A Southwold Mystery

by Suzette A. Hill

  She thought about the police. What purpose would it serve if she were to approach them with her tales? By now they doubtless had their own theories and knew far more about the details than she did. The forensic people must have realised almost from the beginning that the body had been dragged onto the gun after death. To report Felix’s brief presence would be absurd, and unkind, and as for Hugh … well his having done the dragging might or might not have a bearing: that was his responsibility to admit and for the authorities to work out.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  While Rosy was justifying her non-interference in the matter, the authorities were indeed occupied with working things out.

  ‘Are we to assume, sir,’ Jennings said brightly, ‘that the two events are linked – that the chap who poisoned Dovedale also did for de Lisle?’

  ‘We assume nothing,’ the inspector replied severely, ‘you should know that by now.’

  ‘Yes but on the face of it—’

  ‘I keep telling you, never put your trust in faces: an honest face will as soon as let you down as a villain’s … However,’ he conceded, ‘it is a possibility that can’t be ruled out. And when little Miss Morgan comes back tomorrow with her list of de Lisle’s authors and visitors we may have something to go on. But in the meantime what bugs me is the disparity in the methods of disposal: cyanide and a slickly fired Webley MK V1. There’s not a lot of consistency is there?’

  ‘Perhaps the murderer is a medic who keeps a collection of old service revolvers but wanted to ring the changes.’

  ‘Ho, ho. Very funny.’

  Jennings looked slightly crestfallen. ‘Actually, sir, it wasn’t really a joke. I mean if he’s a nutcase like we thought, he may have a whole arsenal of assorted means!’

  ‘Perhaps. But where in particular would he get the cyanide? I doubt if your ordinary GP would have access – not as a general rule. You would need to be pretty high up the medical scale to get your hands on that I imagine. Of course some of these chemical boffins in laboratories could obtain the stuff – do you know anyone like that?’

  ‘Not offhand, sir.’

  ‘Thought not.’ A sly grin came over the inspector’s face: ‘Tell you what – you could check out all the toxicology departments between Hull and Ipswich and examine their records for the past year. If there’s any missing cyanide unaccounted for keep a note and then round up all Webley pistol owners. If one of them happens to keeps a store of the stuff in their gun cupboard then Bob’s your uncle: we’ve got our man!’

  There was a long silence while Jennings considered this instruction. ‘Can I get you a cup of coffee, sir?’ he asked.

  As arranged Betty Morgan returned the next day with her list. She was relieved that the inspector wasn’t there. She hadn’t disliked him exactly but he had been a bit of a tartar and no mistake. It had taken her a long time to compile that list and the last thing she wanted was him picking holes. It was a generation thing – they were always so stern! Except for that Mr Brightwell, of course, he was a real gentleman. Really nice he was … very nice now she came to think of it; and he always seemed to listen most attentively to what she said. Which was more than Mr de Lisle used to do. In fact sometimes she thought her boss hadn’t been listening at all. Like the time she had been telling him about that episode in Mrs Dale’s Diary when that nice husband of hers, Jim, had had a heart attack. Mr de Lisle’s auntie had had one of those so you would have thought he’d have been interested. Not a bit of it! ‘Have you tidied the box files?’ was all he had said.

  Still, one shouldn’t think ill of the dead; and after all he had been nice in parts. A bit like that senior policemen really: fine when it suited him, growly when it didn’t.

  Well at least DC Jennings wasn’t growly – a bit of an old smoothie really, or better still a young smoothie! She had taken a lot of care over that list of the firm’s visitors and had typed it out ever so neatly. It might be quite pleasant going through it with DC Jennings – yes very pleasant in fact.

  The scent of Bonsoir Paris was not to Jennings’ taste: sickly and cloying he considered it, his sister’s Tweed being so much fresher. Still, on the whole at least it smelt better than the inspector’s acrid pipe; and also on the whole the girl was prettier than the inspector.

  They had been closeted for an hour in the back office and were making a rough kind of progress. That is to say a large number of names on her list had been eliminated being people known to him locally and whose literary submissions were present and correct. There had been a number of nom de plumes which had been puzzling such as Bagshaw Billinger and Clarice del Rio, but Betty had said she knew the authors well and that yes, their stuff too was intact. These and other names were regular visitors to the office, as were two of the mistresses from the nearby St Felix school. (‘They write very nice stories about zombies and cut-throat wizards,’ Betty had assured him.)

  So where does that leave us? He had asked. Who else among her employer’s recent visitors might have used the Merrivale pseudonym and been too shy to admit to it?

  Betty had narrowed it down to a few possibles: ‘Miss Martin from Reydon visited two or three times. She showed him her whole novel but it wasn’t to Mr de Lisle’s taste (one of the God Awful ones) and I think she took it away in a huff, so it’s not likely to have been her. Mr Champ comes in quite regularly but as far as I know it’s only to have a chat and to moan about the government, I don’t think he has ever written anything. Young Mr Snowdon from the ironmonger’s dropped in a fortnight ago, but as his project is on spanners and drywall screws I don’t think he would want to call himself Millicent Merrivale would he?

  Jennings agreed that it was unlikely. ‘What about that Mr Claude Huggins?’ he asked. ‘They say he’s been writing some gardening book for years. Would he have been one of Mr de Lisle’s clients?’

  ‘Oh no, he’s far too high and mighty for this firm. He’s going to get a posh London firm to publish him, or so he says – and when it’s finished!’ She pulled a face.

  ‘Hmm. Nobody else?’

  She mentioned three more visitors’ names, one of whom he recognised: the cyanide victim, Mrs Delia Dovedale. ‘Oh? So what was she doing?’

  ‘She was ever so cheerful and gave me a box of chocolates. A nice lady. It’s awful really – her and now Mr de Lisle. I mean, you don’t know what the world’s coming to do you?’ Betty observed brightly.

  ‘I didn’t ask what she was like but what she was doing in the office.’

  The girl looked vague. ‘I didn’t notice specially, she always went into Mr de Lisle’s private den. So I don’t know whether she had given him a manuscript or anything. Or if she did he never mentioned it to me. After all I can’t know everything that goes on in the office – kept too busy with typing and watering the plants! And then of course I have to go to the post twice a day so I’m not always there, am I?’

  Like his boss earlier, Jennings detected a slight truculence in her tone but felt too despondent to care. He had envisaged unearthing a perfect and obvious match. None had appeared. The girl had been useful up to a point but only in a negative way, and there was nothing exciting he could show the inspector. He closed his notebook.

  ‘Oh,’ Betty said, poised at the door, ‘I don’t suppose the police station is looking for a new typist, is it?’

  Definitely not in the foreseeable future, he had told her.

  He sat down and stared at the last three names of random visitors, and then looked again at the nom de plume that had been attached to the sleeve of the empty file. Something struck him … something so tenuous that he almost dismissed it. But it was worth a try. After all as Agatha Christie so often demonstrated, a flimsy hunch could unravel all manner of things …

  He reopened his notebook and wrote the three names on a fresh page. Then squaring his shoulders he went to knock on the inspector’s door.

  Jennings thrust the notebook under his superior’s nose and pointed to the names. ‘Does anything strike you, sir?’r />
  ‘Yes, I note that Delia Dovedale is there. Are you suggesting that she might be the one? What about the other two?’

  ‘Well,’ Jennings said eagerly, ‘Joan Brown and Keith Sims – they don’t fit do they?’

  ‘Fit what?’

  ‘The pseudonym: Millicent Merrivale!’

  The inspector frowned. ‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’

  ‘It’s a question of rhythm,’ he explained, ‘that first pair have only two syllables each, whereas Millicent Merrivale has six and Delia Dovedale five. Numerically there is a closer approximation between the pseudonym and the name Delia Dovedale than there is with the other two. You will also note that both names are alliterative – DD and MM. Added to which the last syllable of Dovedale rhymes with the last of Merrivale, not to mention the shared internal echoes of ‘v’s and ‘l’s.’ He paused; and then as afterthought added, ‘And apart from the spondee of Dovedale I would suggest that for both of them the metre is basically dactylic, sir – or possibly anapaestic.’

  The inspector regarded him thoughtfully. God it was like being back in the classroom! ‘Tell me, Jennings,’ he said, ‘where did you come in woodwork at school?’

  ‘Er … bottom.’

  The other nodded. ‘I thought you might have.’

  There was a silence while Jennings contemplated his boots and the inspector the light fixtures on the ceiling. Eventually he said, ‘So what you are telling me is that because Delia Dovedale’s name sounds a bit like Millicent Merrivale it is likely that the lady had devised that as her literary alias, and so it was her file that the intruder was after and took.’

  Jennings looked up from his boots and beamed. ‘That’s about the measure of it, sir: it’s the aural connection. I reckon it was either a deliberate choice – a sort of feeble pun you might say – or subconscious, i.e. a way of unwittingly retaining her identity while concealing it at the same time. In fact you could say that—’

  The other cut him short. ‘No I wouldn’t say; you’ve made the point. Remind me, what was that course you went on a month ago?’

  ‘“Thought Processes and Patterns of Psychology: A Policeman’s Guide”.’

  ‘Hmm, I remember. Well I am glad to see the public purse isn’t being totally squandered: you may just have learnt something there,’ he muttered grudgingly. ‘There’s an outside chance of a correlation … So what’s next, Smarty-pants?’

  ‘Search me, sir,’ replied Jennings happily.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was Friday and Rosy had gone into Southwold to meet Lucas Brightwell as arranged. As she approached The Crown she saw him coming towards her. He raised his hat and said, ‘How good of you to come, and with the wretched case!’ He took it from her smartly. ‘So sorry for the inconvenience – the least I can do is to buy you a drink. What I suggest is that we go to the back bar, it’s less noisy than the main one. At this time of day people suddenly have the urge to rest their weary limbs and have a little pick-me-up before lunch.’

  He steered her towards the nether regions and into a small room which she assumed to be the ‘Snug’. Given the choice she would have preferred the main bar … Did she want to be so closely closeted with Brightwell? The only other people there were two old ladies ensconced in a corner enjoying a tipple and a gossip – or at least, judging from the whispers and knowing facial expressions she assumed the latter was the case.

  Still clasping the briefcase Brightwell went to the bar and ordered Rosy’s requested dry sherry and a gin and tonic for himself.

  He offered her a cigarette but seeing the Egyptian label she declined: ‘I’m afraid I’m a plain Players girl,’ she laughed. They exchanged pleasantries about the weather, highlights of the flower festival (though not its drama of Delia’s death), and touched on the recent horror involving Floyd de Lisle but with mutual tact did not pursue it. Brightwell mentioned a concert he and Freda were planning to attend in Aldeburgh. And Rosy was about to ask if he had any preferences regarding Britten’s operas but before she could get further he had interrupted, exclaiming, ‘If you don’t mind I must just check that the Royal Garden Party invitation is safe, can’t remember if I left it in this or on my desk. If that’s lost my wife will never forgive me!’

  She was on the verge of saying that it was there all right, but he had already opened the case and started to check the contents. ‘Seems all in order,’ he murmured.

  Rosy felt slightly affronted. Did he imagine she had pillaged the thing? But then she felt a twinge of guilt, recalling her examination of the notepad and discovery of the photograph. Still, it wasn’t as if anything had actually been removed.

  Brightwell took out the cheques and slipped them into his wallet. ‘Invitation safe and sound,’ he announced, ‘I have a reprieve! But I had better deliver these cheques pronto otherwise I shall be blackballed by all the firms in Southwold.’ He laughed and rose to fetch more drinks.

  Rosy would have been quite content with her single sherry but to be polite settled for an orange juice. She looked over at the two old ladies still heavily engrossed in their gossip. They were sitting by a mirror, and her glance caught Brightwell’s reflection as he stood at the bar. He was half swivelled round, frowning and regarding her intently – or that was certainly her impression. Embarrassed she quickly shifted her gaze.

  When he returned he asked how she had enjoyed the Sailors’ Reading Room. ‘Such a fascinating place,’ he enthused, ‘Freda and I go there quite often when we are in the town: I like the pictures and she likes the quiet – it’s what you might call a little oasis amid the hurly-burly of Southwold’s Kasbah!’

  Rosy smiled, while at the same time recalling Freda’s surprise at the location of the lost case and her saying that she and Lucas hadn’t visited the room for five years.

  ‘Indeed as you know,’ he continued, ‘I introduced Miss Morgan there. Rather to my surprise she hadn’t even heard of it, and since she was supposed to be handling a local history pamphlet that poor de Lisle was publishing it seemed a good idea to show her around.’ He lowered his voice and in a confiding tone said, ‘Actually my dear, it might be sensible not to mention this to Freda. She’s going through rather a difficult time – I am sure you know what I mean – and is a touch sensitive these days. One has to tread a little carefully.’

  Rosy took this as her cue for female sympathy and gave an understanding nod. But she was peeved to think she was being made complicit in his wife’s menopausal problems – if indeed that was what they were.

  Feeling slightly uncomfortable she thought it time to make her excuses and leave. But at that moment a tall dishevelled figure appeared in the doorway and made for one of the bar stools. Rosy was rather startled, for the man was distinctly unkempt with long hair, straggling beard and frayed baggy trousers. Above these, somewhat incongruously, he wore a battered RAF flying jacket.

  ‘Morning, Fab!’ cried one of the corner ladies, ‘how’s tricks? We ain’t seen you for a while.’

  The man gave a slow smile: ‘Well you’ve seen me now. Must be your lucky day.’ He was about to turn back to the counter, but seeing Lucas and Rosy stopped.

  To the latter’s surprise he advanced towards her with proffered hand. ‘I am the brother,’ he announced.

  ‘Oh … uhm, really? Er, whose brother?’ Clearly a case of mistaken identity!

  ‘Claude Huggins’. Your friend dined with us the other night. A nice little chap – Felix he was called. I showed him my collection of Suffolk Punch photographs. He was most appreciative.’

  It was curious enough to think of the fastidious Felix hobnobbing with this rather ragged character, but Rosy had even greater difficulty in imagining him poring over pictures of galumphing shire horses. As far as she knew he had an aversion to any animal larger than a rabbit. Just went to show, everyone had their private passions!

  Lucas cleared his throat: ‘Yes, this is Fabius Huggins, Claude’s younger brother. He lives in Walberswick, though Southwold has the pleasure of his company
from time to time. Always a gratifying experience,’ he added dryly.

  Fabius turned to Lucas. ‘I hear you gave her a good send-off at the funeral, a neat little eulogy so they tell me. Very deft by all accounts.’

  ‘I tried to do my best,’ replied Brightwell a trifle stiffly. ‘In the circumstances it was extremely painful.’

  ‘Oh I agree, very painful. But I suppose you’ll be gearing up for the next one now will you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That Floyd de Lisle – assuming he has a funeral. He told me once that when he snuffed it he just wanted to be tossed into the sea with a bottle of gin. I told him I’d toss him into the sea all right but drink the gin myself. Poor bastard, I don’t supposed he thought it would be so soon!’ He looked at Rosy and apologised for his language: ‘You must excuse me: I don’t meet many nice young women these days.’

  ‘Coo, he’s got a cheek!’ cried one of the corner ladies. ‘Don’t mind us!’

  Ignoring the interruption Lucas replied, ‘I very much doubt if I shall be called upon for that sad task again. I really only knew him by sight whereas the Dovedales and I go back some time … Now, we must be off,’ he announced, ‘things to do, people to see. You know how it is, Fabius, the giddy round!’

  ‘Hmm,’ the other grunted, ‘but clearly that doesn’t involve a round of drinks to include me. You owe me one from five years back.’

  ‘What excellent memories you brothers have,’ the other retorted lightly, and picking up his hat and briefcase guided Rosy out into the passage.

  Once out of earshot, he murmured to her, ‘I am sorry about that. Fabius can be tiresome but he is relatively harmless; and you might not think it, but rather tough as well: he flew Spitfires in the war and was highly regarded. God knows what has happened since, some sort of breakdown I suspect. A peculiar cove.’