Sykes had never met Alma Turner, but he took an instant dislike to her on the grounds that she was the one who should have been here, asking about her daughter. ‘Well thank you again. Miss Dowzell will be relieved.’ He was relieved himself. ‘You chaps do a grand job.’
‘Aye, so they say. Good day to you.’
From there, Sykes went back to the newsagents.
His first impression on opening the door was of the number of people present and the thought that it must be a busy time. Then the figures registered. There was the self-important Mr Dowzell, standing to the right by the jars of sweets, arms folded across his chest. Beside him was the assistant, Mrs Broomfield, smelling of soap and washing day.
It had been years since Sykes clapped eyes on Chief Inspector Marcus Charles, but he knew him at once. The uniformed sergeant was unfamiliar to Sykes, but he recognised him from Mrs Shackleton’s description as the pleasant man with a collection of fossils. He had a hand on Miss Dowzell’s elbow, urging her to come quietly.
She had the wild-eyed look of a hunted fox.
As she was taken past her brother she gave him a look of contempt. ‘What else can you do?’
The brother made an attempt at concern. ‘I’ll make sure you are seen by the doctor. I’ll do everything. You’ll have the best defence.’
His eyes told a different story. The eyes shone with triumph.
Miss Dowzell glanced at Sykes as she was led away, half-beseeching but also defeated.
‘I’ll go straight back to your solicitor, Miss Dowzell.’ He risked coming closer and whispered, ‘Brendan is safe.’
The chief inspector spared Sykes a cursory glance. ‘Mr Sykes, will you go quietly or do I have to arrest you for obstruction?’
It gave Sykes a quiet satisfaction to realise that the animosity and dislike between him and Chief Inspector Charles was mutual.
Any doubt he had as to Miss Dowzell’s innocence vanished as he watched her being led away. Marcus Charles had yet again arrested the wrong person.
Thirty-Five
Felicity decided that there was no better place to be than in a train. Going somewhere. Arriving in Aberdeen. Departing Aberdeen. When the carriage emptied, she hung Brendan’s gansey and her cardigan from the luggage rack because they were still damp and giving off the smell of wet sheep.
Brendan hadn’t smiled once, and looked so pale. Every so often he would repeat his laments in a quiet voice that other passengers had pretended not to hear. Now that they were alone, he could be louder.
‘If we’d stayed on Lindisfarne… If I’d asked our Ian to come… How will I tell Mr Philips?… What will he say when I tell him Doram is beached at Scremerston?… If I’d been at home I might have mended her…’
‘No you wouldn’t, love. The Scremerston men were right. It’s salvage.’
‘How will I pay him back for the boat?’
‘We both will.’ Felicity felt cheerful now that she had decided never again to go to sea. ‘I’ll offer to work in his shop, on commission. I’ll sell jewellery. I’d like that. I’d be good at it.’
‘And what am I supposed to do?’ He spoke as if she had already sold several diamond tiaras and he was tramping for work. ‘I’ll be paying Mr Philips back when I’m ninety.’
‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. What’s done is done. We’re alive. We’re together.’
At last, he smiled. Sort of.
Felicity thought about the three telegrams they had sent from Berwick. She should have asked how long they would take to arrive.
She went over the wording, wondering if it was clear enough and tactful enough. Her mother’s first.
Safe and well visiting WT in Hopeman
No need for a name, or a STOP to add to the word count. There was only one WT in the world: Walter Turner.
At Felicity’s insistence, Brendan had sent a telegram to his mother, although he knew that by now the mothers would have spoken to each other. Hilda, who had been trying to find out their plans, would have seen to that. His message cost the least.
Am alright Mam
The one that gave most trouble, and almost made them miss the train, concerned the Doram. Felicity thought it best that they should break the news to Mr Philips gradually.
Regret storm damage Doram STOP Explanation follows STOP Brendan
Thirty-Six
My breakfast table was by the window. The old black Jowett hurtled into view as if in a race. It came to a stop at the front of the hotel. Sykes leaped out as if the motor was on fire and hurried towards the hotel entrance. Straight away I knew he was not out for a morning constitutional or calling to pass the time of day. I called the waitress and asked her to let the reception desk know that I was here and to send in my visitor, Mr Sykes. I also asked for another cup to be brought and whether the chef might rustle up an additional breakfast. From my quick glance, Sykes looked as though he needed something.
I was breakfasting later than usual because I had visited the coastguard, and then called to tell Alma the good news that Felicity and Brendan had landed (if that was the right word) in Scremerston. We looked it up in the atlas. ‘So she is on her way to see Walter,’ Alma had said. ‘I wish I could ask Crickly what to do about it.’
But Mr Cricklethorpe had still not regained consciousness. We had taken enormous comfort from hearing that he was ‘stable’, but who knew what unseen damage that blow had inflicted?
I left Alma and Mrs Sugden to the breakfast that Mrs Sugden had made.
Sykes came into the dining room. He was agitated. Rarely did I see Sykes upset. He came across and sat down. I poured tea and pushed the cup towards him. He seemed to relax a little. I recognised the feeling. Sometimes we just need another person to talk to, and something normal to happen. He tonged sugar lumps into his cup, spilling tea onto the tablecloth.
‘Have you eaten, Mr Sykes?’
‘A slice of toast with Miss Dowzell. I called to help her with the morning papers.’
‘Then you must have some breakfast.’
He stirred the tea. ‘She’s been taken into custody, Miss Dowzell I mean.’
‘Has she been charged?’
‘Not charged, no, but it looks bad. Whatever else she may have done, I’m sure she didn’t kill Jack Philips.’
‘Then she’ll be released.’ It was not like him to be so affected. I tried to say something encouraging. ‘So was I taken into custody and kept overnight. Perhaps they make a habit of pointless detentions in Whitby.’
‘It’s not funny.’
‘I’m not laughing.’
‘Your good friend Chief Inspector Marcus Charles has taken her in.’
I did not trouble to correct him on the ‘good friend’ department. My stomach suddenly took against the bacon and eggs and did a small churn. Marcus could be as single-minded, and wrong, as anyone else. But was it possible that Dora Dowzell could be guilty of the murder of Jack Philips? From Marcus’s point of view, there would be motive. Naming a bungalow and a boat for the beloved was a fairly definite way of pledging troth. Dora Dowzell then had to watch as Jack spent decades flaunting other women under her nose.
Sykes read my thoughts, or imagined he did. ‘She didn’t do it, Mrs Shackleton. That boy, Brendan, your goddaughter’s sweetheart, he’s their child, Philips’s and Miss Dowzell’s child.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She told me.’
‘I wonder whether that’s really so.’ It seemed unlikely.
Sykes took a gulp of tea. ‘It’s true, I’m sure of it. She was concerned about him, saying about the storm and whether he would be safe.’
‘His mother is Mrs Webb.’
‘That’s what the world thinks. But what if that was a convenient lie? Dowzell, the brother, was round there this morning, threatening to fetch a doctor. He was trying to have his sister committed.’
‘To keep her from being charged?’
‘I don’t know. When she stood up to him, he returned with the police.’
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‘Then he must think she killed the jeweller. He doesn’t want her to face the death penalty.’
‘She loved Jack Philips. She didn’t kill him.’
Love can so quickly turn to its opposite, but now was not the time to say so. It was not like Sykes to be so wholeheartedly on the side of the underdog when the underdog was under suspicion. Miss Dowzell had more reason than most to feel anger and distress, as she watched Philips court Alma Turner.
I began to speak. ‘Miss Dowzell could have done it.’ He was about to interrupt me. I held up my hand. ‘Just listen to me. We must make sure the police notify her solicitor.’
He rapped his fingers on the table.
‘I went to her solicitor, twice. The first time he was engaged and the second time he seemed too casual about the whole business. She needs our help.’
‘I don’t see what we can do until we know more. We’re not investigating the murder.’
‘Then we should be. Miss Dowzell wouldn’t have bludgeoned Jack Philips and then gone to find his cat.’
‘That’s exactly the kind of thing a woman on the edge might do. She might also convince herself that Jack Philips’s child is hers.’
‘I hope you’re simply playing devil’s advocate, Mrs Shackleton.’
‘I’m saying let Marcus Charles do his job. We’ll keep our distance.’
‘From him? Because it makes it difficult for you?’
‘No!’ Sykes’s remark hit home. Was that why, as long as I was safe, and Alma and Felicity free from suspicion, I wanted nothing to do with the business? But I couldn’t let Sykes believe that.
‘If Brendan really is her child, that could make it worse for Miss Dowzell.’
‘Because a jury would judge her on her morals.’
‘Yes. But he’s Brendan Webb.’
Sykes would not give up. ‘King George calls himself George Windsor but everyone knows his name is George Saxe-Coburg Gotha. It’s just that folk aren’t tactless enough to mention it.’
‘Did Miss Dowzell say that Mrs Webb adopted Brendan?’
‘No. But you could talk to Mrs Webb. You’ve met her.’
‘Yes I’ve met her.’
‘She’s the only person who knows the truth.’
Silence reigned while we glared at each other. He was right that I wanted to avoid tangling with Marcus as he did his job. ‘I could try speaking to Mrs Webb. She’ll probably tell me to sling my hook.’
Sykes seized on this suggestion. ‘Miss Dowzell won’t talk to Marcus Charles. He’ll be no good at interviewing a woman, especially one as upset as she is.’
He had a point there.
I stood.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
The waitress was bringing a plate towards our table. ‘You stay here. I ordered breakfast for you, and don’t send it away or you’ll put me in the chef’s bad books.’
He made the effort of smiling at the waitress and making space for the plate.
‘Enjoy your bacon and egg. See that bench across the road?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll meet you there after I’ve spoken to Mrs Webb.’ I picked up my key. ‘It’s possible that Marcus simply wanted to question Miss Dowzell at the station so as to have control over the interview. He could hardly speak to her in the shop with people coming in and out to buy the morning paper and an ounce of baccy.’
‘Then why didn’t he say so?’
‘Because he’s a chief inspector and doesn’t have to explain himself.’
‘You mean because he’s arrogant.’
In Clark’s Yard, Mrs Webb was pegging out washing, and agreeing with two neighbours that this was not a good drying day.
I had not thought of a good excuse for coming and might have known it would be difficult to speak to her alone. The other women looked from me to her when I said good morning, and then I hit on an idea. ‘Mrs Webb, I’m sorry to barge in but Hilda told me you might recommend a good place for me to buy fabric.’ It was not the best of stories, but she humoured me.
She pegged a towel onto the line. ‘Just along by the old Town Hall. You’ll see a stall there.’
‘I’ll take a look, thank you.’
The towel divided us from her nearest neighbour. I mouthed, ‘I need to talk to you. It’s important.’
She raised her voice. ‘You might want to go up to Middlesbrough if you want a bigger selection.’
‘That’s a thought.’
‘There’s a good train service.’
‘I’ll take a look at the stall first.’
‘I’ll be along there myself soon. I have shopping to do.’
I left the yard and turned along Church Street where I wandered about the stalls and shops, not seeing, not paying attention.
It was less than half an hour before Mrs Webb appeared. The black shawl covering her head and shoulders made her look older than her years. She carried a basket over her arm and had already made some purchases. A woman called to her. She returned the greeting.
When she reached me, she said quietly, ‘All along Henrietta Street.’
She set off. I followed at a distance, passing jet workshops, little ale houses and then the street of cottages. The smell of smoking herrings wafted from the kipper house.
By the time I caught up with her, she stood on the cobbled landing looking out to sea. This part of the beach was quiet. A man, trousers rolled, led his little boy into the waves, the little boy laughing.
Mrs Webb turned to me. ‘How is Mr Cricklethorpe, have you heard?’
I gave her the latest bulletin. ‘Poor man. I hope and pray he’ll come through.’
Usually I am good at phrasing the right question but this morning I somehow could not get my tongue around the words.
Mrs Webb prompted, in a not entirely friendly manner, ‘Well, what is it you want this time?’
I must now come to the point, and this felt very awkward. She might just turn and go back the way we had come.
‘I’m sorry to ask and wouldn’t unless it were necessary.’
‘If it’s about Brendan and Felicity, they’re safe. Sergeant Garvin has called asking about them, and did I know if they had permission to take the Doram.’
‘It’s Brendan I want to ask you about. I’m sorry if my question upsets or offends you, but Miss Dowzell has been taken to the police station for questioning.’
‘About whether Jack Philips gave permission for them to take the boat?’
‘No. As I understand, she is being questioned about Mr Philips’s death.’
She laughed, and it turned into a groan. ‘Then she’ll have nothing to fear. How can they be so stupid, at a time like this? The woman’s grieving.’
I thought carefully about how to phrase my next question. The little boy who was paddling stumbled. His father picked him up and whirled him round. Come to the point, Kate, I told myself. Just say it.
‘It must have been difficult for you, as Brendan grew and the likeness to Mr Philips became clear.’
For a moment she watched the father and son walk along the shore, and the boy try to chase a gull, and then she spoke. ‘It happens in families. There was a red-haired uncle on my side. No one who wasn’t looking for mischief thought anything of it.’
‘Your husband accepted Brendan as his own son.’
‘I didn’t give him a choice. He was a fine man, Vincent, when I married him. But he lost his master’s licence. Our income vanished overnight.’
‘That was tragic for him, losing his licence.’
‘He made a split-second decision. A ship was written off. He never recovered from that episode.’ She looked across the bay. ‘I thought he’d pulled round. When the Rohilla ran aground, he was a hero. He went back and back to bring survivors from the wreckage. I thought he had won back his self-respect. For a week, that held true, then the nightmares came back, all the old nightmares and some new ones too. He drank himself to death in the finish.’
I could not think what
to say that would not sound trite and we had moved away from the subject I wanted to discuss. ‘I’m very sorry to hear it. Your husband must have been a fine man before he had such bad luck.’
‘He was. Strange how lives can turn, just as the tide ebbs and flows.’
I drew us back to the here and now. ‘Like Miss Dowzell’s life.’
‘Yes.’
‘My friend and colleague, Mr Sykes, helped Miss Dowzell with the papers this morning.’
‘She could do with help, proper help. Mrs Broomfield is a dab hand at weighing out pear drops but not much else.’
‘You go to Dowzells newsagents?’
‘Yes.’
‘There must be a nearer shop.’
‘There is a nearer shop.’ She spoke so quietly that the noise of the waves and gulls threatened to drown her words. ‘I don’t go all the time, just sometimes, and just over the last year or so.’
‘To let Miss Dowzell know how Brendan is getting on?’
‘How did you guess?’ Mrs Webb’s shawl had slipped from her head. She clutched at it and held it tightly around her shoulders. She turned and walked away. At first I thought she had decided to end our conversation but she said, ‘Let’s sit on the wall. I’ve been on my feet all morning.’
We crossed the sand to where a wall ran down towards the sea.
She heaved herself onto the wall. ‘I promised. I promised never to speak of it.’
I copied her and sat on the wall. ‘Promised Miss Dowzell?’
‘No. I promised old Mrs Dowzell, Dora’s mother, and the old fellow, her father.’ She swung her legs back and forth, touching her heels against the wall. ‘It’s been a strange business. If I’d known truth from start we wouldn’t have agreed, my man and me.’
‘Please tell me. It might help Miss Dowzell.’
‘Once Jack Philips worked it out, I couldn’t deny it. Jack came to me. He’d seen Brendan at Sandsend and he asked his age and his birthday. I’ve been mother to Brendan in all ways that matter, but I didn’t give birth to him.’
‘How did you get away with passing him off as your own?’
Death at the Seaside Page 27