Death at the Seaside

by Frances Brody

  I thought it best to come straight to the point, in case a troop of lodgers came rolling in. ‘I’m a friend of Mrs Turner. Felicity is my goddaughter. I wondered if you’d seen her. She and your son Brendan are friends I think.’

  ‘She won’t be with my Brendan. He’s working on pleasure boat, Whitby Lass.’

  ‘Do you mind my asking when you last saw him?’

  ‘He sometimes stops with his auntie. She has more space.’

  She hadn’t answered my question. If I protested, she would clam up.

  ‘M-a-m!’ Hilda had a good wailing tone. She knew her mother could say more if she wanted.

  ‘You go measure out porridge. Leave me to talk to this lady.’

  Hilda walked into the other downstairs room. I could hear her, opening a cupboard door, clattering a tin.

  ‘And shut that door!’

  She did so.

  ‘Does Mrs Turner say her lass has gone off with my lad?’

  ‘No. Felicity left a note but gave no details. Hilda thinks Felicity and Brendan may be on a boat.’

  ‘I’d know if he sailed outa Whitby, so would harbour master.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve wasted your time. You would have let Mrs Turner know if you’d heard anything.’ I pushed back the stool, and stood.

  ‘And I’m sorry you had a wasted journey.’ Mrs Webb reached for a shawl that covered the feet of the girl on the shelf. ‘I’ll put you on your way.’

  I wished the girl on the shelf goodnight. She did not answer.

  In a moment, we were in the dark yard, the buildings pressing in on us. Mrs Webb asked, ‘Why didn’t Mrs Turner come herself?’

  ‘She wasn’t home when Hilda and I called. She must be out searching.’

  We were back in Church Street, walking towards the corner. ‘I’ll walk you as far as bridge, madam.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Webb.’

  I had the feeling she was itching to say something else. She spoke when the bridge came in sight.

  ‘Brendan wouldn’t attempt to take a lassie on a boat.’

  ‘Then perhaps Hilda is mistaken.’ I hoped that this was so, hating the thought of Felicity being at sea on such a dark night. She might be afraid, cold, wet and in danger.

  ‘Regarding you being hotel guest, and our Hilda dragging you over east…’

  ‘Think no more about it, Mrs Webb. I wanted to see the hidden sights of Whitby, and now I have.’

  ‘Well thank you for that.’

  Our interview was at an end, or so I thought. She did not turn back but walked across the bridge with me. At the other side, she grabbed my elbow. ‘I heard about Mr Philips, the jeweller.’

  ‘Ah yes.’

  ‘Was it you found him? They said it was a lady staying at Royal who just arrived.’

  ‘I found him, yes.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘No. It was my first visit to his shop in years. My engagement and wedding ring were bought from him.’

  ‘I see. I just wondered if you knew him.’ She let go of my elbow.

  ‘I remember his kindly manner and his red hair. Did you know him yourself, Mrs Webb?’

  She took a sharp breath and held herself very still. ‘What business would I have with a man like him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Lots of Whitby people are acquainted with each other.’

  ‘He was generous to Seamans Mission, I can tell you that, and I’m right sorry he’s dead.’

  A couple of men crossed the bridge, going separate ways and calling goodnight.

  ‘Thanks for walking me across the bridge. I’ll go back to the hotel by way of Bagdale Hall, just in case Alma, Mrs Turner, has come back.’

  Mrs Webb drew her shawl more tightly round her. ‘Go back to your hotel, madam. Be comfortable. If she has it in her head that Felicity has gone to sea, Mrs Turner will be up by abbey communing with moon. We all know she does it.’

  That sounded like Alma. Everyone has their own way of coping with distress, though communing with the coastguard would be more useful than gazing at the moon.

  ‘Goodnight then, Mrs Webb.’

  ‘Goodnight. I’d see you back to hotel, but I have an errand.’

  She walked off quickly, not retracing her steps across the bridge but bearing right. I wondered where she might be going at this time of night. Thinking I might also go in that direction, I hurried after her and caught up. ‘Mrs Webb!’

  She turned.

  ‘If Brendan sometimes stays at his aunt’s, might we find him there, or enquire, then we’ll know whether it’s true or not that he has gone on a boat with Felicity.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll know that tomorrow. My sister will be asleep now and she’s too far away.’

  With that, she hurried on, turning a corner, disappearing out of sight.

  I now had the choice of returning to my hotel or climbing to the abbey in the hope of finding Alma. Was she up there? I turned and looked up at the abbey’s dark skeleton, barely discernible because the moon had slid behind a cloud.

  It would be madness for Alma to be stumbling among the ruins, calling for Felicity, fainting if she caught a glimpse of some long-dead monk or abbess. Why should I go trailing up one hundred and ninety-nine steps and risk breaking my ankle? But not only Mrs Webb thought that Alma would be by the abbey. Cricklethorpe had said it too.

  When I arrived in Whitby, all I’d intended to do was spend time with Alma and Felicity, go for solitary walks, hire a bathing tent and read, or examine the back of my eyelids.

  Mrs Webb was right. I should go back to the comfort of my hotel. But I thought of Alma who had been through so many difficulties since the days when she was teased at school, and that dreadful nickname which had been at my instigation, though I never intended it. The Tennessee Fainting Goat. Having allowed myself to be drawn in, feeling guilty about the nickname business, I knew that unless I could see Alma safe and sound this night, I wouldn’t sleep. She must be worried sick. I should have been tougher and said Go to the police. They might have made a call to the harbour master and settled the matter.

  Why on earth Alma would choose to commune with the moon I couldn’t fathom. But then, Alma was not one of the world’s fathomable. She had appeared shocked when I told her of Jack Philips’s death. But did she know more than she was letting on?

  As if in answer to my question of whether I ought to climb the one hundred and ninety-nine steps, the moon came from behind a cloud.

  Thirteen

  It was with mixed feelings that I bowed to the inevitable and once more crossed the bridge onto Whitby’s east side.

  Sandgate is a bustling street by day, filled with shops and jet workshops. All were in darkness now. As I passed a public house, the door opened and a bent old man came out. I glanced inside and saw that the room within was smaller than Mrs Webb’s kitchen. The landlord belatedly called ‘Finish yer drinks, lads!’

  I hurried along, to avoid the unsteady fellows who would shortly be turned out. There was a powerful stench of fish as I passed the marketplace and old town hall, coming back onto Church Street. It was a good move to have brought my torch, given the moon’s enjoyment of hide-and-seek with a particular cloud. I approached the one hundred and ninety-nine steps that led to the church and the abbey. There was Henrietta Street, where Alma had lived when she first came to Whitby, and had the misfortune of watching her house claimed by the sea.

  Were Cricklethorpe and Mrs Webb right in thinking that Alma would be walking near the abbey? Possibly. At school she went off walking for hours alone. It was one of the habits that set her apart.

  Yes or no?

  Yes.

  I began the climb to the abbey, counting the steps, glad of the eerie moonlight that for now made my torch unnecessary. On the forty-ninth step, it struck me how unprepared I was for the task of seeking out my old school friend. First of all, she knew what she was doing. If she really was ‘communing with moon’ I might interrupt her at a crucial moment and destroy some p
sychic perception into where Felicity had gone. Perhaps I would stumble across courting couples, or sensation-seekers expecting the return of Dracula in the form of a black dog. I am not given to fancy, but I hoped there would be no big black dog sniffing about. I lost count of the steps while trying to think of a plan.

  The only plan that came to mind was to simply look around the ruins for a tall slender figure in a cloak. Part of the abbey had been shelled during those dreadful days of 1914. In the darkness, I might trip over war-damaged stones and break an ankle.

  This was a foolish venture. I blamed having a nap and fishcake and chips which had left me with energy to spare, and that awful desire to Do Something that overtakes me at the most inconvenient times.

  Some of the steps are extra wide with a resting place said to be for the benefit of pall-bearers carrying coffins to St Mary’s churchyard for burial. Coffin rests. I did not need to rest, finding the steps easy enough to climb, but rest I did for a few moments, looking out across the sea where in the distance I saw ships moving so slowly they appeared not to be moving at all. Below me, the town looked fast asleep. Only lunatics, drunks and the ill-at-ease would wander abroad at this hour.

  At school, we pupils had a whistle to warn of approaching teachers or the arrival at the back fence of chaps from the boys’ school. One never forgets a whistle. Ours was two notes rising, two notes falling. I tried it. Alma would recognise the signal. More as a comfort to myself than in hope of an answer, I whistled every now and then. When I arrived at the top of the steps, I surveyed the scene.

  I passed St Mary’s churchyard, doubting that Alma would be there. That would be a more likely spot for courting couples, the dead telling no tales. The sight of the ruins, the dark abbey with its blind eyes, made me gulp for air. It seemed so close, so overpowering and forbidding. Well, I was here now and so began my patrol. I shone my torch on the ground, wanting to avoid the humiliation of tripping and ending up with a sprained ankle and a painful limp back to the hotel. Now I knew how Hilda had felt in Bagdale Hall. It made me shiver to be so close to the ruins, half-imagining some robed figure would appear as I turned a corner. I whistled again and let the beam of my torch explore, wider and wider. I was drawn towards the cliff edge. If Alma had come here for lunar communing she would be disappointed. The moon once again hid behind a cloud. Alma may have gone home again, perhaps walking round to Caedmon’s Tread. A movement close by caught my eye. A skinny young fox stopped for a moment to stare at me, transfixed by the beam of my torch. If there were lovers here, they would think me some kind of peeping Tom. I whistled again. When my whistle was answered, I felt a small shock. So she was here, but where? And now I remembered that she could not whistle. Perhaps she had persisted and finally learned. The wind blew. I could not tell where the whistle sound came from. I whistled again.

  Suddenly someone was behind me. I felt the warmth of a body close to my back.

  ‘Nah then, what’s all this?’

  I froze, and then turned. Slowly.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton. We meet again.’ It was the policeman, Sergeant Garvin.

  ‘Good evening, officer.’ I tried to speak calmly as if I usually spent my nights walking about ruins, whistling. What else was one meant to do in Whitby after dark?

  ‘Are you looking for someone, madam?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Ah, then what?’

  ‘Well, yes, in a way looking for someone.’

  ‘It’s coming in chilly,’ he remarked, ‘don’t you find?’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘There’s no one here, except you and me. Who were you expecting?’

  I hesitated. Did he also know that Alma wandered the cliffs after dark? It seemed unfair to implicate her. ‘I felt like a walk.’

  ‘You were whistling.’

  ‘I whistle to feel brave I suppose.’

  ‘But not a tune, more of a signal, or is it a special feeling-brave whistle?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘But you were expecting an answer?’

  It was time to maintain a dignified silence, or was it?

  ‘Take a good look at the little boat, did you?’ He did not move as he waited for my answer.

  ‘What little boat?’

  ‘I watched you signal to the boat.’

  ‘Oh no. I was just making a circle with my torch.’

  ‘Ah, and it just happened to be a circle that took in the unlit boat. Do you do that often?’

  Well of course I didn’t do it often. We don’t have many boats where I live in Headingley, it being about sixty miles inland. But I did not say that. ‘I was just looking out to sea, at the ship with lights. I didn’t notice a boat.’ Now I felt disappointed in myself for having poor powers of observation. Was there really a boat? I wanted to go and look but that did not seem a good idea. Even so I said, ‘Where?’

  We went to look. ‘Ah,’ the sergeant said. ‘It’s gone now, perhaps in response to a signal.’

  He suspected me of being in cahoots with smugglers. My old friends in the Girl Guides would be thrilled.

  ‘I didn’t see a boat, sergeant. Truly.’

  In the pause that followed, he took my elbow. ‘Shall we go back into the town?’

  ‘What a good idea.’

  I put my torch away as he guided us back to the steps. ‘A whistling woman bodes ill in a fishing community.’

  ‘Yes, so I’ve heard. Whistling or not, women seem to bode ill in all sorts of places. I don’t believe the ghosts of the abbey will mind.’

  ‘I suppose you might have been looking for Mrs Turner, given that she sometimes comes up here in the evenings.’

  ‘I suppose I might.’

  ‘Did you keep the confidence, regarding Mr Philips, only half Whitby has somehow got word of Mr Philips’s death and there are all manner of variations?’

  ‘I only told Alma when I absolutely had to, and I didn’t say how he died.’

  ‘I see. And how do you think that he died?’

  ‘By a blow to the head.’

  He did not speak again until we were halfway down the steps. He shone his torch into the distance, towards the West Pier. ‘There’s a light on in the fortune teller’s pepper pot. That’s where you would have found your friend. Mrs Turner usually goes there after she’s communed with the moon.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was not much of a response, but all I could think of on the spur of the moment.

  ‘It’s against the by-laws to occupy the pier premises after the hours of darkness but in a place like Whitby it’s sometimes politic to turn a blind eye, though not to murder.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting that Mrs Turner is a murderer?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting a murder has taken place. But human nature is a strange creature. If a sweet and rather unworldly lady with expectations of marriage had a good and clever friend who thought she was being taken advantage of, that person might act on her behalf. It has been known.’

  Not only did Sergeant Garvin suspect me of signalling to smugglers, he now had me in the role of avenging angel, or as a policeman might put it, murderer.

  This had gone far enough. Looking out at the dark waves had unnerved me. Felicity might be out there, cold and seasick.

  As if he read my thoughts, Sergeant Garvin asked, ‘Have you seen Felicity Turner since you arrived in Whitby?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, and I wish to report her missing.’

  ‘That will be up to Mrs Turner. I’m sure she’ll do so in her own good time if necessary.’

  So he knew, but what did he know that made him so phlegmatic? The man was infuriating. Meanwhile, as I was being escorted down the one hundred and ninety-nine steps like some criminal, ‘sweet and rather unworldly’ Alma was cosily consulting her crystal ball.

  Fourteen

  For the second time that evening, Alma sought refuge in her pepper pot. In some way she could not quite grasp, she felt blamed and guilty; blamed for what and guilty of what she could not say. She lit th
e lamp.

  Alma had a particular fondness for her wicker chair. Each time she left, she draped the chair with a colourful paisley throw. Each time she returned, she unveiled the chair and experienced an extraordinary well of affection for this unremarkable piece of furniture. In the dim light, she sat very still, palms upturned on her lap, eyes closed.

  Little flecks danced before her eyes, the light behind her eyelids shifted and changed, creating shapes and colours. The sounds of the sea hummed her thoughts to stillness. She heard a solitary gull on night patrol. After a time, several minutes, or an hour, she spread her arms, raised her palms in something like supplication and waited. Then she opened her eyes, put her hands on the table in a way that meant business and looked into her crystal ball.

  For a fleeting moment the swirl matched the colour and amorphousness of the dots behind her eyelids. She looked deeply into the grey mistiness edged with blues and purples reflected from her cape. The seekers who came to her sometimes thought she discerned life’s signposts: people and places; couplings; the beginnings of journeys; death wearing a midnight cape and carrying a scythe, or in the guise of a prowling black dog. They might imagine she saw sweet cupid’s chubby finger pointing to the one who would be forever true. It was not like that. Looking into her crystal ball was only a way of divining, such as a water diviner might feel a twitch. It could be the twitch of his palsy or it might indicate a poisoned underground spring or the elixir of life.

  Felicity was safe and not far away. Alma felt that as a tingle through the soles of her feet. She always took care of her feet. On the rare occasions when she bought new shoes the assistant – if he were male – complimented her on her perfect feet. Yet in spite of the certainty from the tips of her neat toes to her pumice-stoned heel that Felicity was safe, Alma knew that all was not well.

  The control and the calm Alma needed to do her work suddenly fled as her stomach knotted with anxiety. Felicity was unprotected. She was somehow just out of reach. There was movement, a feeling of nausea, such as comes to a person in a small boat, and then it was gone.