by Myers, Amy
‘They’re looking at us!’ screamed Emily, promptly disappearing from view underwater; Alice waved to Alfred and promptly followed her example, as a scream came from behind. Gwendolen Figgis-Hewett had stepped out of her machine into three feet of water. All eyes were on her in a bright red cretonne two-piece and Normandy satin hat with wide frill. Gwendolen did like to be beside the seaside. She jumped up and down experimentally in the briny, took a step further full of confidence, then further and further still. Forgetting all about her need to keep one foot on the ground and splashing wildly, she announced she was swimming, and then shrieked. She was out of her depth.
‘Help!’ Her hand was thrust up.
Gentlemen dithered. Was it a greater crime to let her drown or to cross the great divide to the women’s section to rescue her? Fortunately they were not called upon for the supreme test, however, for Alice scooped her up from behind and tried to propel her into safer water. It was not easy for Gwendolen seemed hysterical and determined to avoid arrest. Emily, swimming vigorously, came to assist her, and together they managed to reach shallow water, where Gwendolen promptly denied she had been in danger. The men resumed their bobbing about.
‘Angelina!’ shouted Oliver as he caught sight of her trim figure clad in pink cotton. She did not hear him and vigorously continued splashing. The sea was a mass of foam with so many bodies stirring it up, and some of the men ventured further out to try their skills at swimming. Of them, only Alfred, Auguste and James were adept. The rest bobbed up and down at chin height, or remained by the bathing-machine steps.
Auguste found himself caught up in the general excitement and cursed his heavy waterlogged costume. In his childhood swimming at Cannes there had been no need for these ridiculous costumes. There was no great excitement about swimming either. One swam because one had to. But then there were no Aramintas at Cannes. She was a vision of loveliness with her curls peeping out from her mob cap – and oh, those beautiful arms emerging from the short sleeves of her blouse. He wondered what would happen if he swam to her underwater and surprised her, and decided he would probably be imprisoned by Naseby for rape.
He was the first to emerge from the water, partly because he had an appointment with Rose, partly because he could see Araminta leaving. True, he had told James Pegg he would be available to discuss a problem with him after bathing, but now that must wait until he had seen Rose. He had certainly not drawn James’s attention to Araminta’s departure – or his own.
Hastily he dried himself on the thin towel and clambered into clothes that stuck to every inch of his damp body. Pulling on his socks and shoes, he opened the door to realise that, since Sid was still in the water, so was the bathing machine. He had three feet of shallow water to cross – and there was Araminta floating across the sands. Hastily he whipped off shoes and socks and prepared to paddle.
‘You’re too early, Auguste,’ Rose said sourly. It was all too clear Auguste had been out enjoying the pleasures of Broadstairs, one of which was just disappearing up the main staircase, folding up her parasol. ‘Twitch hasn’t heard from the Factory yet.’
‘About what, mon ami?’
Rose told him. ‘Grooms,’ he said. ‘Amazing. James Pegg. But I still don’t see how he could have done it.’
Auguste looked unhappy. One of his pupils? It reflected on his honour. He could not, would not believe it. ‘Mon ami, I have an idea,’ he announced.
Three minutes later they were in the still-locked room lately occupied by Sir Thomas Throgmorton. Auguste marched to the bathroom. ‘In here,’ he said. ‘I think – yes.’ His memory had not played him false. There it was in the cabinet amid the long row of bottles.
‘Grinrod’s Remedy for Spasms,’ said Rose. ‘You think he took some? How does that help us?’
‘Because this remedy, Egbert, contains morphine.’
‘So?’
‘Your analyst’s report about atropine stated that morphine is sometimes a treatment. Suppose he took it thinking that his malaise stemmed from his gastric trouble? What with the coffee, it would help to slow down the symptoms even further. He was drinking a great deal, he felt ill – pain, burning, hoarseness. But the full force of the poison was staved off for a while. Atropine affects different people in different ways, if you recall. This would make it possible that the poison was administered earlier in the meal. The soup, the salad even.’
Rose considered. ‘It’s possible. I’ll say that. So our thesis is he was Throgmorton’s groom. Runs off with the money, comes back to this country thinking he’s safe after ten years, changes his name perhaps, then you announce he’ll be waiting on Sir Thomas down here. Daren’t risk being seen and so he makes his plans. Yes, as soon as I hear from the Factory, we’d better have a word with Mr James Pegg.’
Sergeant Stitch came marching into the bathroom, to find Egbert Rose. He did not for the moment notice Auguste. When he did, his cup of woe was full. Naseby would have sympathised.
The rest of the revellers emerged dripping from the brine. Their clothes felt damp, corsets defied fastening by chilling fingers, socks and stockings were recalcitrant, the bathing attendant was shouting impatiently. One by one they emerged down the steps onto the sands, glowing. They had bathed. They were ready to enjoy the fruits of victory, and to listen to Uncle Mack’s Broadstairs Minstrels.
One bathing machine, however, had remained in the water. So had its occupant.
Chapter Ten
Picking his way around the fishing nets, Auguste leant over the rail of the pier towards his native France as if by so doing he could distance himself a little from yesterday’s tragedy. There was no escaping the fact that, short of being kidnapped, James Pegg had tragically drowned. It still seemed impossible to believe that he would not once more come marching into the kitchens in Lord Wittisham’s wake.
Auguste was conscious that he had manufactured an excuse to come down to the pier early this Friday morning in order to get away from the sombre atmosphere in Blue Horizons. Even fish failed to hold allure for him this morning and he was almost relieved to find that William and Joe were for once not at their usual station at the end of the pier. He gazed out across the sea, and went over yesterday’s events once more. The tide had been going out, which made accident more likely, and indeed how could anyone have murdered Pegg so publicly? Yet reason told him that where murder had so recently occurred, accident would be a strange coincidence.
Rose had been accompanied by Naseby on his visit to Blue Horizons yesterday evening; Naseby had scarcely concealed his glee as regards the effects of the ramifications of James Pegg’s disappearance on Auguste. ‘Bad business,’ he’d said to Rose, rubbing his hands briskly. ‘Bad for our friend.’
He would have been surprised to know with what feeling Auguste shared that view. He blamed himself bitterly for not having waited for Pegg at the bathing machines. By then he might already have been dead of course, but there was no way of knowing. Auguste felt responsible since Pegg was one of his flock. And suppose it were murder? Once again he would be a suspect. Suppose someone had held James’s head underwater until he drowned? But surely only an excellent swimmer could have done that? With sinking heart, Auguste realised that he was one of the few strong swimmers there.
Rose’s lean body had reclined, deceptively relaxed, in the shabby armchair at Blue Horizons. ‘Any of you recall him talking about going anywhere? Any of you near him in the water?’ he threw out casually, sipping a cup of Auguste’s camomile tea. First time he’d ever drunk it, although Auguste was keen enough to hand it out at times of crisis. He wouldn’t be repeating the experience.
‘No, and we were in the women’s section,’ pointed out Emily, setting clear demarcation lines. ‘Me and Alice,’ to get it entirely straight.
Rose smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Miss Dawson. Did you notice Mr Pegg at all?’
Two vigorous shakes of the head from Emily and Alice.
‘Mr Didier?’
‘He could swim well,’ said Augu
ste, rushing to get his ordeal over. ‘He was swimming next to me out into the deeper water.’
‘You didn’t see him getting into difficulties, calling at all.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘No. There was a lot happening. People were splashing and shouting. There was much noise,’ he explained unhappily, as though this carefree behaviour were in some way disrespectful to the dead.
‘Anyone know if he has family? I’ll need his home address.’
‘I will give it to you, Inspector.’ Alfred stirred feebly from his dejection. ‘He has a father,’ he managed to say. ‘Also a sister. He – he spoke to me of them.’ Alice held his hand comfortingly.
‘We’ll need them here for the inquest – that’s when we find the body, of course.’
‘Inquest?’ queried Heinrich with foreboding. ‘But he has probably drowned.’
‘Sudden death. There has to be an inquest in this country,’ said Rose briskly, ‘to decide whether it’s accident, suicide – or murder. Just like there was on Sir Thomas.’
Everyone glanced quickly round at his neighbours, but there seemed little surprise at the introduction of the word murder.
‘You don’t think,’ said Emily, a hopeful note in her tone, ‘that he could have killed himself?’
‘Had he reason to?’
‘He didn’t like me,’ said Alice rather plaintively, ‘or, rather, he didn’t like me being friendly with Alfred, but I don’t think he’d kill himself over it. Why should he?’
‘He was very quiet recently. He obviously had something on his mind,’ said Algernon offhandedly.
‘Did he talk to any of you about any problems he might have had? Personal ones?’
‘Only those to do with cooking,’ said Emily helpfully. ‘And I don’t think he’d kill himself over a soufflé. He wasn’t as dedicated as Mr Didier.’
Rose caught Auguste’s eyes and looked hastily away. Odd how in the middle of something as serious as a death investigation, it was easier, not harder, to laugh. Some kind of antidote perhaps.
‘I looked in his room,’ Alfred was saying. ‘There wasn’t any last letter to me, or anyone else. But I know he wouldn’t go without saying goodbye.’
‘I think you’ll find he’s been murdered all right,’ Algernon stated.
‘How could anyone murder him?’ asked Emily stoutly. ‘He was a big man. If Heinrich had tried to kill him, he could have easily resisted. No, he’s just decided to go off somewhere.’
‘Emily, I cannot swim,’ Heinrich reminded her sharply.
Auguste smiled to himself. Emily was about as much help as Araminta in a crisis.
‘Who swam out with him besides Mr Didier?’ enquired Rose.
‘Mr Michaels came a little way out, I think,’ said Auguste.
‘Alfred, you swam out,’ Algernon reminded him helpfully.
‘I may have done,’ he muttered, ‘but I didn’t see James. I wish I had. The – um – ladies were shouting.’ His face was consumed with renewed unhappiness.
‘No use looking at me, Inspector, I wuz ’anging on to the machine. Keep yer feet on the ground. That’s the best way to swim,’ offered Sid virtuously.
‘Where were you, Mr Peckham?’ asked Rose, not losing sight of the fact that helpful as he was about others, he was somewhat circumspect about his own movements.
‘I can’t remember,’ Algernon responded. ‘But look at me. Is it likely I could have drowned James Pegg?’ They appraised his slight figure and remembered James’s. It was unlikely in the extreme. Algernon looked triumphant. ‘No, Inspector, old Pegg’s just slipped off to watch cricket. Couldn’t stand any more fish.’
Auguste Didier fixed him with a baleful eye. Algernon ignored it.
‘Pegg?’ Samuel Pipkin was asking one hour later, after Rose and Auguste had walked slowly to the Imperial, averting their eyes from the gleaming dark ocean.
‘One of the waiters here last Saturday, sir,’ replied Rose. ‘A large stocky man, about thirty. Dark.’
‘I don’t notice waiters,’ said Samuel.
‘I remember him,’ said Gwendolen suddenly. ‘He was the young man served us the entrée. I remember his hands. Big strong hands.’ There was a wistful note in her voice. The late Mr Figgis-Hewett had not been conspicuous for physique.
‘Do any of you remember seeing him in the water? He was a good swimmer, I believe. Mr Didier informs me, for instance, that you swam a little way, Mr Michaels.’
‘Do you?’ enquired Oliver of Auguste with interest. ‘If you say so, then no doubt I did. I was aware there were several of us, but I really did not have my mind—’ He stopped. He could hardly say that he was too intent on trying to catch a glimpse of Angelina even if it was only her eye. This poor fellow Pegg was dead, after all. ‘Inspector, I suppose he couldn’t have been your murderer, could he? Perhaps he took this way out?’
‘Technically it’s possible, Mr Michaels. He might have managed to slip something in the entrée, but for the life of me I can’t see how. Yet it’s an odd way to commit suicide in the middle of a group of people. He left no note either and that’s not usual.’
‘Perhaps he couldn’t write,’ said Gwendolen brightly. She had been reading too many Dickens novels, thought Rose. Hadn’t she heard of Forster’s Education Act?
‘I saw him,’ rumbled Lord Beddington unexpectedly. ‘I was standing in the water by the machines and saw this big chap swim out.’ He remembered the moment vividly. Those damned drawers of his were waterlogged, and he couldn’t move anywhere.
‘Anything more?’
‘Lost sight of him. Mrs Figgis-Hewett screamed and we all turned towards the sound. Remember thinking he might have gone to help her.’
‘Did he, Mrs Figgis-Hewett?’
‘No,’ she said, outraged. ‘He was a man. Anyway, I didn’t need help, as I told the young person who seized hold of me.’
‘Mr Pipkin, did you see anything?’
‘No,’ he replied shortly. ‘I remained in the shallows.’ He could hardly add that he had been thinking about Dickens and his glorious passages in David Copperfield of the East Anglian coast and Mr Peggotty.
‘This,’ said Rose as they had left the Lioniser, ‘doesn’t look good for your pupils, Auguste.’
‘It could be one of the Lionisers,’ said Auguste desperately. ‘Perhaps James was blackmailing one of them, over knowledge of the murder of Sir Thomas.’
‘Unlikely. Especially as the Lionisers’ last safe chance of murder would have been at the drinks gathering beforehand. Pegg was not present then.’
‘But he may have known something,’ insisted Auguste, unwilling to face the fact that one of his group could have slaughtered a colleague.
‘It’s possible, yes. We’ll go over his room in the morning,’ Rose conceded. ‘You’ve locked it?’
Auguste nodded. ‘It may not be blackmail,’ he offered suddenly. ‘I don’t see him as a blackmailer. Perhaps he saw or knew something he did not understand, and wished to seek an explanation before he came to us. That seems more like James.’
‘Never mind the character, stick to the alleybi,’ quoted Rose suddenly. ‘There, that’s your Dickens for you. The Pickwick Papers. Pickwick didn’t have a corpse on his hands though,’ he added morosely.
‘Neither do we – yet,’ Auguste pointed out. ‘At least,’ he amended, thinking of Sir Thomas, ‘we don’t have James Pegg’s body.’
At this moment Araminta whisked across the foyer. With a jolt, Auguste realised that not only had she been present but that, even worse, she might well not yet have heard of the tragedy. He hurried to her, concerned.
‘Araminta, you have heard the news of your friend Mr Pegg?’ He held her hands.
‘Mr Pegg?’ She looked bewildered and gently he explained.
‘Oh dear,’ she said inadequately. ‘I don’t think I can help you,’ she added doubtfully, extending her full charm on Rose who was hovering behind Auguste.
‘You saw nothing of him while he was
in the water?’
‘I was with the other ladies,’ she pointed out.
‘And your eyes did not stray towards the gentlemen?’ asked Auguste a little wistfully.
‘No. Why should they?’ she enquired. Then: ‘Oh, poor Mr Pegg.’ She hesitated. ‘It might have been a cow that trampled him.’
They stared at her blankly.
‘People often take their animals down there to bathe. Horses and cattle. Even elephants from the circus. But now I remember,’ she smiled her lovely smile – ‘the Pier and Harbour Commission have forbidden it after one o’clock. Papa told me so. So that’s all right, isn’t t?’ She seemed somewhat anxious on this point. ‘There, I’ve solved your case.’
Such was her charm that Auguste fervently thanked her. Happy that she had been of assistance, she passed on her way like Robert Browning’s Pippa. It was only when he saw Rose’s wry smile that it dawned on Auguste that she had said not a word about Pegg and her relationship to him. Fleetingly he wondered if anyone could be that artless, but he pushed the uncharitable thought away.
‘What authority do you have,’ snarled Naseby, ‘for allowing a principal suspect to be present?’
‘Mine,’ said Rose wearily, no stomach for the fight. ‘Have a word with the Commissioner if you wish.’
Auguste was paying no attention to Naseby. As he had returned from the pier, his attention had been drawn to the small group on the sands. He recognised Egbert and he knew there could be only one reason for his presence. Unwillingly, legs like lead, he went to join him. Now at his feet was the body of James Pegg, wearing only half of his bathing costume, skin wrinkled and pale. Auguste felt momentarily sick, then an overwhelming emotion. What an end to hopes, to a life. No more would James Pegg cook delicious venison, or pheasants. No more game pies. Auguste had never felt close to Pegg, but that was immaterial. He was dead, and pointlessly dead – unless of course he was Sir Thomas’s murderer. Yet somehow, looking at the lifeless body, Auguste could not believe it.