Murder isn’t easy.
It has dawned on me why so many intelligent people finish up on the gallows, with their crimes pored over and their blunders analysed within the pages of Notable British Trials. The challenge, I’ve discovered, is to expect the unexpected – and then to handle things without giving oneself away.
I’ve done my utmost to learn from the misadventures of men who have something in common with me. Respectable, God-fearing individuals who were perfectly law-abiding until they found it necessary to kill a fellow human being.
Crippen is the fellow for whom I have greatest sympathy. A generous man whose kindly nature earned him the love of a good woman, even if regrettably she was not his wife. He made his share of mistakes, changing his story about Mrs Crippen’s disappearance at the drop of a hat. It was foolish to allow his mistress to dress in his wife’s favourite furs. Yet if it hadn’t been for the inquisitiveness and persistence of busybodies in his social circle, he would have lived happily ever after. Instead, he was hanged, a fate I am determined to avoid. I refuse to give Louis Carson’s ghost such satisfaction.
Major Armstrong had only himself to blame. To commit one successful poisoning is an achievement in itself. He should have rested on his laurels. To attempt to repeat his crime was inviting disaster. Inconceivable that I would do likewise. Once Carson is dead, I shall retire from murder.
Even Harold Greenwood blundered. His wife was poisoned, and I have no doubt he was responsible, but somehow he managed to secure an acquittal. The secret of his success was that he never panicked. He did, however, attract attention by marrying a much younger second wife shortly after disposing of her predecessor. There is no danger of my following his example. For me, there will never be any other woman than Alicia.
This is where I differ from the criminals. They wanted to get rid of their wives. What I long for is very different – to avenge the death of mine.
I keep urging myself to look on the bright side, but I confess to feeling daunted. Seeing Hooker Jackson again after so many years was a heart-stopping reminder of the risks I run. At least he lives on the far side of the resort. I shall do my utmost to keep out of his way.
I worry about my neighbours. Virginia Penrhos’s powers of observation – for even a surrealist is presumably observant – trouble me. The old lighthouse is a perfect vantage point for a snooper.
The Savernake girl may also prove a threat. True, she is young and naïve, and I was able to brush away her questions. But did I fail to conceal my loathing of Carson when she mentioned his name? Looks can give one away as easily as incautious words.
A nosey young flibbertigibbet with time on her hands is the worst kind of nuisance. I don’t wish to spend another moment in the girl’s company, but her manner suggests she won’t take no for an answer.
I must take the bull by the horns. Hence my acceptance of her invitation to tea. Perhaps I can turn her curiosity to my advantage.
Time is not on my side. This chilling reality is becoming more obvious by the day. I have arranged to visit Miss Savernake tomorrow afternoon, but even if I shake off my inquisitive female neighbours, there is no guarantee that something else won’t interfere with my plans.
Today’s dismal weather deterred Louis Carson from taking his usual walk on the cliffs. His unwillingness to venture out on a wet evening typifies his cowardly nature, but narrows my options. No murderer wants to rely on the English climate, but I have no choice. I dare not dither.
As soon as the chance comes to kill him without being caught, I shall seize it.
Tea at Bay View was at best a qualified success. I was pleased by the ease with which I maintained the deception about my identity, but disheartened by news that further complicates my plans.
I arrived at the bungalow sniffling loudly and explained that I was going down with a heavy cold. I made clear I was fulfilling a social obligation to call, but that my visit would be brief.
‘What a shame!’ Miss Savernake cried. ‘Did you catch a chill when you went to church? The weather was so rotten yesterday. Thank goodness today is brighter. As it happens, you’re in luck!’
‘I am?’ I asked in a hoarse whisper.
‘My housekeeper keeps some marvellous home remedies. Take one of her powders, and you’ll be raring to go in no time!’
In between hacking coughs, I reminded her that I was a doctor and quite able to deal with my symptoms.
‘Oh yes, of course! I quite forgot you’re a medical man.’
A glint in her eyes made my spine prickle with apprehension. Did she doubt my credentials? Then she smiled again, and I reproached myself for letting my imagination run away with me. When all is said and done, she is a genteel young filly, no doubt with limited experience of life. Why should she question my account of my past?
I’d established an excuse for saying as little as possible, while trying to discover how much they know about the Carsons. Was it too much to hope that I might learn something that would help me to remove my enemy?
The answer, unfortunately, was yes. The housemaid, a girl with a scarred cheek but otherwise handsome, has bumped into Carson’s wife and found her most agreeable. She confirmed what McAtee’s report said, that Mrs Carson helps her husband to look after the hotel staff. Typical of the man that he involves the wretched woman in his dubious activities. Alicia never worked and never wished to.
The Bay View ménage is peculiar. The maid is sister to Miss Savernake’s chauffeur, a hulking brute who didn’t utter a word in my presence, and whose wife acts as housekeeper. They seem to be on remarkably familiar terms with their employer. I suppose her youth and naïveté means they can take liberties.
Miss Savernake herself remains, despite my cautious but repeated efforts to draw her out, peculiarly enigmatic. She has a knack of deflecting questions and although this is no doubt due to admirable modesty, I found it frustrating. Her dress sense is immaculate and, although I know little of women’s fashion, I have met enough wives of wealthy clients to recognise the hallmarks of voguish Continental design. She is obviously worth a great deal of money, and I am surprised there is no sign of a young man in her life. She is attractive, if you like dark hair and a trim figure. Not that anyone could compare to dear Alicia and her golden tresses.
During a lull in the conversation, my hostess asked if I read that dreadful rag, the Clarion. The fervour of my denial seemed to amuse her. She told me about a publicity stunt that the newspaper has dreamed up. One of their reporters has arrived in Hemlock Bay and there is a generous cash prize for anyone who can identify the man and address him with the correct form of words.
‘They call him Clarion Charlie!’ the maid interjected. ‘I went down to the beach earlier to see if I could spot him. Not that it will be easy to recognise him from the picture they printed in the paper. He’s wearing a trilby and smoking a pipe. You can hardly see his face at all.’
‘I expect he’s horrid and ugly,’ Miss Savernake said, with a disconsolate pout. ‘Like something dreamed up by the Brothers Grimm.’
The maid was strangely entertained by this, but my reaction was one of irritation, coupled with foreboding.
It is now clear that I need to act at the very earliest opportunity. Not today; my nerves are simply not up to it. But, if the weather holds, tomorrow. The simple truth is that the longer I wait, the more difficulties I’m likely to encounter. The Clarion crams its columns with deplorable tosh, but its readership runs into millions. I envisage this absurd new competition prompting people to flock to Hemlock Bay in the hope of earning a reward. Money talks, but the last thing I need is to find the clifftop path filled with visitors in hot pursuit of an itinerant newspaperman.
*
Disaster!
Just when I thought I had dealt with the obstacles to my plan to the best of my ability, and was readying myself for the decisive moment, something has occurred to stop me in my tracks.
McAtee is here. In Hemlock Bay. Even as I write the words, I can hardly believe my own eyes. Or my wretched luck.
But for my own regrettable curiosity, I would still be in blissful ignorance. However, immediately after my visit to Bay View, I saw Carson walk out through the gates of his home. I wondered if he’d brought forward his evening stroll on the cliff, but he turned in the direction of the resort.
In a split second, I decided to follow him, taking care not to attract his attention. I wasn’t desperate to know his destination. I guessed he was heading to the Hemlock Hotel. If venturing further afield, he would have travelled by car.
The truth was that I’d become excited by the thought that sprang into my mind.
I am pursuing the man whose life I shall shortly bring to an end. And he doesn’t have the faintest idea that he is about to die.
Reprehensible, perhaps, but I’d defy anyone who has suffered as I have suffered not to experience a savage delight in the knowledge that he is on the verge of achieving a form of wild justice.
Carson moved at a brisk pace. Initially I aimed to keep twenty yards behind him, but the gap between us increased until we reached the esplanade.
As I walked beside the low sea wall, it dawned on me that my impulsive pursuit had been an unwise act of self-indulgence. What if he spotted me? While there was no risk of him recognising me, I didn’t wish to provoke his curiosity. As I come up behind him on the cliff path when about to do the deed, I need to take him unawares.
On reaching the Hemlock Hotel, he marched straight in. As I contemplated the hotel’s revolving doors, a broad-shouldered fellow came out. At the same moment a young woman who was about to enter the hotel paused to allow him to step past her. He lifted his hat and gave a courteous nod before striding off in the direction of Hemlock Head. But his genial good manners were lost on me.
I recognised him with a stab of horror and disbelief. Joseph McAtee, whose report had brought me here, had come to Hemlock Bay.
This is wretchedly bad luck. First Hooker Jackson and now McAtee! Fate is hurling endless obstacles into my path.
Try as I might, I cannot fathom why McAtee has turned up here. Can it be a mere coincidence? Naturally, I’d like to think so. It isn’t impossible that, after tracing Carson to the Lancashire coast, he decided to spend a few days here, relaxing after his labours. Given the amount he charged for his services, he could afford to spend the whole summer on holiday.
But I can’t help fearing that there is a more sinister explanation for his presence.