A Southwold Mystery

by Suzette A. Hill

  Thus there was a pause while Angela Fawcett’s mild grey eyes slowly roamed the room before coming to rest on the young woman opposite. She bent forward. ‘You know, Rosy,’ she said solemnly, ‘I consider there is more to this than meets the eye.’ You don’t say, Rosy thought irritably. But irritation turned to surprise when the other added, ‘And I feel it is our bounden duty to pursue the matter more fully. To leave now would be very negative, not to say slipshod … I mean, it is not that one is officious or vulgarly inquisitive – perish the thought! But I do feel that there are certain things incumbent upon one to find out. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Er, well,’ Rosy replied doubtfully, ‘I am intrigued, of course, but I can’t quite see where bounden duty comes in; and besides presumably the police will solve things sooner or later.’

  ‘Hmm. Later I should say – if at all. Think of all those cases that have been shelved for years with no one any the wiser. We wouldn’t want that to happen with Delia, would we? Or indeed to that unfortunate publisher.’

  ‘But you never liked her very much, or so you said.’

  ‘Immaterial. We went to the same school and swung on the parallel bars together. That counts for something you know.’

  The idea of Angela Fawcett swinging on parallel bars was difficult to imagine but Rosy nodded politely. ‘What about Floyd de Lisle?’ she asked. ‘We only spoke to him once and that was at the funeral. I am sorry he is dead, of course I am, but he was a virtual stranger.’

  ‘He was most mannerly; brought me a chair and a plate of sandwiches. We had a nice little chat and he was most appreciative of my hat. I consider it disgraceful that someone should have done that to him … No, I can assure you Rosy that I have no intention of simply walking away. Now tomorrow we must telephone Cedric Dillworthy at The Sandworth and arrange a consultative meeting. Cedric can sometimes be useful, though what Felix will make of it all I am not so sure. He is not of the most robust.’

  Rosy was amused. For one not noted for her own reserves of energy, Angela Fawcett’s current resolution was distinctly atypical. But she knew that such determination was fed less by a moral imperative than by an instinct for the hunt. Indignation on behalf of the two victims was genuine enough but the real stimulus lay surely in the prospect of unearthing some almighty scandal …

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  That afternoon Rosy had the house to herself. Hugh had disappeared and Lady Fawcett had been collected by Freda Brightwell to see a friend’s exhibition of watercolours in Halesworth. It was peaceful in the house with even the pugs fast asleep and Rosy took the opportunity to get on with her book, a collection of Katherine Mansfield stories.

  Yet despite the writer’s undoubted charm she had difficulty in concentrating. The memory of Floyd de Lisle at Delia’s funeral was so insistent. Not that he had made any special impression at the time, and it was Angela with whom he had been talking so earnestly. Nevertheless she remembered him well enough, and now that he was so bizarrely dead even more so. What on earth had he done to prompt so dreadful an end?

  Uneasily she tried to escape back into the book but failed. She put it aside and contemplated the pugs snoozing fatly on the rug: they could jolly well make themselves useful by being taken for a walk! A bit of exercise might help divert her mind from the publisher’s fate.

  She roused the sleeping beauties, who with appreciative snorts and snuffles, eagerly sashayed towards the garden door and rollicked onto the lawn. One of them – Bo? – went haring after a baby rabbit to no effect; while the other pranced in yelping circles and then sat down to water the geraniums.

  Rosy shooed them away from the flower beds and round to the side of the house into the long grass. It stretched down towards a potting shed and small shrubbery; and with Rosy in tow the two dogs scampered off in its direction.

  In a small clearing some yards from the shed were the makings of a bonfire. The rubbish was well stacked and the kindling neatly laid. Whoever had made it – the gardener presumably – was obviously an expert in such matters. Rosy was about to turn away, when amongst the usual detritus she noticed a couple of crumpled hat boxes, a pair of worn bedroom slippers and a faded blue counterpane, and with a pang realised these must have been some of the things collected by Iris and Freda from the dead woman’s room. She sighed and fixed her attention on a blackbird warbling lustily from a nearby sycamore.

  Then out of the corner of her eye she saw Peep and Bo rampaging excitedly by the shed. They were gripping what looked like a large piece of material, each with a corner in its mouth. A tug of war was in progress with much snarling and shaking. What on earth did they think they were savaging – a half-dead coypu? As Rosy approached, a rabbit shot past and the makeshift prey was instantly dropped in favour of the real thing. With a collective shriek the pugs charged in pursuit, their stumpy little legs churning hell for leather.

  Rosy went forward to examine the thing and saw that it was a raincoat, a man’s by the look of it, creased and dirty. Where had it come from? The bonfire, presumably. The pugs must have tugged it out from under the rest of the debris. It looked rather murky and initially she was going to leave it where it was; but an instinct for tidiness made her stoop to throw it back on the rubbish pile. As she did so she saw clearly that its large dark patches were not dirt at all – but blood.

  She stepped back. How disgusting! No wonder it had been thrown out. And then as she stared the blood seemed not so much disgusting as faintly sinister. What the hell was it doing daubed like that all over the sleeves and lapels? There were large stains, too, on parts of the hem. She continued to stare, puzzled and repelled.

  And then she heard a light footfall from behind, and whirling round was confronted by Hawkins. ‘I caught the pugs,’ he said. ‘They were about to break through the hedge but I stopped the little varmints and they’re back in the kitchen now. No need to worry.’

  Rosy hadn’t been worrying, being far too absorbed by the bloodstained garment at her feet. She had recognised it as being the grey raincoat worn by Hugh Dovedale to his mother’s funeral. It had been considerably smarter then. She recalled he had removed it before entering the church, and then left it in the pew. Someone had handed it back to him on the way to the refreshments after the burial … Yes, it was definitely his all right.

  Hawkins followed her gaze. He nodded: ‘Master Hugh’s – one of his nosebleeds, I fear. He gets them sometimes.’ He picked it up and thrust it beneath the kindling at the foot of the bonfire.

  ‘Rather a large nosebleed,’ Rosy said lightly, ‘though I gather some people do have that trouble.’

  Hawkins must have seen and heard her scepticism for the next moment he gave an awkward cough and said, ‘Yes, madam is quite right to be doubtful. I apologise – but the truth is not entirely savoury.’

  Rosy shrugged and remarked that on the whole copious blood was rarely savoury.

  He gave a wintry smile and said he took her point but it was less the blood that was unsavoury than the circumstances. ‘You see,’ he explained, ‘you may recall his returning home the other night rather the worse for wear … Well to tell the truth he was actually smashed out of his mind and had already had a little accident in the vicinity of Saint Felix School. Indeed not so little really. The car skidded in the fog and went straight into a flint wall and he cut himself badly when clambering out. Blood everywhere, on his mac and in the car. As you can imagine, he’s not too keen on the news getting about, particularly since it is not the first time he has come off the road. It would be better if nothing were said.’

  Rosy regarded the man steadily. ‘Keen on walls, is he?’ she enquired. ‘Two in one night is quite good going and I imagine the car is in a pretty bad state after all that buffeting – yet I noticed him drive off in it this afternoon smoothly enough. Are the Southwold mechanics generally so quick, or for that matter the Suffolk flints quite so sharp? Where did he get that gash – on the carotid artery?’ She hesitated, and then to her horror heard herself adding, ‘
Coincidence really that he should have such an eventful time on the same night that Mr de Lisle was being shot.’

  ‘You must think before you speak, Rosy,’ her father had once admonished.

  ‘But it’s the truth!’ the child had replied.

  ‘Very possibly, but you have to couch it in a certain way otherwise there can be trouble.’ He had smiled and ruffled her hair. ‘Grown-ups call it tact.’

  As she gazed at Hawkins shocked by her boldness she wondered what sort of trouble might be in store. What a fool she had been to blurt it out like that. Tactless, tactless idiot!

  Rather to her surprise the man remained impassive. And then clearing his throat he said quietly: ‘You are right: it must look very suspicious.’ He glanced at the garden seat a few feet away. ‘Perhaps you would care to sit down? If you don’t mind I think I will.’ He suddenly looked very old, and without waiting for a response walked slowly to the seat. Mechanically Rosy followed him and settled herself at the opposite end.

  For a few seconds neither spoke. And then with a sigh he said: ‘No, Miss Gilchrist, he didn’t do it. Despite the blood and my own rather foolish lies my employer is entirely innocent of the gentleman’s murder. Admittedly he did see him that night. Oh yes!’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘But I can assure you he didn’t gun him down.’

  Well that’s a relief, Rosy thought, providing it is true. But what on earth is he getting at? She scrutinised the tired features and black eye patch – an ageing pirate spinning his final yarn? Or a loyal retainer desperately covering up God’s knows what. She said nothing and waited.

  ‘Yes,’ he said musingly, ‘he did meet him – or at least in a manner of speaking he did.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked tersely.

  ‘He was dead already: shot through the chest behind the Casino, that little building beside the guns. Nearly tripped over him I gather.’

  ‘Hmm. So Mr Dovedale was strolling along through the fog at midnight on the high cliff, when all of a sudden he stumbles over a body strewn in his path. I suppose he said something like, “Oh bless my soul, what have we here? A dead publisher if I am not mistaken!”’

  For the first time she saw a flicker of annoyance pass over the old man’s features and she instantly regretted her words. What it was to have a caustic mouth! ‘I am so sorry,’ she stammered, ‘that was rather cheap. Please go on.’

  Hawkins gave a faint smile. ‘I see Mr Dovedale is not the only one given to impulsive response; he called me “a blithering dunderhead” yesterday.’ He gave a pensive sigh. ‘But in my opinion his insults are not a patch on his father’s, not a patch. Doesn’t have the same imagination …’

  Rosy couldn’t care less about her host’s imagination or his father’s but she did want to know about his bloody raincoat. ‘Do go on, Mr Hawkins,’ she said quietly, ‘I won’t interrupt.’

  As bid Hawkins continued smoothly with his explanation.

  Apparently, more affected by his mother’s recent funeral than he had let on, that night Hugh Dovedale had indeed been out on a bender. At first it had simply been a bit of carousing with the locals. But later after the pubs had closed he had wandered off on his own nursing a bottle of brandy. He had left the car parked on Constitution Hill, staggered down to Ferry Road and then up again, scrambling over the sand dunes lining the shore. Depressed and increasingly drunk he had blundered around in the fog chucking pebbles into the sea and swilling the brandy. Eventually he had veered off onto the path leading to the Casino. It was while supporting himself against its wall that he had seen the figure on the ground.

  At this point in the narrative Hawkins broke off and said apologetically, ‘I fear this is rather distasteful but it is what happened and you must remember that by this time Mr Dovedale really wasn’t responsible for his actions.’

  Rosy nodded, and he resumed the account. ‘When he went to investigate he immediately recognised the man to be Mr de Lisle and realised he had sustained a fatal wound to the chest. Naturally he was exceedingly shocked … but you know, in that inebriated state your emotions are all haywire and you don’t always register things in the normal way. Certain facts are magnified, others diminished. And some things strike you as unaccountably risible … Mr de Lisle’s corpse being one such.’

  Rosy was taken aback. ‘I am not clear. What are you getting at?’

  ‘Mr Dovedale and Mr de Lisle were not the best of friends – a mutual antagonism stemming from some schoolboy rift that had never healed … You may find this an unsuitable analogy, but there are certain dogs like that – they just don’t fancy the shape of each other’s snouts: what you might call an antipathy bred in the bone. Anyway, when he saw Mr de Lisle lying there like that he took it into his head to place him astride the cannon, apparently his words being, “With a blithering little tache like that you’ll look a real hussar!” He told me he had said other things too, but I wouldn’t care to repeat them, madam.’

  Rosy was horrified. ‘You mean to say that Mr Dovedale actually hauled the man off the ground and draped him over that gun? He must have been mad! And where on earth did he get the strength from? It must have been an awful struggle!’

  ‘Not mad, just drunk. And, not that madam would know this, but when you are as tight as a tick it’s amazing where the strength comes from.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she remarked dryly.

  ‘And then you see, what with all that malarking about it is little wonder that he really did prang the drive wall when he arrived home; as I believe you learnt when you observed him under the weather the next day. So that particular crash was not my invention. Very little damage fortunately but it made the pugs bark.’

  ‘I did hear something,’ Rosy murmured.

  She regarded her informant closely. With hands primly folded in his lap, he was gazing up into the sky seemingly engrossed in the progress of a flight of birds … either that or praying for heavenly guidance for his next fabrication.

  ‘You are sure of this, Mr Hawkins?’ she asked carefully. ‘I mean you may have misheard what Mr Dovedale said or possibly he was pulling your leg.’

  Hawkins looked affronted. ‘I may be blind in one eye,’ he replied frostily, ‘but my hearing is impeccable – as is my judgement of Master Hugh. I have known him since he was a boy and have no difficulty in sifting his facts from his fictions. I can assure you this tale was the former.’ It was his turn to scrutinise Rosy: ‘I trust, madam, that none of this will go any further; it would be highly inconvenient,’ he declared firmly.

  She was startled. ‘Well yes doubtless it would be – but surely the police must be informed. I mean this is vital evidence!’

  Hawkins shrugged. ‘Not really. It is hardly germane to the actual killing. I gather from the press that the police have already established the approximate time of death and that the state of the wound suggests the bullet was from a Webley revolver – one of those left over from the war I shouldn’t wonder. They also know that the deed occurred behind the Casino. The fact that Master Hugh chose subsequently to play silly beggars with the body is neither here nor there. From what I can see it has small bearing on the case. As one of the more enlightened of Laurel Lodge’s guests you will I am sure appreciate that.’

  He stood up, bowed his head briefly and added, ‘I am also sure that upon reflection you will agree that silence is by far the best policy. Meanwhile perhaps you would care for a tray of Darjeeling in the drawing room. We have some cream buns too,’ he added gravely.

  Somewhat dazed Rosy watched the dignified back as it slowly retreated to the house. The prospect of a cream bun was not uncongenial.

  That evening there was a phone call for Rosy from Iris. She sounded flustered. ‘Oh I’m so sorry to ask you this,’ she said apologetically, ‘but I wonder if I could possibly beg a favour of you – it’s rather a big one, I’m afraid, and I will fully understand if you turn us down.’

  ‘Er, who is “us”?’ Rosy asked warily.

  ‘The Blythburgh Friends. We
are a sort of local charity that puts on talks and events, and the maddening thing is that our next scheduled speaker has fallen ill and there’s no one to breach the gap. Unfortunately the hall is already booked. I don’t suppose you would consider stepping in and saving us from humiliation and pecuniary embarrassment?’ She gave a plaintive laugh. ‘There are quite a lot coming and they will all demand their money back if we don’t deliver the goods!’

  ‘But what on earth would I talk about?’ Rosy asked.

  ‘Angela has told me that you were sterling at Dover in the war and operated all those searchlights and prepared the anti-aircraft guns and other frightfully vital things. That would be an ideal topic.’

  After further compliments and cajoling Rosy found herself nervously agreeing.

  ‘Oh what a brick! You’ve really saved our bacon. It will mean you having to prolong your stay but I know Hugh won’t mind a bit. He’s more accommodating than you might think!’

  With a relieved laugh she rang off.

  Rosy gave a rueful sigh. ‘Blundered into that one all right!’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Still dazed by Hawkins’ revelations of Hugh’s bizarre behaviour and mindful of his earnest warnings to be discreet, Rosy said nothing to Lady Fawcett of her encounter by the bonfire. She knew, however, that the latter would still be eager to hold the ‘consultative meeting’ with Cedric and Felix, and rather reluctantly offered to telephone them.

  ‘How thoughtful, dear Rosy! No, as a matter of fact, I have already done that. We are to rendezvous with them tomorrow morning at their hotel for coffee followed by lunch. If the weather is good a little stroll along the front in the afternoon might be nice – though naturally not too far. Exercise can be awfully overrated I always think.’

  So can playing detective, Rosy thought gloomily. However, the prospect had reminded her of the folder at the bottom of the wardrobe drawer and her earlier intention of showing it to Angela. What with the business of Delia’s funeral and now the extraordinary matter of the publisher’s murder the thing had rather slipped her mind. However, with Angela determined to explore the mystery of her school friend’s fate this might be the time to draw her attention to it. If nothing else she might be able to confirm whether it was the woman’s handwriting: the two had corresponded when arranging the visit.