She wanted to say, ‘You’re the police, you tell me,’ but she did not. Did they think Felicity was hiding somewhere in the house? What if Felicity’s note was forged? Cricklethorpe. There was always something odd about Cricklethorpe. He had hidden Felicity in a trunk in one of those rooms they never used.
‘I don’t know what you should ask.’ Her throat felt parched. ‘Or what you want to know from me.’
What the constable began to ask her next was rude, intrusive and embarrassing. She could not believe such questioning. He had been working up to it, she guessed.
‘How much money do you make from your publications, Mrs Turner?’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry but there is a point to the question. You have several on sale to the public. I thought your Yuletide Decorations from the Natural World a most interesting little book. I intend to try out some of the suggestions myself.’ When she did not answer, he added, ‘The chief inspector from Scotland Yard needs to know.’
She rose and went to the sideboard, took her account book from the drawer. She had a note of what the printer charged, and how many sales she made, and the cost of postage. This was for her own satisfaction, to prove to herself that all the scribbling – which took its toll – was worth her while.
‘Would you mind if I borrow this, just overnight?’
‘Take it. Throw it on the bonfire for all I care, just find Felicity.’
He squeezed out the next words. ‘I know what you charge for Tarot readings and so on, and you are popular with the mill girls and factory girls.’
‘Yes.’
‘How much money would you say you have earned from that, this year? I know you have your rent on the pepper pot. I’m sorry to ask, but our temporary boss is terribly thorough.’
‘It’s also in the notebook. Turn it upside down and look from the back.’
‘You are very efficient, Mrs Turner. I admire that greatly.’
‘What does this have to do with anything, with Felicity, or Jack Philips’s death?’
‘Our visiting chief inspector likes to delve into what he calls the underlying economics of a situation.’
‘Why?’
‘He is one of the few people in the investigation section who specially trained himself to deal with fraud. He spent time in America with their investigation bureau.’
The thought came to her that this inspector would put a feather in his cap if he pointed out that the coastguard and Customs and Excise had failed to find contraband, and the clever Scotland Yard man had succeeded while busy on a murder investigation. She hated the intrusion into her dismal business affairs. Handsome and courteous as this Scotland Yard man was, she might just make it her business to put a hex on him.
Sergeant Garvin cleared his throat. ‘To that end, and I’m sorry for this impertinence, I must ask you about Felicity’s father. Does he provide for her?’
When Alma stared at him, speechless, he repeated the question.
The answer would be no, but not a simple no. Felicity’s father did not provide for his daughter. He had bought them the house on Henrietta Street that slid into the sea, but kept it in his own name. He had then been hoodwinked by Cricklethorpe into buying them half a share in Bagdale Hall, shortly before it flooded. This was in Alma’s name, and therefore became the millstone around her neck, not Walter Turner’s. All of this was done through a third party, a solicitor. She had signed on a dotted line thinking for once something wonderful had come her way. And then she stepped into Bagdale Hall.
But the sharp pain that pierced her heart was not at the question regarding maintenance for Felicity. The sharp pain that turned into a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach was in the phrasing of the question. Sergeant Garvin had not said, ‘Your husband’, but ‘Felicity’s father’. What did he know of her history? She tried to be private. All her life she tried to be private. Now suddenly she trusted no one. She had confided in Kate Hood, or Kate Shackleton as she now was. Surely Kate would not have betrayed her confidence about the bigamist? Of course bigamy was against the law, but she had not committed it. I am the innocent party, she thought. Innocent enough to be thought stupid. And yet she was suspected of something. That much was clear.
Sergeant Garvin turned a page of his notebook, looked at it and blushed. She felt suddenly sorry for him. He would be here long after his superior with the interest in underlying economics was gone. She and he would pass each other in the street. She would see him during his off-duty hours, walking the beach or on the cliffs. After today’s exchange, he would stop and talk to her about fossils. He would ask had she done anything about the fossil frog that required special conditions.
Perhaps he would be too embarrassed to speak to her in future, about fossils or anything else. Or he might take against her, as people sometimes did when the fault was really theirs, not yours. He might become officious about the fossil frog and requisition it.
From somewhere deep inside came the courage to speak. ‘It is several years since we heard from my husband. The climate in England does not suit him. He lives abroad.’
‘Do you know where abroad?’
‘He sent postcards, to Felicity. The last one was about three years ago, from Madeira. A bank transfer followed.’
‘May I have his full name?’
He could have more than that, she decided. He could have her marriage lines – not that they meant anything, but it would let him know that she believed herself to be married. She went to the sideboard, opened the drawer and from a cigar box took out her marriage certificate, but not Felicity’s birth certificate, there being a slight discrepancy in the dates. Of course, she could always say that Felicity was premature.
She handed the marriage certificate to Sergeant Garvin. He glanced at it and placed it in the blue linen bag with the notebook, Felicity’s note and the pawn ticket. He had expected to take some things away with him, she realised, because he produced a receipt book. Slowly and carefully he wrote a receipt for the items in the bag.
That was not the end. ‘I have to ask you about the late Mr Philips. You and he were friends.’
Alma felt like a person who walked on quicksand, first slithering into the sandy suspicions of bigamy and now accused of something close to adultery. Was she really and truly ‘friends’ with the late Mr Philips? Was his interest in her real, or a soft soaping out of which she blew a great bubble of hope? She had taken tea with him several times in public. On Boxing Day, she had invited him to call. Bringing out the best china, she served pork pie, pickled onions and cold meats. Felicity had made mince pies. He brought a bottle of port wine and they all took a taste, even Felicity. That was the day her hopes rose, only she did wonder, when he left at a little after five o’clock that evening, where he might go next. There had always been snide gossip about the man and the ladies he gathered, but she had the vanity to think she was different. Until now.
‘We were friends,’ she said, finally.
‘Tell me about him.’
‘I don’t know what there is to tell. He was a most amiable man, straightforward and gentlemanly.’
‘How did you come to know him?’
Alma felt herself blush. ‘I visited his shop on one occasion, regarding a set of pearl beads that needed re-threading.’
‘And after you first met Mr Philips in his shop, did you see much of him? This is not to pry, Mrs Turner. I am merely trying to have a sense of what the late Mr Philips was like.’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘I would like to know what you think.’
Alma sighed. She could not just now say what she thought, but only tell him what she remembered, and with such sadness. ‘He was on the pier one day, just as I was locking up the pepper pot. He asked if I would care to take tea with him. We fell into the habit of having tea together, sometimes the two of us, sometimes with Felicity. He recommended her for the job at Botham’s, because he knows the family.’
‘Apart from taking tea, did you see much of him?’
‘So there was a strong friendship between you?’
‘I found him sympathetic and good company.’
He picked up his pencil, though had not written anything down so far. ‘Can you think of anyone who would have wished him harm?’
‘No! He was the gentlest of men.’
‘With Mr Philips and yourself being on such good terms, did you not think it odd that he would give your daughter thirty shillings without your knowledge?’
‘No. I expect she must have said I sent her, although I would not have done that, not now.’
He leaned just a little closer towards her. ‘Not now? Meaning?’
‘Not now that Mr Philips and I are… were on good terms, I would have felt embarrassed, and besides, I’m managing. It is a long time since I pawned the watch-guard.’
There was a tap on the door. Sergeant Garvin went to see. He exchanged a few words that she could not catch. When he came back, he said, ‘Mrs Turner, we have additional officers drafted into Whitby.’
‘I saw them this morning.’
‘One of them, with your permission, is going to have a good look round this room. If there is any clue to Felicity’s whereabouts, we shall find it.’
She felt her face grow hot. They would look through her underwear, touch her stockings, see the sentimental letters Turner had written to her in the early days, paw the photograph in the broken frame that she intended to mend.
He was still speaking. There was something she hadn’t heard. He repeated it. ‘Perhaps you and I might go into the kitchen while the officers do their job.’
She nodded, realising this was not a request. Perhaps they would find something she had missed, but what?
As she followed Sergeant Garvin down the stairs, she asked, ‘How many men are here? Can’t some be sent to search for Felicity?’
‘We’ve a good complement of the best chaps, all as keen to find Felicity as I am, and that’s very keen indeed, Mrs Turner, I assure you.’
‘What do they hope to find in my room?’
He opened the kitchen door. ‘We’ll let them do their job, eh? The quicker they’re satisfied the quicker they move on. Now will you let me mash a pot of tea, and have you eaten today?’
‘I’m not hungry.’ Alma sank into a chair. She was ashamed of this shabby kitchen.
He opened cupboard doors and brought out a paper bag. ‘Ah, fig biscuits.’
She noticed that the bag was frayed at the corner. It should have been put in the tin. That was Mr Cricklethorpe for you. ‘No biscuit for me.’
There was a scraping noise from the yard. ‘What’s that?’
The kettle was on the hob. He pushed it closer to the fire. ‘Just one of our chaps.’
‘Doing what? There’s nothing there, only coal and logs.’ She hoped that was true, and that Cricklethorpe had moved whatever he had put there a few days before, when the coal delivery came from Upgang.
‘I know that and you know that, Mrs Turner, but this job has to be done by the book.’ He took a cone of mint humbugs from his inside pocket and offered it.
She took one. ‘Where is Mr Cricklethorpe?’
A flood of fear engulfed Alma. They were not looking for contraband whisky. Mr Cricklethorpe had always doted on Felicity, his little ray of sunshine. He wanted her company for the twalking. That note from Felicity that Sergeant Garvin had in his blue linen bag, she suddenly wanted to look at it again. Was it really Felicity’s writing, or had Mr Cricklethorpe forged her hand? What if he had done away with her, in the way men did when they had accomplished a terrible deed? She always thought herself lucky on the day of the flag-selling. How fortunate that the bad thing had not been an even worse thing, a thing to cost her life. That man who had bought a flag and walked away somehow knew that Alma would not tell. Felicity was not one to keep quiet. If Cricklethorpe had done a bad thing, he would have had to silence her. But he wouldn’t, would he? She knew him. Trusted him. But Cricklethorpe would never let her read his palm. He drew something around himself like a cloak of invisibility.
‘What is it?’ the sergeant asked. ‘You look quite faint.’ He was beside her now, his hand on her back, the other on her arm. ‘Do you have smelling salts?’
She shook her head. ‘You think Cricklethorpe has killed Felicity, that’s it, isn’t it?’
‘We have no reason to suppose any such thing.’
The line of automatic writing came back to her, that cruel jibe that Jack Philips had not been interested in her, but in her daughter. That could not be so, could it?
‘Sergeant Garvin, tell me the truth about Mr Philips. One hears rumours. Has he ever… would he… I don’t know how to say this.’
Before Alma had time to bring the phrase to her lips, there was a tap on the kitchen door. Sergeant Garvin excused himself and went to see, stepping back into the hall and closing the door behind him.
None of them want to look me in the eye, Alma told herself, because they know something bad has happened to Felicity. They make the sergeant stay with me because he is local and has no choice in the matter.
He came back into the kitchen. ‘It’s nothing terrible, Mrs Turner. The inspector has a question about the toffee.’
‘Toffee?’
‘In Felicity’s room. Did she or you buy it?’
Alma couldn’t remember any toffee.
Sergeant Garvin did not look at her, but warmed the teapot with the boiled water. ‘Ah here’s the caddy. Take your time. Try to remember.’
‘What toffee?’
‘A slab of cream toffee.’
She still could not remember, and then she did. ‘Ah no, not Felicity. Mrs Shackleton brought it. For Felicity I suppose.’
‘I see.’ He spooned tea into the pot.
He might see, Alma didn’t. ‘Why do you want to know about toffee?’
‘Sometimes toffee comes with a small hammer, a toffee hammer, only there isn’t one in the packet.’
She blinked. The men who were searching, they wanted sweets and expected her to break the toffee for them.
‘Do you remember whether there was a hammer with the toffee when Mrs Shackleton brought it to you?’
She stared at him. ‘You think one of us killed Jack with a hammer. Well you’re wrong. I’m not saying another word until some of you go out and find Felicity. I want her back.’
Twenty-Two
Leaving Alma alone with Sergeant Garvin, I walked along the landing to go down to the floor below in search of Mr Cricklethorpe. It must be the worst-kept secret in Whitby that Percival Cricklethorpe dealt in contraband whisky. That did not concern me. What I wanted to know was this: did he know where Felicity had gone, and why?
At the top of the stairs I paused, hearing the heavy tread of a policeman’s boots on the stairs. I waited until the owner of the boots had reached the ground floor and tramped across the stone flags.
What I heard next must have been some echoing trick. The sound was of someone tripping lightly down the stairs, but there was no one to be seen as I descended. Either the staircase had re-adjusted itself to the absence of weight, or I was sharing the stairs with a curious ghost.
The landings of Bagdale Hall form a reverse letter L with the bottom of the L to the left as one enters the landing, forming a box shape with two doors on one side and a third door at the end. Earlier, all these doors were closed. Now they stood open. I tapped on the first door. No answer. I stepped inside.
In shape, this was a room like Alma’s. It had the same heavy furniture, including a four-poster bed. Sheets and blankets were strewn across the floor. I sneezed and then saw feathers and flocks. The mattress, bolster and pillows had been slashed. Every drawer had been pulled out and its contents tipped. Cupboard doors hung open. Items of linen lay spilled from a trunk in the corner.
The second room was bare of furniture. Only the walls were full. From just above skirting board level all the
way to the ceiling, oil paintings ranged side by side creating a dizzying effect of being at sea. There were seascapes on stormy days, seascapes where smooth waves shimmered in a hazy light. As I entered the room to take a closer look, the strangest feeling came over me – the door might close behind me. There would be no way out. I would have to live forever inside one of these paintings, sailing smoothly or trapped on the ship that would in one more moment be tossed into an angry eternity.
From this part of the landing, I moved into the next area where there were also three rooms. One was so sparsely furnished that any search must have been perfunctory. The door to the next room had been forced. Perhaps the key to this chamber was lost. Here, too, were paintings. Although there were also ships at sea, these bobbed daintily and looked certain to reach safe harbour. There were theatre scenes, including a portrait of an actress and her attendant in a dressing room and a group of dancing children in bright costumes. There were figures in groups, and singly. A fisherman on the harbour smoked his pipe. A couple on the swing bridge leaned into each other, not a sliver of space between them. In a narrow yard, similar to the one where Mrs Webb and Hilda lived, a woman hung out washing. The signature on these paintings was ‘P C’ – Percival Cricklethorpe.
As I reached the last door, I heard a sound. Had I been mistaken, and was some officer still searching? The door was slightly ajar and so I peered round. There was so much to see that at first, I saw only him, Cricklethorpe, in his white shirt, dark trousers and red tie. He was alone, seated in the centre of the floor, surrounded by heaps of colourful clothing: embroidered dresses, velvet skirts, sequinned capes. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Women’s shoes the size of small boats were strewn about the floor.
I stepped back, not wishing to embarrass him. Silently, I trod back along the landing, hoping he did not hear the creaks and groans of the complaining floorboards. After a couple of moments, I called out, and walked more noisily back towards the door. I tapped.
There was no answer.
I tapped again. ‘Mr Cricklethorpe, it’s Kate Shackleton. I need to speak to you.’
Death at the Seaside Page 16