Shot in Southwold Read online

  And yes, all very sad and distressing, of course, but nevertheless inconvenient. It would mean cancelling their appearance at the party conference – or at least she would have to cancel hers. Tommy would attend and do the usual backslapping and string-pulling, but ideally she ought to be with him. It was what the public liked to see: the devoted husband and wife radiating marital bliss and public duty. Besides, Tommy operated so much better with her at his side to nudge things along. Much better. On his own that essential spark was inclined to subside into a reliable glow – which was all very well, but in political life it was the sparks that mattered, which ensured the real triumphs.

  She frowned and lit another cigarette, but this time the expiring flame awoke no rueful reflection. For by now Ida’s thoughts were preoccupied with the tiresome (and distasteful) task of identifying the body. When the Suffolk police had contacted her about that, she had been startled. Except for a cairn terrier she had once owned, she had never seen a dead body before, and the prospect was uninviting to say the least. As the process was only a formality she had suggested that Hackle (or was it Cackle?) and his cronies might meet that requirement – after all, they must have known the girl well enough. But she had been told rather curtly that it was customary for a family member or relative to take the responsibility, and that in any case she would presumably wish to collect the victim’s belongings (Ida didn’t particularly).

  The officer had asked about the girl’s parents, and she had explained that there had been a divorce years ago, and that the mother – naturally devastated by the news – was living in South Africa and was too distraught to make the journey. (Actually her stepsister was not in the least distraught, merely reluctant to desert the claims of Cape Town’s high life for so morbid an experience. ‘One must be practical, Ida,’ she had urged, ‘you are so much better placed than I am. After all, you only have to whizz up there from London, not from halfway across the world like me. Currently all I can do is to mourn and brood …’)

  Recalling this reaction, Ida was reminded of the victim herself. Yes, she reflected, like mother like daughter: utterly self-engrossed! Indeed, it was the girl’s cocksure egotism – not to say predatory greed – that had been a source of some continuing disquiet in the Carshalton household. At first, after the divorce, they had been sorry for the girl – in those days diffident and waif-like – and in a spirit of kindly duty had rather taken her under their wing. However, in the course of adolescence the waif’s diffidence had waned, and her self-esteem waxed – annoyingly so. There had been complaints from the school, tantrums, truancies, manipulative wheedling, exploitative dramas. In short, the girl had started to become distinctly tedious, or as Tommy had observed, a vexing pain in the arse. And then just when they were wondering how to rid themselves of their tiresome protégée without appearing unduly harsh, there had been that ghastly incident.

  Ida’s eyes closed in painful recollection. It really had been most unfortunate. So embarrassing, and not to say costly. Wretched girl! Yet even as she mentally flinched, a smile twitched her lips. It had to be admitted, the thing did have its funny side. Oh yes. Quite absurd really! She grinned, and then immediately scowled. But oh God, they had been paying for it all right. Tacitly, indulgently, bitterly they had been paying … But now, well now the weight was lifted and one could sleep easy. She stretched languorously as if enacting the prospect; and then with a sigh glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece: four o’clock, teatime. In his Westminster office Tommy would be sipping his usual cup of strong Darjeeling and nibbling a chocolate wafer. She would keep him company.

  Thus, rising from the sofa Ida smoothed her dress, and with a twinge of guilt at the early hour, poured a large gin and tentatively raised the glass. To whom was she drinking? To the memory of the poor dead girl? Or to the girl’s reluctant custodians and the easing of their burden? The answer could well have been both. She herself was not entirely certain; but the sensation was pleasant.

  By half past four and libation finished, she was briskly consulting railway timetables for the journey to Suffolk, and preparing to telephone their old friend Vincent Ramsgate.

  Apart from a natural reluctance, the prospect of travelling up to Southwold for such a task now seemed less irksome than before. All the same, she would prefer that the inspection business itself could be done with a companion at hand; and with a bit of luck Vincent might offer to put her up for a couple of days. Naturally one could always stay in some local hotel, but given the circumstances, a friendly private house would be preferable. Besides, she hadn’t seen him for well over a year (though they had heard his voice regularly enough on the wireless). Yes, it would be good to chat over old times – a cheery diversion from the grisly task.

  Grisly? She paused fractionally, wondering what to expect. With luck, nothing too beastly! After all, didn’t they sort of adjust the features to make them more palatable, less dead-looking? She certainly hoped so. Should she wear black or would that appear too heavy? Perhaps a pallid grey would be better … My corpse-viewing garb, she thought grimly.

  Braced by the gin and with brighter thoughts, she picked up the telephone, dialled Ramsgate’s number and achieved her purpose.

  Meanwhile, munching the predicted chocolate wafer and staring out over the traffic, Tommy Carshalton also felt braced.

  It really was amazing how well things could turn out. The press had been more than generous in their recent political coverage, his speech for the forthcoming conference was honed to a tee, (the ghostwriter predicting a triumph), the opposition had been complimentary about yesterday’s questions in the House (though of course that was sometimes a poisoned chalice!), Ida had looked superb hobnobbing with Princess Margaret at the Festival Hall, his majority at the recent by-election had vastly increased … and to cap it all, the child was dead. What you might call a most satisfactory week!

  His gaze fell on the intrepid cyclists pedalling feverishly through the rush-hour traffic. Well, he mused, at least now there would be one less of their number to affright London’s bus and cab drivers. And with that in mind, he selected another wafer and smiled.

  He returned to his desk; but before resuming work, glanced up at the photograph of the prime minister looking po-faced from the wall. Tommy winked at the photograph. ‘Your days are numbered, matey,’ he murmured.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Film-making, like time and tide, wait for no man – or in Tippy’s sad case, no woman. And thus, after the initial consternation (and as Bartho had resolved), The Languid Labyrinth continued to evolve.

  Director and scriptwriter spent a long and slightly alcoholic Monday night making the required adjustments to storyline, character and casting. The result, Bartho assured everybody, was twice as good as the original and bound to secure its success.

  Alicia, reinstated as the wayward seductress, and with the role substantially enlarged, went about being purringly nice to everyone. Felix, fearing that his own role might have been subsumed by the changes, was gratified to be told that it was an essential element. Sam had even written him a further line, to wit: Look yonder where the halcyon flies … but our time, brothers, alas must fade. (With the seagull image in mind, Felix wondered if Sam had a thing about birds, but didn’t like to ask.) Robert Kestrel, despite Alicia’s allusion to his ‘awful state’, seemed similarly satisfied, being now required to play not only the Dutch sea captain but also a blighted member of the French aristocracy bankrupted by the loss of his vessel. Both parts gave ample scope for more Brandoesque brooding.

  The first shootings of the revamped screenplay had gone well. Disturbingly well, Lady Fawcett thought wryly. It was as if the girl’s death was a universal bonus.

  To take her mind off the gruesome business, she had made a point of attending the new rehearsal, and it struck her immediately that the dire event had somehow focused the mind of actors and technicians alike. There was, she sensed, a spirit of resolution in the air, a latent force that imbued the performances with a verve a
nd pathos not previously noted. Alicia’s sultry syllables suddenly convinced; and even Felix’s line about the halcyon seemed mildly effective and carried a sort of puzzling poignancy. Robert too, despite the overtight breeches, really did begin to emerge as a menacing presence … How strange, how sad that so terrible a thing should have such an enlivening effect. Tippy’s loss was Bartho’s gain – what an appalling irony!

  She looked over to where the latter was standing, talking earnestly with Fred and gesturing at one of the cameras. Was it an illusion, or did the boy seem to be showing a fresh authority, a new poise? Far from being weakened by the event, he seemed to have become curiously strengthened, awakened. Perhaps he saw it as a sort of personal challenge, a hurdle to be defied and overcome.

  There flashed before Lady Fawcett’s eyes the hurdles on Newbury racecourse and Bartholomew’s spectacular defeat, unseating himself and five others. Hmm. That little challenge had hit the dust all right! Still, he had been younger then, virtually a schoolboy; and perhaps this time things would be different. She certainly hoped so. His good-natured bonhomie had grown on her; and as hinted to Rosy, she could think of far worse candidates for a son-in-law … But then good nature wasn’t everything; many idiots were thus endowed. A little success never came amiss. If the two could be combined, dear Amy’s future might be bright.

  And in thinking of Amy, her mind wandered to Mr Bates and his antics. She hadn’t liked to telephone the ghastly news for fear of interrupting things. But surely the mission might be finished by now? Yes, she would contact the girl that very afternoon and tactfully suggest she leave Shropshire forthwith. Her fiancé-elect had need of her! (And in a way, so did her mother.)

  Fortunately it turned out that Mr Bates had behaved impeccably, and Amy (especially when she heard the ‘fascinating’ news) was only too eager to forsake Shropshire for Southwold. She would arrive two days’ hence, she announced. And how lovely if Bartho or Rosy could meet her at Darsham Station – the latter was such a brick and she hadn’t seen her for ages!

  ‘I tell you what,’ Bartholomew said to Rosy and Felix, ‘we’ll give her a special welcome. We’ll put on a little “hello” party with some fizz and Adnams’ best brew. Nothing big, simply the five of us: you two, and Cedric if he’ll come. I know just the place.’

  Rosy laughed. ‘Where – some louche dive, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh no, Southwold is far too respectable for louche dives – though admittedly the place I’m thinking of is a bit intimate. After this beastliness we deserve some gaiety, and I don’t suppose Amy will want to be faced with doom and gloom the moment she arrives. It’ll give her a sort of breathing space.’

  They looked at him enquiringly. ‘Where?’ Rosy asked.

  ‘A beach hut.’

  ‘In a beach hut!’ Felix echoed indignantly.

  Rosy laughed. ‘Honestly, Felix, you sound just like Lady Bracknell. It must be all this acting, it’s getting into the system!’ She turned to Bartho. ‘What do you mean? What beach hut?’

  ‘The one to which I have the key,’ he replied smugly. ‘Cousin Walter sent it to me before we left, and said I was welcome to use the place – though it was essential that it was kept clean and tidy as he occasionally lent it to friends for weekends. He said he didn’t think it was being used this month, but in any case it would certainly be free during the week, Monday to Thursday. Since Amy arrives tomorrow, we could hold our little celebration Thursday evening. I’ll tell the others I am taking my beloved girl out for a special treat.’ He grinned.

  Felix sniffed. ‘I am not sure that I associate treats with beach huts, even those of the Southwold calibre; but then people’s tastes do differ, of course …’

  ‘Oh, come on, Felix, it could be rather fun,’ Rosy said coaxingly. ‘We could open the doors and picnic on the veranda in the moonlight to the sound of the waves. It would be terribly romantic – and who knows, Cedric might be persuaded to serenade us with his violin.’

  Felix looked askance. ‘Oh, don’t tell me, he’s not brought that with him, has he?’ he cried. ‘He must have sneaked it into the car when I wasn’t looking. I thought he seemed a bit shifty. All that fuss about his books, and all the time he was secreting that confounded instrument. It’s too bad!’

  ‘Do I take it you don’t approve of the instrument?’ Bartho asked.

  ‘Not the way he plays it,’ the other replied darkly.

  However, plied with emollient praise re his recent performance, Felix became more enthusiastic and said he would have a word with Cedric. ‘As it happens, I am due to meet him in the Lord Nelson shortly, I’ll mention it then.’

  ‘We might as well join you,’ Bartho said. ‘I like the Nelly and I deserve a rest. It’s been a tough morning dealing with Alicia’s whims; and stubbing my toe on Pixie’s great hide hasn’t helped. She is what might be termed a stumbling block, but if Fred doesn’t bring her to the studio she gets grumpy and his camera work goes to pieces.’

  When they arrived at the pub they found Cedric already seated in a corner immersed in the newspaper. ‘I see that Carshalton chap is in the limelight again,’ he observed. ‘He’s got some bee in his bonnet about illicit arms trading and is determined to have it stopped. It’s his latest crusade.’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ Bartho said, ‘it’s too useful and too lucrative. Still, I suppose it gets him a good press.’

  ‘Does it say anything about Tippy?’ Rosy asked.

  ‘What? Oh, I see – you mean about his being some sort of relation. Yes, there are a couple of lines at the bottom saying her mysterious death in Southwold has been a great blow to the family, and being relatives he and his wife trust justice will be done.’

  ‘Well, amen to that,’ said Bartho briskly. ‘Now, meanwhile …’ and he started to apprise Cedric of the beach hut proposal.

  ‘Charming,’ the professor agreed, ‘and I could bring my fiddle.’ He beamed at them, while the corners of Felix’s mouth went down.

  Having imbibed and recuperated sufficiently, Bartho suggested that since he still had a little time before being back on set, it would be sensible if they reconnoitred the hut: ‘After all, it might be awash with crabs and spiders. Amy can’t stand either; she goes ballistic!’

  Thus they strolled down to the seafront and its long row of colourful shelters. There was some initial confusion as Bartho had the numbers confused, but eventually the hut was located: blue with a green door and looking very smart. It even flew a small flag, though of what provenance no one was sure. He unlocked the door, and the sun flooded into the small space making the electric light almost redundant.

  What they saw was very pleasing: scrubbed wooden floor, gaily striped mat, pale cream walls with plenty of hooks for towels, a large mirror (presumably just in case you needed to check the shade of your tan or the set of your swimming cap), a wicker table and a couple of stools. Rosy had rather thought there might have been deckchairs for its tiny veranda, but there clearly weren’t. ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘we can always bring cushions from the studio. We can strew them on the floor and loll about like Romans.’

  Cedric wasn’t sure if he wanted to loll about like a Roman, but said nothing. However, the place was entirely salubrious and might indeed lend itself to an intimate twilight soirée. And being the oldest of the group he could doubtless appropriate one of the two stools … and yes, he most certainly would bring his violin. If Paganini could play in the moonlight so could he!

  Rosy, too, was impressed. ‘It’s awfully spruce. You must be careful with the red wine, Felix. Don’t get too wild! Still, I daresay there’s a regular cleaner – especially if Bartho’s cousin lets it out from time to time.’

  ‘In that case,’ the other replied, ‘the char has missed something over there.’ He stepped forward to one of the corners and bent down. In the palm of his hand were two items: a coin and a piece of plastic. The latter could have been the cap of a lipstick, and it bore faint smudges of scarlet wax.

  Bartho laughed. ‘A
h, obviously one of the other tenants has been entertaining some moll here, and in her raptures she dropped her handbag.’

  ‘In that case, she was a French moll,’ Felix said. He held out the coin. ‘You see, it’s a franc piece. There’s some geezer’s head on it.’

  Cedric peered. ‘That geezer is Prince Rainier. It’s a Monégasque franc, if I’m not mistaken.’ He looked up at Felix. ‘Oh, and that reminds me, we simply must go back to Monaco soon – perhaps after my book comes out. We had such a good time there, and I could take my fiddle. You know how you love it.’ He gave a sly grin, and despite himself, Felix grinned back.

  ‘What’s that?’ Rosy asked suddenly, pointing at the mirror.

  ‘Your fair features,’ quipped Bartho.

  ‘No, idiot, that splotch just to its right. It looks like a hole, actually, as if some picture had been there or a different mirror, and the nail has been wrenched out. What a shame when everything else is so fresh.’

  Cedric walked over to where she pointed, and examined the wooden wall.

  ‘No,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘there has been no nail here – but there has been something else.’ He paused, frowning. ‘In fact, I should say … well, a bullet. You see?’ He tilted the mirror slightly so that its frame cast no shadow and revealed the extent of the ‘wound’. It was a round hole of about an inch in diameter, its edges sharply splintered and charred.

  They regarded it in silence. And then Bartho exclaimed, ‘But that’s absurd. Who would be using that wall for target practice? I mean, I know Cousin Walter can be a bit nutty, but he’s not as nutty as that. Besides, he is on holiday in Australia. You must be mistaken.’

  Cedric shook his head. ‘No chance of that; I’ve seen enough of these in the war. And I suspect Rosy might have encountered the occasional one too; she was in the ATS.’ He glanced at her enquiringly. ‘You must have seen quite a bit of firearm practice down in Dover, I imagine.’