Mad Hatter's Holiday (13 page)

‘Why would she want to go out?’

‘It seems to me that there’s two possible answers to that question,’ said Thackeray, prodding the air magisterially with a wooden spade. ‘Either she thought she would go down and see if her husband was among the crowd watching the fireworks, or she had decided after all to thank Mr. Moscrop for bringing the good news about the chloral.’

‘And then someone murdered her,’ said Murphy. ‘It’s a pestiferous quarter at night, is Brighton beach. No place for a respectable married lady. It could be one of hundreds that struck her down. I don’t envy you, trying to find the one that did it.’

‘It
could
be a total stranger, I grant you,’ said Thackeray, ‘but something tells me it ain’t. It would help if we knew how she was killed, but the police surgeon wasn’t very helpful on that point. All he’ll say is that the tests he has made show her to have been in good health. It’s a crying shame we didn’t recover all of the parts.’

‘We haven’t even found all the clothes,’ said Murphy, ‘unless there’s something in that pile of yours. What about her shoes, for example? There isn’t a shoe among this lot.’

‘I wasn’t expecting to find any,’ said Thackeray. ‘Shoes are very significant things. We can tell a lot from a shoe at the Yard. I reckon myself that the killer realised how much they give away and carried ’em as far from the scene of the crime as he could. And some of the clothes, too. He probably had a bag of some sort, and stuffed everything in that would go. The jacket and skirt, being larger than the rest, had to be left behind. No, we won’t find any more of her clothes than we’ve got already. This piece of paper is the most important thing. How about that cup of tea?’

In other circumstances the long ascent of Dyke Road on to the Downs would have enraptured a man equipped (as Moscrop now was) with a powerful pair of binoculars. The views of the town behind him and the sea beyond, of Hove, Kingston, Shoreham and the mouth of the river Adur had him feeling for the buckle-straps of his instrument-case repeatedly, only to check himself with the thought that there could be just one subject for study that afternoon. It was essential that he gave himself absolutely to the task of spotting Dr. Prothero on the slopes ahead.

Soon after sighting Patcham windmill (he was grateful for the map he had snatched from his landlady’s hallstand drawer) he reached the top of a ridge where the road forked and a sign indicated the way to Poynings. Saddlescombe, a small village in a hollow half hidden by trees, lay below, but he elected to continue along the Dyke Road, reasoning to himself that it was wise to gain height by the quickest route. Prothero had still been walking at a sharp step when he had last seen him an hour before, and he doubted whether it was possible to win back much of the ground between them, but there was the massive expanse of downland ahead, with only low bushes intervening. The glasses would be a potent ally up there. He would reach the brow, some seven hundred feet above sea level, and then sweep the landscape repeatedly. Until he reached there, the prospect of recognising anyone at such a distance was remote. If he got the glasses out for a moving figure it was ten to one that it would be a grazing sheep.

He completed the final ascent to the ancient wind-swept hill-camp forming the summit of the Downs at this point and sat to recover his breath in a clump of long ur-grass the sheep had left. The range of vision on every side was now so vast and the panorama so intricately varied that it could well take an hour’s work with the binoculars to isolate a single moving figure. He would need to stake everything on Prothero still being somewhere on the Down. The foot of the escarpment that had come so suddenly into view as he reached the top, dipping sheerly ahead into the vast plain of the Weald, was rich with autumn foliage—unbelievably beautiful in the afternoon sun, but making it well-nigh impossible to track a man with binoculars.

He took out the Zeiss and cast about to decide which direction was the most promising. To the west, on the brow of Fulking Hill, a mile or so distant, he fancied he could see a movement. He trained the glasses in that direction, first finding the prominent circle of beeches known as Chanctonbury Ring, altogether too distant. A small inclination to the left and a delicate movement of the screw-focus gave him what he wanted. There was a figure, human and moving—but mounted. He let the glasses drop.

Below and to his right more figures were positioned on either side of the Devil’s Dyke, the spectacular gash in the hillside from which the long road up from Brighton took its name. For some reason he had not remembered its existence until this moment, in spite of having toiled up Dyke Road for more than an hour. He had read all about it in the gazetteer, in the train, two Saturdays ago. So recent as that? Unbelievable. At any rate, legend said that the Devil cut the cleft through the chalk with the object of letting in the sea to flood the churches in the Weald. Certainly it had a devilish look to it from this view, with its steeply sloping sides a thousand feet apart, faced with smooth turf. A small hotel on the near side bore witness to the Dyke’s popularity with excursionists from the town.

He now began systematically examining through the binoculars the people in view on either side of the ravine, eliminating women and children at a glance, but several times finding himself compelled to wait for a man to turn his face out of shadow, and then being disappointed. Then, when he was ready to believe his wily quarry had somehow escaped, the glasses picked out a fawn-coloured object on the far side of the Dyke. The knapsack. And as the field of view moved left, he saw Dr. Prothero standing and staring at something, shading his eyes with both hands.

For a moment he had the uncomfortable feeling that the doctor was looking straight at him. As he put the glasses embarrassedly down, he realised how impossible it was. Besides, Prothero had no reason to suspect he was being followed.

What was he looking at, then? A landmark, most likely. He was taking his bearings before moving on. Away to the north was the blue mound of Leith Hill, beyond which was Dorking. Was that where he was making for? It was twenty-five miles away, six or seven hours of walking, even at Prothero’s sprightly step.

He put the glasses to his eyes again and as he did so Prothero picked up the knapsack and began walking back in the general direction of the road, still looking anxiously about him as though he were expecting to see something or somebody he had not found. Some fifty yards on, he stopped, produced a white handkerchief and began waving it energetically. In an agony of curiosity, Moscrop dared not move the binoculars off him to see the recipient of the signal. Soon it was obvious that Prothero, now picking his way quickly up the slope, the knapsack fairly bouncing on his back, had established some kind of contact. There was not long to wait. Near the top of the slope, Prothero was joined in the field of view by a woman on horseback, quite probably the rider Moscrop had first seen on Fulking Hill. The doctor helped her dismount and then took her arm as they walked with the horse over the brow of the hill towards Saddlescombe.

So that was it. An assignation. It was too indiscreet now to meet on the promenade in front of Lewes Crescent, so they were using the Dyke for a rendezvous, going by separate routes in order not to arouse suspicion.

He lifted the binocular-strap over his head and clapped the glasses back into their case. An assignation. It was more than a little disappointing. He had been ready to take up the trail all the way to Dorking, through the night, if necessary. Now there was nothing to tell the police that they did not know already. They were not going to be interested
where
Prothero met his mistress.

Nor would he demean himself by following them any further. Their squalid embraces were beneath contempt.

He took out the map. There was an inn marked at the village of Poynings, down the hill. He would take the road that way and fortify himself with a lemon shandy. Perhaps two.

Some fifteen minutes later, as he passed down and among the trees, the sounds of late afternoon reasserted themselves after the rush of wind against his ears on the higher slopes. Sheep-bells chinked nearby with their flat, but comforting note, and from behind he heard hooves on the road, jarring heavily, taking the strain of horse and rider down the steep incline. Automatically, he moved to the verge and waited to let them pass. It was a lady rider, the same he had seen with Prothero. She was alone now. The sun from over her shoulder prevented him from seeing her face clearly, but as she approached she called out to him.

‘Good Lord, darling! What are you doing in this Godforsaken place? You ought to be on Brighton promenade.’

There was no mistaking the voice. The woman was Zena.

CHAPTER
13

‘YOU’LL PARDON ME IF I continue with my supper?’ said Sergeant Cribb. ‘All I had today was something alleged to be a ploughman’s lunch. Ploughman! I wouldn’t have offered it to a jockey on Derby Day. What have you got to tell me this time, Mr. Moscrop?’

He was installed at a corner table in the bar-parlour of
The Seven Stars
in Ship Street, a pint of East India and a large meat pie in front of him.

‘I would not presume to disturb your meal if it were not a matter of paramount importance,’ Moscrop began. ‘You see, I have seen Mrs. Prothero!’

Cribb said nothing. His jaws continued to work at the meat pie.

‘Mrs. Prothero,’ repeated Moscrop with emphasis. ‘She was at the Devil’s Dyke this afternoon. I have come to you direct from seeing her.’

‘Have you now?’ said Cribb. ‘You’ll be hungry then. That’s no end of a walk. Would you like me to order a pie?’

‘Sergeant, I don’t know whether you heard. It was Mrs. Prothero, alive and well. There can be no mistake. I spoke to her myself.’

‘Did you, indeed?’ said Cribb. ‘You were luckier than I was, then. I went to Dorking on a similar mission.’

‘You? To Dorking? Do you mean that you
knew
she was alive?’

‘“Knew” is putting it a trifle strong, sir. One can never be sure if anyone is still on his feet in this uncertain life, but I had reason to believe she might be, yes. What was she doing on the Dyke—meeting Prothero?’

Moscrop regarded Cribb with the look clairvoyants like to see on the faces of their clients.

‘Perhaps you should give me your account of it,’ said Cribb, ‘beginning with your pursuit of Prothero—since I take it you didn’t climb the Downs for reasons of health.’

In diminished tones, Moscrop described the events culminating in the appearance of Zena Prothero.

‘She was surprised at seeing you, I expect?’ said Cribb.

‘No more than I was at seeing
her.
Sergeant, I was so sure that she was dead that I was quite unable to speak for several seconds. Then I managed to stammer something to the effect that I had been recommended to look at the view from the Dyke.’

‘Resourceful. Did you ask what she was doing?’

‘No need. She was quite candid, and not in the least embarrassed at meeting me. She has a rather individual turn of phrase, as I may have remarked—a tendency to address quite recent acquaintances in terms of endearment—‘

‘Really, sir? Perhaps you would give me an example.’

‘Darling.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Darling. She calls everyone darling, or some equivalent phrase.’

‘A generous-hearted woman. And what
was
she doing on the Down?’

‘She made no bones about it. She had come to meet her husband.’

‘Ridden out from Dorking, d’you mean?’ said Cribb, in disbelief.

‘No, from Bramber, a railway station some six miles to the west of the Dyke. She had travelled there by train this morning and hired a horse to ride along the top of the Downs to meet Dr. Prothero.’

‘Who arranged this meeting?’

‘As I understand it, she did. She wrote to her husband explaining that young Jason had quite recovered from his indisposition—you will remember that it was because of this she took the child back to Dorking on Sunday—and that she wished to collect certain articles of dress she had left behind in her somewhat hurried departure. They were the contents of the knapsack he was carrying, you see.’

‘So he handed it over when they met?’ said Cribb.

‘Yes. It was attached to the horse when I saw her. She was planning to return to Bramber along the road, not wishing to ride over the Downs in failing light, so she took the road down to Poynings, and that was where she overtook me. We talked as I accompanied her down the hill.’

‘Did you tell her that you thought she was dead?’

‘Indeed, yes,’ said Moscrop earnestly. ‘I felt obliged to, having behaved towards her as if she were an apparition when she first greeted me. It was her so sudden departure from Brighton that misled me, and I told her so.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I am afraid that I told her something else, Sergeant.’

‘Oh. What was that?’

‘Something I now discover to be a misrepresentation of the truth. I told her that the police also believed her to have—er—joined the choir invisible.’

‘I’d call that jumping to conclusions, sir. What did she say to it?’

‘That she had no idea her innocent action had led to such complications. She at once entreated me to assure you that I had seen her and she was alive and perfectly well. She said—I think I can remember her words—that she could not bear to think of those poor pets of policemen running about Brighton like beavers because of her.’

‘Decent sentiment,’ said Cribb, with a sniff. ‘Did you ask her about the sealskin jacket we dug up?’

‘The jacket? Why, no,’ said Moscrop. ‘It wasn’t hers, was it? Your constable told me that all the buttons were in place. But I did succeed in convincing her that she had a public duty to present herself at a police station to show that she was alive. She said she would do better than that. She would come to Brighton again and meet you, since you are in charge of the inquiry.’

‘Good. That’ll save me from another ploughman’s lunch in Dorking. When’s she coming?’

‘Tomorrow morning. She was intending anyway to go on to Worthing tonight, where she has a sister, and return to Dorking tomorrow. At my suggestion she will take the first passenger-steamer tomorrow morning, and I very much hope that you will be able to meet the
Brighton
when it docks at the West Pier soon after ten o’clock. I must explain, though, that she is most particular about not being seen in conversation with you. She is anxious not to discommode her husband, you understand.’

‘Why should he feel discommoded if she talks to me?’ asked Cribb.

‘Ah. Well it seems that you made a not too favourable impression there, Sergeant, when you had lunch with Dr. Prothero at Mutton’s. He must have given her an account of it, because she will only consent to see you if you go on board the
Brighton
while it is moored at the pier. She fears that in any other part of the town there is a risk of his seeing her in conversation with you.’

‘A clandestine meeting, eh? You’ve got
me
at it now, Mr. Moscrop. And I suppose you’ll need to be there to make the introductions. Very well, sir. Ten o’clock on the pier-head.’

Moscrop was there by half past nine, watching with the Zeiss for the line of dark smoke that would indicate the steamer’s approach. The morning was cool, the sky flecked with thin cloud in a herring-bone pattern, the beach deserted except for fishermen and a few small boys armed hopefully with shrimping-nets. On the pier one received the inescapable impression of being an intruder, although the turnstile-man accepted the twopence readily enough. Brawny employees of the company, normally out of sight, were swabbing the decks in a perfunctory fashion and providing an exhibition of bare chests and braces. Moscrop was careful not to upset any of them by stepping on their work.

Sergeant Cribb, when he arrived fifteen minutes after, was less sensitive, planting his feet confidently on the wet planking, his lofty frame reflected under him. There was a man with style, Moscrop decided. No pier-hand would be so injudicious as to question
his
right to cross the boards.

‘Fresh breeze this morning, Mr. Moscrop. There’s a choppy look to that water. I hope the lady’s a good sailor.’

By now the
Brighton
was well in view and steaming past Shoreham. ‘Would you care to try the binoculars, Sergeant?’

‘No thank you, sir. I’ve made it my practice to avoid using such things.’

‘Really? I should have thought them an invaluable weapon for fighting crime.’

‘In isolated cases, yes,’ said Cribb. ‘Most other times they’re a perishing nuisance. A positive encouragement to crime.’

‘Come, come, Sergeant. That sounds to me like a claim you cannot possibly substantiate. Which particular crime do you have in mind?’

‘Dipping, sir.’

‘Dipping?’

‘Picking pockets. When a man’s peering through those things, he’s a perfect invitation to a dipper. I could have copped four or five of the locals at it this week alone if I hadn’t had more important things to do. It’s a seaside occupation. Make a count of your handkerchiefs when you get home. Then you’ll know if I’m exaggerating.’

They were joined at this point by several swarthy individuals in nautical clothes, ready for the steamer’s arrival. Moscrop slipped the glasses quickly into their case. He would never be able to use them with the same confidence again.

Little more was said until the
Brighton
had berthed and a handful of passengers disembarked. Gulls screamed and swooped about the pier distractingly as Cribb and Moscrop descended the iron staircase to the landing stage. Words were exchanged with the white-capped man controlling the gangway, and they stepped across to the vessel itself.

‘She’ll be below,’ Moscrop explained confidently.

She was, alone in the First Class Saloon, wearing a bottle-green coat in a military style and boots with ‘fast’ front lacings. Moscrop effected the introductions and stepped back.

‘Handsome of you to come all this way to see me, Ma’am,’ said Cribb.

‘Oh, no. Handsome of
you,
Sergeant Cribb, to agree to see me on my own terms.’ Under the rakishly-angled hat, which matched her coat in colour, her face was more pale than Moscrop remembered it, but the features just as exquisite. ‘Particularly since I would seem to have put you to some trouble. Mr. Moscrop told me that you thought I was dead. I hope I can reassure you on that point.’

‘Thank you, Ma’am. It
was
a bit of a puzzle to me when you left Brighton in such a hurry. The little boy was ill, I understand.’

‘Jason? Yes. My husband decided that Brighton had upset him, so I took him back to Dorking on Sunday.’

‘What was the matter with him exactly?’

‘Oh, he was fretful the day before, you know, and awfully flushed. We thought he might have pains in his stomach. He has quite recovered now, the little beast. I wish you could see him. Mr. Moscrop is quite attached to Jason, aren’t you, darling? But Scotland Yard didn’t come to listen to a mother’s doting nonsense, did it, Sergeant?’

Cribb took the cue. ‘Might I trouble you about a few things just to set matters straight, Ma’am? I wonder whether you can recall how you spent last Saturday evening, your last night in Brighton.’

She put her hand to her forehead. ‘Saturday evening? Good God! This is just like one of those novels from the circulating library. The characters always remember
exactly
what the policeman wants to hear.’

‘It would have been your last night in Brighton, Ma’am,’ Cribb prompted her.

‘The night of the firework-display? Oh, yes, I shan’t let you down after all. I have a clear recollection. All too embarrassing, now I come to talk about it. Mr. Moscrop and I had made a secret arrangement, hadn’t we, my chuck? Being a man with scientific interests, you see, and an absolute Galahad to ladies in distress, he agreed to help me find out what my sleeping-potion consisted of, and took it to a chemist in Brighton. We arranged that he should bring me the answer and—well, you could tell Sergeant Cribb, yourself, couldn’t you, darling?’

‘I’d rather hear it from you, if you don’t mind, Ma’am,’ said Cribb quickly.

‘Very well.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s precious little to tell. Prothero, my husband, decided to go out for the evening, and was most particular about my being in bed before he went. I’m inclined to be nervous, you see.’

‘I hadn’t noticed it, Ma’am.’

‘How gallant! So I retired before Prothero left and pretended to have taken my sleeping-potion. That was unfortunate, really, because being in my night-things I could not possibly meet my knight in shining armour, Mr. Moscrop. I had to send my nursemaid, Bridget, instead. It must have seemed monstrously ungrateful.’

‘Not at all,’ murmured Moscrop.

‘Then the fireworks began. Oh, awfully exciting, and almost in front of the hotel! We had a grandstand position. Such fireworks, too! Sky-rockets and Catherine wheels and Chinese crackers. Set-pieces in tribute to the regiment, her Majesty’s head in profile and a crocodile, to represent Egypt, you know!’

‘I remember that,’ said Moscrop.

‘That would be after Bridget had left you, would it?’ asked Cribb, suddenly addressing a question to him.

‘Er—yes. I had given her the formula and I was starting to return along the front. I don’t believe I saw all of the display.’

‘So Bridget came back to you while the fireworks were still on?’ said Cribb, switching back to Zena.

‘Yes, and then I gave her the rest of the evening off, to watch the display. She was most excited about the skyrockets. I was not left alone, you see. I had Guy with me throughout the evening. We watched from my bedroom window. Guy stood on the balcony for a time.’

‘I saw him there,’ said Moscrop helpfully.

‘How long did the display continue after Bridget went out again?’ asked Cribb.

‘Oh God! You do ask some questions! Let me see. Half an hour, at least.’