Shot in Southwold Page 7

  Other than the drama of Felix’s lost hat and the occasional joust between director and scriptwriter, the next few days proceeded fairly well. True to form, Tippy had been a universal irritant (and Robert discernibly tense in her presence), but by and large there had been no overt hostilities. The grips and technicians had applauded the local beer and sandwiches; and, apart from Felix, Pixie had enamoured herself to everyone.

  Admittedly, Lady Fawcett, after making a close study of her aspiring son-in-law, did observe to Rosy that she wasn’t really sure whether the young man was fearfully intelligent or abysmally simple. But it was a remark made without malice, and Rosy felt that on the whole the Bartholomew prospects were good. It also occurred to her that Angela’s perplexity regarding the young man’s intellectual ability might equally apply to her daughter Amy … in which case the two might be ideally suited.

  By the end of the week half of the essential scenes had been covered and the results approved by director and scriptwriter alike. As a consequence the movie mogul was clearly pleased, and as a respite (for himself at any rate) he suggested to Rosy that she and perhaps Cedric and Felix might enjoy a twilight stroll along the beach before joining the others for a nightcap in the Red Lion. The weather was good and the idea appealing, and she readily agreed.

  They set off west, across South Green, down on to the shore and then onwards to the tussocky dunes. It was the most delightful evening: no wind, a pale dulcet sea, and mellow rays casting shadows from the declining sun. Except for Cedric (shod in black plimsolls), all went barefoot, enjoying the lost sensation of wet sand between unfettered toes.

  ‘The last time I did this,’ chuckled Bartholomew, ‘I was a kid in Cannes. I was playing boules with the French boys while Daddy chatted up the new nanny on the Croisette and Mummy guzzled champagne with de Gaulle’s private secretary in The Majestic.’

  Felix wasn’t having that. ‘The last time I did this was years before you were born – at Southend, eating whelks and waving my toy flag at the troops returning from Passchendaele. My mother was walking out with a sergeant major who gave her port and lemon on a breakwater.’ He turned to Cedric. ‘Where were you? Scrabbling for fossils by the Dead Sea, I suppose.’

  Cedric looked vague. ‘Er, can’t remember, dear boy …’ He looked down anxiously at his feet. ‘You know, I’m sure these things are letting in the wet. Perhaps I should have worn socks after all, but they did say they were waterproof and—’

  ‘What’s that?’ Rosy said suddenly, pointing towards the hillocks of sand. ‘That pale thing – it’s not your hat is it, Felix?’

  They looked to where she gestured, and Felix screwed up his eyes. ‘Highly unlikely; it would hardly be here. I told you, I must have left it in one of the hotels; the boy at The Crown said he would make a good search for it.’

  ‘Well, it looks like some sort of headgear to me. Come on.’

  They followed Rosy as she led the way from the beach towards the small ridge of rock and shingle. Here they encountered a mass of desiccated seaweed topped by a basking sand crab. Next to the crab, its rim caught in a crevice of the rock, fluttered a cream panama hat.

  For a few seconds they gazed, fascinated by the curious melange. ‘Rather rum,’ mused Bartho, ‘it’s like a motif from a Dali painting: animal, vegetable and Felix’s hat!’ He stepped forward to pick it up. The crab scuttled off at alarming speed, and he laughed.

  ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ Rosy suddenly cried, her eyes fixed on an image beyond the hat’s banality. ‘Look over there!’ She had wrenched at Cedric’s arm, and was violently gesturing to the left where the sand dipped into a basin of sparse gorse. They turned to where she pointed, and their eyes were confronted by the sprawled languid limbs of what, earlier in the day, might have been a sunbather … but which, illuminated by the rising moon, was quite clearly the lifeless body of a woman.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Clustered around the body, they stared mesmerised at the figure’s cropped blonde hair and distinctive scarlet bikini, and knew it could be none other than the girl: Tippy Tildred. She was on her front with arms splayed out and right leg drawn up; the other, its ankle encircled by the cheap beads, was stretched at full length. Tilted to the left, her head showed the tight curls behind her ear and temple. They were spattered in blood – blood from the small crater in her back.

  Mechanically, knowing he would find nothing, Cedric knelt down to feel her pulse. As he did so, he glimpsed the eyes – wide and staring. For an instant it was as if he was back in the war, seeking the stilled pulse of Bertie Simmonds sprawled in Stradbroke Road, strafed by a Stuka returning to base in Normandy … But this was not wartime, there were no enemy planes circling above, and the victim was a young girl in a red bikini.

  He stood up. ‘She has been shot,’ he announced. ‘We had better get the police.’ He looked at Bartholomew. ‘I suggest you go; you can probably sprint more quickly than us.’

  The other nodded, and was about to set off when Felix said listlessly, ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take my hat.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Actually,’ Rosy murmured, ‘perhaps we ought to show it to the police when they come. I mean, being so near the body it might be of relevance – they’ll probably say it’s part of the crime scene or something.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Felix said quickly, ‘which is precisely why I have no intention of mentioning it – and I like to think that no one else will either.’ He glared at them in anxious defiance, and then almost under his breath muttered, ‘It’s a bit much!’

  ‘Are you sure it’s your hat?’ Rosy asked him ten minutes later as they waited for the police to arrive.

  ‘Quite sure,’ replied Felix glumly. ‘The size tag is right and it has Lock’s label.’ He sighed. ‘It was damned expensive too, and now just look at it – all dirty and crumpled. Besides, I couldn’t possibly wear it after this ghastliness. I should have nightmares of that wretched girl every time I put it on. It’s too bad!’ He shifted his position on the piece of driftwood he and Rosy were sitting on, and stared morosely in the direction of the town. ‘It’s high time the police were here, isn’t it? Bartholomew has been gone for ages and it’s getting cold. Just look at my toes, they’ve gone all white.’

  Rosy glanced down at her companion’s feet, now safely encased in his sandals. ‘Shock, I daresay,’ she said without much sympathy. She looked over to where Cedric was standing guard over the body of Tippy Tildred. Who on earth would want to do that to the girl? To shoot her down in cold blood: defenceless and virtually naked. From the look of things the bullet had presumably come from behind. If so, what had she been doing? Running away or standing admiring the sea? And what about Felix’s errant hat – had that been part of the drama? Or was its presence a mere chance, blown to the spot from some other place? The latter presumably. Nevertheless, she felt slightly uneasy about his refusal to have its presence declared. After all, it could have a bearing, she supposed. But she understood his reluctance: the events of their previous visit to Southwold had not endeared the constabulary to Felix – nor, she rather suspected, they to him. The routine questioning had been a somewhat taut encounter, and Felix was not one to ignore old wounds – or indeed old scratches. She gave a wry smile. But it quickly vanished as her mind leapt from the past to the present and the thought of the poor girl’s dreadful end. She shivered; and like Felix, wished that the police would hurry up.

  A few yards away Cedric gazed down at Tippy’s diminutive corpse, his attention caught by the small hands with their brightly varnished nails. For some reason that detail seemed to accentuate the pathos, the vicious reality … Poor kid. He had not liked the girl, not at all. But doubtless she would have improved with maturity, and now she would never have the chance. Somebody had wrested that from her, denied her that potential. But who, for God’s sake? A silly simpering little piece, that’s what she had been; so why on earth go to such cruel and unnecessary lengths? … And what about Felix’s panama – why should that be there? Chanc
e or reason? He shrugged inwardly, feeling sorry for his friend: either way it was not something likely to enhance the poor chap’s equilibrium! He sighed and then looked up angrily, and to his relief saw a police car approaching.

  The first vehicle was closely followed by a second. Uniformed and non-uniformed figures emerged.

  Questions were asked, addresses and initial statements taken, brisk notes made. Two officers were detailed to go over to inspect the victim while another used a walkie-talkie to summon reinforcements – presumably medics and pathologists. There seemed to be a man in charge whom Cedric vaguely recognised as being one of the pair he and Felix had encountered on their way to the Sole Bay. If so, they had also met a couple of years ago in similar circumstances, but he couldn’t be sure and frankly wasn’t bothered. All he wanted was to get away, back to the sanctuary of the cottage. Glancing at Felix he guessed that he felt the same. His friend’s thin features were very pale, and the hand grasping the panama distinctly shaky. Bartho, who had returned with the police, looked more composed; probably because his brief time at the station and talk with the officers had calmed what nerves he may have had. Rosy, he saw, looked strained but also composed.

  At last they were told they could leave but to be available the next day for further questions; and Bartho was reminded that his whole film crew should also be ready for interrogation. ‘Since Miss Tildred was one of your group we shall naturally need to interview all those with whom she was associated,’ he was told. ‘Ensure that everyone is present at ten-thirty tomorrow. Too many for the station – be at your relative’s place, on the set or wherever it is you do your stuff.’

  Bartho nodded meekly and was heard to mutter, ‘Right-o, Officer.’

  The four of them walked back slowly towards the town centre, at first saying nothing but by tacit agreement taking the longer route, away from the dunes and up Ferry Road. Perhaps instinctively they were avoiding the area of the tragedy, or perhaps walking in the evening air was a means of delaying more intensive reflections in private rooms.

  Felix was the first to speak. ‘Of course she was frightful,’ he said, ‘still it does seem a bit extreme. I wonder whether—’

  His speculation, whatever it might have been, was cut short by Bartholomew. ‘On the whole,’ he said musingly, ‘she wasn’t really a very good actress. Alicia is streets ahead. But Tippy had tremendous brio, if you see what I mean. It’s going to be awfully difficult to replace her … Perhaps I can get Sam to rewrite the part.’ He looked up at the stars, lost in thought.

  ‘Er, do you mean to say that you are going to go on with the filming?’ Rosy asked curiously.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he replied, sounding somewhat surprised. ‘I mean, it’s all very shocking but I cannot see that by not continuing we are helping one jot. Can you?’

  Rosy wasn’t sure what to answer but couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy. Somehow it didn’t seem quite right, but she was hard-pressed to explain why.

  ‘Ah,’ the young man said, ‘you mean we should cancel the thing as a mark of respect. Rather an expensive mark, if you don’t mind my saying, and frankly not one that would be particularly noticed. Let us do something positive, i.e. push on and make the film. Death is bloody awful but it shouldn’t be allowed to mess things up. Who wants to limp home having achieved nothing? I don’t. It would be pointless.’ He spoke with a severity alien to his usual good humour.

  Rosy was about to point out that Tippy’s fate wasn’t just any death but outlandish murder; however, she was stopped by Cedric. ‘How refreshing,’ he remarked, ‘to hear such utilitarian sentiments, especially at a time like this when commonplace pieties are the order of the day. I applaud your clarity of thought, Mr Hackle!’

  ‘Er, Bartho,’ the other muttered, clearly unsure whether Cedric was being genuine or beastly – as neither was Rosy. But then she was often not sure which way to take Cedric’s pronouncements.

  The topic was interrupted by Felix declaring that he was feeling sick, and that he knew for a fact that at least two of the policemen had been eyeing him suspiciously. ‘And what’s more,’ he protested, ‘how on earth they expect one to be on parade at the crack of dawn after this horror, I cannot imagine. I shan’t sleep a single wink. Typical of the law, they have no finer feelings!’ By this time the crumpled panama had been crushed irrevocably.

  Bidding the others goodnight, Rosy entered the warmth and enfolding civility of The Swan. What a relief! Given the gruesome discovery barely a mile away, the hotel’s staid normality was both reassuring and oddly unreal. She was about to go to her room, but looked into the lounge on the off chance that Angela might still be up. To her surprise she was – sitting in a corner with the Telegraph and pencil in hand, evidently doing battle with the crossword.

  Seeing Rosy, she hailed her. ‘Ah, so you’re back, safe from the ravages of crabs and starfish I see! So how was your walk, my dear? I’ll order more coffee, you look a bit cold.’ She paused, and added, ‘Indeed, if you don’t mind my saying, blue actually.’ She regarded Rosy quizzically.

  ‘Er, well, ye-es,’ Rosy agreed, ‘I do feel a bit chilly. Shock, I suppose.’ And then before the coffee had been brought, and before she could stop herself, she gave a whispered account of the recent events.

  ‘Murdered?’ Lady Fawcett’s voice rang out, ‘But that’s absurd, she was far too young!’

  Rosy winced and looked around nervously. But fortunately there was only one other guest in sight – an old man seemingly fast asleep and, unless he was a government spy, unlikely to have registered anything.

  Desperate for coffee, Rosy assured her companion that she would deliver the full details upstairs in the privacy of one of their bedrooms.

  ‘Very sensible,’ the other whispered, and then as an afterthought, observed: ‘One has to admit that the silly girl was an awful pain in the neck, but one hardly expected this!’

  As a summation of the whole affair, Rosy felt it was fair comment.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘You know, I am not entirely surprised,’ Lady Fawcett confided to Rosy over breakfast the next morning.

  ‘Really? You certainly sounded surprised last night,’ Rosy replied, ‘as well you might. It was a ghastly shock to us all!’

  ‘Yes, but since then I have been giving it some thought and—’

  ‘Oddly enough it has been on my mind too,’ Rosy said dryly, ‘kept me awake, in fact. But I can’t say it has lessened the shock. I mean, it just seems so brutal, so arbitrary.’ She shuddered inwardly, recalling the awful scene.

  ‘Brutal, yes, but not necessarily arbitrary. In my experience few things are truly arbitrary; most actions are governed by reason – however peculiar or oblique.’

  ‘Perhaps. But in this case it could simply have been a random attack by some warped creature harbouring a dislike of red bikinis. One does hear of such things.’

  ‘Oh, one hears, but I suspect that in this case the reality is more logical. The poor girl wasn’t too bright. Ironically, it is often the witless who do the most damage, or have the capacity for damage. Tippy Tildred was a provocative irritant and I think she paid for it in a terrible way. To the murderer she was either dangerous or intolerable. We didn’t take her seriously – a tiresome flibbertigibbet – but somebody did, and acted accordingly.’ Lady Fawcett took a decisive bite of her toast and hailed the waiter to bring some more jam.

  As Angela munched her toast and spoke with firm assurance on the matter, Cedric was making an early perambulation of the high street. Felix (contrary to his forecasted insomnia) had enjoyed an uninterrupted slumber throughout the night – and indeed at eight o’clock that morning was still blissfully detached from the rigours of the day.

  But the professor had found sleep almost impossible. Though retiring late after the night’s horror, he had managed no more than two hours. And thus by dawn, and weary of such boredom, it had seemed sensible to do something constructive: arise, make tea and seek out the daily paper from the newsagent. With l
uck, such early exercise might induce an afternoon’s shut-eye.

  Leaving the cottage he paused to gaze at the wide marshes stretching far over to Walberswick, and where, shrouded in the early mist, he could just discern the outline of its church tower. Despite the lightest breeze wafting the grasses, the morning air held a bated silence, and for a couple of minutes Cedric stood contemplating the tranquil scene of sky, marsh and distant spire. Gradually he began to feel an ease denied him in the night. And relaxing his gaze, he turned and strolled up the lane and into the high street.

  At that hour Southwold may have been busier than the Walberswick marshes, but even so it held the pretence of sleep with few people about and traffic sparse. This suited Cedric, who, with newspaper under his arm, took the opportunity to dawdle at shop windows unimpeded by pram or wayward dog. He had intended to cross the road to inspect the range of titles in the little bookshop (and perchance see an early copy of his own Cappadocian Capers displayed – the shop was select enough). But his attention was caught by a larger building on the same side, a few yards further down.

  Thus he paused to contemplate the modestly elegant Montague House. With an eighteenth-century facade, its name was presumably a reference to Sir Edward Montagu, victor of the Sole Bay engagement … but now of course its principal association lay with that remarkable maverick, George Orwell. His parents had bought it in the thirties, and while claiming to have been uncomfortable in Southwold, the writer had produced some of his best work there.

  Cedric smiled, fondly imagining the man pounding away at the typewriter late into the night – and through clouds of tobacco smoke producing such pungent brilliance. His death a few years earlier had been a sadness, and for a moment Cedric dwelt ruefully on the cliché of the good dying young – or at least in Orwell’s case, the masterly. Yes, he reflected, the end had come cruelly soon …