Death at the Seaside

by Frances Brody

  Even though I have the incomparable Mrs Sugden as housekeeper, as long as one is at home there is always some domestic niggle; a bill to pay, a letter to answer, a neighbour or friend to speak to, a favour to return. Being on holiday is a great release from obligations.

  The rather breathless note was a postscript to the letter from Alma that had arrived a couple of days ago.

  Dear Kate, I forgot to say – when you are settled, come to the pier that is where you’ll find me. Steel yourself for a surprise. Here is a clue: halfway along – pepper pot!!

  Your affectionate friend,

  Alma

  The silly note made me smile. Did Alma think we were still schoolgirls? It would be good to meet up with her again. Most of all I looked forward to seeing my lovely goddaughter. Over the past ten years, she had spent regular holidays with me in ‘the big city’, with lots of outings. Alma had put her on the train in Scarborough and I had met her in Leeds. Now that she was working for her living, I would not see so much of her. Felicity is very special to me and has been since I held her in my arms on the day of her christening.

  Three

  The North Sea took on a terrible blackness, so dark as to be nothingness, the white foam showed grey on the lip of the waves. Only the lighthouse beam and the distant twinkle of far-off ships gave Felicity a sense of this stretch of beach being the same place, the familiar daytime place.

  Her boots squelched as she walked in wet sand, avoiding the rock pools that teemed with life. She had walked here so often, barefoot, sand between her toes. They had found fossils, shells and lucky pebbles, explored rock pools, watching the little crabs, marvelling at the sea anemones. She would tie her laces together and give the plimsolls to Mam to carry. Those days were gone.

  Now she was grown up, had been working for two years, and nothing marvellous had happened – except Brendan.

  Every birthday for ten years she expected Dad to come back and surprise her. Now she knew that would not happen. Time to strike out. If she didn’t make a move, no one else would. She lengthened her stride. This voyage would change everything. Her father would be so glad. It’s time to come home, she would tell him. Mam wants you home. Deep down, she knew that must be true. Before she presented him to her mother, she would say, Here is someone who has wanted to come back for so long, and now here he is. She would leave them together.

  She was old enough to know there must have been fault on both sides. That was what she heard women say when she earwigged as she served in the café. ‘Fault on both sides.’

  The steady rhythm of the waves lulled her thoughts. She could not imagine how it would be to see him again. Her plan had not stretched that far. Was that a human sound? She turned. No one, only the relentless waves as the tide ebbed. At her back, the moon hung low behind the skeleton of the abbey, high on the steep West Cliff.

  Felicity wished she and Brendan had arranged to walk along the shore together. Brendan had gone earlier, so as to load supplies.

  They hadn’t told a soul. Her mother would know when she read the note. Brendan’s mother would know when his aunt said, ‘He’s not with me.’

  Mr Philips had decided to trust Brendan with the Doram. The man would have a blue fit if he found out how far they intended to sail. He didn’t question them, and Brendan let him assume they would go to somewhere nearby, Lindisfarne at the very farthest.

  Felicity began to hurry. The thump of the waves took on a sinister sound in the darkness. Don’t be silly, she told herself. The tide won’t change its direction to come and get you, wet you, wash you away.

  As she walked, the blue serge trousers itched her legs. She had never before worn such clothes, trousers clumsily sewn by herself from a remnant bought on Church Street market. She wore two vests, a blouse, the bulky Aran knit cardigan, a borrowed muffler and to top that the yellow oilskin frock. What a sight she would be in daytime. When she put the outfit together, it seemed as if she was doing it for someone else – like helping with costumes for the amateur dramatics.

  In her knapsack she carried extra socks, underwear, a flask of cocoa, sandwiches, hard boiled eggs and lemon buns brought from the café where she would never work again because Miss Botham blew a gale about her leaving in the middle of the season, August being the busiest month.

  In the forty minutes it had taken her to walk from Whitby to the cove at Sandsend, the tide had ebbed further. The moonlight picked him out, tall and thin. Brendan waved both arms and hurried to meet her.

  She’d always known him, seen him about. But it was only since December she realised he was the best dancer in the Spa ballroom. She hadn’t let him meet Mam because he was from the east side and Mam would want to know this and that and all about him. His mam would be the same, only in reverse.

  Felicity’s mother was full of warnings, worries and dire prophecies when it came to Felicity and boys. She would say Felicity was too young to be so serious about a lad. Not that she had room to talk. Felicity had seen her own birth certificate alongside her mam and dad’s marriage lines.

  By moonlight, Brendan’s dark-red hair looked black. She hadn’t loved him the first time they danced together. She liked him then. He was a good mover and he made her laugh. He had a certain way of smiling, tilting his head as if to build up to it and then giving a big smile. She’d fallen for him when he was walking her home from the New Year’s Eve dance. She got a stone in her shoe. He bent down, took off her shoe, shook out the little stone and then put her shoe back on. ‘It fits, Princess Charming. You must be my bride.’

  They had both laughed, but they knew he meant it, and that it would come true.

  He kissed her and he wasn’t smiling. ‘Have you changed your mind?’

  ‘Would I be wearing these daft trousers if I’d changed my mind?’

  ‘Only I been looking at maps and charts again. It’s a longer way than you think.’

  ‘We’re going to do it, Brendan. We said so.’

  ‘And I don’t know why I didn’t think of this, but us names’ll be mud. People will talk.’

  ‘If they’ve mucky minds, that’s their lookout.’

  ‘They’ll blame me. Your mother’ll put a curse on me.’

  ‘My dad will come back with us. Everything will be all right.’

  He took her knapsack from her and put it on his back. ‘Did you tell anyone we’re going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Somebody knows.’

  ‘Well I didn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘In’t concealed bulkhead, there’s a packet with your dad’s name on it. It wasn’t there this morning. Somebody’s onto us.’

  ‘I can’t think who, but they won’t stop us.’

  The Doram bobbed on the tide. They splodged out to meet her. In this lack of light it was impossible to see that the boat was a good size, painted blue and yellow. She looked grey and small. She was twenty years old and had hardly been out to sea. What if she wasn’t up to it? Felicity was superstitious enough that she didn’t want the Doram to feel her sudden mistrust. You’re a good sturdy boat, Felicity said in her head. We’ll take care of you if you take care of us.

  But perhaps there was a good reason why the Doram had lain neglected for so many years.

  Four

  The wind suddenly gave a fresh gust as if to puff my sails as I left the hotel. Gulls squawked their derision as I debated which way to go, not remembering my way down higgledy-piggledy streets. I would keep to the main thoroughfares, if the streets of Whitby could be called that.

  Reluctantly turning my back on the sea, I took a turning that would lead me into town, passing large dwellings, many kept as boarding houses and with most of their signs stating ‘No Vacancies’.

  As I walked onto Skinner Street, I paused to look in shop windows. Some were familiar from years ago. There was the post office, and when I saw that I remembered. This was the street where Gerald bought my rings. The thought should not have had such a powerful effect on me but it did. Putting off the moment when
I would be drawn to the jewellers window, I went into Dowzells newsagents shop next door. Here I would buy postcards and a copy of the local paper for Dad. My father is superintendent of the West Riding Constabulary and whenever he goes away he likes to have a local paper, to see what preoccupies people in areas outside his own patch. I picked up a slab of butter toffee, remembering that Felicity liked it.

  The woman at the counter tilted her head and gave a smile, almost as if greeting an old friend. She looked so happy, as if she had just come on holiday herself.

  She was a little taller than me, and a little older, chestnut hair streaked with grey, shining eyes that appeared flecked with sunlight. She wore a cotton frock, patterned with geraniums. While I chose postcards, she stocked a shelf with chocolate bars, and then served boiled sweets to an old lady.

  As I paid for the postcards, Whitby Gazette and toffee, I exchanged a few words with the assistant about the fine weather and number of holidaymakers coming to Whitby this year.

  ‘Have you just arrived?’

  ‘Yes. I’m off to hunt down a cup of tea and a bun.’

  ‘Walk along the shore to Sandsend when the tide is out,’ she suggested. ‘There’s a nice little café there.’

  I paid her and she offered to make space for me to write my postcards on the counter.

  ‘Thanks, but I’d be here an hour. It takes me ages to think what to say on a postcard.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m just the same. Sometimes it’s the simplest things take the longest time. Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Royal.’

  ‘How lovely, and do you have a view?’

  ‘I do.’

  There was a small poster taped to the counter, advertising a fund raising Bazaar, Sale of Work and Concert at the Seamans Mission the next day, Sunday.

  She saw me read it. ‘It’s in aid of the Mission, as we all call it. I do hope you’ll come along. It should be an enjoyable afternoon, and for a good cause.’

  ‘Yes, I’d love to.’

  ‘Excellent! I have some tickets if you’d like to get yours now.’

  ‘I’ll take three tickets then, no – four.’

  Alma and Felicity might want to come and Felicity would be bound to have a friend.

  As I left the shop, a tall, rotund man strode in, dapper and lively in striped suit and heavy watch and chain. He went behind the counter, saying to the assistant, ‘I expect you want a break.’

  I smiled to myself as I heard her say, ‘Then you expect right.’

  As I left the shop, a river of holidaymakers flowed downhill towards the town. I turned to join them, and then suddenly there was the jewellers shop. J Philips, High Class Jeweller.

  I stopped so abruptly that someone bumped into me. We both apologised, though the fault was mine for coming to such a sudden halt.

  It had been my intention to walk past, without looking, without thinking about that day so long ago. Yet look I must. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. There was the window display, hardly changed. The sensation gave me a slight shudder. As I stood in the here and now, my other self from years ago also looked into the window. I was here, alone, and also standing beside Gerald as we rather self-consciously looked at rings. Our fingers touch. The memory of that moment was so strong that all that has happened since fell away.

  Perhaps the wind did not entirely drop to nothing, and the gulls continued their cry, but I was trapped in the past so intensely that I could not catch my breath and could not shift my gaze from the tray of rings.

  For a moment, I did not realise that someone was speaking to me. Bringing myself back into the present with a little shake, I saw that the man who had entered the newsagents, the owner I supposed, now straightened papers in the rack outside. He looked at me in an odd way. He was waiting for an answer, having said something – but I did not know what.

  He covered the awkwardness. ‘Are you all right, madam?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  He straightened his cuffs and his gold cufflinks shone in the sunlight. ‘Nice display, eh?’

  ‘Very nice.’

  The man’s voice and my inane reply had broken the spell. The window was no longer completely dominated by rings. There were china ornaments, bangles, brooches and earrings. There was even a bracelet that would go perfectly with the black and white dress I had bought in Schofields for my goddaughter, Felicity.

  The writer of a syndicated fashion column that appeared in our local paper gave her opinion that a black and white frock was very useful to a girl in mourning, or not in mourning. The sleeves could be either black or white. The columnist also suggested buying under-slips in both black and white. This particular frock had kilt pleats at the front, which seem to be coming in again. Not that Felicity is in mourning – that I know of – but it will be useful as well as pretty, just in case. Besides, someone is always dying.

  This bracelet would definitely chime with the dress. It had a delicate gold chain set with stones, alternating tiny pearls with jet beads – the jet Queen Victoria made famous and desirable when she chose it as her mourning jewellery after Prince Albert died.

  It amused me to see that Victoria’s favourite gemstone, readily found along this coast by fossil hunters, was now being sold in long necklaces for young flappers.

  Step into the shop. That’s what I must do. Otherwise, each time I came along this street I would be stopped in my tracks, caught in another time, and it would not do. After a different purchase, I would be able to walk by the shop with only the smallest pang of sadness and nostalgia, and not be overwhelmed. Besides, the bracelet would be perfect.

  Would the jeweller be the same man? The name scrolled in gilt across the window was the same: J Philips, High Class Jeweller. I remembered him as tall and thin with bright red hair, but he was not so very old and that was before the war. Perhaps, like Gerald, he had not come back.

  The clapper sounded as I entered the jewellers shop. A glass cabinet on the opposite wall contained dainty and elegant clocks. One in particular caught my eye and asked to be taken home. It was a pretty thing, with an embossed tulip design. Sorry, clock, but I have one similar to you already.

  The long glass-topped counter was divided into sections for watches, bracelets and rings. I looked at the bracelets under the glass of the counter but didn’t see one I liked half as much as the one in the window.

  I waited. No one came. I pressed the counter bell, and waited. A grandmother clock ticked. The minute hand moved. One minute, two, three. A shop with such valuable goods should not be unattended. Whitby must indeed be an honest town.

  Now that I was in the shop, sealed off from the world outside, the memories returned, but not painfully. We had chosen my ring from the window. Mr Philips had checked my ring size. He was a charming man. His ginger hair had a natural wave. His skin was a pale pink shell colour. He would need to keep out of the sun so as not to burn.

  One of the clocks chimed.

  Another minute ticked by.

  Some quality in the tick-tock quiet of the place made me uneasy. Perhaps that was why I went behind the counter and tapped on the door that connected to the room at the back. I called out, knocking as I did so, ‘Hello. Anyone there?’

  The room beyond was dimly lit, the curtains closed. Yet I sensed that there was someone there and was drawn into the room.

  I glanced about. The figure – the shape – I did not straight away realise it was a body, lay face down in the centre of the faded square rug that covered much of the stone floor.

  ‘Mr Philips?’

  But no, what little there was of this man’s hair was grey. For a few seconds I froze. Why had I hovered in the shop when I might have come in sooner and given him first aid?

  He lay on his front, his head turned, arms bent at the elbow as if he had tried to break his fall. I knelt beside him and took his hand, saying his name, whether he was Mr Philips or not. I felt for a pulse on his wrist. Nothing. I felt for a pulse at his throat. Nothing. This was the same
man who had measured me for a ring. His moustache had kept its colour. I heard myself say his name again, Mr Philips, as if to rouse him. Impossible. He was no longer able to answer to his name. I stared, transfixed, at the neat white cuff, the diamond cufflink, the slender hand with its shapely nails. Something on the floor near his leg caught my eye. It was a bead of Whitby jet. Having noticed that one bead, I saw more strewn about the floor, enough for a whole necklace. Had some thief made off with whatever he, or she, could carry?

  He was too well-dressed to be a corpse, in a suit of good quality wool, with a narrow grey stripe. Even in death he was handsome, cleanly shaven with his neatly clipped moustache. Yet his hair was not so sleek. Where his skull curved down there was a dark damp patch. The unmistakable sweet and sickly smell rose to greet me: blood. Yet there was barely a gash at the back of his poor head. The mark was slight enough to have been made by a comb. Here was a man who had taken great care with his appearance and only that morning started his day expecting it to end in the usual way, and to begin again tomorrow. Something made me stroke his delicate hand, not that such a gesture could comfort him now. A neat blot of blood had trickled and marked the rug.

  Mr Philips would sell no more engagement rings to romantic young men for their starry-eyed sweethearts.

  I looked about the room. It was used as a sitting room, with a sofa and chair. There was a small kitchen table and a couple of straight-back chairs. A safe on the wall stood open. Below it, leaning against the wall, was a painting that must have concealed the safe. It was a seascape, a storm, a small boat being tossed on the waves. The picture had been set down carefully against the skirting board.

  More beads were strewn across the floor. A necklace had snapped.

  The door to the yard outside was closed. Under the window was a sink, draining board and gas ring. An inner door must lead upstairs. I stared at it, half expecting someone to materialise. No one did. The house held a deathly hush, but all the same there might be someone in an upper room. If so, might that person be the killer? I looked about for a telephone but saw none. Neither could I spot a set of keys that would enable me to lock the shop and go for help. I must go for help. Call the police.