Curious, Felix moved closer; and then stopped abruptly and stared, unable to believe his eyes. The shape wasn’t a thing at all, it was a person. A person draped astride the barrel, arms wound round its neck and feet dangling. A trilby hat was tilted rakishly over one ear.
Again Felix experienced a mad flashback as he recalled the cowboy films of his youth, Tom Mix & Co., in which invariably there would be some poor sucker gunned down and slung lifeless astraddle the flanks of a plodding nag.
But this was no nag: it was an ancient municipal gun and with luck the poor sucker was merely drunk. But even as the hope darted through his mind he knew that was not the case. The man was dead all right. And as if to prove it, at that moment the body slowly rolled off the barrel and slumped to the ground on its back. What Felix saw sickened him: a huge splodge of viscous jammy fluid covering half the man’s chest. The eyes were open, the mouth twisted in a contorted leer. Whether the wound had been inflicted by blade or bullet Felix didn’t know and didn’t care. All he knew was that something terrible had happened, something obscene and fearful and from which he must run. There was nothing he could do, no help he could give: the man was horribly dead, his agony done.
Sweating and terrified Felix blundered his way across the interminable stretch of grass towards the safety of the car. His stumbling flight away from the guns and back into the Market Place seemed to go on for ever. And the fog, which a little earlier he had found almost soothing now seemed to smother, and he wrenched at the car handle with panting breaths. Yet the turmoil in his mind was not reflected in the outside world: the High Street and its alleyways being just as silent as when he had first arrived. The town continued in its placid sleep, unmoved by Felix or the horror he had seen on its cliff.
Whereas earlier in the night agitation had made him careless, fear now focused Felix’s mind remarkably well. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, and alert to every bend and turn, and despite the poor visibility, negotiated his way back to Aldeburgh without further alarm.
Using his guest key he entered the darkened hotel and wearily climbed the stairs. But before going to his own room he slipped into Cedric’s, and switching on the light approached the recumbent sleeper and shook him by the shoulder. ‘I have been chased by a coypu and encountered a dead man on a cannon,’ he announced.
His friend opened his eyes blearily. ‘Really?’ he muttered. ‘Well that’s nice. Now go away.’ He turned over and resumed his slumber.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The morning following Felix’s ordeal all signs of fog had dispersed and in its place Aldeburgh’s seafront was sparkling with brilliant sunshine. The two friends had elected to take their breakfast in the conservatory from where they could observe the dogs bounding on the pebbles and the fishermen mending their nets … or at least Cedric was observing them; Felix’s head was bent, preoccupied with his egg and other matters.
‘No,’ he said tightly, ‘I did not say the corpse was fired from a cannon. I said it was sitting on the bloody thing – or it was to begin with, and then it fell off.’ He sniffed and smoothed his napkin.
Cedric studied his companion for a moment and then asked mildly whether the previous evening’s dinner had been convivial and if Huggins’ brother kept a good cellar.
Had Felix not encountered the corpse and had Cedric been a trifle more sympathetic he would have recounted the early part of the evening’s events with theatrical relish. As it was he merely shrugged, and said, ‘I’ve no idea, but the stuff seemed all right and there was plenty of it.’
‘Hmm,’ Cedric murmured, ‘I daresay.’
Felix looked up sharply. ‘Oh that’s it – I see. You think I was stoned out of my mind and seeing wild animals and dead bodies all over the damn shop. Typical!’ He glowered across the table.
‘Perish the thought, dear chap! I merely thought that the combination of fog, food and drink, plus the fact that you had omitted to take your glasses – left them in the lounge, silly boy – that just conceivably your perceptions were not entirely razor sharp.’ Cedric proffered a calming smile.
But Felix was far from calmed. ‘Listen,’ he retorted angrily, ‘there may have been fog, I may have had a few drinks, and yes, I didn’t have my glasses. But I know what I saw and I can assure you that both man and beast were totally real. If you don’t believe me I suggest you drive over to Southwold this very minute and see what’s cooking. Something will be I can tell you! There are probably hordes of police swarming all over that cliff even as we speak. Why don’t you telephone Rosy Gilchrist? She’s bound to know!’
He gazed out of the window twitching irritably and Cedric’s scepticism melted. ‘It all sounds very distressing,’ he said gently. ‘Now let us withdraw to that corner over there and you can tell me more.’
Thus taking the remains of their coffee and retreating to a more secluded spot they began to discuss the more shocking of Felix’s traumas and how best it might be handled.
‘In practice of course one really ought to go to the police. Presumably you are what they call a “key witness” with information material to the fact,’ Cedric mused.
‘I don’t care what I am material to,’ Felix said, ‘I am not going near a police station. I’ve had quite enough of being a key witness. Sitting on that stage and seeing Delia Dovedale keel over after shrieking my name is more than sufficient thank you very much. If the authorities now find that I was also in the proximity of that poor beggar on his gun they’re bound to think that I am dodgy! And what would my clients think for God’s sake? Especially Her Majesty.’ He shuddered in horror gripping his coffee cup so tightly that Cedric feared it might break. The latter said nothing for a moment, and then agreed that on the whole and by and large and with all things being equal Felix was doubtless right and that the less said the better.
For the first time since getting up that morning Felix relaxed. He emitted a loud sigh of relief. ‘Good. That’s settled then.’ And splashing more coffee into his cup he announced casually that he intended taking a little stroll along the promenade past Crag House on the off chance of getting a sighting of ‘You know who’.
‘I don’t know, actually,’ Cedric replied, ‘unless of course you mean the composer chap – or would it be the singer?’
Felix leered. ‘Either will do.’ With a slow wink he stood up, selected a newspaper and stepped out through the French windows.
Cedric watched his friend’s slight figure as it sauntered casually across the strip of lawn and turned right in the direction of the Jubilee Hall. He smiled. And then reaching for his sun glasses and settling back in the wicker chair he began to give serious thought to the latest extraordinary development.
Failing to report a crime was, of course, an indictable offence … but by now it would most certainly have been reported by others. Felix was surely right in assuming that the Southwold constabulary would be swarming all over the place; and no doubt their forensic people would be in the process of fixing the time and the likely circumstances of the death – if they hadn’t already done so. Yes, he reflected, any information that Felix could contribute would surely duplicate their own … and having listened to his friend’s account he couldn’t say it had been the most succinct. Indeed, Cedric thought wryly, Felix’s version might well cloud rather than clarify. Besides, the poor fellow was right – didn’t he already have enough to cope with regarding the Dovedale death? To be involved in a second would surely invite comment on the platform, as Oscar Wilde had more or less once remarked.
He settled further back in the chair and brooded. It really was the most intriguing business. Whoever could the man have been – someone with equestrian interests perhaps, he thought wryly. A jockey felled by a rival? After all Newmarket wasn’t all that far! Felix had gabbled something about a hat. Well that shouldn’t be too difficult to trace; and presumably the other items of clothing would betray some traces of their owner. The police were sure to pick up on those. But how remarkable for that demure little town to hav
e two such dramatic disposals within so short a while! Perhaps there was some rabid maniac at work who specialised in bizarrely choreographed killings but also had a penchant for sea air.
He shelved the matter and instead turned his thoughts to the crossword. Disdaining the Daily Sketch he looked in vain for The Times. Drat Felix! Why he had felt the need to take a newspaper with him on his prowls one couldn’t imagine – some sort of cover he supposed.
Felix had been right about there being ‘something cooking’ in Southwold: the hob was hot and police and tongues were sizzling. The body had been found at five o’clock that morning by an early dog-walker and the alarm raised. And after much busyness, brisk enquiry and perusal of the wallet and garments, the victim’s identity had been firmly established: the proprietor of The Select Publishing Co., Mr Floyd de Lisle. Cause of death? Shot by person or persons unknown.
‘You are sure of that are you, sir?’ enquired Detective Constable Jennings of his superior. ‘I mean, who knows – it might have been suicide.’
The inspector regarded him coldly. ‘Everyone knows, Jennings, that it was not suicide. You don’t straddle a cannon, put a bullet through your chest and then throw the offending weapon away so as nobody can find it. Use your brain, boy!’
Jennings looked mildly piqued. ‘But you always say that one should never discount alternatives, and that’s just what I was doing – sort of lateral thinking.’
‘There’s lateral and lateral,’ retorted the inspector heavily, ‘and yours is wide of the side. And besides, alternatives are only useful if they make sense. Yours does not.’
The young man shrugged. ‘Oh well, win one lose one,’ he muttered cheerfully.
The inspector returned to his notes while Jennings gazed out of the window tracking the progress of a kite being flown high above the Common. Then kite out of sight, he turned back to the inspector. ‘You know what is troubling me, sir? I can’t help wondering why—’
‘Your troubles are no concern of mine, my lad. Now shut up and let me get on!’
Unperturbed Jennings continued, ‘Well it’s not that I’m troubled exactly but what you might call intrigued. You see it does seem a funny place to want to sit in the middle of the night, especially as there are plenty of handy seats up there. I mean why climb on a cannon? Unless of course the man was drunk; but then again we know that he—’
‘That he wasn’t,’ his boss concluded. ‘The medics have assured us of that.’
Jennings nodded. ‘So what was he doing?’
‘Obvious,’ the inspector said, ‘practising at being Don Quixote for the Reydon carnival.’
Jennings frowned. ‘No seriously sir, you must admit it’s odd. And do you know what?’
‘What?’
‘I think he was put there; after he had been done in.’
The inspector beamed. ‘Now that’s what I do call a sensible alternative. My thoughts exactly.’
At that moment the telephone rang. The inspector lifted the receiver and listened intently to the voice the other end. ‘Oh yes,’ he said casually, ‘that’s been on the cards right from the start: no other explanation … Behind the Casino you say? That would figure: fits our theory exactly.’ He replaced the receiver and smiled complacently at his colleague. ‘Nice to know they’re on the job. That was the Chief Superintendent’s office catching up with our analysis – about him being placed on the gun after he was dead.’
Jennings looked bemused. ‘But what was that casino you were talking about? I didn’t know there was one of those in Southwold. You could have fooled me!’
‘Ah but then you lead a sheltered life – not at all your sort of thing I shouldn’t think. Like I always say, appearances are deceptive; there’s more to this town than meets the eye. You’ll learn that.’
‘Yes, but where on earth—’ began the other.
The inspector sighed and said patiently, ‘The Casino, Jennings, is that small octagonal building just next to the guns. Somebody or other erected it in the eighteenth century when it was used for dances and tea parties and such but recently it’s been a coastguard station. Could do with a lick of paint if you ask me … Anyway, according to my informant from the super’s office that’s where the victim was dealt with. Just behind it. It’s only a few yards from the guns so I suppose the body was dragged over and then hoisted up.’
The younger man nodded eagerly, pleased that he had got something right. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it seems a funny thing to do after you’ve just shot a chap – to waste time heaving his corpse about like that. I mean it wasn’t as if he was trying to conceal it! If that had been me I’d have scarpered pronto.’
‘I am sure you would,’ the inspector agreed.
‘Well wouldn’t you, sir?’
‘Not if I had a perverse and warped mentality I wouldn’t.’
‘Ah,’ Jennings replied sagely, ‘that explains it of course. So we are dealing with a nutcase are we? A raver. In my opinion they’re the worst kind, difficult to predict you see. It’s the mental processes – up the spout. Oh yes, just mark my words sir, we’re going to have our work cut out on this one, you can be sure of that!’
‘Is that so? Well, well, what d’you know,’ said the inspector. He reached for his pipe.
Half an hour later there was a knock on the inspector’s door. ‘There’s been a break-in,’ announced the duty officer, ‘at his premises.’
‘Whose premises?’
‘The dead man’s – Floyd de Lisle’s. The team had just finished going over his rooms in Chester Road when this girl appears in tears saying that when she went to open up his office on South Green she found the side door had been forced and one of the filing cabinets ransacked. Papers and letters all over the shop. She’s his typist – or was – and had gone over early to feed the cat and to retype a letter she reckoned she had messed up. When she saw the state of things she rushed to his place in Chester Road to tell him, and then of course bumped into our lot. She’s here now, in an awful state wailing and moaning and saying it didn’t ought to have happened.’
‘Which? The break-in or the murder?’
‘Both, I suppose.’
‘Hmm. Give her some Jaffa cakes and an aspirin, it usually works. And then tell Jennings to talk to her. He’ll like doing that – he’s got a new notebook.’
The inspector reached for his hat and jacket, and rounding up an assistant prepared to visit The Select Publishing Co.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
What the inspector found there was what might be termed controlled mess: controlled in that the main part of the premises was comparatively ordered except for a corner by the window, a corner housing a filing cabinet substantially smaller than the other three. Whereas the rest of the area was conventionally organised with a couple of desks and typewriters, a bookcase and the larger filing cabinets, the window corner had been blitzed.
The two drawers of the cabinet had been wrenched open and their contents, including several of the cardboard dividers, scattered wildly in every direction. A vase of flowers which must have been standing on its top had been dashed to the floor, its blooms still intact, but water soaked heavily into the thin cotton rug. There must originally have been a bunch of keys sticking in the lock for these, too, appeared to have fallen out or been thrown carelessly on the floor.
At first sight it seemed that it had been this area alone, with its sheaves of jumbled manuscripts that had been the focus. But on the floor at the side of the cabinet was a small cheap strongbox of the kind sold by Woolworths. Its lid was open revealing a ten shilling note and a handful of silver, while on the mat lay a saturated white fiver. The box gave the impression of having been hastily rifled and its main contents quickly pocketed.
The inspector was puzzled. What connection was there between the strewn documents and the tin of petty cash open on the floor? What had the intruder been searching for – money or goods? If the former he was unlikely to have snatched more than fifteen quid or so, a small sum you would thin
k for all that trouble. And if the latter why would he want to snaffle a bunch of probably rather third-rate scripts from aspiring amateurs? After all The Select Publishing Co. wasn’t exactly Victor Gollancz or Chatto & Windus, and he rather doubted that there was a budding Graham Greene or James Joyce on its stocks.
The inspector grinned. It was amazing how bumptious some of these creative types could be – even the third-rate ones (often the worst). Perhaps Chummy had had his submission rejected by the publisher and this was his revenge: wreck the bugger’s filing cabinets. Or perhaps, cheated of a promised advance he had come to grab what little cash he could: screw the bastard! Probably both: a mixture of avarice and wounded literary pride. You never knew with ‘artists’, they were a sensitive lot – take that Van Gogh fellow and his severed ear. Or had that been Proust?
He checked with the young constable about the front door. Had the intruder a key? Evidently not, the lock, a flimsy one, had been forced. Any sign of mud or footprints on the stairs? Not obviously, the linoleum was grubby enough as it was. A cigarette stub had been found on the landing, a Piccadilly – a brand regularly smoked by the dead man; there had been a packet in his trouser pocket when they found him.
The inspector was puzzled. What had been the point? In some ways the raid seemed to have been focused – its aim the smaller cabinet by the window, the others evidently ignored. But if so why bother with the money box? Was the intruder simply a random opportunist who while intending to go on to the other cabinets had been diverted by the cash – and then losing interest had quickly scarpered? The front door might suggest that: it had been left wide open with no attempt to conceal the break-in or delay its finding. Indifference or haste?
The forensics would have to do their bit with the fingerprints but he doubted if that would yield anything – the place was probably smothered in de Lisle’s dabs and the typist’s.
A Southwold Mystery Page 10