I am settling into my new life at Hemlock Bay after arranging my business practice so that clients can be looked after by my assistant. My history of indifferent health offers a plausible excuse for deserting the office over the next few weeks. I have told people that my doctor has advised me to get plenty of exercise in the fresh air to build up my strength. Hiking in remote areas will justify an extended absence from home.
Shepherd’s Cottage is an excellent find. Crucially, it is handy for Hemlock Heights, which loom one hundred and fifty feet above a mass of jagged rocks. The drop is sheer. Nobody who tumbled from the path that runs along the edge of the cliff would survive. That is, I anticipate, how Louis Carson will meet his end. A simple murder method, yes, to the point of being hackneyed. But I have learned from Notable British Trials that it’s a mistake to over-elaborate.
Louis Carson’s home is less than half a mile from my front door. My cottage stands on Beggarman’s Lane, which meanders along before bending sharply to curl back on itself and, eventually, join the main road into the town. Open ground sloping from the lane to the coastline is crossed by well-worn tracks through the grass which zigzag towards the cliffs. At several points, they meet a path which runs along the clifftop. Turn left along that path, and you head to the lighthouse. Turn right, and the path dips down. For a hundred yards or so it occupies a shelf of rock below the highest point of the cliffs, before rising again on its way to the town.
Privacy has always been important to me, and never more so than now. Among the advantages of Shepherd’s Cottage is its relative isolation. The lighthouse is the nearest dwelling, having been converted into residential accommodation. At present it is occupied by two women. One of them, I was told by the grocer when I stocked up with provisions, is a painter of some renown. When I asked what she painted, however, he admitted he didn’t know. Her name – which he’d forgotten – meant nothing to him.
Yesterday, as I set out to explore my surroundings in a thin drizzle, I encountered the artist in person as she marched down the lane towards her home. Tall and ungainly, with wild, greying hair escaping from a shapeless beige hat, she wielded an umbrella like a sabre. I intended to give a civil nod of greeting and walk on by, but she stopped in front of me. Good manners made it impossible for me not to come to a halt.
‘You must be our new neighbour!’
Her voice was gruff, her figure mannish, her gait awkward and quite unfeminine. Perhaps she is not forty, but she could pass for sixty. Such a contrast to the delicate grace of my beloved Alicia!
I bowed. ‘Dr Seamus Doyle. How do you do?’
‘A sawbones, eh? And you come from the Emerald Isle, if I’m not mistaken.’
Smiling in confirmation, I congratulated myself on my adopted accent.
‘Splendid country. Almost as marvellous as the land of my fathers.’ Giving a loud, discordant laugh, she extended her hand. ‘Virginia Penrhos. I paint.’
She looked keenly at me, as if expecting a response, but the name meant nothing to me.
‘Oh yes?’
‘My friend and I have taken a tenancy of the lighthouse for the summer.’
‘Ah.’
‘The views from the lantern room are stunning, whatever the weather. Ideal for an artist, even a surrealist like myself. The colours of the water possess a unique quality. Always changing, almost impossible to capture. Just as well I don’t bother painting conventional seascapes!’
I made polite noises, hoping they masked my profound lack of interest.
‘Settled in yet, Doctor?’
‘I only moved into the cottage yesterday.’
‘We caught sight of you getting out of the taxi with your suitcases. Did you notice our curtains twitching?’ She laughed again, showing large, crooked teeth. ‘Only ribbing you. Ffion and I don’t bother with curtains.’
The last thing I wanted to discover was that I had nosey neighbours, especially if they had the ability to conduct surveillance from fifty feet above ground level. My knees trembled. Knowing I dared not excite attention, I mustered a faint, if apprehensive, smile.
‘What brings you here, Doctor?’
‘I’ve come for a few weeks in search of rest and recuperation.’ I cast my eyes down. ‘I have suffered from wretched health for some time and my chest is weak. I decided that the sea breezes were the tonic I need.’
‘Physician, heal thyself, eh?’
‘I retired from practice a considerable time ago,’ I replied.
I’m determined to discourage any suggestion that Dr Doyle might be willing or able to offer guidance in medical matters. In my experience, any man who admits to professional expertise, whether in the law, finance, or medicine, will be pestered for free advice. Annoying at the best of times, but positively dangerous when one does not actually possess the relevant know-how. It is so easy to give oneself away.
‘Gentleman of leisure, eh?’
Conscious of the woman’s scrutiny, I felt myself blushing. ‘Nowadays, I simply seek solitude and the chance to appreciate nature’s simple pleasures.’
A mischievous gleam came into her eyes. ‘Ah, perhaps I understand why you chose Hemlock Bay. Nudist, are you?’
‘Good heavens, no!’
She chortled. ‘Don’t look so horrified, man. This is 1931, when all is said and done. No harm in naturism. Ffion and I are keen to give it a try. They say that sunbathing is highly beneficial to one’s health.’
‘Really?’
‘No need to be a stuffed shirt, Doctor.’ My discomfiture seemed to entertain her. ‘You’re on holiday now. Once it’s warm enough to disrobe in comfort, you might do worse than soaking up the sun. Do your chest a power of good.’
Clearly, this woman delights in her ability to shock. Resolving not to play her game, I raised my hat.
‘I’m grateful for your advice, Miss Penrhos. Ah, I see the rain is easing, so if you’ll excuse me, I shall continue to familiarise myself with the neighbourhood.’
‘Good to meet you, Doctor. Come and take tea with us one day. If you fancy climbing up a great many steps, you can feast on the views. On a clear day, you can see the Isle of Man.’
She gave me a cheery wave as I hurried on, determining to have as little to do with her as possible. Quite apart from the fact that I haven’t the faintest desire whatsoever to contemplate the Isle of Man from afar, I’m wary of the woman. I don’t know much about artists, but presume they are more perceptive than most of their fellow human beings. Most people would regard Virginia Penrhos simply as an eccentric, but someone so inquisitive represents a threat.
Our conversation left me in pensive mood. I must be careful not to do anything suspicious within sight of her eyrie at the top of the lighthouse, but at least the only time I became flustered was when she teased me about nudism. I was confident that my Irish accent hadn’t faltered.
On reflection, then, so far, so good.
As yet, I haven’t met anyone else apart from a few locals. There are clusters of old terraced dwellings and a tiny, ramshackle pub called the Fisherman’s Arms, which caters for locals rather than tourists. It’s one of the few businesses in Hemlock Bay other than the farms which isn’t owned by the development company.
I was told this by Mrs Stones, the widowed lady engaged by the land agent to come in and ‘do’ for me (with the stern proviso that she wouldn’t get involved with ‘the rough’). Mrs Stones is a stout party who lives in the end terrace house nearest to my cottage. She makes breakfast for me and pretends to dust, but otherwise I prefer to fend for myself. I have plenty of experience of the bachelor life and I don’t want a stranger noseying around my possessions. Far less finding this journal.
A modern bungalow stands in extensive grounds on the way into town. As I passed by, workmen were dismantling a To Let sign outside the garden gate. The setting makes the bungalow a superb vantage point, and I considered taking a short-term lease, but the rent demanded by the agent was exorbitant. I am far from impoverished, but my income has fallen sharply since Alicia’s death, and no sensible accountant would spend so rashly. As I strolled on towards the bay, I wondered who had taken the bungalow. Evidently someone to whom money is no object.
Opposite the bungalow, a wrought-iron gate hangs between two stone pillars topped with pineapples. A large slate is emblazoned with the legend Beggarman’s Rest. Peering through the gate, I can see there is more than a touch of satire about the name. Such a handsome, well-built home must have cost a pretty penny. But even in these straitened times, Louis Carson can afford it.
*
This morning I saw Louis Carson in the flesh for the very first time.
Unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I rose early. At last the sun was shining on Hemlock Bay, and I smelled salt in the air as I walked along the Heights towards the town. When I was within sight of the esplanade, I doubled back over the grassland towards Beggarman’s Lane.
Tucked away at the back of McAtee’s report was a brief but useful paragraph summarising Carson’s everyday routine in Hemlock Bay. The man is – helpfully, from my point of view – a creature of habit. Each morning he leaves home at eight and goes to the Hemlock Hotel. Typically, in the late afternoon he repairs to the bar, often drinking with guests. I suppose they regard him as convivial. Of course, this feigned bonhomie is an essential part of his modus operandi.
I timed my stroll to perfection. Carson’s maroon Lanchester Twenty Three was emerging from the gate to his mansion as I approached. Recognising him from the photograph McAtee had taken, I felt a thrill of excitement on my spine.
As he sped past me, I tipped my panama hat. His response was a wave with a gloved hand. I suspect Carson relishes playing the part of a country squire, surrounded by forelock-tugging admirers. He is complacent as well as arrogant. And blissfully unaware that he has just greeted his nemesis.
After feasting on a thick ham sandwich at a café on High Street, which runs parallel to the esplanade, I returned to my cottage. Sitting on a deckchair in the tiny garden, I read a short book purchased from the grocer. The Illustrated Guide to Hemlock Bay.
Before the war, this was a tiny settlement of lush farmland and isolated homesteads; its name derives from the poisonous plant found in abundance close to the shore. In the past, lawlessness was commonplace in an area so remote from the civilised world – that is, Heysham and Morecambe. Shifting sandbanks caused many a ship to founder, but the guidebook claims – with disconcerting pride – that wreckers did far more damage. Tunnels beneath Hemlock Heights were used to smuggle ill-gotten gains to their homes.
When the authorities improved the road connections, a man called Jackson spotted the potential for transforming Hemlock Bay into a destination for discerning tourists. After the war he set about purchasing land and within a few years he’d created a fashionable resort catering to the affluent middle class. One only has to glance at the pre-war map reprinted in the guidebook to see how much has changed so fast. Harold Jackson and his American wife enjoy a reputation for being munificent benefactors and generous hosts. Mrs Stones has made it clear that she won’t hear a word said against them.
The visitors congregate around the sea front or at the amusement park. The latter rejoices in the name of Paradise and is on the slopes of Hemlock Head, which rises above the promontory separating the main bay from a cove which forms part of the so-called Sun and Air Garden. The nudist colony adjoins the grounds of Hemlock Hall, where Jackson and his wife live. Their home is the last building in the resort. The land agent told me they would be glad to invite me to dinner, a prospect that chilled me to the marrow. He was nonplussed when I said that because of my ill-health, I would have to decline.
The town itself is modest in size. A broad esplanade is dominated by a large modern hotel in the art deco style, flanked at a respectful distance by smaller guest houses. On two roads running parallel to the esplanade is everything you might expect in a compact seaside town: shops, a public house, a cinema, theatre, and cafés and restaurants aplenty. At night, Mrs Stones told me, the amusement park is lit up, but Hemlock Bay has no desire to compete with the Blackpool Illuminations. The aim is to attract those people who, even in these straitened times, still have money.
According to McAtee, Louis Carson has entered some kind of business arrangement with Sir Harold Jackson. The old man – I call him that, although he appears to be not much older than me – has enjoyed a decade of rich pickings here, but prosperity must have softened his judgment. Perhaps he is also feeling the pinch. The Wall Street Crash continues to have reverberations around the world, like aftershocks following a massive earthquake.
No doubt Jackson fears a further deterioration in the market and intends to spread financial risk by seeking capital investment from Carson. I wonder whether he realises just how unscrupulous a partner he has acquired.
Given that Carson and I have never set eyes on each other prior to our fleeting encounter this morning, I shall be able to keep watch on him without arousing suspicion.
The indifferent weather hasn’t encouraged people to wander away from the resort’s attractions and admire the beauties of nature. This may change as the days grow warmer. Time waits for no man.
The first phase of my preparations entailed creating a new identity. The second required me to trace the man I want to kill. The third was to ensure that I was in the right place to act. The initial foundations are now laid. Tomorrow I begin in earnest to plan Louis Carson’s murder.