Death at Rottingdean (6 page)

 

 

Charles Sheridan never ceased to be amazed by his wife. He knew how devastated she had been by the loss of the child and by the knowledge that she could never conceive another. And yet here she was, pretending to be absolutely delighted by the news that her maid was to have a baby, displaying not a flicker of envy or sorrow. But it was like Kate to conceal her deepest feelings so that she did not darken Amelia's joy. So Charles responded with an equal warmth, congratulating Amelia and promising himself privately to see to an increase in Lawrence's salary, now that he was to be a family man.

When Amelia had curtseyed and left the room, Kate sighed and turned away, and Charles thought what the pretense of happiness must have cost her. He put his arms around her for a moment, holding her close and thinking how brave she was, and yet how fragile. He still went cold at the memory of her long illness. The death of the child he could bear. It was the mother he cherished with all his soul, and whose loss would have meant the end of every joy.

Now, he looked down at her with concern. They had walked for a long distance on the cliff above the sea this morning, and she must be tired. “Are you sure you feel up to visiting the Kiplings tonight, Kate?”

For a moment she looked as if she might decide not to go, and Charles remembered, somewhat guiltily, that he had promised that they would keep to themselves this holiday. Then she said, “Oh, yes, I'm quite well. And I'm anxious to visit the cellar and see if I can coax the ghost to show himself.” She smiled. “So, Charles. Tell me all about your investigation of the body on the beach. What happened after I left?”

Charles laughed shortly. “There's not much to tell,” he said. “As Kipling remarked. Constable Woodhouse is a hardheaded man. More than that, he's very set in his ways—the old ways. He told me to go about my business. Politely, of course. But he made it plain that he would tolerate no interference in his investigation.”

Kate frowned. “What did he say to the boy's story?”

“We didn't get that far,” Charles said. “Kipling took the rejection personally, and did not put the boy forward. His name, by the way,” he added, “is Patrick.”

“But the boy—Patrick—saw the
murderer!”
Kate exclaimed. “He told us so himself. He might be able to identify him.”

“
If
he is telling the truth.” Charles said cautiously, “he saw the body being disposed of. It is not exactly the same thing.”

“You didn't believe him?” Kate asked, sounding surprised. “I thought he seemed quite sincere—and remarkably composed, for a boy of his age. And what reason would he have to lie?”

Charles chuckled dryly. “What reason do boys have to tell fanciful tales? However, the question is moot, Kate. Woodhouse refused all assistance, Kipling clamped his mouth shut like a sour clam, and Patrick prudently disappeared. I doubt,” he added with a wry twist, “that he was eager to tell his story to the constable, after all. If word got about that he was a witness...” Charles didn't finish the sentence.

Kate's eyebrows went up. “You don't suppose the boy is in danger!”

“No, not that,” Charles said slowly. “But the villagers seem inordinately suspicious of nearly everything that happens. If it is known that the boy spoke to Kipling or to me about what he had seen, he might come in for a bad time of it.”

“I've noticed the suspicion, too,” Kate said. “Even our cook-housekeeper doesn't seem happy to have us here.”

She frowned. “The oddest thing, Charles. You remember that we are to have the use of the wine cellar, I suppose? Well, I went there this morning to check the bottles against the inventory Mrs. Seabrooke sent us, so that an accounting can be made when we are ready to leave. I found a damp spot where a substantial amount of brandy had been spilled—in the last few days, I'd say—and evidence that the shelves had recently held quite a few
more
bottles than were accounted for in the inventory.”

“As long as there were no fewer, I don't suppose it matters,” Charles said. “It would be a pity to learn that the estimable Mrs. Portney has been indulging herself while the house stood vacant.” He returned to his subject. “Anyway, Woodhouse is no different than most village constables. They all believe that cameras are best used for recording children having picnics and people playing croquet. They have no idea of using them as serious tools in a murder investigation. Why, not even Scotland Yard has thought of it.”

Kate picked up her gloves. “So it is officially a murder, then?”

“The constable would say nothing,” Charles replied, “and prevented me from getting a close look. But I saw evidence that the poor chap had been knifed. There were bloodstains on his jersey, and what looked to be a puncture wound.” He paused. “No doubt there will be a coroner's inquest, however, and the truth will be learned.” He gave her a narrow look. “This is none of our affair, Kate. You do know that, don't you?”

But Kate did not appear to hear him. “Who would murder a coast guard?” she asked musingly. “A smuggler, do you think?”

“In one of your sensational fictions, perhaps,” Charles said with a laugh. He adored his wife and admired her shrewd logic, but she was prone to flights of fancy. “This is the modern era, Kate. There's very little money to be earned in smuggling, and hence very little incentive to take the risk.”

“Oh?” Kate asked archly. “Then why do I see that small army of blue-coated and brass-buttoned functionaries lined up at Charing Cross station when the Continental express is due? I once watched them apprehend a lady who was concealing a large case of cigars in her hatbox.”

“That's a different thing entirely,” Charles said. “The smuggling that went on along this coast sixty years ago was wholesale smuggling, designed to evade the excise. Entire shiploads of spirits, tobacco, tea, lace—goods that were heavily taxed—were ferried onshore here, and at Hastings and Cuckmere Haven. Dozens of men were used to move the cargo off the boats, and many others to convey it to Brighton and Falmer and Lewes, and thence to London. It was a major source of commerce.”

Kate looked at him in wonderment. “But how was all this activity kept from the villagers?”

“It wasn't,” Charles said. “They connived in it.”

“Ah.” Kate picked up her hat and turned it thoughtfully, straightening the silk roses around the brim. “Of course. They must have concealed the contraband until it could be freighted to the cities.”

“And profited thereby,” Charles said. “But now that the excise laws have been changed, there is little profit, less smuggling, and nothing to connive at.”

“But it would make a marvelous novel,” Kate said.

“So it would,” Charles replied encouragingly. “The very thing for you to work on while we are here.” He hoped that Kate could go back to her writing, for she was always happiest when she was engaged with one of her stories. He took out his watch and glanced at it. “If we are going to arrive at The Elms when we promised, we had best be going. Shall I have Lawrence fetch the motorcar? I don't want you to exert yourself if you're tired.”

“Don't be silly,” Kate said. “It's only a short way, and quite a lovely night.” She began pinning her hat to her hair. “But if there is no smuggling,” she said around the hatpins in her mouth, “who
did
kill the coast guard? And why?”

As usual one goes along the line of least resistance and because the owner offered to sell us his sticks of furniture too, thereby saving us the bother of immediately hunting for new things, we have taken for three years this ex-smuggling stronghold in Rottingdean. It's small, low and old and in time we hope to make it comfy. At present its interior is what you might call neolithic.

—RUDYARD KIPLING TO THOMAS HARDY November 30, 1897

In due time I found my ghost.

-RUDYARD KIPLING “My Own True Ghost Story”

 

 

S
tucco-fronted and red-tiled, The Elms stood in a sort of little island under several large ilex trees and behind six-foot flint walls which, Kipling would say many years later, “we then thought were high enough.” On this evening, Kipling answered his own door, dressed in tweeds with leather elbow patches and knee-high boots, holding a nightgowned little girl in his arms.

“Welcome to our abode,” he said warmly. “You'll find us very common here, with no ceremony.” He bounced the little girl, who hid her face shyly on his shoulder. “This is Elsie, and where has Josephine gotten to? Josephine, Josephine! Come down and meet our visitors!”

A small girl flew down the narrow staircase and hid herself shyly behind her father's boots, then obeyed his command to step out and shake hands with Lord and Lady Sheridan. There was an easy familiarity between father and daughter, as if the two of them spent a great deal of time in one another's company.

“You'll find that we have a wonderfully rustic and innocent time of it in Rottingdean.” Kipling took his daughter's hand. “Jam-smeared picnics on the downs, chasing ducks into the pond, finding birds' eggs—quite the thing, eh, Josie?” And upon her eager assent, he added, to Kate, “Perhaps you'd go riding with us some afternoon, Kate, when you've nothing better to do. A friend gave the wife and me a tandem some months ago, but Carrie isn't well enough to ride yet.”

“There's a seat on the back for me,” Josephine said. She looked pleadingly up at Kate, who saw that the little girl had her father's firmly cleft chin. “Please, say you'll go. My feet don't reach the pedals, or I'd do it.”

“For sheer pace and excitement, a tandem beats a bicycle all to pieces,” Kipling said enticingly. He grinned at Charles. “And I'd be glad to lend it to the two of you, so you can ride along the cliff. Now
that's
excitement for you.”

“I'd love to go riding with you, Josephine,” Kate said. She glanced at Kipling with his two daughters, and then at her husband, wondering what sharp envy Charles must be feeling.
He
would have been a wonderful father, she thought with a swift pang, and as swiftly turned her head to hide the painful thought that must be written on her face. But not swiftly enough, for she knew that Charles had glimpsed it.

Kipling led them into a low-ceilinged cave of a parlor, where his wife, Carrie, a sharp-jawed, brown-haired lady of about Kate's age, sat on a brown chair, under a blue-shaded gas lamp with leprous-looking white blotches all over it. In her arms was the Kiplings' new baby, John, swathed in a knitted wrap. On a nearby horsehair sofa sat another, older woman, quite tiny but erect and straight-shouldered, with an elvish face that was striking in its dynamic intelligence. As she stood, Kate saw that she was wearing a plum-colored dress with long, full skirts, serviceable but not particularly smart, which had outlasted several changes of fashion. The gaslight shone on her silver-gray hair, knotted loosely under a swath of soft ocher lace that had been pinned with a brooch. At her waist hung a large watch set with chrysolites.

Kipling introduced them all. While Charles joined their host in front of the small, smoky fire, Kate admired the baby, congratulated the mother, and then turned to the older woman with genuine pleasure.

“Lady Burne-Jones,” she said, “I'm so pleased to meet you at last. I am a great admirer of your husband's painting, of course. And the Countess of Warwick has often spoken of your fine work with the London children.” Kate knew that Georgiana Jones had strong socialist leanings and was an outspoken anti-Imperialist and advocate of liberal causes, including the thorny question of Home Rule for Ireland. Remembering Kipling's fierce defense of the Empire, Kate wondered how the aunt and the nephew managed to get along. But perhaps political disagreements were left at the door when the family gathered, and certainly there was no evidence of tension between them.

The woman fixed large blue eyes on Kate, smiling humorously. “I'm called Aunt Georgie in this house, my lady. To avoid confusing the children, you must adopt our common practice.” She gestured to the sofa and Kate sat down. “And I understand that you are one of my favorite writers, in disguise. Beryl Bardwell, indeed!” She laughed lightly. “I can hardly believe my good fortune in having you here with us in little Rottingdean, where our lives are so unlike the excitement of your novels. Such tales you tell! Quite extraordinary!”

“Thank you,” Kate said. She put her hand on Aunt Georgie. “But you and Caroline must call me Kate.”

Aunt Georgie nodded. “I hope you are at work on another story,” she went on, with an eagerness that was clearly unfeigned. “The last one I read—some months ago, I think—was about a woman who went up in a balloon. A remarkable feat. It quite left me breathless.” She smiled. “Which of course it was meant to do.”

“It was inspired by a real event,” Charles put in. “Kate takes her ideas from what goes on around her.” His mouth turned down. “I fear, though, that she has had precious little time and energy to write in the months we've been in London.”

Kate blushed, feeling that they should not even be talking about her work in the presence of a writer as deservedly famous as Kipling. But he was nodding. “I understand exactly, oh, I do. London offers far too many amusements, too many delightful corruptions. One is tempted in all directions and finds oneself quite too distracted, and far too excited, to write.”

Aunt Georgie smiled. “Well, I fear you shan't find any excitement at Rottingdean to inspire or distract you, Kate. In fact, most of us have taken refuge here from the very temptations Ruddy describes. Compared to corrupt London, Rottingdean is wonderfully incorruptible.”