The Riviera Express Page 11

  Miss Dimont squiggled absently on a piece of paper. Shrimsley had come to Cattermole for information to pad out his memoirs. Who knows what that information was, but given they had both been in London immediately after the War – Shrimsley in Fleet Street, Cattermole in the West End – it’s likely they knew each other then, and something occurred which involved both men but which was too controversial even for the limelight-adoring Shrimsley to put in his book.

  But like the amoral fellow that he was he saw no reason why he and Cattermole – a bear of little brain but one in need of cash (as, evidently, was Shrimsley) – why he and Catter-mole should not extort money from some poor unsuspecting individual. That word, ‘blackmail’.

  But who?

  The most likely candidate, of course, was Gerald Hennessy, since the two men – Cattermole and Hennessy – were due to meet on Gerald’s arrival in Temple Regis. Indeed, there seemed no other purpose at all for the actor to come to Temple Regis. The postcard in Gerald’s pocket confirmed their rendezvous.

  Then again, Cattermole didn’t strike Miss Dimont as the confrontational type. Cowardly might be a more appropriate word. If he was going to blackmail Hennessy, wouldn’t he have done it by phone or letter?

  No, it had to be someone else.

  ‘Blackmail’s nasty,’ opined Terry, now standing behind Miss Dim and reading over her shoulder. ‘Don’t get much of that round here.’

  ‘You probably do,’ said Miss D, ‘you just never get to hear about it. Surely you remember the FitzConachie case?’

  ‘Ur,’ said Terry, and wandered off again.

  No, the blackmail victim had to be someone else. Could it, for example, be Prudence Aubrey? There had been rumours of an affaire between the two during the run of Importance – that was when Raymond Cattermole still had his hair and a promising career ahead of him.

  These thoughts, she realised, were a side issue. Terry and she had come to Exbridge to discover whether Shrimsley had a wife or family to whom they could put questions about his puzzling death, and the answer was that he had not. They wanted to discover whether he had a dog – he did not.

  So a man, thirty minutes from home with a dog that was not his, walked round the safety barrier on Mudford Cliffs and fell two hundred and fifty feet to his death.

  He was involved in a blackmail plot, or was about to instigate one – victim unknown.

  Looks like murder, thought Miss Dimont.

  *

  Inspector Topham swung through the revolving door of the Grand Hotel and made for the Palm Court.

  Not again, Stanley! his subordinates would have cried had they known. But they did not know, for the inspector was here on a delicate mission, to ascertain whether Marion Lake and Gerald Hennessy had indeed travelled down in the same Pullman car from London’s Paddington Station and whether they intended, well . . .

  He pulled out his pipe and clamped it unlit between his lips. Domestic intrigue was not really his forte, but there was something disconcerting about this case which his generally unsuspicious mind ordered him to urgently pursue.

  He knocked on Miss Lake’s door – most conveniently placed opposite Gerald Hennessy’s – and was let in by the maid.

  ‘She’ll be with you shortly,’ came the pert reply even before he’d had a chance to say who he was or show his warrant card. The maid, evidently, already saw herself in a walk-on part in Miss Lake’s next movie.

  Inspector Topham had had a useful war in the Guards and had seen many places and many things. But to meet two of the most illustrious stars of the silver screen within the space of twenty-four hours was beyond any experience in that eventful life.

  He heard her before he saw her. There was a gentle swishing noise which grew progressively louder as the shapely star made her entrance – caused, he soon was able to note, by the heavy hem of her evening gown trailing along the carpet. It was about as theatrical an entrance as you could imagine, with wafts of Chanel No 5 preceding her. All this, and she was just twenty-seven!

  The slinky star poured two measures from a cocktail shaker without asking and handed the inspector a glass containing liquid of a rather bilious hue. It was only 5.30 p.m.

  ‘Chin-chin,’ Marion sighed, as if she was about to give her heart to the shiny-booted policeman.

  ‘Er, well, good health,’ said the inspector and took a sip of the poison. ‘Inspector Topham.’ This was superfluous since each knew who the other was, but he felt he had to start proceedings on an official footing.

  ‘I can see you are preparing for an evening out so I will not delay,’ he said. ‘You were close to the late Gerald Hennessy?’

  ‘You could say very close,’ said Miss Lake, yet Topham could detect no emotion at her recent loss.

  ‘You travelled down on the Riviera Express together?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’ Her answer was factual, clear, no-nonsense.

  ‘And you came here to conduct an illicit liaison?’

  ‘Really, I don’t think that’s got anything to do with Gerald, has it?’

  Topham didn’t understand. ‘You, er, you came down here with the purpose of spending time with, er, a married man.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, I did. You know, in this business, these things happen.’

  ‘So you and Mr Hennessy . . . you were . . .’ There could be no doubting the meaning of his strangled words.

  ‘Oh!’ squealed the film star and jumped up in horror. ‘Oh!

  ‘Oh! What can you be thinking of! Honestly, you police, what goes on in your minds?!’ She threw down her glass – empty already – and her blonde hair threatened to become unpinned as she shook her pretty head from side to side.

  ‘Inspector, I am appalled. How could you imagine I was sleeping with . . .?’ She was unable to continue.

  Topham was embarrassed. Clearly there was something wrong with this theory – and yet Prudence Aubrey had been so certain!

  ‘Erm,’ said the inspector hesitantly, ‘the two of you travelled down together. In this hotel, Miss Lake, you had practically adjoining suites – I think some explanation really is required.’

  The nation’s number-one film star stood up, drew herself up to her full height, and looked down witheringly upon the seated detective. ‘You . . .’ she hissed. ‘You . . . police.’ The word was full of poison. She paused dramatically.

  ‘Gerald Hennessy, Inspector, was my father.’

  TWELVE

  Bedlington Harbour was, as ever, joyously busy. The harbour master’s magnificent barge, all gold and black and white, surged powerfully from its pontoon on some important mission, its red ensign and personal pennant crackling in the breeze. Tanned fishermen puttered out to sea in small boats, faded brown sails catching the wind, while the Coatmouth Ferry – a riot of red, yellow and blue, dressed overall in bunting and lightly laden with late holidaymakers – made its way purposefully round the point and off to the next town along the coast.

  Miss Dimont took off her headscarf, unhitched her raffia bag from Herbert’s handlebars, and made for the Seagull Café, where her dear friend Auriol Hedley made a point of making everyone feel especially welcome.

  With a glass of Auriol’s delicious home-made lemonade in front of her, she sat and thought.

  Behind her the cliffs rose like skyscrapers, and further away from the harbour when she turned to look she could see the landslip which had taken off Arthur Shrimsley – a great red gash of earth and rock in an otherwise green landscape, like a giant finger pointing to the clue she could not decipher.

  Auriol came to join her, and in return for the considerable pleasure of her company, Miss Dimont relayed the story of Gerald Hennessy and Arthur Shrimsley and Raymond Cattermole.

  This was no idle chat, for Miss Dimont greatly respected Auriol, who had distinguished herself in her work for the Admiralty during the War. To her customers she was a sweet and plump lady of middle years, with a zest for life and a determination that you should have that second slice of cake. Seated next to Miss Dimont,
however, she presented a rather different aspect.

  ‘Well, Judy,’ she said, seriously. ‘There can be no question that something irregular has occurred.’

  The word fell from her lips like a denunciation of all things bad. If irregular things had happened during her time at the Admiralty, it would not take Auriol long to regularise them again – and woe betide anyone who did not assist in that re-regularisation.

  ‘Indeed,’ sighed Miss D, helplessly, ‘but something is missing.’

  ‘Let’s be clear,’ said Auriol in her brisk, shipshape sort of a way, ‘the clue lies in the blackmail, doesn’t it? What Cattermole told Shrimsley, but Shrimsley said he couldn’t write into his memoirs?’

  ‘I’m certain of that,’ said Judy, who was anything but certain.

  ‘But it couldn’t be that Shrimsley was encouraging Cattermole to blackmail Gerald Hennessy?’

  ‘I don’t think it can be that simple. I think the intended victim has to be Prudence Aubrey – or even Edith Evans.’

  ‘I think more likely the former. I don’t know much about Dame Edith’s life but she seems too boring to me to have got up to much,’ said Auriol, energetically stirring the coffee in front of her. ‘On the other hand, you’d have to be a hermit not to see that Miss Aubrey was a woman who saw very little of her husband. They are a childless couple, are they not?’

  Miss Dimont nodded assent.

  ‘She is photographed here, there and everywhere,’ said Auriol, waving her spoon, ‘and never is she seen with her husband. This young man, that young man. Might one suppose she is vulnerable to the charms of the stronger sex?’ Here the two friends exchanged smiles. Both might thus be described – vulnerable to male charm – but not at the cost of losing their heads to a gender which was not as strong as it liked to think it was.

  ‘You may be right,’ sighed Judy. ‘But if Prudence Aubrey has been leading a secret life of that kind, it certainly didn’t evince itself to me when we spoke. She strikes me as a woman who demands complete devotion but who gives very little back in return.’

  ‘All the more reason for Gerald Hennessy to stray.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then! It has to be Gerald who was the object of the blackmail plan!’

  ‘You’ve already discounted him.’

  ‘Ohhhhh!!!’ expostulated the reporter, clanking her lemonade glass firmly down on the table. ‘I wonder why I bother! Tomorrow is the inquest of the pair of them and there’ll be no evidence of foul play – I know old Dr Rudkin. And as for Inspector Topham – he’s a nice enough fellow but as a policeman he’d have difficulty detecting the first rays of dawn.’

  ‘That seems a trifle unkind, Judy,’ said Auriol, who knew of her friend’s past run-ins with the detective. ‘What about Cattermole?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Judy, ‘I daresay Ray Cattermole will come home with the milk tomorrow morning.’

  There seemed little more to say. Miss Dimont helped clear the table and the two women took a last look around the harbour before going inside. Waves chased in on the turn of the tide as if eager now for an early homecoming. The wind was getting up.

  The Seagull Café was empty in the late afternoon, and the two women – as they had so often before – shared washing-up duties in companionable silence. On the wall in the little office was a photograph of Auriol in her WRNS uniform – slimmer in those days, perhaps, but no younger-looking than now. It was typical of Auriol’s modesty that the number of stripes on her cuff, denoting her seniority in the Service, were deliberately obscured by a saucy postcard jammed into the corner of the frame.

  Judy Dimont allowed her gaze to slip sideways for just one moment to the accompanying portrait, that of a young, handsome, devil-may-care face which could not quite dispose of the tendency to make a joke of everything, even for the photographer. It was the same face which stared out, kindly, tenderly, watchfully, at Miss Dimont when she reached home after her long and arduous day’s work at the Riviera Express.

  ‘His birthday next week,’ said Auriol, almost to herself.

  *

  Herbert sturdily transported Miss Dimont up the hill back to Temple Regis. Bedlington was all very well but it was more than a trifle snooty, and anyway the reporter wanted to visit the cliff top from which Arthur Shrimsley had tumbled to meet his maker. She’d seen where he’d ended up on that last journey, now she would inspect where he started out.

  If you stood on the edge of Mudford Cliffs you could look down on to Bedlington Harbour – in fact if you screwed your eyes up you could even spot the Seagull Café – but as Mr Shrimsley must have discovered in his final moments, it did not do well to stray too close to the edge. When Miss Dimont parked Herbert and looked around the cliff top she saw nothing but order and regimentation – a precious greensward where dog-walkers met to chat (their dogs too) and to perambulate in leisurely fashion while gazing out to sea.

  It was a heavenly place, perched somewhere between the earth and the sky, made all the more thrilling by the height of the cliffs and their vertiginous drop to the rocks beneath. Across the green, towards the edge, Miss Dimont could see the barriers hastily erected after the rockfall – sturdy wooden stakes holding up a lengthy picket fence you could neither vault nor breach. Despite the sternly worded warnings pinned to the fence, Shrimsley must have quite deliberately ignored their message and slipped around the end of the fencing in order to make his fall.

  But why? asked Miss Dimont. As Terry had pointed out, this was a man too much in love with himself to want to end it all. And then again, what about the dog?

  Did it escape before he fell? No canine corpse was found in the vicinity of his dead body. Nor, upstairs on the Mudford cliff top, was there any report of an abandoned or stray dog. How could it have just disappeared?

  As she walked back and forth, Miss Dimont tried hard to ignore the celestial view spread before her, a vast panoply of sea and mist and azure horizon, instead fixing her gaze on the grass at the cliff edge as if it could offer up a clue. Disobligingly, it did not.

  She looked to Herbert in the faint hope he might assist, but no. Just then, as she took out her headscarf and looped her raffia bag over the handlebars, an old gentleman walked by, gently led by his equally ancient dachshund.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Miss Dimont. Not for nothing was she known as the best interviewer in the South West. ‘That’s an awfully sweet boy you have there. May I say hello to him?’

  The gentleman smilingly assented.

  ‘Bruce,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Called him Bruce because he ate a spider when he was a little puppy. Robert the Bruce, dontcha know.’

  Miss Dimont did know, and thereby an introduction was made and a most pleasant conversation ensued, the upshot of which was that Captain Hulton had been widowed for seventeen, no, eighteen months and it was Bruce who kept him going.

  There were some stern words for the late Mrs Hulton for having forced such a soppy dog on him, a man who should be seen with a retriever or nothing, but they did not fool Miss Dimont. His master a prisoner of loneliness, Bruce was Captain Hulton’s saviour.

  He loved Mudford Cliffs – the captain, not Bruce, though Bruce loved them too – because they offered him membership of an exclusive club. Since he first started coming here he had met virtually every dog-owner in the area, and it really was very pleasant to see how others’ dogs were coming on – whether they’d learnt any new tricks, whether they were behaving themselves, whether there may be new puppies in the offing. It took quite a part of the day to dispatch all these most necessary conversations.

  The captain, as Miss Dimont could quite easily see, was a shy man. The dog walk had given him a new purpose.

  ‘Every morning. Rain or shine. People are so kind.’

  Miss Dimont bit her lip at this solitude so bravely borne, but eventually could no longer resist. ‘Last Thursday,’ she said, her hopes rising giddily. ‘Were you and Bruce up here last Thursday?’

  ‘What time?’ asked the captain.


  ‘About midday,’ said Miss Dimont, issuing a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening up there.

  ‘Alas no. Bridge on Thursday afternoons. Don’t like the people but it keeps the old grey matter going. We came earlier.’

  Miss Dimont felt that sufficient information had now been exchanged between them that she could reveal her purpose.

  ‘On the Riviera Express, you see.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said the captain. ‘Athene!’

  Why do they always say that? she thought. A meteor could have landed on the town hall, the Riviera Express could have won an international press award for its coverage of the phenomenon, but all people ever wanted to talk about was Athene. Just as well she was her friend.

  ‘So you see, I’m keen to find out about a man who walks his dog here – or at least was walking it that day.’

  ‘What sort of dog?’ asked the captain.

  ‘Well,’ said Miss Dimont, who up to this moment had not even considered the question, ‘I have no idea. We have an eyewitness account of a man answering Shrimsley’s description being up here with his dog at about midday. He was speaking to a lady, then he wandered off and, well, you know what happened.’

  The captain nodded. He’d seen more than a few dead ’uns in his time. He knew when to offer a momentary pause out of respect.

  ‘If he’d been here I would have noticed him,’ he finally replied. ‘That time of day there are very few men – in fact I might go so far as to say I am the only male member of this dog-walking club. We call it the She-Club, don’t we, Bruce?’

  Bruce sat down and scratched vigorously, his tiny leg going like the piston of a steam train.

  ‘I wonder,’ asked Miss Dimont thoughtfully, ‘whether in your subsequent conversations you may have discussed Mr Shrimsley’s unfortunate, ah, accident, with other members of the She-Club?’

  ‘Mostly we talk about dogs.’

  ‘Yes, but—

  ‘Sometimes bridge.’