Shot in Southwold Read online

  ‘Huh, not the only one,’ Cedric replied, glancing up from his reading. ‘I happened to encounter that police inspector this morning, Nathan, and he gave me some very sideways looks! I can’t think why, unless they are about to give us another grilling. It’s all most annoying … Anyway, when does Angela want us?’

  ‘About six-thirty on the dot. We must remember to take the letter. I know you joked about swallowing it but I assume it’s still in the book?’

  ‘Yes. It’s clipped to the end of the fourth chapter, the one called “Heavenly Riches” or some such absurdity.’ Cedric returned to his Trollope. But not for long.

  ‘I have a theory,’ Felix announced suddenly.

  ‘Really?’ said Cedric, slightly surprised. ‘What about?’

  ‘The crime, of course. It’s not about the price of fish, you know!’

  ‘Er, no, of course not,’ Cedric replied hastily, putting the book aside.

  Felix leant forward in his chair. ‘That Tippy Tildred, how many times had she applied blackmail?’

  ‘Well, obviously to Ramsgate in that letter, but—’

  ‘Yes, as you say, obviously. But what else had been implied there?’

  Cedric pondered, not quite sure what to answer.

  ‘If you can’t remember, I will remind you,’ his friend said helpfully. ‘She had made reference to her aunt and uncle, the Carshaltons. She had talked about their having given her a bicycle and funding an expensive trip to Switzerland. This apparently was shortly after she had interrupted them romping in the Fawcetts’ spare bedroom. There was absolutely no reason for her to mention it in the letter except to imply to Ramsgate that if he wanted the matter kept secret he too would be expected to produce similar largesse. In other words, she had been milking them, and now, having recognised Ramsgate as the third person on the bed, she was going to try him.’

  ‘Yes, all right, so she had two potential sources, we already know that.’

  ‘But she had a third as well.’

  Cedric looked perplexed.

  ‘Robert Kestrel, of course. You may recall what Rosy Gilchrist told us: that she had said he had made a play for her and then couldn’t deliver the goods, and that she was so angry that she had threatened to tell his wife. She may not have applied blackmail as such, or at least not then, but she had obviously made it clear to him that she had information that she could divulge should she care to. It strikes me that here was a girl who was both spiteful and unscrupulous and also bold. She had no qualms about confronting or riling people. I mean, consider her attitude to you and me – no respect or courtesy, brazen in fact! And I bet that before long she would have tried it on us as well if she thought she could get away with it.’ Warming to his theme, Felix looked indignant.

  ‘Er, perhaps, but I am not quite clear—’

  ‘What I am saying is, that judging by her track record and general manner, there may have been others whom she had approached and who, for one reason or another, she had made to feel vulnerable. Take that chap in London, for example – Hector Klein, the one who had dropped her. Admittedly, Hector drops everyone. But it had obviously rankled, as Alicia said she had been hopping mad and was vowing revenge. So who knows, she may have been threatening him just as she had Kestrel.’

  Cedric was unconvinced. ‘Hmm. Feasible, I suppose, but likely?’

  ‘I bet you,’ said Felix darkly, ‘that she had a string of potential victims, and that any one of them might have decided she was a better bet dead than alive.’

  Cedric laughed. ‘Fair speculation, I suppose. But anyone in particular?’

  Felix sniffed, nettled by Cedric’s mirth. ‘Not especially, but the name Hackle comes to mind.’

  Cedric stopped laughing abruptly and stared at his friend. ‘Bartholomew? But why?’

  ‘One gathers they had known each other in London, though exactly how closely one doesn’t know; but certainly before the advent of Amy. Who knows, like the sensible Klein, he may have discarded her in favour of Amy Fawcett, and out of vengeful pique she was putting the frighteners on him about some dark secret that he doesn’t want his future mother-in-law to know. Angela can be very picky when she chooses.’

  ‘I think your remarkable brain has overlooked something,’ Cedric observed dryly, ‘something that blows your theory to pieces. If Hackle had murdered her he would hardly have invited us all into that beach hut where the thing had been done – or apparently done.’

  There was a long pause while Felix frowned and considered Cedric’s objection. Eventually, he shrugged: ‘Bravado,’ he said carelessly. ‘They can get like that, murderers, it’s the thrill of the thing – that or vanity. It’s a well-known trait: they like to chance their arm.’ He gave a firm nod, thus clinching the theory.

  Cedric regarded his friend thoughtfully. ‘On the whole, dear chap,’ he murmured, ‘I think your skills of imaginative concoction vastly outdo your skills of deduction … Now, why don’t you go and concoct us something exquisite for tomorrow’s supper while I finish this chapter. And then, time allowing and as we have plenty of lemons, we might give ourselves a little treat with a couple of White Ladies: something to line the stomach in preparation for our charming companions.’

  Felix beamed and took his fertile mind off to bustle inventively in the kitchen.

  In fact, the proposed cocktails were unforthcoming, for something intervened to curtail matters.

  Twenty minutes later and culinary issues evidently settled, Felix came back on to the veranda. ‘I can’t see it,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ramsgate’s letter; it’s not there.’

  ‘Oh, of course it is,’ Cedric replied irritably, ‘you haven’t looked properly.’

  Felix sniffed. ‘If you say so. I’ll leave it to you to find. Personally, I am going to have a bath: it’s been the most gruelling day. This morning our revered director changed his mind yet again about one of the scenes and I had to repeat it endlessly; and then, in the afternoon, Fred expected me to walk that monstrous dog of his while he did something technical to his camera. I can’t think what, but it took ages and my right arm is utterly worn out with throwing sticks for Pixie. And it’s not as if she prances after them, but lumbers relentlessly; and then if you stop throwing the things she heads you in the butt. Exhausting!’ He retired upstairs to the balm of the bath salts.

  Meanwhile, Cedric continued reading to the end of his chapter, and then laying the book aside, went to find the other.

  It was still on the sofa table where he had left it. He picked it up and flipped through the pages to the end of chapter four, ‘Heavenly Riches’. There was nothing there. He leafed through the other pages, even shaking the damn thing in the vain hope the letter might have somehow got stuck and would fall out. But Felix was perfectly right: there wasn’t a sign.

  Cedric swore softly in frustration. Where the hell was it? He knew he had put it there, and now he came to think of it, had even used a paper clip. He stared in bafflement at the page where the letter should have been. For God’s sake why wasn’t it there? One’s mind played tricks, he knew that well enough. But not in this instance, surely. He could remember the scene vividly: making the joke about swallowing it, folding it in half, taking a paper clip from the desk and fixing it securely, shutting the book and putting it back on the table … Of course, if he was really going mad doubtless such vivid images would be par for the course. But he was not going bloody mad, he was as sane as anyone else!

  He paced about the room fretting and cursing, an exercise interrupted by Felix in the doorway, clad in what at first sight appeared to be a Roman toga, but which Cedric recognised as his friend’s new dressing gown. Damp from the steam, the en brosse hairstyle stood up in fretwork spikes, and the air was filled with an odour not of sanctity, but a heady cologne of industrial pungency.

  Despite his agitation, or perhaps because of it, Cedric couldn’t resist a little mockery: ‘Ah, enter Caligula,’ he observed dryly, ‘arrayed and scented and poised
for slaughter. I take it the bath was to His Imperial liking?’

  The diminutive emperor tossed his head and indicated the proposed cocktail would be welcome.

  Cedric shook his head. ‘Fix it yourself. I have more urgent matters to attend to.’

  Felix was startled. ‘More urgent? I can’t think what.’

  Cedric sighed helplessly. ‘You were quite right, Ramsgate’s letter is not in the book, yet I know I left it there.’

  After making the usual hints and suggestions to jog his friend’s memory, Felix fell silent, and instead helpfully poured Cedric a bracing whisky. ‘Try this,’ he urged jocularly, ‘it’s just the thing for confusion and amnesia.’

  ‘I have told you, I am suffering from neither,’ Cedric retorted testily. But he accepted the glass gratefully and took a sip. Excellent! He closed his eyes. And then a happy thought struck him: ‘Ah, very likely it was the cleaning lady. She probably picked up the book while dusting, saw the letter, read it and kept it. Yes, that’s it, the only explanation. I shall have to speak to her firmly!’ He took a further, triumphal, sip of his whisky.

  There was silence. And then Felix cleared his throat. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘that would make sense, except that we only found that letter after her last session. And she is not due again until tomorrow. The woman hasn’t been here.’

  His friend groaned and stared disconsolately at the carpet. But as he did so something tiny caught his eye: a piece of glinting silver metal. He got down onto his hands and knees and crawled to where it lay in front of the table … Yes, as he had hoped, it was the paper clip. Vindicated!

  ‘Well, at least now we know you are not barking,’ Felix remarked cheerfully. ‘But it still doesn’t tell us what happened to the letter.’

  ‘What happened to the letter was that somebody took it. And not being the cleaning lady, it was somebody else,’ Cedric replied grimly. ‘Whoever it was found it in the book, pulled it out, and in so doing dislodged the paper clip.’

  ‘Well, don’t look at me,’ Felix exclaimed. ‘As Rosy Gilchrist so kindly observed yesterday evening, I only read the Tatler and House & Garden.’

  Cedric shook his head. ‘Oh, not you, dear boy. We’ve had an intruder, that’s what.’

  ‘An intruder – when?’

  ‘Last night, of course, when I was “blundering about” and disturbing your sleep by opening windows. I thought I had heard some sounds downstairs, but dismissed the whole thing – it seemed so improbable.’

  They stared at each other in puzzled dismay. And then Felix, hearing the kitchen clock strike six, cried, ‘Oh lord, it’s nearly time to go to The Swan. If we don’t hurry we shall be late and find the ladies prone in a fume of gin. Quick, we must change. On with the motley!’

  They hurried to get ready, but not before Cedric had said wryly, ‘Well, this won’t reduce Angela’s worry, not one bit it won’t!’

  Their news produced shock and scepticism, plus, as Cedric had predicted, alarm from Lady Fawcett. ‘But it’s back in circulation now,’ she protested, ‘and anyone may get hold of it. And should it be revealed that it was my house where these things happened I shall never live it down! And supposing Amy gets to hear of it? She would be most embarrassed, especially when things are going so well with her and Bartholomew.’ She looked reproachfully at Cedric. ‘And I thought it was so safe with you. I really think you should have taken better care of it!’ She sounded uncharacteristically annoyed and Cedric felt chastened.

  ‘Look,’ Rosy said, trying to defuse matters, ‘I very much doubt if it exists at all by now. It will be torn in pieces or gone up a chimney in smoke. Obviously, the whole point of the break-in was to retrieve the thing and then destroy it.’

  Lady Fawcett looked mildly mollified, and Cedric nodded in agreement. ‘Exactly. And more to the point, who was responsible? Ramsgate, presumably – although somehow I can’t envisage him sneaking in so silently. Unobtrusiveness is not exactly his style. Still, I remember his saying he had been a commando in the war – unlikely though it seems – so he must have some skills in stealth and daring, I imagine.’

  ‘And was he also a lock-picker?’ Rosy enquired.

  ‘Didn’t have to be,’ said Felix. ‘Needless to say, as the name implies, Cot O’Bedlam wisely kept its spare key under the mat. I tripped and noticed it there the other day. I meant to remove it but was in such a tearing hurry to get to the film studio I forgot all about it. The intruder may have come prepared to force a lock, but he certainly didn’t have to. It was an open door, virtually.’

  ‘But how did he know where to look?’ Lady Fawcett asked. ‘I mean, that letter could have been anywhere.’

  ‘A lucky guess,’ Cedric said, ‘and one that paid off. Ramsgate had realised he had left the thing in his book, and after bumping into Felix and me the other day may have assumed that that’s where it had remained. At the time I was rather irritated with the chap and made it very clear that I really hadn’t had a chance even to glance at the thing. He seemed relieved, and firmly advised me not to give it another thought until I was back in London. In fact, he made rather a point of it. So perhaps, based on that hope he took a long shot: came to the cottage, checked under the mat first, as all good burglars do, entered the drawing room, saw the book on the sofa table – it’s quite a hefty volume with a vivid jacket – opened it up, found the letter, cried “Yippee!” and buggered off. His hunch had worked.’

  Cedric took a long sip of his whisky and sat back, rather pleased with his account.

  ‘I am sure you are right in all the ancillary details,’ Felix murmured approvingly.

  The other looked at him sharply. ‘What do you mean “ancillary”? What’s so ancillary about them?’ Cedric sounded indignant.

  ‘They are ancillary because the central character in your scenario wasn’t here last night. He was in London giving a live broadcast about his precious The Limes of Paradise.’

  ‘Oh? And how do you know that?’

  ‘Because Sam Thwaite, our scriptwriter, had heard the broadcast and was telling us about it this morning. According to him it should have been cut by half and then some.’

  ‘Well, that is hardly conclusive,’ Cedric replied, nettled. ‘He could have delivered the talk and then driven back here in time to break into our cottage.’

  ‘Not really. The talk was one of those late-night ones on the Third Programme. Apparently, it didn’t begin until eleven and then there were questions afterwards. The noises you heard were at about one-thirty. Even if Ramsgate had left Broadcasting House by half-midnight and driven like the clappers, he wouldn’t have got here by that time.’

  Cedric said nothing but spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance.

  ‘Mind you,’ Rosy said thoughtfully, ‘although Tippy sent the letter to Ramsgate he wasn’t the only one who might have been concerned about it. I mean, what about the Carshaltons? They have a lot to lose, should things come to light.’ She glanced slyly at Lady Fawcett, and added, ‘Even a bit more than you, Angela.’

  Lady Fawcett said nothing, except to mutter that she wouldn’t trust that Ida Carshalton an inch.

  Cedric reflected on the newspaper article he had read that morning reporting the MP’s strong performance at the party conference. Both from that, and from earlier press references, he suspected that beneath the amiable exterior there lay a tenacious will. The man knew what he was doing all right, and what he wanted. Would that include engineering the break-in – perhaps by sending some loyal minion to do his dirty work? Conceivably.

  On the other hand, would he have known about the letter in the first place? They had been assuming that Ramsgate had relayed Tippy’s mischief to his merry bedfellows; but there was no proof of that. Perhaps he had kept quiet on the subject … It was possible, but probable? Unlikely. After all, as he had told them himself, Ida had been staying with him only recently in his house at Reydon when she had come to view the body. They were old intimates, in every sense. He was bound to have confided the
matter to her – and she in turn to her husband. One way or another Carshalton would have surely known.

  These thoughts and others were shared and debated, and no firm conclusions reached … except that as the letter was no longer in their possession they had nothing concrete to offer the police – even had they wished to. ‘Why,’ Felix declared, draining his glass, ‘they would think we were a bunch of fruitcakes and making it up as we went along!’

  ‘I still think that Ida Carshalton had a hand in it somehow,’ Lady Fawcett muttered darkly, ‘you mark my words.’ She turned to Cedric: ‘Well, my dear, I trust you won’t hear any more bumps in the night – all most unsettling. Still, I suppose that danger is passed now – although personally I would check the back door mat as well. Pull up every drawbridge, that’s my advice. Clearly, Southwold is a hotspot for danger.’ She gave a smile, but glancing at her watch, replaced it with an anxious sigh: ‘Oh dear, I do hope Amy is having a nice time with Bartholomew and that the dog is behaving itself; the last thing one wants is any more upheaval!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Angela’s disquiet regarding her daughter and the dog was mercifully unfounded, for Amy’s report of her evening at Aldeburgh with Bartho had been rapt and fulsome.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she enthused, ‘they really did us proud. A wonderful menu – better than in London, I can tell you! Masses of fish things and mussels, and some lovely creamy scallops. I simply didn’t know where to begin!’ She paused, and then added, ‘Well, actually, we began with champagne and sort of went on from there.’ There was an explosive laugh: ‘And do you know, the waiter even asked if Mr Bates would like some in a saucer. Wasn’t that sweet? But I said no fear, he had had too many treats already and I certainly didn’t want a tipsy whippet on my hands!’ More peals of laughter.

  ‘And what about Bartholomew?’ her mother asked. ‘I hope he enjoyed himself. It was really a very generous treat.’