Danger Point

Chapter 37

INSPECTOR MARCH got to his feet. “If you think of one perhaps you’ll let me know. But meanwhile I wonder whether you would care to walk along the beach and show me how far you went on Wednesday night.”

“Oh, certainly.” Rafe’s tone was casual in the extreme.

He led the way out by the french window and down through the Italian garden, talking as he would have done to any other guest.

“I don’t know if you hate this sort of thing – some people do like poison – Lisle does for one. Too much like a map with all these formal beds. And she doesn’t like statues and cypresses either. They’re a bit funerary for the climate – as a rule. They need an Italian sky to set them off.”

“They’ve got it today,” said March.

“Yes, but you can’t turn it on when you want to. The whole thing was a copy of a famous garden at Capua, with statues added by an ancestor who had more money than he knew what to do with. He developed a very pretty talent for chucking it away, so we don’t exactly bless his memory.”

From the Italian garden they came by way of a tree-planted walk and a long green ride to the sea wall. The bay lay clear before them in the morning sun, Tane Head across the water just softened by the faintest haze. And on the left, cliffs sweeping away from the gap in which they stood, and the black wall of the Shepstone Rocks running down from them to meet the sea and break its surface with a murderous line of jagged points. The tide was full, and everywhere except about the rocks the water lay silken-smooth and blue.

March turned his back on Tane Head and looked towards the cliffs.

“That’s a nasty bit of coast. Dangerous, isn’t it?”

“Very. There’s no real beach after you get round the Shepstone wall. The old story, which was quite strongly believed in my grandfather’s time, had it that the bay used to run right round to Sharpe’s Point – that’s the next headland. There weren’t any rocks in those days. It was all smooth hard sand, and the local bad man, Black Nym by name, used to come riding across from the Point at low tide, robbing, murdering, and generally making a public nuisance of himself. Well, one day he came along on a Sunday evening when everyone was at church and drove off a large flock of sheep. He brought them down here and started off across the sand with them, roaring at the top of his great bull voice that those who were fools enough to go to church and serve God should sit up and take notice what much better wages he got from the devil. There was an old woman in the village nearly a hundred when I was eight years old. She used to tell the tale, and this is how she told it – ‘And with that, Master Rafe, there did come the most ’orrible great blast of wind and a crack of thunder fit to split the sky. Dark as Christmas midnight it were all at once, and he could hear the sheep crying and the sea roaring, but he couldn’t see nothing, not so much as his own hand before his face. He swore worse than ever. There were those as heard him, and some say there was a voice that answered him out of the holy Book – “The wages of sin is death.” And some say there wasn’t nothing, but only one flash of lightning and a clap after it fit to bring the cliffs about his ears. And that’s just what it done – the sea come up in a ’uge unnatural wave and the cliff come down to meet it. And what happened to Black Nym nobody knows but the devil as was his master. Some folks say the sheep all turned to stone, but I reckon that’s a fond saying. Drownded they was, poor things. You won’t ever get me to believe as those wicked black rocks was ever anything so ’armless as a pack of soft, silly sheep. Bits of the cliff as come down, that’s what they are and you won’t get me from it. But whether or no, Shepstone Rocks was the name they got, and that’s how they got it.’ ”

March smiled.

“It’s a good story. I’d like to have met your old woman.”

“She was my nurse’s grandmother,” said Rafe. He turned and led the way along the wall. “We go down here,” he said.

The steps were at the end of the wall on the headland side. At their foot, above high-water mark, was a bathing-hut painted white and green – two rooms and a wide verandah set with chairs and coloured cushions. A track, trodden hard, ran past it skirting the cliff.

It was, as Rafe had said, bad going for a bad light. The track soon merged into deep soft sand, with here and there a patch of shingle, and here and there a ribbed line of rock.

When they had come about midway round the half-circle of the bay Rafe stopped and said,

“I must have turned somewhere about here.”

March looked at the headland, turned back and sighted the green and white bathing-hut, then faced round to the headland again.

“If your eyes are as good as mine, you’d see anyone on that cliff plainly enough.”

“In this light -yes.”

“How dark was it when you turned? Could you see those cushions in the verandah of the bathing-hut?”

“No.” Then, with a sudden fleeting smile, “They’re put away at night.”

“Could you have seen them if they had been there?”

“How can I tell?” His smile, the slight lift of his shoulder, the sparkle in his eyes, all said, “I’m not going to tell.”

Randal March said, “I want to go on a little farther.”

“Just as you like.”

“There’s a way up on to the cliff path, isn’t there, just beyond those rocks?”

“It’s a bit of a climb.”

“But one that you have often done?”

“Oh, often.”

“Did you do it on Wednesday?”

Rafe shook his head.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I didn’t leave the beach.”

They left it now, and climbed by the roughest of ways to the path which ran like a shelf along the cliff – about half way up at first, but rising gradually until it emerged upon the headland.

Hot sun, breeze cool off the water, a scent of heather, a scent of whin – Tane Head was a pleasant place on a summer morning.

The path became a narrow grassy track and petered out. March walked on, the ground becoming more and more uneven as they made their way along the top of the cliff. Sandy hollows rimmed with dark, scrawny clumps of gorse, great heaped bramble mounds still in bloom but with here and there a cluster of berries for the most part hard and green, low wind-bent trees twisted into every crooked shape.

“This is where she went over,” said March, coming to a standstill.

Rafe walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down. There was no sheer drop. If Cissie Cole had been pushed she might have taken the first dozen feet or so at a stumbling run before she went headlong to the rocks below. And just that was what she had done. He said over his shoulder.

“She must have caught at that bush. See where it’s broken.”

March’s voice was a little dry as he answered.

“Yes – we noticed that. I think myself it puts suicide out of the question. If you were going to throw yourself over a cliff you would want to get on with it – you wouldn’t choose a place where you had to run down a slope like that before you could get to the edge.”

Rafe said, “I suppose not.” He stepped back a pace or two. “Well? What’s the great idea? Why the personally conducted tour?”

March began to walk away.

“What’s the nearest way down to the beach from here?”

“Don’t you know?” He laughed suddenly. “I’m sure you do – and I’m sure that even the most suspicious mind can’t hold it up against me if I know too. After all, I was born and brought up here. So now we both know that there’s a way down the cliff where that path we came by joins the headland. It’s a bit of a scramble, but it’s a perfectly feasible proposition.”

March looked at him.

“Did you go down that way on Wednesday night?”

He got the pleasantest smile in the world.

“You can’t go down if you haven’t come up. I’m afraid you haven’t got a frightfully good memory. I keep telling you that I didn’t leave the beach on Wednesday night.”

March opened his lips to speak and shut them again. A forward step had taken him to the top of a small hillock, and as he gained it his eye caught the sun on a moving whiteness, the flutter of a scarf in the wind. He came down off the rise with a run, rounded a high clump of gorse, and found himself face to face with Lady Steyne. Rafe, behind him, said,

“Hullo, Alicia!”

She met them with rather a chilly smile.

“Why, what are you doing up here? My scarf’s caught, Rafe. Get it off those thorns without tearing it if you can.”

“It was your scarf I saw, ” said March, and waited while Rafe dealt with it.

“We’re taking a walk – if you don’t stand still, darling, the darned thing will tear. Pleasure and instruction combined – scene of the tragedy – official observations on it. In fact, a thoroughly profitable morning. There – I’m pricked to the bone, but I don’t think I’ve bled on to your scarf.”

“I don’t know why I put it on – I’m boiled. I’ve been looking for my clip.” She turned to March. “Oh, Inspector, you will ask your men to look out for it, won’t you? I must have dropped it when I was up here with Dale the other night – a big sort of half buckle in emeralds and diamonds. I didn’t miss it till this morning, and I must have dropped it up here, because I know I had it on Wednesday, and I haven’t worn it since.”

“Is it valuable, Lady Steyne?”

“I expect so – emeralds and diamonds, you know. But I don’t know what it cost – it was a present. I should simply hate to lose it.”

“Well, if you can tell me whereabouts you were-”

She threw out an impatient hand.

“My dear man, we were all over the place! It’s the old needle and haystack game. I suppose I had better offer a reward.”

“How near the cliff did you go?”

“Not nearer than this. That’s why I was looking here. But it’s too hot to go on. I’ve got my car in the lane. Like a lift, Rafe?”

“If the Inspector has finished with me. Perhaps he would like a lift too.” He turned to March. “How did you come over – motor-bike, push-bike, car?”

“Car. If Lady Steyne will really give me a lift back to Tanfield Court, I shall be very grateful.”

Alicia said, “Oh, yes.” And then, “And you’ll find my clip for me, won’t you? I expect I’d better say a fiver for the reward.”