by Carola Dunn
He nodded. “I didn’t find a chance to ask you until Friday. Well, on Friday, Bethie went to see the family solicitor to ask if a divorce could be managed without George and Nancy’s knowledge. He’s never handled a divorce case and wanted to ask an expert for advice, and his expert was away for a long weekend. He didn’t get hold of him till late yesterday afternoon.”
“By which time the question had changed.”
“Yes, but I simply couldn’t think how to tell her by phone or telegram that the man was no longer a thorn in our flesh. That we could marry, I mean, while leaving Nancy Enderby in happy ignorance. I mean, if I’d rung up, or wired something like ‘Enderby dead name the date,’ some meddlesome operator somewhere might have thought it was mighty fishy and reported to the police. I wrote a letter to the same effect, and she got it by the midday post today. This,” he waved the telegram, “is the result.”
“Can’t you get a death certificate, a copy, without Nancy knowing?”
“I’ve no idea, but simply going about finding out will probably give the game away. To the police, at the very least, hence my confession.”
Alec stood up. “Well,” he said, “you’ve wasted a lot of our time, Baskin. We’ll have to check your story, of course, but if it’s all right, I may be able to do something about the death certificate. I’m making no promises, mind. I doubt Dr. Wedderburn will object, so it’ll depend on the coroner, I imagine. We’ll hope for the second Mrs. Enderby’s sake that he’s sympathetic. And right now, you’d better come down to the parish hall and give us the address of the first Mrs. Enderby and the family friend, and a few other details.”
“Right now, darling,” said Daisy, “you go and kiss Bel good night before you disappear again. You promised.” She turned to Baskin as Alec obediently departed. “Your Elizabeth sounds like a sweetheart. I can’t see many women in her situation being concerned about Nancy’s humiliation if her fake marriage became known.”
“She’s one in a million,” Baskin said fervently.
“I wish you both very happy. I’d like to meet her sometime, if she wouldn’t be embarrassed by my knowing the story. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going up. I’m utterly exhausted!”
Alec walked back to the parish hall with Baskin. They talked on the way, and Alec came to the conclusion he’d have to cross another suspect off his list.
Coleman still refused to utter anything but obscenity and blasphemy, not a word about either the assault charge or his movements on Sunday afternoon. In the morning he would be provided with a lawyer, who might or might not get something out of him. But meanwhile, his daughter had been found. The Newton Abbot police were going to pick Olive up, when the Alexandra Cinema let out at eleven, and bring her to Westcombe.
All Alec’s hopes were banked on Olive Coleman being able to tell him whom she had seen on the cliff-top. Suppose she had seen no one? What would he do next? He needed a contingency plan in place, so as not to waste time.
He fell into an abstracted silence and, when they reached the hall, turned Baskin over to DS Horrocks.
Little though he wished to, Alec had to consult Mallow, or the man would be justifiably miffed. As it was, he was obsequiously flattering about Alec’s forethought, but he did provide one or two ideas which might prove useful in the event that the plan was needed.
Half past ten. Baskin was long gone. The Schooner’s bars closed and the hall filled with weary officers looking longingly at their stacked bedding. Alec tried to imagine interrogating a young and probably frightened girl in these surroundings, and failed.
“You fellows can turn in,” he said. “I’ll see Miss Coleman up at the police station.”
He, Mallow, Horrocks and Puckle walked up the hill together. As they entered the station house, Puckle yawned enormously. Alec sent him to bed, then caught Inspector Mallow trying to suppress a yawn. “You’d better go too.”
“I’m not tired, sir. Yawns are catching.”
“Undeniable, but it’s been a long day and I want you fresh in the morning. Off you go.”
He was glad of an excuse to get rid of the man. There was no knowing what effect one of Mallow’s “bombs” might have on Olive. They didn’t want to be accused of bullying a sixteen-year-old female witness. In fact, he ought to have arranged for a woman to be present. The thought of bringing her mother over from the farm had occurred earlier, only to be dismissed, and then he had forgotten in the press of other business.
Mrs. Hammett? Heaven forbid! Daisy? If she had not been expecting a baby, Alec would have been tempted, but she needed her rest. Maybe the Newton Abbot people would think of sending a woman with her, perhaps even the friend she was staying with. If not, Mrs. Puckle would have to be roused.
Eleven o’clock. “The picture-palace will be closing now,” said Horrocks. “Mr. Mallow arranged that they’d ring up when they picked her up, before setting out.”
Quarter past eleven. No telephone call. “I hope to heaven they haven’t missed her,” said Alec, “or discovered we’re after the wrong girl.”
“They’d’ve rung up for sure, sir, if it turned out not to be Olive Coleman.”
Half past eleven. “Do you think she ran for it, sir?” asked Horrocks.
“I hope not, Sergeant. I hope not.”
Quarter to twelve. “I suppose they forgot to telephone. They should be here soon.”
The call came at five minutes before midnight. Horrocks picked up the receiver, handling it awkwardly with his bandaged hand. “Westcombe Police Station—DS Horrocks here.” Horrocks fell silent. All Alec could hear was a sort of quacking noise coming over the wire. Then the sergeant said, “Oh lor’! You’d better speak to the DCI.”
“No, no!” came through clearly. “You tell him. We’ll be in touch in the morning.”
“He’s rung off.” Horrocks hung up and turned to Alec. “Well, we could’ve gone to bed an hour ago, sir. They’ve botched it good and proper. When they tapped the girl on the shoulder, she fell into a fit of hysterics and they had to call in a doctor. She’s under sedation and won’t be fit to question till tomorrow.”
“Damn!” said Alec. “Did they at least find out whether it’s Olive?”
“Yes, sir, from the friend, Mrs. Dabb. It’s her, right enough.”
“That’s something. But damn, I’d hoped we could get this business sorted out tonight and wound up first thing in the morning. I’ll be very surprised if they get her to us before noon, and in the meantime we’ll have to go on digging elsewhere, just in case she hasn’t got the answer … No, I’ll tell you what, Horrocks, we’ll leave the digging to Mr. Mallow and you and I will go to Newton Abbot to talk to her at her friend’s house. Surely she’s less likely to throw a fit there than at a police station!”
“’Spect so. Unless … Sir, d’you think she went all to pieces because she done it?”
“It’s possible. Or because she thought her father had caught up with her.”
“Or the murderer, if so be it weren’t her pa.”
“We can’t rule anything out. Did they put a watch on the house?” “Dunno, sir. He didn’t mention it.”
“Then ring back and tell them I want a man on the front door and another on the back. Whatever Olive Coleman’s running from, we can’t afford to let her run any farther.”
25
A steady wind still blew up the inlet when Alec stepped out into the early morning sun. Walking into the village, he noted that the great swells rolling up the inlet had not subsided overnight, as he had hoped. He would without fail be thoroughly seasick if he took the ferry to Abbotsford. It was out of the question.
That meant Sergeant Tumbelow would have to give him and DS Horrocks a lift to the station. Though unattractive, the discomfort of the motor-bicycle was immeasurably to be preferred to the agonies of mal de mer.
But when he saw Horrocks’s pale face and the gingerly way he used his injured hand, Alec decided taking him along was out of the question.
Young Vern
on, haled out of bed long before his usual hour, put on a fresh dressing and prescribed aspirin and a sling. “I don’t think it’s infected,” he said cautiously, “but perhaps you’d better go along to my uncle’s surgery at ten. After all, I’m not actually qualified yet, don’t you know, and animal bites can turn nasty.”
“I’m quite all right to go to Newton Abbot wi’ you, Chief Inspector, sir!”
“Not on your life. I’m sure Inspector Mallow can make use of you here. Vernon, would I be taking my life in my hands if I asked you to drive me into Abbotsford to catch a train? You did say you own a car?”
“She’s just a little Gwynne, but she’ll get you to Newton Abbot faster than the train. Even if I obey the speed limit,” Vernon added with a grin, “having a copper on board. Or does being on police business give me licence to speed? Anyway, I’ll take you all the way, sir.”
He was as good as his word. By ten o’clock, Alec had called in at the Newton Abbot police station and was knocking on the door of the hideous, jerry-built, modern bungalow where Olive Coleman’s dairy-maid friend resided.
Daisy slept like a log. When at last she awoke, the pillow beside her was dented, so Alec must have been there. She hadn’t the faintest recollection of his arrival or departure.
The clock on the mantelpiece opposite the bed said nearly ten o’clock. Twelve hours’ sleep! No wonder she felt bright and full of energy. She also felt ravenous. She gave her abdomen an apologetic pat. “Sorry, you must be starving, baby. Breakfast’s long over, but I expect Cecily will give us some bread and butter to keep us going till lunchtime.”
Alec had left a note on the dressing-table. He had to go to Newton Abbot to interview Olive Coleman, but hoped to wrap up the case this morning and, with any luck, be back for lunch.
What were the girls up to in Daisy’s absence? She washed and dressed quickly and went downstairs.
Cecily looked round from the flowers she was arranging on the hall table. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said with a smile. “Bacon and eggs in five minutes?”
“Really? Yes, please! I’ll come and eat in the kitchen if it’s more convenient. It’s too noble of you—I was hoping to beg a crust of dry bread.”
Leading the way to the kitchen, Cecily laughed. “When the others finished breakfast with no sign of your appearance, Belinda begged me to leave out something cold for you. She said you’d be dying of hunger. What a dear that child is!”
“Isn’t she? Where are the girls?”
“On the beach.”
“Alone?” Daisy asked anxiously. “Have the waves gone down?”
“They’re about the same, but the tide is an hour later. Peter said they’re safe for a while yet, but he and Mr. Baskin went with them anyway. I popped down to see what was going on, and you’ve never seen two grown men have such fun messing about in the sand!”
How Cecily had changed in a few short days, Daisy thought, as sizzling bacon filled the kitchen with its heavenly smell. Her sins were forgiven, her husband safe from arrest, and her aloof diffidence metamorphosed into cheerful sociability. If Alec had not been on hand, Peter Anstruther might now be languishing in a gaol cell, while his wife tried frantically to find a good lawyer to defend him.
It was worth the loss of half their holiday—not that Daisy didn’t intend to make sure Superintendent Crane gave Alec another holiday to make up.
As she was finishing her breakfast, the beach party came in, covered with sand. Daisy sent the girls to wash and change into clothes suitable to walk into the village. She needed yet more postcards, Belinda ought to write again to her grandparents, and Deva must write to her mother. Baskin decided to go with them to drop into the parish hall and find out what was going on.
“I hope your husband has made an arrest by now,” he said privately to Daisy as the girls raced ahead along the track, “so that he won’t have to trouble Elizabeth.”
“I hope so too, so that he can have a few days to enjoy this beautiful place before we go back to town!”
Having bought their postcards and stamps and exchanged their library books, Daisy and the girls headed down the busy street towards the quay. They were halfway down the hill when an earsplitting crrrack startled them to a halt. Everyone in the street looked up as a series of bangs rang out and a burst of fiery multi-coloured stars sparkled high in the blue sky.
“A rocket!” Deva exclaimed.
All the local people were suddenly in motion, most of them running down the cobbles to the waterside. Daisy couldn’t move.
“For the lifeboat,” said Belinda. “You remember, Mummy, like when Daddy found the body and they fired a rocket—they called it a maroon—so the lifeboatmen would come to man the boat.”
“To go and fetch the body, Mrs. Fletcher, ’member?”
Daisy remembered all too clearly. Not another body at the bottom of a cliff. It couldn’t—mustn’t—be another murder!
“Come on, Mummy. Let’s go and watch them launch the boat. Everyone’s going.”
She let the girls shepherd her down to the quay. Everyone was talking at once, the broad, slow Devonshire accent confusing her ears.
The lifeboat house at the end of the quay was bedecked with fading bunting in celebration of the centenary of the RNLI. Its doors stood open. Half the population of the village seemed to be helping to drag the white, blue and red lifeboat out on its wheeled carriage and easing it down the slipway.
Mrs. Hammett emerged from the crowd. “It’s the idiot, that Sid Coleman,” she told Daisy. “A couple of fishermen saw him climbing into a cave. They say it’s quite safe in the ordinary way, but today’s the spring tide and wi’ the waves kicked up by the storm and a strong onshore wind, the cave’ll fill wi’ water and drownd him.”
“Why didn’t they go and stop him?” Daisy was horrified. It was her fault Sid had been driven from his humble home and gone into hiding, all because she had told Alec he was Olive’s uncle. If he drowned, she’d never forgive herself.
“They shouted and waved, is what I heard, but he just went the faster. Their boat not being built for inshore work, they came back in a hurry to call out the lifeboat. Though why a dozen able-bodied men should risk their lives for an idiot is more than I can tell!”
“They’ve volunteered to help anyone in danger, haven’t they? Not to pick and choose. And they have life-jackets.”
The boat was floating now, and several men were in it, shrugging into the bulky life-jackets. Two of them looked familiar to Daisy, but she couldn’t place them. A couple more came running. Timing their jumps to the rise of the boat on a swell, they dropped down.
“Mummy!” Belinda pulled urgently on Daisy’s sleeve. “Mummy, it’s the men who were so horrid to Sid! The ones who were going to steal his cart. They’ll frighten him. He’ll never go to them if they call to him. He’ll go farther into the cave and get drowned, for sure.”
Daisy moved without thinking. Afterwards, she was quite unable to explain or even recall exactly what she did. She would remember her own voice, in her mother’s best grande dame manner, saying, “Help me aboard, please, I must go with them.”
The next thing she was fully aware of was an educated voice shouting irritably, “No, we can’t stop to put her ashore. Wind and tide are against us. Lean to those oars.”
She was seated on a locker. One of the men she recognized—Ned Baxter?—was guiding her hand through the armhole of a life-jacket. The boat was already several yards from the quay.
“Let’s get the other arm through this here hole, missus,” said Ned Baxter patiently, “and I s’ll lace un for ’ee. I dunno what you’ve gone and took into your head, to come along o’ we, like, but if so be you was to fall overboard we don’t want you a-drownding of afore we can pull you in.”
“Gosh, no!”
Daisy saw Belinda and Deva up on the quay, staring after her in horror. Baskin was beside them. He would look after them. They’d tell Alec where she had gone.
Alec was going to be abs
olutely, enormously and justifiably furious. She must have run mad!
“I been’t going back. You can’t make me!” Olive Coleman’s pudding-face was not improved by a sullen pout, but she had the voluptuous figure of an Edwardian chorus girl, and Enderby’s taste in women was already proven to be catholic. It might have appealed to other men, too. Alec hoped he wasn’t going to have to investigate all Coleman’s farm-hands.
In Alec’s eyes, the girl’s true beauty was her hair, spun gold, braided and pinned up in an old-fashioned coronet about her head. No doubt that would not last, judging by her friend’s crimped bob.
“I’m not trying to take you home, Miss Coleman,” he said. “At present I just want to ask you some questions.”
“Don’t know nothing.”
“In that case, you won’t be able to give me answers, will you? But I must ask the questions all the same, and you might prefer that your friend not hear them.”
“I’ll stick by you, Olive.” Mrs. Dabb’s face was avid with curiosity. “Is it about this murder, then, that’s in the papers? The landlord at the Schooner, as fell off of the cliff? ’Tweren’t that far from the farm, was it?”
Olive looked mistrustfully from her friend to Alec and back. “I don’t know nothing. I din’t do nothing.”
“I’m not here to charge you with any crime, Miss Coleman, but you may request a lawyer if you wish. Or your friend may stay, or I can call in a constable, or—”
“No,” she said sulkily. “I don’t want nobody. You don’t need to stay, Mavis.”
“You sure, dear? Well, then, I’ll be right next door in the kitchen if you was to want me. Just call out.” Mrs. Dabb whisked out, not quite closing the door behind her.
Alec remedied the omission and turned to face the room. Olive stood by the gas-fireplace, fidgeting with a garish china clown holding a concertina with A Present from Paignton written on it.
“’Tis a music box,” she said. “Listen.” In tinny tones, “Oh, I do Like to Be Beside the Seaside” started up. “I never seen one afore.”