Arm in arm, Cliff and Hetty Trueman strolled along Hemlock Heights, luxuriating in the sea breeze, following the twists and turns of the path towards the town.
‘Who would have thought it?’ she said as the beach came into view. ‘The four of us on holiday at the seaside. As if we don’t have a care in the world.’
Her husband pondered before replying. ‘Let’s make the most of this. You never can tell what the future may bring, however many crystal balls you gaze into. Rachel is right; life is for living. No need to worry about what might go wrong.’
For Trueman, this was a long speech, verging on a personal manifesto. A nod from his wife acknowledged this.
‘I know, I know.’ She sighed. ‘That’s just the way I am. I can’t help myself.’
He was too wise to argue, so they walked on in silence as the path wound gently down the slope to the resort. Soon they came to the Shore Gardens, which boasted a bandstand and a boating lake as well as neatly tended beds of pansies and an ice cream kiosk doing a roaring trade.
A ‘reflex man’ in his early twenties approached them from the esplanade. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he was wearing khaki shorts, plimsolls, and a smile as big as the camera slung around his neck. Hetty protested that she didn’t like having her picture taken, but her husband slung his arm around her shoulder as the photographer snapped away.
‘Here,’ the young man said, handing them a docket. ‘Walking pictures are my speciality. That’s a good ’un. Take a look at my stall on the beach and see if you don’t agree. I develop and print the negatives each night and keep them available for sale. For seven days only, mind.’
With a cheery wave, he moved on to his next victims. Trueman bought Hetty an enormous cornet from the kiosk and scanned the esplanade while she sat on a bench and feasted on three scoops of vanilla.
‘The Hemlock Hotel looks posh,’ he said. ‘Best leave that to Rachel. There’s a big pub on the main street. I’ll chat up some of the locals, get an idea of the lie of the land here.’
Hetty swallowed the last fragment of cone. ‘While you’re boozing, I’ll buy meat and potatoes and then get back to the bungalow and make a start on dinner.’
The sea front teemed with people making the most of an early glimpse of summer. The sound of their merriment was carried by the breeze. There was no shortage of passers-by whose taste in clothes was not merely smart but expensive.
His wife followed his gaze. ‘Hemlock Bay is quite swanky for a Lancashire resort, wouldn’t you say?’
He grunted. ‘Seems too good to be true.’
‘This is a seaside town, built for people’s enjoyment.’ Hetty paused. ‘Nothing like Mortmain or Blackstone Fell.’
‘On the surface, that’s true enough. All the same…’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not a man for flights of fancy, but… I’d say Rachel’s right about this place.’
‘I’m not fey either, but I know what you mean.’ She exhaled. ‘Hemlock Bay looks so lovely in the sunshine, but it gives me the creeps.’
‘Me too,’ he said. ‘There’s a worm in the bud.’
*
A burly uniformed commissionaire, brass buttons gleaming in the sunlight, stood on guard outside the imposing glass entrance of the Hemlock Hotel. Just in case any undesirables were foolish enough to mix with the well-heeled residents, Rachel thought. She bestowed her sweetest smile and was rewarded with a tap of his peaked cap.
Sashaying through the revolving doors, she found herself in a light and airy lobby filled with hothouse plants. It was like straying into the Palm House at Kew Gardens. The smell of freshly watered leaves mingled with the aroma of beeswax polish. Huge gilt pilasters supported the reception hall’s high domed roof, and a vast curling staircase led up to the bedroom floors. Her feet almost vanished in the luxuriant depths of carpet. A notice next to the desk unapologetically displayed the tariff for accommodation. Full board for a week cost as much as a month at most seaside hotels, but Rachel supposed that people got what they paid for. If they could afford it.
She surveyed her surroundings. As well as a private lounge, a large smoking room, and a sea view conservatory closed for renovations, there was a large American Bar open to non-residents. A small orchestra was playing ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz’ as two couples twirled around on the parquet floor. In each case, the woman was in her fifties and bejewelled, and the man guiding her with a fixed smile was half her age and light on his feet.
At least, Rachel thought, a woman could drink here on her own and not be pigeonholed as a flibbertigibbet or a courtesan. Yet was it so much better to be regarded as a meal ticket? She made a performance of seating herself on a stool at the end of the bar and shrugging off her cape, so as to reveal her chiffon party dress, sleeveless and daringly cut.
A young barman who had been talking to a middle-aged couple wasted no time in moving towards her.
‘What can I get you, miss?’
His accent was broad Lancashire and he was rather handsome. Although he lacked the sophistication she associated with the Hemlock Hotel, she suspected it wouldn’t take him long to acquire the same slick charm as the gigolos on the dance floor.
‘A glass of Bollinger.’ She treated him to a dazzling smile. ‘And please do have one yourself.’
‘Thank you very much, miss, that’s very generous.’
‘Like it here?’ she asked as he popped a cork.
‘You won’t find me complaining, miss. Mind you, I’ve only been here a week.’
‘What brought you to Hemlock Bay?’
A wary look came into his eyes. ‘Friend of a friend said it was a good place to work.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘My last situation was in Blackpool. This hotel is different. They aren’t slave drivers here. Don’t make you work all the hours that God sends.’
‘Glad to hear it. Sir Harold Jackson has an excellent reputation.’
‘So I hear, miss, though I haven’t met the gentleman myself. Mr Carson runs the show.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Speak of the devil, the gaffer just walked in.’
Rachel turned her head as Carson caught sight of her. One appraising glance later, he was striding towards the bar, nodding affably to right and left as he approached. A sallow-faced man who had lost quite a lot of hair, he wore a fulsome smile that failed to disguise the calculation in his gaze.
‘Good evening, madam.’ He introduced himself and she did likewise. The barman poured him a gin and tonic without being asked. ‘Champagne, eh, Miss Savernake? You’re in a celebratory mood?’
‘I’m simply thrilled to get away from it all.’ She gave a coquettish smile. ‘I’m looking for something different. A chance to open myself up to new experiences.’
‘Whatever you’re hoping for,’ Carson said, ‘you’ll find it here in Hemlock Bay.’
‘How exciting!’
He gestured to the barman. ‘Young Albert here is looking after you, I hope?’
‘We’re getting on like a house on fire,’ Rachel said. ‘Your hotel is splendid. I’m beginning to wish I’d booked in here for the summer, instead of renting a bungalow. Although the situation is lovely, on top of the cliffs.’
‘You’re at Bay View?’ He nodded as Albert handed him a gin and tonic. ‘My wife and I live across the road at Beggarman’s Rest.’
‘A modest name for such a grand home.’
‘We’ve been very fortunate.’ He probably intended his smile to be humble, but it struck Rachel as triumphalist. ‘A few years ago, I’d never have dreamed… but anyway, it’s an absolute pleasure to meet you, Miss Savernake. What brings you here, may I ask?’
‘I was recommended to come to Hemlock Bay. A distant relation of mine waxed lyrical about it. Said I’d have a lot of fun.’
‘Delighted to hear it!’
She smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, he stayed in this very hotel. I don’t know whether you came across him? His name was Edward Hillman.’
For a fleeting moment, Carson’s expression betrayed a mixture of consternation and bewilderment. Yet he was quick to compose himself.
‘I’m afraid I don’t recall.’ He forced a self-deprecating cough. ‘Of course, each week a great many guests come and go. But we’re always grateful for an enthusiastic testimonial.’
‘Edward said he found happiness here,’ Rachel murmured.
Carson knitted his brow, as if trying to solve a crossword clue.
‘Good to know. Nice to see you, Miss Savernake. I must be getting along, but do enjoy your stay in our little town.’
He wasted no time in leaving the bar. He hadn’t even touched his gin and tonic.
*
‘Your very good health!’ Trueman said, lifting his tankard of foaming beer.
‘Cheers,’ said his companion, whose tipple was Scotch whisky. ‘Grand to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’
Trueman took a swig and then wiped his mouth. They were standing by the counter in the Select Bar of the Mermaid, the only pub in the centre of town. At least, Trueman thought, he wouldn’t need to traipse around half a dozen hostelries in search of snippets of useful gossip. In every other seaside resort, a pub lurked around every corner.
Hemlock Bay was different. One of a kind. Because the place had been pretty much built by one man, he’d been able to ensure that his business interests were not disrupted by aggressive competition. As a result, the Mermaid was packed to the rafters from opening time to last orders, thick with the fug of smoke and ale.
‘Just arrived?’
The other man had stood behind Trueman in the queue and they’d fallen into conversation about the prospects of England’s cricketers in the forthcoming battle with New Zealand. His accent suggested Cockney origins, but the fact he wasn’t a local didn’t stop Trueman standing him a drink. You never knew who you might bump into, or what interesting titbits they might disclose.
Trueman nodded. ‘Thought I’d take a look at what’s what.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Other end of town. Not far from the lighthouse.’
‘Didn’t know there were any guest houses out that way.’
‘The lady I work for has taken a bungalow. Bay View, it’s called. Apparently they were going to build four of them, until the stock markets went mad and land values collapsed. Nobody has much money these days.’
The other man wiped a line of sweat from his brow. ‘There’s always a few with cash in the bank.’
Trueman took a swig of his beer. ‘Or under the floorboards.’
‘You’re dead right,’ the other man said. ‘So what do you do?’
‘I’m only a chauffeur.’
‘Thought you might be a heavyweight boxer.’ The other man was six feet tall, but Trueman dwarfed him. ‘Bet you’d be handy in the ring.’
Trueman shrugged. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘I bet you can. My name’s Joe, by the way.’
‘Cliff Trueman.’
They shook hands. ‘Chauffeur, eh? So what brings you here, then?’
‘I work for a young lady who came into an inheritance.’
His companion guffawed. ‘Do you, now? Rich young spinster, eh? Not looking for an older bloke who can teach her a thing or two, is she?’
Trueman shrugged. ‘Some people reckon she’s a bit on the cold side.’
‘Is that right?’ A ribald laugh. ‘Sounds like she needs warming up.’
‘She keeps us busy, I know that. My wife does the cooking and my sister’s a maid.’
‘Nice to keep things in the family. What’s this young lady’s name? Anyone famous? I’ve not heard of film stars coming to Hemlock Bay, but it’s only a question of time.’
‘She’s not famous and you haven’t seen her on the silver screen. Name of Savernake. Rachel Savernake.’
A frown. ‘Rings a faint bell.’
‘Miss Savernake keeps herself to herself. You must be thinking of someone else.’
The other man scratched his head, as if to stimulate his memory. ‘Going back before the war, wasn’t there a judge by that name? Never came across him; it was before my time.’
‘Mine too.’ Trueman became thoughtful. His rugged features didn’t give anything away, but he’d never expected anyone in Hemlock Bay to have heard of the late Judge Savernake.
‘Had a hell of a reputation. Got a thrill out of hanging people, according to whispers I heard.’
Trueman shrugged. ‘There are a few Savernakes up and down the country. They pronounce the name in different ways, but Miss Rachel comes from this part of the world, only further up the coast. Cumberland way.’
‘Oh aye? The Lake District is worth seeing, so I’ve heard.’
‘Take your umbrella when you go, that’s my advice.’ Trueman placed his glass on a beer mat. ‘So what do you do when you’re not propping up a bar, then?’
‘Oh, nothing special. This and that.’
‘Very mysterious.’ Trueman waited a few moments, but the other man wasn’t the feeble sort who felt compelled to fill any lull in a conversation. ‘You knew about this judge, did you? Not in the legal profession, by any chance?’
A mocking grin. ‘Do I look like one of m’learned friends?’
Trueman considered his companion’s broad shoulders and formidable jaw. He was pasty-faced and his breathing was strangely laboured, but nattily attired in a three-piece suit, silk tie, and shiny black leather shoes. Gold cufflinks twinkled on his wrists. His voice wasn’t uneducated, but neither was he a toff. Working class, yes, but not doing too badly for himself by the look of things.
‘Londoner, eh? Not a Scotland Yard man, by any chance?’
The man laughed. ‘You’re quite a detective yourself, chum, but you’re out of date. Once upon a time I was a bobby, for my sins, but it’s many a long year since I last walked a beat.’
‘What do you get up to these days?’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Let’s just say I’m a businessman, and leave it at that, eh?’
‘Fair enough. You’re based in Hemlock Bay?’
A shake of the head. ‘Came up here for a change of scenery.’
‘Aye, they say a change is as good as a rest.’
‘You never said a truer word, chum.’ The man turned towards him, close enough for the whisky fumes to warm Trueman’s cheeks. ‘There’s money to be made here, and there’s not many places you can say that about.’
‘Very true. But doesn’t one bloke own most of the town? Sir Harold something or other?’
‘Jackson, yes, he’s made a fortune here. But he’s getting past it, from what I hear. Time for others to get their fair share.’
‘Oh yes?’
The other man finished his drink and belched. There was a faint bleariness in his eyes and he winced as he gave his stomach a quick rub. Leaning forward, he tugged Trueman’s lapel.
‘Believe me, chum. Sir Harold’s not the man he was. The good life has made him too comfy. So there are opportunities to be had, for those smart enough to snaffle them.’
‘Such as?’
The other man put a finger to his lips. ‘Ask no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies. But I’ll buy you a pint, how’s that?’
‘Joe, you’re a gentleman.’
While his new friend queued for service, Trueman cast his eye around his fellow drinkers. At this end of the bar, half a dozen middle-aged men were talking loudly about golf. One member of the group caught his eye, a sandy-haired fellow, who was paying no attention to his colleagues’ boasts about birdies and eagles. He seemed more interested in the freckle-faced young man who was busy serving behind the bar. As Trueman watched, the barman glanced at the golfer, before looking quickly away and smoothing his rather long hair. A faint smile slid across the sandy-haired man’s face.
Joe returned with the drinks. ‘Here you go.’
Trueman lifted his glass. ‘These opportunities you mentioned…’
‘Mum’s the word,’ the other man interrupted. ‘Forget I said anything.’
It was as if he’d got a grip of himself and resolved to stop boasting, for fear of letting a confidence slip.
‘So where are you staying?’ Trueman asked.
‘The Hemlock Hotel. My room’s right at the front on the first floor. Lovely sea view. Not to mention a balcony.’
‘Very nice. Surprised you’re not drinking there.’
A shrug. ‘I had a couple in the Hemlock before I popped round here. Decent hotel, but full of people who are rich and posh. Thought I’d try a proper pub.’
Trueman grinned. ‘And I’m not rich or posh.’
‘Your Miss Savernake sounds as though she’s not short of a few bob. What’s she going to do with herself in Hemlock Bay?’
After a moment’s pondering, Trueman said, ‘You know, I think she’s looking for excitement.’
‘Is she now?’ The man drained his tumbler. ‘I bet she’ll find it in Hemlock Bay. I’d best be getting along, but it’s been good to meet you, Cliff. We must have another drink together in the not too distant. Maybe you can even introduce me to your Miss Savernake.’
‘Fair enough, Joe,’ Trueman said warmly. ‘I’ll see you around. By the way, I didn’t catch your surname.’
The other man rubbed his stomach again.
‘McAtee.’
*
‘A busy day,’ Rachel said, stifling a yawn as she poured the coffee. ‘We need a shot of caffeine to keep awake.’
Hetty had rustled up a cottage pie, one of her specialities. Now they were in the living room, whose bay window looked out across the garden and towards the sea. The temperature had dropped three or four degrees since afternoon and clouds were gathering over the water, as if in mutinous conspiracy against the holidaymakers.
‘Tomorrow is Sunday and the forecast is for heavy rain. We can draw breath and decide what to do next.’
‘Didn’t Jacob say he’s driving up tomorrow?’ Hetty asked. ‘I suppose he’ll want to be fed and watered.’
‘The Clarion booked him into the Hemlock Hotel.’
‘Typical. Always falls on his feet, that young man. Even if he relies on you to make sure he has a soft landing.’
‘With luck, he’ll be able to tell us something about the unfortunate young man from Liverpool who threw himself from the cliff.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘Meanwhile, I’m itching to hear how you all got on.’
‘I didn’t get very far with Mrs Stones,’ Hetty said mournfully.
‘Tell me everything!’ Rachel commanded. ‘Remember, leave nothing out, however trivial. I’m sure you discovered something of interest.’
When Hetty had finished describing her tête-à-tête with Mrs Stones, she shook her head in sorrow and said, ‘Told you I wasted my time.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Nonsense. Why are you always so hard on yourself? Thanks to you, we know that Mrs Carson has taken a fancy to Sir Harold, and that if her husband learns about it, he might resort to drastic measures.’
‘Mrs Stones loves to look on the dark side. You can’t take her word as gospel.’
‘She sounds more likely to be guilty of malicious glee rather than malicious invention. Cliff, how did you fare?’
Rachel listened intently to Trueman’s account of the conversation in the Mermaid before saying, ‘This man McAtee, who is so anxious to make my acquaintance. What do you make of him? Is he my type?’
The big man allowed himself a laconic smile. ‘I daren’t think what your type is. All I can say for certain is, McAtee’s not it.’
‘A common or garden womaniser?’
‘Amongst other things. He’s not on the straight and narrow. What his game is, I can’t tell you.’
‘He admitted to being a former policeman.’ Rachel was thoughtful. ‘Do you think he regretted telling you?’
Trueman nodded. ‘Stone cold certainty. He got carried away for a minute or two. The drink was talking. I understand why. He’s away from home, taking it easy on a Saturday night and trying to get over a bad stomach. But he was annoyed with himself for confirming my guess.’
‘I wonder why McAtee left the police. Did he jump or was he pushed?’
‘He wanted me to think that he resigned to go on to greater things,’ Trueman said. ‘I’m not convinced.’
Hetty said to Rachel, ‘Why not ask Inspector Oakes if he can use his influence and find out why McAtee left? The inspector’s sweet on you; he’ll be glad to help.’
‘Good idea. I’ll telephone him,’ Rachel said, refusing to be provoked. ‘You’ve been very quiet, Martha. Tell us about your trip to Paradise. What delights did The Great Hallemby foresee for you in his crystal ball?’
Colour rose in Martha’s cheeks. ‘I have a confession to make.’
‘You’re destined to fall in love with a Fleet Street journalist?’
‘Even worse than that. I’m a rotten detective. I made an utter hash of things.’
Rachel gave her a searching glance. ‘What went wrong?’
Martha recounted her conversation with Pearl Carson and her visit to Paradise. ‘So you see,’ she concluded. ‘Not only did I fail to learn whether Mrs Carson really does care for Sir Harold, I gave the game away with Bellamy. When I called him by his real name, I wanted the ground to swallow me up. You should have seen his face. For a few moments, he really did want to strangle me.’
She lifted her head so they could see the marks left on her neck by Bellamy’s bony fingers.
Trueman swore. ‘He’ll regret that.’
Martha patted her brother’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, Cliff. You know I can look after myself. My knee hurt him much more than he hurt me.’
Rachel nodded. ‘He must have been beside himself with rage. Talking about the body on the rocks shook him, just as we hoped. But finding out that a stranger – and a young housemaid at that – knew his real name obviously shocked him to the core. So the red mist descended.’
‘It was more than anger,’ Martha said. ‘He was scared.’
‘As if he didn’t know what you were capable of?’
‘Exactly. Though he found out when I scratched his face and made him bleed,’ Martha said grimly. ‘The marks will take a bit of explaining to the jealous girlfriend.’
‘Serves him right. Do you really think he meant to kill you?’
Martha considered. ‘Until he became agitated, he didn’t strike me as the violent type.’
Rachel’s tongue passed over her lips. ‘Who knows what any of us might do when driven to extremes?’
‘I’d say his instincts are more… insidious. He’s a born schemer. Just not as clever as he likes to think.’
‘You did everything I asked.’
‘I made a mess of things by putting him on his guard. Now he knows I’m as much of a fraud as he is. What’s more, I’ve let Jacob down. He’ll find it harder to investigate if Bellamy suspects…’
‘You know Jacob. Nothing can stop him once he’s on the scent of a story.’
‘Bellamy’s up to no good, I swear. The minute I mentioned a body on the rocks, he became a bag of nerves. Even his eye started to twitch. I wouldn’t trust him an inch. But I still don’t understand why he invented the so-called premonition.’
Rachel shrugged. ‘Was it entirely an invention?’
Martha stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I wish I knew.’ Rachel sighed. ‘That story of his has a significance we haven’t understood.’
‘So what’s he plotting?’ Martha couldn’t hide her frustration. ‘I wish you’d been there. You’d have wheedled him into letting something slip.’
‘Don’t be hard on yourself. We only arrived here a few hours ago. I’m the first to admit my plan was vague. Simply to put the cat among the pigeons and see what happens. Sometimes life is too short for subtlety. We’re learning as we go along. In a few short hours, we’ve already made a lot of progress.’
‘Did you manage to make an impression with your artist?’
Rachel laughed. ‘The two of us got on famously. Like most creative people, Virginia Penrhos loves to bask in the glow of admiration. I gushed so much, I made an enemy. If looks could kill, her companion would have disembowelled me with a glare.’
She described her visit to the lighthouse. ‘Ffion Morris strikes me as volatile. She is a deeply unhappy creature, so much is clear. What I want to know is why.’
‘Some people are miseries by nature,’ Hetty pronounced. ‘Like Mrs Stones.’
‘True, but Mrs Stones is an ageing busybody whose best years are behind her. This young woman is very different. The death of Virginia Penrhos’s cousin hurt her badly, and she had no success on the stage, but she and Virginia aren’t short of money and the lighthouse is a magical place to live. Yet she’s tense and angry, and the relationship is strained. I encouraged Virginia to take an interest in me and Ffion couldn’t hide her jealousy. Something has gone wrong between them.’
‘What exactly?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Rachel frowned. ‘I thought I was familiar with the outlines of Virginia’s life and career, but it’s an incomplete sketch. Ffion Morris is a blank canvas. As soon as I got back here, I telephoned an art dealer who happens to be in my debt. With any luck, he’ll paint a fuller picture.’
‘You think Virginia is bored with Ffion?’ Martha asked.
‘There’s a genuine tenderness in the way she looks at the girl, but I think she finds her deeply frustrating. Perhaps that’s why she deliberately tormented her by making a fuss of me. Especially when she talked about my posing for her.’
Hetty grunted. ‘She’d probably paint you as a geometrical shape.’
Rachel laughed. ‘I’d rather be portrayed as an enigmatic swirl of colour.’
‘Be careful what you wish for. This so-called artistic temperament covers a multitude of sins. You’ll probably end up as a streaky blob of black paint, dripping on to the floor.’
Martha said, ‘Perhaps Virginia simply enjoys goading her friend. Unkind of her.’
Rachel nodded. ‘And very unwise. Provoking jealousy is a dangerous sport. Did you know Ffion is Welsh for foxglove? A plant whose flowers are delicate and pretty. And quite as deadly as hemlock.’