This was just the right sort of walk. I kept to the damp sand and the pebbles but told myself I would come back in the morning, take off my shoes, and feel the sand between my toes.
By the time I reached the hamlet of Sandsend, I felt so much better and could almost pretend, if briefly, that nothing bad had happened.
Passing the café that the shop assistant had mentioned, I decided to walk on a little further. A shelter and a bus stop stood not far from the café, perhaps a stopping-off point for charabancs.
It was somewhere not far off that Jack Philips had his bungalow. It was sad to think of poor Alma looking through the windows, imagining herself mistress of an up-to-date house with modern conveniences. We all have our dreams.
A family of ducks waddled over from the stream on the left. They crossed and re-crossed the road in front of me, as if insisting upon their right of way. Perhaps the road had once been a stream, too, and they were instinctively acting out some ritual of their duck forbears.
On the other side of the stream were houses, and a couple of bungalows. I veered off and walked the path that ran parallel to the stream. There was a church on the right, so plain and simple in style that it was difficult to say how old it must be. Like so many churches roundabout, it was called St Mary’s.
The car parked just ahead was an Alvis, the type used by some police forces. My father had something similar. This could be a coincidence, but it might also mean that Marcus or one of his men were nearby. That was not surprising. They would be bound to question Jack Philips’s neighbours.
Just out of interest, I would take a look at the bungalow, and then make my way back to the café. A little bridge crossed the stream. As I walked along the bridge, I saw a uniformed policeman emerge from a bungalow. So that was the house that Mr Philips was having decorated. Perhaps if he had been at home here instead of staying above the shop, he might still be alive.
All the gardens were beautifully kept. In the three that I passed, were similar flowers and bushes. This was the kind of place where people gave cuttings and seeds to their neighbours. There was forsythia, jasmine, buddleia, berberis and fuchsia. They had withstood the battering rain and now drew bees and butterflies.
The police constable who had emerged from the bungalow now stood at the front gate. How sad that Mr Philips wouldn’t see his cottage garden again. It was in full bloom. The constable was watching me. He gave a nod. ‘Lovely garden, eh miss?’
‘Yes. Beautiful.’
There was a nameplate on the gate. Doram. The same name as Jack Philips’s boat. Previously I hadn’t thought about the significance of naming a boat. There must be some thought behind the choice.
‘Do you know why the house is called Doram, constable? It seems an odd name.’
‘You have me there, miss.’
It would not be random but named for a loved one, or a hope or a dream. Doram.
As we were speaking, a woman came from the direction of the back of the house. Both he and I were taken by surprise at the loud voice of the thin-as-a-stick young woman in dark dress and bonnet, announcing in a foghorn voice that broke the quiet of the overcast afternoon, ‘Back door’s locked!’
The constable looked concerned. ‘You shouldn’t be trying doors. Chief Inspector is in there.’
She pushed by him to the gate. ‘I must be let in.’
‘You’re not allowed.’
‘I want to know what’s happened to his cat. I’ve been all round Mulgrave Woods calling his name. Has he turned up?’
‘I don’t know about a cat, missis,’ the policeman said.
‘Well is he in there? Only he might be frightened and hiding.’
‘There’s no cat.’
She took a deep breath and drew herself to a greater height. ‘Officer, I’m the cleaner and I ought to know. He comes and goes through the bathroom window so I can tell you for sure a cat lives here.’
I should have walked on, but didn’t. It occurred to me that she might know why the house and boat were called Doram.
Marcus appeared in the doorway. He glanced at the man in uniform and the woman in the pinny and then looked at me.
How annoying! He would think me a ghoul and a gawper, a nosey parker. He would suspect me of investigating when I was doing nothing more than taking a stroll and admiring the gardens.
Should I stay, or go? To go would look like fleeing. Marcus gave a friendly nod as he came along the crazy paving path, as though seeing me at the dead man’s bungalow was only to be expected. It then would have seemed rude to continue on my way so I loitered while he, the constable and the young woman exchanged words.
Marcus said, ‘It’s Mrs Bailey, isn’t it? We have your statement.’
The woman looked pleased that he remembered her name. ‘You do, and you have my fingerprints.’
‘So what is it you want, Mrs Bailey?’
‘I want to go in there and look for Mr Philips’s cat. It might be frightened and hiding with all this going on.’
‘There’s no cat. The house has been searched and all the windows are closed.’
‘Then where’s he got to?’ She launched into an account of where she had looked, and where her children had looked.
‘Just a moment.’ Marcus came across to me and drew me out of hearing distance. ‘Do me a little favour, Kate?’
‘What?’
‘You’re good on cats.’
‘Am I?’
‘You found that black one, didn’t you? The one that belonged to the woman in Bridgestead.’
I was surprised that he knew, and that he remembered. ‘Yes but…’
He smiled. ‘Talk to her, reassure her. The cat’s probably taken to the woods but I don’t want her tramping about, distracting my officers and trying to get into the house. She’s already asked me who’s going to pay for the cleaning she did last week.’
‘Well if you think it might help I’ll talk to her.’ I pretended a slight reluctance though secretly I relished the thought of finding out more about this bungalow and its occupant.
‘Thanks, Kate. You must let me give you supper when this is over.’ He turned to walk back to Mrs Bailey.
Marcus went back into the garden. ‘Mrs Bailey, this lady occasionally helps the police with their enquiries.’ He paused so that I would pick up the humour of his reference to my having been kept in a cell overnight. He continued. ‘Mrs Shackleton would be very happy to take details of the missing cat. The constable will let you into the garden, you two can sit on the bench and you can tell her all about it.’
The constable duly held open the gate and led us up the garden path. He gallantly dabbed at the wet bench with his large white hanky. Mrs Bailey showed much pleasure at having my personal attention. The rain had sharpened the scent of hollyhocks and wallflowers.
‘Tell me about the cat, Mrs Bailey.’
‘Mr Philips was very fond of that cat. Had him since a kitten. He’s from my cat’s litter you see so I don’t want him to come to harm.’
‘Of course not. Can you describe him?’
‘He’s a bonny fellow with tigerish markings, brown and black, dainty little prick-up ears and marmalade eyes.’
‘What age?’
‘Five years old, same as my little boy.’
‘And what’s his name?’
‘Tiger.’
I did not need to write down this information but thought it would look better to do so and took out my notebook. ‘Thank you. Let’s hope it’s not too long before we find him. And talking of names, do you happen to know why this bungalow and Mr Philips’s boat are both called Doram?’
‘Do you know, I never gave that a thought. All the times I’ve stepped through the gate and not wondered, and here you are straight away wondering about the name of the house. I expect that’s why you help the police with their enquiries.’
‘And have you cleaned for Mr Philips long?’
‘Oh about six years, coming in most days. I’ll miss him, and I’ll miss the wor
k.’
‘Mrs Bailey, I don’t suppose you know of anyone who might be interested in doing some cleaning at Bagdale Hall? Only I know there’s superstition locally about the place being haunted.’
She laughed. ‘Haunted! What nonsense. If they pay a proper rate I’d clean it myself.’
‘Would you? It’s a big house.’
‘Then I’d get my sister to come along.’
It was selfish of me, but the last thing I wanted was for Mrs Sugden to take a look at the Bagdale Hall kitchen and catch the next train back to Leeds, leaving me to cope with Alma.
‘Well that’s very good of you. Write down your address and what days you’d be free to come and we’ll send word.’ I handed her my notebook and pencil. When she had finished writing, I said, ‘It must have been difficult cleaning in here with all the work, all the decorating.’
‘Oh we managed. One room at a time you know.’
‘Mr Philips had plans I believe.’
‘He did, and it’s a tragedy that his life was cut short.’
‘I heard he might be taking a wife.’
She nodded. ‘That’s what folk were saying. Don’t ask me who. She wasn’t from Sandsend I can tell you that. We all knew him, you see.’
The day had once more grown overcast. A dark stain spread across the sky with its threat or promise of rain. Well, let it rain. But as I walked back from the bungalow, the heavens opened and it was not just rain. As I crossed the little bridge, hailstones began to rattle down, pelting me in the face. Even the ducks had abandoned the road. I hurried back to the Sandsend café. It was closed.
Head down, I sought the roadside charabanc shelter. Rain I could bear, rain I could enjoy, but these hailstones must have been cast in iron for the torture of those foolish enough to take an English seaside walk without benefit of raincoat, galoshes and umbrella.
I was still sheltering, sitting on the bench, soaked to the skin, when the Alvis glided into view. Through the torrent, I could make out Marcus in the back. The car stopped. The last thing I wanted was to be transported like a lame duck back to Whitby, but it was that or catch pneumonia. Marcus got out. He unfurled an umbrella and crossed to the shelter
‘Care for a lift?’
‘I won’t say no.’
We crossed back. He opened the car door.
I slid in, dripping rain across the back seat. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure, Kate. Ducks shake themselves, if that helps.’
‘I’ll spare you the shaking.’
‘Not been your ideal holiday so far, has it?’
‘At least try to keep the amusement out of your voice.’
He made a solemn face. ‘Where are you heading?’
‘Back to the hotel.’
‘Wise choice.’ He spoke to the driver, asking him to drop me at the Royal.
As we drove along the coast road, I cleared the misty window with my glove and looked out at the waves lashing the shore.
Marcus wanted to say something. I could hear his brain ticking.
‘What is it, Chief Inspector? Are you going to ask me to keep my nose out of police business?’
‘I don’t entirely mind your nose.’ He paused. ‘I’m not sure… This is for your ears only, at present.’
‘All right.’
‘The coastguard boarded the Doram. Your goddaughter and her friend were heading for Lindisfarne. They stayed there an hour or so and then went on, in spite of being advised against it.’
‘Couldn’t they have been stopped?’
‘Brendan Webb told an old fisherman they were going to Scotland to see Felicity’s father.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘There’s no law against that. I only hope for her sake that’s all she and the Webb boy are planning to do.’
I took off my wet hat and ran my hands through my hair. Rain drops slid down my back. ‘I wish they’d been stopped. Look at it out there, Marcus! Two kids in a small boat in this.’
‘Let’s hope they know what they’re doing.’
Thirty-One
The person in Felicity’s skin didn’t feel like herself at all. She was still alive, with the pudding basin in her hand. Brendan clung to her. The boat was flooded and sinking. She could feel it sinking. Instead of a quick blotting out of life it would be a slow freezing end. Every inch of her hurt. If she moved she would die. If she didn’t move she would die.
He shoved a bucket into her hands. ‘Keep bailing. Tide’s taking us in.’
She tried but began to retch, and tried again. Somehow she filled the bucket and threw its contents overboard, and the wind threw it back.
Brendan bailed so hard that she could see the crack in the bottom where the water poured in.
Finally, the bottom of the boat began to scrape. The crack in the wood widened. Felicity felt too dazed to understand at first and then realised that they were almost ashore. Brendan undid his own tether to the safety line and turned to do the same for her. She had been too sick to notice that he had tied a rope to her when she refused.
They half-stepped, half-fell into thigh-deep water.
The men who came spoke in broad Scots, like the men who brought their boats south. There was a dark-dressed woman, too, who looked like one of the girls who followed shoals of herring around the coast and came to Whitby and Scarborough in the summer, to gut and to salt. Their voices washed over Felicity. She felt sick and weak, waves and voices pounding her brain, not letting her take in the words.
When Felicity looked out of the cottage window, she saw her clothes hanging on the washing line. She was sitting in front of a fire, wearing a coarse blue dress and wrapped in a man’s overcoat and a blanket, though she couldn’t stop shivering. A young woman with black hair and red cheeks, who was able to do all sorts of jobs with one hand while holding a baby, gave her a basin of hot water to soak her feet and a cup of broth to warm her hands and belly. ‘I’m Barbara,’ she said when Felicity told her own name.
Felicity’s money belt was on the fireguard, drying. ‘Where are we?’
‘By Scremerston. The men saved your stuff.’
After she had washed, Felicity brought out face cream from her knapsack. She rubbed the cream onto her face that was red raw from wind. She pushed it across to Barbara. ‘Try it. My friend works in a hotel. Someone left it behind.’
‘Where ye gannin’?’
‘Elgin, to see my dad.’
‘How will ye gang there noo?’
‘I’ll walk.’
Barbara laughed. She pointed to the money belt. ‘Catch a train from Berwick.’
Felicity’s brain came back to life. ‘How far are we off Berwick?’
‘No distance.’ She set the now sleeping baby in the cradle and sat down to examine the face cream.
‘Who’s yon laddie to you?’
‘My intended.’
‘He has it in mind to mend the boat.’ She shook her head and tapped her forehead with her finger. ‘It’s salvage, pure salvage.’
Thirty-Two
Miss Dowzell clicked open her back gate. ‘Thank you, Mr Sykes. It was good of you to see me home.’ She took a breath, ready to wish him goodbye.
Sykes put his hand on the gate. ‘My wife would give me gyp if I didn’t see you safely in.’
‘Very well.’
It struck Sykes that it would be a brave woman, or man, who would not be cautious after what had happened in the shop next door.
They took a few strides across the paved yard, passing the outside privy, the crate of empty pop bottles and a battered dustbin that smelled of ashes.
She fumbled for a key in her mackintosh pocket. ‘There was a time when none of us locked our doors.’ The key began to shake in her hand.
Sykes thought it best not to notice. ‘Have habits changed with the influx of visitors?’
‘Whitby isn’t what it was when I was a girl.’ She mastered the key and unlocked the door.
She was at least talking now, on her home gr
ound. People are so trusting, Sykes thought. For all she knows my wife could be the bait and me the man who comes from behind with the hammer.
Suddenly she seemed to lose her nerve and stepped back giving the impression that she wanted him to go into the house first, perhaps to check that there were no intruders.
Sykes opened the door and stepped inside, holding it for her, looking about. She followed.
They were in a scullery kitchen, with a Belfast sink with single tap, cupboards and a gas ring. Once she was in, he put the chain on the latch. ‘Will you let me put the kettle on?’
She had opened the door to the room between the scullery and the shop. This must be the mirror of the room where Mrs Shackleton found the body of the jeweller. Sykes noticed the dark oak sideboard, above which hung a print of Holman Hunt’s The Light of the World. On the opposite side was the fireplace and oven, though no fire burned. Miss Dowzell had not answered his question about the kettle.
She spoke to a cat that sat in the rocking chair. It was a strange-looking creature with tiny pointed ears, a flat face and black and brown markings. As she stroked it, the cat stood, arching its back and tilting its head.
Everywhere there were signs of the newsagent business. Boxes of wine gums and boiled sweets stood on the sideboard alongside lollipops and cigarettes. Stacks of magazines and comics that must be ready for display or to be returned to the publisher unsold took up much of the table space. Sykes glanced at bills from wholesalers.
He asked again. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘Something stronger for me, I think.’ She opened the sideboard door. ‘Will you join me?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ He had not expected to be offered alcohol. It would be sweet sherry.
The cat watched as she took two glasses from the cupboard. A woman of surprises. It was brandy. Here was someone who shared Mrs Shackleton’s philosophy. In time of need, reach for the brandy.
‘Medicinal.’ She handed him a brandy balloon. ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Sykes?’
Death at the Seaside Page 24