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  ‘I wonder who they are,’ said Betty, though perhaps in retrospect she should have wondered a bit more.

  The idle acquisition of money seemed to fascinate Claud, who’d had to earn every single penny of his not inconsiderable fortune. He no longer came home as black as a coal-miner – others did that for him now – but he remained strong, fit and energetic. Compared with old Bill Pithers, who resembled a crushed sponge cake when last seen at the golf club, he looked like a teenager.

  As is the way, the conversation turned to other rich people, to the newly launched Premium Bonds, which for a £1 outlay a delightful £1,000 might tipple into your lap, and to the football pools, where, on a good Saturday, a fellow might find himself £75,000 better off.

  By 10.30 p.m. the Coronation Ball had reached its zenith. Betty could see Terry on the other side of the dance-floor taking the pictures which brought extra revenue to the Express coffers, since for many Temple Regents this was their one night in finery, and they were more than happy to troop into the front hall over the next few days to order expensive copy prints to paste into their scrapbooks.

  Betty had secured from the mayor’s secretary a list of the most prominent guests, and her work was done.

  ‘Want to come and see the Rolls?’ said Claud, winningly.

  ‘Why not?’ smiled Betty, smoothing her dress.

  *

  Over the other side of the room Terry was taking a breather in the company of two abandoned wives. From time to time, one or other craned her neck to see where her husband was, less in the anticipation of his return and more in the hope that he would stay at the bar, drink himself silly, and leave her alone with this charming Mr Eagleton.

  Terry had already handed out his card to both ladies, and they sat fingering the little pasteboard billets-doux as he regaled them with the death of Gerald Hennessy.

  ‘And there he was, neat as could be – like that scene in Heaven Comes Before Hell.’

  ‘When he accused his wife of adultery.’

  ‘That’s right. Pointing his finger, he was, like he was just about to say—’

  ‘And I thought I had every reason to trust you.’ Jill Ferrers had seen it many times.

  ‘Just like that,’ said Terry, and leant back smiling. Photographers had a way about them which broke all the rules of social convention. Perhaps it was because they carried a certain authority, by reason of their job, which enabled them to ask people they had never met to do things they would not otherwise do. Do it with a smile, and a joke, and they would be eating out of your hand – indeed half of the photographer’s art was making people do what you wanted, the technical trickery which went with the snapping of the picture being merely secondary.

  Terry had a way with him which made women, especially of a certain age, confess anything.

  ‘Did he dye his hair?’ asked Jill’s friend Mavis Coryton. ‘Surely he did. He must have been forty-eight . . .’

  ‘Forty-seven,’ said Jill expertly.

  ‘Forty-seven,’ repeated Mavis. ‘But you never saw a silver hair on his head. Just look at Ted over there.’ She nodded her head in the direction of the bar but her eyes did not turn to take in the vision of Ted Coryton, the town’s ironmonger, getting them in. ‘He went grey at forty,’ she said, and not kindly.

  ‘No,’ said Terry. ‘He looked in pretty good nick all round, apart from being dead. But you know this acting game—’ he didn’t particularly, but then neither did they ‘—all stress. And they drink a lot too. How’s your glasses?’

  ‘Mine’s a gin and tonic, thank you, Terry. Large, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Campari,’ said the more sophisticated Mavis Coryton, for though she hated its bitterness she felt it gave her a certain polish to be seen with one.

  ‘Coming up,’ said Terry, and he was gone.

  ‘You know,’ said Jill to Mavis, ‘I have in the back of my mind that Gerald Hennessy had some connection down here. Did he go to Blundell’s? Exeter Cathedral School? Something like that.’

  ‘I thought he had family down here,’ replied Mavis, eager to display equal knowledge of the dear departed hero. Neither had a clue.

  Terry, like all photographers, had sliced his way through the queue at the bar and was already making his grinning way back across the dance floor laden down with drinks. He was a winner all right.

  ‘Do you think . . .?’ Jill asked Mavis in an undertone as he approached.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mavis said to Jill. ‘Most definitely.’

  ‘So why did Gerald Hennessy come to Temple Regis?’ they both asked simultaneously when the photographer had settled himself. It had not taken much chit-chat for them to be convinced he knew everything about the case.

  ‘No mention of it at the inquest,’ said Jill, who’d been in the courtroom.

  ‘Seems odd he should want to come down here, doesn’t it? Temple Regis?’

  ‘Shurshay la Fam,’ said Terry with an idiotic grin. ‘Ask yourself what Marion Lake was doing on the train.’

  ‘Thought so,’ said Mavis. She was the more worldly of the two. ‘The Grand!’

  Just then the town’s principal purveyor of hardware goods hove into view, looking suspiciously at Terry, who’d picked up his camera and was taking pictures of his wife.

  ‘Just talking about Gerald Hennessy, darling,’ said Jill Ferrers, licking her lips as she had seen film stars do just to give them that little extra gloss for the flash-gun. Terry carried on his task oblivious, as all photographers are when faced with danger if their eye is pressed to the viewfinder, to the rising anger in the man standing behind him.

  ‘That’s all anybody’s talking about,’ said Barry, rather nastily. ‘Brought some piece of skirt down for the weekend. That’ll do the town’s reputation a lot of good when it gets out. We’re not Brighton, you know!’

  ‘Just like his grandfather,’ said Ted Coryton, who strolled up behind his drinking partner and was eager to take his wife home.

  ‘How so?’ asked Terry, who was now taking candid snaps of Mary.

  ‘Well, surely you know that Hennessy’s grandfather was . . .’ but Mr Coryton did not complete this fascinating detail because at that point Ken Dalton, the mayor’s sergeant, was praying silence for His Worship, who would shortly be making the Loyal Toast.

  With the redoubtable Lady Mayoress back by his side, Mr Brough rose and pronounced the words all sensible Temple Regents wanted to hear – that they were loyal to their Queen and wished she would reign for ever. Glasses were raised and quaffed, cheers broke out, and a cascade of balloons wafted from the ceiling on to the dance floor while the band broke into a hot version of ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’.

  The noise was deafening but Terry put his mouth to the ear of Ted Coryton. You could see his lips move but not quite hear what was said. However, such was the punctuated delivery of the ‘Chattanooga’ tune it was possible in the split-second between one ‘Choo’ and the next to hear Mr Coryton’s bellowed reply to what had clearly been a question.

  ‘Bill Pithers,’ he shouted. And he nodded.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘’Ello, Frank,’ said Sid. ‘Usual?’

  Inspector Topham nodded sagely, as if asked for his opinion on Nikita Khrushchev. Sid busied himself fetching down the policeman’s pewter mug and jerkily filling it with Portlemouth. The conversation, as most nights here in the private bar of the Grand Hotel, centred around the new football season and Plymouth Argyle’s chances for the FA Cup.

  Then as usual Frank Topham retired to his corner seat to spend an hour in thought. Miss Dimont and he found it difficult to see eye to eye – reporters were the same the whole world over, he thought bitterly. But Frank Topham, if not inspired, was a diligent man: rightness and properness, instilled in him through those years in the Guards, were his watchword.

  Sid polished beer glasses energetically with elbows akimbo, a silent whistle on his lips, while riotous sounds floated down the corridor from the cocktail bar. The inspector sat quite still and s
tared deep into the dark brown liquid in front of him.

  Miss Dimont’s angry words at the inquest had left their mark. On the one hand, he sided with Dr Rudkin in his view that Temple Regis would never flourish with bad publicity – heaven knows, there were enough rival resorts ready to steal away the town’s bread-and-butter trade: think of Torquay! But, on the other, he had a duty to the law.

  It was true his team, even if they’d first considered it, had done nothing about the business of Arthur Shrimsley’s dog. But then why would they? From start to finish, it looked like the drunken old busybody had decided to ignore the safety warnings on top of Mudford Cliffs and had gone over. Well, more fool him, thought Topham, who’d instilled in his men the need always to think first before acting. Shrimsley hadn’t thought, he was being his usual nosy know-it-all self going to take a look at the broken cliff.

  It still left the question of the dog. Without it, Shrimsley had no reason to be up there. Then again, there was the matter of the piece of cloth – it was gripped pretty tightly in his fingers. He took out his notebook, but it was more a gesture of self-encouragement than anything else, for he neither consulted it nor added to its fund of information. Inspector Topham was stumped, and no amount of looking at it this way, or that, helped.

  He could not see, as Miss Dimont saw, the connection between the deaths of Hennessy and Shrimsley and the puzzling absence of Cattermole from the scene. Ray Cattermole had gone missing before – that old girl of his was forever crying wolf. He’d probably tootled off to London to seek out a newer model or maybe to raise some cash, for the theatre was not doing well, he knew that.

  And if there really was foul play, who was it? Hennessy didn’t murder Shrimsley any more than Shrimsley murdered Hennessy – it wasn’t possible. So who else was there to consider?

  That whole business of Prudence Aubrey and Marion Lake was nothing more than a pure domestic drama caused by Gerald Hennessy – and there was nothing suspicious about a heart attack.

  The inspector ordered another pint but half an hour later it remained untouched. There was something here, hidden among the debris of the deaths of two men, but he could not see it. It was very depressing.

  Finally, Topham picked up his hat and made for the door. Sid knew better than to say more, so confined himself to a soft, ‘’Night, Frank.’

  ‘’Night, Sid.’

  He ambled slowly down the corridor towards the side exit but suddenly ahead a group of people burst noisily out of the cocktail bar. Among them was Prudence Aubrey, her eyes alight for the first time since she arrived in Temple Regis.

  ‘Oh, Inspector!’ she said, her cheeks pink. ‘Just the man!’

  ‘Miss Aubrey.’

  ‘Inspector, I went along to collect Gerald’s things this afternoon as you suggested.’

  ‘Yes, madam?’ Don’t tell me something’s missing, thought the inspector.

  ‘Something’s missing.’

  Here we go, thought Topham, it’s always the way. Car crash, a watch has gone AWOL. Lover’s suicide – the letters. Drowned at sea – the wrong amount of small change in deceased’s pocket.

  ‘No really, Inspector, something of great sentimental value. His briefcase.’

  ‘Well, I suggest you raise that with the desk sergeant. Give him a full description and he’ll go through the effects cupboard – these things sometimes happen.’

  Miss Aubrey softly took the inspector’s hand and indicated a velvet-covered sofa in an alcove. ‘Come with me,’ she purred enticingly.

  Two martinis? Topham asked himself. Or three?

  Whatever the number, they were just about to be augmented. Miss Aubrey stopped Peter Potts as he sailed past and asked for one more, and whatever the inspector was having. Topham hadn’t the appetite earlier for his second pint, but curiously now he found his thirst returning.

  She really was remarkable to look at, he thought. This evening she had a generously skirted ivory silk dress with what looked like a very large diamond brooch at the shoulder. Her jewellery only just bordered on the right side of discreet, but since she herself presented such a cool and reserved demeanour, it shouted all the more loudly. No wonder men the world over loved this woman!

  And, thought Topham, I am sitting next to her and I have a pint of Portlemouth in front of me! The blues he had felt earlier started to drift away.

  ‘Now, Inspector,’ said Prudence chidingly, teasingly. ‘This is something you must inspect!’

  ‘Madam.’

  ‘If there is one thing which joined Gerald and me together more than anything else it was his attaché case. I bought it in Bond Street with my very first film earnings. We both went along to Asprey’s and chose it together – I can’t tell you the cost! That was twenty-five years ago and Gerald took it with him wherever he went – it’s old and scruffy now, but, Inspector, so becoming!’

  ‘I’m sure the desk sergeant—

  ‘No, no, no!’ The martinis were finding their voice. ‘No, Inspector, you must find it! I asked the sergeant and they turned the place upside down – but here’s the thing, a list was made of his possessions and it wasn’t even mentioned. I can only assume someone has stolen it, maybe from the train.’

  ‘Was there likely to have been anything in the case, madam?’ Topham didn’t care much, but the Portlemouth tasted very sweet indeed and all of a sudden he was in no rush to go home.

  ‘Well, I bought it for his scripts. But, you know, he had the same kind of photographic memory as Richard Burton – one look and he’d got it. He didn’t need to cart scripts round with him. It was one of the most infuriating things about him. It took me for ever to learn my lines – though once I’d got them—’ she tossed her head upwards as if to remind Topham of the mentally incontinent Marion Lake ‘—they stayed with me, come hell or high water.’

  Inspector Topham allowed himself a tight smile. He didn’t much care for Marion Lake either.

  ‘But even though he didn’t need it, Gerald took that case with him everywhere. Mostly he had nothing more in it than his smoked salmon sandwiches and a copy of Wisden – he was very keen on cricket,’ she added, suddenly sad. ‘It means more to me than anything, so you must try to recover it.’

  ‘Why would anybody want to steal it, do you think?’ asked Topham.

  ‘Who knows? It was very handsome. A memento. Could somebody have been on the train and just whisked it away?’

  Topham suddenly jerked to attention. His guardsman’s back became ramrod-stiff.

  ‘Um, I must go now, madam,’ he said tersely. ‘Something to attend to. Need to get back to the office. A pleasure to speak to you again – are you staying long in Temple Regis?’

  ‘Back to London at the weekend. But, Inspector, you promise – you will find the case? You have my address, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘And I shall be seeing Colonel ffrench-Blake soon. I’ll be telling him how tremendously helpful you have been.’

  ‘Please give him my respects. No man could have a finer commanding officer.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector.’

  Topham quick-marched back to the police station. He needed time to think, alone. He let himself into the CID room and sat down heavily in the centre of its empty vacuum.

  The prima facie evidence was that Hennessy’s briefcase had been stolen. It had to have been taken from the train – the uniform boys had been their usual efficient selves in cordoning off the carriage and keeping people out once Hennessy’s body was discovered, therefore it had to have been taken some time before the Riviera Express arrived at Temple Regis. Though the actor apparently died of a heart attack, what had caused that fatal seizure? Was it his too louche lifestyle? Or could it be someone had entered his compartment – maybe he had nodded off to sleep – and tried to steal the case? Had he awoken and grappled with the thief, triggering his own end?

  If that were the case, thought Topham, there could be a charge of manslaughter to be answered – for though the subseq
uent headlines might do further damage to the town, he most certainly could not permit foul play on his patch.

  He lifted the telephone and asked the operator for a London number. A male voice answered.

  ‘Inspector Topham of the Temple Regis police here,’ he said in unequivocal terms. ‘That will be Mr Maltby.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said the voice, both acknowledging and denying the fact in a single elongated syllable. Mr Maltby was the current escort of Marion Lake.

  ‘I have a couple of questions, Mr Maltby.’

  The voice at the other end repeated the same ambiguous sound. Mr Maltby was married, and not to Marion Lake.

  ‘When you came down in the train to Temple Regis, you were in the next carriage to Gerald Hennessy I think you told me?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘And for part of that journey Miss Lake told me she went to sit with her father in his compartment?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘You didn’t go and join them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was there any reason for that?’

  ‘I think I already explained—’

  ‘That he did not know his daughter was having, hurrummm, with a married man? And that it was more diplomatic if you stayed clear, just shook his hand, stayed in the background and so forth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did Miss Lake return to you? At what stage in the journey?’

  ‘Some time after the train left Exeter.’

  ‘Soon after you left Exeter?’

  ‘Pretty much straight away.’ Mr Maltby was beginning to relax – these questions appeared to offer no threat to his marital equilibrium.

  ‘When she came back to the compartment did she, by any chance, have an attaché case with her?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Small leather case.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right. And so there would have been a good twenty minutes when she was back in the compartment with you, then, before you reached Temple Regis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you alighted from the train . . .’

  ‘We agreed that Marion would leave the train first. We walked up through the second-class to the front of the train, and got away quick just before that press photographer showed up. Then we grabbed a taxi to take us to the Grand.’