‘In Amsterdam. I stopped writing. When he came back, he didn’t understand what had gone wrong. I had to tell him, and that it was all over.’
‘And then you found out the truth, that Brendan was alive.’
‘I wouldn’t have called him Brendan, but I don’t mind the name.’ She sat so still that I feared she could become comatose. I waited, expecting Marcus or Sergeant Garvin to come in.
Nothing happened.
I waited.
After a long time, Dora looked up. Something in her had come back to life. ‘Jack… tell me about how you found him. Was he still alive? Did he speak?’
‘He had been dead for a little while. I’m not sure how long.’
‘How did he look?’
‘He looked pale, but himself.’
Two large tears came to her eyes. ‘When Mother told me my baby was a boy, and he died, I always wondered would he have looked like Jack, or perhaps he would have taken after my side. I’m glad he looks like Jack.’
‘Dora, where did you keep the jewellery that you no longer needed when you knew that Brendan was alive?’
‘I stopped wearing it.’
‘And where did you put the mourning collar and the necklace?’
‘I gave it to Jack. He put it in the safe. He was already looking after the jewellery I had from my mother, because she was always after it.’
‘She?’
‘My sister-in-law. She’ll have that too, but not for long. It will go like everything else, on the horses, on the dogs, on some scheme.’
‘If it’s been taken, you must have it back. Can you describe the jewellery to me?’
She stared at me. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘It’s yours. Your mother gave it to you. I think she must have been sorry for what she did, for the lies. Perhaps she knew you would eventually find out the truth. Brendan might marry, might have a daughter. You could pass something on.’
‘I want to get out of here. I left Tiger in the house. And it’s up to me to make the arrangements for Jack. Why am I here?’
I took out my notebook. ‘You’ll be home before you know it. Start with your mother’s rings. I want to know what was taken from Jack’s safe. Tell me. You’re helping to make sure there is justice for Jack.’
A constable sat with Dora Dowzell.
In the office, Marcus looked through my notes at the description of Dora’s jewellery – the pieces she had from her mother.
‘May I take these pages, Kate?’
‘Keep the notebook. There’s little else in it.’
‘Thank you.’ Marcus had that nervous impatience to be off. ‘I need to get to the brother’s house and do a search. If he was stupid enough to let his wife wear a necklace taken from Jack Philips’s safe then we have a good chance of finding the other jewellery too.’
‘He could say that Dora was lying.’
Marcus temporarily lost his hard edge. He was still in a hurry but found time to explain. ‘He could accuse her of lying, but we have his fingerprints from the safe.’
‘Is that enough to go on?’
‘We have sightings of Timothy Dowzell at the back of the Royal Hotel, near where we found the toffee hammer with blood on the head. He was seen by one of the porters.’
‘Why? He could have wiped it clean or thrown it in the sea.’
‘I think he knew there needed to be a suspect, and he kindly chose you, Kate. He chose the wrong woman.’
‘And he did it twice. When I turned out to be a bad bet, he pointed a finger at his own sister.’
Perhaps I had misjudged Marcus. There was no animosity when he said, ‘Nice man, eh, Kate?’
‘Did he take the hammer with him into the jewellers? That would be a strange thing to do.’
Marcus picked up his hat, ready to go. ‘Jack Philips had a sweet tooth. He had toffee on the sideboard. Dowzell picked up the little hammer and used it. Philips had a thin skull, sadly for him. But if it hadn’t been the toffee hammer it would have been some other weapon.’
‘Why? Not just for the jewellery?’
‘The marriage. If Dora married Jack Philips, she would have sold up, and felt no obligation to provide for her brother. He’d run through his share of their legacy and been leeching on her for years.’
‘The underlying economics, eh?’
‘Exactly.’ He put on his hat. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have an arrest to make.’
He and I walked together into the waiting area. He left, with a constable. I sat down. They must let Miss Dowzell out soon and I wanted to be sure she did not have to walk home alone.
Moments later, Sergeant Garvin came out from the back room. He was beaming. ‘Good news. I have just taken a telephone call that Mr Cricklethorpe has regained consciousness. A nurse and a constable are with him now. Mrs Turner has returned home.’
‘How wonderful. That’s a great relief. And what about Miss Dowzell, sergeant?’
‘Well, Mrs Shackleton, I’m about to escort Miss Dowzell home.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Would you care to come along? It would be helpful to have a lady present.’
‘Yes I’ll come.’
He glanced about. ‘If we go straight away, we won’t pass a certain person in the street when he is brought in for questioning…’
‘You mean Timothy Dowzell?’
‘It might be a good idea to call at Bagdale Hall for a few moments, until the coast is clear.’
It staggered me that the sergeant thought this a good idea. If I were Dora Dowzell, the last person I would want to see would be Alma Turner who had tried her best to snaffle the ill-fated Jack Philips and his bungalow.
‘Sergeant, isn’t it up to Miss Dowzell to say where she wants to go? I’m guessing it will be home.’
Mrs Sugden was right. The man was besotted with Alma. He was searching for a reason to see her. ‘Mrs Turner may have returned to Bagdale and I simply thought…’
‘Of course. You’ll want to call on her later. Mr Cricklethorpe may have said something significant to Alma as he was regaining consciousness.’
Thirty-Nine
It was almost dark by the time Felicity and Brendan reached Hopeman. A few bracket lamps were lit on Harbour Street. They walked the length of the street, assuming that the ‘first house’ meant the one nearest the harbour.
Felicity had expected her dad to live somewhere grand. Perhaps he had lived in a great house in Elgin.
Brendan must have been thinking along similar lines. ‘He’ll need to be by the harbour in his line of work.’
‘Don’t even consider it. We’ll both need jobs, but not that.’
She knocked on the door of the first house and stepped back.
A dog barked.
Someone spoke.
After a moment or two, the door opened. The woman who peered at Felicity wore a black dress and flowered pinny. She was old, probably fifty, with grey hair and a worn face. She looked at Felicity as if at a puzzle she could not make out, searching her face for something significant.
Felicity remembered her manners. ‘I’m sorry to call so late. I’m here to see Mr Turner.’ The woman stared at her. Felicity tried again. ‘Am I at the right house for Mr Walter Turner?’
Now that she looked at this person, Felicity remembered that her mother once mentioned a countess in the same breath as Felicity’s father. This woman was no countess. She was someone you might see along Church Street, shopping at the market. Felicity thought she had better give her name. Perhaps she was being mistaken for a debt collector.
‘I’m Felicity, Walter Turner’s daughter. I’m here to see my father. This is Brendan.’
The woman opened the door wider. ‘Come in, lassie. Sorry to keep you on the step. I was no expecting callers at this hour.’
The doorway was so low that Brendan had to stoop.
The dog that had barked was old and thin, a black and white border collie. It pounded its tail on the rag rug but made no attempt to move. Felicity went up to it and stroked
its head. The dog was tired, and so, suddenly, was she.
The woman took her knapsack. ‘Sit yerself doon.’ There was a rocking chair, a straight-back chair and a tall stool.
Felicity and Brendan exchanged a look. He moved towards the stool. She sat down in the straight-back chair. ‘We’re at the right house then?’
‘Indeed you are. Your father is sleeping.’ She pointed to the ceiling. So when Felicity had stood outside and heard someone speaking, it had been the woman talking to the dog.
The woman put a pan of milk and water on the fire. She buttered pieces of seed cake as the pan heated. ‘You must be fair frozen and clemmed to have come all this way.’
So she knows about me, Felicity thought. Who is she? The woman did not think to give her name and Felicity could not ask. Perhaps she was supposed to know.
She made cocoa for them and put it on the square lino-covered table with the buttered slices of cake. ‘I see the likeness to Walter. I do, I do.’ She watched Felicity eat and drink. ‘You’d like to see your da.’
‘I would.’
The woman nodded. ‘Aye, aye, that you would.’ She lit a candle. ‘Are the pair of you wed?’
‘Not yet,’ Brendan answered.
‘Then I’ll take you next door, Brendan.’ She turned to Felicity. ‘You can sleep on the trundle bed.’
Felicity followed her up the stairs.
The iron bedstead with its frail occupant dominated the room. It was placed so as to give a view through the window. A low fire burned in the grate. A scent of herbs came from a great bowlful of greenery on the chest of drawers. The woman set a straight-back chair near the bed and motioned Felicity to sit.
At first, Felicity thought there must be some mistake. This man was old and thin, his eyes bright with something like fever. His face was hollow, cheekbones taut against the skin, but there was a little cleft below his nose, and the memory of a dimple in his chin.
‘Dad. It’s Felicity. I’ve come to see you.’
His face did not change. Only his Adam’s apple moved and he gulped as if for air. The movement seemed to pain him and send a shudder through the body under the blankets. His hand appeared. More claw than hand. His fingers stretched towards hers. He squeezed her hand. His lips moved in something like a smile. She had never before seen a man cry. It was a very small set of tears. The voice in her head said, Don’t cry, Felicity. Smile.
‘How did I know you’d come, Felicity? I just did. I wished it.’
She took out the small fruitcake she had brought from Botham’s, wrapped and re-wrapped to keep it dry. ‘I brought you a cake.’
His words came out as a croak. ‘Did you bake it?’
‘No. It’s from Botham’s.’
It was a small smile. His teeth were black, and missing. ‘Good lass. You get nothing done standing over a stove.’
‘That’s what Mam says.’
‘How is she?’
‘She thinks of you.’ Felicity had meant to say that her mother wanted him back, but now she could not say it, especially since the woman downstairs might be listening.
‘Tell her I think of her.’
‘She knows.’
They sat for a long time. She held his hand, which as she grew used to the candlelight she saw was blue with lines, the skin almost transparent. ‘What’s that woman’s name, and who is she?’
‘She is Morag McAndrew. Say you brought the cake for her.’ He shut his eyes.
Perhaps he was asleep, perhaps not.
She took the cake downstairs. The woman sat in the rocking chair, knitting, the dog lying by her feet. ‘I’ve taken your laddie round to a neighbour.’
‘Thank you.’ Felicity took out the cake. She saw now that it was not fit to offer. ‘I brought something, but it’s no good. My knapsack went overboard.’
Morag McAndrew set aside her knitting and took the cake from her. ‘A drop of seawater won’t hurt. Now come on, you can help me make up that bed. I’ll sleep down here the night and be the better for it.’
Her dad had fallen asleep. Mrs McAndrew pulled out the bed. ‘I’m not changing sheets at this hour. No one’s slept on it but me and I’m clean.’
She produced a nightgown for Felicity. It was freshly laundered and smelled of lavender. Whoever she was, Felicity felt glad that her dad had someone to take care of him. But why hadn’t he come home? Would she ever ask him, would he ever say, ever admit that her mother sent him away? Perhaps that wasn’t true. He was a wanderer, her mother had said. Wanderers can’t help it.
As she settled down on the narrow bed, she was aware that he was awake, and listening. She felt snug and glad. ‘Did you ever come back to Whitby in the night and come to see me?’
‘I did. You were always sleeping. Sleep now.’ He blew her a kiss, and it was as if he cast a spell because she closed her eyes and slept.
When she woke it was the early hours and the fire almost out. She put on a few coals and poked at the ashes. As the fire burned more brightly, shadows danced on the ceiling. She sensed that he was awake too.
‘Do you remember, Dad, when the sea took our house?’
‘We’ll never see anything like that again.’
The next morning, he was already sitting up when she woke. He looked so much better that she felt full of hope. Morag McAndrew was beside him, watching him drink tea.
‘There’s tea in the pot down there and some hot water and a basin in the scullery. I’ll be up here a wee while so have yourself a wash. There’s soap and towel.’
When she had washed and drunk a cup of tea and eaten a slice of cake, Felicity felt revived. Her plan had worked, though not in the way she imagined. She could not think what must come next.
She went out to look about and was drawn to the harbour. Hopeman was a pretty spot. If there had been fishing boats, they were all gone out. Only an upturned rowing boat and something under tarpaulin remained. The white sand was strewn with seaweed thrown up during the sea’s fierce tantrums. Kelp, egg wrack and wig wrack.
It would do her dad good to come outside, catch the sunshine and breathe fresh air after being cooped up in that little bedroom.
She went back to the house, with this new plan in mind.
It was only then that she gave him the money belt, after taking out what remained of her own savings.
He handed the five-pound notes to Morag McAndrew. ‘To pass on,’ he said. He looked at Felicity and winked. ‘There’s been a change of management. I’m retired from the fray.’
Felicity expected to see Brendan. Morag told her that Brendan had gone out fishing with the man from next door.
She and Morag helped her dad downstairs. A rickety wheelchair that she had noticed the night before stood in the street, braked with a brick to keep it from running away. Her dad edged himself into it, brushing away their attempts to help.
Together, they pushed him down to the harbour. Morag came back with a chair for Felicity and then left them together.
His breathing was so slow and laboured that Felicity feared it might shudder to a stop.
After a long time, his body relaxed a little and he found the energy to speak. ‘Sea air does me good.’ He began to cough, screwing up his face and closing his eyes. He made light of it. ‘It’s a cough that’ll carry me off, but not yet, not now you’re here.’
Felicity wanted to hear about Madeira, about South Africa, about how you hypnotise a person. He wanted to know about Brendan, about Botham’s, the Spa ballroom, and how Alma taught herself to be a fortune teller.
They talked, on and off, until late afternoon, with long rests between while he concentrated very hard on breathing, or dozed a little.
The fishing boats came back. Brendan joined them.
That was when Morag came hurrying down, a telegram in the pocket of her apron, as though it must be kept secret until handed to its recipient: Felicity.
Felicity had never received a telegram before. She opened it.
Arrange nuptials STOP Birth certifica
tes follow STOP Notify date STOP Alma Turner Mary Webb
‘Is there a reply?’ Morag asked. ‘The telegram lad’s waiting.’
Felicity stared at the words. ‘I don’t know what Mam means.’
Morag took it back from her and read. She passed it to Walter, who read it and passed it to Brendan.
It was Morag who interpreted. ‘It means you two don’t go back to Whitby till you’re wed.’
‘No reply,’ Walter said. ‘Your mothers have spoken. Just do it.’
Forty
Alma sat beside Percy Cricklethorpe’s bed. He had been allowed home on condition that he engage a nurse to take care of him. His brush with death had led to a loosening of the purse strings. Crickly no longer voiced objections to parting with cash. He was more than willing to pay for cleaners, and the professional nurse who came highly recommended.
When the nurse was at her dinner, Alma came to sit with him. She had harboured a specific question for several days but had waited until he was sufficiently recovered before interrogating him. She feared he might slip into unconsciousness, real or pretended, if challenged.
After disarming him with harmless chitchat, she came to her point in a teasing way. ‘It was you, Crickly. You sent Felicity chasing after Walter. Now don’t deny it.’
He looked shifty, which she took as an admission of guilt.
‘Why did you do that behind my back?’
He puffed out his cheeks, and ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, looking for the right words. ‘I knew Walter was ill.’
‘Well so did I.’
‘You don’t know how poorly he is. He’s given up on everything. Our Walter doesn’t have long to live.’
Alma felt a deep spasm of regret. She supposed that she knew that all along, without having let herself fully acknowledge the truth. Turner turned cold, Turner turned old.
‘You should have consulted me.’
‘Anyway, I didn’t send Felicity. I merely gave hints, led the way. She’s wanted to see him for years. You knew that.’
‘Felicity could have died in that boat. They both could.’
Death at the Seaside Page 29