by TP Fielden
‘Mm,’ said Judy a trifle snootily. Most types at the Yacht Club, if they had yachts at all, used diesel rather than nature’s zephyrs to propel them up and down the estuary. Few took to the open sea and those that did seem to have been awarded a silver cup just for managing to navigate past the bar.
Betty was more pragmatic. ‘There’s a wonderful view. And the servants who bring the drinks are really terribly nice.’
‘Is he local? I don’t think I’ve heard of him before.’
‘He’s taking a cottage down here, retiring quite soon. Fancies himself rather.’
‘You would if you were an admiral. People salute you a lot, you get used to it. What are you doing with him? Not quite your type, I would have thought.’
‘Oh! Nothing like that, Judy! Though he is very sweet. I think he took rather a fancy, if you know what I mean.’
‘What would Dud say?’
Betty involuntarily touched her hair. ‘No, the Admiral’s work.’
‘Picking you up after breakfast on a Monday morning?’ There – she said it. Didn’t mean to but it came out anyway.
‘It was to make up for the dress.’
‘Dress?’
‘He spilt his pink gin over it by accident. He promised to pick me up this morning and drop it off at Sketchley’s. He said he’d pay the cleaning bill, or take me out to supper – my choice. Such a gentleman!’
Doesn’t sound like one to me, thought Judy.
‘Is Lady Minsell going to be gracing the Yacht Club, too, when he’s fixed up?’
‘She’s an invalid. Doesn’t get out much.’
I bet, thought Judy. ‘What’s the story?’
‘He’s joining the board of directors of Buntorama. Bobby Bunton met him when they were both on What’s My Line?, and you know what they say about businesses that have a lord on the board.’
‘He’s not a lord.’
‘Well, next best thing,’ said Betty, more than a little miffed Judy was so unimpressed. What she didn’t know was that inwardly Judy was seething – she’d spent the best part of an hour with the boss of Buntorama last night, the man himself, and he never mentioned it once.
Or, more to the point, Judy never asked the right question. I must be slipping, she thought.
‘Well, that’ll be nice.’
‘You seem rather cross this morning, Judy. What about a nice cup of tea?’
‘Tea? I’ve got the Rural District Council!’
Betty quickly got out her notebook and stuck her nose in it. The RDC was her job usually, but she’d had a word with Mr Rhys and he’d let her off because she’d been so helpful over the Admiral business. She felt little remorse, because of all the boring jobs the Express had to cover with any regularity, the RDC was far and away the worst. Few could claim to have got through its leisurely discussions on cattle grids, tree-planting, sheep rot and silage with their eyes remaining open for the duration. Yet the Express’s job was to report the doings of such bodies – and woe betide the reporter who missed a word of that crucial debate on farm mud on the road (a perennial favourite).
Judy was keeping an eye on the editor’s door. She was waiting for Rudyard Rhys to make his morning appearance so she could brief him on developments in the Patsy Rouchos murder – or as she was now to be known, Helen Patrikis. It was a tremendous coup to have discovered, in the course of a short weekend, the identity which had eluded the authorities for more than two weeks. By rights her revelations should make Page One, but somehow Judy doubted Rhys’s resolve: she needed time to talk him into it.
On the other hand she was expected to be in the RDC chamber in less than half an hour, and it took fifteen minutes aboard trusty old Herbert to get there. She’d weighed up how much information she would share with her editor, given his reluctance to acknowledge a murder had happened on his patch, but she did need to discuss with him the matter of informing the police. On occasion the fourth estate had been known to be slovenly in its civic duty when it came to such occasions.
Finally Rhys made his appearance, with all the speed of a Lord Mayor in procession. Nobody knew what he did with his weekends but they seemed to leave him exhausted.
‘Morning, Richard.’
‘Rr…rrr… Let me get my feet under the desk, can’t you?’ He subsided into his old revolving chair which gave out a squeak as he sat down.
‘The Patsy Rouchos murder, Richard. I found out who she is.’
There was barely a flicker of acknowledgement. ‘Inquest’s tomorrow,’ said Rhys. ‘Betty’s doing it.’
‘Ah. Are you at all interested, Richard, to discover the true identity of the body they will be discussing in court? Or perhaps not?’
‘Might be better to leave it until Dr Rudkin’s had his say.’ Rhys was stonewalling as usual in the face of a mighty scoop. Urgent action frightened him, though it hadn’t always been the case.
‘OK,’ said his reporter. There was some value in this decision, though for different reasons – it meant that Fleet Street wouldn’t get the story first. If Miss Dimont popped in to Inspector Topham’s office and shared the news, he would be obliged to pass it on to the Coroner. By law, the Coroner would be forced to reveal Patsy/Helen’s true identity – and it would be in the national daily newspapers on Wednesday. Since the Riviera Express didn’t come out till Friday, they would have been scooped by their own scoop. Rudyard Rhys may be cowardly as an editor but on this occasion he’d made the right choice.
‘I’m off to the RDC,’ said Judy, with a meaningful look – four hours of mind-numbing boredom and I’m your chief reporter, drat it! ‘By the way, I hear there’s a new Admiral in town – d’you know him?’
Rhys jerked back in his chair. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Betty. He brought her in to work this morning.’
‘Really?’ Again the unspoken question.
‘He might be interesting. I haven’t got anything much on tomorrow, I could pop out and see him and see if there’s a feature to be had. Apparently he’s been on TV.’
‘You just leave him alone,’ barked Rhys, banging his fist on the desk. ‘Betty’s doing him!’
‘Betty seems to be doing everything,’ snipped Judy. ‘Maybe you should make her chief reporter!’
She flounced back to her desk to retrieve her raffia bag, then sat down. She’d seen these sudden outbursts of rage before, almost always when her editor had something to conceal. Like most men he believed in turning up the volume to drive away unwanted questions, never realising it was always a dead giveaway.
‘Betty,’ she said, smiling ingratiatingly across the desk, ‘what’s the story on the Admiral?’
Betty looked guarded. ‘Oh, just that he’s joined the board of Buntorama, nothing special. Page Three single column short.’
‘You seem to be doing a lot of legwork for a couple of paragraphs.’
‘Ha, ha! You never know what might develop, Judy. Establishing a new contact, that’s all.’ It sounded as false as her inexpertly applied eyelashes.
Herbert got her over to the Rural District Council offices with time to spare and with a sigh Miss Dimont took her seat in the press benches. The oak desks were as uncomfortable as they were unyielding, and she was not encouraged by a new adornment to the one she chose – the message
A SHORT COURSE OF DEATH
carved meticulously into the wood with some fine embellishments surrounding it. It must have taken hours to complete – but then, what else was a reporter to do with his time when the talk was of muck and manure?
Death proved to be shorter than usual today, however, and by lunchtime Miss Dimont was free.
Since she wasn’t expected back in the office till late afternoon she decided to take Herbert for a spin across to Bedlington in the hope of sharing a sandwich with Auriol.
The journey was, as always, exhilarating. As the dear moped manfully breasted the top of Mudford Cliffs she looked down the steep slope to the pink sand and the ivory-blue water below. Across the other si
de of the estuary she could see dots of white houses punctuating the red rocks and green grass. In distant water lay the skeleton of a submerged wreck – how long had it lain there on the seabed? – and, nearer to shore, the heavy breakwater which might have saved the lives of its crew had it but sailed on a few hundred yards more.
She hadn’t seen Auriol since uncle Arthur dropped in on his way back to London – so much seemed to have happened since then! – and she was eager to share her latest findings with someone who might appreciate their significance. Unlike old Rudyard!
The café was still quite full with lunchtime trade and Auriol was busy, so she sat on the quay outside and drank in the sunshine. A single gull wandered over to stand at her feet, eyeing her sideways, and she looked back at him in admiration. Whatever others may think about your bad table-manners you are wise, you are brave, you are in your way very beautiful – and you are a survivor, thought Miss Dimont. If you could speak I might learn much.
‘Egg? Luncheon meat? Or we could share a pasty if you like.’ Auriol’s lunchtime offerings were designed to please the undemanding palates of hungry holidaymakers, though she was a fine cook too.
‘Anything,’ said Judy, turning to her friend with a smile. ‘Arthur sends his love.’
‘Adorable man.’
‘Lots to tell you,’ said Judy, ‘shall I come inside?’
‘The last lot are just going. I’ve got some nice coffee.’
The conversation which followed was what made the two women so enjoy each other’s company – an hour stuffed with information to chew over punctuated by a peppery exchange of views, a brief slide into nostalgia, and always the unspoken presence of their adored Eric. Auriol admired her friend’s unstoppable brilliance, while Miss Dimont viewed with wonder a woman in her mid-fifties who could still look so beautiful.
‘So you see,’ Miss Dimont was saying, ‘by now our dearest Eric could be doing ten years in Peterhead prison.’
‘I would take him one of my cakes with a nice big file inside. He’d be out in no time!’
‘On the run with Johnny Ramensky, picked up by the police next day.’
‘Eric was cleverer than that.’
‘He was, the fool.’
The old friends subsided into silence, then suddenly the reason she’d driven over to Bedlington came back to her. ‘D’you know an admiral called Minsell? Appears on TV?’
‘Why are you asking?’ It was as if a thundercloud had suddenly obliterated the sun.
‘Good Lord, Auriol, what’s up? Simple question, nothing behind it!’ That wasn’t quite true, even so she was alarmed at her friend’s sudden antagonism and awakened to its possibilities. What could have caused it?
‘Just another flag officer,’ replied Auriol, hastily adjusting her tone and picking up the plates with a clatter. ‘There seem to be so many of them these days – more admirals than ships. Yes, I know his name, in charge of some shore establishment. Why do you ask?’ she repeated.
I won’t get far with this if I tackle it head-on, thought Miss Dimont. But something’s up – something Auriol knows, maybe something Betty knows, but something I don’t! She did not like that.
‘Oh nothing,’ she lied airily. ‘Just that whoever this chap is, he’s turned his beady eye on Betty. She went to interview him – he’s going to take a cottage down here and has accepted a directorship of Buntorama, just wondered what you knew about him. I thought I might go and do a feature on him for the paper.’
‘Ohhh… he sounds pretty boring to me,’ said Auriol, her eyes flicking sideways. ‘Heaven knows, these days admirals are two a penny. Not as if he sank the Bismarck or anything.’
‘You seem to know more about him than you’re saying.’
‘I keep wondering why you’re asking,’ said Auriol.
‘I keep wondering why you’re not answering,’ said Miss Dimont.
Auriol sat down again. ‘Look, Hugue, we’ve been friends since the year dot.’
‘Yes.’
‘We don’t always tell each other everything.’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘No, we don’t. You didn’t tell me when that young man Valentine whatsisname kissed you and told you he loved you.’
‘I did eventually.’
‘Well, that’s just it. There’s a time and place for everything. Forget about the Admiral – let Betty do the interview, I’m sure she’ll do a great job. It’ll be a nice piece for the Express and then he can sink back into obscurity.’
‘Hardly. He’s on TV. He’s a celebrity!’
‘I really don’t think serving officers should be making a display of themselves,’ said Auriol without the slightest authority, since she did not possess a TV either.
‘Well, I’m sorry, if he’s going to come down here and plant himself on the Buntorama board and carry on making a display on TV, pretty soon he’s going to be the most famous person in Temple Regis. Obscure he most definitely will not be. Come on, Auriol, the semaphore signals flashing in your eyes tell me you’re hiding quite a big something.’
‘I have orders to keep you out of the loop.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Dimont, deflated. ‘The Admiralty.’
‘No prizes for guessing that.’
‘I thought all that business was behind us. You know, those last few years in service laid me low.’
‘You should have stayed in the Royal Navy. At least they stick to the rules.’
‘Not always.’
‘No, not always, but that stuff you were doing over in Broadway Buildings was worse. I wasn’t in the slightest surprised when you resigned.’
‘It was just so… demoralising. When you and I worked in Naval Intelligence, there was a purpose – a simple purpose – which was to defeat the enemy. When I transferred to MI6, some of the things I became involved in were indefensible. It’s extraordinary what the mind of man can think up when he wants to create evil.’
‘You were temperamentally unsuited.’
‘Never said a truer word, Auriol. Of course, one does get caught up in it all. There were some early successes, but when I went back to Berlin it just came to me. I had to get out.’
‘And now look at you – serene, content, accomplished, on the verge of another success by the sound of it.’
‘No Eric, though.’
‘Well, I don’t have an Eric, or a David or a Robert either. We muddle along all right, don’t we?’
Miss Dimont smiled but did not reply.
‘Anyway, you’re to leave the Admiral alone. You’ve got enough on your plate with the murder of this Helen Patrikis.’
‘And her father.’
‘For heaven’s sake! One at a time, Hugue, one at a time!’
The two friends laughed and looked at each other affectionately.
‘But,’ said Miss Dimont as she picked up her bag, ‘when it comes to the Admiral, I’ll find out. I always do.’
TWENTY-THREE
Back in the office Terry was fretting about his Leica. ‘Best cameras in the world bar none,’ he grumbled, shaking his head. ‘Why does it always go wrong?’
‘Only in your hands, Terry. That old proverb – the workman and his tools.’
‘What would you know? The best photograph you ever took was with that Box Brownie, and then you had your finger half-over the lens. Might have been an award-winning picture without that.’
He didn’t mean it.
Things had moved fast. Since they met at Regis Junction twenty-four hours before Terry had got a private commission out of Fluffles to do a studio shoot (‘In my fur bikini, dear, a present for Bobs!’) and Judy a fascinating insight into the world of the two warring alpha males and their connection with the dead woman. Terry was eager to suggest new ideas formed by his scrutiny of the 10 × 8 prints, but Judy was striding forward in her investigation, not looking back.
‘It has to be Radipole.’
‘If you say so.’ They were sitting at the table in the print room, where it was quiet and the li
ghts were low so they could concentrate. The 10 × 8s sat invitingly on the corner of the table and the photographer kept glancing at them while Judy was wondering, not for the first time, whether Terry secretly used aftershave. If he did it was very discreet.
‘But first take a look at these two,’ he urged. ‘I’ve had another go at this one and it’s come up a bit sharper. The photo was taken in artificial light, no flash, probably with something like your Box Brownie. It’s a room in a house, the light is on, but there’s daylight combating the overhead light. So I’d say at a rough guess it was twilight, early evening.’
‘Go on.’ Judy was frustrated by Terry’s meticulous deconstruction of the scene, she wanted quick results, tangible clues, not a walk round the block and a lecture on lighting. Heaven knows he’ll be telling me it was 1/25 at f8 next!
‘You’d get the same effect by using 1/25 at f8,’ he was droning, ‘only this was a snap, not a professional photograph.’
‘Yes,’ said Judy absently. She’d stopped listening.
‘As we know, the original had been torn into four pieces, then for some reason stuck in the album with the pieces roughly jammed back next to each other. I took a photo of it as it lay on the page of the album, and that’s what we were looking at last time. But two of the four pieces were overlapping – what I’ve done now is taken a pair of scissors, cut the two pieces apart and then reassembled them. And look!’
Miss Dimont looked. The picture looked pretty much the same as before. It showed the interior of a room, possibly a bedroom, though you couldn’t see the bed, a wall with an oil painting, a side table and a low chair. A piece of furniture which could have been anything in one corner.
‘The camera’s moving,’ said Terry. ‘The person who took the pic was probably trying to focus on something else but they were in a hurry and missed their target. And here’s the clue.’
He tapped the glossy print with his index finger. ‘Down there, where the two pieces join each other. Look. A foot.’