Thinking of the girl he wondered how Jennings was getting on and whether he had succeeded in calming her down and obtained anything useful. He picked up the telephone from the untouched desk and rang the station. ‘Bring Miss Morgan over here, would you,’ he said curtly.
Betty Morgan arrived tear-stained but collected. She had declined the aspirin but had enjoyed the Jaffa cakes. She had also quite enjoyed Jennings’ attempts at avuncular patience. For a young man only a few years older than herself he seemed ever so wise! She wondered if he had a girlfriend.
She was less impressed with his boss. He looked a bit stern – like her father on Saturday nights when he wanted to know why she had come in so late – well if you called eleven o’clock late!
The inspector gave her a statutory smile and gestured to the disrupted filing cabinet. ‘Anything special about that? What’s the system here?’
‘System?’
‘Yes. How do you file the stuff? What goes into what?’
She hesitated; and then glancing at Jennings for reassurance, announced: ‘Fiction, biography, war memoirs, cats and dogs, flowers and natural history – Mr de Lisle is very particular about the categories. I get into awful trouble if I muddle them up.’ She stopped and corrected herself: ‘I mean he was particular.’ Her face started to crumple but seeing no sign of a Jaffa cake she managed to compose herself.
‘So what was in that one?’ the inspector asked again.
‘Oh that was for the special submissions – there aren’t too many of those which is why it’s the smallest.’
‘What do you mean “special”?’
‘It’s part of Mr de Lisle’s other system – what he called “the hierarchy of quality”: “Good”, “Goodish”, “Moderate” and “God Awful”. This is for the good stuff,’ she nodded towards the ransacked cabinet and its scattered papers.
The inspector beamed. Well at least something mildly useful. ‘That is most helpful Miss Morgan. Now after I’ve had our fingerprint people here I would like you to come back this afternoon and make a list of the “good” scripts and then tell me which, if any, are missing. We’ll send a car if you like.’
The prospect of having a car sent was quite appealing. Nevertheless she had arranged to meet Tina for a spot of shopping in Lowestoft; perhaps he would be happy for her to do it the following day.
He wasn’t. ‘Some things take precedence over shopping,’ he said severely. (Hell, just like her father!) ‘A man has been killed, Miss Morgan, and his office broken into. You wouldn’t like it to be thought that you had obstructed the police in their enquiries, would you?’
She agreed that she wouldn’t and promised to return at three o’clock. There was no further mention of a police car.
‘But you know, sir,’ Jennings said after she had left, ‘even if she does find something missing we still shan’t know if this business is connected with the murder. The fact that the office has been done over – or part of it – doesn’t necessarily mean that the two events are linked. It might just have been a coincidence: that while the man was being shot and shoved on top of the cannon, someone just happened to be breaking and entering. I mean, we shouldn’t discount the possibility of a temporal parallel, should we?’
‘“A temporal parallel”? Certainly not,’ replied the inspector, ‘it’s what I am always telling you.’
The lad was absolutely right, he brooded. Chance and coincidences played a far bigger role in crime – or in anything else for that matter – than was popularly supposed. Still, in this case his instinct tended to suggest otherwise – not that that got him very far. Perhaps the girl would come up with something relevant. Meanwhile a nice pint at the Red Lion might help clarify matters …
That afternoon Betty Morgan knelt among the papers and tried to reassemble them into some order. It wasn’t easy, as although they all had page numbers few of the individual leaves bore names or titles. For example she came across the first page of Mrs Grantham’s offering, Cats Against Castration but had some difficulty in collating the remainder; they tended to get mixed up with Colonel Wishart’s memoir Crisis in Europe. Even those that she had typed herself she couldn’t always recognise because on the whole she tended not to bother with reading the stuff – just copying it.
Still, there had been one item that she remembered – a story about somebody in Paris called Lucian. He had had a French poodle and seemed to go about doing a lot of leering in back alleys. She didn’t think she liked him very much and had only bothered to read bits of the thing because it was set in Paris, a place she hoped to visit one day … Anyway she could find no trace of the leering Lucian or his stupid poodle, and she had just laddered her best nylons. She sat back on her heels and sighed.
‘How are we getting on?’ asked the inspector emerging from the kitchenette bearing a cup of tea. ‘You can probably do with this.’
The man seemed less stern than in the morning, but she still rather resented him for making her stay scrabbling about with manuscripts when she could have been shopping with Tina. After all it was her day off!
‘Well,’ she said, ‘most things seem to be here but there is one item I can’t account for although I’ve found its folder tag.’ She held up the small piece of cardboard with a name scrawled on it.
The inspector took it. ‘So who is Millicent Merrivale?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know really.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know? That’s what it’s got here; it must be the name of the author, one of your boss’s clients!’
Betty regarded her lengthening ladder. ‘My late boss,’ she said pertly.
Little madam! he thought angrily; and then fixing her with a hard stare, said quietly: ‘Exactly, your late boss: Mr Floyd de Lisle, who only ten hours ago was found shot to pieces on the cliff top with no one to help or save him. I should be obliged if you would answer my question, Miss Morgan. Who is Millicent Merrivale?’
Betty burst into tears.
Once the sobs had abated and he had pushed some more tea in her direction, he repeated the question in a gentler tone.
‘You see,’ she explained, ‘sometimes they use pen names. They can be a bit shy about revealing their identities – until publication that is. After that it’s generally all right, they’re only too happy for people to know. But one or two can be awfully secretive and hang on to their fake names for even longer. Mr de Lisle was very pernickety about respecting their wishes: sometimes he wouldn’t even tell me who they were.’
‘And this was such a time?’
‘Yes. Mr de Lisle would hand me the chapters to type but he would never say who had actually written them; there was just this name, Millicent Merrivale. He used to joke and say the lady had a nice sense of alliteration, or whatever it’s called.’ Betty blew her nose and got to her feet. ‘Do you think I can go now?’ she asked plaintively, ‘I’ve got one of my heads coming on.’
The inspector nodded. ‘You’ve done very well. Now there is just one more thing and you can do this at home. Try to think back over the last couple of months and write me a list of the people who had visited Mr de Lisle in his office. I don’t suppose you will remember them all but put down as many names as you can – and I’m not talking about the cleaners or metre readers, just those who came to see him personally.’
She nodded.
‘Oh, and if you like,’ he added graciously, ‘I’ll see that DC Jennings gets over here with a police car.’
It was of course a long shot and if, after all, the thing turned out to be simply petty robbery, a wasted effort. But there was just a chance that by a process of elimination they might work out the author of the missing manuscript and thus get some clue as to what the hell was going on. He would have to grill the girl again the following day when she brought the list. Perhaps Jennings might like the task.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The same night that Felix was negotiating the hazards of the local marshes and of Gun Hill, Rosy was lying awake tos
sing and turning. She had dropped off quickly enough; but waking an hour later she lay restless, her head seething with discordant images: images of the recent funeral, the vicar’s massive St Bernard meekly tethered to the church railings (would she ever encounter such a breed again without being reminded of the murdered woman’s interment?), the victim’s portrait gazing benignly from the stairs, the curious scribbled narrative tucked under the blanket in the wardrobe … and looming in the background Dr Stanley’s disgruntled expression were she to return to the Museum without the promised stick of Southwold Rock. Would he really appreciate the substitute of Adnams ale?
She thought also of Hugh’s insistence that they should prolong their stay a little longer. ‘Mother would have approved,’ he had said, adding that in any case their presence kept Hawkins on his toes. ‘We don’t have many visitors these days and he is apt to get lazy,’ he had joked. Rosy was slightly surprised by his attitude; it wasn’t as if she and Angela were old family friends – least of all herself. But when she had said as much to Angela the latter was of the opinion that Hugh was far more affected by his mother’s death than he let on and that having guests in the house, even comparative strangers, was his way of regaining normality. ‘Doubtless we are being very therapeutic!’ she had declared confidently.
Oh well, nice to be needed, Rosy thought wryly … diversion for the pugs, therapy for their master and a corrective to the butler’s idleness, what more could a girl want. She rolled over and was about to try sleep once more when she suddenly heard the rumbling of a car coming slowly up the drive. It seemed to stall, and then with a crashing of gears and much revving re-engaged itself, only to stop again while its engine ran on.
Intrigued Rosy pushed back the bedclothes, went to the window and peered out. There was thick fog but she could just make out the shape of a vehicle displaying only a single hazy headlamp. Abruptly it lurched forward again, seemed to veer across the drive and then with a loud rasping of gravel propelled itself into the low wall. There was a muffled crash followed by a silence.
As Rosy peered in wonder, the driver’s door opened and a figure climbed out and rather in the manner of the car itself began to weave slowly up the front steps before stalling at the top. She heard a curse, followed by what sounded suspiciously like one suffering the effects of nausea.
Oh Lord! Was this their host back from the Harbour Inn after an evening carousing with cronies – or conceivably playing bridge with the vicar? There were, Rosy supposed, a number of possibilities. She was about to return to bed when there was the sound of the front door being opened; a light was switched on followed by a murmur of voices. She thought she recognised one as being Hawkins’. A figure crunched across the drive to extinguish the still glowing headlamp, and a minute later the front door was slammed shut and the light switched off. From somewhere below she could hear stumbling footfalls and the querulous bark of a pug. And then silence. Rosy returned to bed, drew the blankets over her head and went to sleep immediately.
The first thing she did the next morning was to look out of the window. The fog had vanished, as had the car … Indeed had it not been for the fact that the wall was no longer in its unblemished state and a heap of bricks and flints lay tumbled on the gravel, there was nothing to suggest that the episode had not been a figment of her imagination. Craning her neck Rosy could just make out the garage at the far side of the house. Its doors were firmly closed. Was that where the vehicle was? Shunted tidily away to await the repairers or until claimed by its driver? However, she more than suspected that the latter was Hugh himself. She would make tactful enquiry of Hawkins when he brought her breakfast.
‘A minor mishap,’ Hawkins confirmed gravely, ‘a couple of knocks and scratches, nothing that can’t be soon remedied.’ He cleared his throat and added quietly, ‘although I fear that can’t be entirely said of Master Hugh. He is not quite himself this morning, a touch under the weather, if you take my meaning.’
Rosy did take his meaning. Huh, she thought, he’s got a monumental hangover that’s what! She wondered if such nocturnal ‘mishaps’ were frequent or whether it was to do with the current situation. After all to have had a mother dispatched in such a way would be enough to make anyone overdose on alcohol and ram a wall. It occurred to her that it might be tactful if she and Angela made themselves scarce for the day: they could drive to Orford and view its castle, or have a little tour of some of the Suffolk churches: Blythburgh’s was said to be especially fine, as of course further afield was Lavenham’s. With luck by the time they returned in the evening their host would be fully recovered and normality restored.
Hawkins looked mildly relieved at her proposal, as was Lady Fawcett when Rosy informed her of the commotion in the night.
‘Oh yes, if the young man has a head like my Gregory’s in the old days he will be quite impossible and one will be required to tiptoe about and speak only in whispers. Too boring for words! The sooner we go off somewhere nice and leave him to it the better. But not too many churches, Rosy dear; after all one had an excellent view of St Edmund’s during the funeral and it doesn’t do to be excessive, does it?’
Rosy smiled and said that perhaps they could manage to squeeze in a small one between some light shopping in Woodbridge and motoring on for a leisurely lunch at Orford.
And so it was only when they returned to Southwold in the late afternoon that they heard the news of the second murder – ‘the body on the gun’ as it was already being dubbed – and learnt of the shocking fate of Floyd de Lisle found that morning in a parlous condition on Gun Hill.
The news was relayed by Mark and Iris, plus Hugh now moderately recovered from his earlier indisposition. ‘Well,’ he said caustically, ‘this will give our local law officers something to muddle them further. No progress regarding my mother’s death – or at least if there is they certainly haven’t bothered to inform me. And now there’s de Lisle. Extraordinary really.’
‘Weren’t you at school with him?’ Mark asked.
‘What? Oh – yes, yes I was for a short time. He arrived in my last year. Rather a tiresome type, a bit of a swot and cocky with it. He had the nerve to ask if I would like him to edit my English prep as his version would be immeasurably better than mine. Bumptious little creep.’
‘But he’s dead, Hugh!’ Iris protested. ‘You can hardly hold that against him now.’
Hugh agreed that he couldn’t, but judging from his cold expression Rosy rather thought he could.
‘But who on earth would want to kill the man?’ enquired Lady Fawcett. ‘I met him at the funeral. He seemed most affable and cheerful – well as cheerful as is suitable on such occasions I suppose.’
‘Ah, so you mean he didn’t know that he was due for the chop,’ Hugh said lightly.
For a few seconds Lady Fawcett regarded him speculatively, and then just as lightly, replied, ‘As no more did your poor mother.’
Hugh seemed nonplussed, and then turning aside bent to fondle a pug.
There was a slightly awkward silence, broken by Mark announcing that they had to be off: ‘We only dropped in to see if you had heard the news, and now we must rush home before the Brightwells appear. They’re picking us up to attend a concert in Aldeburgh – though frankly with all this ghastly business going on I’m not sure that I shall be all that receptive … By the way Lucas may have a notion or two, he’s pretty chummy with the Chief Constable so just conceivably he may have picked up something from that source. I’ll try to sound him out.’
‘Huh,’ Hugh replied carelessly, ‘Lucas is chummy with anyone who might be grist to his social mill and secure him a gong. You see, the next thing he’ll do is to found a charity for the protection of minor publishers! Never misses a trick that chap.’
‘Oh honestly, Hugh,’ Iris exclaimed, ‘for goodness’ sake go and mix a hair of the dog, you’ll feel so much better.’ Smiling apologetically at the two guests she followed her husband out to the car.
After they had gone Hugh sighed. ‘I
say, ladies, would you mind awfully dining alone this evening? I’m still not quite dans mon assiette as our French friends would say. A little penitential dry toast in my room is as about as much as I can manage. Would you mind?’
Slightly relieved they said that of course they wouldn’t and was there anything they could do.
‘To soothe my fevered brow?’ he laughed sardonically. ‘No, only sleep will do that.’
‘But what about Peep and Bow?’ Rosy asked. ‘Would you like me to give them their bedtime run?’
He beamed. ‘Oh yes, that would be most kind, a real help!’ It was, Rosy felt, his one spontaneously decent response of the past half hour.
Over supper, and with Hawkins safely busy in the kitchen, Rosy suggested that perhaps it really was time that they should return to London. ‘Delightful though Southwold is one must admit that two murders hardly make it the most soothing of holiday venues! And despite what he says, I am sure Hugh can’t really want us hovering around much longer. Perhaps we should cut and run while we can.’
Lady Fawcett looked startled. ‘While we can?’ she echoed. ‘Whatever do you mean? You are surely not expecting one of us to be the next are you?’
‘No, of course not. I merely meant that this might be an opportune time to leave. We have paid our last respects to Delia, the festival is nearing its an end, and now that there is this fresh scandal it surely seems the right moment to bow out gracefully. If we pack tonight we could be on the road back to London early tomorrow.’
Lady Fawcett’s response was not what Rosy had expected. And thinking about it later she realised that she had made a tactical error in using the word ‘scandal’. It must have struck a Pavlovian chord in her companion’s mind which tipped the balance between languid curiosity and avid fascination.
A Southwold Mystery Page 11