Shot in Southwold Page 13

  ‘It took me quite a time to shuffle them into the right order,’ he remarked tartly, ‘all over the place, they were; added at least fifteen minutes to the job. Whoever was at them last must have been in a right old hurry.’

  ‘I was,’ replied Nathan dourly.

  Jennings sighed inwardly. As he had suspected. ‘Er, I’ve been thinking,’ he began.

  ‘So I gather,’ the other interrupted, ‘it was the first thing Webb apprised me of when I arrived. “Sir,” he said, “DS Jennings has got something of the utmost significance to impart, and doubtless has been dwelling upon the matter the whole night through.”’ Nathan gave a lopsided grin and reached for his tobacco pouch. ‘So what is it?’

  ‘It’s to do with the Tildred case,’ Jennings replied stiffly.

  ‘Oh yes? Solved it, have you?’

  Ignoring that, Jennings explained his theory about the motive having been fear: that the girl constituted a threat to someone – probably because of something she knew and could thus reveal – and that it had been imperative to keep her quiet. ‘She was a deadly danger and had to die!’ he observed with sober relish.

  Nathan regarded him expressionlessly. And then rather to Jennings’ surprise, nodded and said, ‘You could be right, old son. I’ve been thinking along those lines myself – but it’s not exactly glaringly obvious, is it? I mean, on the face of it you’d think she was too flimsy to pose a threat.’

  Jennings looked puzzled. ‘Flimsy?’

  ‘Yes – too young (only nineteen) and too lightweight. By most accounts she seems to have been a shallow, flighty little thing. An irritant, perhaps, but no more than that – what you might call a tiresome gnat or mosquito, not a blooming great tiger.’

  ‘Ah, but mosquitoes bring malaria,’ Jennings said darkly. ‘And speaking personally, I’m always ready to swat a gnat, they can be damn persistent.’

  ‘And was she being persistent? Putting the frighteners on somebody?’

  ‘Either that or she had the potential to do so, and they weren’t prepared to wait and see.’

  ‘Hmm. Nothing of interest was found in her bedroom. The usual teenage junk, of course, but nothing useful, unless you count the postcard from that Hector Klein fellow in London.’

  ‘The one that she had scratched a thick red line through?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’

  ‘So why had she done that?’

  Nathan shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. All he had written was “I trust the Southwold air is calming the injured spleen.” Sounds a daft sort of thing to write, but evidently she didn’t think much of it. It’s funny, these kids, they get sort of shirty. Take my Hester for example—’

  But Jennings wasn’t interested in his Hester. ‘But maybe the link lies in London,’ he said eagerly. ‘Perhaps there is somebody there who she had been bugging and who had felt it was time to put a stop to things – to swat the gnat. Yes, London could be the key!’

  ‘Exactly, Jennings. So would you be so kind as to get on the blower to the Kensington lot and liaise with them. Get them to dig out information on her friends and contacts, and then make a list of all the possibles. Ask them if there was any chap she was seeing regularly. Indeed, once you’ve submitted your preliminary report you may find you need to pay a visit to the smoke yourself – a foretaste of Scotland Yard, as it were.’

  His superior smiled benignly, while the subordinate was torn between cursing the mound of paperwork that lay before him and rejoicing in the prospect of an important trip up to London. Did the chief really think he was Yard material? He certainly rarely showed it! Still, you could never tell with Nathan – a bit of an enigma, really, just like the bloody case!

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Owing Lady Fawcett and Rosy a lunch, Felix and Cedric had entertained the two ladies at The Crown for supper, during which Angela had quizzed them about the cottage. ‘I do trust it is comfortable,’ she said, ‘you can never be sure with these holiday lets. One does hear the most frightful tales. You know the sort of thing I mean: damp in the bedrooms, mice in the larder and very peculiar things in the dustbin!’

  They assured her that apart from its name, the cottage couldn’t be better. ‘I tell you what,’ Felix suggested, ‘instead of taking coffee here, why don’t we take it there? Then you can see the cottage and sample some particularly fine chocolate truffles we’ve just found – home-made in that little shop in Pinkneys Lane. You should get some to take back to London. They beat Fortnum’s any day! But come and try ours first.’

  Thus it was arranged. And a little later with supper over, the four strolled back to Cot O’Bedlam where Felix bustled with the coffee and Cedric presented the vaunted truffles.

  Angela sat and scanned the room. ‘It’s very cosy here,’ she observed appreciatively, ‘and such pretty wallpaper. But the essential thing is that it’s all so comfortable: I can’t stand this mania for hard wooden Swedish furniture – most unsettling.’

  Her eye fell on the small sofa table where Cedric had left the unsolicited The Limes of Paradise. ‘Ah, I see you’ve been given one too. Mine has the most lavish signature sprawled all across the flyleaf. In fact, you can barely see the paper for the ink. What about yours?’ She picked up the book, and as she did so a folded sheet of notepaper fell out. ‘Oops! Sorry, I’ve lost someone’s place – yours, I daresay, Cedric; Felix only reads House & Garden or the Tatler.’ She smiled at the latter, while Cedric looked blank and said that he hadn’t had a chance to look at the thing.

  ‘Well, somebody certainly has, there’s this … oh, I see, it’s a letter addressed to Ramsgate. He must have given you his own copy by mistake.’

  ‘What does it say?’ Felix asked.

  ‘Say? Well, really, one is hardly in the habit of prying into …’ But despite such protest, Lady Fawcett began to give the note her casual attention. It was when she whipped out her reading glasses that it was obvious she had found something of interest.

  Eventually, and with eyebrows levitated, she silently passed the letter to Felix, who scanned it quickly and then emitted a protracted splutter of mirth. ‘Disgraceful!’ he brayed.

  Rosy grabbed it from him, and with Cedric at her shoulder, read the following:

  Dear Mr Ramsgate,

  You probably won’t remember me, but we’ve met before – two years ago at a house in Knightsbridge that my uncle had borrowed from a friend. You were in bed with Ida, and Uncle Tommy was roaring with laughter and wearing his underpants on his head – or at least I suppose they were his, could have been Ida’s perhaps. I had just happened to open the bedroom door and that was the scene – too funny for words! Of course, Ida was simply furious with me afterwards but I promised not to tell (and never have). Actually, they were terribly sweet and gave me a bicycle that I’d been craving – the sort with silver mudguards, drop handlebars and all the latest gadgets (to soothe the shock, I suppose!) And they funded the most superb holiday in Switzerland (at Le Beau Rivage, if you please!). I’ll never forget it and would so love to go again. Fat chance of that!

  You haven’t changed a bit, and with just that same jaunty chuckle … Oh, and talking of remembering and not changing: one of your friends at the party rings a bit of a bell – quite a big one, actually. I am absolutely sure he was the man I saw in the hall when I came back down the stairs to let the dog out from the basement. He was coming out of Uncle Tommy’s study – or at least the room he was using while they were staying there – and seemed in a fearful hurry. Neither of us spoke – and, besides, I was still giggling from what I had seen in the bedroom so wasn’t really up to saying ‘Good afternoon’ or anything polite like that! Anyway he dashed out of the front door like a bat out of hell, and when I looked out I saw him getting into a car with another chap in the passenger seat (an odd little geezer with a round face and bright-blonde hair). If he hadn’t been in such a hurry I might have asked him if he had been making whoopee with you and the others! I’ve got rather a good memory and it was definitely so
meone at your party. Funny old world, isn’t it?

  I’d love to see you again and – as Aunt Ida would say – have a little powwow about ‘this & that’. Incidentally, I’ve still got your specs case, which I later found under the bed (must have been dropped during the fun & games!). I often did wonder whose initials they were, and now it’s obvious! As you know, I’m doing this filming with Bartho Hackle and we’re all staying at his cousin’s house on the East Cliff. Any messages will find me there. Chow for now,

  T. T.

  ‘Crikey,’ Rosy breathed, ‘who’d have thought it!’

  Cedric picked it up and read it again. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that on the face of it, this is what one could call mild dynamite. You do realise the potential significance?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ Lady Fawcett answered cheerfully, ‘she had got him over a barrel.’

  ‘And now she is dead,’ said Rosy. She hesitated, clearing her throat: ‘Uhm, you don’t suppose there could possibly be a—’

  ‘A link?’ said Cedric. ‘Feasible but tenuous. It is a long jump between murder and this letter. We shouldn’t fall into the trap of inferring the convenient and making a hypothesis a fact. It could be simply a coincidence. The fact that the girl clearly enjoyed a spot of blackmail does not necessarily mean she was killed because of it.’ He gazed at them soberly over the rim of his spectacles.

  Felix was unimpressed. ‘I’ll stick with the hypothesis,’ he said, ‘and better still with the details of the letter. No wonder Ramsgate didn’t want to tarry with us in the high street the other day – too damned embarrassed! I thought he looked shifty.’ He tittered, and digging his friend in the ribs, exclaimed, ‘I mean to say, all in one bed – wouldn’t that make things a trifle congested? I should have thought that—’

  ‘Bound to have been one of those extra wide ones, which are becoming so fashionable: emperor-size or some absurd term,’ Cedric replied in a lighter tone. ‘Heal’s furniture department is full of them, or so I gather. Besides,’ he added, ‘it may not have been simultaneous; perhaps they had one of those tripartite agreements which—’

  ‘Oh, really,’ Rosy protested, ‘must you be so prurient? We hardly need to know the details. The point is they had a thing going and Tippy Tildred was blackmailing them for all she was worth, and so together they decided to do her in. It was a joint action. How’s that for a theory?’

  Cedric wagged his finger at her. ‘No. As I said, we must not jump to conclusions; it is so easy to be precipitate. Nevertheless, as a mere theory, one must admit it is very intriguing. For example, if that were the case I wonder which of them would be the prime mover.’

  Felix sniggered again. ‘If you mean who called the bedside shots, I suggest that—’

  ‘No, that is not what I meant. I mean who might have the most to lose if the arrangement was ever revealed, and thus who had the most zeal for the disposal?’

  ‘Ah, that’s an easy one,’ Lady Fawcett said firmly, ‘it would be Ida. She was always mean-spirited, and such a crashing social climber!’ She spoke with a glint of satisfaction. ‘Oh yes,’ she declared, ‘it’s common knowledge: Ida Carshalton already sees herself as a prime minister’s wife, and the last thing she would allow is to have either of them compromised by this sort of thing. Rumour has it that her dressmaker is working on an evening frock of tartan taffeta.’

  There was a bemused silence as they absorbed this last item of information.

  ‘Er, what’s taffeta got to do with things?’ Felix enquired.

  ‘I suspect,’ said Cedric dryly, ‘that the significance lies not with the fabric but the tartan.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Angela beamed, ‘she is obviously preparing to be received at Balmoral. Mark my words, she’s convinced the premiership is in the bag.’

  ‘That’s a bit premature, isn’t it? He isn’t even party leader yet,’ Rosy objected. ‘What about the rival?’

  ‘Oh, Figgins doesn’t count, or at least not in Ida’s estimation. He’s bound to drop out anyway, and then the way will be clear for the Carshaltons … Unless,’ she added darkly, ‘the hanky-panky comes to light, in which case they are ditched. Ida wouldn’t like that. She wouldn’t like it at all.’

  ‘Hence the suppression of Tippy – at her instigation?’

  ‘Of course,’ the other assured her.

  ‘Hmm. Plausible, I suppose. But as a hypothesis – which Cedric is so insistent about – don’t you think it begs a large question? I mean, if, as you suggest, Ida is so obsessed with status and public power – albeit via her husband – why on earth would she be so crass as to engage in the sexual thing? A mild discreet dalliance is one thing, but a full-blown three-in-a-bed caper, or whatever the arrangement is, is quite another. Indeed, that goes for him too. For a pair so intent on Downing Street, it strikes me as just a trifle unwise. Wouldn’t you say?’

  For a moment Lady Fawcett looked downcast; but she rallied and declared authoritatively that in her experience (‘years in the diplomatic service with Gregory, you know’) there was always the thrill of danger, and that naked ambition was frequently accompanied by naked imprudence.

  There was an explosion of titters from Felix, who declared that his immediate ambition was for a naked gin clothed in as little vermouth as possible. The others concurred, and conversation turned to other things: the ineptitude of the second cameraman. ‘He made a fearful hash of Felix’s profile,’ Rosy remarked cheerfully.

  However, the subject was instantly revived. For Lady Fawcett, who had stood up to supervise the mixing of her drink, hesitated and then emitted a sudden gasp. With an uncharacteristic yelp of ‘Oh my God!’ she sank onto the sofa staring distractedly at Felix’s meticulously arranged flowers.

  At first he assumed the choice was not to her taste – though was a little surprised as her feelings were not normally so frankly expressed.

  He was about to ask what was wrong, when, with one hand gesturing towards the letter and the other clasped to her brow, she cried: ‘Borrowed from a friend? But that was us, Gregory and me! It must have been our spare room – when we had the other house in Wilton Place! I’ve suddenly remembered. We had gone down to Cannes; and because the Carshaltons were in some accommodation fix – caught between buying and selling their house or something – Gregory said they could borrow ours for a few weeks while they sorted things out. It was somewhere around the July or August, yes, that was the time … Oh my goodness, to think that that sort of thing was going on. One had no idea!’ She looked highly indignant.

  ‘But at least it was in the guest room,’ Cedric said comfortingly. ‘You are sure of that?’

  ‘Oh yes. Ours was locked. And besides, the bed would have been too narrow: Harrods were going to deliver a new one once we were home. I remember that it had a nice deep mattress. But Gregory said it was too soft and insisted on sending it back, such a bore …’ Her voice trailed off, but revived firmly: ‘Anyway, so there you are. Our bed is in no way implicated!’

  There was a nonplussed silence as each was torn between shock and mirth.

  Rosy was the first to speak. ‘Well, I suppose that sort of puts the girl’s tale in a tangible context, links it to a definite place and time. All very circumstantial, I know, but maybe we really ought to consider going to the—’

  ‘The police? Oh no,’ Lady Fawcett interjected quickly, ‘most unwise, if you don’t mind my saying. They are bound to jump to the wrong conclusions – I mean, they might think one was involved!’

  ‘But aren’t we? We have in our possession this explicit letter left here by Ramsgate himself, and which presumably nobody else has seen. If it were blackmail alone it wouldn’t matter a fig, but it’s a case of murder – and so presumably the police might think such evidence “germane” to their enquiries.’

  ‘Perhaps. And doubtless they would also think the fact that these absurd antics were enacted in my house was equally “germane” to their enquiries. Why, I might be accused of being a madam! And who was this other man d
own in the hall – not to mention the creature in the car? Just think, there may have been a whole string of them traipsing in and out! No, Rosy, I really think that the less said the better.’ It was one of the few times when Rosy had seen Angela Fawcett looking resolute.

  Cedric cleared his throat. ‘Angela is right: the less said the better. In fact, it could be very dangerous to expose ourselves in that way: we might be accused of slander.’

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘Look,’ he said patiently, ‘you have just used the term “evidence”; but that letter is no such thing. While it could be construed as blackmail by those of a cynical mind, such as ourselves, it doesn’t make any explicit threats or demands. It could simply be the foolish prattle of a garrulous teenager craving attention. If we go to the police brandishing that note and accusing Ramsgate and the Carshaltons of conspiracy to murder, at best we might be a laughing stock and at worst, as I have said, be accused of traducing the innocent. There is such a thing as calumny. Apart from our conjectures – whether founded or not – we have nothing definite to offer the police, so let us be silent.’

  In a way Rosy was relieved by Cedric’s response, and indeed its obvious approval from Angela and Felix. She had no desire to be embroiled in more complexity, least of all criminal. True, her head was abuzz with questions, but for the moment she was content to shelve the whole damn thing and to play the part of the average holiday visitor: detached from all matters sinister or murderous! Thus, when Felix offered some more chocolates and suggested a game of rummy, she responded eagerly.

  An hour later and when Cedric was helping Angela on with her coat, the latter asked what he intended doing with the letter.

  ‘Oh, the usual thing,’ he answered coolly, ‘swallow it of course, it’s what all the best spies do.’