Chapter Ten #3
‘One of the things I learned in business was that you can’t manage every little detail.
Sometimes you just have to let people get on with it.
’ He turned and looked out of the window for a moment.
‘Murder, though . . . well, you just can’t let people get on with that. How are you going to catch RVSP?’
‘If it’s him,’ I said.
‘Sure. Assuming it’s him, how’re you going to prove it?’
‘That’s going to take a little more thought,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Until we have a clearer picture of exactly how things played out on Friday, we’re just groping around in the dark hoping someone will let something slip.
We’ll not be able to prove anything until we have a decent idea of what there is to be proven. ’
‘It’d be nice to hand this over to the flatties with a pretty bow on top. I don’t want them stomping round the place if I can avoid it. This is supposed to be my bolthole, my island sanctuary. I don’t want my image of it tarnished by clumsy police investigations.’
I frowned at the idea that his image of the place wouldn’t be tarnished by the fact that one of his guests had been violently murdered there, but I decided not to pursue it.
We wrapped things up with a few more only-slightly-insincere reassurances and left him to brood.
On our way back down the stairs, I said, ‘We didn’t ask if he knew anything about the Bridgewater/Sidwell-Plant animosity.’
‘We didn’t, you’re right. Blast. On the other hand, though, would he know anything about it?
Would he want to know, I mean? If he’s disinclined to take an interest in his domestic staff possibly smuggling finest French jack-a-dandy, he’s not going to concern himself with personal squabbles between two of his advisers. ’
‘I suppose so. I still feel stupid for not asking.’
‘I’m sure it’s not important. Or at least, not relevant. How would their squabble lead to the death of Edgar Everett?’
‘True, true. How shall we pass the time until lunch?’
By now we were back in the library.
She looked out of the window. ‘The weather’s not too bad. Shall we take a turn around the island? We can take a look at Smugglers’ Cove.’
‘Is that what it’s called? I’ve not heard anyone say that.’
‘They’re always called Smugglers’ Cove down here. There’s a local by-law.’
And so we donned warm coats and stout boots and clomped through the kitchen on the way to the great outdoors.
As we clomped down the kitchen steps I was struck by the rich aroma of roasting meat. There were vegetables, peeled, chopped and in bowls, waiting to be cooked. There were knives, ladles, wooden spoons, pots, pans and even a rolling pin. What there was not, however, was a cook.
Lady Hardcastle and I exchanged shrugs and carried on towards the back door. As we passed the door to the butler’s pantry, we heard raised voices from within.
‘. . . I thought we’d had the last of all that nonsense when we left the pub,’ said Peggy.
Jago huffed. ‘Well, if his American lordship was payin’ us, we would have. But we haven’t seen a penny of his so-called vast fortune since afore Christmas. We can’t live on thin air, Peg, my love.’
‘We’ve a roof over our heads and more than enough to eat. What more do we need?’
‘And what about when he turfs us out on our ears because the whole thing’s gone down the pan?
What then? We can’t call on our fancy friends to help us out.
We can’t get our pal the bank manager to give us no loan.
We gots to take care of ourselves. We’ll just sell this lot and see what we gets. We might not have to do no more.’
‘But what if we get caught? That was how we lost the pub in the first place.’
‘No one will find out. They’s all got their own problems . . .’
Their voices faded as the conversation moved into their private flat.
Lady Hardcastle and I exchanged astonished glances but resumed our march to the door.
The walk was . . . ‘bracing’, I think is the euphemism we use for ‘absolutely, miserably freezing’.
The island, though, despite the frigid weather, was beautiful. Beyond Dotty’s cleverly designed almost-but-not-quite-ornamental walled garden the landscape retained its natural, rugged state. Clumps of gorse shared the uneven, rocky ground with thick tufts of windswept grass.
As we approached the grotto at the western end of the island, the ground evened out a little and the grass became more lush as the soil improved.
Lady Hardcastle pointed out the remnants of the puffin burrows and we both expressed our disappointment at not being able to see the bright-beaked little charmers as they bumbled about.
‘The chicks are called pufflings,’ she said.
‘They absolutely are not. You’re definitely making that one up.’
‘Not this time. I say, look at that.’
The grotto itself was utterly charming – Dotty had a good eye for whimsical design – though perhaps not as charming as dozens of pufflings might have been.
It was much more sheltered than I had imagined.
I could well believe that Wilson had spent a happy hour there on Friday.
I, for one, was certainly glad of the chance to sit for a while out of the wind.
We walked on.
The cave in the cove was next, and was much less impressive than the grotto or the fort.
When I hear of smugglers’ caves, I always imagine deep caverns, perhaps with multiple chambers where contraband might be stacked, ready for onward transit.
Ideally there would be a skeleton with a dagger between its teeth, resting a bony arm on a small keg of smuggled rum.
There was none of that. This cave was a single, large hollow in the rock, well above the high-water mark.
It would be fine for the temporary storage of a few smuggled crates or barrels, and would serve as a shelter for the night in a pinch, but it was no use as a hideout for a gang of ruthless contrabandists.
At least there was no sign of the stranger we’d worried might be lurking on the island.
We passed the outbuilding housing the island’s electricity generator that Wilson had told us about, and skirted once more round Dotty’s garden. Between that and the grotto, the island was going to be a wonderful summer retreat once her plants were established.
We’d gone out through the kitchen and we planned to return the same way, having realized that it was all but impossible to reach the front door from where we were without following a track all the way down to the jetty and then coming back up the path we’d originally followed when we’d arrived on Thursday.
As we passed the stout door to the outside storeroom, I tried the handle.
It opened.
‘Fancy a look?’ I asked.
‘Of course.’
There was a light switch just inside the door and I flicked it on to reveal .
. . a big, surprisingly cold storeroom full of wooden boxes of food and drink.
There were four cases of cognac – presumably the ones Sidwell-Plant had seen and about which JB was blithely unconcerned.
Wooden cupboards had been built into the rear wall against the solid rock and there were shelves along the other walls.
It was unremarkable in almost every regard, with the almost-certainly-smuggled brandy the only remarkable feature.
The second most remarkable feature, of course: Everett’s body, wrapped in a tarpaulin, lay in one corner.
We closed the door behind us as we left.
The kitchen, by contrast, was a wealth of sensory treats. Peggy – who, we had to assume, knew full well that Everett had been murdered – was nevertheless pressing cheerfully ahead with the planned Sunday roast.
We let ourselves in and apologized for getting in the way as we bustled through. I thought of offering to help but decided Peggy would probably be insulted.
Up the steps and out in the hall, we bumped into Patience and Clarice, who were making their way from the library–sitting room corridor to the stairs.
‘It’s Emily and Florence,’ said Patience.
Clarice sniffed. ‘Hello, ladies. What’s it like out?’
‘Bracing,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Bloody freezing,’ I added.
Clarice laughed. ‘We’re on our way to the drawing room. Everyone else is in the library and we don’t want to be. Join us?’
‘I don’t like to speak for Florence—’ began Lady Hardcastle.
‘You speak for me all the time,’ I interrupted.
‘Actually, yes, that’s true. So . . . ah . . . I shouldn’t speak for Florence but I’m going to anyway: we’d love to, but we need to get changed for lunch. Can you smell the deliciousness coming from the kitchen?’
‘It does smell rather yummy,’ said Clarice. ‘But you go and do what you need to do. Obviously I don’t care how you’re dressed, but I know it makes a difference to you stupid sighties.’ She grinned.
We walked up the stairs together and went our separate ways on the first-floor landing.