‘Warmest day of the year so far!’ Jacob said cheerily. ‘God’s in his heaven, and all’s well with the world.’
‘Give or take the occasional violent death,’ Rachel murmured.
The sun was beating down as they strolled into the resort together with Trueman. Salt seasoned the fresh air and even the squeals of the seagulls sounded like a catchy melody rather than a litany of complaints. Shore Gardens blazed with colour. Butterflies flitted from flower to flower, bees hummed smugly, and small children raced around the paths, whooping with excitement and spilling ice cream from their cornets.
Shading his eyes from the glare, Jacob scanned the crowded beach and the swimmers splashing through dappled water. ‘Bellamy’s murder hasn’t deterred people from coming to Hemlock Bay.’
Trueman followed his gaze. ‘No sign of the reflex man or his stall.’
‘Lying low,’ Rachel said.
‘On a day like today?’ Jacob shook his head. ‘Doesn’t make sense. The visitors are out in droves. If he was snapping away on the promenade, he’d do a roaring trade.’
‘Maybe he’s meeting up with his chum Laurie,’ Trueman said. ‘I’ll nip round to the Mermaid and have a look.’
‘Keep an eye out for Joseph McAtee,’ Rachel said. ‘I’d love to know what brought him here. I’d also like to hear what he makes of Bellamy’s murder.’
‘Will do. Though you may have a better chance of spotting him in the hotel. He is staying there, after all.’
She gave a brisk nod of assent and he strode across the esplanade without another word. Jacob pointed to the promenade, where a news vendor with a Woodbine in his mouth was leaning against a large placard which bore the masthead of his newspaper.
Can YOU spot Clarion Charlie?
‘Looks like this morning’s edition has almost sold out,’ he said with undisguised jubilation. ‘I’d better make the most of the sunshine. Once word gets out that Bellamy’s murderer has been found dead, Gomersall will tell me to pack my bags and get back to London. Not to worry, I don’t envy Bob Harley his job. Who wants to be a Mystery Man?’
‘Palmer did,’ Rachel said, as Jacob bought the vendor’s last copy. ‘I wonder why. So you agree with Virginia’s solution to the puzzle?’
‘There are a few loose ends,’ Jacob said judiciously, folding the paper and putting it under his arm. ‘Palmer’s death does feel like a bit of an anticlimax.’
Rachel tutted. ‘Not for him.’
‘You know what I mean. I’ve been spoiled by the high melodrama of places like Mortmain Hall and Blackstone Fell. I think your artist friend is right. Palmer killed Bellamy in an inexplicable moment of madness, and couldn’t cope with the guilt. If the gas oven seemed like the only way out, he must have been in a dreadful depression. Doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘We must think about it if we’re to make sense of everything that’s happened. As for loose ends, there are more than you’d find in a heap of spaghetti.’ Rachel heaved a sigh. ‘Much as I like spaghetti, this case has a sour taste.’
‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the meaning of Bellamy’s mysterious premonition. Perhaps we should take it at face value? Maybe he really did believe he could look into the future.’
‘Last night I thought I’d worked out a viable explanation,’ Rachel said, ‘but Palmer’s suicide suggests I was on the wrong track.’
‘Care to share your thinking?’
She shook her head. ‘If Palmer was driven to take his own life because he couldn’t cope with a tormented conscience after murdering Bellamy, then I was miles off the mark. Even if someone else was responsible for Palmer’s death…’
‘You sound doubtful.’
‘For the very good reason that, right now, I fail to see how anyone could have entered Shepherd’s Cottage and then murdered Palmer and arranged matters to make it look as if he’d killed himself, before getting away from the scene of the crime without leaving any trace. Unless I’ve missed something, the inevitable conclusion is that nobody did anything of the sort, and Palmer’s death is what it seems. A self-inflicted tragedy.’
A Tin Lizzie thundered past them and they watched it swing abruptly to the right, narrowly missing a stone pillar as it jolted into the car park of the Hemlock Hotel.
‘The local police,’ Rachel said. ‘The sergeant’s driving reminds me of Inspector Young’s detective work. Full of vim, but not quite as reliable as he’d like to believe. Come on, Jacob. Shall we see if the inspector has cracked the mystery of the locked kitchen?’
Jacob made a derisive noise. ‘He’s sure to have made a meal of it.’
*
‘Inspector Oakes is in the smoking room.’ The chief receptionist was a woman whose austere manner seemed to Jacob better suited to the Dorchester or Ritz than a seaside hotel. Not that he’d ever stayed in the Dorchester or Ritz. ‘He’s in conference with colleagues and has given strict instructions that he is not to be disturbed.’
‘Fair enough,’ Jacob said. ‘We’ll wait.’
‘As you wish.’
The woman wrinkled her nose. She and Jacob hadn’t hit it off from the moment he’d registered on arrival and dripped all over her polished rosewood counter. Discovering that he worked for the Clarion hadn’t helped. She’d made no bones about telling him she never read anything but the Daily Telegraph, and regarded newspapers whose front pages favoured bold headlines and even bolder photographs as no better than children’s comics.
Jacob and Rachel stationed themselves in armchairs commanding a view of the lobby and lifts. Rachel was hoping to spot Joseph McAtee. Jacob, a firm believer in the principle that it pays to advertise, was content to hold the Clarion open in front of him while he read his horoscope.
‘What do the stars foretell?’ Rachel murmured.
‘Some changes will come into your life,’ Jacob read aloud. ‘However, this will not take you by surprise, since they will have been of your own making.’
‘Such insight.’
‘I hope he doesn’t mean the bloke from the Witness is plotting to murder me. Can you guess what Fate has in store for you?’
‘Break it to me gently.’
‘If there is any way you can persuade others that your ideas are realistic, start working on them now. Someone is reluctant to agree with you and this is frustrating. Do not lose heart. You will gradually break down their defences.’
‘Wise words, I’ll keep them in mind. Ah, here comes Inspector Young.’
As the inspector, accompanied by his own sergeant and Wagstaffe, bustled out of the smoking room, he caught sight of Rachel and the Clarion concealing Jacob’s face. The headlines made him wince, but he managed a weak smile for Rachel’s benefit.
‘Good day to you, Miss Savernake. I trust you’ve recovered from your shocking experience at Shepherd’s Cottage?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said meekly. ‘That poor man. I suppose…’
Young considered her. ‘I gather you and Inspector Oakes have met before? It’s obvious he holds you in high regard. You’re something of an amateur criminologist, I understand.’
‘A dabbler,’ she murmured. ‘Human nature is so extraordinary, don’t you think? The psychology of murder I find irresistibly fascinating. What impulse drives a seemingly decent person to commit a terrible crime?’
‘Yes, well, I’m sure that’s all very interesting. Unfortunately, I have to concentrate on hard facts and evidence I can bring before a court. At least we can be confident that this sorry state of affairs has come to a conclusion. The good folk of Hemlock Bay can get back to life as usual.’
‘You’re satisfied that Mr Palmer died by his own hand?’
‘While the balance of his mind was disturbed, as the inquest will no doubt conclude. What exactly Bellamy did to provoke him isn’t quite clear, but he obviously wasn’t thinking straight. In any case, establishing motive isn’t the be-all and end-all. The case is cut and dried. I’ve had a word with Inspector Oakes, of course, as a matter of courtesy. You’ll be glad to hear that he’s of the same mind as me.’ He threw a triumphant glance at Jacob, or rather the Clarion. ‘A bad business, but at least we’ve been saved the palaver and expense of a trial.’
‘And justice has been done?’
‘Rough justice, perhaps, Miss Savernake. But justice nevertheless.’ He gave her a brisk nod of farewell. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I must call on the coroner.’
As he made his way through the revolving doors, Jacob lowered his newspaper. ‘Cut and dried,’ he said. ‘Makes a change from open and shut, I suppose.’
‘Yes, Inspector Young is probably a real bloodhound when it comes to solving bicycle thefts, but with serious crimes, he has the opposite of a Midas touch. He’s so confident this is a case of murder followed by suicide that I’m strongly tempted to revise my own opinions about what happened in Shepherd’s Cottage.’
‘You still face the same stumbling block. How could anyone have murdered Palmer?’
‘Unfortunately, I’ve no idea. First things first. Let’s consult the oracle. Or at least Scotland Yard.’
*
‘You’re satisfied that Palmer took his own life?’ Rachel asked.
Inspector Oakes exhaled. He’d invited them to join him in the smoking room and rung for coffee and sandwiches. They were sitting around a small circular table on which lay a buff document folder.
‘Frankly, I don’t see any alternative explanation that stands up to scrutiny.’
‘You searched the cottage?’
He shifted in his chair. ‘As you know, I had a quick squint, but this is Young’s bailiwick. After the Winnie Lescott debacle, I’d prefer not to tread on his toes unless absolutely necessary. In fairness, he’s just given me a detailed report.’
‘Oh really?’
Philip Oakes settled his gaze on Jacob. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can say to the press at present. It’s a matter of protocol. You’ll understand how important it is to observe the niceties.’
‘Absolutely right,’ Jacob said fervently. ‘Please don’t worry about me. My lips are sealed, my hand is stilled. And I’ve lost my pen.’
He threw Rachel a wary glance. She responded with a smile that verged on maternal.
‘You’ve already gathered enough sensational material today to fill the whole of tomorrow’s Clarion. Besides, Inspector Oakes knows he can rely on your integrity.’ There was a faint tinge of menace in her tone. ‘And so do I.’
‘Understood,’ Jacob said quickly. ‘Imagine I’m not here.’
‘I’ll do that with pleasure,’ Oakes said. ‘Very well. I’m speaking entirely off the record?’
Rachel nodded. ‘This is extremely good of you. I do appreciate it.’
There was a knock on the door and a waitress came in with their refreshments. When she’d made herself scarce, Jacob stirred sugar into his coffee, reflecting moodily that the detective wouldn’t dream of granting such a favour to anyone other than Rachel. Beneath that smoothly professional exterior, Oakes was undoubtedly as dazzled by Rachel as… well, as Jacob himself.
The inspector cleared his throat. ‘Let me take things in order. First, the scene. As you know, the door to the kitchen was locked. What is more, the key was in the lock, meaning that no one could have opened it from the passageway. Your statement makes clear, Miss… Rachel, that the window was closed prior to Trueman breaking in, and it’s hard to see how anyone could have prised it open from the outside.’
‘Yes, I did wonder if someone got out that way, shutting the window behind them, but I can’t see how it could be managed.’
Oakes nodded. ‘If there was any jiggery-pokery, I’d expect to see scuffing around the window frame, but there was none. The same is true of the door.’
‘Locked doors can be opened by surreptitious means,’ Rachel said.
‘In theory, but I saw no sign of that at Shepherd’s Cottage. Nor did Young, and his examination was less cursory than mine. The stone flags of the floor appear not to have moved since the day the cottage was built. The ceiling is solid. Above the kitchen is a lumber room which was also kept locked. The interior is full of cobwebs, as if nobody’s been inside for years. Mrs Stones never bothered to clean it.’
Rachel drank some coffee. ‘There’s a fireplace in the kitchen.’
‘At my request, Inspector Young told Sergeant Hamilton to investigate it thoroughly. They are convinced that it would be impossible for anyone to escape up the chimney. The sergeant’s build is as slender as mine, which is why he had to get himself covered in soot, rather than the constable. He says he’d have got completely stuck if he’d tried to climb up any further.’
‘What about fingerprints?’
‘A check has been made, with particular emphasis on every surface in the kitchen. There are plenty of prints which appear to belong to the dead man and Mrs Stones. As you’d expect, there are also a few blurred patches, but nothing out of the ordinary. There’s precious little else to say about the physical evidence.’
‘Did they find anything else which suggests Palmer took his own life?’
‘Yes, although most of the evidence is circumstantial.’
‘For example?’
‘Palmer kept a diary. It was on his bookshelf in the living room.’
‘So he was a keen reader?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. Apart from well-thumbed copies of Rob Roy and David Copperfield, there was an ancient copy of Gray’s Anatomy, presumably there just as window dressing, a handful of musty accounting ledgers going back years, and the diary.’
Rachel put down her cup. ‘Tell me about the diary.’
‘Not much to tell. It’s a leather-bound journal, with his name and a home address in Guildford tucked away at the back. Hardly a treasure trove of helpful detail. The whole book only contains half a dozen scattered entries, and all of them relate in some way to his late wife. For example, he writes a line or two about her on her birthday, their wedding anniversary, and the anniversary of the day they first met. No question, the man was besotted with her. From the photographs in the cottage, she was undoubtedly attractive and her early death seems to have left the poor devil beside himself with grief.’
‘What does he say about Bellamy?’
‘Bellamy’s name never appears.’
‘Hemlock Bay?’
‘Hardly gets a mention. He jotted down the address and telephone number of the property agent who acts for Sir Harold Jackson, but that’s about all.’
‘There’s no possibility that the diary entries were in some form of code or cipher?’
Oakes stared at her. ‘The idea never crossed my mind. But I’d need a great deal of persuading that was the case. The wording of the sporadic entries doesn’t seem contrived. Palmer just scribbled a few words, every now and then. Perhaps he found it therapeutic. As far as I can tell, he dwelt in the past, not the present. As if his life ended when his wife died.’
‘What do we know about her death?’
‘Wagstaffe has done some quick work. His enquiries have already yielded a good deal of interesting information. Above all, the fact that the poor woman was murdered by a love-crazed admirer.’
Jacob, who had been bursting to speak for several minutes, could no longer restrain himself.
‘Gareth Bellamy?’
Oakes turned to him and said quietly, ‘I’m still imagining you’re not here.’
For once in his life, Jacob looked abashed. He bit savagely into a ham and mustard sandwich before subsiding into silence.
‘Alicia Palmer,’ the inspector said, ‘was shot by one of her husband’s clients, an unsuccessful barrister and even less successful part-time publisher called Neville Carrington. Carrington was married to a wealthy older woman, but Mrs Palmer was a regular visitor to his room in chambers in the Temple.’
‘Were they lovers?’ Rachel asked.
‘So it seems, but they must have had an almighty bust-up. Having shot her, Carrington promptly ran out of the house and fell under the wheels of a passing car. He died of his injuries.’
‘A double tragedy,’ Rachel said thoughtfully. ‘There’s no connection between Carrington and Hemlock Bay?’
‘Nothing known at present.’
‘What about the widow, Mrs Carrington?’
‘A wealthy woman in her own right. The scandal must have been bruising for her. After the inquest she decamped to Monaco. There may be more to the case, of course, and we’ll do our best to dig deeper. So far, it looks like a straightforward story of two lives destroyed for no good reason.’
‘Not counting Palmer’s own life,’ Rachel said.
‘Yes, and that brings me to the most compelling piece of evidence of all. The note found beneath his body.’
Oakes opened the buff folder and took out a sheet of notepaper. It was very creased and appeared to have been screwed up prior to being straightened out again. He laid the sheet face up on the table and watched as they craned their necks to read the scrawled words.
I am responsible for the fortune teller, so it is only right that I should pay the price.
Basil Palmer