by JRL Anderson
‘I don’t blame you. I think it’s very brave of you to come.’
‘I wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been for you. I don’t have to be here. I don’t want to give up my classes, but I thought I’d try to get a room in Lavenham.’
‘We’ve got a job to do. As soon as it’s finished I shall take you away and you need never come back – except to pick sea lavender. But you can get plenty of that on the Dunwich marshes.’
*
‘We’ve just about got time,’ Sally said as they walked to the car. ‘We ought to go to the mill for tea – they might think it a bit standoffish if we didn’t.’
‘What time is that?’
‘Well, they call it tea, but it’s really a sort of supper. Between six and seven. People generally work till around then, and they’re ready for a meal. After tea they may go into Walberswick to a pub if anyone’s got any money. Or sit around and talk.’
‘Right, we’ll be back on time. It won’t take me long to make my phone call.’ They left their rucksacks and Piet’s painting bag in the cabin.
*
It took rather longer than he expected. He just caught his Superintendent before he left the office and found that the Superintendent was most anxious to get in touch with him. Not having a limitless supply of coins for the call-box, Piet rang off and the Superintendent called him back. ‘That’s better,’ the Superintendent said. ‘Now we can talk without being cut off. Your pal Wilbur Constantine has been round asking for you. He says it’s very important – another Constable has turned up.’
‘The devil it has!’ Piet said.
‘It’s been brought to his firm to sell. He says he won’t do anything about it until he’s seen you.’
‘I should hope not. Of course I must see him. I’ll come up in the morning. Can you make an appointment for me for noon? And can he bring the picture with him?’
‘Yes, it’s been left with him for the moment. The customer is coming back on Wednesday, so if you can see him tomorrow it will be all right.’
‘Good. I shall have to come back here, I think, but I’ll work that out after seeing Constantine. Anything else?’
‘No, that’s about all. It seems enough, though.’
‘Well, it may help. See you tomorrow.’
*
Piet told Sally that he’d have to go on to London after taking her to Lavenham. ‘Will it look odd if I’m out all day?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so. You can say you’re working on a landscape around Lavenham.’
‘That gives a reasonable excuse for taking you there. I can be suitably vague about precisely where I’m painting. What time do you generally leave Moat Cottage?’
‘If I’m going by bus, I have to leave at four. If you’re giving me a lift it doesn’t matter.’
‘I don’t want to come to Moat Cottage, and the trouble is I can’t give you an exact time. I’ll try to be at the bus-stop by five, but I may not be able to make it. If I’m not there by five thirty can you wander for a bit and meet me at that little pub opposite the rather posh hotel?’
‘I know the place. They do rather good sandwiches.’
‘That’s it. I’ll try to be there by opening time, but if not you could wait quite comfortably in the bar.’
*
They were back at the mill soon after six. ‘Hullo everybody!’ Sally called out. ‘We’ve brought some food and some bottles of plonk.’
‘Hullo, Sally!’ said a rather tall, fair girl. ‘Brian’s cook tonight, so let him have the food. Where’s the plonk?’
Piet put down the cardboard box containing the bottles.
‘Oh, goody, nice big bottles,’ the girl said.
Sally introduced her. ‘This is Clare,’ she said. ‘And this is Peter Devonshire who’s come to join us.’
‘If we could have some glasses we could have a drink,’ Piet said.
‘Can’t do glasses, but we’ve got some cups. Come on everybody, there’s some wine.’
They were in what had been the engine room of the mill. The big pump it had once driven was still there, though so rusty that the piston would no longer move in the barrel-sized cylinder. The driving machinery had gone, leaving a large expanse of bare brick tiles, with holes here and there where some supporting piece of machinery had stood. In the middle of the room was a long trestle table and eight or nine wooden chairs. In one corner was an ancient kitchen range, with a coal fire burning in it. A young man was working at the fire with a pair of bellows. Most of the smoke was carried away by a rusty chimney-pipe, but every now and then the bellows would send a puff of smoke to drift into the room. A fight of wooden steps without a handrail led to what was apparently a hole in the ceiling. It was the hatch leading to the next floor of the mill, which served as a dormitory for the colony. In answer to Clare’s call people began assembling, a man and a girl coming down the steps from the dormitory, the others coming in from outside. Piet met Jim, Eddie and Simon, Poppy, and another girl whom Sally did not know because she was a newcomer. She was called Jennifer.
Sally took the bags of food shopping across to Brian at the range. ‘Where’s Trudi?’ she asked.
‘She went back with Roger to their boat,’ someone said. ‘They’ll be here for tea.’
Piet had a corkscrew in his knife and began opening the wine. Someone brought a collection of cups, several of them cracked, to the table, and the man called Eddie took one of Piet’s bottles and filled the cups. ‘Welcome to the happy home,’ he said, raising a cup to Piet. ‘Are you staying here in the mill?’
‘No,’ said Sally. ‘He’s with me on Roger’s boat.’
Nobody seemed to think this a matter for comment.
*
The wine, Piet thought, could have been worse. Most of the others were on their second or third cups, but he drank slowly, studying his companions through the slight smoke haze. They all seemed fairly young – the girl called Jennifer looked no more than eighteen or nineteen, and he doubted if any of them was over twenty-five. It was an odd set-up, but perhaps would not have seemed so odd to him if he had been ten years younger. It was not uncommon nowadays for groups of students to come together in communes for more or less collective living, though they seldom lasted long, and young people with any purpose in life tended soon to outgrow them. Perhaps it did no great harm, perhaps it was part of the process of growing up in a society rejecting, or pretending to reject, so many of the older values. It was a way of life that instinctively repelled him because it was sloppy and untidy and fundamentally irresponsible in its approach to human relationships. It would tend, he thought, to make the inadequate even more inadequate. But these youngsters were not quite hippies. They seemed to do some work, and if they liked living in a kind of human ant-heap, that was a matter for them.
The tall girl, Clare, who seemed to exercise some sort of leadership in the community, called him over to her. ‘Have you got a jar, or a small tin?’ she asked. ‘A tobacco tin would do.’
‘Sorry, I’m afraid I haven’t,’ Piet said.
‘Well, we must see if we can find something.’ She took him to the corner by the range, where there was one shelf holding packets of cereals, tins of baked beans and other foodstuffs, and another stacked with odds and ends of crockery. On the crockery shelf was a small collection of cocoa tins and similar receptacles, each labelled with a piece of sticking plaster with a name on it. ‘Sugar,’ she said. ‘We share everything else, but some people are so bloody greedy for sugar that we make it a rule that everyone looks after his own. Let’s see if we can find you a sugar tin.’ She searched the shelf, but there didn’t seem to be an empty tin. ‘These all belong to people. Here’s Sally’s – I suppose you could share with her till you get one of your own,’ she said. ‘No, wait a moment.’ She reached to the back of the shelf and brought out a small rectangular tin – originally a mustard tin – with Sandra’s name on it. ‘This is really Sandra’s but she’s away and I don’t know when she’s coming back,’ she said. ‘You take it,
and we can get her another one when she needs it. Now for the First Aid box.’
The First Aid box was a biscuit tin containing sticking plaster, a few bandages and a tube of antiseptic ointment. She took out a small square of plaster and stuck it on the tin. ‘Got anything to write with?’ she asked. He produced a ball-point pen, and she wrote ‘Pete’ on the plaster.
‘Thank you very much,’ he said.
‘You’ll probably think it rather silly to have rules and regulations,’ Clare said. ‘We don’t have many, but I got so fed up with running out of sugar that I got people to agree to look after their own. We share the cooking, but someone’s got to look after the catering, and I do that – to see that there’s generally something to cook, I mean.’ She laughed.
‘It must be a job,’ Piet said.
‘Not really. It’s all right when we have any money, but naturally it gets a bit difficult when we’re all broke at the same time.’
Piet gave her three five-pound notes. ‘I haven’t put anything in the kitty yet,’ he said. ‘Can this be my contribution for the moment?’
‘You seem to be in funds.’
‘Well, you know how it is. I sold a couple of pictures last week, and when I met Sally in London I thought we might have a bit of a holiday together. It’s a working holiday for me, though. I’m doing a series of county pictures. I did Kent last year, and I’m doing Suffolk this. Tomorrow I want to do one near Lavenham. It’s not great art, but I can sell them for calendars, and they go quite well at local exhibitions. People actually buy pictures of places they know, though they won’t spend much on them.’
‘Seems a good idea. I do portraits, mostly, and I find it damned hard to make anything out of them. I’d like to have a talk with you about the calendar side of things. But tea’s ready. Get a plate and a knife and fork, and help yourself from whatever Brian’s cooked.’
Brian had cooked Piet and Sally’s bacon and eggs. People collected plates, filled them and took them to the table. While everyone was busy getting food Piet slipped the sugar tin in the deep pocket of his sailing smock.
Roger and Trudi had turned up while Piet was negotiating with Clare, and were already sitting at the table when he got there with his own plate. Roger beckoned Piet to a chair beside him. Trudi was sitting opposite. Sally was involved in conversation with the girl called Poppy.
‘Do you know this part of the world?’ Roger asked.
‘Not well. I used to sail a boat with my father when he was alive – we kept her on the Orwell – and I know the coast a little up to Lowestoft and Yarmouth.’
Roger was at once interested. ‘What do you think of the old botter?’ he said.
‘I think she’s lovely. I’ve never sailed a boat with lee-boards.’
‘I bought her in Holland and brought her over. Of course you don’t get the performance of a keel-boat when you’re on the wind, but it’s remarkable how well the lee-board holds her. And you get all the advantage of not having a keel in shallow water. It would be nice if I could take you for a trip, but I don’t know whether I shall be able to get away. How long are you likely to be down here?’
‘How long are you likely to want me on board? It’s jolly good of you to put me up at no notice at all.’
‘It’s no trouble, and with Sandra away there’s plenty of room. I expect Sally told you about Sandra.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s very gifted as an artist, but inclined to be moody. She made up her mind suddenly that she wanted to paint in Normandy, and went off.’
‘I saw some of her work in an exhibition in London last year. You’re right – it was outstandingly good, I thought.’
Roger was silent for a bit, then he said reflectively. ‘We nearly got married once. But it wouldn’t have worked out. She didn’t like boats – I mean, she quite liked living on the botter at a mooring, but she didn’t like going to sea. Poor kid, she was dreadfully seasick. She’d get travel-sick on a car or train journey, too.’
‘Do you live on your boat all the year round?’
‘As much as I can. I’ve had her for nearly three years, and the last two winters I’ve gone south to Cornwall. I think I shall again this year. That’s the joy of a boat – you go where you want, and take your home with you.’
‘As long as you’re not tied to a job, or a studio.’
‘Well, I couldn’t make a living out of painting – not good enough, I’m afraid. On the other hand, I’m not bad at selling pictures, and sailing around as I do I pick up paintings, or sometimes antiques, here and there. A friend of mine has a place at Lavenham where she does quite a good trade in art and antiques, but there’s always the difficulty of getting stocks. It’s easy enough to get stuff of a kind, but not easy to get good stuff. That’s where I come in. We’re not exactly partners, but we work together.’
Trudi called across the table. ‘Tea up, Roger. And tea for you, Pete?’ She handed them two mugs. Piet didn’t take sugar in tea. Roger shook some into his cup from a tin. As he put down the tin the sticking-plaster label was turned towards Piet. It had ‘Sandra’ written on it.
The meal was about finished and people were getting up and leaving the table. Trudi came over and sat down next to Piet. ‘We haven’t really met yet, but Sally pointed you out to me,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad that you are going to be with us for a bit.’
‘It’s a wonderful holiday for me.’
‘What sort of pictures do you paint?’
‘Landscape, mostly. Run of the mill stuff, I’m afraid, but with calendars and things it keeps me going. I’m doing a Suffolk series at the moment, and I want to do one near Lavenham. Sally’s got to go there tomorrow, so I thought I’d drive her there and stay and do my picture.’
‘Sally’s very talented. I wish I could do her flower pictures, but I think I haven’t the patience. I like quick, broad brush strokes. I’m trying to do some seascapes.’
‘I’d like to see them.’
‘Well that’s easy enough, but not now. I’ve packed up for today.’
*
Piet couldn’t put a background to her. She was older than Sally, late twenties, he thought, and good-looking in a slightly hard way. She had a mass of dark brown hair and wore a pair of big, somewhat barbaric, earrings, made out of carved wood. She had a set of bracelets of the same wood on one arm. They suited her. The other girls were all in jeans, but she wore a long skirt. Piet was about to ask if she and Roger would like to come out for a drink when Clare settled things for him. She clapped her hands and called out, ‘Pete and Sally are in funds. Let’s have a kitty for the pub.’ Sally came up and explained, ‘Clare looks after the money. People give her what they can, and anyone who wants to go to the pub comes along.’
Piet handed over another five-pound note and most of the others gave Clare something, though one or two did not. Roger contributed a pound, but said, ‘If you don’t mind, I think Trudi and I won’t come tonight. We’ve got rather a lot of things to do on the boat.’ To Piet he said, ‘Don’t worry about what time you get back. The boat won’t be locked.’
The pub party went off in Piet’s car and another car. The pub was a friendly old country inn and they spent a pleasant evening there. The man called Eddie got rather tight and tried to fondle the girls, but they seemed used to him and there was no real unpleasantness. The others kept their drinking within bounds and there was a flow of bright talk, sometimes with an edge of cattiness, mostly about people Piet had never heard of. There was not much serious discussion about anything. Poppy did try to start a conversation about whether the French impressionists had actually created anything, or merely applied correctives to other people’s vision, but it got lost in the general atmosphere of relaxed enjoyment of the pub. With the possible exceptions of Clare and Poppy, who seemed to have more to them than the men, Piet couldn’t see any of the mill company as likely to have the qualities necessary for serious artistic fraud, let alone the poisoning of Sandra.
*
Ba
ck at the Fen, the others went off to the mill, leaving Piet and Sally to make for the botter. It was a lovely summer night, and Piet said, ‘If you’re not too tired, let’s walk down to the sea before turning in.’ Sally slipped her arm in his and they followed the line of the sluice to the beach. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that they should be together.
The tide was in, and there was no sound but the slight fret of wavelets stirring the pebbles. The beach here was fairly wide, a good fifty yards between high-water mark and the marram grass of the Fen. There was a half moon, and Piet was confident that anyone near enough to be within hearing on the open beach would be visible. There was no one. They walked on slowly, and Piet said, ‘I should be surprised if anyone at the mill knows anything about Sandra’s death. I’m less sure of Roger. What do you really know about him? He doesn’t seem to fit in with this slightly hippy lot.’
Sally didn’t answer at once. Then she said, ‘He doesn’t fit in. For one thing he seems to have a good deal more money than the others. I don’t know much about him. I met him once at Sandra’s studio – I don’t know, but I think she met him at her exhibition and that he offered to act as a kind of agent for her, selling pictures on commission. They got close quite quickly, and there’s no doubt that Sandra was fairly seriously in love with him. Whether she still was at the end I don’t know. She was certainly upset about Trudi, though when I was on the boat with them Sandra was still Roger’s girl and Trudi just a hanger-on. At least, that’s how it was officially, but Trudi used to act sometimes as if she owned Roger. That’s what upset Sandra.’
‘Where did Trudi come from?’
‘I haven’t any idea. She’d been studying in Paris, or so she said, but whether she’d just come from Paris, or it was some time ago, I don’t know. Roger takes his boat across the Channel, and he may have picked her up in France. I told you I didn’t like the set-up. I don’t much care for either Roger or Trudi, though they’ve always been quite nice to me.’
‘What about the people on the other boat, Trish and Malcolm, I think you said? We haven’t met them yet.’