‘Come on then. Let’s go for a walk.’
The police had all left. A calm hush pervaded the atmosphere. I thought of the first occupants of the house, their optimism, their faith, their love, and of the quotation above the door. Come along with me, the best is yet to be.
At the turn in the stairs, we both saw him at the same moment, Percival Cricklethorpe, lying motionless on the floor in front of the fire.
Alma froze.
I hurried down the steps.
Cricklethorpe lay face down, his head by the fender, a nasty gash on the back of his head. He was unconscious but breathing. I took off my coat and made a pillow, raising his head a little.
Alma hovered behind me. ‘Is he…?’
‘He’s alive. Give me your cape.’
She did so and I covered him. ‘Run to the police station. Say we need a doctor and ambulance. Tell them Mr Cricklethorpe has been attacked.’
‘Shall I go straight to the hospital?’
‘The police will get help more quickly. Hurry!’
I sat with Percival Cricklethorpe, talking to him, trying to rouse him, hoping he could hear me. His pulse was slow and his breathing laboured but his eyes flickered.
It seemed an age that I sat on the floor, holding his hand, until Marcus arrived.
He bobbed down beside me. ‘We’ll have him in hospital shortly. Do you have your camera?’
‘No.’
He took a small sketchpad from his pocket. ‘Step back, Kate.’
With deft movements, he began to sketch Cricklethorpe and the area around him. He was still drawing when the doctor and two ambulance men arrived.
The doctor did a quick examination, raising Percival Cricklethorpe’s eyelids and checking his pulse. He took lint from his bag and applied it to the wound.
At his nod, the ambulance men manoeuvred their patient onto a stretcher.
The doctor took a brief look at me and then glanced at Marcus.
‘I’m all right,’ I said.
One of the ambulance men spoke. ‘We’ll cut through the back way, doctor, if the door’s open.’
The doctor went ahead of them, opening the door into the corridor that led into the kitchen and the yard.
As they disappeared through the back, Sergeant Garvin arrived at the front. He and I stood back, watching as Marcus examined the scene. He carefully lifted the heavy poker from its place in the tidy with the brush and shovel. He carried it outside to examine it in the light, beckoning to the sergeant to go with him.
Marcus came back alone. ‘That was the weapon.’
Poor Cricklethorpe. I did not have much hope for his chances of recovery if he had been hit with that.
Marcus continued his look around. I sat on the stairs, watching.
After several moments, he joined me. ‘Did you hear anything?’
‘No. Alma and I were in her room on the second floor. Mr Cricklethorpe’s rooms are on the first floor.’
‘Had you spoken to him?’
‘Yes, earlier, after your men had made a mess of his pantomime room. He was upset.’
‘He had on his jacket. Did he give any indication where he was going or who he would be seeing?’
‘I believe he may have been coming to the station to see you and give a statement. He knew something.’
‘What?’
‘He had a strong suspicion as to who killed the jeweller and why but he wouldn’t tell me. I encouraged him to come and talk to you.’
‘Did he give any hint?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. And it’s a pity he cleared out all the whisky. You look as if you could do with a tipple.’ He stood and offered his hand to haul me up from the stairs.
We walked through the shady courtyard into the bright light of day. ‘Mrs Turner said she’d wait at the hospital, and stay with Cricklethorpe. If he regains consciousness it will be good for him to see a familiar face. There’s nothing more you can do here, Kate.’
‘I know.’
‘Thank you.’
I shrugged. ‘I did what anyone would do, which was not very much. I only hope he has a chance of pulling through.’
‘Will you go to the hospital?’
‘Not yet. I’ll let the doctors do their work and call later.’
There was an odd awkwardness between us, a reluctance to turn away from each other.
Twenty-Five
As I walked the few yards to the railway station, I wondered was I doing the right thing. I needed to talk to someone, not Marcus. He was too busy, and there was still that awkwardness between us. After all that had happened since yesterday, I felt in need of moral support and a listening ear, as well as a brief escape from the tragic events in Whitby. There was just one person who would help me take the measure of all that had happened. That person was my assistant, Jim Sykes.
Reluctant as I was to butt into his holiday, I intended to do exactly that.
Sykes, his wife Rosie and their children were holidaying about eight miles away, in Robin Hood’s Bay, a busy coastal village. Gerald and I had walked to the Bay and I had promised myself I would follow that route again. From the top of the West Cliff, a path wound onto the cliffs, giving superb views of the bay on what I remembered as that long-ago perfect day. Gerald had worried that the walk was too strenuous, but I just laughed, not finding it at all difficult. We took our cameras and photographed a ship that moved so slowly that it appeared to stand still. We made a detour down a steep and rocky path to Saltwick Bay. An aged man, who must have been sure-footed as a goat, provided tea from an urn. Would he be there still, as old as Methuselah? After climbing back up to the cliff path, the way led us beyond a lighthouse, and slightly inland. I tried to remember the point at which we dipped down into Robin’s Hood Bay.
I would have loved to do that walk again, but not today. It would take too long. Nor did I feel inclined to drive to the Bay as I remembered the road into the village as being almost vertical. With the way my luck was going since arriving in Whitby, the car would scoot down the hill and into the sea.
The train would suit me better. It might even allow me to pretend to myself that the visit was a social call on the Sykes family. Trying to banish images of the dead Jack Philips, and Cricklethorpe lying so helpless by the fireplace, I thought about the Sykes family.
They had been spending their annual holiday in the cottage on Martins Row for several years now, since we made the acquaintance of Miss Horrocks, the Bradford owner, during an investigation regarding a missing person. The Horrocks family was glad of the rental income. For Sykes’s eldest boy, his first visit to Robin Hood’s Bay had marked a turning point. Thomas was keen on woodwork and the local cabinet maker took a liking to him and let him help in his workshop. This experience gained him an apprenticeship with a firm of carpenters and joiners in Leeds. Now, whenever the family visited the Bay, the cabinet maker and his wife gave Thomas a room and made a fuss of him.
At least they would all be enjoying their holiday, I hoped, as would my housekeeper Mrs Sugden who was visiting her cousin just a few miles further south, in Scarborough.
At the station, I was pleased to arrive just in time for the next train to Robin Hood’s Bay. This small triumph felt like a good omen. I boarded the train, along with others making this Sunday excursion. The experience of spending the night in a cell added to the sense of freedom that comes from a railway journey.
As I turned into Martins Row, I saw Rosie standing in the doorway, exchanging a few words with an elderly woman who carried a basket on her arm. Whatever remark Rosie made, it drew a smile.
The woman moved on.
Rosie shaded her eyes. ‘Mrs Shackleton, how lovely to see you.’
Really? How lovely could it be that her husband’s boss intruded even here? ‘Hello, Rosie. How are you getting on?’
‘Very well.’
‘Where is everyone?’
‘The girls are on the beach with a picnic. Thomas is over at the workshop, helping Mr Fosd
yck. Jim is having a drink at the Bay Hotel. But come in. The kettle’s on the boil.’
I had been in the cottage only once before. It was neat and clean, with distempered walls and a low fire in the grate.
Rosie poured water into the teapot, while giving me chapter and verse about her journey here. Sykes had driven through all the lanes and byways across the moors, stopping every now and then to check his compass and the road map. ‘Thomas and the girls came by train. They’re so independent now – not children any more. The time goes by so quickly.’ She sighed. ‘This could be our last family holiday.’
‘Thomas is seventeen, isn’t he?’
‘Yes and thinks himself entirely grown up, and you know that Irene’s been working in Schofields haberdashery these last two years, very steady she is and well-liked. It’s all haberdashery with her now. She’s highly critical of the little shop in Robin Hood’s Bay, says it’s entirely out of date and she wishes she could have three hours in there, sorting out the place.’
‘Robin Hood’s Bay better watch out!’
She laughed. ‘Aye, it’s no more buckets and spades on the beach for my little lot. But here I am chatting my head off. How is that school friend of yours?’
Rosie had been the gracious recipient of Alma’s pamphlets and prophecies which I had purchased in quantities. ‘Are you sure you want to know? It’s a long story.’
‘They’re the best kind.’
Now that news of the jeweller’s death had been broadcast from pulpits, with the clear implication of foul play, I gave her a brief account of finding the body. As briefly as I could, I told her about Alma and her worries about the missing Felicity. Somehow I could not bring myself to talk about the attack on Percival Cricklethorpe, not yet, not while he lay fighting for his life. That the outrage had happened when Alma and I were in her room unsettled me deeply. If we had gone downstairs a little sooner, our presence might have prevented the attack.
Rosie was clearly shaken at the thought of a murder in a place so near by, and the disappearance of my goddaughter upset her greatly. ‘If one of my girls took off, I’d be frantic. How is Mrs Turner coping?’
My own sigh surprised me. ‘Not very well. Life hasn’t been easy for her.’ I took the Alma line of explanation regarding Walter Turner. ‘Her husband has worked away for many years and I do believe that Felicity may have gone to find him.’
Rosie nodded. ‘I see, and so perhaps Mrs Turner wouldn’t be pleased at that. Do you know where she has gone?’
In spite of her chattiness, Rosie can be discreet. Even so, I decided against mentioning the likelihood that Felicity was sailing to Elgin to find her bigamist smuggler of a father. ‘The police have informed the coastguard.’
‘She’s in a boat?’
‘We think so.’
‘I’m surprised the police have time, with a murder on their hands.’
‘The thing is Felicity was in the jewellers shop, and may have been one of the last people to see Mr Philips alive.’
‘Was he robbed?’
‘I don’t know what was taken. I suppose he kept inventories so the police may learn what the intruder was after.’
‘Perhaps whoever did it didn’t intend to kill him and became afraid, wanted to be gone before anyone saw them.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Did anyone see a man going in there?’
‘If it was a man. I don’t know. I’m not privy to investigations.’
‘Is Scotland Yard on the case?’
‘Yes. It’s Chief Inspector Marcus Charles.’
She tried to hide her surprise. ‘You and he are friends, aren’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that, though we do have some regard for each other.’ That was putting it mildly. I had been rather bowled over by him, but also hugely irritated, and I sometimes wished we had kept each other at arms’ length. I diverted the conversation. ‘Felicity pawned a watch-guard with the jeweller and then left the pawn ticket for her mother to redeem so the police want to talk to her about that.’
‘Thoughtful of her! Children these days. We’d never have dreamed of doing such a thing.’
‘I might as well come clean, Rosie. I’m hoping Mr Sykes will find the time to… well, pay a visit to Whitby with me and see how the land lies.’
‘I’m sure Jim would want to help find the lass.’
‘I don’t want to spoil your holiday by dragging him away.’
‘Well it’s not for something little, is it? A murder, perhaps a jewel robbery. Could it be anything to do with smuggling?’
Was the woman a mind reader? She should be the one in the pepper pot, handing out fortunes. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I’ve heard about diamonds being smuggled in from Amsterdam, stolen diamonds.’
‘Really? That’s news to me.’
‘Well you and I wouldn’t have thought of it but smuggling is something of a tradition round here.’ She stood. ‘Have you been round this house?’
‘No.’
‘Well then, you’ll find the cellar of interest.’
‘Is there something special about it?’
She lit a candle. ‘Come and see. Our Thomas noticed it when he was exploring, the first time we came.’
I followed her through the door at the back of the room. She led the way down twisting stone steps into the kind of cellar one sees everywhere: a stone slab; a cold press with a mesh door for keeping butter and cheese; a heap of coal in the corner and above it the grate where the coalman tipped the bags.
‘But look at this.’ She opened a small door that led onto a corridor too low and narrow for an adult to pass through. She ducked down, turned to her right and then held the candle aloft. ‘See!’
I followed her and saw that a concealed turning led off into a hidden passage that widened into a tunnel. ‘How extraordinary. Where does it lead?’
‘To the shore line. Thomas and the girls insisted on walking it. Frightened me to death. I imagined the roof caving in on them.’
‘But why is it here? What was the purpose?’
‘It’s a smugglers’ passage. There are lots of them, according to Mr Fosdyck the cabinet maker. Smuggling was the way many poor people made their living.’
‘It gives me the shudders. How long must this tunnel be?’
‘Too long for me.’ The candle flickered as she moved towards the opposite wall. ‘See that blocked-up opening? That led to the next house along. This village is a warren of underground passages and bolt holes. It’s said that a bale of silk could pass from the bottom of the village to the top without leaving the houses. If these walls could speak we’d hear some fine tales.’
We left the cellar and climbed up the worn stone steps. I was glad to be back on ground level. Moments ago, the ground floor room had seemed small and gloomy. After the shadows of the cellar it felt suddenly bright, light and airy.
Rosie paused at the top of the steps. ‘I see why you want Jim to join you, with all that’s going on up in Whitby.’
‘I’m sorry to have come barging in on your holiday.’
‘Don’t be sorry. We’ve been here going on two days, he’ll be glad of the diversion.’ She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Come with me. I said I’d meet him for a sandwich in the Bay Hotel at one o’clock.’
Jim Sykes was seated on a bench outside the Bay Hotel, his hat on the table. It was reassuring to see him looking so relaxed, though he made no concessions to summer attire. He wore his usual weekday suit and a patterned tie. He smiled broadly, showing no surprise at seeing me. ‘Hello! There isn’t a seat to be had inside. Do you mind the bench?’
We didn’t mind. One glance at the pub told us how crowded it was. People were spilling out of the doors.
To say Sykes had caught the sun would be an understatement. His face had the hue of a well-boiled lobster.
He touched the back of his neck gingerly. ‘I’m glad of a bit of shade. Take my trilby off and the back of my neck and f
orehead burn. Put it on and I roast.’ He called the waiter, and we placed our order for sandwiches and drinks.
Sykes already knew about the murder of Mr Philips. News had travelled along the coast, gathering colourful details on the way. I gave him the more sober version of finding the body before telling him about Felicity Turner’s sudden departure, and Alma’s connection with the jeweller.
Sykes gave me a quick glance. He knew there was much I left unsaid and that both Alma and Felicity would need to be eliminated from police enquiries.
Rosie joined the conversation, sympathising and hoping Felicity would turn up soon.
Sykes fanned a wasp from his beer. ‘Did you drive from Whitby?’
‘I came on the train.’
‘Well why don’t we drive back together and you can show me the lie of the land.’
I glanced quickly at Rosie. ‘I didn’t intend this business to intrude on your holiday.’
Rosie bit into her sandwich. ‘I hate bought sandwiches.’
‘Don’t eat it if you don’t like it, love.’
‘Well I’m not going to waste it, am I?’ She chewed and swallowed. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t make them myself.’
‘Because you’re on holiday,’ Sykes said.
Rosie looked from him to me. ‘You two aren’t on holiday, not any more.’
‘It’s just a precaution, Rosie.’ I tried to sound unconcerned. ‘You see, I know this will sound ridiculous but Alma, Felicity and I are at the eye of the storm – until something changes. The local sergeant suspected me of the murder.’
Rosie choked on a crumb, took a coughing fit and then a sip of lemonade. ‘What?’
‘I know. It’s ludicrous. Now that Marcus has taken charge the sergeant will be bound to let his nonsense drop but I feel uneasy on all sorts of counts, and for Alma and Felicity.’
Sykes drained his pint of beer. ‘Marcus? Chief Inspector Marcus Charles?’
‘Yes. He arrived this morning.’
Rosie had not quite recovered from her choking fit. She gulped. ‘Well he’ll have it sorted soon enough, won’t he?’
‘I expect he will.’
The wasp now hovered over Rosie’s lemonade. She flicked it away. ‘If I was in Whitby on my own and found a body and some idiot thought I’d done it, I’d worry. Jim, you go back with Mrs Shackleton. Just do it.’
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