Truth Will Out

by Pamela Oldfield

  Derek hesitated. Did he want his opinion splashed all over the newspapers? If he was wrong he’d look foolish. Did his sister want him to air his opinion? Was she going to air hers? To delay his answer he said, ‘Don’t forget Ali’s offer. Bed, breakfast and evening meal for two.’

  ‘Except in July and August. Yes, thanks. My wife was thrilled. Her mother will look after the little ’uns.’ He glanced up, pencil poised.

  ‘I dare say it is a bit strange,’ Derek began. ‘I’ve always thought it was a bit of a coincidence, he goes missing the very day they arrive here. No, the second day they’re here. They must have been watching the family or they wouldn’t have known they were going to be here and not at their home in Folkestone.’ He frowned. He had not given it too much thought before.

  ‘Precisely my point!’ Hemmings’ excited pencil flew across the page. ‘So who knew they would be here? I take it you knew!’

  ‘Naturally. It’s my job to know.’ Derek felt slighted somehow. ‘We couldn’t run a hotel without having some idea when guests are due.’

  ‘Right . . .’ Hemmings glared at his pencil. ‘Got a pencil sharpener?’

  ‘Not handy, no.’

  ‘Never mind . . . it’ll do. Now, his partner in the gallery. Name of Barlowe. That’s where I’d be looking. He knows them. He knew Mrs Brent when she was Maude Cope . . . before she was Mrs Brent.’ He leaned forward earnestly. ‘My article is going to be divided into three areas. One – general facts about kidnappings; two – the facts so far about this case, and the people involved or possibly involved; three – the different theories about this case.’ He glanced up, smiling broadly, obviously delighted by the opportunity. ‘That’s what I mean by “in depth”, Mr Jayson.’

  He looked pleased with himself, thought Derek, and wished for the first time that he hadn’t taken his sister up on her offer of a share in the hotel. It had seemed an easy option and she had needed someone but, in fact, it was not much of a challenge and he was beginning to envy Ben Hemmings his interesting lifestyle. Derek had been a professional piano player and had frequently accompanied well-known singers when they took to the concert platform in major cities around the country. It had paid well and he had enjoyed it. It had paid for his tiny bachelor flat in north London and although now he was very comfortable at the Romilees, he often missed his independence.

  ‘But Mr Brent would recognize Barlowe if he turned kidnapper,’ Derek protested. ‘They must know each other well.’

  ‘He might keep his head covered. A mask or something.’

  ‘He’d recognize his voice!’

  Hemmings hesitated. ‘He might simply mastermind it from a discreet distance. Use an intermediary. You should go up there, to London, to look round the gallery. Nice receptionist.’ He winked.

  ‘You mean Miss Dyer.’

  ‘Yes. Very pretty girl, Jane Dyer. Now there’s another twist, you see. Might be something going on there between Brent and the girl!’ He tapped his nose again. ‘So what do you think of that idea? This is your interview, remember. I need quotes from you.’

  Derek shrugged. ‘Look, Mr Hemmings, I don’t have any answers,’ he admitted, ‘or even any theories, but you can quote me on Mrs Brent. She’s quite a heroine, if you ask me, the way she’s bearing up. Someone is putting her through absolute hell and she doesn’t deserve it. My sister and I are full of admiration for her . . . and the sooner they arrest the swine who kidnapped her husband, the better.’

  Beaming, Hemmings put his shorthand to further good use and by the time he had finished Alison had returned.

  ‘It’s disturbing the day-to-day routine of Romilees,’ she told the reporter when asked for a quote. ‘When one of the guests is kidnapped everything else pales into insignificance.’ She smiled as she waited for his shorthand to catch up. ‘But we are not at all concerned on that count. The Brents are our guests and, as first-class hoteliers, we believe it is our duty to help them as much as possible.’ Before Hemmings raised his head she gave Derek a quick glance. ‘Mrs Brent has gone back to Folkestone for a few hours and my brother volunteered immediately to go and bring her back when she’s ready. You see, nothing is too much trouble.’

  Derek took his cue promptly. ‘Er . . . yes! Of course I did. The least I could do.’ He felt rather ashamed that he had not thought of making the offer himself but was suddenly rather looking forward to it. ‘Yes,’ he elaborated, glancing at the clock. ‘I’ll telephone her in a moment and see when she’s ready. No trouble at all.’

  The reporter looked up at them. ‘Be terrible if he’s dead!’

  Alison drew herself up. ‘We don’t even think such a thing here, Mr Hemmings. All our guests do their utmost to keep Mrs Brent’s hopes alive. We pray for her – and for his safe return. If people choose to holiday with us at the Romilees Hotel, they can rely on a hundred per cent of our attention. No challenge is too great – is it, Derek?’

  Another of those looks of hers, he noticed. Maybe he wasn’t contributing enough to this article, although he had been grilled by the reporter before his sister returned. ‘Certainly not!’ he replied. ‘While you are under our roof, we are your family!’ Hmm. Maybe that was a step too far, but Hemmings was writing it down. Derek said quickly, ‘I’d better make that call to Mrs Brent.’

  Alison said, ‘She’ll be relying on you, Derek.’

  Out in the hall, he breathed out slowly and made his way to the telephone. He was beginning to feel like a knight on a white horse.

  Maude, dusty and dishevelled from her work in the cellar, waited impatiently for the telephone to be answered. She had waited long enough for Barlowe’s call and was now ringing him. To her surprise it rang and rang and no-one answered. The operator came on the line and said, ‘It’s not engaged but no-one is answering. Maybe no-one is there.’

  ‘There most certainly is someone there, Operator. It’s an art gallery and it’s open at this time and is never unattended. Do you think there is a fault on the line? Please try again.’

  While she waited Maude had a sudden image of Frederick Barlowe lying on the floor injured or dying and Miss Dyer rushing out in search of help.

  ‘Nonsense!’ she muttered. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Maude!’ But the idea persisted. After all, Jem had been murdered and no-one was certain that Lionel was still alive.

  At last a voice said, ‘Yes. Who is it?’

  Maude frowned. If that was Miss Dyer she didn’t sound very confident or welcoming. She was supposed to say, ‘Good morning. The Barlowe Gallery. How may I help you?’ She always said that.

  Maude said, ‘Miss Dyer? Is that you?’ A long pause followed. ‘This is Mrs Brent. Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Miss Dyer? It doesn’t sound like you. Is something wrong?’ The image of Frederick Barlowe rushed back into her mind. ‘Has something happened? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so. It’s just that . . .’

  ‘Maybe I should speak with Mr Barlowe.’ What was wrong with everybody today, she wondered, trying to curb her impatience.

  ‘It’s just that . . . Well, Mr Barlowe can’t come to the phone.’

  ‘Why not? I spoke to him earlier. He was there. He must be around somewhere and is expecting a call. In fact I was expecting one from him. Have you looked upstairs in the stock room?’

  ‘Yes . . . That is, he . . .’

  Maude had the feeling that she was not being told everything. ‘Is he ill or something? Has something happened to him?’ Her irritation was giving way to alarm.

  ‘No. No. Not exactly, but he . . . he had to go out somewhere . . . in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘Oh dear. That sounds very worrying. I was expecting an important call from him. When will he be back?’

  ‘I don’t really know. Mrs Brent, I’m truly sorry but—’

  ‘He was making a list for me. My father’s pictures and their value. Maybe you could read it out to me.’

  After a silence Miss Dyer said, ‘A list
. No, no! There’s no list, Mrs Brent. Oh, I’m so sorry. I can’t . . .’ Her voice had risen and now it shook and Maude heard what sounded like a muffled sob.

  Maude’s anxiety increased. Suppose they were both in some kind of danger. There might be a third person in the gallery making sure they did not help her with the information she needed about the paintings. Suppose one or both of them disappeared . . .

  ‘Is this a police matter, Miss Dyer?’ she asked rashly.

  ‘A police matter? No. It’s just that I cannot . . . Mrs Brent . . . Oh! If anything happens to Mr Brent . . .’

  The line went dead.

  Maude stared at the silent receiver and slowly hung up. There seemed to be a giant conspiracy that included everyone else but left her in the dark. Perhaps the strain was getting to Jane Dyer, she thought.

  ‘And maybe I will be next!’ she muttered. Aunt Biddy wasn’t the only person who wondered if she was losing her mind. But Miss Dyer had said it was not a police matter, so could she accept that as the truth? She told herself that her imagination was getting the better of her and decided to put that particular conversation at the back of her mind.

  She was about to return to the kitchen when the telephone rang. This time it was Derek Jayson offering to come and collect her whenever she was ready to return to Hastings.

  Maude smiled at him across the dividing miles. Here was someone who wanted to help and was not putting obstacles in her way. ‘That’s so kind, Mr Jayson. So very thoughtful of you. Yes, I accept your offer. I’ll be ready to be collected by the time you arrive.’

  He insisted that it was no problem and agreed to set off immediately.

  When Derek Jayson arrived, Maude showed him the paintings propped outside the front door and explained that they had to be transported to Hastings to be given to the kidnappers instead of the money. With some difficulty they managed to pack them into the rear of the car and were then ready to set off.

  Before she left, Maude made a last appeal to Alice to come out of her bedroom and tell them what was troubling her. She spoke through the locked door, heard nothing in reply, and gave up, feeling extremely angry.

  Biddy shrugged. ‘She won’t speak to anyone,’ she told Maude. ‘She won’t even open the door. I’ve been traipsing up and down these stairs with cups of tea and jam tarts but to no avail. To tell you the truth I’m getting really angry. After all we’ve done for her since she came, taking her into our home and treating her like one of our own!’

  Maude agreed reluctantly. ‘I’ll have to talk to her again when all this is over – which should be shortly. Maybe when Lionel comes home she’ll decide to come out for him. She’s always respected him.’

  Biddy snorted in disapproval. ‘I never saw Alice as wayward. We’re seeing a new side to her.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Whatever you say, Maude, I still think it’s most ungrateful. As far as I’m concerned I’ve done all I’m going to do. She can come out of her room when she’s good and ready. I wash my hands of her.’

  Maude closed her eyes to her aunt’s cross face and turned back to Derek Jayson, trying to compose her thoughts. Hopefully the walk had done her good and poor little Primmy had enjoyed it. Now, Maude told herself, she needed to put everything else out of her mind and concentrate on the ordeal ahead. She was not looking forward to her adventure in the early hours of the morning but she would not allow anyone to know how terrified she was. She felt herself to be on the verge of collapse but told herself repeatedly, albeit with growing hysteria, that she needed to stay strong only until Lionel was back. Then he would once more take control. She could then relax, she promised herself, and they could gradually pick up the pieces of their broken lives.

  She hugged Biddy, then smiled gratefully at Derek Jayson. ‘Let’s go,’ she said simply.

  Meanwhile, in the basement of the local hospital, Detective Constable Fleet had been standing in the morgue for less than twenty minutes but he felt it was already too long. He had had to force himself through the door into the cool atmosphere and had tried not to breathe in the unpleasant smell – cold flesh, stale blood and strong disinfectants. There was also a distinct lack of fresh air. No doubt the pathologist was used to the combination but the detective found it unpleasantly cloying.

  He averted his eyes from a large tray in which various instruments had been laid out but was immediately confronted by a row of larger instruments hanging along the wall on hooks – knives, a hammer, three saws of varying sizes, and something that looked like a suction pump. There were several white-painted cupboards and a basket containing discarded bloodstained aprons waiting, presumably, to be sent to the laundry. How, he wondered, could anyone spend their entire working hours in such a depressing place?

  He began to feel slightly sick as Samuel Wetton, the pathologist, continued to describe and assess his findings about Jem Rider’s body.

  ‘Definitely dead before he went into the sea,’ he announced. He had a pompous manner and DC Fleet had never taken to him although he respected his work. Samuel Wetton was a professional who took pride in his work and demanded respect. ‘No salt water in the lungs. He’d already stopped breathing.’ He glanced up. ‘If you would step a little closer, DC Fleet, I can show you what killed this young man.’

  Reluctantly, the detective stepped closer and forced himself to watch as the pathologist turned the body on to its side so that he could show the back of the head.

  ‘One blow might have been an accident,’ he said. ‘But two indentations, just slightly overlapping – much more likely to have been deliberately inflicted.’

  The skull was certainly crushed, thought the detective. ‘So it was murder. Not an accident.’

  ‘I would say it was deliberate. Yes.’

  ‘And you would stand up in court and say so?’

  ‘I would – without hesitation. Someone wanted to kill this young man. Might have used a piece of driftwood – assuming it happened on the beach – or possibly a heavy stone. A large pebble, maybe. There are no wood fibres, however, so I would think a heavy pebble. A small rock, I suppose . . . And he wasn’t in the water long. A few hours at most. Do you see, DC Fleet, the skin is hardly affected.’

  DC Fleet nodded and quickly stepped back and turned away from the table, pretending to find more light by the window by which to write up his notes. He tried not to think about how sick he felt, and wrote: ‘Large pebble or small rock, two overlap indents’. His insides churned and he longed to get away from the smell and unpleasant sights.

  Wetton went on relentlessly. ‘If you look closely at the fingernails, DC Fleet, you’ll notice there is nothing under them, so I doubt he put up a struggle. Most likely didn’t expect the attack.’

  ‘So maybe knew the attacker?’ He wrote ‘fingernails – nothing’.

  The pathologist shrugged. ‘Quite possible. Just unfortunate the rock found the weakest spot. The victim might already have been on the ground, face down. Still, he wouldn’t have felt anything for more than a few—’

  A commotion outside in the corridor interrupted Wetton.

  A voice cried, ‘You can’t go in there, Mrs Rider! It’s not allowed. Not yet!’

  ‘But he’s my son. I’m entitled to see my son and you can’t stop me!’

  Wetton said wearily, ‘Oh dear! Another hysterical woman. The government ought to ban them!’

  The door burst open and as it did so the pathologist snatched up a rubber sheet and hastily draped the young man’s body.

  Mrs Rider came in, her face contorted with a mixture of grief and anger. A young attendant followed her in, red-faced and full of apologies for the intrusion. The woman’s face was blotched, her hair dishevelled. Seeing someone she recognized she stabbed a finger into DC Fleet’s chest.

  ‘I want to see my son. My murdered son – and I can tell you lot who did for him. That Mr Brent. He’s the murderer! When you find him, arrest him!’

  ‘Mrs Rider, you must come with me,’ DC Fleet told her, taking hold of her arm. ‘Please. W
e can’t talk here. This is most irregular.’ He had recognized the intrusion as his opportunity to get out of the room with dignity.

  ‘Is that Jem?’ Transfixed, she stared at the covered body on the table.

  ‘No.’ Both men spoke as one.

  Wetton said, ‘If you must know, it’s an elderly lady. Now please go with the detective. You have no right to burst in here.’

  Wide-eyed, she looked round. ‘Does he . . . How does he look? Jem.’

  Wetton said, ‘Very much as normal, Mrs Rider. Now, please . . .’

  DC Fleet guided her firmly from the room and into the corridor. ‘We’ll find you a cup of tea,’ he promised rashly. ‘And you can talk to me.’

  She allowed herself to be led along the corridor and up some stairs to a small canteen. Finally overawed by her surroundings, she waited silently for the tea.

  ‘I’ve brought you a currant bun,’ he told her. ‘Not much choice, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I can’t eat. It sticks in me gullet. So when will I see him?’

  ‘Probably tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do to hurry them up.’

  She sipped the scalding tea carefully. ‘My Jem had a friend – Robbie his name is. Robbie Johnson. He came round this morning wanting his comics and magazines back. They used to swap. “Take the horrible things,” I told him. “Can’t think why you have to look at stuff like that.” All monsters and ghosts and everyone killing everyone else!’

  ‘Boys will be boys!’ He smiled. ‘It’s in their nature. Well, some of them.’

  She shrugged. ‘Robbie says he reckoned this Mr Brent done it. Killed our Jem. Maybe because they had words over something and Jem told Robbie about it – although he can’t recall properly what it was because he wasn’t that interested – and this Brent wouldn’t give him what he said he would – money-wise, I mean.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘So Jem said he’d split on him, and then he stormed off – Brent I mean – but course Jem wasn’t really going to the police. My Jem was brought up to stay as far away from the police as possible . . . So Robbie reckons it was Brent that killed him.’ Her lips trembled. ‘So when can I see him? I just have to see him one more time before his funeral. To say goodbye. You can’t say I’m not entitled.’ Tears trickled down her cheeks.