Death at the Seaside

by F. R. Jameson

  “So what brings you down here?” he asked.

  “Chance, luck and skill,” said Mr Montgomery. “I’m a salesman by trade…”

  “Really?” Castle acted surprised. The man’s accent was Brummy, which probably explained the second class air he gave off. He’d never have survived in the proper shark pool that was London.

  “Yes I am.” smiled Montgomery. “I sell bathroom suites. It might seem to some a luxury, but everyone should have a nice bathroom. Anyway, at our firm there’s a competition for best salesman. Whoever makes the most sales in terms of pounds, shillings and pence across a calendar year, receives – yes, you’ve guessed it! – a paid holiday for him and his family. Last year was my year, yes sir! That’s where the skill part comes in. The luck part was finding a neighbourhood in Preston where, thanks to a new plastics factory opening, everyone was flush with cash and anxious to climb the social ladder, bathroom-wise. The chance part was meeting a man in a saloon bar in Coventry who told me this. There you have it. Skill, luck and chance.”

  “He’s being modest, Mr Castle,” his wife said, reaching out to her husband’s arm, but not actually touching it. “This is the second year in a row he’s won, and it’s only the second year they’ve held it.”

  “Congratulations!” Castle sounded sincere.

  “Thank you.” Mr Montgomery beamed. “There’s a joke around the office that I have to be careful next year. After all if I win again I’m not going to be the most popular holiday-maker, am I?”

  “We went to Bournemouth last year, Mr Castle,” said Mrs Montgomery. “Have you been?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “You should, it’s very nice. Although the weather here has been better.”

  “And how about you, Mr Castle.” Her husband leant forward a little. “What line of work are you in?”

  It was Castle’s turn to smile. “I’m an investor,” he told them, as if it was an everyday kind of job. “I was lucky, I came into a bit of money and now I invest in projects that take my fancy. I invest where I think I have a chance of doubling my investment. Tripling my investment. Quadrupling it if the wind’s set fair.”

  “Gosh!” exclaimed Mrs Montgomery.

  Junior continued to make aeroplane noises; it seemed the Red Baron (or maybe it was Herman Goering) was cutting up particularly rough.

  “What kind of thing do you invest in?” asked Mr Montgomery.

  “Whatever comes along. I’m a Londoner and so there’s obviously a vast selection of opportunities. I’d love to tell you plastics or steel or copper – but it’s more wide ranging than that.”

  “Please,” Mr Montgomery urged. “I’m fascinated. What was the last thing you invested in? I may be a salesman at the moment, but I don’t want to be forever. Maybe if you could just give me some pointers, the benefit of your experience – I feel it would be most useful for me.”

  Castle grinned, meeting Mrs Montgomery’s blue eyes. The kind of blue eyes which – in his experience – liked to be hurt a little.

  “Please,” he demurred, putting on his gentleman act. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass your wife.”

  “Oh, I don’t embarrass easily.” There was already a hint of crimson rushing into her milkmaid’s cheeks.

  Mr Montgomery glanced at his boy, momentarily concerned that something might be said that wasn’t for his ears. But the lad was oblivious to all.

  “Please,” Montgomery said. “We’re not so easily shocked.”

  “Well…” Castle grinned wide. “The last definite thing I went into, the last guaranteed money maker was lady’s undergarments. Lingerie, as the French would have it.” He paused, just to give them the chance to be ruffled. “A friend of mine – Luigi – has contacts in both the Milanese and Parisian underwear markets. These are not your very British items sold in Marks and Sparks. No, these are thin delicate little garments that our cousins across The Channel love. They’re made of lace and silk and are so thin you could tear them with your fingers. Dainty little items made for pleasure, not utility. Pleasure for the lady and pleasure for her lucky gent.”

  At that moment the main courses arrived, both tables served at the same time. Mr and Mrs Montgomery each had chicken, while the boy had somewhat insubstantial looking fish fingers. Castle had ordered a big chunk of beef with boiled potatoes and carrots.

  Their waitress was the same blonde piece who’d served them the soup. Again Castle made eye contact and she gave him a flustered smile. She reminded him of the whore from last night. (What was her name again?) Perhaps they were sisters. He wondered how much she’d heard of his description of lingerie. His mind instantly racing as he pictured how she’d appear modelling his silky garments. As he winked at her, he hoped she knew what he was thinking.

  There was a lull in conversation as everyone tucked in. Even the boy put down his plane and started eating – although under sufferance. His features were all clumped together at the centre of his round face, making them seem as pinched as his dad’s, but his limbs were most definitely sturdy. It was hard to believe he didn’t have a rampaging appetite. Only Castle appeared to be enjoying the course however, only he attacked the meat and veg with appropriate relish.

  “I don’t know what your experiences were in the war, Mr Montgomery,” Castle said, his mouth full, his gaze concentrating on the man’s wife. “But perhaps you saw something of these items amongst the mademoiselles.”

  “No, no.” Mr Montgomery shook his head quickly, adamantly. “I never saw anything like that. That wasn’t the type of war I had!”

  Montgomery gazed anxiously to his son, who fortunately seemed to have been struck by temporary deafness. He was making faces while chewing his fish fingers. In other circumstances, Montgomery would probably have told him off, right then he just seemed glad that young Jeremy’s mind was occupied elsewhere.

  “Is there much of a market for that kind of thing, Mr Castle?” asked Mrs Montgomery, her voice high-pitched, possibly from embarrassment.

  “Well, amongst the right type of people, certainly,” said Castle. “You and I, Mr Montgomery are not far apart in our current ventures. You realise people like the luxury of a nice bathroom, while I realise people like the luxury of… Well, let’s just say they appreciate the taste of finer things behind the closed bedroom door. Some might see them as frivolous, but the reality is that women like them and men like that women like them and like to see their woman liking them.”

  He grinned at Mr Montgomery, even as he was conscious of a thick line of gravy dribbling from his lips. The poor Brummy was on the rocks so far beyond his place of comfort now, he didn’t even know where to look, just staring at the food on his plate as if convinced it had poison on it.

  “I’m sorry.” Castle shook his head magnanimously. “This really isn’t a dinner time conversation, is it? I apologise. But then I’m an honest man and I’m not ashamed of what I do. Everyone wears underwear. And every man dreams about women in the kind of underwear I’m selling, so why should we be embarrassed to talk about it?”

  With a quick glance to make sure that Jeremy was preoccupied, Mrs Montgomery nodded. “I agree,” she said, without it sounding even remotely convincing.

  “No, no – don’t apologise.” It was Mr Montgomery’s turn to look up and be polite. “I asked a question and you gave an honest answer, and I thank you for that. Perhaps, yes, the subject matter is not suitable for the surroundings – but there are worse occupations a man could have.”

  “Of course, you’ve got me at an odd moment,” Castle told them. “This time last year it would have been pots and pans, a year from now – who knows? – perhaps televisions. For now, well it is what it is.”

  “Mummy!” cried the little boy.

  Castle blinked at him, surprised the brat could speak.

  “Yes, dear?” The indulgent smile Mrs Montgomery gave her son made her face look fatter.

  “Can I spend a penny please?”

  “Of course you can, Jeremy. But don’t
be long.”

  The boy slipped off his seat and trotted out the door.

  “Lovely boy,” said Castle.

  “Thank you,” nodded Mr Montgomery.

  “Forgive me for harking back,” Mrs Montgomery leant forward conspiratorially, “but who did you mean when you said there was a market amongst the right sort of people?”

  Castle grinned at her. She’d been baited and hooked.

  “You know,” he said, “your Lords and Ladies. This stuff is not cheap to import, so we can’t sell it at bargain prices. I find that your nobility has the money and the taste for this kind of item. Also the whole bunch of them are pretty perverse, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled dirtily. “However, I’ve noticed your middle classes becoming interested as well. People like yourselves – doing well in life, making money, already owning their dream bathroom suite and wanting another treat.”

  The waitress arrived to take his plate. He grinned at her again and again she pouted. The minx!

  “If you’re interested, I have samples in my suitcase,” Castle continued. “If you want to see them. I can probably offer you a good price. We’re all friends here now, aren’t we? I’m sure we can manage a deal. I’m more than happy to let the Mrs try them on if that’ll help you make up your mind.”

  “No, no. Thank you, Mr Castle,” Mr Montgomery almost spluttered, before composing himself. “That’s a charming offer, but I don’t think they’re really for us.”

  “Well, it’s an invitation open for the rest of the holiday,” he said. “Chalet 361.”

  The wife had said nothing for or against the invitation, but Castle guessed they both knew if he encountered her wandering about by herself, he wouldn’t hesitate it make it again.

  With his wide bastard’s grin, Castle stood up. “Well, I best be heading on my way. Lovely to meet you both.”

  “Yes.” Mr Montgomery’s voice was slightly higher now, flutier. It was pleasant, but that pleasantness was forced, ground out reluctantly. He must have been capable of better. After all, he was a salesman. Surely never ending pleasant charm was what he did.

  Mrs Montgomery smiled her farewell but again didn’t say anything. Castle could feel her eyes on him as he sauntered away and would certainly have given a penny for those thoughts.

  Amused by his behaviour, he walked lightly on his toes, he strolled happy. Whenever he proved he was best in the room, he was always crammed full of joy. What he was best at didn’t matter, as long as he looked smarter, or more attractive, or braver than anyone else.

  Castle grinned to himself, he grinned to everyone around him.

  So what if Mr and Mrs Dull returned to their chalet in a huff?

  He could have sat there being as boring as they were. If he’d wanted to, he could have feigned an interest in bathrooms and had a long discussion about the best sort of toilet seat. Or whether loo roll should be hung facing in or away from the wall. But instead he gave them something spectacular. He gave them a story they could share with friends, an anecdote about a rich looking stranger they met at the seaside – and you’ll never guess where he made his money… Oh, how damn shocking!

  The beam of his face showed radiant through the dining room.

  Even as he grinned, he played with his silver, monogramed lighter and checked out the talent once again.

  My word, that blonde waitress was distinctly fruity. The calculations went through his mind about how interested she’d be, whether it was worth lingering for the end of her shift. But then why wait? There was a lady with hair like Jane Russell, but a backside like someone’s gran. A teenager sauntered past with red hair and a pout so pronounced she resembled that actress, Diana Christmas (he had to ask Betty whether she had her phone number, as she’d be someone he’d put on his best suit to meet). In the corner was a pair of newlyweds, him resembling a fish-faced trainee vicar, her sex on two graceful pins – maybe he could stand them a drink at the bar later and see what happened. The groom didn’t seem the sort who could handle his booze, after all. There were so many choices, so many possibilities. And by the door, seemingly waiting for him, was Master Montgomery.

  “This isn’t over, Castle,” the boy said, his voice suddenly much deeper. “I’ll tear you down brick by brick.”

  Instinctively he reached out and snatched the boy’s arm, pulling the brat towards his chest with a yelp. He yanked him up and then dropped him down and pushed his face right into the boy’s.

  “What did you fucking say?”

  The boy stared at him, startled, terrified.

  “What did you say?” demanded Castle, loud and vicious. “What does that mean? Where’d you learn to say it?”

  Looking like he was going to wet himself with fear, the boy trembled and tried to pull free. But Castle held his arm too tight, probably bruising him, making sure he couldn’t go anywhere. Tears rose quickly; frantically, the boy stared around, clearly wanting somebody to save him. Castle didn’t notice, but there were people stirring from their seats.

  “Tell me, you brat!” Castle yelled.

  Suddenly the boy was torn from his grasp, comforted in the arms of his mother. Mr Montgomery was beside him too, his face having boiled crimson.

  “What the hell are you doing, man?” Montgomery was furious, jaw clenched, chest puffed out.

  Castle stared at him, for the first time in his life feeling discombobulated. “He said something to me,” he stammered finally.

  Montgomery shot a glare down to his son and then again to Castle. “Well, what did he say? Did he swear?”

  “No,” said Castle. “Not quite. He just….”

  “Tell me what he said!”

  Montgomery was a small man and so Castle should have been able to take him in fisticuffs. But then Castle didn’t know what Montgomery had done in the war – maybe he was a marine, maybe he was trained to take on Huns three times his size. Those slight seeming men could turn out to be tricky.

  It washed over him all of a sudden, the outside world breaking through his own fear and confusion, but he was conscious of the disapproval on the collective face of the other diners.

  “He just…” Castle’s words failed him as he took a step away. “I apologise. I overreacted.”

  He glanced at the anguished face of Mrs Montgomery, crouched down and soothing the weeping boy in a maternal embrace.

  “You’re damn right you overreacted!” Mr Montgomery actually yelled. “No matter what he said it does not give you the right to man-handle him like that! We are his parents, we are the ones who will discipline him. Now tell me, what did he say?”

  “It was…” Castle stared down at the boy, now wailing in seeming incomprehension.

  “Yes, man? What was it?”

  “It was – nothing,” said Castle.

  “Nothing?” said Montgomery. “It was nothing?”

  “Nothing of importance,” Castle barked. “I’m sorry.”

  He barged past the Montgomerys, charging towards the back exit of the dining room. Everyone stared at him. He was shaking, trembling while he walked. It was all disapproving faces – even though he didn’t want to see them, they were there at every angle of his vision. Even though he didn’t want to see the Montgomerys, he turned to stare at them. And there they were, the three of them sharing an outraged expression of horror.

  Castle ducked through the door and out into the suddenly chilly evening sunshine.

  Three

  Larry Castle stood out there through the sunset and beyond, puffing on Marlboro after Marlboro.

  His plan for the evening had been to go down the promenade and pick out a girl. He was a simple man with simple pleasures, after all. But he didn’t have the gut for it anymore. It felt his confidence had been given a right kick to the proverbials.

  Still with his head spinning from the shock of what that little brat had said to him, he’d gone to his chalet first, but couldn’t bear those four poky, poxy walls. Feeling shaky, he decided he needed some fresh air and so stood outside and
smoked.

  He found himself a succession of dark corners and lurked. The moment anyone came near he’d drift away. Not that anyone really came near, but sometimes a peal of laugher would ride across, or a scream of excitement, or even the loud whispering of love making. It was a long evening by himself, but he couldn’t take the thought of seeing another fucker. He thought his face must betray everything. That it’d be a pale, bruised and battered mask – and he couldn’t risk somebody glimpsing it.

  Maybe it was a phrase the boy had thought up; perhaps it was just a coincidence. But what kind of coincidence? What odds would a bookie offer on two different people getting the exact same sequence of words – with relation to Larry Castle – all these years apart?

  Ten years, and now Castle came to think about it, probably only ten miles apart.

  No, it was impossible.

  Well then, maybe the boy didn’t say it, maybe he’d just imagined it.

  He thought back. Picturing in crystal clarity the boy’s mouth move. Had those words really come out?

  But then – why would he imagine it?

  He hadn’t thought of that bastard Lestrade in a long time, why would he arrive uninvited in Castle’s mind now?

  It was obvious the boy didn’t know Lestrade, he was far too young. But what about the father?

  Thinking it through, the father had actually said he knew Castle from somewhere. He’d thought that was horse manure, a cheap conversation gambit. But perhaps it wasn’t.

  Maybe he was a friend of Lestrade’s.

  That could be the case. Possibly Montgomery was speaking true when he said he knew Castle, he’d perhaps met him through Lestrade. And Castle, because he’d forgotten most of Lestrade’s friends (inconsequential lot that they were), wasn’t likely to place him.

  That could be a possibility. Montgomery had told his bastard little boy what to say, set it all up. Even dropped Castle the wink that the two of them knew each other. Knowing that Castle wouldn’t believe him, because really, Castle wasn’t going to have friends like that Montgomery feller.