‘How peculiar,’ Lady Fawcett exclaimed, ‘you would have expected it to be found in her desk. Still it’s amazing how forgetful one can become. I remember once leaving my handbag in the potting shed – we didn’t find it for days. I had gone there to pay the gardener and must have put it down by the lawnmower while he was explaining the complexities of the compost heap, his usual topic. Oh yes do bring it and we’ll show it to Cedric and Felix. How intriguing if it does turn out to be a story she was writing!’
The next day they set off to Aldeburgh and Rosy handed her companion the pages. Lady Fawcett donned her glasses and proceeded to read. It had been a good move for it meant Rosy could drive undistracted by the usual running commentary. However, she assumed the silence would not last and was a little surprised when it did.
When they arrived at the hotel car park her companion returned the folder with the comment, ‘Yes, very nice.’ It wasn’t exactly the response Rosy would have expected but she was too busy easing the car into a narrow space to pay much attention.
In the reception area they were greeted by Cedric who conducted them into the spacious lounge and to a corner commandeered by Felix.
‘Did you attend my lecture?’ were the latter’s first words to Rosy.
Lying like a trooper she told him that, alas, she had been struck down by a migraine and had had to forgo the pleasure.
‘Missed a treat,’ he informed her, ‘the audience loved it. I think I may revamp it for the Tatler – once we get back to London and away from this awful business.’ He lowered his voice to a sepulchral whisper: ‘Has Cedric told you that they actually suspect me of being involved in the Dovedale demise?’
Rosy giggled. ‘Oh come off it Felix, nobody could suspect you of anything except gross exaggeration.’
He pouted. ‘That was most uncalled for! I can assure you that the inspector person has been most officious in his enquiries and has been making all manner of innuendos. One hasn’t had a moment’s peace!’
Cedric smiled, amused that Felix, initially so fearful of being implicated, was now rather relishing the fantasy of being marked as ‘Number One Suspect’. However, he doubted if his friend would be quite so ready to reveal his presence on Gun Hill during that fateful night …
They ordered coffee. And Rosy suddenly realised that Lady Fawcett had been unusually quiet; indeed not only quiet but abstracted. She was gazing out of the window oblivious both of Felix’s chatter and of The Sandworth cat – which with a probing claw was busily plucking the strap of her handbag.
Rosy shooed it off and said brightly, ‘You seem far away, Angela. Where are you – with Amy in the French campsite?’
She blinked. ‘What …? Oh I am sorry, how rude of me! No it was not the campsite fortunately, but I was in Paris. You see, those scribbles which you think may have been Delia’s, they’ve rung a bell – quite a loud one in fact. It’s strange really – though of course one can read too much into things. Amy does it all the time … Did I mention her latest postcard?’
‘Yes,’ Rosy said, ‘you did.’ (She had not.) ‘But what about Delia? Why on earth should those rather lurid passages ring a bell?’
‘Well it may sound ridiculous but they remind me of the intriguing scandal that was rocking the Paris salons in 1947 – not that there were many of those by that time; the war had seen to that.’ She turned to Cedric. ‘I expect you remember don’t you? The French press couldn’t get enough of it. And it certainly brightened up the table talk – one had become so bored with that dreary Vincent Auriol’s election and his questionable plans for the economy. The men would so go on about it. So I have to admit that the sex and espionage business was rather refreshing – or as the French might say, bien amusant!’ She beamed at Cedric clearly expecting him to share the memory.
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ he said. ‘Unlike you and the Dovedales I was never in Paris after the war and I certainly don’t recall the British newspapers featuring it – we had enough scandals of our own at that time, what with all the racketeers and Nazi sympathisers crawling out of the woodwork.’
‘In any case you and Rosy have the advantage of us,’ Felix added, ‘you have read this Delia narrative – assuming it is hers; we haven’t. It would be useful if one could see the thing – unless there are reams of it. In which case a study of the menu might be preferable, the lunch here isn’t at all bad.’
‘It won’t take long,’ Rosy reassured him, ‘and while you are doing that we’ll go and find the ladies.’
Thus leaving the men bent over the two extracts they went off in search of menus and to powder their noses.
‘Does that thing really tie up with the scandal you were talking about?’ Rosy asked as she applied her lipstick in the ladies. ‘What a curious coincidence. What were the details?’
‘That’s what I am trying to remember. It all seems rather distant now, and of course with dear Gregory dead there is no one to jog my memory.’ For a moment Lady Fawcett looked wistful, but then with a light chuckle she said, ‘though I do recall it improved one’s French considerably … I even started to read France Soir!’
They rejoined the others. Cedric was smiling. ‘Quite amusing really, it would be interesting to read the rest wherever it is. Do you really think your friend wrote it?’
‘It seems unlikely, I agree, but the handwriting is definitely hers.’
‘Well if it is based on fact I wish I had spent more time with Delia,’ Felix remarked. ‘She obviously had sharper perceptions than one gave her credit for – could have been rather jolly on further acquaintance!’ He turned to Lady Fawcett. ‘Are you sure you can’t get that chiming bell to strike louder?’
‘Hmm, yes it’s coming back to me. There had been some girl accused of passing secrets to the Soviets – a purely commercial transaction I believe and unlike Mr George Blake et al little to do with ideology. Anyway the case collapsed for lack of evidence and she got off. I distinctly recall the expression of smug triumph on the face of the Russian ambassador; it stayed with him for days! But during the course of the trial it emerged that she was heavily involved in an exclusive vice ring catering for mixed genders and all tastes, with an eminent clientele and said to be operated by an Englishman – an idea naturally much favoured by the French.
‘As you can imagine there was plenty of imaginative speculation but no one was actually identified. I think some of the lesser operatives were arrested and sent down for a brief time but the big noise remained obscure. It was rumoured that he had a white poodle, though where that tale came from I’ve no idea – probably the English trying to get back at the French.’ She smiled. ‘Actually it became rather a party game – trying to pin the donkey’s tail on someone. Gregory was absurdly inventive and swore blind that it was Percy Flynn the embassy dogsbody, his argument being that one so monumentally dull was bound to have a sideline.’
For a moment Lady Fawcett’s eyes clouded over and she sighed. ‘Poor Percy – as a matter of fact he did have a sideline: he kept a beehive on his apartment balcony and died from a sting. One can’t help thinking that if only he had cultivated prostitutes rather than bees his span might have been longer.’
‘One of life’s little ironies,’ observed Cedric. ‘So I take it this chap was never exposed and things continued merrily?’
‘Yes as far as one knew. The initial interest died down of course, but it would revive periodically whenever the press was at a loose end. Actually there was one rather nasty incident which set tongues wagging again. A young man was found floating in a tributary of the Seine. There had been a torrential storm and the river had burst its banks. The flood waters were really turbulent and it looked as if he may have fallen from a nearby bridge and swept downstream. However, as he was fairly notorious for being what I believe is termed a “rent boy”, it was also surmised that he may have committed suicide or even been pushed by a client. One understands that some can be hideously vicious! From what I recall the police didn’t do anything
much and the whole thing rather blew over – or was covered up.’
She broke off and studied the remains of the coffee. ‘I say I don’t think I liked that terribly. Do you think we could replace it with a little champagne? I am feeling a trifle thirsty, and it is nearly lunchtime.’ She looked around hopefully.
Her companions nodded vigorously and Felix jumped up to find a waiter.
In possession of the required glass, Lady Fawcett twiddled its stem and cast an appreciative eye on the bubbles. ‘So refreshing at this time of day,’ she murmured. ‘I feel quite invigorated.’
‘Good,’ Cedric said, ‘so now you can complete the tale and tell us whether you think it accords with what is written here.’ He tapped the folder.
Lady Fawcett took another sip from her glass, hesitated and then said, ‘Well that’s all there is really, except I seem to recall that the young man’s name was Randolph – though whether he was English or foreign I have no idea. Very few details ever emerged, or at least not while Gregory and I were there. We returned to England shortly afterwards. As to whether it fits with Delia’s story, it is difficult to say. But there do seem to be broad similarities, wouldn’t you think?’
‘One of them being that if one deletes the three middle letters of the name “Randolph” it becomes “Ralph” like the one in her story,’ Cedric remarked. ‘Coincidence?’
‘Bound to be,’ said Felix dismissively. ‘Now do let’s go and eat, I’m starving.’
In the dining room the speculation shifted from Paris to Southwold.
‘But it is so dreadful about that poor publisher,’ lamented Lady Fawcett, ‘and what he was doing sitting upright on that gun one cannot imagine!’
‘Oh he wasn’t upright,’ Felix said, ‘sort of bent over like a jockey.’
‘Really? How do you know that?’ Rosy asked. ‘That was how they described it on the wireless and in the local paper. Have you some inside knowledge?’ she laughed.
Felix scowled. ‘Intelligent supposition,’ he said hastily. ‘I mean if one were shot while reposing on a cannon I daresay one would slump somewhat.’ He returned to his fish, filleting it with studied concentration.
‘Perhaps our friend was there,’ murmured Cedric slyly.
Felix looked up. ‘Of course I wasn’t,’ he began angrily, and then stopped. ‘Oh all right, all right – but I think that’s most thoughtless of you, Cedric. You know perfectly well that I didn’t want anything said!’
‘Don’t worry, dear boy – you’re among friends here,’ Cedric assured him. ‘You know Angela and Rosy won’t breathe a word.’
‘Do I?’ retorted Felix sullenly.
‘Oh you can rely on us,’ cried Lady Fawcett, ‘one is the soul of discretion!’ She craned forward eagerly: ‘You weren’t really there, were you?’
Felix gave a resigned shrug. ‘Well as a matter of fact I did happen to be passing. I—’
‘Happened to be passing!’ Rosy exclaimed. ‘Whatever do you mean? It was virtually the middle of the night – what were you doing sauntering about on the Southwold cliff in that fog! Searching for glow worms?’
‘No, Miss Gilchrist, I was not searching for glow worms. I was endeavouring to get back to Aldeburgh having spent a most taxing time on the Walberswick marshes. Encountering that body was the last straw. Now if you don’t mind I should like to continue my luncheon.’
‘I think you had better tell them the whole story,’ said Cedric gently, ‘otherwise they may not do justice to the dessert.’
In the car returning to Southwold Rosy again noticed that her companion was unusually silent. Perhaps it was the champagne and the effects of the rather fulsome baked Alaska. Angela had clearly been well disposed to both.
‘That was rather startling, wasn’t it,’ she said, ‘about Felix and his awful escapade – must have been terrifying suddenly coming across the poor man like that. Do you think he might have a sudden rush of blood to the head and decide to report it after all? One never knows with Felix: now that he has the Royal warrant over his shop door he might just elect to play the sober citizen!’ she glanced at Lady Fawcett: ‘What do you think?’
‘What … Oh, report it? You mean to the police? I should think that’s highly unlikely. His nerves aren’t up to it. He already has this absurd idée fixe that the police suspect him of Delia’s murder. The last thing he wants is to be associated with this latest drama … And besides, as Cedric said, such information wouldn’t really add anything to the enquiry. One gathers the police already know the technical facts and I suspect that Felix’s contribution might be – uhm – gratuitous. I think that’s the term isn’t it? It is certainly what dear Gregory so often said about Amy’s contributions …’ She lapsed into silence again, gazing out of the window.
Rosy swerved slightly to avoid a pheasant. ‘Idiot thing,’ she muttered.
The action seemed to stir her companion, as turning from the window she said thoughtfully, ‘It’s very odd about that young man, he—’
‘Very odd,’ Rosy agreed, ‘to be found in that situation!’
‘It wasn’t his situation I was thinking of but what he was telling me at the funeral … I have to say it does rather confirm that the composition did indeed belong to Delia and that she had been in earnest about it.’
‘What do you mean, what was he saying?’
Lady Fawcett proceeded to tell Rosy about her conversation with Floyd and his hopes for the Delia manuscript. ‘He seemed to think it might make his fortune and was “literary dynamite” … One certainly recalls Delia sounding like dynamite, but one never expected her to write it!’ She chuckled.
Rosy did not. Instead she stopped the car and gazed at Lady Fawcett. ‘Are you saying that Floyd de Lisle knew about this stuff Delia was writing and that she was one of his clients? Why ever didn’t you say so at lunch?’
‘Well I’ve really only thought of it just now. He was very charming, but frankly I wasn’t taking his words too seriously – you know how people exaggerate. Besides, I was trying to work out how to avoid being waylaid by Claude Huggins: he was hovering quite close and kept looking in my direction. It was most uncomfortable. Needless to say, he got me in the end because when Floyd had gone off he immediately zoomed in and started to make effusive comments about Delia. Rather tiresome really – one had already heard an excellent encomium from Lucas Brightwell, and any more, especially from Claude Huggins, was rather gilding the lily!’
‘Still, I am surprised you didn’t mention it when we got back.’
‘Well frankly, my dear, I was rather tired and also had the vexing task of replying to Amy’s latest postcard. When faced with that other things do tend to fade …’ she gave a rueful sigh.
‘Why was it vexing?’
‘But I showed it to you.’
‘Er, oh yes of course you did … But remind me.’
‘It was perfectly all right until she reached the end where she wrote that “the French jeunes hommes think I am JOLLY GOOD! Isn’t that nice?” Well naturally I spent the whole evening composing my reply, indicating that I did not consider Gallic applause was especially nice and asking if there weren’t some decent English types on the campsite … Do you think it a good idea if I try to persuade her cousin Edward to go over there as a sort of chaperone?’
Rosy advised against it. ‘It could be disastrous,’ she opined.
‘Hmm. I fear you are right. Dear Edward, he always means well …’
Rosy let in the clutch and moved off. Interesting though the dynamics of the Fawcett family were, at this particular moment it was the killings of Delia and Floyd that really intrigued her. Could Delia Dovedale’s ‘sensational’ jottings really have a bearing on his death? How odd.
Rosy had been more than startled by Felix’s revelation. But her surprise was less to do with his presence per se than the fact that he was the second witness to the event, or rather its immediate aftermath. How strange to think that both Hugh and Felix had been wandering in the vicinity at roughly the
same time. Clearly, from Hawkins’ account, Hugh had been the one closest to the murder itself (according to the press report the man had died somewhere between eleven and midnight). And presumably it could only have been shortly after the latter’s shifting of the body to the gun that Felix had turned up – and had the living daylights scared out of him!
But then of course, assuming Hawkins’ version was true and that Hugh had not done the deed, there must also have been a third party roaming around too: the killer … And then naturally a fourth man, the victim himself. Quite a little midnight party.
What were the killer and victim doing in that area prior to the attack – strolling arm in arm? She thought not. There could have been an assignation; fog and the lateness of the hour hardly suggested a random encounter in that spot. It was far more likely to have been something prearranged. So what was their business, or its pretext, before the murderer pulled the gun? In the course of their dealings had Floyd de Lisle said or threatened something to prompt the attack? Perhaps. But even if that were the case the other must have come prepared: not only did he carry the revolver, but according to the newspapers the thing was fitted with a silencer. Yes, the whole thing had surely been premeditated.
Despite her surprise at Felix’s account over lunch, Rosy had kept quiet about what Hawkins had told her. This was something she would need to think about before doing, or saying, anything rash. After all, if Hawkins were correct about Hugh being a fool but no assassin, then telling the police, or anyone else, would seem to be of little benefit – indeed, it would only spread alarm and despondency where none was warranted. As with Felix, the fact that he had been there seemed of little relevance … unless of course Hawkins were wrong or lying, and their host the murderer after all. That would certainly put a different complexion on things.
A Southwold Mystery Page 13