Died and Gone to Devon Read online

  ‘Is that a polite way of saying I’m nosy? I am a journalist, after all.’

  And in my different way, every bit as good as you, Mr Smarty Pants.

  ‘I’m curious to know about Geraldine. She knew a friend of my mother, a woman called Pansy Westerham, but when I went to see her she claimed she couldn’t remember Pansy at all.’

  ‘I think I know the reason why. Mrs Westerham had a most unconventional life – a bit too unconventional for common chatter.’

  ‘Hah! Is that a snub? Did you just say, I know something about her which I’m not going to tell you because I am enjoying withholding information from you?’

  ‘You might say that.’

  Renishaw’s face reddened. ‘Tell me!’ he demanded. ‘All I’m trying to do is get some information about my mother! She was a friend of Pansy, Pansy was a friend of Geraldine, Pansy must have talked to Geraldine about her! That’s not common chatter, as you snootily put it, it’s simple information about a member of my family.’

  ‘Calm down, David! I wasn’t talking about your mother, I was talking about a possible reason why Geraldine doesn’t want to talk to you about Pansy.’

  ‘OK, OK. Would you, d’you think, have a word with Geraldine and ask if she’d see me?’

  ‘Is it urgent?’

  Renishaw looked into his tomato juice. ‘My mother went missing. She was in London, mixing with all these people, and one day she went missing and was never found. I was twelve. I want to know what happened, and maybe Geraldine knows something – maybe she knows something without knowing she knows, if you see what I mean.’

  He’s handsome, thought Miss Dimont, but looks aren’t enough. To be attractive to women you have to have the personality to go with it. But David, you don’t have that – you’re like an automaton, fixed always and only on what you want to get out of someone.

  ‘I’ll have a word with her. What do you know about Pansy Westerham?’

  ‘What?’ The question startled Renishaw and he took a moment to answer. ‘There were some letters from her. To my mother. You can understand, if you’re a certain age and your mother is taken away from you, you tend to focus on whatever’s left behind. Little things suddenly mean a lot.’

  ‘It must have been a long time ago – how old are you now?’

  ‘Thirty-seven.’

  ‘Why’s it suddenly so urgent?’

  ‘It’s not urgent,’ replied Renishaw. ‘It’s just that… from what I learn of you, you have a mother who’s everywhere – if she’s not actually in your presence then you’re talking about her or thinking about her, or trying to avoid her. Why, Terry told me you even…’

  ‘Oh, did he now! Tell me, David, since you’ve been here in Temple Regis, have you spent all your spare time going round snooping into other people’s lives?’

  ‘Is that a polite way of saying I’m nosy? I am a journalist, after all,’ he echoed back.

  ‘Ha, ha. Point taken.’

  ‘My point is, you know about your mother,’ continued Renishaw. ‘You know all about her. I know nothing about mine, beyond the age of twelve. D’you see?’

  ‘I’m going to have a glass of whisky, I’ve drunk enough ginger beer to float a lifeboat. Will you join me?’

  It was a subtle challenge – drink alcohol with me and I will be your friend, don’t and I won’t. How many times had that stunt been pulled in this pub?

  ‘I really don’t ever… I…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘OK.’ Renishaw’s face looked green at the prospect.

  ‘Tell me about Saint Cloud. Is that where you grew up?’

  ‘Why don’t we talk first about your growing up?’ He manfully sipped at the whisky, but now she realised how ridiculous her insistence had been – just point-scoring, trying to gain the advantage over this slippery eel.

  ‘Look, you don’t have to drink that if you don’t want. Pour it into my glass.’

  ‘No, no… it’s just as a general rule I avoid alcohol.’

  ‘Well, since you ask, I came to Britain when I was four, when Germany invaded Belgium during the First World War. My father was a prisoner of war but came over to join us after the Armistice, and he carried on his business in the diamond trade from our home in Kent. I went to school and did a year and a half at university, but by then my father wasn’t so well, so he sent me off round Europe as his courier.’

  ‘Buying and selling diamonds is a man’s business, surely?’

  ‘I was in my early twenties and looked young and foolish and – well, as a strategy it worked rather well. They thought I knew nothing, but my father had taught me all he knew and we pulled off some extraordinary deals.’

  ‘So it was never your ambition to become a journalist.’

  ‘Not then. I was having too much fun – Paris, Rome, Berlin, Belgrade, everywhere!’

  ‘Lots of love affairs?’

  ‘Mind your own business. The reason why I asked you about Saint Cloud is because I lived in Paris for a year, and stayed mostly in the house of my father’s business contact Monsieur Schonberg, on the Rue de la Faisanderie. I wonder if you know where that is – quite an elaborate house with eagles on the gates, near the park.’

  Renishaw took a large gulp of whisky. ‘It’s not a period I care to recall.’ He thought for a moment, then added: ‘We didn’t live like that. My father was the concierge for the Palace Hotel. It was a lowly position but he made a great deal of money from the various tips and inducements that came with the job.’

  ‘He was English? Renishaw’s a fine old English name.’

  ‘Half. His mother was French. But his wife – my mother – was English. A bit of a lost soul, so I gather. But back to you – why did you give it up, the diamond trade? Sounds like you were pretty successful.’

  ‘With the help of others, yes. The war came along and… well, the rest is rather a long story. A long period in the service of the government. Then eight or nine years ago I came down here and, by luck, got a job as a junior reporter on the Express.’

  ‘And now you’re chief reporter. Have you never thought of moving on and up?’ The way he said it was odd – was he jealous of her title, did he want it for himself, was he leaving because she’d got it?

  ‘I’m very happy here. As I sense you will be very happy not to be here.’

  ‘Other things to do.’

  ‘So I imagine. Well, I’ll be sorry to see you go,’ she lied, ‘but I’ll be frank and say you’ve been a bit of a cuckoo in the nest.’

  ‘People always seem to say that.’

  ‘One thing that’s always puzzled me.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You remember just after you came here, Sir Freddy Hungerford was beaten up in the street in Westminster? Some people thought it might have been that strange professor who did it, and you and Terry went up to Hatherleigh to try to find him.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Terry told me you attacked him. It doesn’t seem like you at all, very out of character – what was all that about?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because,’ said Judy, ‘I can’t think of another single incidence where a reporter has become so personally involved in a story that they got into a fist-fight over it. Not one.’

  ‘Terry’s got it wrong. It was dark, I left the car to go in search of the man. Professor Sirraway. He attacked me – viciously. I’ve never known anything like it. He looks a bit old and weedy but he’s got extraordinary hidden strength. I thought he was going to kill me.’

  ‘So you fought back?’

  ‘Exactly. Terry couldn’t see what was going on because he was still in the car. Eventually he came over and separated us but you know, Judy, that man might have killed me. He’s mad!’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I looked into his alibi after that little dust-up and, you know, he had no proof he was in Ilfracombe on the day Hungerford was attacked. He’s got a real thing about Hungerford having stolen valuable real estate fr
om his family – I really truly believe the man is a danger and should be locked up.’

  Well, yes, thought Judy, only that’s not how Terry remembers the dust-up in Hatherleigh. He had the headlights on and even though he was still in the driving seat, he could see you. And he says you launched an attack on Sirraway when all the man was trying to do was get into his house. It was you who attacked him, not the other way around. The whole thing remains a mystery.

  Just like you, Mr Renishaw.

  Nineteen

  It took a surprisingly long time to find the body. With each succeeding hour, anxiety grew and hope diminished, to the point where the brave smiles had withered and the reassuring nods between the searchers had faded completely away.

  Nobody could imagine what had happened to one of the most prominent people in Temple Regis, but then nobody thought of the lighthouse.

  And why would they? The Templeton Light stood, massive and reassuring, out on the Temple Rock after which the town was named. Its octagonal tower had stood sentry duty for two centuries, warning ships of the deadly rocks scattered around the mouth of the estuary.

  It wasn’t until mid-morning the next day that a swarm of seagulls, shouting out their tragic discovery, finally drove someone to think of taking a look – and even then, if it hadn’t been for the observant hiker’s strong binoculars, the search would have lasted days longer.

  They found the body splayed out on the gallery deck, the head resting against the iron guard rail. The blood from the stomach wound had partially dried, but a trained eye could see there would have been no chance of saving her once the knife went in.

  Once she might have been prime minister. Now all Mirabel Clifford would be remembered for was this bizarre end to a promising life – her face drenched in spindrift, her sensible suit of clothes ruined for ever, her handbag still over her wrist.

  ‘Tragic,’ said Inspector Topham, holding his hat in the wind. He was thinking, it’s worse when you know the person. Of the murders he’d been obliged to investigate since he arrived in Devon, none were known to him personally. Back beyond that, the war years, he’d known a fair number, and somehow this death brought all those alive again. He wanted to go home, talk it over with his wife, gather comfort from her.

  Instead he allowed the age-old responses to take charge. ‘Have you finished?’ he said to the police doctor. The man nodded, got off his knees and wiped his hands.

  ‘Bring her inside, then,’ he ordered the uniformed constables standing behind him, ‘and go down and take a look around for the weapon. There’s a good chance whoever did this will have just chucked it over the side. Careful as you go.’

  He moved inside to the lantern room and turned back to look at the sea. Waves angrily beat the rocks beneath, demanding his attention, but he barely noticed. Man is a mystery, he thought, a riddle to be solved, and I will never achieve it.

  ‘What on earth is she doing here?’ asked the lighthouse keeper, more annoyed than shocked.

  ‘You know who she is?’

  ‘I do,’ said the man, looking down at the body. ‘Mrs Clifford. She was due to come here tomorrow to have her photograph taken – I went into town a couple of days ago to arrange it all. Publicity for her, publicity for us too. We rely on donations.’

  ‘You weren’t here yesterday?’

  ‘My quarters are in the cottage down below, but during the day, if the weather’s fine, I go home. I live in Ferry Lane. She must have come here yesterday afternoon while I was in town.’

  ‘You don’t lock the lighthouse up?’

  The man gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Lock up a lighthouse – are you serious?’

  ‘Basic security,’ said Topham, importantly.

  ‘Look, mate,’ said the keeper, irritated, ‘I’ve worked here nigh on thirty years. My dad were keeper before me and my great uncle afore that. Never in this century, or the last, has there been a case of someone trying to break into the lighthouse. Never—’ he looked down unbelievingly, ‘—has anybody found a body out on the deck – or anywhere else, come to that.’

  Topham realised how ridiculous his question must have seemed. ‘I have to establish the facts. How she got here, who was with her, who saw them. You have an assistant, I take it?’

  ‘Yers, Abraham. And before you ask, it was his half day yesterday. He went to see his sister.’

  ‘So the lighthouse was left unguarded. And unlocked.’

  ‘Look, mate, if I was you I’d get a move on trying to find out who did this, instead of wasting time giving me a lecture!’

  ‘Who knows about the routine here?’

  ‘Well, my bosses at Trinity House, obviously. A few of the lifeboat boys – Abraham and me use their bar when we’re in town. Nobody else much.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Our wives, our children, the occasional visitor but we don’ encourage that many, we’re not a tourist attraction.’ He thought again for a moment. ‘Oh, we had a fellow the other day, said he’s doing a book on lighthouses, he came and had a look around.’

  Topham stiffened slightly. ‘Name?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Abraham, I wasn’t ’ere.’

  ‘Well, thank you, I expect…’

  ‘Wait, wait – are you goin’ to clear this away? I can’t have dead bodies hanging around the lantern room.’

  Topham didn’t like his tone. ‘What time’s sunset?’

  ‘It’ll be 8.43 p.m,’ came the instant reply.

  ‘A good few hours yet, before you’ll be swinging that ruddy great light around then,’ the policeman said gruffly. ‘She’ll stay here until we’re good and ready to move her.’

  It was nothing short of chaos back in the editor’s office.

  ‘Where’s Renishaw? Where’s Terry?’ barked Rudyard Rhys. ‘What on earth are they doing? Why aren’t they here?’

  ‘Ice cream factory,’ said Peter Pomeroy helpfully. ‘They’ve got a new flavour out next week.’

  ‘Ice cream? When we’ve got a murder on our hands?’

  ‘Won’t be murrther when Rudkin gets his hands on it,’ said John Ross silkily. ‘He’ll have it down as a sprained ankle by the time he’s finished wi’ the inquest.’

  ‘I’ll get out there now,’ said Miss Dimont. Her response was instant – measured, guarded, masking whatever feelings she may have at the loss of a friend. From the days of her time in Naval Intelligence, it had always been that way. ‘Go over on Herbert. Terry can follow in the Minor.’

  ‘No, I want Renishaw on it. You go and take over at the ice cream factory.’

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Rhys.’ Her response was defiant, a warning.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Renishaw will have all the information by now – and a free ice lolly too, no doubt, it’s not exactly a complicated story. He can write it up in no time at all. May I remind you, Mr Rhys, that I am still the chief reporter round here, and it’s my story? As you’re aware, I knew the dead woman.’

  The editor sat down at his desk and ran his hands through his hair. ‘I was just trying to spare you the anguish,’ he said, refusing to meet her eyes. Even editors lie.

  ‘Nonsense! You just think David Renishaw will get you a better story. Send in the men – that’s your attitude, always has been. When I think back…’

  She was not allowed to finish the sentence. ‘I’m not sending you,’ rasped the editor, ‘because you let your other activities get in the way when you’re supposed to be covering events for the Express.’

  ‘What do you mean, Richard? Are you saying I’m unprofessional?’

  ‘All you ever want to do is play detective. I’m fed up with it.’

  ‘Well, I’m going anyway. Renishaw can follow if he wants to. Tell Terry where I’ve gone and while you’re at it, please thank him for topping up Herbert’s petrol.’

  It was a calculated act. On the one hand it was a sackable offence to disobey your editor; on the other Judy knew he’d never do it. Whatever their relationship, and it was far from easy, they shared too muc
h past history for Rhys ever to think of dismissing her.

  Curious though, she thought, as she stowed the raffia bag and climbed aboard her trusty steed. When they worked together during the war, Rhys sometimes showed he was made of the right stuff – but here in Temple Regis, he’d become a slave to the newspaper owner’s every whim. Caution was the owner’s watchword, and so it had become his.

  But not hers. ‘Show me the way!’ she ordered Herbert defiantly, and took off at breakneck speed.

  The coast road out of Temple Regis rose spectacularly to a point where you could see the whole of Nelson’s Bay at a sweep. Ahead in the distance stood the massive Templeton Rock with its distinguished-looking octagonal tower and despite the loss of her friend, Miss Dimont’s spirits lifted with every yard Herbert advanced, so beautiful was it all. This is why I can never leave, she thought, as a flight of terns swooped over her head and plummeted over the cliff edge towards the foam beneath.

  When she turned off the main road, however, the path out to Templeton Light was more of a rough-hewn track, causing Herbert to judder like a bucking bronco. ‘All right, old fellow,’ she said, ‘I’ll leave you here. Enjoy the view.’

  She got off and walked up towards the lighthouse. Around a corner came a stretcher party bearing a shrouded lifeless body, with Inspector Topham and his men bringing up the rear. She stepped respectfully to one side to allow the ambulancemen past, then nipped back in front of the policeman so he was obliged to come to a halt.

  ‘Come on, now,’ he snarled, ‘there’ll be a statement. You’ll get it.’

  ‘It is Mirabel Clifford?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she did not die by accident?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘May I ask how she died?’

  ‘You may.’

  Here we go again, thought Judy, the same old routine. Question, no answer – question, no answer. ‘Oh, come on, Inspector! You may as well tell me now. Why wait till we get back to the police station?’

  Topham couldn’t think of an answer to that, but holding an impromptu press conference as the corpse was being trundled away seemed somehow inappropriate. ‘Come in at teatime.’