‘You’ve been extremely helpful,’ Rachel said into the telephone. ‘I’m much obliged. And yes, please do send me your new catalogue as soon as it arrives in from the printers.’
She put down the receiver and returned to the living room, where Trueman and Martha were leafing through the Daily Mail and the Clarion respectively. Having ordered half a dozen newspapers, Rachel had risen at the crack of dawn so as to be outside the bungalow, planting geraniums in the window box, when the boy came to deliver them.
Young lads with their wits about them were a valuable source of information. They were also putty in the hands of an attractive and chatty woman a few years their senior. By the time Rachel let the boy go on his way, she’d learned as much about their new neighbours as she’d have gained from a week’s surveillance.
She turned to Martha. ‘What news of our friend the Mystery Man?’
‘The Clarion can scarcely contain its excitement. Look at this.’
She held up the paper so they could see the full page feature headlined Clarion Charlie Coming to Hemlock Bay!
‘Can you spot our Mystery Man when he arrives in north England’s swishest resort? This is a great opportunity for testing your powers of observation and deduction,’ Rachel read. ‘I think that’s pushing it, don’t you?’
There was a large photograph of Jacob, taken in profile, with a trilby hat slung low on his head. Thanks to the brutality of his haircut, he appeared to be bald. He was wearing rimless spectacles and had a pipe clamped between his lips.
‘His own mother wouldn’t recognise him,’ Trueman grunted.
‘They certainly haven’t flattered the poor lad,’ Martha said. ‘And that’s not the only obstacle to winning the prize. People who spot him need to be word perfect.’
Rachel read the text. ‘Give the right challenge! When you recognise our Mystery Man, present him with a copy of the Clarion and say, “You are Clarion Charlie, and I claim the handsome reward offered by the country’s most popular newspaper!” If your challenge is correct, Clarion Charlie will immediately acknowledge it, but a single mistake will forfeit the prize.’
‘Anyone who accosts a perfect stranger and comes out with all that malarkey deserves more than a fiver,’ Trueman muttered.
‘What about that art dealer you were talking to?’ Martha asked. ‘Did you learn anything new?’
‘Yes, I’ve pieced together the story of how Virginia became involved with Ffion. Virginia had a cousin called Nerys who was married to a leading theatrical producer, Miles Horne.’
‘That name sounds familiar.’
‘Yes, last spring he was involved in a sensational story which made headlines in the popular press. Does Fifi Garcia ring a bell?’
Martha nodded. ‘She was mixed up in it somehow.’
‘Yes. And it turns out that Fifi Garcia was a stage name taken by Ffion Morris. She dreamed of making a career as a singer, but never got any further than a small part in the chorus of Show Boat. However, during its run at Drury Lane, she met Nerys and they became… very close.’
‘They were lovers?’
Martha liked to call a spade a spade. Hetty gave a sceptical grunt.
‘Yes. They went to enormous lengths to keep their relationship hush-hush. Unfortunately, Horne found out and created a dreadful scene. Not content with threatening a divorce, he made it clear he wouldn’t rest until both women were destitute. Nerys Horne was a highly-strung woman at the best of times. The intimidation was too much for her and she drank a bottle of bleach.’
Martha made a face. ‘A horrible way to go.’
‘Yes, a shocking business. No wonder it’s stuck in your mind. Nerys was a popular woman, while Horne was a short-tempered bully. You may remember that the adverse publicity after her death was so ruinous, he took an overdose of sleeping pills.’
‘Quite a tragedy.’
‘Fifi survived, but the scandal killed off her career. Such as it was. The only ray of light was that at the inquest on Nerys, she met Virginia. Over the years, Virginia has had many female companions, none of whom have lasted long. She was living with a French concert pianist, but in her own way, she’s as fickle as her cousin. She fell head over heels for Ffion. Within a week of Nerys’s funeral, the concert pianist was back in Paris and Ffion had moved in with Virginia.’
‘Was Ffion equally smitten?’ Martha asked. ‘Or was she more interested in Virginia’s money?’
‘How cynical you are.’
‘I spend too much time in your company, that’s why.’
Rachel laughed. ‘I always wanted to be a bad influence. As for Virginia, her father was a cotton broker and she inherited enough to live in style even before her paintings started to sell. Ffion’s Aunt Bronwen was a reclusive spinster who had made her a generous allowance.’
‘So she’s not dependent on hand-outs from Virginia?’
‘Unfortunately, the aunt was a puritanical conservative who was horrified by the scandal and cut off the allowance. For good measure, she summoned her solicitor and altered her will. Apart from a few minor legacies to servants, she bequeathed her entire estate to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.’
‘Wills can be changed. Some old people are constantly adding new codicils.’
‘Gives them a sense of power,’ her brother murmured.
Rachel nodded. ‘I’m afraid the aunt dropped down dead of a heart attack before the ink was dry on her signature. The RSPCA profited to the extent of more than one hundred thousand pounds.’
Trueman whistled. ‘As a Communist, would Ffion mind?’
‘People who have met Ffion suspect her political principles are barely skin deep. Not that it matters in the short run, given that Virginia isn’t short of cash. But life must be very difficult for Ffion. She lost the love of her life and her dreams are in tatters. Meanwhile, Virginia’s artistic career is finally blossoming.’
‘And if Virginia’s roving eye turns elsewhere…’ Martha suggested.
‘Exactly. Ffion strikes me as neurotic and vulnerable. I suspect she’s casting around to find some sort of meaning in life, and not having any success. If someone else supplants her in Virginia’s affections, she’ll also be looking for a new home and means of financial support. A marriage of convenience to a wealthy man would be one solution, but she hates men even more fervently than she despises capitalism. So her options may be limited.’
Martha considered. ‘Is there a risk of her seeing you as a rival for Virginia’s affections…?’
‘When I joined them for tea, Virginia certainly did nothing to ease her fears. Quite the opposite. She likes playing games with people’s emotions.’
‘Watch out,’ Trueman said. ‘Sounds like Ffion Morris has a good motive to eliminate you.’
Rachel smiled. ‘She’s not the first to want me out of the way. No wonder she kept glowering. The newspaper boy says he’s heard the two of them screaming at each other from behind closed doors.’
‘So early in the morning?’ Martha asked.
‘Not a sign of a healthy relationship. Both women have a short fuse.’
‘Might one of them turn violent?’
A shrug. ‘Anything is possible.’
‘Why did they move here? Did they hope to make a fresh start? Or is there more to it than that?’
‘I keep coming back to the same question – why Hemlock Bay? Is that body on the rocks in her painting a clue?’
Trueman had been mulling things over. ‘If Ffion and Virginia’s cousin kept their relationship so quiet,’ he said slowly, ‘how did Horne find out about it?’
‘Good question,’ Rachel said. ‘And all the more interesting given that I’ve asked it myself, and nobody I’ve spoken to seems to know the answer.’
*
On his first morning in Hemlock Bay, Jacob took advantage of the improved weather to explore. Might as well enjoy mooching around the resort at his leisure before being forced to look at the world through unbecoming spectacles while sucking on a pipe. Martha had sketched two maps for him, one of the whole resort, the other of Hemlock Head, highlighting points of special interest.
As he ambled through Shore Gardens, he spied the unmistakable bulk of Trueman, striding away from the beach. The big man was clutching something in his shovel-like hand.
Jacob gave him a cheery wave. ‘A very good morning to you! What have you got there?’
Trueman flourished a photograph for Jacob’s inspection. A crisp image of him and Hetty, marching along the esplanade as if they owned the whole of Hemlock Bay.
‘A walkie!’ Jacob couldn’t resist parading his knowledge of the professional lingo. ‘Excellent. You both take a good picture.’
‘Always full of flannel, aren’t you? Anyway, Hetty will be pleased, even if she’d never admit it. You may think she hasn’t got a sentimental bone in her body, but it isn’t true.’
Jacob nodded. He was acutely aware that he was privileged to be granted these occasional glimpses of the human side of the curious ménage which had become a surrogate family to him. The true nature of Rachel’s relationship with the Truemans still baffled him, but he’d learned to curb his itch to ask intrusive questions. They’d tell him what they wanted, when they wanted, and not before. He’d learned to break the habit of a lifetime and exercise patience.
Trueman looked towards the beach. Something had snagged his attention.
‘What is it?’ Jacob asked.
‘The lad I mentioned, the barman at the Mermaid. He’s looking at the photos right now.’
Jacob followed his gaze. The reflex man in khaki shorts was standing behind a little stall on the sand, displaying the snaps he’d taken over the past few days. A handful of people were congregated around the photographs. One of them was a skinny young fellow with freckles.
‘The young chap who was exchanging coy glances with the sandy-haired golfer?’
For some reason, this individual interested Rachel. She’d asked Jacob to go to the pub this lunchtime and try to chum up with him. If Jacob pretended to be one of the idle rich, that might help the conversation to flow. More than that, she wouldn’t say, and Jacob knew better than to demand information before she was ready to share it.
‘That’s the bloke.’
He and Trueman watched as the barman exchanged a few words with the photographer before moving away without making a purchase.
‘I’m surprised a barman would be looking at a bunch of beach photographs. It’s not as if he’s on holiday himself.’
Trueman nodded, like a teacher encouraging a pupil as he gropes for the right answer. ‘So?’
Jacob considered. ‘So he’s gone over there because he’s pally with the photographer. Two young chaps, both earning a few bob in the summer season, and they have a chinwag. Nothing unusual in that.’ He paused. ‘Is there?’
‘It’s all information, isn’t it?’
The barman was crossing the esplanade now, no doubt on his way to work. Jacob checked his watch.
‘I’ve got time to kill before I go to the pub for lunch. Thought I’d walk up to Hemlock Head before turning back.’
‘Not venturing as far as the Sun and Air Garden?’
‘Too shy to go in on my own. Maybe with friends?’ Jacob grinned. ‘If Rachel and Martha want to invite me along…?’
The big man said slowly, ‘I wouldn’t put anything past that pair.’
Jacob waited. He guessed there was more to come.
‘You won’t ever hurt them, will you?’
A vigorous shake of the head. ‘Never.’
‘Because if you did,’ Trueman said softly, ‘I’d make you regret it to the end of your days.’
*
Jacob arrived at the Mermaid as the ornate clock on a tower halfway down High Street struck twelve noon. He repaired to the Select Bar for a pork pie and a pint.
Stationing himself at the bar, he breathed in the beer fumes while waiting to be served. Behind the counter was the freckle-faced barman. Jacob invited him to have a drink, and pressed half a crown into his damp palm.
‘Keep the change.’
‘Thanks very much for your kindness, sir.’ His smile was broad, his manner full of boyish charm. ‘Extremely generous of you.’
Jacob rested his elbows on the oak counter. ‘The name’s Jake.’
‘Nice to meet you, Jake. I’m Laurence, but my pals call me Laurie.’
‘Cheers, Laurie.’ As he raised his tankard, Jacob glanced around. The pub was busy but nobody was taking any notice of them. ‘Good place to work?’
‘Can’t complain,’ the boy said, smoothing his hair. ‘You meet some interesting people.’
‘I bet you do. Live on the premises?’
‘They’ve given me a cubbyhole on the top floor.’ A wry smile. ‘All right, but barely room to swing a cat in. Let alone do anything much more exciting. This isn’t exactly the Hemlock Hotel.’
‘Yes, the Hemlock’s fine as far as comfort goes.’ Jacob loosened his collar. ‘A bit stuffy for me, though, that’s why I came here.’
The lad considered him. ‘You’re staying there?’
‘For my sins,’ Jacob said breezily.
‘Very nice. Not that I believe you’re the sinful sort. You look like a very respectable gent to me.’
‘Oh, well, we all have to let our hair down once in a while, don’t you think? After all, this is the seaside.’
‘All work and no play makes Jake a dull boy, eh?’
Jacob rewarded the barman’s wit with an appreciative snigger.
‘You never said a truer word.’
‘What do you do, then?’
‘Odds and ends,’ Jacob’s shoulders gave a modest twitch. ‘Actually, I don’t have a proper job. To tell you the truth, I’ve led a charmed life. Or so my dear mama used to say. I don’t need to sweat night and day to keep body and soul together.’
The barman’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Lucky you. Winning ticket on the Irish Sweep, was it?’
‘Not me.’ Jacob winked. ‘Though I do enjoy a flutter when I get the chance.’
‘Do you now?’
The young man pulled a few more pints for his customers before drifting back to where Jacob was drinking.
‘Member of the landed gentry, are you?’
‘Not me, Laurie. My old man owned a woollen mill in Bradford. That’s how he made his pile. Not that it did him much good. Dropped dead of a heart attack before he was fifty.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t worry. He was in bed with his secretary at the time, so you could say it served him right.’
The barman chortled. ‘Nice way to go, eh?’
‘If you like that sort of thing. Personally, I think it’s sordid. The girl was the brassy type and poor Mama never got over the shock. She’s always been religious and now she’s taken up with some hellfire crowd.’ Jacob mimicked a street preacher. ‘Repent now, or your sins will find you out!’
‘Better make sure you don’t go around sinning, then.’
Jacob smirked. ‘I’ve decided to concentrate on not getting found out.’
The boy laughed. ‘On your own here, then, Jake? Or have you brought a lady friend?’
‘Not me. Girls nowadays are just out for what they can get from a chap. Thought I’d enjoy a few days by the sea and discover what pleasures Hemlock Bay has to offer.’
‘We’ve got all sorts here. Everything from open-air dancing to a nudist camp. Depends what you fancy.’
Jacob returned the barman’s smile. ‘Actually, I’m in the mood for adventure.’
*
‘How did it go, Mystery Man?’ Rachel asked.
‘You were right,’ Jacob said, adding cheekily, ‘For once.’
‘Laurence Bishop has a penchant for men with money?’
‘Yes. Whether he’s simply looking for a rich sugar daddy to pamper him, or something more sinister is going on, I can’t say.’
A gull keened overhead. She’d waited for him in a shelter on Hemlock Heights. He joined her on the covered bench as if on a momentary impulse.
After giving a brief résumé of his conversation with Laurie at the Mermaid, he described the young man’s encounter with the beach photographer.
‘Interesting,’ she murmured. ‘So you made a new pal?’
‘I promised to drop in again towards closing time. Laurie gave me the impression he couldn’t wait. If it’s not pouring down, we might go for a walk on the front.’
‘How romantic. The pair of you can lick your Raspberry Ripples under the stars.’ She consulted her watch. ‘I’d better get back to the bungalow to help Martha prepare for tea with Dr Doyle. Not that I believe he is a doctor.’
‘What is the man playing at, do you think?’
‘Nothing to do with medicine. Beyond that, I’m guessing. He’s not short of money and he’s not come here to improve his social life. I almost had to poke him in the eye before he agreed to drop in. Whatever his motives, he’s up to something, and it must be important. His false identity is too transparent for him to have made a career out of crime. My guess is that as a general rule he’s hopelessly strait-laced.’
‘You don’t think he has any connection with any of the other people who have turned up here? The artist and her friend? Joe McAtee? The Great Hallemby?’
‘Too soon to say.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps you’ll find out more when you consult your other new chum, the fortune teller.’
*
Jacob wandered around Paradise for half an hour, filling his lungs with the smell of fish and chips and trying not to be deafened by the screams of overexcited children. He was curious about Winnie, the woman in Gareth Bellamy’s life, and wondered if she’d agree to talk about him. But the deckchairs in front of the puppet theatre were empty. A sign said Skeleton Sue would not be appearing in any shows today, ‘owing to a family indisposition’.
An interesting euphemism. Martha said she’d scratched Bellamy’s face violently enough to leave some damage. Presumably this meant the fortune teller had a lot of explaining to do as soon as his beloved saw the scratches. Given that she was – if Bellamy was to be believed – fiercely jealous, Jacob wondered how he’d allayed any suspicion that he’d been attacked by an angry woman. Someone he’d pestered beyond endurance, perhaps. If the scratches had caused a rift between the couple, Winnie might be willing to speak freely about Bellamy. Perhaps she’d cast a light on whatever lay behind his so-called premonition about murder.
But she was nowhere to be found. He came across an elderly gardener who was trimming the lawn edges around a nearby flower bed and asked if he knew where she might be.
‘Winnie Lescott?’ The gardener spat on the ground, as if to help him think. ‘Nah. I keep my distance from that one. Not like some I could mention. If you’ve any sense, you’ll give her a wide berth. Hard as nails and mouth like a sewer. It’s the foreign blood, y’know.’
Not the most glowing testimonial. Skeleton Sue’s admirers would be shocked to hear it, but Jacob wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t see Bellamy enjoying much success with the ladies, however credulous they were. If Winnie was a termagant, perhaps they were well suited.
He made his way to the fortune teller’s hut and rang the bell, but there was no answer. Bellamy was probably reading someone’s palm. He went to inspect the hall of mirrors and enjoyed pulling demented faces in front of the glass. After tiring of that, he succumbed to the temptation to ascertain exactly what the butler had seen. Half an hour later, he returned to the hut. Again he rang the bell. Again there was no reply.
Bellamy must be doing a roaring trade. Jacob imagined people earnestly asking him whether they would manage to spot Clarion Charlie. Or perhaps they simply wanted to be told they’d meet the love of their life before their annual break by the sea sped to an end.
This time he decided to keep a watchful eye on the hut. As soon as Bellamy’s latest client emerged, he’d seize his chance and march in through the door before anyone beat him to it.
He loitered beside the rhododendrons. In this tranquil enclave, the spreading bushes were dense enough to deaden the noise from the rest of the grounds. As he inhaled the pleasing lemony fragrance from a cluster of bell-shaped white flowers, he was almost able to persuade himself that he had indeed found Paradise.
From here he had a direct view of the entrance to the hut. During a quick reconnaissance, he’d noticed a padlocked door at the back of the hut. Yet even if Bellamy used that for a quick exit, he’d come into view as soon as he moved away from the building. Surely he wouldn’t crawl through that small gap in the hedge into the Sun and Air Garden? Presumably he’d return to the main park via the network of pathways.
As Jacob waited, he ran through his meeting with Bellamy in his mind. The more he thought about it, the less plausible that bizarre premonition sounded. Yet if it was a figment of the man’s imagination, why bother the police and the Clarion with it? And why seem disconcerted when Jacob promised to raise the matter with Gomersall?
Minutes ticked by. Jacob was easily bored and he soon tired of waiting. He convinced himself that if he waited until midnight he’d see nothing more, because the fortune teller wasn’t inside. Perhaps he wasn’t working today. Had he gone off somewhere with Winnie, hoping to attempt a reconciliation after a quarrel?
If so, was it worth taking a look inside the hut to see if there was any clue as to what Bellamy was really up to?
As usual with Jacob, the thought was father to the deed. He marched up to the hut, rang the bell and, after a short precautionary wait, stepped inside.
Martha had given a vivid description of the interior of The Great Hallemby’s lair. It was dark in the antechamber and he took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. As he moved forward, he smelled the incense and candle wax. So someone had been here quite recently.
Swishing aside the velvet curtains with a cavalier’s flourish, he marched into the small room at the back.
The Great Hallemby had been waiting there all the time. His body was sprawled on the floor, close to an upturned table and a scarlet fez. Blood leaked on to the rush matting from a terrible wound in his temple. A few inches away was the murder weapon, streaked with dark stains.
Gareth Bellamy had been battered to death with his own crystal ball.