No one else must enter, but how was I to ensure that?
Trying not to look, I bobbed down beside Mr Philips’s body and felt in his pockets for keys. There were no keys, only a hanky, a wallet and a ticket.
I wanted to be out, away from there – yet hated to turn my back on him and make for the door. I felt a ridiculous tingle of guilt at leaving him, as though someone should sit and hold his hand, tell him that life had done its worst and to have no more fears.
Back in the shop, I checked for keys behind the counter. Nothing.
Fortunately one of the locks was a Yale. I dropped the latch.
The busy-ness of the street outside felt strange. The harsh light of day sent me dizzy. I steadied myself in the porch of the shop, and glanced about. My first thought was to stop the very next stranger who walked by, but I quickly dismissed that idea. Once on the pavement, I could not think what to do. The flow of people had ebbed. A telephone. I must find a telephone.
I went back into the newsagents and waited. The woman assistant was not there, only the owner who had spoken to me earlier and who now weighed out two ounces of cough drops for a stooped old man whose fox terrier sniffed my shoes. The shopkeeper poured the cough drops into a paper cone, handed them over and took the money.
The customer left and the shopkeeper, Mr Dowzell I presumed, stared at me. I suddenly became aware that I must look as if I had seen a ghost.
‘Do you have a telephone?’
‘We’ve no telephone here.’ He frowned as if mention of a telephone was a lewd suggestion.
I couldn’t think what to say next and was on the point of telling him what had happened when he leaned forward eagerly. ‘Is something wrong? What’s the matter?’
The need for care and discretion stopped my mouth. He might be the town gossip. Not that men gossip. They simply pass the time of day with laconic enthusiasm. He wouldn’t believe me that I had found a body. He would want to look for himself, and trample all over. If it had been the friendly female assistant, I might have felt differently. I turned to go. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
He called after me. ‘I think by your look it does. Trust me. I’m an ex officio JP.’
Never trusting people who say ‘Trust me’, I lied, muttering something about needing to report a missing purse.
I left the shop before he had time to offer more credentials.
I retraced my steps. One can always rely on a post office having a telephone and the post office was nearby.
A queue snaked from the counter to the door. This was a busy time, coming up to Saturday half-day closing. I ignored the queue and walked to the counter. The queue did not ignore me. Murmurs of disapproval followed my progress.
I waited until an elderly woman who wore a man’s brown trilby had completed her purchase of a tuppeny stamp.
‘Excuse me, but may I have a word with the postmaster or mistress. I need to use the telephone urgently.’
‘I am the postmistress.’ She placed her hands flat on the counter and leaned forward. ‘The telephone is for post office business only.’ She looked me up and down to assess my worth and wrote me off as a toff who feels entitled to push in. ‘They may let you use the telephone in the Royal Hotel.’
I lowered my voice. ‘I need to call the police.’
‘The police?’ Her voice was loud enough to raise a response from the queue. ‘Then I must make the call. On what matter?’
Was I to announce the jeweller’s death to everyone in the post office, and by extension to the whole of Whitby? No.
‘Never mind. I’ll go to the station.’
‘As you please.’ Disappointment and triumph fought for supremacy in her face. Disappointment that she was not to be privy to some ‘incident’, triumph that she had put me in my place.
‘Where is the police station?’
‘Spring Hill, by the railway, behind the Coliseum.’
Several people who waited their turn gave me a good stare as I left, probably feeling considerable satisfaction that my attempt at queue-jumping had failed miserably.
I did not run but did that Girl Guide walk where you almost race for thirty paces and then walk normally. Suddenly, I lost my bearings and came to a stop, until I saw the churches and knew that I must be close to the main road. Behind the Coliseum, she had said.
Never had I been so glad to see a police station. Yet one of those moments of uncertainty came over me. Had I really just walked into a shop and found a body? Why me? Why today? A black and white dress was a perfectly satisfactory gift without my having to add a bracelet. I needn’t have stepped across the threshold of J Philips, High Class Jeweller. For all I knew, Felicity wouldn’t want a bracelet. Bracelets could be annoying. Did you push it up your arm or let it dangle? I tried to picture the bracelet, so that I would not have to see the man, with his neat attire, his bloodied head and the paleness of his skin. How long had he lain dead? Certainly, he was as cold as any stone. But see him I did, in the glow of a long-ago afternoon, behind his counter, with his red hair and his understated manner. And then in the cold light of his back room, lying so still and pale, and forever.
An officer came to the desk. He was in his middle thirties, pleasant-looking and ready to smile.
His face changed as I told him why I had come. My news merited the revelation of his name. ‘I’m Sergeant Garvin.’
He made a few quick notes: my name, where I was staying, when and why I had gone into the shop. Not letting me out of his sight, he stepped towards a back room and spoke to someone.
A young constable emerged.
‘Take over the desk. I’m going with this lady to Philips’s jewellers.’ He picked up his cap, its white metal badge embossed with the Yorkshire rose, lifted the hinged counter shelf and came to my side of the desk.
‘I dropped the latch on the shop door,’ I said as we left the station and walked out onto Spring Hill. ‘We may not be able to get in.’
‘You did the right thing, madam. I’ll gain entry all right.’
As we walked back, a different way to the way I had come, we drew some interested glances from people who stepped aside to let us pass on the narrow pavement in Silver Street. The sergeant led us through yards, up steep steps, round back ways until I began to wonder where on earth we were going. All the while, he was surreptitiously looking about him, as if expecting to spot the jeweller’s assailant hiding somewhere.
We came out on another narrow street and approached a back yard where he told me to wait by the gate. As I did so, he tried the door, without explaining that this was the back of the shop but I guessed that it must be. He looked at the sash window, which was barred and latched. We then walked up and by a roundabout way found ourselves back on Skinner Street.
In the jewellers doorway, Sergeant Garvin fiddled with keys and the lock. In no time at all the door swung open and the clapper rang. ‘I’m sorry to ask you, Mrs Shackleton, but step inside please.’
I did as he asked, understanding that he did not want to let me out of his sight. Surely he did not imagine that after going to the trouble of reporting the crime I would run away.
He went round the counter and into the back room, but not for long.
He sighed. ‘It’s as you say.’
We left the shop. This time, he dropped the latch. I glanced about, wondering whether some person from the post office queue might be on Skinner Street and now think, ‘Ah, that person really did want to make an important telephone call. She wasn’t just jumping the queue.’
A deluge of holidaymakers flooded the street, gawping into windows and discussing where to go for fish and chips. The day had become strangely unreal.
The sergeant spoke quietly. ‘I’ll walk you back to your hotel, Mrs Shackleton.’
I guessed why and so did not object. He would need to contact his superiors. He was escorting me to the Royal because he wanted to be sure that I really was staying there. The man was thorough, good at his job.
As we walked, Sergeant Ga
rvin sympathised with me for having a poor start to my holiday. I appreciated his remarks as I have a liking for people who are given to understatement. For some unaccountable reason, I had only just now begun to shake and to feel very uncertain on my pins. He gave me a quick glance and I believe would have taken my arm but under the circumstances that would have looked uncannily like an arrest. We drew curious looks from passers-by. Who was the woman in the voile dress and coat being escorted by the local bobby?
Back at the hotel, we waited for the revolving door to come to a stop. Sergeant Garvin waved me in and followed, of which I was glad, feeling suddenly unable to push the door.
‘Is there somewhere you’d like to sit, Mrs Shackleton, while I order a brandy for you?’
I looked about. ‘There’s a quiet room – the library.’
He nodded. I felt an odd mixture of both relief and annoyance with myself. After years of nursing, the sight of a body is not new to me, but under the bizarre circumstances of today it was the unexpectedness that shook me, combined with the memories of the younger me trying on rings, feeling so shy and so happy. Now that memory would be forever overlaid.
In the peaceful library, someone had left a novel on a chair arm. I sat by the window, looking out at passers-by but not seeing. Would it take the whole two weeks of my holiday to banish the sight of that poor man lying on the rug?
No. It would take forever.
The sergeant came back, at the same moment as the waiter who carried a silver tray bearing brandy, water, neat sandwiches, a slice of ginger cake and a pot of tea. When the waiter had gone, Sergeant Garvin said, ‘I must ask you not to leave Whitby until you have made a signed statement.’
‘I’m booked here for two weeks.’ A nightmare thought came between me and the world around. Might I spend the whole fortnight tripping over dead bodies? At that moment I wanted to jump into my car and drive straight home.
He placed his cap on the chair arm. ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough. I’ll write up what you’ve told me and if you think of anything else, you can tell me.’
‘Very well.’
‘You are here alone, according to the register.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there anyone we can contact for you? You’ve had a bad shock.’
‘Thank you but no.’
‘Do you have friends in Whitby?’
‘Yes, an old school friend, Alma Turner. I’m godmother to her daughter.’
‘Ah!’ He leaned towards me, giving the impression that he would snaffle my sandwiches and swig the brandy. ‘I know them well, Mrs Turner and Felicity. Mrs Turner has become well-liked. That is something of an achievement for an outsider.’ When I had no answer for that, he continued. ‘I must ask you to keep the news of Mr Philips’s death to yourself for now.’
I agreed, of course, but his comments struck me as at odds with his question as to whether there was anyone he could contact for me. If I had wanted the support of some friend, then I would naturally tell them why.
He picked up his cap. ‘In spite of how things looked in that room, there may be some explanation other than foul play. The truth will emerge when the investigation is underway, but until then I would not have Whitby awash with rumours.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Will you be seeing your friend soon?’
‘This afternoon.’ Alma would think it odd if I did not seek her out after she had left me a note. It would be best to do that, although hard to carry it off and act as if nothing terrible had happened.
‘It may be difficult for you, but please refrain from mentioning the death, even to Mrs Turner.’
‘Very well.’
‘Thank you.’ He pulled on his cap and turned to leave, closing the door gently behind him.
As I was left alone to sip brandy and water in the calm of the library, I sensibly told myself that I was letting my imagination run away with me in thinking there was some significance in the way he mentioned Alma Turner. It was natural enough that he would not want the death of the jeweller to be widely known before he had informed his superiors and secured the premises.
By the time I finished the brandy and had managed to swallow a few bites of sandwich, the initial shock had passed. Knowing the value of something sweet for shock, I made myself eat some of the ginger cake. For the briefest of moments, the calmness of the room soothed me. I made a conscious effort to breathe in and out slowly, counting my breaths, trying to feel normal.
After such a shock, how would I manage to keep calm, meet Alma, and say nothing about this horror?
I resisted the urge to jump into my car and drive straight home. But in this state, pedestrians, other motorists and lamp posts would have to clear the way.
Be brave, I told myself. Police orders are for you to stay put. You are here on holiday, and to see Alma, and Felicity.
Only when I left the hotel, to walk to the pier, did I become uneasy at the thought of seeing Alma. The sergeant had given the impression of being curious about her. I thought again of his words. Why did it disturb me that he gave the impression of being interested in her?
I answered my own question. It was because when he said, ‘please refrain from mentioning the death, even to Mrs Turner’, the tone and the emphasis in his words seemed to say something different. ‘Please refrain from mentioning the death, especially to Mrs Turner.’
My mind raced. Surely the sergeant could not imagine that Alma had some connection with the jeweller’s death?
Five
Brendan brought the engine to life, there being no wind. As the boat chug-chugged out of the bay, Felicity sat beside Brendan at the tiller. She emptied her boot of water.
There was a knack to climbing into a bobbing boat. Tonight everything was awkward and difficult. She had felt like a galumphing double-humped camel, swaying as she hauled herself aboard, a wave breaking over her sea-boots and sending an icy burst of water down her leg.
‘It’ll be a losing battle,’ Brendan said as she put her damp boot back on.
She looked back at the cliffs of Whitby, taking her last glimpse of the moonlit abbey.
When imagining this journey, she hadn’t seen darkness. In her mind’s eye, the sky was blue and the sea smooth.
Brendan gave her a nudge. ‘Go look at that packet with your dad’s name. See if you recognise the writing.’
The first time she discovered that the boat had a false bulkhead, a secret space for storage, she had been delighted. She slid off the partition and stowed her knapsack alongside Brendan’s bag.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the brown paper packet, neatly wrapped and tied with string. She could make out her father’s name but struck a match so as to read what else was written. The writing was neat, a good hand, block printed. Whoever wrote it was polite as it was addressed to ‘Walter Turner, Esquire’. The address was wrong. He lived in Elgin. She struck another match. Under the name were the words ‘now at Harbour Street, Hopeman – first house’.
Nothing else was written on the outside. Might someone be trying to mislead her, make her think she had the wrong address and must turn back? Well they could forget that. She undid the knot and unfolded the brown paper. Something was wrapped in oilskin. The oilskin turned out to be a money belt, with snap fasteners.
She didn’t need much light to recognise big white five pound notes. Plenty of them. The only other item was a plain postcard. In the same block print as her dad’s name, someone had written ‘Business as usual’.
Six
After the horror of finding the jeweller’s body, every nerve jangled. I had the odd sensation of feeling entirely lost. Yet the lay-out of the town was coming back to me as I neared the bottom of Flowergate. There are two piers in Whitby, almost parallel with each other. The East Pier is bare except for its benches and lighthouse. The West Pier believes itself to be the centre of the universe with shops, fish market and streets that lead to the top of the town.
Passing the cockle stalls and the s
tores displaying their buckets and spades, I looked around, and peered into café windows. Alma had told me to look out for the pepper pot but I could see no place of that name.
As I continued to the bend in the pier, near the Marine pub, I saw a small white building with a sloping roof that came to a point. It was near enough the shape of a pepper pot to be called by that name. The door of the building was decorated with moons, sun and stars on a blue and green background and the painted figure of a woman in flowing robes and turban with a single startling red jewel at its centre. On closer inspection, I saw that the painted face with slightly protruding eyes and translucent skin that gave off a kind of unearthly glow reminded me of someone: Alma. Whoever painted it had captured her beautifully. The turban did not hide the widow’s peak that made Alma a curiosity at the age of twelve when we first met and when we could not have imagined that widowhood would be visited on so many of us. As far as I knew, Alma’s widow’s peak was not prophetic. Her much older husband, Walter, had simply stepped from the scene. She rarely spoke of him except in a vague way, saying he had moved to warmer climes for his health.
Flowing script on a painted sandwich board announced the name of the pepper pot’s occupant, and of services on offer.
Madam Alma
Fortunes
Palmistry
Tarot Readings
This was a surprise. But then, Alma was full of surprises.
It had surprised me when she asked me to be her bridesmaid, and then godmother to Felicity. We were not particularly close at school. There were other, closer friends with whom I’ve entirely lost touch. Alma was a strange and sensitive girl, with an unfortunate habit of fainting. One of the girls, I forget which, knew that certain goats fainted to avoid danger, a breed by the name of Tennessee Fainting Goat. Apparently, if something alarming happened, the goats would play dead. Our unkind nickname for Alma became Alma the Fainting Goat. She had an intense way of recounting stories that would hold everyone in the dorm rapt. I felt a stirring of guilt about that cruel nickname. It persisted until a particular fainting fit, following the visit of a boys’ choir, led to a hysterical reaction throughout the entire school. Girls were fainting all over the place. Only after the doctor arrived and his nurse administered rather unpleasant medicine did the business come to a full stop. Being one of the few who did not faint, I was inadvisably made head girl.
Death at the Seaside Page 3