Died and Gone to Devon Page 15

  ‘It’s all a game. They know they’ve done wrong, they’re hoping they’ll get away with it, but at the same time they’re completely aware of the consequences if they get caught.

  ‘It’s a game for us, too. For every hypocrite we nail, there are a thousand more who get away with it – the curates in the vestry, the businessmen bilking their investors, every director in the theatre with a casting couch. People complain about what we write, but our type of newspaper sells more than the others, which proves there’s a public appetite for it.

  ‘You can call it retribution, the little man getting his revenge on the people beyond his reach – the ones who end up rich, famous and titled while they do not. And whyever not? The libel laws don’t allow us to write what’s not true, and what we are doing is entirely legal. And, you might say, just and proper. A suitable corrective.’

  ‘So you’re all knights in shining armour – how noble!’ said Miss Dimont, drily. ‘Not a guttersnipe amongst you!’

  ‘Tell me about the mistress.’

  ‘Mmm. I just need time to reflect on the consequences. The trouble with you Fleet Street boys is you live a hermetically sealed existence, cut off from the people you write about. Down here, we live in a community – we’re here this year, next year, and the year after that. We walk through the streets and bump into the people we’ve written about. They can come up and complain if they don’t like it. And they do! That makes the game, as you call it, adopt a different set of rules.’

  Inkpen gulped his whisky. You could tell he was getting bored with all this.

  ‘The national press,’ he said importantly, ‘serves the nation. Your job, down here, is to write up the flower shows. Tell me about the mistress.’

  The contempt in his voice ensured Judy would most certainly not be telling him about the mistress, now or ever, but she was far too clever to let her anger show.

  ‘In just a minute,’ she said sweetly. ‘But why don’t you go first, Rex? Tell us about Interpol, do!’

  There was a pause.

  We’re stuck, thought Inkpen.

  Stuck, thought Topham.

  ‘Hello,’ said Terry. He had the deerstalker with him, but he’d had the good taste to take it off when entering the Grand.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ said Miss Dimont irritatedly. She was about to land a huge scoop for next week’s paper – INTERPOL IN TEMPLE REGIS MANHUNT – no need for photographers to come pushing their lenses in!

  ‘You’d better put this on,’ said the photographer, tossing the hat in her direction. ‘And get out your magnifying glass and pipe.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘We’ve got a dead body, Sherlock. Get yer skates on!’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Inspector Topham, scrambling to his feet, ‘wait a minute! I don’t know anything about a dead body!’

  ‘Down the library. One of the old ladies who works there. Fell off a ladder. Your lads are already there, Frank – they didn’t know where you were so they just got on with it.’

  ‘Suspicious, is it?’

  ‘Miss Greenway was afraid of heights. It was the other librarian – Miss Atherton – who used to put the books back on the high shelves. She called in and told Sergeant Gull she couldn’t understand what on earth she was doing up a ladder. He alerted your boys, and off they went.’

  All three – Topham, Miss Dimont, Terry – rose to their feet simultaneously. Inkpen looked at his watch, then his empty whisky glass. ‘Let me know if it’s anything exciting,’ he said lazily, and sat down again. ‘Sid!’

  Sod, thought Topham.

  The library was only a two-minute drive in the Minor. The police surgeon had already come and gone but the body of poor Miss Greenway was still there, decently covered with the sheets of brown paper which wrapped the parcels of books sent by publishers. The atmosphere in the library, usually so calm, so tranquil, seemed jangled and disjointed.

  ‘Happened around 5 p.m.,’ said one of Topham’s faceless officers. Miss Dimont, who bumped into these fellows quite often, was not enamoured. There are nice policemen and there are nasty policemen, and this lot didn’t fall into the first category – she couldn’t understand why someone as upright as old Topham could abide them.

  The Inspector himself had arrived ahead of them and was pacing round the book-lined room, all gilt and brown and crimson in the half light. ‘You shouldn’t be in here!’ he barked at Judy and Terry.

  ‘Too late,’ trilled the reporter, ‘won’t be a jiffy, Inspector. Might I have a quick look?’ she added to one of the faceless ones.

  Disobligingly the man drew back a sheet of paper to reveal the head and shoulders of Miss Greenway. The poor lady’s eyes were open and her features were set in an undeniable look of horror. Her body was splayed in such a dramatic fashion it was as if some giant had picked it up and thrown it down with angry force.

  ‘She was always very keen on archaeology,’ said Judy, gently replacing the brown paper after a quick look. ‘I once had a lovely chat with her about tombs.’

  ‘Well, now she’ll be able…’ said Terry jovially, about to state the obvious.

  ‘Don’t say it!’ snapped his reporter. Terry tutted and wandered off to see if there were any books on Rolleiflexes.

  ‘She’d done such a nice job with the Christmas tree, too. Although – look, Inspector – what a mess she made of it when she went down. How sad, if she could see it now.’

  ‘Nah,’ said the faceless one, who didn’t like clever women and liked to show his superiority, ‘the Christmas tree’s over there. She fell off the ladder over here.’

  That did, in fairness, momentarily silence Temple Regis’s supersleuth.

  ‘Come on now, off you go,’ snapped Topham, ‘you shouldn’t be in here anyway. If there’s anything to say, I’ll make a statement in the morning.’

  Terry and Judy made their way out of the library. ‘Such a dedicated person too. She loved books so much it’s as if they loved her back.’

  Terry put on his hat. ‘See you at the police station tomorrow, then,’ he said. ‘For Topham’s statement.’

  ‘Erm…’ said Judy, slowing in her tracks. ‘Er… I can’t… won’t be able… er…’

  Terry wasn’t really listening. ‘Ten o’clock, OK?’

  ‘I… can’t… come,’ said Judy. ‘It’ll have to be Betty. Or Renishaw.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘My mother. She’ll be here tomorrow and I have to make all sorts of…’

  ‘Only take ten minutes.’

  ‘No, I can’t, Terry! You don’t understand!’

  ‘Judy, for heaven’s sake! If I don’t understand about you and your mother by now I never will. How long have we been travelling round in that Minor together? Years, Judy, years! And every so often out comes your mother into the conversation. She’s this, she’s that, she’s writing you letters. What’s the problem?’

  ‘You don’t know. You’ve never met her. If you had…’

  ‘After all you’ve been through, the war and that, I don’t understand – what’s the problem?’

  Heaven knows, thought Judy. She’s a difficult woman – a very difficult woman. But maybe the fault lies with me – if I treated her differently in the first place, stood up to her rather than running away, she wouldn’t be such a millstone round my neck.

  Maybe if I answered the letters, if I went to visit occasionally, if I allowed her into my life – made her come down here and stay in Temple Regis – it wouldn’t be this way.

  In any case, is she so wrong in wanting me to go back to live in Essex? It’s a lovely house, even if I don’t want to live there. The countryside is beautiful, even if it’s not a patch on Devon. It’s nearer to London and the life I once had.

  ‘So you won’t be working tomorrow?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I’ll get Renishaw then. If there’s anything suspicious about the old lady’s death, he’ll be all over it like a rash. He’s hot as mustard, you kno
w. If a bit trigger-happy.’

  Miss Dimont turned and looked down the hill towards the Riviera Express offices. Down there, in the jumbled disarray of the newsroom, among the battered Remingtons and Underwoods and the discarded carbon copies and filled-up notebooks, alongside Betty and John Ross and Athene and even, for heaven’s sake, Rudyard Rhys! – lay her life. The shocks of war and the evils of espionage had been laid to rest, slowly, with each successive edition of the Express since she came by accident to Temple Regis all those years ago. The days of being a brilliant young tyro in the international gem market were even further away, lost in the fog. Now was her life, here was her life…

  She turned back to look at Terry – standing there like a mastiff straining at the leash, eager to get on with the big story. The multi-coloured Christmas lights flooding out from the market square framed his strong body, painting it brilliantly with their messages of goodwill. For a moment he looked invincible.

  ‘Terry, would you mind hugging me? Just for a moment?’

  END of PART ONE

  Part Two – Summer

  Sixteen

  Spring had given way to early summer. Herbert was released from his tarpaulin shroud and warned he had a busy season ahead of him. Terry came over to change the spark plug and check the tyres before giving him a clean bill of health.

  In and around Temple Regis, nature had joyously come to life. The roads leading into town were foaming with cow parsley, while on garden walls red campion and speedwell made their debut and swifts jetted their way through the streets.

  Temple Regis took a quick glimpse in the mirror to make sure it was looking its best, then prepared itself for the onslaught of the holiday season. The streets were swept, the kiosks on the Promenade given a fresh coat of paint, and the beaches stripped of the winter’s flotsam and jetsam.

  The Ways and Means Committee put away their knitting and dominoes and agreed a busy plan of activities to make sure each visitor was made to feel specially welcome. Estate agents printed up extra sales brochures, encouraging holidaymakers to dream the dream that, one day, they’d come down to Temple Regis and never go home again.

  Nobody ever mentioned the unduly high mortality rate which kept Miss Dimont on her toes – indeed the Coroner, Dr Rudkin, went out of his way never to use the word ‘murder’ either in conversation or in his court. He lived in dread of the headline BRITAIN’S TOP MURDER RESORT appearing in one of the grubbier Sunday newspapers – but even his greatest supporters were surprised by the speedy way he brushed the death, some months ago, of the dedicated librarian Miss Greenway under the carpet. Despite promising clues and some energetic spadework by Miss Dimont, the mystery of Miss Greenway’s fall from the top of a library ladder remained just that.

  But by then all considerations had been pushed aside by the arrival of Grace Dimont at the Grand Hotel. This momentous event carried all the drama, anxiety, contention and pathos of a Second Coming; even old Uncle Arthur had become nervous at the prospect. ‘For Heaven’s sake, Captain Intrepid, she’s your kid sister!’ warbled Auriol, who was in a not much better state.

  But it was Auriol’s planning that saw them through. From the moment of her arrival, the fiery dragon with her extraordinary Belgian accent was treated like royalty – a lavish dispersal of tips made sure of that. The chilled champagne in her room, the winter roses, the latest glossy magazines, and a complimentary box of chocolates from the management left absolutely nothing for her to complain about.

  ‘Quelle horreur!’ were the first words she uttered as she settled in. ‘Ze quality of marzipan has deteriorated abominably since ze war. Zese chocolates! And zey call zis ze Grand Hotel?’

  Mother, mother, thought Miss Dimont despairingly, why do you carry on like this? You’re more English than I am – at least I’m the daughter of a Belgian, you merely married one. Look at your brother Arthur, English as they come – why the airs and graces, the silly accent? You’re rich, you’ve led an interesting life, who are you trying to impress?

  But it was part of Grace Dimont’s indomitable spirit that, always, she must be right while others were to be found wanting. She criticised Arthur’s shoes (‘like a lounge lizard’s’) and jibbed at Auriol’s Chistmas hairdo – a sweep of dark hair flying up from her forehead like a cresting wave. ‘You really should take a trip to Paris, my dear, to pick up some tips. A woman of your age… all or nothing now.’

  The quartet managed to stagger its way through the early stages, though only through the iron self-restraint exercised by all but one of their number; Madame Dimont never saw any reason to hold back.

  ‘And you too, Huguette, now the bloom of youth has flown – who will look after you, living alone as you do?’

  ‘You live alone, Maman.’

  ‘I have help, dear. You have a cat and a moped, not quite the same.’

  The moment they’d all dreaded came just before Christmas lunch. They were sitting in the Palm Court and the wine waiter Peter Potts was making sure everyone’s glass was topped up. The royal visitor had had her cushions plumped and a cigarette placed in her ivory holder.

  ‘… coming back to live with me at Tillingham. You’re too old for these silly reporter games, Huguette. You earn no money, you live in a tiny cottage, you have no husband and no life to speak of.’

  ‘I really don’t think we… look, Maman, it’s almost time for lunch!’

  ‘If Auriol would like to come too, there’s that nice flat over the stables. It’s empty, just waiting for a lick of paint…’

  Auriol shook her head graciously. ‘My life is here, though it’s a very generous offer and thank you. The Essex marshes may be beautiful, Grace, but they lack the adventure we have down here – and every day, the sea so remarkable, so beguiling.’

  Mme Dimont exploded. ‘We have sea in Essex, too!’

  ‘Not the same. Not the magic blue. We used to have this joke, Hugue and I, when she first came down here, that we’d died and gone to Devon. If only you were to stay for a week or two you’d see it for yourself…’

  Judy shot her a furious warning glance.

  ‘… I’m sure you’d see just how glorious it all is. But of course,’ Auriol said, catching Judy’s eye and quickly dismissing the idea, ‘you’re always very busy. Travelling here and there. No time to explore Devon.’

  ‘C’est vrai! I shall be back in Belgium next week – I still have the gatehouse at Ellezelles, though as you know the main house is a nunnery now. What your father would have said!’ laughed Grace, turning to Judy. ‘A man who devoted himself to beautiful women all his life. His house a nunnery!’

  ‘I think he would be pleased.’

  ‘He would be appalled. Come back with me to Tillingham!’

  ‘No, Maman, I have my job here, and my way of life.’

  ‘No income to speak of. No man. A cat for company! What sort of life is zat, Huguette?’

  And so it descended, very rapidly, into recrimination. Arthur and Auriol looked on uncomfortably while mother and daughter got it off their chest, their voices resonating down the Palm Court and into the dining room where the serving staff, smiles fixed, stood by on the alert. Words were spoken, accusations levelled, viewpoints overstated and repeated, only louder, before the two warring factions were pulled apart and safe, and dependable Auriol put everybody back on the straight and narrow.

  ‘I doubt she’ll be down here again any time soon,’ she whispered to Judy as her mother stamped off to powder her nose.

  ‘Or I to Tillingham.’

  ‘Well,’ sighed Auriol, ‘that was an awful lot of effort for not very much.’

  ‘Cleared the air,’ said Arthur, uncrossing his legs authoritatively, as if he’d done something useful. ‘Who’s for oysters?’

  And so, as the month of May shone brightly over Temple Regis, everything was set fair for a bumper year’s takings. Why the Prime Minister chose that particular moment to announce a general election, nobody knew nor cared. Whatever need the nation had for an inject
ion of new blood into the body politic, Temple Regis had more pressing priorities: in a word, cash. And people gadding about with loudspeakers strapped to their car roof, stopping people they didn’t know in the street and arguing the toss, and generally getting tribal, was all bad for the resort’s income stream.

  Miss Dimont sat writing an opinion page article about this for the Riviera Express, deploring the distractions an election brought while offering no beneficial shift of government policy to those who lived locally. Privately, being a new-broom sort of person, she felt the election was a good thing – but she was under strict instructions from Rudyard Rhys to defer to the wishes and prejudices of the townsfolk.

  ‘At last, an end to the reign of ghastly Sir Frederick Hungerford,’ she said to Athene as they sat alone in the newsroom at the end of the day. Athene had made some special tea and was thinking about writing a poem while Judy tugged the disingenuous diatribe from her Remington QuietRiter and fluttered the carbon paper into her waste bin.

  ‘Did you say that, dear, in your piece?’

  ‘Of course not. As far as the Express is concerned, the man’s a saint.’

  ‘That’s rather harsh, Judy – not like you!’

  ‘It was that business at Christmas.’

  ‘When poor Sir Freddy was attacked in the street? I thought that was an awful shame. At his age!’

  ‘It was all the other things, the things that didn’t get into the paper, Athene. You know, sometimes I feel the Express is like an iceberg – ninety per cent of what it knows about what goes on in this town is hidden below the surface, never to be seen.’

  ‘Probably just as well,’ said Athene absently, tucking the blue paper rose back into her unruly hair. She had put the poem to one side after an experimental line or two and was thinking about how to break the news to local Sagittarians that they were in for a bumpy ride next week.