Death at the Seaside

by Frances Brody

  For my own peace of mind, once I got out of here I needed to do a little investigating of my own.

  There was a tap on the cell door. How ludicrous to knock on a cell door, but it made a distorted kind of sense. I might have been availing myself of the primitive facility in the corner – an enamel bucket with lid.

  ‘Come in,’ I called, as if I were in my room with sea view. Sergeant Garvin opened the door, bearing a cup of tea.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘Good morning, sergeant.’

  He handed me the tea. ‘I’ve had Superintendent Hood on the telephone. It seems that someone in Wakefield contacted him after I had enquired about you. He confirms that you are his daughter, holidaying in Whitby. When I told Mr Hood you were sleeping, he said to let you be. I’m so sorry.’

  Was he sorry that I was a police superintendent’s daughter, or for having detained me? I chose to interpret his words as the latter. ‘That’s quite all right.’

  Why did I say that? It was not all right, but all wrong. It was galling to think that my word had counted for nothing while a brief conversation with my father led to the unlocking of the cell door.

  ‘Superintendent Hood vouches for you. He tells me you have helped Scotland Yard on a number of occasions and won praise from Commander Greathead.’ I could not tell from the sergeant’s tone whether he was impressed or unconvinced.

  ‘You were doing your job, officer. I’m sure my father realised that.’

  ‘You did not mention that you are an investigator.’

  ‘I’m here in a purely private capacity, as I said – on holiday.’

  ‘We in Whitby are not used to instances of help from civilians. You see one of our concerns is dealing with contraband. We must report suspicions to the coastguard. Smuggling didn’t end in the eighteenth century as novelists would have you imagine. When I saw you, looking out to sea… Well, I hope you won’t take it severely amiss that I detained you.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I am expecting my superiors shortly. Superintendent Hood made the point rather forcibly that the less said about my detaining you – on both sides, yours and mine – the better.’

  I felt inclined to dawdle, just out of awkwardness. There was a night train from King’s Cross to York. If an officer from Scotland Yard had travelled on the sleeper, he would be on his way by now. I might just loiter and say good morning.

  Better not.

  I stood. ‘Then I’ll go. Thank you for the tea.’

  He took the cup and saucer from me with a look of relief. What he did not say, but I could see he thought, was that he would look a bit of an ass when his bosses discovered that he had detained me, the innocent party who had discovered the body.

  ‘Will you have a slice of bread to put you on, madam?’

  ‘No, thank you. What time is it?’

  ‘Almost six. I expect to be relieved soon. I shouldn’t have been on nights.’

  If that was an explanation of why he had detained me, it wasn’t a very good one. But it might be possible to turn the situation to my advantage. ‘Why shouldn’t you have suspected me?’ He was about to answer but I cut him short. ‘I’ll go quickly. If I can help you then you must let me know.’

  ‘That’s obliging of you, madam, and if you’ll sign your witness statement before you leave. It’s typed and ready.’

  ‘Before I go…’

  He gulped. I saw the anxiety in his eyes. Would he never see the back of me?

  ‘Yes?’

  I indicated the bucket in the corner. ‘You must have some other facility?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Ah, yes. We do. We are quite modern and cater for females. One moment.’

  It was less than a moment. He returned with my shoes and satchel. I slipped on my shoes and followed him.

  We walked along the corridor side by side. ‘I hope you’ll keep me abreast of events, officer.’

  He looked suddenly wary, and his footsteps slowed. If he did not want to look an ass, neither did I. ‘It would be a feather in your cap if you, the local man, with a little discreet help, proved your worth to Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Your father did say you have a habit of nosing out villains.’

  Dad would say that, under the circumstances. I hated to think what he would say to me when next we met.

  As he pointed out the door to the lavatory, the telephone began to ring. I opened and closed the lavatory door, but tip-toed back up the corridor, wondering if this might be my father, ensuring I had been released. Worse still, it might be my mother.

  It was not. By the tone of the sergeant’s voice, I could tell he was answering questions regarding the events of the day before. I took the risk of going closer, and listened.

  ‘I did say, sir, regarding Mr Philips’s reputation that it might be a jealous husband, but that mark, such a small mark… yes, sir. Well I thought it to be the kind of blow that may have been inflicted if someone had asked him to reach for something, an item of jewellery, and he bent over. I’ve made a note of his female acquaintances.’ There was a hesitation, as if he was reluctant to say a name, but then did. ‘Mrs Turner.’ A pause. ‘There was a Mr Turner but he is no longer in the area. She is a charming lady and I’m sure would not have seen the threat to her reputation.’ Another pause. ‘She does have friends, and a daughter who might take her part and who is now missing.’ A longer pause. ‘Yes sir, I will do that of course. There is a benefit do planned at the Mission. A concert and sale of work. It will be too late to cancel, there’d be the matter of getting word to the outlying villages and farms. I’ll mingle and see what I can pick up.’ Another pause. ‘Yes, the Scotland Yard man is on his way. I have typed up my report.’ A long silence. ‘That’s true, sir. A husband may have cause to feel aggrieved, but what self-respecting Englishman would hit another from behind? Would such an attack not come more readily from a female, a youth or a foreigner?’

  It was a fine morning. The need for air drew me towards the harbour. There were steps leading down from Spring Street. Needing to put distance between me and the police station, I walked towards the steps. As I did so, a vehicle chugged up the road.

  I turned to look. A police van stopped in front of the station. The driver climbed out. At the same time, the rear door of the van opened. A bevy of uniformed constables began to alight. I counted. Ten, eleven including the driver. No wonder Sergeant Garvin had wanted rid of me. Moments later, another vehicle arrived, an Alvin. A uniformed superintendent stepped out. It was with relief that I realised whatever else I may have to do in Whitby, investigating a murder was not on my list.

  Leaving Spring Street behind me, I walked down the steps. The herring gulls and kittiwakes were up before me, calling as they swooped down from the cliffs. One strutted towards me, looking for all the world as if we had some pre-arranged appointment.

  ‘Sorry, gull.’

  The tide had ebbed. Boats dotted the horizon. Others that hours ago bobbed serenely on the waves now rested slantwise in wet sand. The sea breeze gave me new energy after being cooped up in the cell. I wandered to where a lone fisherman in heavy coat and sou’wester paused to light a pipe. I wished him good morning, quietly so as not to scare off fish.

  He nodded rather glumly. ‘Fine morning.’

  ‘A good day for fishing at sea I suppose.’

  ‘All the boats that’s off is gone on full tide some long while since.’

  ‘I met the sister of one of the fishing families yesterday, Miss Webb. I think her brother Brendan might have sailed yesterday.’

  ‘He might and he might not.’

  ‘Do skippers often take on extra crew at this time of year?’

  He took a deep pull on his pipe and turned to me. ‘After a boat ride, are you? There’s paddle steamer does a trip between here and Filey.’

  ‘Well I most likely will take the trip. But I was just wondering how it works, taking on crews and all that.’

  ‘It’s families round here. Same skippers, same crews.’
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br />   ‘I see. Well thank you. Good luck with your fishing.’

  He adjusted his sou’wester in what might have been a gesture of politeness. As I walked away, he called to me.

  ‘Missis!’

  I turned.

  He cleared his throat and spat into the sea. ‘If you’re the friend of Mrs Turner…’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And if it’s her lass you’re enquiring about, Brendan’s dancing partner, pay no heed to the tale that she’s dressed as a lad and gone to sea. She’d be laughed off deck. Folk round here know a female when they spot one. Happen they’ll be more gullible in Scarborough. You could enquire there.’

  He turned from me, giving all attention to his fishing rod. If he did know more, he wasn’t telling. Investigator or not, I was out of my depth here. The whole of Whitby seemed more knowledgeable than I, and why wouldn’t they be?

  So much for Hilda’s theory that Brendan and Felicity had gone to sea. It was time to let the professionals get on with their job. I could do no more for Alma, not at present. Sunday. Would she tell fortunes on Sunday, I wondered? Probably not. What might do me good, and possibly Alma too, would be to make a visit to somewhere along the railway line and leave Whitby behind, just for today. Of course, Alma might want to stay at home and wait for news of Felicity. If so, perhaps I should stay with her, but I could make the suggestion that we have a day out.

  I dismissed the thought almost immediately. Neither of us would settle to making a little trip with the worry of Felicity hanging over us.

  The released prisoner, I stood and took deep breaths of sea air, looking out to the far horizon. Thinking of Felicity on a boat, I imagined every terrible possibility, and all the disasters at sea that I had ever heard of. Besides, this whole stretch of the coast was still mined from the war, German mines designed to destroy our ships, British mines, laid to destroy theirs.

  In the ridiculous hope that Felicity had returned, or that Alma might have news, I set off to walk to Bagdale Hall.

  My walk took me past the railway station.

  From the direction of the station entrance, someone called my name.

  His voice from the past rooted me to the spot. I turned my head to look, and there he stood. Smiling.

  Eighteen

  The man who had called to me was Marcus Charles. He had hardly changed since I saw him last, indeed since I met him, five years ago. His hair when he raised his hat was the same light colour with its neat side parting. He was clean shaven though had perhaps shaved on the train because I noticed a slight nick on his chin. Other than that, Chief Inspector Marcus Charles of Scotland Yard looked impeccable after his night on a train.

  The constable I had seen at the police station the previous day was beside him. Marcus did not turn to the policeman as he spoke but looked at me. ‘Take my case to the station, constable. I want to speak to Mrs Shackleton.’

  And I wanted to speak to him. Someone sane and reliable after the madness of the past hours.

  The constable took the valise and was gone.

  For a moment I wondered whether we would stand on the pavement and stare at each other.

  Marcus spoke first. ‘Good to see you, Kate. You turn up in the most unlikely places.’

  ‘You too.’

  ‘The buffet’s open. Shall we?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Feeling scruffy, unwashed and an idiot for having put myself in the situation of spending a night in the clink, I walked beside him into the station.

  Apart from a tired waitress with a grumpy manner and a woolly scarf around her throat, the station buffet was empty. We sat on either side of a table for two. Marcus ordered tea.

  Surprisingly, there was no awkwardness between us. It was as if we were picking up from where we left off. Almost. He and I had become close after our encounters on previous occasions. We had respect for each other’s intelligence and ability, but that wasn’t what drew us together. There was an undeniable attraction. I felt it still, and so did he. The last time I saw him was when he proposed to me, and I turned him down. It was the thought of leaving Yorkshire, giving up my work and being exiled to London that had come between us. That and Marcus’s overbearing chauvinism and arrogance.

  Shortly after that, he went to America to work with their investigation bureau in Washington DC.

  He had written to say that on board ship he met a young American woman and they were engaged to be married. I had written to wish him well, and received no reply.

  His failure to answer my letter could be read either way. He was happily married and unlikely to correspond with me. Or, his shipboard romance did not last.

  Part of me wanted him to be happily married. It was selfish to hope he might still be free because he was a man who would be impossible to live with – at least for me.

  We both spoke at once. He asked what brought me to Whitby. I asked when he had come back from America.

  ‘I’m on holiday. I arrived yesterday.’

  ‘And I sailed back from New York two weeks ago. It was never permanent, you know, just to exchange ideas and see what developments our American cousins were coming up with.’

  The waitress slapped down two mugs of tea.

  Marcus reached for the sugar bowl. ‘Do you always rise so early on holiday?’

  ‘Not usually.’ He knew very well that I was not a Sunday early riser.

  ‘But you don’t usually find a body on your first day either.’

  ‘So you’ve heard.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sorry. I wasn’t given a name but the moment I saw you standing there, your usual pristine and confident self, well… who else in Whitby would it be? I did wonder what sort of customer would walk into the back of the jewellers shop if no one came to the counter.’

  ‘The North Riding Constabulary didn’t waste much time calling you in.’

  ‘Long enough for everyone involved to establish a seaworthy alibi. I believe the victim had something of a reputation and several husbands could be suspects.’

  ‘The newsagent from the shop next door hinted at Mr Philips’s reputation. I daresay the hearsay will be overwhelming.’ I took a sip of weak tea. ‘Sergeant Garvin has my statement.’

  ‘All the same, you might tell me in your own words. I’d value that. I’m sorry you had such a bad experience yesterday. It doesn’t ever become easier.’

  It did not take me long to give him the bones of my story, ending with the worry about Felicity.

  ‘I’ll do what I can to find her. Let’s hope she isn’t involved.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s not!’ I wanted to ask him about the shipboard romance. Did he now have an American wife at his house in Hampstead, and did she join him when he went sketching, and swimming in the pond on the Heath? I hoped she did. He deserved some happiness.

  Perhaps it was because of having rejected him that I felt pity that he was in a town where it would be good to sketch and to bathe in the sea, but there would be no time for either.

  ‘Where are you staying, Kate?’ he asked as we walked to the door.

  ‘The Royal.’

  ‘Me too.’

  As I walked back to the hotel, trying to think only of a bath, a change of clothes and breakfast, questions pressed against my skull. Where was Felicity? It would be wonderful if she had returned home. And what was Marcus’s plan? Certainly he must already have developed a strategy and had sent for constables from local stations. Given that I had counted eleven men, the van must have done a tour, collecting constables from the outlying districts.

  If anyone could find Jack Philips’s killer, it would be Marcus. He was good before he went to America, and would have returned keener than ever.

  The advantage of having spent the night in a cell and being turned out so very early was this: I was first to the hotel bathroom, toilet bag in hand. If any of those hardy gentlemen who take cold baths at dawn were staying at the Royal, then they were, thankfully, on another floor. Slowly, the geyser cranked into life, supply
ing gratifyingly hot water.

  I luxuriated in warm water, soaping myself, deciding against using the rather battered back brush that hung on a hook. Instead, I washed my back with my flannel, stretching my arms to reach. The hard plank of a bed had after all taken its toll. My shoulders hurt. My back felt stiff. Pity the prisoners serving hard labour.

  Someone tried the bathroom door. I splashed loudly, to send that person packing.

  I lay back in the bathtub, covering my face with the warm flannel, imagining the horrors of being deprived of such comforts as a bath when I wanted one, and the ability to come and go, to open and close doors. And then I suddenly felt a wave of fear – for Alma and Felicity. Either of them could so easily become suspects. Good as Marcus was, he had made mistakes in the past – mistakes that were rectified but still mistakes. It irked me to be on the side-lines, unable to do anything. Feeling helpless can be so debilitating. Part of me wanted Marcus to come in and wave a magic wand, and then I felt annoyed with myself for being weak – that wish that someone would come along and make everything all right.

  From the tone of her note, I knew that Felicity was not running away from something. I felt sure my hunch that she was going to find her father was correct. If so, why now?

  According to Alma, Felicity blamed her for sending away her father. At sixteen, Felicity would almost certainly regard her mother as being beyond the age when she might attract a man. Alma showed signs of slipping into an embarrassing love affair. Felicity, acting alone or with her boyfriend, had put an end to that possibility by despatching the object of Alma’s affections, and then leaving town.

  Marcus would be bound to explore that possibility. He would also consider that Alma had pinned her hopes on hooking a wealthy man. Both Cricklethorpe and Dowzell made no secret of the fact that Jack Philips was not to be trusted. Alma may have found that out for herself, and hit out.

  By keeping me in a cell overnight, Sergeant Garvin had done me a favour. He opened my eyes to horrible possibilities. Or perhaps I was simply feeling utterly dreadful after the events of the past hours. Juries came down hard on women who broke the rules. Alma or Felicity – horrors, perhaps both – might find themselves on trial at York Assizes. A judge would have no mercy. Alma would hang, Felicity face life in prison.