‘Young of the Yard,’ Jacob said to himself, rolling the words off his tongue as he sauntered along High Street in the gloaming. ‘Definitely has a ring to it. Pity he’ll never reach the giddy heights.’
Discovering Bellamy’s body had shocked him to the core. This wasn’t the first corpse he’d set eyes on. No crime reporter – especially not one who consorted with Rachel Savernake – could hope to avoid sudden and violent death. Yet his work hadn’t hardened him to the point of callousness. Seeing the Welshman sprawled across the floor, battered to death with the main tool of his trade, had sickened him.
Jacob was rarely knocked off balance for long. His method of dealing with the sheer horror of the crime was to throw himself into the business of talking to the police and anyone else he could find. He set himself the goal of creating a memorable front page splash. A story to take pride of place on the wall of his new office.
Inspector Young’s ill-concealed ambition to see his name in print was a welcome bonus. The constable who was first to arrive at the hut had proved disconcertingly suspicious, but once the inspector arrived, Jacob convinced him of his bona fides so quickly that he wondered whether the detective was too gullible for his own good. It certainly helped that an obvious suspect had emerged as soon as questions were asked of people who worked at Hemlock Head.
Winnie Lescott’s temper was as notorious as her jealousy. The crystal ball was heavy enough to be an effective murder weapon, but not too heavy for a woman to bludgeon an unsuspecting victim with it. Winnie was strong enough to have committed the crime without breaking sweat. The fact that she’d vanished from Paradise was widely regarded as a compelling reminder that there’s no smoke without fire.
Inspector Young, a stocky man brimming with energy as well as unfulfilled ambition, had firm ideas about his priorities when conducting a murder investigation. Within an hour of his arrival, he’d announced that he would make a public statement to members of the press ‘and other interested parties’ at twelve noon the following day. The conference would be held, by kind permission of Sir Harold Jackson, in the smoking room of the Hemlock Hotel.
Jacob could read Young’s mind. The inspector hoped to inform the assembled pressmen that Winnie was already under lock and key, thanks to his fast work and the untiring efforts of the officers he’d sent to pursue her. ‘We’ve alerted all ports,’ he told Jacob. ‘There’s no hiding place.’ These were obviously phrases he loved. If she was still on the run tomorrow, no matter. He’d have the perfect platform to explain his methods of detection as well as the futility of his suspect’s flight from justice, while making an impassioned public appeal for fresh information.
Like the detective, Jacob had a clearly defined set of priorities. His first move had been to call Rachel. Next, he broke the news to Gomersall, and his editor’s amazement was a reward in itself.
‘So your fortune teller was hoist with his own petard?’
‘That’s… one way of putting it, sir.’
Jacob could almost hear his editor rubbing his hands. ‘What if it’s not the man’s girlfriend who killed him? What if the killer nurses a grudge against people who look into the future?’
‘Better ask Trewythian to check his life insurance, sir.’
‘Is anyone safe?’ Gomersall demanded rhetorically.
‘Probably not, sir.’
This was the right answer. Jacob’s editor had a penchant for stories that alarmed his readers. This sprang not from some form of journalistic sadism but from a determination to give people what they wanted. For some unaccountable reason devotees of the Clarion liked nothing better than to feel afraid that they were all about to be murdered in their beds.
Gomersall chortled. ‘I’ll be honest, lad. I simply don’t know how you do it. If I sent you to a church service, you’d stumble over a dead chorister the moment you left your pew. Positively uncanny. Anyone would think you’ve made some sort of Faustian pact. Not in league with the devil, are you?’
No, Jacob thought. Only Rachel Savernake.
It didn’t take him long to write his story. The raw material was sensational and for once there was no call for his skills in lurid embellishment. The picture of Bellamy’s head crushed by the crystal ball would haunt him forever. He even indulged himself by allowing a few hints of his genuine sense of horror to seep into the staccato sentences demanded by the Clarion’s house style.
Even as his competitors from Fleet Street and the local stringers assembled in the hotel, his breathless account of discovering the crime would festoon every news stand in town. Rival attempts to find interesting and original angles were doomed to seem hapless and irrelevant at best, tacky and salacious at worst. Jacob suspected that some of his colleagues would stoop to cramming their reports with sly references to unspecified but disgusting antics at the nudist camp. He’d only mentioned the Sun and Air Garden twice. And then only in passing.
As the town clock struck ten, there was a spring in his step. Things could hardly have gone much better since his rain-drenched journey to Hemlock Bay. Except for Bellamy and Winnie Lescott, of course. Gomersall had been forced to agree that there was now no earthly point in Jacob pretending to be Clarion Charlie. He must concentrate on reporting the murder and its investigation. Bob Harley would come up on the first train tomorrow. The coupling of murder story and Mystery Man competition was sure to be a winner. The editor was salivating at the prospect of the Clarion’s circulation soaring to stratospheric heights.
In high good humour, Jacob sauntered into the Mermaid. The Select Bar was packed and the smell of excitement was as palpable as the beer fumes. Bellamy’s name was on everyone’s lips. So was his exotic alias, although now that he’d been battered to death with his own crystal ball, it seemed more ridiculous than ever. Everyone in the pub was claiming to have inside information about what had really happened. Rachel Savernake hadn’t been in town for seventy-two hours, Jacob reflected, and already nobody was talking about anything but murder.
At the far end of the bar, Laurie was deep in conversation with a middle-aged man with sandy hair. Presumably the golfer Trueman had seen on the night he met McAtee. As Jacob watched, another man approached the bar. He was middle-aged with patchy dark hair and a half-empty tankard in his hand. Laurie made his apologies to the golfer and turned to the other man. From Rachel’s description, Jacob felt sure this was Louis Carson. Interesting. But the pair only spoke briefly; in fact, Carson did all the talking. Laurie nodded and Carson put his tankard down on the counter before heading for the door.
The golfer seemed to be nonplussed by this exchange, and Laurie was evidently keen to mollify him. Jacob couldn’t understand what was going on, but he didn’t want to be part of it. In a few hours’ time, his name would be all over Hemlock Bay, and he’d be fully occupied keeping one step ahead of the other reporters.
Catching Laurie’s eye, he assumed a sorrowful expression. The barman gave a quick shrug and turned back to the sandy-haired golfer, who responded by placing his hand on the young man’s arm.
*
‘So you were denied a romantic tryst with young Laurie?’ Rachel asked.
Jacob took another sip of Glenmorangie. He’d hurried to Bay View to find that she’d arrived back from Hemlock Hall half an hour earlier and was enjoying a nightcap with the Truemans. He’d given a breathless account of the day’s events and Cliff Trueman had already refilled his glass.
‘I’ll get over it,’ he said. ‘Why are you so interested in a barman? Or do you still insist on being mysterious about him?’
‘He forms a tiny part of a bigger pattern, like a stitch in a Fair Isle jersey.’ She gave him a teasing smile. ‘When I puzzle over what’s going on in Hemlock Bay, I keep thinking about Humbug Billy.’
He considered this as he breathed in the honey fragrance of the whisky. ‘You do love to tantalise me.’
She smiled sweetly. ‘I deserve a little fun every now and then.’
‘All right, who was Humbug Billy?’
‘First things first. Do you know when Gareth Bellamy was killed?’
‘I spoke to the doctor who examined his body. He was reluctant to commit himself, naturally.’
‘Naturally. However?’
‘When pressed, he said Bellamy died a few hours before I found him. No later than two o’clock. Maybe one.’
‘So that’s why the inspector didn’t treat you as a serious suspect. I did wonder.’
‘I like to think my upstanding character and transparent sincerity were decisive factors.’
‘Do you now?’ Rachel sighed. ‘Martha described the hut’s setting. I gather it’s at the back of the amusement park. Easy to sneak in and out unobserved?’
Jacob nodded. ‘A risky place to commit a murder, but you’d be unlucky if someone caught sight of you. If you want to know what I think…’
He allowed himself a theatrical pause, prompting Rachel to burst out laughing. ‘Now you’re tantalising me. Go on.’
‘I’d say the killer was either bold or desperate. Or both.’
‘The crime might have been committed on the spur of the moment.’
‘Someone who didn’t like what Bellamy saw in the crystal ball?’
‘Or something that he said or did.’
‘Inspector Young is confident Winnie Lescott fits the bill. He might just be right.’
‘Did you tell him that Bellamy came to see you in London?’
‘Yes, I needed to explain why I called on him. I didn’t want Young to think I was just a naïve tripper, anxious to find out if I was going to win the football pools or meet the girl of my dreams.’
‘Heaven forbid. What did Young say about the premonition?’
‘He thought it was nonsense. Bellamy spoke to him before he contacted me, remember. In the inspector’s opinion, fortune tellers are charlatans and Bellamy made up a tissue of lies.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘He was simply chasing free publicity.’
‘From what you’ve told us about the inspector, that sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.’
Jacob grinned. ‘Inspector Young is a man of strong opinions.’
‘That’s not always a bad thing,’ Hetty said.
‘No, but I’d say he’s blinkered. As far as he’s concerned, Winnie Lescott murdered her lover. So he’ll brush aside any evidence that doesn’t fit with his pet theory.’
‘I hope to God he’s wrong!’ Martha blurted out.
She had been subdued ever since he’d walked through the door. Apart from a mumbled greeting, she’d kept her mouth shut. He knew her well enough to realise that she was brooding, and he was shrewd enough to realise why.
‘You’re not blaming yourself in any way, I hope.’
She shrugged and said nothing.
‘Come on, Martha, you’ve nothing whatsoever to feel guilty about. Bellamy attacked you, remember? You scratched him in self-defence. Perfectly natural. And entirely reasonable in the circumstances.’
‘But don’t you see?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve confirmed my worst fears. Winnie Lescott’s temper was wicked and she had a stand-up row with him. Because of the scratches, she accused him of messing about with another girl. The policeman’s right. The obvious assumption is that they had another quarrel in the hut and it ended with her battering him with the nearest thing at hand. His crystal ball. The fact she’s made herself scarce straight away is damning.’
‘There could be an innocent explanation,’ Jacob said. ‘What if the person who killed Bellamy has harmed Winnie as well?’
‘Leaving Bellamy’s body to be found by any Tom, Dick, or Jacob, but successfully concealing hers?’ Rachel asked.
‘It might be worse than that,’ Martha said. Jacob realised to his dismay that she was struggling to fight back the tears. ‘What if Winnie turns up and is able to prove her innocence? They will turn their attention to whoever scratched Bellamy’s face. Someone provoked into doing that might just as easily be provoked into murder. What happens if they question me?’
‘Please, Martha,’ he said. ‘It’s not like you to get upset. Nobody’s going to accuse you of murder. You didn’t kill him, and even if someone was stupid enough to suggest you did, Cliff and Hetty can give you a cast-iron alibi anyway.’
‘That’s not the point,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘I’m not worried about being hanged. I’m upset that I made a mess of things when I talked to him. It’s made things much more difficult for the rest of you.’
‘Honestly, Martha, that’s nonsense. You’ve got things out of proportion.’
Hetty Trueman cleared her throat. All eyes turned to her.
‘I never thought I’d say this, Martha, but Jacob is absolutely right.’ Jacob gaped at this admission, but she ignored him. ‘Haven’t I told you often enough this evening? You’ve got nothing to apologise for. Bellamy hurt you and it would have served him right if you’d done some real damage. Not just a few marks that would soon heal.’
‘If he were still alive,’ Martha said quietly.
Her brother said, ‘No reason to torment yourself. None of us have forgotten what you went through all those years ago.’
Martha touched her cheek. ‘The scarring isn’t as bad as it was.’
‘On the outside, that’s true. But inside…’
Rachel leaned forward and rested her hand on Martha’s for a moment. ‘His death isn’t your responsibility. If you want to blame anyone, blame me. It was my idea that we come here and start poking our noses into other people’s business. It was me who encouraged you to have your fortune told. Selfish of me, and self-indulgent. I’m the guilty one. Not you.’
Martha dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. ‘I don’t mean to make a fuss.’
There was a long pause as Rachel savoured her whisky. ‘You’re not. We’ve said everything that needs to be said. What matters now is what we do next. There’s more to this case than meets Inspector Young’s eye. I hoped Bellamy might give us a lead about whatever is going on in Hemlock Bay. I thought he’d stumbled across something, perhaps without realising exactly what it was.’
‘You didn’t expect him to be murdered?’ Jacob asked.
‘If I had,’ she said patiently, ‘I’d have given you fair warning.’
‘So what do you make of it? Was he killed on the spur of the moment?’
‘The fact the killer didn’t bring a weapon suggests the answer is yes. On the other hand, if it was someone familiar with the inside of the hut, they’d know the crystal ball would make a handy weapon.’
‘So you think Winnie Lescott is the likely culprit?’
‘I’d be surprised if she turns out to be the killer.’
‘You would?’ Martha’s shoulders slumped.
Rachel turned to Jacob. ‘Do you know if anyone else who works at Paradise has gone missing?’
‘No idea. There was a lot of confusion after word got round that Bellamy had been murdered. Why do you ask?’
‘Think back to your meeting with him. And remember what happened when Martha visited Paradise.’
Martha blurted out, ‘I don’t understand.’
Rachel flicked a stray hair out of her eye. ‘Don’t worry, it may be a complete red herring. What still fascinates me is that yarn Bellamy spun about the premonition.’
‘I don’t believe he ever had a premonition,’ Jacob said.
‘Certainly he lied to you, but I think there is something in the farrago about the body on the rocks that explains why he was murdered. It’s so frustrating. At present, I can’t see the wood for the trees.’ She put her tumbler down on a side table before adding quietly, ‘But believe me, I will.’
Hetty drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair.
‘There’s something rotten in Hemlock Bay,’ she pronounced.
‘It’s one of the prettiest resorts I’ve ever seen,’ Jacob protested. ‘Bellamy’s murder doesn’t change that.’
‘On the surface it’s lovely, I grant you. But what lies beneath?’
Rachel nodded. ‘Good question. The Jacksons are understandably proud of everything they’ve achieved. Yet I sense a lurking sadness. They mask it well, but my impression is that they are surprisingly insecure.’
‘Don’t tell me they’re strapped for cash.’ Jacob couldn’t hide his lack of sympathy.
‘The economic crisis has affected them, like almost everyone else.’
Except you, Jacob was tempted to retort. Instead, he said, ‘But?’
‘They are strong, intelligent people, but personal misfortunes have dented their confidence. Not so long ago, I suspect it was almost invincible. Now it’s as if they’re tormented by a sense of doom. They are fighting against it, but are terrified of being overwhelmed.’
‘What makes you think that?’
Trueman refilled Jacob’s glass, but Rachel covered hers. It took her less than five minutes to give a concise but comprehensive account of her evening at Hemlock Hall.
Jacob shook his head in wonder. A smile spread across his face. ‘Incredible!’
Rachel stared at him. ‘What is?’
‘Sir Harold and Lady Jackson are nudists! A knight of the realm in the altogether! Who would have guessed?’
Trueman shifted in his chair. Hetty’s brows knitted. For a moment nobody spoke. Suddenly Jacob felt cold, as if someone had opened the door and an Arctic gale had blown through the bungalow.
‘You will treat everything said between these four walls as under the seal of the confessional?’ Rachel asked pleasantly.
Jacob swallowed. ‘Of course, of course.’
Her smile vanished. For a moment her bleak and uncompromising expression made him think of a hangman contemplating the gallows.
‘I have your promise? I wouldn’t wish there to be any misunderstanding.’
‘Absolutely, no… no need to ask the question.’ He was almost stammering. ‘I definitely won’t breathe a word about it in the Clarion.’
‘Or to anyone else outside this room?’
‘Never,’ he said fervently. ‘You can trust me.’
‘Thank you.’ Rachel leaned back in her chair. ‘I’m sure I can.’
He gulped down the last of his whisky. Trueman offered a top-up, but he shook his head. He felt dizzy, as if he’d clung on to a cliff face and clambered back to safety after risking a plunge into an abyss.
Taking a breath, he said, ‘What did you learn from the Jacksons?’
‘Plenty, but there’s an anomaly which I need to check. I agree with Hetty. There’s something wrong here.’ She allowed herself a faint smile. ‘That’s why I mentioned Humbug Billy.’
‘Who was he?’
‘A stall-holder in Bradford market, back in the 1850s. His real name was William Hardaker, and he sold sweets. His peppermint humbugs were especially popular. In those days, sugar was an expensive luxury, so the humbugs were flavoured with a tasty white powder, delightfully known as daft. Due to a catastrophic mix-up, arsenic was used instead of daft. At least twenty people died and hundreds fell sick. Humbug Billy himself was paralysed.’
‘Fascinating, but what has this got to do with Hemlock Bay?’
A dreamy look came into her eyes. ‘Don’t you see? The humbugs were harmless until the arsenic was added. A pleasant sweet acquired a curious taste. A little treat became deadly. The question is this. What is the lethal ingredient that has poisoned the delights of Hemlock Bay?’
He’d lost the thread. ‘You tell me.’
‘My best guess is that he’s called Louis Carson.’