Death at Rottingdean (15 page)

“Very observant, Patrick!” his lordship exclaimed. “We shall make a detective of you yet. But should we exclude a rifle as the murder weapon? Some modern rifles do have an ejection mechanism that could have tossed the cartridge casing that distance.”

“I have never handled a rifle,” Patrick said thoughtfully, “but my father once shot an Afghan at three hundred yards with his, so it must be a very powerful weapon. Wouldn't a rifle bullet have gone right through him, and hit the wall?” As he said the words, he shuddered.

“Bravo!” Lord Sheridan said. “Indeed it would. But it did not, for I have looked. There is no sign of an exit wound.”

Patrick reflected for a moment. “I don't think Captain Smith would have let anyone with a rifle get close to him.”

His lordship nodded. “In his line of business, he would probably have developed strong suspicions where weapons were concerned. A pistol, however, can be hidden.”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “If Captain Smith thought the man was his friend...” He stopped. He had occasionally seen Mr. Tudwell and Captain Smith in conversation at the Black Horse, or walking on the High Street. They had certainly seemed to be friends.

“You say, Charles,” Lady Sheridan mused, “that there is no exit wound. So the bullet remains in the victim's body?”

“Yes,” his lordship replied. “Until the autopsy, when it will be extracted. That will give us more information about the gun that fired it. And there are several other things. Look at this.” He bent over and pointed to a closely smoked cigarette butt. “One might think that Captain Smith had been sitting here for some time, waiting. And there is this, too.” From the dusty floor, close beside the dead man's thigh, he carefully picked up a small piece of green pasteboard, holding it by the corner.

“It looks like a ticket,” her ladyship said. “A ticket to what, I wonder.”

Patrick knew the answer to that, and he felt a strange relief as he said, “It's a ticket to the bathing machines on the beach. Trunky Thomas owns them. You have to pay him before you can use one. Everybody complains that he charges too much.”

“Something tells me,” Lord Sheridan said dryly, “that the victim would not have been in the habit of frequenting the local bathing machines.”

“No,” Patrick said thoughtfully. “He wouldn't.” Now that he thought of it, he realized that Harry Tudwell was not the only man he had seen walking and talking with the coast guard. Trunky Thomas knew him, too. In fact, he had seen the two of them huddled together, talking, not long after the first coast guard's body had been dragged onto the beach.

“Ah,” Lord Sheridan said. “I think, then, we should have a talk with Mr. Thomas.” He went back to the cartridge casing, inserted a stick in it, and placed it carefully in his handkerchief, wrapping it up. He glanced at Patrick. “You know this village, Patrick, and you must have some information about what is going on here. Is there anything you can tell us about this crime?”

Patrick half turned away, wondering how much his lordship knew about Rottingdean's nocturnal enterprise. All things considered, he himself didn't know very much for certain, beyond the fact that the villagers—almost all of them, as far as he could tell—had been involved in digging out the old tunnels and were now engaged in the smuggling business. He couldn't, for example, say where the goods were coming from or where they were going, or what besides spirits, wine, tea, tobacco, and fancy dress goods might be involved. And he certainly didn't know who had killed Captain Smith, although he had to admit to feeling grateful to whoever had dropped the ticket, for it opened the way to at least one other explanation of what had happened here. And although he had run his share of errands for Mr. Tudwell and carried his share of messages, whatever he said would be a guess, and Lord Charles was asking for information, not guesses. Besides, there was no need to tell more than was necessary at any one time, and he had already told quite a lot. He shook his head.

Lord Sheridan looked disappointed, but only nodded. “Let's go over the floor carefully, then. When we are finished, we'll go outside to wait for the constable from Brighton.”

They searched in silence for ten minutes or so but discovered nothing else, and when Patrick stepped into the morning light, he wasn't sure whether he should be glad or sorry. Even for someone as intelligent as his lordship, it must not be easy to discover who had killed a man when the only clues were a cartridge casing and a ticket to a bathing machine. It was entirely possible that the killer of Captain Smith would go forever undiscovered. But whether that would be a good thing or a bad, he was not yet sure.

“Lady Burne-Jones and I should like to drive to Black Rock this morning, Patrick,” Lady Sheridan said, interrupting his thoughts. “We hope to visit the widow of the young coast guard who died earlier. But neither of us are sure of the way to the cottage. Will you go with us and point it out?”

Patrick was silent for a moment, thinking of Harry Tudwell, to whom he owed so much and who counted on him, and weighing out the consequences of doing this or that, or saying the one thing or the other. But surely there was no difficulty in pointing out the Black Rock Coast Guard Station to such a lovely lady.

“It's not hard to find,” he said. “You can't miss the white cottage and the flagpole. But I'll go with you, if you like.”

Lady Sheridan put her hand on his shoulder. “Very good. This morning air has made me hungry. Shall we walk down to North End House and see if there might be some breakfast waiting for us there?”

Patrick was glad enough to oblige.

A German colleague in Natural History asked an old Spanish lawyer [in Chile] what he thought of the King of England sending out a collector [Charles Darwin] to his country to pick up lizards and beetles and to break stones. The old gentleman thought seriously for some time and then said, “It is not well ... No man is so rich as to send out people to pick up such rubbish ... If one of us were to go and do such things in England, do not you think the King of England would very soon send us out of his country?”

—CHARLES DARWIN
The Voyage of the Beagle

Here begins the Great Game.

—RUDYARD KIPLING
Kim

 

 

 

 

K
ate had thought of taking the Panhard for the trip to Black Rock, but Charles wanted it to drive to Brighton to attend the autopsy, should it be held that day. So when Aunt Georgie suggested that they take her dog cart, Kate readily agreed.

It was an early hour for calling, but Aunt Georgie was energetically determined to inquire into the welfare of the young widow, and as equally determined, when they returned, to begin her canvas of the village in order to discover what might be learned about the murders. And Kate, for her part, was also anxious to talk to Mrs. Radford. She might know something that could shed some light on the questions left by the two deaths. It was a pity to intrude on her grief, Kate thought, but better that the questions were asked by two sympathetic women than by one unfeeling man.

Aunt Georgie chirped to the pony that Mr. Mounter had brought round, Patrick leapt up behind in the four-wheeled cart, and they were off. As they drove up the High Street in the direction of the sea, Kate saw small clumps of people talking together, and she guessed that word of Captain Smith's murder was beginning to make its way around the village. One trio of gossiping women included her own cook-housekeeper, Mrs. Portney, who had a basket over her arm and was animatedly discussing something with the other two. Mrs. Portney glanced up, a look of consternation crossing her pinched face when she saw Patrick. She elbowed one of the others, who turned to stare, narrow-eyed, as they drove past. Patrick himself sat with hunched shoulders, his head down, and Kate hoped that she had not put the boy into some further difficulty by asking him to come with them.

Black Rock lay on the Dover Coach Road on the way to Brighton, about two and a half miles to the west of Rottingdean. When they came to the steep climb up the shoulder of Beacon Hill, just outside the village, Patrick jumped out to walk and spare the pony his weight. Once at the top, they could see almost to Brighton, where the shining groins reached out long fingers into the ocean. Before them, between grassy banks, stretched the white ribbon of narrow road, its surface powdered to a fine chalk by horses' hooves and wagon wheels. On the left was the heaving ocean, stretching to the southern horizon, on the right, the rolling downs lifting to the north. The early mist had given way to a bright blue sky, dazzling sunshine that turned the ocean to a silver glitter, and a clean salt breeze. It was a fine day for a drive, Kate thought—or it would have been, if their purpose had not been so gloomy.

Aunt Georgie, her shoulders straight, her mouth set in a firm line, guided the pony past Beacon Hill, where a small knot of uniformed men and several horses and wagons stood in front of the windmill. “Those must be the men of Brighton's chief constable,” she said. “I'm glad to see that Sir Robert received my telegram and came so promptly.”

Kate did not correct Aunt Georgie's mistaken impression, for she had not told her that the Prince had assigned Charles to the case and had instructed the Brighton chief constable to assist him. She also refrained from telling her of the investigation that she and Charles and the boy had made that morning, not because she did not trust Aunt Georgie but because she could not be sure of the servants. Mr. and Mrs. Mounter were villagers, and Kate was beginning to wonder just how many of Rottingdean's inhabitants might be involved, one way or another, in this mysterious affair.

Patrick had jumped back into the cart and the pony was about to start the downhill slope of Beacon Hill when they were met by a comical-looking man with fuzzy gray side-whiskers, wearing a waterproof cloak, wide-brimmed canvas hat, and drab breeches. He had a knobbed walking stick in one hand, a map in the other, and a bulging knapsack on his shoulder, from which hung a rock hammer, a telescope case, a large silver compass, a drinking cup and paired fork and spoon, and a closed wicker basket. He was wearing smoked-glass eye preservers against the ocean's glare, and had a meerschaum pipe in his mouth. He waved at them to stop, and Aunt Georgie reined in the pony.

“Good morning, dear ladies,” the man said humbly, stuffing the pipe into his pocket and snatching off his hat to reveal hair that was darker than his whiskers. He spoke in a Continental accent, with an almost droll lift at the end of each sentence. “Pardon, but may one inquire whether you are acquainted with the cause of the commotion there by the windmill?”

“It is the chief constable from Brighton,” Aunt Georgie said importantly. “Sir Robert Pinckney. He is investigating the death of the captain of the coast guard.”

“A death?” the man said, and shook his head sadly. “An accident, one must presume?”

“A murder,” Aunt Georgie replied.

Kate could not see the man's eyes, which were hidden behind his smoked lenses, but his mouth seemed to take on a wry twist. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed, and replaced his hat. “A coast guard captain murdered, in so pure and virtuous a village? And how was the poor chap killed, pray tell?”

Kate frowned, wondering at the man's odd interest. But everything about the fellow struck her as absurd, as if he were some sort of caricature. Aunt Georgie, on the other hand, who accepted people as they came, answered with perfect sincerity.

“He was shot,” she replied. “It is the second death in only a few days. The other was a coast guard, as well.”

“Then coast-guarding would seem to be a most hazardous occupation,” the man remarked. “One wonders whether the other was murdered too?”

“That is not clear,” Aunt Georgie said. “The inquiry has yet to be held.” She cocked her head to one side. “Your occupation, sir, and your business in our village?”

“I?” he replied. He stroked his side-whiskers. “I am an antiquarian with a deep interest in the early settlements of this region. I have been making a survey for a paper I am preparing for the
Journal of Antiquarian Investigations.
Specifically, I am searching for antiquities and artifacts of the Celtic Iron Age.” He unrolled the map. “Yours is not the first village situated at this location, dear ladies. The earliest settlements were of the Neolithic period, about two and one half centuries before the present era, but they continued through the Bronze and into the Iron Age. After a rain, one can still see the trace of the mounds and ditches and walls of the Flint People. And I must tell you”—he gestured toward the windmill—“that your unfortunate coast guard is not the first to die upon that hill. According to my researches, it is also the site of a burial pit from the late Iron Age, containing the skeletons of four adults and—”

“Indeed,” Aunt Georgie said, lifting the reins. “Well, that is all very interesting, sir, but I am afraid we cannot linger. However, if you will call at North End House some afternoon, I shall be glad to hear more of what you have learned. I am a member of the Parish Council and could arrange for you to address the entire village, if you like. Our school house is available for lectures of general interest.”

The man whipped off his hat again and bowed gallantly. “I should be delighted to make such an address, Madam Council Member. May one humbly inquire as to your esteemed name?”

“I am Georgiana Burne-Jones,” Aunt Georgie replied, “and this is Lady Charles Sheridan.”

“And your name, sir?” Kate asked quickly, thinking that she would mention the encounter to Charles. Despite the man's whimsical appearance and manner, his questions struck her as having some purpose at which she could not guess.