Today I came within a hair’s breadth of discovery and disaster. To say that the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry is a cliché, but nevertheless it is true. Although I have preserved the secret of my identity, the incident shook me to the core. How narrow is the gap between triumph and despair!
I spent this morning traversing the path along the cliffs. At one point, as I neared the lighthouse, I glanced up and spotted Virginia Penrhos at the lantern window. Relishing the sight of the ebbing tide? Or keeping an eye on me? Stifling my resentment as our eyes met, I lifted my hand in greeting.
Sited at irregular intervals along the path are half a dozen gaily painted timber shelters commanding views of the bay. Inside each is a wooden bench, from which one can look out at the sea in comfort when it is chilly or raining. Another virtue of the shelters is that – like some of the trees on Hemlock Heights – they obstruct the view of anyone scanning the path from the lighthouse. So there are blind spots, even before the cliff path twists and turns and is no longer visible from the inquisitive artist’s home.
On reaching the heart of the resort, I spent a few minutes gazing at sands as golden as Alicia’s hair, and then repaired to a tea shop to the rear of the Hemlock Hotel, washing down an egg and cress sandwich with a cup of Earl Grey. Refreshed and ready to explore further, I decided to walk past the esplanade to Hemlock Head and the far boundaries of the resort.
Strolling down a ginnel connecting High Street to the esplanade, I emerged close to the hotel. A ‘Blower’ Bentley, a convertible in battleship grey, was parked in front of the canopied entrance. The sight of such a majestic vehicle in a small town in Lancashire was a striking reminder that Hemlock Bay is no ordinary seaside resort. There is wealth here, beyond question, a great deal of wealth. As a lover of fine cars, I paused close to the entrance to appreciate the smooth lines of the vehicle, imagining its power and speed on the racing track.
A smartly dressed man walked out of the hotel. With a jolt I realised that I’d almost collided with Louis Carson. I was conscious of a strange, shivery thrill.
Taking off my glasses, I studied my quarry. At first glance, Louis Carson resembled a commercial traveller, amiable but obsequious. His smile displayed prominent, pointed upper teeth. With a sallow complexion and irregular bald patch on the crown of his head, he hardly looked like a vicious criminal. Perhaps that is why he has escaped justice. So far.
‘Cheerio, then!’
Carson’s tone was cloying. Hatred burned within me, and I had to make a huge effort of will to restrain myself from confronting him.
He was speaking to a couple who had followed him out of the hotel, a tall fellow with racing goggles in a gloved hand and a well-dressed woman wearing dark glasses and a low-brimmed hat.
As the pair were saying their goodbyes to Carson, I passed within a few feet of them. They were of no interest to me but, as I glanced at the tall man, our eyes met for a split second. My heart missed a beat.
The tall man was my old friend Hooker Jackson!
There wasn’t a scintilla of doubt in my mind, even though I hadn’t seen Hooker since 1914. There was no mistaking his broken nose – legacy of a rugger injury – or dimpled chin. Let alone the scar above his left eyebrow, caused by a fencing accident at school when, with typical bravado, he dispensed with his mask.
For one insane moment, I was about to exclaim with delight and run over to pump his hand. And then I came to my senses and jerked my head away so violently that it’s a wonder my neck didn’t snap.
To be recognised by Hooker would destroy all the painstaking work I’d done in preparing to wipe Louis Carson off the face of the earth. I owed it to Alicia to avenge her. I couldn’t allow a reunion with Hooker to ruin my plans.
Dazed and aghast, I crossed the esplanade. I’d barely broken stride, but when I reached the short flight of stone steps leading down to the beach, I put my glasses back on and looked back at the Jacksons.
Hooker was talking to his wife. Seventeen years had passed since my solitary conversation with Sadie Jackson as a delicate young bride. She must be in her mid-forties now, and although she’d acquired a tan, she was still as thin as a rake.
Hooker opened the Blower’s passenger door for her and she caught my eye while taking her seat. I had no fear that she would remember me, but still averted my gaze. One cannot be too careful when contemplating murder.
I was shaking with suppressed emotion. Even if I’d been so foolish as to try to run, I’d have found it impossible. It was all I could do to keep putting one foot in front of the other, following the edge of the promenade, trying to put as much distance between myself and my old friend as possible.
Behind me, I heard the Blower’s engine starting up. I risked a surreptitious backwards glance and saw the Bentley race off in the other direction. Within moments the car had vanished in a cloud of smoke.
My mind whirled. In that instant when Hooker’s eyes met mine, did I detect a flicker of recognition? That would spell catastrophe. On second thoughts I realised my guilty conscience was working overtime.
The inescapable truth was that the passing years had been much less kind to me than to Hooker. I’d lost most of my hair as well as putting on two stone. What is more, I was wearing my glasses and sporting a panama hat. I assured myself that it would have been a miracle if Hooker had managed to identify me as his old pal from Cambridge in a wholly unfamiliar context.
In my heart of hearts, I could not deny that there was a further, compelling reason why he was unlikely to identify me. Quite simply, Hooker meant a great deal more to me than I ever did to him.
But what does this extraordinary encounter mean for my self-appointed mission to kill Louis Carson?
I purchased a pair of binoculars before setting off for Hemlock Bay and put them to good use this evening. Having spent hours wrestling with the riddle of Hooker Jackson on either side of a dinner of liver and onions, I commenced a vigil in the box room shortly before sunset.
According to McAtee’s report, Louis Carson often takes an evening walk along the cliffs. I had asked the detective for detailed information about Carson’s routine, on the pretext that I needed to have a full picture of the man on whom I contemplated settling my fortune. Carson manages the hotel, but he and his wife – who oversees the female staff – don’t live on site. The evening stroll is, if not a fixture in his diary, a favourite form of relaxation.
Crucially, his wife does not accompany him on these perambulations. McAtee told me little about her, except that they tied the knot seven years ago. My concern is her husband, not the fact that she was foolish enough to marry a blackguard. I have no doubt he is a plausible liar and I am inclined to feel a degree of pity for her. The loss of her husband will prove a blessing in disguise, liberating her from a union with a man who destroyed two lives to my knowledge, and probably many more.
The poor weather since I arrived in Hemlock Bay has deterred Carson from taking his walk. Perhaps he is afraid of slipping on the wet ground and plunging to his doom on the rocks below. This evening, as I hoped, the sun tempted him out. I followed his progress through the binoculars, watching him go all the way to the lighthouse before he began to retrace his steps. Once or twice he stopped on the very edge of the cliff to breathe in the salty air. No doubt he finds this invigorating. A useful habit! The eagle-eyed artist must have noticed this. She will be able to testify to his behaviour at the inquest and confirm how easy it would be to slip over. It would only require a moment of carelessness.
I’m reinforced in my belief that a simple shove over the cliff is the best course of action. So straightforward and yet, in the absence of eyewitnesses, so hard to prove.
When he disappeared from sight, I put down my binoculars with a sigh of satisfaction. My researches are making excellent progress and my ideas about how to achieve my objective are taking shape. So far there is only one fly in the ointment.
Hooker Jackson.
Midnight draws near. I am ready to set down my thoughts about my encounter with Hooker Jackson in the hope of making sense of them.
Sir Harold Jackson! The man responsible for the metamorphosis of Hemlock Bay from obscure hamlet to fashionable watering hole! Who would have thought it? Hooker has done remarkably well for himself. While no doubt he benefited from marrying money, his personality and drive are characteristics that have taken him to the top. On combing through my guidebook, I noticed a pencil drawing of him which I’d disregarded when skimming the text previously. It was almost an affectionate caricature, emphasising his misshapen nose, but there is no question that it is my old friend. If I’d noticed this earlier, I wouldn’t have risked suffering a seizure when I clapped eyes on him outside the hotel. However, I have concluded that if I’d known in advance of his presence in Hemlock Bay, it would have made no difference. Given that I am determined to kill Carson, I had no choice but to follow him.
Hooker and I met on our first day at Cambridge and became fast friends, although he cut such a glamorous figure that I often felt – and I’m sure our fellow students believed – I was little more than a hanger-on. We were chalk and cheese, leader and disciple, hedonist and puritan. He was reckless, I was irredeemably respectable.
Hooker read History whereas I studied Mathematics, and he was a dashing all-round sportsman while I merely coxed the college’s third eight (chosen because my skinny frame wouldn’t weigh down the boat). His prowess at rugby earned him a Blue; his nickname, dating back to his schooldays at Harrow, came from his favoured position in the front row. Hooker was a ladies’ man, while I was tongue-tied in the presence of the fair sex. Occasionally he asked me to supply alibis on his behalf to disgruntled lovers from Newnham or Girton when he was out enjoying himself in the town with a lusty barmaid or shop girl. I was glad to help, because I adored him as much as anyone I’ve ever known. Except for dear Mamma, of course, and my beloved Alicia.
After Finals – naturally, he breezed to a First by dint of furious last-minute revision, while I barely scraped a Third – the two of us drifted apart. Hooker’s people were dead and he went travelling. While I was serving my articles with an accountant in Guildford, my own parents died too. The money they left me made it possible to buy into the practice that is now my own. I found myself working long hours to build a clientele, with no time for a social life. I wrote to Hooker a few times over the years, but never heard back. He was one of those convivial people who is rotten at keeping in touch.
In December 1914, I received a telegram, completely out of the blue. Hooker announced without preamble that he was getting married on Christmas Eve. Would I be his best man? I didn’t hesitate to say yes, flattered that he should single me out for this honour. Only later did it occur to me that I was perhaps the one person in his circle who was unlikely to have family or social commitments in addition to my usual office work on the day before Christmas.
The previous winter, I had been laid low with TB, and my feeble chest rendered me unfit to serve in the armed forces, a reprieve for which – although I’d never admit it to a living soul – I was profoundly grateful. When we met again for a fortifying drink shortly before the ceremony, Hooker explained he’d trained as a pilot in the RFC, and was taking advantage of a brief period of leave before returning to France. Sadie, his wife-to-be, was a Californian heiress with jet-black hair and skin so pale it was almost translucent. She was a shrinking violet, and seemed as fragile as a piece of Dresden china.
‘I always was a lucky so-and-so,’ Hooker admitted cheerily as Sadie and her cousin Josephine left us to powder their noses. ‘Sadie is everything I ever dreamed of. We met in London days before war broke out. When I came back to England, I popped the question and, to my amazement, she was rash enough to say yes.’
‘She’s beautiful.’
‘Isn’t she just?’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I can’t believe my good fortune. Admittedly, she’s not taking too much of a risk. There’s every chance she’ll never see me again after I go back to France on New Year’s Eve. It’s a case of carpe diem, old boy.’
I understood what he meant. When he returned to duty, his life would be in extreme jeopardy. So many young airmen were being obliterated by enemy fire. Hooker was right, at Trinity College he was famous for being a lucky so-and-so. But even a cat only has nine lives.
He drained his glass and smacked his lips. ‘Believe me, Basil, I moved heaven and earth to obtain this marriage licence.’
I laughed. When Hooker’s mind was made up, he was quite unstoppable.
The wedding took place at St Matthew’s in Finsbury. Apart from the happy couple and me, Josephine was the only other person present. Like Sadie, she was slender, dark, and pretty. I have a vivid memory of the last time I set eyes on Hooker. He and the new Mrs Jackson clambered into a taxi outside the church and waved merrily. As they drove off, Josephine let out a long sigh.
‘I wonder if we’ll ever see him again.’
Her tone was sorrowful. We both knew the original pretence that the war would be over by Christmas was balderdash. There was no end in sight to the endless death and destruction.
When I murmured some optimistic platitude, she said, ‘Let’s hope they make the most of the holiday season, huh? Sadie was always a sickly one. I don’t give either of them more than six months.’
She was obviously the sort of modern young woman who likes to shock, but I could scarcely disagree. For all her loveliness, Hooker’s wife looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away. Josie and I chatted for a few minutes before I plucked up my courage and asked if she’d like to join me for dinner. She made an excuse and hurried away. Perhaps it was just as well.
I’d only exchanged a few words with Sadie, but I sympathised, knowing what it was like to be afflicted by indifferent health. In the immediate aftermath of the war I succumbed to the Spanish flu and it was touch and go whether I would survive. Recovery proved to be a long haul and I needed to devote all my limited energies to keeping my practice afloat. I heard no more news of Hooker. After meeting Alicia, the only child of a prosperous client, I began a long and assiduous courtship. Meeting her changed my life forever.
If I gave a thought to Hooker, it was to our carefree student days. I presumed he was dead. But in my heart of hearts, I understood that, even if he was still alive, I could not expect to hear from him. Our friendship had run its course and he had no reason to rekindle it. Hooker was spontaneous and bold, a man who lived for the moment. On one occasion he even forged a cheque from a rich uncle for a dare. If he felt in need of admiration, no doubt his wife – who plainly worshipped the ground he stood on – would be happy to oblige. Why saddle himself with the company of a stick-in-the-mud like me?
And now, it turns out, both the Jacksons have not only survived but prospered. The impetuous young lovers have metamorphosed into respected pillars of the community. Yet it is somehow characteristic that, as the guidebook makes clear, the idea for establishing the naturist camp came from Hooker. He was always mischievous as well as opportunistic. The chance to capitalise on the current fad for parading around with no clothes on probably seemed too good to miss.
As my eyelids droop at the end of a long day, my overriding emotion is one of disappointment. My first, long-awaited sighting of my enemy has been overshadowed in the most unexpected way.
My resolve to kill Louis Carson is undiminished. I only caught a glimpse of him outside the hotel, but for that brief instant I felt an almost overpowering urge to thrust my hands around his neck and squeeze the life out of him. It is an utter misfortune that, of all the places where he might have chosen to move, he picked the home town of my oldest friend.
I cannot breathe easily. Hooker always had a keen eye – that was why he became such a first-rate batsman, opening the innings for the University. If we bump into each other again, there is a real danger that he will see through my disguise.
I must remain vigilant. The smallest slip may yet prove fatal.