disappeared, or he’s not been seen.’
‘What on earth was your waiter doing over there?’
‘Sorry, Mark, I should have said. They have a lot of their meals delivered to them from the hotel here. Normally one of our waiters takes the food over on a big tray, two if there are a lot of courses, leaves it by the front door and rings the bell. The time they were all seen together the door was left open and our chap assumed he was meant to bring the supper inside.’
‘Age? Appearance?’ Sergeant Vaughan was writing very quickly in his notebook. Outside the windows in Ross’s office the seagulls were performing their dance to welcome the spring, swooping and soaring and shrieking above the water.
‘Oldest one, mid-fifties perhaps? Middle one with the great black beard, thirty-five or thereabouts, I should think. Youngest one mid-twenties. Oh, and I nearly forgot. The oldest one has lost an eye somewhere along the line. He was wearing a crimson eye patch the day our waiter spotted them all.’
‘See here, Horace, I need to ask you some more questions in a minute. But for now I need your telegraph machine. Right now, if you please. I think we’re going to make a Detective Inspector in the Met very happy indeed.’
Mark Vaughan sent his preliminary report to his Inspector in Kingsbridge. He suggested, and was later instructed, to stay in Salcombe for the rest of the day and gather as much information as he could about the mysterious guests in Estuary House.
This time Inspector Devereux did ring Markham Square with the latest news. ‘Lord Powerscourt?’ He was almost shouting with delight. ‘I think we’re in business. Let me read you this wire from Inspector Timpson in Kingsbridge near Salcombe in Devon.
‘“From Inspector Timpson, Devon County Constabulary. To Inspector Devereux, Metropolitan Police. Re: Triple Murder. Sergeant reports from Salcombe three males staying in Estuary House, large villa by the sea. House lease arranged by London estate agent, address to follow. Eldest, mid-fifties, has lost eye, wears eye patch. Middle one, middle thirties, has long black beard, not seen for some time. Youngest twenty-five to thirty. No contact with the town. Stay in villa. Meals delivered from local hotel. No names known at all. Locals believe they are plotting a major crime somewhere, man with eye patch the mastermind.” What do you think, my lord?’
‘Excellent news, excellent, Inspector. I think we should pack our buckets and spades and prepare for a holiday by the seaside. Devon is usually bracing at this time of year.’
‘I think we should wait for the news from South Africa, my lord. Then we might have some names. I’ve asked the Kingsbridge police to seal Salcombe off, discreetly, of course, so nobody can get in our out without our knowledge. Their sergeant is making further inquiries in the town. Is there anything you would like to suggest for them?’
‘Laundry?’ said Powerscourt. ‘Is there a laundry facility in Salcombe? Or do they send it over to the hotel? And do they have access to a boat? There must be a reason for going to a place right on the water.’
‘I’ll pass that on, my lord. Hold on, there’s another message coming in. Looks like it might be from South Africa. I’ll call you back.’
Powerscourt stared out into Markham Square. Green was returning to the trees and there was a blaze of daffodils at the King’s Road end. The traffic was stuck again, a line of four red buses seemingly impaled in the middle of the street. He looked again at his atlas, establishing in his mind the precise whereabouts of Salcombe in relation to places like Torquay, Exeter, Brixham and Plymouth. He went to his telephone and placed a call to one Fruity Worthington, a close relation of Lady Lucy’s. By night Fruity was one of the leading lights of the West Country social scene, a tireless frequenter of hunt balls and dinner parties, and, a great boon to hostesses with a surplus of ladies, he was still single. By day Fruity was a naval captain, based in His Majesty’s Western Fleet Headquarters in the City of Plymouth.
March 6th 1910. 14.10.
From: Inspector Paul Roos, Durban Borough Police, South Africa.
To: Inspector Devereux, Metropolitan Police.
Re: Triple Murder.
Think we have man you want, Wilfrid Allen, 57, rich businessman ex Johannesburg. Widower. Only one eye, circumstances of loss as yet unknown. Also paid for ticket first class of William James Strauss, same address as Allen in Johannesburg, twentyfour years old, and one Elias Harper, labourer, second class. All singles Durban Southampton. Inquiries will continue about the others, and in Johannesburg where my colleagues are collecting information about Allen. Regards.
Regards? Regards? I’ll say regards fifty times over, Inspector Miles Devereux said to himself, as he telephoned the news from South Africa to the Powerscourts in Markham Square. The reaction was swift.
‘I’ve been checking the trains,’ said Powerscourt. ‘There’s a fast service that leaves Paddington in an hour or so. Could you catch that? And I’m sure you’ll leave a competent man on duty with those machines in case some more news comes through.’
‘Don’t worry, my lord, I shall join you on the train. I’m going to book us all in at the Marine Hotel. I’ll tell them that you’re a private investigator in case they’re not sure what you’re doing in our team and I’m going to take over the telegraph there for the duration of our stay.’
Once Powerscourt had finished speaking, Johnny Fitzgerald commandeered the telephone. He had to wait a long time for the recipient of his call to find what he wanted but he joined Powerscourt and Lady Lucy in the drawing room with a huge grin on his face.
‘Thought I’d just make a little inquiry of my own about this fellow Allen,’ he began. ‘It’s not conclusive as there are plenty of Allens about. I’ve just been talking to the army records people in Brecon. I bought a lot of malt whisky for a captain there who seemed to have a couple of brains to rub together, saying as I left that I might call back later or want more information. The last records of the First and Twentyfourth Regiment of Foot, the Warwickshires, taken three or four months before the battle of Isandlwana, unfortunately, do show an Allen in the ranks.’
‘Did he have an initial, Johnny?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘He did.’
‘And what was it?’
‘It was W. He could have been a William or a Walter or a Waldo or a Willoughby. And he could, of course, have been Wilfrid.’
There was one further message from Devon before Inspector Devereux set off for Paddington Station and the West Country.
March 6th 1910. 14.30.
From: Inspector Timpson, Devon Police.
To: Inspector Devereux, Metropolitan Police.
Re: Triple Murder. Reluctant to bring another corpse to your attention, but two weeks ago body of a male in his mid-thirties was found at sea. Death by drowning. Despite appeals throughout this and neighbouring counties, nobody has been reported missing.
The man with one eye had made his fortune by taking great care over his business deals, never leaving any stone unturned and never taking any unnecessary risks. Now in his splendid house overlooking Salcombe harbour he stood by a minute gap in the curtains on the great first-floor windows and thanked God he had taken precautions. Early on during his stay he had secured the services of the head porter at the Marine Hotel. In return for large sums in cash that official had promised to keep him informed of any developments that might not be welcome. So he knew now that the police were making detailed inquiries about him. He knew there were plans to close off the town with officers posted across all the roads leading in and out of Salcombe. He knew, too, that more police and an investigator called Powerscourt were on their way from London. He looked again at the two notes he had received from the hotel that morning and finished one of his own, to be taken to the Marine by the waiter who came to collect the remains of the lunch. He had consulted his train timetables and discovered that the train he thought the London people would arrive on should reach the town shortly before seven. Ever since he arrived in Salcombe he had a plan of escape if the need arose. He looked up at the sky. Dusk, that would be the time. As the light began to fade over the town and the harbour, he would make his move.
Sergeant Mark Vaughan had been very busy. He had taken over the two rooms on the Cliff Road side of the Marine Hotel with the best view of Estuary House. When his forces grew more numerous, a constable would be on
