‘Time for a Bloodhound,’ Rachel Savernake announced.
Martha Trueman laughed at Jacob’s expression of bemusement. ‘Cliff’s latest experiment.’
Martha had brought him up in the lift to join Rachel in the roof garden of Gaunt House. Trueman was in the conservatory, mixing drinks at the bar. When Jacob had telephoned Rachel to say he’d come across a strange new mystery about a murder, she’d wasted no time in inviting him to dinner.
‘If the rain holds off, we can dine al fresco,’ she’d said gaily.
‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Let alone Hetty.’
‘You don’t need to be so timid where she’s concerned. Her bark is much worse than her bite.’
‘I’m still not sure she likes me. Or even trusts me.’
‘Don’t worry about Hetty. She has very high standards.’
Finding her reply less than reassuring, he’d squeezed the receiver in the palm of his hand. Typical Rachel. Reassuring people wasn’t her forte.
‘Mmmm.’
‘With a lift as well as a dumb waiter, it’s no trouble to bring everything up to the roof. Besides, Hetty loves cooking for family and friends. You’re more than welcome to join us. If you arrive by half past five, you’ll be in time for a cocktail. A reward for your day of labour and a chance to savour Trueman’s latest triumph.’
She’d rung off before he even had time to express his thanks. Rachel, he reflected, was the definition of an irresistible force. As for her mention of friends, it was a figure of speech. She and the Truemans kept themselves to themselves. To the best of his knowledge, he and Inspector Oakes of Scotland Yard were among the very few people they’d ever entertained. Did Rachel ever get lonely? He’d never dared to ask.
Trueman emerged from the conservatory, bearing a silver tray with blood-red cocktails in crystal glasses. Rachel clapped her hands in delight. Jacob found her guileless enthusiasm hard to reconcile with the sangfroid he’d witnessed more than once when she’d come face to face with callous and brutal murderers. She never blinked first.
‘Your luck is in, Jacob,’ she said. ‘Finally the weather has been kind enough for us to enjoy preprandial cocktails in the open air. To celebrate, what better than a Bloodhound cocktail? Let’s drink a toast to a new summer!’
Glasses were raised and Jacob inhaled the fruity aroma of the cocktail before taking a taste.
Martha threw him a smile. ‘One Bloodhound sniffing another. Break it to us gently, Jacob. What’s your verdict?’
‘Delicious.’ He had no reason to fib; it was a fool’s game to try to pull the wool over these people’s eyes, even about something as simple as a drink before dinner. ‘Like a sort of strawberry martini, light and refreshing. Congratulations, Cliff, you’ve done it again.’
He rarely addressed Trueman by his Christian name. The fellow’s height and formidable physique made him an intimidating presence and Jacob usually felt it safer to keep a distance. Nominally Rachel’s chauffeur, every now and then Trueman revealed an unexpected string to his bow. He’d developed a flair for mixing cocktails, and Harry Craddock’s The Savoy Cocktail Book had become his bible.
Rachel’s trust in Cliff Trueman was unyielding, but he was a man of few words and his demeanour made the Sphinx look like a quivering jelly. For a moment, Jacob thought he detected the faintest hint of a smile, but that was probably wishful thinking. Trueman kept his emotions buttoned up, but his physical strength was matched by the scale of his courage and devotion to Rachel. In a tight corner, there was no better man to have by your side.
‘So you have a new puzzle to share with us,’ Rachel said. ‘Plenty of time for us to discuss it before dinner is served. Go on, Jacob. The floor – or rather, the roof – is yours.’
‘Thanks.’ Jacob cleared his throat. ‘This is a mystery about a murder that has yet to be committed.’
Martha frowned. ‘Like the death of Damaris Gethin?’
‘No, this is very different from what happened at the Hades Gallery, thank goodness. I’ve been told when and where the crime is due to take place, but there’s no clue to the identity of the victim, let alone whoever is planning the crime.’
Rachel pursed her lips. ‘A good start. Carry on.’
As Jacob described the letter and his meeting with Gareth Bellamy, alias The Great Hallemby, he was conscious of her intense concentration. Impossible not to feel a warm glow. He admired Rachel, and there was no doubt that she was extremely good-looking. But something set her apart from other attractive women. Her sudden shifts of mood were unpredictable and occasionally disturbing. When provoked into anger, she was capable of being astonishingly ruthless. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but there were moments when she scared him.
‘Hemlock Bay,’ Martha said as he reached the end of his story. ‘Well, well.’
‘You know it?’ he asked.
‘None of us have ever been there,’ she said. ‘But we were talking about it only the other day.’
‘Really?’
‘Rachel has just bought a new painting called Hemlock Bay.’
Trueman made a scornful noise, making his sister laugh.
‘According to Cliff, it’s just a lot of random splodges of bright colour.’
‘Let me guess,’ Jacob said to Rachel. ‘Another surrealist masterpiece?’
Rachel smiled. ‘In my opinion, it’s Virginia Penrhos’s finest work. Trueman will tell you that’s not saying much. But she does have talent. And she’s not only painted Hemlock Bay, she’s moved there from the south coast.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, Hemlock Bay is fast becoming the most fashionable resort in the north of England. As for the painting, it’s not quite as baffling as this pair would have you believe. After dinner, take a look for yourself and give us the benefit of your expert judgement.’
He laughed. ‘You do love teasing me.’
‘A girl must have some pleasure,’ Rachel said. ‘Don’t you agree, Martha?’
‘Definitely.’
Jacob grinned. ‘There’s a surrealist tinge to The Great Hallemby’s mysterious vision. What do you make of it?’
‘Eccentric fortune tellers make a change from spiritualists conducting dubious seances. His tale is thought-provoking, and your memory for detail is always excellent.’
‘Thanks.’ He tried to sound nonchalant, with limited success. Rachel never threw compliments around lightly.
‘Did you bring the letter he sent you?’
He took it out of his pocket and handed it to her. She studied both letter and envelope with her customary attention to detail.
‘The postmark is Hemlock Bay,’ she said. ‘So that part of his story seems to be true. A long way for him to travel, just to see you.’
Jacob couldn’t help frowning.
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she said, ‘but it’s quite an investment of time and money. Especially given your impression that he isn’t well-off. And if his puppeteer lady friend is as jealous as he claims.’
‘He’s definitely not rich, if his clothes are anything to go by. I can’t imagine why any girl would be jealous of him, but it takes all sorts.’ Jacob hesitated. ‘I suppose it’s a sign of his bona fides that he took so much trouble to travel here and tell me his story.’
‘Perhaps that’s what he wanted you to suppose,’ she said.
‘You think he hoped to make a fool of me?’
‘Unlikely.’
‘What, then?’
‘His professed devotion to the Clarion strikes me as excessive. Even if his scepticism about horoscopes does have the ring of truth.’
‘Believe it or not,’ Jacob said, ‘reading our columnists’ words of wisdom is a highlight of the day for thousands of readers.’
‘Of course I believe it. What that says about human nature is a very different matter.’ Rachel turned her attention back to the letter. ‘The words seem to be carefully chosen. And quite specific. I wonder why.’
‘Makes a pleasant change. Most of the people who write to me out of the blue take ten pages of semi-legible scrawl to get to the point.’
‘He’s also very frank about the rebuff he received from the police.’
‘That impressed me, I must admit.’
‘Yet he didn’t mention the fact that he’s a fortune teller. If he had, would you have refused to see him?’
‘I might have found I was too busy and fobbed him off with an excuse,’ Jacob admitted.
‘So perhaps he’s more canny than candid.’
‘Fortune telling is nonsense as far as I’m concerned. And I’m not easily convinced by people who claim to have visions. I wouldn’t put it past a man like Bellamy to lie through his teeth.’
‘But?’
‘Something about his story struck a chord.’
‘So you don’t think it was pure invention?’
‘No. Even though I wasn’t convinced by the conversation he claimed to have overheard.’
‘Why not?’
‘It seemed… too deliberate. Over-rehearsed.’
‘As if he’d taken pains to learn a script?’
‘Exactly.’
Rachel considered. ‘He may simply have prepared what he was going to say with care, in order to make sure he didn’t miss out anything important.’
‘True. The story is wildly unlikely, but it was perfectly coherent, not a rambling farrago. That’s why I wanted to ask your opinion. I can’t believe he made up the whole thing. What would be the point? It doesn’t make sense.’
Rachel took another sip of her cocktail. ‘What you mean is this: his motives are crucial.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So what have you learned about him?’
‘After he left, I called a reporter I know from north-west Wales. He’s digging around on my behalf.’
‘Sensible to check on Bellamy’s credibility. What exactly did you make of him?’
‘He struck me as a curious mixture of straightforward and sly. When I asked him about the people he’d heard talking together, his manner was evasive. He even dodged a simple question about their accents.’
‘Yes, I find that interesting.’
‘Why? I can’t see why he’d want to make a mystery of it. At this time of year, holidaymakers from all four corners of Britain arrive at the seaside.’
She gave a negligent wave of the hand. ‘No matter. What do you make of his mention of the summer solstice?’
‘It pins the prospective murder to a specific date.’
‘When an unknown man will be pushed off a cliff by an unknown assailant. So in one respect the premonition is interestingly precise. Otherwise, it’s vague in the extreme.’ Rachel finished her cocktail. ‘The cliffs at Hemlock Bay are dangerous. A few weeks ago, someone plunged to his death from Hemlock Heights.’
Jacob leaned closer to her. ‘Really?’
‘There is no doubt that it was a case of suicide. But now we know that if a similar tragedy happens at midsummer, the explanation will be foul play.’
Jacob stared. ‘What are you driving at?’
‘I wish I knew. But things often come in threes, don’t they? And this is the third time in a matter of days that I’ve come across Hemlock Bay in strange circumstances. First, through Virginia Penrhos’s decision to move there after painting a picture of a body on the rocks below her new home. Second, the inexplicable suicide of a young man with everything to live for and no apparent local connection. And now this bizarre tale about a premonition of death and a conversation about a plan to commit murder in the very same place.’
‘Quite a coincidence,’ Jacob said. ‘Not that a good detective believes in coincidence.’
‘On the contrary,’ Rachel said languidly. ‘Coincidences happen all the time. But when they come so thick and fast, I can’t help wondering.’
‘Me too,’ Jacob said. ‘I’m tempted to pay a visit myself. Tomorrow, I’ll tell Gomersall about Bellamy’s vision and see if he’s happy for me to follow my nose.’
‘Do your best to persuade him,’ Rachel said.
‘You think it’s worth investigating?’
‘Definitely. Not that I expect you to do all the hard work on your own.’ She drained her glass and inhaled the perfume of the lilies. ‘This is very pleasant, but I think we’d benefit from a change of scene. A breath of salty air, perhaps.’
Martha giggled and began to hum ‘I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside’.
‘How very true.’ Rachel’s face lit up, as if she’d come to a decision that suited her. ‘Let’s pack our buckets and spades. Not to mention our bathing costumes. Time for us to take a trip to Hemlock Bay.’