Death at the Seaside

by Frances Brody

  For now I had to trust Felicity’s common sense. She must have wanted her mother to know where she had gone or she wouldn’t have left the postcards where they would be seen. If Alma’s subconscious did not put her on the right track very soon, I would insist on a more down-to-earth approach.

  Feeling the need for air, I walked along the pier and up the winding Khyber Pass that leads to the West Cliff.

  By the Captain Cook monument, I caught sight of Mr Cricklethorpe, gesturing and in full flow. A middle-aged couple, two women and an upright gentleman of military bearing formed a semi-circle around him. He was entirely absorbed in his tale and did not see me.

  Back at the hotel, the old soldier was still on duty behind the reception desk. He gave a smile that lit his gaunt face and made me wonder what he would have looked like now had we not gone through that terrible war. Cheerful, perhaps. Plump, perhaps, and certainly in possession of all his limbs. ‘There’s a gentleman in the bar waiting for you, madam.’

  ‘For me?’ I could not imagine who this might be, unless Mr Sykes had come from Robin Hood’s Bay to see whether I had arrived safely.

  The receptionist saw my uncertainty. ‘He’s a local gentleman. Didn’t ask for you by name but I knew who he meant.’ He lowered his voice. ‘In connection with the unfortunate incident earlier today.’

  So in spite of Sergeant Garvin’s best efforts, or perhaps because of them, news of the jeweller’s death had spread.

  ‘Does this local gentleman have a name?’

  ‘He is Mr Dowzell, the newsagent.’

  As if summoned by genii, the newsagent appeared. He walked towards me from the direction of the bar, fob watch bouncing against his ample girth as he approached.

  ‘Here he is now.’ The receptionist turned away to attend to another guest.

  Mr Dowzell was upon me. There was an awkward moment when we shifted out of hearing of the new guest.

  ‘Excuse this intrusion, madam. I only wanted to say how sorry I am that I was not more – I don’t know – forthcoming or perceptive when you stepped into my shop earlier, so clearly distressed.’

  ‘Think no more of it, Mr Dowzell.’

  ‘If I’d known…’ He gave an expansive wave of the hands to suggest some lost opportunity that had slipped through his nicotine-stained fingers. ‘May I buy you a cup of tea or a drink and introduce myself properly? I saw Sergeant Garvin. Terrible, terrible, Mrs erm—’

  ‘Mrs Shackleton.’

  I did not want to take tea with a stranger, or have a drink bought for me. But it seemed churlish to refuse since he seemed to think it necessary to make amends for what was my decision not to confide in him after finding the jeweller’s body.

  He frowned. ‘Perhaps you do not frequent hotel bars and my suggestion is impertinent, but the bar is very quiet at the moment.’

  Curiosity overcame me. He must have something specific to say or he would not have sought me out. ‘Very well.’

  We walked together to the bar. He led the way to a table by the window. ‘My lady wife enjoys a gin rickey here occasionally. The waiter was on the Cunard line and knows a thing or two about cocktails. But I suppose a brandy may be preferable under the circumstances.’

  ‘A gin rickey will suit very well.’ The last thing I wanted was for this man to imagine he must take care of me with a medicinal brandy.

  He signalled to the waiter and by their exchange of nods I took it that they knew each other rather well and Mr Dowzell’s order need not be spoken to be understood.

  He turned his attention to me. ‘I wish I had been the one to find the unfortunate Mr Philips, so as to spare your distress.’

  ‘Please don’t concern yourself. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘All the same, I’m a Whitby man to the marrow. Leader of our Urban District Council. We all feel a responsibility towards our visitors. If you had come into my shop and said there was no one at next door’s counter, I would have gone in there myself. Being neighbouring traders we keep an eye out for each other.’

  ‘Did you see anyone go into the jewellers shop before me?’ I immediately wanted to bite off my tongue. This was not my concern. It was a police matter.

  ‘There’s the thing.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I didn’t see anyone else. I told that to Sergeant Garvin. He wants to keep things quiet for now, naturally.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Were you acquainted with Mr Philips, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you simply went in to support our local traders. It’s what we encourage. It’s what we want. Trade is the lifeblood of this town.’

  He made it sound as if I had intended to buy a diamond tiara. I put him right. ‘Something in the window caught my eye.’

  He sighed and shook his head at the unluckiness of my choice of shop. ‘Jet?’

  I began to take the man’s measure. He thought it his duty to be nice to the poor woman who had experienced a bad shock. ‘Just a little bracelet. Jet and pearl.’

  ‘He has rather a lot of jet now that it’s becoming popular with the younger generation of town girls.’

  ‘People expect to see it here.’

  He nodded. ‘They do. Of course the amount Jack Philips stocked did cause a little ill-feeling with the jet workers on the east side.’

  ‘Oh?’ Was this some hint of rivalry between jewellery craftsmen that might lead to a deathly feud? I remembered the open safe and the jet beads scattered across the floor. ‘Why would Mr Philips selling jet cause ill-feeling, Mr Dowzell?’

  The waiter brought my gin rickey, and a pint for Dowzell. He picked up his pint. ‘Well you would not expect a pork butcher to sell beef, would you?’

  ‘I suppose not. Are you suggesting that the jet workers might have taken against Mr Philips?’

  ‘Heavens no, not to the extent of violence.’ He stroked his jaw. ‘But now that you mention it, that is not such an outrageous possibility as it may sound.’ He took a gulp of beer. ‘So you did not know Mr Philips?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only something Sergeant Garvin said made me think you might have known him. But of course you wouldn’t, being a lady visitor.’

  I wondered why Sergeant Garvin would have been chatting with Mr Dowzell. My guess was that he had done no such thing. Mr Dowzell was simply fishing, out of curiosity and self-importance. I shifted the conversation. ‘Does Mr Philips leave a wife and children?’

  ‘Heavens no, not Jack. He did not encumber himself, as he would have seen it. No, no, he was fancy free. Not that I would agree with some who say he was a philanderer. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, so we’re told. And who would begrudge that poor Jack cut a fine figure on the dance floor, now that his life has been cut short?’

  He finished his pint and indicated my glass. ‘Another?’

  I rose. ‘Thank you, no. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

  He pushed back his chair and stood. ‘Of course. You must be tired after your ordeal.’

  He suddenly looked rather forlorn. It was not his fault if he had a touch of the pomposities. ‘It was kind of you to come, Mr Dowzell.’

  As I left the room, he was ordering another drink, this time at the bar.

  I wished Dowzell had not cast aspersions on the late Mr Philips. Now that he had put the idea in my head, I could imagine that the jeweller would have been a graceful dancer. Had he lived, Jack Philips might this very night have been gliding across the ballroom’s spring floor to the sounds of the Howard Jones band, with Alma in his arms. Or someone else.

  I remembered from our school days how easily Alma took umbrage. Snubs and slights never remained unavenged.

  And she was very good in school plays. Quite the actress. If I were investigating the murder – which of course I was not – I would need to look at Alma through the magnifying glass of suspicion.

  Once back in my hotel room, I locked the door behind me, kicked off my shoes and lay on the bed. I really wanted just to lie down in a dark room but could not
muster the energy to walk across to the window and close the curtains.

  My head throbbed. My stomach churned. Contradictory thoughts fought in my mind. Had I advised Alma to tell the police that Felicity had pawned a watch with Jack Philips? I couldn’t remember. We had gone over the subject so many times. They would find out about that soon enough from Philips’s ledger. Alma had refused, saying Felicity’s departure wasn’t police business. Felicity would send her a postcard, and then she would know more and think what to do. Perhaps that was how we left it.

  It was too preposterous to link a sixteen-year-old girl to the death of the jeweller, but my mind ranged across the worst possibilities. Alma had said Felicity went dancing every Saturday. She was bound to have a sweetheart and he may have gone with her. What if Philips had refused to take the watch-guard and the young couple wrote the ticket and took the money themselves?

  Stop it, I told myself. That is more than preposterous. First you suspect poor Alma, who has had a lucky escape. Then you put your goddaughter under the spotlight.

  At last, I must have drifted into sleep because it was dark when a knock on the door awakened me.

  For a moment, I could not think where I was. The knocking belonged to a dream. In my dream, Whitby Abbey became a jewellers shop, its blind lancet windows lit with emeralds and rubies, its decorative arched windows hung with black eyes of Whitby jet. A little girl beckoned me in and although she had the appearance of a novice nun, I knew her to be Felicity.

  As I stumbled to the door in my stockinged feet to answer the gentle knocking, the events of that afternoon and evening flooded back. The weight of Alma, fainting against my arms. Mr Cricklethorpe’s guilty look. Mr Dowzell’s heavy hints about Jack Philips’s past.

  I rubbed my eyes and turned on the light. No doubt I looked a fright but it would serve whoever it was right for disturbing me. I turned the knob, half-expecting to see Sergeant Garvin.

  It was a relief to see Hilda the chambermaid. She was so close to the door that we were almost nose to nose. Hilda took a step back. ‘I’m sorry to wake you, madam.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Late.’ She waited for some comment from me before adding, ‘I’m just off duty.’

  ‘Is something the matter?’

  She looked both ways along the corridor. ‘I hoped to ask you something but I see I’ve disturbed you, and you missed the evening meal.’

  Once more she glanced about the corridor.

  ‘You had better come in for a moment.’

  She stepped into the room, and went to the window and closed the curtains. She then turned down my bed. ‘I came earlier but you didn’t hear my knock and when I used my key, I saw that you were sleeping.’

  ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Is that why you’re here, to offer to bring me food?’

  ‘I’m here because there’s something I’d like to ask you.’

  I poured a glass of water from the carafe by the bed, and then sat down, indicating to her to sit in the basket-weave chair. ‘Ask away.’ I hoped it would not be about the murder. How many people knew, I wondered. In a place such as this, grim news would spread like the Black Death.

  ‘It’s regarding Mrs Turner, or Madam Alma as she is when telling fortunes. Not that I was eavesdropping when you had your fortune told, but I saw from the way you parted that you must be acquainted.’

  ‘Yes we are.’

  She smoothed her apron. ‘Felicity told me you would be visiting. She looked forward to seeing you.’

  ‘Did she?’ Then she had a funny way of showing it.

  ‘The thing is…’ Hilda spoke slowly. At this rate we would be here till morning. ‘The thing is, I didn’t really go to Mrs Turner for my fortune telling, but you tipped me earlier and so I came up with the good idea of going to tell Mrs Turner something, just slip it in after she’d given me her predictions. I went to see her in my break but didn’t have the courage to say my piece.’

  ‘And you’ve come to me because you want me to pass on whatever it is you wanted to say to Mrs Turner?’

  Hilda perked up. ‘That’s it exactly, madam.’

  ‘What’s so hard that you can’t tell her yourself?’

  She pushed her hands in the pocket of her apron and pulled them out again. ‘It concerns Felicity.’

  ‘Then speak to Mrs Turner. She won’t bite. She’ll be glad to hear what you have to say.’ Depending on what it is, I thought.

  ‘I missed my chance when I didn’t say it this afternoon. And I can’t go to Bagdale Hall. It’s haunted.’

  My head still ached. ‘Then tell me what you know.’ If this was something important concerning my goddaughter, I would need to call on Alma straight away.

  ‘She’s gone off with my brother, Brendan.’

  ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘I think they’ve gone to sea, or are going.’

  I still felt a little groggy. ‘Gone to see what?’

  ‘Gone to sea, you know, in a boat.’

  Like the owl and pussycat, in a beautiful pea green boat. How long would they tarry, when would they marry? ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘I’m not sure. They were a bit secretive. She might be dressing as a boy.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I cut her hair, just as she wanted it. I’m good at cutting hair.’

  ‘You and Felicity are friends?’

  ‘We were at school together. Brendan is her sweetheart – or thinks he is. I don’t know if she cares about him or not. She winds him round her little finger. He made a joke about her going to sea, but now I’m sure it’s true. He’s gone and she’s gone. They must have been taken on as crew.’

  ‘Just because she has her hair cut, that doesn’t mean she is going to sea.’

  ‘It’s not just her hair. I saw her buying blue serge from a stall on the market, to make something for herself. Well no one would picture Felicity in blue serge. It’s for men.’

  ‘Why were you so reluctant to tell Mrs Turner this afternoon?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. She gave me such a nice fortune that I didn’t have heart to say it. Besides, what if Felicity’s mother tells harbour master, and he sends a boat to fetch them back, and no one will ever take my brothers aboard again.’

  ‘Brothers. Plural. Hilda, are you telling me other brothers have gone with her?’

  ‘I think Ian might have gone as well. I hope he has. Brendan won’t do it on his own, and there’s the other business.’

  ‘What business?’

  She closed her lips tightly and shook her head. ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Sit there!’ If I let her leave the room, she might disappear home and I would be left to tell Alma half a tale. At the basin, I washed my hands and face and combed my hair. Through the looking glass, I saw Hilda fidgeting and looking uncomfortable. ‘It’s good that you told me. We’ll go together and tell Mrs Turner that Felicity may have gone on a fishing trip. She will be quite safe because…’ Here I hesitated. Who was I to say a sixteen-year-old girl would be safe in a boat full of fishermen who would regard her as unlucky as a singing mermaid? ‘Hilda, can you vouch for your brother? Would you say Brendan is a decent boy?’

  ‘Oh yes, madam, no doubt about it. He means to marry Felicity.’

  ‘Then he loves her.’

  ‘Oh, very much.’

  That sentiment might appease Alma. On the other hand, it might not.

  I fastened my shoes, and put on my coat, scarf and hat. All of a sudden I felt very dry and took a long drink of water. Tiredness had fled. Perhaps Felicity was simply desperate to be away from that Gothic house and the twalking Cricklethorpe who had enlisted her as his assistant, to go round with the hat. My sympathies were with Felicity.

  ‘Do you have any idea which boat they may have gone with, or why they went?’

  ‘No.’ Her shoulders drooped, the corners of her mouth turned down. ‘They didn’t tell me, didn’t
trust me to keep quiet.’

  ‘Come on then. We’ll go see Mrs Turner.’

  At the door, I paused. When I am on a case, I usually have my satchel with me. In it is a small camera, a flashlight, a penknife and various other bits and pieces that may come in useful in a tight spot. I am sworn to secrecy regarding the source of my ill-gotten police whistle. The satchel hung in the wardrobe, hooked over a coat hanger. I opened the wardrobe door, looked at it, thought for a moment, and then picked it up. Following my brief career as a Girl Guide, I know the value of being prepared.

  ‘Hilda, is there anything you are not telling me?’

  She gave me a wide-eyed look. ‘Only them things I’m not allowed to say.’

  Eleven

  Brendan wanted to keep going through the night. They had plenty of fuel for the motor. Felicity knew how to keep a straight course, or told herself she did. She took a turn at the tiller, confident when Brendan was beside her. It was one thing to see how something was done, be shown how to do it. Doing it yourself was a different kettle of fish altogether. When daylight came and if the wind got up, she would have a go at raising the lugsail.

  Lights from distant ships twinkled on the horizon as if copying the stars. The blackness of night turned the world small and tight, and then suddenly the moon came from behind a cloud. The sound of waves seemed to enter her head, her very being, as if they were part of her and not something out there. She found herself smiling at the thought that just hours ago she was putting out willow pattern cups, saucers and plates for the customers of Botham’s, taking orders for toasted teacakes, carrying a cake stand to the table.

  ‘You were nodding off,’ Brendan said. ‘Go rest.’

  ‘I might.’

  She fetched the flask and poured them each a mug of cocoa. ‘How long will it take us?’

  ‘We should be in Berwick by Sunday, with a bit of luck. After that I’m not sure. Elgin’s a good way off.’

  ‘Or Hopeman, if the writing on the packet is correct.’ She had looked at the charts that were laid flat in folders under the mattress. Hopeman was a small place, on the shore. By the light of the lamp she had followed the line on the chart that marked the divide between land and sea. Tiny shapes represented buoys. Broken lines spelled danger: hidden rocks.