Truth Will Out (9 page)

Biddy stared. ‘Going back? But why?’

Alice put the kettle on and prepared cups and saucers, and then she and Biddy finished what was left of their lunch while Maude explained her situation.

‘Mrs Cobb, the hotel’s owner, is in Folkestone for a few hours to visit her mother who’s rather unwell. Derek Jayson, Mrs Cobb’s brother, has driven us over and will take us back some time this evening. The police insist that I stay nearby in case of – of what they call developments. If Lionel had gone missing from here the Folkestone police would handle it but as we were in Sussex the Hastings police have to deal with it.’

‘Which makes sense,’ Biddy said, ‘although I’d feel happier if you came home.’

‘I can’t, I’m afraid. They feel I should be on the spot. I did wonder whether to ask one of you to stay with me in the hotel but it wouldn’t work.’

‘I’d come,’ said Alice.

‘That’s kind of you but then Aunt Biddy would be here on her own and that would worry me.’

Biddy muttered something about ‘not liking hotels’ and Maude said, ‘I know how you feel. And there’s no way round it. You two are here – safety in numbers. I’m being looked after in Hastings.’

Primmy rushed up with an old slipper and laid it at Maude’s feet. ‘Oh, Primmy! Just what I wanted!’ cried Maude, patting the excited dog. ‘Now
sit
, please, Primmy. You’re making me dizzy!’

She told Alice she had eaten a substantial breakfast just before ten and didn’t need any lunch. Then she explained what had been happening in Hastings.

Alice listened mainly in silence and then said, ‘If Mr Brent lost his memory for any reason and then ended up in hospital he couldn’t tell them who he is. Maybe you should tour the hospitals . . .’

‘I think I would if anyone had been admitted without a name but they haven’t. The police are monitoring the hospitals. There’s a Detective Constable Fleet who is on the case and everyone thinks highly of him. He’s very nice and reassuring and he does give me hope.’

Biddy shook her head. ‘If you ask me, that Jem character is somehow responsible for whatever has happened to Lionel. Have they questioned him yet?’

‘They’re trying to find him.’

The three of them exchanged suspicious glances.

Biddy said, ‘Don’t tell me he’s also disappeared. That would be a bit of a coincidence.’

Maude spread her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I have no idea. It goes round and round in my mind. I can’t switch off.’ She took the cup of tea gratefully. ‘I even wondered whether Jem had done something to Lionel and then –’ she swallowed hard – ‘made his getaway.’

‘Killed him, you mean?’ Biddy was horrified. ‘Don’t even
think
such terrible things, Maude. I refuse to believe that God would allow such a thing to happen!’

Alice leaned forward. ‘I’ve had another thought. Suppose he’s been mistaken for someone else – someone by the same name. Mistaken identity.’

‘But why?’ Maude asked. ‘Why would anyone want the other Mr Brent to disappear? Unless it’s to do with the gallery! Could that be it? I can’t see how or why, but then the whole thing is a mystery.’ She took a long shuddering breath. ‘This is all so unreal. I keep telling myself I shall wake up and find it was a nightmare!’

There was a long silence.

Biddy said, ‘You should keep your eyes open, Maude, at all times. How do we know that
you
aren’t going to be snatched?’

Maude stared at her. ‘Snatched how?’

‘You know – kidnapped.’

‘Is that what you think has happened to Lionel? That he’s been kidnapped?’ Maude’s face had paled.

‘Look,’ said Biddy. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything but last night I lay awake for hours and eventually I thought . . . someone could want something Lionel has – like the keys to the gallery or to this house. Maybe someone wants to steal some of your father’s pictures so they captured Lionel – lured him somehow – so they could take his keys. I think it might be to do with robbery. Do you think, Maude, that the police have checked with the gallery?’

Maude frowned. ‘I don’t think they’ve mentioned it. I don’t think
I’ve
mentioned it, come to that, but it sounds reasonable. Really, Aunt Biddy, it sounds a possibility.’ Her frown vanished to be replaced by a broad smile. ‘How clever you are! When I next speak to DC Fleet I’ll tell him about it.’ She was suddenly buoyed up with hope that the episode would end happily.

Alice was nodding enthusiastically. ‘At least it’s plausible. And then, after the robbery, they let Lionel go free. Have they ever had a robbery at the gallery?’

‘Not to my knowledge but I don’t care about a few pictures if it means I get Lionel back, safe and well. I’m sure my father would consider it a good exchange!’ She looked from one to the other. ‘I suggest we take Primmy for a walk to the beach, the way we always do. I just want to feel normal, for an hour or so. I’ll have to face up to it when I get back to the hotel but the sea air will do me good.’

Alice said, ‘I second that!’

Biddy agreed.

‘And Primmy looks pleased,’ said Maude, as the dog scrambled to her feet and regarded them expectantly. ‘I swear she understands every word we say!’

Minutes later they were on their way and Maude allowed herself to believe that the worst was probably over. Fortunately she had no idea of the news she would receive when she returned to the hotel.

While Maude, Biddy and Alice were walking on the beach, Jane Dyer was leading DC Fleet into the gallery’s office. He wanted to speak to the co-owner but Frederick Barlowe was in Letchworth in Hertfordshire, in search of new artistic talent. She didn’t ask the detective to sit down because she didn’t want to be out of the gallery for more than a minute or two. Mr Barlowe had told her never to trust the public. They might deface a painting or scratch graffiti on the wall. They might even steal one of the pictures by cutting it out of its frame or removing the whole painting.

‘I don’t suppose I can help you very much,’ Jane told him. ‘Mr Barlowe travels quite a lot, like Mr Brent, visiting art galleries in search of new artists whose work he can buy or commission. I’m doing the best I can on my own. Is there any news about poor Mr Brent?’

‘No news as yet,’ he replied. ‘I really need to ask you a few questions about the gallery – for instance, who actually owns it?’

‘They both do – that is Mrs Brent and Mr Barlowe. It was originally Mr Barlowe’s, hence the name, but he needed investment and he and Arnold Cope joined forces. When Arnold Cope died he left everything to his daughter, who was then Miss Maude Cope, and she decided to carry on as a partner in the gallery.’

‘So they co-own it.’

‘Yes, they do. When Miss Cope met Mr Brent and they married, he became what I like to think of as a sort of ambassador for the gallery.’ Her eyes shone. ‘He helps Mr Barlowe whenever there’s going to be an exhibition and things like that – and he also travels about the country finding new work. He does it all for the love of it, he told me.’ She smiled at the thought. ‘He’s wonderful. He really is.’

‘And you have been here how long?’

‘Soon after they were married and Mr Brent started here, the previous secretary retired and I got the job. Well, actually I’m a receptionist-cum-secretary. I love it here.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘Naturally it’s not so good at the moment with all the worries about poor Mr Brent. I keep praying that nothing too bad has happened to him. He’s a fine man.’

‘And you haven’t seen him since he went missing?’

‘No. Although I did think I saw him, yesterday when I came to work. There was a man standing outside the gallery when I arrived first thing and I only saw him from the back and I thought it was Mr Brent. I could hardly breathe, I was so relieved, but then he turned towards me and raised his hat . . .’ Her face fell. ‘It wasn’t him. He had dark hair and spectacles and no moustache. But his voice . . . He even sounded like him.’ She blinked hard as though to forestall tears.

‘He spoke to you? What did he say?’

‘Just “Good morning”!’

‘And you’re sure it wasn’t him?’

‘How could it be?’ She stared at him, bewildered by the question. ‘Mr Brent has fair hair.’

‘He could easily disguise himself.’

‘Disguise himself? But why would he?’

The detective shrugged. ‘And there has been no word from him? No telephone calls or letters. Would Mr Barlowe tell you if he had been in contact?’

‘Yes. He promised me he would. Mr Barlowe knows how upset I am. I go to church every evening to pray for him. Mr Brent, that is.’

The detective drew in his breath and started another line of questioning. ‘Have you noticed anything different here since Mr Brent disappeared? Any odd strangers around? Any new faces? Any familiar people behaving oddly?’

She frowned, thinking, then shook her head.

‘Would you know if there were any financial problems with the gallery? Would you be told?’

‘I doubt it.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Mr Brent said my job is to look pretty and charm the clients!’ She blushed. ‘It was only a joke. I deal with the telephone, set out the leaflets, open the post and type the answers. Oh – and make the tea! Sometimes we have a launch for a new artist and I arrange for the canapés and pour the wine. I open up the doors if either of the men are late. I did study art history but I don’t really need it. I wish I could do more here, to be honest.’

A bell tinkled as the gallery door was opened and Jane excused herself and went out of the room. DC Fleet took the opportunity to look round the office. It could have been tidier, he reflected, but it couldn’t be called a mess. There were shelves full of books, papers and files. There was a cupboard and a safe and, as expected, a few paintings still in their wrappings, propped against one wall.

He would come back when Barlowe was around, he decided. Also the ‘man-who-wasn’t-Brent’ intrigued him. For the very first time he thought about Brent not as a victim but as a perpetrator of some crime. Was he planning to rob the gallery? It didn’t make a lot of sense but DC Fleet knew all about insurance fraud . . . He thought about the enchanting Miss Dyer, who was obviously carrying a torch for Brent. Praying in church every evening? God! That was devotion . . .

Could Brent and Barlowe be in cahoots? Suddenly everything seemed possible but nothing seemed likely. If Brent was planning to steal from the gallery he would be stealing from his wife, but he might intend to defraud the insurance company . . .

Jane returned and offered him a cup of tea but he had seen enough for the present and declined. He caught a train back to Hastings and spent the journey scribbling notes in his book and planning his report. There was no way he could rule out the possibility of fraud but would he be able to convince his superiors that it was a worthwhile lead, he wondered. They wouldn’t want the action to be passed to London. Hastings was a quiet town and the present mystery was exciting. Fights between fishermen, burglaries and a few road accidents were the usual matters that had to be dealt with and, if he were honest, he was not averse to something more challenging.

As soon as he returned to Hastings he became aware that something had happened in his absence. People stood on the platform in small groups, talking with some agitation. He jumped down from the train and made straight for the porter.

‘What’s up, Mr Statton?’ he asked.

‘What’s up? You may well ask! There’s a rumour going round that they’ve found a body on the beach. A
dead
body, Mr Fleet!’ His eyes rolled as he relished both the news itself and the telling of it. ‘A very dead body, Mr Fleet! That’s what’s up!’

Mrs Cobb, her brother and Maude arrived back at the hotel just as the evening meal was beginning. Mrs Cobb pulled off her jacket and hung up her hat. It was only then that she turned to see Penny rushing towards her.

‘Oh, Mrs Cobb! It’s terrible news! They’ve found a body on the beach, near the fish market! Everyone’s talking about it and there’s dozens of people down there and the police are there and everything!’

Maude, standing just behind Mrs Cobb, gave a groan and before anyone could intervene, collapsed on to the floor. Mrs Cobb almost tripped over her and clutched at her brother, nearly bringing him to his knees. He shouted, ‘God dammit, Alison!’ and then glared at Penny who, realizing that she had caused the confusion, fled back to the dining room in disgrace.

Mrs Cobb regained her feet and promptly sent her brother for the sal volatile while they carried Maude into the sitting room and laid her on the sofa.

Maude struggled back to consciousness with the pungent whiff of sal volatile still in her nostrils. With consciousness came memory and her colour fled as she gripped Mrs Cobb’s arm and tried to ask the dreadful question through trembling lips and a dry throat. ‘Is it . . . is it Lionel?’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Please God, it isn’t Lionel!’

Mrs Cobb and her brother exchanged worried looks. ‘No dear,’ said Mrs Cobb resolutely. ‘That is, we don’t know yet, but I’m sure it isn’t Mr Brent.’

There was a knock on the front door followed by a long ring and Derek went to answer it. A man in his thirties stood on the doorstep, beaming at him. ‘Bit of a scoop this!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just come from the beach. Plenty going on down there. Thought we could help each other out here, if you see what I mean. You give me something and I’ll see that you come out looking good!’

Derek hesitated and then, remembering his conversation with his sister, he opened the door to admit the visitor. ‘I’ll tell Mrs Cobb. Please wait here.’

He went into the sitting room, announced, ‘Ben Hemmings from the
Gazette
!’ and raised his eyebrows. Disobeying his instructions, Hemmings followed him in. He was a thin, beady-eyed man with the look of a predatory bird. His nose was thin and his cheekbones were a little too prominent. His clothes appeared random and his shoes had seen no polish for weeks but his expression was at odds with his appearance.

‘Ah! The lady herself!’ he cried cheerfully. ‘Mrs Brent, I bring you glad tidings of great joy! The body on the beach is believed to be that of Jem Rider, late of this parish!’ He laughed, unaware of the disapproving look Mrs Cobb was giving him.