Proof of Guilt

Chapter Two

Summer 1920: The Sussex Coast

Edgar Billings had stopped at the small pub for a late lunch, lingering over the remnants of his pudding in spite of the glances cast his way by the proprietor, eager to see him off and clear away the noontime meal.

It was nearly two o’clock when the outer door of the pub crashed open and a man dressed in worn corduroy trousers and Wellingtons came quickly inside, calling for Constable Means.

“He’s not here,” the proprietor said. “I expect he went home for his meal. What’s happened, then?”

“A body. Washed up on the shale below Dungeness Light. I thought he’d want to know.”

“A body?” the proprietor repeated. “Not someone we know?”

The Pelican was some distance from Dungeness, but a good many of the fishermen along the coast stopped in there from time to time.

The man shook his head. “Didn’t recognize him.”

“Aye, well, that’s something to be grateful for.”

Billings had risen from his table and walked toward the two men, reaching into his pocket for his money.

He paid his account and went out the door. The man who had brought the news looked after him. “Stranger?”

“Yes,” the proprietor said. “Passing through. He said.”

“Well, then, I’ll be off to find Means.” The man nodded.

Billings, in the yard outside the pub, was already in his motorcar. “Give you a lift?” he asked the man.

“Thanks, no, I’m just off up the road.”

Billings had already cranked the motor, and he let in the clutch, turning toward the coast.

Watching him drive on, the man said to himself, “Now what’s his interest in the body?”

He set out at a trot for the constable’s small house.

Billings found the lighthouse with no trouble. It stood out across the flat land along this part of the coast. But there was no direct way to reach it. The track into it wandered past the rough houses of fishermen, skirted patches of wind-beaten grass, and finally came to an end above the long shelf of shale that began by the light and covered the quarter mile to the sea itself. After reversing the motorcar to face the way he’d come, he got out.

Walking was difficult through the shale. Each step seemed to spread a dozen stones into thousands, with no good purchase for his shoes, like walking in sand but harder, and by the time he was in sight of the sea, he was winded.

From here he could see the body lying just above the tide line. A lone fisherman kept watch, and the smell of his pipe tobacco reached Billings from where the man squatted by the corpse.

Billings plodded on, under the eye of the fisherman, and soon reached the body.

The dead man was dressed in a well-tailored shirt, summer-weight trousers, no shoes. Hair too dark and muddied with seawater to judge its color, his face scraped by the stones where he must have tossed and turned with the incoming tide before being washed up far enough to come to rest at the edge of the tide line, too heavy now in his sodden clothing to be carried out again.

Like a discarded piece of driftwood the sea didn’t want any longer.

The fisherman stood up as Billings approached.

“Stranger,” he said with a nod.

“I was at the pub when someone brought news of a dead man.”

“That’ud be Burton,” the fisherman said, still watching Billings with suspicion in his eyes.

“Burton? Yes, I expect it was,” Billings said easily. “I thought I’d have a look for myself.”

“Curious about a dead man?” the fisherman asked.

“I’ve been searching this coast for days, looking for a certain man. I thought perhaps this might be he.”

“Looking to find—or to drown?”

Billings smiled and took out his identification. “Scotland Yard.”

The fisherman scrutinized it. Billings wondered if the man could read.

Finally satisfied, the fisherman nodded. “Right, then. Have a look. Constable Means will be along soon. He might not care to have the Yard meddling in his patch.” It was said with an overtone of venom, as if the fisherman and Means didn’t get along.

Billings came forward, careful where he stepped, but there was nothing here that could tell him where the man had died or why. And there were no stains on the shirt to indicate a wound washed clean by the sea.

Squatting, as the fisherman had done, he peered into the dead face.

It wasn’t his quarry. He was sure of it. “Any identification on him?”

The fisherman shook his head. “Burton looked.”

“Did he take anything away from the corpse?”

“He’s an honest bloke, Burton. I doubt he’d rob the dead.”

“Yes, well, honest men have their price.” Billings rose to his feet. “My compliments to Constable Means. The corpse is all his.” He turned to leave, then thought of something else. “Your name? For the record, since you’ve kept the man company for some time.”

The fisherman hesitated, then said, “Henderson. George Henderson.”

Billings nodded. “Good day, Henderson.”

The wind from the sea buffeted him as he walked back to where he’d left his motorcar, making the going even harder. A sudden gust nearly knocked him off his feet, and he was glad, finally, when he’d gained the shelter of his vehicle.

He sat there for a time, in the shadow of the lighthouse, as the sun went in and out briefly and then retired from the fray altogether. And then, with decision, he got out, turned the crank, and drove back the way he’d come.