The basking seals raised their heads, watching the human couple pass, wary of any encroachment. Assured that the man and woman, walking barefoot in the sand, would not trespass on their rocks, they closed their doleful eyes and continued their afternoon snooze.
‘Are they dangerous?’ asked Clara, never having been this close to wild seals before.
‘I’ve not heard of any attacks, but best not get too close,’ said Andrew.
A kittiwake cawed, swooping up to its nest on the cliffside below the castle. The castle, Andrew told her, was a private residence, owned by the magazine magnate Edward Hudson, who founded Country Life magazine. But the grounds did not extend far and Clara and Andrew were free to walk just a stone’s throw away from its ramparts. They then skirted Castle Point below the mediaeval lime kilns and carried on walking around the island.
More seals greeted them, this time from the water, looking – and sounding – like big black dogs in the sea. Clara laughed. ‘It looks like we’re being followed!’
Andrew smiled at her and said: ‘Should we stop here? If you don’t mind the company?’
‘You or the seals?’ quipped Clara.
Andrew chuckled. ‘Both.’
‘Not at all,’ said Clara. ‘One I find entertaining, the other … well, let’s just say I’m getting to know him.’
Andrew looked pleased and set down the picnic basket. ‘How about here?’
‘Perfect.’
Andrew tossed aside some dry seaweed and shells, then laid a tartan rug on the sand. Clara sat down, smoothing her blue cotton skirt over her bare legs and placing her shoes and straw hat neatly beside Andrew’s. She looked out to sea as he unpacked. ‘It’s absolutely beautiful here. It’s hard to believe it’s the north of England. Today is like a day in Cornwall.’
‘Cornwall? I’ve been there. During the war. I was based in Plymouth for a while.’
‘My parents have a holiday house near Penzance. They call it a cottage, but …’ she laughed ‘… that would be like Mr Hudson over there calling that castle a little getaway.’
‘So you’re from a wealthy family?’
Clara turned to him and raised a sardonic brow. ‘Are you asking as an accountant or …’ she was just about to say suitor but stopped herself in time ‘… or something else?’
He shrugged, unwrapping some sandwiches and laying them in their wax paper on the blanket. ‘I’m sorry, that was rude of me.’
‘No, no it wasn’t. It was an honest question. And seeing you are now my accountant, you’ll no doubt find out about my, and my family’s, financial affairs soon enough. My father is a third-generation banker. The family originally made its money in the cotton mills of Lancashire before my great-grandfather, the youngest son, decided to go into banking when his older brother inherited the family business. It was my grandfather, his son, who moved from Manchester to London. And my father was born there. My mother was from the North East, as you might have heard. Middle-class family with aspirations. She moved to London when she married my father and has been climbing the social ladder ever since. Bob, her brother, stayed here. But …’ she smiled at him ‘… you’ll probably know more about that than I do.’
Andrew was listening to her with a curious look on his face.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. I was just wondering what you meant by “seeing you are now my accountant”. Does that mean you’ve decided to stay, Clara?’
Clara lay back on the blanket, cupping her hands under her head and looking up at the baby-blue sky. ‘Well, it is glorious here.’
‘It is. Today. But Lindisfarne is not Newcastle. And neither place is always sunny. It gets wild here in the winter. And Newcastle can be bitterly cold.’
Clara turned onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. ‘Are you trying to put me off, Andrew?’
He shook his head. ‘Not at all, but I do want you to go into this with eyes wide open. You said you were going to give yourself until the end of the week to see if you could make progress with the Whittaker case and to test your appetite for the detection business.’
‘That’s right,’ said Clara. ‘And it’s Tuesday. Not the end of the week yet.’
‘What if you haven’t closed the case by then? Will you extend your trial period?’
Clara considered how much she had already achieved. Her more recent musings aside, about whether her uncle might have been helped on his way (she needed further evidence of that from Dr Malone), she contemplated the main investigation about the Paradise Picture House fire. For all intents and purposes, she felt she had already closed the Whittaker case. Alice Whittaker wanted her to prove neither she nor her husband, his brother nor their staff members had flouted fire regulations, and that she had a right to apply for an insurance pay-out. The information she had given to Roger Jennings should be sufficient to do that. She would be interested to hear what the solicitor had to say about it when she returned to Newcastle. But, and this was the complicated thing, there was now more to the investigation than the question of fire safety compliance. There was now evidence of arson that hadn’t been considered before, and possibly murder to silence Horace Fender, the likely arsonist. And there were also the efforts of someone – at their own behest or at the behest of Humphrey Balshard – to try to intimidate her into shutting down the investigation, and their attempts to get their hands on whatever was in Bob’s files. She thought again of the break-in to the office, the youth at the park stealing her notebook, and the break-in to her hotel room. She had been convinced that Jack Danskin was the perpetrator, but the fingerprint evidence didn’t back that up.
She explained all of this to Andrew then concluded, ‘So you see, this looks like it might be a longer investigation than I anticipated.’
Andrew gave a worried frown. ‘And much more dangerous. If Horace Fender was murdered, that means you could be in peril too, Clara. The sooner you get the police involved in this the better.’
Clara picked up one of the sandwiches. ‘I agree. But as you know, the police weren’t too interested when I first went to them about the break-ins.’
Andrew nodded slowly. ‘I don’t think that the Newcastle police weren’t interested – they did send someone around and they did put a guard outside the hotel – it’s just that they didn’t think there was sufficient evidence at the time to take it further. From what you tell me you’ve given to Jennings, that might now change.’
‘I hope so,’ said Clara, ‘but to make sure, I’ve asked him to show it to a magistrate first.’
‘That’s wise,’ agreed Andrew. ‘Hopefully Jennings will have some news for you soon.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Clara. She took a bite of the sandwich that she was eating more to be polite than because she was hungry. Dear Andrew had gone to so much trouble. Dear Andrew … Had she really just called him that? She looked at the handsome man with the auburn stubble on his chin catching the afternoon sun. He had taken off his jacket, and just like at Exhibition Park, she noted his muscular torso under the fabric. She felt a lurch in her abdomen. Oh my, he was an attractive man …
Andrew must have sensed the electricity in the air because he too lay down on his side, facing Clara, their eyes – and mouths – only a couple of inches apart. Clara put down her sandwich.
‘Clara, I—’
But whatever Andrew was about to say was cut off when a shaggy springer spaniel, soaking wet from a dip in the sea, bounded onto the blanket and scoffed Clara’s sandwich.
‘Rex! Rex! You naughty boy! Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry! He’s so naughty. He’s ruined your picnic!’
Two men wearing tweed, both with binoculars around their necks, ran up to them. One of them grabbed the springer by the collar and dragged him off. Andrew jumped up to speak to them while Clara sat up straight, fixing an ‘oh that’s all right’ smile on her face. Apologies were given, with Andrew indicating all was forgiven by giving the unrepentant Rex a pat.
‘Are you folks staying over tonight?’
Andrew shook his head. ‘No, we’ll be heading back to the mainland at about three.’
The men looked at one another and grinned. ‘Sorry, sir, but it’s already gone three. You and your wife must have been – er – too busy to notice.’
Clara and Andrew both looked at their watches. ‘Crikey,’ said Andrew, ‘it’s nearly ten to four! Oh Clara, I’m so sorry. I should have kept a better eye on the time.’
‘It’s just as much my fault as yours.’
The birdwatchers, still smiling, said sympathetically: ‘Don’t worry, it happens all the time. At least you didn’t leave too late and get caught by the tide. You’ll just have to stay over. Might we recommend the Crown and Anchor? They might have some rooms available. If not, there’s the Manor House – overlooking the priory.’
‘Thank you,’ said Andrew, looking shamefaced. ‘We’ll do that.’
When the birdwatchers and their dog had moved on, Andrew turned to Clara and said: ‘Golly, Clara, I really am sorry. This was not intentional, I can assure you. But we don’t have a choice. We’ll have to stay over. In separate rooms, of course.’
Clara gave a little smile. ‘So, no Mr and Mrs Smith then?’
Andrew flushed with embarrassment. ‘Goodness no!’
Pity, thought Clara, then helped him pack away the picnic.
The landlady of the Crown and Anchor was quite unjudgemental when they arrived back at the establishment like two stray kittens.
‘Not to worry, these things happen. And better you found out before driving across and getting caught in the tide.’ She looked at the clock behind the bar. ‘It will be safe to cross again at ten o’clock tonight. Will you try again then, or will you be wanting a room for the night?’
Andrew looked at Clara and said: ‘What do you think? Do you want to get back to Newcastle tonight?’
‘What time will we back?’
‘It’ll be after midnight.’
Clara shook her head. ‘No, let’s wait until morning. Can we book some rooms please?’
‘Aye,’ said the landlady, ‘will that be two rooms then?’
‘Yes. Two,’ said Andrew, and Clara could almost feel him blush.
Clara lay propped up in bed with the curtains open, appreciating the spectacular full moon over Holy Island. She could see the castle from her room, silhouetted against the silver orb like a scene from Camelot. It really was a magical place. She and Andrew had spent the time before dinner wandering around the ruins of the priory and the ancient graveyard of St Mary’s Church to the now-familiar choral accompaniment of the Lindisfarne birds and seals. Andrew had told her as much as he knew about the island, its history as the birthplace of Christianity in England, the humble St Cuthbert and his hermitage, the monks who created the exquisite Lindisfarne Gospels, the Viking raids, and so on and so forth …
Clara listened with one ear. It’s not that she wasn’t interested, but she was distracted by the Whittaker case and all its complications. Although she believed they had made the right decision not to try to get back to Newcastle tonight, she did wish they had been able to get back in the late afternoon. She had really wanted to see what progress Jennings had made.
Instead, after telephoning her hotel in Newcastle to tell them she would be away overnight and cancelling her dinner reservation, she rang Jennings. But Jennings Jnr wasn’t in. The secretary informed her that he had a late meeting and wouldn’t be back until the morning. No, she didn’t know if he had passed on Miss Vale’s documents to a magistrate. No, sorry, he hadn’t mentioned whether he had had a chance to go through them himself. But Miss Vale mustn’t worry, Mr Jennings was a very thorough solicitor and he would be looking out for her legal interests. As would Mr Jennings Snr when he returned from his trip to York. Would Miss Vale like to make an appointment to see Mr Jennings Jnr in the morning? Yes, Miss Vale would.
Clara then turned her attention to mulling over her meeting with Uncle Bob’s doctor: Charles Malone. Before visiting him, she had a niggling suspicion that all may not have been right with Bob Wallace’s death. But that’s all it was, just a niggle. She would have been quite prepared to put it down to her exaggerated sense of suspicion that had emerged in the few days she’d been working as a private detective. Clara felt herself putting quote marks around ‘private detective’, because really, could she describe herself as such after such a short time? Perhaps apprentice private detective or play-acting private detective … No, she stopped herself, not that. This had not been a game. What she had uncovered about the Paradise Picture House fire was not make-believe. Nor were the deaths of Will Spencer and Horace Fender. She had done proper, professional work collecting that evidence. She needed to trust herself more. Because if she didn’t, who would?
And because of that, she had to start trusting her instincts. Yes, she needed to get evidence to back up those instincts, like she would do with any scientific enquiry, but she would never get to that point if she didn’t explore the ‘what if …’ in the first place. So, what if she was right and there was something untoward with Bob’s death? Dr Malone had admitted that he too had had his suspicions about his patient’s rapid decline. And he had wondered whether the barbital his father had prescribed might have had something to do with it.
But both the chemist and Mrs Hobson had said he was only getting the prescribed amount. Mrs Hobson’s testimony she could discount. She didn’t trust that woman one bit. Up until now, she only had her gut feeling to go on – which of course, was not very scientific – but now, thanks to the landlady of the Crown and Anchor, she knew that Hobson had been lying about her romantic getaway with Bob to Holy Island. The letter, addressed to J, was either a forgery or had been stolen with the intention of recasting the love interest to appear to be Jane Hobson. And the purpose? To convince Clara that the housekeeper had some kind of claim – moral if not legal – to Bob’s estate. A woman who would go to those lengths could not be believed when she said she had only collected the prescribed medication – and no more – from the chemist.
But the chemist was more convincing. Surely someone of that professional standing would not risk his reputation by lying to a doctor, would he? A doctor with whom he was in a symbiotic professional relationship. Would there be any way of checking up on that, she wondered? She decided that she would pay the chemist a visit when she returned to Newcastle. And Mrs Hobson.
She looked out the window and saw a sliver of cloud creeping across the moon. And then, she was struck by a sudden thought, and wondered why it had never occurred to her before: was it possible that the Whittaker case, Balshard Insurance, Horace Fender’s suspicious death and her uncle’s death were somehow all related? Had her uncle been killed to stop him probing any further into the picture house fires and Humphrey Balshard’s involvement? And had her decision to continue the investigation stirred the hornets’ nest? Yes, she thought, yes. What else would explain the break-ins, the bag-snatching, Fender’s death and the man who had followed her on the train? Not to mention the mysterious tip-off her brother Antony had received that Bob’s mental capacity could be brought into question. If Antony could stop her inheriting the business, that would prevent her probing any further. And if that failed? She shivered, pulling the blankets over her shoulders. Had Andrew been right? Was her life also in peril?
She suddenly had a desire to talk this all over with Andrew. Yes, she had told him some of it, but not all. He did not know of her suspicions about Jane Hobson and her uncle’s death. Had Hobson been paid to overdose him? She reminded herself that she had no evidence of this. But then she had an idea: Andrew had been Bob’s accountant. Andrew had paid off any outstanding debts after her uncle’s death. Andrew would know what had been paid to the chemist. Might that reveal how much barbital had actually been purchased?
She threw back the covers and strode to the door. She’d heard Andrew moving around in the room next door; good, he was still awake. She grabbed her cardigan to put over the oversized nightdress the landlady had loaned her, opened her door and knocked quietly on his.