A Southwold Mystery Read online

  A Southwold Mystery

  SUZETTE A. HILL

  Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CODA

  About the Author

  By Suzette A. Hill

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘But it will probably be an awful affair,’ Professor Cedric Dillworthy protested. ‘I mean does one really want to spend a whole fortnight being charming to florists and old ladies on the east coast? Not exactly my idea of fun. Besides I am rather busy preparing notes for my new book Runes and Reminiscences; the publishers are hounding me already.’

  Felix Smythe, proprietor and creator of Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms in Knightsbridge, sniffed and replied tartly that while he fully realised that his friend had the utmost difficulty with florists he rather thought old ladies might be just up his street. ‘Such instinctive empathy,’ he beamed.

  Cedric scowled but ignored the jibe. ‘So what do they want you to do exactly – talk to the plants?’

  ‘I have told you: judge the bouquets and displays, award prizes and give two talks entitled “My Days amid the Daisies”.’

  ‘But you hate daisies.’

  ‘That’s neither here nor there; it needn’t stop one rambling on about them. The point is that now I have my royal warrant I must expect to be approached for this sort of event and where necessary pander to the public’s foibles … It’s the regal association: people like being addressed by one who has the ear of the Queen Mother.’ Felix flashed a modest smile, and picking up his embroidery inserted a few neat stitches. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘their fee is quite decent. Such little emoluments are always welcome.’

  ‘Even if it means going to Southend?’

  Felix gave a pained sigh. ‘I do not envisage myself in Southend. The invitation comes from Southwold, an understated but rather more distinguished resort if I may say so. Its Plant and Garden Fiesta is renowned throughout East Anglia; I am surprised you don’t know that. In any case my time there will be a useful rehearsal for next year.’

  ‘Really? What happens next year?’

  Felix shrugged. ‘Well Chelsea of course, they are bound to ask me before long.’

  ‘Hmm. Perhaps. But in the meanwhile I take it we are to brave the bath chairs, the hard pebbles and that cutting east wind. I was stationed there temporarily in the war and remember it vividly – especially the barbed wire entanglement on the seafront.’

  ‘Since we are now in 1955 it is just conceivable that the municipal authorities will have had both the time and wit to remove such impedimenta. As to the pebbles: it is customary to use a deck chair – or it is for those of a certain age, dear boy.’ Felix gave a broad wink.

  ‘Which leaves the wind.’

  ‘Well naturally you will take that superb Crombie coat which I so generously produced for your birthday. High time it had an outing, so now’s your chance to slay ’em on the promenade!’

  Cedric replied that he was beginning to feel a trifle slain himself and that unless he was offered a reviving dry martini the idea of accompanying his friend anywhere was out of the question.

  Felix mixed a treble, with copious gin and a single olive but no ice; after which the professor seemed curiously malleable.

  Elsewhere in London Lady Fawcett, widow of Sir Gregory, was also exerting pressure.

  ‘You see, Rosy, it is all very tiresome. I was specifically relying on Amy to accompany me on my visit to Suffolk. After all, except for a brief sighting across a crowded room, I haven’t seen Delia Dovedale for over thirty years. I may not like her any more – not that I ever did really – so should I suddenly feel the need to escape at least Amy could have given me moral support … well, in a roundabout way I suppose.’

  Lady Fawcett frowned, while Rosy Gilchrist considered Amy’s qualities as a potential aide-de-camp. Roundabout or direct, she suspected that the girl’s supportive role in her mother’s problem would be minimal – hearty zeal being no substitute for usefulness. Rosy had been drawn into the older woman’s orbit two years previously, when, burdened by the scandal of her aunt’s murder, she had found the Fawcett family’s blend of worldly nous and airy indifference perversely reassuring.1 The Fawcetts had been a mild diversion from darker matters. However, did she now really want to be Lady Fawcett’s companion on her jaunt to visit the questionable Delia in her rambling Edwardian villa on the outskirts of a sedate seaside town? No, not especially.

  Playing for time she cleared her throat and asked if her hostess was sure that Amy couldn’t be persuaded.

  ‘Oh I’ve tried incessantly but she is hell-bent on this camping nonsense. Admittedly the campsite is near Deauville, but even so I hardly think that bivouacking in the corner of some foreign field is going to improve her marriage chances. She ought to be here in London going to concerts and summer parties – or at least be with me at Delia Dovedale’s.’

  ‘But would East Anglia provide such entertainment?’

  ‘Probably not; but there’s bound to be something going on however modest. And besides, there’s a son: not much brain I suspect but plenty of money. An ideal match for Amy I should say.’

  ‘But perhaps she will marry one of her camping chums.’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Lady Fawcett replied grimly.

  With a little more cajoling, appeals to Rosy’s nobler nature, delicate bribes and flattery – ‘my dear you are so good at dealing with people!’ – Rosy finally succumbed to the Fawcett charm and found herself accepting the proposal.

  ‘Wonderful,’ the arm-twister cried. ‘You won’t regret it – we’ll have so much fun!’

  Rosy gave an uncertain smile.

  The principal problem was Dr Stanley, Rosy’s boss at the British Museum. After her recent mission in Venice to procure the coveted Horace volume she was unsure whether he would be prepared to grant her long leave to go gadding off to Suffolk with Angela Fawcett. It rather depended on his current mood. Buoyed up with plaudits for his latest lecture and still mildly grateful for the Horace acquisition, he might prove magnanimously agreeable; but enraged by criticism from a rival academic he would swear she was indispensable and refuse point blank. The betting was even-stevens.

  Thus picking Friday evening as a good time and with diffident calculation, Rosy made her approach. She caught him under the portico en route to the Museum Tavern opposite. What would he be: benign at the prospect of a beer and a whisky chaser, or irritable to be waylaid? She would find out.

  ‘You don’t mean you will be staying with that Dovedale woman do you?’ he had exclaimed.

  ‘Er, well yes so I gather. Do you know her?’

  Dr Stanley’s features contorted into a grimace of startling intensity. ‘Once was enough,’ was the acid response.

  There was a silence as Rosy waited for him to enlarge, a
nd as he didn’t she asked curiously whether the acquaintance had been a long time ago.

  ‘Not long enough,’ he said curtly. ‘We had a little walkout just before the war. She behaved abominably.’ He fixed Rosy with a baleful eye: ‘Do you know, among other things she had the nerve to call me a desiccated museum piece. Me for God’s sake. Scourge of the Bloomsbury maidens I was in those days, and then some! Huh! I can tell you she was quite frightful.’ He scowled into the distance.

  ‘Must have been,’ Rosy earnestly agreed. ‘But, uhm, does that mean that you don’t want me to go?’

  ‘What? Oh yes, you can go all right. We’ve nothing lined up immediately – or at least nothing that I can’t off-load onto young Rawlings.’ He paused and then leered. ‘Besides you can act as my emissary – tell her what a superlative boss you have: a model of manly charm, sharp intellect and fine sensibility. Lay it on thick and stress how lucky you are to be working for such a decent fellow. Make sure you do that, now.’ He seemed about to sweep on resolute for the Tavern; but then checked his stride and said sternly, ‘But there is one condition, Rosy, a condition which I insist you respect: I shall require my full quota of Southwold Rock; at least two sticks. Do not return without it.’

  En route to her flat off Baker Street and thinking further of the coming trip, Rosy was not sure whether she had triumphed or blundered. Some victories were decidedly pyrrhic.

  1. See A Little Murder

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lady Fawcett did not drive – something which in Rosy’s view was no bad thing. Given the woman’s vagueness and at times startling caprice, her presence on the open road would surely have presented an even greater hazard than it already did within the cloistered drawing rooms of Mayfair. Thus to be designated chauffeur on their Suffolk expedition suited Rosy well. However, she had rather assumed that her passenger might have some modest capacity for map-reading. She did not.

  ‘I don’t know what all these numbers are,’ Angela Fawcett grumbled, ‘I mean why can’t they just print the names of the roads as they do in London such as Curzon Street, St James’s Street, Sloane Avenue? All these letters and figures are so confusing. It would be so much clearer if they just put “The Southwold Road” or “Woodbridge Junction” for example. As it is the whole thing seems to be in code. And why are some lines coloured red and others green? Rather bad luck if one were colour-blind I should think!’

  There were a number of answers Rosy could have given but it was simpler to say patiently, ‘Yes I agree; it is all a bit tricky. But don’t worry: just sit back and enjoy the scenery. We’re bound to get there all right.’ Of course she knew that they would, but thought ruefully that progress could have been considerably eased had her companion possessed the modicum of navigation skills.

  The suggestion to enjoy the scenery was taken to heart. Once out of London and moving into the unchartered territory of the Essex–Suffolk borders Lady Fawcett was clearly captivated by the rural vista and set up a running commentary on the delights of the newfound landscape, eagerly prompting Rosy to look to right and left to admire the groups of ruminating cattle and po-faced sheep. Failure to react would stimulate more insistent gesturing. After a while Rosy’s responses of ‘Uhm’ and ‘Ah’ and ‘Charming’ began to flag and she wondered if she could divert her companion’s attention to something less likely to bring the car off the road.

  ‘It will be fascinating to meet your friend after all these years,’ she said. ‘What with all the water under the bridge you will have masses to talk about.’

  ‘Possibly,’ was the slightly doubtful reply. ‘From what I can recall of Delia she was one of the heartier girls. You know the sort – always leaping over wooden horses and spraining her wrist slamming tennis balls. Perfectly pleasant of course but a trifle loud. For one term I had to share a dormitory with her – rather a harrowing experience I seem to remember.’ From the corner of her eye Rosy noted her passenger wince, presumably in recollection.

  ‘Well I expect she has quietened down by now. Who knows, you may find her the essence of seemly reserve.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Lady Fawcett. She didn’t sound entirely convinced. There was a pause, and then she added, ‘I did meet the husband once … well it was at their wedding actually. He was loud too. He had a penchant for playing the trumpet.’

  ‘But did he do that at the wedding?’ Rosy asked.

  Lady Fawcett sighed. ‘Incessantly.’

  There was a further silence as the passenger seemed to be brooding, though whether about the deafening notes of the trumpet or on other matters Rosy couldn’t be sure. However, she quickly learnt.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Rosy dear, I find it rather odd that she should have wanted to get in touch with me at all. Admittedly both our husbands were in the diplomatic service but our paths had long since diverged – she with her husband to Switzerland – he was an attaché there – and me to embassy life with Gregory in Paris and London. Although now I come to think of it, we did overlap for a brief period. He was assigned some temporary post in Paris but I think I only saw her once there and that was in the distance … she had grown rather stout I recall. Anyway we returned to England and I think they stayed on for a time. Of course we are now both widowed but that hardly constitutes a common bond. I can think of several widows who are daggers drawn … In fact,’ and she giggled, ‘Elsie Granchester’s last cocktail party was virtually torn apart by the row between her and the widowed cousin. Simply torn apart!’ She lapsed into merry mirth while Rosy took the chance to grab the map and swiftly check the route. So far so good: they were still on course.

  With both eyes returned the road, she said, ‘But didn’t she give any indication? Perhaps she is just lonely and wants to renew old acquaintances.’

  ‘I very much doubt that Delia Dovedale would ever be lonely whatever her circumstances. She certainly wasn’t at school – always involved in things and bossing the pants off everyone. And from what I hear via the grapevine she is still at it. I gather the latest project is the big flower festival in that area – queen bee apparently. It is going on at the moment so I daresay we shall be dragged there to admire the exhibits, applaud the water gardens and wilt in airless tents.’

  Angela Fawcett sounded quite fatigued at the prospect and it was Rosy’s turn to giggle. ‘Oh I am sure you will love it once you are there. After all you always attend Chelsea.’

  ‘Of course, but that’s only once a year: attending two displays in the same season is excessive I consider. And I gather this lasts considerably longer.’ She paused, and then added ‘But you are right about Delia giving an indication. In her letter she said that she was very eager to show me something, something she was rather proud of and which was really very exciting but that I wasn’t to say a word. How I could say any word before learning of the topic, I have no idea. Still, if she wants to show whatever it is to me I shall naturally be the soul of discretion.’ Rosy very much doubted this, Lady Fawcett being known neither for her tact nor her silence.

  By this stage the landscape was flattening out and the wide Suffolk skies beginning to swirl above them. ‘All very beautiful but not much shelter,’ Lady Fawcett observed. ‘Just as well Amy didn’t come after all. She prefers the challenge of mountains; gets skittish like horses on the South Downs. Still,’ she added grimly, ‘I daresay she is enduring quite sufficient challenges on that awful campsite in France.’ She sniffed disdainfully. ‘Well she would insist …’

  Another hour passed. And after a couple of false turns in the vicinity of Blythburgh, they eventually arrived at Laurel Lodge, Delia’s residence, a mile or so out of the town, and, as described, a sprawling Edwardian house of mansion proportions secluded by trees and dense shrubs.

  As they alighted Lady Fawcett said, ‘Oh yes I remember: Delia says there is some sort of manservant called Hawkins who is old with a black patch over one eye. She insists he is not a pirate and that apart from the afflictions of patch and age he is perfectly all right.’ Armed with this
information Rosy hauled the suitcases up the steps and rang the bell.

  They were indeed greeted by the elderly Hawkins, mildly dashing in a black eyepatch and magenta bow tie. With a formal bow he relieved them of their luggage and ushered them into an empty drawing room. Evidently expecting to be faced by her hostess Lady Fawcett looked disappointed.

  ‘Oh,’ she said vaguely, ‘I suppose Mrs Dovedale is still powdering her nose. She was always one for taking her time.’ She gave a light laugh.

  Hawkins hesitated and cleared his throat. ‘Er, well,’ he muttered, and then paused, scanning the room as if seeking another voice or inspiration; but then returning his good eye to Lady Fawcett said firmly, ‘you see, madam, as a matter of fact she is not at home.’

  ‘Really? How strange. She was most insistent that she would be here to greet us.’

  ‘Ye – es I am sure she was; but she can’t do that now I am afraid. She’s, uhm … elsewhere.’ He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Evidently. But where exactly?’

  ‘The mortuary.’

  Lady Fawcett looked mildly surprised. ‘Goodness gracious, whatever is she doing there? Some kind of charity work, I suppose, although I don’t quite know what sort of … still I remember from school, she always did have a morbid cast of mind …’ Her voice trailed off and she gasped. ‘Oh my God, you don’t mean that she is—’

  ‘Yes,’ he said gravely, ‘I am afraid she is.’

  At that moment there was a commotion from the hall and in rushed a couple of bouncing pugs followed by a youngish man in glasses and sports jacket.

  Seeing the visitors he stopped and exclaimed, ‘Oh lor, you’re here already! Thought I would just have time to give Peep and Bo their exercise before you arrived. But these creatures are so pernickety about where they squat that it slows everything down.’ He put out his hand to the older woman. ‘I am Hugh Dovedale and you must be Lady Fawcett. Mother was talking about you only the other day; she had been so looking forward to your visit.’ And looking at Rosy he added, ‘and of course to yours too Miss Gilchrist. I am just so sorry that circumstances are not of the best – it’s all been rather sudden you might say. Still I expect you would like some tea after your journey.’ He signalled to Hawkins.