Rachel’s work at Shepherd’s Cottage wasn’t finished. She moved from the kitchen to the parlour at the front of the house. The curtains had been drawn as a mark of respect for the dead, which was fortunate, given that Martha and the young constable were standing outside the window.
Martha gave a throaty laugh in response to some risqué remark. Rachel should have enough time to find what she was after. Even though she wasn’t quite sure exactly what she was looking for.
There was a bookcase with three shelves. As well as the books Oakes had mentioned, she saw the Bible, a complete Shakespeare, a copy of Jane Eyre and an old book about the history of Morecambe. On the bottom shelf stood a row of old leather-bound accounting ledgers, with dates on their spines. The first was marked Financial Year 1919–20. Rachel plucked it from the shelf and leafed through it quickly.
The clerk who had written up the records had a neat, easily legible hand. The entries began on 6 April, the start of the tax year. They related to the business of Palmer’s accounting firm. To Rachel’s irritation, they appeared to be exactly what they seemed. She was a fast reader and on a quick skim she spotted nothing untoward. Even the travel expenses didn’t seem to be inflated.
At the back of the ledger were several blank pages. A wild thought occurred to her. Might something be written there in invisible ink? She’d need a bag of some kind to carry all the ledgers back to Bay View for detailed examination if she couldn’t find anything soon.
She leafed through the second journal, paying particular attention to the blank pages at the back. Nothing caught her eye. The same was true of the third book.
With the fourth, she flicked straight to the end of the tax year. Persistence earned its reward. On the first page after the final entry for 5 April 1923 was a mass of closely written text which looked like some kind of diary.
The handwriting was different and she had no doubt that it was the work of Basil Palmer himself. He’d taken an old office ledger, no longer relevant as regards the Inland Revenue, and made use of the space at the back to set down his private thoughts. No doubt he’d reasoned that the chances of anyone bothering to pore through the minutiae of his firm’s historic finances were negligible. Working on the old principle, Rachel thought, of how to hide a leaf. In a forest, of course.
She only needed to read the first line to know that she’d discovered exactly what she’d hoped for.
My New Year’s resolution is to murder a man I’ve never met.
*
Brisk and decisive as ever, Rachel left the cottage by the way she’d entered, locking the back door again after her. The ledger containing Basil Palmer’s private journal was tucked under her arm. She didn’t care about leaving fingerprints. The police would hear from her soon enough. But first things first. She had no intention of missing her appointment to sit as a model for Virginia Penrhos.
She took the clifftop path rather than the lane. They’d arranged to meet at four, and that was still twenty minutes away, but as she approached the lighthouse, Virginia came out and waved.
‘I watched you going up to Shepherd’s Cottage.’ The older woman was in her paint-smeared smock. ‘I was so curious, I couldn’t concentrate on my work. Your maid was passing the time of day with that young policeman outside the front door. I lost sight of you once you went round the side of the building. Did you actually go inside?’
‘Yes,’ Rachel said insouciantly. ‘Trespassing, I suppose, but I needed to take another look around.’
‘Really?’ Virginia’s brows knitted. ‘May I ask why?’
‘Of course you may, Ginny.’ Rachel looked her in the eye. ‘I don’t believe that Basil Palmer committed suicide.’
‘Good grief! Are you serious?’
‘Never more so.’
‘I can’t make any sense of it. You’re suggesting that he was murdered?’
‘I’m certain of it.’
‘But… I mean, as I told you, I didn’t see anyone going to the cottage yesterday afternoon.’ A shadow crossed her face. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that…?’
‘Oh, I believe you,’ Rachel said. ‘Basil Palmer was involved with something that doesn’t concern you at all. Or Ffion, for that matter.’
Virginia’s mystification was obviously unfeigned. ‘I can’t pretend to understand.’
Rachel held the accounting ledger aloft. ‘You don’t need to. I think there will be enough information in this book to explain the poor man’s death.’
Virginia shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, my dear girl, you’re talking in riddles. I’m completely lost.’
‘There have been plenty of strange goings-on in Hemlock Bay and I’m happy to discuss one or two of my ideas while you paint. If you don’t mind talking while you work, that is?’
Virginia stared at her. ‘You’re an extraordinary young woman.’
‘Please forgive me, I’m in danger of getting overexcited. As I told you, I’ve never modelled for an artist before.’
‘What I mean is, there’s a great deal more to you than meets the eye.’
‘Perhaps your painting will uncover it.’
Virginia laughed. ‘I wonder. Would you like to sit outside? It’s such a lovely day. My smaller easel is downstairs. Let’s fetch it out and two canvas chairs. We can talk as I paint.’
*
Five minutes later, they were sitting out on the headland. Rachel had her back to the sea, a few yards from the edge of the cliff, close to Mermaid’s Grave. Basil Palmer’s ledger rested on her knees, open at the first entries. Virginia sat facing her, paintbrush in hand.
For a little while, neither of them spoke. Virginia worked quickly, while Rachel studied the journal until she was ready to break the silence.
‘How is Ffion today?’ she asked.
‘Still under the weather,’ Virginia said.
‘I hope she doesn’t mind my posing for you.’
Virginia’s brush sketched a dismissive gesture. ‘I paint whom and what I like, my dear Rachel. An artist can’t trouble herself with the whims of others.’
‘But if she objects…’
‘Ffion is a dear in many respects, but she’s also a fragile creature. Dreadfully fragile. The shock of… recent events has hit her extremely hard.’
‘I suppose anyone might be upset when a neighbour dies suddenly,’ Rachel said calmly, ‘but why has she been so badly affected?’
‘It’s not simply a matter of the death of Dr Doyle, or Palmer, whatever his real name is. The man who told our fortune was brutally murdered, remember.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Rachel said crisply.
Virginia paused for a moment before resuming work on the picture. Rachel concentrated on the diary. At one point a middle-aged couple who were following the clifftop path took an interest in what was going on and came over to speak to them.
‘We’re searching for Clarion Charlie,’ the husband said in a broad Yorkshire accent.
‘There’s a jolly good prize for the first one to find him,’ his wife added eagerly.
‘You won’t find him here,’ Virginia said curtly, without pausing in her brushwork.
The husband looked at the canvas, then at Rachel, then back again at the work-in-progress. He shook his head sorrowfully and led his wife away without another word.
Rachel stretched languidly. She was relishing the experience of sitting for an artist. This felt like a brief respite from the darkness of murder. She was acutely aware that what she had discovered would destroy several lives. Not everyone affected was, in her eyes, equally deserving of their fate. Her idea of justice didn’t coincide with what the law of the land prescribed.
Virginia’s concentration had been disturbed by the interruption. She made a disgruntled noise before stepping back and peering at the canvas.
‘Hopeless,’ she muttered under her breath.
Rachel’s hearing was sharp enough to catch what she said. ‘Isn’t that the nature of creativity? The artist must keep pushing herself to achieve perfection, even though she knows it’s unattainable?’
Virginia’s expression was bleak. ‘Everything I’ve produced in my life was a masterpiece until I started work on it. I spend a long time thinking about what I’m aiming for – I’ve done the same with this painting of you – before I start. I’ve learned from bitter experience that the longer I take to execute the idea, the further the result will be from what I hoped for. That’s why I work fast. But from the first brushstroke, everything goes rapidly downhill.’
‘I love Hemlock Bay.’
‘Thank you, dear girl.’
‘I’m curious about how you could bear to part with it.’
There was a long pause. ‘You’re right. It’s one of the few pieces where I came vaguely close to achieving what I set out to do. And yes, it was a wrench to let it go.’
‘So why did you?’
Virginia gave her a sharp look. ‘An artist cannot live on praise alone.’
‘My understanding,’ Rachel said gently, ‘is that you’re very far from destitute. I paid a fair price for Hemlock Bay, but after the dealer took his commission, I doubt the money can have made any meaningful difference to you.’
Virginia pushed a hand through her straggly hair. ‘When we first met, I thought you were a simple young thing. A gushing ingénue, if you will pardon my candour. I was mistaken, wasn’t I?’
Rachel nodded. ‘I was keen to make your acquaintance, so I will admit that I wasn’t entirely frank.’
‘You knew I’d come to live in Hemlock Bay?’
‘Yes. Several distinct snippets of information came to my attention at around the same time that made me curious about the place.’
‘And now,’ Virginia said drily, ‘the resort’s misfortunes are headline news from Land’s End to John o’Groats.’
‘True.’
‘What are you, Miss Savernake? You’re not connected with the police, and yet you behave…’
‘I’m a nosey parker,’ Rachel said lightly. ‘Mysteries fascinate me. That’s common enough. But where other people are content to borrow detective novels from the library or read the latest sensation in the popular press, I take a more… personal interest.’
‘But you came here before Bellamy was killed. Let alone the other fellow.’
Rachel breathed out. ‘Let me take you into my confidence.’
Virginia gave her a cold stare. ‘Please do. I think it’s about time.’
‘If you hear me out, you’ll understand why I was… diffident about speaking bluntly until now.’
‘Go on.’
‘My friend Jacob Flint is a journalist with the Clarion. He’s a crime reporter and a short time ago a visitor called at his office in London. Gareth Bellamy.’
Virginia’s eyes opened very wide. ‘Good Lord.’
‘Bellamy claimed to have had a premonition about murder.’
‘What?’
Rachel outlined the story, keeping a close watch on the other woman as she did so, but Virginia’s face was a mask.
‘Extraordinary, don’t you think?’
‘Very,’ Virginia muttered. ‘Of course, the man was a charlatan. You simply couldn’t believe a word he said.’
‘Jacob thought there was something very odd going on. Bellamy’s story raised more questions than answers.’ Rachel ticked the points off on her fingers. ‘First, why did he take so much trouble to write to Jacob and then call on him in Fleet Street, without waiting to see if Jacob would be interested in what he had to say? Second, when Jacob promised to take the matter up with his editor, why was Bellamy less than enthusiastic? Third, was it mere coincidence that he talked about someone being thrown over the cliffs and you’d painted a picture of a body on the rocks of Mermaid’s Grave?’
‘I’ve already told you,’ Virginia said. ‘Until Ffion and I went to have our fortunes told, we’d never heard of Bellamy, let alone met him. In fact, we didn’t know his real name until the news of his murder.’
It was as if Rachel hadn’t heard her speak. ‘Fourth, was he truly public-spirited or did he have a less honourable motive? Jacob discovered that Bellamy had lost his job as a result of dishonesty, so it seemed unlikely the man was acting out of a pressing sense of civic duty. He was up to something. What could it be?’
‘And your answer?’ Virginia demanded.
‘Bellamy was down on his luck. No doubt his earnings here were better than in Colwyn Bay, but he was a man on the make. So I asked myself this. How could a second-rate fortune teller improve his reputation?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Isn’t the answer obvious? What if he came up with a prediction of some kind that seemed utterly outlandish, but turned out to be true?’
‘How could he do that?’
‘Suppose he eavesdropped on a conversation about a plan to murder someone. He might pick and choose from what they said and fashion it into a supposed vision of the future.’
‘Far-fetched,’ Virginia said. ‘When people conspire to commit murder, surely they take great care not to do so in public?’
‘They might not realise they were being overheard.’
‘Even so. It’s quite a risk.’
‘Not if they were speaking in some form of code.’ Rachel paused. ‘Or, perhaps, an unfamiliar language.’
Virginia stared. Rachel leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.
‘What if, for instance, the individuals concerned were talking in Welsh?’