of the body of a thin young girl, her hair looking like a dark tangle of seaweed, lying dead and defenceless while the uncaring moon lit a path of glory across the sea.
‘I agree with you,’ she said. ‘Apart from any tragedies which may have taken place in these parts, there is an infinite sadness about the landscape itself. However, so far as my researches are concerned, I make what may be called negative progress.’
‘The Hamilton family were of no help, madam?’
‘They were of help only in the sense that I indicate. Their son, whom I was able to interview while he was alone on the yacht, gave me his story and it was corroborated, without any prompting from him or me, by his parents, with whom, as you know, I had tea. It does not seem possible, let alone likely, that Miss St John met her murderer in Stack Ferry that day when she and Mr Kirby came there. Her time seems fully accounted for. She was alone when she met young Mr Hamilton in a bar, she was never out of sight of at least one of the Hamilton family on their trip to the bird sanctuary, she and the young man bathed and when they all returned to moorings she appears to have gone straight back to join Mr Kirby at the spot where they had parked the car. Mrs Hamilton saw them together when she, too, went ashore.’
That evening Dame Beatrice informed the receptionist at The Stadholder that she would be going home for a day and a night. She paid the hotel bill up to date and re-booked the two rooms. At the Stone House there was, as she had surmised, a pile of correspondence to be dealt with, including a long letter from Laura describing her holiday activities.
On the appointed day, George drove Dame Beatrice north-eastwards to visit the house agent who let holiday accommodation in and around the village of Saltacres. The Hamiltons had disposed of one problem. The larger matter of what had happened to Camilla’s suitcase still had to be resolved.
CHAPTER 10
THE WITNESS
‘I will not touch your mantle,
I’ll let your clothes alone,
I’ll take you out of the water clear,
My dear, to be my own.’
« ^ »
The house agent lived in a small town set among the low hills to the south of Saltacres and had only three cottages in that village on his books. One of these had been taken first by the Kirbys and then by Cupar and Morag Lowson; the second was on regular holiday hire to a family of five who booked it year after year, and the third had been let for a month that summer to a party of three young men who hired a boat and a local boatman and went fishing. Dame Beatrice ascertained that they had used up three weeks of their stay, which meant that they would have been able to see Camilla alive, had they wished to do so.
‘I suppose I can book their cottage from mid-week to mid-week, Wednesday to Wednesday?’ she said to the house agent. ‘These men’s tenancy will be up next week, you say, so if their cottage proves suitable—’
‘Mid-week, madam? I am afraid the lettings are from Saturday to Saturday, on a fortnightly basis.’
‘Oh, I see. Do you never deviate from that rule?’
‘Not
‘I quite understand. If I might have an order to view?’ She thought the three men would be back from their fishing trip and it would be too early for them to find the village pub open. She knocked on the door, therefore, at twenty minutes to six and presented the house agent’s order to view.
‘Oh, Lord! I’m afraid we’re in an awful mess,’ said the youth who had answered the door. ‘We didn’t reckon on clearing up until the day before we go.’
Dame Beatrice said that she quite understood and that if she might just take a quick look round she could soon satisfy herself as to whether the cottage would meet with her requirements.
‘Righto. Well, if you don’t mind waiting a minute, I’ll see whether the other two are viewable. We rather tend to sit about in what you might call
The other two were in the kitchen. One took his feet off the table and both rose politely at her entrance. Dame Beatrice wished them good evening and said that she was sorry to disturb them, but if she might be permitted to look over the cottage she would be very grateful. She hardly thought it would be large enough for her requirements, as she would be bringing a party of six, including a teenage boy and girl.
‘Then it won’t be large enough,’ said the man who appeared to be the oldest of the party and was, she judged, in his late thirties. ‘There are only two bedrooms with a single bed in each, and the third one of us – well, we take it in turns to doss down on the very hard couch in the sitting-room. It’s supposed to open out to make a double bed, but something’s gone wrong with the works.’
‘You seem to have much the same accommodation as there is in another cottage I visited and found unsuitable. In a way I am somewhat relieved, as my two youngest friends are reckless and, I’m afraid, irresponsible, and I believe there was a drowning fatality here recently.’
‘Stupid girl swam on an outgoing tide. People do the daftest things when they’re on holiday.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘Sort of. She conned us into taking her fishing one day, but fortunately – although it wasn’t much fun at the time – she got most fearfully sea-sick, so that put an end to that.’
‘She was an oncoming little bit of goods,’ said the young man who had answered the door, ‘and once she’d got her hooks into you she was as sticky as a burr.’
‘Was she an attractive young girl?’
‘Lord, no,’ said the unchivalrous trio.
‘The newspapers referred to her as a pretty brunette of twenty summers,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I suppose the drowning
‘So the newspapers said. Personally, I prefer to keep an open mind. Her sort can be the hell of a nuisance when all a man wants is fishing and the pub,’ said the youth who had had his feet on the table.
‘Does any other holidaymaker take regular fishing-trips?’
‘Not regular trips, no. As a matter of fact, most of the chaps you meet down here are yachtsmen and own their boats. They may do a bit of fishing at times. We wouldn’t know.’ He glanced at the others for confirmation.
‘You’ll excuse me for asking,’ said the eldest suddenly, ‘but haven’t I seen you before somewhere?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Dame Beatrice.
‘Well, I’m a solicitor. My name is Billington. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you in court at some time.’
‘Not in the dock, I trust.’
‘No, no, of course not. Wait a minute. Didn’t you appear as a witness in one of Sir Ferdinand Lestrange’s cases at the Central Criminal Court a year ago?’
‘It is probable. He is my son, so I am always prepared to support him.’
‘That’s right. He was prosecuting. Ah! I’ve got it. You are Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley and you were called to testify that the prisoner was fit to plead. The defence said he wasn’t and claimed diminished responsibility, but you made hay of their psychiatrist and the prisoner got life, and a good thing, too. He was a public menace and had more than one murder to his credit, although he was only indicted for the death of an old lady. Shall I stick my neck out and suggest that, like me, you don’t believe that girl’s death was an accident?’
‘I still have an open mind.’
‘And that this idea of wanting to look at the cottage was only an excuse for having a look at
‘Dear me!’ said Dame Beatrice admiringly.
‘Well, now that’s settled, I think we’ll send my brother and Carleton off to the pub, while you and I settle
