‘Armstrong? Palmer? Crippen? Certain Italian noblemen of the fifteenth century?’
‘Italian? Yes, I see. Then you think Biancini might have done it? I don’t agree at all.’
‘I can imagine both more and less likely murderers. Where did you take your wife for holidays when you went away together?’
‘Oh, all sorts of places. She paid for both of us, of course. I’ve got all I can do to pay my fees at the Art School and buy my canvases and paints and sub. up for these foul digs. I couldn’t manage the kind of holidays Norah seemed to like.’
‘What kind would those have been?’
‘Seaside hotels.’
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve stayed at Bournemouth, Torquay, St Leonards…’ He checked them off on his fingers. ‘Not the most expensive places, needless to say, but well out of my calculations if Norah hadn’t been able to stand Sam. My mother’s a widow, you see. She does what she can, but it doesn’t run to holiday hotels.’
‘Hotels? Yes, I see. No, a student’s finances would scarcely run to those. Did you never try—say—Youth Hostels?’
‘No. Norah was an open-air type, but she hated hiking or cycling. After all, as she used to point out, she had the money and so it had to be an hotel or nothing. Otherwise, as I say, she preferred to stay with her aunt, and, of course, that was an hotel, too, in its way.’
‘I see. An hotel or—nothing.’ She gave him every chance to repair what seemed to her a serious, and therefore a very important, omission, but he merely repeated, with another agonised glance at the clock:
‘That’s right. An hotel or nothing.’
‘Well, I had better leave you to dress and get round in time for the beginning of the Sunday licensing hours,’ said Dame Beatrice, with her crocodile grin. He laughed awkwardly, and got up as she rose from her chair.
‘Sorry if I made myself obvious,’ he said. ‘But, as a matter of fact… promised to meet some chaps for a game of darts. If you don’t get there when they open, you miss the chance of the board. Popular game, darts, you’d be surprised.’
‘Not at all,’ replied his reptilian visitor. ‘I throw quite a pretty dart myself when called upon to play, although not, at my age, in a public house.’
‘Really?’ He went to the mantelpiece and picked up three beautiful darts. ‘These are mine. Rather nice, I think.’
Dame Beatrice took one from his hand and balanced it in her palm. Then she went to the back wall of the room and studied a mark in the wallpaper. As she had suspected, it was a small hole made by a nail which, no doubt, had once supported a picture, but both picture and nail had disappeared. She retired to the hearthrug, flicked the dart, and said:
‘What did I tell you?’
‘Well, I’m damned!’ He spoke with awe. The dart was firm in the nail-hole.
‘ “But, being in, see that the opposed may beware of thee,” ’ quoted Dame Beatrice solemnly. ‘Nothing but hotels? Really? Wouldn’t you like to think again?’
Coles looked thoroughly bewildered.
‘Think again? Why should I? I’m telling the simple truth.’
Dame Beatrice eyed him narrowly. He met her gaze defiantly and then strolled across the shabby room and pulled the dart out of the wall.
‘The simple truth?’ she repeated, on a warning and questioning note. Coles swung round on her, his eyes kindling and his face flushed with anger.
‘Just exactly what are you getting at?’ he demanded. ‘If you’re trying to catch me out, you’ll be disappointed. I’m not hiding anything. I’ve told you I know nothing about Norah’s death, and I’ve told the police the same thing. What is it you expect me to come clean about? You’ve shown me you can play darts. What about cards? What about putting yours on the table?’
‘Very well. Did you not take your wife to a holiday camp at Bracklesea this summer?’
Coles stared.
‘That I most certainly did not.’
‘Well, her aunt thought you did.’
‘What! Did she tell you so?’
‘She most certainly did.’
‘Well, I’m damned! I wonder where she got that idea from? You don’t mean that Norah went to one without me? She’d never do such a thing. She had a strong dislike of hordes of people and of any sort of herd-holiday. She wouldn’t even go on a motor-coach tour because she said the sight-seeing was all regimented and arranged and you couldn’t even choose your own hotels. She—it was the one grouse she had against college—that you had to do things by rule and time-table and what-not, and could never get away from other people. A holiday camp is the last place you’d ever get Norah to go to, I do know that. So, if her aunt thought we went to one, she must be bats.’
‘It is just on twelve o’clock,’ said Dame Beatrice, glancing at her watch, ‘so I must not keep you longer. No doubt your friends will be waiting for you.’
‘Yes, they soon will be. I generally go along on Sunday mornings. A game of darts and a pint don’t cost very much, thank goodness. You don’t blame me, I hope, for not sitting in sackcloth and ashes because I’ve lost my wife?’
‘Certainly not. Enjoy yourself while you can. Did Mrs Coles leave a will?’
‘If she did, I know nothing of it.’
As there was no means of proving the truth of this assertion, Dame Beatrice accepted it at its face value and took her leave. She had food for thought, and, by this time, one very strong conviction.
chapter nine
Discrepancies
‘… come and see, I have discovered the skeleton of a mammoth.’
Ibid.
« ^ »
The holiday season was, to all intents and purposes, over, and the holiday camp, of which Coles had declared he had no knowledge, was closed. As Dame Beatrice had realised that this might be so, she was neither distressed nor disheartened, but, penetrating the main gates, made her way to the office, which was attached to the permanent living-quarters of the full-time staff.
She was received by a bearded man of youthful appearance who announced that the camp was closed until the following Easter.
‘Used to be Whitsun,’ he announced, ‘so you’re luckier than you used to be. I can take a reservation.’
‘It is good of you to say so.’
‘Think nothing of it. When would you wish us to book you in?’
‘I cannot say, at the moment. I am in quest of information.’
‘Sure. I’ll get you a brochure. Next year’s isn’t ready until December, but last season’s will give you all the gen you need.’
‘Thank you. I should like all the information I can get. Would it be possible for me to be shown over the camp?’
‘I don’t see why not. You don’t look the sort to plant a bomb. I’ll take you round myself.’
‘That is extremely good of you.’
‘Think nothing of it. Service, not self, is our motto. Half a sec. while I get you the book of words.’ He retired to an inner room and returned immediately with a shining, well-produced prospectus, copiously illustrated in black and white and in colour. ‘There we are,’ he said. ‘We have accommodation, as you’ll see by that, for singles, doubles or family parties. If you’re on your own you’ll soon make friends here, and we don’t blow bugles or stampede you about in herds. That sort of thing’s old-fashioned and we’re nothing if not up to date.’
The camp was extremely extensive. The accommodation, to which reference had been made by her guide, consisted of dozens of chalets and a large, three-storey hostel on the ground floor of which was a bar. A restaurant opened out of it.
‘Bedrooms upstairs,’ said the bearded man. ‘You’ll see in the brochure they cost more than the chalets. That’s because in the hostel you’ve got running hot and cold and proper bathrooms. The chalets only get a cold tap and a bathhouse with showers, one bathhouse to every twenty chalets. Mind you, there’s the swimming-pool—we’ll see it in a few minutes —with sea-water and the latest filter-system—so there’s plenty of chance
to freshen up.’
Another enormous, detached building, situated in a large garden, proved to provide a ballroom and concert hall. These had their own cocktail and snack bar. Yet a third structure proved to be a covered roller-skating rink complete with soda-fountain and coffee bar.
Dame Beatrice duly admired everything she was shown. Her alert black eyes took in every detail, but she asked no questions, content to allow the guide to act as showman without interruption.
‘Well,’ he said, when once again the office and the staff quarters came in sight, ‘that’s the lot. Anything more you’d like to know?’
‘Nothing, thank you. Do you have many foreign visitors?’
‘Plenty. Not Americans, though. A camp doesn’t seem to meet their requirements. A pity, really, because most of them are very good mixers. We did have a posse of American Service chaps apply last year, but we didn’t take them. We got the impression they were only after girls. That kind of thing, if it’s blatant, can soon give a place a bad name. Not that I don’t sympathise with the fellows. They’re a long way from home.’
‘I should not wish to come alone,’ said Dame Beatrice, reaching the true object of her visit. ‘Some friends of mine stayed here last summer or early autumn, and spoke very well of the accommodation they were given. I should require the same kind of thing for myself and friend, or for two young friends if, in the end, I am not able to take up my option. I suppose it would not be possible for me to see the visitors’ book, so that I may ascertain where they were housed?’
‘I don’t see why not. There’s nothing private about it,’ agreed the young man. ‘If you’d care to take a seat, I’ll go and dig it out.’
Dame Beatrice was highly gratified, and said so. She had not expected such complete co-operation, accustomed though she was to getting her own way; but she had made a marked impression on the young man, whose dealings with elderly ladies had acquainted him mostly with their capacity for producing pointless conversation and unreasonable demands and complaints. He left her to go and find the book, and, returning with it, asked when her friends had stayed at the camp.
‘I do not remember the exact dates,’ she said. He found the page which marked the beginning of August and put the open book on a small table.
‘Help yourself,’ he said genially. ‘Knowing their names and possibly their writing, you may find them quicker than I shall.’
Dame Beatrice had three names in mind—Coles, Palliser and Biancini, although why she was alert for the last she could scarcely have said. Two names appeared under Palliser and were on one line, which ran: Mr and Mrs N. Palliser of Calladale House, near Garchester.
‘Here they are,’ she said, ‘but the number of their room or chalet, or whatever they had, is not filled in.’
‘Oh, now I’ve got the name, I’m bound to have a record of their accommodation,’ said the young man. ‘Shan’t be a jiffy. Let’s see the date again. August 18th they booked in? Right.’ He came back in a remarkably short time with a large plan of the camp, and spread it out for her to see. ‘We keep the accommodation charted,’ he said. ‘Look, they had chalet one nine six. Our system is quite simple. It has to be, with the number of campers we get every week of the season. Their number on the camp register’—he pointed to it—‘was seventy-eight, which means they must have clocked in very early and certainly didn’t come on the special train, and here is the seventy-eight marked on the plan against their chalet. See?’
Dame Beatrice congratulated him on the clearness of the arrangements.
‘So, if I pay a deposit,’ she said, ‘you think I could have the same chalet?’
‘Sure. How long would you want to stay?’
‘Oh, only a week, I’m afraid.’
‘Suits us. The second week’s apt to be a repetition of the first, after all. Shall we say a couple of quid? Less if you like, of course, but a deposit does seem to clinch it.’
Dame Beatrice produced two pound notes, was given a receipt, gave, in return, a date for the following June and had the felicity of seeing Laura Gavin’s name put down in a large ledger. It seemed as though there must be some truth in the story that Norah Coles had stayed at the Bracklesea camp, but why in the name of Palliser and why had Coles denied that he was with her? Dame Beatrice put through a call to her secretary, who was in Kensington, engaged in bringing the clinical records up to date.
‘Leave everything as soon as you can, Laura. I want you at the Stone House for a conference.’
‘That Calladale business? I wondered how soon you’d let me in properly on that. I’ve practically finished here, and Gavin has been called to Nottingham. I’ll come at once, and bring Junior.’
‘No, no. It is much too late to come tonight. You must leave it until the morning. Henri shall get us a special lunch. He has been worried about me since I began making these excursions to Calladale College. He thinks they starve me.’
Henri, it turned out, had been worried to the point of sleeplessness.
‘Lunch is nothing today,’ he announced. ‘A cutlet, a soufflé, a cheese. Tonight, at dinner, mesdames, you shall eat! Think of it, Madame Gavin, ma chère Miss Laura! Those meals at the college for women! One says a camp for displaced persons, no?’
As it had proved impossible to reassure Henri upon this point, Dame Beatrice did not attempt to do so this time, and neither did she inform him of the reason for her visit to the college. She knew what his conclusions would be if she told him that one of the students had been poisoned. Laura referred to this as soon as she and her employer were alone.
‘Henri will swear it was the college dinners,’ she affirmed; and Dame Beatrice saw no reason to contradict her.
‘Henri is a monomaniac,’ she observed. ‘Well, dear child, the plot thickens.’
‘Good-o. How thick has it become?’
‘Very, very thick indeed. Do you think you could impersonate a reporter?’
‘Second nature. Whom do I interview?’
‘A bereaved husband.’
‘The villain of the piece?’
‘Well, mistakes have been made, and there seem to be so many and such curious discrepancies at present that he may be.’
She gave Laura an account of all that had happened, including her visit to the holiday camp. Laura, her fine body beautifully relaxed in a deep and comfortable chair, offered an appreciative whistle.
‘He didn’t mention that they went to a holiday camp; just called it a seaside hotel,’ she said, summing up the information. ‘I saw a very short account of the inquest and I noticed it gave nothing away. But I can’t see why he should lie about going to the camp. Did you get anything important out of the inquest?’
‘There was one very interesting point which I was most anxious not to have anyone disclose,’ said Dame Beatrice grimly. ‘The dead girl was said to be in her very early twenties, but the pathologist pointed out to me privately that he would have thought that the body he dissected was that of a woman of thirty.’
‘I suppose he could have been mistaken?’
‘We were both impressed by the maturity of the body, so he made a special X-ray test of the bones. The subject was definitely not under twenty-five years old.’
‘Who identified the body?’
‘The mother.’
‘Well, she ought to know.’
‘I should point out that the body could not have been at all easy to identify.’
‘Been in the water, you mean?’
‘No; in a cellar, I rather fancy.’
‘Oh, Lord! Not rats?’
‘Undoubtedly rats.’
‘How utterly beastly! I once dived for a body which had drowned and been got at by crabs. It’s something I’d like to forget. Anyway, what do you make of the situation?’
‘I may know better what I make of it when you have interviewed the husband, but that will not be just yet.’
‘Dash it, I’m just rarin’ to go.’
‘I know, but we must give him time to get over my
visit, and the police another chance to get to work on him first.’
‘Does he gain anything by her death?’
‘He says he knows of no will. I put the question to him point-blank. I cannot tell whether he is lying. I am inclined to think, however, that he’s telling the truth. If there is no will, I take it that he will inherit the money. That is, if the dead girl is indeed Mrs Coles. But if the dead girl is not Mrs Coles, I think we need to find Mrs Coles.’
‘Mrs Coles the murderess?’
‘Most probably not, but she might be able to tell us who the dead woman is and, if she could, that in itself might lead to a solution of our problem. It might, on the other hand, lead us into deeper problems.’
‘If we can find her—Mrs Coles, I mean.’
Yes. It may be quite difficult to do so.’
‘How do we set about it? Are the police in on this?’
‘The police believe that the dead woman is verily and indeed the missing student.’
‘In spite of the report about her age?’
‘In spite of everything, dear child. One can hardly blame them. The body has been identified by Mrs Coles’ mother. No one is going to question her evidence. Technically, the girl has always lived at home. Nobody is going to challenge her mother under such circumstances.’
‘Except us. Well, supposing that we are right, I still don’t see where we go from here. How soon can I put on the mask of Fleet Street and go to interview the husband?’
‘The inquest is to be resumed in three weeks’ time, if the police are ready by then. I think you might go to see him a fortnight from now. Unless something turns up to change my line of thought, your task will be to extort from him where he went for his summer holiday, and with whom.’
‘Sounds to me more like a B.B.C. job. Can’t I stop him with my roving microphone?’
‘Tackle it in any way you choose. I have little faith in your discretion but much in your imagination.’
‘Fair enough. Meanwhile?’
‘Meanwhile we go to Calladale and interview a Miss Good.’
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