The Mudflats of the Dead

CHAPTER 5

THE DEAD

‘In your deep floods

Drown all my faults and fears.’

Phineas Fletcher

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He drove west and then south, found, in the early morning, a lorry-drivers’ café, breakfasted on delicious ham and eggs and execrable coffee, and then set course north and east for Stack Ferry. His chosen inn, The Stadholder, had its own courtyard. He drove in under an archway, locked the car and went off to kill time before presenting himself at the reception desk to ask whether he might move in straight away instead of waiting until Saturday.

The marshes of Stack Ferry stretched away north of the town itself, and both east and west of the estuary. Those to the west had been drained and grass-sown, for they were freshwater marshes, and were now turned into a public park and a caravan site. Palgrave explored them, but found them uninteresting. Beyond the park, however, the marshes were as Nature had intended them to be.

Those on the east side were sea-marshes, but, unlike the stretches at Saltacres, these at Stack Ferry were boggy and so much intersected by ditches, channels and little creeks and inlets as to be impassable except to wild-fowlers in punts. Palgrave walked a couple of miles back along the road towards Saltacres and then took a path which led seawards, but at the end of a mile or so the path petered out and he found his way blocked by a creek which meandered through the marshes and was too wide to jump across.

At half past eleven he presented himself at the inn and was told that he could settle in and that his room would be ready for him after lunch. He spent the day quietly, thinking about his book, and on the following morning he was in the bar finishing his first pint when Adrian walked in. Palgrave had told him where he would be staying and had been expecting that he and Miranda would at least telephone him before they returned to London, but he had not thought to see either of them because they had no transport. Adrian, however, had not come merely to see him, but to make a pertinent enquiry.

‘I’m not really worried,’ he said, ‘but it seems an extraordinary thing for even Camilla to do, don’t you think?’

‘What does?’

‘To sling her hook without a word to Miranda or me. She hasn’t by any chance thrown in her lot with you, I suppose? I’ve walked all the way over to ask you. Is she here?’

‘Good gracious, no! I should soon give her the bird if she showed any signs of trying to team up. Surely you know that! What, exactly, has happened?’

‘That’s what we don’t know. We heard her go out the night before last and assumed she’d gone for a swim. She was a great one for moonlight bathing.’

‘I know. As a matter of fact, I went bathing with her the night I left Saltacres. Oh, not by arrangement. I was intending to spend the night in my car, but I was cramped and cold, so I got out to stretch my legs and do a few exercises to warm myself up a bit, when along comes the wretched girl and suggests this moonlight swim.’

‘You went down to the sands with her?’

‘I did, and into the water. I didn’t stay in long and I left her there. That is the last I’ve seen of her.’

‘Did she mention anything about her plans? It’s quite a long walk to the sea across the marshes. You must have talked as you walked from your car to the beach.’

‘I suppose we chatted, but I can’t remember what we talked about. Certainly no mention was made of any plans. I didn’t even tell her mine.’

‘All Miranda and I could think was that Camilla felt Cupar and his wife had turned you out, and that she was resentful about it. But you say she has made no attempt to join you here. We thought at first that she had slipped out early yesterday morning, but we’ve seen nothing of her at all.’

‘The last I saw of her, I tell you, was in the water. I soon had enough of moonlight bathing, so I left her to it, and that’s all I know. I shouldn’t worry about her, if I were you. I expect you’re right and she’s taken a scunner at the other two. I’ll tell you, Adrian, why I oiled out. It’s because I was once engaged to Morag and that made too much of an awkwardness if we were under the same roof, particularly as it was I who broke the engagement.’

‘If I may ask, why did you? She seems a charming woman, very pretty, too.’

‘Yes. I was a fool. I knew I’d been a fool when I met her again the other day. I thought marriage would interfere with my writing and that I’d be tied to schoolmastering all my life just to support a wife and family. That’s why I turned her down. I bitterly regret it now.’

‘Oh, but I quite understand. One’s work must come first. But, Colin, what are we to do about that girl?’

‘Are you sure that Camilla really has left the cottage? She isn’t just out on the spree again?’

‘We don’t think so. She’s taken her suitcase and all her clothes have gone.’

‘Yes, that does look a bit final. Now, let me buy you a drink, and then I’ll give you a lift back to the cottage. Not to worry about her. She knows how to look after herself,’ said Palgrave.

That afternoon he sat on the bed in his little room, writing pad on knee, and made more notes for the book which at last showed signs of life. The notes were copious and his pose uncomfortable, but something was definitely taking shape and by tea-time, when he went in search of a café (The Stadholder did not serve teas) he was well content with the progress he had made and decided to let the yeast work for the next couple of days before he began the actual writing of the book.

During the next two days he explored the countryside by car and tried to put Morag out of his mind. He found the magnificent ruins of William d’Albini’s massive Norman keep, and, later, the beautiful, impressive remains of a Cluniac priory. These things would go into the book, he decided.

On the Friday, with no very definite plans for the day, he breakfasted later than usual and then strolled out to buy a newspaper. There was an item of news in it which affected him so deeply that he read it three times before he could believe that it was there.

He put the paper down and stared at the wall without being conscious of seeing it. What he saw was a wild-haired girl in a sweater which looked much too roomy and long for her, washed-out blue jeans which came halfway down her sun-browned calves, her bright, eager young face, vivacious but not really pretty, her muddy shoes, and then he heard a clear voice which had come to him on an off-shore breeze and which had cheerfully called out, ‘Hi!’

The newspaper report was short, but it was at the bottom of the front page, otherwise (for he was not a man to read a paper assiduously) he might have missed it. It stated that a body washed up on the shore near the village of Saltacres had been identified as that of Miss Camilla Hoveton St John, a summer visitor from London. Foul play was not suspected.

When he had assimilated this laconic information, Palgrave went out to get a copy of the local paper. This had a longer and more detailed account. Camilla, it stated, was thought to have bathed on an outgoing tide and drowned in a vain effort to reach the shore. Bathing along that part of the coast was safe enough when the tide was right and Miss St John was said to have been a capable swimmer, but she liked to bathe at night and must have mistaken the state of the tide or trusted too much in her own strength and skill. Fatalities had occurred before in that neighbourhood, but visitors were usually warned by local boatmen, or other residents, of the dangers of a powerful undertow, and there was evidence that this had been done in the present case. By day a swimmer in difficulties might be able to attract attention from a passing yacht or somebody on shore, but at night this was unlikely, nor would the hoisting of a danger cone or other warning device have been effective under the circumstances. Few people bathed alone on that part of the coast, even by daylight. To bathe alone at night was asking for trouble. Moreover, there was more than a mile to walk from the village to the sea. However, Miss St John was accustomed to bathe alone, but, most unfortunately, had done so once too often.

Palgrave got out his car and drove eastwards to Saltacres and the holiday cottage. Miranda, her plump, usually happy face clouded with shock and grief, and Adrian, haggard and with his cheeks fallen in, were alone. If he could be glad of anything at such a time, Palgrave was glad of this.

‘The inquest is to be on Monday, at Stack Ferry,’ said Miranda. ‘We were to have gone home, but of course we must stay up for it. Will you be there, Colin?’

‘Yes, of course. Will you tell me all that has happened?’

‘But we know nothing of what has happened, except that poor little Camilla is dead. We can’t believe it has happened. She was so young, so vital, such a good swimmer. She had this thing, if you remember, of bathing at night. She thought it was romantic’

‘But she bathed in the daytime, too. I’ve been in with her once or twice, and so has at least one other chap. I’ve seen them together.’

‘I suppose there was nothing much else for her to do here but bathe and wander about. We brought her because we thought she might like to paint scenery that was new to her, but she has done very little work down here.’

‘By the way, what has happened to the Lowsons?’

‘Cupar and Morag? Oh, they hired a boat and a boatman and have gone sailing. They are kind people and thought we would prefer to be by ourselves for a bit. Not much fun for them, anyway, with us so concerned and sad, and visits from the police and all that,’ said Miranda.

‘Oh, the police have been here, have they?’

‘But of course. They asked all sorts of questions. It could be a case of suicide, you see.’

‘But nothing worse?’

‘Oh, Colin, of course not!’

‘What questions did they ask?’

‘Oh, whether she was accustomed to bathe alone.’

‘Was my name mentioned?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do they know we bathed together the night before I went to Stack Ferry?’

‘We told them that, because you had told Adrian you did, but that you had gone to Stack Ferry and could know nothing about her death. The fact that she came back here and packed her suitcase and took it away proves that she could not have been drowned that night.’

‘Has the suitcase been found? The report in the newspaper – the local paper – said nothing about it. Have the police traced it, I wonder?’

‘We know nothing about the suitcase. She must have found other lodgings and the suitcase will turn up there. But there is nowhere in the village where she could stay.’

‘She must have been shacking up with some man, don’t you think? One of the summer visitors who had rented a cottage?’

‘That is what we wondered, too. You know what she was like.’

‘Somebody she met that day she took my car, perhaps, or the chap I saw her with once. If that is so, ten to one the chap won’t be too anxious to come forward.’

‘Why not? The death was an accident.’

‘What else did the police want to know?’

‘Only whether she was happy or had anything on her mind. Well, of course, if she had anything on her mind, it was men, but we did not tell them that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, but, Colin, the poor child is dead! We couldn’t put her in a bad light now!’

‘Are the police likely to come here again?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Adrian, speaking for the first time during the interview. ‘I suppose it depends on what comes out at the inquest. I just simply hope nothing does.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Nothing will ever convince me that Camilla swam when the tide was going out. Even by night she’d have known what it was doing, which way it was running. She knew all about the dangers of this part of the coast and, besides, she had a manual of tide-tables.’

‘I suppose—’ began Miranda.

‘Yes?’

‘Well, you know how fond she was of you, Colin.’

‘Fond of me, my foot! I was just another man to be pursued, that’s all. If you’re suggesting that she came after me to Stack Ferry and oiled herself in at The Stadholder, well, simply, she didn’t. She didn’t even know where I was staying, did she?’

‘She could have asked around until she found you,’ said Adrian.

‘She never came anywhere near me at Stack Ferry. What if she had done? She wasn’t drowned there. The tide sets the wrong way for that. She would have been carried – oh, no, perhaps she wouldn’t though. Anyway, whether she came to Stack Ferry or not, I certainly saw nothing of her there.’ He realised, too late, that he was on the defensive and that Adrian knew it.

‘Not to worry, Colin,’ he said kindly. ‘The police seem satisfied that she bathed alone on an outgoing tide and at night. That will be the end of the matter. I’m glad she had no parents. I hate breaking bad news.’

The inquest was soon over. Adrian went through the formality of identifying the body and the medical evidence of death by drowning was clear. There was only one unsatisfactory detail, but on this neither the police surgeon nor the pathologist was prepared to be dogmatic. Neither would commit himself as to the exact time of death to within a period of forty-eight hours. The body had been some time in the water, so the usual rate of decomposition had been retarded. There was more explanation given, but perhaps the most important feature, so far as the police and the public were concerned, was that there were no marks of violence on the body and no evidence that the deceased had been other than a completely healthy and carefree young woman who, although she was not a virgin, was not pregnant.

The verdict (to quote the local paper) was a foregone conclusion. The deceased had come by her death accidentally through drowning on an outgoing tide. The coroner pontificated upon this for the benefit of other holidaymakers and the incident appeared to be closed. Palgrave attended the inquest but not the funeral. He returned to Stack Ferry and suddenly found the opening sentences for his book.

He was not quite so lucky in dismissing Camilla from his mind as he had hoped to be. Apparently Adrian and Miranda were not the only people who were puzzled by the disappearance of Camilla’s suitcase. He had been back to The Stadholder for a couple of days when there came a tap at his bedroom door.

‘Telephone, Mr. Palgrave.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ It must be from the Kirbys, he supposed. He wondered what Adrian or Miranda had to tell him. He assumed that they had returned to London as soon as the funeral was over. However, it was neither of them on the line.

‘Mr Palgrave?’

‘Speaking.’

‘County Police here, sir. We’d like a word with you.’

‘I’m not in trouble about my car, I hope?’

‘Nothing like that, sir. We think you may be able to give us a little help over another matter. Would you prefer us to come to you, or would you rather come to the station?’

‘What’s it all about?’

‘I would rather not talk over the telephone, sir.’

‘Oh, in that case, you had better come here, then. When can I expect you?’

‘Would noon tomorrow suit you, sir?’

‘Oh, yes, I suppose so, but I wish I knew what it was all about.’

‘Until tomorrow then, sir, at noon. I shall be in plain clothes, of course.’

Like most law-abiding people, Palgrave was happy enough to know that a police force, however greatly undermanned it might be, did at least exist, but, again like the majority of citizens, he was much less happy when a member of it looked him up personally and began asking questions.

‘You will have heard about the drowning fatality, sir? We believe you were intimate with the dead girl. I refer to your relationship with the late Miss Hoveton St John.’

‘I don’t care for your use of the word “intimate”, Inspector. It conveys an entirely false representation of my relationship with Miss Hoveton St John.’

‘So there was a relationship, sir?’

‘She was a holiday acquaintance, that’s all.’

‘But you stayed at the same cottage as she did, I believe. Wasn’t that so?’

‘I was there for a few days before I moved to this hotel, yes.’

‘Why did you move on, sir?’

‘The cottage became overcrowded. Two more people turned up, so I opted out.’

‘You did not move because the young lady had become an embarrassment to you?’

‘Good heavens, no! It was just to make room for the newcomers.’

‘Had they the prior claim, then?’

‘Well, actually, I suppose not. It was a case of an overbooking.’

‘Then what made you decide to leave? I am told that arrangements had been made to accommodate you.’

‘Look, Inspector, what is all this, for goodness’ sake? The “arrangements” you mention were most unsatisfactory. Why shouldn’t I have moved on?’

‘I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind, sir. Why did you leave Saltacres so precipitately?’

‘I’ve told you. There’s nothing else I can say.’

‘Would you mind if I had a look round your bedroom, sir?’ (They were in a corner of the bar.)

‘Good Lord! Why? I’m not a dope smuggler, neither have I half a dozen illegal immigrants hidden under the bed!’

‘If I might just have a look round, sir.’

Palgrave produced his key. The Inspector was not long gone. He handed back the key. Palgrave took it with an attempt at a contemptuous snort.

‘I hope you found the hoard of illicit diamonds,’ he said.

‘Now, now, sir,’ said the Inspector, smoothly. ‘All I was looking for was a suitcase.’

‘Well, you were in luck, then, weren’t you? I actually possess such an object. I hope you examined it for a false bottom.’ The Inspector smiled gently.

‘I am perfectly satisfied with what I found, sir – or, rather, with what I did not find.’

‘And that was? – or shall I be snubbed again for daring to ask a question?’

‘We are still looking for the suitcase which belonged to the deceased. Thank you for your co-operation, sir. I don’t think I shall need to trouble you again.’

‘That’s as well. I shall be leaving here quite soon and going back to London. No objection to that, I hope? Do you want my home address?’

‘That will not be necessary, sir,’ said the Inspector gravely. ‘We have all the information we need at present. Is it true that you went swimming with the young lady?’

‘Now and again I did.’

‘When was the last time, sir?’

‘The night before I came here. Why?’

‘Just cross-checking, sir. You mean that you were the last of your party to see her alive.’

‘How do you know that? I was not the only one from the cottage who was out that night.’

‘Your exit disturbed the gentleman in the parlour. What made you return to the premises that night, sir?’

‘I went back to collect my things.’

‘Would that not have waited until the morning?’

‘I suppose so, but I thought I might as well be off.’

‘And where was the young lady, when you returned to collect your things?’

‘Still in the sea, I suppose. She always stayed in the water much longer than I did.’

‘Were any other members of your party out that night, sir?’

‘We all were, at some time or other. When I found myself unwilling to accept the arrangements which had been made to accommodate us all, I took the entire party out for a farewell drink. I didn’t want anybody to think I was going off in a huff. It was none of their faults that the cottage had been double-booked.’

‘Was Miss St John with you?’

‘No. She wasn’t in the cottage when I issued my invitation and, to save you the bother of asking the question, I have no idea where she was.’

‘But you met her later.’

‘Purely by accident. I was standing beside my car when she came along and asked me to come for a swim. It was so damned uncomfortable trying to sleep in the car that I thought I might as well use up some of the time, so I went along with her. I came out of the water before she did, dried and dressed, went back to the cottage to change my clothes, as I think I told you, collected my suitcase and drove about until I found a café where I could get some breakfast.’

‘After you had had your drinks, sir, can you be sure that the rest of your party returned to the cottage?’

‘No, of course I can’t be sure. My car was parked further up the road. I said goodbye, climbed into it and made myself as comfortable as I could on the back seat.’

‘And later you went swimming with Miss St John.’

‘That’s the size of it.’

‘Did either of you see anybody else about?’

Palgrave thought for a moment in order to consider his answer.

‘I believe one or two of the others may have gone for a stroll by moonlight,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t be sure. There was some talk of it, I believe.’

‘While you were at the public house?’

‘Yes, that’s when it would have been.’

‘But you don’t know whether any of the party except you and Miss St John were actually out of the cottage while you were swimming?’

Palgrave could answer that question truthfully and without equivocation.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I know nothing of what the others were doing while we were swimming.’

‘What about when you went back to the cottage after your bathe?’

‘I’ve no idea about that, either.’ The Inspector gave him a very sharp glance, but did not query the answer. He closed his notebook and merely said:

‘Thank you for your help, sir. It’s only the missing suitcase that bothers us. Mr and Mrs Kirby, who brought the young lady down here on holiday, are convinced that she wouldn’t have bathed on an outgoing tide. Have you any ideas about that, sir?’

‘She wouldn’t if she had realised that the tide was going out.’

‘Just so, sir. If she had realised. Just so.’