.
The inspector sighed.
‘This is too bad,’ Felix protested furiously to Cedric, ‘I am clearly being the victim of police persecution! Just because Delia Dovedale uttered my name like that they seem to be convinced that she and I had some dark and close connection. As it happens – as you well know – I spent much of my time trying to distance myself from that awful braying laugh! Why she should have called out my name I cannot imagine; it has put me in a very embarrassing position.’ Felix gripped the arms of his chair and crossed and uncrossed his legs irritably.
A Southwold Mystery Page 7