by J F Straker
‘Now what?’ asked Paul.
They were standing by the yellow caravan. Some yards away the fat woman David had seen earlier that afternoon stood regarding them. Rightly assessing their uncertainty, she called out, ‘Your friends have gone out, young man.’
David walked over to her, with Paul in his wake.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘How long ago did they leave?’
‘Oh, about half an hour. I think they were going on a picnic; they took a basket with them.’ She looked from one to the other, and then turned and pointed over to the concrete hut in the far corner of the field. ‘They went that way. Through the wire.’
David stared at her. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Certain sure. I saw them walking up the slope towards the cliff.’
He set off briskly in the direction the woman had indicated. Paul followed, but more slowly. David had almost reached the fence when he caught up with him.
‘Where’s the fire, dear boy?’ he drawled. ‘Do we really have to run for it?’
‘I don’t know.’ David ducked under the wire and turned to face him. ‘I don’t like it, Paul. There’s something wrong. Why should they go this way? It would be too windy up on the cliff for a picnic. There’s Tremmaes, of course, but they wouldn’t be there.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, for one thing, only a few people know the way down; there’s no proper path. Nor is it particularly attractive when you get there. Practically no sand, even at low tide.’
David turned to gaze at the not so distant cliffs. Paul said, ‘Let’s conserve our energy and retire to the pub.’
David was not listening. As though thinking aloud he said, ‘Lumsden would know the way down to Tremmaes, of course. This is his country. It would be tricky going for the girl, but once there they’d have the cove to themselves.’
‘One doesn’t risk a new wife quite so soon,’ Paul objected. ‘Forget it, dear boy.’
But David could not forget it. Lumsden had mentioned Poldhu, but he might have switched to Tremmaes because he doubted David’s promise not to follow. He said, ‘I think I’ll just take a look. You wait in the car. I shan’t be long.’
Paul sighed and bent his long body to duck under the wire. ‘Whither thou goest I go also,’ he murmured. ‘Such is friendship.’
The lip of the cliff was indented where the ground had broken away, and some ten yards from the edge progress was barred by a wire safety fence. David did not pause. He followed the fence southward, then climbed over and, rounding a clump of bushes, confidently approached the edge. The ground shelved steeply under the overhang, but a narrow ledge of shale and gravel, and later of smooth rock, hugged the cliff-face at an acute angle to form an almost imperceptible path down it.
David started to slither gingerly along the ledge. As his chin reached the level of the cliff-top he looked back to see his friend watching him. Silhouetted against the sky, the veins in Paul’s large, transparent ears showed clearly.
‘Don’t try it, Paul,’ David shouted. ‘Not worth the risk. Not with one arm.’
Paul did not answer, but there was a scowl on his face and his lower lip protruded aggressively. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that, David thought ruefully. He’s touchy about his missing member.
He went on down. The slope became less abrupt, the outward angle less acute. As the ledge started to curve inward under the cliff wall he paused to look down. The cove formed a deep V, with a few square yards of grey sand at its vertex. The weedcovered rocks projecting out to sea to the north were inaccessible; if the Lumsdens had come this way they would be somewhere on the massive pile of boulders which formed a continuation of Tremmaes Head.
Above the sound of breaking waves and chattering gulls came the sharp rattle of falling stones. David looked to his left and smiled. His back propped against the cliff wall, Paul was coming after him. If he saw the thumbs up sign that David gave him he did not acknowledge it. As he turned to go on David wondered idly if Paul’s big feet would be an advantage or a disadvantage on such a descent.
A few yards farther, and he paused again. He was round the curve. Immediately below him was the vertex of the cove, and to the south he could now see the rocky promontory of Tremmaes, with its green-topped overhang and the black line of boulders cascading raggedly down to the white-capped sea. And half-way down the cascade, clearly silhouetted against the grey-blue of the sky, stood Robert Lumsden.
David did not immediately see Wilhelmina. Dressed in a brown windcheater and dark-grey slacks, a gay scarf covering her hair, she stood several feet below her husband on the near side of the promontory, with the rocks for background and the sea foaming and spouting below her. She was too far off for David to see her face, but he guessed that she was happy — happier, perhaps, than she had ever been. While he watched, a column of spray reared and fell, catching her in its fringe as she retreated. She did not appear to care. The water swirled and slid away, and she came back to the edge to peer down at it, arms outstretched behind her as though she were about to take off in flight.
Neither of them had noticed David. Lumsden, in dark sweater and khaki shorts, was gazing in the opposite direction at something beyond David’s vision. David, mentally at ease now that he had found them, wondered how the girl had managed the tricky descent. The couple must have been most anxious to be alone to have attempted it, and they would resent his intrusion on their privacy now. He would be wise to return before they discovered him.
He turned to signal to Paul, still slowly making his way down the ledge. But Paul was concentrating on his feet. With a final glance at the couple, David started on the climb back — to stop abruptly as he saw what had been engaging Lumsden’s attention. From behind the far cliff-face came two men, and at the sight of them David’s contentment vanished. Even at that distance there was no mistaking those light sweaters and dark trousers and close-cropped heads.
Dunn and Baker! Involuntarily David shouted. The wind carried the sound back to him, but he went on shouting and waving his arms in a vain attempt to put Lumsden on his guard. But Lumsden, it seemed, was unaware of danger. Obviously the men were not strangers to him, for as they approached he pointed away to his left, where Wilhelmina still played hide-and-seek with the breakers. The two men ignored his gesture; they continued to pick their careful way towards him across the slippery boulders. But there was nothing menacing in their approach, and David stopped shouting. He even began to feel slightly foolish at his behaviour. Dunn and Baker were unlikely to have found the way down to the cove unaided, they must have followed Lumsden and the girl and then gone exploring on their own. If murder had been their intent it would have happened already. It was the men on the motor cycle the Lumsdens had to fear.
It was as he reached this comforting thought that Paul cannoned into him. He came slithering down the precipitous slope, grabbed despairingly at the smooth cliff-face, failed to obtain a grip, and rammed David in the side. Arms flailing wildly, back arched, David fought to keep his balance. The foothold was too insecure, the angle of the ledge too abrupt. His feet slid away, and he fell.
The drop was not far, and luckily for David he had been standing immediately above the vertex of the V. He hit the rocky slope once with his back, and landed asprawl on his stomach on the soft sand. The impact jarred his body, and for a moment he lay inert, recovering his breath. Then, spitting sand from his mouth, he stood up.
Paul had managed to stay on the ledge.
His back against the cliff, he was staring down at David. But David had no time for his friend now. He shook his fist at him and started to climb the rocks that blocked his view to the south. There was no urgency, he told himself, wincing at the pain in his back. For his peace of mind he would assure himself before returning that all was well, but there was no urgency.
It was neither a difficult climb nor a long one, but as he heaved himself over the last of the slippery, shell-clad boulders that obstructed his view he was sweating profusely. One hand
to his aching back, he stood up. Then his body went rigid. The three men were still on the promontory, but the scene was no longer peaceful. Locked in a trio of straining bodies and thrashing arms, they were moving jerkily towards the far edge of the rock on which they struggled.
Cursing and shouting, David started forward. The action was instinctive, for he could not hope to reach them in time. He had covered only a few yards when the trio seemed suddenly to burst apart.
David saw the red-headed figure of Robert Lumsden crouching between the other two, his back to the sea, his arms outspread. Then Dunn’s foot came up and caught him in the face, and he toppled backward and disappeared.
His agonizing scream came faintly to David’s ears.
David was shocked into immobility. There was nothing he could do for Lumsden now; if the fall had not killed him outright the pounding waves would finish him. The two men were peering down at the spot where their victim had vanished, their backs to David. And below him and to his right the girl, apparently unaware of tragedy, still played tag with the spray.
The tall figure of Baker straightened and turned. David was too far off to see his face clearly, but he knew he had been recognized. For a few seconds they stared at each other across the chaos of grey rock. Then Baker tapped Dunn on the shoulder. The smaller man stood up and turned to stare also, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his trousers. To David it seemed an age before, without any apparent communication between the two men, they started towards him.
David was no braver and no more of a coward than most men. He had never courted danger, never fled from it if it came. But he wanted to flee now; only the presence of Wilhelmina stopped him. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him that Paul was no longer on the ledge; he must have completed the descent. Yet even if Paul came to his aid he knew they would stand little chance against two professional thugs. Paul had guts, but he was also minus an arm.
In an agony of indecision he watched the two men pick their way towards him. There could be no doubting their purpose. Should he stand his ground, wait for Paul to join him? Or should he make a dash for the girl? There would not be time to get her back to the cliff-face before the men reached him, and the ledge on which she now stood was dangerously exposed. Yet if they should decide to deal with her first...
It was then he saw Winstone. Winstone came from behind the promontory as Baker and Dunn had come; he must have been watching them, he would have witnessed Lumsden’s murder. David’s spirits rose. Now there were three of them. They might not be as tough or as ruthless as their enemies, but at least they would outnumber them.
The two thugs came on steadily, with Winstone keeping his distance behind them. David looked back, saw Paul’s head appear above a high boulder, and made up his mind. The girl must be his first concern; moving as swiftly as he could, he scrambled and slid across the rocks towards her. As he dropped down on to the ledge she shrank back against a high boulder, gazing at him wide-eyed. The brown hair was sodden and lank where it showed beneath the gay scarf, her cheeks were damply flushed, her feet bare. Yet despite her dishevelment she looked a more vital person than the girl he had met in Rotherhithe. The twitches were there in her face, but that could be because she had been startled by his sudden and unexpected appearance.
David had no time for explanations and reassurances. On the south side the ledge was flanked by an enormous boulder which at the seaward end projected over the rocks below. If he could get the girl under that projection it would be more difficult for the men to reach her. Without a word he caught her by the arm. But she was stronger than he had expected. She struggled fiercely to release herself, her mouth working soundlessly.
‘Get back!’ he snapped. ‘Quick! You’re in great danger.’
He caught both her arms and began to force her along the ledge. Perhaps she misunderstood his meaning, may even have thought he was trying to push her over the edge. Writhing and kicking like a wild thing, she fought the harder. There was a terrible fear in her eyes, and once she managed to scream her husband’s name. Then suddenly she went limp. Carried forward by his own impetus, David nearly fell over her. A large wave hit the rocks below the ledge, sending up a fountain of spray that drenched them both. As the water slid away from around his feet David saw that the girl had fainted. He propped her against the dripping boulder, and turned to discover what had become of Dunn and Baker. Only seconds had passed, but they could not be far off.
They were not. They stood on a clump of rocks above the far end of the ledge, watching him. There was a scowl on Baker’s mottled face, a scowl intensified by the heavy spectacles and the drooping mouth. Dunn was stroking his long, pointed chin, a twisted grin on his thin lips but with no hint of mirth in the prominent grey eyes. Neither man made a move towards him, and David wondered why. Time was on his side. They might not know that somewhere behind them Paul and Winstone were coming to his aid, but there was always the possibility that a newcomer would stray on to the scene, or that they might be spotted from the north cliff by some chance visitor undeterred by the safety fence.
Another wave invaded the ledge, but David did not heed it; he could hardly be wetter were he to plunge into the sea. The stillness of the two watchful figures at the far end of the ledge was becoming unnerving, but he would not be the first to make a move. Let them come to him. The ledge was narrow at his end. They would hamper themselves were they to attack him together. Even when Winstone appeared he made no move, no sign. He wanted to signal to him to wait for Paul, but he knew that to do so would be to betray Winstone’s presence to the two thugs. Heart pounding, he watched the lithe figure of the West Indian approach, willing him to stop. But Winstone did not stop. He came quietly down to where Dunn and Baker stood and sidled between them, to add a diffident third to the waiting pair. He gave David a nervous grin, a thin shaft of sunlight glinting on his gold teeth, and then looked away.
It was too much for David’s phlegm. The two thugs’ silent acceptance of Winstone’s presence could mean only one thing. Morgan had been right. Winstone was one of Bandy’s men.
‘You filthy, despicable little rat!’ A flurry of spray slapped David in the mouth, and he spat it out. Caution forgotten in his anger, which was directed as much at his own gullibility as at the West Indian’s deception, he advanced a few paces along the ledge, fists clenching and unclenching. ‘I’ll do you for this.’
Winstone gave him a quick glance, shrugged his slim shoulders, and took a pace back. He was clearly nervous. Dunn put a hand to his waist and laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound.
‘It’s you what’s going to be done, mister,’ he snapped.
The glint of steel in his hand restored David’s caution. He retreated backward to the girl, felt her hand at his back, and knew she was conscious again. He could hear her crying, sucking in air noisily as she caught her breath, and amid the fear and sickness that was in him he was able to feel a twinge of pity for her. It might have been better, poor thing, had she remained unconscious. For this was it. The waiting was over.
Where the hell was Paul?
‘Get back,’ he urged. ‘Get as far back as you can.’
With relief he felt her obey. He needed room in which to manoeuvre. For a brief moment he looked down to his left; where he stood the ledge was less than three feet wide, and below it sharp pinnacles of rock protruded from a heaving, creamy sea that even as he watched burst into a volcano of spray. The drop was not long, but it would probably be fatal.
His eyes returned to the knife in Dunn’s hand. The man had moved forward to the edge of the rock. So had Baker. A cloud drifted away from the sun and the promontory was bathed in sudden light. David felt the warmth on his damp head, and shivered; sunshine was inapposite, it did not go with murder. The thought flashed through his mind that perhaps he was dreaming; could this really be happening to him, David Wight? The subdued thunder of the surf, the sobbing girl behind him, the sun glinting on Baker’s spectacles and the knife in Dunn’s hand, assured him that it
was.
‘No knives, you fool!’
The peremptory command caused David to look up quickly. Paul was there.
He stood on a rock behind the three men, seeming to tower above them, the wind ruffling his hair and an expression on his face that David had not seen there before. Lower lip thrust forward, yellow teeth bared, he gazed viciously down at David. There was no recognition in his eyes. It was as though he were seeing a stranger and detested what he saw.
David stared back, fascinated as a rabbit might be fascinated by a snake. He too saw a stranger. But he had no need to ask for an explanation. It was there on Paul’s face, in his air of authority, and in the deference the others accorded him. Paul — the bon viveur, the wealthy young man-about-town, the friend he had trusted — was a thief and a murderer!
Paul was Bandy!
Something flashed in the sunlight, breaking the spell. Dunn had put away the knife. But to David, Dunn and Baker and Winstone now seemed insignificant. His anger at Winstone’s duplicity had been as nothing to his rage now. It was so intense, so over-powering, that he could find no words with which to voice it.
Danger and fear and the girl forgotten, body rigid, teeth locked so that his gums ached, he sought to convey through his eyes the hatred and loathing his tongue could not express.
‘No knives,’ Paul repeated. No drawl now, the voice was curtly incisive. ‘If the bodies are ever recovered they must appear to have been drowned. We’re too conspicuous down here for there to be any hint of murder.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Get on with it, Joe.’
Baker removed his spectacles, handed them to Winstone, and slid down on to the ledge. He looked a tough and menacing figure, with his large frame and spread nose and expressionless eyes. But David experienced no sensation of fear. He was almost eager for battle; it would be a relief to express physically the rage that consumed him. He would have preferred Paul or Winstone at the end of his fists, but if it was to be Baker — well, he was ready.