The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut tfm-12

by Simon Brett

  “You’ll have to get hold of one before next week,” said Jude.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lily’s going to want her Granny to go into the sea with her, isn’t she?”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I’m going down for a paddle,” Jude announced impetuously. And she ran over the flat sand towards the sea, setting everything jiggling, but again attracting some admiring male glances.

  Carole tried to focus her mind on The Times crossword, but without success. She was continually distracted by the sounds and sights of the beach. And her eyes kept wandering across to the locked frontage of Quiet Harbour, prompting further speculations about what she had seen inside the hut.

  To distract herself, she went into Fowey and took the small pink director’s chair out of its plastic wrapping. She set it on the sand between its two grown-up counterparts and indulged in a moment of soppiness. She couldn’t wait to see Lily sitting in it. She somehow just knew her granddaughter would love the thing. Then, not wishing Jude to witness her sentimentality, she folded the little chair and put it back inside.

  Still restless, she gave in to the reproachful look from Gulliver, who took a pretty dim view of being tied up by his lead to a hook on the outside of the beach hut. So Carole took him for a little stroll along the curved rows of beach huts, observing as much as she could without being seen to be snooping. The one right next door to Fowey was called Shrimphaven. The doors were open, but the hut looked to be empty. As a result Carole peered in more obviously than she might have done, and was embarrassed to meet the bespectacled gaze of a young woman sitting in the shadows over an open laptop. Making an awkward cough of apology, Carole scuttled off along the line of huts.

  Some of the owners she recognized from her previous visit. Outside a hut called Mistral an elderly couple sat on candy-striped loungers. The woman, plump, white-haired, with powdered skin like pink meringue, was contentedly working her way through a book of word searches. She looked up as Carole passed.

  “Morning,” the old woman said in a comfortable, homely voice. “I gather you’ve got problems with Quiet Harbour.”

  “A bit of fire damage. Not too serious. Vandals, I suppose.”

  The woman shook her head gloomily. “Too much of that going on these days. By the way, my name’s Joyce Oliver.”

  “Carole Seddon.”

  “And that’s Lionel.” The husband she gestured to looked unsuitably dressed for the beach. Though he was in shirt sleeves, the shirt was a formal white one, and his charcoal trousers with neat creases looked as though they were the bottom half of a suit. Over the back of his lounger hung a matching jacket. His shoes, black lace-ups with toecaps, were highly polished. Beside him on the sand was a copy of the Daily Mail, but he wasn’t reading it. He was just looking out to sea with an expression of infinite bleakness.

  “In a world of his own, as ever,” said Joyce Oliver with a little chuckle, as Gulliver tugged on his lead to get moving. “Well, I’m sure we’ll see you again, Carole. We’re here most days in the summer, and particularly at the moment because we’re in the process of moving house. Place where we brought up the kids is far too big for us now. It’s a wrench leaving the house, but has to be done. Lionel can’t manage the garden any more. It’s his pride and joy – the work he’s put into the landscaping and the water features you wouldn’t believe. But it’s too much for him now and he hates the idea of having someone else doing it for him, so the move does make good sense.

  “Anyway, we’re not quite out of the old house, and there’s lots of work needs doing on the new one – well, you can’t really call it a house, it’s only a flat – so coming down here to the hut is quite a relief, let me tell you.”

  “Yes, it’s a lovely spot,” said Carole, providing a predictable comment on Smalting Beach. Then with a nod to Joyce Oliver, she continued along the line of beach huts.

  ∨ Bones Under The Beach Hut ∧

  Eight

  Carole was surprised that the man in the next hut appeared to recognize her. She had no recollection of ever having seen him before. Rising from a wooden folding chair, he said, “Good morning. You must be Mrs Seddon.”

  His beach hut had not been open on her previous visit, because Carole would certainly have remembered it if it had been. The opened doors revealed, fixed on to their interiors and continuing on all three walls of the hut, a huge array of naval memorabilia. Highly polished brass port and starboard lights were attached to the inside of their appropriate doors. There were also anchors, ancient quadrants and sextants, watercolours of ships, model ships, ships in bottles, framed hat ribbons, wooden dead eyes, cleats, badges, flags, boards with demonstration knots pinned on them, and green glass floats for fishing nets. In pride of place at the back of the hut stood a brass-studded wooden ship’s wheel. Over the doors was fixed a worn brass plaque bearing the name: The Bridge.

  Slightly fazed by the display, Carole acknowledged that she was indeed Mrs Seddon. The gentleman who’d asked the question was of a piece with the contents of his hut. Probably in his early seventies, he had a full grey beard in the style of George V. He wore a blazer with embossed brass buttons and on its breast pocket a badge featuring a lot of woven gold wire. His dark blue tie also bore some naval insignia.

  Offering a hairy hand to Carole, the man identified himself. “Good morning, my name is Reginald Flowers and I am President of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.”

  It was then that Carole noticed he was not alone. Sitting on another folding chair beside him was a chubby little woman with faded red hair and thick-lensed glasses. Open on her lap was a folded-back spiral reporter’s notebook in which she’d apparently been writing shorthand.

  “And this is Dora,” said Reginald Flowers with the utmost condescension, “who is my secretary.”

  “Well, Reginald, that’s not strictly accurate,” the woman objected rather feebly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m not your secretary. I’m secretary of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.”

  “It comes to the same thing, Dora.”

  “No, it doesn’t really.”

  “Yes, it does. Anyway, I need to speak to Mrs Seddon. So could you please go off and type up those letters as soon as possible?”

  “I’ll do them this evening. I only came down this morning to have a nice day in my beach hut.” She smiled myopically at Carole and pointed along the row. “Mine’s the third one along. It’s called Cape of Good Hope.”

  “Oh. How nice,” said Carole.

  “And obviously my full name isn’t just Dora. It’s Dora Pinchbeck.”

  “Ah. Well –”

  “Dora,” said Reginald Flowers firmly, “I would be very grateful if you could do those letters straight away, and then you can enjoy your day in the beach hut.”

  “Well, I’d really rather –”

  “If you would be so kind,” came the implacable order.

  “Oh, very well.” And Dora shuffled her notebook and pen into her bag. “I’ll have to lock up Cape of Good Hope before I go.”

  “That will be quite permissible,” her magnanimous boss assured her.

  With a long-suffering sigh, Dora Pinchbeck scuttled off to her beach hut.

  “And bring the letters here for me to sign as soon as you’ve finished them!” Reginald Flowers called after her. Then he turned back to bestow a gracious smile on Carole. “As I say, I am the President of the Smalting Beach Hut Association. As such, I do of course know everything that goes on in these beach huts.”

  “I’m sure you do. Anyway, nice to meet you.” Nodding towards the collection in the hut, Carole said, “An ex-naval man, I assume?”

  His face darkened. “No, I did not myself in fact serve before the mast, though many of my ancestors did. Let’s just say that the history of the British Navy has been a lifelong interest of mine and one that in retirement I have been able to pursue more thoroughly.”

  Carole w
as about to respond: “I’d never have guessed,” but decided it might sound flippant to someone who was as clearly obsessed as Reginald Flowers. So instead she commented on the splendour of his hoard. “Do you really leave it here all the time? Isn’t there a terrible risk of it all being stolen?”

  “No, Mrs Seddon. Although I do take the collection home during the winter months, there is in fact no danger of any of it being stolen. That is what the Smalting Beach Hut Association is there for.”

  “Oh?”

  “During the summer months the SBHA – as we call it – appoints a security officer, whose job it is to patrol the beach huts and ensure that their security is maintained.”

  “What a good idea. Isn’t that rather expensive, though?”

  “The SBHA has funds to cover the costs.”

  “And where do those funds come from?”

  “Some from Fether District Council.” A shadow crossed his face, as though he regretted having to take help from that source. “One of the first actions of the SBHA when I formed it was to lobby the Council for a security officer. And I won that little battle, as I have won many other set-tos with Fether District Council.” His face darkened again. “Though sadly they would not let me sit on the selection board when the security officer was appointed.”

  “So are you saying that the Council supports the SBHA financially?”

  “Only a very little. They do no more than they absolutely have to, and even that is after a lot of lobbying from us…well, from me usually. No, the costs of running the SBHA are raised largely from subscriptions.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly Carole realized how she should respond to this prompt. “Well, I should pay a subscription, shouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, that would be a good thing. The SBHA exists to look after the concerns of all beach hut users. And your subscription also entitles you to receive our regular newsletter, The Hut Parade.”

  “What an amusing title,” Carole lied.

  “Well, we like it.” The smile that accompanied these words left no doubt that it was Reginald Flowers who had thought up the name for the newsletter. Carole reckoned he was probably its editor too. “Your subscription also secures for you a complimentary annual tide table. All new members get that.” There was disapproval in Reginald Flowers’s voice as he continued, “I gather you have taken over the rental of Quiet Harbour from Miss Rose.”

  “Yes, but it’s all been cleared with Kelvin Southwest from the Fether District Council.”

  A cynical light came into Reginald Flowers’s watery blue eyes. “Oh yes, well, it’s very easy to get things cleared with Mr Southwest, isn’t it? Particularly if you’re a woman.”

  Now she had formed an estimation of Reginald Flowers’s character, Carole was unsurprised to find there was friction between him and Kelvin Southwest. Two control freaks for a single beach is probably one too many.

  “He was very reasonable about it,” she said.

  That prompted a sardonic chuckle. “Oh yes, I’m sure he was. Always ready to do little favours for people, our Kelvin, isn’t he? Provided of course that the people are prepared to do little favours for him.” Carole didn’t think any comment was appropriate; she mustn’t be seen to be taking sides in what was clearly an ongoing conflict. “One day,” Reginald Flowers continued ominously, “one day our Kelvin is going to take one favour too many…”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s a very fine line, Mrs Seddon, between co-operation and corruption, you know. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time a local government officer has taken a backhander, would it?”

  Once again Carole decided not to comment. She moved the subject on. “If you let me know how much I owe you for the subscription, I’ll write you a cheque straight away.”

  “The subscription is twenty pounds per annum.”

  “Oh well, I think I’ve probably got that in cash. I’m just going for a little walk, but when I get back to my hut I’ll find my handbag and bring the money over to you.” Carole suddenly realized that, in spite of Reginald Flowers’s reassurances about the security of the Smalting Beach, she had been very foolish to leave her bag in the hut. She looked over to Fowey, but was relieved to see that Jude, still dressed only in her bikini, was sprawled in one of the director’s chairs.

  “There is a form for you to fill in,” announced Reginald Flowers. Oh yes, of course there would be. Carole somehow got the feeling that becoming a member of any organization run by him would involve a lot of form-filling. He bustled about inside his naval museum and emerged holding a badly printed form covered with lots of boxes that Carole could see would be too small for the information they were meant to contain. And the form was three pages long.

  But she took it with appropriate gratitude and said she’d bring it back with the money when she’d filled it in. “I’ll do it the moment I get back to the hut,” she said, gesturing in the direction of Fowey.

  Reginald Flowers looked puzzled. “I understood that you were taking over Miss Rose’s hut. That’s over there.”

  So he doesn’t know everything that goes on in the beach huts, does he? Carole guessed he didn’t know about the fire under Quiet Harbour, and for some reason she didn’t feel inclined to tell him about it. All she said was, “There was a bit of a problem with that one, so while it’s being sorted out, Kelvin Southwest’s let me use Fowey.”

  “Has he?” said Reginald Flowers, as if hearing of another example in the long list of the Council official’s transgressions.

  Carole continued her walk. The hut adjacent to Quiet Harbour was still being ruled by the poisonous matriarch whom Carole had seen on her previous visit. The downtrodden glumness on the faces of her son Gavin, his wife Nell, and their children Tristram and Hermione, showed that their stay with Granny was proving to be a very long week indeed. Carole once again made all kinds of vows to herself about the way she was going to behave to Lily.

  And then she was once again outside Quiet Harbour. She didn’t want to make a show of inspecting it, so she walked on past. But there was still something intriguing about the place, oddities that needed explanation, a sense of unfinished business.

  ∨ Bones Under The Beach Hut ∧

  Nine

  The picnic lunch that Jude had prepared was very good. A chicken salad with some nice crusty bread, suitably light for the hot weather. And, needless to say, being Jude, she’d brought a bottle of Chilean Chardonnay in a cool bag. Carole said she’d just have one glass, but somehow they managed to finish the bottle. And sitting outside Fowey in their director’s chairs in the sunlight, both women found themselves dozing off. To Carole it all felt titillatingly decadent.

  She hadn’t slept for long when she woke with a start. There had been no sound, nothing to wake her but her Calvinist conscience. In the other chair Jude still slept, her large, sagging body as relaxed as a child’s. Carole looked across Smalting Beach with half-closed eyes, the sunlight glowing red through her lids. And noticed to her surprise that the doors to Quiet Harbour were open.

  Wide awake now, she saw Kelvin Southwest emerge from the hut with another man dressed in jeans and a worn T-shirt, who was carrying a clipboard and a tape measure. They had a little discussion on the sand, then the other man moved purposefully up the beach to the promenade. Kelvin Southwest didn’t follow him. With trepidation Carole realized that he was coming straight towards Fowey. She straightened in her chair and picked up The Times crossword, unwilling to look as if she’d just woken up.

  Reginald Flowers was still sitting on his wooden chair outside The Bridge and Kelvin Southwest had to walk directly in front of him, but neither man made any gesture of recognition or greeting.

  The beach hut emperor of Fether District Council was dressed in the same uniform of polo shirt and shorts as he had been on Tuesday, but this afternoon he looked hot and bothered. He still greeted Carole with another of his roguish smiles, however, together with a hearty, “Good afternoon, good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr Sout
hwest.”

  “Kel. Remember, you’re Carole and I’m Kel.”

  “Yes…” she forced herself to say it “…Kel.”

  Their voices had woken Jude from her doze and she looked around blearily. Carole hoped her friend hadn’t heard her using the word ‘Kel’.

  “And I am the bearer of glad tidings,” he went on. “Because it’s for you, Carole, that I have moved heaven and earth to get the repairs to Quiet Harbour done as soon as possible. In fact, I’ve just been talking to the contractor who’s doing the job – someone local I’ve known for a long time. I put a lot of work his way and he…well, let’s say we scratch each other’s backs, just as I said it would give me great pleasure to scratch yours.”

  Behind him Jude had clearly managed to identify Kelvin Southwest from Carole’s description, and she was grinning like a Cheshire cat. Carole tried to avoid catching her friend’s eye, fearful of starting to laugh.

  “Well, anyway, my friend the contractor has had a look at the damage to Quiet Harbour. He reckons it’s only three boards that’ll need replacing and not much more than touching up the paint on the outside. So he’s just going to get his tools and he’ll be starting the job straight away.” He gave her a wink, which fortunately Jude couldn’t see, or that would have really set them off. “So who says Kel doesn’t sort things out quickly for his favourites, eh?”

  “I’m sure nobody’s ever said that, er…Kel.”

  “Well, let me tell you, Carole, having moved heaven and earth for you, I could do with a little break. How would you like to join me again at The Copper Kettle?”

  “Well, that’s very kind, but I have just had lunch. And then again I am here with my friend.”

  He turned around to where Carole indicated, apparently noticing Jude for the first time. She rose from her director’s chair, grinned at him and said, “I’m Jude.”