Ann Granger (12 page)

As for Lefebre, he appeared an honourable man but I thought, with a smile, he’d be a good chess player. Perhaps he’d play a match with one of the Roche sisters during his stay. They appeared to like the game.

The wildness of shoreline, its hotch-potch of unfamiliar objects tossed down in abandon, together with the extraordinary clarity of the light, seduced me away from my complicated musings. I began to crunch my way over the pebbles holding my skirts clear, lacking the means to pin them up, and careful not to turn my ankle. The beach was mostly of scoured pale grey or light brown pebbles cast up in drifts by the sea and kept in place at intervals by lines of wooden groynes. They marched stoutly down the shore and out into the water, like rows of blackened rotted teeth. But between the patches of rapidly drying ridged shingle were areas of damp sand so smooth and flat they might have been ironed. The retreating waves had left them speckled with worm casts and scattered with sea shells, both whole and in myriad fragments resembling nothing so much as crushed eggshells. Among them lay strange objects of whiteness so pure it almost seemed luminescent. When I picked them up to examine them, I recognised them as the skeletons of cuttlefish that cage bird owners wedge in the bars for the feathered inmates to peck at.

Equally fascinating were the lengths of seaweed washed up in great tangled clumps or single strands. Some of it was dark brown, some bright green, some shiny and delicate, some coarse and covered with bubbles. I picked up a piece and pressed one between my fingers; the bubble popped in a satisfactory manner oozing some substance giving off a strong ammonia-like smell. I dropped it quickly. There was other debris too, bits of wood and oddments of fish and scraps of fishing net. Among it all searched the gulls, ignoring my presence.

I stooped to pick up another piece of cuttlefish and then gave a cry and stumbled back. My fingers had almost brushed against the bloated body of a dead rat, perhaps washed ashore from a ship’s hold. I retreated clear of it.

The encounter made me think of Brennan the rat-catcher and that in turn made me remember, with a start of guilt, that I was here looking for Lucy.

Shielding my eyes against the glare of light from the water, I peered in both directions along the shoreline but could see no sign of her. A few hundred yards away a clump of flat-topped pines clustered in a huddled group edging towards the sea like nervous bathers. At high tide their roots must almost stretch to the water’s edge. The exposure to the wind had led to them inclining their trunks shoreward. At their base, brambles straggled untidily. Perhaps she had hidden herself away in that thicket?

I began to make my way towards the spot and as I neared it a small white dog of terrier type ran out from the trees and scampered towards me, barking.

I thought it was one of Brennan’s dogs. I stopped, hoping he was nearby to call it off, because they’d struck me as snappy little beasts. Almost at once, to my relief, I heard a man shout and a male figure took shadowy form among the leaning pines and undergrowth.

‘Stay, Spot!’ he called sharply and the little dog obediently sank to its haunches. I saw it wasn’t one of the rat-catcher’s dogs, although similar in breed. This one had a coat brushed clean, a neat leather collar and was obviously a pet. It looked up at me with bright inquisitive gaze, tongue lolling.

‘Why,’ I said to it, bending over it, ‘you’re a very fine fellow!’

The dog responded by giving me what I can only describe as a silly grin and thumped its stubby tail. The man, swinging his walking stick to either side to clear the path, emerged from the trees. This was not Brennan.

I reached out to pat the little dog and the man began to hurry towards us, his heavy footsteps crunching noisily on the shingle. ‘Lucy?’ he called eagerly.

I stood up and he saw his mistake. He was only a few feet away now and stopped with such a patent look of disappointment on his face that I had to hide a smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not Mrs Craven. I’m Elizabeth Martin and I’ve just arrived at Shore House to be Mrs Craven’s companion.’

He rallied and pulled his bowler hat from his curly hair. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Martin. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Andrew Beresford. I own some land hereabouts and live nearby.’ He gestured vaguely with his cane. ‘I farm,’ he added.

It seemed to me that with his well-tailored suit of expensive lightweight woollen material, educated voice and indeed his whole manner, he was what is usually called ‘a gentleman farmer’, overseeing the efforts of others. Still, his face was sunburned and he looked a solid sort of man used to taking plenty of exercise in the fresh air. I put his age at about thirty-two.

I thought of the oiled hinges of the gate from Shore House to the beach.

‘I was walking with Mrs Craven earlier but she’s gone indoors,’ I said.

His tanned cheeks grew redder. His eyes searched my face. ‘Is she well? She hasn’t gone into the house because she’s been taken unwell?’

There was genuine anxiety in his voice. This is a complication, I thought to myself.

‘She’s quite well, thank you, Mr Beresford.’

‘Please tell her I send my best compliments and…’

At this point he stumbled into awkward silence and I rescued him.

‘We passed fields yesterday on our way across the health. Is that your estate?’

‘Some of it,’ he said immediately, glad to seize the escape route. ‘But please don’t imagine I’m one of the great landowners hereabouts. Beside the farmland itself, there is only the farmhouse where my manager lives; its outbuildings; a row of labourers’ cottages; my own house and a paddock or two.’

‘Was Shore House ever part of your estate?’ I asked on the spur of the moment.

He shook his head. ‘That belonged to someone who had inherited it but had no use for it. It stood empty for some years until about five years ago Mr Charles Roche bought it. The villagers were very pleased to think that it would be occupied again. It made a sad sight standing alone and empty and, of course, there would be work to be had in the employ of the new owners.’

Beresford indicated the countryside behind us. ‘You can see for yourself there’s little work here but on the land. Not so very long ago, less than a hundred years, this was a great coast for smuggling, although the currents are treacherous. A good many people earned a living from it.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘In fact, whole villages were given over to it to the extent that hardly anyone was to be seen about during the day – they all got up at nightfall and went about their business then. Those days are gone although some old people still remember them. My butler will tell you how, as a child, he was warned never to speak of those midnight comings and goings, and how even the most respectable housewife thought nothing of buying her tea surreptitiously from a contraband cargo. Now there’s great poverty here, I’m afraid.

‘But folk were disappointed if they had hopes of Shore House. Roche explained to me, when he called on me to introduce himself, that it was not for his own use but to be a home for his sisters. They were of a retiring nature and wanted somewhere quiet. They brought a housekeeper from London together with a cook and their personal maid. From the local population they employ only a couple of housemaids, a groom and a boy … and a gardener, of course. Charles Roche’s niece, Mrs Craven, joined her aunts about six months ago.’

He threw a wistful look towards the laurel hedge bounding the property. ‘I didn’t meet her when she first arrived as she was nearing the time of her lying-in. I have met her several times since, here on the beach, by chance, of course,’ he added hurriedly.

‘I’m glad to hear she meets anyone,’ I said. ‘This lonely house might suit the older ladies. But I can’t think it’s the best place for a young woman, especially someone like Lucy, who’d benefit from more lively company.’ I hesitated, unsure how to word what I wanted to say. ‘You’ll be aware she’s had troubles,’ I said. ‘She needs distraction but not more complexities.’

Beresford gave me a long level look. ‘I hope you will be able to help Lucy – Mrs Craven. I’m well aware her life of late has not been happy. She’s in need of younger female companionship. I’m not criticising the Roche ladies, of course. But shall we say they are somewhat set in their ways?’

‘I also hope I’ll be able to help Mrs Craven,’ I told him. ‘That’s why I’m here, after all. I’m pleased to have met you, Mr Beresford.’

‘Oh, yes, likewise…’ He replaced his bowler hat. ‘I hope we’ll meet again, Miss – er – Martin. Come, Spot!’

He whistled to the little dog, which jumped up and trotted off at his heels.

I made my way slowly back to the gate. What was I to make of all this? Lucy liked to walk on the beach and obviously Andrew Beresford liked to hang about there in the hope of encountering her. So who had oiled the hinges of the garden gate? His interest in her was plain. The hope in his voice when he had called out; his familiarity in using her first name; together with the disappointment in his face when he saw someone else: all that made it clear.

It didn’t make it better. If anything, it made the situation worse. James Craven might be frittering away his remittance money in Canton’s gambling palaces, drinking dens and, for all I knew, opium houses. But he was still Lucy’s husband. That was why I’d spoken as I had to Beresford. It was perhaps presumptuous of me to do so and on so slight an acquaintance. He’d have been quite entitled to take offence. But poor Lucy was already confused enough.

‘Oh, dear,’ I murmured aloud to myself in an unconscious echo of Dr Lefebre.

This was not only a further complication but a puzzle, too. Lucy appeared to be devoted to her absent husband. But someone the previous night had made an assignation in the garden with a person owning a small white terrier dog. Had the beach promenades (and the meetings with Beresford) been reported to Charles Roche? Had that led to his engaging me to be his niece’s companion? Two might be tempted to dally: three were a crowd.

I set off back. As I squeezed through the little gate into the property it occurred to me that if Lucy hadn’t gone into the house, as I suspected she hadn’t, and hadn’t gone down to the shore, then the garden was another place she might have taken refuge. I set off towards the far end where a dense shrubbery of rhododendrons might offer concealment.

As I neared the spot I heard a curious sound, high-pitched and desolate to the point of eeriness. It stopped me in my tracks. After a moment I identified it as the whining of a small dog. The distress in that whine sent a shiver up my spine. I hurried forward, calling, ‘Lucy! Lucy, are you there? It’s Lizzie. Please reply if you hear me, and don’t hide!’

There was no human answer, only the increased whining of the dog and then, a second, strange noise was added it, a little like a whine but coming in short, sharp bursts like tiny yelps.

I rounded the biggest of the dark green rhododendrons and stopped in horror.

In a small clear patch among the bushes, a little like a den, Lucy was crouched, pressed into the background of green leaves and dark dusty branches. Her blue skirts were crumpled in disarray. Her broad-brimmed hat lay some distance away and her hair had fallen loose round her face. Her eyes, opened as wide as they could go and turned towards me, were wild and filled with horror. From her open mouth issued the staccato noises I had taken for canine yelps but were in fact the inarticulate gasps of a woman about to break into the screams of hysteria.

One of Brennan’s terriers crouched by the sprawled body of its master. The rat-catcher lay on his back. His eyes were as wide open as Lucy’s but his expression was one of extreme astonishment. Both arms were bent at the elbow and rested on his chest with the fingers curled claw-like at his garish red neckerchief. It was as if he reached for the object protruding from his neck just above the scarf but panic or something else had prevented his finding it. The thing he had so vainly scrabbled for resembled the hilt of an ornamental dagger. It had been driven in above the collarbone until the blade disappeared completely. Brighter by far than his neckerchief was the glistening scarlet flood that had oozed from the wound.

Blood! Oh dear heaven, it was everywhere on his upper body, drenching shirt and moleskin waistcoat, his jacket and even the surrounding grass. The butcher’s shop odour of it crept into my nostrils. The sun sparkled on it. Already curious flies were gathering and the soft persistent buzz of their excitement filled the air.

Shock froze me in a moment of strange detachment. Illustrations from my father’s medical textbooks sprang to my mind from far back in the mists of childhood. I thought:
the carotid artery’s severed. But the blood’s stopped pumping out. The heart’s stopped. He’s dead.

Lucy moved and I saw that her sleeves and bodice were smeared with gore. Slowly she stretched out bloodstained hands to me.

‘I didn’t do it,’ she whispered in a tortured hoarse voice, ‘please tell them, Lizzie, I didn’t do this.’

The little terrier put back its head, raised its pointed muzzle to the sky and let out a long, wailing howl.

Lucy began to shriek.

Chapter Eight

Elizabeth Martin

THE SHRILL sound of Lucy’s cries broke my momentary paralysis. I hurried forward and seized her arms, trying to pull her to her feet. My intention was to get her away from the body but she sagged in my embrace and I found myself supporting her.

‘Come along, Lucy,’ I urged, tugging desperately at the inert form in my arms. ‘Let’s go indoors and I’ll tell them about this. Someone else will deal with it.’

Who’d have thought that slightly built girl could have weighed so much? I’d have had as much chance of moving the dead man. But others had already heard her screams and it wouldn’t be necessary for me to haul Lucy indoors or carry the shocking news there. People came running from all directions. From the house came the housekeeper, Mrs Williams, her black skirts flapping. Behind her came the shirt-sleeved figure of a gardener, grasping a spade at the ready should it be needed as a weapon. From the beach came Andrew Beresford running full tilt, his dog scampering behind him.