‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Trueman said.
With lunchtime over, he had repaired to the American Bar with Rachel and Jacob. They had the place to themselves. The barman had tired of polishing glasses and retreated to a back room. Everyone else was out seeking the sun. Or Clarion Charlie. Or both.
‘How sick was McAtee when you met him in the pub?’ Jacob asked.
‘Hard to say. He’s the sort who thinks it’s unmanly to admit to feeling off colour. With hindsight, he did look seedy. Pasty-faced and sweating a bit. He rubbed his stomach, as if he had a pain in his guts. He probably put it down to a bout of holiday indigestion. Overindulging in booze and rich food.’
‘That doesn’t usually land you in hospital. Let alone leave you fighting for survival.’ Jacob turned to Rachel. ‘Looks like he’s been poisoned.’
She nodded. ‘People can be poisoned accidentally, of course. Even in Hemlock Bay.’
‘Hemlock!’ Jacob exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t I think of that before? Do his symptoms suggest that he’s taken hemlock?’
A dreamy look came into Rachel’s eyes. ‘The late Judge Savernake had an extraordinary library, one of the finest in private hands. I studied accounts of famous trials and books about murder by every method known to man. Poison was a favourite of mine. I devoured Alfred Swaine Taylor’s textbooks like other children read penny dreadfuls.’
‘Nothing beats a misspent youth,’ Jacob said. ‘What’s your diagnosis?’
Rachel pursed her lips. ‘The symptoms Trueman noticed might be due to a wide variety of causes.’
When he had a bright idea, Jacob was like a dog with a bone. ‘Including hemlock poisoning?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Likely, don’t you mean? Hemlock grows around here like a weed.’
‘That begs the question. McAtee had his wits about him. He wouldn’t consume a fatal dose of hemlock by mistake.’
‘Didn’t strike me as the suicidal type, either,’ Trueman growled.
‘No. Deadly poisons affect people in different ways but, even if someone else administered poison to him, his condition has worsened more gradually than you’d expect if he’d consumed a significant amount of hemlock.’
‘Palmer pretended to be a doctor. What if he dosed McAtee with something supposedly medicinal—’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Rachel interrupted. ‘Palmer went out of his way to emphasise that he was long retired and unable to offer any medical advice, never mind prescribe a dangerous toxin. Leaving that aside, there are other questions. Why would he do such a thing and when would he have the opportunity?’
‘Just drawing a bow at a venture.’ Jacob tutted. ‘Surely you can’t believe McAtee’s illness has nothing to do with everything else that’s happening here?’
Rachel was pensive. ‘If I wanted to be fanciful, I’d say his sickness is a metaphor for everything that’s gone wrong in Hemlock Bay.’
Jacob’s brow furrowed. ‘You mean there’s a curse on the place?’
‘Conjuring up a newspaper headline, Jacob? No, by all accounts everything here was sweetness and light until a few months ago. All the calamities have occurred since the Carsons arrived. I can’t believe it’s a coincidence.’
‘Oakes told us they have alibis for Bellamy’s murder. What’s more, they seem to have been here in the hotel again yesterday afternoon, when Palmer died.’
‘I don’t dispute any of that,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m not saying they have murdered anyone. Pearl Carson swears she had no idea of Palmer’s deception, and I believe her. But even if she’s innocent, I’m convinced all this mayhem has some connection with her husband.’
‘Can’t imagine why.’ He was about to tease her about losing her touch, but a glance at Trueman’s expression made him reconsider. ‘Anyhow, this area has a long history of rum goings-on. Remember Mermaid’s Grave! Think of all those poor souls who were shipwrecked on the rocks, before the lighthouse was built. While they drowned in the briny, the rascally shepherds and farm folk of Hemlock Bay were scuttling off with the contraband.’
Rachel looked at him. ‘You’re absolutely right.’
He hadn’t expected that. ‘You agree?’
‘Of course, Jacob.’ She laughed, her mood transformed in an instant. ‘If you will keep hammering nails, every now and then you’re bound to hit one on the head.’
‘Ouch.’
‘No need to look hurt.’ She sprang to her feet. ‘As a sounding board, you’re invaluable.’
‘Glad to be of service,’ he muttered, but she was already racing for the door.
*
In the hottest hour of the day, Rachel strode along Beggarman’s Lane as purposefully as a soldier on a quick march. Her mood was exuberant. This was the sensation she craved above all others, the knowledge that she was on the brink of solving a knotty puzzle. A physical thrill of pleasure coursed through her body. For too long, she’d kept turning down blind alleys. Finally she was confident that she was on the right track.
She broke her stride as Mrs Stones approached from the other direction, head bowed, shopping bag in hand. A stroke of luck, Rachel told herself.
‘My dear Mrs Stones,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
The older woman mopped sweat off her brow. ‘I had to get out of doors. I couldn’t stop thinking about… that awful stench of gas.’
‘You’ll feel better after a nice cup of tea and a cake,’ Rachel said.
‘I just can’t forget what’s happened,’ Mrs Stones said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Put me right off my lunch, it did.’
‘I’m not surprised. You need to relax, take some care of yourself. Once you’ve got some tea inside you, why not sit in Shore Gardens and feed the ducks in the pond or look out at the sea? An hour’s rest will do you a world of good. It’s the very least you deserve, after everything you’ve been through.’
‘I’ve never…’ Mrs Stones began, but Rachel had already given her an encouraging wave and set off again.
At Bay View, she found Martha and Hetty lazing in deckchairs and browsing through the latest issues of Woman and Home and Film Weekly respectively.
‘Any luck with the keys to Shepherd’s Cottage?’ she asked.
Hetty nodded. ‘Mrs Stones put them down on the kitchen table when I brought her here before we went to End Terrace. I slipped the tea caddy over them. She was in so much of a dither, she didn’t even notice she hadn’t picked them up again. I’ve taken impressions in a bar of soap, in case she remembers before you’ve made any use of them.’
‘Wonderful. We’ll make a criminal of you yet.’
Hetty gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘The things I do for you.’
‘You’re indispensable, we all know that.’
‘You never said why you might want to sneak into the cottage.’
‘Because I didn’t know. Palmer’s suicide caught me off guard. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’
‘But now you’ve had one of your ideas.’
‘Long overdue, but yes.’ Rachel turned to Martha. ‘The constable keeping watch over Shepherd’s Cottage looks like a callow youth. He must be bored stiff, having so little to do on such a warm afternoon. It’s not as if anyone is likely to break in.’
Martha looked at her. ‘Except you?’
Rachel smiled. ‘This morning I caught him giving you a surreptitious glance when he thought you weren’t looking.’
‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘You trust me on everything else, why won’t you believe me when I assure you that red-blooded young men go weak at the knees at the sight of you?’
‘She’s always been too modest for her own good,’ Hetty said.
‘Exactly. If you happen to go out for a walk and bump into him, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled if you stop for a word.’
‘He didn’t look like a sparkling conversationalist,’ Martha said.
‘Don’t judge by appearances. Who knows, he may pluck up the courage to ask you out to the pictures.’ Rachel smiled. ‘If he’s a dull dog, well, you only need to distract him for a quarter of an hour. Give me a start of ten minutes. I need to call at End Terrace first.’
‘You’re onto something, aren’t you?’
‘Am I so transparent?’
‘When you’re in this kind of humour, yes.’ Martha smiled. ‘All right. Ten minutes?’
‘Perfect, thank you.’
With a quick wave, Rachel was on her way again, pausing only to collect the keys and a small Eveready torch from the kitchen. She gave the constable a brisk nod when he saluted her outside Palmer’s cottage. He looked at her with undisguised interest, but she didn’t say a word. His luck would turn when Martha came along.
She continued along the lane until she reached End Terrace. With Mrs Stones safely out of the way, she gave a perfunctory knock on the front door before slipping around the side of the house into the rear garden. Picking up a pebble, she lobbed it into the old well.
There was no splash.
A smile played on Rachel’s lips. Even on a lovely summer’s day, the interior of the well was dark. She shone the torch into the opening and peered down.
As she’d anticipated, it wasn’t really a well at all. Iron grips had been driven into the rocky sides at intervals. Twenty feet down, she saw an entrance that looked like an underground passageway.
Two minutes later she was back on the lane. This time she followed the path leading to the cliff before diverting towards Shepherd’s Cottage. There was no one around, but a prickling at the back of her neck told her that someone up at the top of the lighthouse was watching.
So be it.
There was a gate in the low privet hedge separating the cottage garden from the grassland. Rachel entered the little garden and hurried to the back door. It was out of the line of sight from the lantern room. She let herself in and found herself in a passageway connecting the kitchen with a wash house.
The police had left the kitchen door open and the smell of gas was nothing more than a nauseating memory. The smashed glass had been tidied and a board propped up on the window seat as an inadequate cover for the gaping hole Trueman had made when breaking in.
The music of Martha’s laughter filtered into the kitchen. She and the constable were getting acquainted outside the front door. Rachel had watched her friend’s confidence grow in leaps and bounds ever since they’d arrived in London. The self-doubt that had plagued her ever since the acid attack surfaced every now and then, but absorbing herself in the mysteries that fascinated Rachel had done her morale far more good than any help a psychiatrist could offer.
Getting down on her hands and knees, Rachel examined the stone flags of the kitchen floor. Oakes was right; none of them had been moved since the day they were laid. She took another look up the chimney, and confirmed that there was no underground access to the fireplace.
She stood up and dusted herself down before prowling around the room, testing every surface. There was no give anywhere but when she ran her hand beneath the lip of the window seat, her fingers touched something. Dropping to her knees she saw a simple catch concealed within a tiny recess. She flicked off the catch, and lifted up the top of the window seat.
The space below was ten feet deep. Trueman might struggle to squeeze in there, but anyone smaller could manage. Again, there were iron grips to enable the occupant of the cottage to climb below.
Rachel’s spine tingled. Her hunch had been vindicated. Shepherd’s Cottage was connected to the old network of smugglers’ tunnels.