‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh just a whim of mine, well not entirely my whim. My friend at the coastguard was interested.’
‘I went to Edinburgh once.’
‘It may be that a coastguard officer will wish to speak to you, regarding signalling to the boat…’
‘I wasn’t signalling.’
‘I see.’ He wrote down, ‘Not signalling.’ ‘Then why were you there?’
‘I’d been told that my friend Mrs Turner might have gone up there.’
‘I didn’t mean at the abbey, I meant when did you visit Edinburgh?’
‘1921.’
He made a note. ‘And the information that took you up to the abbey tonight was from…?’
‘Mr Cricklethorpe.’
He made a note.
‘Did he tell you what signal to give?’
‘Signal?’
‘The flashing of your torch, and the whistle.’
‘I wasn’t signalling with the torch. It was to help me see. As to whistling, Alma Turner and I were at school together. We had a certain whistle that we used as our call to each other. I thought if she were there, she would hear and know it was me.’
‘If I were to find Mrs Turner and ask her to repeat the schoolgirl whistle, would she…’ he repeated my whistle. ‘Would she do it?’
‘Alma could never whistle.’
‘Some people can’t. If I whistled, would she identify the call?’
‘Oh yes.’
I hoped she would. Given her inability to whistle and the miserable time she had at school, she might not. Then what would happen? I could be charged with aiding and abetting smugglers. I would have to scour the country for whistling school friends who might corroborate my story. Even then, I might be accused of having taught a party of as yet unapprehended smugglers a particular whistle.
‘Mrs Shackleton, you told me earlier that you went into the jewellers shop because you spotted a bracelet that took your fancy. Is there anything else that you left out and that you wish to tell me now?’
Of course, he knew. He had looked at the jeweller’s records of items pawned. Either he had already spoken to Alma regarding the pawn ticket and the watch-guard, or he would at an early opportunity.
‘If you’re referring to Felicity Turner having pawned a watch-guard, I didn’t know about that until later, and neither did her mother.’
Something changed in him. I had taken him by surprise. ‘So it was Felicity who pawned the item?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not Mrs Turner herself.’
‘No.’
‘And you told Mrs Turner that you had found Mr Philips?’
I was becoming impatient, but it would be pointless to let him think he had me rattled. ‘You asked me not to. I did so only when she counted out her money and was all set to go to Skinner Street and redeem the pledge. That’s when I felt obliged to tell her that Mr Philips was dead.’
‘You do know that Mrs Turner was on friendly terms with the deceased?’
‘She did mention that they had taken tea together.’
‘Your friend, Mrs Turner… perhaps this is too delicate, or you may feel unable to answer.’
‘What about her?’
‘Mr Philips had been paying her attention. Do you think she may have come to regard his attentions as less than honourable?’
‘I have no reason to suppose so.’
‘And her daughter, and the daughter’s young man, Felicity and Brendan, did Mrs Turner confide how they may have viewed the friendship between her and Mr Philips?’
‘No.’ I felt suddenly cold at the thought that he may suspect Felicity or Brendan of doing away with Mr Philips. My expression betrayed me.
Sergeant Garvin took a drink of tea. ‘And you?’
‘I knew nothing about their friendship until Alma told me this afternoon. When I went into the shop and found Mr Philips lying there, I hadn’t seen Alma.’
He made a note. ‘Had she written to you about a gentleman friend?’
‘No!’
‘I’m jumping to no conclusions, you understand, and neither will my superintendent.’
‘Well, sergeant, I am jumping to conclusions. I’m at the conclusion that you suspect me of various crimes when all I have done is attempt to be a good citizen and a good friend.’
‘That’s as may be, Mrs Shackleton, but tell me about Mr Philips. Did you at any time yesterday or today see him alive?’
‘No I did not.’
‘You were seen outside the shop in a state of some uncertainty, perhaps upset, and this was before you found Mr Philips.’
Thank you, Mr Dowzell. The man had not simply come to the hotel to buy me a drink and commiserate. He had come to see whether I looked guilty. ‘My uncertainty was about whether to buy a bracelet, that is all.’
‘Just one more question. How do I know you are who you say you are?’
‘I gave you my card.’
‘Anyone can have a name printed on a card as I’m sure you know. Is there any person in Whitby to whom I could make enquiries as to your identity, aside from your friend Mrs Turner, formerly Miss Alma Bartholomew?’
I wondered about his attitude to Alma. Was there some stress on the word ‘formerly’, as though he knew she was never legally married? And how could that possibly matter in the context of a murder investigation?
‘Why do I need to prove my identity? I booked in advance at the Royal and received a letter of confirmation.’
‘Just routine, madam.’
‘Not a routine I’ve ever heard of, sergeant. I have a cheque book in my bag at the hotel, and probably some other identification if I look for it.’
‘Apart from your paper identification, is there anyone who can vouch for you?’
The people closest who could vouch for me were Mrs Sugden, at her cousin’s in Scarborough, and Jim Sykes in Robin Hood’s Bay. A telephone call from the Whitby police sending a Scarborough officer to see Mrs Sugden would alarm her. A call on Jim Sykes would leave him feeling entitled to gloat and rush to the rescue. Any call to anyone at this time of night would be alarming.
When I did not answer straight away, he said, ‘While you’re thinking, I’ll just bring in my fingerprint kit. Routine, you understand, to eliminate you from enquiries.’
‘My fingerprints will be on the door handles at the jewellers.’
‘Yes, so we’ll want to know which prints are yours, and then we’ll be clear.’
He was gone.
It was a considerable time before he returned with his fingerprinting kit. He held it with the kind of pride some child might carry his Christmas gift of a John Bull Printing Set to the kitchen table.
This would be an opportunity for me to see how fingerprinting was done by an expert.
He inked my fingers. I stared in disbelief at my hands. Were they really my hands and was this happening to me?
I waited until he had finished.
With great reluctance, I drew on my trump card. ‘You asked if anyone can vouch for me. My father is superintendent of constabulary in the West Riding, Mr Hood.’
‘Is he now?’
‘He won’t be on duty at this time of night, but I can give you the number.’
He took out his pencil.
I gave him the address and telephone number of the office, and my parents’ home address. This felt like such a humiliation; having to call on my father.
He stood to leave the room.
‘Please don’t telephone my father at home at this time of night. My mother would worry.’
‘I expect she would.’
‘And please be discreet.’
He turned at the door. ‘I’ll be typing up your statement from my notes. If there is anything you want to add, tell me now.’
I had not told him about Felicity’s friendship with Brendan Webb, yet he knew about it. He had referred to Brendan as Felicity’s young man. Most likely he had seen them together. Perhaps the young couple might h
ave eloped. If I repeated what Hilda told me, I might bring Brendan under suspicion of having fled after murdering Jack Philips. Given Sergeant Garvin’s readiness to suspect me for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, he might construct a fabulous story concerning Felicity and Brendan. Best say as little as possible. ‘There is nothing else of relevance, officer.’
‘What do you know about the murder of Mr Philips and the robbery from his safe, Mrs Shackleton?’
‘Nothing. It’s as I told you. I saw Mr Philips’s body, the open door of the safe, and the broken necklace. That’s all.’
‘Thank you.’ He left, closing and locking the door behind him.
What was he doing, I wondered, when he had not returned after ten minutes, then fifteen minutes, and then twenty? The man was mad. Polite, but mad.
The sound of boots clattered across the stone floor. The door opened. He returned to the table and sat down. ‘Wakefield constabulary confirm that Mr Hood has a daughter, Catherine, but no one there was able to provide a description or to confirm whether Catherine had come to Whitby.’
I groaned. Dad would love me for this.
‘I am reluctant to telephone a superintendent at home, after midnight.’
‘Yes, please don’t.’
‘You will understand there are now serious on-going enquiries regarding the murder.’
Suddenly, I understood. He had never in his life had to deal with such a crime and he had no training in detection. His superintendent must be away. He had consulted Northallerton. They had called in Scotland Yard. The sergeant was afraid of making some terrible blunder and being thought a provincial plod who jeopardised the investigation before detectives arrived.
‘Yes. I do understand. You want everything to be ship-shape for when your superintendent returns and the Metropolitan Police officer arrives.’
He ignored my comment and hid his surprise well. ‘Your story about the signalling…’
‘I wasn’t signalling!’
‘… is so odd that no one would have invented it, and your demeanour is certainly that of a lady.’
‘But?’
‘I must ask you to spend the night here, for your own safety.’
‘Here?’
‘You are our prime witness, Mrs Shackleton.’
‘I’m not a witness to anything. I simply had the misfortune to enter that shop on a whim and because…’
‘Because?’
‘My engagement and wedding ring came from there.’ It was time to appeal to his sentimental nature, if he had one. ‘I met my husband in Whitby. This is where we became engaged. He didn’t come back from the war.’
He spoke softly. ‘There is no one else in custody. You are not in custody, but here for your own protection. We do not like visitors to come to harm. You will have a cell to yourself and I will bring you an extra blanket.’
That was supposed to make me feel better. ‘Officer, I have a lovely room at the Royal, with a sea view.’
‘You wouldn’t see much from the window at this time of night.’
Seventeen
My watch had stopped. Early morning light filtered through the cell window. For a moment I could not think where I was and then the people and events of the day and evening before slowly came into focus, shadow puppets at first and then more sharply, like moving pictures: the jeweller lying dead in his beautifully tailored suit and polished shoes; Alma, discovering the note from Felicity; the beam from Sergeant Garvin’s flashlight as he escorted me down the one hundred and ninety-nine steps from the abbey.
Above all these images and swirling thoughts was the thumping voice in my head telling me that Felicity was missing. Sergeant Garvin had said, or pretended, that he would need to have this reported by her mother. Wiser heads than his would see the importance of finding Felicity.
Surprisingly, my night’s sleep in the cell at Whitby police station had been excellent in spite of not being able to wash, brush my teeth, or change into night clothes. I felt no aches and pains after sleeping on what was really no more than a wooden board. What did worry me was my predicament. Had no one at the hotel noticed that I failed to return? For all the night porter knew, I could have flung myself from the cliffs or been trapped by the tide. But perhaps the hotel manager had been told that their newest arrival was spending the night in the clink. For several moments, I contemplated my situation, and tried to decide what line to take with whoever came on duty next.
Not having raised fierce objections to my incarceration, or demanded that the sergeant contact my father at home regardless of the hour, I had probably cast a guilty shadow across my innocent doings.
There is a disadvantage in being too ready to see another person’s point of view. Last night I had understood perfectly why Garvin might treat me with some suspicion. I also felt sure this would be cleared up within five minutes. It had also occurred to me that being on good terms with the sergeant might help me towards broaching the question that Alma had asked: did the sergeant know that her marriage was to a bigamist?
In the chill light of dawn, I saw things differently. My desire to be on good terms with the sergeant for Alma’s sake had prevented me from vehement protest about being detained. Embarrassment played her fiendish part, too. One feels rather silly at being caught whistling and flashing a torch on a cliff top at dead of night.
The sad truth was that being here in a cell was largely my own fault. I should have been more assertive. But Sergeant Garvin had such a friendly and courteous manner that I had stupidly expected him to see reason. I had no wish to be rude to a hard-working member of His Majesty’s Constabulary.
Someone more senior would have seen how ridiculous it was to suspect me of being involved in smuggling or to be linked to a murder where I could have no possible motive.
It was time to think this matter through logically and make sense of what had occurred so far.
Jack Philips. His body was cold when I found him. He was lying on a rug but under that rug was a flagstone floor. The door, window and curtains were closed. He could have lain in that enclosed room with its cool temperature for an hour, several hours, or perhaps overnight. I forced myself back into the moment when I felt for a pulse. Rigor mortis had set in. His hand was rigid to touch. It had not occurred to me to try and observe more closely. What I realised now was that Sergeant Garvin might not have sent for a doctor sufficiently promptly for an expert examination that would allow a reasonable estimation of time of death.
Because the shop door was unlocked, that surely must have meant that Jack Philips was alive to open the shop and raise the shutters, perhaps at nine o’clock that morning, unless some other person had gained entry during the night, or earlier that morning. They would have had to raise the shutters without being noticed. The police would know whether a beat bobby had checked the door during night patrol. Since I had made the jewellers shop almost my first port of call, at about 11.30, having left home very early, it was my estimation that Jack was killed at least two hours earlier. If he had lain there overnight, then someone else had opened the shutters. Depending on Jack’s time of death, and when the youngsters left Whitby, Felicity and Brendan may or may not come under suspicion. If they did, there were two possible motives: a need for money, or Felicity’s resentment about her mother’s friendship with the jeweller.
Might Brendan or Felicity have anything to do with the fact that Mr Philips’s wall safe stood open? It was possible. I assumed that was where he placed items that he took on pledge, and that would include the watch-guard. In my shock at finding the body, I had not looked to see whether the safe was empty. It seemed likely that something had been snatched from there, because of the jet beads strewn across the floor.
Philips’s window and his counter held valuables, but they appeared to have been ignored. Perhaps that was because the killer or killers – and he or she may not have intended to kill – knew what they wanted. Had Jack Philips let them into the back room willingly, or under threat?
Was the theft from the safe because taking goods from the window or the counter would have left the perpetrator open to observation? If the killer had entered through the rear of the premises, they would be less likely to be observed. Was it a case of robbery gone wrong, or was the robbery a cover for murder with another motive?
Mr Dowzell had not seen anyone leaving or entering the jewellers shop. Now I wondered about the newsagent’s cheerful assistant. If Jack Philips was a man confident of his charms, might she have been one of his conquests? I dismissed the possibility that such a friendly person, busily selling tickets for the Seamans Mission sale of work, could have any connection with murder.
In spite of my earlier misgivings, I felt sure that Alma was not guilty. She had high hopes of the jeweller and was genuinely shocked to hear about the death. Yet if she had made overtures and been rebuffed – a woman scorned – she would not take it lightly. At school, I caught her sticking pins in a doll she made of Pauline Bennett. If Jack’s ‘interest’ in her was purely imaginary on her part, or if he lost interest, she might have taken revenge.
And then there was Mr Cricklethorpe who was almost certainly involved in shady dealings, probably including tax-free whisky brought ashore in some quiet harbour. He was fond of Alma. They shared a house. Might he have acted to keep Alma from leaving him in the lurch by taking up with Jack Philips? Or perhaps he thought Alma had unwittingly given away secrets to the jeweller and he wanted to silence him?
Both Cricklethorpe and Alma were eccentrics in their different ways. This could be turned to their advantage. Perhaps Alma’s reputation for communing with the moon was her cover story. She went to the cliff top to signal a warning or a welcome to boats carrying contraband. Certainly Alma and Crickly, as she called him, could not be making much of a living from prophesying, fortune telling and leading twalking sessions for visitors. Such earnings would not pay for their logs and coals.
Perhaps Garvin suspected there was a practical and secret purpose to Alma’s wanderings on the cliff at night.
Sergeant Garvin would never make ‘Garvin of the Yard’ and yet he had a good nose for the suspicious – too good a nose in my case. He made a connection between Cricklethorpe and my presence on the West Cliff, asking did Cricklethorpe tell me ‘what signal to give’.
Death at the Seaside Page 12