Jacob Flint peered at the letter, scanning it for clues like a philologist trying to decode the Rosetta Stone.
Written in a tidy hand on a single sheet of paper, the letter had arrived in an envelope bearing his business address: care of the Clarion, Clarion House, Fleet Street, London. As the chief crime reporter, Jacob was an easy target for anonymous letter writers with wild handwriting and a taste for capitals, underlinings, and exclamation marks. Their messages ranged from the risible and delusionary to the unpleasant and threatening. So did most of their claims about crimes and conspiracies.
Once in a blue moon, a nameless correspondent came up with a snippet of worthwhile information. His late predecessor Tom Betts had impressed upon him that even a madman has a story worth telling, so Jacob made a point of reading each letter before – in nineteen cases out of twenty – screwing it up and hurling it into the wastepaper basket.
This letter had arrived on Friday and survived the weekend simply because it differed from the usual nonsense. Not only were the contents commendably terse and devoid of literary flourishes, the sender hadn’t remained wholly anonymous. At least he (or she) had appended initials. A sign of good faith? Or simply an attempt to tantalise?
Dear Mr Flint
A man is to be murdered at the summer solstice. The scene of the crime will be the cliffs at Hemlock Bay.
I wish to discuss the matter with you and seek your help to prevent this tragedy. I shall call at your London office at 11 a.m. on Monday next. If you are wondering why I have not spoken to the police, the answer is that I have, but they did not believe me. I am a regular reader of the Clarion and am confident that you have more sense.
Yours sincerely
T.G.H.
Now it was Monday, and the time was 10.45. The morning conference of the Clarion’s senior journalists had gone on longer than usual, thanks to an inconclusive debate about how to combat the summer slump in circulation. At this time of year, readers decamped to the seaside and were too busy enjoying themselves to bother about the news. Jacob had fifteen minutes to make sense of the letter before T.G.H. was due to turn up. Perhaps T.G.H. was a time-waster with no intention of visiting Fleet Street. However, something about the letter made Jacob think T.G.H. was serious – even if deluded. To admit that the police had shown no interest in what he said was admirably frank.
He frowned. In an ideal world, he’d reach a series of dazzlingly specific conclusions – for example, that his correspondent was a captain in the Grenadier Guards who had recently spent time in Spain and had a pet dog and a house in Canterbury, or alternatively that she was a vicar’s wife with false teeth and a wonderful singing voice. Even if staggering feats of deduction were beyond him, he felt sure he could learn something about T.G.H.
Time to take a leaf out of Rachel Savernake’s book. Rachel insisted that solving mysteries demanded a willingness to make creative leaps of imagination just as much as a meticulous attention to detail. Forensic evidence is all fine and dandy, she argued, but it’s often open to more interpretations than scientists like to admit.
Very well, then…
The envelope in front of him was obviously cheap. Rather than using notepaper, the author had written on a sheet torn from an exercise book, probably from Woolworth’s. Presumably the author was short of cash and accustomed to shopping in stores with a sixpenny price limit. Given the current state of the world’s economy, mind you, that was true of almost everyone.
The handwriting was neat if unelaborate. There were no errors of spelling or grammar. This was the work of someone who had a certain level of education and wasn’t pretending otherwise. There was no address, but knowing that Hemlock Bay occupied a tiny corner of the north-west coast, Jacob deduced that T.G.H. came from Lancashire.
Man or woman? The letter carried no hint of scent and there was nothing obviously feminine about either the script or phraseology. These points were, however, far from conclusive. The Clarion had become increasingly popular with women readers, many of whom hung on every pronouncement of the resident astrologer, Trewythian. T.G.H. talked about a forthcoming murder, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to infer an interest in horoscopes. The police might be disinclined to lend a sympathetic ear to a woman with a strange story to tell. Their instinct would be to dismiss her as hysterical or a troublemaker. On balance, Jacob decided, T.G.H. was female.
Jacob’s mind conjured up a picture of a bluff, busty matron who stood for no nonsense. A seaside landlady with a henpecked husband, perhaps, the sort familiar from a thousand saucy postcards?
Pleased with this exercise of his detective skills, he stretched out in his chair, luxuriating in his surroundings. He had a new office, a first-floor room befitting a senior journalist and commanding a view over Fleet Street but handy for a back staircase leading to a side door which gave on to an alleyway. The retirement of the newspaper’s senior literary critic had given Jacob the chance to persuade his editor that he needed a suitable place to conduct confidential interviews with people who could come and go without being observed in the busy reception lobby. In truth, he’d continue to meet his sources in the pubs and clubs of the capital, but when he came down the corridor, the sight of the shiny brass plate bearing his name put a spring in his step. Over the past year or so he’d established himself, having acquired a reputation for an uncanny gift of being in the right place at the right time. In practice this meant keeping close to Rachel Savernake – although invariably several steps behind her.
The telephone rang and a bored female voice said, ‘Visitor for you, Mr Flint.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘I do have an appointment in five minutes. She’s early.’
‘He’s a man,’ the girl said.
‘Oh, really?’ Perhaps it wasn’t T.G.H. but someone else. ‘What name did he give?’
‘Hallemby.’ She gave a derisive sniff. ‘The Great Hallemby.’
*
‘What can I do for you, Mr… Hallemby?’ Jacob Flint asked.
His visitor nibbled at his fingernails. ‘Actually, I’m known as The Great Hallemby.’
‘Oh yes?’
Jacob wasn’t sure what else to say. The man on the other side of his vast new desk was a scrawny individual with a sallow face and a limp handshake. His small eyes darted around the room, as if in search of something he’d mislaid. He looked a few years older than Jacob – early thirties, perhaps – but his greasy brown hair was already thinning. His shoulders were rounded, his tweed jacket threadbare, his shoes worn down at the heel. If greatness had been thrust upon this fellow, Jacob couldn’t guess why.
‘It’s an anagram, see,’ the man said, as if that explained everything.
His accent was as Welsh as bara brith. So much for interpreting character from a short letter, Jacob thought. At least the man’s shabby clothes confirmed the assumption that he wasn’t rich.
‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘My real name is Gareth Bellamy, but that wasn’t exotic enough when I took up fortune telling.’ He inspected his chewed fingernails sorrowfully. ‘You’d never recognise me in my robes. Not to mention my wig. I cut quite a fine figure, if I say so myself.’
Jacob’s heart was sinking fast. ‘You tell fortunes?’
‘It’s a special gift,’ the man said eagerly. ‘Ever since I was a child, visions of the future have come to me. I can’t control it and I haven’t the faintest idea where they come from.’
‘No?’
‘Nobody in my family ever took me seriously, especially since I couldn’t tip them the wink about who was going to win the Grand National or anything like that. I simply can’t predict when I’ll next be permitted a glimpse into the future.’
This sounded like a serious shortcoming in a fortune teller, but Jacob let it pass.
‘I see.’
‘Of course, I can always find something to say when clients pay for a reading. That’s my job. I pride myself on being professional. A person only has to open their mouth to give something away about who they are and what’s going on in their lives. Between you and me, it doesn’t require exceptional powers to keep my customers satisfied. It’s a knack. Just good, harmless family fun, see.’
‘Of course.’
‘The bigger things… they are different. When a vision comes to me, it may be as clear as day, or mysterious and incomplete. You never know.’
Jacob nodded sagely. ‘So what brings you here, Mr Bellamy?’
‘I’m a lifelong reader of the Clarion. Marvellous paper.’
‘We pride ourselves on being the Voice of the People,’ Jacob said, taking care to squeeze any hint of irony out of his own voice.
‘Couldn’t put it better myself. Over the past twelve months, I’ve read your own reports with enormous interest. Quite amazing. You’ve been Johnny-on-the-spot in some extraordinary murder cases.’
Jacob tried not to preen as the man waved at the large noticeboard on the wall behind his desk. His first act on installing himself in his new home had been to cover the board from top to bottom with his favourite scoops. The bizarre crimes they chronicled all had two things in common. First, Rachel Savernake had played a crucial part in unravelling the truth. Second, her name didn’t appear anywhere. This wasn’t because Jacob claimed credit when it wasn’t due. Rachel guarded her privacy with a ruthless zeal and he knew better than to infuriate her by parading in public either her fascination with extravagant mysteries or her genius for solving them.
‘I’ve had my fair share of luck.’ This was nothing less than the truth, but it sounded impressively self-deprecating.
‘Very modest of you to say so. Those brilliant investigations are the reason I’m here. I was determined to speak to you rather than anyone else. Especially after the police sent me off with a flea in my ear.’
‘Tell me more.’
Gareth Bellamy chewed a hangnail. A wary look came into his small dark eyes. ‘You see, it’s like this. I know that a murder is going to be committed at midsummer. I want to prevent the crime, but there’s a huge problem.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’ve no idea who is going to be killed, or who is responsible. Like I said in my letter, all I know is when and where the crime is going to take place. The summer solstice in Hemlock Bay.’
*
It took twenty minutes of patient questioning for Jacob to get the story straight in his mind. In a nutshell, Gareth Bellamy hailed from Bangor in north Wales. After leaving school, he’d worked as a clerk, trying to better himself by moving from job to job. When the cold winds of economic depression blew across the Atlantic, the architects’ firm which employed him was forced to shed most of its workforce and he was among the casualties. Out of work and unburdened by family commitments, he’d resolved to try his hand at something different.
Convinced that he had a knack of seeing into the future, he’d set up in business as a fortune teller. He bought a set of robes and a wig and set up as The Great Hallemby on the Victoria Pier at Colwyn Bay, next to the tea shop. Pickings were thin and the local police zealous, so he’d moved to the Lancashire coast, where the Vagrancy Act was less rigorously enforced. Business was brisker there. Maybe because the trippers who crossed his palm with silver were more credulous, or maybe they simply had more money to burn.
One evening, while getting ready for bed, Bellamy had one of those out-of-body experiences which, he insisted, came out of nowhere and for no apparent reason.
He had a vision of himself at dawn, strolling along the top of the cliffs known as Hemlock Heights. When he glanced out to sea, something stopped him in his tracks. Illuminated by the first streaky rays of sunlight, a body sprawled on the rocks below. The limbs were spreadeagled and the person was unquestionably dead. The head was bloodied and face down, and the corpse was dressed in a man’s clothes. He must have plunged from the clifftop.
Bellamy was about to summon help when he heard someone whispering.
‘So, it’s finally done.’
‘I… I can’t quite believe…’ The other voice was hoarse and breathless.
‘I told you I could do it. We simply need to take care when the police ask questions.’
‘Questions?’
‘About his death. They’ll speak to everyone in the neighbourhood. Just remember, nobody knows of any connection between him and me.’
‘But…’
‘Look at him! I did what I swore I’d do! And on the summer solstice. Everyone will think it was a simple accident. If we keep our nerve, nobody will ever suspect. Let alone be able to prove anything. Trust me.’
Shocked and bewildered, Bellamy glanced this way and that, desperate to see who was talking.
In vain. Within moments, the vision faded into nothingness. He was left on his own in the tiny bedroom in his lodging house, with the moonlight falling through a crack in the curtains on grubby whitewashed walls. Yet the sight of the dead man, stretched out on the unforgiving rocks, was imprinted on his brain. So were the words of the strangers on whom he’d inadvertently eavesdropped.
‘After that, Mr Flint, I tossed and turned for the rest of the night, unable to get a wink of sleep. One thing I knew for sure: I couldn’t live with my conscience if I didn’t try to save a man from his terrible fate.’
Bellamy paused, as if awaiting a round of applause, before continuing. ‘First thing the next morning, I caught a bus into Morecambe and headed for the police station. Believe me, I wasn’t in the mood for shilly-shallying. I said to the desk sergeant that I wanted to report a murder. That made him sit up, Mr Flint, I can tell you.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘There was only one snag, see. When I said the crime hasn’t been committed yet, he looked at me as if I was some kind of halfwit.’
Jacob made sympathetic noises.
‘I insisted on seeing his superior and made such a fuss that a fellow called Inspector Young gave me a hearing. I explained the crime was due to take place on the summer solstice, but things went from bad to worse. When Young discovered that I’m a fortune teller, his manner changed. Instead of treating me like a lunatic, he became suspicious. As though I was some kind of fraudster.’ Bellamy shook his head. ‘It’s a sad fact, Mr Flint. There’s a lot of prejudice in this world.’
‘Very true,’ Jacob said.
‘The inspector didn’t believe a word I said. Even though I’d acted as any responsible citizen would. No wonder there’s a crime wave and decent people aren’t safe in their beds these days. Never mind enforcing the Defence of the Realm Act and stopping people from having innocent fun. The Clarion is right. This isn’t Russia or Germany. The police aren’t meant to be killjoys or petty bureaucrats. They should be keeping us law-abiding citizens safe from harm. I’ve handed them a serious crime on a plate. A man’s life is in danger in Hemlock Bay. Yet they won’t even lift a finger to save the poor devil.’
‘I suppose they don’t know where to start,’ Jacob said. ‘Is there anything more? Any flesh you could put on the bones?’
Bellamy spread his arms. ‘What else can I say? I’ve told you everything.’
‘The victim’s clothes. Anything distinctive about them?’
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t take much in. It was a shocking sight and as soon as I realised he was dead, I had to look away.’
‘The people you overheard. Were they both men?’
A shake of the head. ‘Impossible to tell. One hardly said a word. They were speaking in whispers, so maybe one was a woman. Perhaps both of them.’
Bellamy shifted in his seat. ‘Hard to say, Mr Flint. I only caught a few snatches of conversation.’
‘Did they sound as if they were local to the area?’
An evasive look flitted into the small eyes. With a touch of asperity, he said, ‘I can’t say, I’m afraid, and it’s not right for me to speculate. Or to say anything that puts innocent people under suspicion. I wanted to lay the unvarnished facts in front of you.’
‘I understand,’ Jacob said. ‘But there’s so little to go on.’
‘I don’t agree,’ Bellamy said. ‘Hemlock Bay is a fraction of the size of Morecambe, let alone Blackpool. It can’t be so difficult for an investigative reporter to find out what’s what. Surely a scoop like this is meat and drink to a fellow like you?’
Jacob sighed. ‘I’m not confident my editor would be happy for me to devote time and effort to researching the story.’
Bellamy glared at him. ‘Because it’s based on a fortune teller’s vision, I suppose?’
‘Well, you have to admit, the whole business sounds rather… fantastic.’
‘I told you,’ the other man said doggedly. ‘I’m sensitive to atmosphere. There’s something in the air at Hemlock Bay that is… stimulating to the senses. Including my sixth sense.’
‘But all we have is a suggestion of a conspiracy between an unknown couple to kill an unknown third party.’
‘I’ve also told you the victim is a man, as well as the scene of the crime and the date! Narrows things down, doesn’t it?’
‘What do you suggest? Should I prowl the cliffs at Hemlock Bay at the summer solstice, keeping an eye out for potential murderers and warning solitary walkers not to get too close to the edge?’
An impatient flap of the hand. ‘You’re quibbling, Mr Flint. I’m not convinced you’re taking me seriously.’
‘Well…’
Bellamy’s chin jutted out. ‘I hoped you, of all people, would treat a forthcoming murder with the gravity it deserves.’
‘Believe me,’ Jacob said, ‘I’m grateful for the information. The problem is that my editor is a born sceptic. If you could give me some red meat…’
‘I’ve told you about a plot to commit murder, Mr Flint,’ Bellamy snapped. ‘If that isn’t red meat, then I don’t know what is. I thought you’d find the puzzle irresistible. The chance to investigate a murder that hasn’t yet taken place! That’s why I travelled all the way down from Lancashire to see you in person. At my own expense!’
Jacob shifted in his chair. ‘I don’t think we can reimburse…’
Bellamy waved his arms in agitation. ‘I’m not looking for money! This is a matter of civic duty as far as I’m concerned. I’ve given you forewarning of a terrible crime. Let it never be said that The Great Hallemby didn’t do everything in his power to save the life of a fellow human being!’
‘Public-spirited of you,’ Jacob said, ‘but…’
‘Speaking to the police was a complete waste of time. Guardians of law and order? Don’t make me laugh!’ Bellamy’s bitterness was undisguised. ‘If you ask me, they’re constitutionally incompetent if not corrupt. When they sent me packing, I wasn’t surprised. I hoped the Clarion, of all papers, wouldn’t turn up its nose at an exclusive tip-off from a faithful reader.’
He got to his feet, evidently about to leave in a huff.
‘Please don’t misunderstand me,’ Jacob said. ‘I’d be very glad to speak to my editor. If he agrees to my becoming involved, I’ll be glad to help.’
‘You will?’
A watchful look came into the other man’s eyes. Did he suspect he was being fobbed off?
‘You have my word.’
‘Let me give you my card,’ Bellamy said. ‘And perhaps I can take yours?’
‘With pleasure.’ Relieved that he’d managed to bring the meeting to a swift and amicable conclusion, Jacob felt able to indulge in a little bonhomie as they exchanged cards. ‘You’ve acted very responsibly, Mr Bellamy. In the finest traditions of Clarion readers.’
‘I’m obliged for your time.’ The fortune teller consulted his watch. ‘Now I mustn’t dawdle. I need to get back to Euston in time for the next train. This morning was an early start for me, and I don’t want to lose more earnings than I need. And I don’t want my girlfriend hanging round the Rose Garden, either. She gets extremely jealous if I’m out of her sight for long.’
Privately, Jacob wondered if she might be glad to see the back of him.
‘So what does she make of your premonition?’
The shiftiness returned to Bellamy’s expression. ‘I… I haven’t discussed it with her.’
‘Really?’
‘Didn’t want to upset her, see? A plot to commit a murder? Not very nice, is it? She’s very sensitive, you know. Highly strung.’
Protesting too much, Jacob thought. He wondered why.
‘Ah,’ he said, trying to invest the syllable with maximum significance.
‘Winifred works at Paradise; that’s how we met.’ Bellamy seemed keen to change the subject. ‘Thanks to Skeleton Sue.’
‘Skeleton Sue?’
‘You must have heard of her.’
Jacob shook his head.
‘One of the most popular puppets in the north of England. Mr Lescott, Winnie’s father, made Skeleton Sue himself. The show is good clean fun. Very wholesome. Winnie operates some of the puppets and does front of house. Selling programmes and suchlike.’
‘Well, you’d better get back before she starts fretting,’ Jacob said. ‘Thanks for coming to see me in person. It’s good of you to take so much trouble.’
‘I couldn’t rest without doing my bit to make sure justice is done.’
They shook hands. Bellamy seemed eager to leave.
‘Rest assured that I shall continue to read the Clarion with great interest.’
Jacob couldn’t resist asking, ‘Including Trewythian’s horoscopes?’
Bellamy gave a wan smile. ‘Never look at them, I’m afraid. Coals to Newcastle, see?’
*
The moment his visitor had left, Jacob swung his feet on to his desk and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what he’d been told. It was facile to dismiss Gareth Bellamy as deluded. The man was articulate and intelligent. Nevertheless, the meeting had left him with an uncomfortable sense that he’d been told less than the whole truth. Did Bellamy know more than he’d admitted? Was he pursuing some kind of hidden agenda? Instinct told him that something about the fellow was off-key.
So what, if anything, should he do?
The first step was to dig into the man’s background. How best to start? He looked up the number of a man called Harwood, an acquaintance from his early days in journalism who was now working for the North Wales Weekly News. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he got down to business.
‘I’m interested in a man called Gareth Bellamy. Aged about thirty, give or take. Comes from Bangor and worked in clerical jobs before his employer ran into difficulties and let him go. After that he changed direction completely and took up fortune telling. His monicker is The Great Hallemby and he plied his new trade on the pier at Colwyn Bay before upping sticks and moving to Hemlock Bay.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Harwood asked.
‘First, I’d like to check that what I’ve told you about his past is true. Then I’d be glad of any clues as to his honesty.’
‘Fair enough. Give me twenty-four hours.’
‘Thanks.’ Jacob grinned at the telephone. ‘I owe you a pint.’
‘Yes,’ Harwood said wearily. ‘That’s exactly what you said last time you asked me for a favour.’
‘Double or quits?’
‘You always were a cheeky young pup,’ the other man said. ‘All right, son. Leave it with me and I’ll get back to you by this time tomorrow.’
Jacob put down the receiver. What next? Was there anything else he could do to make sense of The Great Hallemby’s mysterious vision?
He didn’t know where to start. Experience had taught him that when he was in a quandary of this kind, only one course made sense. He must consult Rachel Savernake.