Sykes made his bid for centre stage. ‘I don’t think the police take this kind of thing seriously.’
Mrs Sugden remained undaunted. ‘Well I will take it seriously if I’m under Madam Alma Turner’s roof. Believe you me, I will leave nothing unexamined. And here’s one more for you. Because where do you say Felicity is? In a boat with her sweetheart. Well, listen to this. “In sailing boat to stow away, Longing for a wedding day”. Now tell me the police won’t be interested.’
It was time to bring some order to proceedings. ‘Thank you, Mrs Sugden. Now, Rosie. Mr Sykes, what do you suggest?’
Sykes took a breath ready to speak. Mrs Sugden had not finished. ‘Which officer suspected you of wielding a toffee hammer, Mrs Shackleton?’
‘It’s not something we should take seriously. He’s the local sergeant, being over-keen. Before that the bee in his bonnet was the whereabouts of Alma’s husband, whether they were still married, whether he was alive or dead.’
Sykes once more was about to speak but Mrs Sugden’s eyes lit up. She leaned forward in her eagerness to make a point. ‘Then it’s obvious. This sergeant is in love with the prophetess. He’s under her spell. Any little thing that will shift her out of the line of guilt and he will seize it.’
We all three stared at her, marvelling at this genius leap. She had something. When Sergeant Garvin had found me on the cliff, he expected to see Alma, not to arrest her, but to warn her, to protect her. ‘I’m glad you’ll be coming to stay at Bagdale Hall, Mrs Sugden.’
And now it was Sykes’s turn, at last. ‘I’ll find out what kind of life the jeweller led when he wasn’t selling his wares.’
‘How will you do that?’ Rosie asked.
At that moment, I remembered the tickets I had bought for the bazaar and sale of work. This would be a perfect way to include Rosie and an ideal time and place for Sykes to do some of his clever undercover investigating. I delved in my bag, took out the tickets and handed two to Rosie and one to Mrs Sugden. ‘I know this event will go ahead because it’s too late to let people in the outlying districts know.’
Rosie took the tickets eagerly. ‘Oh yes! This would suit me. Look, Jim. It’s a bazaar and sale of work in aid of seamen.’ She had forgotten about saying she would stay in Robin Hood’s Bay.
Sykes nodded. ‘It’ll be a useful mingling opportunity. Rosie stood. ‘I’ll write a note for the girls and leave them an egg salad.’
Sykes took out his notebook. ‘Is there anyone in particular I should look for?’
‘I’m not sure. I bought the tickets from the assistant in Dowzells newsagents, the shop next door to the jewellers. I don’t know her name.’
‘Someone from the shop next door sounds a good place to start,’ Sykes agreed. ‘But you sound doubtful.’
‘From her interest in selling the tickets, I’d have said she would certainly be there. I took the impression that she was one of the organisers.’
‘But?’
‘I saw her this morning as she was going to church and the change was remarkable. She looked utterly devastated.’
‘What age is she? What does she look like?’
‘Pushing forty, about five feet four, faded blonde curly hair.’
‘Wedding ring?’
‘No.’
‘Any distinguishing features?’
‘A few freckles and a mole on her cheek. She wore a Celtic cross on a gold chain.’
‘And the newsagent himself, will he be there?’
‘At a guess I’d say yes. He came to see me at the hotel yesterday, apologising that he hadn’t realised how serious it was when I went into the shop and asked if he had a phone.’
‘And he’s Mr Dowzell?’
‘So I assume.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Full of himself, hard to tell his age but forties, thinning hair, grey moustache, about five feet eight, portly.’
Rosie was listening intently. ‘In what way was he full of himself?’
‘Oh you know, a touch of the bombasts. He said he was an ex officio JP and on the Urban District Council. I suppose he’s bound to be at this afternoon’s event.’
‘And the shop next door, on the other side?’ Sykes looked at his watch. ‘I suppose we should get a move on.’
‘It’s one of those seaside resort shops that sells knick-knacks, gifts to take home, little toys, that sort of thing. I didn’t go in there.’ I stood. ‘You’re right. We should get going. Come on, Mrs Sugden. You and I will catch the train back to Whitby. Mr Sykes, Rosie, let’s meet up later at the Royal. I’ll book a table for supper and we’ll compare notes.’
Sykes picked up Mrs Sugden’s bag. ‘I’ll take this in the car, save you carrying it.’
‘No thank you.’ She took it back from him. ‘I’ll keep it by me and then I know I have my necessaries.’
As we left the relative shelter of Martins Row, the wind whipped itself into a temper and brought with it a splattering of rain.
Mrs Sugden tucked her newspaper inside her coat. ‘We had us ice creams just in time. I wouldn’t want to be on the beach now.’
She was right. I felt a sudden pain around my heart as I thought of Felicity sailing in the cold North Sea. Had I been here just a few days sooner, I might have found out about her plan.
The steepness of the climb and the battering rain meant that we did not talk much as we battled our way up the hill to the station.
Not until we were on the train did Mrs Sugden ask, ‘Is there something in particular you want me to look into while I’m staying with your friend?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Well, she’s in need of company, and reassurance.’
‘I’m very good at that.’
‘Yes you are. I’d like to think she’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep if you’re along the landing.’
Mrs Sugden tucked her newspaper into her bag. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
There was something else and I felt almost treacherous in saying so. ‘Alma is very good at “not knowing” and at pretending.’
‘In what way, don’t you trust her?’
‘I’m not sure. At school she was almost too good at amateur dramatics, pretending to be something she wasn’t.’
‘And now?’
‘She made out that her husband Walter is in Madeira and reckoned to be surprised when I said I knew he was in Scotland, and that he and Cricklethorpe had business dealings not entirely above board.’
‘What, smuggling?’
‘Yes. I haven’t mentioned it to Mr Sykes, and won’t unless it becomes important.’
‘He wouldn’t like it.’
‘Normally, I wouldn’t mind what secrets Alma wants to keep but it irks me that Felicity may have become involved. According to Mr Cricklethorpe, Walter Turner is a very sick man. If Alma doesn’t know, she should be told, but I’m reluctant to add to her worries without more information.’
‘Where is Mr Turner?’
‘Unless Mr Cricklethorpe is also being slippery, Walter is in Elgin. Just out of interest, see if you can find out whether Alma knows.’
‘Elgin? That’s quite far up isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s beyond Aberdeen.’ I looked out of the carriage window. Lashing rain blurred the view. A fierce wind made trees shudder. A seaside August in England. God help those youngsters on the high seas in this weather.
Although it offended Mrs Sugden’s sensibilities to eat while sitting outside an hotel that was also a public house, the railway station buffet was quite acceptable to her. She ordered tea and a scone with the contented air of a world traveller arriving at a desert oasis.
‘You go off and enquire, Mrs Shackleton. Don’t mind me.’
‘I will, and I don’t expect to be long. The hospital’s a few minutes’ walk away.’
As soon as I left the station for that short walk, my spirits flagged. I could not help but anticipate bad news after the terrible blow that some vicious person had inflicted on Pe
rcival Cricklethorpe. How I wished I had offered to go with him when I harped on that he should tell the police his suspicions as to who murdered the jeweller.
The rain had stopped, leaving glistening cobbles and damp pavements. A young family who had been caught in the downpour, hair flattened, coats soaked, went laughing past me unsubdued, the children singing. They were on holiday and nothing would come between them and gaiety.
My steps slowed as I entered the hospital, dreading the possibility that Cricklethorpe’s life had ebbed away.
The porter at the desk looked up from his newspaper. He was a gaunt-faced man with thick dark hair greying at the temples.
‘My name is Mrs Shackleton. I was with Mrs Turner at Bagdale Hall when we found Percival Cricklethorpe. How is he, and is Mrs Turner still with him?’
‘Mrs Turner has gone home, but I will enquire for you.’ The porter moved so quickly from his cubby hole that I felt he must be keen to have the latest on Cricklethorpe himself.
So at least he was still alive.
In spite of what Marcus had said about Alma intending to stay with her friend so that he might hear a friendly voice, it did not surprise me that she had been sent home. Matrons do not like friends and relatives cluttering up their wards.
The porter was gone for several minutes. I had expected one of the stock answers, that he was very poorly, or critical, or dangerously ill.
The porter came back walking far more slowly, so slowly that I feared the worst.
He shook his head. ‘The patient hasn’t regained consciousness. A nurse is with him now.’
‘Thank you. I’ll call again tomorrow.’
‘It must have been a shock for you and Mrs Turner to find him like that.’
‘It was. Do you know Mr Cricklethorpe?’
‘Not to speak to, but I take the grandkids to the panto every year. He plays a fine dame.’
The porter and I rather optimistically wished each other good day.
It was time for me to introduce Mrs Sugden to Alma. After that, I intended to take a walk to Sandsend. I would enjoy the walk. I had a strong feeling that there would be something for me to find out.
Twenty-Seven
Felicity’s stomach churned as the boat tossed on a rip tide. The wind spoke quietly, half-stilled by heaviness in the air. The sea was almost black. Clouds darkened in sympathy, showing just a patch of blue the colour of her father’s cravat. She saw the black conical bag flying high on a flag-staff beyond a coastal station, triangle pointing upwards, warning of a gale from the north.
She couldn’t get to the side of the boat quickly enough and was sick in the pudding basin. Brendan took it from her, emptied it over the side and gave it back. ‘I know. Feels as if you want to die. Stay still.’
She kept her lips tight shut. The least movement brought on a wave of nausea so strong that her body was no longer her own.
‘Just drink a little.’ Brendan offered her a sip of water. ‘We’ll make it to Berwick before storm.’
‘And if we don’t?’ She wet her lips.
‘Motor gives us a good chance.’
Felicity thought there must be nothing left in her stomach but it heaved again. She filled the basin with a horrible mixture and stumbled towards the side of the boat where she tipped the basin clumsily, spilling vomit on her life jacket.
And then the wind came, tilting the boat, tossing a wave the size of St Mary’s church at them with the ease of a child’s ball thrown against the wall of a house. There was a tearing sound as one of the sails ripped. An inky darkness blotted out the blue sliver of cravat, turning the sky entirely black. Sudden rain pelted her. She wanted to escape into the bunk even though a short time ago when she had lain there the movement, the shifting and tossing, had turned her innards inside out.
Brendan was speaking to her, handing her a torch. He wanted her to do something, shine a light. She couldn’t make out his words but it was something to do with the torn sail and his blessed ropes that he took such pride in. He said the word shroud. She heard it clearly above the din of the wind that was suddenly entirely against them.
He had tethered himself to a safety line and wanted to do the same for her but she wouldn’t let him. If the boat capsized and she was tied, she would be under it and no rescuer would help her.
Brendan crawled among ropes and what she loved about him was how much he had to say for himself in such a dire situation, calling out to her words she could barely catch. Jammed. Twisted. Don’t worry.
Something changed. The engine had stopped. Under the bellowing of the wind she heard the familiar grating vibration that meant he was trying to coax the engine into life. ‘It’s flooded,’ he called.
In the slowed-down moment before the wave crashed, she saw it bearing down on them and knew this must be how it would end – she and Brendan, clinging together, ready to face eternity.
He pulled apart from her. A bucket had rolled towards him. He began to bail water from the boat. Head throbbing, stomach churning, eyes burning, she began to bail with the pudding basin, wanting to cry, wanting to laugh when he gave her that smile.
And then the wave rose, like a mountain on the move.
Twenty-Eight
Mrs Sugden stood beside Alma Turner who was showing her the room that Felicity had prepared for Mrs Shackleton. It was beautifully ordered, with a white candlewick counterpane on the four-poster bed, dark polished furniture, and the smell of beeswax.
Mrs Sugden set down her bag. She walked across to the casement window. It was utterly mad of Mrs Shackleton to prefer a stay in an hotel when she could be here. But that was Mrs Shackleton for you. She had brought Mrs Sugden to this astonishing house, introduced her to her friend and hurried off quick enough to shake the devil.
Mrs Sugden was delighted with the room, and impressed by the trouble Felicity had taken over it. She had even put a posy of anemones on the chest of drawers in a tiny blue vase. She took a quick peek in the top drawer and saw that it was lined with clean brown paper. ‘It’s lovely, Mrs Turner!’
‘I’m glad you like it, Mrs Sugden. Thank goodness that it was Sergeant Garvin who searched this room and not one of those young constables who seem to delight in throwing one’s stuff about the place. Now do you want to hang up your clothes or shall I show you the rest of the house?’
‘Oh, I’d like to see round, please.’
‘Then come this way.’
Alma Turner was everything Mrs Sugden had hoped for from the author of Prophetic Tellings. She was tall, with hair edging towards auburn, wore a flowing dress and an artificial flower in her hair. Her skin had a translucent quality and her eyes protruded just enough to suggest that she saw more than ordinary mortals. She had an enigmatic quality that might hide a multitude of sins. As Mrs Sugden followed her onto the landing, noting the quick, graceful movements, she could well imagine that this woman might feel quite entitled to hit a naughty man on the back of the head with a small hammer if he led her up the garden path.
The dismay crept up on Mrs Sugden gradually, as she began to notice the cobwebs and, in a corner at the foot of the stairs, a litter of dead beetles. Not all the windows had curtains. Even in the poor light it was obvious that the few curtains were not just dirty but filthy. Mrs Sugden, having agreed to stay, could not back out – at least not immediately – and she was more than grateful to the missing daughter for having cleaned her room. Now that she had begun to look around her with more attention, she saw that the floors had not been mopped since King Dick was a lad.
Mrs Sugden now suspected that Mrs Shackleton had dashed off with wings on her heels not because she was in a hurry to go somewhere but so that she, Mrs Sugden, would feel compelled to stay here and keep company with the grieving prophetess.
The only cheering aspect was that the rain had stopped. Mrs Turner led her into the little courtyard. ‘Look, the sun’s come out! Take the weight off your feet, Mrs Sugden. I’ll make us a cup of tea.’
There was a small wrought ir
on table and chairs by the wall. The chairs had been tilted to keep off the rain. Mrs Sugden straightened two and sat down to wait. It was a pretty little yard, with a well and pot plants. Someone had kept it tidy. As Mrs Sugden sat waiting for a cup of tea and anticipating a slice of shop cake, she thought that perhaps it was too much to expect that a prophetess, fortune teller and writer of pamphlets would know how to handle a brush and dustpan or have the wherewithal to bring in a cleaner.
The shock of squalor had brushed from Mrs Sugden’s memory what Mrs Shackleton had asked her to find out. Ah yes, something about how much Alma knew, about Scotland, about her husband’s dealings, and whether that husband was seriously ill.
Mrs Turner emerged carrying a tray, teapot, cups and saucers, milk jug and a plate with three fig biscuits, two with corners missing. Mrs Sugden sniffed the milk from three feet away.
‘I’ll take my tea black, thank you, Mrs Turner.’
‘Very well.’ Mrs Turner pushed the plate of fig biscuits towards her.
‘I couldn’t,’ Mrs Sugden made an attempt at showing how very full she was.
Mrs Turner seemed a little more relaxed now that she knew she would have company. ‘I was beginning to feel like a prisoner in there, sitting at the window, hoping for news, waiting to see Felicity stepping into view.’
‘It’s always good to come out,’ Mrs Sugden agreed. ‘Perhaps we could go for a walk later, if you feel up to it.’
‘Possibly.’
As they drank their tea, Mrs Turner unburdened herself regarding the shock of finding Felicity’s note. ‘She has given up her job as a waitress in the tea rooms. What was she thinking of?’
Mrs Sugden shook her head. That was a mystery to her, too: at least as a waitress in tea rooms the girl would have had a decent bite to eat in clean surroundings.
Death at the Seaside Page 21