Twenty-Nine
'You didn't speak to PC Swinley outside the church that night but at the entrance to the alleyway that leads down to the harbour at the junction of Fort Road and Chapel Street. You knew exactly what time he would be there. As you so rightly said, PC Swinley was generally punctual, and a man of routine. Because of the weather there was no one about. As you saw him approach you called out. Not his name but an exclamation or some such and went further down the alleyway. He approached, keeping his torch low, and came across you on the harbour side. What did you do, Vicar? Did you make out you were distraught and that you might kill yourself?'
Isaacs remained silent.
'Swinley needed to reassure you and make you feel comfortable, and because of that, and out of respect for you, he removed his helmet and tried to settle you. You calmed down, apologized and said you were deeply worried, because although Grimley was in prison he was involved in more serious crimes than petrol theft and you and Mrs Isaacs were being threatened to keep silent about it. Am I on the right lines?'
Isaacs hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicked to Eva and Williams, and then back to Ryga. He could see it was over. He had no choice but to tell the truth, and Ryga sensed he was relieved to do so.
'I told him that I had been made to agree to meet a man who was blackmailing us over evidence he had that Jonathan was deeply involved with smuggling. I couldn't pay him. I have no money. The rendezvous was not until later that evening and I thought he might not come because of the fog, but I had to be there just in case. As I waited, I began to think there was only one way out.'
As he faltered, Ryga took up the sorry tale. 'Swinley said not to worry, he would report it, and that you and Mrs Isaacs would be safe. He unbuttoned his tunic pocket and took out his notebook and pencil. Why?'
'To make a note of the time of the rendezvous and the name of the blackmailer, which I made up.'
'He could have done that later.'
'He could but PC Swinley was a stickler for recording everything and wouldn't wait until later in case his memory failed him.' Something Swinley had told young PC Jenkins, Ryga recalled. 'You took his torch and shone it on the notebook so that he could write in it.' 'Yes.'
'Then you pretended to see or hear something in the harbour and urged him to look and listen. He turned. You pointed down the harbour towards the sea. Then you struck him a forceful blow on the back of the head with his torch. He fell to the ground.' Ryga vividly recalled the location. 'You took the notebook to remove the evidence he'd written down of your meeting, kicked the pencil into the sea, buttoned up his tunic, which was a mistake – it alerted Myra Swinley that something was wrong with her husband's death. She knew her husband's habit of always leaving the buttons undone until he had replaced his notebook and pencil. You put his torch back in his pocket. Again, another mistake. If he'd been writing in his notebook he'd have found somewhere to prop the torch – a post, the harbour wall. If he had heard or seen something in the harbour he'd have picked up the torch and shone it out into the harbour and it would have fallen into the water with him. You manhandled his body into the sea, hoping the tide would carry him out. But the tide was coming in and eventually it took his body up the harbour until it sank and on rising got wedged under the grid iron at Railway Quay.'
The vicar's body seemed to curl up on itself. He hugged his bony chest with his thin arms. His nose was running and he made no attempt to reach for a handkerchief. Williams opened his mouth to say something then closed it again, frowning. Ryga knew the question that was on the sergeant's lips. He voiced it. Gently he said, 'Why did you kill PC Swinley, Vicar?'
He sniffed but the snot still stayed on his upper lip. 'You wouldn't understand.' He shifted and wiped the sleeve of his coat across his nose.
'Was it out of love for your wife?'
Isaacs's tortured eyes held Ryga's for a moment.
'Did she goad and torment you into doing it? Did she say that if you really loved her you would see that Swinley was punished for persecuting her son and locking him up? There was the constable strutting around the town, everyone respecting him while they sniggered behind her back at her brother's fate. She deserved better. She was after all the vicar's wife, and as such should be held in high regard. But you had failed her. You had never given her what she wanted and what she was entitled to.'
Isaacs flinched and nodded miserably.
Ryga left a small pause. Williams cleared his throat then flushed because it sounded so loud in the vast echoing silent cavern of a church.
'What did you do with his police helmet?' Ryga asked quietly and conversationally.
'I didn't think it would sink and I didn't want it to be found quickly. I thought the greater the delay the less chance of his death being considered suspicious. I threw it over the gates into the old works. No one ever goes in there. It's been shut for years.'
Where no doubt they would find it. Ryga continued, 'Then the Wednesday before last, after the coffee morning, Myra confided her concerns to you and said she was going to the Yard as she believed her husband had been killed. You and Joan got very worried. When I asked Mrs Isaacs when she had last seen Mrs Swinley she said Wednesday, at the coffee morning, and I saw a fearful look cross your face, but I dismissed it as your fear of your wife's vicious tongue and hen-pecking manner. But you were terrified that the Yard would investigate and discover the truth. You had to know if that was going to be the case. Pretending to act out of solicitude for Myra, you asked her to telephone you from London to tell you what the Yard said. Which she did. Was she optimistic that we'd investigate?'
'She said that although you were sympathetic she didn't think you would, but she might have evidence that could change that.'
Feline Perrier. Perhaps Myra had found Feline's name and London telephone number in one of her husband's pockets along with the Seaford newsagent's number. She wouldn't have known that the latter was a newsagent until the Wednesday before her visit to the Yard when she had called him. She had put the thought aside but after her meeting at the Yard, and as she was in London, she had telephoned Feline, wondering why her husband had noted down her London number and had learned about the packages.
Ryga continued, 'After leaving the Yard Mrs Swinley first telephoned Miss Perrier, whose brother had been in hospital with her husband. Miss Perrier told her she'd left some packages at a Seaford newsagent's for George to collect, the contents of which might give Myra more information about her husband's death and help to find Miss Perrier's brother who was missing. Myra was to meet Miss Perrier on the train home from Victoria and they were going to look for them in the house.'
Isaacs said, 'Myra told me what time train they were catching.'
'And you told your wife this. Did Joan really visit London and the prison on that Thursday?' Ryga knew he could check that.
'Yes, we thought it would be her alibi, if she needed one, for being in London at the same time as Myra, but Jonathan wouldn't see her.'
'And that made matters worse with her paranoia.'
Isaacs nodded.
'She wanted Myra punished.'
Again, Isaacs nodded.
'And when Joan also telephoned you from London you told her about Feline and the packages.'
'She thought the contents contained details of her committal at the asylum and she was convinced that Myra would use this evidence to prove that she had killed PC Swinley. I had to protect her.'
'And she threatened that if she was accused of killing PC Swinley she would tell the police it was you.'
Isaacs wiped his running nose with his back of his hand which he then pushed through his thinning hair. He'd begun to tremble, not from fear, Ryga thought, maybe from cold but probably from shock.
'I tried to persuade her that whatever was in the packages wasn't anything to do with us but she wouldn't believe me. I met Joan outside Myra's house. We waited a short while, then I knocked on Myra's door and was invited in. I saw that Miss Perrier had a bundle of knitting patterns in her hand. Myra told me that she could now tell Scotland Yard when they phoned that she had evidence her husband was killed and by whom.'
Perhaps Feline had known it was knitting patterns she'd been depositing and had told Myra this on the train. Maybe Feline could read the code and she read the name Broxham and that was who she and Myra believed was the killer.
Ryga said, 'The evidence didn't point to you, or to the fact that Joan had been committed to the asylum. It was about someone else, completely unconnected with you or your wife. Phillipe Perrier had traced the theft of valuable works of art stolen from his family by the Nazis.'
'But that can't be true.' He pushed his fists in his eyes.
Outside a clock struck the hour. Only one muffled gong sounded. Ryga continued. 'What did you do with them?'
'I took them off Feline after . . . after I killed her. I didn't want Joan to see them. I pushed them in the furnace at the vicarage as soon as I reached home, without looking at them.'
'Tell me, how did you get Feline to leave Myra's house? Did you use the fact that her brother's boat was moored up at Sleeper's Hole?' Ryga could see he was correct.
'PC Swinley had told me that Perrier had found a Motor Torpedo Boat abandoned in France and converted it into a home. We'd been talking about boats in general one day and he knew that I had met Perrier in the hospital while visiting Joan.'
'But you said nothing about its owner when it was brought in after being found drifting in the English Channel, because by then you had killed Swinley and you didn't want any attention drawn to you and your connection with Perrier. Feline went with you willingly, eagerly, but before she could reach her brother's boat you struck her, suffocated her and then hid her body. And while you were killing Feline, Joan was already inside Myra's house. She had to prevent her from answering the telephone and taking the call from Scotland Yard.'
The church was freezing cold. Williams was looking on open-mouthed. Eva watched solemnly.
Ryga continued, 'There was only a short time gap between Feline leaving and Joan knocking on Myra's door. Joan kept Myra talking until you could return, which didn't take long. You told Myra that you and Miss Perrier had found something on her brother's boat, which belonged to PC Swinley, his notebook probably, and Miss Perrier had asked if you could go there immediately to identify it. Of course, Myra agreed. She trusted you implicitly. You're the vicar. She even trusted Joan, and felt sorry for her. But before she got to the Motor Torpedo Boat you struck her and put her body in her husband's small boat.'
Isaacs pressed his hands together in front of his chest as though to pray. His eyes had taken on a faraway look as though everything that had happened, and was happening, didn't concern him but had taken place elsewhere with someone else. For a moment Ryga wondered what his war experiences had been. Perhaps seeing so much death and suffering had made him disturbed and neurotic. Joan's paranoia couldn't have helped settle his nerves but instead had, year after year, served to make them worse until he could no longer distinguish between right and wrong, real and fantasy. The first time Ryga had seen him in this pulpit he'd been muttering, perhaps praying for deliverance and forgiveness.
Ryga, his voice even-toned and gentle, said, 'While you killed Myra and took her body out into the harbour on her husband's boat, Joan cleared away one place setting. But she made a mistake. Myra had used her best china to impress her visitor. Myra wouldn't have used that if she hadn't invited Feline into her house – she'd have used her everyday crockery. And if she had intended killing herself she would hardly have made tea before doing so or used her best china. In addition, she didn't go upstairs and draw the curtains and change before having her tea, and she would have done if alone.
'Joan took the sleeping pills and nerve tonic from the house because, if Myra's body was found, at the inquest the doctor would mention he had prescribed both and it would be assumed that Myra had taken them with her to swallow before throwing herself off her husband's boat. Joan returned to the vicarage to wait for you. After disposing of the body, you rowed up to Denton Island where you smashed up the boat before ditching the engine and letting the oars go adrift. Why did you return on Saturday morning?'
'It was all like a bad dream. I couldn't believe I had done it. I still can't. Joan said we had to keep quiet. But I . . . I wanted to check that the boat was there, or what remained of it. Seeing it made me physically sick. Had I really killed that beautiful young woman and Mrs Swinley? I couldn't have done. It wasn't possible. I had to check.' He gulped and closed his eyes as though trying to shut out the vision.
'Yes, Vicar, she was no longer beautiful. And having uncovered Feline's body, you couldn't cover it up again.'
'No.'
Gently Ryga said, 'Joan didn't take her own life, did she?'
'When I heard from Joseph Moore that the man you had arrested hadn't committed the murders, I knew you would come to us. The killing had to stop. Joan's suffering had to stop.'
And yours, Ryga added to himself. 'How did you kill her?'
Isaacs bowed his head. Tears rolled down his face, mingling with the snot but no sobs came from him. His voice didn't even shake when he said, 'She's in the bedroom. She's at peace now. There'll be no more killing. No more tormenting and suffering. It is over now, isn't it, Inspector?' He looked up beseechingly.
'Yes, it's over.' Ryga nodded at Williams, who put away his notebook and pencil, buttoned his tunic pocket, donned his helmet and rose, 'Come along, sir.'
Ryga slipped out of the seat. Isaacs rose somewhat shakily and let himself be led outside, where Ryga blew his police whistle and another constable quickly emerged from the dark. Ryga gave instructions for both him and Williams to take the vicar to the police station, give him a cup of tea and see he was safely locked up. Tomorrow, or rather today, Isaacs and Dakins would be taken up to the Yard for further questioning and formal statements to be made. Then remanded in custody until trial.
He, along with Eva, entered the vicarage with the key that the vicar had handed to him. They found Joan in the ice-cold bedroom as Isaacs had said. There were no strangulation marks, but to Ryga's experienced eye she had been suffocated by the pillow that now lay on the floor beside the bed. There was an empty glass beside her which Ryga guessed would contain traces of a drug, a sleeping draft most probably, prescribed to either Isaacs or his wife. Even in death she looked haggard and tormented.
'It's a sorry tale,' Eva said. Ryga sadly agreed.
It was just before five a.m. when they finished there. The body had been taken to the hospital mortuary. Eva had taken photographs and Ryga had despatched the glass and its residue to the Yard lab. He locked up the vicarage and, turning up the collar of his Macintosh, said to Eva, 'Let's walk down to the sea.'
'Good idea.'
He needed to clear his head. The streets were deserted. The early morning air was crisply cold. They walked in silence past Sleeper's Hole and the entrance to the old fort until they came to promenade of West Pier. There they halted by the railings. The sound of the waves washing on to the shingle was comforting. Across the harbour entrance Ryga could see the white light of the lighthouse and on the other side, at the end of the breakwater, the intermittent lights of the other lighthouse. The sound of a boat's engine starting up pierced the night and in the distance came the shunting of a train.
He felt tired and saddened. There was little elation in his soul, although he felt satisfied he'd got justice for the Swinleys and for Feline and her brother.
Eva broke the silence. 'So many deaths for nothing. Sadly it seems all too common, such a waste.'
Ryga knew she was referring not only to the case but also to war.
'Did Phillipe commit suicide?' she asked.
'Yes. The Seaford police have found the letter Phillipe wrote which Dakins took. It was at Dakins' lodgings. In it, Perrier says that he'd completed his final mission, restoring – he thought – the miniatures to his sister while exposing who had traded in them. He had urged his sister not to marry Broxham, who was a crook.' Ryga hoped the miniatures would end up with Miss Dewsnap in her art gallery. After a moment, he said, 'What will you do now?'
'Well, I can't face the prospect of Christmas with my father and stepmother, the neighbours, aunts and uncles all telling me it's time I gave up this ludicrous business with the camera and settled down, if I could find myself a nice man, which they think exceedingly unlikely given that I'm not one to tow the domestic line. I think I might go to Scotland.'
'Don't they have Christmas in Scotland?' he joked.
'Yes, and Hogmanay which is even worse – all that Happy New Year stuff and how things will be better. I seem to have heard that too many times. You're right, Scotland is not the best idea, unless I can find a remote island.'
'You'd be bored.'
'I would. So I'll take Miss Dewsnap's advice and do what I do well – take photographs of life in the raw. OK, yes, it was your previous advice and, as you said, there is plenty of hardship and poverty in this country to chronicle.'
'And plenty of life, not all of it hard and sordid.'
'No.' She paused then added, 'What about you?'
'I'll probably do what I do well – work.'
'Very sensible.' There was silence between them. Eva broke it. 'I drove to Portland on Sunday to my aunt's cottage – well, mine now. I called in at The Quarryman's Arms. You know that Sonia's left. The landlord said a man called Ryga had telephoned. He said there was no forwarding address and the brewery don't have one for her. I checked. As have you. But I asked around. Sonia didn't tell anyone what she intended doing. I don't think she's gone off with that bully of a husband but she might have gone where she hopes he won't be able to find her and where she can start afresh. Don't worry, Ryga, you'll find her.'
'We haven't managed to find her husband.'
'You will. I know you – you're dogged to the point of obstinacy but with instinct, intelligence, a quiet thoughtfulness and the ability to reason, which prevents that obstinacy from becoming stupidity and truculence.'
'Well, thank you for the testimonial.' He smiled.
She returned it. 'You won't give up. Someone will know something or have heard something. Or the highly capable Sergeant Jack Daniels will get a lead. Now, we need something to warm us up – I'm freezing and you look chilled to the bone despite that awful Macintosh.'
'I don't know what you've got against it,' he joked. 'I like it.'
She raised her eyebrows. 'I've told you before – it makes you look a hundred and four.'
'I feel it sometimes.'
'Breakfast will cure that.'
'It's far too early. Nowhere will be open.'
That's where you're wrong. I know a splendid all-night transport café on the A26 just outside Lewes.'
And you probably know all the lorry drivers.'
'I do. They're a friendly crowd. I might even get some good photographs. And the café serves wonderful bacon and eggs.'
'Then breakfast it is, Eva,' Ryga said, smiling.
Books by Pauline Rowson
The Inspector Andy Horton Series
Tide of Death
Deadly Waters
The Suffocating Sea
Dead Man's Wharf
Blood on the Sand
Footsteps on the Shore
A Killing Coast
Death Lies Beneath
Undercurrent
Death Surge
Shroud of Evil
Fatal Catch
Lethal Waves
Deadly Passage
A Deadly Wake
Art Marvik Mystery/Thrillers
Silent Running
Dangerous Cargo
Lost Voyage
Inspector Ryga 1950 set mysteries
Death in the Cove
Death in the Harbour
Mystery/Thrillers
In Cold Daylight
In For the Kill